More than 100 organizations have issued a travel advisory for the U.S. ahead of the 2026 World Cup.

The World Cup will take place in the U.S., Canada, and Mexico from June 11-July 19.

“In light of the deteriorating human rights situation in the United States and in the absence of meaningful action and concrete guarantees from FIFA, host cities, or the U.S. government, the undersigned organizations are issuing this travel advisory for fans, players, journalists, and other visitors traveling to and within the United States for the June 2026 FIFA Men’s World Cup. World Cup games will be played in 11 different cities across the United States, which, like many localities, have already been the target of the Trump administration’s violent and abusive immigration crackdown,” reads the advisory that the Council for Global Equality and other groups that include the American Civil Liberties Union issued on April 23.  “The impacts of these policies vary by locality.”

“While the Trump administration’s rising authoritarianism and increasing violence pose serious risks to all, those from immigrant communities, racial and ethnic minority groups, and LGBTQ+ individuals have been and continue to be disproportionately targeted and affected by the administration’s policies and, as such, are most vulnerable to serious harm when traveling to and/or within the United States,” it adds. “This travel advisory calls on fans, players, journalists, and other visitors to exercise caution.”

The advisory specifically mentions Renee Good.

A U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent on Jan. 7 shot and killed her in Minneapolis. Good, 37, left behind her wife and three children.

The full advisory can be read here.

A new health agreement between the U.S. and the Philippines has raised questions among HIV/AIDS service providers.

A joint declaration signed by the U.S. and the Philippines on April 7 sets out a plan for closer health cooperation, aimed at transitioning the Philippines toward greater autonomy and “self-reliance” in its health systems, according to a State Department statement released.

In practice, “self-reliance” in health systems refers to a country’s ability to fund, manage, and deliver care without heavy dependence on external donors. In the Philippines, programs serving LGBTQ+ people — particularly those focused on HIV prevention, testing and treatment — have relied in part on international funding and technical support, including from the U.S., according to UNAIDS. 

The Philippine Department of Health has led the national response to the pandemic.

The joint declaration of intent was signed under the Trump-Vance administration’s “America First Global Health Strategy.” The State Department said the agreement would involve co-funding of mutually agreed global health objectives under bilateral health cooperation between the U.S. and the Philippines in the near future.

The declaration also outlines areas of cooperation beyond financing: workforce development, health information systems, and emergency preparedness. The State Department said the framework is intended to strengthen coordination between U.S. and Philippine institutions while supporting the Philippines’ capacity to manage public health challenges independently over time. The statement does not specifically address LGBTQ+ health.

Similar agreements in other regions have drawn scrutiny from LGBTQ+ advocacy groups. 

In Africa, community organizations have warned that a shift from donor-funded, community-led health programs to government-to-government frameworks could affect access for marginalized populations, including LGBTQ+ people. The Washington Blade found that such changes may reduce reliance on specialized clinics that have historically provided stigma-free care, raising concerns about discrimination, privacy, and continuity of services.

Desi Andrew Ching, president of HIV & AIDS Support House in the Philippines, said the partnership presents a significant opportunity, but added that, like any large-scale international agreement, its success for the LGBTQ+ community will depend on how it is implemented on the ground.

“On one hand, it’s a positive move. Increased cooperation on health systems can lead to better technical support and potentially more resources for HIV/AIDS prevention and mental health — areas that deeply impact our community,” Ching told the Blade. “If the government and civil society work closely together, we could see some real progress.”

Ching said community concerns often center on where those resources ultimately go. Ching added there is a risk funds could remain within “usual” government-aligned channels or traditional implementers that may not have the trust or reach of grassroots LGBTQ+ organizations.

The Philippines is facing one of the fastest-growing HIV epidemics in the Asia-Pacific region, with UNAIDS statistics indicating new infections increased by about 543 percent between 2010 and 2023.

The epidemic is concentrated among key populations, particularly men who have sex with men and transgender women who account for a vast majority of new infections. A 2023 analysis found that key populations represented about 92 percent of new HIV cases in the country, underscoring the disproportionate impact on LGBTQ+ communities. At the same time, stigma, limited access to testing and gaps in healthcare delivery continue to shape outcomes for these groups.

Ching said that for the partnership to be effective, support would need to be closely targeted to reach those most at risk, including individuals who often avoid government facilities because of stigma and fear of judgment. 

“If the partnership prioritizes ‘community-led’ monitoring and direct support to local organizations, it will be a game-changer. If it stays at the top tier of administration, we might just see the same results as before,” Ching said.

Community-led organizations have been central to the Philippines’ HIV response, particularly in reaching LGBTQ+ populations often underserved by formal healthcare systems. UNAIDS notes groups such as LoveYourself have expanded testing and treatment access through community-based clinics and online outreach, including during the COVID-19 pandemic, when movement restrictions limited access to government facilities.

“To be honest, in these high-level agreements, ‘guarantees’ are hard to come by on paper. The real safeguards lie in the mechanics of implementation,” said Ching. “From the community’s perspective, we believe the best way to prevent services from being diluted is through direct involvement in the planning phase. We would like to see the funding groups and government stakeholders sitting at the same table as the community to game out the specific work plans. It should not be a top-down approach; it needs to be co-designed.”

Ching said oversight would be a critical layer of protection, adding that a dedicated point of contact, such as a U.S Agency for International Development technical lead or a similar monitor, would be needed to track how funds are used.

USAID officially shut down on July 1, 2025, after the Trump-Vance administration dismantled it.

Ching added community-led monitoring would also be necessary in addition to government oversight. He said safety and trust cannot be guaranteed by policy alone but must be built through experience, noting that community-led organizations have consistently reached the most marginalized populations. 

“Safety and trust aren’t things you can just write into a policy; they have to be built through experience,” Ching said, adding that community-based sites are often seen as more accessible and safer because they are “for us, by us.” 

He said the partnership should direct substantial support to grassroots organizations that have demonstrated an ability to overcome stigma, while strengthening coordination with government clinics. The most effective approach, he added, would combine government infrastructure with community-led delivery, allowing trusted local groups to serve as the primary point of access.

’We want a seat at the table’

According to a report by the World Health Organization on the Philippines, prevention efforts account for only about 6 percent of total HIV spending, despite a sharp rise in cases. The report said the gap has been compounded by a recent pause in U.S. funding, which has delayed the development and implementation of prevention programs and community-led responses.

Asked whether community-led LGBTQ+ organizations would be funded and included in implementation or sidelined under a government-led approach, Ching said that remained the central question for the community, adding that no detailed plan has yet been made public.

