Vigilance, Not Victimhood: The LGBTQIA+ Community’s Concerned Response to a New Era of Hostility

My partner of thirteen years is a United States Marine—a marksman who, a decade after leaving the Corps, still doesn’t miss a shot and can, with swift efficiency, neutralize a threat posed by a grown man. They are also trans and non-binary, their public presentation shifting with their daily sense of self, embraced with remarkable support by their colleagues and clients. Yet, shortly after January 20, 2025, this highly capable individual, for the first time in years, began carrying a firearm in their car. Not out of aggression, not out of panic, but from a place of profound, calculated concern for their safety in a nation where the political winds have shifted with chilling velocity. This is not an isolated story; it is a quiet, determined echo of a sentiment rippling through LGBTQIA+ communities across America.

The hard-won gains of the past decade—from marriage equality to the burgeoning visibility and acceptance celebrated when actress Laverne Cox graced the cover of Time magazine—now feel, as one transgender writer for the San Francisco Standard put it in March, like an “anomalous blip of sexual freedom, like Weimar-era Berlin.” That sense of imperilment began to crystallize in the immediate aftermath of Felonious Punk’s November 2024 election win. The Guardian reported in those early days how the “misogyny and anti-trans rhetoric” that were hallmarks of the campaign seemed to instantly ramp up, prompting women, queer, and trans people to begin exploring self-defense in entirely new ways.

This isn’t about being “afraid” in a way that implies helplessness. It is about being concerned—acutely aware of a changing landscape and intelligently preparing for potential threats. As Ashley Parten, a Black bisexual woman from Georgia, told The Guardian back in November after purchasing stun guns for her family, “We all feel the need to make sure that we’re aware of our surroundings and protect ourselves in general, but even more so now.”

The sources of this concern are multifaceted and deeply rooted in the administration’s actions and rhetoric. President Punk, during his campaign, promised to eradicate “transgender insanity.” Since returning to office, a “laundry list of executive orders,” as one report put it, has rolled back transgender rights, including a chilling February 2025 directive effectively stating that, in the eyes of the federal government, transgender people don’t exist by defining sex solely as biological and assigned at birth. This has immediate, practical implications, such as licenses reflecting sex assigned at birth rather than gender identity, which “Carly,” a trans gun store manager, fears could lead to her being denied firearm purchases if a dealer deems her “mentally ill.”

Adding to this are the widely discussed anti-trans frameworks within documents like Project 2025, which outline plans to further consolidate executive power and enforce far-right policies. “I saw the writing on the wall,” Carly told Uncloseted Media, explaining why she re-armed after initially giving up guns post-Pulse nightclub massacre. The fear isn’t abstract; it’s fueled by a documented surge in hostility. A 2023 Williams Institute study found that LGBTQ+ people are five times more likely than non-LGBTQ+ individuals to be victims of violent crime. FBI data showed recorded incidents targeting gender identity rose from 469 in 2022 to 547 in 2023, with trans women, particularly Black and Latina trans women, bearing the brunt. As Heidi Beirich of the Global Project Against Hate and Extremism starkly noted, “When you demonize communities, it does link to violence.”

In this climate, the response from many within the LGBTQIA+ community has been one of pragmatic, albeit often reluctant, preparedness. “Aeryn,” a 52-year-old transgender woman and former Marine, has been stockpiling not only ammunition (“20 to 30,000 rounds”) but also up to a year’s worth of her essential hormone replacement therapy, viewing both as vital for survival under the current administration. Her deepest fear is “government-sanctioned control,” something “akin to WWII-era internment camps.”

This drive for self-protection has seen a surge in interest in LGBTQ+-focused gun rights and training organizations. Pink Pistols, an international group, has seen over 20 local chapters created or reactivated since the November election. Erin Palette, Pink Pistols’ national coordinator and founder of Operation Blazing Sword (which offers firearm safety instruction), confirmed “a lot of interest and a lot of concern.” Similarly, Tom Nguyen of LA Progressive Shooters, catering to BIPOC and LGBTQ+ individuals, described demand for his beginner pistol courses post-election as “massively overwhelming,” selling out months in advance. Clara Smith-Elliott, founder of Arm Trans Women (ATW), told the Washington Post in February that her courses were selling out, with attendees including mothers of trans children. “People literally come to me in tears because they’re so scared,” Smith-Elliott said. “They don’t want to have to learn how to use a firearm, but they recognize the need.”

This turn towards firearms is not an embrace of aggression. As Palette emphasizes, the purpose is self-defense: “It’s just a tool that I have to address the immediate situation while I wait for the professionals to arrive.” It’s about reclaiming a sense of agency. For some, like Carly, firearms are also “enforcers of dignity.” “We’re not weak,” she asserted. “You can call me a sissy, but you can’t call me soft.” May Alejandra Rodriguez, a 21-year-old Mexican American trans woman featured in the Washington Post, echoed this: “We have the same Second Amendment right that any Republican has… The only equalizer we have, really, is guns.”

Yet, this decision is often fraught with internal conflict. The author of the San Francisco Standard piece, despite a lifelong revulsion to gun culture, described the “thrill” and “sexy” feeling of the shooting stance, yet was simultaneously “haunted” by a veteran friend’s warning to find another option, confessing, “I honestly can’t envision myself killing people, even to save my own hide.” This ambivalence, this deep understanding of the psychological weight of gun ownership, underscores that for many, arming is a grave, last-resort consideration, not a first preference. The advice from an older butch lesbian encountered at a Pink Pistols shoot was blunt: learn tactics, understand the law (like California’s Castle Doctrine), and crucially, “learn the psychological implications of potentially taking someone’s life.”

This preparedness is not without historical precedent. As Wake Forest sociologist David Yamane noted, minorities in America have often turned to firearms for safety when feeling unprotected by the state, citing the Black Panthers and women’s self-defense movements. “What’s happening today among trans people,” he told the Washington Post, “is in the tradition of people demanding their rights and saying that they’re willing to defend those rights with force if necessary.” Marc Stein, a queer history professor, similarly pointed to the Lavender Panthers in 1973 San Francisco, who patrolled streets to protect the community when police response to anti-LGBTQ+ assaults was lacking.

The current climate, however, presents new anxieties. Carly’s fear that administrative changes to gender markers on licenses could lead to her being denied gun purchases speaks to a concern that the state might actively try to disarm the very communities feeling most threatened.

The narrative that some may try to paint—of a community suddenly and rashly arming itself—misses the profound depth of concern and the considered, often reluctant, nature of these decisions. This is not about individuals “quivering in their shoes, holding onto a pink pistol they don’t know how to use effectively.” It is about intelligent, resilient people seeing a pattern of escalating rhetoric, discriminatory policies, and rising violence, and taking sober, calculated steps to protect their right to exist in a nation that increasingly feels hostile to their very being. They are, to a word, concerned and prepared, demonstrating vigilance, not inviting victimhood, as they navigate a future that feels dangerously uncertain. They would, by all accounts, prefer “another option,” but in its current absence, they are asserting their right to self-defense with a heavy heart and a steady hand.