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Out West Hollywood Mayor Sepi Shyne will run to replace Schiff

“I realized my purpose is to illuminate- I did with my family & my advocacy work. I’ve done the same to illuminate & elevate people”

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Mayor Sepi Shyne at the ceremonial swearing in of West Hollywood City officials January 2023 (Photo Credit: Paulo Murillo)

WEST HOLLYWOOD – West Hollywood Mayor Sepi Shyne announced at noon Tuesday her plans to run for the congressional seat currently held by Rep. Adam Schiff, who is running to replace Californiaā€™s senior U.S. Senator Dianne Feinstein who is retiring in 2024.

Shyne, the first Iranian queer female Mayor, took time out of her schedule to speak to the Blade about a lifetime of combatting prejudice, hate, and violence.

Campaign advert announcing Shyne’s candidacy:

POLITICS

“I realized my purpose is to illuminate. This is what I did with my family and in my advocacy work. I’ve done the same to illuminate and elevate the people.”

Mayor Shyne received her Bachelor of Science from San Jose State University with a double concentration in Accounting and Management Information Systems and a Minor in Drama with an emphasis in Directing. She received her Juris Doctorate with a specialization certificate in litigation from Golden Gate University School of Law in San Francisco.

She then served on the City of West Hollywood’s Lesbian and Gay Advisory Board (now LGBTQ+ Advisory Board), on the City of West Hollywood’s Business License Commission, and on the Los Angeles County Assessor’s Advisory Council on which she continues to serve.

Additionally, she has led many boards and organizations, including the LGBT Bar Association of Los Angeles and as a Board of Governor and Steering Committee leader with the Human Rights Campaign Los Angeles.

Shyne is a Co-Organizer of WeHo Neighbors Helping Neighbors, a community group created during the pandemic to help get resources to seniors, people with disabilities, and people in immunosuppressed households via social media and volunteer check-in calls. In every board and organization she has led, she has recruited and elevated women and people of color to leadership positions to create more diversity, inclusion, and equity.

“In the LBGT organizations and human rights campaigns, I was always fighting for equality,” said Shyne. “I made sure I brought in women and women of color into leadership positions because that was greatly lacking.”

 Shyne was encouraged by her peers to run for office. 

“I started learning more about the city, and I didn’t know that West Hollywood only had one queer woman in office in its entire, at that time, thirty-six years. That’s it. And no women of color ever in elected office.” 

“I lived in the city for ten years. I really wanted the city to get back to its progressive ways. I felt it had really lost its purpose.”

“I felt that West Hollywood had lost its way. There were so many LGBTQ folks under our umbrella who didn’t feel included in our community. I knew having representation in office would inspire others as it did for me.”

“We have done so much in changing our ordinances so that our trans siblings feel more welcome, and there is still more work to do. The bisexual community that is still so often ostracized gets discrimination from straight folks and lesbians and gays.”

“My wife and I separated in June. She was bisexual. When I was on the advisory board, we had the first bisexual pride celebration, and I was so glad that we did that. Since then, we have dedicated funds to Bi Pride week in West Hollywood.”

“I didn’t realize all this until after I had a deep spiritual awakening. I am a lawyer, but I am also an energy healer. My company is called Soulillume.” 

“I realized my purpose is to illuminate. This is what I did with my family and in my advocacy work. I’ve done the same to illuminate and elevate the people.”

FLEEING IRAN

Born in Iran, Shyne was two years old when the revolution happened in her hometown in Tehran, Iran’s capital. The Iranian Revolution, also known as the Islamic revolution, was a period of violent takeover by the Islamic regime that ultimately ended the Pahlavi dynasty in 1979 and resulted in the Imperial State of Iran being replaced by the Islamic State of Iran.

“As a little girl, my whole life turned upside down,” Shyne told The Blade. 

“It was very traumatic to experience the chaos around me, the chaos that my family was experiencing, and all the women when the revolutionary guard and Islamic regime came in. For a little kid, it felt like it happened overnight. They implemented so many rules. There were no more clubs. Women could not wear makeup. No drinking. Women couldn’t be in the streets with men anymore, and they had to wear the hijab.” 

“And it was violent.” 

“They would whip people in the streets. They would torture people. Free speech was being taken away.” 

As it is for so many children of the time, the brutality of the Islamic takeover took a deep toll on Shyne’s childhood. 

“Everyone was in shock. Everyone was going through trauma. There wasn’t time for my parents to take care of me. I learned that I needed to take care of myself because the adults could barely take care of themselves.”

Following the end of the revolution in 1979, the Iran-Iraq war (1980-1988) continued to ravage the lives of Iranians, creating even more tragedy and chaos.

“It was very traumatic when the war started,” said Shyne. “When they were getting closer to Tehran, we would hear the sirens and the jets, and we would run down to the basement because of the fear of being bombed.”

Shyne told the Blade that her constant fear for her safety was further exacerbated by her gender: “I was so scared to be a girl because being a girl meant violence.”

In Tehran, Shyne lived on the top floor of a triplex and would often play soccer with her downstairs neighbors. Because she was fearful of what might happen to her as a young girl playing in the streets, Shyne created a male alias to make her feel safer. 

“My hair was short,” said Shyne. “I made up a boy name, Parviz, and told the neighborhood boys I was Parviz.”

Sadly, as Shyne stated, times were terrifying for both men and women. 

“They put my dad in prison for speaking against the regime. Then he started planning our escape from Iran.”

Shyne’s father made visa arrangements for their family but was unable to secure a visa for Shyne’s fifteen-year-old brother, who was of drafting age for the war. 

“Those boys were all dying on the front lines,” Shyne told The Blade. “So they smuggled him out of the country. They sent him off with some stranger.” 

Shyne, age five at the time, was concerned for her brother, whom she described as her “protector.” The family made their way to Italy, where they remained for a while before finally arriving in America. Her brother arrived safely as well. 

The move to America in September of 1982 saved Shyne’s life in more ways than one. “My mom had no idea my dad planned to stay here permanently. But he had made a plan with my eldest brother that that was the right thing to do. That may not have been the best thing to do in a marriage, but as a little girl who was a lesbian, I don’t think I would have survived if he had not done that.”

While America proved to be safer for Shyne’s family than Tehran, times were anything but easy, 

“It was a very difficult time for Iranians here with xenophobia and Islamophobia. People would see these Islamic extremists saying death to America and associate them with us, so we started calling ourselves Persian. All the while, we didn’t know if our families were going to be killed.”

Shyne’s family moved to her sister’s home in Cupertino, CA, where Shyne attended school.

“I was undocumented until I was 16. But I was able to go to school. I was supposed to have started school in Iran. There, you learn English, Arabic, and Farsi. But my dad hadn’t wanted me to start because he didn’t like that we also had to learn Islam, which they were forcing on the kids.”

Because Shyne had not started learning English in Tehran, she struggled in her first years of schooling in Cupertino.  

“I didn’t speak very much English. Some girls started bullying me. They started throwing wood chips at me, calling me ‘camel head’ and ‘terrorist’ because they knew I was Iranian. I ran over to one of the school’s adult volunteers on yard duty. Because I didn’t know how to speak English, I couldn’t explain that I was being bullied. I was the one who ended up getting detention.” 

“That day was one of my first lessons about the importance of knowledge. I told myself, ‘You need to learn English as soon as possible to speak up for yourself.’ My mom told me I used to have nightmares and that my first words in English were, ‘Leave me alone.'”

COMING OUT

Shyne, who, like many immigrant children, felt that she was living two lives, one at home and one in school, feels that learning to stand up for herself was a pivotal moment in her life. The next pivotal moment was coming out. 

While she may not have had the support or language to express it at the time, Shyne knew she was queer from a very young age. 

“I remember being in Iran at age 4 or 5 and having a crush on my neighbor. I remember sitting on the entry steps to the building and holding her hand, and kissing her cheek. It just felt naturally right to me. Then around eight years old, I had a lot of cousins who ended up emigrating here, and they were talking about boys, boys, boys. I thought, ‘Wait. I’m a girl. They are girls. But they keep talking about boys. But I’m attracted to girls.'”

While Shyne knew she was attracted to girls, actually defining herself as a lesbian took some time. 

“When I hit puberty, I thought maybe I was bisexual. I kissed so many boys in high school, and I just didn’t feel anything. But I would say to my close friends that I’m bisexual because I knew deep down that I was into girls. When I was fifteen, I fell in love with my best friend. It was completely emotional because we were young, and she was Mormon. She was definitely one of my soulmates.”

However, Shyne’s love for her first soulmate was put to an end. 

“She had such a difficult life,” explained Shyne. “She was getting a lot of pressure from her Mormon family over me. They told her, ‘Sepi is taking you down the wrong path.’ But we were actually the best kids. We would just drive around and play music and dance around my car. I love to dance. But there was so much homophobia at the time. So much. She actually freaked out at some point and stopped talking to me for a few years.”

Around the same time, when Shyne was seventeen, she connected with her first-ever girlfriend. 

“There was one girl who came up to me and said, ‘Hey, Sepi, I have some playboy magazines at home. I would love for you to come over and look at them with me.’ She was very attractive. I went over to her house. That was the first time I kissed a girl. It was fireworks. It was like how it was on TV when boys and girls would kiss. She was my first girlfriend.”

I called my best friend, and I said, ‘Oh my gosh. This is what happened. Maryanne and I made out. I’m totally not bisexual. I need to figure out how to come out to my family.'”

“So I came out to the younger family members first. Then I came out to my mom when I was nineteen. She realized I had stopped dating boys, and my parents were constantly trying to set me up, which is very prevalent in the Iranian community. I was so uncomfortable it was awful.”

Shyne’s queerness was difficult for her traditionalist mother to process, so Shyne, always the educator, gave her mother some recommended reading, including Betty DeGeneris’ book about her daughter, Ellen DeGeneres coming out, and another book called Prayers for Bobby by Leroy Aarons.  

“My mom said, ‘don’t tell your dad.’ My dad was vocally homophobic. She also said, ‘Don’t get into a relationship too soon. Go experience as much as you want.’ She thought it was a phase.”

“Then she grieved as many parents do. She was in denial, then she was angry, and she said, ‘I hate you. You’re not my daughter.’ Instead of internalizing it, I said, ‘Okay. I need to educate my family because they don’t know better.'”

Shyne’s involvement in politics stemmed from a deeply personal place. In addition to her lifelong journey with her queerness, The Mayor recalled one hate incident that fueled her need to make a difference. 

“I ended up getting together with my best friend,” said Shyne. “When we were in college, we were still trying to plan out what we wanted for the rest of our lives. We were at a gay-friendly coffee bar, talking about what grad schools we wanted to go to. We didn’t know the management had changed. We were just holding hands. The next thing I knew, the manager and a police officer showed up and said, ‘You need to leave. The establishment doesn’t want your kind here.’ Then he blew a kiss and winked at me. 

“We couldn’t call our families. They were already worried about us as it was. We were driving around town crying. We felt demoralized. We felt powerless.”

“Finally, I pulled over and said to her, ‘I’m tired of feeling powerless. We need to go to law school and learn the law and stop this.’ So that was what we did.”

HATE SPEECH

Shyne’s method of educating others has continued to serve her in her professional life.

“When people have hate speech about a group, I utilize the way I educated my family. We saw this with marriage equality as well. People did not understand why it was important until we shared our side from a vulnerable place.”

As a political figure, Shyne has received a tremendous amount of hate speech and personal threats for being a queer Iranian, woman. Amid the plethora of ignorance, one person commented on one of Shyne’s videos, “We don’t want a Muslim terrorist running city hall, if you come to my door, I’m going to mace you.” 

After some misinformation was printed about one of Shyne’s policies, she received the following message from an Outlook account: “You piece of shit queer bitch. I hope you get robbed or raped or both.” The Mayor filed an official police report following the incident. 

“When I’m getting personal attacks,” said Shyne, “if it’s a person that should know better, then it’s actually not my job if they are being abusive and engaging in toxic behavior to teach them that this is okay by allowing that. It is my job to stand up for myself and let them know that is not what I am willing to entertain by setting boundaries. There has been a lot of hate since I was elected office, from strangers to people in the community to local blogs printing so much misinformation.”

Shyne also blames the platforms themselves for allowing this type of hate speech and misinformation to spread, unregulated, through their comment sections.  

“These platforms are aware of it, and they allow a comment section to exist with racist posts. They allow misogyny. They allow transphobia. This is a choice. These are values they put out in the community. They are choosing to do this even though they are a part of the community and have likely experienced discrimination themselves. So this is very sad.”

When asked what she believed should be done to end hate speech online, Shyne said she believed more regulation and transparency should be enforced.

“I think these platforms need to come out very strongly against hate speech. It is very simple. Just take a stand for people. If their lawyers are saying this is protected speech, then as a corporation, they can take a stance. They can use their algorithms and all their technology and institute their community standards.”

“They need to apply the standards that they have equally,” continued Shyne. “They should be able to monitor and speak up against hate speech. It is easy to tell what’s right and what’s not right. Sadly, since 2016 there has been so much lack of civility. Everybody is just pointing fingers at each other. This is happening within each party too. The republicans are fighting. The democrats are fighting. Everyone is focused on making each other wrong instead of sitting down and just listening.”

“When social media started, I think they didn’t anticipate the state of our world becoming so divisive as we saw with Nancy Pelosi’s husband. This hate speech absolutely does turn to violence.”

In September 2022, Governor Gavin Newsom announced that he signed a social media transparency bill (AB 578) by Assembly Member Jesse Gabriel, which will require social media companies to publicly post their policies regarding hate speech, disinformation, harassment, and extremism on their platforms, and report data on their enforcement of the policies.

Shyne feels that revising social media platform practices is vital as the laws that deal with inciting violence are now outdated in the face of this new technology. 

“We also have to reconsider our laws about what is considered inciting violence because those laws didn’t consider social media at the time. When those laws were created, they were about people saying things in person and then asking whether or not it is probable that violence will ensue from that interaction. But now we have people on social media saying horrible things that do lead to violence.” 

