A MidWestern transgender woman trying to survive in the real life.

Tag: Anthropology Page 1 of 2

The Filipinoization of Stonewall

Father Richard Mickley, founder of MCC Manila and a pioneering figure in LGBTQ+ Christian ministry and Pride activism in the Philippines. Photo courtesy of the LGBTQ Religious Archives Network.

In the summer of 1999, I conducted anthropological fieldwork in Metropolitan Manila for my Master’s thesis at Northern Illinois University. My research focused on how Filipino understandings of homosexuality and gender identity were interacting with emerging Western LGBTQ+ political identities during the era of globalization (Walter, 1999). Looking back more than two decades later, I now realize that I was witnessing a foundational transitional period in Philippine LGBTQ+ history.

My thesis, The Gender Behaviors of Filipino Male Homosexuals in Metropolitan Manila Within the Era of Cultural Globalization, examined the relationship between bakla identity, masculine homosexual identity, class, and globalization within Metro Manila (Walter, 1999). During this period, post-Stonewall LGBTQ+ political discourse from the United States was increasingly circulating through media, activism, universities, and transnational social networks. However, these ideas were not simply imported intact into the Philippines. They were reshaped through Filipino cultural understandings of gender, sexuality, religion, family, and class.

During my fieldwork, I stayed in a house in Santa Mesa associated with the Filipino LGBTQ+ newspaper Manila Out. The editor-in-chief of the paper was Father Richard Mickley, an American minister affiliated with the Metropolitan Community Church (MCC). At the time, I understood him primarily as an older American clergyman deeply involved in local LGBTQ+ ministry and activism. Only later did I fully appreciate his historical importance within Philippine queer history.

Richard Mickley was one of the pioneering figures of openly LGBTQ+-affirming Christian ministry in the Philippines. After relocating to the country in 1991, he founded MCC Manila and became involved with LGBTQ+ advocacy and community organizing (Mickley, n.d.). He later worked alongside organizations such as Pro-Gay Philippines and activists including Oscar Atadero in helping organize the 1994 Pride March in Manila, now recognized as the first Pride march in both the Philippines and Asia (UNDP & USAID, 2014).

One of the most striking aspects of LGBTQ+ activism in Manila during 1999 was how interconnected the movement remained. Activists, students, clergy, journalists, researchers, and organizers frequently occupied the same social and physical spaces. Political organizing occurred not only through formal institutions, but also through apartments, cafés, churches, universities, newspapers, and shared community houses.

Through organizations such as Pro-Gay, Babaylan at the University of the Philippines, Manila MCC, and Manila Out, I conducted participant observation and interviews among Filipino gay men in Metro Manila. During this period, I also marched in the 1999 Manila Pride Parade, experiencing firsthand the growing visibility and political energy of the Philippine LGBTQ+ movement at the turn of the millennium. At the time, the Pride movement in Manila was still relatively small compared to large Western Pride celebrations, but it carried an intense sense of community, activism, and historical importance.

These experiences led me to conceptualize what I described in my thesis as “The Filipinoization of the Legacy of Stonewall” (Walter, 1999). By this, I meant that Filipino LGBTQ+ communities were adapting global queer political frameworks into distinctly Filipino cultural contexts rather than simply reproducing Western identity categories.

This distinction is anthropologically important. Western LGBTQ+ political discourse has often emphasized sexuality through identity categories such as “gay,” “lesbian,” or “bisexual.” In contrast, Filipino concepts such as bakla historically encompassed more fluid intersections of gender expression, sexuality, social role, performance, and class (Garcia, 2008). The globalization of queer politics in the Philippines therefore produced hybrid identities shaped simultaneously by local traditions and transnational political discourse.

Religion also played a major role in these tensions. I attended Catholic Mass with Richard Mickley during my stay in Manila, and although he retained appreciation for Catholic ritual and spirituality, he was sharply critical of institutional Catholic teachings regarding sexuality and LGBTQ+ exclusion. His later writings reflected strong opposition to what he described as “sex-negative theology,” particularly regarding LGBTQ+ marginalization and the Catholic Church’s role during the AIDS crisis (Mickley, n.d.).

Looking back now, I recognize that I was present during a major historical transition in Southeast Asian LGBTQ+ history:

  • the expansion of organized Pride activism,
  • the growth of LGBTQ+ political organizations,
  • the emergence of queer Filipino media,
  • and the globalization of queer political identity at the end of the twentieth century.

At the time, however, these developments did not feel historic. They felt immediate and deeply human. People were organizing marches, publishing newspapers, building communities, debating identity, and creating spaces where LGBTQ+ Filipinos could exist openly within a rapidly changing society.

Richard Mickley passed away on February 14, 2023. Reflecting on my experiences now, I realize that I had the privilege not only to conduct research during a pivotal moment in Philippine LGBTQ+ history, but also to personally participate in that history while encountering one of the individuals who helped shape it.

