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Violet Chachki and Gottmik pose in a boxing ring wearing satin hooded robes and sparkling silver boxing gloves. One wears a purple robe and the other a green robe, both styled with dramatic drag makeup and short dark wigs. They stand beside a heavy punching bag under industrial lighting, embodying the boxing theme of The Knockout Tour.

Violet Chachki and Gottmik bring “glam and rock and roll” drag spectacular to Louisville on Dec. 11

RuPaul’s Drag Race alumni Violet Chachki and Gottmik are bringing their “full throttle” drag variety spectacular, “The Knockout Tour,” to Mercury Ballroom in Louisville on Dec. 11. The 90-minute performance features drag, live vocals, burlesque, aerials, dancers and fashion.

“The Knockout Tour” combines glam and rock and roll into one high-energy performance

Violet Chachki and Gottmik are both known for their bold, high-fashion drag and stunning visuals. The show integrates both of their aesthetics into a show full of artistry and creativity. Created to showcase both of their individual talents and styles, “The Knockout Tour” is a large-scale, high-energy performance displaying their distinct styles.

Both queens were in the spotlight on their respective seasons of RuPaul’s Drag Race because of their innovative and never-before-seen fashion, skills and humor on the show. 

The show, centered around a boxing theme, is a new perspective in an art form focused on glamor and beauty. Following a “round by round” format, the two performers “battle it out” using their competing aesthetics to fight for the win.

“I saw some boxing events that were really big and I was watching them and I was like, wow, this is so campy and draggy. These, like straight guys in feathers and diamonds, it was just so over the top. I was like ‘this is drag,’” said Gottmik. “This is such a good format for a show of two artists battling it out for who reigns supreme with our aesthetics and it just fits so perfectly.”

After releasing their new song TKO earlier this year, the song provided the overall theme for the show. Gottmik described the song as a “fun, carefree, gym, treadmill classic.” Combining their separate aesthetics was an integral part of the song and the overall tour.

“We just wanted to come together and do this really big tour for the very first time together, and it’s been such a journey, and we’re in such a gorgeous place with it, so it’s just really something special,” said Gottmik. 

Queer Southern artistry takes center stage in Kentucky

While showcasing their own talents and styles, the pair also highlights local drag performers, including Chasity Marie, Vanity Mirror, Champagne, Umi Naughty, Nala Jones and Evelyn Everything. Chachki is from the South, specifically Georgia, and she uses her platform and stage to uplift queer voices in areas where drag restrictions and censorship are at the forefront.

“As a local drag artist myself, I have core memories of performers coming through and seeing how they operated and seeing what they were going through. That’s what being a queer person is. It’s about generational queerness,” said Chachki. “You do it for the people behind you, the people after you, just like the people who did it for me. I’m just glad that we can provide a stage for the next generation and I hope that they will do the same going forward.”

The duo said that they love bringing drag to “places where they have an issue with it.” During the pre-show meet and greets, Gottmik said that they are met by fans who thank them for bringing drag to places apprehensive of the art form.

“The Knockout Tour” is a perfect combination of enchanting, glamorous drag and aerials, mixed with high-energy live vocals and rock music.

“That’s what drag has always been for me. It’s always been a form of escapism to put on a different persona and enter a different reality just temporarily, just as a way to get away from society and all the madness outside of those theater doors,” said Chachki.

Click here for tickets.

Sophia Harris smiles brightly outdoors while holding a flowing rainbow-colored fabric above her head. She wears a vibrant multicolored outfit and stands in sunlight on a neighborhood street.

A Love Letter to the South: Queerness, Country, and the Fight for Belonging

The South raised me in contradiction. It taught me tenderness and toughness in the same breath — how to love the land that sometimes refuses to love you back. I’ve spent years learning to hold that paradox in my body: queer, multiracial, nonbinary, and still fiercely Southern.

To love the South is to wrestle with it. It’s waking up to news cycles that make you question your safety, then walking outside to neighbors who wave, offer you tomatoes, and say, “We take care of our own.” It’s to exist between hostility and hospitality — to see how easily one becomes the other depending on who you are and who you love.

