In Time

During oral arguments in the Supreme Court case United States v. Skrmetti last December, Justice Amy Coney Barrett asked then-Solicitor General Elizabeth Prelogar whether there has been a history of discrimination against transgender people. The answer seemed obvious. Anti-trans discrimination is well-documented. At least for trans people, the instinctive response to Justice Barrett’s question is, “Look around.”

But what Justice Barrett was asking specifically, is whether there is a history of de jure—meaning explicit, government sanctioned—discrimination against transgender people. “At least as far as I can think of, we don't have a history of de jure, or that I know of, we don't have a history of de jure discrimination against transgender people, right?” Justice Barrett asked.

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As legal historian Kate Redburn has documented, throughout the twentieth century, local ordinances across the country threatened people who defied gender norms with prosecution and even prison sentences. Some even required people whose appearances did not match their sex assignment to wear badges visibly declaring their birth sex—a precursor to President Donald Trump’s own policy for transgender passport holders. These laws, in essence, made it a crime to be trans in public and equated trans existence with deviance in ways that legitimized decades of public and private discrimination.

Decades of criminalization harmed trans communities who were forced to the margins of society. Generations of trans elders died prematurely because of this history, which also now fuels the insidious myth that transgender people are “new.” The irony is that in order to avoid further discrimination, we must convince the Court that this discrimination occurred in the first place—and that it still occurs today. 

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Let’s say the Supreme Court decides that transgender people have not suffered a sufficiently long or sufficiently clear history of discrimination to warrant heightened scrutiny. That would set a chilling precedent for when the government decides to target a small and politically unpopular group for discrimination.

We are getting dangerously close to making it a crime to exist as a transgender person in the United States. If that does not trigger scrutiny by the courts, then what will it signal to government leaders who are looking for groups of people to blame for social, political, and economic conditions?

As Justice Sotomayor noted at the Skrmetti arguments, “When you're 1% of the population, or less, [it’s] very hard to see how the democratic process is going to protect you.” That is abundantly clear right now.

In the first minutes of the new film Judas and the Black Messiah, released Feb. 12, it shows archival footage of the free ambulance service started by the Black Panther Party’s Winston-Salem, N.C., chapter in 1972. And the party’s Illinois chairman Fred Hampton, played by Daniel Kaluuya, sums up the risks of going to a hospital for a Black American, “We think it’s normal for us to go to the hospital with a runny nose and come home in a body bag.”

These scenes are a glimpse at a lesser-known aspect of the Black Panther Party’s community health work of the 1960s and 1970s that has become more widely recognized in recent years. The rise of the Black Lives Matter movement has inspired a new appreciation for the Black Panthers and attempts have been made to recast their image in history and highlight the work they did in their communities, such as serving free breakfast to children and setting up more than a dozen medical clinics nationwide. It’s public health work that also demonstrates the long history of problems activists are still trying to solve today.

“The Y2K crisis didn’t happen precisely because people started preparing for it over a decade in advance. And the general public who was busy stocking up on supplies and stuff just didn’t have a sense that the programmers were on the job,” says Paul Saffo, a futurist and adjunct professor at Stanford University.

But even among corporations that were sure in their preparations, there was sufficient doubt to hold off on declaring victory prematurely. The former IT director of a grocery chain recalls executives’ reticence to publicize their efforts for fear of embarrassing headlines about nationwide cash register outages. As Saffo notes, “better to be an anonymous success than a public failure.”

After the collective sigh of relief in the first few days of January 2000, however, Y2K morphed into a punch line, as relief gave way to derision — as is so often the case when warnings appear unnecessary after they are heeded. It was called a big hoax; the effort to fix it a waste of time.

Tenant movements have already led to reforms in Los Angeles, New York, and Miami, among many other expensive, renter-heavy cities. But one of the most effective tenant unions in the country is KC Tenants, in Kansas City, Missouri.

Over the last four years, KC Tenants and their political arm, KC Tenants Power, have blocked thousands of evictions in Kansas City, won tens of millions of dollars of city funding for long-term affordable housing, and grown their ranks to nearly 10,000 members. Last year, they won a "Right to Counsel" program for renters in Kansas City, ensuring that any tenant facing eviction is guaranteed free legal representation. And in June, four of the six KC Tenant-endorsed candidates for Kansas City City Council (including three incumbents) won their races. Renter Revolt, the latest short documentary from TIME, follows one of the KC Tenants organizers, Jenay Manley, as she campaigns for a City Council seat. 

It is practically first principles in the study of group identity that when we identify with a sports team, religious group, or political party, our self-esteem is bound up with that group. As psychologist Jonathan Haidt has famously shown, our group allegiances take on a deeply moral element. We naturally tend to associate our group and its values with moral goodness and our competition with moral depravity.

For Republicans (and Democrats), admitting that fascists and Nazis are on their side of the ideological spectrum—that they have any overlapping worldviews, values, or tactics with “us”—is a tribal psychology no-no. Fascists and Nazis, the exemplars of political evil, must share space with our partisan opponents. It works like a syllogism. Leftists are the bad guys. Fascists and Nazis are also bad guys. So fascists and Nazis are leftists.