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“Taylor” loves playing baseball on boys’ teams with his friends, and his parents worry what anti-trans legislation, including a bill directed at student athletes, would mean. | DANNY WICENTOWSKI
THE BOYS Four young friends, three of them trans, navigate childhood in St. Louis County as Republicans wage war on them and their parents
BY DANNY WICENTOWSKI
On a recent afternoon in June, four boys, none older than ten, tumble out of the front door of a home in west St. Louis County, their playgroup already in motion.
Three of the boys are trans. All four are friends, bonds they’ve maintained during the past year of pandemic oom calls after first meeting as classmates and teammates in St. Louis-area youth leagues.
Equipped with pogo sticks and basketballs, the boys run toward the backyard, passing through a group of adults sitting beneath the shade of a patio. ne boy is brie y detained when his father notices, and objects, to his son’s lack of shoes.
“He’s never felt anything but pride in being trans,” the father says moments later, watching his son dash around the corner to rejoin his friends. “The school threw a party in his classroom on the year anniversary of him transitioning. The first graders in his class who knew him by a different name — it was nothing to them. It was drama free.”
“I really mean it,” he adds. “The only bullies in our kid’s life are in the state legislature.”
Not every trans kid is raised in such a family, surrounded by supportive friends, relatives and teachers. But for Missouri parents of trans kids, con ict with the legislature is part of the package: For years, conservative lawmakers have repeatedly advanced antitrans proposals that target trans children directly: In 2021, they included an attempt that would restrict trans student athletes to playing on teams that matched the gender assigned at birth. Another bill, even more far-reaching, sought to expose parents to criminal charges of child abuse if they gave their trans kids doctorprescribed hormones and puberty-delaying treatments.
Those bills failed to become laws in 2021, but that may only buy families of trans children more time. On this day, while the kids play in the backyard, their parents are already worrying about next year’s legislative session.
“It’s this idea that my kid doesn’t know who he is, or what he feels,” says the mother of one of the trans boys. “They’re basically telling me that my kid is not human.”
It’s more than an idea. For some trans families, fighting the issouri legislature has become a regular part of their lives. Three of those families opened up to the Riverfront Times for this story, describing both their pride in watching their children ourish — and a duty to defend them in hostile territory.
On March 10, Daniel Bogard, a rabbi in St. Louis’ Central Reform Synagogue, arrived in the state capitol, one of more than a dozen speakers registered to speak in opposition to House Bill 33. The bill moved to ban doctors from administering “any medical or surgical treatment for the purpose of gender reassignment” before the age of eighteen.
This was a near repeat of 2020,
Farheen Ali Khan received a Pay It Forward Award. | PROVIDED
Missouri Courage Scholarships Support a New Generation
Written by MELISSA MEINZER
Shortly after 2015’s landmark Supreme Court decision Obergefell v. Hodges legalized same-sex marriage in the United States, rural Dent County in Missouri made unfortunate national headlines. While it didn’t last long under massive public pressure, the county had decided the ruling was “an abomination” and voted to lower the flags at government buildings once a month for the next year.
This stuck in Dent County native Jacob Wilson’s craw in a pretty major way, so he decided to start a scholarship fund for the queer kids trying to thrive against such hatred. Days into his quest, Geneviève Steidtmann joined his efforts. Their plan was to raise $12,000 — $1,000 for each month the flag would be lowered. Donations poured in from around the globe and quickly surpassed that goal.
“Suddenly we were like, ‘Maybe we have a bigger responsibility here — what if we opened this to all of Missouri?’” says Steidtmann, now president of the executive board for the Missouri Courage Scholarship. Wilson and Tori Gale serve as vice presidents.
Support for the fund continued to pour in, and the nonprofit has been growing ever since. It partners with LGBTQIA and Pride organizations as well as high school counselors across the state, and they work with zero administrative overhead.
“This is our sixth year; we’ve now given out more than $130,000,” Steidtmann says. “We’re giving scholarships to trans kids who live in these tiny towns of 300 people. I don’t know how they get through the day!”
This year, the review committee considered anonymous applications, including grades and essays, from 263 students. Scholarships went to 24 kids from across the state — including a few St. Louisans.
Parkway Central High School graduate Farheen Ali Khan, eighteen, received a Pay It Forward Award. That particular scholarship highlights students with aspirations toward political science or journalism, and Khan has amassed an impressive resume of public service already.
