 Buying a home is one of life’s most meaningful milestones. It represents stability, independence, and the opportunity to build a future on your own terms. For many LGBTQ individuals and families, however, the journey toward homeownership has not always felt straightforward. While progress has been made in legal protections and financial access, navigating the mortgage process can still feel intimidating for first-time buyers or couples unfamiliar with lending requirements. The good news is that with preparation, education, and the right guidance, the path to owning a home can be both achievable and empowering. According to mortgage expert Chad Krieger, VP of Mortgage Lending at US Eagle Federal Credit Union, creating an inclusive lending experience begins with understanding that every borrower’s situation is unique. “Mortgage lending is personal, and we aim to create a space where members feel heard, understood and supported throughout the process,” he says. A welcoming environment allows buyers to ask questions openly and feel confident that they are receiving clear, fair information about their options. Credit unions and community-focused lenders often approach mortgages a bit differently than traditional banks. Their structure allows them to focus more on individual members rather than outside shareholders. “The biggest differentiation factor… is that, as a member-owned credit union, we are a not-for-profit lender,” Krieger explains. “This means we don’t have shareholders and we don’t work on commission. Our sole focus is finding the best solution for the individual member.” That philosophy can translate into a more educational and collaborative experience for buyers who are navigating one of the largest financial decisions of their lives. Today’s mortgage market offers a variety of loan products designed to meet a wide range of financial situations. Buyers may consider conventional loans, FHA or VA loans, or portfolio lending options depending on their credit profile and financial goals. Many lenders also offer first-time homebuyer programs, low down payment options, and home equity products that can help buyers build financial stability over time. But before selecting a loan product, Krieger says preparation is key. “A mortgage is not about qualifying for the biggest loan possible,” he says. “It’s about aligning homeownership with long-term financial health.” That perspective encourages buyers to think beyond the excitement of purchasing a home and instead focus on sustainability. Owning a home should enhance financial well-being, not strain it. Preparation for the mortgage process often begins months before someone even starts shopping for a property. Krieger recommends reviewing your credit report early to understand your financial profile. Buyers should also avoid taking on new debt prior to applying for a mortgage—such as opening new credit cards or financing a vehicle—because these changes can impact approval. Organizing income records, tax documents, and savings information ahead of time can also help streamline the application process. Maintaining stable employment and determining a comfortable monthly payment range are equally important steps. Family structures and financial arrangements have evolved significantly over the years, and mortgage lending has adapted accordingly. “Nontraditional family structures are very common,” Krieger notes. “Income… is always evaluated consistently across all applicants according to regulatory guidelines.” In practice, that means lenders evaluate verified income, assets, and credit history using standardized criteria rather than making assumptions about relationship status, gender identity, or household structure.  While the mortgage process itself typically follows the same stages—pre-approval, application, underwriting, appraisal, and closing—the experience can still feel complex for buyers navigating today’s housing market. Many potential homeowners are encountering challenges such as rising interest rates, limited housing inventory, and affordability pressures. These broader market conditions affect nearly all buyers, but they also highlight the importance of understanding financial fundamentals before entering the market.
Financial education plays a critical role in that preparation. Buyers benefit from learning how credit scores influence mortgage pricing, how debt-to-income ratios are calculated, and what funds may be used toward a down payment. Understanding closing costs, property taxes, and the ongoing expenses associated with homeownership can also help buyers develop realistic expectations. “Every borrower’s financial story is different,” Krieger says. “The most effective guidance begins with understanding goals, comfort levels and long-term plans… Home lending is technical but trust is human.” That balance between financial expertise and personal understanding is what allows borrowers to feel confident about their decisions. For LGBTQ buyers considering homeownership, Krieger emphasizes that preparation and knowledge are powerful tools. Taking time to understand your finances and your long-term goals can make a significant difference in the mortgage process. “Do your research and own your financial preparation before you shop for a home,” he says. “Strong credit, stable income, documented assets and realistic expectations will put you in control of the process.” Ultimately, homeownership is about more than financial transactions. It is about creating a place where people can build their lives, their families, and their futures. With thoughtful planning and supportive guidance, the dream of owning a home can become a reality—one that provides both security and the freedom to truly feel at home. Chad C. Krieger has over 25 years of mortgage lending experience, holding leadership roles in underwriting and credit strategy. He currently serves as Vice President of Mortgage Lending at US Eagle Federal Credit Union.
