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| L.G.B.T.Q. in the Midwest, Where the Fight Is Still Happening | |
| (about 20 hours later) | |
| In June, millions of people will gather in New York City to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the uprising at the Stonewall Inn, which marked the start of a national pride movement. But some in the Midwest say there’s still work to be done — either because they’re still struggling, or because they feel that the L.G.B.T.Q. community has forgotten them. | In June, millions of people will gather in New York City to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the uprising at the Stonewall Inn, which marked the start of a national pride movement. But some in the Midwest say there’s still work to be done — either because they’re still struggling, or because they feel that the L.G.B.T.Q. community has forgotten them. |
| By Ryan Schuessler | By Ryan Schuessler |
| Listening to Gene Dawson talk about being gay in St. Louis is like going back in time. | Listening to Gene Dawson talk about being gay in St. Louis is like going back in time. |
| During a recent conversation at his home in south St. Louis County, he reminisced about the colorful bars and clubs where the L.G.B.T.Q. history of St. Louis was written — all of them long ago replaced by parking garages or apartment buildings. | During a recent conversation at his home in south St. Louis County, he reminisced about the colorful bars and clubs where the L.G.B.T.Q. history of St. Louis was written — all of them long ago replaced by parking garages or apartment buildings. |
| Now 88, Mr. Dawson spent his youth going back and forth between St. Louis and Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where he first went out in drag in 1954 — 15 years before the events at the Stonewall Inn in New York. | Now 88, Mr. Dawson spent his youth going back and forth between St. Louis and Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where he first went out in drag in 1954 — 15 years before the events at the Stonewall Inn in New York. |
| “We weren’t out there to pioneer anything, but we ended up being that way,” Mr. Dawson said, a stack of decades-old glamour shots on his lap. | “We weren’t out there to pioneer anything, but we ended up being that way,” Mr. Dawson said, a stack of decades-old glamour shots on his lap. |
| He is one of the few people left who can speak to the lived experience of L.G.B.T.Q. people in the mid-20th century — its triumphs and its violence. He tells the story of how, after a bar raid in East St. Louis, Ill., two detectives threatened to throw him off a bridge into the Mississippi River. | He is one of the few people left who can speak to the lived experience of L.G.B.T.Q. people in the mid-20th century — its triumphs and its violence. He tells the story of how, after a bar raid in East St. Louis, Ill., two detectives threatened to throw him off a bridge into the Mississippi River. |
| “They’d have done it, too,” he said. | “They’d have done it, too,” he said. |
| [The New York Times wants to capture the ever-evolving ways in which we describe ourselves. Tell us who you are.] | [The New York Times wants to capture the ever-evolving ways in which we describe ourselves. Tell us who you are.] |
| He remembers proudly watching the news about Stonewall on television. But he feels that places outside of New York and San Francisco — like St. Louis — are never given their due when it comes to L.G.B.T.Q. history. | He remembers proudly watching the news about Stonewall on television. But he feels that places outside of New York and San Francisco — like St. Louis — are never given their due when it comes to L.G.B.T.Q. history. |
| “We had queens that stuck up for everything, too,” Mr. Dawson said. “They don’t give St. Louis credit for anything. They just assume we’re all farmers 10 or 20 years behind everyone else. We were never behind anyone, especially the gay people.” | “We had queens that stuck up for everything, too,” Mr. Dawson said. “They don’t give St. Louis credit for anything. They just assume we’re all farmers 10 or 20 years behind everyone else. We were never behind anyone, especially the gay people.” |
| Geoff Story agrees. At an estate sale in St. Louis in 1996, he found two eight-millimeter films titled “A Gay Party.” Shot at a private pool in rural Hillsboro, Mo., the films show dozens of gay men dancing, drinking, kissing, swimming and parading in drag in the 1940s and ’50s. They offer a rare look into what gay life was like in Missouri immediately after World War II. In one frame, two men in their military uniforms locked in a kiss. | Geoff Story agrees. At an estate sale in St. Louis in 1996, he found two eight-millimeter films titled “A Gay Party.” Shot at a private pool in rural Hillsboro, Mo., the films show dozens of gay men dancing, drinking, kissing, swimming and parading in drag in the 1940s and ’50s. They offer a rare look into what gay life was like in Missouri immediately after World War II. In one frame, two men in their military uniforms locked in a kiss. |