The Politics of Home

Kentucky, like much of the South, is thick with contradiction. We’re watching policies pass that erase trans existence from classrooms, that turn healthcare into a battleground, and that tell queer youth they don’t belong. It creates tension so heavy you can feel it hum under your skin.

And yet — I stay. Not because it’s easy, but because leaving would feel like letting go of the fight for transformation. I work every day as a community advocate, helping people find stability, dignity, and purpose in systems not designed for us. I’ve seen how policy becomes personal when you’re helping someone fill out a job application, or sitting with a young queer person trying to imagine a future in a state that keeps trying to legislate them out of existence.

Still, I refuse to see Kentucky only through its pain. I see the resistance — queer artists, Black farmers, drag performers, teachers, parents, organizers, people like me who believe the South is worth saving because we’re already remaking it.

The Outlaw Spirit

When I think about the South, I hear music first — outlaw country, where rebellion and compassion meet. Artists like Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, and today, Tyler Childers and Orville Peck, sing for the misfits, the poor, the addicted, and the tender-hearted.

Outlaw country isn’t conservative nostalgia — it’s rebellion with empathy. Cash sang in prisons because he saw humanity where others saw sin. Parton built her legacy on radical kindness and working-class feminism. And when Orville Peck croons about queer love behind that iconic mask, he reclaims a genre that once exiled us.

That’s the South I love — the one that still hums with rebellion dressed as tenderness.

Transforming Through Love

In a world where queer people are constantly politicized, our love becomes an act of protest. I know this intimately — as a queer, nonbinary person in an interracial relationship, I often feel caught between worlds. The gaze from both sides can be suffocating. But I practice what transformative justice has taught me: that love is not escapism; it’s evolution.

Our liberation won’t come from winning debates. It will come from reimagining belonging — from refusing to let hatred define the borders of our hearts.

bell hooks wrote that “love is an action, never simply a feeling.” For me, loving the South means holding it accountable while still believing in its capacity to heal. It’s standing on red clay ground and saying: I belong here too.

What Deserves More Attention

We need more stories that center the intersections — the queer Black farmer, the trans coal miner’s kid, the Appalachian artist making protest art in a church basement. The federal and corporate powers profit off division, but our shared struggles — poverty, loss, hope — are where solidarity lives.

It’s time to name capitalism as the system that benefits from our separation. The same forces that deny queer rights also deny fair wages and healthcare. The same wealth that funds political hate is built on our labor. Our power has always come from community, from remembering that we are the beating heart of this country — not its problem, but its pulse.

 

A Love Letter to the South

I don’t write this out of anger. I write this out of devotion. The South taught me how to survive, but queerness taught me how to live — how to love without apology. My hope is that we continue to create spaces where these two lessons intersect: the fierce endurance of the South and the radical tenderness of queer life.

To be queer here is to live like an outlaw — not outside the law, but beyond its limits. It’s to look at the mess of our history and decide that we are still worthy of belonging. It’s to believe, as Orville Peck once sang, that there’s beauty in the shadows.

This is my love letter to the South: not blind, not easy, but honest. I love this place enough to demand it become what it could be — compassionate, collective, and free.

Author bio: My name is Sophia Lee (they/she), a queer, Black multiracial Southern writer and community advocate based in Louisville, Kentucky. With a background in social justice and over five years in grassroots organizing and content creation, my work explores identity, desire, trauma, and radical healing. I hold an MA in Social Justice & Community Organizing and am currently pursuing a PhD in Transformative Social Change.

Xian Brooks practices target shooting at an indoor gun range in Louisville, Kentucky.

Trans People in Kentucky Are on Edge. Some Are Arming Up.

This story includes references to sexual violence which may be distressing to some readers. If you or someone you know needs support, resources can be found here.

This story is in partnership with  Uncloseted Media, an LGBTQ focused investigative news outlet. Subscribe to their latest here.

Every month, Xian Brooks heads to Range USA in Louisville to practice his shot. 

“We can talk about ‘community’ and ‘showing up for each other’ all day, but when it matters most, you only have yourself, and you need to be able to count on that [to defend yourself],” Brooks, a 42-year-old who was born and raised in Kentucky, told Queer Kentucky and Uncloseted Media. 

