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5 days ago
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Stonewall veterans sound alarm over Trump's attempt to erase trans history
NEW YORK – Out of nowhere, through the open back door of the police van, came a rhinestone-studded high heel. The drag queen rocking the pump kicked an officer in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground and sending him skidding across the pavement. The growing crowd outside the Stonewall Inn howled as he got up, dusted himself off and charged into the back of the van with such ferocity that the door slammed behind him. Then ghastly noises exploded from inside the vehicle – 'bone against metal, flesh against metal, and a dreary, dreary liquid sound that shocked everybody, I mean, shocked us,' recalled Martin Boyce, a Stonewall regular who witnessed the events unfold in the early morning hours of June 28, 1969. The role of transgender people in the Stonewall riots – a monumental moment in the fight for LGBTQ+ equality – is undisputed and well documented. A police raid on the popular gay bar in New York's Greenwich Village, amid the tumultuous events of the late 1960s, touched off six days of rioting considered the spark that ignited the modern LGBTQ+ rights movement. The bar's patrons – a colorful cocktail of gay men, lesbians, trans people, bikers and street kids – had survived police harassment and similar raids many other times. By the time police barged into the bar that unusually hot summer morning, they'd had enough. They fought back, with the fists and fury of a people tired of being targeted and condemned for who they are. The Stonewall riots represent such a significant chapter in American history that President Barack Obama designated the bar's exterior, an adjacent park and the surrounding streets a national monument in 2016 so that what happened there, and the people involved, would never be forgotten. Less than a decade later, President Donald Trump wants Americans to remember only part of the story. In February, the National Park Service stripped references to transgender people from the monument's website. The move was part of Trump's broader campaign to recognize the existence of just two sexes – male and female – and combat what he calls 'gender ideology.' Trans people who battled police alongside gay men and lesbians at Stonewall have now been erased from the government's official history of that event. 'That's just wrong,' said Miss Major Griffin-Gracy, who participated in the riots and now lives in Little Rock, Arkansas. Miss Major, as she is known, is a transgender activist who has argued for years that trans Americans' involvement in Stonewall has never been fully acknowledged. Mark Segal, a gay rights activist from Philadelphia who was inside Stonewall the night of the raid, is appalled by Trump's attempt at trans-washing LGBTQ+ history. 'I am a witness to history, and my trans brothers and sisters were with me that night,' Segal said. 'I won't allow him to censor history. I want people to realize that when a government tries to erase a group of people, that's dangerous.' Segal was at the back of the bar, near the dance floor, where other young people hung out, when police came barreling through. It was 1:20 a.m., a Saturday. Segal, then 18, had been in New York for just six weeks. Growing up in Philadelphia, he had felt as if he were the only gay man in the world. Gay men were practically invisible in 1969. He had heard that Greenwich Village was a place where people could be themselves, so he headed to New York and found his way to Christopher Street in the heart of the city's gay scene. There, he found a circle of friends like himself. He found Stonewall. Fredd 'Tree' Sequoia had discovered Greenwich Village a few years earlier. He had heard about it from a friend. So one day, while he was a teenager, he snuck off from his home in Brooklyn and boarded a train to the city. He was so taken by the neighborhood's thriving mixture of clubs, coffee shops and easy sex that he moved there and never left. Stonewall opened in early 1967 and quickly became his main hangout. He was there, along with Segal and others, dancing at the back of the bar, when the police charged in. What happened next is legend, one that has been repeated and embellished so often that it can be hard to separate fact from fiction. About 200 people were inside the bar that morning. Some, like Sequoia, were dancing. Others were just standing around, talking to friends, openly flirting, something that could have gotten them arrested in an era where same-sex relations were considered deviant and criminal. Suddenly, the lights in the bar blinked on, and the music stopped. Sequoia heard a friend known as Gypsy scream at the top of his lungs, 'Don't touch me!' Then, pandemonium. A dozen or so police officers moved swiftly through the bar. They justified the raid by saying they were investigating the illegal sale of alcohol. Until 1966, New York had barred the sale of booze to known or suspected homosexuals. Gay bars like Stonewall had tried to get around that rule by operating as private clubs, but with homosexuality a crime, they were still easy targets and often subjected to police raids and brutality. Officers smashed bottles of liquor against the bar, shattered the jukebox and cigarette machine and shoved people up against the wall. 