| — Geoff Story | — Geoff Story |
| “I think people naïvely think, on the coasts or in larger cities, that things like this never happened here,” Mr. Story said. He is now working to identify the men in the films as part of a documentary project. “These men were here. They mattered. In our popular culture, we’ve heard about these stories from Fire Island and San Francisco, but we just haven’t heard about them in the heartland.” | “I think people naïvely think, on the coasts or in larger cities, that things like this never happened here,” Mr. Story said. He is now working to identify the men in the films as part of a documentary project. “These men were here. They mattered. In our popular culture, we’ve heard about these stories from Fire Island and San Francisco, but we just haven’t heard about them in the heartland.” |
| In trying to understand that part of St. Louis’s history, Mr. Story, who is 50, has met other L.G.B.T.Q. elders in the city, like Mr. Dawson. He recently visited the piece of land where the films were shot. The pool is gone. | In trying to understand that part of St. Louis’s history, Mr. Story, who is 50, has met other L.G.B.T.Q. elders in the city, like Mr. Dawson. He recently visited the piece of land where the films were shot. The pool is gone. |
| “These men found this place in the country 25 years before there was even any thought of Stonewall,” Mr. Story said. “I think it’s important to know our history. These men were living their lives like they didn’t care what anyone thought. If it weren’t for someone taking out a camera and deciding to film it, we wouldn’t have much of a record that it happened. It’s probably proof that it was happening all across the country, in the Midwest and the South and in places people didn’t suspect.” | “These men found this place in the country 25 years before there was even any thought of Stonewall,” Mr. Story said. “I think it’s important to know our history. These men were living their lives like they didn’t care what anyone thought. If it weren’t for someone taking out a camera and deciding to film it, we wouldn’t have much of a record that it happened. It’s probably proof that it was happening all across the country, in the Midwest and the South and in places people didn’t suspect.” |
| For years, Ryan Young struggled to find an identity, not realizing the answer was closer to home than it seemed. | For years, Ryan Young struggled to find an identity, not realizing the answer was closer to home than it seemed. |
| Ryan (who uses the gender-neutral pronouns they and them, instead of him or her, and the honorific Mx., rather than Ms. or Mr.) grew up in the Ojibwe community on the Lac du Flambeau reservation in northern Wisconsin. They now identify as Two Spirit. | Ryan (who uses the gender-neutral pronouns they and them, instead of him or her, and the honorific Mx., rather than Ms. or Mr.) grew up in the Ojibwe community on the Lac du Flambeau reservation in northern Wisconsin. They now identify as Two Spirit. |
| Two Spirit refers to people who identify with both a masculine and feminine spirit. It is used by some Native people to describe sexual, gender and spiritual identity and can encompass same-sex attraction as well as a wide variety of gender variances. | Two Spirit refers to people who identify with both a masculine and feminine spirit. It is used by some Native people to describe sexual, gender and spiritual identity and can encompass same-sex attraction as well as a wide variety of gender variances. |
| It is an identity that fits Mx. Young comfortably, but one that took time to find even though the term itself comes from a translation of an Ojibwe phrase: Niizh Manidoowag. | It is an identity that fits Mx. Young comfortably, but one that took time to find even though the term itself comes from a translation of an Ojibwe phrase: Niizh Manidoowag. |
| It was a struggle that illustrates how many L.G.B.T.Q. Native people continue to search for space in their own communities, even though many tribes have deep traditions of acceptance. Mx. Young remembers meeting a gay member of the Lac du Flambeau community in high school: “He told me I had to pick: Be Native, or be queer,” Mx. Young recalled. “I didn’t want to pick.” | It was a struggle that illustrates how many L.G.B.T.Q. Native people continue to search for space in their own communities, even though many tribes have deep traditions of acceptance. Mx. Young remembers meeting a gay member of the Lac du Flambeau community in high school: “He told me I had to pick: Be Native, or be queer,” Mx. Young recalled. “I didn’t want to pick.” |
| Doug Kiel, a Two Spirit member of the Oneida Nation of Wisconsin and professor of American history at Northwestern University, partially traces the issue in Native communities to European colonization. | Doug Kiel, a Two Spirit member of the Oneida Nation of Wisconsin and professor of American history at Northwestern University, partially traces the issue in Native communities to European colonization. |