“But we have to be realistic about the politics — both within the government and even within civil society — that can sometimes slow things down,” said Ching. “A good baseline to look at is the UNAIDS 30-80-60 targets. These milestones are specifically designed to put community-led responses at the center of the HIV fight. If we’re being honest, as a country, we are still finding our footing in meeting those specific targets. There is a very real risk of being sidelined if the execution defaults to a standard ‘government-only’ approach.”

The UNAIDS set global targets to guide the HIV response, most notably the “95-95-95” goals for 2025. 

The framework calls for 95 percent of people living with HIV to know their status, 95 percent of those diagnosed to receive sustained treatment and 95 percent of those on treatment to achieve viral suppression. The targets were designed to reduce transmission and improve health outcomes, while also highlighting gaps in access to testing, treatment, and prevention services.

“We view this new partnership with the U.S. as a chance to course-correct. If the intention is to end AIDS as a public health threat, the data shows it simply cannot be done without the community in the driver’s seat for service delivery,” said Ching. “Our hope is that the implementation isn’t just government-led, but government-enabled. We want a seat at the table not just for the sake of being there, but to ensure the resources are actually hitting the ground where they matter most. We’re looking for a partnership that honors those 2025 milestones by making community-led organizations formal, funded partners in this roadmap.”

Delaware is widely known for its firsts. It’s the first state to ratify the U.S. Constitution, the first to join the Union, and the first to decide that no sales tax would be levied on its citizens.  

Another historic first to come from Delaware is Sarah McBride. McBride is the first and only transgender member of Congress. The Blade sat down for an exclusive interview with the congresswoman to discuss a wide array of topics — from the Trump administration’s attacks on transgender service members to her current obsession with the reality TV show “The Traitors” — as well as her legislative work, which has already made her one of the busier members of her freshman class.

Her office in the Longworth House Office Building reflects the nuances of her political identity: deeply serious policymaking paired with an unmistakable sense of personality. Photographs of McBride with friends, family, and political heroes line the walls. A windowsill is filled with crystals. A “Bridgerton” pillow sits on her office couch — small artifacts that soften the institutional weight of Capitol Hill without diminishing it.

When asked how she was feeling more than a year into her first term, McBride acknowledged the climate she was elected into — marked by what she described as toxicity and division under Trump-era politics — but explained that she remains energized by the work ahead.

“I am more energized and motivated now than I was a year and a half ago,” said McBride from her Longworth office. “I’m also more hopeful than I was when I first started here. It was a couple of weeks before Donald Trump was sworn in – the chaos, the cruelty, and the fear was pretty pronounced.”

That sense of hope, she made clear, is not necessarily shaped by the noise inside Congress—including attacks from colleagues like Rep. Nancy Mace (R-S.C.) and Rep. Keith Self (R-Texas)— but instead by what she sees from the constituents she represents back home.

“I have seen the goodness of my neighbors, the goodness of people across Delaware who remind me, day in and day out, that the division and the toxicity we see online are not actually representative of real life. That social media can impact real life, but it’s not representative of it, and that is, for me, incredibly comforting, and I think, a profound reminder that we can still have conversations across disagreement, we can still persuade people, and we can still grow our ranks.”

That belief — that persuasion is still possible — serves as the through line for how McBride views both her role in Congress and the broader political moment. It also frames her sharp criticism of the Trump-Vance administration, which she argues is rooted less in governance than in destruction.

“Donald Trump is not a conservative, he is not a traditional Republican. Trump wants to destroy. His billionaire donors want to destroy. They thrive in a culture of cynicism. They want to destroy our attention span and mine what little remains for parts. They want to destroy jobs and health care so they can consolidate power for themselves, and in this moment, they want to destroy the international moral order so that the strong can plunder the weak.”

Still, she argues, that approach may be backfiring politically, something she says has only strengthened her sense of optimism.

“We have seen public opinion turn against the cruelty and incompetence of this administration, we’ve seen outrage and rightful opposition. One of the things that I feared early on was that this administration’s momentum would only grow, but instead what we’ve seen is that the cult of personality has begun to break. A growing and very large majority of Americans oppose what they’re seeing from this administration, and that is hope inducing for me. But beyond all of that, I am more motivated because of the change that I’ve been able to witness here in this office and on behalf of my constituents.”

That motivation is not abstract. It is measured in casework, legislative negotiations, and tangible dollars flowing back to Delaware. Alongside broader efforts, McBride co-sponsored the bipartisan “Equal Opportunity for All Investors Act” (H.R. 3339), which passed the House unanimously in 2025 while referred to the Committee on Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs. The legislation broadened access to investment opportunities by allowing individuals to qualify as accredited investors based on expertise rather than wealth alone.

“Our office has returned roughly $5 million to individual Delawareans and secured roughly $150 million in critical investments for Delaware. I’ve been able to introduce more bipartisan bills here in Congress than any other freshman, and we’ve been able to prevent every single anti-trans bill or major provision from becoming law. That is something that I don’t know that I would have believed was possible, but it’s been a byproduct of the strategy that we have undertaken. In short, what I’ve seen is that we can still win hearts and minds and that you can still deliver for people here in Congress.”

That emphasis on strategy over spectacle defines much of McBride’s approach to politics. It also informs how she navigates her identity as the first openly transgender member of Congress. While her presence carries symbolic weight, she resists the idea that symbolism alone is sufficient.

“No single person can be the voice of any one community, certainly not a community as diverse as the entirety of the LGBT community. I believe that part of my responsibility as a trans person who has the privilege of serving here is to guarantee that while I may be a first, I’m not the last. One of the reasons why anti-trans politics has been so successful is because the right wing has characterized trans people, and one of the greatest things that I can contribute is helping to diversify the public’s understanding of who trans people are. That does far more to change the public’s perception and political dynamics than anything else that I could do.”

Much of that work, she emphasized, happens away from cameras and headlines. It’s an approach that has at times drawn criticism from some LGBTQ advocates who favor more confrontational tactics, but one she frames as essential to long-term change.

“In a social media age, we perceive advocacy to look like one very loud thing, but a lot of my work is also behind the scenes. Speaking out and posting a clip is not the only way to advocate for people; in fact, it’s often the avenue of last resort if you actually want to deliver results. Despite a campaign that spent $200 million in anti-trans ads and an administration obsessed with trans people, not a single anti-trans bill or provision has become law. That’s not by coincidence, it’s by hard work and a strategic approach to defending the LGBTQ community.”

That same discipline carries into how she handles political attacks and public scrutiny.

“When you are a first, people will be out in force to try to bait you into fights to prove that people like you don’t belong. If you respond to provocations, they will turn you into a caricature and say you’re the aggressor. My job is to be a proud Delawarean and a damn good legislator, and the rest will follow from that. When you don’t take the bait, you protect your ability to deliver results.”

That approach has helped her build unlikely alliances across the aisle.