'I was scared out of my mind,' Segal said. 'I had never seen such violence in my life.' Police demanded to see IDs. Most patrons, including Segal and Sequoia, were eventually allowed to leave. Trans people were isolated in a back room so police could examine them to verify their gender. Some refused to cooperate. Lesbians in the front of the bar recoiled at what they considered unnecessary frisking. One reportedly punched a cop. Honoring the past: 10 great places where LGBTQ history was made Out on the street, rumors of the raid spread. A crowd gathered in front of the bar and watched as police officers yanked drag queens and trans people through the door, some kicking and screaming, and shoved them into the back of a waiting van. 'They were just rude,' said Miss Major, who was in the crowd. 'They put their hand where it didn't belong. They shoved them and pushed them around and then they didn't help us when we had to go up the steps to the paddy wagon.' Boyce and a friend, Robert "Birdie" Rivera, were on their way to Stonewall when the raid happened. They were dressed in 'scare drag' – a looser gender-bending style that would later be popularized by the singer Boy George – instead of full drag, which could have gotten them thrown in jail. Police were known to arrest anyone who wasn't wearing at least three items of clothing that corresponded to their gender at birth. Losing the rainbow: National brands used to celebrate Pride Month. Then came the DEI backlash. All at once, Boyce, then 21, felt a surge of people behind him that seemed unusual, even for a weekend. He looked toward Stonewall and could see the police cars' red bubble lights, twirling and brightening up the night sky. The crowd was pushing toward the bar. Boyce and Rivera headed in that direction. By the time they got to Stonewall, the number of onlookers had grown and formed a semi-circle outside the bar's doors. Boyce watched as an officer dragged the skinny queen in the rhinestone-studded pumps out the door. The bystanders giggled as she fought back and the officer struggled to get her into the police van. They laughed harder when she kicked him to the pavement with her sparkly footwear. He got up and bolted into the vehicle. When the beating was over, he stepped back onto the sidewalk, jaws clenched, Boyce recalls, and barked at the crowd: 'You faggots! You saw what you came to see. Now get out of here!' Instead of scattering, the onlookers moved in his direction. Boyce could see the officer's anger rise as he commanded the crowd to disperse and ducked back inside the bar. Exactly what turned the resistance into a riot remains an open debate. By some accounts, the tipping point was the lesbian punching the officer. Boyce suggests it was the officer's menacing response after he was kicked to the ground. Whatever the cause, the crowd's frustration gave way to fury. 'People started throwing things at the door, whether it be coins from their pockets or a stone they picked up, or an empty can of soda,' Segal said. Segal saw drag queens, loud and boisterous, hurl anything that wasn't fastened to the street. 'Whoever assumes that a swishy queen can't fight should have seen them, makeup dripping and gowns askew, fighting for their home and fiercely proving that no one would take it away from them,' he would write in a memoir published in 2015. Sequoia observed rioters pull a parking meter out of the ground and use it to batter the doors of the bar, where the police had barricaded themselves. Others watched the rioting from the windows of nearby apartments and encouraged the queens to keep fighting back. 'You heard people in the buildings around there yelling out their windows at the girls beating the police up,' Miss Major said. 'Some people yelled out, 'Go get 'em, girls!' The fact that we were attacking the police was a big deal.' The rebellion spread to the surrounding streets. Police called in the riot squad for reinforcements. As they advanced in line formation, wearing riot helmets and holding shields, they were taunted by a group of young men who locked arms and formed a Rockette-style kick line, chanting to the melody of the vaudeville tune "Ta Ra Ra Boom-de-Ay": 'We are the Stonewall girls. "We wear our hair in curls ...' By 4:30 a.m., the rioting had died down. Thirteen people were arrested, including Stonewall employees and customers. At least two of those arrested were drag queens, according to an account provided by the Library of Congress. The next