| “There’s an enduring grip of what missionary work did to Native communities and how they think about themselves,” Mr. Kiel said. | “There’s an enduring grip of what missionary work did to Native communities and how they think about themselves,” Mr. Kiel said. |
| “Homophobia finds its way into spaces of traditional ceremony,” he added. “Our own spaces of tradition, where you would hope we could find care and love among each other, are sometimes some of the most toxic places.” | “Homophobia finds its way into spaces of traditional ceremony,” he added. “Our own spaces of tradition, where you would hope we could find care and love among each other, are sometimes some of the most toxic places.” |
| Mx. Young remembers joining a traditional drum group in middle school, but felt alienated by the ways the other students talked to each other: tossing around homophobic slurs or mocking femininity, often without consequences. They recalled feeling a cultural disconnect, “even though I was growing up in my community.” | Mx. Young remembers joining a traditional drum group in middle school, but felt alienated by the ways the other students talked to each other: tossing around homophobic slurs or mocking femininity, often without consequences. They recalled feeling a cultural disconnect, “even though I was growing up in my community.” |
| — Ryan Young | — Ryan Young |
| A graduate of the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, N.M., Mx. Young is now creating art that, they hope, gives Two Spirit people the kind of visibility needed, especially for those growing up in places like Lac du Flambeau. One of Mx. Young’s recent pieces places a stylized Two Spirit logo onto a brick with the words “bash back” — looking to give L.G.B.T.Q. Natives a voice in Stonewall’s legacy. | A graduate of the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, N.M., Mx. Young is now creating art that, they hope, gives Two Spirit people the kind of visibility needed, especially for those growing up in places like Lac du Flambeau. One of Mx. Young’s recent pieces places a stylized Two Spirit logo onto a brick with the words “bash back” — looking to give L.G.B.T.Q. Natives a voice in Stonewall’s legacy. |
| “Having something like that suggests a whole life of possibility,” Mr. Kiel said about Mx. Young’s work in general, which gives L.G.B.T.Q. Native youth a chance to see themselves represented in art and culture. “And when suicide rates are so high, and in Indian country they are, seeing something that says ‘that future is possible’ can be lifesaving.” | “Having something like that suggests a whole life of possibility,” Mr. Kiel said about Mx. Young’s work in general, which gives L.G.B.T.Q. Native youth a chance to see themselves represented in art and culture. “And when suicide rates are so high, and in Indian country they are, seeing something that says ‘that future is possible’ can be lifesaving.” |
| For James Schwartz, details of that night are a bit fuzzy. | For James Schwartz, details of that night are a bit fuzzy. |
| It was the mid-1990s, and Mr. Schwartz was in his late teens, living in southwestern rural Michigan. | It was the mid-1990s, and Mr. Schwartz was in his late teens, living in southwestern rural Michigan. |
| He had realized he was gay a few years earlier, something that is unacceptable in his Old Order Amish community. His escape became reading books at the local library’s small L.G.B.T.Q. section. “It didn’t have much gay literature beyond Truman Capote,” he recalled with a laugh. | He had realized he was gay a few years earlier, something that is unacceptable in his Old Order Amish community. His escape became reading books at the local library’s small L.G.B.T.Q. section. “It didn’t have much gay literature beyond Truman Capote,” he recalled with a laugh. |
| He remembered walking home with another Amish classmate one day after school. | He remembered walking home with another Amish classmate one day after school. |
| “Our sleepover turned into something more,” Mr. Schwartz, now 41, said. “And we were overheard by his parents. The next day, I was forbidden to speak to him or associate with him. Immediately, there’s a stigma attached to you for that.” | “Our sleepover turned into something more,” Mr. Schwartz, now 41, said. “And we were overheard by his parents. The next day, I was forbidden to speak to him or associate with him. Immediately, there’s a stigma attached to you for that.” |
| Mr. Schwartz left the Amish community in the years after that encounter. As far as he knows, the classmate is still a member. | Mr. Schwartz left the Amish community in the years after that encounter. As far as he knows, the classmate is still a member. |
| “Really the only choice you have if you’re gay and Amish and want to be true to yourself is to leave the Amish community,” said Mr. Schwartz, who now lives in Hawaii. “Otherwise, you are pretty much forced to stay in the closet.” | “Really the only choice you have if you’re gay and Amish and want to be true to yourself is to leave the Amish community,” said Mr. Schwartz, who now lives in Hawaii. “Otherwise, you are pretty much forced to stay in the closet.” |
