Amid an unmistakable nationwide spike in anti-LGBTQ extremism and violence, survivors of the worst of that hate testified Wednesday before Congress, where they urged lawmakers to confront their own roles in the literal bloodshed.
Witnesses included Michael Anderson, James Slaugh and Matthew Haynes, three survivors of last month’s shooting at Club Q in Colorado Springs, and Brandon Wolf, who survived the 2016 shooting at Pulse Nightclub in Orlando.
“Every American, especially those elected to positions of power, has a responsibility and a choice to use their words consciously. Hate starts with speech,” Slaugh told legislators.
“The hateful rhetoric we’ve heard from elected leaders is the direct cause of the horrific shooting at Club Q.”
Five people were killed in the shooting, and more than 20 others were injured.
Republican lawmakers in conservative states introduced more than 200 anti-LGBTQ bills this year, attacking the rights of queer Americans in a failed bid to grow GOP turnout in the midterm elections.
Among them is Florida Gov. Ron Desantis (R), who championed legislation known as the “Don’t Say Gay” bill, which prohibits teachers from acknowledging or teaching elementary school students about sexual orientation and gender identity.
Wolf, whose two best friends were among the 49 killed in the mass shooting at Pulse, was particularly pointed in comments he directed at the governor ― and the current right-wing political environment that effectively rewards domestic terrorism.
“For years, cynical politicians and greedy grifters have joined forces with right-wing extremists to pour gasoline on anti-LGBTQ hysteria and terrorize our community,” he told the representatives, while accusing DeSantis of “trafficking in that bigotry.”
“We have been smeared and defamed,” he continued. “Hundreds of bills have been filed in order to erase us. Powerful figures have insisted that the greatest threats this country face are a teacher with they/them pronouns or someone in a wig reading ‘Red Fish, Blue Fish.’”
Data tracked by the Human Rights Campaign shows inflammatory and false anti-LGBTQ “grooming” conspiracies grew more than 400% on social media after the “Don’t Say Gay” bill passed, much of it pushed by a group of just 10 far-right politicians and activists.
Wolf’s powerful opening statement can be watched in the player above, or read in full, below:
Being LGBTQ in America in 2022 means looking over your shoulder before you hold hands with someone you love. It means watching your very humanity be litigated day in and day out on every cable news network and across every social media platform. It means wondering if today is the day that hate comes armed with a clenched fist, or worse, an AR-15. It means wondering if today your little slice of normal — the thing you told yourself you didn’t deserve — comes to an end.
My day came on June 12 of 2016. Pulse Nightclub was one of the first places I ever went that I didn’t look over my shoulder. Where I didn’t stiffen my wrist or deepen my voice to avoid detection. And that night, everything about Pulse Nightclub was normal. I went to the same bartender I always went to. Ordered the same drinks I always ordered, and as the night wound to a close, I stepped into the same bathroom I’d been in hundreds of times before. There was a poster on the wall with the painted faces of drag queens I knew well. There was a half empty cup teetering on the edge of the sink like it might fall off. The water from the faucet was ice cold that night.
There were gunshots. Endless gunshots. The hair standing up on the back of my neck. The stench of blood and smoke burning the inside of my nose. The nervous huddle against a wall. A girl trying, desperately, so hard not to scream, and I could feel her trembling on the tiles underneath us.
There was a sprint for the exit. All atop this BANG BANG BANG BANG from an assault weapon. A man filled with hate and armed with a Sig Sauer MCX charged into Pulse in my city of Orlando, an LGBTQ safe space, and murdered 49 of those we loved.
My best friends Drew and Juan took 19 of the over 110 rounds that man pumped into the club. I’ll never forget the thousands of desperate calls I placed to Drew. Or his family’s heartbroken screams when I had to tell them that their child would not be coming home. And I can never unseen both of their lifeless bodies in cold, hard caskets.
For years, cynical politicians and greedy grifters have joined forces with right-wing extremists to pour gasoline on anti-LGBTQ hysteria and terrorize our community. My own governor, Ron DeSantis, has trafficked in that bigotry to feed his insatiable political ambition and propel himself toward the White House. We have been smeared and defamed. Hundreds of bills have been filed in order to erase us. Powerful figures have insisted that the greatest threats this country face are a teacher with they/them pronouns or someone in a wig reading “Red Fish, Blue Fish.”
And all along, we warned that these short-sighted political maneuvers would come with a human cost, but they’ve continued anyway.
Even as queer kids told us that they were scared, that life was getting less safe for them. Even as hate violence has escalated, as children’s hospitals have faced mounting bomb threats, as armed protesters started showing up at pride festivals and brunches.
Even as a donut shop in Oklahoma was fire bombed for daring to host a drag show. Even as five innocent people in Colorado Springs went into a space that was supposed to be safe for them and came out in body bags, the attacks have continued.
We can be better than that. We have to be better than that. Right-wing extremism relies on this manufactured belief that its poison is inevitable, that resistance is hopeless. But I contend that taking a stand is necessary. That it is our duty.
We need to say without apology that people who endanger entire marginalized communities for social media content and fundraising fodder have no place in our politics. We need to hold accountable those who traffic in venomous bigotry to score cheap political points. We need to address how our obsession with cheap, easy access to guns takes dangerous hatred — and makes it fatal.
And we need to say unequivocally, right here, right now, that LGBTQ lives matter. That trans lives matter. And that in this country that is not up for debate.
Words have consequences. Unbridled hate comes at a cost. Our stolen loved ones are not a talking point. They’re missing faces at birthday parties, empty seats at dinner tables. They paid the price for militarized hate in this country.
It is high time that Congress gets serious about the cost of anti-LGBTQ hatred, and commit to honoring those in its crosshairs with real action.
The simple truth is this: We just want to live. Is that so much to ask?