Hundreds of anti-LGBTQ laws and proposed legislation have swept across the United States in recent years. Although the majority of this legislation is defeated each year, the sheer number of bills targeting queer people, and specifically trans people, is unprecedented.
Cultural queerphobia is nothing new. In many ways, this recent wave of legislation is an overt escalation of the long-standing and long-normalized homophobia and transphobia in U.S. culture, not unlike the “Lavender Scare” of the 1950s.
Queer and trans people are deeply familiar with the myriad, relentless ways they experience daily discrimination, erasure, and misrepresentation interpersonally, institutionally, and through dominant beliefs and values. The cultural platforming of these values creates an environment for bigoted, discriminatory politics to be framed as legitimate, logical, and even “necessary.” Cultural attitudes build the stage that anti-LGBTQ politicians love to preach from.
However, there’s nothing inevitable or permanent about anti-LGBTQ sentiments or cultural beliefs, according to Allison Mattheis, a queer studies and education scholar and professor at California State University. “Restrictive, binary understandings of gender and heterosexuality as the ‘norm’ are ideas that don’t start out ‘naturally,’ but rather get reinforced through repetition, social stigma, or restrictive policies,” says Mattheis. “We can just as ‘naturally’ direct people to expand their perspectives rather than restrict them.”
There are many ways cultural beliefs “happen.” The American educational system, and in particular K–12 public schooling, is one of the most prominent places where young people learn what’s considered normal, desirable, and valuable—and what isn’t. In this sense, education is both a window and a mirror, reinforcing certain worldviews and creating space for alternative perspectives.
Because students are a captive audience and spend a significant portion of their formative years in the classroom, schools are, logically, a key site to change—or codify—cultural attitudes. Modern conservative politicians, parents’ rights groups, and anti-LGBTQ activists have been working to ensure schools mirror the existing power structures and exclusionary attitudes that benefit them, at the expense of everyone else. As a result, much of the recent anti-LGBTQ legislation targets youth and public schools, including book censorship, banned diversity and inclusion initiatives and curriculum, “Don’t Say Gay” and other gag orders on teachers and administrators, “bathroom bans” against trans people, and exclusions barring trans youth from sports. And this list doesn’t even touch on the predatory school-to-prison pipeline that disproportionately targets youth of color and youth with disabilities.
As devastating as it is for the LGBTQ community, this legislation pales in comparison to Project 2025—a sweeping initiative developed by former Trump officials and the Heritage Foundation, a shadowy, conservative, Christian nationalist think tank. Project 2025 is a comprehensive manual for the next conservative president to overhaul the federal government and implement an authoritarian regime of widespread surveillance, mass censorship, and discrimination. Project 2025 would dismantle the Department of Education, eliminate Head Start and other programs designed for low-income youth, revoke federal protections for LGBTQ students, and threaten schools that protect trans kids or develop inclusive curriculum with lawsuits. Public education would cease to exist as we know it.
In short, queerphobic attitudes and increasingly prevalent anti-LGBTQ policies form two sides of one toxic bridge, mutually reinforcing one another and making life hellish for queer and trans people of all ages. Project 2025 merely scaffolds itself onto existing queerphobia and takes anti-LGBTQ policies in education to new heights.
Still, schools can be a window. For every horror story, there is a knowing English teacher who slips a queer kid a life-changing book. There are the no-nonsense coaches who ensure trans kids are welcome on and off the field. And there are the lessons, friendships, and classes that offer all students a chance to connect, collaborate, and think critically across differences. Schools are sites of incredible potential—and spaces that can effectively intervene against homophobia and transphobia.
Sparse Support for Teachers—and Students
Creating an environment where homophobia and transphobia are challenged—and where LGBTQ youth feel seen, safe, and valued—requires understanding the challenges facing many students and educators on the ground.
Rebecca* is a third grade teacher in Florida—ground zero for much of the country’s anti-LGBTQ legislation, given the state’s proudly regressive political leadership. (Editor’s note: Rebecca asked to use her first name only, out of concern about professional retaliation for speaking candidly. Read YES!’s policy on veiled sources.) She says teachers in her district lack the support they need to navigate both age-appropriate conversations around identity and a provide culturally responsive, LGBTQ-affirming curriculum (which is itself criminalized in the state).
At 8 and 9 years old, Rebecca says her students are already starting to use the word “gay” as an insult and parrot reductive gender stereotypes. In her experience, students don’t always have the social-emotional skills to understand corrective discussions. Educators are often left to address issues of identity or name-calling ad hoc—and Rebecca says many aren’t equipped or don’t feel comfortable with the responsibility.
“Some of my own teammates will get into [these situations] and they’re like, ‘Oh, well, “gay” means happy, so consider it a compliment,’” Rebecca says. Educators who know better, meanwhile, are caught in an impossible bind—trying to support students, teach kids and colleagues how to respond to these incidents, and not run afoul of state laws that in some cases prohibit the very mention of sexual orientation or gender identity.
Though her school’s administration has been supportive of her personally, as a lesbian teacher, Rebecca says the school district does not invite discussions about LGBTQ issues, figures, or history in or outside of the classroom. Instead, LGBTQ topics are swept up under the umbrella of teaching “respect” and anti-bullying efforts. Rebecca sees her district as mostly reactive to bullying rather than proactive about inclusive curriculum, culturally responsive staff training, and social-emotional learning opportunities for students.
In the absence of any meaningful presence of more inclusive, expansive cultural models, many students are absorbing restrictive, queerphobic norms by default.
