The new study comes from the University of Nebraska, which received funding from the U.S. Army to examine the impact of electric vehicles on guardrails. The university is a natural location for such research; its Midwest Roadside Safety Facility designed and tested the metal barriers known as the Midwest Guardrail System that are a familiar sight along American highways. The MGS is a beam with a dip running horizontally in the middle—if you think of a guardrail, you’re probably picturing one. “It’s the most frequently used guardrail system, because it’s the cheapest to install and maintain,” said University of Nebraska engineering professor Cody Stolle, noting that all 50 states use it.
The current version of MGS was developed to withstand cars weighing a maximum of 5,000 pounds, but many of today’s SUVs and trucks exceed that threshold. A Cadillac Escalade, for instance, now weighs over 6,200 pounds, and the latest model of the Ford F-150, the most popular vehicle in America, can tip the scales at almost 5,700 pounds. You don’t really want to hit a guardrail with a vehicle like that, but electrification can make things even dicier. Electric cars often weigh around 30 percent more than a gas-powered counterpart, because big vehicles require enormous batteries to propel them hundreds of miles between charges. The goliath-like GMC Hummer EV weighs a staggering 9,083 pounds, 2 tons more than a gas-guzzling H3.
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It’s worth highlighting that this study isn’t really about the merits of EVs. After all, you can buy an EV that weighs less than 5,000 pounds. You just can’t electrify your favorite already-large car—or even buy a hulking gas-powered car—and expect guardrails to work as intended.
In Slate
In America today, so much has changed that it might seem ludicrous to say that I fear a return to an environment like the 1950s and ’60s moral panic over homosexuality, with its climate of secrecy and fear, and the central role of the press in driving harassment, humiliation, firings, and sometimes suicides. In parts of the country where LGBTQ+ acceptance is firmly ensconced, there’s likely not much conservatives can do to roll back the tolerant attitudes decades of activism have won. But in other places where extremists have taken over governance, LGBTQ+ life, particularly trans life, seems much more precarious than we might have thought. For example, in Florida, trans teachers are already facing laws restricting what pronouns they can be called at work, and perhaps whether they can teach at all. If such laws drive more and more trans people into the closet, lower public visibility may lead to less social understanding and acceptance, driving a vicious cycle where the consequences of outing grow more dire as time goes on.
“I would think that trans people now, clearly, have the closest experience to what gay people had in the 1960s, in terms of the fear your existence activates in the population, and the cynicism of the right wing in exploiting that,” Kaiser said.
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The practice of press outlets terrorizing gender-nonconforming people over their private lives should have stayed in the past. That it could not only happen in 2023, but even end in suicide, should be a wake-up call for where the far right hopes their attacks on the trans community will go. Copeland hailed from the sort of small Southern town where attitudes about the LGBTQ+ community have changed the least, but attitudes aren’t static. Escalating attacks on the trans community, combined with laws designed to humiliate and stigmatize trans people by taking away the ability to change legal documents, barring trans people from using public restrooms, banning positive depictions of LGBTQ+ people in school libraries, forcing trans teachers to misgender themselves in class—all of these measures seek to drive trans people out of public life in these places. Several Republican candidates for president in 2024 have made these their implicit or explicit nationwide plans, if elected.
When people can’t exist openly in public, their true selves fight to be expressed in private, which leads to double lives marred by shame and fear of being exposed. Those are the toxic conditions some now seek: conditions in which outing can serve as the ultimate punishment for queer existence, threatening people’s social acceptance, their livelihoods, and even their very lives
Two recent papers from York University, from a team led by assistant professor Kinnon MacKinnon, offer a wider sampling. MacKinnon and his team interviewed 28 detransitioners who told them complicated stories of identity evolution, medical complications, and experiences with anti-trans and anti-nonbinary discrimination. Taken together, they suggest ways providers and society as a whole could better support trans, nonbinary, and gender-nonconforming people. Spoiler: It’s not by banning care.
Published in PLOS One on Nov. 29, the first paper sought to “qualitatively explore the care experiences and perspectives of individuals who discontinued or reversed their gender transitions.” The second, published in Psychology of Sexual Orientation and Gender Diversity on Nov. 30, took those qualitative findings and attempted to demarcate four discrete subtypes or pathways for detransition.
Of 28 interviewees who answered a call for people in Canada who had shifted or discontinued a transition, 10 were at birth assigned male, and 18 female. They all had negative experiences during their initial transition. But most did not follow the typical sequence that widely shared detransitioner stories follow, of switching genders, then switching back to identifying as cis. A clear majority, 60 percent, had shifted from a binary trans identity when they began transitioning into a nonbinary identity at the time of the interview. By contrast, only six identified as female or a woman, and none identified as male or a man.