Deconstructing the LGBTQ+ Backlash

Conflating identity groups based on a shared sense of victimization doesn't promote tolerance or understanding

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I’ll never forget the first Pride parade I attended in West Hollywood 24 years ago. I was overwhelmed with excitement and a profound sense of relief, as if I’d spent my young life wandering in a wasteland and had finally stumbled upon my tribe. I was stoked to be part of a community that was unapologetically and authentically diverse — white, black, and every color in between; young, old, and middle-aged; “bears,” queens, lipstick lesbians, and baby dykes; teachers and lawyers; firefighters and Marines; hairdressers and masseuses.

More than anything else, I remember feeling giddy with joy. Almost euphoric.

It’s easy to forget that there was a time when being “gay” not only described sexual orientation, but also reflected how an entire community moved through the world. We weren’t angry or resentful; we were fun-loving and proud of what we had accomplished. We were thrilled to express ourselves and the way we chose to live our lives.

Once upon a time, those were the feelings that Pride evoked in me. But now June brings a sense of unease.

This isn’t a confession I make lightly because it feels almost blasphemous. What self-respecting gay person will admit that Pride Month now feels like the mildly nauseating, holiday-drenched stretch between Thanksgiving and Christmas? But there’s also the nagging sense that much of the celebration has started to feel gratuitous, even performative. Having my sexual orientation “celebrated” when I check my account balance or settle in for a flight isn’t empowering or affirming; it actually feels awkward and weirdly inappropriate.

As awkward and inappropriate as Pride-mania often feels to me, I can’t help but wonder what goes through the minds of hundreds of millions of people who aren’t sex or gender “diverse.” Do they question why veterans, mothers, and fathers (whose impact and contributions to society are far-reaching and selfless) warrant only a day of celebration, while those who publicly affirm their sexual orientation or gender identity are gifted with an entire month?

I suspect most Americans set these concerns and questions aside because they accept that living in a free society carries the risk that some freedoms might make us uncomfortable. They’ve learned to tolerate a certain degree of unease. But as Pride-mania has ramped up in tandem with the social justice movement, I sense their unease mounting.

Last year, Pride was marked by “unprecedented backlash.” If recent events are any indication, the backlash is intensifying. Colorado’s GOP has called for Pride flags to be burned. In Carlisle, Massachusetts, 200 Pride flags were stolen from the town center. In Missoula, Montana, vandals destroyed Pride flags at a business that has supported Pride Month for years and never had “an incident like this” happen before.

For the first time in a decade, non-LGBT Americans told pollsters that they’re “less comfortable with their LGBT neighbors.” While many are shocked by these developments, I’m part of a minority who have feared and expected what we’re seeing now.

The LGBT community has always had vocal detractors, mostly political conservatives and those with firmly-held religious beliefs. But over the past twenty years they’ve been pushed to the fringes. As more people have “come out” of the closet, marched in Pride parades, and celebrated their unions, our community has become more visible. By 2016, 87% of U.S. adults knew someone who was gay, lesbian, or bisexual. This exposure had an incredible impact. In 1996, 68% of Americans opposed gay marriage; by 2023 the number had dropped to 28%.

Martin Luther King Jr. taught us that the key to overcoming hatred is human connection. When people are exposed to others of different races, cultures, or lifestyles, they’re more likely to become tolerant of their differences. They realize that human beings are defined not by labels and singular characteristics, but rather the bundle of other traits that make us textured and unique. The last twenty years have proven the vast majority of Americans are tolerant and sensible people. But even sensible people have their limits.

The question is, are these limits being tested? And if so, why is it happening now?

During Pride Month last year, podcaster Joe Rogan summed up the collective frustration outside the LGBTQ+ community: “People are going, ‘Enough, enough.’ Stop shoving this down everybody’s throat.” I don’t want to give too much credit to Rogan’s armchair psychology, but he might be onto something. While most people are comfortable being exposed to ideas or lifestyles they may not support or condone, they tend to resist what they feel is being forced upon them. Admittedly, it’s a fine line, but it’s one the LGTBQ+ community may have tripped over in its aggressive efforts to promote visibility. Even the most tolerant heterosexual may question why they’re seeing Pride flags at their local hardware store or plastered on a bag of Doritos.

Last week, one of my “straight” friends (and a long-time LGBTQ+ supporter) was greeted with a panoply of Pride swag when she visited her 92-year old mother in a nursing home: banners in the atrium, flags at dinner tables, and an “entertaining” afternoon of “Drag Bingo.” It left her feeling perplexed and uncomfortable.

“I totally get the need to acknowledge Pride,” she said. “But is this something that really resonates with people facing end-of-life challenges?”

Throat-shoving has its limits.

There may be something else at play, too. What’s rarely discussed is that the growing unease with Pride might not be directed against the entire LGBTQ+ community, but rather a subset of it—specifically, the caravan of letters that follow “LGB.”

The gay and lesbian movement was spawned in the wake of the 1969 Stonewall riots that galvanized the community to establish venues to openly express sexual orientation without fear of reprisals. Initially, bisexuals (“part-time gays”) were added to the mix. And while the community has always been sympathetic to and supportive of the rights of transsexuals and transvestites, it wasn’t until the late 90s that transgender, nonbinary, and other groups—classifications based on gender identity, not sexual orientation—fused with the LGB movement. Since then, the movement has morphed into an unwieldy behemoth.

To be clear, the only thing these recent additions have in common with the LGB community is that they, too, have been historically underrepresented and marginalized. Yet from a contemporary social justice perspective, the common bond of victimization is apparently sufficient to justify “force-teaming” these groups. This reductive mindset pressures victims to slavishly support one another, even if their interests are not closely aligned.