“I made it clear that I was willing to work with anyone if we could find common ground to help my constituents. As a byproduct, a number of my Republican colleagues came up to me and said welcome to Congress and let’s find opportunities to work together. That has resulted in me being able to introduce more bipartisan bills than any other freshman. We’ve been able to secure investments and pass legislation that opens up more capital to entrepreneurs from underrepresented backgrounds.”

Looking ahead to the midterms, McBride is both cautious and pragmatic.

“I feel cautiously optimistic that if the election were held today, that Democrats would win a majority in the House, but the problem is that the election is not held today. Republicans will be out in force with a boatload of money and will continue to try to use people like me as a political wedge issue. We have to meet all voters where they are and keep our eyes focused on the universal needs that our constituents have. It’s going to require us to have a big tent from our left to our right so that we can meet this moment.”

“We should not put anything by the Republicans; they will seek to suppress the vote and undermine the will of the people. That reinforces the need for us to win by such a margin that our win is too big to contest. It’s going to require us to reach voters who didn’t vote for us and compete in places we have written off. If the stakes are as high as we say they are, then we need all of the help that we can get.”

Her focus on long-term party-building is equally central to her vision — one that would be willing to take a leadership position on if given the chance.

“I’m really grateful that our leadership has offered me opportunities to have my voice heard and to represent the caucus. I am eager to find any opportunity to elevate the voices of my constituents and contribute. My background was in communications, and I believe our party can find new ways to communicate with voters. Our caucus is going to be the tip of the spear in helping to rebrand our party and build a governing majority.”

“We need to deliver universal child care, a higher minimum wage, Medicare for all who want it, and millions of new homes. Winning the next election is not the end; we have to continue building toward a durable majority. I’m eager to contribute to that vision in any way that my caucus sees fit. That includes potentially serving in leadership if that’s where I can be most helpful.”

On foreign policy, she is equally direct. The ongoing war with Iran was something she, as a member of the House Foreign Affairs Committee, is not only familiar with but completely opposed to.

“The war is illegal, but it’s also stupid, and it is a catastrophe for the United States. [The Trump administration] has not achieved any of their stated goals, and everything that has been destroyed can be rebuilt. Iran now has more leverage globally, including control of the Strait of Hormuz. This war raised costs, lost lives, and achieved what was already achieved a decade ago without any of that.”

That frustration echoes in what she hears from voters at home.

“Delawareans are pissed, and they’re pissed because this president promised he would end wars and lower costs. He has broken both of those promises, costs are higher and there are more wars. They are facing higher costs when they were already struggling, and they see that his policies have made that crisis worse. People across this country are angry that those promises were broken.”

Concerns about political violence and digital radicalization also weigh heavily on her. Last week’s attack at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner is one instance of politically motivated violence continuing to fester and instill fear in the American political sphere.

“I was horrified when I heard that there were shots fired, and the rising tide of political violence is a cancer for our democracy. Social media is radicalizing people and fostering misinformation and conspiracy theories. When people see a world where everyone is either 100% with them or against them, they begin to believe persuasion is impossible. That is fertile ground for violent extremists and it is unsustainable for democracy.”

“Democracy requires faith in other people’s capacity to change, and when that belief is lost, peaceful politics breaks down. People are not as divided as the algorithms make it seem, and most people are good and decent. We can tap people’s better angels, but we have to be willing to be in conversation with them. You cannot tell me that change is impossible, I have seen it and lived it.”

That belief underpins her support for regulating social media platforms, though she is careful to stress that policy alone is insufficient. The congresswoman constantly faces threats, repulsive comments, and detestable words from people on her social media channels for her identity alone.

“There’s no question that we need regulation of social media platforms, social media is the 21st century big tobacco. Whether it’s liability, age limits, or transparency of algorithms, there are a host of solutions we need to pursue. But policy solutions alone will not solve this problem. We have to get offline and have conversations in person.”

“When we have conversations in person, we realize we have much more in common than we think. We are currently having political conversations in the most toxic place possible, online. That has to change if we want to sustain democracy. You will come away more hopeful when you engage with people face to face.”

Her LGBTQ priorities remain anchored in policy and humanism— something she references repeatedly.

“I helped draft the Equality Act and I would love to see it become law. In the nearer term, we should prioritize reversing the ban on transgender troops. These are decorated service members who have been fired for no other reason than their gender identity. They deserve to be treated with dignity and fairness and judged on their merits.”

She continued at length about the transgender service members removed under Executive Order 14183, emphasizing both their service and their erasure.

“These are individuals who are not just qualified, but more than qualified, who have been decorated service members, who have received promotions with unanimous and unqualified endorsement by their superior officers who have been fired from service to this country for no other reason than their gender identity. And I believe in this moment… there is no more effective representation of our community than the transgender service members who have put their lives on the line to serve this country and who have been treated with nothing but disrespect from this administration. They deserve to be treated with dignity and fairness and judged on their merits.”

Even in partisan fights, she returns to her guiding principle of discipline and restraint.

“Sometimes in politics you have to throw a punch with grace. Republicans initiated a mid-decade redistricting effort to gerrymander and pad their majority. They expected Democrats to fold, but those days are over. We fought back and we’re not going to let them steal elections in advance.”

When the conversation turns to how she maintains balance amid the chaos of national politics, McBride returns to unexpected sources of grounding — television, pop culture, and humor.

“I’ve watched every season of ‘The Traitors,’” she said.

When asked if she would ever take a trip to the Scottish Highlands to visit Alan Cumming’s castle, she said it would have to be after her work is done in Congress.

“If I was ever on ‘The Traitors,’ I would never be able to be a traitor. I would get too nervous and overwhelmed. I would have to be a faithful. But I think if there is a future where I am on that show, it will be after I’m in elected office.”

And through it all, she draws parallels between reality television and political life itself.

“If you want to understand how many in Congress work, the best tutorial is ‘The Real Housewives’ … There are people whose sole purpose is to get attention… If you throw wine back, they will just keep coming back for more … I’m not going to allow someone to get attention at my expense … I think all you need to understand is [Capitol Hill] is like an episode of ‘Real Housewives.’”

Still, for McBride, even amid the spectacle of Washington, the focus ultimately returns home.

“I am excited for beach season and I love Rehoboth and Baltimore Avenue,” she says. “It is the professional privilege of my lifetime to represent Delaware. I represent a district that is urban, suburban, and rural, and I get to see the full diversity of this country every day. Delaware shows that a different kind of politics is possible.”

Republicans have been gaining ground in reshaping education policy to be less inclusive toward LGBTQ+ students at the state level, and now they are turning their focus to Capitol Hill.

Some GOP lawmakers are pushing for a nationwide “Don’t Say Gay” bill, doubling down on their commitment to being the party of “traditional family values” by excluding anyone who does not identify with their sex at birth.

