Deep in the lowest level of Kent State’s student center lies a hollow suite of offices — doors locked, rooms emptied and lights off.
Mere months ago, the LGBTQ+ Center offered support and company with its cozy, bright blue couches and interns and community members ready to give a listening ear. Colorful signs boasting that “All Are Welcome” covered the center, where a table lined with pamphlets on safe sex, mental health and other issues stood a few steps from the entrance.
Today, its resources have been shoved into a nook in Oscar Ritchie Hall, just two overflowing bookshelves and a few chairs. Its staff and interns have dispersed throughout the university, and links to the LGBTQ+ Center now reroute to a “Support and Resources” page on Kent State’s website.
In March, Ohio Gov. Mike DeWine signed Senate Bill 1, also known as the Advance Higher Education Act, which bans diversity, equity, and inclusion-based hiring and programs in universities. The bill went into effect in June, and as a result, Kent State closed its Women’s Center, Multicultural Center and LGBTQ+ Center before the fall 2025 semester.
Rae Wilson, a sophomore entrepreneurship major at Kent State, feels a shift on campus this year — a sentiment shared by many. Although they still have friends and loved ones to lean on, the community they once found in the LGBTQ+ Center has disappeared.
That color and vibrancy was among Wilson’s top reasons for choosing Kent State, as they believed the university to be accepting of everyone.
In 2019, Kent State was awarded five out of five stars on the Campus Pride Index, “an overall indicator of institutional commitment to LGBTQ-inclusive policy, program and practice.” In fall 2025, however, almost no mention of the LGBTQ+ community can be found on campus.
Wilson found themself to be the only student who used pronouns other than she/her and he/him in their Flashes 101 class, a mandatory course for Kent State freshmen. It made them self-conscious and unsure, but one visit to the LGBTQ+ Center put them at ease.
“I went to the center, and [my pronouns] didn’t feel like something I had to hide about myself,” Wilson said. “Even little things, like having pink hair, can be difficult when [not many] straight people have a full head of pink hair. Now we don’t really have those set people to support us and those little things about ourselves.”
In coming to college, Wilson hoped to have a safe space to be completely themself, especially if they faced struggles because of their identity. They worry that freshmen and people needing support won’t be able to find the understanding and community Wilson themself found in the LGBTQ+ Center.
Since the center’s closure, Wilson says “hello” to familiar faces from the center but finds it strange to not have a specified time or place to talk to them — and even stranger to not know if they’ll ever see them again. With no way to find the community they built last year and a busy schedule, an empty space exists both on campus and in Wilson’s life.
“I miss that space that was just judgement-free, hate-free and you could just be yourself,” Wilson said. “At first, I just focused on classes, but when you’re not focusing on classes, you’re focusing on who you are as a person because that’s what college is about — discovering who you are. [The center] not being there to help has been very difficult.”
Wilson has been involved in the LGBTQ+ Center since they first stepped foot on campus. At the beginning of their freshman year, they participated in the LGBTQ+ Center’s “Flashes of Pride” poster, created to provide visibility for the queer community at Kent State. The poster included the faces of dozens of LGBTQ+ students, staff and allies and signified the university’s commitment to “visibility and pride year-round.”
“I thought, ‘I’m not sure if I’m ready to do it because I’m a freshman. Maybe I’ll be more comfortable with myself my senior year,’” Wilson said. “Now, I’m like, ‘Oh, my god. If I didn’t do that then, I wouldn’t have been able to. Ever.’”
The “Flashes of Pride” poster affirmed Wilson’s confidence in their identity and place on campus. They found participating in the photoshoot to be a conversation starter; not only did they recognize others from the poster, but they were often recognized themself.
Beyond the “Flashes of Pride” poster, Wilson misses the resources the LGBTQ+ Center provided. The center boasted two social groups, QTPOC, which stands for Queer and Transgender People of Color, and Q’ommunity, a general group for the queer community. Both clubs have closed along with the LGBTQ+ Center.
“I started as a student facilitator for QTPOC, and after, I was an intern for two years,” Autumn Jacobs, a Kent State alum said. “The center became my second home — honestly, it became family to me. Being there for so long and having that community really helped me progress my future too.”
In the majority of her classes, Jacobs’ professors and classmates did not discuss the LGBTQ+ community at all. Working for the LGBTQ+ Center allowed Jacobs to finally connect with others who understood the struggles of being queer and a student.
Jacobs also appreciated that the LGBTQ+ Center helped not only the queer community but allies as well. Through events like the Safe Space Ally Training, which equipped students, faculty, and staff with the resources to create welcoming environments for LGBTQ+ people, the LGBTQ+ Center made campus safer for queer students.
Although Jacobs was unable to attend many of the center’s events as an undergraduate student, becoming an intern while pursuing her masters degree allowed her to do so. She and other student interns at the LGBTQ+ Center oversaw club meetings and handled tasks like promotional flyers and social media posts.
