Library content bill narrowly passes North Dakota House
Rep. Bernie Satrom, R-Jamestown, speaks on the House floor on April 14, 2025. (Michael Achterling/North Dakota Monitor)
A bill requiring school and public libraries to relocate content deemed 'sexually explicit' passed the House on a 49-45 vote Monday after nearly 90 minutes of debate.
Senate Bill 2307, sponsored by Sen. Keith Boehm, R-Mandan, would allow people who challenge library content to seek a state's attorney's opinion if they don't agree with a local content review process.
If the content is deemed obscene by the state's attorney and not removed, state funding to the library or school could be withheld. The bill also allows a state's attorney to prosecute violations, though it's not clear who would be prosecuted.
Implementing the bill is estimated to cost $1.1 million for 2025-27, or $2 million over the next four years, to add an age verification system for the state's online library database.
Rep. Eric Murphy, R-Grand Forks, who voted against the bill, said the bill's fiscal note doesn't address the costs that will be added to county state's attorney's offices.
Committee recommends 'do not pass' on controversial North Dakota library content bill
'The cost of this was not determined and, of course, was a concern for the (Appropriations) Committee,' Murphy said.
Other critics of the bill have said there will be additional costs for local libraries to implement it.
The House Appropriations Committee issued a do-not-pass recommendation for the bill on a 22-1 vote Friday.
Rep. Bernie Satrom, R-Jamestown, who voted in favor of the bill, said the $1.1 million in costs for the age verification was a small price to pay to ensure that obscene content is kept from children.
He said he found it odd the House Judiciary Committee voted 12-1 to recommend passage of the bill while the House Appropriations Committee came to the opposite result.
Many comments from lawmakers referred to some library content as pornography.
'By passing this bill, we affirm that taxpayer dollars should never be used to purchase pornography,' said Rep. Kathy Frelich, R-Devils Lake.
One book lawmakers objected to was the 'Heartstopper' LGBTQ graphic novel series that had been challenged at the Forman school library. The bill sponsor also distributed a list of the American Library Association's top challenged books, along with a list of which North Dakota libraries carried them. Many of the books have LGBTQ themes or discuss sexual assault.
In a statement, the ACLU of North Dakota said the bill amounts to censorship and questioned who will decide what is considered obscene or sexually explicit.
'Government officials cannot impose their personal moral values on others,' Cody Schuler, ACLU of North Dakota advocacy manager, said in a statement. 'If you don't like a book, don't read it – or don't let your kids read it. It's as simple as that.'
Barring a reconsideration of Monday's House vote, the bill will be sent to Gov. Kelly Armstrong for his consideration.
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CNN
18 minutes ago
- CNN
As World Pride celebrates steps from the White House, LGBTQ pioneers call for a return to the movement's roots in protest
At 83, Paul Kuntzler, a pioneering LGBTQ rights activist, vividly recalls joining a picket line outside the White House that would change the course of American history. 'I was just 20 and was the only minor in a tiny gay rights movement consisting of about 150 people in five American cities,' Kuntzler recalled to CNN. At the time, five decades ago, publicly declaring oneself to be gay could cost someone their job, their family, and even their home. But Kuntzler said he felt proud of who he was. 'I've always had a very positive idea about being gay, so I try to radiate that attitude towards other people,' he said. He overcame his fear and joined the picket line. In doing so, he would become one the first Americans to bring the fight for gay rights to the steps of the White House. 