(Editor’s note: This is the second of a two-part story. Click here to read the first installment.)

Last month, I started watching “The X-files.” 

For the most part I loved the show, with Agents Scully and Mulder as the primary reasons why. Yet what I found most frustrating was watching their investigations. As early as episode one, set in a small town of scared people guarded by scary men, Agent Scully proposed coincidences while Agent Mulder proposed aliens. Despite the episode having “cult” written all over it, both agents seemed none the wiser. 

Recently, I learned the FBI has an open process for writers and other creatives to learn how the agency works. I also discovered the FBI has a history of monitoring writers. In fact, the FBI is about as image-conscious as your typical D.C. gay, making me wonder how the “X-Files” moved forward with little pushback. That’s about as interesting as UFOs being discovered in New Mexico as we tested the atomic bomb. 

But if you’re reading this, you likely want me to shut up about the “X-Files” and get back to my story. When I left off, my friend had disappeared and my work cleared me of any wrongdoing. That said, I was mysteriously fired in September 2022—nearly a year after the initial incident—and just six weeks after my boss learned that I wrote books. 

The process of my firing was strange, to say the least. First and foremost, I was never given a reason. To this day it remains a mystery. My now-former employer—a high-profile lobbying firm—then bullied me into signing an NDA to access my severance. 

By the way, I negotiated up. While I don’t know what I did, I had a feeling I had that power. I was right. 

Just prior to the firing, they asked me to bring in my laptop so they could download my files. This rang an alarm for me, primarily because they never gave me a laptop. So, they wanted me to bring in my personal laptop. As a writer with original materials, I reasonably asked what constituted a work file. I never received an answer. 

Coincidentally, I met my ex-boyfriend exactly one week before I got fired. He is the same ex-boyfriend from my religion piece, in which I mentioned he fell into hard times. Specifically, I was referring to concerning signs I spotted last April, primarily on the gay apps, and with memories of the last boy still fresh on my mind, I refused to let another slip from my grasp. 

So, what did I do? I dove headfirst into hell in a messy attempt to rescue him. After playing this new game of cat-and-mouse in which I was said mouse, allow me to share what I learned: Over the course of several months, I spotted sketchy characters at my ex’s place—characters I suspected dealt hard drugs, which was highly out of character for him. Moreover, I found online accounts promoting extremely suspect pornography and, yes, pimping services on X (formerly Twitter), some of which looked a lot like my ex. While I didn’t know what exactly was happening, I knew something was off, but when I confronted my ex, he denied it. 

Being the stubborn asshole that I am, I decided to check these sketchy characters out for myself. It turns out I was spot on about their sketchiness. I learned they not only drug unsuspecting young men in a coordinated manner, but once drugged they sexually violate them and—if drugged enough—begin recording videos. It’s all made to look random yet safe; for example, there always seems to be a nurse in the group who is “experienced” in administering needles. 

Once I had proof these people were unsafe, I took further action for my ex. In mid-November, I reached out to someone in his personal life, which was a tough decision since he was closeted. I was strategic and chose someone who knew he was bisexual, and after connecting with her on Instagram, spoke on the phone with her the next morning. Upon hearing my concerns, she agreed based on her own observations. 

Apparently, she spotted signs of him being physically harmed over the summer. She and I spoke for hours on end about the situation and how we could help him. Then, just a week later, I lost contact with her and my ex. I haven’t heard from either since. 

I eventually grew concerned enough to contact the police and the FBI. In the meantime, particularly following my trauma article, sex workers approached me to share their stories—primarily stories of rape and abuse alongside a power structure rooted in it. As for those who try to oppose this system? They’re often written off as mentally ill. 

I don’t know about you, but I refuse to live in a world where young queers are shepherded into this system. That’s the opposite of what I envision for the queer community. 

Mid-Atlantic Leather weekend arrived in January, along with more sex workers. Once again, some approached me to share their stories—about their aspirations, about their art, about their perspectives on the world. And once again, about the system of abuse designed against them from the start. I heard stories of young boys raped by their fathers, or friends of their fathers, or about the drugs used to coerce them into sexual activity. Sadly, just like a UFO witness, they are usually written off and never taken seriously, especially if they have a record of drug abuse or mental illness. Seems to be a pattern, doesn’t it? 

That said, these men are not solely victims. If anything, they took their trauma and turned it to their advantage. I’d like to take this moment to thank them. They’re unsung heroes—each and every one—in a nation that often shames them. 

Yet as proud as I am of these sex workers, my heart was equally broken. These stories were painful to hear, to say the least. I quickly grew paranoid of people around me, even friends at times. There were other times I sat alone in my apartment, bawling over the men I had lost, along with the pain others had experienced. This only strengthened my resolve to end it. 

To top this all off, my final discovery came just two months ago. Turns out there’s an X account publicly teasing me about this entire affair. The account even references this column and, according to the receipts, started well before I noticed concerning signs about my ex in the first place.  