afternoon, Karla Jay, a feminist activist who lived nearby, heard about the uprising on the radio and headed over to check out the scene. Police barricades were stationed at each end of the street. Empty cans and debris were everywhere. Knots of people gathered along Christopher Street, furious about what had happened and insisting that something had to be done. Visibility: Portion of US adults identifying as LGBTQ has more than doubled in last 12 years For the next five days, spontaneous outbursts and demonstrations continued, involving several thousand people at times. Groups like the Gay Liberation Front formed, demanding an end to police brutality and equality for all. A month later, a small but boisterous group of protesters marched to Stonewall from nearby Washington Square Park, halting traffic and shouting 'gay power' and other slogans. 'We felt it was a great victory,' Jay recalled. 'We had walked that far, and nobody had attacked us. There we were, out in the daylight. It was very liberating.' That demonstration, on July 27, was New York's first openly gay pride march. A movement had been born. Today, June is celebrated as Pride Month in the United States and many other countries because of the trans, lesbian and gay activists who rose up at Stonewall. The history of the LGBTQ+ rights movement is often told in two parts: before and after Stonewall. The bar, still operating from the same Christopher Street location, is now a mecca for LGBTQ+ people from around the world and anyone concerned about equality. Next door, a visitors center occupies space that was once part of the bar. Tour guides include Stonewall among their stops at important New York City landmarks. Men and women too young to remember a time when same-sex relations were a crime pose for photos in front of the red-brick facade, with its arched doorway and neon sign in the window. 'This is the home to everybody who is gay,' said Sequoia, now 86, who works at the bar on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays as the host and resident storyteller. 'They all know about it – all over the world. Even in countries where it's illegal to be homosexual, people know about Stonewall, and they come here to see it.' Inside, the dark-paneled walls are decorated with memorabilia reflecting the bar's history. A framed newspaper clipping from July 6, 1969, recounts the raid, beneath a derogatory headline from the New York Sunday News: 'Homo Nest Raided, Queen Bees Are Stinging Mad.' At the entrance hangs the placard that police placed on the front door following the events of that summer nearly six decades ago. 'THIS IS A RAIDED PREMISES,' it announces in all caps. Just across the street, black-and-white photos hanging on the wrought-iron fence surrounding Christopher Park show prominent figures and moments in the push for LGBTQ+ equality. At the center of the park, white-finished 'Gay Liberation' sculptures by the artist George Segal depict two men standing next to each other, the hand of one resting on the other's shoulder. Two other life-size figures are of women seated on a bench, one's hand resting on the other's lap. The park, with its brick paving and benches, is part of the Stonewall National Monument, a 7.7-acre site that includes the bar's exterior and the surrounding streets where much of the rioting happened. Keeping Stonewall's legacy alive and educating younger generations is important because 'if you don't know your past, you may not have a future,' said Stacy Lentz, one of the bar's current owners. Stonewall veterans, members of the community and Americans across the country are infuriated by the elimination of trans people from the National Park Service's website. The White House did not respond to a request for comment. But the Park Service said in a statement to USA TODAY that references to transgender people were removed to align with Trump's executive orders recognizing just two genders and targeting diversity, equity and inclusion programs. Lentz said she was stunned by the Trump administration's decision. 'In the days right after (the riots) and in terms of keeping the movement alive, when a lot of other gay and lesbian and bi people were more and more scared, a lot of trans folks were more vocal – maybe because they felt like they had nothing to lose.' In the decades since, they continue to face threats. Trans women, in particular, have remained easy targets for criminals and politicians. More than 2,800 hate crimes were recorded against LGBTQ+ people in 2023, according to a report by the Human Rights Campaign, a gay rights advocacy group. Of those, nearly 550 were committed against transgender people or people whose gender identity fell outside traditional gender norms and roles, the report said. In 2024, more than 500 anti-LGBTQ+ bills were introduced in state legislatures, and more than 40 became law in 14 states, the report said. The previous year, lawmakers approved more than 85 anti-LGBTQ+ laws. Most of them specifically targeted trans people, limiting their access to gender-affirming medical care, public restrooms and school sports. Study: LGBTQ youth, family relocate amid increasing anxiety over laws directed at them Stonewall is the only federal monument dedicated to LGBTQ+ history, which makes its preservation all the more meaningful, Segal said. 