Photo credit: Illustrations by Martin O'Neill

From Oprah Magazine

Though some parts of our personalities feel written in stone (an aversion to black licorice, an undying love for Dusty Springfield), the truth is that all of us are capable of altering our perspective. And sometimes that shift proves seismic, setting us on an entirely different path. Meet women who've looked within, refreshed their conclusions, and gone on to make positive change in the world.



These mothers help other moms struggling to accept their LGBTQ kids.

Wendy VonSosen, a lifelong Mormon, grew up believing homosexuality was a sin. “I also believed that if I followed all the rules, none of my kids would choose that lifestyle,” says VonSosen, a mother of four. When her then-13-year-old son, Erik, tearfully came out five years ago, her world crumbled. “Erik was my rule follower, so I knew he wasn’t making a choice,” she says. “Being gay was as natural to him as having ten fingers and ten toes. But anyone who’s LGBTQ can’t participate in certain temple ordinances that allow you to get to the highest kingdom of heaven. I thought Erik would be cut off from me for eternity.”

VonSosen knew her son was scared and needed support-but reaching out to religious friends for counsel and comfort simply wasn’t an option. After nearly a year of stumbling and struggling, she found Mama Dragons.

Photo credit: Illustrations by Martin O'Neill

A Facebook community since 2014, with 2,950 members and counting, Mama Dragons is a lifeline for mothers of LGBTQ kids struggling to comprehend their children’s sexuality. Some parents arrive eager to advocate for their sons and daughters but fear less-than-tolerant neighbors; others show up believing that being gay goes against God’s plan but also that their LGBTQ kids need to be themselves. Regardless of a mother’s initial acceptance or hesitation, the group offers a nonjudgmental resource to anyone seeking answers to thorny questions.

It also provides mentorship and information (its site has a guide defining terms like polyamory and biphobia), and hosts retreats and subgroups for Mama Dragons with trans kids or whose first language is Spanish (a.k.a. the Madres Dragones). Some participants have even set up hugging booths at local Pride events. Says vice president Lisa Dame, “I’ve had men in their 50s embrace me and confess, ‘I haven’t talked to my mom in years-it feels so good to hug you.’”

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Mama Dragons hatched as a safe haven for members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, whose leaders maintain that same-sex attraction isn’t a sin but acting on that desire is. Dame’s daughter, Erin, came out in 2013, three years after ending her engagement to a man. While Dame felt ready to flaunt a rainbow flag-“I’d already mourned the loss of a temple marriage and grandkids and just wanted Erin to be happy”-family members balked. “A close relative said, ‘It’s okay if Erin is a lesbian. She just can’t act on it.’ I looked her in the eye and said, ‘She won’t survive that.’”



Fear and confusion often snowball into catastrophic crises of faith. “Mormon moms with gay kids face a horrible choice: Follow doctrine that opposes same-sex relationships or be a loving mother,” says Dame, no longer a practicing Mormon. “I couldn’t do both. But stepping away from my faith was devastating. I would have held on to that identity tooth and nail if I could have. Now I cling to Mama Dragons.”

Today the community includes moms of all stripes-even nondevout or liberal-leaning ones who feel alone or conflicted about their child’s sexuality. Debbie Griewe, who is not Mormon, doesn’t identify as “super religious” but has relatives who do and lives in what she considers a conservative town. While Griewe had never felt homophobic, her son Austin’s coming out two years ago landed like a blow to the chest.

“I’ve never had a problem with gay people, but it’s different when it’s your kid,” says Griewe. “I don’t know why, but it is. Austin also didn’t want me to tell anyone-so suddenly I felt like I was in the closet with all these thoughts: What about HIV? What if he’s killed in a hate crime? If he gets married, will family attend?” When she discovered Mama Dragons soon after Austin’s admission, she was eager to connect with like-minded parents. Says Griewe, “It was comforting to be exposed to people who had struggled like me but had come so far.”

Mama Dragons is there for parents at their most terrified. But it’s also an enthusiastic audience for moms who want to boast about their children’s achievements. “Erik went to homecoming in drag, and I felt the most excited-and supported-talking about it with fellow Mama Dragons,” says VonSosen, now the group’s president, who still attends church in an effort to be a voice for LGBTQ members. “I’ve lost friends but gained new ones whose beliefs align with mine.”

