Republicans have been gaining ground in reshaping education policy to be less inclusive toward LGBTQ+ students at the state level, and now they are turning their focus to Capitol Hill.

Some GOP lawmakers are pushing for a nationwide “Don’t Say Gay” bill, doubling down on their commitment to being the party of “traditional family values” by excluding anyone who does not identify with their sex at birth.

The largest anti-LGBTQ+ education legislation to reach the House chamber is House Bill 2616 — the Parental Rights Over the Education and Care of Their Kids Act, or the PROTECT Kids Act. The PROTECT Kids Act, proposed by U.S. Rep. Tim Walberg (R-Mich.), and co-sponsored by U.S. Reps. Burgess Owens (R-Utah), Mary Miller (R-Ill.), Robert Onder (R-Mo.), and Kevin Kiley (R-Calif.), would require any public elementary and middle schools that receive federal funding to require parental consent to change a child’s gender expression in school.

The bill, which was discussed during Tuesday’s House Rules Committee hearing, would specifically require any schools that get federal money from the Elementary and Secondary Education Act of 1965 — which was created to minimize financial discrepancies in education for low-income students — to get parental approval before identifying any child’s gender identity as anything other than what was provided to the school initially. This includes getting approval before allowing children to use their preferred locker room or bathroom.

It reads that any school receiving this funding “shall obtain parental consent before changing a covered student’s (1) gender markers, pronouns, or preferred name on any school form; or (2) sex-based accommodations, including locker rooms or bathrooms.”

LGBTQ+ rights advocates have criticized both national and state efforts to require parental permission to use a child’s preferred gender identity, as it raises issues of at-home safety — especially if the home is not LGBTQ+-affirming — and could lead to the outing of transgender or gender-curious students.

A follow-up bill, HB 2617, proposed by Owens, one of the bill’s co-sponsors, prevents the use of federal funding to “advance concepts related to gender ideology,” using the definition from President Donald Trump’s 2025 Executive Order 14168, making that an enshrined definition in law of sex rather than just by executive order. There is also a bill making its way through the senate with the same text— Senate Bill 2251.

Advocates have also criticized this follow-up legislation, as it would restrict school staff — including teachers and counselors — from acknowledging trans students’ identities or providing any support. They have said that this kind of isolation can worsen mental health outcomes for LGBTQ+ youth and allows for education to be politicized rather than being based in reality.

David Stacy, the Human Rights Campaign’s vice president of government affairs, called this legislation out for using LGBTQ+ children as political pawns in an ideology fight — one that could greatly harm the safety of these children if passed.

“Trans kids are not a political agenda — they are students who deserve safety and affirmation at school like anyone else,” Stacy said in a statement. “Despite the many pressing issues facing our nation, House Republicans continue their bizarre obsession with trans people. H.R. 2616 does not protect children. It targets them. This bill is cruel, and we’re prepared to fight it.”

This is similar to Florida House Bills 1557 and 1069, referred to as the “Don’t Say Gay” bill and “Don’t Say They” bill, respectively, restricting classroom discussions on sexual orientation and gender identity, prohibiting the use of pronouns consistent with one’s gender identity, expanding book banning procedures, and censoring health curriculum.

The American Civil Liberties Union is tracking 233 bills related to restricting student and educator rights in the U.S.

Uncloseted Media published this story on April 28.

By EMMA PAIDRA | Shlomo Satt remembers first thinking he might be gay at 13 years old after seeing an article about gay marriage in the newspaper. Growing up in an Orthodox Jewish community on Long Island, New York, Satt immediately felt anxious about what this could mean for his future.

“I think that’s when I started thinking, ‘Oh, am I that? Am I gay?’” Satt, now 30, told Uncloseted Media and GAY TIMES.

As Satt came to realize he was gay, his anxiety skyrocketed. He was aware that only half of Orthodox Jews — and 20 percent of ultra-Orthodox Jews — are accepting of homosexuality.

“In my community, it’s very shunned to be gay,” says Satt. “So it was really, really, hard for me to accept that I was attracted to other men, because I was like, ‘It’s not what the Torah says you’re allowed to be.’”

Unlike more progressive denominations, Orthodox Judaism advocates for a more literal understanding of the Hebrew Bible, known as the Torah. For example, verses such as Leviticus 18:22, which states that “You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination,” are more likely to be interpreted verbatim by Orthodox rabbis.

“One of the hallmarks of growing up Orthodox and queer is feeling really alone,” says Satt. “It’s not something we talked about.”

Stories like Satt’s represent what’s motivating LGBTQ+ people to leave Orthodox Judaism. While little research has been done, one 2023 study from Brooklyn College CUNY found that only about 15 percent of LGBTQ+ people left Orthodox Judaism directly because of their sexual orientation or their religious views on homosexuality. Other reasons for leaving the denomination included religious views on homosexuality, being judged, bullied or alienated, emotional abuse, trauma, wanting more freedom, and mental health issues.

“It was really hard for me to engage in [Orthodox Judaism] and not feel deep shame or trauma,” says Satt. “That’s why I left.”

Growing up Orthodox

Unlike many Orthodox Jewish families, Satt’s parents allowed him some access to technology and even played secular music like The Beatles. Still, he had no television in the house growing up and zero education about LGBTQ+ people.

“I didn’t even know that someone could be gay until a friend told me in sixth grade,” he says. “For most of my upbringing, it wasn’t like homophobia was espoused. It just was literally not talked about.”

After the newspaper article triggered Satt’s “gay awakening,” he struggled to keep his feelings inside. “It was really hard for me to accept that I was attracted to other men,” he says. “All I wanted was just to be straight.”