'If you want to feel proud of the civil rights movement that was led by numerous people throughout the years, you might go to the Pettus Bridge (in Alabama),' he said. 'You might come to Independence Hall (in Philadelphia) if you want to feel proud about patriotism in America. If you want to feel proud about the building of the LGBTQ community and where that started, you come to Stonewall.' That's why it's so important to tell the uncensored story of Stonewall, the movement it started, and the people involved, including those who are trans, Segal said. 'We had to fight back (at Stonewall), and we will continue to fight back now against this administration,' he said. He's confident that, just like on that hot summer morning in 1969, they will prevail. Follow Michael Collins on X @mcollinsNEWS. This article originally appeared on USA TODAY: Stonewall vets sound alarm over Trump attempt to erase trans history
USA Today
5 days ago
- Politics
- USA Today
Stonewall veterans sound alarm over Trump's attempt to erase trans history
Stonewall veterans sound alarm over Trump's attempt to erase trans history In rhinestone heels and gowns, trans people played a key role in the 1969 Stonewall Inn riots that sparked the modern LGBTQ+ movement, according to those that were there. NEW YORK – Out of nowhere, through the open back door of the police van, came a rhinestone-studded high heel. The drag queen rocking the pump kicked an officer in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground and sending him skidding across the pavement. The growing crowd outside the Stonewall Inn howled as he got up, dusted himself off and charged into the back of the van with such ferocity that the door slammed behind him. Then ghastly noises exploded from inside the vehicle – 'bone against metal, flesh against metal, and a dreary, dreary liquid sound that shocked everybody, I mean, shocked us,' recalled Martin Boyce, a Stonewall regular who witnessed the events unfold in the early morning hours of June 28, 1969. The role of transgender people in the Stonewall riots – a monumental moment in the fight for LGBTQ+ equality – is undisputed and well documented. A police raid on the popular gay bar in New York's Greenwich Village, amid the tumultuous events of the late 1960s, touched off six days of rioting considered the spark that ignited the modern LGBTQ+ rights movement. 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. The bar's patrons – a colorful cocktail of gay men, lesbians, trans people, bikers and street kids – had survived police harassment and similar raids many other times. By the time police barged into the bar that unusually hot summer morning, they'd had enough. They fought back, with the fists and fury of a people tired of being targeted and condemned for who they are. The Stonewall riots represent such a significant chapter in American history that President Barack Obama designated the bar's exterior, an adjacent park and the surrounding streets a national monument in 2016 so that what happened there, and the people involved, would never be forgotten. Less than a decade later, President Donald Trump wants Americans to remember only part of the story. In February, the National Park Service stripped references to transgender people from the monument's website. The move was part of Trump's broader campaign to recognize the existence of just two sexes – male and female – and combat what he calls 'gender ideology.' Trans people who battled police alongside gay men and lesbians at Stonewall have now been erased from the government's official history of that event. 'That's just wrong,' said Miss Major Griffin-Gracy, who participated in the riots and now lives in Little Rock, Arkansas. Miss Major, as she is known, is a transgender activist who has argued for years that trans Americans' involvement in Stonewall has never been fully acknowledged. Mark Segal, a gay rights activist from Philadelphia who was inside Stonewall the night of the raid, is appalled by Trump's attempt at trans-washing LGBTQ+ history. 'I am a witness to history, and my trans brothers and sisters were with me that night,' Segal said. 'I won't allow him to censor history. I want people to realize that when a government tries to erase a group of people, that's dangerous.' 