Misinformation and Political Rhetoric Paint Trans People as Threats

Like many other trans people of color in the red and rural state of Kentucky, Brooks recognizes that he’s more likely to be a target because of his gender identity and the color of his skin. 

That’s in part because of the history the state has when it comes to gun violence. In 2023, for example, Zachee Imanitwitaho—known to her friends as Zachee—was shot and killed outside of the JBS Foods plant where she worked in Louisville. The gunman and Zachee’s coworker, Edilberto Lores-Reyes, confessed to killing her. 

While Reyes’ official motive remains unknown, Zachee’s killing represents an alarming trend of a sharp increase in anti-trans violence.

In particular, homicides of trans people in the U.S. nearly doubled between 2017 and 2023 with a total of 263 victims, according to Everytown for Gun Safety’s Transgender Homicide Tracker

In those six years, 73% of the victims were killed with a gun. 

Xian Brooks, a Black transgender man from Louisville, Kentucky, wearing sunglasses, a black cap, and a tie-dye hoodie that reads “Anti Social Social Club,” sits outdoors with greenery in the background.

Xian Brooks, a Black transgender man from Louisville, Kentucky, advocates for firearm safety and self-defense education in the trans community. Photo by Natosha Via for Queer Kentucky and Uncloseted Media.

Despite these numbers, the rhetoric and policies of the federal government paint trans people as perpetrators of gun violence. Within hours of the killing of far-right Trump ally and anti-LGBTQ activist Charlie Kirk, rumors circulated that a transgender person was responsible. In the aftermath, conservatives, including South Carolina Rep. Nancy Mace, called for the institutionalization of trans people.

And after the mass shooting in Minneapolis in August that killed two children, it was reported that the Justice Department was discussing stripping gun rights away from trans people. However, the National Rifle Association pushed back, saying they will not “support any policy proposals that implement sweeping gun bans that arbitrarily strip law-abiding citizens of their Second Amendment rights.”

This swath of misinformation has put trans people on edge as Americans have been manipulated to view them as a threat to their safety. It’s causing many trans people in Kentucky to arm up or find other ways to defend themselves. 

Steve Drayton, a founding member of Pink Pistols of the Bluegrass, a Lexington, Kentucky chapter of the national LGBTQ gun rights group, says he has seen an increase in trans members in the months since Kirk was killed.

“It brought the focus back onto the transgender community, and not rightfully so,” he told Queer Kentucky and Uncloseted Media. “If only we put this kind of focus on every other type of murder. They’re taking a group of individuals and painting them as awful people, which they’re not. They’re educated, they’re teachers, they’re firefighters, they’re human beings. They’re wives, they’re husbands.”

Zachee Imanitwitaho, a transgender woman from Louisville, Kentucky, wearing a gold floral dress and an orange headscarf, stands outdoors with trees in the background.

Zachee Imanitwitaho, a transgender woman from Louisville, Kentucky, was killed outside her workplace in 2023. Her death sparked renewed conversations about anti-trans violence in the state. Photo: Facebook

While the false narrative around trans people as disproportionately likely to commit gun violence was already simmering in America, Kirk’s murder took it to a boil. Trump-affiliated conservative groups like The Oversight Project, a venture incubated by the Heritage Foundation, have urged the Federal Bureau of Investigation to create a new category of terrorism called “Transgender Ideology-Inspired Violent Extremism.” And a Trump executive order from September designated Antifa as a domestic terrorist group. 

In the order, Trump references the gender identity of trans terrorists but never of cisgender terrorists, describing  “a transgender Antifa terrorist,” “a deranged transgender individual” and “a transgender individual whose manifesto included plans to ‘kill Donald Trump.’” 

“I’ve gotten a lot more tense,” says Brooks. “I’m more distrustful, and my head is on a swivel more. I always know where the exits are when I go somewhere.”

Brooks says he started carrying his Taurus G2C instead of keeping it at his home in 2018 after two Black people were gunned down and killed because of their race at a Kroger in suburban Louisville.