Shyne also sees an imbalance between protection for federal and local officials that needs to be corrected. Local officials need the same level of protection that federal officials have. She also stated that there is an imbalance of women, particularly women of color like The Mayor, getting a disproportionately large share of online hate speech.

A FINAL MESSAGE

Shyne shared a final message of hope with The Blade for the young leaders of the future. 

“Always, no matter what your circumstance in life has been, if your life was difficult or traumatic, whatever anyone has said to you, whether strangers or close to you, if it is negative, don’t believe it. Just don’t believe it. Go within yourself and give yourself the healing you need to know that you are absolutely perfect as you are. You were born exactly as you were meant to be. You were meant to live a free, incredible, magical life. All the young people that are being born are so special. They are literally meant to shift this world into a much better place. No matter what, don’t ever give up. Step into your power and reach out to people like me and other leaders and ask for mentorship. Know that you can overcome any adversity. If you just set your mind to it, anything is possible.”

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Events

Botitas World: the business brand aimed at building community

CafƩcito and Comunidad, the event to gather in QTBIPOC community

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Zizi Bandera (they/them) and Ty Curiel (he/him), co-founded this brand as a trans and 'cuir,' movement of interdependence to invest in collective healing and well-being (Photo credit Gisselle Palomera)..

Zizi Bandera and Ty Curiel, came together to form what is now Botitasā€“a small business brand and organizing space for Queer, Trans, Black, Indigenous and People of Color to celebrate and embrace identity, ethnicity and community.Ā 

The co-founders of Saturdayā€™s Botitas event CafĆ©cito and Comunidad, say they had to close the RSVPā€™s because they reached capacity and were afraid of having issues with the Parks and Recreation Department that issues parking permits and sets a limit for the number of people allowed to gather at Elysian Park in Los Angeles. 

ā€œItā€™s our first event here and itā€™s an amazing turnout,ā€ said Bandera. ā€œTikTok blew us up.ā€

Bandera referenced the TikTok video they posted announcing the event and says that they woke up the next morning to see that they had well over a hundred RSVPā€™s for the event that they expected would only have a couple dozen people. 

@botitas.world

šŸ”— IN BIO TO RSVP! We cannot wait to meet yā€™all!! #trans #gay #queer #latine

ā™¬ La Danza de Los Mirlos – Los Mirlos
Video courtesy of botitas.world

ā€œWe had someone who is part of our community call up the councilmember for this district and was able to talk to whoever is in charge of Parks and Rec to OK more capacity,ā€ said Bandera. ā€œ[Eunisses Hernandez, Councilmember CD-1] also got us the tables and permits.ā€

Bandera stresses that the amount of people who reserved a spot for the event comes to show the need for space like Botitas. 

ā€œI thought it was going to be maybe fifteen, twenty people,ā€ said Bandera. 

The space is held intentionally for the BIPOC community within the broader LGBTQ+ community, with the intention of centering BIPOC voices that can otherwise be erased, marginalized, sidelined or silenced in broader community conversations. 

ā€œOur focus is to have these community spaces and to serve our trans Latine community in Los Angeles and beyond,ā€ continued Bandera. ā€œWe thought about making this project a nonprofit, but we wanted to really have full agency and control over, in terms of the needs of our community.ā€ 

Bandera says that going the nonprofit route has its own challenges and obstacles because of different stakeholders. They stress the importance of their community being the stakeholders in this business journey. 

Though the day was a bit gloomy with some light rain, many people gathered to mingle, chat and yap, along with some coffee at Elysian Park in Los Angeles this past Saturday (Photo Credit Gisselle Palomera).

ā€œIā€™ve been working in community organizing, mobilizing around LGBTQ and immigrant issues for almost fifteen years now and Iā€™ve always wanted to create something that was for us, led by usā€“queer, trans, Latine and intergenerational.ā€ 

Bandera says that they were inspired to create this space for QTBIPOC because of a report released earlier this year pointing to a loneliness epidemic that disproportionately affects LGBTQ+ people over their heterosexual peers. 

The report states that ā€ā€¦LGBTQ+ youth exhibit higher rates of loneliness, social isolation, and depressive symptoms than their heterosexual peers. Moreover, LGBTQ+ youth grappling with loneliness are less likely to reach out for help regarding their mental health concerns.ā€™

The other co-founder of Botitas has different reasons to have started this business journey. 

ā€œBotitas is one day today and another thing tomorrow,ā€ Curiel said. ā€œOur idea came from wanting to create a brandā€“something that you can wear when youā€™re out and about in the city. A brand that is backed by people who resonate with you as Latine folks, queer, trans and thatā€™s what we are.ā€ 

Curiel also states that the current state of politics also plays a major role in his idea to create Botitas. ā€œWe want to [create these spaces], especially in this time and age where thereā€™s a rhetoric of people spreading hate.ā€

This event is in a public space, encouraging people who show up, to gather in a space that supports sobriety. The offerings included cafĆ©cito, pastries and games. 

Earlier this year during pride month, Curiel says he and Bandera were looking at historic news articles and photographs of LGBTQ+ life in Los Angeles during the 1950s and 60s, from an exhibit at the Central Library in DTLA, and thatā€™s when it hit them both that none of the people in the photos looked like them. They did not feel represented. 

This moment urged them to reconsider what it means to them to feel represented, heard and seenā€“thus bringing about the idea for Botitas. 
Follow @Botitas.World on Instagram and TikTok to get more information on upcoming events.

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Arts & Entertainment

Meet the whimsical, fairy-core Uber driver who drives a car named Mollie

Nonbinary Uber driver, Caspian Larkins is rolling on Mollieā€“ no, not that one

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Caspian and their car Mollie they use to pick up and drop off strangers of all walks of life across Los Angeles.

Forest green faux fur, rhinestones, a fabric-lined ceiling, planted faux flowers and green plastic grass adorn the inside of an anthropomorphized car named Mollie who spends her days riding off into the sunset on Sunset Blvd in West Hollywood and beyond. 

The driver of this 2008 Ford Escape, Caspian Larkins, 24 and a Cancer sign, moved to Los Angeles to pursue acting and through a series of humbling restaurant jobs and other side hustles, ended up driving for Uber. Though working for Uber was not on Larkinsā€™ bingo card for 2021, they wanted to find a way to make the experience not only fun for themself, but also for the people who roll on Mollie. 

Larkins, who identifies as nonbinary and queer, grew up being one with nature in the wilderness of Oregon and when you step inside Mollie, it feels like a little magical, mystical slice of Oregonian forestā€“of course if it were reimagined on four wheels and zooming through traffic in Los Angeles. 

Forest green faux fur and a pink ruffle with a layer of tiny fabric roses, line the doors. Stickers on the sunroof and windows reflect rainbow hues across the white leather seats and passengers. (Photo credit Gisselle Palomera)

Going viral overnight doesnā€™t happen to just anyone, but this iconic duo now have thousands of followers on social media and have big plans for the future. 

ShaVonne Boggs, a content creator who hailed an Uber ride from Larkins, posted an Instagram reel of the ride and featured Larkins in all their fairy-core glory, driving through L.A traffic, with the viral Gwen Stefani ā€˜Just a Girl,ā€™ audio clip playing over. 

ā€œI went to bed that night with a couple hundred followers on my account and I woke up the next day and I had gained like 3,000 followers,ā€ said Larkins. 

Larkins has a unique sense of style that incorporates nature, fashion and sustainability, often foraging for materials from the side of the road to add to the car and accepting donated fabrics from people who reach out to them through social media. 

ā€œIā€™m a forager. What can I say?,ā€ said Larkins and then jokingly added that Jeff Bezos also personally delivers some of the items they use to decorate Mollie. 

ā€œI come across stuff on the street sometimes that Iā€™ll pick up, put in my car and repurpose.ā€ 

Larkins says that Mollie is a little bit dinged up and bruised up from the outside, but that itā€™s the inside that truly matters. 

There is a third character in this story that resides on the inside of the car at all times. 

Jack Aranda is the name of the guardian angel of this fairytale ride. It is a miniature rubber ducky that was given to Larkins by a spiritual witch that opted for an Uber drive, over a broom one night. 

ā€œIt was midnight, by Venice Beach and you know it was good vibes, but yea she gets in and weā€™re talking and sheā€™s like ā€˜Iā€™m going to give you this duck,ā€™ and gives me this little tiny purple good luck duck,ā€ said Larkins. ā€œSo I kept the good luck duck and I put him on my dashboard.ā€

Larkins says that ever since this encounter, the luck in their car changed. 

ā€œRed lights will always turn green for me, and sometimes someone will run a red light and miss [hitting] me and I just think itā€™s divine intervention because of Jack.ā€Ā 

Larkins poses in front of their car Mollie on a road in West Hollywood, CA. (Photo Credit Gisselle Palomera)

Larkins says that the decorated interior and its elements serves not only as a conversation starter, but also as a filter from unwanted conversations and painfully boring small talk. 

ā€œI think that since Iā€™ve decorated my car, itā€™s like my filter,ā€ said Larkins. ā€œThe people who get in and are like, ā€˜Oh my god,ā€™ those are my people and those are the ones that Iā€™m there for. And the ones that get in and are silent, I just let them sit there and soak in the rainbows.ā€ 

They say that there have been more good interactions, than bad ones and more people who ā€˜get it,ā€™ than those who donā€™t. 

Anthropomorphizing cars is nothing new to pop culture. In fact, cars have almost always had names and it is almost a part of engrained American culture to assign personalities to them based on their cosmetic characteristics. 

The earliest examples on TV go as far back as the 1940s and some of the most memorable examples are Christine, the possessed, killer Camaro from Stephen Kingā€™s imaginative mind.Ā 

Or Herbie, the 1963 Volkswagen Racing Beetle from the early cartoon TV show Herbie, the Love Bug.

In everyday routine, people spend so much time and energy on and around inanimate objects, that they sort of become meaningful elements who accompany us on our journeys from here to thereā€“and back. 

ā€œWhat Iā€™m doing now with her is switching out different designs with the seasons,ā€ said Larkins. 

Larkins drives around Los Angeles and West Hollywood, picking up and dropping off people from all walks of life. (Photo Credit Gisselle Palomera)

ā€œSo right now we have our spring/summer look and a lot of the things in there are removable, velcroed and stapled.ā€ 

They say that right now they are exploring a very niche area of automotive interior design that they feel has not been explored within vehicles recently. 

ā€œItā€™s just hard for other people to conceptualize it and what I often describe to people, comes off as very tacky and just kind of nastyā€“ not demure, not cute.ā€ 

Larkins feel they are really just now setting the stage for whatā€™s possible, as far as interior customizations. 

ā€œI want to start creating this world in which design plays a bigger role in what a car could be and the experience of just being transported,ā€ said Larkins candidly. ā€œI want to invite people into my little delusional fantasies.ā€ 

Larkins believes that even in the present and near future of self-driving vehicles, they would like to collaborate with these major self-driving car companies and take part in designing and customizing the vehicles so that it can be a pleasurable and fun experience for riders who might feel anxiety about self-driving technology. 

The inside of Mollie is adorned from top to bottom and from left to right. (Photo Credit Gisselle Palomera)

Modifying and customizing cars has been a part of the North American experience since the early 1930s. Now, attention is shifting toward the addition of technologies like Augmented Reality, to enhance the experience of driving and getting from point A to point B, and also using that technology to navigate the vehicle without a driver.Ā 

There are now endless possibilities when it comes to custom car culture and Larkins feels this is their place to explore and forage for the looks that people want and canā€™t even imagine. 

ā€œI want to step away from driving for the platforms and I would love to design with them,ā€ said Larkins. ā€œThere is a group of people that are in support of this future technology and there is this other group of people that are kind of scared of it because it feels very cold and very uninviting and very new, so I would like to be the one to sort of bridge that gap for those people and make it less scary.ā€ 

The vision that Larkins has, is that they would like to reimagine the possibilities of custom interiors with interchangeable parts and additions that one could only think of as synonymous to Barbie and her endlessly fun assortment of interchangeable outfit components. 

Larkins sees a long future ahead, where they have the opportunity to collaborate with airlines, rideshare companies and any other sponsors who are willing to make their visions come to reality. Until then, they will continue to weave up and down the asphalt arteries of WeHo and beyond, rolling on Mollie and working on their fairytale ending.

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Features

The little idea that could: These queer, Latinx, DJs are shifting the scene in LA

ā€˜All you jotas, grab your botas!ā€™

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Photo Courtesy of Adelyna Tirado (@ady.jpeg) DJ Killed By Synth, DJ French and DJ Lady Soul pose for a group shot at Little Joy Cocktails in Echo Park for their monthly Butchona event.

The rallying call urges all the Spanish-speaking and corrido-loving sapphics, butchonas, jotas and vaqueeras, to grab their boots and meet up at Little Joy Cocktails for a carne asada-style, family party every fourth Sunday of the month, featuring spins by DJ Lady Soul, DJ French and DJ Killed By Synth.

In Los Angeles, these three disc jockeys have embraced the word buchona, adding the ā€˜tā€™ as a play on the word butch

The free event, now locally known as Butchona, is a safe space for all the Mexican and Spanish music-loving lesbians to gather on the last Sunday of every month.Ā 

Buchona is usually a term used in Mexico and other Spanish-speaking countries to describe a woman who is a bossā€“ someone who exudes dominant energy or marries into a powerful position. 

ā€œI didnā€™t know how well [the idea for Butchona] was going to be received and my favorite part of all that, has been the looks everyone has been bringing,ā€ said Rocio Flores, who goes by DJ Lady Soul. 

(Photo Courtesy of Adelyna Tirado)
DJ Lady Soul poses outside of Little Joy Cocktails in her butchona outfit.

The event that started only a few months ago, brings in dozens of dressed-up jotas. The ā€˜looksā€™ that the crowds bring are reminiscent of how dadā€™s, tĆ­os, and their friends dressed at Mexican family parties: a tejana, cowboy boots, giant belt buckle and a beer in hand.Ā 

Dressing up in these looks is a way to show wealth and status to earn the respect of other males in a male-dominated and -centered cultureā€“ that is until now. 