'Go get 'em, girls!' Segal was at the back of the bar, near the dance floor, where other young people hung out, when police came barreling through. It was 1:20 a.m., a Saturday. Segal, then 18, had been in New York for just six weeks. Growing up in Philadelphia, he had felt as if he were the only gay man in the world. Gay men were practically invisible in 1969. He had heard that Greenwich Village was a place where people could be themselves, so he headed to New York and found his way to Christopher Street in the heart of the city's gay scene. There, he found a circle of friends like himself. He found Stonewall. Fredd 'Tree' Sequoia had discovered Greenwich Village a few years earlier. He had heard about it from a friend. So one day, while he was a teenager, he snuck off from his home in Brooklyn and boarded a train to the city. He was so taken by the neighborhood's thriving mixture of clubs, coffee shops and easy sex that he moved there and never left. Stonewall opened in early 1967 and quickly became his main hangout. He was there, along with Segal and others, dancing at the back of the bar, when the police charged in. What happened next is legend, one that has been repeated and embellished so often that it can be hard to separate fact from fiction. About 200 people were inside the bar that morning. Some, like Sequoia, were dancing. Others were just standing around, talking to friends, openly flirting, something that could have gotten them arrested in an era where same-sex relations were considered deviant and criminal. Suddenly, the lights in the bar blinked on, and the music stopped. Sequoia heard a friend known as Gypsy scream at the top of his lungs, 'Don't touch me!' Then, pandemonium. A dozen or so police officers moved swiftly through the bar. They justified the raid by saying they were investigating the illegal sale of alcohol. Until 1966, New York had barred the sale of booze to known or suspected homosexuals. Gay bars like Stonewall had tried to get around that rule by operating as private clubs, but with homosexuality a crime, they were still easy targets and often subjected to police raids and brutality. Officers smashed bottles of liquor against the bar, shattered the jukebox and cigarette machine and shoved people up against the wall. 'I was scared out of my mind,' Segal said. 'I had never seen such violence in my life.' Police demanded to see IDs. Most patrons, including Segal and Sequoia, were eventually allowed to leave. Trans people were isolated in a back room so police could examine them to verify their gender. Some refused to cooperate. Lesbians in the front of the bar recoiled at what they considered unnecessary frisking. One reportedly punched a cop. Honoring the past: 10 great places where LGBTQ history was made Out on the street, rumors of the raid spread. A crowd gathered in front of the bar and watched as police officers yanked drag queens and trans people through the door, some kicking and screaming, and shoved them into the back of a waiting van. 'They were just rude,' said Miss Major, who was in the crowd. 'They put their hand where it didn't belong. They shoved them and pushed them around and then they didn't help us when we had to go up the steps to the paddy wagon.' Boyce and a friend, Robert "Birdie" Rivera, were on their way to Stonewall when the raid happened. They were dressed in 'scare drag' – a looser gender-bending style that would later be popularized by the singer Boy George – instead of full drag, which could have gotten them thrown in jail. Police were known to arrest anyone who wasn't wearing at least three items of clothing that corresponded to their gender at birth. Losing the rainbow: National brands used to celebrate Pride Month. Then came the DEI backlash. All at once, Boyce, then 21, felt a surge of people behind him that seemed unusual, even for a weekend. He looked toward Stonewall and could see the police cars' red bubble lights, twirling and brightening up the night sky. The crowd was pushing toward the bar. Boyce and Rivera headed in that direction. By the time they got to Stonewall, the number of onlookers had grown and formed a semi-circle outside the bar's doors. Boyce watched as an officer dragged the skinny queen in the rhinestone-studded pumps out the door. The bystanders giggled as she fought back and the officer struggled to get her into the police van. They laughed harder when she kicked him to the pavement with her sparkly footwear. He got up and bolted into the vehicle. When the beating was over, he stepped back onto the sidewalk, jaws clenched, Boyce recalls, and barked at the crowd: 'You faggots! You saw what you came to see. Now get out of here!' Instead of scattering, the onlookers moved in his direction. Boyce could see the officer's anger rise as he commanded the crowd to disperse and ducked back inside the bar. Exactly what turned the resistance into a riot remains an open debate. By some accounts, the tipping point was the lesbian punching the officer. Boyce suggests it was the officer's menacing response after he was kicked to the ground. Whatever the cause, the crowd's frustration gave way to fury. 