Staying silent about his emotions took a toll. He worried that his dreams of having a big Jewish family would be unattainable. “I wanted to have a wife and kids and be normal within my community, and it felt like I couldn’t have any of that if I was gay,” he says.

By around age 15, Satt’s stress levels reached a breaking point. “I had a night where I was just really, really depressed and crying to God about my sexuality. It was really hard for me to cry at that point, because I was so not tuned in with myself.” He decided to meet with a school psychologist who was part of the Orthodox community. After telling the psychologist he might be gay, the response he received was, “We can fix that.”

Satt remembers initially feeling immense relief at the thought that his sexuality could be cured. “I was so joyful,” says Satt. For the next three and a half years, he worked with members of the Orthodox community who practiced conversion therapy.

The turning point

This therapy, which has been widely discredited for decades, culminated with Satt doing a retreat through an organization called Brothers Road, where participants were encouraged to reenact their trauma in front of each other. He was forced to beat up a punching bag with a metal baseball bat, pretending it was his mother. “I don’t know what the purpose of this was, but it was horrible. And doing this for 35 adult people, it’s totally insane and super humiliating.”

After the therapy failed, Satt began to question the negative messaging he had been taught about being gay. “The things that are more innate to me, I believe, are from God. I didn’t choose to be gay, I just was gay,” he remembers thinking.

With the help of a licensed trauma specialist, Satt reconstructed his relationship to Judaism. He is still Jewish today, and has plans to pursue rabbinical school, but he left Orthodoxy behind. “I actually started really heavily diving into spirituality as a means of meaning in my life, as a means of connecting with my Jewish roots and my tradition, but in entirely different ways. One hundred percent progressive, 100 percent equitable, only learning with people who conferred my identities,” says Satt, who now identifies as a “post-denominational Jew.”

This transition hasn’t been easy. Satt has lost all contact with his family and describes losing the relationship with them as “the hardest thing” in his life.

Unfortunately, Satt’s experience isn’t unusual. An article written by the founder of Jewish Queer Youth (JQY), a nonprofit mental health organization, found that from 2016 to 2023, over 2000 queer youth from Orthodox families accessed support services provided by JQY. And amongst closeted Jewish Orthodox gay men, concerns about the impact of their sexuality on family relationships are a common theme.

Despite this, Satt says he’s experienced immense joy since accepting his sexuality, healing through therapy with an affirming Orthodox rabbi, and having a Jewish wedding where he married his long-term partner. “I started to, slowly but surely, take back my own narrative and live the life that I wanted.”

The rabbinical perspective

While one 2025 study published in the Archives of Sexual Behavior found that some ultra-Orthodox communities are moving away from uniform rejection of homosexuality, gay rights remain controversial in many Orthodox communities. For example, Chabad, a major movement within Orthodox Judaism, states on its website that when it comes to queer desires, “even if it burns inside for a lifetime, the best thing for you, for your health, and for your ultimate satisfaction in life is to subdue and re-channel that desire.”

Mark Dratch, an Orthodox rabbi in Jerusalem, says that there is a limit to the accommodations an Orthodox synagogue can make.

“The sense of alienation, the sense of depression and the person’s emotional and sometimes physical well-being, that’s part of a rabbi’s responsibility,” Dratch told Uncloseted Media and GAY TIMES. “So I think there’s room to be welcoming and embracing, while at the same time living with this kind of dissonance of what tradition requires.”

Though Dratch ultimately views queerness as being in opposition to Orthodox Judaism, he still believes it is his duty to try and support LGBTQ+ congregants. “I may not like this part of you, but if I don’t embrace you, then we’re going to lose the other 95 percent of your Jewish commitment,” he says.

Dratch says LGBTQ+ Jews would be welcome to attend services in his synagogue, but he wouldn’t marry a gay couple. “It may not be good enough for some LGBT people in these communities,” he says. “They want to be more than tolerated.”

Marceline’s story

It’s not just gay people who struggle. As early as 9 years old, Marceline Franco locked herself in her bathroom and wrapped a towel around her head, trying to picture herself as a woman. Assigned male at birth and raised in a Syrian Orthodox Jewish community in Brooklyn, N.Y. Franco felt intense guilt for wishing she was a girl.

“I desperately, more than anything, wanted to be a woman,” says Franco, now 30 years old. “I would sit in the bathroom as my only safe space to cry and pray and beg.”

Staying quiet about wanting to dress as a woman and go by a girl’s name put an immense amount of stress on Franco. “One of my fantasies as a kid was that I could wake up in a woman’s body. But in the bed next to me was a clone of me that could live out the rest of my life as my family and community would have wanted,” she says. “I felt horrible that I would rob them of me.”

A shared experience with conversion therapy

By the time Franco entered college, she decided to see an ultra-Orthodox therapist. “Over the next four and a half years, I participated in some version of conversion therapy,” she says. “[My therapist’s] view of it was more of a fetish/escape, and that it was something that I could learn to control and basically bury.”

Franco’s therapist taught her to think of herself in four parts. When Franco suggested that there was a fifth part — a girl — her therapist shut the idea down. Franco found the elimination of this part of her troubling. “It was the erasure of my transness with this person in a professional setting, which is deeply, deeply problematic,” says Franco.

Similar to Satt, conversion therapy didn’t work. And after watching queer comedian Hannah Gadsby’s comedy special “Nanette” for a college class, Franco began to question her therapist even more and started reconsidering her religious upbringing.

“I no longer was able to hold the belief that the Torah was true,” she says. “I realized that I may be holding onto religion to protect myself from coming to terms with the grief of being alone in the world … and justifying staying closeted.”