She’s also established new rituals: “I go with Erik, his siblings, and my husband to the San Francisco Pride Parade every year. Erik dresses as his drag persona, Crème Brûlée, and I carry a sign that reads, ‘This Mormon mom loves her gay son!’ Erik is confident as Crème-and I’m confident there’s no right way for a family to look.” -Zoe Donaldson

This woman went from hatemonger to peacemaker.

Talking to the gentle-tempered, thoughtful Angela King, it’s nearly impossible to imagine the 43-year-old activist as the brutal girl she once was: a neo-Nazi skinhead. But she’s traveled ideological light-years from her upbringing in South Florida, where her life gradually went from repressed to nightmarish.

“As a kid, I was sent to a private Baptist school, which I think was less about religion and more about keeping me away from ‘bad elements,’ meaning black people.” Before sixth grade, she transferred to a new school. There, King was mocked relentlessly for her “poodle-perm mullet,” glasses, braces, and weight. “A bully ripped my shirt open in front of the entire class,” King says, “and all this intense rage just flew out of me. My kid brain decided, If I’m on the offensive, nobody can ever humiliate me again. Soon enough, I was the school bully.”

Her parents had a “messy” divorce before King hit high school. “There suddenly wasn’t much structure,” she says, “and I felt unwanted and unloved.” She was accustomed to stealing her parents’ booze and cigarettes, but eventually she moved on to using heavier stuff: LSD, cocaine, huffing Freon, “you name it.” She bounced between cliques until, at age 15, she found a home of sorts. “The group I befriended embraced swastikas and Confederate flags,” she says. “I honestly didn’t know what that stuff meant. I just knew that I could be violent and angry around them, and they never questioned what was wrong with me. I thought,This must be where I fit. Before long, I was being indoctrinated.”

King dropped out of school at 16 and soon became fully entrenched in the extreme far-right. “I made my own propaganda where I wrote things like, ‘No white women should have abortions, but all other women should,’” King says. “I felt zero responsibility for anything. I blamed everything on someone else: My parents screwed me up, or somebody looked at me funny.”

But she felt a painful twinge in 1995, when 26-year-old white supremacist Timothy McVeigh detonated a truck bomb next to the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, killing 168. Seeing the widely published photo of a firefighter holding a baby covered in ash and blood, “I had an intense emotional response,” King says. She was horrified to realize that McVeigh shared some of her beliefs; they’d even attended the same far-right house party once. Guilt-ridden, she decided halfheartedly to disconnect from her gang. “Within just a few weeks, though, they made it clear that wasn’t wise,” she says. “One night, at least 30 people carrying knives, crowbars, and bats surrounded my house, yelling insults. A few days after that, someone called and subtly said he’d watched my little brother playing outside by himself. So I stayed.”

Photo credit: Illustrations by Martin O'Neill

In 1998, eight years into her life as an extremist, King, then 23, was involved in an armed robbery of a Jewish-owned store. “The guy I was dating pistol-whipped the clerk and took the money, while the rest of us sat in the car as lookouts.” After about seven months on the lam, King was arrested and convicted.

A couple of months after entering prison, she was smoking in the rec area when a black inmate struck up a conversation. “She asked, ‘Hey, do you know how to play cribbage?’ My answer was, ‘What the fuck is cribbage?’” As the other woman taught King to play, they talked. “We had no direct discussions about me being there for a hate crime,” she says. “But I kept thinking, This is weird. This isn’t what I’ve been told black people are like. I started to get close with her friends, too. I was being treated like a human by women who I wouldn’t have treated the same way had I known them before.”



In prison, King experienced another axis-tilting revelation. “I had my first relationship with a woman and came to terms with my sexuality,” she says. “She hated me at first because she was black and knew why I was there. But over time, we started to speak transparently and realized we had more in common than we imagined. And we fell in love. She and her friends didn’t let me slide about what I’d done, though; they held me accountable. One had an infant daughter and asked, ‘If you met me and her before prison, would you have called us the N word? Would you have tried to kill us?’” Their frank conversations “forced me into intense introspection,” says King. “As a young person, I became dehumanized. Those women rehumanized me.”

