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via Mick Haupt/Unsplash
A child looks really upset on a playground.

Robbie Pierce, his husband, Neal Broverman are no strangers to bigotry. The men and their two young children were traveling on an Amtrak train in California in 2022 when they were harassed by a fellow passenger at a stop in San Jose; an incident that made headlines.

"All of a sudden, there was a man standing there next to me," Pierce told The Advocate. The man told their son, "Remember what I told you earlier. They stole you and they're pedophiles," Pierce recounts. The man also said that gay people are abominations. (Broverman is the editorial director for print media at Pride, The Advocate's parent company.)

The police were called and the man was thrown off the train, but the incident was a frightening reminder that gay families could be the target of bigots any time and anywhere, even in liberal Northern California. "It's a new level of homophobia out there," Pierce added.

Seven months later, Pierce’s son was the victim of harassment, this time from a child at a park.


lgbtq families, religious trauma, indoctrination, gay, lgbtq, bullying, hate, advocacy, parenting, lgbtq parentingA day at the park turned hateful and confrontation for Roobie Pierce and his son.Dakota Lim/Unsplash

"A random unattended 7-year-old at the park told me and my son that gay people are the devil,” he recounted in a viral X thread. "My son scoffed, but the boy said it was true because God said so."

Maybe it was the incident months prior. Maybe it was a lifetime of harassment and judgment. But whatever it was, in that moment, Pierce had had enough. He reacted to the boy’s hatred — which he probably learned at home — with his own lesson.

“I told him parents made up God to make their Kids do what they want. His eyes got so big,” he wrote on X.

It's worth wondering: Did God really 'say so'? Biblical scholars are split on the Bible's true message around homosexuality. It appears open to interpretation, and it's clear that many people choose to interpret the words in a hateful and negative way, going so far as to show their children that it's OK to approach and confront gay people over their identities.

Addressing complex issues like religion and sexuality with a young child, who’s a stranger, is a tricky needle to thread, so Pierce admits he had some reservations about his response. But he stands by his decision.

“I'm sorry but if you teach your kids to hate I'm going to teach them to disobey you," he wrote on X.

As someone who has been harassed by religious, homophobic people in the past, Pierce took the opportunity to help steer a young child away from hatred. At the age of 7, most children believe whatever their parents tell them. However, Pierce planted a seed in the child’s mind that may one day encourage him to challenge his indoctrination when he gets older. The kid will likely remember that interaction for many years to come, and may look back at it with shame one day. That shame could be the much-needed catalyst for change.

"I was shocked at first and then...well...you may have planted a seed to grow a fine human out of the little homophobic bigot he was being trained up as. I can't argue with that," one user wrote on X.

The vast majority of commenters on X agreed with Pierce’s response to the child’s comment.

However, some people thought Pierce’s response to the child was inappropriate.

Bigoted words or not, it was still a child, and many people thought there may have been a more tactful way to teach the kid a lesson rather than invalidating his entire faith. Or perhaps Pierce could have tracked down the boy's parents and given them an earful instead.

One thing is clear: Something in our culture is definitely broken when we're more intent on policing people's responses to bigotry and hate versus addressing the root cause of these divides. The boy's parents should be the one on trial in the court of public opinion for teaching their son that this kind of behavior is acceptable.

No matter how one feels about Pierce’s reaction, what’s clear is that there is something very inappropriate about a 7-year-old child openly harassing LGBTQ families. The unfortunate problem is that this type of hyper-religious upbringing can cause lasting emotional and psychological trauma to a child. And it’s a common problem. A recent study in the growing field of religious trauma found that 1 in 3 Americans suffer from trauma related to religion at some point in their life.

While we might be quick to dismiss the child’s behavior as innocent or simply as a symptom of growing up in a religious household, the more we learn about religious trauma, the more these children appear to be the victims of abuse. Hopefully Pierce's words will help the boy rethink his relationship with his faith, and his parents, down the road.

This article originally appeared last year. It has been updated.

Photo by Anthony Intraversato on Unsplash

Nervously, I reached into my purse and pulled out my ID, flashing it to the bouncer. It was 6 p.m. and I'd just come from work. My roommates were supposed to meet me, but they were always late, and tonight was no exception. So, it was with a pounding heart that I faced the crowd alone, trying to find the least threatening person to approach.

