Queer History 745: Patricia Highsmith – The Brilliant Fucking Architect of Queer Hope by Wendy🏳️⚧️🏳️🌈🌈
Read on Substack
In the suffocating landscape of 1950s America, when being queer could land you in a mental institution, prison, or worse, one woman sat down at her typewriter and decided to tell the truth. Patricia Highsmith didn’t just write a fucking love story—she carved out a piece of literary real estate where lesbian love could exist without punishment, where two women could find each other and actually keep each other. In a world determined to erase queer joy, she smuggled hope onto bookshelves disguised as pulp fiction.
But let’s not paint Highsmith as some sanitized literary saint. This woman was complicated as hell, brilliant as fuck, and carried enough psychological baggage to sink a goddamn ship. She was an alcoholic, a recluse, and often cruel to the people who loved her. She was also one of the most important queer voices of the 20th century, whether she wanted that label or not. Her story isn’t just about one woman’s struggle with her sexuality—it’s about the price we all pay when society forces us to live fractured lives, and the revolutionary act of refusing to let that fracture define us.
Mary Patricia Plangman was born in Fort Worth, Texas, on January 19, 1921, into a world that would spend the next several decades trying to convince her that everything she was constituted a crime against nature. Her parents, Jay Bernard Plangman and Mary Coates, divorced before she was born, and her mother married Stanley Highsmith when Patricia was three. The family moved to New York, where young Patricia would grow up surrounded by the kind of suffocating heteronormative expectations that could drive anyone to drink—and eventually did.
From childhood, Highsmith knew she was different, and not in the precious, special-snowflake way that adults like to romanticize. She was different in the way that made her feel like she was constantly walking on broken glass, knowing that one wrong step could cut her to pieces. She was attracted to women in an era when that attraction was classified as a mental illness, when “treatments” ranged from electroshock therapy to lobotomies. The psychological pressure of living with this secret would shape not just her personal relationships but every fucking word she ever wrote.
At Barnard College, Highsmith studied English literature and began to understand that stories could be weapons—tools for survival in a hostile world. She was already writing, already crafting the psychological precision that would make her famous. But she was also falling in love with women, conducting relationships in shadows and whispers, learning the exhausting choreography of the closet that would define her entire adult life.
After graduation, she moved to Greenwich Village, ostensibly to pursue her writing career but really to find some semblance of community among other artists and outcasts. The Village in the 1940s was one of the few places in America where queer people could exist with some measure of freedom, though even there, the threat of police raids and social destruction loomed constant. Highsmith found work writing for comic books, including scripts for Captain America and other superheroes—ironic, considering she was creating stories about characters who could live openly as their authentic selves while she remained trapped behind a mask of heterosexual respectability.
In 1951, while working at Bloomingdale’s during the Christmas rush—because even future literary legends had to pay rent—Highsmith had an encounter that would change queer literature forever. She served a beautiful blonde customer buying a doll for her daughter, and something about the interaction sparked what would become “The Price of Salt.” Later, walking through the city, Highsmith felt what she described as a “strange happiness” and knew she had to write this story.
But let’s be clear about what she was attempting: in 1952, lesbian novels ended one of two ways—with the queer character dying or going insane. Those were the only narratives society would tolerate. Happy queers were not allowed to exist in fiction because they weren’t allowed to exist in real life. Publishers, critics, and readers had been thoroughly conditioned to expect punishment for sexual deviance. A lesbian love story with a happy ending wasn’t just revolutionary—it was practically seditious.
Highsmith wrote “The Price of Salt” under the pseudonym Claire Morgan because she knew that attaching her real name to a lesbian novel would be career suicide. Even with the pseudonym, the book was relegated to the pulp fiction ghetto, sold alongside other “deviant” literature in bus stations and drugstores. The literary establishment wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole, and most critics dismissed it as sensational trash designed to titillate straight male readers.
They were wrong, and they were missing the fucking point entirely.
