Sakshi Venkatraman

Janani Ramachandran, 30, says she’s always lived at the intersection of two isolations. 

As an openly gay South Asian woman growing up post-9/11, she felt that few people could understand her specific experience — and that representation was nonexistent.

“I think it definitely is difficult for LGBTQ South Asians to feel their full selves in different spaces,” she told NBC Asian America. “I can feel uncomfortable in predominantly LGBTQ spaces, because I see very few people that look like me. In predominantly South Asian spaces, I also sometimes feel uncomfortable in not being reflected.”

Running for Oakland City Council this year, Ramachandran hopes to change that. If she’s successful, she’ll be the city’s first South Asian councilmember and the only LGBTQ woman councilmember in the state. 

Her run is reflective of what experts say is a demographic shift in the country’s politics. Since 2018, the number of LGBTQ Asians running for office has more than doubled. This year, that group is bigger than ever.

“We’re navigating a very challenging last couple of years with anti-Asian hate combined with anti-LGBTQ hate,” said Albert Fujii, press secretary of Victory Fund, an organization that supports LGBTQ people in politics. “It really says something about these candidates that they’re willing to be very visible.”

Two years into the Stop Asian Hate movement, Fujii says the changing climate for Asians has caused a dramatic increase in community members getting political. 

“I think that for so many folks who are interested in public service, sometimes it takes an event or a rough couple of years to be the catalyst for getting to that moment where enough is enough,” he said. 

In 2018, only 20 candidates nationwide identified as both Asian and LGBTQ. In 2020, that number only marginally increased, with 23 Asian LGBTQ names on the ballot. This year, there are 41, according to Victory Fund.

“Obviously, we have a long way to go in terms of addressing that representation gap,” Fujii said. “But we’ve come a long way.”

Sam Park, 36, a Korean American and the first openly gay man ever elected to Georgia’s state Legislature, says being the only Asian person at his Atlanta elementary school was surprisingly good practice. 

“I was terrified of running as an openly gay candidate, especially with my experience of growing up as a gay Asian in the South,” said Park, who is a Democrat and was elected in 2016. “As a son of immigrants who came from humble beginnings, politics seemed inaccessible.” 

He watched laws pass over the years codifying discrimination in Georgia and demonizing the LGBTQ community. Even in his own home, he said, he battled layers of conservatism. 

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“One was just being in the South and being in a conservative culture,” he said. “That was reinforced by growing up in a Korean house, which leans more conservative. … And then, I grew up a Southern Baptist. So I heard growing up that if you’re gay you’re an abomination. You go to hell.”

He spent his youth and early 20s reconciling being Korean American and being gay, he said, and as a community leader, both now feed seamlessly into his work. Much of his time in office is spent combating anti-Asian hate, whether that be granular incidents of violence or organized rhetoric from political machines. 

“The blatant xenophobia and racism that we’ve seen from Trump and Republicans in trying to scapegoat Asian Americans for the worst public health crisis in this country’s history,” he said. “I think it’s really made us [Asian Americans] understand why political participation is so important.” 

Running for reelection, he sees an entirely different landscape for Asian representation than when he first started.

“When it comes to Asian American political power and participation, we’ve seen a marked increase over the past five to six years, but really highlighted during the 2020 election,” he said. “In 2016, I was the only Asian American serving in the state Legislature. Now, I think there’s five or six, and each of them have made history in their own right.”

Having lived in both the U.S. and India, Ramachandran says she can draw parallels.

“Bangalore shows a lot of the same problems that Oakland does when it comes to gentrification, affordable housing, pollution, infrastructure and, of course, corruption,” she said.  

She’s grown up watching her mom fear dealing with police, and she’s experienced firsthand the misogyny that comes with trying to succeed as a woman. When she ran for the California state Assembly last year, she recalls many people in her life urging her not to. 

But her campaign was more successful than she could have imagined, she said. After making it to the runoff, she ultimately lost to Mia Bonta. 

The race ahead feels distinct, she said. There’s a potential for it to culminate in many “firsts” for her, but overall, Ramachandran says it represents a much broader cultural shift in who gets to run for office. 

“I remember so clearly everyone telling me not to do it just over a year ago,” she said. “I want to show people that this is changing. Voters are ready for things that are new. And if we’re going to say we support LGBTQ leadership, API, women leadership, our own communities have to step up.”