“I founded and ran an organization in my school district called Students for Progressive Change,” says the Mizzou-bound Khan. “One of the things we wanted to change was our discrimination policy — it was really vague, not protecting anyone. We wrote our own policy and worked with the administration and the school board to be inclusive of gender identity and sexuality.”
She was also recognized with The Princeton Prize in Race Relations in 2020. Khan works with a variety of local organizations including St. Louis Pro-Choice Student Activists and Planned Parenthood.
“Being born and raised in Mis-
Continued on pg 19 “Aiden” wrote out notes for his testimony against anti-trans bills. | DANNY WICENTOWSKI
THE BOYS
Continued from pg 15
when similar bills drew doctors and advocates from across the state to oppose them at committee hearings. Also in opposition were multiple families of trans children and teens who were themselves undergoing, and benefiting from, the hormone treatments lawmakers wanted to ban.
Bogard had been among those families. This year, the rabbi woke before sunrise and, leaving his young trans child at home with his wife, made the two-hour drive to Jefferson City to face the House Committee on Children and Families.
Bogard had arrived early for the 8 a.m. hearing, but there were so many speakers he was pushed to an afternoon over ow session. hen he finally rose to address the committee, the rabbi described what it was like to lie awake at night thinking of suicide rates and how puberty would force his child “to feel every day like your body is betraying you.”
It wasn’t the first time ogard had driven to the state capitol to testify against legislation. He had watched as multiple young trans people struggled through tears during their testimonies, breaking down in sobs under questioning from lawmakers.
Bogard also wasn’t the only father to bare his feelings for legislative committees in March. Days earlier, during a hearing on a bill seeking to restrict trans athletes, Brandon Boulware, a Kansas Cityarea attorney, told lawmakers how he had had first rejected his daughter’s transition and forced her to wear boy’s clothes and play on a boys sports team — until the moment he realized that his child was miserable and deteriorating before his eyes, and that his attempt to correct her life “was teaching her to deny who she is.”
A clip of Boulware’s testimony was shared by the American Civil Liberties Union and soon went viral, racking up millions of views and drawing coverage in national outlets.
The video was inspiring; Bogard doesn’t dispute that. But he points out that, for trans families, these moments come at the cost of unveiling yourself, and your deepest hurts, before a committee of
strangers — including lawmakers who view you as a child abuser.
“These stories of my child’s journey through gender — these are personal, private, intimate, vulnerable things that we’re being forced to share,” Bogard tells the RFT in a recent interview. He notes that when he first testified against an anti-trans bill in 2020, his child had just come out.
“The very first people we told, literally the very first outside of family, were the people in that hearing room in Jefferson City.”
One year later, Bogard concluded his March 10 testimony begging the committee members to vote against the bill banning trans medical care. Citing the high suicide rates of trans teens, he explained that puberty blockers are “life-preserving.”
“Let these kids put off these hard, life-altering decisions until they are older, so I beg you,” he continued. “I don’t know how else to say it, I beg you — please don’t make my child and their health care a topic for debate in the state.”
But there is no debate — at least, there shouldn’t be. Among those testifying against the bill were two doctors from St. Louis Children’s Hospital. They pointed out that hormone treatments for trans children are carefully conducted over a span of years and, importantly, that puberty blockers are reversible. That was in contrast to claims by the bill’s sponsor, Republican Representative Suzie Pollock, that hormone treatments “permanently and prematurely medicalizes children for a condition that overwhelmingly resolves or desists by adulthood.”
Pollock had appeared in the hearing only brie y, at the beginning of the 8 a.m. session, just long enough to deliver a twentyminute presentation before leaving for other appointments, never to return.
Before her exit, she had defended her bill by claiming, without evidence, that the parents of trans children seeking hormone treatments are being “threatened,” as the kids are “being told that if this is what they want, they need to tell [their parents] they’re going to commit suicide.”
At another point in her presentation, Pollock argued that “children have developing brains” and “don’t grasp long-term consequences.” Under questioning by committee members, she insisted that she had filed the bill not out of an intent to discriminate, but “out of love.”
“I guarantee you,” she said, “if this bill passes there will be children who will become adults and will thank me.”
The bill didn’t pass.
After an hour of playtime in the yard, the boys are called back to their parents. “Conor,” who is ten, had traveled with his mother in 2020 to testify against that year’s antitrans bills. His best friend, “Aiden,” who is not trans, had been invited to come along. (At the request of the parents, all names of children have been changed for this story.)
Before the trip to Jefferson City, Aiden and Conor had been friends for several years. They had already been teammates on a coed sports team in a private league. Aiden says he remembers worrying that the law would separate them in the future.
