The fluorescent lights in solitary confinement hummed overhead as I watched my friend Jack’s shoulders slump under the weight of another degrading lecture. The guard’s voice dropped with contempt as he told Jack, a transgender man, that he was “going to Hell” for his identity. This wasn’t the first time—or the last—that I witnessed staff members systematically strip away Jack’s dignity, calling him slurs, refusing to let him return to general population unless he stopped cutting his hair, let it grow out, and kept his face cleanly shaved. They demanded he erase himself to earn basic human treatment. 

I’ve also seen my neighbor, Gates, slammed against walls while guards screamed, “You think you a man? Show me!” as they violated his body with invasive searches. I’ve overheard medical staff giggling about injecting Depo Provera, a contraceptive, or saline instead of hormone treatments into my friends’ bodies. These aren’t isolated incidents; they’re systematic erasures happening behind concrete walls while rainbow flags wave freely outside.

Every June, our nation celebrates PRIDE month, commemorating the brave activists who fought back at Stonewall in 1969 and honoring the ongoing struggle for LGBTQAI+ liberation. The original purpose of PRIDE was radical: to demand dignity for those whom society deemed unworthy, to lift up the most marginalized voices, and to declare that no one should be forced to hide who they are. Yet as corporations drape themselves in rainbow capitalism and politicians make calculated gestures of inclusion, we’ve forgotten the very people who need our solidarity most: incarcerated LGBTQAI+ individuals trapped in America’s carceral system. 

When we exclude the most vulnerable members of our community from our celebrations, we betray everything PRIDE represents. The 2015 survey by Black and Pink of 1,118 incarcerated LGBTQAI+ individuals revealed that 85 percent had experienced sexual assault, while incarcerated transgender women of color face the highest rates of violence. The 2015 U.S. Transgender Survey found that LGBTQAI+ individuals were five times more likely to be sexually assaulted by prison staff than their heterosexual, cisgender counterparts. These aren’t just statistics—they’re our siblings, our chosen family, our community members whose suffering remains invisible to the outside world.

Furthermore, the response to this violence often compounds the trauma rather than addressing it. The Bureau of Justice statistics show that nearly half of all sexual assaults in prison become the gateway to solitary confinement—supposedly for the victim’s “protection.” For LGBTQAI+ folks, this means being punished for their identities through isolation that can last months or years. The 2008-2009 National Transgender Discrimination Survey found that 16 percent of transgender individuals had been incarcerated, facing extreme isolation rates that far exceed those of the general population.

In solitary, they may be denied access to hormone therapy, mental health care, and human contact while being subjected to additional harassment from staff who view their confinement as an opportunity for further abuse.

Meanwhile, in red states like Texas, the situation has become more dire. Texas passed a record number of anti-LGBTQAI+ bills targeting everything from healthcare access to basic recognition of identity. For incarcerated LGBTQAI+ people in these states, these laws create additional barriers to receiving appropriate medical care, being housed safely, or even being recognized by their chosen names and pronouns. The intersection of transphobic legislation and carceral violence creates a perfect storm of dehumanization that strips away every protection our community has fought to secure.

Moreover, the medical neglect extends beyond hormone therapy to basic healthcare needs.  Transgender individuals behind bars report being denied preventative care, having their mental health dismissed as “attention-seeking behavior,” and facing discrimination from medical staff who refuse to treat them with dignity. The Black and Pink survey revealed that 44 percent of respondents were denied medical care they requested, with transgender folks facing the highest rates of medical neglect. When Jack needed medical aid for injuries sustained during a beating, staff dismissed his pain as “dramatized behavior” and denied him treatment for days.

Additionally, the psychological warfare extends to every aspect of daily life. Commissary items, mail, phone calls, and visitation all are weaponized against LGBTQAI+ community inside as punishment for existing authentically. Guards routinely read private notes aloud, mocking same sex romantic relationships and chosen family connections. They deny access to religious services while simultaneously forcing participation in “conversion therapy” programs disguised as rehabilitation. The isolation isn’t just physical—it’s a complete severance from every source of love, support, and affirmation that makes survival possible.

Nevertheless, we cannot discuss domestic prison conditions while turning a blind eye to the global context of LGBTQAI+ oppression behind bars. When we condemn the treatment of queer individuals in foreign prisons—the horrific conditions in Russian penal colonies, the systematic torture in Middle Eastern detention centers, or the denial of medical care in Central American facilities—we must apply the same moral standards to American prisons. The violence may wear different masks, but the intent remains identical: to break the spirits of those who dare to exist outside heteronormative expectations.

The moment we accept that some members of our community are expendable—that their suffering is the price of our mainstream acceptance—we abandon the revolutionary spirit that birthed PRIDE itself. Our liberation has always been interconnected; we cannot celebrate progress while our most vulnerable community members disappear into concrete tombs. This PRIDE month, as you march in parades and attend corporate-sponsored events, remember Jack’s forced submission, Gates’s violation, and the countless others whose struggle is inextricably linked to yours. Because as long as cages exist, none of us are free. 

If we claim to stand against the brutal treatment of LGBTQAI+ people in foreign prisons while remaining silent about identical abuse happening in American facilities, we are hypocrites more invested in nationalism than liberation. True solidarity demands that we extend our outrage beyond borders and recognize that oppression wearing an American flag is still oppression. Our PRIDE means nothing if it doesn’t include the most forgotten among us—those whose only crime was loving authentically in a world determined to punish them for it. 

Featured photo: Philadelphia Gay News