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 For Val James, music isn’t something she discovered—it’s something she was born into. "My journey in music began in my mom’s belly," she says, reflecting on a life shaped by rhythm, melody, and legacy.
Raised in a musical household, James surrounded herself with creativity from the very beginning. Her grandfather led a Drum and Bugle Corps, her mother played multiple instruments, and her father, Tony Brazis, was an accomplished musician who brought her along to performances across New Mexico. "I’d dance on the stage with my dad and his band at age 2, sing harmonies with them at age 16, and eventually sang on one of his albums," she recalls. That early immersion laid the groundwork for a sound that blends blues, rock, folk, and Americana with emotional depth and authenticity. Drawing inspiration from artists like Jimi Hendrix, Aretha Franklin, Madonna, and Alanis Morissette, James developed a style that is both powerful and deeply personal. "My signature sound developed from my musical training, my dad's love of the blues, exposure to many genres of music, and the '90s alternative rock scene," she explains. Growing up in New Mexico's East Mountains also shaped her artistry in unexpected ways. "The most important thing in music is space," James says. "The space in our high desert landscapes teaches us to sit with patience, simplicity, silence." That sense of openness is woven into her music—heard in the pauses between chords, the breath between lyrics, and the emotional weight of a sustained note. At the heart of her songwriting is vulnerability. James doesn’t shy away from the difficult or the messy. “My vulnerability means writing the hard words, the unprettiness of life, the anger and pain… without censoring myself,” she says. For her, music is transformation—an emotional release that connects artist and listener on a deeply human level. That same intentionality carries into her work behind the scenes. As a producer and songwriter, James thrives on the process of building something from nothing. “It’s extremely exciting to think of a sound or line… and then get to go into the studio and hear your thoughts literally materialize,” she says. Her attention to detail and solution-focused mindset—skills she also applies in her work as a Licensed Professional Clinical Counselor—allow her to bring both precision and empathy into her music. While she values the control and flexibility of studio work, live performance offers something entirely different. “When it all goes right, it’s just so cool to be on the same frequency with other humans,” she says. With hundreds of performances under her belt, she continues to find joy in sharing the stage with fellow musicians and connecting with audiences in real time. Like many independent artists, James has faced challenges along the way. “Being a single, female musician, if you want something, you have to make it happen yourself,” she says. Navigating a male-dominated industry and the realities of inconsistent pay have required resilience, adaptability, and determination. Yet, she has continued to push forward—running bands, performing at major festivals, and carving out her own space in the music world. Including an upcoming appearance on the “Home Cooked Music Podcast” on June 25 sharing original songs. Community remains central to her journey. As a member of the LGBTQI+ community, James sees inclusivity as essential to the music scene. “Inclusivity in music means having events that feature people from all walks and abilities of life,” she says. Her work extends beyond performance, using music as a tool for connection, healing, and advocacy in spaces that need it most. Among her many accomplishments, recording her 2017 album Don’t Worry, Baby stands as a defining moment. “Recording my album… was the cherry on top, my most proud accomplishment,” she shares. The project became even more meaningful when she invited her father to sing harmonies on one of the tracks. A moment that would later carry deep emotional weight following his passing in 2023. Today, Val James continues to create, perform, and inspire. With upcoming performances at the Chocolate and Coffee Festival and the Rio Grande Community Festival, she remains a vibrant force in New Mexico’s music scene. Through every lyric, every note, and every performance, she stays true to one guiding principle: authenticity. In doing so, she invites others to do the same—finding connection, healing, and truth in the power of music. Follow Val James on instagram @valjamesmusic/  For Lance McDaniel, owner of Transcending Massage, healing is not just physical—it’s deeply personal, intentional, and rooted in trust. His approach to massage therapy goes beyond relaxation, offering clients a space to reconnect with their bodies on their own terms.