This traditionally male, Mexican, cultural identity, is something that has never been embraced or accessible to women or gender non-conforming people. The giant belt buckles that are traditionally custom-made and specific to male identities like head of household, ‘only rooster in the chicken coop’ and lone wolf, are only part of the strictly cis-gendered male clothes that dominate the culture.Ā 

The embroidered button-ups, belt buckles and unique cowboy hats ā€“all come together to create the masculine looks that are now being reclaimed by women and gender nonconforming people at the event curated by three queer, Mexican DJs, who once had a little idea that could

Flores, 37, (she/her), Gemini, says that to her the term butchona describes a woman who is a little ā€˜chunti,ā€™ a little cheap in the way she dressesā€“ but in a queer way. 

ā€œThat title also means that youā€™re a badass,ā€ she said. ā€œI want to look like that seƱor, I want to look like that dude and now I feel like I could, so why not?ā€

Flores says that now she feels like she can embrace and reclaim that cultural identity, but it wasnā€™t always that easy. 

At first, her family upheld the traditional cisgender roles that forced her to dress more feminine, but she always wanted to dress like her cousins and her tĆ­os

ā€œNow, Iā€™m like: ā€˜Fuck that!ā€™ Iā€™m going to wear the chalecos and the Chalino suits,ā€ she said in Span-glish. 

The Chalino suits are traditional, Mexican, suits that were worn and popularized by Chalino Sanchez, known as the King of corridosā€”a genre of music that is said to have originated on the border region of Texas, Tamaulipas and Nuevo LeĆ³n, Mexico.

ā€œIt felt good to break into the DJ scene, but what I always noticed was that the lesbian culture was always lacking,ā€ said DJ Lady Soul. ā€œI would mainly see gay males at parties and a lot of male DJs.ā€

According to Zippiaā€“a career site that sources their information from the U.S. Bureau of Labor and Statistics and the U.S. Censusā€“23.5 percent of disc jockeys are women, 16 percent are LGBTQ+ and only 12.7 percent are Hispanic or Latin American. 

What has always been a traditionally machista music genre and scene, is now being embraced by a growing number of queer women and non-male DJs in Los Angeles.

For Fran Fregoso, who goes by DJ French, 33, (they/she), Taurusā€“ embracing their cultural identity came a lot easier because of their late uncle who sort of paved the way for them to come out as queer and be more accepted than he was as the first openly out queer person in their family.Ā 

(Photo by Adelyna Tirado) Dj French poses in their vaquero-style outfit.

Their music journey began listening to the 90s grunge, alternative, hip-hop and metal music played by their older siblings at home. 

ā€œThen I met Vanessa [DJ Killed By Synth], and she introduced me to the industry,ā€ said DJ French. 

DJ French felt the acceptance and support to enter this music space and decided to embrace their cultural roots by playing music that they grew up listening to at family parties. They booked their first gig with CumbiatĆ³n LA, a collective of DJs and organizers who host Latin American parties across Los Angeles, often centering queer DJs and other performers.

ā€œWhen [Lady Soul and Killed By Synth], brought this idea up to create Butchona, I was like: ā€˜Oh, Iā€™m in 100 percentā€™,ā€ they said. ā€œBecause I love playing corridos and banda music because thatā€™s a core memory from my childhood and family parties.ā€

Banda, corridos, cumbias and other traditional music is a big part of Mexican culture, even as gendered and male-centered as it has been, it is embraced by all. 

ā€œI know a lot of people in our queer, Latino, community love that music too, but they also want to be in a safe space,ā€ they said. ā€œThatā€™s where we decided to make an environment for our community to dance and be themselves.ā€ 

Vanessa Bueno, 40, (she/her), Libra, who goes by DJ Killed By Synth, says her journey started about 20 years ago when she started DJing for backyard parties in East L.A. and across L.A. County. 

(Photo by Adelyna Tirado) DJ Killed By Synth playing her set.

Her family is from Guadalajara, so she says that growing up she also had a lot of family parties with corridos and banda blaring in the background of memories with the many cousins she says she lost count of. 

ā€œA lot of the music we heard was bachata, banda, cumbia and even some 80s freestyle,ā€ said Bueno.

Even while she had a ā€˜little punk rocker phase,ā€™ she says she couldnā€™t escape that Spanish music her family played ritualistically at family get-togethers. 

When they began their music journeyā€“back in the AOL, Instant Messenger days, they played a lot more electronic music, hence the name Killed by Synth. At first, it was just a username, but then it became her DJ name. 

ā€œLater down the line, comes [the idea for] Butchona came about, and me, Rocio and French collaborated,ā€ she said. ā€œItā€™s kind of always been my goal to create these safe spaces for women and queer people, and I had been in the scene long enough to where people were willing to answer my calls to work with them to make it happen.ā€

For Bueno, it was natural for her to build community and embrace this part of their culture later on in her career when she saw a need for queer, Latin American-centered club spaces with family party vibes. 

She started hosting Latin American-style parties, blending music, culture, and food and attracting the exact audience she envisioned. With these events, Bueno aimed to reclaim her Mexican identity and foster a sense of family and community at these events. 

ā€œWeā€™re here to build a safe space to embrace the music and kind of not think about the machismo that is tied to it and celebrate who we are,ā€ said Bueno. 

According to the U.S. Department of Labor and Statistics, California, Texas, New York, Arizona and Washington rank the highest in employment rates for disc jockeys in 2023. There is also a recent trend in more women DJsā€“the study does not include gender nonconforming DJsā€“booking twice as many gigs as men in event spaces and concerts that host DJ sets. 

ā€œIt feels like weā€™re barely cracking into these safe spaces and expanding our horizons a little bit,ā€ said DJ French. ā€œI hope this inspires other people to also create safe spaces like Butchona.ā€ 

The next Butchona event will be on Sunday, Oct. 27 and will feature all three DJs playing corridos, banda, cumbia and all the classics, for a chunti Halloween party.Ā 

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1st time West Texas has a permanent LGBTQ+ community center

A local volunteer died by suicide ahead of the centerā€™s grand opening, reminding the West Texas community why such spaces are important

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Adriana Aguilar, chair of Basin Pride, embraces Patty Reeves, president of PFLAG's Midland and Odessa chapter, after her talk on stage about the death of a community member Luna Harris during the Pride Festival at The Vine in Odessa, Texas. (Photo Credit:Ā Callie Cummings for The Texas Tribune)

ByĀ Carlos Nogueras Ramos | ODESSA, Texas ā€” Patty Reeves stood centerstage overlooking a park dotted with dozens of people from West Texasā€™ LGBTQ+ community. There were clusters of families and friend groups. A local church brought congregants who sat in lawn chairs in the front row.

The cheerful atmosphere at the fifth annual pride festival in West Texas had shifted. A suicide had rocked the community. Luna Harris, a 19-year-old gender-nonconforming person, died two days earlier.

As a warm gust carried dust through the park, Reeves delivered her speech.

ā€œWhat I see in West Texas is a community that says, ā€˜I am here. I am thriving. You will not erase us,ā€™ā€ she said.

Like many present that day, Reeves, the president of PFLAGā€™s Midland and Odessa chapter, wanted to believe in her message. But at that moment, she couldnā€™t.

ā€œI said those words because thatā€™s what I hope for,ā€ Reeves said offstage. ā€œBut then I thought: Are we really?ā€

The sudden loss hovered over the festivities meant to close a busy week of events, which included the grand opening of a brick-and-mortar community center for the regionā€™s LGBTQ+ community.

PFLAG President, Peggy Reeves, discusses the intense need to help trans children in Texas during the Pride Festival hosted by Basin Pride at The Vine in Odessa, Texas.
PFLAG President Patty Reeves discusses the need to help trans children in Texas during the Pride Festival hosted by Basin Pride at The Vine in Odessa.Ā 
(Photo Credit:Ā Callie Cummings for The Texas Tribune)
Crowd during the Pride Festival hosted by Basin Pride at The Vine in Odessa, Texas.
The crowd watches the speakers and performances at the Pride Festival in Odessa, Texas.
(Photo Credit:Ā Callie Cummings for The Texas Tribune)
Maverick Dance Team performs during the Pride Festival hosted by Basin Pride at The Vine in Odessa, Texas.
Maverick Dance Team performs during the event.Ā (Photo Credit:Ā Callie Cummings for The Texas Tribune)

It was also, Reeves and others said, a sobering reminder that underscored how necessary spaces like the festival and the community center are ā€”Ā especially in a state such as TexasĀ where Republican lawmakers and other policymakers are working to limit how LGBTQ+ people live their lives.

During the last decade, several organizations that support the Permian Basinā€™s LGBTQ+ community have sprung up. None have had a permanent ā€” and visible ā€” home of their own. That changed in April when Pride Center West Texas opened its doors to the public.

The centerā€™s grand opening was four years in the making. It all started when Bryan and Clint Wilson moved to Midland, from Florida in 2020. Amid the COVID-19 pandemic, the couple shuttered their consulting services to move back and be closer to family.

The married couple had been active in LGBTQ+ nonprofits in Florida, and registered Pride Center West Texas as a nonprofit with plans to open a center once they settled. That summer, the first center opened on the third floor of a building in downtown Odessa with a conference room and group spaces, Clint said.

The center outgrew that space. And in 2021, they moved the center to another building downtown, next to a bank. There, the Wilsons, volunteers and the center’s board held events and group sessions for two years before outgrowing the space again. In 2023, the couple moved the center to a church. But after the Wilsons held a drag show for adults, members of the churchā€™s board voted to evict them. Until this year, the couple operated the center out of Sanctuary Wyrd, a shop that sells gems, crystals and art ā€” and has doubled as a refuge, opening its doors to other organizations that hosted monthly meetings and movie nights.

Now the center is tucked away in a nondescript strip mall behind a busy Italian restaurant.

A rainbow placard hangs on the glass facing the street. At the entrance, the Wilsons have placed desks for people to work at. They do not charge patrons for using the space. A clerk sits by the window, welcoming every straggler. Farther down the hall, visitors may chat on a sofa and chairs while others study the collection of books on a shelf. Pamphlets containing information about sexually transmitted diseases line the countertop of a bar area in the back.

Among its programming, it offers youth groups for adults aged 18-25 to discuss different subjects. Some weeks, it hosts group discussions on religion. On Fridays, visitors can drop in for Queer Connection, a support group for adults. The center also offers its space as an office to other local organizations serving the LGBTQ+ community.

Reeves, the PFLAG president, also moved to Midland from Arlington in 2020 with her husband and trans teenager, Milo. Before looking for a house, Reeves said, she and her husband searched for available resources for her teen, who is now 17. Bryan and Clint helped the family by connecting them to the local network of organizations focused on supporting LGBTQ+ youth. Reeves volunteered for a year before becoming president of PFLAG in 2021.

ā€œFinding the Pride Center was the best thing that happened to us,ā€ Reeves said. ā€œI came as a parent, I didnā€™t know what to do.ā€

Funding such community centers is a priority for Texas Pride Impact Fund, a nonprofit charity organization that grants money to support programs and community centers across Texas. Since 2018, it has awarded $2 million to organizations in Abilene, Corpus Christi, El Paso, Lubbock, Eagle Pass, the Rio Grande Valley and others. The fund traveled to Odessa in June to document the center and show the results of its work to donors in Fort Worth.

Youth Administrator, Zero Galindo pick board games with Bryson Beaman (14) and Michael Eayon during Youth Drop In and Group at Pride Center West Texas in Odessa on May 28, 2024.
Youth administrator Zero Galindo, left, pick board games with Bryson and Michael during a facilitated youth group at Pride Center West Texas in Odessa.Ā 
(Photo Credit:Ā Callie Cummings for The Texas Tribune)

Ron Guillard, the fundā€™s executive director, said itā€™s unclear how many similar organizations exist across Texas ā€” especially outside the major metropolitan areas. A national database suggested there are 20, but not all operate out of a physical space. For many, Guillard said, a brick-and-mortar is aspirational.

MĆ­chĆ©l Macklin, the fundā€™s communications and administrative coordinator, said rural community centers do more with a fraction of the budget of bigger cities. A challenge for the community hubs like the West Texas center, they said, is working with scarce resources. The fund found that the support the organizations provide to each other has enabled their success.

ā€œI think the folks who are in the Permian Basin are creating connective tissue among each other and pooling the resources, however small they may be … to create a larger compound or silo of resources that can be shared among one another,ā€ Macklin said.

Guillard agreed: ā€œWhat I find most striking is that [rural centers] appear to be more cohesive than the major cities because they’re led by a younger set of activists,ā€ Guillard said. ā€œEspecially in towns like Eagle Pass and Odessa, there are communities, those on the frontlines working across the spectrum. And they understand that that is the fight.ā€

Pride Center Board President, Emily Parks answers interview questions from Texas Pride Impact Funds  members Ron Guillard and MƭchƩl Macklin at Pride Center West Texas in Odessa on May 28,2024.
Texas Pride Impact Funds members Ron Guillard and MĆ­chĆ©l Macklin interview Emily Parks, board president of Pride Center West Texas, during a tour to Odessa to document the impact of the nonprofit’s funding on the community center.Ā (Photo Credit:Ā Callie Cummings for The Texas Tribune)

Guillard said he had seen promising examples of other LGBTQ+ organizations aiming to open brick-and-mortar centers in El Paso, Corpus Christi and the Rio Grande Valley.

Harris, the 19-year-old who died by suicide, was a regular volunteer at the center since 2022. They helped organize meetings and events. And they helped produce the local Pride celebration, often performing original songs. Full of ideas, they proposed a chocolate bar stand and a firecracker sale to help raise money.

They were talkative and outgoing, their friends said. They wrote songs and performed them with an operatic tone, people close to them said. In high school, Harris sang in a choir. For the 2024 Pride festival, Harris had volunteered to face-paint and perform a song.