Franco ultimately left organized Judaism behind.

Six months later, she came out as trans. In order to explore her gender, she cut contact with her family. However, upon trying to reestablish a relationship with them as a woman, things did not go well. “I was nearly barred from my own grandfather’s funeral and I was barred from a family Shabbat meal mourning him. Two weeks later I was kicked out of my cousin’s wedding for showing up dressed as myself,” she says.

“The grief is immeasurable. It is nearly impossible to mourn people and relationships that are actively still living in this world. … And to move through all these major life moments alone has been really difficult.”

Despite this loss, Franco still practices elements of Judaism that resonate with her and has found joy and meaning in her transition. “Once I just started speaking my mind, saying how I felt, it stopped being confusing. I stopped hating myself for having these feelings. I just started loving myself.”

How Satt and Franco learned to move forward from religious trauma

Both Satt and Franco left the Orthodox communities they grew up in.

Still, Satt says Judaism has been the healing force for him. “It brought me back into a relationship with God, The Infinite, The Sum of All Good,” he says. “It ultimately made me feel very connected to myself, to humanity and to my heritage.”

Satt is thrilled that some rabbis are fighting for more inclusivity in the Orthodox Jewish space, but unless more begin to follow in their footsteps, he believes LGBTQ+ Jews will continue to disaffiliate from the denomination.

Though Franco no longer practices Judaism, she still finds meaning in some of the lessons she learned when she was.

“When my therapist was my mentor, she had me start to look at the world as having divine providence. And I did see a lot of that in my life. To this day, I still do,” she says. “And I just have reinterpreted that God doesn’t care that I’m Jewish or not. God loves me as I am.”

On Friday, April 24, 300 people gathered just before dawn, rolling their bicycles to a stop in Elysian Park. Against crisp morning air and dark, they donned vibrant orange and pink athletic wear, protective helmets, and sunglasses; while the rest of the city remained sleepy, the large group, which grew larger by the minute, hummed with excitement as they prepared to take off together on a three-day adventure towards the San Diego LGBT Community Center. 

This was the start of the highly anticipated Center Ride Out, the first-ever AIDS/LifeCycle legacy event created by the Los Angeles LGBT Center. For over 30 years, AIDS/LifeCycle brought masses for a seven-day ride from San Francisco to L.A. and raised over $300 million for life-saving HIV and AIDS resources and services. 

Center Ride Out was built in the lasting imprint and shadow of this event, and strived for a more accessible and joyous approach. “Center Ride Out carries forward the legacy of AIDS/LifeCycle, rooted in a time when our community came together to care for one another,” said LA LGBT Center CEO Joe Hollendoner, in a press release, who describes Center Ride Out as the beginning of a new legacy for LGBTQ+ cycling activism. 

Described as a “queer summer camp,” the pared-down three-day journey began with a 110-mile trek towards Temecula’s Lake Skinner, where, after a night’s rest, cyclists could spend a day gathering with community over arts and crafts, massages, a dance party, games, and other activities reminiscent of summers spent simmering by the water.

On the third day, cyclists rode 87 miles to the San Diego LGBT Community Center, one of the event’s benefiting partners, rounding out a nearly 300-mile journey across Southern California. In total, cyclists raised $830,511 to support the LA LGBT Center’s vital LGBTQ+ healthcare, housing, educational, and advocacy programs and social services — a crucial accomplishment after the organization suffered a $9 million loss in federal funding in the last fiscal year.

Sunday marked a victorious end to this first iteration of Center Ride Out, and cyclists raced towards each other upon reaching their final destination: sweaty, tired bodies embracing and entangling in pride and accomplishment. The monumental AIDS/LifeCycle has come to an end, but the joy that reverberated from this evening signaled the start of something just as great. 

Registration has already begun for the next Center Ride Out, which returns April 23-25, 2027. Learn more at the Center’s website.

Kristie Song is a California Local News Fellow placed with the Los Angeles Blade. The California Local News Fellowship is a state-funded initiative to support and strengthen local news reporting. Learn more about it at fellowships.journalism.berkeley.edu/cafellows.

It started as any White House Correspondents’ Dinner is supposed to go—I assume. I’ve never been to one before this, but based on other events I’ve attended at the Hilton, including an HRC gala, it all seemed fairly normal.

There was a lot of traffic. Police had blocked off streets encompassing a large portion of Adams Morgan—particularly around the hotel. The president was making his first appearance after boycotting the event during his first term, so there was a sense of anticipation. It took me about 45 minutes to go just under a mile from my apartment to about three blocks from the hotel in my Uber. I waited until the last possible second before I felt like I was going to be late—6:30—to get out of the car, because it was raining and I was wearing my green tux.

I walked up to a group of people checking tickets at the base of the hotel. They seemed to just be glancing at the tiny, index-card-sized tickets rather than conducting any kind of full security screening outside. As I walked from that first checkpoint to the drive-around drop-off area, I joined what was essentially one long line for the red carpet. It eventually split into people who wanted photos and those who didn’t—but again, there was no real need to show anything beyond that small ticket upon entering, and even that wasn’t being checked closely.

 A light went off in my head; I felt that, given the speed at which security was checking tickets, they couldn’t fully see the foil logo and tiny table numbers from that distance. I remember thinking that if I had a similarly sized piece of paper, I could have gotten through up to that point.

I also noticed there was no real security checkpoint or metal detectors upon initially entering the hotel grounds—unlike what I had seen at the HRC gala the year before.