| According to researchers at Elizabethtown College in Pennsylvania, more than 300,000 Amish people live in North America. Among those that have left the community are a small network of L.G.B.T.Q. people — like Mr. Schwartz — who use the internet to connect with each other and support L.G.B.T.Q. Amish people. | According to researchers at Elizabethtown College in Pennsylvania, more than 300,000 Amish people live in North America. Among those that have left the community are a small network of L.G.B.T.Q. people — like Mr. Schwartz — who use the internet to connect with each other and support L.G.B.T.Q. Amish people. |
| In 2011, Mr. Schwartz published his first book: “The Literary Party: Growing Up Gay and Amish in America.” The publicity around the book connected him with other L.G.B.T.Q. people who had left the Amish community. They started the website LGBTAmish.com. In 2014, Mr. Schwartz joined the Lansing, Mich., Pride Parade under that banner, driving in a convertible with a drag queen in tow. | In 2011, Mr. Schwartz published his first book: “The Literary Party: Growing Up Gay and Amish in America.” The publicity around the book connected him with other L.G.B.T.Q. people who had left the Amish community. They started the website LGBTAmish.com. In 2014, Mr. Schwartz joined the Lansing, Mich., Pride Parade under that banner, driving in a convertible with a drag queen in tow. |
| “It was very heartening. It was a relief, and it was fantastic,” Mr. Schwartz said. “I have had several gay Amish and ex-Amish contact me to let me know that they read my book, and maybe they’re not at a place in their life where they can come out, but they’re contacting me to let me know that, ‘Hey you’re seen, we know what you’re doing, we appreciate it.’” | “It was very heartening. It was a relief, and it was fantastic,” Mr. Schwartz said. “I have had several gay Amish and ex-Amish contact me to let me know that they read my book, and maybe they’re not at a place in their life where they can come out, but they’re contacting me to let me know that, ‘Hey you’re seen, we know what you’re doing, we appreciate it.’” |
| “You can just roll back the clock when it comes to living in that community, and the abject terror that you feel when you have a secret like that,” said Thaddeus Schlabach, who co-founded LGBTAmish.com and is from one of the world’s largest Amish communities in Holmes County, Ohio. “I think a lot of people like to think that in the year 2019 that we live in a post-gay society, and I think that’s great. But that’s not the reality for a lot of people.” | “You can just roll back the clock when it comes to living in that community, and the abject terror that you feel when you have a secret like that,” said Thaddeus Schlabach, who co-founded LGBTAmish.com and is from one of the world’s largest Amish communities in Holmes County, Ohio. “I think a lot of people like to think that in the year 2019 that we live in a post-gay society, and I think that’s great. But that’s not the reality for a lot of people.” |
| Mahad Olad knew something was wrong the second he walked into the hotel. | Mahad Olad knew something was wrong the second he walked into the hotel. |
| “I was blindsided, I was betrayed,” Mr. Olad, 21, said from his apartment in Ithaca, N.Y. “I kept asking myself how I did not see this coming.” | “I was blindsided, I was betrayed,” Mr. Olad, 21, said from his apartment in Ithaca, N.Y. “I kept asking myself how I did not see this coming.” |
| It was 2017, and Mr. Olad had just finished his first year of college. He had traveled with his mother and siblings from their home in Minneapolis to Kenya for a vacation, as far as he was told. But in the Nairobi hotel, Mr. Olad, who like many Somali-Americans came to the United States from Kenya as a refugee, said his mother presented him with Somali translations of articles he had written for his campus newspaper, where he had come out as both gay and an atheist. | It was 2017, and Mr. Olad had just finished his first year of college. He had traveled with his mother and siblings from their home in Minneapolis to Kenya for a vacation, as far as he was told. But in the Nairobi hotel, Mr. Olad, who like many Somali-Americans came to the United States from Kenya as a refugee, said his mother presented him with Somali translations of articles he had written for his campus newspaper, where he had come out as both gay and an atheist. |
| “She said she feared for my own physical safety because she said there were people in Minneapolis who were ready and willing to kill me,” Mr. Olad recounted. “She went on and on about religion and culture and how this was unacceptable in our religious values.” | “She said she feared for my own physical safety because she said there were people in Minneapolis who were ready and willing to kill me,” Mr. Olad recounted. “She went on and on about religion and culture and how this was unacceptable in our religious values.” |