“Miss Vicki was my mom’s neighbor,” says Brooks, referring to one of the victims. “During [the altercation], there was a person in the parking lot that had a firearm that tried to neutralize the threat. If I had taken my mom to the grocery store that day, my firearm would have been locked up and not with me.”

Xian Brooks, a Black transgender man from Louisville, Kentucky, wearing headphones and a tie-dye hoodie, examines a paper target at an indoor gun range.

Xian Brooks, a Black transgender man from Louisville, Kentucky, practices shooting at Range USA. Photo by Natosha Via for Queer Kentucky and Uncloseted Media.

Trans Kentuckians Embrace Gun Safety and Self-Defense Education

Brooks grew up in Louisville’s West End in the Shawnee neighborhood, which experiences a disproportionate amount of violence. According to 2023 research by the Whitney Strong Organization and the University of Louisville, homicide rates are more than five times higher than in the rest of Louisville and 10 times higher than the U.S. average. His family rejected the idea of owning and using firearms because of the amount of violence they endured.

“A lot of us were taught to fear guns because a lot of people’s family members were dying by guns,” he told Queer Kentucky and Uncloseted Media. “It was taught that guns were not toys. We couldn’t have water guns, pop guns or even [play] finger guns.”

But as a Black trans man in today’s political climate, Brooks made the decision to start carrying. 

While he says his race causes him to fear for his safety the most, his fears of violence due to his trans identity have been increasing since the 2024 presidential election.

“Nothing is hypothetical anymore,” he says. “I don’t think anybody should be too comfortable.”

Xian Brooks, a Black transgender man from Louisville, Kentucky, wearing sunglasses, a black cap, and a tie-dye hoodie, stands against an orange brick wall in the afternoon sunlight.

Photo by Natosha Via for Queer Kentucky and Uncloseted Media.

That’s part of the reason Brooks is now advocating for gun safety and education for trans people and people of color. While Brooks isn’t a licensed educator, he feels he has no choice but to help and wishes politicians weren’t fueling a climate that is putting his community in danger. “I’m down to take any Black or trans person to the gun range on me. Let’s go. You can meet my firearm and talk about them. We can talk about gun safety and teach you what to expect.” 

Sarah Moore, senior manager of news and research at GLAAD and lead for the group’s ALERT Desk, which tracks anti-LGBTQ extremism, says that more than half of reports to the desk from June 2024 to June 2025 involved anti-trans incidents.

“It’s coming out in both violent and nonviolent actions,” Moore told Uncloseted Media and Queer Kentucky. “Whether that be protests, online harassment or actual acts of violence against the community, as well as the legislation that we’re seeing that’s attempting to govern trans people’s bodies and lives.”

According to the Trans Legislation Tracker, there have been 286 anti-trans laws passed in the U.S. since 2022, with 122 of them passing in 2025. In Kentucky alone, there have been five laws passed this year on top of the infamous Senate Bill 150 from 2023, which bans gender-affirming care for minors, implements anti-LGBTQ censorship in Kentucky schools and prohibits trans students from using bathrooms and facilities that match their gender identity. 

Xian Brooks wearing a black hat and white hoodie aims a handgun at paper targets inside an indoor shooting range.

Xian Brooks practices target shooting at Range USA in Louisville, Kentucky. Photo by Natosha Via for Queer Kentucky and Uncloseted Media.

Moore says there is “a very direct correlation to these acts of [anti-trans] violence” and the political rhetoric and policies of the U.S. government. 

She said that earlier this year in Seattle, a trans woman was attacked by a group of men while walking down the street. While they were assaulting her, they were yelling slurs and shouting “Semper Fi,” the official motto of the United States Marine Corps. The woman asked them why they were attacking her and explained to them that she was a military veteran. “Trump kicked people like you out of the military,” the men responded.

“We’re seeing examples like that where people will actually cite directly these acts of federal or state-level legislation as part of their justification for acts of violence against the community,” says Moore. 

Living on Guard: Trans Kentuckians Respond to Fear with Preparedness

When Trump took office last year, Alex, a 32-year-old trans man in Louisville, Kentucky, who requested anonymity because of safety concerns, says he purchased a second gun because he saw his community becoming the “scapegoat to all of America’s problems.”