I waited about 35 minutes in line in the car drop-off area—without cars, since it had been repurposed to corral press and their guests before entering the building and heading onto the red carpet. I took my photo, then went up the escalator to meet my date, Jacob Bernard from Democracy Forward. They wouldn’t let him onto the red carpet without his ticket, so I gave him his, which I had been holding. He was already inside the venue despite not having his ticket on him and had been at one of the pre-parties. 

That also struck me as odd—that you could access a pre-dinner party without a ticket or going through any visible security.

After I found him, we took a photo together at a step-and-repeat past the main red carpet area around 7:45. Oddly enough, a group of my friends—gays who I regularly see on the dance floors of the gay bars of Washington, who work in various government and media-adjacent fields—found me, and we took pictures together. None were White House correspondents or held a “hard pass” to the White House (security credentials that allow entry into the White House complex).

 Another light went off in my head that indicated party crashers probably shouldn’t be getting inside to an event that is supposed to be one of the most secure rooms in the country.

After the photos, I could see groups of people being moved from pre-party spaces in various meeting rooms on other floors and directed toward the main floor where the red carpet had been.

My guest and I went back up to the main floor and walked through a small security checkpoint that included only a handful of metal detectors. From there, I went down the stairs from the lobby into the International Ballroom, where we took our seats at Table 200. I talked to a few people I knew—very traditional pre-event chit-chat. The vibes felt good. It was my first time attending, and I was genuinely excited.

Around 8:15, the Marine Corps Band played and “Commandant’s Four” color guard presented the flags. We were then told to take our seats. 

They introduced the head table—the president, first lady, vice president, and members of the White House Correspondents’ Association board. Weijia Jiang, senior White House correspondent for CBS News and president of the WHCA, gave a brief speech, essentially saying we would eat first and then move into the main program, which was supposed to feature mentalist Oz Pearlman.

At this point my table, 200 which included members of the Wall Street Journal, the Blade, and a European outlet all started eating. About 15 minutes later, Washington Hilton staff began clearing plates and preparing to bring out the next course.

As they cleared the plates, I heard four loud bangs.

I saw hotel employees immediately start ducking. They seemed to understand the gravity of the situation much faster than most attendees, including myself. At first, it sounded like a tray might have fallen over (but I later found out that wasn’t the case).

After about 30 seconds of watching some people duck, others look around in confusion, and some continue eating and drinking, I got down. I kneeled with my chair in front of me as a kind of barrier. Being at Table 200, I felt somewhat removed from where the actual incident occurred.

Then I saw the president being whisked away quickly by Secret Service, along with the first lady and others at the head table.

My reporter instincts kicked in. I grabbed my phone and started filming. I saw SWAT team members rush into the ballroom and onto the stage, clearing the area. I captured a video of people looking around, confused about what had just happened.

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A few minutes later, the room was told by the WHCA president to hold on—that they would provide more information and guidance on what would happen next. There was some indication that they might try to continue the event despite what had occurred.

Everyone started frantically checking X to see if any major outlets were reporting. I was receiving texts from family, friends, and colleagues about the rapidly unfolding situation.

I walked to the bathroom—twice, technically. I couldn’t find it initially because it was hidden behind black curtains. (Later, those curtains were removed, and the men’s room was in clearer view.)

During the first walk to the bathroom, I called my editor to tell him what was happening. He instructed me to start sending copy to another editor, who would get it online. The ballroom had almost no service—it’s in the basement of a 12-story hotel—so it was a challenge. I utilized SMS fallback (since iMessage wasn’t working) to send updates.

I returned to the table, where people were still hovering—calling editors, scrolling, texting, sending photos and copy. I was already drafting my story and sending it in chunks, adding details as I gathered more information.

I walked my guest toward the bathroom again, which was on the opposite side of the ballroom from our table, so I had to cross what felt like a sea of journalists, PR officials, guests, and others on their phones, talking and scrolling. My guest pointed out that the press pool was being held in an alcove away from the ballroom doors and escalator exit—not in the ballroom with everyone else.

“Alive” by the Bee Gees was playing over the speakers in the bathroom, which felt a little too on the nose.

On my way out, I heard someone speaking over a microphone and rushed to the ballroom entrance. WHCA President Weijia Jiang was speaking. She announced that the event was over and the space was being evacuated.

She also said that President Trump would hold a press conference at the White House in about 25 minutes.

That’s when I knew it was a race against the clock.

I called my editor a second time to update him and asked if I should head to the briefing (knowing the answer would be yes). He confirmed.

Then the crowd began to move. People grabbed purses, bottles—some left belongings behind. Even though it was technically becoming a crime scene, no one was actively forcing us out. It felt more like a collective understanding: It was time to go.

I texted my guest: “OK, I have to go to the White House. I’m so sorry to leave you.”

I made my way with the sea of people toward the one exit we were allowed to use and zipped between women in fancy gowns and men looking like penguins.

I put on my hard press pass, opened the Capital Bikeshare app, reserved the closest e-bike, and headed out. 

I walked up Columbia Road to 20th and Wyoming, grabbed the bike, and rode down Wyoming, then 18th, cut over to U Street, and went straight down 16th to the White House. That ride was exhilarating. I also filmed an Instagram Reel updating my followers on what was going on. I could see tourists and D.C. residents alike looking at me from their cars and the sidewalk, obviously confused as to why a man dressed in a tux had hopped on a bike.

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I got off the bike where 16th Street meets Lafayette Square and darted toward the first White House security checkpoint, where they were verifying press credentials. Luckily, I had mine. After that, it turned into a mad dash. Everyone who made it through started moving quickly.

