Chasten Buttigieg: Children's book is an opportunity for LGBTQ families to ‘see themselves'
This year Pride month comes at a time when the LGBTQ community is under relentless attack from the Trump administration. Chasten Buttigieg joins The Weekend to break down his new children's book 'Papa's Coming Home' featuring a family with 2 dads.
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USA Today
24 minutes ago
- USA Today
I'm a gay man. Pride has always been special, but this year it's so much more.
I'm a gay man. Pride has always been special, but this year it's so much more. | Opinion Pride Month is more than just a time to wave rainbow flags, show off cute outfits and watch a drag show while eating chicken-on-a-stick. At its heart, pride is an event to gather with people who care. Show Caption Hide Caption Listen to Stonewall riot veterans recount the infamous police clash Veterans of the 1969 riot at The Stonewall Inn reflect on the infamous clash with police and why the fight for equality continues over trans rights. A couple of years back, I wrote a guest column in the Detroit Free Press about what can feel like insincere corporate support for pride – how it can be a performative act to maximize profit, that at its worst erodes the authentic queer experience, and at its best gives us a surface level of seen-ness, a mainstream support that often feels as thin as a dollar bill. Since then, things have only gotten more worrisome for queer folks in America and are downright terrifying for our transgender siblings. Rights and respect for LGBTQ+ people had been moving forward for the past few decades, but now those rights are being peeled away. And the moment the political headwinds changed, support for LGBTQ+ Americans started to feel very flimsy. Pride has always had a special place in my heart, but this year I'm feeling it so much more. Opinion: A trans athlete won in California. Her peers cheered – and exposed the truth. I'm worried and exhausted. Can you feel it, too? Growing up, my parents and grandparents taught to me to believe in and to love America – a country, a place, a belief come to life – an idea that in execution is often severely flawed, but ultimately strives toward the unalienable rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness for all, be they an immigrant, gay, queer, women, men, trans, fat, thin, old, Black, Asian, disabled or able-bodied. But it seems our government, and as such, we the American people, are no longer striving – our country is feeling like a scarier, far less hopeful place. You can feel it, too, can't you? The exhausting weariness of trying to get by in a country where the truth, science and so many people matter far less than they did a few years ago; where the future for anyone who isn't a billionaire – and LBGTQ+ folks especially – grows darker and darker each day. Opinion: Hegseth stripping Harvey Milk's name off Navy ship is weak and insecure There are regular attacks on the middle and working classes through the increasing cost of living, cuts to Veterans Affairs, Medicaid and other health services and medical research. Attacks on trans and queer folks, and the executive orders policing the bodies of (mostly) women, transgender and nonbinary people seem to be the steps to a subjugation of queer people and, at some point in the not-so-distant future, of all women. Queer teen suicide ideation (already twice the rate of their straight-identifying counterparts) is up, along with the feeling that people just don't care about each other. And the odds of anything changing in the near term are down. Being an employed, White, gay, cisgender male with stable housing gives me some privilege, a bit of a shield against what's coming. But watching the erasure of trans folks, queer folks, women, people of color and more, I am very worried – concerned, confused and worn the hell out. I fluctuate between thinking I, or someone I love, will be disappeared or sent to a gulag, and thinking I'm crazy for worrying about being sent to a gulag. (A gulag, an El Salvadoran prison … without due process under the law, we are all at risk.) Share your opinion: Do you celebrate pride? Are you worried about Trump's impacts on it? Tell us. | Opinion Forum It's more important than ever to celebrate pride I don't know what the future holds, but I do know this … from Patroclus and Achilles to me and that dizzyingly dashing bantamweight MMA fighter, queer love has been with us since before recorded time, and it cannot be erased. It's not going anywhere. Alas, queer hate, using the smallest minority as a scapegoat to rally against, has been with us for nearly as long. And that's why we have pride. Pride Month is more than just a time to wave rainbow flags, show off cute outfits and watch a drag show while eating chicken-on-a-stick. At its very heart, pride is an event to gather with people who care, with folks who are sharing the same oftentimes lonesome and frightening experience, a place for all who are marginalized to feel accepted, heard and to be surrounded, supported and seen by people just like you. Just like me. Pride is a home, and you, queer reader, are pride. I don't know what we can do to save or reclaim our country, but maybe it's the same as what we can do to save or reclaim our sense of self: Rally likeminded individuals to support, to vote, to come together, to shout, to celebrate ourselves, our authentic existence, our lives, our liberty, our pursuit of happiness, our very survival and … our pride. Robert M. Nelson lives in Detroit. This column originally appeared in the Detroit Free Press.