The largest anti-LGBTQ+ education legislation to reach the House chamber is House Bill 2616 — the Parental Rights Over the Education and Care of Their Kids Act, or the PROTECT Kids Act. The PROTECT Kids Act, proposed by U.S. Rep. Tim Walberg (R-Mich.), and co-sponsored by U.S. Reps. Burgess Owens (R-Utah), Mary Miller (R-Ill.), Robert Onder (R-Mo.), and Kevin Kiley (R-Calif.), would require any public elementary and middle schools that receive federal funding to require parental consent to change a child’s gender expression in school.

The bill, which was discussed during Tuesday’s House Rules Committee hearing, would specifically require any schools that get federal money from the Elementary and Secondary Education Act of 1965 — which was created to minimize financial discrepancies in education for low-income students — to get parental approval before identifying any child’s gender identity as anything other than what was provided to the school initially. This includes getting approval before allowing children to use their preferred locker room or bathroom.

It reads that any school receiving this funding “shall obtain parental consent before changing a covered student’s (1) gender markers, pronouns, or preferred name on any school form; or (2) sex-based accommodations, including locker rooms or bathrooms.”

LGBTQ+ rights advocates have criticized both national and state efforts to require parental permission to use a child’s preferred gender identity, as it raises issues of at-home safety — especially if the home is not LGBTQ+-affirming — and could lead to the outing of transgender or gender-curious students.

A follow-up bill, HB 2617, proposed by Owens, one of the bill’s co-sponsors, prevents the use of federal funding to “advance concepts related to gender ideology,” using the definition from President Donald Trump’s 2025 Executive Order 14168, making that an enshrined definition in law of sex rather than just by executive order. There is also a bill making its way through the senate with the same text— Senate Bill 2251.

Advocates have also criticized this follow-up legislation, as it would restrict school staff — including teachers and counselors — from acknowledging trans students’ identities or providing any support. They have said that this kind of isolation can worsen mental health outcomes for LGBTQ+ youth and allows for education to be politicized rather than being based in reality.

David Stacy, the Human Rights Campaign’s vice president of government affairs, called this legislation out for using LGBTQ+ children as political pawns in an ideology fight — one that could greatly harm the safety of these children if passed.

“Trans kids are not a political agenda — they are students who deserve safety and affirmation at school like anyone else,” Stacy said in a statement. “Despite the many pressing issues facing our nation, House Republicans continue their bizarre obsession with trans people. H.R. 2616 does not protect children. It targets them. This bill is cruel, and we’re prepared to fight it.”

This is similar to Florida House Bills 1557 and 1069, referred to as the “Don’t Say Gay” bill and “Don’t Say They” bill, respectively, restricting classroom discussions on sexual orientation and gender identity, prohibiting the use of pronouns consistent with one’s gender identity, expanding book banning procedures, and censoring health curriculum.

The American Civil Liberties Union is tracking 233 bills related to restricting student and educator rights in the U.S.

Uncloseted Media published this story on April 28.

By EMMA PAIDRA | Shlomo Satt remembers first thinking he might be gay at 13 years old after seeing an article about gay marriage in the newspaper. Growing up in an Orthodox Jewish community on Long Island, New York, Satt immediately felt anxious about what this could mean for his future.

“I think that’s when I started thinking, ‘Oh, am I that? Am I gay?’” Satt, now 30, told Uncloseted Media and GAY TIMES.

As Satt came to realize he was gay, his anxiety skyrocketed. He was aware that only half of Orthodox Jews — and 20 percent of ultra-Orthodox Jews — are accepting of homosexuality.

“In my community, it’s very shunned to be gay,” says Satt. “So it was really, really, hard for me to accept that I was attracted to other men, because I was like, ‘It’s not what the Torah says you’re allowed to be.’”

Unlike more progressive denominations, Orthodox Judaism advocates for a more literal understanding of the Hebrew Bible, known as the Torah. For example, verses such as Leviticus 18:22, which states that “You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination,” are more likely to be interpreted verbatim by Orthodox rabbis.

“One of the hallmarks of growing up Orthodox and queer is feeling really alone,” says Satt. “It’s not something we talked about.”

Stories like Satt’s represent what’s motivating LGBTQ+ people to leave Orthodox Judaism. While little research has been done, one 2023 study from Brooklyn College CUNY found that only about 15 percent of LGBTQ+ people left Orthodox Judaism directly because of their sexual orientation or their religious views on homosexuality. Other reasons for leaving the denomination included religious views on homosexuality, being judged, bullied or alienated, emotional abuse, trauma, wanting more freedom, and mental health issues.

“It was really hard for me to engage in [Orthodox Judaism] and not feel deep shame or trauma,” says Satt. “That’s why I left.”

Growing up Orthodox

Unlike many Orthodox Jewish families, Satt’s parents allowed him some access to technology and even played secular music like The Beatles. Still, he had no television in the house growing up and zero education about LGBTQ+ people.

“I didn’t even know that someone could be gay until a friend told me in sixth grade,” he says. “For most of my upbringing, it wasn’t like homophobia was espoused. It just was literally not talked about.”

After the newspaper article triggered Satt’s “gay awakening,” he struggled to keep his feelings inside. “It was really hard for me to accept that I was attracted to other men,” he says. “All I wanted was just to be straight.”

Staying silent about his emotions took a toll. He worried that his dreams of having a big Jewish family would be unattainable. “I wanted to have a wife and kids and be normal within my community, and it felt like I couldn’t have any of that if I was gay,” he says.

By around age 15, Satt’s stress levels reached a breaking point. “I had a night where I was just really, really depressed and crying to God about my sexuality. It was really hard for me to cry at that point, because I was so not tuned in with myself.” He decided to meet with a school psychologist who was part of the Orthodox community. After telling the psychologist he might be gay, the response he received was, “We can fix that.”

Satt remembers initially feeling immense relief at the thought that his sexuality could be cured. “I was so joyful,” says Satt. For the next three and a half years, he worked with members of the Orthodox community who practiced conversion therapy.

The turning point

This therapy, which has been widely discredited for decades, culminated with Satt doing a retreat through an organization called Brothers Road, where participants were encouraged to reenact their trauma in front of each other. He was forced to beat up a punching bag with a metal baseball bat, pretending it was his mother. “I don’t know what the purpose of this was, but it was horrible. And doing this for 35 adult people, it’s totally insane and super humiliating.”

After the therapy failed, Satt began to question the negative messaging he had been taught about being gay. “The things that are more innate to me, I believe, are from God. I didn’t choose to be gay, I just was gay,” he remembers thinking.