Perhaps the most important lesson I took from that fieldwork is that global political movements are never simply exported unchanged into new societies. They become translated, localized, and transformed through existing cultural systems. Stonewall did not simply arrive in the Philippines unchanged. It became Filipino.

References

Garcia, J. N. C. (2008). Philippine gay culture: Binabae to bakla, silahis to MSM. University of the Philippines Press.

Mickley, R. (n.d.). Biography and ministry history. Metropolitan Community Church historical materials.

United Nations Development Programme [UNDP], & United States Agency for International Development [USAID]. (2014). Being LGBT in Asia: The Philippines country report.

Walter, K. (1999). The gender behaviors of Filipino male homosexuals in Metropolitan Manila within the era of cultural globalization (Master’s thesis, Northern Illinois University).

When Aid Disappears: How the Big Beautiful Bill Fails Illinois Students

WASHINGTON, DC – JULY 04: U.S. President Donald Trump, joined by Republican lawmakers, signs the “One, Big Beautiful Bill” Act into law during an Independence Day military family picnic on the South Lawn of the White House on July 04, 2025 in Washington, DC. After weeks of negotiations with Republican holdouts Congress passed the One, Big Beautiful Bill Act into law, President Trump’s signature tax and spending bill. The bill makes permanent President Donald Trump’s 2017 tax cuts, increase spending on defense and immigration enforcement and temporarily cut taxes on tips, while cutting funding for Medicaid, food assistance and other social safety net programs. (Photo by Eric Lee/Getty Images)

The recent passage of the One Big Beautiful Bill Act—what some are calling the “Big Beautiful Bill”—has ushered in one of the most significant and controversial overhauls to higher education funding in recent memory. Signed into law by President Trump on July 4, 2025, the legislation is being praised in some corners for its tax reforms and streamlined government spending. But beneath the surface, the bill threatens to widen the chasm of educational inequality, especially for low-income students in Illinois and right here in the U-46 school district, where I formerly taught.

As someone who has spent years in education and now watches from the outside with a heavy heart, I’m particularly alarmed by what this bill means for Pell Grants. These federal grants have long served as a foundation for college access among students from working-class and economically marginalized communities. In U-46, where many students are first-generation college-bound and come from families already struggling with inflation and housing costs, Pell Grants have been nothing short of essential.

The Big Beautiful Bill reduces the maximum Pell Grant award by nearly 23%, cutting it from $7,395 to $5,710 (Knott, 2025a). That shortfall is not academic—it’s rent, groceries, textbooks, and transit. Just as troubling are the new restrictions the bill imposes: students must now enroll in at least 15 credit hours to qualify for full aid, up from the previous 12. Additionally, those enrolled less than half-time—often students working jobs to support their families—will no longer be eligible. These changes are not just policy shifts; they are structural barriers that will block many Illinois students from ever setting foot on a college campus.

Illinois’ public colleges and universities have already been under financial strain for years, and state MAP grants, while helpful, are often insufficient to close the gap. For students graduating from U-46 high schools—whether in Elgin, Streamwood, Bartlett, or South Elgin—this federal retrenchment will be felt immediately. Students who were on the edge of affording their first year may now find themselves locked out of higher education altogether.

This is precisely why I launched the Katherine Walter Anthropology Scholarship Fund, hosted on Bold.org. Anthropology—my field of passion—is not often considered a “practical” major by today’s economic standards, yet it offers vital tools for understanding human behavior, culture, and history. In a time when diversity, equity, and inclusion are under attack, we need anthropologists who come from diverse economic and cultural backgrounds more than ever. My scholarship fund is a small but deliberate effort to push back against the erosion of educational access. It is designed to support students pursuing anthropology who demonstrate both academic promise and financial need—particularly those from school districts like U-46 that are too often overlooked in national education debates. You can learn more or contribute directly here: https://bold.org/funds/katherine-walter-anthropology-scholarship-fundraiser/.

This fund is not intended to be a bandage over a deep wound. Rather, it’s a gesture of solidarity with the students I once taught—those who worked double shifts to help at home, who translated school forms for their parents, who stayed late after class to ask about college but worried aloud about the cost. It’s for the ones who won’t benefit from the Big Beautiful Bill but deserve every chance to learn, grow, and contribute to the world.

While the legislation also eliminates subsidized federal student loans and imposes new performance metrics on college programs—denying eligibility to those whose graduates earn less than high school diploma holders—the burden once again falls on students. Especially those pursuing careers in social sciences, education, or the arts, where the monetary payoff may be modest, but the societal value is profound (Knott, 2025b).

If you’re someone who believes in the right to education regardless of zip code or income bracket, I invite you to act. Contribute to the scholarship. Share this message. Start a fund of your own. Because while the Big Beautiful Bill may have passed, its consequences are just beginning to unfold—and we must meet them with action, not silence.

