Intimidation, harassment of Wisconsin LGBTQ community rising – Green Bay Press Gazette
Andrew Nesbitt was 46 years old when he was stabbed to death in his downtown Madison home in 2017.
It had been six years since he was nearly killed in a brutal attack outside a gay bar on Christmas Eve in Oshkosh. And it had been 28 years of enduring episodes of violence since being kicked out of his home by his father for being gay when he was 18.
His chronic substance abuse fueled some of the violence. Just being gay fueled the rest.
He began telling his story of dealing with hate crimes after the Oshkosh attack — after surgeons inserted a metal plate in his skull, after doctors wired his jaw shut for a month, after the judge dropped the hate crime enhancers and sentenced his two assailants to two years in prison.
“It was the biggest slap on the wrist I’ve ever seen,” Andrew’s younger brother Jim Nesbitt said. “The explanation was, ‘Well, boys will be boys.'”
Since his brother’s death, Jim has used his grief like a shield to protect LGBTQ people who are navigating a world of intolerance and hatred. At public events where LGBTQ lifestyles are discussed, he stands quietly nearby, almost like a bouncer.
At 6 feet tall and more than 300 pounds, it helps that he’s a big guy.
“We were raised with the idea that you always protect other people. However, that didn’t extend to the gay community with my father,” Jim said.
Recently, he has heard from his circles of friends that threats against the LGBTQ community are only getting worse — and it’s not their imagination. According to the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Crime Data Explorer, hate crimes against LGBTQ people have exploded since 2015.
But where, in 2015, simple assault made up a majority of documented crimes, the offense that jumps out now is intimidation. The number of such instances grew a staggering 2,262.5% between 2015 and 2020 for lesbians across the country.
Then there is the trans community, where incidents of intimidation, assault (both simple and aggravated) and, most notably, murder have grown exponentially over the same five-year period.
What’s not seen in those numbers is the impact such a cultural shift has on mental health and a sense of vulnerability. Jim Nesbitt talks about the role of “keyboard warriors,” who may never physically attack someone but set a tone, and potentially embolden others, with their words.
“They start complaining on the internet, saying things like ‘I just wish they wouldn’t make it their entire personality’ and that’s how those small things start,” Jim said. “Because nobody starts off by running somebody over with a car. It starts off as bullying or it starts off as ‘Oh, that’s so gay’ or you know, whatever it is.”
LGBT adults experience roughly twice the level of depression and anxiety as cis-heterosexual adults, according to a recent U.S. Census Household Pulse Survey, with half reporting depression between March and May 2022 and 41.6% reporting anxiety over that same period.
Kathy Flores, anti-violence program director at Diverse & Resilient, a nonprofit based in Milwaukee and Appleton, points out that a majority of the violence aimed at LGBTQ people goes unreported.
That’s because something like a slur yelled across a street in some northern Wisconsin town doesn’t fit into the narrowly defined category of a hate crime, Flores said. But it’s the acceptance of those kinds of everyday encounters, Flores continued, that ultimately can embolden school boards to add policies banning LGBTQ books or advocacy in schools.
In the past couple years, there have been state bills limiting transgender people from playing sports, threats to sue La Crosse after the city voted to prohibit conversion therapy, motions in Green Bay to ban the city from raising a Pride flag, challenges to libraries across the state for lending out LGBTQ books, and attacks against gender-affirming care peddled by far-right social media groups in Madison.
In the past 12 months alone in northeast Wisconsin, Diverse & Resilient has worked with 195 LGBTQ survivors reporting a range of aggressions with the top categories being intimate partner violence, family violence, bullying and hate violence. Very few reported those incidents to police, Flores said.
Of that number, 87 people reported experiencing hate violence.
But Flores said every individual who reports any incident is ostensibly a survivor of anti-LGBTQ violence, whether it’s among partners or directed at their community from someone outside. From Flores’ experience, the two are inextricably tied.
“When somebody is a victim of hate violence in our community, causing that trauma and causing that wound can also make them more likely to be a victim in other situations as well,” Flores said. “Perpetrators are really good at doing what perpetrators do, and sometimes that looks like seeking out vulnerable people.”
‘What are you?’
When Rachel Maes, a local attorney and LGBTQ advocate in Green Bay, twice ran for public office, she was attacked in both campaigns for using her health insurance to support gender-affirming care.
Maes, an openly trans woman, said on the campaign trail she was called by her male birth name and super PACs put side-by-side images of her before she came out and after in their mailers. Those same super PACs sent mailers claiming she used public funds on her transition. At the time, she had two gender-affirming prescriptions.
“The fact of the matter is, I am a government employee. I provide legal services to taxpayers. I earned my salary, and I took advantage of my health insurance. It’s no different than a diabetic receiving insulin,” Maes said. “To say I’m not qualified to be a judge or a county board supervisor because I had some hormones, it really rings hollow.”
Molly Thompson, a Black intersex woman in Tomah, said since the age of 12 she’s been treated as if she “had an infectious disease.” At 30, she still hasn’t felt a sense of belonging. Quite the opposite.