The sound of heels on what I think was cobblestone—or maybe brick—sticks with me. My own shoes were clacking as I ran toward the White House alongside other journalists in heels and dress shoes.

At the Secret Service checkpoint, there was a separate line for hard pass holders. Having my hard pass let me skip much of the impeccably dressed line of journalists who didn’t think to bring their hard pass with them.

It was probably the most exquisitely dressed press crowd I’ve ever seen—tuxedos, gowns, full makeup. It felt like something out of “The Hunger Games.”

I went through security, put my belongings through the metal detector, entered my code, grabbed my things, and ran to the briefing room.

We are just a little over a month until the Los Angeles primary mayoral election takes place on June 2. 

Incumbent mayor Karen Bass, District 4 councilmember Nithya Raman, and conservative reality star Spencer Pratt currently lead the race, but a poll released early this month by the UCLA Luskin School of Public Affairs indicates unsteadiness and volatility ahead. 40% of voters remain undecided — and without a majority vote, two leading candidates will have to face off in a runoff election on Nov. 3. 

Some are hoping for an underdog to swoop in, and the Blade spoke with one of these contenders: LGBTQ+ artist and creative director, Bryant Acosta. 

Born in West Covina, Acosta attended The Art Institute of California, Los Angeles in the early 2000s, where he experienced a bursting energy that defines the county’s reputation as a major hub and global beacon for success. “Everything felt limitless. There was so much opportunity,” Acosta told the Blade. “The city felt alive. You could feel the heart and soul of what L.A. was, and I just don’t see that anymore.” 

Acosta hopes to revitalize the county with fresh perspectives, a creative tech-forward approach, and a reboot of how City Hall operates when it comes to transparency and efficiency. His career has spun through several evolutions: he’s been in charge of multi-million dollar budgets and large teams as a creative director, both in the corporate world and on his own terms. 

The Blade sat down with Acosta to discuss his pledge for the county’s queer residents and other minority community members, his vision for an app that would streamline accessible city services, and how he sees his identity as a ‘superpower.’ 

What are your ideas about how you would concretely support queer communities? I was at City Hall a couple months ago when the TransLatin@ Coalition was there to ask for $4 million in direct funding from the county. There’s a big wave and throughline of struggle when it comes to queer communities having to advocate for themselves. How would you support them as Mayor? 

Being queer myself…I just feel like you don’t have to shrink yourself to survive in the city, at least not on my watch. This campaign is for the people who have felt unseen, who have had to build their own community and opportunities. But it isn’t just about visibility, it’s about affordability, safety, and opportunity. Because what good is being seen if you can’t afford to live here or feel protected? 

Education [is] a big [priority] because right now there’s so much misinformation — specifically around trans issues. I want to be able to bring people along on the journey of: Hey, this is who they are, this is what they’re asking for [and] make it so that people see them as humans. Being able to bridge that gap between the misinformation on social media and bridge it to actual science-based information so that people can really understand what it is to be trans and that they’re part of our community. 

When I spoke with trans leaders and advocates, many explained that City Hall does not lack funds — it’s simply not prioritizing their organizations into the county’s budget. 

I know Kenneth Mejia, our [City] Controller, has been working on having more visibility into the budget — but if we were able to have an application like my LA Now app idea where people can track every dollar [and] every penny spent, it’s not going to be a fight. This minority group of people is asking for this much money. It’s well within the budget. Why wouldn’t we do this? It’s an essential service for them. Just as the trash or the water are essential services for your neighborhoods, these are things that they’re asking for to continue to operate and be a part of our community. That’s why I’m making that my main touch point, because without accountability, transparency and trust in City Hall, we don’t have anything else.

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Can you tell me more about your LA Now app idea and how it adds to your mission of transparency for LA county residents?

I worked in tech for a while, so I learned how to use technology to better…communications, advertising, and all of the things. So, I [thought]: I should be able to use that and be a really future-forward mayor. 

I developed this app, where basically, you could have civics in the palm of your hand. You’d open the app, [and] you’d have a dashboard. Organizations will be loaded into it so that when you have problems with housing, the streets and anything in your community, it’ll geo-target your area so they’ll have all the services listed that you can contact. 

You’d also be able to pay parking tickets. If you get towed by the city, it’ll give you a notification. So, there’s no more of those predatory towing fees. [You’d also be] able to get push notifications for jury duty, so it has a lot of those civics built in. 

And with what Kenneth Mejia is doing right now — he’s giving us a full data dashboard of where the money’s going. I want to simplify that and make it more accessible so that, [for example], my mom and my cousins can read it. [I want to] really put it in the palm of your hand so we see every dollar, every penny spent in real time. 

I created a section where, essentially, you can rate your leader. So basically it’d be like Yelp, but for leadership. So, when you see things like Nithya [Raman] spending a million dollars on bathrooms, that would trigger a warning to the Controller, and then we’d be able to see: Hey, what’s going on here? If leaders want to have five stars, they need to respond in real time. It would just keep that extra layer of accountability — a digital accountability on leadership.

Last but not least, I want to develop an anti-Amazon feature [on the app]. Essentially, we would have an E-commerce marketplace [that] only local businesses would be able to get on, so that they could maximize their profits. 

Would the app include surveillance protections? With fears over ICE and online safety, would there be a way for people to feel secure while using the app?

How I’m thinking of this as an operating system is that we would use ID.me, which we use at the DMV, to be able to log in. So it already has all your information, and that way you’re not having to input everything a million times. But for people who are undocumented, you’d have a back portal where you’d have access to essential services. I [also] thought about people who don’t have cell phones. We could also have kiosks in public libraries, grocery stores, any place that has public access, so that everybody would have access to these data points and things that they may [need].  