It was my first Democratic Socialists of America (DSA) meeting, specifically for those in the LGBT community, and I thought I'd found my people. Queer and political, sign me up. But as I took a closer look at those milling around, I realized that the space didn't look that different from what I was used to. I was still in the minority, because of both my race and gender. I was still being talked at by men who thought they knew more than me. I was still around people who seemed to assume that everyone wanted sex.

One of the only other women in the group came up to me and said "It's good to see another one of us here." "Another what?" I asked, a bit confused. "Another lesbian," she replied easily, as if it were obvious.


But that was not true. I'm not a lesbian. I'm asexual. And I had thought that coming to a group geared toward LGBT individuals—the full acronym being LGBTQIA+, where the A stands for asexual (also known as "ace")—would have allowed me the opportunity to meet others who identified similarly.

After figuring out that I was asexual, I thought finding community would be easier

I'd done all the hard work of figuring out that I was ace—I thought that finding a community would be easier. After years of internalizing heteronormativity, of consuming various movies and books where sex and relationships were presented as the ultimate goals, it was no wonder that it took me such a long time to realize that I didn't want that. And even longer still to accept and embrace that part of my identity, to realize that there were others who felt the same way. There was a whole community out there if I could just find them.

With the DSA LGBT event, I finally thought that I had. It turned out that it wouldn't be that simple. I kept attending events with queer and LGBT+ labels attached to them, hoping that I'd find someone who would understand. But I was realizing that just because we shared the queer label did not mean that we shared experiences. Many understood being different, sure, but not the difference that I felt. They still experienced sexual attraction, just not of the heteronormative variety. Sometimes, these spaces were even more sexualized as people felt comfortable expressing themselves in ways they couldn't in everyday life.

To find other ace people, I had to look elsewhere

When I was unable to find the community I was searching for by going to in-person events, I turned to the internet. Once I knew the terminology, I was able to search on various social media sites. I started following a blog on Tumblr that posted about ace topics. I began to see others post about experiences that mirrored my own.

It was on Instagram that I found a community of ace individuals in New York, where I live. They posted various resources for asexuals and even hosted monthly events. What I'd so desperately wanted earlier, an in-person community, was suddenly within my grasp. The page posted about a new support group for asexuals, and I decided to go.

What struck me first was that the room was diverse—there were a lot of non-cis men and a lot of POC folks. The organizers were women of color. As people began to share their stories, I felt a sense of calm envelop my body—I had found people who understood me. They had been uncomfortable in high school because they didn't understand everyone's desire to have sex. They had faced challenges navigating dating when sexual intimacy was something that may not even be on the table. They were older and wiser and made me feel like it was all going to be alright.

I may not feel like I belong in all queer spaces, but I've found a queer space that fits me. This space, and the people in it, provide me with the confidence to live my life authentically, to embrace the ace part of my identity. And when I inevitably encounter those who don't understand me, I know I've got a place to go for support.

On Friday, April 25th, Matthew Easton gave a commencement speech at Brigham Young University to 10,000 people that included a rather unexpected declaration: he came out as gay.  

“I stand before my family, friends and graduating class today to say that I am proud to be a gay son of God," he said. His words were immediately met with deafening cheers from people in the audience, including his sister, who momentarily dropped the phone she was using to record his speech in her excitement.

“Four years ago, it would have been impossible for me to imagine that I would come out to my entire college,” he continued in the speech. “It is a phenomenal feeling. And it is a victory for me in and of itself.”


“I am not broken. I am loved and important to the plan of our great creator. Each of us are.”

His announcement comes at a significant moment at BYU when students are taking a stand against the university's strict and archaic "honor code" which declares homosexual intimacy and relationships forbidden.  

However Easton, like the activists fighting against the honor code, made it clear that his declaration is by no means a break from the Church of Latter-Day Saints, in fact, quite the opposite. It's more about reclaiming his faith as the person he's always been rather than keeping his inner truth hidden because previous generations of Mormons are having a hard time embracing differences.

“My generation, and even more so the generation after me, we’re changing the way we talk about our identity and who we are,” Easton told the Washington Post. “It’s okay to be different, or not fit the norm. When I started at BYU, I didn’t think that. I thought that I had to be what everyone before me was. I do feel from my own experience that this is changing, or maybe I’m changing. I hope that our country, my faith, my community will follow in a similar fashion.”