“Now, I have taken a self-defense course, conceal carry my firearm, keep those kitty ear knuckle things on my keychain, and have a knife,” he told Queer Kentucky and Uncloseted Media. “I always know at least two or three ways to exit any situation I am in.”

Unlike Brooks, Alex chooses to carry in situations that he deems are more dangerous, like when he travels rural Kentucky with his trans wife. 

“Getting sideways glances from people [in a small town Walmart] who can see that I’m somewhere on the queer spectrum—I carry in case they were to follow me to my car and/or pick a fight,” he says. “Additionally, if they don’t clock me, but were to clock my partner and if someone decided to start trouble there, that would not be tolerated.”

The Trump administration’s portrayal that Alex and other trans people in Kentucky are more likely to commit acts of violence is simply false. According to the Gun Violence Archive, there were 5,748 mass shooting incidents in the U.S. between Jan. 1, 2013 and Sept. 15, 2025. Of those, just 0.1% of them—or five in total—involved a trans shooter. 

According to a 2021 study by the Williams Institute at the UCLA School of Law, transgender people are more than four times as likely as cisgender people to experience violent victimization, including rape, sexual assault and aggravated or simple assault.

Alex was raped when he was 26 and says the trauma of the situation compels him to prepare for future victimization. “We are a means to an end,” he says. “It’s very disheartening and I work every day to not internalize their ideas about me. We are not dangerous, we are not wasted space, we just want to exist and be safe.” 

Julie, a 33-year-old Louisville transgender woman who requested to use only her first name for safety reasons, agrees. Since 2021, she has carried a concealed weapon. She says fear of transgender people is nothing new.

“They’ve been scared of us the whole time and also, people are scared of guns,” she says. “So if you take the boogeyman, which is trans people right now, and then you say they have guns and they’re shooting at Christian people. You know what I mean? That’s what it is.”

Julie says transgender people are peaceful and wishes the politicians would leave them alone. She says that if a transgender person, or anyone, is buying a gun out of emotional fear and feels afraid to leave the house, they should check in with themselves or reconsider the purchase.

Spent bullet casings scatter across the floor beneath Xian Brooks' feet inside an indoor gun range in Louisville, Kentucky.

Photo by Natosha Via for Queer Kentucky and Uncloseted Media.

“The last option is to point a gun at somebody. It’s the sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth option. Before you draw your gun, you can always reason with somebody, and you can always reason with them after you draw your gun,” she says. “You can reason with them while you’re pointing, but you cannot reason with somebody after you shoot them. And that is very important to think about.”

A split image showing a promotional graphic for Trans Haven on the left and the exterior of the Louisville Pride Center on the right. The graphic features a pastel living-room illustration with a trans pride flag, plants, lamps, and logos for the Louisville Pride Center and LTMA, advertising a Trans Haven social meetup held Tuesdays from 6 to 8 p.m. The right side shows the Louisville Pride Center’s beige historic building with tall windows, a red front door, and landscaped greenery along the walkway.

As anti-trans laws pass, Louisville’s Trans Haven group creates community, comfort and lasting friendships

Amid a wave of anti-transgender legislation across the country, particularly in Republican-led states like Kentucky, trans people are finding joy, building community and providing emotional support for one another more than ever. In Louisville, one trans-led organization is redefining what it means to be a “support group” by creating connection not only through deep, healing conversation, but also through late night burger runs at the local dive diner.

Trans Haven, a social group created by and for trans adults in partnership with Louisville Trans Masc Alliance, meets on Tuesdays from 6:30 to 8 p.m. at the Louisville Pride Center. The center is located in the Old Louisville neighborhood at 1244 S. Third St.

Heather Stevens, the group’s founder and co-facilitator, said that the group began in March of 2025 with only a few active members, but now averages 15 to 20 participants each week. The group provides a welcoming and affirming space for transfeminine, transmasculine, and non-binary individuals 18 and over.

“We really get each other. Trans people understand other trans people,” she said. “We go through the same type of trauma and struggles. Walking in the door and realizing that the entire room gets you…it’s really nice to have that type of connection.”

