Opinion: A trans teen reflects on one year of North Carolina’s “Don’t Say LGBTQ” law

To be 15 is to be naïve—it’s being part of a walkout with over a thousand other students to protest the first ever ‘Don’t Say LGBTQ’ bill passed in Florida, and not being able to imagine a similar law passing in your own home state. It’s the hope that lingers with you for months after crowding around a little table to paint protest signs at your school’s Genders and Sexualities Alliance (GSA). It’s the joy that seeps out in nervous giggles as you hang a pride flag around your neck and walk out of class to line up on bleachers and stand in solidarity with LGBTQ youth that you believe live in a hellscape that will never reach you. 

Being 15 is knowing that even those who aren’t seen as people deserve healthcare, and failing to notice that it’s your personhood in dispute.

It didn’t take long for me to be forced to grow up. On August 16, 2023, just a year and a half after the passage of Florida’s ‘Don’t Say LGBTQ’ law, three bills targeting LGBTQ youth were enacted in North Carolina. They included SB 49, the so-called ‘Parents’ Bill of Rights’ or ‘Don’t Say LGBTQ’ bill; HB 808, which restricts gender-affirming healthcare for youth under the age of 18; and HB 574, the ‘Fairness in Womens’ Sports Act,’ which prohibits trans athletes from competing on teams that align with their gender identities. All three bills have the consequence of terrorizing LGBTQ youth and their families and inflating fears of boogeymen that don’t exist.

July 1, 2023 was the day I first remember feeling the terror these bills incited in my community. I’d just arrived in Syracuse, New York to take a class on international relations, and I was sitting on my phone, putting off reading through a textbook thicker than my head, as you can imagine any 16-year-old boy might be inclined to do. A news notification anticipating that North Carolina’s Republican supermajority would override Gov. Roy Cooper’s expected veto of the three bills sent me into a state of grief, rage, and terror vivid enough to last with me for the next two weeks of classes. 

In the back of my mind through every conversation I had, every walk I took between class and my dorm, and every hit of my inhaler was the knowledge that when the class ended, I had to go home. I began to realize that if there had been any chance at all to never return, I’d take it.

On August 16th, 2023, just over a month later, I watched with horror as my community began to scramble. I’d been elected to the board of my school’s GSA months prior, and for the first time, I was fully aware that we were falling without a safety net. Over the course of the school year that followed, I watched as fear introduced itself to trans kids in new ways. 

For those of us with unsupportive parents, the ‘Don’t Say LGBTQ’ law forced us to actively hide the fact that we’re trans, rather than using preferred names and pronouns with friends, or unofficially in classrooms. I watched as the confusion surrounding the law and its enforcement caused queer students to be hypervigilant around teachers they were unsure they could trust. I watched as the culture surrounding being trans backslid years over the course of weeks—as trans girls in particular became terrified of being outed or even suspected of being trans, stopped talking about being trans in class, and stopped coming out to teachers they connected with privately. 

I joined my fellow GSA board members to meet with educational leaders from my county, including our County Central Area superintendent, to discuss the implementation of the ‘Don’t Say LGBTQ’ law. I heard private messages of support and sympathy and promises to protect trans students the way every student deserves to be protected. Despite this, I also watched as the world around me at large seemed to remain silent. 

This silence—the complete lack of surprise, outrage or reaction at the passage of three extreme anti-LGBTQ bills in my home state—was what led me to do months of research into the cause of the recent nation-wide regression in trans rights, about which I have made several conclusions. The most relevant conclusion of mine is that there is little way to comfort someone whose body is changing against their will due to puberty and has just been told that there is no nearby relief. 

This is because gender-affirming care is preventative care associated with substantial decreases in depression and anxiety in a group of people whose lifetime suicide attempts are estimated to be nine times that of the general American population. At 16, the realization that a gender-affirming care ban would be passed sparked some of the darkest depression of my life. I can confidently say I would not be here if I hadn’t been surrounded with people in the weeks after I realized that North Carolina was next. 

Gender affirming surgeries have a regret rate under 1%—a rate lower than that of knee replacement surgery, elective plastic surgery, and non-surgical major life decisions such as having children or getting a tattoo. This is because gender affirming care is not an impulsive decision—it is a remarkably long process that, for the trans teens that HB 808 targets, requires an understanding of gender-affirming care and the informed consent of both the teen and their parents. 

Access to an affirming environment is also preventative care—and the ‘Don’t Say LGBTQ’ denies this to the teens most in need of that care. Widespread, genuine misconceptions regarding trans people are being abused to fuel anti-LGBTQ sentiments and legislation. In the process, trans people are losing the right to place their trust in their teachers, and crucially, the right to access lifesaving preventative healthcare. Access to healthcare saves lives, and gender-affirming care has never been anything but that.