With the help of a licensed trauma specialist, Satt reconstructed his relationship to Judaism. He is still Jewish today, and has plans to pursue rabbinical school, but he left Orthodoxy behind. “I actually started really heavily diving into spirituality as a means of meaning in my life, as a means of connecting with my Jewish roots and my tradition, but in entirely different ways. One hundred percent progressive, 100 percent equitable, only learning with people who conferred my identities,” says Satt, who now identifies as a “post-denominational Jew.”

This transition hasn’t been easy. Satt has lost all contact with his family and describes losing the relationship with them as “the hardest thing” in his life.

Unfortunately, Satt’s experience isn’t unusual. An article written by the founder of Jewish Queer Youth (JQY), a nonprofit mental health organization, found that from 2016 to 2023, over 2000 queer youth from Orthodox families accessed support services provided by JQY. And amongst closeted Jewish Orthodox gay men, concerns about the impact of their sexuality on family relationships are a common theme.

Despite this, Satt says he’s experienced immense joy since accepting his sexuality, healing through therapy with an affirming Orthodox rabbi, and having a Jewish wedding where he married his long-term partner. “I started to, slowly but surely, take back my own narrative and live the life that I wanted.”

The rabbinical perspective

While one 2025 study published in the Archives of Sexual Behavior found that some ultra-Orthodox communities are moving away from uniform rejection of homosexuality, gay rights remain controversial in many Orthodox communities. For example, Chabad, a major movement within Orthodox Judaism, states on its website that when it comes to queer desires, “even if it burns inside for a lifetime, the best thing for you, for your health, and for your ultimate satisfaction in life is to subdue and re-channel that desire.”

Mark Dratch, an Orthodox rabbi in Jerusalem, says that there is a limit to the accommodations an Orthodox synagogue can make.

“The sense of alienation, the sense of depression and the person’s emotional and sometimes physical well-being, that’s part of a rabbi’s responsibility,” Dratch told Uncloseted Media and GAY TIMES. “So I think there’s room to be welcoming and embracing, while at the same time living with this kind of dissonance of what tradition requires.”

Though Dratch ultimately views queerness as being in opposition to Orthodox Judaism, he still believes it is his duty to try and support LGBTQ+ congregants. “I may not like this part of you, but if I don’t embrace you, then we’re going to lose the other 95 percent of your Jewish commitment,” he says.

Dratch says LGBTQ+ Jews would be welcome to attend services in his synagogue, but he wouldn’t marry a gay couple. “It may not be good enough for some LGBT people in these communities,” he says. “They want to be more than tolerated.”

Marceline’s story

It’s not just gay people who struggle. As early as 9 years old, Marceline Franco locked herself in her bathroom and wrapped a towel around her head, trying to picture herself as a woman. Assigned male at birth and raised in a Syrian Orthodox Jewish community in Brooklyn, N.Y. Franco felt intense guilt for wishing she was a girl.

“I desperately, more than anything, wanted to be a woman,” says Franco, now 30 years old. “I would sit in the bathroom as my only safe space to cry and pray and beg.”

Staying quiet about wanting to dress as a woman and go by a girl’s name put an immense amount of stress on Franco. “One of my fantasies as a kid was that I could wake up in a woman’s body. But in the bed next to me was a clone of me that could live out the rest of my life as my family and community would have wanted,” she says. “I felt horrible that I would rob them of me.”

A shared experience with conversion therapy

By the time Franco entered college, she decided to see an ultra-Orthodox therapist. “Over the next four and a half years, I participated in some version of conversion therapy,” she says. “[My therapist’s] view of it was more of a fetish/escape, and that it was something that I could learn to control and basically bury.”

Franco’s therapist taught her to think of herself in four parts. When Franco suggested that there was a fifth part — a girl — her therapist shut the idea down. Franco found the elimination of this part of her troubling. “It was the erasure of my transness with this person in a professional setting, which is deeply, deeply problematic,” says Franco.

Similar to Satt, conversion therapy didn’t work. And after watching queer comedian Hannah Gadsby’s comedy special “Nanette” for a college class, Franco began to question her therapist even more and started reconsidering her religious upbringing.

“I no longer was able to hold the belief that the Torah was true,” she says. “I realized that I may be holding onto religion to protect myself from coming to terms with the grief of being alone in the world … and justifying staying closeted.”

Franco ultimately left organized Judaism behind.

Six months later, she came out as trans. In order to explore her gender, she cut contact with her family. However, upon trying to reestablish a relationship with them as a woman, things did not go well. “I was nearly barred from my own grandfather’s funeral and I was barred from a family Shabbat meal mourning him. Two weeks later I was kicked out of my cousin’s wedding for showing up dressed as myself,” she says.

“The grief is immeasurable. It is nearly impossible to mourn people and relationships that are actively still living in this world. … And to move through all these major life moments alone has been really difficult.”

Despite this loss, Franco still practices elements of Judaism that resonate with her and has found joy and meaning in her transition. “Once I just started speaking my mind, saying how I felt, it stopped being confusing. I stopped hating myself for having these feelings. I just started loving myself.”

How Satt and Franco learned to move forward from religious trauma

Both Satt and Franco left the Orthodox communities they grew up in.

Still, Satt says Judaism has been the healing force for him. “It brought me back into a relationship with God, The Infinite, The Sum of All Good,” he says. “It ultimately made me feel very connected to myself, to humanity and to my heritage.”

Satt is thrilled that some rabbis are fighting for more inclusivity in the Orthodox Jewish space, but unless more begin to follow in their footsteps, he believes LGBTQ+ Jews will continue to disaffiliate from the denomination.

Though Franco no longer practices Judaism, she still finds meaning in some of the lessons she learned when she was.

“When my therapist was my mentor, she had me start to look at the world as having divine providence. And I did see a lot of that in my life. To this day, I still do,” she says. “And I just have reinterpreted that God doesn’t care that I’m Jewish or not. God loves me as I am.”

On Friday, April 24, 300 people gathered just before dawn, rolling their bicycles to a stop in Elysian Park. Against crisp morning air and dark, they donned vibrant orange and pink athletic wear, protective helmets, and sunglasses; while the rest of the city remained sleepy, the large group, which grew larger by the minute, hummed with excitement as they prepared to take off together on a three-day adventure towards the San Diego LGBT Community Center. 

This was the start of the highly anticipated Center Ride Out, the first-ever AIDS/LifeCycle legacy event created by the Los Angeles LGBT Center. For over 30 years, AIDS/LifeCycle brought masses for a seven-day ride from San Francisco to L.A. and raised over $300 million for life-saving HIV and AIDS resources and services. 

Center Ride Out was built in the lasting imprint and shadow of this event, and strived for a more accessible and joyous approach. “Center Ride Out carries forward the legacy of AIDS/LifeCycle, rooted in a time when our community came together to care for one another,” said LA LGBT Center CEO Joe Hollendoner, in a press release, who describes Center Ride Out as the beginning of a new legacy for LGBTQ+ cycling activism. 