Stevens was raised in Kentucky but moved to California for school where she lived for 30 years and transitioned at age 37. She returned to Kentucky four years ago to care for her ailing mother just as the state legislature began introducing bills aimed at excluding transgender youth from sports and limiting their access to bathrooms. Stevens said that witnessing familiar trauma affect a new generation of trans youth which planted the seed for the community building that she’s spearheading today.

“We’re stronger together in the face of the opposition,” she said of the group. “I get so much encouragement and strength from the group, as well. I go there and get grounded even as their leader. When you give to the community, you always get back more than you give.”

A close-up photo of Heather Stevens of Trans Haven, smiling softly while standing in front of a bookshelf. She is wearing a patterned top, and the lower corner of the image includes a text label that reads “Heather Stevens, Trans Haven.”

Each meeting includes facilitator-led discussions and activities on topics such as gender transition, coming out and traveling under increased scrutiny. Participants often split into smaller groups—some for serious conversations, others for lighthearted games like Uno which allows members to choose the setting that best fits their mood. After the 90 minute meetup ends, many group members continue hanging out, often having dinner at a nearby burger joint.

When Mason C. of Louisville first walked into the Louisville Pride Center for a Trans Haven meeting, he said that he felt nervous seeing how many people were there. However, that quickly faded, he said, because of how happy everyone was to see him.

“It’s really important for trans people to have community with one another,” he said. “We’re unique and particular and a lot of people don’t understand us. [At Trans Haven], everyone already understands you and you don’t have to explain anything to anyone. You get to skip that part and go right to making friends.”

Now more than ever, Stevens said, it is important to create space for transgender people to heal, unwind and connect. Some participants travel up to two hours each way to attend Trans Haven meetings.

This year, 953 anti-transgender bills were introduced across the United States. Of those, 120 were passed into law, including Kentucky’s House Bill 495, which bans the use of Medicaid for gender-affirming care, and Senate Bill 2, which prohibits public funding for gender-affirming care for transgender inmates.

“Any point of political strife requires the community to organize and at least have each other,” Mason said. “History will tell you that. Anyone should have a community they can rely on. Especially those who are marginalized.” 

The connection among Trans Haven members extends beyond the walls of the Louisville Pride Center and into their daily lives. Stevens has worked to incorporate social outings into the group’s activities to help foster friendships outside the traditional support group setting.

“We have outings at PLAY, hiking, and movie nights. There’s a more social aspect of it where we do things just not at the Pride Center,” she said. “We’re reversing COVID [lockdowns]. Everyone was so isolated and this is the opposite of that. People are coming to find community and create friend groups. I couldn’t think of a more healthy outcome than creating friend groups.” 

For more information on Trans Haven, reach out to [email protected].

Breonna Taylor’s mother remembers

This story was originally reported by Errin Haines of The 19th. Meet Errin and read more of her reporting on gender, politics and policy.

Breonna Taylor didn’t play about getting her hair done.

An emergency medical technician with dreams of becoming a nurse, Taylor was a vivacious 26-year-old who liked to look good while she worked hard.

“She loved just taking care of herself and how she looked,” her mother, Tamika Palmer, said in an interview last week. Palmer laughed as she recalled a photo from her daughter’s beautician that popped up recently as a social media memory, with Taylor proudly showing off a rare short hairstyle.

“She just was so happy, she was so just in awe of herself and her hair that day,” Palmer said. “I just remember her energy and her spirit and her smile.”

Five years after Taylor was killed by police officers, her mother is still mourning all that she had to bury, still trying to adjust to the reality that she will never see her daughter walk through the door, full of energy, and eager to show off her latest look.

Palmer spoke to The 19th ahead of the fifth anniversary of Taylor’s death about her fight to seek answers and her continued fight to seek justice.

For her mother, every day is the anniversary of Taylor’s death.

“I can’t get used to this new way without her,” Palmer said. “I can’t get used to her not being around, not calling. … It’s unbelievable.”


Before the shooting, Palmer’s greatest worry for Taylor’s safety was that she was washing her hands and avoiding the unfolding coronavirus. It didn’t occur to Palmer — particularly in the midst of the pandemic — that her daughter could become one of the hundreds of Black women who have been killed by police.