King served about three years of a 70-month sentence and was released in May 2001. “I was more afraid of leaving prison than going in,” she says. “I was fearful of repercussions from my gang, but also of myself. At times, my mind would automatically bring up a racial slur-I was terrified that maybe I was hardwired that way.” She enrolled in community college, taking sociology, psychology, and religion courses. “They inspired me to reflect on our country’s troubled history.”

King had been out of prison a few months when her probation officer asked her to speak at a criminal-justice class at a Miami university. “My knees were literally knocking,” she says. That led to more speaking gigs and outreach-work she did on her own for a decade before meeting other former extremists at a 2011 conference. Six of them formed Life After Hate, a nonprofit that conducts research on, and helps individuals leave, U.S. hate groups. King-now its program director-is mobilizing a nationwide network of volunteers and experts to assist those abandoning the far right, helping them with job training and having their racist tattoos covered or lasered off (which King herself, who’d gotten swastika and “Sieg Heil” ink, has almost finished doing).



“Though I’ve been disengaged for nearly two decades, I only forgave myself a few years ago,” she says. “The shame was so overwhelming. Finally, I thought, What am I beyond what I once was? Once, I would’ve described myself as a warrior-a proud white woman willing to do anything necessary to ‘save’ her people. I’ll be apologizing for the rest of my life for that. But this work no longer feels like penance. I own my mistakes but have compassion for myself-I’ve stepped into the human being I am today. I’m more than I ever could have given myself credit for.”-Molly Simms

Want to take action? Try these apps.

For protesting:

Try the American Civil Liberties Union’s Mobile Justice app, which covers 17 U.S. states (plus Washington, D.C.) and counting. It lets you record audio and video, then sends it directly to your local ACLU office in the event you witness anything troubling. In case you’re entangled in problems with the police, the app also contains detailed info about your legal rights.

For campaigning:

You’re at the drugstore but want to be sure the brand you’re considering doesn’t try out its mascara on rabbits. With the app Buycott, you choose campaigns that matter to you-stopping sweatshop labor, banning animal testing, supporting the environment-then scan a product’s bar code to see whether it lines up with your principles.

For resistance:

Resistbot doesn’t require you to download anything at all; just text “resist” to 50409 to be enrolled. The service lets you contact your elected officials-when prompted, enter text that Resistbot will deliver via email, fax, or snail mail. It also lets you check the status of your voter registration, find upcoming town hall meetings, and see canvassing opportunities. Or write a heartfelt letter on current events, then text “editor”-Resistbot will send it to your local newspaper for possible publication and even copyedit it first. (More than 1,700 such missives have been published.)

These women behind the camera saw a need for community in the male-dominated entertainment industry.

With the recent success of lady-centric media like Big Little Lies, Girls Trip, GLOW, and Wonder Woman, you might assume we’re in a golden age of inclusivity. That is, until you look at the less-photogenic facts: In 2018, only 3.3 percent of films from the six big Hollywood studios were directed by women. Of the top 250 films released, 73 percent had no female writers. And women account for just 27 percent of those behind the scenes in broadcast TV. “The reports are a kick in the gut,” says director Leah Meyerhoff, “like confirmation that this system is inhospitable to us.”

Even that sad fact couldn’t dampen Meyerhoff’s love of film. As a kid in San Francisco, sitting alone in dark theaters gave her a sense of belonging. “I had a challenging childhood,” she says, “and watching movies about girls like me kind of saved my life. Cinema is an empathy-producing tool, and I wanted to tell new stories that would transform people’s thinking, like film did for me.”

Photo credit: Illustrations by Martin O'Neill

In 2013, while gearing up to direct her first feature film, Meyerhoff hosted a dinner party for a handful of women directors at her apartment in Brooklyn “so I could pick their brains.” The group compared notes on camera techniques-and frustrations about their dude-heavy field. “That night was so educational and empowering. At the end, someone said, ‘Let’s do this again next month,’” says Meyerhoff. “So we did.”