“For those experiencing gender dysphoria and body-related stresses, massage offers you the opportunity to be in complete control of how you are touched,” McDaniel explains. “Many folks have trauma around their body… massage empowers you to take control.” That sense of autonomy is central to his practice, especially for LGBTQ clients who may have experienced discomfort in traditional healthcare settings. McDaniel prioritizes communication from the very beginning. “I ask about your pronouns and what name you want me to call you,” he says. “To me, it’s pretty basic stuff, but I know many healthcare providers are still a ways away from doing that.” By creating a space rooted in respect and consent, McDaniel helps clients feel safe enough to fully relax—something that can be difficult when past experiences have created tension or distrust around physical care. Beyond creating an affirming environment, massage therapy also offers measurable physical benefits. Regular sessions can support cardiovascular health by activating the body’s parasympathetic nervous system. “This reduces stress hormones like cortisol,” McDaniel notes, helping lower blood pressure and promote overall wellness. Over time, this consistent reduction in stress can contribute to improved heart health and overall resilience. His approach is intentionally flexible. “I don’t believe in one size fits all massage—I believe in massage fitting all,” he says. By adapting techniques to each client, often using slow, deep pressure, he ensures that care is both effective and personalized. Massage also works well alongside other forms of care. “Seeing a chiropractor? Think about a massage before… or after seeing your mental health provider,” McDaniel suggests. “It helps elongate the effects of any of these modalities.” This integrative approach allows clients to get more out of the care they are already receiving. For many clients, improved sleep is one of the most noticeable benefits. “Reducing stress hormones helps folks get to sleep faster and stay asleep longer,” he explains, noting that better sleep often leads to improved mood, focus, and overall quality of life. When it comes to frequency, McDaniel emphasizes accessibility. “Come as frequently as you can afford to,” he says. “If you’re worried about money, ask… lots of therapists are willing to have a sliding scale.” At its core, Transcending Massage is about more than wellness—it’s about creating a space where every client feels seen, respected, and empowered to heal. Transcending Massage is located at 1202 Central Ave SW. Ste 14. Call (505) 306-5319 to schedule an appointment or email Lance at [email protected].  Rooted in culture, community, and immersive expression, the New Mexico–based artist, Jonah Salazar Tafoya, is blending culture, identity, and immersive design to create intentional spaces for connection. Through installations and queer-centered events like Cénit, he is redefining nightlife as a place where art, community, and self-expression come together. How did your journey as an artist begin, and what moments shaped your creative voice? I grew up in a family of artists, so I’ve always been a part of the art world. My grandmother is a tinsmith, and I helped her sell work at the Spanish Market in Santa Fe. My grandfather was a Mexican music producer, and I spent time in the studio watching him work. My parents always kept my brother and me immersed in the arts. I studied cinematography and photography in Chicago and worked in lighting design. In 2017, I entered the club scene and began working in event and festival art production. When I moved back to New Mexico in 2020, I began designing light and installations with the Adobe Disco collective. For the past four years, I’ve been producing and designing my own queer party, Cénit, where all those influences come together. In what ways do your cultural roots and personal history influence the themes in your work? I was raised in a Chicano and Afro-Caribbean household, and my parents raised us to be proud of our identities and culture. My installations reflect my connection to my Indigenous roots and the New Mexico landscape. I build and paint southwest plants, animals, and desert imagery as part of my work. I also value intimacy and gathering. I build interactive lounge spaces inside clubs so people can connect and play. Cénit reflects my multicultural background. I get to work with other black, brown, and queer artists, creating a space for us, by us. How has your queer identity informed your artistic practice and the stories you choose to tell? My queer identity brought me closer to the community. Creating queer-centered events allowed me to build deeper connections and eventually give back by platforming other queer artists. The stories aren’t just mine. What does Pride mean to you at this stage of your life and career? To me, pride means self-determination. It’s about owning your authentic self without asking for permission. Do you see your art as a form of activism, healing, preservation, or something else entirely? I would have to say all of the above. I have used my art as a form of activism. Personally, my art has become a form of healing my inner child and as a means of queer resistance and preservation.  As a New Mexico–based artist, how has the local landscape shaped your vision?