“I did not want him to be on the girl’s baseball team,” he explains now. “I wanted him to be on my baseball team. I wanted to be with my friend.”
Aiden says he wants to show me something, and disappears inside the house. When he returns, he’s carrying a framed sheet of paper containing the handwritten notes for his testimony against the antitrans-athlete bills in 2020: He had covered the page’s borders with wiry illustrations of basketballs and footballs. In a child’s block letters, he had written that the bills were “NON FAIR” and that “a team means working together with everyone on the team.”
From another chair, “Chase,” who is eight, interjects to mention that his classmates often debate whether boys are stronger than girls. This sparks an immediate group discussion between the four friends.
“It’s not true,” Chase explains confidently. “Some people think boys are stronger than girls, but sometimes actually the girl is stronger than the boy. But girls are not stronger than boys. Strongness isn’t with gender — just because boys are built different than girls, that doesn’t affect the strongness.”
Conor, the oldest of the group, has been playing with a Rubik’s Cube throughout most of the group interview. He perks up.
“Even if it was true that boys are stronger than girls,” he offers, “if you wanted to be on a sports team, you’re going to practice anyway. If you’re practicing hard enough, you can be stronger than them.”
Chase agrees. “I’m one of the strongest kids in my class, and I was a girl before. So, it doesn’t matter if you were a girl or a boy.”
The boys’ discussion moves to a particular teacher who (according to the grade school rumor mill) had insisted that boys are given harder games and challenges because they are “built tougher” than girls. Conor interjects with a relevant detail: He remembers hearing the same teacher describe how she herself had joined a men’s sports team “because she wanted something harder.”
“I found that cool and amazing,” Conor says. “It was like, yes, this was the boys team and they play rougher because they were built bigger and tougher, but she could still play on the team. If you feel like you’re good enough to play at the next level, you should be able to.”
Over the course of the discussion, the boys aren’t prompted by their parents. Their words are their words. They analyze and re ect on the issues of gender as they know it. When asked about their transitions, the three trans boys chatter back and forth, comparing experiences of choosing their names, telling their parents about “liking boy things” and coming out to their friends. They then spend several more minutes refining all the ways that boys and girls aren’t automatically tougher than each other.
On the other side of the patio, “Taylor,” also eight, explains to his father that the argument was so common amongst his class that it made him want to come out “later” to his parents.
“If I could have earlier, I would,” he says, haltingly at first. “ ut for some reason, some people believe that boys are stronger than girls. I didn’t want them to think I was changing because I wanted to pretend to be stronger. So, I told them
Rep. Suzie Pollock claimed she filed legislation to block medical care for trans kids “out of love.” | SCREENSHOT
Bill Stephens Is Proud to Serve
Written by PATRICK COLLINS
Other than a lone political scientist at Saint Louis University, nobody expected the 12th Ward to elect Bill Stephens to the city’s Board of Aldermen. “As the campaign drew to a close, I knew we’d done a great job,” Stephens says. “I wasn’t planning to lose, but I was certainly aware of the possibility.”
Instead, by fewer than 100 votes, one of St. Louis’ more reliably conservative and Catholic wards elected Stephens, an openly gay atheist whose many passions include studying languages, performing in drag and playing rugby. At 28, he’s the youngest elected (though not appointed) official in the city. Stephens describes the ward he now represents as incredibly diverse, home to police officers, firefighters, immigrant families and what he says is an unusually high number of drag queens.
Like most wards in St. Louis, the borders of the 12th appear to be random, although certainly they are anything but. Starting at the intersection of Hampton and Goethe, a jagged line extends in a generally southeasterly direction to Interstate 55, forming a boundary defined at various points by thoroughfares such as Morgan Ford Road, Holly Hills Boulevard, Loughborough Avenue and South Grand Boulevard. Weber Road, beyond which lies St. Louis County, sets the southwest boundary. The ward includes the Carondelet, Boulevard Heights and Princeton Heights neighborhoods. It also includes Willmore Park, one of the city’s largest, in which Stephens is working on an environmental project that is in its early stages and that he believes will benefit the entire city.
Stephens kicked off his campaign by introducing himself as gay and atheist. Then he got down to the business of winning the election, a process during which his identity wasn’t much of a factor. He believes that an incredibly diverse range of identities accrue to the community when people come out. “That presents the beauty of our diversity, of course,” he says, “but it also presents the friction points. We’re united by our gay identity, but when so many other parts of our identity come into play, sometimes there’s friction.” Pride, he says, can be an occasion to set that friction aside and focus instead on the commonalities.