Taylor, an essential worker who was on the front lines in the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, was shot eight times by Louisville, Kentucky, police officers in her apartment on the night of March 13, 2020.

That night, after 13 hours at the scene of Taylor’s apartment, Palmer left not knowing what had happened to her oldest daughter; she discovered on the news that Taylor had been shot by police. Palmer learned little else in the days that followed about how or why Taylor died.

For weeks, as the rest of the country and the world was focused on the growing pandemic, Palmer pushed for accountability from the Louisville police department.

“It was hard to get answers, it was hard to get people to help, it was hard to have a funeral,” Palmer said. “It was the beginning of a terrible time for us. We were so consumed with learning about the pandemic. For the world to continue on, as if she didn’t matter, was heartbreaking.”


It would be nearly two months after Taylor’s shooting before much of the country would learn of her death.

On May 11, 2020, The 19th published an interview with Palmer as part of the first national story on her case. Taylor’s death, along with those of Ahmaud Arbery in Georgia and George Floyd in Minnesota, sparked national outrage, protests and a racial reckoning in the midst of the pandemic. Palmer began to get answers and feel less alone as millions of Americans learned of her daughter’s case.

Six months after Taylor’s death, the city of Louisville agreed to pay the family $12 million and enact police department reforms. Legislation named for Taylor that would ban no-knock warrants was passed in Louisville and proposed at the federal and state levels. But a Jefferson County grand jury in September of 2020 declined to hold any of the officers criminally responsible for Taylor’s death.

In March of 2021, Palmer called for the Department of Justice to investigate her daughter’s case. In 2022, the department brought civil rights charges against one of the officers, Louisville Metro Police Detective Brett Hankison. His first trial ended in a mistrial; in November 2024 a federal jury convicted Hankison. His sentencing is scheduled for April 8.

“Getting to a guilty verdict for one of the officers took so long,” Palmer said, describing the moment as “historic.”

Demonstrators protesting the police killing of Breonna Taylor paste a “WANTED” flyer featuring officers involved in her death onto a statue in Louisville, Kentucky.
Demonstrators protesting the police killing of Breonna Taylor paste a “WANTED” flyer featuring officers involved in her death onto a statue in Louisville, Kentucky, on August 1, 2020.
(Joshua Lott/The Washington Post/Getty Images)

“I’d started to believe that moment was never coming,” she said. “I’d lost hope, I didn’t know how to believe anymore. In that moment, I remember gasping and finally feeling like I could breathe again. I felt like I could not catch my breath for over four years.”

No officers have been charged at the state or federal level with fatally shooting Taylor.

Palmer said there are moments when she feels like it is her daughter who is on trial.

“Even after a guilty verdict, I still feel like there’s people who still choose to not believe the truth, that the police can do no wrong. I hope they never know what it feels like to have your child killed by the people who are supposed to protect them, and people not care.”

In December, the Justice Department signed a proposed consent decree with the Louisville police department laying out policy and training changes. But days after taking office for his second term, President Donald Trump issued a memo halting consent decrees that could negate the Louisville proposed agreement. It is the latest setback in Palmer’s push for accountability, but she said she is determined to continue seeking justice for her daughter.

“It absolutely feels like we’re in a different country, and I just don’t know what’s going to happen now,” Palmer said. “I want people to continue to do the right thing. I would want to meet with anybody who would want to learn about Breonna and who would want to take the time to understand that what happened shouldn’t have. She’s not the only victim of this type of crime. Breonna is the face for me, but it is so much bigger than Breonna. She wasn’t the first face, she hasn’t been the last face. This is something that should never happen to anyone, ever,”

Palmer said she would be open to meeting with Trump to discuss Taylor’s case. But after sharing Taylor with the world on March 13 for the past few years, she said she wants to mark this anniversary privately.

