Graduating from the “Cultural War Aggressor” Conundrum

What if the right response to this moment isn’t more visibility—but less?

Ben Shapiro, a notoriously homophobic U.S. political commentator, popularized the phrase “cultural war aggressor” in an article shortly after Florida passed its “Don’t Say Gay” law in April 2022. That moment coincided with a shift in public perception of our community in the U.S.: after decades of growing support, LGBTQ+ people were suddenly reframed—not as a marginalized group seeking fairness, but as a powerful bloc imposing values and reshaping norms by force.

the Left’s agenda is far broader […] the Left demands cultural celebration of its sexual mores and that it will stop at nothing to remake society in order to achieve its narcissistic goals

“Cultural war aggressor” implied that we weren’t just seeking equality—we were trying to take over. Our opponents claimed we were manipulating educators, indoctrinating children, policing language, canceling dissenters, rewriting history, and demanding ideological allegiance from corporations, media, and governments.

Over time, new terms joined the “culture war” vocabulary to discredit our movement—“DEI,” “woke,” and “gender ideology” were weaponized to reduce complex struggles to caricature and contempt.

These terms spread globally, reverberating from kitchen tables to presidential podiums—from Trump to Putin.

The accusations broadened too: we were not only aggressive but also hypocritical. While we demanded tolerance, we offered little in return; we decried misinformation while censoring newspapers; we championed open dialogue even as we enforced conformity through public shaming. On top of that, came the damning public unraveling of LGBTQ+ organizations after 2023: a continuous stream of scandals linked to racism, grifting, mismanagement, conflicts of interest, and self-promotion.

If we accept—even momentarily—the premise that we have come across as the aggressor, we should recall that aggression often masks pain. As Eddie Glaude recently reminded me:

A violent act is suffering that cannot express itself otherwise

That unspoken suffering runs deep. I’ve written before about how LGBTQ+ people have been forced to downplay their trauma to appear “resilient.” Beyond the visible forms of rejection—family estrangement, school bullying, or workplace discrimination—there are some more insidious aspects: our fractured relationship to truth, our exclusion from spiritual life, and the impossibility of imagining our “possible selves.” We have good reasons to want to change the world.

As I wrote a few weeks ago, our demands are not excessive, and our visibility is not a threat. The truth is simple: our journey is far from over, and our struggle remains profoundly just.

But even if justifiable, our perceived aggression is a strategic liability. When people believe you are attacking them, they act defensively. And that, more than anything, helps explain the backlash we now face not just in the U.S.

Consider the speed at which corporations abandoned LGBTQ+ support in the past five months. It was a chilling reminder that much of that allyship was performative. Its swift disappearance revealed how contingent support for our community always was, exposing the fragility of our position without broad, lasting public endorsement.

Worse still is how quickly the “normal gay” narrative has taken root within the economic elite. Increasingly, gay individuals who have secured a measure of acceptance are choosing to disassociate from a community that feels embattled and controversial. And on the other side, many “magical gays” are increasingly claiming they have nothing in common with the “business gays”.

In that light, the kind of visibility and resistance many of our organizations continue to demand may now be counterproductive. When public support and internal cohesion erode, shouting louder is not the answer.

Whether or not the “cultural war aggressor” label has any merit, the urgent task now is to restore community and unity. That may mean embracing strategies that feel, at first, like heresy: pulling back from the spotlight, focusing on building economic power, shifting our resources to create employment and deliver services at the local level, and organizing more quietly—but more effectively.

In the 1960s, Hoover didn’t consider the Black Panthers the most significant threat because of their protests, but because their power was rooted in delivering tangible services to their communities. Through initiatives like free breakfast programs for children, community health clinics, senior escort services, and free clothing drives, they addressed immediate needs that neither the state nor mainstream civil society met. These programs built trust, visibility, and credibility within Black neighborhoods, turning abstract political ideology into direct, daily support.

If our goal is to improve the lives of LGBTQ+ people globally, then we, as LGBTQ+ individuals, must evolve as well. Seneca taught that societal change begins with personal transformation, yet too often, our pursuit of justice has favored performance over substance. We claim to be post-racist, post-capitalist, climate-conscious, and community-driven, but these declarations frequently lack depth. In truth, LGBTQ+ people contribute relatively little to sustaining our movement, which is why we’ve become so dependent on USAID grants and corporate sponsorships. We've lost the essential link between advocacy and inner growth. What we need now isn’t louder conviction, but renewed inspiration to reconnect the two.

Vested interests within our ecosystem make this evolution harder. Too many well-paid individuals are incentivized to continue on a losing trajectory. I think of the DEI mills blackmailing corporations into handing over extensive checks in exchange for the type of pinkwashing that does not improve LGBTQ+ lives. I think of LGBTQ+ nonprofits that mastered the art of moral extortion—raising funds not to drive meaningful change, but to preserve payrolls, prestige, or a seat at Davos. And then some’ve built entire careers around spectacle—who made a business of being radical, and embodying defiance, while preparing us for martyrdom.

Graduating from the losing proposition of being branded a “cultural war aggressor” demands a fundamental reorientation of purpose. We must prioritize impact over visibility, substance over symbolism, and service over spectacle. It means turning away from performance politics and toward grounded, measurable change in people’s lives. This transformation won’t come without discomfort. It will require us to confront our contradictions, to shed what no longer serves, and to reimagine leadership—not as a path to prominence, but as a responsibility to our most vulnerable. The time has come not just to defend our movement, but to rebuild it.