'People started throwing things at the door, whether it be coins from their pockets or a stone they picked up, or an empty can of soda,' Segal said. Segal saw drag queens, loud and boisterous, hurl anything that wasn't fastened to the street. 'Whoever assumes that a swishy queen can't fight should have seen them, makeup dripping and gowns askew, fighting for their home and fiercely proving that no one would take it away from them,' he would write in a memoir published in 2015. Sequoia observed rioters pull a parking meter out of the ground and use it to batter the doors of the bar, where the police had barricaded themselves. Others watched the rioting from the windows of nearby apartments and encouraged the queens to keep fighting back. 'You heard people in the buildings around there yelling out their windows at the girls beating the police up,' Miss Major said. 'Some people yelled out, 'Go get 'em, girls!' The fact that we were attacking the police was a big deal.' The rebellion spread to the surrounding streets. Police called in the riot squad for reinforcements. As they advanced in line formation, wearing riot helmets and holding shields, they were taunted by a group of young men who locked arms and formed a Rockette-style kick line, chanting to the melody of the vaudeville tune "Ta Ra Ra Boom-de-Ay": 'We are the Stonewall girls. "We wear our hair in curls ...' By 4:30 a.m., the rioting had died down. Thirteen people were arrested, including Stonewall employees and customers. At least two of those arrested were drag queens, according to an account provided by the Library of Congress. The next afternoon, Karla Jay, a feminist activist who lived nearby, heard about the uprising on the radio and headed over to check out the scene. Police barricades were stationed at each end of the street. Empty cans and debris were everywhere. Knots of people gathered along Christopher Street, furious about what had happened and insisting that something had to be done. Visibility: Portion of US adults identifying as LGBTQ has more than doubled in last 12 years For the next five days, spontaneous outbursts and demonstrations continued, involving several thousand people at times. Groups like the Gay Liberation Front formed, demanding an end to police brutality and equality for all. A month later, a small but boisterous group of protesters marched to Stonewall from nearby Washington Square Park, halting traffic and shouting 'gay power' and other slogans. 'We felt it was a great victory,' Jay recalled. 'We had walked that far, and nobody had attacked us. There we were, out in the daylight. It was very liberating.' That demonstration, on July 27, was New York's first openly gay pride march. A movement had been born. Today, June is celebrated as Pride Month in the United States and many other countries because of the trans, lesbian and gay activists who rose up at Stonewall. 'Home to everybody who is gay' The history of the LGBTQ+ rights movement is often told in two parts: before and after Stonewall. The bar, still operating from the same Christopher Street location, is now a mecca for LGBTQ+ people from around the world and anyone concerned about equality. Next door, a visitors center occupies space that was once part of the bar. Tour guides include Stonewall among their stops at important New York City landmarks. Men and women too young to remember a time when same-sex relations were a crime pose for photos in front of the red-brick facade, with its arched doorway and neon sign in the window. 'This is the home to everybody who is gay,' said Sequoia, now 86, who works at the bar on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays as the host and resident storyteller. 'They all know about it – all over the world. Even in countries where it's illegal to be homosexual, people know about Stonewall, and they come here to see it.' Inside, the dark-paneled walls are decorated with memorabilia reflecting the bar's history. A framed newspaper clipping from July 6, 1969, recounts the raid, beneath a derogatory headline from the New York Sunday News: 'Homo Nest Raided, Queen Bees Are Stinging Mad.' At the entrance hangs the placard that police placed on the front door following the events of that summer nearly six decades ago. 'THIS IS A RAIDED PREMISES,' it announces in all caps. Just across the street, black-and-white photos hanging on the wrought-iron fence surrounding Christopher Park show prominent figures and moments in the push for LGBTQ+ equality. At the center of the park, white-finished 'Gay Liberation' sculptures by the artist George Segal depict two men standing next to each other, the hand of one resting on the other's shoulder. Two other life-size figures are of women seated on a bench, one's hand resting on the other's lap. The park, with its brick paving and benches, is part of the Stonewall National Monument, a 7.7-acre site that includes the bar's exterior and the surrounding streets where much of the rioting happened. Keeping Stonewall's legacy alive and educating younger generations is important because 'if you don't know your past, you may not have a future,' said Stacy Lentz, one of the bar's current owners. Stonewall veterans, members of the community and Americans across the country are infuriated by the elimination of trans people from the National Park Service's website. The White House did not respond to a request for comment. But the Park Service said in a statement to USA TODAY that references to transgender people were removed to align with Trump's executive orders recognizing just two genders and targeting diversity, equity and inclusion programs. Lentz said she was stunned by the Trump administration's decision. 