Yahoo
31 minutes ago
- Yahoo
After bizarre burqa stunt, Morris County mayor says no more public meetings
Fed up after yet another Dover council meeting was disrupted by activists on May 27, Mayor James Dodd declared that he will bar the public from future meetings and instead present them only online. "We're gonna go virtual," Dodd said. The council later passed a resolution, drafted during the meeting, that said that "due to emergent circumstances ... future public meetings shall be held virtually until changed by the Town Council." The resolution passed 8-1, with council member Sandra Wittner casting the lone "no" vote and questioning the legality of the hastily authorized move. "To say that this is a safety risk is insulting to the hundreds of people who died in Dover" during COVID, said Wittner, who frequently clashes with the mayor. Town council meetings last went online during the pandemic lockdown, which, by contrast, was a "very real safety risk," she said. Dodd took his action after a bizarre confrontation during the meeting's public comment session, at which the council was addressed by a person dressed in a blue burqa covering their entire face and body. The speaker, claiming to be a Muslim woman, began to talk in an affected, falsetto voice. The encounter ground the meeting to a halt for about 40 minutes. Dodd identified the "woman" as Edward "Lefty" Grimes, a Bayonne resident and disability activist who has been a frequent critic of the mayor and council at recent meetings. Dressed in the burqa, Grimes appeared in a motorized wheelchair. Grimes has said he needs the chair after allegedly being injured by Dover police who were directed to remove him from a January meeting for using profanity. Officials advised Grimes there was a town policy against meeting attendees wearing full-face coverings. But Grimes continued his complaints about a smoking ordinance he felt would violate his rights as a medical cannabis user. He refused to unveil his face, citing "religious reasons." The meeting was adjourned and Grimes was approached by Dover police. They tried to escort the activist from council chambers before Grimes was finally called out by an angry Dodd. "There's a law against impersonating a religious belief, and that's exactly what you're doing, Ed Grimes!' Dodd shouted. "Your Jeep is outside. I took a picture of your license plate. I will now press charges against you." After Grimes finally left, Dodd resumed the proceedings and added the resolution to suspend in-person meetings to the agenda. Contacted on Friday, Grimes did not deny he was at the meeting, but added, "I'm not admitting to anything." He insisted the speaker wearing the burqa was a Muslim woman named Elram Pador. He said he witnessed the confrontation on a YouTube stream posted by Maria Chacon. The Dover resident has been streaming meetings since the town suspended the practice last year, citing the need for a new video system and a lack of money to pay for it. "We all know Dodd would not allow someone in a burqa to speak," Grimes said. "Elram proved it and exposed his Islamophobia, exposed his racism, exposed his ego, because all he had to do was let that woman speak for three minutes. But his ego would not allow it, and now he's got a [expletive] show on his hands. He's got issues now.' A burqa-clad "Elram Pador" has also spoken at public meetings in other New Jersey towns in recent months, including an appearance — without a wheelchair — in Edison on April 30. Grimes and other online activists have frequented Dover meetings over the past six months, typically taking aim at Dodd and Councilman Sergio Rodriguez, who retains the mayor's support despite facing multiple assault charges. One critic wore a football helmet to a meeting, claiming he expected to be attacked. "I'm not in a position to sit here and be ridiculed and humiliated," Dodd said at the May 27 meeting. "It's insanity. This has been going on for some time. Who knows if that guy has a shotgun under what he was wearing? And when somebody comes here and mocks a religious belief, and thinks it's OK, that's not acceptable. "These people are crazy," he continued. "I won't be part of that anymore and I don't think this town should be subject to that anymore, either." Wittner said Dodd directed town Attorney Ramon Rivera to draft the resolution while the session was adjourned to remove Grimes. Rivera cited provisions in the New