“The Price of Salt” tells the story of Therese Belivet, a young woman working in a department store who becomes infatuated with Carol Aird, an elegant older woman going through a divorce. What follows is a love story that unfolds with the psychological complexity and emotional honesty that would become Highsmith’s trademark. But more importantly, it’s a love story where both women survive, where love is possible, where the ending doesn’t require sacrifice or punishment.
The novel found its audience despite the literary establishment’s best efforts to ignore it. Queer women passed dog-eared copies between friends, smuggled them in suitcases, hid them between mattresses. For the first time, they could read a story where people like them weren’t doomed, where lesbian love wasn’t portrayed as inherently tragic or destructive. The psychological impact was immeasurable—here was proof that queer happiness was possible, that their desires weren’t automatically poisonous.
Understanding Highsmith’s impact on LGBTQIA+ people requires understanding the psychological landscape they were navigating in mid-20th century America. This was an era of institutionalized homophobia so complete and systematic that it’s hard to imagine from our current perspective. Homosexuality was classified as a mental illness. Same-sex relationships were illegal in every state. Queer people were barred from government employment, discharged from the military, subjected to police harassment, and often rejected by their families.
The psychological effects of living under this kind of systematic oppression were devastating. Queer people internalized shame, developed elaborate systems of concealment, and often struggled with depression, anxiety, and suicidal ideation. The absence of positive representation in media and literature reinforced the message that queer love was inherently destructive, that happiness wasn’t possible for people like them.
Into this psychological wasteland, Highsmith dropped a fucking bomb of hope.
“The Price of Salt” didn’t just tell queer women that love was possible—it showed them what that love might look like. Carol and Therese weren’t tragic figures destroyed by their desires; they were complex, flawed, human women who found each other and fought to stay together. The novel’s ending, with Therese choosing Carol over societal expectations, was nothing short of revolutionary.
But Highsmith’s psychological insight went deeper than just providing positive representation. She understood the specific ways that homophobia warped relationships, the paranoia and secrecy that poisoned even the most genuine connections. Carol’s ex-husband uses their daughter as leverage, threatening to take the child away if Carol doesn’t renounce her “perversion.” The constant threat of exposure hangs over every tender moment, every stolen glance, every whispered conversation.
This wasn’t melodrama—this was documentary realism for queer people living in the 1950s. Highsmith captured the specific psychological toll of living in the closet, the way fear could poison love, the exhausting vigilance required to maintain a double life. But she also showed that despite all this, love could survive, relationships could endure, happiness was fucking possible.
The immediate impact of “The Price of Salt” was profound but largely invisible. Queer women didn’t write letters to newspapers praising the book—that would have been social suicide. Instead, they quietly bought copies, passed them along to friends, and felt something shift inside themselves when they read about Carol and Therese’s love story.
Dr. Eli Coleman, a sexologist who has studied the impact of literature on LGBTQIA+ identity formation, argues that positive representation in fiction serves a crucial psychological function for marginalized communities. “When people see themselves reflected positively in stories,” Coleman explains, “it validates their experiences and provides a roadmap for possibility. For queer people in the 1950s, who had almost no positive representation anywhere, a novel like ‘The Price of Salt’ could literally be life-saving.”
The psychological impact extended beyond individual readers to the broader cultural conversation about homosexuality. While the book didn’t immediately change mainstream attitudes—that would take decades—it planted seeds that would eventually bloom into the gay rights movement. Young people who read Highsmith’s novel grew up with the revolutionary idea that queer love didn’t have to end in tragedy, that happiness was possible for people like them.
This shift in narrative possibilities had profound philosophical implications. If queer love could be portrayed as beautiful, complex, and worthy of a happy ending, then the entire moral framework that condemned homosexuality began to crack. Highsmith wasn’t just telling a love story—she was challenging the fundamental assumptions that justified queer oppression.
While Highsmith was creating revolutionary representation for other queer people, her own relationship with her sexuality remained deeply complicated. She never publicly came out, never became an activist, and often seemed uncomfortable with the idea that “The Price of Salt” had become a touchstone for lesbian readers. This wasn’t just garden-variety internalized homophobia—though that was certainly part of it—but a complex psychological response to a lifetime of navigating hostile territory.