But Easton's speech was much more than a personal declaration. He's paving the way for other LGBT people who might be at odds with their religion to stand up and embrace who they are.

Representation in the public spotlight matters. In fact, another gay man who's been getting a lot of media attention lately is part of what inspired Easton in the first place.

Pete Buttigieg, the mayor of South Bend, Indiana and presidential candidate who's been making waves in the democrat pool, has spoken numerous times about the intersection of his faith and his sexuality. He's also stood in support of younger Christians who are speaking out against the more traditional, often bigoted teachings of their church, and thus protesting having Vice President Mike Pence speak at their graduation ceremonies.

“That’s the thing I wish the Mike Pences of the world would understand: That if you have a problem with who I am, your quarrel is not with me,” Buttigieg said earlier this month in his speech at the LGBTQ Victory Fund. “Your quarrel, sir, is with my creator.”

Easton was thrilled with the overwhelmingly positive response his speech has garnered, not just within BYU, but around the world. He's still got a long way to go in terms of his personal journey, but coming out publicly was a big step forward.

"To have a group that I had for so long thought would hate me or ostracize me actually celebrate and accept me, it was awesome."

Watch Eaton's whole speech here:

Like many gay couples, Matthew Eledge and his husband Elliot Dougherty desperately wanted to have their own children. But being in a same-sex relationship called for them to be a little more creative in how they achieved that dream.

At 59 years old, Matthew’s mother, Cecile Eledge, was supportive and excited to be a grandma. So excited — that she offered to serve as the surrogate and carry her own grandchild.


While it began as sort of a family joke, eventually the idea grew into something inexplicably wonderful. Eledge and Dougherty’s daughter Uma Louise.

"It just seemed like a really beautiful sentiment on her part," Elliott told the BBC. "She's such a selfless woman."

However, the fertility specialist, Dr. Carolyn Maud Doherty,  listed it as a realistic possibility. So she had Cecile come in for a few tests, all of which she passed.

“She’s 61 years old and has lower blood pressure than the rest of us,” Matthew told Buzzfeed News.

“It’s important for people to note that not every 60-year-old is in good enough health to be a surrogate. There are probably only a handful of people across the country who can do this — only a handful of people who have done it,” Doherty told Buzzfeed News.

Cecile got pregnant after the first embryo transfer (Matthew’s sperm and an egg from Elliot's sister Lea), and on March 25th, she gave birth (naturally) to a 5 pound 13 ounce baby girl.

Their journey to becoming a family was not without struggle though. Elliot and Matthew live in Omaha, Nebraska, where they were no strangers to discrimination.

It’s one of many places where there is no non-discrimination legislation in place to ensure LGBTQ individuals have equal access to employment, housing, education and other resources without being targeted for their orientation/gender identity.

Eledge was even dismissed from his job upon announcing his upcoming marriage to Dougherty years ago. Thankfully his students fought for him, but it shouldn’t have come to that.

Similarly, same sex couples in Nebraska weren’t allowed to act as foster parents until 2017 after a ban was lifted.

The road to parenthood is long and arduous for millions of folks who desire to have children. But for same-sex couples, it’s often paved with more obstacles. When paired with social barriers and a lack of legislation, LGBTQ individuals have to fight two times as hard for their right to parent.

Surrogacy, as Matthew and Elliott found, is a potential solution.

For many same-sex couples like Eledge and Dougherty — and many hetero couples as well — surrogacy can make parenting a biological child a reality.  

It’s not surprising it’s become increasingly common.

In the last 17 years, more than 18,400 infants were born via gestational carriers like Cecile.

More and more, gay male couples have begun using surrogacy as a way to have their own biological children. The types of surrogates used range widely — some go through agencies, others find help through family members and friends, like Matthew and Elliott did — but the dream is the same; a chance at biological parenthood.

That said, IVF — which is what prospective parents have to do when they decide to pursue surrogacy — is expensive and therefore limiting in terms of who can really pursue it as an option.

So while LGBT equality is on the horizon, there are still many obstacles in the way, especially when it comes to becoming parents.

We can get closer by making things like health care, family planning, housing, employment and education more accessible, but most importantly, by ensuring each state offers legal protection from discrimination for all.

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