| The next day, he learned, he was to meet with a group of men who would take him to a “conversion camp.” Mr. Olad was told that they would make him straight, and bring him back into the faith. To buy time, he agreed to go, but that same night escaped with his passport to the United States Consulate in Nairobi. The organization Ex-Muslims of North America paid for his ticket back to Ithaca. He has not seen his family since. | The next day, he learned, he was to meet with a group of men who would take him to a “conversion camp.” Mr. Olad was told that they would make him straight, and bring him back into the faith. To buy time, he agreed to go, but that same night escaped with his passport to the United States Consulate in Nairobi. The organization Ex-Muslims of North America paid for his ticket back to Ithaca. He has not seen his family since. |
| Mr. Olad said he felt people in his family had no qualms about his being killed. “They had moral or ethical debates about if it was right or wrong to kill me for being gay.” | Mr. Olad said he felt people in his family had no qualms about his being killed. “They had moral or ethical debates about if it was right or wrong to kill me for being gay.” |
| A gay Somali-American man in Minneapolis, who asked to be identified only as Farah, said that Mr. Olad was not the first L.G.B.T.Q. Somali-American to end up in a situation like this. “There are serious consequences for coming out,” he said. | A gay Somali-American man in Minneapolis, who asked to be identified only as Farah, said that Mr. Olad was not the first L.G.B.T.Q. Somali-American to end up in a situation like this. “There are serious consequences for coming out,” he said. |
| While extreme, Mr. Olad’s story illustrates the paradox L.G.B.T.Q. Somali-Americans face in finding sanctuary in Minneapolis, which has notably large Somali and L.G.B.T.Q. communities. On the one hand, those interviewed for this article say that homophobic attitudes are the norm in their Somali community. But they also say that Minneapolis’s larger L.G.B.T.Q. community, which is mostly white, feels foreign and exclusionary to them. | While extreme, Mr. Olad’s story illustrates the paradox L.G.B.T.Q. Somali-Americans face in finding sanctuary in Minneapolis, which has notably large Somali and L.G.B.T.Q. communities. On the one hand, those interviewed for this article say that homophobic attitudes are the norm in their Somali community. But they also say that Minneapolis’s larger L.G.B.T.Q. community, which is mostly white, feels foreign and exclusionary to them. |
| The resulting feeling of isolation is a common refrain: “I didn’t even think it was possible, or that other queer Somali people existed,” said Hafsa Guled, who also uses gender-neutral plural pronouns. They came out as queer in their early 20s in Minneapolis, but now live in Chicago. “There’s kind of a gap between white queers and Somalis,” Mx. Guled said. | The resulting feeling of isolation is a common refrain: “I didn’t even think it was possible, or that other queer Somali people existed,” said Hafsa Guled, who also uses gender-neutral plural pronouns. They came out as queer in their early 20s in Minneapolis, but now live in Chicago. “There’s kind of a gap between white queers and Somalis,” Mx. Guled said. |
| Farah said mental health remains a challenge for many Somali-Americans, especially those who fled war and came to the United States as refugees. But it is even more challenging for L.G.B.T.Q. Somalis because of the isolation they feel from both communities. | Farah said mental health remains a challenge for many Somali-Americans, especially those who fled war and came to the United States as refugees. But it is even more challenging for L.G.B.T.Q. Somalis because of the isolation they feel from both communities. |
| “The conventional ways of healing won’t necessarily work in the Somali community,” Farah said. While advocacy organizations were making progress, he said he felt they were falling short of what the context called for. | “The conventional ways of healing won’t necessarily work in the Somali community,” Farah said. While advocacy organizations were making progress, he said he felt they were falling short of what the context called for. |
| Reconciliation, healing and resource development for L.G.B.T.Q. Somalis needs to happen on Somali terms, he said. | Reconciliation, healing and resource development for L.G.B.T.Q. Somalis needs to happen on Somali terms, he said. |
| Devonn Thomas was 16 when Michael Brown was killed by police in Ferguson, Mo., in the summer of 2014. | Devonn Thomas was 16 when Michael Brown was killed by police in Ferguson, Mo., in the summer of 2014. |