The Wilsons and other advocates were stunned. How could this happen to someone so deeply involved with the tight-knit community?

Pride Center founder Bryan Wilson holds meeting with board members at Pride Center West Texas in Odessa on May 28, 2024.
Bryan Wilson, CEO and founder of Pride Center West Texas, holds a meeting with board members at the center.Ā (Photo Credit:Ā Callie Cummings for The Texas Tribune)

ā€œWhat is enough?ā€ Clint said. ā€œHow many resources are enough resources? What is enough for a community to feel accepted? It’s a very hard question.ā€

Nationwide, 42% of transgender adults will attempt suicide, according to a 2023 report by the Williams Institute at the UCLA School of Law, which used data from the U.S. Transgender Population Health Survey. Nearly as many, 44%, said they considered it.

Contributing to this harsh reality in Texas is a Legislature that has introduced scores of bills seeking to regulate how LGBTQ+ people live. Republican lawmakers filed more than 100 bills between the last legislative session and the following special sessions. Some passed, including a ban on puberty blockers and hormone therapy for trans kids, limiting the college sports teams trans athletes can join and an attempt to limit where drag performances can take place.

ā€œAll LGBTQ people have to be really resilient because we know our rights are always on the line,ā€ said Brad Pritchett, deputy director of Equality Texas, a statewide political advocacy organization. ā€œIn places like Texas, where you’re under a constant barrage from lawmakers trying to find new and creative ways to harm your community, it really does take an extra ounce of resilience to continue saying, ā€˜This is my home, I’m not leaving it, I’m gonna stay and defend it.ā€™ā€

While LGBTQ+ organizations have been staples in major American cities since the 1970s, it has only been in the last decade that similar groups have started in Midland and Odessa. Among them are the West Texas chapter of PFLAG, the first organization in the country dedicated to advocating for LGBTQ+ people and their families, which arrived in Midland and Odessa in 2014. There is also Out West Texas, which serves transgender West Texans and started in 2017, and Basin Pride, founded in 2019, has arranged the logistics for putting together Pride festivals.

ā€œThis is hard work, to keep the community going,ā€ said Adriana Aguilar, who joined Basin Pride in 2021 and now serves as its chair. Aguilar, 28, volunteered for the center in 2020.

The effort to establish and grow more inclusive spaces can draw unwanted attention.

Last January, Aguilar, Basin Pride chair, said she and a group of volunteers attempted to host a family-friendly, Barbie-themed event that included a drag show and local artists. The group secured a venue, performers and volunteers. But days before the event, organized protesters flocked the surrounding area, and the county sheriff was called. Agitators threatened Aguilar with protests. Aguilar postponed the event indefinitely. And because of the event, several sponsors who had offered to support the Pride festival backed out. Aguilar said she had two months to regroup and find other financial supporters.

ā€œBasin Pride is growing, which is great,ā€ she said. ā€œBut that means we have more eyes on us, that weā€™re under certain radars that we werenā€™t before.ā€

And on Tuesday, an Odessa City Council member suggested the city should limit the use of public restrooms based on a personā€™s sex assigned at birth, the Odessa American reported. Such policies are routinely used to discriminate against transgender people.

Other Odessans have responded positively to their growth ā€” or are at least indifferent.

Earlier this year, the center began hosting a bingo night at the Odessa Veterans of Foreign Wars hall. The Wilsons and other volunteers wear grey shirts with long, pink sleeves, floating through the hall selling bingo cards and dobbers. Lorraine Wilson, Bryanā€™s mom, calls the eveningā€™s numbers.

Eddie Almendariz, long time Bingo player participates in the first night of Bingo hosted by Pride Center West Texas at VFW Post 4372 in Odessa on May 20, 2024.
Eddie Almendariz participates in the first night of bingo hosted by Pride Center West Texas at the Veterans of Foreign Wars post 4372 in Odessa.Ā (Photo Credit:Ā Callie Cummings for The Texas Tribune)
CEO and Founder of Pride Center West Texas, Bryan Wilson, sells playing cards during the first night of bingo hosted by the organization at the Veterans of Foreign Wars Post 4372 on May 20, 2024.
Bryan Wilson, CEO and founder of Pride Center West Texas, sells playing cards during bingo night. (Photo Credit:Ā Callie Cummings for The Texas Tribune)
Lorraine Wilson, mother of Bryan Wilson, calls out numbers to bingo participants at the VFW hall in Odessa. (Photo Credit:Ā Callie Cummings for The Texas Tribune)

It was Lorraineā€™s idea. She proposed it to Rick Mitchell, the VFW hallā€™s commander in February, who then brought it to his members for a vote. It was unanimous.

ā€œThey’re a human being just like I’m a human being is the way I see it,ā€ said Mitchell, a lifelong conservative from Kermit who lives in Odessa. ā€œIt doesnā€™t affect me one bit.ā€

Samantha Washington has been playing bingo at the hall for 15 years. The 49-year-old introduced her daughters, Elisha and Mesha, to the tradition. Bingo nights are a family getaway, she said. That the proceeds from Monday night help fund the Pride Center doesnā€™t bother her one bit, she said, so long as there is bingo.

ā€œI donā€™t mind supporting them,ā€ Washington said. ā€œItā€™s peopleā€™s rights.ā€

The proceeds from bingo night donā€™t cover the expenses of running the center, but it helps, the Wilsons said. The couple hopes they will someday earn enough from that and other grants to expand their services and reach.

After Harrisā€™ death, they said, their services are crucial to the community.

ā€œWe have to be able to give what we have now,ā€ Clint said. ā€œWe have to rally and still continue what we have now. The main question that Bryan and I had was, how could this happen on our watch? It forces us to see how we can improve our reach.ā€

******************************************************************************************

Carlos Nogueras Ramosā€™s staff photo

Carlos Nogueras RamosĀ is a regional reporter based in Odessa. Carlos joined The Texas Tribune in 2023 in partnership with Report for America. Carlos tells the stories of Texas from the vast energy-rich Permian Basin region. Before the Tribune, Carlos spent time in Philadelphia writing about local politics, including the cityā€™s 100th mayoral election. A Spanish speaker, Carlos was one of the few Latino reporters on the campaign trail, covering the most expensive primary election to date in Philly. He is a proud Puerto Rico native, born and raised in Cayey. He studied at Berklee College of Music in Boston and the University of Puerto Rico.

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The preceding articleĀ was previously publishedĀ by The Texas Tribune and is republished with permission.

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Second Thought: New film short explores now, then & a future

In light of the overwhelmingly positive reception their short filmĀ has garnered, the young queer filmmakers look to the future

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Openly gay TikTok sensation Art Bezrukavenko & his out friend, YouTube personality Chris Stanley, now co-creative filmmakers, on a flight to Boston Pride, 2024. (Photo Credit: Bezrukavenko/Instagram)

BOSTON, Mass. – In an unexpected yet delightful turn, YouTube personality Chris Stanley and friend and TikTok sensation Art Bezrukavenko have ventured into filmmaking with their debut indie film, Second Thought.

The two new gay filmmakers were recently in Boston for Pride festivities and took a moment to share their insights with the Los Angeles Blade about their debut film short, which has been met with enthusiastic praise and critical acclaim. Their successful transition from social media influencers to filmmakers marks an exciting new chapter in their careers, promising more creative ventures ahead.

Second Thought (With Spoilers)

Art Bezrukavenko & Chris Stanley on location in Provincetown. (Photo Credit: Stanley)

Despite their lack of filmmaking experience, ‘Second Thought’ shines with impressive acting and the pairā€™s shared eye for cinematography, set against the picturesque backdrop of Cape Cod’s Provincetown, also known as P-townā€”a historic and vibrant LGBTQ+ resort haven in Massachusetts.

Located at the tip of Cape Cod, it’s celebrated for a rich LGBTQ+ culture, beautiful beaches, charming B&Bs, and lively queer bars. The town’s transformation into an art and gay mecca began after the 1898 Atlantic hurricane season, attracting artists, bohemians, and the nascent queer community. By the 1920s, Provincetown had firmly established itself as a queer-friendly destination, a legacy that continues today. It’s no wonder John Waters, Baltimore’s famed out gay director and writer, calls P-town his second home.

Second Thought, written and co-produced by Bezrukavenko and Stanley, explores the complexities of modern gay dating and the diverse experiences within the LGBTQ+ community. The film stars the duo, with Stanley and Jimmy Martin co-directing the project.

The narrative follows two young men, portrayed by Stanley and Bezrukavenko, who meet on Grindr shortly after arriving in P-town. They exchange messages and quickly arrange to meet at a local bar. What follows is a candid depiction of a hookup, tastefully shot to convey intimacy without explicit content.

However, the morning brings a twist: Bezrukavenko’s character sneaks out and blocks Stanleyā€™s character on the app, leaving him feeling rejected and disheartened ā€“ a scenario based loosely on both filmmakersā€™ personal experiences. 

ā€œIā€™ve definitely had experiences like that,ā€ Bezrukavenko told the Blade. ā€œThere have been nights when I thought, oh my God, that was such a great night. And then, you know, we wake up in the morning and the guy tells me okay, go away.ā€

ā€œI didn’t really have a lot of experience with hookup culture,ā€ Stanley admits, ā€œAlthough I can relate to the ghosting part. When I was trying to talk to guys before I met Bret [Stanleyā€™s boyfriend of three years] for sure.ā€

The film then cleverly rewinds to their initial bar encounter, offering an alternative storyline. This time, the characters spend the evening talking, flirting, and enjoying a series of sweet activities around the quaint town. The poignant climax shows the two men as an older couple, having spent their lives together, enriched by the deep connection they fostered by avoiding the pitfalls of meaningless and empty immediate sex. 

Gay Hookup Culture

The Grindr hook-up scene from Second Thought. (Screenshot/YouTube Stanley)

In an article by Vox Media, gay psychiatrist Jack Turban, explores the effects of Grindr on gay men’s mental health. Grindr (which is featured in ‘Second Thought’ as the catalyst for the two protagonists meeting) and similar apps like Scruff and Jack’d, with millions of users, are designed for easy, anonymous, LGBTQ+ sexual encounters. While these apps promote sexual liberation, Turban concludes that they may also harm mental health.

Turban conducted an informal survey on Grindr, posing as a medical writer. He received many responses revealing that many users find the app addictive due to the brain’s pleasure responses, triggered by the unpredictable rewards, akin to gambling’s infamous slot machines, which make it hard to stop using the hookup app.  

Grindr provides temporary relief from anxiety and depression, but many users feel worse after using it. They log on to escape negative emotions, only to feel more isolated and anxious after shallow interactions and hookups. Despite this, the cycle of temporary relief and subsequent distress continues.

As is the case at the beginning of ‘Second Thought’, Turban finds that some men struggle to form lasting relationships due to Grindr’s hypersexualized nature. The app’s convenience leads to sex-first interactions, which don’t typically result in meaningful connections. This behavior can also damage self-esteem and hinder relationship-building skills.

Although the film does not explicitly oppose hookup culture, Stanley and Bezrukavenko, both in committed three-year long relationships, believe that developing a long-term connection requires more depth than what Grindr typically offers.

ā€œExcitement comes and goes,ā€ says Bezrukavenko. ā€œItā€™s not always easy, and it is not always like those early days. I think the issue is that in a lot of couples, people start off very, very excited, right? But then that excitement kind of fades away and then people stop fighting for each other. You know what I mean? People give up too fast and they want some fresh new thing. But relationships take work. Relationships are friendship and partnership first, and then passion. You need to date your best friend.ā€ 

In Bezrukavenkoā€™s experience, putting the work into a relationship is well worth it. ā€œPassion is a great word because a lot of people have a misconception of what love and what passion is. They think that they should be passionate all the time, but passion comes and goes and then it returns and then it can be doubled. And in my case, I had the most passionate after, two and a half years in my current relationship. I would have not ever thought that it’s possible.ā€

Stanley agrees wholeheartedly with his friend and co-creator, believing that communication is the glue that holds a long-term relationship together. ā€œI would say communication is really important. Once you stop telling your partner things or if you’re keeping things from them, the relationship just shuts down. So, yeah I would say itā€™s important to always keep an open dialogue conversation, telling each other what you like, what you don’t like, and working together on things while feeling comfortable to share whatever is on your minds.ā€

Coming Out (Chris Stanley)

Chris Stanley at Boston Pride 2024.
(Photo Credit: Stanley/Instagram)

Growing up in a close-knit community in New Hampshire, Stanley navigated the complexities of coming out during his high school years, facing both rejection and support along the way.

“I came out when I was a sophomore in high school, and it didn’t really go well for me,” he reflected. While his family embraced his identity, the response at school was markedly different. “My main friend group, about five guys, ghosted me the very next day after I came out,” he recalled.

The sudden ostracization was a significant blow for Stanley, who had assumed his friends had always known about his sexual orientation.

“I used to act stereotypically gay when I was trying to be funny, and my friends would always joke about it being real. So, I was shocked when they reacted that way,” he explains. The loss of his friends and the ensuing awkwardness at school led Chris to quit the soccer team, despite being one of its best players.

“Senior year was a bit better,” Stanley noted, mentioning that the team even tried to recruit him back. However, the trust issues and the hurt from his earlier experiences made it impossible for him to return. “They sent the team captain to ask me to play again, but I said no,” he stated firmly.

Despite the challenges, his love for the sport never waned. Last year, he discovered and joined a gay soccer team in Boston. ā€œIt was really fun to play again with a bunch of gay guys and queer people. It felt good to be competitive again, although I did hurt my knee trying to go too hard,ā€ he says, laughing.

Chris & Bret at Boston Pride 2024.
(Photo Credit: Stanley/Instagram)

Now at 24, Stanley has built a strong relationship with his family, including his boyfriend of three years, Bret. ā€œMy parents just want me to be happy,ā€ he says, highlighting the support he receives from his mom and dad. His father’s acceptance was particularly meaningful, especially after learning that his uncle was also gay. ā€œI didn’t realize my uncle was gay until after I came out to my dad,ā€ he revealed. ā€œThat was a surprise.ā€ 

Stanley’s journey from isolation to acceptance has also fueled his creative passions. During his high school years, when he often found himself sitting alone at lunch, he turned to writing. ā€œI would eat my food as fast as I could and then go to the library to write short gay stories and poems,ā€ he recalled.

