In a recent article, Mother Jones highlighted a chilling resurgence of fear among LGBTQ+ federal employees, reminiscent of the oppressive Lavender Scare of the 1950s. The Trump administration’s recent policies, including a memorandum from the Office of Personnel Management prohibiting employee resource groups that promote diversity initiatives, have instilled anxiety among LGBTQ+ workers. 

Reports of mass terminations and demands for the names of LGBTQ+ employee resource group leaders have only heightened these concerns. This hostile environment has forced many LGBTQ+ resource groups to go underground, as employees fear being targeted or fired based on their gender identity or sexual orientation.

Then, as The Advocate reported, the Trump Administration announced earlier this month the launch of EndDEI.ed.gov, which allows anyone to report “divisive ideologies and indoctrination,” dubbing it “illegal discriminatory practices at institutions of learning.” Thankfully, it’s getting hit with tons of spam. 

This won’t be a one-off. More than likely, the Trump Administration is returning to the era of snitching on LGBTQ+ people and other so-called “deviants.”

Reflecting on my own experiences working on Capitol Hill during the late 1980s and 1990s, I am struck by the haunting parallels between then and now. Back then, the federal government was a treacherous landscape for queer individuals. The fear of being outed was pervasive, and the consequences were dire. I was constantly looking over my shoulder.

To navigate this perilous environment, I and other gay Hill staffers developed covert methods to connect. When I had dates, for example, we would arrange clandestine meetings on street corners. And when I dated a Marine, we slipped into movie theaters only after the lights dimmed and the film had begun. This ensured our interactions remained shrouded in darkness. That’s the way he wanted it, and I didn’t mind, because I too, felt like I was doing something wrong.

I remember being in the hallways of the Canon, Longworth, and Rayburn congressional buildings, and I would occasionally pass other gay men I recognized from bars. Our eyes would avoid contact, and we would walk past each other without a hint of acknowledgment, each encounter a silent pact of mutual protection — at least that’s what I assumed.

The specter of HIV/AIDS also loomed large during this era. I recall instances where two colleagues were present in the office one day and then vanished the next, never to return. Whispers would circulate, hinting that they had succumbed to the disease that society stigmatized and feared. These losses were profound, yet mourning was a solitary act, as openly expressing grief could inadvertently reveal your own hidden identity.

The constant pressure to conceal your true self inevitably led to moments of personal turmoil. For example, one night, after consuming more alcohol than I should have, which was a near nightly occurrence, I made an ill-advised advance toward a straight friend. The following day, he confronted me, directly asking if I was gay. Panic surged through me, and I vehemently denied it. I was so ashamed. I remember after I walked away just wanting to go hide somewhere and never come back. 

Seeking refuge and a sense of community, I would occasionally escape to places like Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. It was a literal escape, since I was in a beach house in Dewey Beach, which is where all the straight D.C. crowd partied.

I usually got wasted with my friends, snuck away at some point, and jumped on the “Jolley Trolley” which took you back and forth from Dewey to Rehoboth. I would slip off in the dark, and drunkenly hit the gay bars trying to hook up.

It was during one such visit in the late 80s that I met a guy and went home with him after the bars closed. To my horror, the house was filled with individuals who identified as Reagan Republicans, all deeply closeted. I recognized some of them because they were prominent. I was quite surprised. The dissonance between their public personas and their private lives was glaring, underscoring the pervasive fear that drove so many of us to live dual existences.

The Showtime series Fellow Travelers, which aired last year, poignantly depicted the harrowing reality of hiding one’s sexuality within the corridors of power. The show illuminated the devastating consequences of exposure, mirroring the very real dangers that many of us faced.

In conversations with James Kirchick, author of Secret City: The Hidden History of Gay Washington, I found a profound resonance with my own experiences. Kirchick’s meticulous chronicle of the clandestine lives led by gay individuals in D.C. sheds light on the systemic discrimination that was rampant in the federal government. 

His work delves into how, for decades, policies explicitly barred homosexuals from federal employment, branding them as security risks and moral deviants. This institutionalized bigotry not only deprived countless talented individuals of careers but also perpetuated a culture of fear and secrecy. 

And it shocks and deeply saddens me that we might be returning to this unacceptable misery.

The recent developments reported by Mother Jones are a stark reminder of a past many hoped was long buried, including me. The revival of policies that marginalize and endanger LGBTQ individuals in federal service is not just a regression but a profound injustice. If you’re someone of a certain age like me, it’s enormously difficult to believe that this might be happening again.

And if you are from a younger generation, you need to do everything you can to fight back. 

It is imperative that all of us recognize these patterns and advocate fiercely for an environment where no one is compelled to hide their true self in fear of retribution. The lessons of the past demand that we strive for a future where authenticity is met with acceptance, and where diversity is celebrated as the strength it truly is.

Trust me, you don’t want to meet on street corners or dark theaters again. If those days are truly behind us, then we must be more visible than ever.