I called out my aunt, Rep. Vicky Hartzler, after she made a homophobic speech in tears. Since surviving conversion therapy, I want people to know they don't have to accept the hateful rhetoric of those in power.
Courtesy of Andrew Hartzler
- Andrew Hartzler spent years in conversion therapy and attended a religious institution.
- He called out his aunt, Rep. Vicky Hartzler, after she spoke out against the Respect for Marriage Act.
- Hartzler told Insider he wanted to counter her message of hate with one of love.
This is an as-told-to essay based on a conversation with Andrew Hartzler, an LGBTQ advocate and the nephew of Missouri Rep. Vicky Hartzler, a Republican congresswoman who broke down in tears while begging her colleagues not to vote for a same-sex marriage bill. The essay has been edited for length and clarity.
From a young age, I've heard, read, and seen what my aunt, GOP Rep. Vicky Hartzler, has done to target my community.
But I always felt like there was a boundary I should respect. I had grown up very close to my aunt, and after all, she was family.
During my second year of college, however, my perspective changed when I came across a HuffPost article that revealed my aunt hosted a conversion therapy group at the US Capitol in 2019.
When I looked at a photo from the event, I was surprised: A conversion therapist that I used to see in high school after I came out to my parents, was there. This is a person I would attribute a lot of my trauma to.
I then realized that I couldn't ignore or justify the real-world consequences of her actions.
So when I saw the video on Thursday of my aunt crying on the House floor as she encouraged colleagues to vote against the Respect for Marriage Act — which will help protect same-sex marriage — in the name of religious freedom, I was frightened.
I decided to pick up my phone and respond.
In a TikTok video, I spoke about how religious freedom was not being threatened in this country. Instead, institutions of faith, like the college I previously attended, were being empowered to discriminate against LGBTQ students because of religious exemptions despite receiving federal funding.
"It's more like you want the power to force your religious beliefs onto everyone else and because you don't have that power, you feel like you're being silenced," I said in my video, speaking to my aunt. "You're just going to have to learn to coexist with all of us, and I'm sure it's not that hard."
When making that TikTok, I thought about the trauma that LGBTQ people could experience from seeing one of their political leaders speak about two people marrying each other with such hate. It's frustrating when people in positions of power neglect to see how much influence their words have.
LGBTQ people are being demonized in this country because there's a class of politicians — my aunt included — that weaponize their faith and frame the queer community as a threat to Christianity. And it is, unfortunately, contributing to real-life violence, like the tragic Colorado Springs shooting in November.
It's frustrating when people in positions of power neglect to see how much influence their words have. So, with my video, I felt like I needed to counteract the message of hate with a message of love.
Attending a religious university and experiencing conversion therapy led me to a life of advocating for LGBTQ people
The first time I went to conversion therapy, I was 14 going on 15.
It was the summer before my freshman year of high school when I told my parents that I was gay. That began the process of trying to suppress who I was.
Multiple times a week in an office in Kansas City, Missouri, where I grew up, I saw a conversion therapist. But after a month of meetings, I gave up on trying to change myself. Conversion therapy makes you feel like you're using 50% of your mind to hide a fundamental part of who you are, and you're told to hate that part of yourself. It's self-taught hate.
However, I didn't tell my parents that. I played the part and told them what they wanted to hear. I continued to see conversion therapists until my senior year of high school.
When it was time to pick a university to attend in 2017, my parents — in an attempt to protect me in a safe little bubble of Christian-abiding people — sent me to Oral Roberts University. At this religious institution, named after the famed televangelist, being gay was against the honor code.
At the beginning of college, I decided that because I was in this all-Christian environment, I would give it one last chance to change and be straight and get my parents to accept me.
That attempt lasted a semester.
As a sophomore in college, I came out to my parents for the second time, which they initially took really hard. They've come a long way since then. They may get there one day or never be there, but I can't live my life hoping they will.
I continued to navigate my religious university as a gay person and it was very harmful to be in an environment where I felt like I had to conform to the university's standards.
I noticed other people who were just like me, too. Other parents, like my parents, had the same idea to send their LGBTQ kids to a religious institution. There were many closeted gay and queer people, but there was no community for us.
We didn't really know each other but we knew of each other. It was all a little bit hidden because you don't know whether or not someone is praying against their sexuality. And if you talk to someone about what you're going through as an LGBTQ student, then who is to say that they won't report you to the administration?
This is ultimately what happened to me.
When I was a junior in college, I was called into the dean's office for "homosexual activity" after it was discovered I had a boyfriend who attended a different school.
I was subjected to conversion therapy-type "accountability meetings," as they called it, as a result. These meetings consisted of lectures about "holy sex" and what constituted a godly relationship.
The COVID-19 pandemic came and allowed me to move off campus and avoid the remainder of my accountability meetings. After that, I kept my head down and finished my degree in psychology in May of 2021.
The summer after I graduated, I got involved with the Religious Exemption Accountability Project, an organization that advocates for LGBTQ students at religious universities. Now, I'm a part of a class action lawsuit with over 40 other plaintiffs from tax-payer-funded religious universities across the country.
We are advocating for all students at religious universities to receive equal protection as provided by Title IX.
The positive response to my video has been overwhelming
My now-viral video has resulted in an outpouring of support online, especially on TikTok, which I am so grateful for.
One person messaged me to let me know that they were supporting me all the way from Austria. Another person humorously told me they always forget that politicians have families, too.
Hopefully, my actions will show people they don't have to succumb to hateful rhetoric and that they should stand up for what they believe in.
As for what's next for me, I've been spending a lot of time doing things I enjoy, like reading, writing, and learning French. Next fall, I start graduate school for my master's in clinical psychology. I'm not going to a religious institution again; instead, I'm opting to attend Oklahoma State University.
And once I finish my education, I think I want to go into research. At Oral Roberts University, I did my senior thesis about the relationship between suicidal ideation and sexual risk behaviors in gay and bisexual men.
My advising professor said it was one of the best papers they had ever read.
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