Today, Stanley continues to create, sharing his work on YouTube with a supportive community and enjoying life with Bret by his side. 

Coming Out (Art Bezrukavenko)

Art with his boyfriend at Boston Pride 2024. (Photo Credit: Bezrukavenko/Instagram)

Art Bezrukavenko grew up in Eastern Ukraine, in a city where being gay was not openly acknowledged. “I was 17 years old, and there were no gay people in my school or my city,” he recalls. The lack of representation left Art feeling isolated, unable to find role models or a community to relate to.

At 17, Bezrukavenko moved to Poland to study and escape the war near his hometown. His time in Poland was marked by academic achievements, earning a degree in International Relations and Business. Despite his accomplishments, Art was still not fully comfortable exposing his sexual orientation.

“I worked and studied in Poland for three years but didn’t come out,” he shares. ā€œI did try to come out to my mom once, but she told me, Itā€™s okay. We can see a therapist and fix this.ā€  Bezrukavenko had also tried to come out to a close girlfriend, but in return, he received a lecture on the moral obligations of a man and woman to procreate together. Both experiences left him with a bitter taste when it came to publicly embracing his sexual orientation.  

Bezrukavenko’s quest for a new life brought him to the United States where he spent time in Maryland and then Chicago, living in Northalsted (also known as Boystown) one of the most countryā€™s inclusive LGBTQ+ communities and the oldest officially recognized gay neighborhood in the United States. Itā€™s known for its welcoming vibe, nonstop nightlife, LGBTQ-owned businesses, and excellent dining options. Itā€™s also the center of some of Chicagoā€™s most popular events and festivals. His time was spent working as a waiter.

Art moved on to Los Angeles with dreams of becoming an actor. He had previously won competitions in journalism and playwriting, including a poignant play about living with HIV, inspired by a friend. However, his stint in LA was short-lived and tumultuous. “It was messy,” he reflected, eventually returning to Chicago and then back to Maryland as the COVID-19 pandemic began. ā€œI was a stripper for a short time…But LA was not for me.ā€

Art with his mother.
(Photo Credit: Bezrukavenko/Instagram)

It was in Austin, Texas, where Art began to embrace his identity more openly. He started to explore the dating scene and came out to his mother for the second time. This time, however, the conversation had a more supportive outcome. His mother accepted him, a significant step in his journey toward self-acceptance. The two now maintain a close relationship. 

Bezrukavenko’s confidence grew as he shared his experiences on TikTok, connecting with a broader audience. “I decided to embrace who I am and realized I can benefit from being gay,” he said. His online presence became a platform for sharing his story and supporting others in similar situations.

Today, Bezrukavenkot is 27 years old and living in New York City with his supportive boyfriend of three years. “I was almost 24 when I came out officially, and now I have a boyfriend,” he shared. His relationship has provided stability and happiness, something he had long sought for himself.

A future

Stanley and Bezrukavenko at the 35th annual GLAAD Media Awards held on March 14, 2024 in New York City. (Screenshot/YouTube GLAAD)

In light of the overwhelmingly positive reception their short film ‘Second Thought’ has garnered in just the YouTube community alone, Stanley and Bezrukavenko are excited about the possibility of creating a Christmas movie and further refining their filmmaking skills. Romantically, in the long term Bezrukavenko envisions himself getting married and having children, while Stanley prefers to take life day by day, embracing whatever comes his way.

Finally, the new filmmakers shared these closing thoughts:

ā€œChoices shape our lives,ā€ says Bezrukavenko. ā€œItā€™s important to stay true to yourself. You can do anything, whether itā€™s being in a relationship or just hooking up, as long as you are being true to yourself.ā€

ā€œIt gets better,ā€ says Stanley. ā€œUse your experiences and adversities to your advantage. Never give up on what you want to do. After I came out in high school, those were the worst years of my life, but they led me to create my favorite project ever.ā€

Watch the film here:

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Queer TikToker Nicky Champa: Social media & balancing life

Champa shared his thoughts on the profound impact of TikTok highlighting both the positive and negative aspects of the platform

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Nick ā€œNickyā€ Champa is a household name in the digital world. With nearly 13 million followers on TikTok, he has captured the hearts of many through his videos, candidly sharing his every day life as a young gay man living in LA. (Photo: Simha Haddad/Los Angeles Blade)

LOS ANGELES – As I joined the line of customers snaking out the door of a popular Studio City cafĆ© that resembles a small cottage, I spotted a young man with cheekbones so sharp they could chisel granite already waiting for me.

He smiled warmly and waved. I left my place on the sidewalk to join him inside the cozy cafĆ©. We hugged, and he told me, ā€œOh my God. You are stunning!ā€ to which I replied, ā€œThank you. So are you!ā€ I like to think we could tell we both meant it.

After placing our orders at the counter, flanked by a glass cases brimming with massive sweet treats, we navigated the deceptively deep and winding interior of the cottage. We eventually emerged onto the wraparound outdoor patio, investigating every free parcel of seating real estate until we decided on an indoor spot in a tucked-away corner. I placed my phone on the wooden table between us as we awaited our coffees and began recording, capturing the hum of relaxed conversations all around us as Nick Champa started sharing his story with me.

Nick ā€œNickyā€ Champa (28) is a household name in the digital world. With nearly 13 million followers on TikTok, he has captured the hearts of many through his videos, candidly sharing his every day life as a young gay man living in LA. A former NYU acting student, Champa is also known for his roles in ā€œDeadlockedā€ (2020), ā€œCharmersā€ (2021), and ā€œAstrid Cloverā€ (2014),

Early days

Champa, born in Dallas, Texas and raised in Syracuse, New York, said that his seemingly perfect family life was disrupted by his parents’ divorce when he was just 11 years old. ā€œThe divorce was messy. It was a 10-year court battle. Until that point, I thought it was just as perfect as it looked.ā€

Champa described his upbringing before the divorce as privileged, with a successful father and a stay-at-home mother. However, the separation shattered this idyllic life, forcing him to adopt a new and more sombre reality. ā€œMy mom had to work; it was a dramatic change in reality that really changed my whole childhood,ā€ Champa said. ā€œI had to do things that my dad used to do. I was in charge of the yard and all the chores, and I was an emotional support for my mom and brother. I had to grow up very, very fast.ā€

Champa explained that experiencing his home breaking so suddenly had a traumatic effect on the young actor. ā€œMy dad very much neglected us and he made it a very torturous experience for us. I had to testify in court a bunch of times. It was very traumatic.ā€ 

While Champa did not speak to his father for years after the divorce, they eventually rekindled their relationship after Champa graduated from high school, although, he explained, the relationship is still strained by memories of past hurt. 

On the other hand, Champaā€™s bond with his mother remains exceptionally strong. ā€œMy mother and I are very, very close,ā€ Champa said. ā€œWe became best friends. We have a great relationship; not everyone understands it. I tell her everythingā€”literally everything. There is not one thing I wouldnā€™t be able to tell my mom, from boyfriends to sex life. I tell her everything.ā€

Coming Out

ā€œIā€™ve never really identified with being gay. I prefer to call myself queer,ā€ Champa said.  Despite participating in sports and exhibiting traditionally ā€œmasculineā€ traits, ā€œwhatever that means,ā€ Chapa added, he also enjoyed painting his nails and engaging in artistic pursuits. ā€œI was confused growing up. My mom was not shocked when I came out, but itā€™s not like she necessarily knew I was gay.ā€

ā€œThe way I came out is actually really funny,ā€ Champa said, laughing as he recounted a memorable coming-out experience that occurred after a night partying in West Hollywood. While exploring his newfound sexual identity, a one-night stand landed Champa in a precarious situation when, while doing the deed at this beauā€™s house, he accidentally crashed through the glass shower door, leaving shattered glass and blood all over the bathroom floor.

The incident left him needing over 100 stitches, and he had to call his mother from the hospital to get his insurance information. ā€œI told her I had been having sex with a girl, and she asked what girl was strong enough to push me through a glass door?ā€ Realizing the need for honesty, he sent her a photo of the bathroom, inadvertently including the other manā€™s jock strap in the frame. ā€œSo I had to admit to her that I had been with a man.ā€

Luckily, Champaā€™s mother was unsurprised by the revelation, and was more concerned with her sonā€™s wounds than this sexual orientation. Champa also shared that he felt grateful that his entire family, his father included, were accepting of his coming out. ā€œIā€™m really lucky in that way,ā€ he said. 

TikTok

Champa’s TikTok page.

After deciding to leave NYU in his sophomore year of college, Champaā€™s career took a significant turn when he was signed by Paradigm Talent Agency in Los Angeles. ā€œThen I was auditioning for larger roles, so I didnā€™t feel the need to go back to school,ā€ Champa explained.

Champa, noticing the growing trend of social media, decided to try his hand at Instagram. His rise on the platform was rapid, which he largely attributes to his openly queer posts, detailing honest accounts of his real life, travels, and journey with love.

The transition to TikTok, where Champa is best known, came with support from the platform itself. ā€œTikTok contacted me with support and got me on the platform,ā€ Champa said. 

ā€œIn a way, I felt like a gay mascot on TikTok,ā€ said Champa. 

ā€œThe person I spoke to there was gay, and many of my contacts at TikTok have been gay,ā€ Champa noted, stating that, in spite of recent accusations, he did not believe the platform to be inherently homophobic. Despite this, he acknowledged that the algorithm could sometimes be perceived as leaning towards homophobic or racist tendencies, as it aims to avoid political content.

While Champa is grateful for his success on the platform, the constant demand of social media began to take its toll. Champa shared his desire to shift focus back to acting, reducing his social media engagement. ā€œI do find myself moving away from posting so much and moving slightly away from social media because I want to focus more on acting roles. It was an everyday thing that consumed me, and I donā€™t think I want to go back to that. Iā€™m trying to find a way to navigate social media part of my life without making my bread and butter day to day part of my life.ā€

ā€œFor the longest time, my motivation on social media was just to grow, but I feel like I have plateaued now at 13 million followers. Now itā€™s time for me to figure out what to do and where to grow next.ā€

The TikTok Ban

On May 7, 2024, TikTok filed a lawsuit against the U.S. government. The Chinese-owned company argued that the Senate’s recent ultimatum, which demanded that TikTok’s parent company divest from the social media platform under the threat of a ban, was unconstitutional. 

The law, known as the Protecting Americans from Foreign Adversary Controlled Applications Act, specifically names TikTok and its parent company, ByteDance Ltd. It also extends to other apps and websites with over a million monthly users that have significant ownership from China, Russia, Iran, or North Korea. The president has the authority to determine if these applications pose a national security threat, in which case they must be sold or face a ban in the U.S.

TikTok’s lawsuit claims that the law violates the First Amendment by not providing evidence of the national security threat it allegedly poses and for failing to seek a less restrictive remedy. Legal experts argue that this law implicates First Amendment interests in significant ways beyond this specific case.

Supporters of the law claim it is not a ban but a divestiture, describing it as a purely economic regulation. They argue that after the sale, users can continue using TikTok without concern for its ownership. However, critics view the law as an attempt to control speech by mandating a change in ownership, particularly to prevent potential Chinese Communist Party propaganda.

The government has not disclosed the national security concerns cited in the TikTok law. While such concerns might justify intervention, public skepticism remains.

Unless the courts invalidate the law or Congress repeals it, TikTok may not be able to operate effectively in the U.S. by January 19, 2025. App stores might be unable to update the software, and Oracle Corp. might not continue hosting TikTok’s U.S. user data. This potential scenario underscores the profound implications of the ongoing legal battle between TikTok and the U.S. government.

Feelings on the TikTok Ban

Champa expressed concern over the potential banning of TikTok, stating that it ā€œwould make our world smaller,ā€ by stripping away a platform that fosters global connections and success stories across various industries. (Photo: Simha Haddad/Los Angeles Blade)

Champa shared his thoughts on the profound impact of TikTok on modern society, highlighting both the positive and negative aspects of the platform that has propelled him to fame.

ā€œTikTok democratized the world,ā€ Champa said. ā€œIt gave power back to artists and creators. You donā€™t need to rely on people with more power anymore to have a voice and to build a brand and to have a career.ā€ According to Champa, TikTok has leveled the playing field, offering opportunities to individuals who might otherwise never have had the chance to shine.

ā€œI watch this one baker in Australia, who has built a huge empire just through TikTok, which I think is incredible,ā€ Champa said, highlighting how the platform can connect individuals from all corners of the globe. ā€œNow I know about her bakery in Australia, which I would have never known.ā€ 

Champa expressed concern over the potential banning of TikTok, stating that it ā€œwould make our world smaller,ā€ by stripping away a platform that fosters global connections and success stories across various industries.

ā€œThere is a real world out here. You donā€™t need to feel like you are missing out on anything if you donā€™t scroll all day. You really are not missing anything.ā€

Champa described how the platform can inundate users with content, particularly when significant events occur, which he believes yields both positive and negative outcomes.
(Photo: Simha Haddad/Los Angeles Blade)

However, Champa also acknowledged the downsides of such pervasive connectivity. ā€œThis is still a double-edged sword. I do think sometimes itā€™s too much information all at once.ā€ 

Champa described how the platform can inundate users with content, particularly when significant events occur, which he believes yields both positive and negative outcomes. ā€œIf something horrible or amazing happens in the worldā€”anywhere from an eclipse to a war to tornadoes in the Midwestā€”I go to TikTok to get perspective and get multiple perspectives on a situation. Thatā€™s amazing, and thatā€™s a privilege to be so connected in that way.ā€ Yet, he warned of the dangers of information overload. ā€œSometimes too much information can be detrimental. For example, I watched one video on how Joe Biden is really an alien, TikTok immediately thinks all I want to see is how Joe Biden is an alien, and now Iā€™m flooded with nothing but this information. Thatā€™s not healthy.ā€

Champa emphasized the need for the younger generation to balance their time on TikTok with real-world experiences. ā€œThere is a real world out here. You donā€™t need to feel like you are missing out on anything if you donā€™t scroll all day. You really are not missing anything.ā€

He also touched on the issue of free speech and expression. ā€œThen thereā€™s, of course, the issue of the First Amendment and freedom of speech because we all do have the right to express our opinions,ā€ Champa said. ā€œItā€™s a difficult topic and Iā€™m not sure what the solution is.ā€

Champaā€™s reflections underscore the complex relationship between social media and society. While platforms like TikTok offer unprecedented opportunities for connection and success, they also present challenges that users must navigate carefully. As Champa continues his journey, his insights offer a valuable perspective on the evolving digital landscape.