Ro Redfern-Taube, 20, was finishing up their sophomore year at the University of Chicago last March when the school decided to shut down its campus and send students home because of the spread of the coronavirus. Redfern-Taube, now a junior, returned to their parents’ home in New York City, where they said they’re not comfortable openly talking about their gender identity.

However, as a leader of GenderQ, their university’s only organization for transgender and nonbinary students, Redfern-Taube said they have felt compelled to be present and to create a safe space for a group of students that is starved of community. Over the past 11 months, that has included organizing Zoom hangouts, creating private chat servers and including LGBTQ first-years who might not have even seen campus.

“It’s definitely not the same as forming those organic connections between you and other people who might share your identities,” they said. “I miss parties.”

With many colleges and universities across the U.S. operating remotely, LGBTQ student groups are trying to find new — and virtual — ways to engage with students, some of whom are socially distancing with unaccepting relatives and in need of queer-affirming outlets.

“A lot of the burden, even before Covid, fell on the backs of students who provide their own services and support,” Shane Windmeyer, executive director of Campus Pride, said of LGBTQ-affirming events at universities across the U.S. “You have students who are trying to figure out their online courses and how to stay in school and dealing with their academics. Plus, now, if they’re a leader in a student group, ‘How do we create engagement with our members?'”

Windmeyer said LGBTQ student leaders are using a variety of social and digital platforms to stream live events for their peers, celebrate special occasions like National Coming Out Day, organize social and educational events and even plan “lavender graduations” for graduating seniors.

‘Togetherness in a virtual space’

Redfern-Taube founded GenderQ with fellow University of Chicago junior Will Harling after the two met in the first week of their freshman year. The pair said they quickly decided to dedicate their free time to forming connections with other trans, nonbinary and questioning students at the school. The on-campus experience, they said, was crucial to their personal growth.

“First year was particularly important to me as a nonbinary person and a queer person in general,” Redfern-Taube said. “Those were parts of my identity that I hadn’t really explored until the very end of high school and definitely wasn’t open about until I came to UChicago.”

Redfern-Taube described their campus as a “pretty queer-inclusive space” and said meeting people face to face and socializing at parties played important roles in their fully embracing their gender identity. Before the pandemic, GenderQ’s in-person events included weekly meetings, parties and casual hangouts on campus.

Harling lamented that current first-year students won’t have that experience.

“Community is such an important part of identity, especially marginalized identities,” they said. “Covid has taken community away from everybody.”

But Harling and Redfern-Taube are trying to make the best of a bad situation — and their efforts have paid off. Since the start of the pandemic, GenderQ has grown from around seven members to over 35, with more trans and nonbinary students turning to its video meetings, private chatrooms, virtual panels and remote speaker events.

It has been “a lot of trial and error,” Harling said, adding that they and Redfern-Taube have been using several social platforms to reach students, particularly first-years who might not have ever had an on-campus experience.

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Leslie Lim, a freshman at Vassar College in New York’s Hudson Valley region, started her undergraduate career remotely in a pandemic. Lim, a California native, said she decided to attend Vassar, which has a reputation as an LGBTQ-friendly institution, in the hope that a strong on-campus queer community would be a part of her college experience.

“I think what’s so integral about being a young person in the LGBTQ community is being in physical spaces and in community with one another,” said Lim, 18. “It’s so difficult to replicate the same feeling of togetherness in a virtual space.”

While Vassar is mostly remote, students are still able to live in the residence halls if they choose, and some courses permit in-person attendance for those on campus. Lim is among the students living at the school, and she took an in-person job at the university’s Women’s Center, which is in one of the few open buildings. Part of her job is to organize virtual programming to help LGBTQ students feel welcome and part of a community.

Last semester, she gave out clay to students in a no-contact pickup, and they all made clay figures together over Zoom. She also helped plan a “speed dating”-style Zoom event at which LGBTQ students on campus could meet and talk one on one.

“It really helps me,” Lim said of interacting with other students. “And I hope it helps my peers feel connected.”

‘A daunting task’

It’s not just undergraduate LGBTQ student groups that are trying to foster a virtual sense of community for their members — and with good reason.

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While the process is different for everyone, it isn’t uncommon for LGBTQ people to come out during or even after their undergraduate college years. A 2013 survey by the Pew Research Center found that the median age at which an LGBTQ person first comes out to a family member or a close friend is 20, with about a third of LGBTQ Americans reporting that they have never disclosed their sexual orientations or gender identities to parents. With millennials across the country moving home more than ever during the pandemic, even those beyond their undergrad years may seek support from LGBTQ-affirming student groups.