Hello there, dear X account. It appears you’ve been observing me. Consider this my proverbial tapping back on the glass. 

Wow—there seems to be a lot of time, energy, and effort spent on little ole me. Why is that, I wonder? I’ve mentioned before I’m just a measly little barback who has been fired twice. Although looking back, those firings were strange too, weren’t they? 

Is it the abuse I uncovered? Is it the details of my lover’s past? Is it something I wrote? Is it a combination of the three? And is it possible that the little dark cloud that’s been following me in D.C. is more intentional than I once thought? 

I may never learn the truth on my own, but I can pose another question: what’s the only thing scarier than UFOs? To me there’s just one answer: that UFOs were never real in the first place. Occasionally, answers to unsettling mysteries simply unearth more unsettling mysteries. 

I mentioned before in this column that I arrived to D.C. naïve about the world, perhaps just as naïve as Agents Scully and Mulder. Yet in my naiveté I tripped on something: the rot hiding beneath the surface of our nation’s capital. No, it isn’t coincidence. It isn’t aliens, either. But whatever it is, I alone cannot identify it. 

Throughout my time uncovering this story, I’ve come across friends, acquaintances, and even relatives who suffered abuse, along with threats or shaming to keep them quiet. They come from all races, creeds, backgrounds, and orientations, and as it turns out, some of the infrastructure of power in D.C. and in towns across this nation are built around it. While I’m ready to tear it down, this isn’t just my story. I might be the one starting it, but it’s not on me to finish. 

The most I can do is hand the pen over to the victims. I’ve shared my part. Now it’s their turn. As for the audience: I hope you’re now ready to start believing.  

Jake Stewart is a D.C.-based writer and barback.

In conjunction with WorldPride 2025, the Rainbow History Project is creating an exhibit on the evolution of Pride: “Pickets, Protests, and Parades: The History of Gay Pride in Washington.” It will be on Freedom Plaza from May 17 through July 7. This is the seventh in a series of 10 articles that will share the research themes and invite public participation. In “The Evolution of Visibility” we discuss how by the 1990s victories from Gay Pride grew into more groups calling for more types of events to celebrate more identities under the rainbow.

In 1988, due to a lack of inclusiveness and financial problems, the P Street Festival Committee dissolved itself and Gay and Lesbian Pride of Washington took up the mantle of organizing Pride. Gay women solidified their distinct identity as lesbians and oftentimes “lesbian” began to appear in front of the word gay at events. However, the conservative politics of Reagan’s 1980s and the AIDS pandemic had presented a public perception of the homosexual community as largely white and male despite the way AIDS ravaged Black and Brown communities and the role of lesbian leadership in responding to the crisis. 

According to her Rainbow History Project oral history, Carlene Cheatam was aware that “most of the people in the Black gay and lesbian community [were] in the closet” and knowing that a Pride organized by the P Street Festival without her would be overwhelmingly white, she sought to make space for African Americans in the gay community. Several efforts grew out of The Clubhouse, a popular Black-owned after-hours dance club in regards to the need for funds to support care of Black people suffering from AIDS. Those efforts led to the first Black Lesbian and Gay Pride Day on Memorial Day Weekend, 1991. Under Cheatam, and co-founders Welmore Cook, Theodore Kirkland, and Ernest Hopkins, Black Pride made space for African American gays and lesbians, and raised money to help AIDS service organizations.

Despite the turnout of nearly 1,000 people, and that D.C. was a majority Black city, “initial criticisms surfaced [in 1991] that we were being separatists,” one of the organizers told Gay Community News. The 1990s were characterized by an increasing diversity within the gay community, there was an ever growing number of people with a multiplicity of sexual and racial identities, all of whom wanted visibility and celebration. 

ENLACE, the first Latino/a gay and lesbian association was created to make space for and represent the Latin American and Caribbean gay community. In addition to sponsoring social events and the only Spanish-language hotline for gays and lesbians, ENLACE also educated the gay community about AIDS and worked within the Latino communities on issues of homophobia. ENLACE marched not only in the gay Pride parades, but also in the Latino community events. Support for ENLACE grew after the murder of Ana Maria Rosales, who was shot and killed on Jan. 7, 1993, in what many believed was a crime driven by racism and homophobia. 

The Lesbian Avengers organized the world’s first Dyke March on the eve of the April 1993 March on Washington for Lesbian, Gay and Bi Equal Rights and Liberation. About 20,000 women marched against anti-gay bills, and for grassroots organizing, and awareness of women’s issues.

Transgender and bisexual people also lobbied to be included in Pride, more than just in name only. Transgender support groups and activist organizations were created in tandem during the 1990s. The Bisexual Centrist Alliance and Jeffrey Pendleton, a gay and transgender man, joined forces to create a separate Pride Festival to protest bi and trans exclusion from the Pride title and literature. The Transsexual Menaces demonstrated at Judiciary Square during the Stonewall 25 anniversary. Robin Margolis and other bi and trans coalition activists, assisted by members of various gay and lesbian organizations, held a Diversity Pride picnic in Rock Creek Park on June 10, 1996. 