Described as a “queer summer camp,” the pared-down three-day journey began with a 110-mile trek towards Temecula’s Lake Skinner, where, after a night’s rest, cyclists could spend a day gathering with community over arts and crafts, massages, a dance party, games, and other activities reminiscent of summers spent simmering by the water.

On the third day, cyclists rode 87 miles to the San Diego LGBT Community Center, one of the event’s benefiting partners, rounding out a nearly 300-mile journey across Southern California. In total, cyclists raised $830,511 to support the LA LGBT Center’s vital LGBTQ+ healthcare, housing, educational, and advocacy programs and social services — a crucial accomplishment after the organization suffered a $9 million loss in federal funding in the last fiscal year.

Sunday marked a victorious end to this first iteration of Center Ride Out, and cyclists raced towards each other upon reaching their final destination: sweaty, tired bodies embracing and entangling in pride and accomplishment. The monumental AIDS/LifeCycle has come to an end, but the joy that reverberated from this evening signaled the start of something just as great. 

Registration has already begun for the next Center Ride Out, which returns April 23-25, 2027. Learn more at the Center’s website.

Kristie Song is a California Local News Fellow placed with the Los Angeles Blade. The California Local News Fellowship is a state-funded initiative to support and strengthen local news reporting. Learn more about it at fellowships.journalism.berkeley.edu/cafellows.

It started as any White House Correspondents’ Dinner is supposed to go—I assume. I’ve never been to one before this, but based on other events I’ve attended at the Hilton, including an HRC gala, it all seemed fairly normal.

There was a lot of traffic. Police had blocked off streets encompassing a large portion of Adams Morgan—particularly around the hotel. The president was making his first appearance after boycotting the event during his first term, so there was a sense of anticipation. It took me about 45 minutes to go just under a mile from my apartment to about three blocks from the hotel in my Uber. I waited until the last possible second before I felt like I was going to be late—6:30—to get out of the car, because it was raining and I was wearing my green tux.

I walked up to a group of people checking tickets at the base of the hotel. They seemed to just be glancing at the tiny, index-card-sized tickets rather than conducting any kind of full security screening outside. As I walked from that first checkpoint to the drive-around drop-off area, I joined what was essentially one long line for the red carpet. It eventually split into people who wanted photos and those who didn’t—but again, there was no real need to show anything beyond that small ticket upon entering, and even that wasn’t being checked closely.

 A light went off in my head; I felt that, given the speed at which security was checking tickets, they couldn’t fully see the foil logo and tiny table numbers from that distance. I remember thinking that if I had a similarly sized piece of paper, I could have gotten through up to that point.

I also noticed there was no real security checkpoint or metal detectors upon initially entering the hotel grounds—unlike what I had seen at the HRC gala the year before.

I waited about 35 minutes in line in the car drop-off area—without cars, since it had been repurposed to corral press and their guests before entering the building and heading onto the red carpet. I took my photo, then went up the escalator to meet my date, Jacob Bernard from Democracy Forward. They wouldn’t let him onto the red carpet without his ticket, so I gave him his, which I had been holding. He was already inside the venue despite not having his ticket on him and had been at one of the pre-parties. 

That also struck me as odd—that you could access a pre-dinner party without a ticket or going through any visible security.

After I found him, we took a photo together at a step-and-repeat past the main red carpet area around 7:45. Oddly enough, a group of my friends—gays who I regularly see on the dance floors of the gay bars of Washington, who work in various government and media-adjacent fields—found me, and we took pictures together. None were White House correspondents or held a “hard pass” to the White House (security credentials that allow entry into the White House complex).

 Another light went off in my head that indicated party crashers probably shouldn’t be getting inside to an event that is supposed to be one of the most secure rooms in the country.

After the photos, I could see groups of people being moved from pre-party spaces in various meeting rooms on other floors and directed toward the main floor where the red carpet had been.

My guest and I went back up to the main floor and walked through a small security checkpoint that included only a handful of metal detectors. From there, I went down the stairs from the lobby into the International Ballroom, where we took our seats at Table 200. I talked to a few people I knew—very traditional pre-event chit-chat. The vibes felt good. It was my first time attending, and I was genuinely excited.

Around 8:15, the Marine Corps Band played and “Commandant’s Four” color guard presented the flags. We were then told to take our seats. 

They introduced the head table—the president, first lady, vice president, and members of the White House Correspondents’ Association board. Weijia Jiang, senior White House correspondent for CBS News and president of the WHCA, gave a brief speech, essentially saying we would eat first and then move into the main program, which was supposed to feature mentalist Oz Pearlman.

At this point my table, 200 which included members of the Wall Street Journal, the Blade, and a European outlet all started eating. About 15 minutes later, Washington Hilton staff began clearing plates and preparing to bring out the next course.

As they cleared the plates, I heard four loud bangs.

I saw hotel employees immediately start ducking. They seemed to understand the gravity of the situation much faster than most attendees, including myself. At first, it sounded like a tray might have fallen over (but I later found out that wasn’t the case).

After about 30 seconds of watching some people duck, others look around in confusion, and some continue eating and drinking, I got down. I kneeled with my chair in front of me as a kind of barrier. Being at Table 200, I felt somewhat removed from where the actual incident occurred.

Then I saw the president being whisked away quickly by Secret Service, along with the first lady and others at the head table.

My reporter instincts kicked in. I grabbed my phone and started filming. I saw SWAT team members rush into the ballroom and onto the stage, clearing the area. I captured a video of people looking around, confused about what had just happened.

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A few minutes later, the room was told by the WHCA president to hold on—that they would provide more information and guidance on what would happen next. There was some indication that they might try to continue the event despite what had occurred.

Everyone started frantically checking X to see if any major outlets were reporting. I was receiving texts from family, friends, and colleagues about the rapidly unfolding situation.

I walked to the bathroom—twice, technically. I couldn’t find it initially because it was hidden behind black curtains. (Later, those curtains were removed, and the men’s room was in clearer view.)

During the first walk to the bathroom, I called my editor to tell him what was happening. He instructed me to start sending copy to another editor, who would get it online. The ballroom had almost no service—it’s in the basement of a 12-story hotel—so it was a challenge. I utilized SMS fallback (since iMessage wasn’t working) to send updates.

I returned to the table, where people were still hovering—calling editors, scrolling, texting, sending photos and copy. I was already drafting my story and sending it in chunks, adding details as I gathered more information.

I walked my guest toward the bathroom again, which was on the opposite side of the ballroom from our table, so I had to cross what felt like a sea of journalists, PR officials, guests, and others on their phones, talking and scrolling. My guest pointed out that the press pool was being held in an alcove away from the ballroom doors and escalator exit—not in the ballroom with everyone else.

