I remember the first book that made me feel like someone had written it for me. Not to entertain me. Not to educate me. Not to warn me. But for me.

It was a picture book—simple, bright, and earnest. Two princes. A castle. A dragon. One prince saves the other and they fall in love. They get married. They smile.

I was twelve. The book was intended for younger kids, but at that point, I would have taken anything. I was a gay boy in a small town raised in a military family, hiding behind good grades and a forced smile. I was scared to tell anyone what I felt, even more scared of what might happen if they believed me. That book did not save my life, but it softened the edges of a very hard week. I still remember how the paper felt in my hands.

So yes, when I read that the United States Supreme Court ruled in Mahmoud v. Taylor that Montgomery County Public Schools must allow parents to opt their children out of reading LGBTQ-inclusive books on religious grounds, I felt that familiar, acidic knot in my stomach. Not because I am shocked. Not because this country has not always pulled the rug out from under us just as we get our footing. But because I know what is coming next.

They are not afraid of books. They are afraid of our existence.

The Decision That Took Us Back

In a 6–3 decision that predictably fell along ideological lines, the Court sided with a coalition of conservative religious parents—Muslim, Catholic, and Orthodox Christian—who argued that their rights were violated when the Montgomery County school district revoked a previously allowed “opt-out” policy regarding LGBTQ-inclusive books used in early elementary classrooms.

Let me be clear: the books in question were not pornographic. They were not explicit. They were picture books. Prince & Knight. Uncle Bobby’s Wedding. My Shadow Is Pink. Books with happy families, chosen kin, kids learning to see themselves in a mirror that does not distort.

But for some parents, that is the problem. When queerness is framed as normal, not scandalous or shameful, it threatens a doctrine that relies on shame as fuel. To many religious conservatives, these stories are dangerous because they affirm rather than condemn. That is the sin.

The majority opinion, penned by Justice Alito, claims that forcing young children to read books that present same-sex marriage, transgender identity, or queer joy as ordinary constitutes a violation of the First Amendment’s Free Exercise Clause. He uses words like “coercion” and “religious burden,” flipping the script to argue that inclusive education oppresses those who wish to avoid it.

It is a strange argument. Because when you really peel it back, it is not the reading itself that is seen as harmful. It is the recognition that queer people exist, that our families matter, that our stories can have happy endings.

Where Are the Rights of the Queer Child?

What the ruling fails to address—intentionally—is the queer kid in the classroom.

The kid with two moms. The kid who is scared to talk about their home life. The one who hears classmates echo their parents’ disgust and feels the word “faggot” crawl beneath their skin like mold. What happens when those students are told their existence is too controversial to read about in a picture book?

The Court does not care. The religious objections of parents take precedence. The constitutional right of a child to access a full and inclusive education? Nowhere in the majority opinion. Not once does the Court ask whether denying access to a diverse curriculum might burden the rights of LGBTQ+ students or those from queer families.

In this framing, the only citizens worth constitutional protection are those who claim injury from seeing others treated with dignity.

The Erasure Is the Point

This ruling is not just about Montgomery County, Maryland. It is not just about books. It is about control.

For decades, the far right has used the language of parental rights and religious freedom as a Trojan horse to insert exclusionary, discriminatory, and whitewashed ideologies into the public square. From school board meetings to library protests to curriculum bans, the target is the same: remove visibility of queer, trans, nonbinary, and otherwise nonconforming identities from the public sphere.

If we are not seen, we do not exist. If we do not exist, they do not have to question the cruelty of their policies. It is easier to legislate our erasure than confront the discomfort of complexity.

Books are powerful because they give voice to the silenced. They offer language when the world is still learning what it means to be different. Queer books save lives. Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Literally.

What the Court just did was greenlight the slow suffocation of that voice, one opt-out at a time.

What Happened to the Constitution I Was Told to Believe In?

This case raises profound constitutional questions. The First Amendment has long been understood to protect both the free exercise of religion and the prohibition against the establishment of religion. But somewhere between Hobby Lobby and this ruling, that balance was shattered.

We are now living in an era where “religious freedom” is increasingly used as a blunt instrument—not to protect marginalized faiths from state intrusion, but to allow dominant ideologies to reject pluralism entirely. The Establishment Clause is now an afterthought.

The question no one in the majority wants to answer: can public institutions function if every parent has the right to remove their child from any content they find ideologically inconvenient?

We do not grant opt-outs for books that celebrate patriotism, capitalism, or military service—despite deep moral objections by many pacifist, socialist, or anti-war households. But when queerness enters the frame, suddenly the sky is falling.

That is not constitutional fidelity. That is selective panic dressed up in religious garb.

What This Means for the Future

Do not be surprised when this ruling sets a national precedent.

Expect lawsuits in every district that includes books by queer authors, Black authors, Indigenous authors, or anyone outside the normative mold. Expect school boards to preemptively remove diverse content to avoid litigation. Expect the chilling effect to go beyond the classroom, into public libraries, after-school programs, and even teacher training.

This is not a one-off decision. It is part of a broader strategy to hollow out public institutions from the inside, one “reasonable objection” at a time.

And the impact will not fall equally. Queer kids of color, disabled kids, kids in foster care or unstable housing—those who already face multiple layers of marginalization—will feel it most. Because once the opt-outs are normalized, exclusion becomes policy.

Why This Matters to Me

As a formerly incarcerated, disabled, queer writer, I have seen the cost of invisibility. I have lived it.

When I was incarcerated, there were no books with queer protagonists. No stories that reflected the truth of my heart. Just a narrow, prescriptive list of titles deemed “appropriate” by people who did not care if we rotted in silence.

It is the same silence I felt in school when teachers avoided the word gay. When AIDS was a rumor, not a lesson. When the bullies knew they would never get in trouble because the teachers were uncomfortable too.

The books they want to ban now are the ones that could have helped me heal then.

And that is why The becoming Project exists. Because we cannot let their fear write our story.

What We Can Do

Do not mistake this for a final act. It is only an opening salvo in the next phase of the culture war. And that means we must organize with clear eyes and firm hearts.

Here is what you can do today:

Read the banned books: Buy them. Donate them to Little Free Libraries. Share them with your friends. Read them at bedtime. Read them out loud. Support local educators: Teachers are on the frontlines. Speak at school board meetings. Write letters of support. Push back against policies that target inclusive teaching. Tell your story: Whether you are queer, trans, allied, or just outraged—speak. Blog. Post. Testify. We have enough silence. Fund resistance: Organizations like GLSEN, the ACLU, and smaller local LGBTQ+ coalitions are fighting back. Give them fuel. Elect better judges: Federal judges are not mystical beings. They are appointed. If we want courts that reflect our lives, we must vote like it matters.

Because it does.

And if you are reading this as someone who has never felt erased, never had to search for a book to prove you are not alone, I ask you to think about this:

What would it feel like to be told your story is too dangerous to be shared?

Now imagine being told that at five years old.

That is the real legacy of this ruling.

But it does not have to be the end of the story.

We are still writing.

We are still here.

We are still becoming.