You’re forward about being at the intersection of marginalized identities, as a queer and Latino person. How does this affect how you think about the mayoral race and how you’re building connections with LA residents? 

Being queer and Latino [doesn’t] hold me back. It’s actually a superpower for me. In some ways, it forced me to figure things out — not just to find a seat at the table, but to build my own. Understanding people [in] these kinds of ways is invaluable. Also, being first-generation American and openly gay, you see this country as both an opportunity and an exclusion at the same time. No matter how smart, accomplished, or creative you are, there’s still a ceiling you hit, especially when the system was never built with you in mind. 

That perspective really changes how [I] lead because you don’t just want access to the system — you want to fix it so that it actually works for everyone.

To learn more about Bryant Acosta and his mayoral campaign, you can visit his social media page and website. 

Kristie Song is a California Local News Fellow placed with the Los Angeles Blade. The California Local News Fellowship is a state-funded initiative to support and strengthen local news reporting. Learn more about it at fellowships.journalism.berkeley.edu/cafellows.

Four loud bangs were heard in the International Ballroom of the Washington Hilton during the annual White House Correspondents’ Dinner on Saturday.

According to the Associated Press, a shooter opened fire inside the hotel outside the ballroom.

Attendees could hear four loud bangs as people started to duck and take cover. During the chaos sounds of salad and glasses were dropped as hotel employees, and guests ducked for cover.

The head table — which included President Donald Trump, Vice President JD Vance, first lady Melania Trump, and White House Correspondents Association President Weijia Jiang — were rushed off stage.

“The U.S. Secret Service, in coordination with the Metropolitan Police Department, is investigating a shooting incident near the main magnetometer screening area at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner,” the U.S. Secret Service said in a statement. “The president and the First Lady are safe along all protects. One individual is in custody. The condition of those involved is not yet known, and law enforcement is actively assessing the situation.”

Trump held a press conference at the White House after he left the hotel.

“A man charged a security checkpoint armed with multiple weapons and he was taken down by some very brave members of Secret Service,” said Trump.

Trump said the shooter is from California. He also said an officer was shot, but said his bullet proof vest “saved” him.

D.C. Mayor Muriel Bowser, interim D.C. police chief Jeffrey Carroll, U.S. Attorney for D.C. Jeanine Pirro, and other officials held their own press conference at the hotel.

Carroll said the gunman who has been identified as Cole Tomas Allen was armed with a shotgun, handgun, and “multiple” knives when he charged a Secret Service checkpoint in a hotel lobby. Carroll also told reporters that law enforcement “exchanged gunfire with that individual.”

Both he and Bowser said the gunman appeared to act alone.

“We are so very thankful to members of law enforcement who did their jobs tonight and made sure all guests were safe,” said Bowser. “Nobody else was involved.”

The Los Angeles Blade will update this story as details become more available.

At the June L. Mazer Lesbian Archives in West Hollywood, Alisha Graefe and Kymn Goldstein are rummaging through a treasure trove of unknown lesbian films. Large, neon orange bins sit at their feet, filled to the brim with VHS tapes donated by queer filmmaker Rosser Goodman, who in the late 90s and early 2000s programmed the underground lesbian screening series “Film Fatale.” 

Her monthly event provided a safe haven and experimental ground for lesbian film in L.A., shining light on new voices, stories, and perspectives that explored the nuances of living life as a queer woman. 

This Saturday, April 25, Graefe and Goldstein are paying homage to Goodman’s legacy with a cinema-centered event of their own: a short film festival that brings together an eclectic, curated mix of archival works and newly submitted pieces from emerging lesbian filmmakers around the world. These works, accompanied by panel discussions, will screen all day in three different blocks at the Pacific Design Center’s Silver Screen Theater.

Like “Film Fatale,” this festival is not just a showcase of resonant, timely art: it’s an opportunity for queer people to intentionally gather, reflect on their history, joy, and resilience, and to soak in spaces that celebrate them.

“The archives are full of history, but every single day we make history,” Goldstein, who is the archive’s executive director, told the Blade. “This festival is an act of creating history. [We’re] bringing people together to celebrate Lesbian Visibility Week and to watch these films. [And] you know what, every week is Lesbian Visibility Week at the archive.” 

When they were first planning out the film festival together, Goldstein and Graefe — who serves as the Mazer’s full-time archivist — sifted through Goodman’s collection, letting the sounds of static, VCR clicking, and tape-scrubbing fill the room. One of the films they watched, and which will screen at Saturday’s festival, is Goodman’s own 14-minute short, “Life’s a Butch!”: a silent comedy about a woman’s antics to impress her new femme crush with clumsy, masc charm.

It was made over 25 years ago, but its tenderness and whimsy are still palpable today. This, and the other films in the festival, speak to both singular and universal emotions and experiences lesbian, queer, and sapphic people have experienced and will continue to experience across time and space. 

This interconnectedness in films, communities, and shared memories between past and present excites Goldstein. “The stories of coming out, of crushes, of losing love…[They] are the same topics and subjects that come up today, especially the political things we’re going through. There’s a continuity across all of it.” 

And where there’s continuity, there are clues and maps that pinpoint paths of resistance, dialogue, and survival. When people see their lives, or the lives of others in their communities, reflected on screen and in narratives they can interact with, they are able to draw upon history to craft their own ways forward. 

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The film festival also offers local community members an entryway into the archive, a longstanding community space that houses journals, photographs, books, films, letters — all tangible materials that people are encouraged to touch and engage with, whether it’s to further their research, spark ideas, or simply be more intimately in conversation with the past. 