Highsmith’s personal relationships were often tumultuous and self-destructive. She drank heavily, maintained emotional distance even from intimate partners, and seemed to prefer the company of her numerous cats to most humans. Friends and lovers described her as brilliant but difficult, generous but cruel, capable of profound empathy and stunning callousness sometimes within the same conversation.
This psychological complexity was both a source of her literary genius and a reflection of the damage caused by a lifetime in the closet. Highsmith had spent so many years concealing her true self that authenticity became nearly impossible. She developed what psychologists call “minority stress”—the chronic psychological tension experienced by stigmatized groups who must constantly monitor and modify their behavior to avoid discrimination.
The effects of minority stress on LGBTQIA+ individuals are well-documented: higher rates of depression and anxiety, difficulty forming intimate relationships, substance abuse, and a persistent sense of alienation from mainstream society. Highsmith exhibited many of these symptoms throughout her life, but she also channeled that psychological complexity into her writing, creating characters whose inner lives were as intricate and contradictory as her own.
Her later novels, including the famous Tom Ripley series, explored themes of identity, deception, and the psychology of outsiders—all subjects she knew intimately from her own experience as a closeted lesbian. While these books weren’t explicitly queer, they were infused with the psychological insights that came from a lifetime of living on society’s margins.
“The Price of Salt” didn’t exist in a vacuum—it was part of a slowly building wave of cultural change that would eventually reshape American attitudes toward sexuality. But Highsmith’s contribution was unique in its subtlety and psychological sophistication. Unlike the explicitly political gay rights literature that would emerge in later decades, her novel worked by stealth, smuggling queer humanity into mainstream consciousness through the back door of popular fiction.
The book’s classification as pulp fiction was actually crucial to its impact. While “serious” literature was consumed primarily by educated elites, pulp novels reached a much broader audience. Working-class people, teenagers, small-town residents—people who might never encounter openly queer individuals in their daily lives—were reading about Carol and Therese’s love story. The seeds of empathy were being planted in unexpected soil.
This demographic reach had significant social implications. When the gay rights movement began to gain momentum in the 1960s and 1970s, it wasn’t starting from scratch. Thanks to novels like “The Price of Salt,” millions of Americans had already been exposed to positive portrayals of queer relationships. The ground had been prepared, even if most people didn’t realize it.
The philosophical implications were equally profound. For centuries, Western society had constructed elaborate theological and pseudo-scientific justifications for condemning homosexuality. These arguments depended on portraying queer love as inherently unnatural, destructive, and incapable of producing genuine happiness. Highsmith’s novel didn’t engage these arguments directly—it simply rendered them irrelevant by showing that none of them were true.
Carol and Therese’s relationship was portrayed as natural, nurturing, and fulfilling. They weren’t predators or victims, sick or sinful—they were simply two women who fell in love. This narrative simplicity was actually a sophisticated philosophical assault on the entire edifice of heteronormative ideology.
When “The Price of Salt” was reissued in 1990 under Highsmith’s real name with the new title “Carol,” it found a new generation of readers who could appreciate its revolutionary impact. The AIDS crisis had decimated the gay male community, and lesbian feminism was providing crucial leadership in the broader LGBTQIA+ rights movement. Highsmith’s novel was rediscovered as a foundational text, a reminder of how far the community had come and how much further it still needed to go.
The 2015 film adaptation, starring Cate Blanchett and Rooney Mara, introduced Highsmith’s story to an even broader audience and sparked new conversations about queer representation in media. The film’s lush cinematography and devastating emotional honesty brought Carol and Therese’s love story to life for a generation raised on increasing LGBTQIA+ visibility but still fighting for full equality.