That’s why the LGBTQ student group at Harvard University’s Graduate School of Arts and Sciences has been creating virtual events for members since the school started operating remotely in March.

“It is a rather daunting task,” said James Evans, the group’s vice president, adding that he and the group’s other student leaders are creating programming without the help of the university.

Evans, 30, said the group has hosted 25 hours of Zoom events, including trivia nights, costume balls and panels, to engage students who need the support and community. They have also launched a “buddy” program to make sure new students are integrated and feel welcome.

Evans and the group’s other leaders, however, recognize that they alone can’t provide all the support their members need.

Malinda McPherson, one of the group’s co-presidents, said: “It’s particularly difficult to be student volunteers working to create support structures for LGBTQ+ graduate students when we ourselves are LGBTQ+ students who need support. Mental health for queer students is more at risk compared to our peers, and the pandemic has probably exacerbated that existing divide.”

Even before the global health crisis, LGBTQ people were at greater risk of mental health issues like depression and anxiety, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. The pandemic has only aggravated those issues.

An LGBTQ-affirming community is about more than socializing, and its absence can be dangerous, Windmeyer said. He said some students have lost access to the LGBTQ-affirming health care services they had on campus, while others are forced to stay in unaccepting environments.

“What we find is that LGBTQ students before Covid were some of the most vulnerable, especially our trans, nonbinary [and] our youth of color,” he said. “That didn’t change with Covid. It actually got worse.”

He said the suffocation of being in an LGBTQ-unfriendly environment is, in some cases, compounded by not being able to talk openly in video support groups and other queer-affirming online events.

“We had one individual who volunteered for us because they wanted something to do that was kind of queer,” Windmeyer said. “They couldn’t talk about ‘LGBTQ.’ We basically had to use another word.”

Even Redfern-Taube, who leads their campus group, said they would leave their parents’ home and take walks when running virtual meetings for GenderQ through the Zoom app on their cellphone. And for GenderQ members who don’t feel comfortable talking out loud in their homes, Redfern-Taube and Harling created a messaging space where students can type written messages to one another.

While virtual spaces aren’t perfect substitutes for in-person connections, the ability to foster community with their members and provide a safe space has been their goal since they started the group.

“I think they’re genuinely grateful that it exists,” Redfern-Taube said of GenderQ’s growing membership.

Adrian Tam, a 28-year-old gay Asian American son of immigrants, defeated a leader of the Hawaii chapter of the Proud Boys, a far-right extremist group, to become the only openly LGBTQ person in Hawaii’s Legislature.

Tam, a first-time candidate, took 63 percent of the vote against Nicholas Ochs.

“It feels really good to know that someone who is openly LGBT can win,” Tam told NBC Asian America. “There was a time when people like me could not win. I’m glad that I can bring that representation to the capital.”

Tam described what was a nerve-wracking election season, from trying to connect with voters amid coronavirus, to narrowly taking down longtime incumbent Tom Brower in the August Democratic primary, to facing an overwhelming amount of hate from Ochs and his supporters in the general election.

“It’s almost to a harassment level,” Tam said, noting that Ochs’ supporters bombarded his campaign’s social media to the point where the messages from his own voters were drowned out.

Ochs told NBC News he also faced harassing messages from Tam’s supporters and that he was disappointed the two didn’t get a chance to debate. He said that he is not racist.

Ochs’ campaign page was removed by Facebook in September for posts that violated the platform’s terms of service and community standards, local station KITV reported. He has been criticized in the past for offensive posts toward Black, Jewish and LGBT communities. Facebook did not respond to NBC News’ request for comment.

Tam said part of his job now is to serve even those who directed hate toward him and his allies.

“I wanted our community to come together,” he said. “I wanted to let everyone know that I’m a public servant that will work with everyone. My office door will always be open to them and their families.”

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Tam’s agenda includes recovery from the coronavirus pandemic, strengthening the nontourism economy and improving resources for the homeless. Hawaii has the third-highest rate of homelessness in the country, according to a 2019 study, and Tam says the problem is especially prevalent in his district.

Brower, who assumed office in 2006, once smashed the belongings of homeless people in the district.

“We needed new leadership,” Tam said. “It was time for change, and I wanted to step up to the plate.”