Growing up on a farm in Española, New Mexico, I’ve always felt a connection to the land. I started creating art and producing events to share my sense of belonging. Even in nightlife spaces, I want people to feel grounded and intentional. What conversations do you hope your work sparks? I hope my work reminds people to be more playful. I also host events in venues that aren’t exclusively queer spaces, and I hope it’s a reminder to our community that we belong everywhere. Can you walk us through your creative process? I focus on transforming the entire environment, not just stage design. I think about how people will move through a space and how they’ll feel in it. I build immersive rooms and install art throughout entire venues. I want the space to feel like everyone is part of the art, and not just watching it. What challenges have you faced as a queer creative? I’ve had to work hard to be taken seriously and respected, especially in a male-dominated scene. At times, I’ve felt dismissed and had to prove myself repeatedly. That experience has made me more resilient and forced me to be more secure in myself. Even when I haven’t always received respect, I do my best to create warm, welcoming spaces. What advice would you give young queer artists in smaller communities? I would say to keep going. Building something in a rural area or with a small community can be hard, but it’s also rewarding. Don’t forget to give yourself flowers. Where can people learn more about your work? You can learn more about my work through the Cénit Instagram page and by attending one of my events - @cenitabq.  I’m someone who knows what it’s like to have your humanity debated in public. That debate is louder than ever. Many of the rights we thought were settled years ago are being disputed again. Healthcare protections for transgender individuals are being rolled back throughout the country, and books are being pulled from shelves.
Accommodations for disabled people are framed as “too expensive,” and words like equity and inclusion are framed as controversial instead of compassionate. I know we’re tired, but hope is rising. Not because things are perfect or the attacks have stopped. Hope is rising because people refuse to give up. I see it in parents standing beside their trans kids. In queer youth, forming community when institutions fail them. I see Deaf and disabled advocates demanding access without apology. There are people choosing courage over comfort in rooms where silence would be easier. Progress isn’t a straight line. Equality, to me, has never been theoretical. It’s an action. It’s a hard conversation where someone says, “We can do better.” It’s reviewing a policy and realizing who it unintentionally excludes. It’s making sure sign language interpretation is budgeted from the start. It’s asking who is missing and refusing to move forward until they’re included. Equality is built daily through courage, accountability, and intentional inclusion. We don’t stumble into justice. We practice it. But equality alone isn’t the end goal. What we are fighting for is belonging. Belonging is the difference between being tolerated and being embraced. It’s the difference between surviving a space and feeling safe inside it. Belonging means you don’t have to edit yourself to be accepted. Your pronouns are respected without debate. Your wheelchair is anticipated, not questioned. Your Deaf identity is recognized as a culture. Your trans identity is not treated as a political talking point. Belonging is a right. Every person deserves to live fully, safely, and unapologetically. And in a year like 2026, saying that out loud matters. Because when rights feel fragile, belonging becomes an act of resistance. I’ve learned that diversity isn’t something we manage. It’s power. Our differences are not cracks in the community; they are its foundation. Queer communities imagine beyond limitation because we’ve always had to. Disabled communities innovate because access requires creativity. Trans communities embody resilience. Communities of color continue to lead movements that shift the culture forward. Diversity strengthens us. It makes us sharper, braver, and more adaptable. But none of it means anything without access. Access is non-negotiable. Inclusion only exists when barriers are removed. Not acknowledged. Not debated endlessly. Removed. Access is language access. It’s ramps and accessible technology. It’s healthcare that affirms. It’s leadership that understands that if someone cannot fully participate, the system is incomplete. Access is love turned into structure. And community? Community is what moves history. No major step toward justice has ever happened because one person stood alone. Change happens when we unite and amplify each other. When LGBTQ+ liberation, disability, racial, and economic justice recognize that our struggles are connected. We are turning fear into momentum. So I leave you with this. You belong. Your voice matters. Your presence changes the world. Right now. The future will not become more just by accident. It will not become more inclusive because we hope it will. It will become more human because we are building it through courage, accountability, and solidarity. Even in a time when rights are being challenged, we are not powerless. Hope is rising because we are standing up for one another. I truly believe the future is more just, inclusive, and human because we are building it together, unapologetically, and without asking permission. Elijah Valdez is a Deaf transgender social justice educator and founder of Equity & Impact Consulting. His work focuses on helping communities move beyond performative acceptance by creating spaces centered on accessibility, accountability, equity, and authentic belonging.  For PJ Sedillo—author, activist, and historian—preserving Albuquerque Pride history is a committed effort, a way to honor the LGBTQ+ community’s voices, struggles, and triumphs. He served as President and Co-President of Albuquerque Pride for 21 years. Decades of history surrounded Sedillo: boxes of meeting minutes, photographs, and artifacts told a powerful story. This rich history was calling out to be documented, and the inspiration to write a book about the history of Pride in Albuquerque was born.
