It is one of those April days in Florida that makes people want to move here — low 80s with no clouds in the bright-blue sky. In Orlando’s Magic Kingdom, children pose with princesses and wave their Magic Bands to board Space Mountain. About 16 miles away at the Orlando airport, I stand outside arrivals and wait to chase a different kind of thrill: a ride-along with Andrea Montanez, one of Florida’s most prominent trans activists, to a meeting of the state’s board of medicine.
When she was 5 years old, growing up in the mountain town of Manizales, Colombia, Montanez would sneak into her parents’ bedroom. There, she would hide in the closet, playing with her older sister’s Barbies and putting on eyeshadow from her mother’s makeup bag. The first time she was caught, her mom was furious. She smacked Montanez and demanded an explanation: “Why are you doing this?” Montanez did not know.
Once Montanez had come out, her life changed in other ways. She started visiting advocacy groups. Soon she was attending LGBTQ-rights rallies and speaking out about her experiences as a trans woman and immigrant. The work felt important, but engaging in advocacy wasn’t permitted as a federal employee.
Of the many trans activists I polled, almost all singled out one October 2022 board meeting as the worst. Detransitioners, including Chloe Cole and Camile Kiefel, had been invited to testify and were the first to speak as soon as public comment began. By the end, aghast that so few trans-rights supporters had spoken, two state lawmakers walked up to the lectern to ask for more time. Suddenly, their mics were cut. The crowd began chanting “Let them speak!” to no avail.
One morning in the fall of 2023, as Montanez and her crew were hanging out in Starbucks before a board meeting, in walked Scot Ackerman, about five-two with salt-and-pepper hair and glasses that slid down his nose. Ackerman was an oncologist and then the chair of the board. He was also an active proponent of restrictions on gender-affirming care and had personally advocated in the Florida legislature for the passage of SB 254. Montanez saw him spot them and look down at the floor.
After three days, the trial was over and Montanez and thousands of trans Floridians awaited a ruling. Months passed with no news. As we drive, the playlist pumping Olivia Rodrigo’s “all-american bitch,” Montanez talks through the email she received that morning from Simone Chriss, one of the lawyers litigating the case against the board of medicine. Chriss had outlined all the changes to the forms that the board would be considering at the meeting.