Annise Parker, president of the LGBTQ Victory Fund, a political action committee that supports LGBTQ people running for office, said that when there are no LGBTQ elected officials in a state, “it has consequences, both in policy and how young LGBTQ people view themselves.”

“Adrian will ensure LGBTQ people are considered and prioritized in the state capitol and will inspire more LGBTQ people to run and serve,” Parker said in a statement.

Tam reflected on the record number of LGBTQ and people of color elected to local and national government across the U.S.

“I’m glad that our Congress is slowly coming together and starting to look like the population of America,” he said.

Chicago’s LGBTQ neighborhood is dropping its longtime nickname, “Boystown,” following a petition started by a local activist claiming the moniker lacks inclusivity and promotes bigotry.

“The Castro, Greenwich Village, West Hollywood, and many more. LGBTQ neighborhoods exist for all intersections of queer identity. Chicago’s is the only gendered nickname,” said the petition, which was addressed to the Northalsted Business Alliance.

Last week, the alliance announced that it would no longer use the nickname in its marketing campaigns when referring to the neighborhood, which sits on the city’s North Side. Instead, it will revert to the name Northalsted.

“While a personal identifier cannot encompass the full diversity of our town, the name Northalsted, signifies the place, its entire community & history, inclusively,” the alliance said in a statement.

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In a survey conducted by the alliance, which had nearly 8,000 respondents, 58 percent favored keeping the “Boystown” moniker, and 80 percent said they did not feel unwelcome by the nickname.

“While an overall majority neither were offended by the name nor want it changed, those identifying as Lesbian, Transgender, non-binary and queer largely do favor a name change,” the statement said. “To acknowledge and welcome all members of the LGBTQ+ community, the chamber will discontinue using the name Boystown in marketing and revert to the long standing name Northalsted.”

The Boystown nickname has been in use since the 1980s to represent what the alliance said has historically been a safe place for LGBTQ people. In 1997, then-Mayor Richard Daley officially recognized the neighborhood as a gay village, the first such designation in the country, according to the Chicago Sun-Times.

Former Tallahassee Mayor Andrew Gillum came out as bisexual Monday in an interview with broadcaster Tamron Hall.

“You put it out there whether or not I identify as gay, and the answer is I don’t identify as gay, but I do identify as bisexual,” Gillum told Hall.

It’s the first time the 2018 Democratic nominee for governor in Florida has spoken publicly about his sexuality.

“Coming out as bi+ looks different for every person,” tweeted Alphonso David, president of the Human Rights Campaign, a national LGBTQ civil rights group. “No matter the circumstances, all people deserve respect. @AndrewGillum sharing his story will no doubt help others who may be struggling with coming out on their own terms.”

Gillum’s supporters celebrated his decision on social media.

Gillum’s conversation with Hall on her new syndicated talk show marks his first sit-down interview since he was found inebriated in a Miami Beach hotel room in March with a man who had reportedly overdosed. A photo of Gillum unconscious at the scene was leaked. Gillum, who was not charged in the incident, spoke about the event that derailed his once-promising political career. He also opened up about his struggles with mental health and alcohol abuse after losing the 2018 governor’s race to Republican Ron DeSantis by less than 35,000 votes (less than half a percentage point).

“When that photo came out, I didn’t recognize the person on the floor,” Gillum told Hall. “That was not anything more than a person being at their most vulnerable state. Unconscious, having given no consent and someone decided to use a moment where I was literally laying in my own vomit.”

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He said that he checked into a rehabilitation center to be treated for alcoholism and depression following the incident. He credits therapy and his wife for helping him get through the fallout.

“I’m still here by the grace of God,” he said. “So much of my recovery has been about trying to get over shame.”

For Fabliha Anbar, 20, her LGBTQ identity is an important part of her social and academic life. She’s out to friends, on social media and at her progressive university, where she founded the South Asian Queer and Trans Collective. But last month, when her campus closed due to the global coronavirus pandemic, Anbar returned home — and back to the proverbial closet.

“Having to go home and act a certain way 24/7 is a means for survival,” said Anbar, who asked that the name of her university and hometown not be published. “That can be straining emotionally and extremely damaging.”

For the past six weeks, Anbar has been self-isolating in a small, two-bedroom house with her parents, whom she said she doesn’t feel safe coming out to.

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Anbar’s situation is not unique. Since schools across the U.S. started to close in mid-March to help stem the spread of the coronavirus, LGBTQ advocates say a number of queer youth and young adults have lost crucial support systems and have been forced to self-isolate with unsupportive family members.