“The inspiration behind both books was to record our history in print,” Sedillo says. “They showcase the vibrant, deeply researched chronicle of the Southwest’s enduring Pride celebrations.” From the first 1976 march - only twenty-five people marching quietly along Central Avenue - to today’s large celebrations, his work captures the heart of Albuquerque’s LGBTQ+ community and the dedication and resilience that went into the fight to be seen. His books also serve as a reminder that Pride in New Mexico was built by community members who organized, volunteered, protested, and created spaces of visibility during times when acceptance was far from guaranteed. His latest book, If These T-Shirts Could Talk…50 Years of GLBTQ+ Pride in Albuquerque (1976–2026), expands that legacy. The updated edition covers the past decade of Pride events. It also highlights historic gay bars along Route 66, beloved landmarks for the community. “We are part of that historic roadway, holding a parade for 50 years on Central Avenue,” Sedillo notes. The book also documents organizations and individuals who helped shape Albuquerque Pride into one of the Southwest’s longest-running LGBTQ+ celebrations. Documenting recent history proved challenging. “These new chapters were difficult to write in today’s digital world,” he says. Much of this history risks being lost without preservation. The past decade brought both celebration and hardship, underscoring the need for preservation. Sedillo also reflects on moments of division, leadership changes, and the impact of the COVID-19 pandemic, all of which shaped the organization and the community. Through these efforts, Sedillo’s work continues to center on unity. When signing his books, he includes a quote reflecting his belief: “Without Solidarity there can be no Pride and without Pride there is no Solidarity.” Sedillo continues to build his legacy. He is planning the 20th anniversary of the Come Out, Come Out show in 2027 and working on a book about performers’ coming-out experiences. Ultimately, for Sedillo, preserving history means more than recalling the past—it ensures future generations understand the resilience, unity, and pride that shaped their community.  Credit: Adobe iStock In a time when the world can feel uncertain, one thing remains unwavering—our community. This year’s Pride Issue is rooted in resilience and the power of connection, reminding us that even in challenging moments, we continue to show up, support one another, and rise together.
We are proud to celebrate 20 years of Models of Hope, honoring individuals whose leadership, love, and dedication have helped shape our LGBTQIA+ community. Their stories reflect the strength it takes to lead with authenticity and the impact of building spaces where others can thrive. We also highlight voices that embody that same spirit. From Guy Branum’s reflections on humor and history to Anastasia Moon’s work creating a queer community in Taos, these stories remind us that resilience often begins with visibility. Marcos Sedillo shares his journey of building inclusive events, while Adrien Lawyer offers hope and advocacy for Transgender and Non-Binary New Mexicans. We also celebrate creativity and growth through stories like Latasha Booth’s new venture, Lance McDaniel’s healing work through massage, and Val James’ connection to music and expression. Artist Jonah Salazar Tafoya and author PJ Sedillo showcase the richness of New Mexico’s creative community, while Joey Amato reminds us to find joy and connection beyond our borders. At its core, this issue is about community—how we build it, protect it, and celebrate it. When we come together, we create something stronger than any challenge we face. As always, we close with “The Final Word,” with Elijah Valdez reminding us that the future we are building is one grounded in unity, resilience, and hope. Thank you for being part of this community. Keep showing up. Keep shining. Happy Pride! Teresa Robinson Editor-in-Chief PRIDE & Equality Magazine  A photo of the trailblazing lesbian bar, Sahara, opened in 1976 on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Photo Provided Courtesy of Stonewall National Museum, Archives, & Library. As LGBTQ+ history and culture continue to face increasing pressure nationwide, institutions dedicated to preserving queer stories remain vital acts of resistance. One such institution, Stonewall National Museum, Archives, & Library (SNMAL) in Fort Lauderdale, is once again stepping boldly into that role with the unveiling of a powerful new exhibition honoring lesbian and feminist history.
