Politics almost broke them. Instead, they found power in community.
Mo Turner — queer, Muslim and Black — faced discrimination and censure in the Oklahoma legislature. They have found healing through activism.
This story was originally reported by Orion Rummler of The 19th. Meet Orion and read more of their reporting on gender, politics and policy.
Mo Turner doesn’t often think about their time in the Oklahoma House of Representatives.
In that building, they were Mauree — the first out nonbinary state legislator in United States history; the first Muslim elected in Oklahoma; a Black, queer, gender non-conforming lawmaker in one of the most conservative states in the country. Elected at 27 to represent House District 88, which includes much of Oklahoma City, they stepped into a political institution that had never belonged to someone like them before.
The job almost broke them. Turner left office in November 2024, four years into their tenure, after the work took a toll on their health. They are still recovering.
“I spent January 2026 walking. And weeping. And reading,” Turner said. After the legislature took over their life, they had to find a way back to who they were before a national spotlight brought constant harassment, abuse and stress. They’ve found solace in a particular song near the end of the Hamilton musical, when the eponymous founding father takes long, quiet walks after losing his son and stepping away from politics.
Turner’s own walks can go on for three hours.
If there’s one lesson Turner took from their time at the statehouse, it’s that politics won’t help communities. People will.
“I want people to understand that policy is not coming to save you,” they said. “We get justice, we get faith, we get warm meals, we get community right here when we start talking to folks.”
Although the United States is a representative democracy, our political system still rejects anyone who strays too far from the norm. Turner’s story shows how far from equal the nation’s politics still are — and how being an out LGBTQ+ elected official today is just as revolutionary as it was five decades ago.
The violence holding democracy back
Elaine Noble was the first openly LGBTQ+ person ever elected to a state legislature, serving two terms in the Massachusetts House of Representatives in the 1970s. She described the campaign as ugly: her car was destroyed, her windows were shot through, her headquarters were vandalized. The harassment she received from colleagues in the statehouse was ugly, too. She routinely heard obscene profanities. Once, someone left human feces on her desk. Another time, a man stopped her as she walked to work and spat on her.
These are not just scenes from a distant past. Political violence against LGBTQ+ candidates is rising, according to a new report from the Victory Institute. Many LGBTQ+ candidates who ran for office between 2023 and 2025 experienced death threats on the trail. One candidate said their house was shot up by a neighbor. Another said that someone posted in a local newspaper’s online thread that a bullet should be put through their brain. Another candidate was shoved off a porch while door-knocking.
Some LGBTQ+ candidates receive death threats on social media at least once a week, according to the Victory Institute. A number of them respond to those threats by limiting voter engagement. Some avoid door-knocking and social media. Others decline public events entirely.
Rising violence against LGBTQ+ candidates doesn’t just scar candidates; it scars democracy, according to the authors of the report.
“This is changing who feels able to run for office, how candidates are showing up in their campaigns, whether they can even remain in public life at all,” said Pooja Prabhakaran, director of elected and appointed officials engagement at the LGBTQ+ Victory Institute. “The broader piece of it is, who is able to serve and participate in democracy?”
Death threats against Turner began as soon as they entered office. They received voicemails filled with racial slurs and obscene emails targeting their religion and LGBTQ+ identity. As a freshman lawmaker, they were surprised to learn that not everyone was treated that way. They thought death threats were commonplace.
Turner has dealt with harassment on a larger scale than many other LGBTQ+ candidates do, Prabhakaran said. For other trans people or LGBTQ+ people of color who consider running for office, there is a chilling effect: Do they want to be subjected to the same treatment?
Threats against Turner escalated after they were censured by the Oklahoma House of Representatives in 2023, during their second term. They were accused by the Republican leadership of “harboring a fugitive” — a trans person who went to the statehouse with their partner to protest a bill that would ban gender-affirming care for minors.
At the protest, the couple got into a scuffle with a state trooper after one of them threw water at a state representative. One was arrested. The other sought out Turner’s office.