| “I first entered the protest in Ferguson with my grandmother,” Ms. Thomas, now 21, recalled. “I could never have known how much that would revolutionize and radicalize the world. What happened in Stonewall, and what happened in 2014 in Ferguson, and what is happening now all over the country is that people are reclaiming their space.” | “I first entered the protest in Ferguson with my grandmother,” Ms. Thomas, now 21, recalled. “I could never have known how much that would revolutionize and radicalize the world. What happened in Stonewall, and what happened in 2014 in Ferguson, and what is happening now all over the country is that people are reclaiming their space.” |
| For Ms. Thomas and the other queer black women who have continued organizing and protesting in St. Louis since Mr. Brown’s death, there is a clear link between Stonewall and Ferguson: Both were in response to police violence, and both had people of color on the front lines. | For Ms. Thomas and the other queer black women who have continued organizing and protesting in St. Louis since Mr. Brown’s death, there is a clear link between Stonewall and Ferguson: Both were in response to police violence, and both had people of color on the front lines. |
| But for them, the Pride celebrations borne from the Stonewall uprising feel alienating. | But for them, the Pride celebrations borne from the Stonewall uprising feel alienating. |
| “The whole reason we have Pride is because of black and of-color trans women,” said Brittany Ferrell, an activist and organizer in St. Louis. | “The whole reason we have Pride is because of black and of-color trans women,” said Brittany Ferrell, an activist and organizer in St. Louis. |
| “I think that this current articulation of Pride has forgotten its founders’ names,” Ms. Thomas said, referring to Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera, trans women of color who were among the first to stand up to the police at Stonewall. “Now we have these cop cars at Pride and are celebrating them with rainbow police cars, but we’re forgetting the origin story.” | “I think that this current articulation of Pride has forgotten its founders’ names,” Ms. Thomas said, referring to Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera, trans women of color who were among the first to stand up to the police at Stonewall. “Now we have these cop cars at Pride and are celebrating them with rainbow police cars, but we’re forgetting the origin story.” |
| — Devonn Thomas | — Devonn Thomas |
| St. Louis has had a separate Black Pride festival each summer, organized by the group Black Pride St. Louis. | St. Louis has had a separate Black Pride festival each summer, organized by the group Black Pride St. Louis. |
| Morgan Hunlen, who was active in protests when she lived in St. Louis, agreed that the larger Pride movement had forgotten its roots. In 2017, she spoke at a protest vigil in the Grove, a hub for L.G.B.T.Q. night life in St. Louis, that honored Kiwi Herring, a black transgender woman who was killed by a St. Louis police officer after a stabbing incident that year. | Morgan Hunlen, who was active in protests when she lived in St. Louis, agreed that the larger Pride movement had forgotten its roots. In 2017, she spoke at a protest vigil in the Grove, a hub for L.G.B.T.Q. night life in St. Louis, that honored Kiwi Herring, a black transgender woman who was killed by a St. Louis police officer after a stabbing incident that year. |
| Ms. Hunlen said she experienced homophobia and transphobia within racial justice movements — Ms. Thomas and Ms. Ferrell said they had as well. “Being a black person in America, also being queer, is really complex, because a lot of black people have a lot of homophobia and transphobia that isn’t really discussed,” Ms. Hunlen said. | Ms. Hunlen said she experienced homophobia and transphobia within racial justice movements — Ms. Thomas and Ms. Ferrell said they had as well. “Being a black person in America, also being queer, is really complex, because a lot of black people have a lot of homophobia and transphobia that isn’t really discussed,” Ms. Hunlen said. |
| “Black queer lives don’t matter,” Ms. Thomas said. “They don’t matter to the black, straight world, or to the white, queer world. Black queer women have been last for so long, and now we are choosing to make ourselves first.” | “Black queer lives don’t matter,” Ms. Thomas said. “They don’t matter to the black, straight world, or to the white, queer world. Black queer women have been last for so long, and now we are choosing to make ourselves first.” |
| Standing in front of a small crowd in a Chicago garden, Mahdia Lynn finished a marriage ceremony that had lasted almost nine months. | Standing in front of a small crowd in a Chicago garden, Mahdia Lynn finished a marriage ceremony that had lasted almost nine months. |
| Ms. Lynn is the director of Masjid al-Rabia, a women-centered, L.G.B.T.Q.-affirming mosque in Chicago. In September, she received a letter from a community member in South Carolina. He and his partner, who are both incarcerated, wanted to get married but needed help. | Ms. Lynn is the director of Masjid al-Rabia, a women-centered, L.G.B.T.Q.-affirming mosque in Chicago. In September, she received a letter from a community member in South Carolina. He and his partner, who are both incarcerated, wanted to get married but needed help. |