Debuting on Saturday, February 28, at 5:00 p.m. ET with a free Opening Reception, Sahara: NYC’s Lesbian Legacy celebrates the groundbreaking impact of The Sahara, a lesbian-owned nightclub that opened in 1976 on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Founded by four young lesbian trailblazers, The Sahara quickly evolved into far more than a nightlife venue—it became a cultural, political, and artistic hub for women at a time when safe, affirming spaces were scarce. The club hosted dynamic performances, fundraisers, and presentations that showcased feminist art, while also serving as a meeting ground for activism and community building. Its influence helped shape visibility and empowerment for lesbian and feminist voices during a pivotal era in LGBTQ+ history. The exhibit brings this legacy to life through archival photographs, original flyers, oral histories, documentary footage, and panel discussions, offering visitors an immersive glimpse into a community that has often been overlooked in mainstream historical narratives. “We look forward to presenting this exhibit to the public after months of research,” said Robert Kesten, President and CEO of Stonewall National Museum, Archives, & Library. “Women are often ignored, and lesbian history has regularly been siloed. When you add in the unrelenting attacks by the government, an exhibit such as this becomes transformative.” Presented by the Stonewall National Women’s Fund, Sahara: NYC’s Lesbian Legacy will run from Saturday, February 28, through Sunday, April 5, providing ample opportunity for visitors to engage with this essential chapter of LGBTQ+ history. Exhibit Details
Stonewall National Museum, Archives, & Library is one of the largest and most significant LGBTQ+ museums and archives in the world. It has carried the name Stonewall for more consecutive years than any other organization globally. For more than five decades, SNMAL has fought for equality by amplifying powerful stories, hosting dynamic events, launching a solutions-driven task force in Washington, D.C., mobilizing educators nationwide, and preserving an expansive historical record of LGBTQ+ achievements. Even in the face of prejudice and hate. SNMAL houses millions of pages of archival materials available to media and researchers, drawing vital connections between our nation’s past and present. Major support for Stonewall National Museum, Archives, & Library is provided by the Broward County Cultural Division, the Cultural Council, and the Broward County Board of County Commissioners.  What a delight to learn that my 14-year-old grandson and a bunch of his friends had organized their own recreational league basketball team that includes no adult coach and no practices. It’s meant purely to have plain old fun without the pressure that “adult” expectations impose. Even the team name they chose has no “adult” meaning - like the already passé “6,7.” Their games aren’t pretty by “organized sports” standards, but these boys are sure enjoying a freedom from all that. It reminded me of their childhood play and a real nostalgia not to give “play” up no matter how “grownup” these boys were supposed act. If you were a boy, you remember that at some point playground culture became sports culture. If you were able to enjoy the first, that didn’t always mean you could succeed at the second. Play morphed into competition as early as society could get us to internalize the idea that we were vying with other boys for affirmation and the emblem of “manhood.” The boys who were “real boys” (those most likely to grow up to imitate “real men”) were the best at competitive sports. They were “winners.” They were the idolized who most successfully internalized the competitive spirit that our culture needs to keep its economy and military going. Internalizing that model of manhood is how most of us actually came to believe that “competition is good.” We’ve built a society so dependent upon competition that it’s hard to even imagine how we could live well without it. So, we embrace justifications for it. It’s an unquestioned basic truth men and women are supposed to accept as they both value manhood, even if what competition is good for isn’t human relationships but production and profits. It’s sure “good for business.” It can produce lower prices and cheaper goods, more sales and faster computers, larger portfolios and bigger empires. Its current cost, however, is our humanity. On top of all that, a competitive attitude toward others remains a key ingredient promoting homophobia in the U.S. even though an imported, non-US TV series, “Heated Rivalry” challenges this with its depictions of same-sex romance. Valuing competition enforces a level of human separation. For most men it keeps them disconnected and competing with each other at another man’s expense in order to get society’s “rewards.” Male sports culture is one place we learn all this. We also learn who the “losers” are. If we didn’t master sports’ skills, we not only were left out, but were picked on by other boys. If we couldn’t throw a