“There are tons and tons of stories,” Goldstein said, who is focused on maintaining and growing the archive’s collection of ephemera and other personal materials from the community. “It’s living, breathing history in a variety of forms, all hidden in different-sized boxes that you just have to open to see what’s inside.” 

To support and learn more about the archive’s upcoming film festival, collections, and other events, visit their website.

Kristie Song is a California Local News Fellow placed with the Los Angeles Blade. The California Local News Fellowship is a state-funded initiative to support and strengthen local news reporting. Learn more about it at fellowships.journalism.berkeley.edu/cafellows.

The State Department on April 20 announced employees cannot use bathrooms that correspond with their gender identity.

The Daily Signal, a conservative news website, reported the State Department announced the new policy in a memo titled “Updates Regarding Biological Sex and Intimate Spaces, Including Restrooms.”

The State Department has not responded to the Los Angeles Blade’s request for comment on the directive.

“The administration affirms that there are two sexes — male and female — and that federal facilities should operate on this objective and longstanding basis to ensure consistency, privacy, and safety in shared spaces,” State Department spokesperson Tommy Piggot told the Daily Signal. “In line with President Trump’s executive order this provides clear, uniform guidance to the department by grounding policy in biological sex as determined at birth.”

President Donald Trump shortly after he took office in January 2025 issued an executive order that directed the federal government to only recognize two genders: male and female. The sweeping directive also ordered federal government agencies to “effectuate this policy by taking appropriate action to ensure that intimate spaces designated for women, girls, or females (or for men, boys, or males) are designated by sex and not identity.”

The Daily Signal notes the new State Department policy “does not prohibit single-occupancy restrooms.”

Uncloseted Media published this article on April 23.

By SOPHIE HOLLAND | At 13 years old, I remember looking in the mirror in my Toronto bathroom and thinking, “Yeah, I’m a lesbian.” At the time, I thought it was a dirty word. Thinking back, it could be because the first time I heard it was when a family member said, “I don’t know what a lesbian is, they are like aliens.”

And although I walked around in camouflage Crocs with a rainbow My Little Pony charm, plaid knee-length shorts and a shark tooth necklace (yes, these are all, in my opinion, stereotypically lesbian apparel!), I didn’t feel like I fit the mold. The longer I thought about it, the worse I felt, so I buried my feelings deep inside.

Now I am 25, and I have been out since I was 22. Three years ago, I never could have imagined that I’d be working for a queer news publication and celebrating Lesbian Visibility Week, an annual event meant to honor and uplift lesbian perspectives and highlight the hardships our community faces. To me, LVW is so important because, frankly, it has been an absolute shit show getting here, to a place where I feel love and joy most days.

I think back to the frustration of constantly being asked, “Do you have a boyfriend?” Of watching princess movies and seeing a broken girl only find herself when her prince charming arrives. I remember listening to music that was always about heterosexual relationships. I remember feeling left out in high school when, one by one, my friends got boyfriends.

I tried the boyfriend, and I tried really hard for it to work at a large detriment to my wellbeing. I brainwashed myself into thinking I was probably bisexual, which I told my closest friends around 16 and unsuccessfully told my parents at the same age. I was probably subconsciously using this as a litmus test of their acceptance and to soothe the anxiety I felt around my sexuality.

Learning to love who I am did not only come from me unraveling my internalized lesbophobia and dissecting the oppressive societal messages of heteronormativity. It came from meeting an awesome community of lesbians and queers. I found people who understood my worldview and who showed me the ropes. I no longer had to stutter over concepts like lesbian loneliness or my frustration with misogynistic straight men.

They all just got it.

Without this community, I am not sure if I could be as warm and confident in myself as I am today.

And while I still experience homophobia, like being spat on while walking with an ex in downtown Toronto or having a stranger yell in my face “Are you fucking lesbians?” in Kensington Market, the joy and love still outweighs the nasty.

So, as the sentimental dyke that I have become, I decided to ask a set of lesbians in my orbit — including my friends as well as Uncloseted staffers, board members and followers — if they would share a little bit about what makes them love being a lesbian. And now, I can share it with all of you. Here they are. Happy LVW!

Timi Sotire

Falling in love with her was a reset. I felt like a kid again, hopeful about the future. We’ve had to overcome many obstacles to be together, but I’d choose her in every lifetime. I was sick with a long-term health condition when we met, and hanging out with Sophia really helped me with my recovery after my surgery.

Bella Sayegh

Being a lesbian is one of the most beautiful things in the world. To be authentically yourself in resistance and joy is so special within the lesbian community.

Parker Wales

When I met Liv, I finally understood why almost every song is about love.

Gillian Kilgour

There is no connection quite as perfect as between lesbians, no one sees me like my lesbians do.

Chyna Price

There’s many things I love about being a lesbian. But here are my top three:

1. There’s just a deeper understanding when it comes to being loved by another woman.
2. The next one would be the sense of community, especially being a POC masculine-presenting lesbian. I don’t feel like I’m cosplaying as someone else like I felt like I was doing before I came out.
3. There’s so much history going back to the 1800s on how we found and fought for our love. That fight makes me proud because it shows me … that we’ve [found] ways to express our love even when it was misunderstood, illegal and deemed as madness.

Hope Pisoni

Before I knew I was a lesbian, romantic relationships seemed suffocating — it felt like everyone would expect me to act my part in the meticulous performance that is heterosexuality. But meeting my spouse and discovering our identities together showed me just how freeing it could be to love without a script to follow.