| Over the next nine months, Ms. Lynn and others at the mosque coordinated the witness statements and other documentation needed for an Islamic wedding and legal marriage certificate. At the ceremony in Chicago, on a Sunday evening during Ramadan, two volunteers stood in for the grooms, reading their handwritten vows. One wrote how he had long prayed for love: “For a long time, I thought God had forgotten about me.” | Over the next nine months, Ms. Lynn and others at the mosque coordinated the witness statements and other documentation needed for an Islamic wedding and legal marriage certificate. At the ceremony in Chicago, on a Sunday evening during Ramadan, two volunteers stood in for the grooms, reading their handwritten vows. One wrote how he had long prayed for love: “For a long time, I thought God had forgotten about me.” |
| Much as those at Stonewall blazed their own trail, Ms. Lynn sees Masjid al-Rabia’s work to affirm and serve L.G.B.T.Q. Muslims — particularly those who are incarcerated — to be similarly revolutionary. For same-sex Islamic marriages, let alone between incarcerated people, there were not many models for Ms. Lynn and the others to follow: “We set our own path,” she said during the ceremony. It was the first wedding the mosque had ever held. | Much as those at Stonewall blazed their own trail, Ms. Lynn sees Masjid al-Rabia’s work to affirm and serve L.G.B.T.Q. Muslims — particularly those who are incarcerated — to be similarly revolutionary. For same-sex Islamic marriages, let alone between incarcerated people, there were not many models for Ms. Lynn and the others to follow: “We set our own path,” she said during the ceremony. It was the first wedding the mosque had ever held. |
| While there had been discussion of forming an L.G.B.T.Q.-affirming mosque in Chicago for years, Masjid al-Rabia’s birth was catalyzed through tragedy. | While there had been discussion of forming an L.G.B.T.Q.-affirming mosque in Chicago for years, Masjid al-Rabia’s birth was catalyzed through tragedy. |
| After the Pulse nightclub shooting in 2016, American L.G.B.T.Q. and Muslim communities were thrust into dialogue on the national stage. In Chicago that year, the city’s Muslim leadership held a forum with L.G.B.T.Q. Muslims. | After the Pulse nightclub shooting in 2016, American L.G.B.T.Q. and Muslim communities were thrust into dialogue on the national stage. In Chicago that year, the city’s Muslim leadership held a forum with L.G.B.T.Q. Muslims. |
| “But nothing changed after that conversation except all of us were out of the closet,” Ms. Lynn recalled. “We needed a safe place to pray where one didn’t have to compromise any part of themselves to be there. We needed a space to come to Allah exactly as we are, and a space where we can celebrate that together.” | “But nothing changed after that conversation except all of us were out of the closet,” Ms. Lynn recalled. “We needed a safe place to pray where one didn’t have to compromise any part of themselves to be there. We needed a space to come to Allah exactly as we are, and a space where we can celebrate that together.” |
| Masjid al-Rabia formed shortly after that forum. Three years later it has grown into an inclusive Islamic community center, holding regular prayers at a permanent location in downtown Chicago. In addition to online Quran study, the mosque also runs a prison ministry for incarcerated L.G.B.T.Q. Muslims that Ms. Lynn said has reached more than 600 people across the United States. | Masjid al-Rabia formed shortly after that forum. Three years later it has grown into an inclusive Islamic community center, holding regular prayers at a permanent location in downtown Chicago. In addition to online Quran study, the mosque also runs a prison ministry for incarcerated L.G.B.T.Q. Muslims that Ms. Lynn said has reached more than 600 people across the United States. |
| “We strive to foster an Islam that leaves no one behind in the greater Muslim community,” Ms. Lynn said. “On an individual level, people are very willing to listen and willing to visualize a version of Islam that includes everyone. The trouble comes at the level of institutions, and the level of power. More people need to actually speak up and put themselves on the line, because that’s the only way we’re going to get real change.” | “We strive to foster an Islam that leaves no one behind in the greater Muslim community,” Ms. Lynn said. “On an individual level, people are very willing to listen and willing to visualize a version of Islam that includes everyone. The trouble comes at the level of institutions, and the level of power. More people need to actually speak up and put themselves on the line, because that’s the only way we’re going to get real change.” |
| She added: “It’s time to move beyond ‘we exist.’” | She added: “It’s time to move beyond ‘we exist.’” |