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Bringing Pride every day to everyone everywhere

What sets Gay Pride Apparel apart is not just the quality of the designs but also the unwavering commitment to giving back

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Jesus Gutierrez and Sergio Aragon, founders and partners in the New York City-based Gay Pride Apparel, a vibrant clothing line specializing in LGBTQ+ T-shirts and crew necks. (Photographed for the Los Angeles Blade by Drey Kaun @dreykaun)

NEW YORK – A relatively new clothing line is making major headway on the LGBTQ+ apparel scene. Gay Pride Apparel, a vibrant clothing line specializing in LGBTQ+ T-shirts and crew necks, was founded by Jesus Gutierrez and Sergio Aragon, best friends since the sixth grade and now partners living in New York City.

Gay Pride Apparel, which has seen astronomical growth since its inception in 2019, recently celebrated a major milestone: its apparel products are available at Walmart for the second consecutive year, both in-store and online.

ā€œThis is very exciting,ā€ Aragon told The Blade in an exclusive interview. ā€œWe are so grateful that they were able to help us amplify our vision of bringing pride every day to everyone everywhere.ā€

In addition to its Walmart placement, this year, Gay Pride Apparel has embarked on a myriad of other high-profile collaborations. In May, Gutierrez and Aragon partnered with HBO’s popular show, Weā€™re Here, a show that follows renowned drag queens Sasha Velour, Priyanka, Jaida Essence Hall, and Latrice Royale as they continue the series’ mission of spreading love and connection through the art of drag across small-town America. The collaboration includes a line of exclusive merchandise that will be available for Pride month, and possibly beyond.Ā 

Continuing their upward trajectory, Gutierrez and Aragon are launching a collaboration with the Broadway award-winning musical Wicked, which the New York Theatre Guide describes as being centered around the themes of female friendship, discrimination, and governmental corruption. This partnership includes a pride-focused merchandise collection featuring four unique designs, one of which will be showcased and sold at the theater. This collaboration signifies a significant achievement for the brand, as their products will be sold at the showā€™s venue. ā€œItā€™s crazy to see our clothing being displayed and sold at a venue like that,ā€ Aragon said.Ā 

Additionally, Gay Pride Apparel is teaming up with NYC Ferry, an LGBTQ+ ally known for its inclusivity. This collaboration aims to create a special merchandise line that emphasizes The Ferryā€™s message that all passengers of all sexual orientations and gender identities are welcome aboard.Ā 

Photo courtesy of NYC Ferry

Gutierrez and Aragon took time out of their busy schedules to share their inspiring journey from best friends in Phoenix to influential entrepreneurs in the queer fashion scene in New York City and beyond.

Growing up queer in Mexican American households

Jesus Gutierrez and Sergio Aragon’s personal backgrounds played a significant role in shaping their vision for Gay Pride Apparel. Both grew up in Hispanic, Mexican American households, but their journeys to self-acceptance were markedly different.Ā 

Aragon, a first-generation American, faced a childhood filled with religious and social events that made him feel different and compelled him to hide his identity. ā€œOur family was very diverse in our culture growing up Hispanic Mexican American,ā€ Aragon said. ā€œWe always had a bunch of fiestas and religious social events that came with being in the church. I knew I was different from when I was little. I remember going to these parties and these family events and there always being a religious cloak over everything. It always felt like I didnā€™t belong and I had to hide my identity. the belief system was that it was not good to be gay. This was just something we did not talk about.ā€

Aragon shared that this feeling of religious culture within his household delayed his coming out until his sophomore year in high school.

In contrast, Gutierrez came out at the age of 12, driven by a desire to rebel against the toxic masculinity, oppressive gender roles, and domestic violence he witnessed in his household. His coming out story is particularly harrowing.Ā 

ā€œI came out when I was 12. I donā€™t really know where that came from but if I had to guess I would say it was seeing all the machismo around me. I grew up in a household of domestic violence. My mom stayed with my dad. He was the breadwinner. The view of the hyper masculinity of the man being in charge of the house and the woman cooking and staying home and having to take the abuse, I think I wanted to rebel against all of that,ā€ he told the Blade.

Gutierrez first came out to his mother, who embraced her sonā€™s sexual orientation. However, worried about his fatherā€™s potentially explosive reaction, he elected to come out to his father in the presence of his mother and a school counselor, hoping these supportive adults would help soften the blow. He was fifteen.Ā Ā 

ā€œThe domestic violence had always been directed to my mom, but coming out I feared that that would be turned on me,ā€ Gutierrez said, recalling the event. ā€œI came out to my father in front of a school counselor because that was supposed to be a safer environment. I thought maybe if this tall, educated Mexican man told my father I was gay he would take it differently than if I told him. The counselor said, ā€œYour son doesnā€™t like girls.ā€ My father got up and left my mother and I stranded at the school.ā€

Later, a football player friend offered to walk Gutierrez home. He explained that his father mistook his straight friend for a gay partner of his and immediately exploded in rage.Ā 

ā€œMy father went after him verbally. My father was telling me I was going to die from AIDS. I didnā€™t even know what that meant. He broke my door down. Domestic violence is a vicious cycle,ā€ Gutierrez said.

Despite these challenges, Gutierrez found solace and support in his friends, who played a crucial role in his development. His experience of constantly coming out in stages shaped his resilience. ā€œYou never really stop coming out,ā€ he said, quoting an old adage in the LGBTQ+ community.

Fostering a Sense of Belonging

Both Gutierrez and Aragon attribute much of their sense of community to their childhood friends who supported them through difficult times. This sense of community is something they strive to foster through their Gay Pride Apparel brand. They aim to create a space where everyone feels included and celebrated, reflecting the diverse and multifaceted nature of the LGBTQ+ community.

Gutierrez’s perception of the LGBTQ+ community changed significantly after taking an LGBTQ+ studies course in college, which broadened his understanding and appreciation of the community’s history and struggles. This newfound perspective reinforced the commitment to creating a brand that celebrates and supports the LGBTQ+ community.

The Start: From Phoenix to a Big City Pride

In the summer of 2018, Gutierrez and Aragon moved from the sunbaked streets of Phoenix to the bustling energy ofĀ  New York City, where they experienced their first massive large-scale pride event. The vibrant celebrations and the sense of community pulsing through the city left a lasting impression on the couple.

However, one observation stood out starkly: pride merchandise seemed to vanish as quickly as the rainbow confetti settled. This fleeting presence of LGBTQ+ apparel led the couple to recognize a significant gap in the marketā€”a need for pride gear that could be celebrated year round.

The seed for the idea of Gay Pride Apparel was planted.

Gutierrez, with a keen eye for graphic design from his prior roles in corporate America, and Aragon, armed with extensive merchandising experience, decided to turn their idea into reality. By January 2019, they had secured the domain for Gay Pride Apparel, laying the foundation for a brand that aimed to celebrate pride beyond the confines of a single month.

Their mission was clear: to create a brand that offered year-round support and love for the LGBTQ+ community through their apparel. The first year was a whirlwind of hard work and dedication. Gutierrez and Aragon poured their hearts into spreading the word about their new venture. They formed partnerships with nonprofits, leveraging these collaborations to build a community around their brand. In those early days, the support from friends and family was crucial, as they relied on these initial sales to gain momentum.

ā€œThe contributions we were able to raise weā€™re not that large,ā€ Gutierrez said. ā€œBut the goal has always been to be able to give back to nonprofits and people and organizations that are doing great work.ā€

Jesus Gutierrez & Sergio Aragon (Photographed for the Los Angeles Blade by Drey Kaun @dreykaun)

What sets Gay Pride Apparel apart was not just the quality of the design elements but also the unwavering commitment to giving back. Contributions to various charities, particularly in their home state of Arizona, became a cornerstone for Gutierrez and Aragon’s business. This dedication to community support resonated deeply with their customers, who were not just buying apparel but also supporting a cause.

ā€œDuring the pandemic, which was about one year after the launch, we started going with the flow of everything happening in the world,ā€ Gutierrez explained. ā€œIt was a very scary time for everyone, and we started pushing our message out on social media that we are in this together. We asked the community how we could help them and how we could be there for them as a business. We made it cleat that we wanted to support each other during these weird times. We created some really fun products which was what our bread and butter was at the time and blew up overnight.ā€

Gay Pride Apparel quickly became more than just a brand; it became a symbol of inclusivity and year-round pride. Gutierrez and Aragonā€™s journey from Phoenix to founding their own business is a testament to the power of recognizing a need and having the courage to fill it. Today, their apparel continues to make people feel supported and loved, every day of the year.

Discreet Packaging

Gutierrez shared the story behind their decision to offer discreet packaging for their products. “We started out as a loud and proud brand, coming from a big city queer brand perspective,” he explained. “But the first year that we started blowing up, in 2020, we heard a lot of feedback about our shipping. People would receive their packaging from the USPS person and get cruel comments or looks. Sometimes the packages would disappear. Sometimes parents would not let children get their packages.ā€

This feedback was a wake-up call for Gutierrez and Aragon, reminding them of their own experiences growing up in households where expressing their identity was not always safe. “I remembered if we were younger and we had received something for pride, we also would want discreet packaging in our households,” Gutierrez said. “So now we also offer that. We also offer discretion when we charge the credit cards. Itā€™s important that we be discreet.ā€

The decision to offer discreet packaging was not just about customer satisfaction but also about ensuring the safety and comfort of their customers. “This was a very big learning moment for us. We had forgotten that we had been in that position too,” Gutierrez admitted.

Building an Authentic Community

Since its inception, Gay Pride Apparel has thrived on the principle of creating an authentic and inclusive online community. Their success isn’t just built on vibrant and meaningful products but on the strong sense of connection they cultivate among their customers and followers, they both emphasized.

One of the foundational elements of their community-driven approach is actively seeking feedback from their followers. Gutierrez and Aragon ensure that every product they release resonates deeply with their Instagram audience. This dedication to listening and adapting has fostered trust and loyalty among their customers, they stated.

The sense of community extends beyond product development. Gutierrez and Aragon are passionate about reviving their podcast, “Through the Queer Lens,” which aims to amplify the voices and stories of queer individuals across various industries. This platform reflects their desire to create spaces where the diversity of the LGBTQ+ community can be celebrated and shared.

Sergio Aragon & Jesus Gutierrez (Photographed for the Los Angeles Blade by Drey Kaun @dreykaun)

Both attribute their deep sense of community to the support they received from friends during challenging times in their lives. Gutierrez recalls a particular friend who supported him while he lived in a domestic violence shelter, often taking him into her home and even paying his phone bill when his father neglected to. Aragon also cherishes the friends and family who supported him, noting their invaluable role in his development. “It is the sense of community that we try to foster through our social media presence and our clothing line, Gay Pride Apparel,” Aragon said.

Gutierrez shared how his understanding of the LGBTQ+ community evolved over time to a deeper understanding of the all-encompassing message embedded in the rainbow flag.

ā€œIn the beginning, I associated gayness as my father and the news portrayed it to me with AIDS and random hookups being all there is to it. I also associated being gay with sinfulness because the Catholic Church did not accept it. But as I grew, everything started to change. My perception of our community changed when I took an LGBTQ+ study course in college that really realigned my thinking. I learned about the Stonewall riots and Marsha P Johnson. I learned about all these different subcultures within the queer space. Then, when we started working on Gay Pride Apparel, we really saw how there is an entire world of us out there. For a long time, we felt isolated and alone, but then we realized we are not alone and we want to foster that feeling in others. We are all very different, but we have this thing that brings us together,ā€ he told the Blade.

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Meet Howard Uniā€™s first trans student body president, Jay Jones

Jay Jones was born to a conservative Christian family where she said being gay was not socially acceptable

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Jay Jones (Washington Blade photo by Michael Key)

By Omari Foote | WASHINGTON – Jay Jones was born to a conservative Christian family where she said being gay was not socially acceptable. This year, she was named Howard University Student Associationā€™s first transgender president.Ā 

When Jones was younger, she enjoyed activities that are traditionally ā€œfeminine.ā€ She said she has always had a higher-pitched voice, talked with her hands and preferred playing inside with Barbie dolls. 

Jones came out as gay in eighth grade to her sister who said, ā€œGirl, I been knew.ā€ 

ā€œI think that was very much a turning point year for me because it was a year where I kind of knew how I was feeling,ā€ Jones explained. ā€œThere were emotions I felt ever since I was younger, but I never could put verbiage or language to it,ā€ she said.  

That same year, Jones was elected as the first student body president of her middle school. She said that is where her leadership journey began and that year was pivotal in her life. 

When Jones won her first campaign as HUSA vice president, she was feeling unsure about her gender identity after she was asked which pronouns she wanted to use. 

ā€œI said ā€˜I donā€™t really know because I donā€™t feel comfortable using he/him pronouns because I donā€™t think that expresses who I am as a person,ā€™ but at that time, I donā€™t think I was to the point where ā€˜she/herā€™ was necessary,ā€ she said. 

Outside of student government, she was part of a traditionally all-male organization at Howard, Men of George Washington Carver Incorporated. There, she said she always felt like the sister to all of her brothers. 

ā€œI remember I would cringe sometimes when they would call me brother,ā€ she said. 