spiral pass if our life depended on it, stood out in right field praying that no one would hit the baseball there, didn’t want to punch or get punched, or threw a ball “like a girl,” we were targets of competitive “manhood.” If we were the youngest, smallest, thinnest, heaviest, or most gentle and caring boy in the class, we could even expect “fag” jokes from the other boys. It could have started even before this sports culture hit. The elementary school playground usually had bullies who lived out insecurities on “weaker” boys. It was full of boys who had internalized masculinity’s “beat or be beaten” requirement for acceptance. In most cases, the boy who tried to remain in touch with his fuller humanity was just out of luck. And if a boy came to realize that he “liked” boys, even fantasized about them (maybe even those who fit the culture’s “real man” image), confusion was added to fear. Whatever those feelings meant (and who was there to explain them until liberation movements), they set a boy apart even further from the ideal man. If we could face it, we were all afraid of failing manhood’s test on that playground. Some of us remember the fear. Others buried the fear under the role of the bully or sports star, or by staying inside and mastering the subjects of the mind, such as reading and math in which “real boys” are measurably behind girls. As children entered the “grown-up” world of men, even the mental world had its own competition, somewhat replacing physical accomplishments, though it never fully erased the manhood lessons of the playground. Of course, “real men” can’t admit such fear, even to themselves. But it was there. And it’s still there on athletic teams at all levels. It promotes the homophobia and the gay bashing that continues in so many sporting venues. I’m convinced that the level of competition in sports today still requires homophobia, the fear of getting close to your own sex. Teamwork for men means the ability of one group of men to bond together to beat, defeat, or kill other men, whether that’s on the athletic field, the battlefield, or in business or politics. And manly winning as currently defined is always at another man’s expense. This means that though we are “improving” the “level” and opportunities for women’s athletics, they must be kept separate from male activities. “Beating a girl” is an insult for “real men,” not an accomplishment. And look at all the fearmongering about transgender men in “women’s” sports. I’m not talking about play, but sports culture. Play is free, fun, a letting go of oneself and one’s ego. It’s the child-like activity that doesn’t concentrate on techniques, talents, abilities, performance and the evaluations of others. It gets caught up in light-hearted, “unproductive” enjoyment. When I refereed soccer, one of the pleasures of the kindergarten level was the not-fully-conditioned players coming up to me after a playful game and asking “Who won, ref?” But, admit it, how often do we begin any game in play and realize that we’ve flipped into the issue of winning and losing, of “beating” the other person. Well, that’s this conditioning. Sports are the opposite of play today. They are either the big business of college and professional athletics or they’re farm leagues for younger children that provide competition for future players on the “next level.” And sports betting has made it more cutthroat. This culture needs homophobia and transphobia. You just can’t treat people this way and be really close. It’s an attitude carried over into our most intimate relationships. Play is the key to good sex, not techniques, talents, consumer products. and comparisons and competition. Play takes place when we’re comfortable with ourselves. And it’s childlike. But everything in our society works to take that out of us, and the hurts of the playground and the demands of our athletic system are part of what changed us to keep us from just playing and connecting on a win-win human level. The boy who was “left out” because he didn’t fit was actually the one most in touch with his humanity. He was also most aware that sports culture was trying to tear his humanity from him to prepare him for what our fear-driven society, not human beings, need. If that boy could have been able to fight all that, he would have been the one on the field with real courage, the real hero. Often he did fight as long as he could, against all the odds. Robert N. Minor, Ph.D., Professor Emeritus of Religious Studies at the University of Kansas, is author of When Religion Is an Addiction; Scared Straight: Why It’s So Hard to Accept Gay People and Why It’s So Hard to Be Human and Gay & Healthy in a Sick Society. Contact him at www.FairnessProject.org
 It’s apparently been wishful thinking that thought our culture was moving beyond the straight role that was necessary to keep patriarchy going in the U.S. When I wrote Scared Straight: Why It’s So Hard to Accept Gay People and Why It’s So Hard to be Human over twenty years ago, I remember I had hope then that my analysis would be outdated by now.