“We had talks about how, in the [LGBTQ+] community, we have higher chances of sexual assault, eating disorders, depression, food scarcity,” said Max Reed, a former LGBTQ+ Center intern. “We would also have movie nights — we watched Rocky Horror for Halloween. We had scholarships and at most of our events, we had fundraisers for the emergency fund.”
The emergency fund existed as a “safety net” for those in the LGBTQ+ Community at Kent State. It aimed to help students to overcome any struggles or challenges that may interfere with their schooling.
The Trevor Project, a suicide and crisis prevention organization for LGBTQ+ people, reports that more than 1.8 million LGBTQ+ people between the ages of 13 and 24 seriously consider suicide each year in the U.S.. Additionally, the organization found that state-level anti-transgender laws in the U.S. have increased the likelihood of suicide attempts among trans and nonbinary people.
For decades, the misconception that LGBTQ+ people influence and sexualize children has harmed acceptance of the queer community. More recently, people have begun to believe that schools and universities are indoctrinating children with discussions and courses about LGBTQ+ people.
In 2022, Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis signed a bill, the Parental Rights in Education Act, that prohibited “classroom discussion about sexual orientation” in certain grade levels. This bill is most likely the result of these common fears surrounding queer people.
Ohio and Florida are not alone in their passage of anti-LGBTQ+ legislation; as of Sept. 16, American Civil Liberties Union has tracked 616 anti-LGBTQ+ bills in the United States.
Queer rights, especially transgender rights, are on the chopping block on the federal level as well. One of President Donald Trump’s first executive orders in 2025 redefined the government’s definition of gender to recognize only two categories: male and female. Furthermore, through another executive order, Trump banned transgender people from serving in the military.
As public attitudes toward the queer community worsened, the LGBTQ+ Center offered students like Reed a haven from discrimination and fear.
“I was really angry for a while, like, ‘How dare you take this away from us?’” Reed said. “We’ve only put out good in this world. I can use that anger to protest, call local governors, get in contact with Mike DeWine, let people know, ‘We’re here, we’re queer.’ You can’t take that away from us.”
Their freshman year, Reed decided to volunteer at the Lavender Graduation, an event meant to honor the achievements of LGBTQ+ students graduating at Kent State. The love Reed saw at the event inspired them to become an intern at the LGBTQ+ center, and they continued to volunteer at the following Lavender Graduations.
Today, they struggle with the understanding that they will never be able to walk at Lavender Graduation themself.
“The first time I went to Lavender Graduation, I was a lonely freshman kid who wanted to be a part of something greater than me and help people,” Reed said. “At the end of the night, I bawled my eyes out because this is what love is meant to be. Now, I’m a senior, and I can’t have that experience full of love.”
The Lavender Graduation in spring of 2025 had a somber undertone, Reed said. With the knowledge that the LGBTQ+ Center would close and thus all Lavender Graduations would cease, the students and families at the event seemed to be in mourning.
Following the passage of SB1, many queer students turned to the LGBTQ+ Center in the face of their uncertainty. While previously, interns and staff at the center were able to offer answers and comfort, they were not allowed to discuss the bill while at work.
“When people came to us for reassurance, I couldn’t really offer anything, and that was hard,” said Serena Gestring, a former LGBTQ+ Center intern. “It made it hard to enjoy the work that I had enjoyed for the past four years … so last semester kind of sucked because of that.”
Throughout the spring 2025 semester, Gestring said the fear that the center would close was “always present.” Staff received information as the university ironed out details, and they disseminated it to the center’s interns while trying to allow them space to grieve and express their worries.
Despite the sadness of her last semester as an intern, Gestring cherishes the LGBTQ+ Center for the good it brought to Kent State.
“I want to remember it for creating a sense of belonging and safety, community, respect,” Gestring said. “It’s an unfortunate reality that … new students will come in who are ever going to experience the center, so I hope PRIDE! Kent and Transfusion and the faculty and staff on campus will continue to foster a community of support and respect and safety as much as they can.”
PRIDE! Kent, originally founded as the Kent Gay Liberation Front in 1971, was one of the first gay student organizations in the United States. The organization seeks to “support, represent and advocate” for the LGBTQ+ community at Kent State.
Additionally, the group Transfusion exists for trans-identified students and allies. Together, these groups could fill the hole left behind in the LGBTQ+ Center’s absence.
Students can also find support outside of the university. Following the center’s closure, the Portage Foundation created the LGBTQ+ Student Emergency Assistance fund to offer access to food, housing assistance, mental health resources and emergency financial aid to students in need.
Main Street Kent also celebrates Rainbow Weekend every October, to “share the love and celebrate our inclusive and diverse town.” While downtown Kent is decked out in rainbow flags and decorations, the weekend offers events such as a 5k, a makers’ market and an art exhibition. Local businesses participate as well through their own celebrations and an “around town” event during which participants “engage in rainbow-themed arts and crafts activities at each stop.”
While the LGBTQ+ Center is gone, the queer people in Kent are not. Gestring emphasized the importance of kindness and community in the wake of this loss.
“Be available for others. We need support, but we also should, if possible, support others as well,” Gestring said. “We need to lean on each other. It’s how we’re going to continue to move forward.”