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More than 200 people recently crammed themselves into an elementary school gymnasium in rural Maine. Bleachers filled to capacity, some folks sat on folding chairs arranged across the floor, and others could only find space leaning against walls. A sea of trans pride flags waved, but the mood was somber as dozens of community members testified, until 2:00 a.m., begging the school board not to eliminate a policy that protected trans students.
Scenes like this are playing out in towns across the country, as trans children and families fight for their rights in the face of legislative bigotry. Fueled by vilification in right-wing media and well-funded lobbying groups, 625 anti-trans bills have been introduced in state legislatures, in 2024 alone, with 193 of them targeting kids in schools.
Despite these daunting odds, communities like mine are fighting back so that every child can attend school safely and be welcomed in the fullness of who they are. What went down in Maine, for example, offers a roadmap for how a town can reclaim power from those who wield it for harm.
From the beginning of the June school board meeting in Maine's RSU 40 district in Union, it was clear that the overwhelming majority of people assembled supported the existing nondiscrimination policy. Quite basic in its construction, the ordinance simply translated Maine’s LGBTQIA+ legal protections into clear guidance for teachers and administrators: It instructed educators to use the students’ correct pronouns, enabled trans students to use the appropriate bathroom, prohibited bullying, and prevented teachers from outing students to their parents. The policy had already been in place for six years without incident, yet some board members were still trying to kill it.
Repeatedly, the board heard from school staff about the urgent need for this policy. As one social worker bluntly put it, “It would be really super if you could keep the transgender policy in place because it helps us do our job on the ground, with the students that we work with. Deleting the policy isn’t going to delete the students I work with who identify as transgender; they’re still going to be there.”
Educators tried to gently instruct board members on the facts of gender identity, such as the middle school science teacher who pointed out, “The assertion that only binary male and female exists is simply not science,” further pleading to the board that, “Policy decisions ought to be based on evidence, research, and objective reality.”
The simmering confusion and anger many felt about the board’s intention was neatly summed up in a librarian’s plaintive question: “Why cause fear and panic in children who are only trying to receive an education?”
But the evening’s most powerful testimony came from students themselves. One trans student named the stakes very clearly: “Without the support of this district, specifically, I don’t think I would be here with all of you tonight,” they said. “This policy is single-handedly the main reason I’m able to speak.”
A ninth-grader who presented a petition against the policy, which was signed by more than 100 students in the district, wryly observed, “It seems our lives at school are about political agendas to some members of the board, not our education.” And, with a hint at the events to come, a high school senior cautioned, “If you hear our views and continue with the removal of this policy, you are showing us — the teachers, the parents, and staff members in this district — that your actions are not truly in our best interest. I suggest you think hard before making a decision that sends this message.”
When public comment ended, 77 people had spoken in favor of the policy; only 22 opposed. But in the end, it didn’t matter: The board voted to eliminate the policy. In comments defending her vote, board member Jeanette Wheeler offered trans students conversion, not protection. “I say they’re hopeless, and if [the trans children] could search for something in their lives,” she said, “my thought is, Why not Jesus Christ?”
Consider what happened in that gymnasium. A trans teenager had the courage to tell the board that they might have died by suicide if it wasn’t for the school’s affirming policies. The board also heard from a child psychologist who testified to the higher risk of suicidality. Teachers and administrators pleaded to keep the policy. Parents of trans and gender-nonconforming students begged for compassion. OUTMaine board members testified, citing research from the University of Southern Maine showing that LGBTQIA+ students in the state are eight times more likely to be bullied because of their perceived sexuality or gender expression and nearly four times as likely to seriously consider suicide. These desperate warnings were not heeded. Through their votes, conservative board members pushed policy forward that research shows increases the likelihood of bullying and even death.
Sadly, these dynamics are playing out across the country as lawmakers enact transphobic laws despite widespread protest. Groups like Moms for Liberty have identified school boards as the new frontline in their hateful crusade, and the fruits of that effort are many. Idaho passed a law defining male and female as the only two legal genders, making it illegal to punish teachers who refuse to use a student's chosen pronouns. Louisiana prohibited teachers from any instruction about sexuality and gender identity. Tennessee passed a bill that compels school administrators to out queer children to their parents. Sometimes it can feel as if queer youth face an unstoppable avalanche. And yet, the parable in rural Maine has a radiant ending because of what community members did next.
After bitter disappointment at the hearing, it would have been easy to spend time ruminating on the board’s fundamental betrayal of the students it is called to serve. Instead, folks got busy. Seeing that there were four open board seats but only two progressive candidates running, they organized a write-in campaign. Parents, youth, and a coalition of the loving hosted sign-painting parties, sent postcards, and knocked on doors, encouraging their neighbors to ink the name of Leah Shipps, a lifelong Mainer and mother of two children in the local schools, on their ballots. It worked: Shipps was elected by a margin of just 67 votes, defeating a candidate who had tried to get the book Gender Queer banned from local schools.
This Pride, queer students in my small town saw neighbors who were willing to fight for their ability to thrive. Trans rights aren’t a “big-city” issue; they’re woven into the fabric of every community. Trans people are our neighbors, children, coworkers, and friends. And appealing to the empathy of people determined to harm queer youth is simply not sufficient.
As one mother of a trans child said through her tears, “As a parent, I’ve been so upset about our voices not being enough to protect them.” In a moral and just world, her testimony would be enough. The plea of a trans child asking to be treated with basic dignity and respect would win the necessary votes. But we do not have time to wait for the conversion of unwilling hearts. Instead, we must take power and wield it, so every queer person hears an unmistakable message: You are not alone. We will fight this, and we will win.
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