'Of those 10 people who participated that day, I'm the only person who's still living,' Kuntzler said. Decades later – and mere steps from the White House – Washington, DC, is set to mark the 50th anniversary of Pride celebrations in the nation's capital this weekend by hosting World Pride 2025. The global celebration honors the LGBTQ community and their ongoing fight for equality in the United States and around the world. But the parades and parties that have come to define Pride will take place in the shadow of a presidential administration that has been openly hostile to the civil rights of LGBTQ Americans. From the administration's staunch anti-diversity stance and the military's push to oust transgender servicemembers, to a looming US Supreme Court ruling that could upend health care for millions of LGBTQ Americans, the second Trump administration has ushered in a period of uncertainty and fear. But pioneers in the fight for gay rights tell CNN the success of the gay rights movement in the United States is built on the shoulders of average men and women who had little power to fight back against the might of the US government, but who somehow found the courage – and the pride – to do so anyway. When Candy Holmes first met then-President Barack Obama in 2009, she wanted more than just a photo op. As a lesbian and a longtime federal employee, Holmes had been invited to the White House, she recalled, to witness the president issue a directive for federal agencies to extend benefits to same-sex couples. The move was a step toward expanding rights for LGBTQ Americans. But as Holmes shook the president's hand, she was determined not to waste the moment. 'We need more than just benefits,' she told Obama, noting his directive only applied to federal employees. 'There's a whole community that needs benefits – we need full citizenship.' The president considered her comment, she recalled, then issued a challenge. 'OK, I hear that,' she remembers him saying. 'Take this message back to the LGBTQ community – tell them to make me do it.' Holmes vowed to do just that. As Black, gay women, Holmes and her wife, Darlene Garner, said they live each day with the knowledge of all their ancestors endured – and how hard they had to fight – to secure their civil rights. Progress in this country is not linear, Garner said. So instead of being paralyzed by that knowledge, Garner encouraged others to channel it into action. 'This is not the time to be passive, or silent, or hide away,' she said. 'Change will not happen unless people demand justice for all.' The couple were among the first to get married in the nation's capital when DC legalized same-sex marriage in 2010. It was a fitting, full-circle moment for Garner, who co-founded the National Coalition of Black Lesbians and Gays in 1971 to force the burgeoning movement to fight for the equality of all LGBTQ people, including people of color. 'When you're in your 20s, you have a lot of energy, a lot of passion, a lot of vision of how the world should be,' Garner said of the organization's founding. 'We knew disappointment, but we did not know failure.' Garner went on to become a global leader in the Metropolitan Community Church, where she served as a reverend and an elder for decades. Holmes also took on a leadership position in the church, in addition to her job in the government, but they both never forgot their roots and passion for activism. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. famously said, 'The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.' But King knew, Holmes and Garner both agreed, that the arc 'doesn't bend on its own.' 'We have to continue to apply pressure to help it bend,' Holmes said. 'There are many paths to justice,' Garner added. 'It doesn't really matter what path you're walking on, but you gotta get on the road.' Not too long ago, Cleve Jones said he was grabbing drinks with friends at a gay bar in San Francisco when the conversation turned toward a tragic part of their shared history: the HIV/AIDS pandemic. They tried to estimate the number of friends, neighbors and loved ones they'd lost – in San Francisco alone – as the virus tore through the gay community during the decade before treatment became available. 'We were talking about the horror days,' Jones said, 'and we came up with a figure of somewhere around (20,000) to 25,000 people.' They weren't far off the mark. One study estimates nearly half of the gay men in the city had been diagnosed with AIDS by 1995. At the bar that night, a younger man who was seated nearby overheard the conversation and cut in. 'He said, 'You know, I know you old folks had a rough time of it, but really, you don't need to exaggerate,'' Jones recalled. The remark left him stunned – and angry. Jones, who himself is HIV-positive and is the founder of the AIDS Memorial Quilt, a community art project, has dedicated his life to memorializing those who died from AIDS during a pandemic that the government seemed all too eager to ignore, he said. In 1987, during the National March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights, Jones displayed the memorial quilt on the National Mall for the first time, with each panel dedicated to someone who died from the disease. In the decade before HIV treatment became widely available, the quilt returned to the mall nearly every year, forcing the country to reckon with the sheer number of lives lost to AIDS. 