Even though she felt like she aligned with she/her pronouns she said she was ā€œscaredā€ of what it could mean for her moving forward. 

She knew that her given pronouns were not a reflection of who she was but wasnā€™t sure what to do about it. She was talking with Eshe Ukweli, a trans journalism student who asked Jones a simple question that clarified everything. 

ā€œā€˜If you were to have kids or if your brother or your sister or someone around you was to have kids, what do you imagine them calling you?ā€™ and I realized, it was always ā€˜mom,ā€™ it was always ā€˜sister,ā€™ and it was always ā€˜aunt,ā€™ā€ she said.  

Jones still looks to Ukweli as a mentor who provides her with wisdom and guidance regularly.

ā€œShe knows what itā€™s like to do hormones, she understands what itā€™s like to be in a place of leadership and to be in a place of transition,ā€ she said. ā€œThere is no amount of research, no amount of information, no amount of anything that you can take in, that could ever equate to that.ā€

In 2023, Jonesā€™s junior year, Howard University was named the No. 1 most inclusive Historically Black College or University for LGBTQ-identifying students by BestColleges. 

Howard has a storied past with the queer community. In the 1970s, Howard hosted the first National Third World Lesbian and Gay Conference, according to a 1979 Hilltop archive. However, multiple articles in the ā€˜90s highlighted homophobia on Howardā€™s campus.  

ā€œā€™There is the feeling ā€¦ that by coming out there will be a stigma on you,ā€ said bisexual Howard student, Zeal Harris in a 1997 Hilltop interview. 

As a result, multiple LGBTQ advocacy organizations were created on Howardā€™s campus to combat those stigmas. 

Clubs like The Bisexual, Lesbian, and Gay Organization of Students At Howard (BLAGOSAH) and the Coalition of Activist Students Celebrating The Acceptance of Diversity and Equality (CASCADE) were formed by Howard University students looking to create a safer campus for queer students. 

However, Jones didnā€™t know much about this community when she was entering Howard. She recognized Howard as the HBCU that produced leaders in the Black community, like Thurgood Marshall, Toni Morrison, and Andrew Young. 

ā€œThis university has something about turning people into trailblazers, turning people into award-winning attorneys, turning people into change makers,ā€ she said. ā€œI think that was one of my main reasons why I wanted to come here, I wanted to be a part of a group of people who were going to change the world.ā€

So, as she entered her junior year at Howard, she set out to begin her journey to changing the world by changing her school.

This school year she ran for HUSA president, the highest governing position on Howardā€™s campus. She said that this was the hardest campaign she has ever run at Howard and that she warned her team the night before election result announcements that she would start weeping if their names were called. 

ā€œDuring the midst of that campaign season, I was in an internal kind of battle with members of my family not accepting me, not embracing me, calling me things like ā€˜embarrassmentā€™ and not understanding the full height of what I was trying to do and who I was becoming,ā€ she said. 

Jones said the experience was mentally draining and a grueling process but that she leaned on her religion to help her see the light at the end of the tunnel. 

ā€œIā€™m a very devout Christian and for me, I was like, ā€˜It was nothing but God that got me through, it was nothing but God that got me through this,ā€™ā€ she said. ā€œIf people knew what I went through you would be falling on your knees and weeping too.ā€

Jones said that in high school she had to really work through her relationship with God because she was raised in a church that said gay people were going to hell. So, when she came out as a trans woman she had to re-evaluate the relationship she worked so hard to create with God, again.

Jay JonesĀ (Washington Blade photo by Michael Key)

She reflected and realized that God didnā€™t use the perfect people in the Bible but that he works through everyone. 

ā€œSo if God can use all of those people, what is there to say that God canā€™t use the queer? What is it to say that God canā€™t use trans people,ā€ she said.

After she graduates next year, Jones hopes to work in campaign strategy. She said the ā€˜lesser of two evilsā€™ conversation isnā€™t working anymore for Gen-Zers and wants to pioneer new ways for young voters to engage with politics. 

ā€œReally working on engaging and mobilizing young voters on how to understand and utilize their power, especially as it relates to Black and Brown people,ā€ she said. 

When she became vice president of HUSA last year she said she did it for for all the little Black queer children down South who havenā€™t gotten their chance to dance in the sun yet.

ā€œIf there was anyone ever coming in whoā€™s trans, the No. 1 piece of advice that I can give you is, be the role model that the inner child in you needed most, be the advocate that the child in you needed most,ā€ she said ā€œAnd most importantly, be the woman that the child saw in you but was too scared to be.

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Omari Foote is a journalist and currently a Web + Social Fellow at Washingtonian Magazine. She is also a contributor to the Washington Blade and a graduate of Howard University in Washington D.C.

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Is Connecticut a ā€˜safe havenā€™ for trans youth?

For some, not safe enough- Connecticut lawmakers and advocates are pushing for legislation offering protections for trans and LGBTQ+ students

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Gov. Ned Lamont spoke at a vigil for Nex Benedict, a nonbinary teen, held at the Capitol on Feb. 28, 2024. (Ally LeMaster/CT Mirror)

ByĀ Ally LeMasterĀ &Ā Luke FeeneyĀ | HARTFORD, Conn. – When LGBTQ+ activists, lawmakers and students gathered at the Capitol on Feb. 28 to honor the life of Nex Benedict, a nonbinary teenager from Oklahoma, their loss felt a lot closer to home than the nearly 1,500-mile distance.Ā 

ā€œWe gathered together today as a community to grieve the loss of Nex Benedict, a beautiful 16-year-old child, and to try and make sense of what is absolutely senseless,ā€ said Rev. Aaron Miller of Metropolitan Community Church in Hartford. 

Benedict, who used both he/him and they/them pronouns, died by suicide a day after getting into an altercation with three girls in an Owasso High School bathroom, according to the Oklahoma Chief Medical Examiner. Their death has sent shockwaves across the country, causing LGBTQ+ activists to renew scrutiny of Oklahomaā€™s anti-transgender school policies.

Gov. Ned Lamont, one of more than 100 attendees at the Hartford vigil, vowed: ā€œWeā€™re not going to let that happen in Connecticut. Thatā€™s not who we are.ā€

But many advocates say state leaders could be doing much more to support Connecticutā€™s LGBTQ+ students.

Gov. Ned Lamont attends vigil at Connecticut state capitol honoring nonbinary teen Nex Benedict. (Screenshot/YouTube Fox61 Hartford)

Among state lawmakers, the debate is far from settled. Connecticut has some of the most comprehensive legal protections in the country for transgender individuals, yet for the past two years, Republican lawmakers have supported legislation the LGBTQ+ community takes issue with ā€” for example, banning trans athletes from competing in school sports and mandating schools to notify parents when a child starts using different pronouns. 

For a state often labeled as a ā€œsafe havenā€ for trans children, many LGBTQ+ students say they still face hatred in school based on their identity.Ā 

Surviving school

Ace Ricker, an LGBTQ+ advocate and educator, says ā€œnavigatingā€ life as a queer person in Connecticut was far from easy. 

Ricker grew up in Shelton. He came out as queer at 14 years old to his family but only told a few friends about his identity as a transgender man.  

Everyday in high school, he would show up with his hair in a slicked back ponytail, wearing baggy T-shirts and jeans. 

No bathroom felt safe to Ricker in high school. At the time, he only used the womenā€™s bathroom, where he says he experienced verbal, physical and sexual abuse. 

ā€œThe few friends I had, I was telling them, ā€˜Hey, if I go to the bathroom and I donā€™t come back in 10 minutes, come and check on me,ā€™ā€ said Ricker. 

One year in high school, he opened up to his civics class, sharing that he was a part of the LGBTQ+ community. He said he thinks that led school administrators to assign him to what he called ā€œproblem studentā€ classes. 

ā€œI was seen in school as a rebel or a problem,ā€ said Ricker. ā€œI barely got through graduating because through school, it was about survivingā€” it wasnā€™t necessarily learning.ā€ 

Ricker graduated in 2008, but stories like his are common among LGBTQ+ students in Connecticut. 

Leah Juliett, a nonbinary activist who uses they/them pronouns, graduated from Wolcott High School in 2015. Like many trans and nonbinary students, Juliett originally identified as queer and later came out as nonbinary at 19 ā€” the year they found out what ā€œnonbinaryā€ meant. 

ā€œI came out in high school. I was relentlessly bullied,ā€ said Juliett, ā€œMy school binders were thrown in the trash and had milk poured over them. My school locker was vandalized on my birthday. I would get harassing messages and things like that on social media.ā€ 

Juliett says they were one of the few openly gay kids in school who not only had to deal with bullying but watched as local lawmakers proposed legislation to limit their rights. 

ā€œIt becomes deeply hard to exist,ā€ Juliett said. ā€œI was engaging in self harm, suicidal ideation. All of this is a result of not being supported by my town, by my community, by my peers, by my familyā€” all of it.ā€ 

In recent years, parents of LGBTQ+ students in Connecticut have brought their concerns to the federal Department of Education.  

In 2022, Melissa Combs and other concerned parents reported Irving A. Robbins Middle School in Farmington to the Education Departmentā€™s Office of Civil Rights after school administrators declined to investigate an incident where students ripped a Pride flag from the wall and stomped on it. 

Combs is the parent of a transgender son. During her sonā€™s time at the middle school, she said he faced relentless bullying, where he dealt with students telling him to kill himself, getting called slurs and was assaulted by a student. 

Two years later, the OCR investigation is still ongoing.

ā€œWe entered into this knowing that it was going to take a lot of time,ā€ said Combs. ā€œWe entered into it with the hope that we could make some positive changes to the school climate in Farmington.ā€

Since opening the investigation, Combs tried to reenroll her son in Farmington public schools, only to pull him back out again. She says not much has changed in the school culture. 

ā€œThereā€™s still a lot of work to be done,ā€ said Combs. ā€œIt was, again, a horrible experience.ā€

Events like this pushed Combs to take the issue up with the state legislature. Combs founded the Out Accountability Project that has the goal of ā€œunderstandingā€ local issues affecting  LGBTQ+ youth. She says sheā€™s been having these conversations with lawmakers. 

ā€œIā€™ve spent a great deal of time in the LOB [Legislative Office Building] so far this session,ā€ Combs said. ā€œWhat Iā€™m sensing is not only support, but a sense of urgency in terms of supporting families ā€” families like mine across the state.ā€

The legislation

Republican lawmakers in state houses across the country have introduced a variety of legislation targeted at LGBTQ+ students. In 2023, more than 500 of these bills were introduced around the country, with 48 passing. Since the beginning of this legislative session, Benedictā€™s home state of Oklahoma has considered over 50 different pieces of legislation regarding LGBTQ+ children.

In Connecticut, the ā€œLet Kids be Kidsā€ coalition, a group of elected officials ā€” including legislators Mark Anderson, R-Granby, and Anne Dauphinais, R-Killingly ā€” and religious leaders and parents advocated for two bills for the Education Committee to consider. 

The Trans Flag flying above Connecticut State Capitol.
(Photo Credit: Connecticut Senate Democrats)

The first piece of legislation would have forced teachers to disclose to parents if their child started using different pronouns at school. The other would have required student athletes to participate in sports with members of the gender they were assigned at birth. 

ā€œKids are best protected when parents are involved,ā€ said Peter Wolfgang, the president of the Family Institute of Connecticut, during a February Let Kids be Kids press conference at the Capitol. ā€œThe state should not come between parents and their children.ā€

The Education Committee declined to raise the bills, and neither concept got public hearings. This hasnā€™t thwarted future plans by the coalition.

Weā€™ve seen undeniable research that trans students face an inordinate amount of bullying and stressors in their lives. ā€“ Rep. Sarah Keitt, a Fairfield Democrat

ā€œI am actually very encouraged, because we grew awareness at the General Assembly this year,ā€ Leslie Wolfgang, director of public policy at the Family Institute, wrote in a statement to the Connecticut Mirror. ā€œThis session was just the first step in a multi-year process to grow awareness and look for ways to balance the needs of all children and their families in Connecticut.ā€ 

Debates during the current legislative session have revealed nuanced views among lawmakers on transgender rights. General Assembly Democrats sparred over gender neutral language in House Bill 5454, which seeks to direct more state and federal funding toward mental health services for children, caregivers and parents. Members of the Appropriations Committee debated whether to use the term ā€œpregnant personsā€ or ā€œexpectant mothers,ā€ with two Democrats calling for an amendment to include both terms, saying they felt the bill was more inclusive that way. 

Still, the legislature has advanced several bills this session that propose to expand rights and protections for LGBTQ+ individuals in Connecticut, and they heard testimony from the public on an effort to extend Shield Laws ā€” laws meant to protect individuals who seek abortions from other states ā€” to include gender-affirming care.

On April 10, the Senate passed Senate Bill 327, a bill aimed at creating a task force that would study the effects on hate speech against children. 

The legislation calls for the group of educators, social workers, religious leaders and civil rights experts to file a report by the beginning of next year with their research and recommendations. The group would also study the environments students where face the most hateful rhetoric and examine if hate speech is primarily conducted by children or adults.  

ā€œWeā€™ve seen undeniable research that trans students face an inordinate amount of bullying and stressors in their lives,ā€  Rep. Sarah Keitt, D-Fairfield, said in an interview with the CT Mirror. ā€œA lot of that comes at schools and we need to do much more to protect them.ā€

The bill is currently on its way to the House.

In February, Senate Bill 380, An Act Concerning School Discipline, passed out of the Education Committee. The bill includes proposals that would require services for the youngest children who receive out-of-school suspensions and continues work initiated last year to collect survey data from schools on the ā€œclimateā€ facing their more vulnerable student populations. This yearā€™s bill would also require school administrators to clarify the motivations for any bullying incidents ā€” if theyā€™re due to a studentā€™s race, gender or sexual orientation, for example.

Another proposal comes as an amendment to the state constitution that would prohibit the discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation and gender identity under the Equal Protection Clause. While Keitt expressed support for the amendment, she was doubtful on the likelihood of it passing. 