'In the days right after (the riots) and in terms of keeping the movement alive, when a lot of other gay and lesbian and bi people were more and more scared, a lot of trans folks were more vocal – maybe because they felt like they had nothing to lose.' In the decades since, they continue to face threats. Trans women, in particular, have remained easy targets for criminals and politicians. More than 2,800 hate crimes were recorded against LGBTQ+ people in 2023, according to a report by the Human Rights Campaign, a gay rights advocacy group. Of those, nearly 550 were committed against transgender people or people whose gender identity fell outside traditional gender norms and roles, the report said. In 2024, more than 500 anti-LGBTQ+ bills were introduced in state legislatures, and more than 40 became law in 14 states, the report said. The previous year, lawmakers approved more than 85 anti-LGBTQ+ laws. Most of them specifically targeted trans people, limiting their access to gender-affirming medical care, public restrooms and school sports. Study: LGBTQ youth, family relocate amid increasing anxiety over laws directed at them Landmark of liberation Stonewall is the only federal monument dedicated to LGBTQ+ history, which makes its preservation all the more meaningful, Segal said. 'If you want to feel proud of the civil rights movement that was led by numerous people throughout the years, you might go to the Pettus Bridge (in Alabama),' he said. 'You might come to Independence Hall (in Philadelphia) if you want to feel proud about patriotism in America. If you want to feel proud about the building of the LGBTQ community and where that started, you come to Stonewall.' That's why it's so important to tell the uncensored story of Stonewall, the movement it started, and the people involved, including those who are trans, Segal said. 'We had to fight back (at Stonewall), and we will continue to fight back now against this administration,' he said. He's confident that, just like on that hot summer morning in 1969, they will prevail. Follow Michael Collins on X @mcollinsNEWS.
Ottawa Citizen
09-05-2025
- Sport
- Ottawa Citizen
Ottawa Titans: Everything you need to know about Ottawa's pro baseball team
Article content Every year the Titans host Bark in the Park, allowing fans to bring their dogs. And this year they'll do it twice on Sunday, May 24, and Saturday, Aug. 23. It's a fun way to take in a game with your furry best friend. Article content Article content 'There are a couple of players that have been with us since our very first season that are fan favourites and notable, one of which is Jackie Urbaez. He's a utility player, but he is a very big fan favourite and he's already signed for this season,' GM Martin Boyce says. Article content 'The other one is Grant Larson. He's a pitcher and he is from San Diego, but he is going to be a permanent resident of Canada soon and living in the area.' Article content Urbaez, a 27-year-old from Miami, holds the distinction of a couple of firsts for the Titans: first player to hit a grand slam (in 2023) and first player to hit three home runs in a single game (in 2022). Article content Larson, 27, was named a league all-star in both of the past two seasons. In 2024, he had a complete-game, four-hit, 13-strikeout victory against the New Jersey Jackals. Article content Article content 'Lots of stuff,' GM Martin Boyce says. 'We still have the standard baseball food like hot dogs and hamburgers and fries and that sort of thing. But we have a very unique Latin food vendor that operates here called Mr. Senor, which provides authentic Mexican-style cuisine. We have Lois 'n' Frima's ice cream and various desserts, and everything else that you can think of in terms of nachos, poutine and all the standard stuff you can expect: cotton candy for kids; popcorn; all those sorts of things. Article content 'And then we have a good selection of local craft beers from local partners that we work with to highlight the local businesses in Ottawa.' Article content All Frontier League games in 2025 are to be streamed online by HomeTeam Network. Rates announced in April included single-game ($9.99 plus tax), monthly ($19.99 plus tax) and season-long ($74.95 plus tax) packages.