“This person’s spouse was just arrested. They came to my office to process. That’s what happened,” Turner told The 19th at the time, in 2023. “I let folks get their affairs in order, because everyone was in agreeance that they were going to go ahead and turn themselves over.”
Democrats said Turner cooperated with law enforcement during the search for the protester. Still, they were punished. Republicans asked Turner for a formal apology in exchange for keeping their committee assignments. They declined.
“I think an apology for loving the people of Oklahoma is something that I cannot do,” they said at a press conference following the censure.
Many constituents already saw Turner as a trusted confidant. People would call to ask where they should move to escape anti-LGBTQ+ laws and how to crowdfund to help someone travel for an abortion. As politics restricted daily life, more and more people came to Turner for help.
Now, after earning that trust, they were silenced. They couldn’t shape legislation through committees or join caucus discussions to speak on behalf of voters in their district.
The threatening calls and emails got worse.
Some political violence is based on a candidate’s beliefs. Some of it is driven by a desire to intimidate them out of politics altogether because of their identity. Those who challenge the status quo often face the most backlash, said Kelly Dittmar, director of research at the Center for American Women and Politics at Rutgers University. And those conditions don’t just stop once someone gets into office, she said.
“I can have an elected position, but my power in that position is very much influenced by all of these other dynamics that are not formalized,” Dittmar said. There’s a difference between politics as usual within a two-party system, where everyone jockeys for influence, and being seen as a threat for being different or a minority, she said.
Hostile territory
In 2023, Oklahoma lawmakers introduced 35 anti-LGBTQ+ bills, according to the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) — a lot more than most other states at the time. They passed laws enabling broad discrimination against trans people and restricting young students from learning about LGBTQ+ people. Inside the statehouse, Turner felt demoralized.
The next year, their Republican colleagues introduced 55 anti-LGBTQ+ bills. Oklahoma already had few legal protections for LGBTQ+ people, and things only got worse.
“I’m going into a job that doesn’t care about me in a state that it feels like doesn’t care about me,” they said, reflecting on how they felt at the time.
Still, Turner was making an impact. As the first out transgender lawmaker in Oklahoma’s statehouse, they inspired young people. Students told Turner that they had never cared about politics until seeing them in office. High school and middle school students would approach them in the capitol to ask questions about their tenure for class reports.
They represented more than just House District 88. They represented younger generations of queer people in Oklahoma and beyond. Turner felt the weight of the responsibility. That’s what made it so hard for them to leave.
Turner found an ally in then-Rep. Monroe Nichols, a Democrat who now serves as the first Black mayor of Tulsa. Nichols was the only one who seemed to genuinely care that Turner was receiving death threats. He was the only one who made them feel human.
“I do think that there was solidarity in him being a Black man from Tulsa of all places, understanding what it looked like to feel discrimination or oppression,” Turner said.
Once Turner took office, there were eight Black legislators in the Oklahoma statehouse — a record. Currently, there are six. Most politicians in the building are White. The status quo of power in Oklahoma is very much White, cisgender, heterosexual and male, said Dittmar of Rutgers University. And those who break that mold are seen by others as a threat, she said.
Then there’s this: In a state like Oklahoma, Democrats have very little leverage. On top of the low pay and high stress, there’s a small chance of achieving any concrete policy wins. Republicans sponsor most state laws because 80 percent of the lawmakers are Republicans. Barely any bill passes without Republican support. Being in the minority party means taking on the steep personal costs of being in office in exchange for little payoff.
Toward the end of those four long years, Turner didn’t feel like a good legislator anymore. In their words, they were phoning it in. Although they did spark a committee hearing on repealing the state’s HIV criminalization law, none of their bills advanced.
Turner would frequently sit in their car in the parking lot before work, trying to breathe through the rising panic and find the will to go inside. Walking into the statehouse each day was taking a deep toll on them.