“Alive” by the Bee Gees was playing over the speakers in the bathroom, which felt a little too on the nose.

On my way out, I heard someone speaking over a microphone and rushed to the ballroom entrance. WHCA President Weijia Jiang was speaking. She announced that the event was over and the space was being evacuated.

She also said that President Trump would hold a press conference at the White House in about 25 minutes.

That’s when I knew it was a race against the clock.

I called my editor a second time to update him and asked if I should head to the briefing (knowing the answer would be yes). He confirmed.

Then the crowd began to move. People grabbed purses, bottles—some left belongings behind. Even though it was technically becoming a crime scene, no one was actively forcing us out. It felt more like a collective understanding: It was time to go.

I texted my guest: “OK, I have to go to the White House. I’m so sorry to leave you.”

I made my way with the sea of people toward the one exit we were allowed to use and zipped between women in fancy gowns and men looking like penguins.

I put on my hard press pass, opened the Capital Bikeshare app, reserved the closest e-bike, and headed out. 

I walked up Columbia Road to 20th and Wyoming, grabbed the bike, and rode down Wyoming, then 18th, cut over to U Street, and went straight down 16th to the White House. That ride was exhilarating. I also filmed an Instagram Reel updating my followers on what was going on. I could see tourists and D.C. residents alike looking at me from their cars and the sidewalk, obviously confused as to why a man dressed in a tux had hopped on a bike.

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I got off the bike where 16th Street meets Lafayette Square and darted toward the first White House security checkpoint, where they were verifying press credentials. Luckily, I had mine. After that, it turned into a mad dash. Everyone who made it through started moving quickly.

The sound of heels on what I think was cobblestone—or maybe brick—sticks with me. My own shoes were clacking as I ran toward the White House alongside other journalists in heels and dress shoes.

At the Secret Service checkpoint, there was a separate line for hard pass holders. Having my hard pass let me skip much of the impeccably dressed line of journalists who didn’t think to bring their hard pass with them.

It was probably the most exquisitely dressed press crowd I’ve ever seen—tuxedos, gowns, full makeup. It felt like something out of “The Hunger Games.”

I went through security, put my belongings through the metal detector, entered my code, grabbed my things, and ran to the briefing room.

We are just a little over a month until the Los Angeles primary mayoral election takes place on June 2. 

Incumbent mayor Karen Bass, District 4 councilmember Nithya Raman, and conservative reality star Spencer Pratt currently lead the race, but a poll released early this month by the UCLA Luskin School of Public Affairs indicates unsteadiness and volatility ahead. 40% of voters remain undecided — and without a majority vote, two leading candidates will have to face off in a runoff election on Nov. 3. 

Some are hoping for an underdog to swoop in, and the Blade spoke with one of these contenders: LGBTQ+ artist and creative director, Bryant Acosta. 

Born in West Covina, Acosta attended The Art Institute of California, Los Angeles in the early 2000s, where he experienced a bursting energy that defines the county’s reputation as a major hub and global beacon for success. “Everything felt limitless. There was so much opportunity,” Acosta told the Blade. “The city felt alive. You could feel the heart and soul of what L.A. was, and I just don’t see that anymore.” 

Acosta hopes to revitalize the county with fresh perspectives, a creative tech-forward approach, and a reboot of how City Hall operates when it comes to transparency and efficiency. His career has spun through several evolutions: he’s been in charge of multi-million dollar budgets and large teams as a creative director, both in the corporate world and on his own terms. 

The Blade sat down with Acosta to discuss his pledge for the county’s queer residents and other minority community members, his vision for an app that would streamline accessible city services, and how he sees his identity as a ‘superpower.’ 

What are your ideas about how you would concretely support queer communities? I was at City Hall a couple months ago when the TransLatin@ Coalition was there to ask for $4 million in direct funding from the county. There’s a big wave and throughline of struggle when it comes to queer communities having to advocate for themselves. How would you support them as Mayor? 

Being queer myself…I just feel like you don’t have to shrink yourself to survive in the city, at least not on my watch. This campaign is for the people who have felt unseen, who have had to build their own community and opportunities. But it isn’t just about visibility, it’s about affordability, safety, and opportunity. Because what good is being seen if you can’t afford to live here or feel protected? 

Education [is] a big [priority] because right now there’s so much misinformation — specifically around trans issues. I want to be able to bring people along on the journey of: Hey, this is who they are, this is what they’re asking for [and] make it so that people see them as humans. Being able to bridge that gap between the misinformation on social media and bridge it to actual science-based information so that people can really understand what it is to be trans and that they’re part of our community. 

When I spoke with trans leaders and advocates, many explained that City Hall does not lack funds — it’s simply not prioritizing their organizations into the county’s budget. 

I know Kenneth Mejia, our [City] Controller, has been working on having more visibility into the budget — but if we were able to have an application like my LA Now app idea where people can track every dollar [and] every penny spent, it’s not going to be a fight. This minority group of people is asking for this much money. It’s well within the budget. Why wouldn’t we do this? It’s an essential service for them. Just as the trash or the water are essential services for your neighborhoods, these are things that they’re asking for to continue to operate and be a part of our community. That’s why I’m making that my main touch point, because without accountability, transparency and trust in City Hall, we don’t have anything else.

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Can you tell me more about your LA Now app idea and how it adds to your mission of transparency for LA county residents?

I worked in tech for a while, so I learned how to use technology to better…communications, advertising, and all of the things. So, I [thought]: I should be able to use that and be a really future-forward mayor. 

I developed this app, where basically, you could have civics in the palm of your hand. You’d open the app, [and] you’d have a dashboard. Organizations will be loaded into it so that when you have problems with housing, the streets and anything in your community, it’ll geo-target your area so they’ll have all the services listed that you can contact. 

You’d also be able to pay parking tickets. If you get towed by the city, it’ll give you a notification. So, there’s no more of those predatory towing fees. [You’d also be] able to get push notifications for jury duty, so it has a lot of those civics built in. 

And with what Kenneth Mejia is doing right now — he’s giving us a full data dashboard of where the money’s going. I want to simplify that and make it more accessible so that, [for example], my mom and my cousins can read it. [I want to] really put it in the palm of your hand so we see every dollar, every penny spent in real time. 

I created a section where, essentially, you can rate your leader. So basically it’d be like Yelp, but for leadership. So, when you see things like Nithya [Raman] spending a million dollars on bathrooms, that would trigger a warning to the Controller, and then we’d be able to see: Hey, what’s going on here? If leaders want to have five stars, they need to respond in real time. It would just keep that extra layer of accountability — a digital accountability on leadership.