'I don't think the younger generation in my community really quite understands their history,' Jones said. 'They've never watched someone die of AIDS … They don't have that visceral, deep understanding that comes when you witness it.' If they did, Jones said, they would be just as outraged as he is by recent moves from the Trump administration to slash funding for HIV/AIDS research and services both at home and abroad – and moved to action. Jones, who remains a lifelong activist and advocate for gay rights, said 'misinformation and mythic legends' have been built up around leaders and locations that became central to LGBTQ history in the US. But distilling their lives down to bullet points does them a disservice, Jones said, because it obscures the fact that gay rights pioneers like Harvey Milk were also just regular people who were bold enough to take a stand. 'Harvey was this kind of odd guy, you know, this skinny, gay, Jewish guy from New York,' Jones recalled of the man who became his mentor and friend. 'I would go with him on campaign stops and he could talk to anybody. I would watch the way he changed his tone and his vocabulary and focused on finding common ground.' Milk, Jones said, forced people to discover their shared humanity, and in doing so, he was able to make change. Milk was assassinated in 1978. Jones said he's tried to infuse Milk's values into his lifelong career of activism. But lately, he said, his work has been guided by the mantra, 'If you take it for granted, they will take it away.' 'If you're going to change the world, it starts with the hearts and minds of individuals,' he said. But, he added, people don't need permission or a permit to challenge prejudice. 'You've got a permit. It's called the Constitution.' Kuntzler joined a group called Mattachine Society at the height of the 'Lavender Scare' – a period of intense, government-led, anti-gay discrimination that grew out of the witch hunt for 'communists' during the McCarthy era. In 1953, President Dwight D. Eisenhower signed an executive order that banned homosexuals from working for the federal government and the military. Those who were outed would not only lose their jobs, but their names were often published in newspapers, which could cost them their families and their livelihoods. 'It was not unusual to come home from work and find two members of Naval Intelligence on your doorstep asking you to come down to the Navy Yard for questioning,' Kuntzler recalled. His longtime partner, Stephen Brent Miller, was once interrogated for information about one of their friends, he said. The Mattachine Society was initially founded in secret in 1950 to fight for the rights of 'homophiles,' but it would go on to become one of the earliest and more consequential gay rights groups in the nation. By the time Kuntzler joined its Washington, DC, chapter in 1962, the organization was gearing up to take a more visible stand against the government's treatment of gays. Frank Kameny, the society's co-founder, organized the first picket line for gay rights in front of the White House. 'When I got there, I looked across the street to see that there were like 30 news photographers waiting for the light to change,' Kuntzler recalled. 'I was so unnerved by that, I kept hiding my face behind my picket.' Inspired by the fight for civil rights, Kuntzler said the group continued to protest throughout the year in front of the Pentagon and Independence Hall in Philadelphia. They later filed several lawsuits challenging the government's blatant discrimination against homosexual federal employees. Kuntzler would go on to play a quiet but critical role in key moments of the gay rights movement for decades to come. Kameny, who was fired from his job in the US Army because he was gay, campaigned to become the first openly gay member of Congress. Kuntzler was his campaign manager. Kuntzler also co-founded what became the Gay and Lesbian Activists Alliance and was the founding member of the Human Rights Campaign. But by far his greatest achievement, Kuntzler said, was loving his partner, Stephen, openly for more than 40 years before he died. Despite the looming threats from the Trump administration, Kuntzler said he remains optimistic. 'I've seen all this,' he said of the attacks by the government. 'We couldn't conceive back in the '60s that we'd make so much progress – that we'd be able to work in government, there would be elected officials who were openly gay, and we couldn't conceive of the idea of marriage equality.' They couldn't imagine it, he said, but they fought for it anyway.