The stress grew until they landed in the emergency room. At the beginning of their last legislative session, they were diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and underwent a procedure to have cancerous cells removed from their body. That health scare followed bouts of migraines, panic attacks and depression.
As their health cratered, they felt alone. After their visit to the emergency room, none of their colleagues checked to see how they were doing.
Turner knew something had to change. They were worried for their nephew, Anthony, whom they are raising on their own. While juggling their job and all the harassment that came with it, they were setting up daycare and school drop-offs — everything that comes with being a single parent. Sometimes, Anthony would join them on the House floor if work ran late. But they had to leave by 7 p.m. to make it home at a reasonable time for dinner, bath and bedtime.
“I remember one day thinking, I would like to see him grow up,” they said.
So they left. They walked away from politics.
“It was a tough decision to make because I know that representation matters. And some days, me just showing up to work is the representation that people need,” they said.
This is the passion that still fuels Turner: showing up for Oklahomans and showing up for young LGBTQ+ people who don’t feel heard by their elected representatives.
What real change looks like
In March, Turner went back to the statehouse to help a friend, the executive director at Freedom Oklahoma,a state LGBTQ+ advocacy group, monitor anti-trans bills. But the building is still full of red tape: Initially, they were barred from entering the gallery by statehouse security. The experience became a reminder of why they left.
To actually make change in their community, Turner knew they would have to work outside of politics.
Here’s how: They’re working with the immigrant advocacy group Dream Action Oklahoma, making and distributing zines on how bystanders can intervene when Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents are out making arrests. They help serve community breakfast with the Foundation for Liberating Minds, a Black-led abolitionist group based in Oklahoma. And in their new job, they get to work with LGBTQ+ students from across the country.
Turner is the director of public policy and advocacy at GLISTEN, a national nonprofit that lobbies for LGBTQ+ students. They’re working to expand GLISTEN’s National Student Council, a leadership program for high schoolers. They’re working on the curriculum for that program and thinking about how these students want to grow. Many of them want to become activists, or already are. These students represent a future that is rapidly changing, regardless of how many anti-LGBTQ+ laws are passed; more and more young people are identifying as queer and trans.
Working with students is a bright spot for Turner. Their organization is asking LGBTQ+ students about their experiences, their school policies and what they think needs to be different. And amid so much anti-LGBTQ+ hostility in politics, kids are making it clear that they’re ready to make change on their own terms.
“Youth aren’t just saying, ‘Oh, god, policy is so bad, whatever.’ They’re saying, ‘No, maybe I will run for office. Or ‘I’ll work on my friend’s campaign.’ They’re being outspoken,” Turner said. “Our power lies in the streets, outside of any state legislature, and it always will.”
Turner doesn’t think they will ever go back to politics. But that doesn’t mean they’ve stopped paying attention. They still keep tabs on bills moving through Oklahoma’s legislature. Lately, they said, things have been going from bad to worse.
The legislature just passed a law to create criminal penalties for providing gender-affirming care to minors and adults. No public funds or property may be used to provide the care, which threatens state university hospitals. The state Medicaid program will also no longer cover gender-affirming care for any patients.
This bill is just another step in stripping health care from all Oklahomans, Turner said. They want people to respond to laws like this by doing more than signing a petition or calling their local reps. They can reach out directly to state agencies, donate to local healthcare fundraisers or just talk to their neighbors.
“When the government fails us, what do we have?” they said. For Turner, the answer is clear: community.
In a way, Turner has returned to their home turf as an activist. Before elected office, Turner worked with local branches of the ACLU, the NAACP and the Council on American-Islamic Relations. They learned the ways of the statehouse and now they know how to push for change outside.
And they don’t plan on leaving the state or their community in House District 88. Their brother went to college in this district. They worked an internship here. They met friends at Picasso Cafe and The Red Cup and had first kisses at local bars. Oklahoma City feels like such a queer place to them, and they have fallen in love with it.
“This is my home. I love it,” they said. “I’m going to stay and fight.”