ā€œIt is such a short session, we have very little time, and if we were to take up the constitutional amendment, it would mean that we wouldnā€™t be able to get other more pressing needs ā€” not to say that those protections arenā€™t important.ā€ Keitt also pointed to the statutory protections already in place statewide. 

Another piece of legislation, House Bill 5417, would require local and regional boards of education to state a reason for removing or restricting access to public school library materials and prohibits such boards from removing or restricting access to such materials for reasons based on race, political disagreements or personal discomfort. 

Book bans, primarily targeting novels about people of color and LGBTQ+ community, have increased over the past few years in towns like SuffiledNewtown and Brookfield.  

ā€œI think that it really protects gay and transgender authors of color,ā€ Keitt said. ā€œIt allows our children to have a broader educational experience and protects our libraries from political attacks.ā€

Policy already in placeĀ 

While state lawmakers have been considering new legislation, many LGBTQ+ advocates say theyā€™d like to see more enforcement of existing legal protections for queer people.

Public Act 11-55 was enacted in 2011, prohibiting discrimination based on gender identity or expression. This, among other protections, is why Connecticut is often heralded as a ā€œsafe havenā€ for transgender and nonbinary individuals. 

But many advocates say the LGBTQ+ community, and those designated to protect them, are often uninformed of those legal protections.  

ā€œYou can pass all the laws you want, but if you donā€™t provide communities with resources to implement those laws, they arenā€™t as useful as they should be,ā€ Matt Blinstrubas, the executive director of Equality CT, said. ā€œWe havenā€™t invested enough into educating people.ā€ 

According to Mel Cordner of the LGBTQ+ advocacy group Q Plus, one of the most concerning trends they see in schools is when educators are unaware of the protections students have. 

ā€œIā€™ve had teachers [say] you canā€™t do any kind of hormone therapy or puberty blockers or anything until youā€™re 18. Or require kids to get parental permission to change their name in the school system, which you donā€™t need to do,ā€ said Cordner. ā€œStaff are either fooled by their administrators, or they just assume that kids donā€™t have certain rights.ā€ 

When the Nex Benedict news hit, that rocked our whole network of career kids really, really hard because every single one of them went, ā€˜Oh God, that could have been me.ā€™ ā€“ Mel Cordner Q Plus

Photo Credit: Q PLUS CT/Facebook

While the Department of Education must keep a list of instances of bullying, advocates say many queer students do not report their harassment because they are not comfortable coming out to their families.Ā 

ā€œIā€™ve grown up with many trans kids who only felt safe being openly themselves at school,ā€ said Juliett. ā€œAnd even then they were subjected to bullying and harassment, but they couldnā€™t be themselves at home.ā€

ā€œWhen the Nex Benedict news hit, that rocked our whole network of career kids really, really hard because every single one of them went, ā€˜Oh God, that could have been me,ā€™ā€ said Cordner. ā€œThere were a couple kids I was worried about enough to reach out to personally, because that was them ā€” that exact situation of being cornered and assaulted in a bathroom physically has happened in Connecticut schools more than once.ā€

Filling the gaps

Bullying, isolation and lack of support from family members are few of many reasons why gay, bisexual and transgender youth have a disproportionately high suicide rate. 

According to The Trevor Project, a nonprofit suicide prevention organization for the LGBTQ+ community, queer young people are ā€œmore than four times as likelyā€ to attempt suicide compared to their straight, cisgender peers. In a 2023 study, the nonprofit found that 41% of LGBTQ+ youth have ā€œseriously considered attempting suicideā€ within the past year. Youth of color who identify as trans, nonbinary and queer experience even higher rates.  

Concerning statistics like these are why many LGBTQ+ advocates have taken it upon themselves to create a community-based support system for queer youth. 

Metropolitan Community Church in Hartford/Facebook

Miller, a Christian pastor from Metropolitan Community Church in Hartford, works with community members across the state to provide services like ā€œTrans Voice & Visibility 365,ā€ a ministry dedicated to helping transgender individuals get their basic needs, and at theĀ Yale Pediatric Gender Program, a support center for people children exploring their gender identity.Ā 

Miller creates a place at his church where he can ā€œcelebrateā€ transgender and nonbinary people and coordinates with other LGBTQ+ groups like Q Plus to throw events where kids can explore their identity by exchanging clothes and trying on different outfits. 

ā€œKids want to be themselves. Weā€™re encouraging them to be themselves,ā€ said Miller. 

Itā€™ll never stop surprising me how many people work with teens and think they donā€™t work with queer teens. ā€“ Mel Cordner Q Plus

While Miller helps build community for many transgender individuals, he finds himself on the front lines of many near-crisis moments. Miller said he once stayed up through the night talking a child out of killing themself after their family abandoned them. 

Millerā€™s church is part of a support network for families he calls ā€œmedical refugeesā€ ā€” transplants from places like Oklahoma and Texas, where they faced death threats and allegations of child abuse. The church community helps these families find housing, medical services and other support.

ā€œThe two greatest commands that we were given in a Christian understanding is to love God and to love each other as we love ourselves,ā€ said Miller. ā€œAnd yet, weā€™ve been telling people that they canā€™t love themselves or theyā€™re not lovable, and that other people arenā€™t going to love us either.ā€ 

Cordner founded Q Plus in 2019 ā€œwith the goal of filling gapsā€ for LGBTQ+ youth programs. Q Plus operates in nine towns and cities across the state while providing a variety of resources for students from support groups to game night. 

The organization also provides services aimed at adults that include programs that help parents better engage with their LGBTQ+ children as well as professional development trainings for school staff on the best ways to interact with queer students. 

ā€œItā€™ll never stop surprising me how many people work with teens and think they donā€™t work with queer teens,ā€ said Cordner. 

Q Plus also has a program where the organization is contracted by schools to ā€œreview and revise policiesā€ to support LGBTQ+ students.  

ā€œ[The] bottom line is always listen to your kids,ā€ said Cordner. ā€œThey will tell you what they need.ā€ 

Connecticut MirrorĀ is a content partner of States Newsroom. Read the original versionĀ here.

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Ally LeMaster

Ally is a CT Mirror 2024 legislative intern. She is a senior at University of Connecticut studying English and journalism. In addition to The Connecticut Mirror, she acts as the editor-in-chief of Long River Review, UConnā€™s undergraduate-run literary magazine and works as a research assistant on The Mansfield Training School Memorial and Museum project, recording and writing about disability history. She has also written for The Daily Campus, her universityā€™s newspaper.

Luke Feeney

Joining Connecticut Mirror as a legislative reporting intern for the 2024 session, Luke Feeney is a senior at the University of Connecticut. He is currently studying political science and journalism and expects to graduate in June. At UConn he is currently a columnist for their student-run newspaper, The Daily Campus. In his weekly column he explores politics, international relations and current events. In addition, he is a member of the Daily Campus Editorial Board.

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The preceding article was previously published by The Rhode Island Current and is republished with permission.

The Rhode Island Current is an independent, nonprofit news outlet focused on state government and the impact of public policy decisions in the Ocean State. Readers can expect relentless reporting with the context needed to understand key issues affecting the lives of Rhode Islanders.

Weā€™re part ofĀ States Newsroom, the nationā€™s largest state-focused nonprofit news organization.

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“Our Queer Life” chronicles the diversity of the LGBTQ+ experience

The series is quickly reaching people across the globe and fostering understanding and empathy among its viewers

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Photo courtesy of Matt Cullen

WEST HOLLYWOOD – In the bustling lanes of digital storytelling, where narratives burst and fade with rapid clicks, Matt Cullenā€™s documentary series “Our Queer Life” emerges as a poignant chronicle of the LGBTQ+ community’s diverse experiences.

With over 200,000 subscribers on YouTube, Cullen’s series stands out not just for its breadth of voicesā€”from celebrities to street hustlersā€”but for the depth with which it explores the moving lived realities of queer individuals.

Cullen took time out of his busy schedule to give The Blade an exclusive interview about his fledgling hit series.

A Passionate Beginning

Born and raised in Northern California, Cullen’s early life in a supportive, albeit traditional, family environment shaped his sensitive approach towards storytelling. A curious and open child who loved musical theatre, Cullen always had a passion for interesting stories and how they are told.  

Cullen worried about coming out to his family, but said that he is eternally grateful that the nerve-wracking experience involving a letter left on the kitchen table for his parents to find, fortunately ended in acceptance and love, with his parents ultimately embracing his truth warmly. 

“It was a scary big step,” Cullen reflected. “Coming out to my family or my really close friends was scary because I was worried if they didnā€™t accept me, I would not know how to handle thatā€¦ It was more about accepting myself and embracing who I was and saying, this is my life now. “

Cullen said that he knows that the  familial support he received as a newly out high school senior contrasted sharply with the narratives of many he would later spotlight in his series, providing him with a profound appreciation for his own comparatively smoother journey.

ā€œThe stories that I tell are very heavy,ā€ Cullen said. ā€œBut I still feel so inspired and motivated by the determination of these people to keep living and to keep going in spite of everything. Their drive and their willingness to live for themselves and nobody else leaves me invigorated and inspired.ā€

Sampling of the variety of episodes of “Our Queer Life” on Cullen’s YouTube channel.

The Birth of “Our Queer Life”

Cullen, who initially pursued acting after college in New York, found himself dissatisfied with the roles and scripts that came his way. “I felt like I was just regurgitating somebody elseā€™s words,” he shared, highlighting his discomfort with being constantly typecast as over-the-top gay characters.

The turning point for Cullen came during the COVID-19 pandemic.. Trapped in his apartment, feeling isolated and longing for interaction, he envisioned a new creative outlet. “I felt like I needed to talk to new people,ā€ Cullen said. ā€œI was craving a deep connection with strangers, and I wanted to hear new stories. That deep desire was what the impetus for the series.ā€

The combination of Cullenā€™s artistic empathy mixed with his own feelings of entrapment led him to think about how difficult life must be for other queer individuals stuck in societal ecosystems that inherently reject their queerness. 

“I thought about a lot of fundamentalist religious groups and how difficult it is for people to be gay there,” Cullen remarked, pinpointing the acute need for representation from these underrepresented groups.

Cullenā€™s first interview was with Rob, a man Cullen had found through a Facebook group and who had left the Jehovah’s Witness community to live authentically. 

ā€œI am still so grateful that Rob felt comfortable to be the first to share his story with me,ā€ Cullen said. 

Screenshot/YouTube Episode #1: Why He Left Jehovah’s Witnesses

Rob’s story provided a raw, unfiltered look at the challenges of adapting to the outside world after leaving a controlled religious environment. He discussed not only the doctrinal and social shackles he escaped but also the practical challenges of integrating into society, like finding employment without real-world skills.

This encounter didn’t just enrich Cullen’s series; it set a precedent for the type of stories he wanted to featureā€”stories of struggle, resilience, and the search for identity. Each episode aims to foster understanding and empathy among viewers, broadening their perspectives on the complexities of queer life in various contexts.

Empathy Through Intimacy

“Our Queer Life” thrives on its intimate portrayal of its subjects. Each episode delves into the hurdles and triumphs of individuals within the LGBTQ+ community, aiming to destigmatize topics like sex work and address the misrepresentation of trans people. Through his conversations, Cullen not only exposes the challenges faced by his subjects but also celebrates their resilience and humanity.

Mousie, who had lived through unimaginable challenges, from serving multiple prison terms to surviving on the streets of North Hollywood, became one of the earliest and most influential subjects of Cullen’s series. Her willingness to open up about her life provided “Our Queer Life” with a narrative that encapsulated the struggles and resilience of a marginalized individual fighting for survival and dignity.

During their first meeting, Mousie shared her journey with Cullen, detailing her life in a $67/month apartment and her experiences as an intravenous drug user and sex worker. This episode alone drew over 300,000 viewers, resonating deeply with audiences and humanizing a community often relegated to the shadows of society. Cullen revisited Mousie a year later, further exploring her day-to-day experiences and struggles, adding layers to her story that emphasized her humanity over her hardships.

Mousie’s influence extended beyond the screen; her relationship with Cullen grew into a deep, familial bond. In her final days, confined to a hospital bed, she expressed her heartfelt connection to Cullen, telling him, “I was her brother and that we had great things to do together.” Her passing was a profound loss for Cullen, who felt her spirit continued to guide his work, inspiring him to pursue stories with even greater dedication.

Reflecting on Mousie’s role in shaping “Our Queer Life,” Cullen credits her with helping him gain the credibility and trust necessary to navigate the complex landscapes of street life and sex work. “Mousie was the one who broke this for me,” Cullen remarked, acknowledging how a TikTok video of her story garnered 30,000 views and messages from viewers expressing how deeply they related to her experiences. This response marked a turning point for the series, illustrating the power of storytelling in building connections and fostering understanding.

ā€œI feel like she is still with me in everything that I do,ā€ Cullen said. ā€œShe told me before she died that I was her brotherā€¦I can literally feel her.ā€

Looking Forward

As “Our Queer Life” continues to grow, so does its creator. Cullen remains hands-on, involved in every aspect of production from filming to editing, driven by a personal touch that resonates deeply with his audience. While he contemplates the future of the series, possibly on larger platforms like Max, his priority remains the authentic representation of his subjects’ lives.

 ā€œI will always refuse to do anything exploitative where we donā€™t ask about (the subjectā€™s) lives and their desires,ā€ Cullen said, underscoring his commitment to creating real and nonexploitative narratives. ā€œI want every person who clicks on a video to leave that episode feeling a connection and relating to them.ā€  

The series is quickly becoming a vital part of the cultural conversation, reaching people across the globe and fostering understanding and empathy among its viewers. For many, it provides the first intimate look at lives they might otherwise never encounter, bridging gaps and building connections.

In a world where divisions run deep, Matt Cullenā€™s “Our Queer Life” offers a beacon of unity, celebrating the shared human experiences of love, struggle, and resilience. Through his lens, viewers are reminded that despite our vast differences, the desires for acceptance, health, and happiness are universal.

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