For contemporary LGBTQIA+ people, particularly young people struggling with their sexual or gender identity, Highsmith’s work continues to provide crucial psychological support. In an era of increasing political backlash against queer rights, when transgender youth face legislative attacks and gay marriage remains under threat, the simple existence of stories like “Carol” serves as a reminder that queer love has always existed, has always been beautiful, and has always been worth fighting for.
The psychological impact is particularly powerful for young people from conservative backgrounds or regions where LGBTQIA+ visibility remains limited. Reading about Carol and Therese’s love story can be the first time these individuals encounter the revolutionary idea that their desires are valid, that happiness is possible, that they aren’t broken or sinful or destined for tragedy.
Highsmith’s greatest achievement wasn’t just creating positive lesbian representation—it was constructing a philosophical framework for queer joy that transcended the specific circumstances of her characters. “The Price of Salt” argues, through narrative rather than polemic, that love itself is the highest human value, that authentic relationships matter more than social approval, and that individuals have the right to pursue happiness even when that pursuit challenges conventional morality.
This philosophical stance was radical in 1952 and remains challenging today. American society continues to struggle with the tension between individual freedom and social conformity, between traditional values and evolving understanding of human sexuality and gender identity. Highsmith’s novel doesn’t resolve these tensions—it simply insists that love transcends them all.
The book’s ending is particularly significant in this regard. Therese’s choice to pursue a relationship with Carol isn’t portrayed as a rejection of society or a declaration of war against heteronormativity. It’s simply a young woman choosing love over fear, authenticity over approval, joy over safety. The philosophical implications are profound: if individuals have the right to pursue happiness, and if love between consenting adults is inherently valuable, then society’s objections become irrelevant.
This isn’t the angry politics of later gay liberation movements—it’s something more subtle and perhaps more subversive. Highsmith wasn’t arguing that society should accept queer people; she was arguing that queer people didn’t need society’s acceptance to live full, meaningful lives. The audacity of that position, especially in 1952, cannot be overstated.
The most important measure of Highsmith’s impact isn’t literary criticism or sales figures—it’s the immeasurable number of LGBTQIA+ lives that have been saved by her willingness to imagine queer happiness. In a community where suicide rates remain tragically high, where young people continue to face rejection and violence for their sexual or gender identity, stories matter in ways that straight, cisgender people often struggle to understand.
Dr. Ryan Watson, who studies the relationship between media representation and LGBTQIA+ mental health, explains: “For young people questioning their sexuality or gender identity, seeing positive representation in media can literally be the difference between life and death. When you’re told by your family, your school, your church, and your government that you’re fundamentally wrong or broken, finding stories where people like you are happy and loved can provide the hope necessary to survive.”
“The Price of Salt” has been providing that hope for over seventy years. It sits on countless bookshelves, gets passed between friends, appears on recommended reading lists, and continues to whisper the same revolutionary message to each new generation of readers: you are not alone, your love is valid, happiness is possible.
The novel’s impact extends beyond individual readers to the broader cultural conversation about LGBTQIA+ rights and representation. Every positive portrayal of queer relationships in contemporary media owes a debt to Highsmith’s pioneering work. Every time a young person sees themselves reflected positively in a book, movie, or television show, they’re benefiting from the foundation she laid in 1952.
As LGBTQIA+ people continue to fight for full equality and acceptance, Highsmith’s work remains remarkably relevant. The psychological insights she provided about the costs of closeting, the importance of authentic relationships, and the possibility of queer joy continue to resonate with contemporary experiences.
Young transgender people facing legislative attacks and social rejection can find solidarity in Therese’s struggle to live authentically despite social pressure. Gay men navigating family rejection might recognize themselves in Carol’s battle to maintain relationships with her loved ones while refusing to deny her true self. Lesbian couples fighting for the right to parent can draw strength from Carol and Therese’s determination to build a life together despite legal and social obstacles.
The philosophical framework Highsmith constructed—that love transcends social convention, that individual happiness matters, that authenticity is worth fighting for—remains a powerful tool for contemporary LGBTQIA+ activism. While the specific battles have evolved, the underlying struggle between individual freedom and social control continues.