According to gay rights advocate John Aravosis, “the trans revolution was imposed on the gay community from outside, or at least above.” Many gay Americans “who weren’t running national organizations, weren’t activists, or weren’t living in liberal gay enclaves… accepted de facto that transgendered people were members of the gay, lesbian and bisexual community, but only because our leaders kept telling us it was so.”

It doesn’t take someone with a PhD in sociology to realize that tossing disparate groups into the same victim basket ignores critical differences and diminishes their individual needs and interests. Would it be appropriate to add “Hispanic and Asian Lives” to the Black Lives Matter and rebrand the movement as BHALM? Of course not. Just as a Black person cannot relate to the “lived experience” of a Hispanic or Asian person, a gay person who identifies with their natal sex cannot relate to the challenges and needs of a person who questions their gender. As transgender writer Katie Glover observed nearly a decade ago: “The simple point that everyone seems to be missing here is that being transgender and being gay are two entirely different things and they should never be confused.”

Not surprisingly, fractures have emerged within a LGBTQ+ alliance that’s been “force-teamed.” And herein lies the core of the problem with conflating victim groups: it risks misrepresenting their individual values and perspectives, which can have devastating effects within—and outside—the community.

The LGB Alliance, which has been especially vocal in asserting the rights of lesbians, bisexuals and gay men, claims that lesbians face “extinction” because of LGBT’s “‘disproportionate’ focus on transgender identities.” On X, #LGBdroptheT captures lesbian, gay, and bisexual users who want to distance themselves from transgender activists who have “crossed a line”:

“Not wanting men in our spaces or to have sex with certain genitalia does NOT make us transphobes,” one user wrote.

“You took advantage of our good will. It’s gone too far,” tweeted another user.

This disconnect played out publicly in 2022 when Fred Sargeant, a veteran gay activist who participated in the Stonewall riots, was assaulted at a Pride parade for carrying a sign critical of gender ideology.

It’s not even the case that all transgender people support gay rights. When Caitlyn Jenner transitioned to female nearly a decade ago, she expressed ambivalent support for gay marriage because she believed that marriage is between “a man and a woman.” It turns out gay rights aren’t necessarily a trans person’s turf; it’s estimated that the number of trans people who identify as gay is roughly the same as in the wider population.

This misalignment of values and interests sowed the seeds of discontent that has been simmering quietly and is now spilling over into broader society.

LGBTQ+ advocates attribute the recent spike in hostility to the community’s increased visibility. According to one activist, “[T]he louder and prouder the LGBTQ community gets, the angrier people get.” Yet LGBTQ+ activists conveniently forget that gays, lesbians, and bisexuals have been “loud and proud” for at least the past two decades, and during that time our heterosexual counterparts have grown to accept us. Notably, while 80% of Americans approve of gays and lesbians living as they wish, only 67% feel this way about transgender and nonbinary people. 

LGBTQ+ activists also fail to recognize that the cavalcade of gender identities has brought an aspect to advocacy efforts not previously part of the LGB movement: an emphasis on educating children about sexual orientation and gender.

As the LGBTQ+ movement has become louder, a dramatic shift has occurred in schools. Students are encouraged to express their preferred pronouns in an effort to embrace transgender and nonbinary identities. Several states now require schools to teach LGBT history. Drag queens have become the focus of “kid-oriented pride events,” and local libraries offer drag queen story hour for children.

In response, states have introduced a record number of anti-LGBTQ legislation targeting gender affirming care for minors and public school curricula. Florida’s now infamous “Don’t Say Gay” law came under fire for prohibiting teachers from “intentionally” instructing students on sexual orientation or gender identity. Montana became the first state to ban drag queens from reading books to children in public schools and libraries.

While LGBTQ+ activists see these developments as signs of right-wing intolerance and hate, they ignore the fact that these concerns are not confined to conservatives or heterosexuals.

Increasingly, gay activists fret that the LGBTQ+ movement is drawing many young gay people “into social and medical transition.” Gays Against Groomers, a “coalition of gays, lesbians and others” with more than 400,000 followers on X, advocates against the sexualization, indoctrination and medicalization of children under the guise of LGBTQIA+.” Detransitioner Oli London expressed alarm that gender ideology is being pushed on “children and vulnerable teenagers,” citing thousands who have fallen “victim to a social contagion” and placed on “irreversible puberty blockers and hormones.” London also lamented that Pride events have become “sexualized fetish parades” with men “showing off their genitalia, sometimes even in front of children.”

More broadly, polls show that most Americans feel the same way. Although a majority support teaching classroom instruction on sexual orientation and gender to high school students, 70% oppose introducing these concepts to elementary and middle school children. Similarly, two-thirds of Americans favored laws to protect the ability of transgender or nonbinary adults to receive gender-affirming care, but the number fell to 50% when asked about care for transgender or nonbinary children.

Put it all together, and a picture emerges that transcends sexual orientation and politics: most people aren’t comfortable accepting ideologies that deviate from their understanding of scientific reality, and they’re even less comfortable exposing young minds to such ideologies or any discussion of sex. As the LGBTQ+ community struggles to find its footing amidst growing resentment, it should be mindful that the freedom to express sexual orientation or gender identity does not guarantee the right to expose children to these nuanced topics.

The reckless conflation of LGB interests and values with those of TQ+s not only threatens to undermine the valuable progress made by the gays, lesbians, and bisexuals; it also unnecessarily alienates heterosexuals and others who embrace the binary nature of sex and feel compelled to protect children from subject matter they lack the developmental grounding and maturity to digest. Unless and until LGBTQ+ advocates adopt a more measured approach that respects moral sensitivities and common sense social boundaries, the backlash we are seeing will continue—and intensify.

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