References

Knott, K. (2025a, July 4). ‘Big, Beautiful Bill’ Means Big Changes for Higher Ed. Inside Higher Ed. https://www.insidehighered.com/news/government/politics-elections/2025/07/04/big-beautiful-bill-means-big-changes-higher-ed

Knott, K. (2025b, July 4). Trump signs ‘Big Beautiful Bill’ into law in White House ceremony. Time. https://time.com/7300177/trump-signs-big-beautiful-bill

The Legacy I Hope to Leave Behind

Image: ChatGPT

Legacy is not built all at once. It takes shape over time—quietly, unevenly—through the choices we make, the truths we speak, and the lives we touch. I don’t imagine mine will be written in bold headlines or etched into stone. But I hope it will be felt in subtler, more enduring ways. In the freedom someone claims because I once stood up. In the insight sparked by something I taught or wrote. In the love that lingers in the spaces I leave behind.

I’ve lived many chapters in this life—some of them linear, others far more tangled. I began as a student of anthropology, drawn to the study of culture, meaning, and human complexity. It taught me to listen deeply, to question what seems natural, and to honor what is often ignored or devalued. Anthropology gave me not just tools for understanding others—it gave me a way to understand myself. As a transgender woman, as a spiritual seeker, as someone shaped by forces both seen and hidden, I learned to situate my life within broader currents of history and identity. That perspective never left me.

Eventually, I put my education into service in a different way—as a SNAP program specialist with the USDA. There, I saw how policy lives not in abstract theories but in the faces of people trying to feed their families. I worked at the intersection of administration and survival. It gave me a profound respect for the dignity of everyday life, and a deepened sense of duty to advocate for those so often silenced by red tape and economic cruelty. That role grounded me in the real: in food, in need, in systems and the people caught within them.

But even before all of that, I served my country in uniform. I am a U.S. Navy veteran. I served as a submariner and fought in Desert Storm. It was a life of discipline, of structure, of submerged tension—both literal and emotional. That chapter gave me a close relationship with mortality, with silence, with sacrifice. And later, it gave me the courage to live my truth. Because once you’ve survived war, you learn how little time there really is for pretending.

Though my time teaching in a classroom was brief, it was profoundly meaningful. Education, I believe, is one of the most radical forms of love and hope. I did not stay long enough to become a fixture, but I hope I was a spark. I hope that somewhere, a student remembers me not as perfect, but as present. As someone who saw them clearly, challenged them to think differently, and held space for who they were becoming.

Throughout it all, I’ve remained a writer, a creator, a witness. I write not just to tell stories, but to make space—for desire, for defiance, for complex and beautiful lives that rarely make it into the mainstream. I write for those on the margins, for the ones building new worlds from the ruins of the old, and for the future selves who need proof that we were here.

If I am remembered, I hope it is as someone who lived with fierce honesty. Who loved without shame. Who fought for justice, even when she was exhausted. Who stood in her womanhood and her queerness not as burdens, but as blessings.

I hope my legacy is not one of perfection, but of permission. Permission to live. To change. To desire. To dream beyond the roles assigned at birth or by circumstance. I hope I leave behind courage in those who need it. Gentleness in those taught to harden. Fire in those told to shrink.

And if some future soul—browsing an archive, reading a quote, hearing a story—finds a piece of me and thinks, “Because she lived, I feel less alone,” then that is all the immortality I will ever need.

Committed to Students, No Matter What

For as long as I can remember, giving back has been a core part of who I am. It’s not about recognition or prestige—it’s about believing in the possibility of someone else’s future and doing my part to help it unfold.

For many years, I sponsored children in the Philippines through Children International. Each letter, each photo, each update reminded me of the real lives impacted by consistent, personal support. I cherished those relationships. But due to financial hardship, I had to make the painful decision to stop. That choice still weighs heavily on me, not because I regret helping, but because I couldn’t keep going the way I had hoped.

Even as my own circumstances shifted, my desire to invest in the next generation never faded. That’s why I launched a local scholarship for high school students in the U-46 School District. I started it before I was let go from my student teaching position. At first, I assumed it would be a one-time gift—my final gesture before moving on. But the students changed that for me.

Despite everything, I do not blame the students for what happened. I am frustrated with the district and its decision-making, but my heart still lies with the young people I had the privilege of working with. Their dreams, struggles, and resilience moved me. They deserve opportunities to thrive, and I still want to be part of that.

So, I made a decision: I would continue the scholarship, even if it meant asking for help. Due to my financial constraints, I’ve launched a fundraiser to sustain the scholarship through Bold.org. If you believe in education, equity, and giving students a chance to succeed, I invite you to contribute:

👉 bold.org/funds/katherine-walter-anthropology-scholarship-fundraiser/

This fund supports high school students with a passion for anthropology and the social sciences—fields that help us understand each other more deeply and build a more just world. Supporting this scholarship is an act of hope in a time when many feel hopeless.

Philanthropy isn’t just something you do when you’re comfortable. Sometimes, it’s something you keep doing even when it hurts—because you know what it means to be on the edge and still reach out a hand.

Thank you for walking this path with me.

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