Perhaps most importantly, Highsmith’s work reminds us that representation matters, that stories have power, that the simple act of imagining queer happiness can be a revolutionary force. In an era when politicians and pundits continue to debate the “appropriateness” of LGBTQIA+ visibility, her novel stands as proof that queer people have always existed, have always loved, and have always deserved the chance to pursue happiness.
Patricia Highsmith died in 1995, long enough to see some of the changes her work helped create but not long enough to witness marriage equality, widespread LGBTQIA+ representation in media, or the growing acceptance of transgender rights. She remained complicated and contradictory until the end—a brilliant writer who struggled with intimacy, a queer pioneer who never fully embraced that role, a woman who gave hope to millions while often seeming to have little hope for herself.
But her legacy isn’t diminished by her personal struggles—if anything, it’s enhanced by them. Highsmith’s psychological complexity, her understanding of the costs of closeting, her ability to create characters who were both strong and vulnerable, all stemmed from her own experiences navigating a hostile world. She transformed her pain into art, her isolation into empathy, her struggle into a story that continues to save lives.
“The Price of Salt” stands as proof that individual acts of courage can have ripple effects that extend far beyond what their creators ever imagine. When Highsmith sat down to write about Carol and Therese’s love story, she probably thought she was just crafting another novel to pay the bills. Instead, she created a piece of revolutionary literature that challenged fundamental assumptions about sexuality, provided hope to countless individuals, and helped lay the groundwork for the LGBTQIA+ rights movement.
In a world that continues to tell queer people that their love is wrong, that their happiness is impossible, that they should be grateful for tolerance rather than demanding full equality, Highsmith’s novel remains a radical document. It insists that queer love is beautiful, that happiness is possible, that authenticity is worth any price society might demand.
That message, delivered with all the psychological sophistication and emotional honesty Highsmith could muster, continues to resonate with each new generation of readers who discover that they are not alone, that their love is valid, and that despite everything society might tell them, happiness is not only possible—it’s their fucking birthright.
The woman who wrote comic book heroes while hiding behind a mask of heterosexual respectability ultimately became a hero herself, not through superhuman powers but through the simple, revolutionary act of telling the truth about love. In doing so, she proved that sometimes the most powerful weapon against oppression isn’t anger or violence—it’s the audacious insistence that joy is possible, that love conquers all the bullshit society tries to pile on top of it, and that everyone deserves the chance to pursue their own beautiful, complicated, fucking magnificent version of happiness.
Colm Tóibín, Alan Hollinghurst, Adam Mars-Jones and more recall the high style and libidinous freedom of a writer who ‘was not a gateway to gay literature but a main destination’
British novelist
Edmund White’s luminous career was in part a matter of often dark history: he lived through it all. He was a gay teenager in an age of repression, self-hatred and anxious longing for a “cure”; he was a young man in the heyday of gay liberation, and the libidinous free-for-all of 1970s New York; he was a witness to the terrifying destruction of the gay world in the Aids epidemic in the 1980s and 90s. All these things he wrote about, in a long-term commitment to autofiction – a narrative adventure he embarked on with no knowledge of where or when the story would end. He is often called a chronicler of these extraordinary epochs, but he was something much more than that, an artist with an utterly distinctive sensibility, humorous, elegant, avidly international. You read him not just for the unsparing account of sexual life but for the thrill of his richly cultured mind and his astonishingly observant eye.
What amazed me about A Boy’s Own Story, when it came out in 1982, was that a stark new candour about sexual experience should be conveyed with such gorgeous luxuriance of style, such richness of metaphor and allusion. This new genre, gay fiction, could also be high art, and almost at once a worldwide bestseller! It was an amazing moment, which would be liberating for generations of queer writers who followed. These younger writers Edmund himself followed and fostered with unusual generosity – I feel my whole career as a novelist has been sustained by his example and encouragement. In novels and peerless memoirs right up to the last year of his life he kept telling the truth about what he had done and thought and felt – he was a matchless explorer of the painful comedy of ageing and failing physically while the libido stayed insatiably strong. It’s hard to take in that this magnificent experiment has now come to a close. (snip-MORE)
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Ian Casey BBC News
US actor Jonathan Joss, known for his roles in King of the Hill and Parks and Recreation, has died aged 59.
