I picked up my kids and ran into a few parent friends on the way back to our car. They asked whether I was going to the school board meeting that night. I normally wouldn’t go, but I knew this one was expected to be heated.
Our school hired a trans woman at the start of the year, and a collection of parents and local government officials were opposing her presence at the school. I decided to attend the meeting to support her, and grabbed my Coach Pride purse before I headed out the door.
I didn’t know what the energy at the school would be like that night, but I knew I had at least one other parent by my side, and a deep need to be there to have this teacher’s back if things took a turn for the worse. The story had already made national headlines, and when I arrived, I could feel an uneasiness in the air. The room was thick with a manufactured panic about the alleged “dangers” LGBTQ+ adults — and specifically trans adults — pose to children.
I didn’t plan on speaking. I felt anxious about being put in a position where I’d need to address the crowd, or in a worst-case scenario, maybe even draw attention to my family, which could endanger us. However, as someone who grew up in the LGBTQ+ community, I knew I couldn’t look the other way and pretend this was just another day, or that what was happening didn’t mean something to me personally.
Carrying that purse was my quiet way of taking a stand. It was a visible sign of solidarity, meant to let the targeted teacher know she wasn’t alone, and to remind the room of the support that was standing alongside her.
Ultimately, I’m not sure if she was even there. The school board stuck rigidly to its agenda and cut off public commentary before anyone could speak about the teacher. People on both sides left frustrated and there was no resolution that night. However, on the way out, an LGBTQ+ couple politely complimented my purse, and I realized that even without a microphone, my presence represented the exact thing those protesting parents feared.
Thankfully, throughout this ongoing ordeal, the teacher has remained in her classroom and has been supported by our school system, dedicated fellow educators, and an impressive number of local families. The debate is still dragging on. Protests have persisted at subsequent school board meetings. Some parents say this teacher’s employment conflicts with their personal morals, and some have even pulled their children out of the school.
I want those anti-LGBTQ+ parents to know that I am living proof that their fears are entirely built on destructive myths.
Critics of LGBTQ+ parents and teachers love to claim kids are being “indoctrinated” by these individuals. They claim kids are being pressured, manipulated, or groomed into an LGBTQ+ “lifestyle,” but my own life couldn’t have been further from that narrative.
I wasn’t raised in a traditional, nuclear household. My dad was Dr. Tom Waddell, an openly gay Olympic athlete, physician, and founder of the Gay Games. My mom is Sara Lewinstein, a lifelong feminist and activist. After my dad died from AIDS complications when I was 3 years old — and his partner died just three months later — my mom and her girlfriend raised me. I grew up surrounded by a massive, loving extended family of godmothers, aunts, uncles, and other chosen people who all helped bring me up.
Despite being raised entirely within the queer community, I am a straight, cisgender woman who has been happily married to a straight, cis man for over a decade, and we’re raising two beautiful children together. While I dislike labels and see myself as a person before anything else (even as I navigate everyday systemic challenges like pay equity and bodily autonomy), my experience proves a basic truth: Queerness does not simply “rub off,” because if it did, I certainly would be queer.
At no point in my life was I ever pressured to be anything specific. Given how much adversity my parents faced, they simply wished for me to be able to be myself — whoever that is — and to not have to fight the same battles they fought every day of their lives. Rather than pushing an agenda on me, they taught me to respect people and embrace the diversity of ways of being that exist. “Hate,” on the other hand, was (and continues to be) a word saved strictly for those who actively choose to harm others. If anything, I’ve seen my friends suffer far more cruelty at the hands of heteronormative adults than from any other demographic.
I also come from a family of World War II Holocaust survivors on my mom’s side. I grew up knowing deep in my bones that when people are targeted for who they are, you don’t stand by and say nothing. Who is left to defend you if you aren’t speaking up for others? History has made it clear that people need allies when they are being silenced — especially allies with privilege and less to lose.
What is happening at our school is not an isolated situation. The American Civil Liberties Union is currently tracking over 500 anti-LGBTQ+ bills in legislatures across the U.S. Twenty-seven U.S. states have banned gender-affirming care for minors. The Trump administration recently asked the Supreme Court to weigh in on a proposed ban on transgender people in the military.
These bills and campaigns come with consequences. The Trevor Project’s 2025 National Survey on the Mental Health of LGBTQ+ Young People found that 90% of LGBTQ+ youth reported “recent anti-LGBTQ+ laws, policies and debates caused them stress or anxiety” and “36% of LGBTQ+ young people seriously considered attempting suicide in the past year, including 40% of transgender and nonbinary young people.” It’s no wonder that all of this — along with devastatingly high rates of hate crimes against LGBTQ+ people — has caused some of my gay and transgender friends to leave the country or seriously consider it.
When parents attack trans teachers under the guise of “protecting children,” they aren’t protecting anyone. Instead, they are advancing their own bias, ignorance and fear. They’re projecting dark, imagined and completely unfounded dangers onto people who simply want to teach, mentor and live their lives authentically. Having a trans teacher doesn’t hurt children; it teaches them that human beings come in lots of different forms — all of which are beautiful. It also shows them that if they ever discover they identify as anything other than cisgender, it’s OK.
My dad grew up in a time when gay people couldn’t be visible — much less live openly as their true selves — and he spent years thinking something was wrong with him because of who he was and what he felt. However, as a doctor, professional athlete, advocate, parent and neighbor, he was nothing short of a stunningly positive force in this world.
I am not a hypothetical. I am a grown woman who was raised by the very community too many people in this country are demonizing — many of them without even knowing an LGBTQ+ person — and I turned out grounded, empathetic and clear on my values. I work hard, I love my family fiercely, and I stand up for my friends.
My parents spent their lives standing up for what is right, and I refuse to sit by quietly while someone in my community is forced to face hostility. While we might not have gotten to speak at the microphone at that school board meeting, our presence still mattered.
Your presence matters too, because the fight for equal rights and respect is far from over. We must stand by those who need support and refuse to allow fear and bigotry to win.
Jessica Waddell-Lewinstein serves as a marketing and communications lead in interactive media, where she specializes in brand strategy and franchise storytelling. Raised within the LGBTQ+ community by a lesbian mother and a gay father, she is a vocal ally and advocate fighting against systemic prejudice facing transgender individuals today. She speaks here strictly in a personal capacity — her statements are entirely her own and do not reflect her employer.
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