In the national conversation, Idaho is often reduced to something simple: conservative, rural, and monolithic. This flattening has gone so far that when I tell people I’m from Idaho, a state bordering Washington and Oregon in the Pacific Northwest, people often respond by thinking of the Midwest. This disruption may seem small, but it reflects a broader trend toward erasing Idaho’s history and distilling it into a place rooted in nightly news soundbites and divisive politics rather than a place filled with real people living complex lives.
Although Idaho is often imagined as culturally homogeneous, the reality has always been more layered than outsiders imagine. Even in the 1990s, the state Over 94% whiteIdaho was shaped by generations of indigenous communities, Basque families, Mexican and Chicano farm workers, refugees, Mormon settlers, immigrant workers, and working-class people who migrated across the Pacific Northwest in search of survival and opportunity. Particularly in southern Idaho, the Latino community was deeply integrated into the state’s agricultural economy long before it was recognized in the national conversation. over the past 30 yearsIdaho’s population is rapidly changing, with significant growth in Hispanic, multiracial, black, and immigrant communities, especially in places such as Twin Falls, Boise, Nampa, and Magic Valley. But Idaho’s public image rarely evolved in parallel with the people themselves.
A view of downtown Boise, Idaho.shutter stock
The state continues to be flattened by political stereotypes, erasing the fact that many Idahoans lived at the intersections of race, class, immigration, religion, and rural life long before the rest of the country began to take notice. Idaho is by no means culturally or politically homogeneous, and transgender people are not new there.
Long before modern political debates about gender identity, there were already people in Idaho who lived outside of strict expectations of how gender should be understood. Joe MonaghanThey arrived in southwestern Idaho in the 1860s and lived as men while working in the Owyhee Mountains as part of a frontier labor life. mother georgeA respected midwife near Grays Lake, she delivered more than a thousand children before they were even scheduled. revealed After her death in 1919. In the 1970s, Hotcha Hinton I performed as a transgender comedian and burlesque performer in Idaho Falls, not far from where I grew up.
These histories are rarely brought up when Idaho is discussed nationally. However, they are still part of the state’s structure.
In my upbringing, Idaho was a never-ending contradiction. And perhaps those tensions and complexities have expanded my own capacity for compassion toward people who are different from me. I grew up in rural Idaho in a fundamentalist Christian household. For me, Idaho was not defined by political headlines, but rather a city of schools, churches, neighbors, friendships, compassion, tensions, and contradictions.
Idaho’s seemingly rigid culture and dichotomy taught me from an early age that I was different from other boys. When I was four years old, I once told my mother’s camera that my name was Queen Rose and that I was a girl. It was just for fun, but it remains as a memory that I couldn’t understand at the time. Idaho’s transgender and queer history wasn’t taught in the classroom. My parents didn’t know any LGBT people.
Rose Montoya poses in her childhood dress.Courtesy of Rose Montoya
Elementary school wasn’t easy. I skipped kindergarten, so I was younger than most of my classmates. During recess, I was chased and teased, and when I reported bullying, some teachers told me to “be better.” At the time, “Man Up” communicated the need to suppress one’s emotions and adapt oneself in response to harm, rather than expecting intervention or protection. It shifted the blame away from those who caused the bullying and imposed on me to become less visible and more vulnerable. In hindsight, this reflects how rigid gender expectations and institutional norms often shape responses to harm in ways that prioritize resilience over care and conformity over accountability.
One of my first sources of safety was my teacher, Mr. Greer, who believed in me and let me eat lunch in her classroom. That small space became a place of refuge. She also helped me build friendships with the girls. They later stood up for me when I pushed, shoved, or called me names on the playground. Those friendships meant more to me than I could have ever understood at the time.
Looking back, I understand that those moments were part of something much larger: a silent form of resistance that existed throughout my daily life. People organized in small ways, forming communities around each other, queer and trans people found language, even if it was limited, and found each other, even if they didn’t have words. That reality has never been divorced from Idaho. That was always part of it.
I now understand that resistance is steady and necessary. It is not defined by recognition or public affirmation, but by survival, connection, and mutual protection in spaces that often do not name or acknowledge us.
As a child, I couldn’t touch that reality. I experienced Idaho as isolated and singular, as if I was an exception rather than part of something that already existed. I came out as gay in 2010, and for a long time, I was the first openly gay student in my high school. That visibility came without context or community, which reinforced the feeling of isolation.
My understanding of community slowly deepened through experience rather than instruction. I started noticing other queer kids at school and church. We were different on paper in every way: age, background, interests, beliefs. But we recognized each other anyway.