Rainbow History Project’s exhibit centers the voices of the event organizers, includes dissenting opinions on Pride, and highlights the intersections with other movements for equal rights and liberation. We need your help to tell our story! If you have any images and input contact us and get involved!

Vincent Slatt is the senior curator for the Rainbow History Project.

On Thursday, Feb. 20, we commemorated World Social Justice Day amidst an unprecedented flooding crisis that devastated homes and families across Botswana. We had to remind Batswana of the importance of consistency in ensuring justice for everyone. Even in times of crisis; poor urban planning, drainage systems and property workmanship have led to disruption, impacting over 2,900 lives and the loss of at least seven by Saturday morning. Schools were closed and government staff working in shifts reminded me of the COVID-19 pandemic where prolonged stays at home increased vulnerabilities for women and children in their diversity, mental health deteriorated, gender-based violence increased and longstanding health inequities worsened. These are the realities of those in rural areas living with HIV and those with disabilities even when there is no crisis. 

President Trump’s executive orders have further aggravated the situation.

Key populations at risk of HIV, LGBTI and sex workers, no longer have nondiscriminatory targeted health provisions or indirectly, emergency response measures through intermediary funders from civil society office shut downs and budget cuts to explicit exclusions of any diverse groups—most notably, transgender and gender diverse folks like myself. Close friends no longer have homes or furniture. Sporadic electricity and water cuts are the order of the day even in unaffected areas, going as long as two days without either. Unsurprisingly, there are no queer emergency funds or digital individual giving infrastructure, or dedicated philanthropic efforts to rise to the occasion. A true reflection of the paradox of a higher middle income country. An economic classification that has led to perpetual declines in overseas development assistance and the assumption of a thriving democracy. I often ask myself, a thriving democracy for who?

When COVID-19 vaccines first arrived, they were held in a private residence for the elite to be vaccinated. When our constitutional review bill was tabled before the 12th parliament, there were protests against the inclusion of intersex protections. When we first had floods in January, the more underserved and impoverished areas were impacted. There were no nationwide initiatives for donations from the business community as we do now, concentrated in the capital city. Gaborone. It seems we did not learn from previous cyclones, floods, tremors or pandemics domestically or regionally. Every day, I am reminded of how unequal and unjust my country is. Despite a change in government, I still got pulled from an interview on national television less than five minutes from the shooting schedule. I am left to question whether it’s my gender identity, expression or not carrying the right kind of surname? The topic had already been approved and the channel staff reached out to me directly for a conversation on sex work within the queer community in rural settings. 

A thriving democracy does not leave you questioning your dignity and personhood. It ensures transparency and accountability as a part of its culture. A higher middle income country takes care of all its people, not just the elite. Social protections, universal health coverage, diversity and inclusion are not afterthoughts. Anchored in political will, the respect in the indivisibility of human rights trumps the bare minimum of the rule of law. However, my country only reflects the global geopolitc: A world where power and equality are defined by economic, social, military and financial capital. One that continues to draw from the planet, working poor, and othered without shame or repercussions. It’s a power that Toni Morrison spoke of as a profound neurosis on a Charlie Rose interview. Explaining that those who abuse power are bereft. Void of seeing others as human or with any empathy. Whilst she might have been focusing on racism as a social and institutional construct, I understand now: That the hubris of fear [or phobia] can only resort to violence, subjugation and abuse of office. That it is a reflection of poor upbringing, self indignity and a lack of humanity in oneself.

As our exclusion is institutionalised, one understands that we are truly powerful. National architecture redirected and prioritised towards us. National attention, laws and inhumanity towards us for merely existing. Whilst it may trigger trauma and injustice; it also propels our existence as resistance. It unearths the insecurity that dictators and tyrants in offices and government alike, have to face when sitting with themselves at the end of each day. Having to account for their shortcomings and inadequacy despite being wealthy and in power. They are intellectually deficient and denied any morality just as imagination. A prison of oneself, where they are the center of the world, but really aren’t. It is an abyss, a plateau that only knows growth in exploitative profits and never in personhood. Defaced from any identity, history and culture—void of kindness to oneself. So they try to take these away from us instead. This is why I believe all is not lost. As we write, sing, and share our stories, as we connect beyond borders and binaries. We rejoice in meeting our peers in solidarity, reminding each other that we cannot be silenced or erased. From shared resilience to shared joy in our activism, Václav Havel’s words ring true: “Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something is worth doing no matter how it turns out.” 

Dumi Gatsha is a consultant and founder of Success Capital Organization, a grassroots NGO working in the nexus of human rights and sustainable development at grassroots, regional, and global levels.