Leital Molad

It was the joy of watching the New York Sirens defeat the Toronto Sceptres at our first professional women’s hockey game — surrounded by hundreds (maybe thousands?) of cheering lesbians.

Angela Earl

I spent years building a life that looked right. But I never felt settled, and eventually I started asking what would actually make me happy. Coming out was about more than who I love, it was letting go of everything I was told to be. The last few years have felt like coming home to a life that had been waiting for me.

Tali Bray

What I love about being a lesbian is what I love about being in love … the wonder and joy of “oh, this is what it’s supposed to feel like.” I love moving through the world with women.

Izzy Stokes

I didn’t fall in love until I realized that queerness was an option. My queer friends have helped me see so much more than I grew up seeing. I’m so proud of us, and I’m so grateful for my lesbian community.

Nandika Chatterjee

When I met my fiancée is when I started to feel most like myself. That meant loving myself for who I am and embracing my identity as a lesbian. I felt free in a way I have never before. That’s the long and short of it.

Liz Lucking

The love and joy of being a lesbian is getting to live the life I dreamed of but never thought I would get to have!

Reflections

As I read these beautiful entries, it’s not lost on me that we’re still living in a world where lesbians are more likely to struggle with maternity problems, fetishization, and compulsory heterosexuality — not to mention the intersectional pressures of racism from both inside and outside the queer community. That’s part of why, according to a 2024 survey, 22 percent of LGBTQ women have attempted suicide, and 66 percent have sought treatment for trauma.

So if you are a lesbian who isn’t out or doesn’t feel safe, I hope you read this and can glean some hope from these messages. So when you look in the mirror, you know that it’s okay to release the weight — which can feel so heavy — of a heteronormative world.

We still have a long fight until all lesbians can feel safe to be themselves, but this is a community that does not back away from the tough, from the joy, from being loud and from all the other things that it takes to start a small revolution.

Hell yeah, lesbians! Here’s to you.

*I am signing off with my cat on my lap and a pride flag over my head <3.

Federal authorities have charged a transgender woman with kidnapping after she allegedly fled to Cuba with her 10-year-old child.

An affidavit that Federal Bureau of Investigation Special Agent Jennifer Waterfield filed in U.S. District Court for the District of Utah on April 16 notes the child is a “biological male who identifies as a female” and “splits time living with divorced parents who share custody” in Cache County, Utah.

Waterfield notes the child on March 28 “was supposed to be traveling by car to” Calgary, Alberta, “for a planned camping trip with his transgender mother, Rose Inessa-Ethington, Rose’s partner, Blue Inessa-Ethington, and Blue’s 3-year-old child.”

The affidavit notes the group instead flew from Vancouver, British Columbia, to Mexico City on March 29. Waterfield writes the Inessa-Ethingtons and the two children then flew from Mérida, Mexico, to Havana on April 1.

The 10-year-old child called her biological mother on March 28 after they arrived in Canada. The custody agreement, according to the affidavit, required Rose Inessa-Ethington to return the child to her former spouse on April 3.

“Interviews of MV [Minor Victim] 1’s family members provided significant concerns for MV 1’s well-being, as MV 1 was born a male, however, identifies as a female child, which is largely believed to be due to manipulation by Rose Inessa-Ethington,” reads the affidavit. “Concerns exist that MV 1 was transported to Cuba for gender reassignment surgery prior to puberty.”

The affidavit indicates authorities found a note in the Inessa-Ethingtons’ home with “instruction from a mental health therapist located in Washington, D.C., including instruction to send the therapist the $10,000.00 and instructions on gender-affirming medical care for children.”

The affidavit does not identify the specific “mental health therapist” in D.C.

A Utah judge on April 13 ordered Rose Inessa-Ethington to “immediately” return the child to her former spouse. The former spouse also received sole custody.

“Your affiant believes that due to the extensive planning and preparation exhibited by both Rose Inessa-Ethington and Blue Inessa-Ethington to isolate MV 1 and take MV 1 to Havana, Cuba, without notifying or requesting permission from MV 1’s mother indicates they are likely not planning to return to the United States,” wrote Waterfield.

The affidavit notes Cuban authorities found the Inessa-Ethingtons and the child.

A press release the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the District of Utah issued notes the Inessa-Ethingtons “were deported from Cuba” on Monday “with the assistance of the FBI.”

The couple has been charged with International Parental Kidnapping. The Inessa-Ethingtons were arraigned in Richmond, Va., on Monday. The press release notes a federal court in Salt Lake City will soon handle the case.

The New York Times reported the child is now back with their biological mother.

“We are grateful to law enforcement for working swiftly to return the child to the biological mother,” said First Assistant U.S. Attorney Melissa Holyoak of the District of Utah in the press release.

The case is unfolding against the backdrop of increased tensions between Washington and Havana after U.S. forces on Jan. 3 seized now former Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro and his wife, Cilia Flores.

President Donald Trump shortly after he took office in January 2025 issued an executive order that directed the federal government to only recognize two genders: male and female. A second White House directive banned federally-funded gender-affirming care for anyone under 19.

The U.S. Supreme Court last year in the Skrmetti decision upheld a Tennessee law that bans gender-affirming care for minors.

Cuba’s national health care system has offered free sex-reassignment surgeries since 2008.

Activists who are critical of Mariela Castro, the daughter of former President Raúl Castro who spearheads LGBTQ+ issues as director of Cuba’s National Center for Sexual Education, have previously told the Washington Blade that access to these procedures is limited. The Blade on Wednesday asked a contact in Havana to clarify whether Cuban law currently allows minors to undergo sex-reassignment surgery.