Our nation's LGBTQ youth suicide hotline will terminate July 17, 2025. Not by choice, but at the hands of Donald Trump.
Most gay children live in fear and despair. I know. I was one.
Born in 1953, I arrived prior to an enlightened awareness of homosexuality. Not only were there no resources for children like me, or for parents of children like me, there was no language. Just isolation and dark thoughts of escape.
Today, parents, guided by religion and beliefs learned long ago, respond to their gay children in many ways. Some disown them. Others turn them over to conversion camps where so-called experts try to change them through electro-shock, or the classic, "pray the gay away." Some parents attempt to do that work themselves, within the home. That was my experience.
It began when I was 4. "You talk like a girl, say it again. Again!" It wasn't so much the rage in his voice or how he'd squeeze my mouth to force me to sound different. It was the disgust in his eyes. From age 4, into my teens, daily, often in front of others, it defined my childhood and turned me against myself. No matter how much my mother compensated with love and nurturing, the damage ran deep. My self-loathing was suffocating. Avoiding him was an exhausting, full-time job. My only defense? Treat him with cold, distant respect.
How different life might have been had there been a safe space, a hotline.
Once out of the house, I thought I could transcend my childhood with smart choices. College, law school, and success. But I took everything I'd learned about myself with me, and a family history of substance abuse, fueled by self-loathing, had a different plan.
At 16, though having come out to my mother, I experienced the release that came from pills and alcohol.
By 30, I hit rock bottom or what I later called "rock top," having the accolades of a successful legal career, yet still as broken as that four-year-old boy. With help, I learned of the debilitating nature of resentment and the power of forgiveness. I began to comprehend what had taken place in my childhood home.
Raised by his grandfather, an orthodox rabbi, my father's values were set long ago. His need to fix his son was grounded in the beliefs of another time, when men would tear their garments and mourn the virtual death of a homosexual child. Somewhere in my father was the thought he was saving me. I chose to forgive him. It was freeing. And it was time to address that cold wall of distant respect I built between us.
One fall day in 1987, I visited my father for “the talk.” Sitting in his den, I began. "Dad, I'd like to talk about our relationship and own my part in things, but I don't have to if you're not comfortable with it."
He turned to me. "Son, whatever I can do to help you, I want to do it." There was an urgency in his voice.
Deep breath. "Dad, when I was 4, you started..." My head tilted down, my neck muscles contracted. I froze. I felt 4 years old. You can do this, David – you can do this. My head trembled as I fought to lift it. "Dad, when I was 4..." Again, silence.
My father lunged forward, wrapping his arms around me. "When you were 4 is when I started calling you a little girl and squeezing your face." He wept and continued, holding me hard, too hard. "How could I do that to my boy? I've been praying to God to forgive me for 20 years and he finally heard my prayer. Forgive me, forgive me.” We wept. I whispered, "I forgive you, Dad. God forgives you. It's time for you to forgive yourself. You were raised to mourn the death of your gay child. You tried to fix me. I didn't need fixing. You did the best you could." Silence. And in that moment I knew my father and I were in each other's lives to experience the deeply spiritual lesson of unconditional love.
Shortly thereafter, I was drawn to become a volunteer counselor for the PFLAG organization, helping parents learn how to navigate raising LGBTQ children. These parents, also without language, often blamed themselves in silence with the mistaken belief that they somehow caused their child's homosexuality or gender identity. Again, without information and language. I wondered how I might best help the discarded teens, the ones tossed out.
As the founding board president of Philadelphia's LGBTQ youth center, The Attic, I've had the sublime experience of watching tens of thousands of teens, over the past 32 years, find their footing, their voices, and their right, not merely to exist, but to thrive.
So, what is a child to do when the family shuts down — when there is no language, no access to PFLAG, The Attic, The Trevor Project, or other agency? Hopefully, find an ally, somewhere.
But when self-harm seems the only way out, these children need our national LGBTQ youth suicide hotline. Removing a child's access to a last-ditch effort to live is unthinkable. The belief that some children deserve death is abhorrent.
Ending America's LGBTQ youth hotline does not reflect the will of the people. With over 24 million Americans identifying as LGBTQ, today, most people know one or more of us. Some even appreciate our struggles and contributions. Even those who don't tend to reject Trump's deadly choices. According to 2024 Gallup results, over 80% of the general population supports LGBTQ+ rights.
So let’s speak out. Let a distant relative, neighbor, or friend know that you are a safe ally. And when able, contribute to one of the dozens of legal groups safeguarding our liberties in the courts, such as the ACLU, Common Cause, Lambda Legal, HRC, and GLAAD.
Or maybe, just plant one of those friendly little rainbow flags in your garden. You never know when a sad or frightened child might walk by and feel a tiny bit safer in this maddening world.
David Topel is an author, filmmaker, social justice advocate, retired attorney, freelance writer, and founding Board President of Philadelphia's Attic Youth Center, now in its 32nd year.