Associated Press
20 minutes ago
- Associated Press
As a generation of gay and lesbian people ages, memories of worse — and better — times swirl
WASHINGTON (AP) — David Perry recalls being young and gay in 1980s Washington D.C. and having 'an absolute blast.' He was fresh out of college, raised in Richmond, Virginia, and had long viewed the nation's capital as 'the big city' where he could finally embrace his true self. He came out of the closet here, got a job at the National Endowment for the Arts where his boss was a gay Republican, and 'lost my virginity in D.C. on August 27, 1980,' he says, chuckling. The bars and clubs were packed with gay men and women — Republican and Democrat — and almost all of them deep in the closet. 'There were a lot of gay men in D.C., and they all seemed to work for the White House or members of Congress. It was kind of a joke. This was pre-Internet, pre-Facebook, pre-all of that. So people could be kind of on the down-low. You would run into congresspeople at the bar,' Perry says. 'The closet was pretty transparent. It's just that no one talked about it.' He also remembers a billboard near the Dupont Circle Metro station with a counter ticking off the total number of of AIDS deaths in the District of Columbia. 'I remember when the number was three,' says Perry, 63. Now Perry, a public relations professional in San Francisco, is part of a generation that can find itself overshadowed amidst the after-parties and DJ sets of World Pride, which wraps up this weekend with a two-day block party on Pennsylvania Avenue. Advocates warn of a quiet crisis among retirement-age LGBTQ+ people and a community at risk of becoming marginalized inside their own community. 'It's really easy for Pride to be about young people and parties,' says Sophie Fisher, LGBTQ program coordinator for Seabury Resources for Aging, a company that runs queer-friendly retirement homes and assisted-living facilities and which organized a pair of Silver Pride events last month for LGBTQ+ people over age 55. These were 'the first people through the wall' in the battle for gay rights and protections, Fisher says. Now, 'they kind of get swept under the rug.' Loneliness and isolation The challenges and obstacles for elderly LGBTQ+ people can be daunting. 'We're a society that really values youth as is. When you throw in LGBTQ on top of that, it's a double whammy,' says Christina Da Costa of the group SAGE — Services and Advocacy for Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender Elders. 'When you combine so many factors, you have a population that's a lot less likely to thrive than their younger brethren.' Older LGBTQ+ people are far more likely to have no contact with their family and less likely to have children to help care for them, Da Costa says. Gay men over 60 are the precise generation that saw their peer group decimated by AIDS. The result: chronic loneliness and isolation. 'As you age, it becomes difficult to find your peer group because you don't go out to bars anymore,' says Yvonne Smith, a 73-year-old D.C. resident who moved to Washington at age 14. 'There are people isolated and alone out there.' These seniors are also often poorer than their younger brethren. Many were kicked out of the house the moment they came out of the closet, and being openly queer or nonbinary could make you unemployable or vulnerable to firing deep into the 1990s. 'You didn't want to be coming out of a gay bar, see one of your co-workers or one of your students,' Smith says. 'People were afraid that if it was known you were gay, they would lose their security clearance or not be hired at all.' In April, founders cut the ribbon on Mary's House, a new 15-unit living facility for LGBTQ+ seniors in southeast Washington. These kind of inclusive senior-care centers are becoming an increasing priority for LGBTQ+ elders. Rayceen Pendarvis, a D.C. queer icon, performer and presenter, says older community members who enter retirement homes or assisted-living centers can face social isolation or hostility from judgmental residents. 'As we age, we lose our peers. We lose our loved ones and some of us no longer have the ability to maintain our homes,' says Pendarvis, who identifies as 'two-spirit' and eschews all pronouns. 'Sometimes they go in, and they go back into the closet. It's very painful for some.' A generation gap Perry and others see a clear divide between their generation and the younger LGBTQ+ crowd. Younger people, Perry says, drink and smoke a lot less and do much less bar-hopping in the dating-app age. Others can't help but gripe a bit about how these youngsters don't know how good they have it. 'They take all these protections for granted,' Smith says. The younger generation 'got comfortable,' Pendarvis says, and sometimes doesn't fully understand the multigenerational fight that came before. 'We had to fight to get the rights that we have today,' Pendarvis said. 'We fought for a place at the table. We CREATED the table!' Now that fight is on again as President Donald Trump's administration sets the community on edge with an open culture war targeting trans protections and drag shows, and enforcing a binary view of gender identity. The struggle against that campaign may be complicated by a quiet reality inside the LGBTQ+ community: These issues remain a topic of controversy among some LGBTQ+ seniors. Perry said he has observed that some older lesbians remain leery of trans women; likewise, he said, some older gay men are leery of the drag-queen phenomenon. 'There is a good deal of generational sensitivity that needs to be practiced by our older gay brethren,' he says. 'The gender fluidity that has come about in the last 15 years, I would be lying if I said I didn't have to adjust my understanding of it sometimes.' Despite the internal complexities, many are hoping to see a renewed sense of militancy and street politics in the younger LGBTQ+ generation. Sunday's rally and March for Freedom, starting at the Lincoln Memorial, is expected to be particularly defiant given the 2025 context. 'I think we're going to see a whole new era of activism,' Perry says. 'I think we will find our spine and our walking shoes – maybe orthopedic – and protest again. But I really hope that the younger generation helps us pick up this torch.'