Has the increase in mainstream acceptance lessened the importance of Pride? “From school to working at the library to public office, at every point the T community was there for me,” he says. “So I think Pride is very important. For me it’s a very intentional reaffirmation.”
Stephens credits the T community with inspiring him to run for office. “That community made me who I am,” he says. But he also credits his tenure at the St. Louis Public Library. As Celeste Covington, Stephens did several drag storytelling events, which led, ultimately, to him being encouraged to apply for a youth services provider position at the library. “I wouldn’t say I even looked that good in drag, but I sure can read a story,” he says.
The public service aspect of working at the library primed him for a run. “Much like the Board of Aldermen, when you’re working at the public library, you never know what’s going to come your way,” he says. “If you’re on the oor and someone asks you a question, you help. You’re not there for the salary, but because you care about the public. Both the library and the board are such fulfilling jobs for a humanist.”
When he’s not at City Hall, Stephens is a hardcore student of languages. At Webster University, he studied French. He’s currently at Saint Louis University, where he’s pursuing a degree in Greek, Latin and French, and he would eventually like to pursue a doctorate in historic linguistics. “I wouldn’t be content with an empty plate,” he says.
Like all skilled politicians, Stephens skirts the issue of what office he might set his sights on next. But with the prospect of the number of wards in St. Louis being reduced from 28 to 14 in the near future, it would be difficult for Stephens to speculate on his future, even if he were inclined to do so, which he’s not. “As an atheist, I believe this is our one shot,” he says. “Let’s leave the world — and the city — a better place than we found it. I want the work I do in the next two years to benefit generations to come.” n
Newly elected St. Louis Alderman Bill Stephens credits the LGBTQ community with inspiring him to run for o ce. | ERIN MCAFEE
SCHOLARSHIPS
Continued from pg 16
souri is a hard thing when you’re LGBTQ,” Khan says. “Being recognized in a scholarship like this, I’m incredibly grateful. It’s OK to be who you are! It’s an amazing thing to show other people what they can do.”
Madison Symone Alexander, eighteen, just graduated from Incarnate Word Academy and received the Tower Grove Pride Award. She’s bound for North Carolina Agricultural and Technical State University.
“Growing up in predominantly white schools and being one of the few, if not the only, Black kids in my class from first grade until my senior year of high school, I experienced more than I would like to say,” says Alexander. “The murders of Michael Brown and George Floyd each time sparked a fire in me to make the difficult decision between courage and complacency.”
As president of the school’s Diversity Club her junior and senior years, Alexander worked hard to improve equity and inclusion at the school, expanding the group’s mission statement. She also created affinity groups within the club, which came with some challenges at the Catholic institution.
“To be plain and simple, winning this scholarship means I am one step closer to my dreams,” she says. “I displayed my passion for making a difference, without the expectation of any gratitude or grand prize.”
Applications for next year’s awards open in December, and you can donate anytime. n
Missouri is a hard thing when you’re LGBTQ.
Continued from pg 17
later.”
Eventually, the boys grow restless and are allowed to return to the backyard to play. Taylor’s father notes that his son often discusses his transition in more specific terms, particularly about growing a beard and body hair. The other parents chime in with similar stories: Chase is asking whether getting married will mean he is a gay trans man. Conor, who is the closest to reaching puberty, “is suddenly very concerned with his breasts, which he calls ‘these things,’” his mother says.
What they don’t talk about, unless prompted by their parents, is the Missouri legislature.
“We have a lot of conversations,” Chase’s father says, turning to the other parents. “It’s the balance we’ve talked about, and I’m sure you all have this, too. How much do we keep him in this welcoming, accepting bubble? How much do we pop that for him, and let him understand what the rest of the world is like?”
Taylor, according to his dad, doesn’t seem old enough yet to imagine what a “medical ban” could mean for him in a few years’ time.
“We’ve told him that if the medical bill passes, we’ll move out of Missouri,” Taylor’s father says. “ e’ll figure it out, and he will never have to go through a unwanted puberty.”
But for now, Taylor is focused on other things. He’s obsessed with the St. Louis Cardinals. The eight-year-old’s “ultimate dream” is to play for a local high school varsity baseball team. In the family’s home days later, Taylor shows off his collection of baseball gear, modeling his batter’s helmet, bat and glove for photos.
As a boy, Taylor has already played in two separate youth sports leagues without issue. Now, his father says his son is starting to ask about attempts to ban trans athletes — and what that would mean for his place on the team.