Meyerhoff named the group Film Fatales; today it’s a nonprofit that supports a community of 1,000-plus filmmakers who’ve directed at least one feature-length movie, broadcast-length documentary, or scripted television episode (including Oscar, Emmy, and Peabody winners); in a dozen cities, monthly meetings are held where attendees talk shop and share resources. Film Fatales also built a database that’s searchable by filmmakers’ demographic data and background. “Production companies who want diverse talent with a specific perspective might reach out saying, ‘I’m looking for a Japanese American director with horror experience. Can you recommend someone?’” says Meyerhoff. “And we send over a list.”

Meyerhoff is pleased by the progress she’s observed. “In 2018, NBC created a program called Female Forward, through which women directors shadow other pros, then direct at least one episode of their show on their own. Yes, Hollywood is like a giant ship that’s slow to change course, but women filmmakers are getting themselves into important meetings, then helping other women do the same. When enough of us make our way there, the system will change.” -M.S.



3 more groups turning a lens on inequality in Hollywood:

Created and run by San Diego State University, this center releases detailed annual studies on gender representation in media for academics, journalists, and curious consumers. The organization’s Celluloid Ceiling and Boxed In reports, now in their 21st year, offer info on women behind the scenes, while It’s a Man’s (Celluloid) World analyzes onscreen roles.

Launched in 2017 with help from Women in Film and the Sundance Institute, 60 “ambassadors”-including agents, directors, and producers-have committed to educating their industry peers on the dearth of XX chromosomes in media decision-making. Programs include addressing unconscious bias and mentoring up-and-coming female directors.

Yes, that Geena Davis has pioneered extensive research into gender depictions in media. Its work revealed that kids engage with media for up to seven hours daily, during which they’re exposed to alarming amounts of bias and stereotyping. A recent GDI report found that between 2007 and 2017, the top 100 family films featured twice as many male leads as female.

And 3 more ways to celebrate female-driven films:

Buy opening-weekend tickets

Support feature films directed by women, even if you can’t attend. Strong opening weekends garner more press and build much-needed word-of-mouth momentum. (Go to womenandhollywood.com for a list of projects currently on screens from female filmmakers and writers.)

Support via streaming

The more often a show or a film is watched, the more likely it is to be recommended to other viewers. Luckily, Netflix recently added a “Movies Directed by Women” search filter.

Write online reviews of films directed by women

Visit the Amazon Prime Video, IMDb, and Rotten Tomatoes sites to add your two cents. About 78 percent of film reviews are written by men-and research indicates that they rate programming aimed at women lower than female reviewers do.

This Meetup group blends community, camaraderie, and crucial conversations.

One Sunday a month, the Harlem Coffee Co. in upper Manhattan is suddenly more than a spot to down an iced latte; it becomes the site of intimate confessions, provocative debates, and discussions about race and sexuality. That’s when W.O.K.E. (Women of Kolour Empowered) convenes: This New York City Meetup group gives nonwhite women a forum to tackle essential topics.

Amy Afua Smith, W.O.K.E.’s founder, is the daughter of Ghanaian immigrants; during her training to become a clinical social worker, she noticed a troubling pattern. “The concerns unique to women of color were often left out of our discussions,” she says. “At a presentation in 2017 about happiness, I asked the speaker, ‘How do race, sexism, and sexual orientation affect overall happiness?’ And he said, ‘I didn’t research that.’ On a personal level, I knew that women of color, especially in the immigrant community, don’t typically speak about mental health openly.” So Smith started W.O.K.E., which now has more than 880 members-ranging in age from early 20s to 60s-most through word of mouth.

Photo credit: Illustrations by Martin O'Neill

She found inspiration close to home: “Every Sunday after church when I was growing up, my mom and her friends would meet up and talk about everything: work, men, family,” says Smith. “As I got older, I realized that this was their group therapy, a nontraditional way of tending to their mental health. I figured W.O.K.E. could serve the same purpose.”

Smith doesn’t intend for W.O.K.E. to substitute for traditional therapy-she says some members, including her, do see professionals. (“Turning 40 drove me to it,” she jokes.) But she knows that’s not an option for everyone. “Women of color don’t always have access to a therapist, let alone one who looks like them,” she says. “Plus, black women are often the breadwinner of their family. Spending an hour with someone every week, or even every two weeks? That commitment sometimes isn’t feasible. Also, it’s not always easy to face your ‘stuff’-if you’ve ignored your own issues and concerns for years, it can be overwhelming to go and unpack all of that with a stranger.”