“They may have had to go back in the closet if they were out at school. If they had support from a GSA or an LGBTQ club or group at school, they don’t have that anymore,” said Ellen Kahn, senior director of programs and partnerships at the Human Rights Campaign, the country’s largest LGBTQ rights group.

Kahn said she’s particularly concerned about those “who are in overtly hostile environments,” saying, “It could put them at risk of physical or emotional abuse; it could force them out to the streets.”

‘Students might feel isolated’

Danushi Fernando, the director of LGBTQ and gender resources at Vassar College in New York, said a number of students with whom she works “voiced their concerns” about returning home when the campus announced it would close last month.

“We are super aware that there are people who are not able to go back to their homes because either they’re not safe, or students aren’t out to their families,” she said.

After discussing this situation with the university administration, Vassar opened up some dorms on a case-by-case basis to students who felt unsafe leaving.

But for some of those who did leave — thinking their departure would just be for an extended spring break — living back at their parents’ house has been uncomfortable or isolating.

“There are lots of times that students might feel isolated,” she said. “There are students who have reached out like, ‘Do you know of anyone in Idaho that I could connect with?’”

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As for Anbar, she said she’s been hosting virtual programming and support groups over Zoom, joined by people from all over the world, for the South Asian Queer and Trans Collective. If she’s within earshot of her parents, she said she has to be careful.

“It does get kind of scary,” she said. “That’s why I make sure to be very careful about the words that I choose. I usually take advantage of the language barrier between me and my parents. I say things like ‘queer’ rather than ‘lesbian.’”

When speaking to her parents, she said she describes the South Asian Queer and Trans Collective, the organization she dedicates so much time to, as a “feminist collective,” which she said “isn’t entirely wrong.”

‘Stuck at home with abusers’

In the weeks following school closures, child abuse and neglect hotlines, like the Childhelp National Child Abuse Hotline, reported an inundation of calls and texts from young people newly confined to unsafe environments.

“A lot of these young people are stuck at home with abusers,” Daphne Young, the organization’s chief communications officer, said. “College kids are coming home from school and have to re-enter the home with perpetrators.”

Young said LGBTQ youth and adolescents have consistently been among their callers.

She also noted that the financial strain caused by the pandemic has the potential to make bad environments even worse.

“Whatever was the stressor or the discord between the family, you now have compound trauma,” Young said.

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Like Childhelp, The Trevor Project, a suicide prevention and crisis intervention organization for LGBTQ young people, reported a steep increase in the number of youth and young adults who have reached out to its 24/7 hotline.

The New York-based nonprofit published a white paper last month outlining the “serious implications” the COVID-19 crisis could have on the mental health of LGBTQ youth. The organization cited the physical distancing, economic strain and increased anxiety related to the pandemic as being among the most worrisome problems.

“LGBTQ young people … are already at risk of discrimination and isolation, which can impact their mental health,” Amit Paley, the organization’s CEO, said last month in an interview with MSNBC. “For a lot of LGBTQ young people, the main sources of support that they get are at their schools, at clubs, at community centers, at physical spaces that they no longer have access to. … Not being able to connect with some of those really important, positive influences in your life can be extremely challenging for LGBTQ youth right now.”

‘An opportunity’ for parents

Two thirds of LGBTQ youth hear their families make negative comments about LGBTQ people, and only 1 in 4 feel like they can be themselves at home, according to data from the Human Rights Campaign.

“If you’re that kid, whether you’re 6 or 12 or 18, that changes dramatically how you feel in your own skin, how you can thrive or not in your family,” Kahn said.

Human Rights Campaign✔@HRC · Mar 17, 2020Replying to @HRC

This decision to ask students to leave could be particularly disruptive for LGBTQ students — who may lack family support or a home to return to.

LGBTQ youth are 120% more likely to experience homelessness than their straight & cisgender peers. https://www.hrc.org/blog/new-report-on-youth-homeless-affirms-that-lgbtq-youth-disproportionately-ex …LGBTQ Youth Disproportionately Experience HomelessnessA new report on youth homelessness found that LGBTQ young adults had a higher risk of reporting homelessness compared to youth who identified as heterosexual and cisgender.hrc.org

Human Rights Campaign✔@HRC

.@HRC data shows that nearly half of all LGBTQ youth say their families make them feel bad for their sexual orientation or gender identity.

Some face mental and physical abuse at home, while others have been kicked out.

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