Even in states with protective laws around LGBTQ inclusion in the classroom, there’s little direction on how to actually enact inclusion-focused policies. As a result, many of these responsibilities end up falling through the cracks or onto well-intentioned but overburdened teachers. “In California, state education code describes multiple aspects of school life in which teachers are expected to actively support and include queer and trans youth,” says Mattheis. “However, most teachers receive little to no introduction to state laws and policies as part of their preparation and are unfamiliar with these protections and requirements.”
Taken together, these factors—from top-down policies and lackluster curriculum to underresourced teachers and underprepared students—create an environment where all kids can struggle to shine and grow.
Shaking Up the Syllabus
Building an LGBTQ-affirming classroom starts early, according to Erica Castro, MSW, a facilitator and educator at Joy as Resistance, a Denver-based organization serving queer youth. A large part of Castro’s job is going into schools, summer camps, and nonprofits—anywhere kids are growing up—and providing educator training and organizational audits.
“Particularly in elementary, there is this stigma and idea that talking about gender and sexuality does not belong,” says Castro. But Castro says that by the age of 2, kids are able to identify their own gender and differentiate between boys and girls—meaning the adages that kids are “too young” or “can’t understand” age-appropriate conversations around gender and sexuality just don’t hold up.
“Being able to get into the elementary schools and do these workshops has been, I think, transformative for the ways that teachers are able to build foundational, cultural, and policy-level structures [from the] first day of school,” says Castro.
In shaping workshops for all ages, Castro works directly with youth to identify what resources they want and the types of training their educators need—including using and respecting pronouns, creating gender-support plans in the classroom, and connecting to free or low-cost therapy and mentorships for LGBTQ youth. Castro also partners with educators to diversify and update curriculum. (As a jumping-off point, Castro recommends GLSEN’s Inclusive Curriculum Guide.)
Aside from comprehensive, and above all, consistent education for students, educators, and their families, it’s also important to consider two more factors: the physical environment and policies at a school.
“Am I seeing visual cues of queerness [or] that the school is openly accepting?” asks Castro when making an assessment of a school environment. “And beyond it looking safe as a checkbox, what does it look like for our young people to actually feel safe?”
The implementation of many of these resources occur at the intersection of physical space and policy. Gender-neutral bathrooms, for example, are required in many Denver-area school districts—but the policy doesn’t necessarily guarantee the resource is in place. At one Denver high school, Castro says a group of queer students were forced to cross a busy road to access a bathroom at a local library. “[LGBTQ students] were just holding it all day, or they would just go home and stay home. There were attendance barriers that impacted their education tenfold.” Access to sports, too, can be make-or-break for many queer and trans kids.
To truly support their LGBTQ students, most schools need a major shake-up when it comes to the variety, consistency, and depth of resources they offer queer and trans youth, their families, and communities. The good news is that, by and large, these tools already exist. As their own program faces closure largely due to declining interest in DEI consultancy, Castro believes a school district’s budget and priorities must reflect the urgency of the times.
“What made us want to become an educator in the first place is to protect all students,” says Castro, who taught high school for five years themselves. “[LGBTQ youth] are experiencing so much at home, in addition to homophobia and transphobia, and it is our responsibility to be that safe place for them.”
Beyond the Classroom
In an ideal world, every school administration and teacher nationwide would hitch their wagon to the potential and needs of LGBTQ students and families. But as Nereyda Luna, a community organizer and former case worker for the gender-expansive community in New York City, points out, trans youth can be bullied at the kitchen table just as easily as in the classroom.
“People often think that youth exist in this whimsical world. And no, I think that youth are very aware of what is happening around them,” says Luna. “They know that ‘If I come out, if I present myself to the world for who I am, this is going to be hard.’”
Community spaces often provide much-needed educational opportunities for caregivers to disrupt a queerphobic culture. Outreach to cisgender and heterosexual parents—particularly those with misconceptions about LGBTQ people or those unaware of the impact of anti-LGBTQ legislation—is especially important, because these adults vote, raise queer and trans kids, and take their values to all areas of public and private life.
“The most effective way to help families and ensure people break through cultural norms is through personal connection and stories,” says Rev. Ray McKinnon, executive director of PFLAG Charlotte in North Carolina. “The most effective way to reach people is not with data; it’s not going to be some incredible argument. It is humanizing the person, it is taking these means and scare tactics and [putting] a face on it.”
Through PFLAG, McKinnon and his colleagues offer peer-to-peer support and workshops for adults—primarily the parents and grandparents of LGBTQ kids. Last year, PFLAG Charlotte offered 29 workshops to more than 1,200 total participants. More than 600 people—ranging from their 20s to 70s—used PFLAG Charlotte’s peer-support services. To better serve their community, McKinnon says they’ve recently launched Apoyando con Amor, a Spanish-speaking peer-support group, and plans to start groups for Black and gender-expansive families as well. “We also firmly believe that it is not the responsibility of queer people to educate straight people on these things, and it especially isn’t the job of queer kids to do that,” McKinnon adds.
Though the organization is nonpartisan, PFLAG Charlotte also offers voter outreach and education on local legislation and policies that target LGBTQ people. “Advocacy, allyship must always have an action,” says McKinnon. “You are not just accumulating information when you come to the workshops … it’s for a purpose. It’s to give you tools so that you can become an accomplice who is walking lockstep with us.”
Those accomplices—in schools, churches, community centers, and culture-setting institutions nationwide—will be integral to cementing a culture shift that not only makes U.S. society safe for LGBTQ people, but welcoming and affirming. Building an LGBTQ-affirming culture requires a healthy dose of imagination, problem-solving, and critically, the willingness to become a life-long learner (and un-learner) to help map out a more just culture—in and out of the classroom.