Preonia Flakes (left) and Kori Baskin (center) gather at Jefferson Square Park for a ballon release blue star-shaped balloons on the second anniversary of Taylor's death.
Preonia Flakes (left) and Kori Baskin (center), cousins of Breonna Taylor, release blue star-shaped balloons at Jefferson Square Park in Louisville, Kentucky, on March 13, 2022, marking the second anniversary of Taylor’s death.
(Joshua Lott/The Washington Post/Getty Images)

“I just want to honor her myself,” Palmer said. “I don’t want to argue with the world, I don’t want to share her with the world, I don’t want to have to prove that she deserves justice.”

For the rest of the country marking the tragic milestone, Palmer said she hopes they will remember the beautiful person Taylor was.

“I miss Breonna,” Palmer said. “She died that day, but every day I don’t get to see her, or talk to her or be a part of her life, I feel like I’m dying. I want people to take a moment of silence for her, but still demand justice for her.”

Queer Kentucky x Louisville Magazine: Connor Holloway

Grew up in St. Matthews, now living in Brooklyn, they/them

photos by Clifton Mooney, he/him

Queer Kentucky has partnered with Louisville Magazine for our fourth print issue. We asked Louisvillians and Kentuckians at large about their queerness and its relationship to the city, where they feel at home, who was there for them when it felt like nobody else was, the biggest issues facing Louisville’s queer communities, and much more. We would love it if you — whether you live in Louisville or not — would answer the questions too. If you’d like to, you can find the interview here. In this issue, you will find stories of Queer Kentuckians telling tales of their beloved safe spaces, paying tribute to the loved ones who uplifted them when no one else would, laughing about their coming out stories, and so much more. Kentucky, and Louisville, have a lot of work left to do when it comes to embracing the queer community. But hey, it’s not as bad as people think it is. Read on, you’ll see. You can purchase the print version of this issue here.

Besides your own house — or the house of family or friends — what Louisville place makes you feel at home?

The Kentucky Center for the Arts in many ways felt like the house I grew up in. It was a rare place that felt both intimidating and also entirely nurturing. By the age of 12, I practically spent more time there than I did in school. I learned how to express myself and be vulnerable with others. I remember it being scary, but I always felt protected by the community I shared the stage with. That type of support was essential in my personal growth and ultimately what gave me the courage to pursue my dreams.

What piece of art — a book, a painting, a movie, a TV show, etc. — means the most to you?

The Golden Girls feels incredibly nostalgic to me. A few years ago, I lost my mom to mental illness. Whenever I hear the theme song,‘ Thank You for Being a Friend,’ I’m immediately transported back to my parents’ bedroom in River Wood, across from Locust Grove. I can so vividly recount all the seemingly late nights cuddled up watching Blanche and Dorothy make jokes I believed with all my heart I understood, but didn’t. The show stops time for me and reverts me back to a place of safety with my mother. She always let me be me. I’d wear her clip-on earrings and shuffle around her white-tile bathroom in her slingbacks and sequined cocktail gowns without question. Every night, we’d read Guess How Much I Love You, and I’d mimic Little Nutbrown Hare’s every move to adequately display the depth of my love for my mom — handstands and all.

What’s the biggest issue facing Louisville’s LGBTQ+ communities? What do you think would help solve that issue?

Black. Trans. Lives. Matter. Stop questioning it. If people took the time to really connect with people they don’t understand, the impact would be life-saving. We underestimate our own ability to empathize because we never really try. I recently served on jury duty and am amazed by how much it has expanded my understanding of my own biases. It’s not always by choice, but we are more segregated than we even know — our country was built that way, after all — and if we don’t actively pursue diversifying our circles, we’ll never be able to understand each other. And truthfully, when it all boils down, we’re all the same. We just want to matter.

Anything about how you identify that you’d like to share?

I am non-binary. In many ways, it doesn’t feel important to share because it’s personal and simply how I see myself. I understand the world perceives me to be a man, and that’s not their fault. It’s the way our brains have been educated to understand each other. But I hope for more. We’re capable of more. My hope, as non-binary people gain more visibility, is that people can learn not to make assumptions. To not limit your beliefs about a person based upon the way your brain perceives them to be. Whether that’s a level of education, capabilities at work, contributions to a conversation, sexual orientation or anything anywhere in between — we underestimate people every day. That’s something that being non-binary reminds me not to do. For that I feel grateful.

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