Joss was shot dead, in what his husband called a homophobic hate crime, although police in Texas say there is no evidence of this.
Joss’s broad career spanned different genres and platforms, appearing in films, sitcoms, animations, stage productions and more.
He has been credited with increasing representation of Native Americans on screen. Here are three of the notable performances he will be remembered for.
In the animated sitcom King of the Hill, Joss voiced the character of John Redcorn, a Native American “licensed New Age healer” from season two onwards.
The sitcom centres around the Hill family and is set in the fictional town of Arlen, in suburban Texas.
For the first four seasons, Redcorn is having an affair with Hank Hill’s neighbour, Nancy Gribble. Nancy’s husband Dale is oblivious.
While a flawed character, Redcorn is known for his kindness and calm persona, and for championing his Native American heritage.
In season four, during perhaps his most notable storyline, Redcorn reveals an ongoing battle between his tribe and the Bureau of Indian Affairs, saying he hoped to regain Native American land from the government.
Considering Redcorn a “true friend”, Dale decides to help him with the lawsuit filed against the government, by introducing him to the Freedom of Information Act.
Redcorn then permanently ends his14-year affair with Nancy, out of respect for Dale. The affair is not revealed to Dale and he happily heads home with Nancy.
Author Dustin Tahmahkera once described Redcorn as “arguably the most developed and complex indigenous character in US sitcom history, thanks in critical part… to the on-and-offscreen work of Joss”. (snip-MORE)
Found it on SBTB; I get emails from BookRiot, but didn’t receive this one as of Thursday night.
The third annual Trans Rights Readathon starts March 21st and ends on March 31st, Trans Day of Visibility. Here’s how to participate!
Danika Ellis Mar 18, 2025
We’re approaching the third Trans Rights Readathon! It’s an annual call to action that coincides with Trans Day of Visibility on March 31st, and it aims to uplift, amplify, and support trans, nonbinary, gender-nonconforming, and Two-Spirit authors. It takes place from March 21st through the 31st, and this year, there are five core prompts to complete, as well as a list of bonus prompts.
The five core prompts for the 2025 Trans Rights Readathon are Transmasc and Trans Man Rep; Transfemme and Trans Woman Rep; Nonbinary, Agender, Genderqueer, and Other Gender Expansive Rep; Intersectional Trans+ Rep Outside Your Own Experience; and 2Spirit, Indigiqueer and Indigenous Gender Expansive Rep.
If you’d like some recommendations for these prompts, as well as the many bonus prompts, you can find the reading challenge on Storygraph, where users have added suggestions for each. Just be sure to vet these, since anyone can add a title.
The Storygraph description also adds more context to the reading challenge, including making sure not to out authors or interrogate authors about their gender identity: “If information isn’t available in an author’s bio, social media, or on their website, they don’t owe it to you. In an era when people’s identities are being used to target them, please be mindful that we want to CELEBRATE these stories and support authors while keeping each other safe.”
Each prompt also has more information, including that books in the 2Spirit, Indigiqueer, and Indigenous Gender Expansive Rep category may not be trans, so to be mindful about language when discussing these books: “2Spirit, Indigiqueer, and other non-Western Third Genders exist outside of Western concepts of gender and sexuality, and an author who identifies as 2S may not identify as trans.”
Another great resource for the challenge is the Trans Rights Readathon Instagram. They have posts about the readathon itself, including how to participate: by reading trans books, reviewing and discussing them online (using the tags TransRightsReadathon and #TRR2025), and monetarily supporting the trans community (including donating to mutual aid funds).
They also have posts recommending books for each of the prompts. These are vetted by the organizers, so they’re more reliable than the Storygraph suggestions.