Jersey Open Public Meetings Act, also known as the Sunshine Law, that would permit the suspension of in-person meetings due to security reasons and "emergent circumstances," as the resolution reads. The resolution said that council meetings "have been interrupted by unprecedented members of the public who violate the town's public-comment policies." Challenged by Wittner on the legality of the move, and questioned about the nature of the "emergent circumstances," Rivera said, "In my opinion, based on what I saw tonight, there is a safety concern." More: In tense meeting, Dover council backs, then opposes, limits on immigration raids "The town is prohibited from conducting business" due to the interruptions, he added. Rivera noted in the resolution that "many entities conduct their meetings virtually in compliance with the OPMA," although he did not specify whether any governing bodies were currently doing so. Virtual meetings were common during the COVID lockdown but most local governing bodies switched back to in-person proceedings years ago. Rivera did not return a call seeking follow-up information. At the meeting, Dodd said he did not expect the move to be permanent. It would last only until the council felt it could safely resume public gatherings, he said. He added the town would come up with a plan to stream meetings within 30 days. Dover suspended online streaming of meetings last year, saying the town needed a new camera system and did not have the estimated $80,000 it would cost. Dodd said at the January reorganization meeting that he hoped to find money in this year's budget to resume the streaming. The streamed meetings will allow for public participation in that format, the mayor said at the latest meeting. "I don't expect this to be forever," Dodd explained. "But we need to conduct business, and we will." Chacon can be heard in her streaming video confronting the mayor. "It's unbelievable to me that we haven't had any livestreaming," she commented. She blamed Dodd for "elevating" the "chaos" at the meeting. "And then to come back and punish the public, the taxpayers who have a right to be here, it's appalling," she said. "To punish us for one person who got under the mayor's skin." State Sen. Anthony Bucco, who represents Dover in Trenton, speculated in an interview that Dover may be vulnerable to a court challenge. Bucco, a Republican representing the 25th District, is a municipal attorney by profession. "It's definitely an unusual step, outside of something like COVID," Bucco said. "Even before COVID, there were instances where towns held remote meetings, but they never closed the meeting room off." "So it will be interesting, he continued. "I would guess it would probably be challenged, and I don't know how a judge would rule." But Bucco, the Senate minority leader, also shared his concerns about what he sees as a troubling increase across the state of deliberate interruptions at meetings by members of the public. "It's a shame," Bucco said. "It seems lately, people have become more and more disrespectful at council meetings. People who come to meetings and say things that aren't accurate, or hide their identity, it's just not right for good government. And once one person becomes disrespectful, it starts to spread, and then a governing body cannot conduct business properly." On May 30, Dodd released a statement about the meeting and the decision to "go virtual." "Over the past several weeks, our meetings have been marred by behavior that has no place in public service," the mayor wrote. "We have witnessed individuals wearing full facial coverings, altering their voices, and delivering crude, vulgar remarks including sexually explicit references and disturbing comments. These actions have turned our council chambers into a spectacle that undermines the dignity of public discourse." "This decision wasn't made lightly," he continued. "But we cannot allow a small group to hijack the democratic process and create a toxic atmosphere that discourages community participation. We are committed to transparency, accountability, and — above all — civility in government." This article originally appeared on Morristown Daily Record: Dover NJ cancels public meetings after bizarre burqa stunt
CNN
33 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
LGBTQ issues Human rights ActivismFacebookTweetLink Follow 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.