From fielding questions like “What are you?” to being sexually harassed and assaulted in her job as a traveling nurse, she said it’s always been hard to be Black and intersex. She tires of having to explain and defend herself, whether it’s to lurch away from a hand trying to touch her braids or respond to gossip about her gender and relationships at work.
She wears feminine outfits, often turtlenecks, as a measure of protection.
“I don’t want to have to wear anything flashy that brings attention to myself,” she said. “I want to be treated like an ordinary woman.”
Why rhetoric matters
The vitriol aimed at LGBTQ communities doesn’t reflect a majority opinion.
According to Gallup’s 2022 Mood of the Nation survey, 62% of responders said they were “very satisfied” or “somewhat satisfied” with the acceptance of LGBTQ — notable because on virtually every other mood measurement, the responses were negative.
In a separate Gallup survey, in 2021, the number of people identifying as LGBTQ was the highest ever: 7.1% of U.S. adults.
Nevertheless, The Trevor Project, which monitors and advocates for the mental health and well-being of LGBTQ youths, notes that legislation across the country on issues such as limiting access to gender-affirming medical care in young people or being denied access to bathrooms is fueling major worries among youths.
Between 2020 and 2022, symptoms of anxiety among LGBTQ youths rose from 68% to 72%, and the proportion who considered suicide rose from 40% to 45%.
In Wisconsin, according to the Wisconsin State Health Improvement Plan, LGBTQ youths experience significantly higher suicide risks, with 41% considering suicide and 20% attempting suicide. That’s compared with the overall youth population, 16% of whom have considered suicide and 8% of whom have attempted it.
Megin McDonell, executive director of Fair Wisconsin, said recent polling and research suggests a majority of voters support LGBTQ rights, from marriage equality to nondiscrimination protections. While anti-LGBTQ policies don’t represent the general population, that doesn’t mean there isn’t a “vocal, active, passionate minority.”
Many among the loud minority are pushing bills that could affect the livelihoods of countless LGBTQ people.
“It really takes a toll, if you think about it: You have people in positions of power and authority and leadership, essentially, debating your right to exist,” McDonell said. “It has a really negative effect.”
Flores, of Diverse & Resilient, agrees, noting such debates are adding to the high rates of anxiety and depression among LGBTQ adults living in Wisconsin — and undoubtedly it’s filtering down to young people as well.
“We know that they’re impacting youth in a different way because you don’t have the same power that an adult might have,” Flores said.
If a young LGBTQ person has experienced bullying, sexual assault or assault of any kind, Flores said, they may not have a trusted adult to turn to, knowing there’s a faction of adults who believe their identity needs to be “fixed” in some way.
According to The Trevor Project’s 2022 National Survey on LGBTQ Mental Health, 73% of LGBTQ say they’ve been discriminated against for their sexual orientation and gender identity at least once in their lifetimes, with Indigenous youths enduring the highest levels of both sexual orientation and gender identity discrimination, at 76% and 78% respectively.
Nearly 20% of LGBTQ youths who experienced bullying said they’ve attempted suicide in the last year.
That’s why it’s important for young people to see adults brandishing the rainbow symbol in some capacity, whether as a pin on their shirts or decorating the walls of their classroom, Flores said. It sends the message that their existence is welcome.
But even a teacher showing their support of LGBTQ students is under threat. Flores said she’s talked to educators who fear the consequences of wearing the Pride symbol after seeing other teachers under fire.
“That’s the level of where these educators are right now. They’re scared to put anything up on their walls even though we know from vast studies that using a transgender youth’s correct name and pronouns helps reduce suicide risk,” Flores said. “It may just seem like a rainbow to the general adult population, but for youth it can be a life-saving symbol.”
‘More love than hate’
At a crowded committee event in Neenah to discuss the city adopting a conversion therapy ban on Nov. 26, 2019, Jim Nesbitt was a hulking figure. The self-described lumberjack stood silently before his LGBTQ friends wearing a shirt that read, “Free Mom Hugs.”
“There were a couple of folks there that were just kind of shooting daggers at me with their looks,” Jim said. “I’ve been in a lot of fights in my life — and I would rather have that happen to me then some kid who’s just trying to explain what’s going on in their life.”
He’d watched helplessly as his father threw Andrew out after discovering he was gay. He recognized that rejection’s stark effects on Andrew’s adult life: his drinking, his drug use, his occasional transience.
Flores had helped Andrew Nesbitt share his story publicly after the Oshkosh beating.
Then, she and Jim Nesbitt became friends during the murder trial. She was the one who posted on social media about the conversion therapy meetings taking place in Neenah and Appleton.
“When I reached out to Drew (Andrew), I said ‘Drew, I’m so sorry there’s so much hate in the world,'” Flores said. “And — I still have the screenshot — he said, ‘You know, Kathy, I’m living proof that there’s more love than hate.'”
More:‘We can’t continue to live with hate’: Green Bay LGBTQ+ community calls for visibility, acceptance
Natalie Eilbert covers mental health issues for USA TODAY NETWORK-CENTRAL WISCONSIN. She welcomes story tips and feedback. You can reach her at neilbert@gannett.com or view her Twitter profile at @natalie_eilbert. If you or someone you know is dealing with suicidal thoughts, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 988 or text “Hopeline” to the National Crisis Text Line at 741-741.