Leading up to and during the readathon, I’ll be sharing trans book recommendations. Let me know in the comments if there’s anything in particular you’d like suggestions for!
As a bonus for All Access members, below is a list of 27 new LGBTQ books out this week.
Here are 27 of the most exciting new LGBTQ books out this week, including Passing Through a Prairie Country by Dennis E. Staples and Beyond Personhood: An Essay in Trans Philosophy by Talia Mae Bettcher.
Exclusive content for All Access members continues below. Become a member for $6 a month or $60 a year to get community features and access to exclusive content across all 20+ Book Riot newsletters.
I love reading. Life’s decent, too. 😉
Here, it’s gotten windy, and the wind was chilly, now cold. Enjoy some giggles and maybe eye candy, and have a nice evening!
because it’s good for us!
Randy sent me this. This is what I have been talking about. I hope you will take the time to watch the short one and the 3:31 minute video. Not the most riveting I admit. But it is designed for little kids. Did you spot any mention of the sex of the penguins? In all the book there is only one small hint and little kids won’t notice it. I went looking for it because I wanted to know how so many people were sure the penguins were a same sex couple. One word, one made up word not even in the writings or spoken in the video. Hint it is on the cover of the book. The name of their home and where they baked the cakes. Pengrooms. One other clue is the rainbow colored boards on the tree. Yup for that the book must never be seen or read ever. It is a sin, a horror for kids to see or hear. It is a cute little kids book. Randy informed me that enough people contacted Amazon about the fake negative comments that they were removed.
See it is not about protecting kids, it is not about sexualizing kids, it is not about confusing kids that these people fear and hate. It is about acceptance and tolerance of something different from them that they don’t agree with. To them there is no live and let live. There is no you do your thing and I will do me. To them the world and all in it must be just as they are, do as they do, believe as they believe. And most important worship who they worship. They demand a bland world where only the things they celebrate are seen and heard, where their way is superior to all others.
It is about removing all mention of LGBTQ+ from society. It is about removing everything not straight cis from media of any type. The misnamed one million moms who is one lady with a computer and a printer along with a few thousand followers on social media complains bitterly about any commercial that has even the hint of a same sex couple in it, even a hint. It is hurting the children see. The goal is making sure LGBTQ+ kids, and yes there are LGBTQ+ kids, don’t see or know anyone like themselves anywhere. It is so they don’t feel accepted. They feel they must hide who they are and tell no one. They want those kids who are born different and feel that difference to be deep in the closet and stay there, never to come out and be happy as their true selves. These groups pushing this hate want no anti-bullying programs as they want kids who are different to be picked on, harassed, and beat up. They do not want them accepted by their peers, teachers and fellow students. No they want them beaten up. I know this because one of the co-authors of the Florida don’t say gay bill said it was why he helped write the bill. That gay kids, that trans kids could be accepted by classmates and treated fairly drove him to tears. Yes tears. I saw him weep as he spoke of those kinds of kids finding acceptance in the classroom.
One guy using social media has already gotten a dozen big name companies to roll back and remove their DEI programs and support for the LGBTQ+ including pride merchandise and parades. Because he and the others like him threaten these companies with the threat of accusing them of harming kids and trying to hurt their businesses they give in. One guy is spearheading this but there are others. They are driven to remove us from society, in this guy’s case so his god will love him and give him an afterlife. We need to stand up against this guy and these haters. We have to do that. We must not let them drive the country back to 1950 not even to 1980. We must remain visible and fight for the rights of all of us. We don’t drop a letter here or there from our community to please the haters. We have seen in history they never stop with just the one group, they work to get rid of them all. We must get vocal, we must fight back. Hugs
by Dahlia Adler · Oct 5, 2024 at 4:00 am
October’s a big month for seasonal/vibe readers, because if there are three things you can count on filling shelves, it’s spooky season reads, Hallmark vibes, and, despite Christmas and Hanukkah being months away, winter holiday romances. This month’s roundup’s got all three, and they are a delight.
Scottie's Playtime 