But, on the contrary, as an academic friend who studies masculinity told me recently, that analysis is even more relevant today with the political victories of the old straight-acting masculinity in politics, the renewed down-grading of all things feminine, the media obsession with something they tout as click-bait: the “crisis of masculinity” in boys, and the reactionary and militant embrace by the religious right-wing of a warrior culture that ignores the Jesus of the Gospels. For a while it was labelled “toxic masculinity” as if it were one version of the masculine gender role that dominated patriarchy, but that label was beaten down by those defending this masculinity itself, a masculinity that’s central to the straight role conditioned into boys and girls. So what is it today that’s the same old “scared straight” that we are now seeing proudly performed and rewarded by the US President, the Secretary of Defense and the rest of his regime, the president’s brown shirts in ICE, their sycophants, and those who were captivated enough to vote for these paragons of straightness. This straight role is not inherent in heterosexuality or absent from homosexuality. Sexual orientations, we understand, are, as best we can know and as researchers point out, inborn, genetic, God-given, or at least established way before one realizes to whom they are attracted. “Straight,” in contrast, is a role that is learned through the systemic teachings of our dominant cultural institutions. And that role is installed in everyone like software in a computer through fear, that is the fear of the consequences of what can happen to you from early childhood if you don’t live up to being straight-acting, straight-thinking, and straight-looking enough no matter what your sexual orientation or gender identity. The straight role for men is meant to take America’s little boys and turn them into warriors. It defines teamwork as a group of men getting together to beat, defeat, or kill other men. It means that the ideal male body is hard, morbidly-muscled, and robotic. It means that men should ignore their hurts, pain, and injuries – “No pain, no gain.” (“Did you see that touchdown? And he did it with two broken legs and a concussion. What a man!”) It means that men should never express feelings of hurt, fear, and confusion but that their masculinity will never be questioned if they express instead anger, violence, and destruction. It means real men never really apologize or admit mistakes, for that is a clear sign of weakness. It means that men don’t merely defeat those who threaten their masculine dominance but must punish and destroy them. It means that rape is a “boys will be boys” way of showing dominance over women and other men. It means that one should be admired for getting ahead by stepping on others. It means that they should be homophobic – fearing closeness with other men. It means they should never do anything “gay.” And it means ultimately that out gay and transgender men are threats to their own straightness. It prepares them for the rewards they will receive if they are willing to go off to kill other men in war. You can get a medal for killing another man while you can still get killed for loving one. No wonder they want to get rid of LGBTQ+ rights that contradict “straightness” including marriage. And the straight role will ultimately kill them – they’ll die earlier, and they’ll spend a lifetime without the emotional experiences all human beings need, the intimacies they need, and the freedom from this tightly buckled straitjacket, but with the constant and inexpressible fear that their lack of living the straight masculine ideal might show – especially to other men whom they fear will take advantage of them for it. The straight role for women begins in patriarchy as a response to this male conditioning. In short, women are supposed to become warrior-support personnel. And they should feel incomplete unless they have a man “to love and protect” them, as if real women can’t love and protect themselves. Women who refuse the straight role will be accused of being “man-haters,” lesbians, and “feminazis.” The oppression of LGBTQ+ people is still, after all, the major means of enforcing the roles. And this Supreme Court has no problem reenforcing that. All of this we are seeing in so many ways from the loudest, and now powerful voices in the country. All of this we can expect our corporate media to justify because the straight role still sells so many products and services. All of this we are feeling when we wonder how, from the president down to his militia and supporters who even claim to be believers in some religion, anyone can be so cruel. The straight role doesn’t recognize even those who live it and those around them as full humans but sees them through the lenses of that straight role. And, as pointed out those years ago, it is as ingrained as ever. As so much we are witnessing, this is not because people exist who don’t openly live that straight role – LGBTQ+ people and some heterosexual allies. But, as in any oppression, the victims are usually the ones who get blamed even when the powerful benefit from their victimhood. The straight role knows those who challenge the roles are around but accepts them superficially if they look, act, and think “straight” enough. It certainly doesn’t want them “proud” that they challenge the role by which the current political regime defines itself. So, whatever response we choose, we are still confronting that straight role and one of the hardest, most deep-seated, and oldest challenges we ever will face – being “scared straight.” But this is learned behavior and what’s learned can be unlearned. And to burst out of its straitjacket will mean a new kind of freedom for all of us. Robert N. Minor, Ph.D., Professor Emeritus of Religious Studies at the University of Kansas, is author of When Religion Is an Addiction; Scared Straight: Why It’s So Hard to Accept Gay People and Why It’s So Hard to Be Human and Gay & Healthy in a Sick Society. Contact him at www.FairnessProject.org |
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August 2026
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