Yet, visibility has not equalized safety. According to the Human Rights Campaign, 2023 was the deadliest year on record for transgender and gender-nonconforming people in the United States, with the vast majority of victims being Black and Latina trans women. Simultaneously, over 500 anti-LGBTQ bills were introduced in state legislatures, the majority targeting trans youth—banning them from school sports, healthcare, and even library books.
This line of thinking, often labeled "LGB Drop the T" or more pejoratively "trans-exclusionary radical feminism" (TERFism), argues that trans rights are distinct from—and sometimes in conflict with—the rights of same-sex attracted people. The friction points are familiar: debates over bathroom access, sports participation, and the concept of gender identity versus biological sex.
Johnson, a Black trans woman and self-identified drag queen, and Rivera, a Latina trans woman and activist, didn't just throw bricks; they built shelters. In the years following Stonewall, they founded STAR (Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries), a radical collective that housed homeless LGBTQ youth in New York City. Their activism was intersectional before the word existed. They understood that you couldn't fight for gay rights without fighting for housing rights, racial justice, and the specific safety of those who didn't pass society’s gender test.
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But to see this as a simple schism is to misunderstand queer history. "The moment you try to draw a hard line between sexuality and gender, you erase a huge portion of our lived experience," says Kai, a nonbinary community organizer in Chicago. "I know lesbians who transitioned and now call themselves straight men. I know gay men who realized they were trans women and still love women. The idea that these things are separate is a political argument, not a human reality." LGBTQ culture is undergoing a linguistic revolution, and trans people are leading it. Terms like "cisgender" (identifying with the sex assigned at birth), "nonbinary," "genderfluid," and "agender" have moved from academic journals to TikTok bios. Pronouns—he, she, they, ze—are no longer assumed; they are shared.
For decades, the "T" was a steadfast ally in the fight for gay and lesbian rights. Trans people marched in silence at the first gay pride parades, often relegated to the back. They were the sword and shield, even when the larger LGBTQ community was sometimes uncomfortable with the messiness of gender identity. The last decade has seen a cultural and political schism. As same-sex marriage became legal in country after country, some in the LGB (lesbian, gay, bisexual) community began to ask a dangerous question: We got ours. Why do we still need the "T"?
This shift has created a new cultural ritual: the pronoun circle. At universities, workplaces, and community events, it is now common to introduce yourself with your pronouns. For a trans person, this small act can be a lifeline. For a cisgender ally, it is a practice in humility.