Politico
27 minutes ago
- Politico
California shifts from Musk glee to Trump dread
The dissolution of the Donald Trump-Elon Musk marriage was enough, for a brief moment, to lift beleaguered California Democrats' spirits. But within 24 hours, the gleeful mood in this heavily Democratic state darkened amid sweeping immigration raids and reports the Trump administration was planning to yank funding from California. The swift reversal was a reminder that, for all the delight Democrats took in a public feud between the president and the world's richest man, a war of words on X is far less consequential than a hostile White House. Gov. Gavin Newsom and legislative leaders on Friday quickly returned to a familiar defensive crouch, condemning the White House's reported plan and escalating the standoff by threatening to withhold the money California sends to Washington. 'We pay over $80 BILLION more in taxes than we get back,' Newsom said in a post on X. 'Maybe it's time to cut that off, @realDonaldTrump.' It was unclear on Friday what money the White House might rescind. A spokesperson said no decision had been made. Many Democrats had spent the previous day reveling in the extraordinary break between Trump and his former patron Musk, piling on in a cascade of snarky tweets, triumphant news hits and floor speeches. The joy was especially palpable in California, where Democrats watched Musk transform from a source of pride to a conservative nemesis eager to attack the state that helped make him. The dunking contest seemed to open new political possibilities, as Musk amplified Democrats' case against tariffs and the GOP 'megabill' being debated in Congress — two central features of the president's agenda. But the respite from unforgiving news cycles proved short-lived. And it vindicated warnings from some Democrats that the Trump-Musk feud was distracting from the more serious threats emanating from Washington. For Rep. Dave Min, who is preparing to defend a frontline Orange County seat that could help determine control of the House, Thursday was all about Musk: He excoriated the Tesla executive in a preplanned floor speech, and joined the mockery on X. On Friday, Min was scrambling to confront what he called a 'blatantly lawless' push to claw back funds. 'These cuts appear to be clearly and on their face illegal and motivated by vengeance and political retribution aimed at our state,' Min wrote in a letter to the White House. Rep. Jimmy Gomez went from tweaking Trump with a Taylor Swift meme to sounding the alarm about immigration arrests throughout Los Angeles, a resolutely Democratic county, that followed Trump's vow to target 'sanctuary' jurisdictions that limit cooperation between local law enforcement and federal authorities. Union officials said SEIU California President David Huerta was detained and injured during a protest of immigration raids, drawing condemnations from a broad swathe of elected officials (ICE did not respond to a request for comment). Californians were simultaneously rallying in San Francisco against federal plans to rename a naval ship named after the late gay-rights icon Harvey Milk. Against the backdrop of that multifront defensive, the feuding between Trump and Musk became a secondary concern, at best. Newsom passed on a chance to swipe at Musk, with whom he has a long and complicated relationship, telling reporters during an unrelated news conference on Thursday that he hoped people mesmerized by 'what Elon Musk tweeted today and what Trump said tomorrow can focus on what matters' — although Newsom's press office still used a Trump-Musk breakup reference to tease the news conference, Similarly, Rep. Laura Friedman called the Trump-Musk meltdown a distraction from the White House's agenda to remake the federal government. 'They are cutting health care from Americans, they are destroying people's ability to go to the doctor and get health care coverage, they are making life more expensive for everyday people through tariffs,' Friedman said. 'I hope people see through the entertainment value of this — it is funny, but this is harmful to our country in so many ways.' Few were laughing by Friday afternoon. Instead, leading California Democrats were once again girding for battle with an administration that has made a habit of threatening to block money for areas like wildfire recovery, education and law enforcement if California does not change its policies. 'We must look at every option, including withholding federal taxes,' Assembly Speaker Robert Rivas said in a BlueSky post.