Since its inception in February 2018, the group has explored everything from interracial relationships to the #MeToo movement to prison reform. (The January conversation examining the TV series Surviving R. Kelly was the most popular meeting to date.) “One of our bigger turnouts was for a talk centered around a woman of color’s inability to be vulnerable because of societal expectations,” says Smith. “We’re groomed to be strong and resilient. Some people said they’d never seen their mother cry until a funeral-or ever.”

Smith has been amazed by the need for this group. “After each one,” she says, “people tell me things like, ‘This is going to empower me for the rest of the week.’ Or I get messages saying, ‘This month’s topic is too difficult for me to discuss, but here’s my story, in case you want to share it anonymously.’ I try to break up all the seriousness with a trip to a museum or a dinner,” she says. “But honestly, even those end up being intense. It’s like, ‘Let’s have fun! And also, did you read this news story?’ Still, W.O.K.E. may be the only venue where some of these women feel free to talk about what’s on their mind-and I’m happy to give them that space.” -M.S.

Ready to make your passion spread?

Linda Sarsour, co-chair of the Women’s March on Washington, shares 7 ways to get started.

Start small.

“I’m a very talkative Brooklynite, so when I sit next to someone on a flight, I’ll say hi and ask a little about their life-nothing political at all. I’m Muslim and wear a hijab, so sometimes people are sort of shocked that I’m talking to them. But even if it’s a brief conversation, you never know what five minutes can do. If it can create a ripple effect-them going back to their family and saying, ‘I met a Muslim woman on the plane and she said some things I agree with; I want to do more reading’-that’s worth it for me.”

Appeal to people’s humanity.

“Instead of going over talking points, I tell real stories. I’ve met people who had to raise money for their child’s surgery because they didn’t have quality healthcare. So I might use that example and ask, ‘Don’t you think it’s unfair that Americans don’t have access to healthcare in the same way Canadians or those in the UK do?’ And immediately, people will say, ‘Yeah, that’s not right.’ I believe wholeheartedly that every American loves their children, and wants them to be safe and healthy and have access to basic human rights. I start at that fundamental level.”

Be patient.

“We activists want people to hear our arguments and abandon homophobia, Islamophobia, and xenophobia right away, but that’s not how the world works. It requires time to unlearn what’s been embedded in our families for probably the last 100 years. Recognize that it’s not a speedy process.”

Step up for those who can’t.

“The burden shouldn’t always be on people who are most directly impacted to make arguments for their own humanity: It may be difficult and demoralizing for, say, an undocumented immigrant to have to explain that they deserve to be treated with dignity and respect. But others can take on that role and try to ignite compassion.”

Dig deeper.

“Someone’s perspective may seem absolutely unacceptable and outrageous, but I always ask, ‘What happened that made you believe that?’ People learn something in childhood or have bad experiences that affect their perspective, and we should ask questions that get to the core of the issue. Ultimately, we need to ask ‘Why?’”

Get comfortable with being uncomfortable.

“I always ask people who want to be more politically engaged: Are you ready to get disinvited from Thanksgiving dinner? Are you ready for tense moments at your family reunion? Because it requires that type of risk. You may have to say, ‘No, it’s not okay for you to support taking women’s rights away.’ You need to have the courage to have tough conversations. Go to rallies, meet the organizers, be with other activists. But the real work is in your home, your church, your temple, your mosque, your supermarket, and your community center.”

Stay hopeful.

“There was a guy trolling me on Twitter-every time I posted something, he’d respond with really vitriolic, anti-Muslim comments, or call me a ‘libtard.’ And I never blocked him. In 2017, two other women and I got into a debate with him, and the conversation actually turned productive. Over months, he changed his views; he’s now come to my defense online many times. Call me naïve, but I believe in everyone’s potential to change, evolve, and be moved. Ultimately, my responsibility is to try. Regardless of whether the person learns or doesn’t want to, I’ve done my job.”

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