I grew up queer and closeted in small town Idaho. All through high school, I heard fellow students say horrible things about people like me. A girl in my class was teased because her older brother had come out as gay after graduating and moved to Seattle. The first and only time I tried to explore my sexuality in Idaho, I was cornered in a bathroom a week later by an older girl on my basketball team and asked aggressively, “Are you a lesbian?” I told her the truth: no, I wasn’t. But I was bisexual, and it wasn’t until I moved to Washington for college that I felt safe enough to come out and explore my identity. 

When I would go back to visit my family, I noticed something interesting: Idaho was seemingly becoming more open to queerness. My younger brother told me there were a few students in high school who were dating, and out as lesbians. I attended a street festival and saw not only queer people out and about, but allies, too, wearing shirts in support of their LGBTQ+ friends, family and neighbors.

As queerness was becoming more and more visible in public spaces, the state’s politics were getting more and more aggressive against them. I never moved back to Idaho, instead choosing to make Spokane my home, but I wondered about the people who stayed: the people work to hold safe Pride festivals in Coeur d’Alene. The saphhic couple holding hands at Lewiston’s Dogwood Festival. The trans advocates fighting anti-queer legislation down at the statehouse in Boise. 

As Valerie Osier always tells me, there is nothing more powerful than a reporter’s curiosity. So I’m proud to share the stories of the queer Idahoans who stayed, who still call the state their home.