I came out as gay in 2010 and at one point was the first openly gay student in my high school. This involved a certain kind of visibility without context. In other words, there was no roadmap for what it meant to be seen but not understood. My understanding of community slowly deepened through experience rather than instruction. I started noticing other queer kids at school and church. We were different on paper in every way: age, background, interests, beliefs. But we recognized each other anyway.
Looking back, I was leading something of a youth rebellion against dominant cultural norms. LGBT friends from church would leave our youth groups and instead sit in parking lots and fast food restaurants, eating ice cream and discussing identity, religion, love, and what it means to belong everywhere. It was informal and incomplete. Sometimes I had trouble with that. But we kept at it.
My best friend from high school became my lifeline. His parents accepted me when my own family struggled to understand me. They fed me, listened to me, and gave me space when I needed it. That friend later came out to me. We are still close and I consider him and his family part of me.
It took time, but through these small communities, the formation of language, and studying gender theory and women’s studies in college, I realized that I was transgender. I came out in 2014. I didn’t even know the word “transgender” until 2013. That’s when Orange Is the New Black put into words something I was already feeling but couldn’t put a name to.
The lack of language has shaped the way I move through the world. They could pass unnoticed or avoid being immediately observed in ways that now seem almost impossible. At the same time, there was little protection, little resources, and little public understanding if things got worse.
But Idaho taught me how people survive. I learned about resilience through small acts of kindness. Communities where queer people find each other quietly, share knowledge in private, and develop friendships in spaces where it felt impossible to be fully open. I had a school counselor who gave me room to live without having to protect myself. I had friendships with girls who included me, even if I wasn’t completely welcome in women-only spaces. None of it was perfect or systematic, but But it was important.
That’s the lens I bring to Idaho’s current political moment.
On March 31, 2026, which also happens to be Transgender Visibility Day, Governor Brad Little signed one of the following agreements: The toughest toilet charges It will be legalized in the country. The law makes it a crime for transgender people to use certain public facilities that match their gender identity.
There’s nothing I can trust evidence That transgender people’s use of spaces that align with their gender identity increases harm to others. What these policies consistently produce instead Transgender people themselves face increased surveillance, harassment, and vulnerability. Systems built around gender regulation are rarely limited to the people they claim to serve. They rely on public judgments about mm being masculine enough, feminine enough, or looking out of place.
I personally understand the consequences of that scrutiny. When I was in elementary school, adults often ignored what was going on, but I was bullied and suffered physical harm, such as being thrown into a trash can. Later, after being ostracized in high school, he experienced harassment, isolation, and exclusion within his church community. Those experiences shaped what daily survival looked like.
But Idaho is also here resistance It continues to take shape.
Six transgender people living in Idaho recently filed charges. federal lawsuit They are challenging House Bill 752, arguing that the law violates constitutional equal protection, due process, and privacy protections. And on Tuesday, June 16, U.S. District Judge Amanda K. Brailsford granted a preliminary injunction against House Bill 752, which would still force Trans-Idahoans to use single-person restrooms when available.
Across the state, mutual aid organizations and local organizations continue to build support networks for LGBTQ people in areas often ignored by national media. Local communities continue despite state legislature attempts to limit protections sort out For dignity, access to health care, and public visibility.
What’s happening in Idaho isn’t just policy construction. It is a clash between systems designed to restrict public life and communities that are already adapting, surviving, and practicing caring for one another.
That’s why reducing Idaho to a symbol misses the point. Places associated with exclusion are also places where resistance takes shape. Before formal protections existed, queer and trans people were still finding ways to survive. They built underground networks, quietly sharing information and creating a form of chosen family without the organization’s permission. That history hasn’t disappeared. It simply evolved.
Rose Montoya visited Idaho in 2021 and looked down on the city of Boise.Courtesy of Rose Montoya
Idaho can be read as a warning about where American politics is heading. But it’s also a reminder that communities don’t disappear just because the law seeks to erase them. The future of a nation is not determined by lawmakers or headlines alone. It is also shaped by people who continue to choose each other anyway.
rose montoya (she/they) is a trans Latina advocate, educator, and creator with over 10 years of experience in advancing trans-inclusive policies, changing public perceptions, and building community power. She works as a consultant and strategist across a variety of issues in the progressive movement.
opinion is dedicated to featuring a wide range of inspiring personal stories and influential voices from the LGBTQ+ community and allies. visit Advocate.com/submit Click here for detailed submission guidelines. We welcome your comments and feedback on our stories. Email us at voice@equalpride.com. The views expressed in Voices articles are those of guest writers, columnists, and editors and do not directly represent the views of The Advocate or our parent company, Equality Pride.
Source: Advocate.com – www.advocate.com