“He’s not worried about the bills that much,” Taylor’s father says. “I think it’s the idea of not getting to play baseball that for him is really hard.” n
Reckoning With the Legacy of JJ’s Club House on Its Last Night
Written by ELIZABETH VAN WINKLE
On June 2, 2017, I shakily made my way over the rough rock driveway, up the cement stairs into JJ’s Clubhouse (not without being rudely stopped by the doorman so he could search me while letting men pass by effortlessly). This was the first time I would try to go into the leather bar, as I’d heard so many horror stories from queer women about the place over the years. The bar famously refused to let women in the bar at all, even kicking out some men for looking too “feminine.” When they eventually started letting women in, they had to be escorted in by a man and often patrons would block women from using bathrooms so they’d have to leave the bar completely.
On this particular night, I braved potential harassment and humiliation to see Justin Vivian Bond, Nathan Carrera, CHRISTEENE, Maxi Glamour, Cory Sever, and Joss Barton perform. A lineup of people who historically wouldn’t have even been allowed in the bar, now headlining one of the queerest and most interesting shows St Louis had ever seen.
The few men I passed to get to the dance floor were visibly angry at my presence, and I trudged on nervously to the performance space. In one night, these trans people and drag queens made these leather men squirm with poetry, subversive drag, and covers of Nina Simone and Dolly Parton, and it was glorious. At one point, Bond loudly dragged the bar, saying queer spaces with such misogynistic histories should just shut down and make way for new more queer spaces, as we all cheered.
“It sucks to mourn a bar with so many problems, but what choice do I have? There is nowhere else to go,” lamented Jared Rourke once the announcement of the bar’s closure was posted on Facebook and the online tributes started to pour in. It’s true, leather spaces are disappearing almost as fast as lesbian bars. Only 21 lesbian bars are left in the country, and it is unknown how many leather bars, as they often have to remain secretive for their survival.
Many bears, leather daddies and queer men who didn’t (and didn’t want to) fit the more widely accepted and palatable social norms of what it is to be “gay” found acceptance in the body- and sex-positive atmosphere that the only leather bar left in St Louis provided. For these folks, dancing around a St. Andrews cross half-naked or completely clad in leather was a much more enjoyable experience than standing around a bar, staring at TVs, being subjected to Cher’s “Believe” for the millionth time while bachelorette parties filed in to gawk at them.
JJ’s was a haven for men seeking to be submerged in radical queer sexuality and community in the unwelcoming and often dangerous culture of the Bible Belt. It is, however, unfortunate that while unabashedly exploring their sexuality was a radical act, upholding white supremacy and misogyny in their space made them relics of our community as a whole. It was not shocking to many when it was announced a few years ago that the bar was up for sale.
On June 17, JJ’s opened for the last time. For a while, it was a truly wholesome atmosphere. While sadness was present on many of the leather men’s faces, happiness and love spilled from their hearts as they ran into old friends and surveyed the space one final time, trying to make the moment last as long as possible. People stood in line for up to an hour to get a drink and many gave up and smuggled in beers from the trunks of their cars. A small dance party erupted amongst the trucks parked under the overpass across the street. If this were San Francisco, that overpass would be painted rainbow and a plaque would be erected in honor of all the gay sex had under it during the past two decades.
A photographer who joined me for the night and I made a point to not center white cis-gender men in our photos documenting the evening, as they’ve centered themselves all these years. These photos are for all the leather women, trans folks and people of color who have found it so difficult to find space and community and are actively pushed out and erased by the white cis-men taking up all the space.
Every attempt was made to get consent from folks before these pictures were taken, as it is still legal to be fired for being LGBTQ+ or kinky in Missouri. It needs to be noted that 100 percent of the people who felt unsafe having their pictures taken were women/AFAB people, and stated they were afraid of losing their jobs.
As the evening came to an end and 10 p.m. rolled around, we were made to leave, while certain men lined up outside for a mens-only private party to close this chapter of St Louis queer history.
e dance floor at JJ’s began filling early on the club’s last night. | ERIN MCAFEE JJ’s was o en not a welcoming place for people who weren’t white cis-gender men. | ERIN MCAFEE
Make-up and style was part of the final party as patrons arrived for the send-o . | ERIN MCAFEE
Ultimately, the end of JJ’s is the end of another LGBTQ+ space in St. Louis. | ERIN MCAFEE
Elizabeth Van Winkle is a freelance writer in St. Louis.