Last but not least, I want to develop an anti-Amazon feature [on the app]. Essentially, we would have an E-commerce marketplace [that] only local businesses would be able to get on, so that they could maximize their profits. 

Would the app include surveillance protections? With fears over ICE and online safety, would there be a way for people to feel secure while using the app?

How I’m thinking of this as an operating system is that we would use ID.me, which we use at the DMV, to be able to log in. So it already has all your information, and that way you’re not having to input everything a million times. But for people who are undocumented, you’d have a back portal where you’d have access to essential services. I [also] thought about people who don’t have cell phones. We could also have kiosks in public libraries, grocery stores, any place that has public access, so that everybody would have access to these data points and things that they may [need].  

You’re forward about being at the intersection of marginalized identities, as a queer and Latino person. How does this affect how you think about the mayoral race and how you’re building connections with LA residents? 

Being queer and Latino [doesn’t] hold me back. It’s actually a superpower for me. In some ways, it forced me to figure things out — not just to find a seat at the table, but to build my own. Understanding people [in] these kinds of ways is invaluable. Also, being first-generation American and openly gay, you see this country as both an opportunity and an exclusion at the same time. No matter how smart, accomplished, or creative you are, there’s still a ceiling you hit, especially when the system was never built with you in mind. 

That perspective really changes how [I] lead because you don’t just want access to the system — you want to fix it so that it actually works for everyone.

To learn more about Bryant Acosta and his mayoral campaign, you can visit his social media page and website. 

Kristie Song is a California Local News Fellow placed with the Los Angeles Blade. The California Local News Fellowship is a state-funded initiative to support and strengthen local news reporting. Learn more about it at fellowships.journalism.berkeley.edu/cafellows.

Four loud bangs were heard in the International Ballroom of the Washington Hilton during the annual White House Correspondents’ Dinner on Saturday.

According to the Associated Press, a shooter opened fire inside the hotel outside the ballroom.

Attendees could hear four loud bangs as people started to duck and take cover. During the chaos sounds of salad and glasses were dropped as hotel employees, and guests ducked for cover.

The head table — which included President Donald Trump, Vice President JD Vance, first lady Melania Trump, and White House Correspondents Association President Weijia Jiang — were rushed off stage.

“The U.S. Secret Service, in coordination with the Metropolitan Police Department, is investigating a shooting incident near the main magnetometer screening area at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner,” the U.S. Secret Service said in a statement. “The president and the First Lady are safe along all protects. One individual is in custody. The condition of those involved is not yet known, and law enforcement is actively assessing the situation.”

Trump held a press conference at the White House after he left the hotel.

“A man charged a security checkpoint armed with multiple weapons and he was taken down by some very brave members of Secret Service,” said Trump.

Trump said the shooter is from California. He also said an officer was shot, but said his bullet proof vest “saved” him.

D.C. Mayor Muriel Bowser, interim D.C. police chief Jeffrey Carroll, U.S. Attorney for D.C. Jeanine Pirro, and other officials held their own press conference at the hotel.

Carroll said the gunman who has been identified as Cole Tomas Allen was armed with a shotgun, handgun, and “multiple” knives when he charged a Secret Service checkpoint in a hotel lobby. Carroll also told reporters that law enforcement “exchanged gunfire with that individual.”

Both he and Bowser said the gunman appeared to act alone.

“We are so very thankful to members of law enforcement who did their jobs tonight and made sure all guests were safe,” said Bowser. “Nobody else was involved.”

The Los Angeles Blade will update this story as details become more available.

At the June L. Mazer Lesbian Archives in West Hollywood, Alisha Graefe and Kymn Goldstein are rummaging through a treasure trove of unknown lesbian films. Large, neon orange bins sit at their feet, filled to the brim with VHS tapes donated by queer filmmaker Rosser Goodman, who in the late 90s and early 2000s programmed the underground lesbian screening series “Film Fatale.” 

Her monthly event provided a safe haven and experimental ground for lesbian film in L.A., shining light on new voices, stories, and perspectives that explored the nuances of living life as a queer woman. 

This Saturday, April 25, Graefe and Goldstein are paying homage to Goodman’s legacy with a cinema-centered event of their own: a short film festival that brings together an eclectic, curated mix of archival works and newly submitted pieces from emerging lesbian filmmakers around the world. These works, accompanied by panel discussions, will screen all day in three different blocks at the Pacific Design Center’s Silver Screen Theater.

Like “Film Fatale,” this festival is not just a showcase of resonant, timely art: it’s an opportunity for queer people to intentionally gather, reflect on their history, joy, and resilience, and to soak in spaces that celebrate them.

“The archives are full of history, but every single day we make history,” Goldstein, who is the archive’s executive director, told the Blade. “This festival is an act of creating history. [We’re] bringing people together to celebrate Lesbian Visibility Week and to watch these films. [And] you know what, every week is Lesbian Visibility Week at the archive.” 

When they were first planning out the film festival together, Goldstein and Graefe — who serves as the Mazer’s full-time archivist — sifted through Goodman’s collection, letting the sounds of static, VCR clicking, and tape-scrubbing fill the room. One of the films they watched, and which will screen at Saturday’s festival, is Goodman’s own 14-minute short, “Life’s a Butch!”: a silent comedy about a woman’s antics to impress her new femme crush with clumsy, masc charm.

It was made over 25 years ago, but its tenderness and whimsy are still palpable today. This, and the other films in the festival, speak to both singular and universal emotions and experiences lesbian, queer, and sapphic people have experienced and will continue to experience across time and space. 

This interconnectedness in films, communities, and shared memories between past and present excites Goldstein. “The stories of coming out, of crushes, of losing love…[They] are the same topics and subjects that come up today, especially the political things we’re going through. There’s a continuity across all of it.” 

And where there’s continuity, there are clues and maps that pinpoint paths of resistance, dialogue, and survival. When people see their lives, or the lives of others in their communities, reflected on screen and in narratives they can interact with, they are able to draw upon history to craft their own ways forward. 

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The film festival also offers local community members an entryway into the archive, a longstanding community space that houses journals, photographs, books, films, letters — all tangible materials that people are encouraged to touch and engage with, whether it’s to further their research, spark ideas, or simply be more intimately in conversation with the past. 

“There are tons and tons of stories,” Goldstein said, who is focused on maintaining and growing the archive’s collection of ephemera and other personal materials from the community. “It’s living, breathing history in a variety of forms, all hidden in different-sized boxes that you just have to open to see what’s inside.” 

To support and learn more about the archive’s upcoming film festival, collections, and other events, visit their website.

Kristie Song is a California Local News Fellow placed with the Los Angeles Blade. The California Local News Fellowship is a state-funded initiative to support and strengthen local news reporting. Learn more about it at fellowships.journalism.berkeley.edu/cafellows.