In today’s episode of The Gays Can Forgive, But We’re Gonna Roast You First, let’s talk about Ken Mehlman: former Bush campaign manager, architect of the 2004 “Ban the Gays” electoral strategy, and current reformed homosexual with a PR-approved redemption arc. Because nothing screams “personal growth” quite like helping destroy millions of lives before quietly tiptoeing out of the closet like a gay raccoon escaping the scene of a hate crime.
In case you’ve blissfully repressed the early 2000s (and who could blame you), allow me to re-traumatize us both: the Bush-Cheney reelection campaign of 2004 was a carefully calculated moral panic with a dash of evangelical vodka and a twist of internalized gay shame. The strategy was simple: if you can’t win voters with policy, offer them fear. Specifically, fear that two consenting adults in love might want tax benefits and hospital visitation rights. Disgusting.
Ken Mehlman, closeted at the time and apparently armed with both Excel and zero regard for human dignity, spearheaded a campaign that placed anti-gay marriage amendments on ballots in eleven states. The goal? Drive up conservative turnout. The result? Institutionalized bigotry, national humiliation, and the kind of legal precedent that would take over a decade to unwind. All for the low, low price of Ken’s own psychological safety and a matching Bush-Cheney windbreaker.
And what was it like living through that era for the rest of us? Let me paint the scene:
If you were a gay kid in a red state in 2004, you didn’t just learn that your government didn’t think you deserved marriage—you learned that your existence was a political football. Your identity wasn’t private; it was national content. You watched your parents, teachers, and church leaders debate your worth while sipping sweet tea and quoting Leviticus, all while Ken Mehlman furrowed his brow behind the scenes, probably humming “It’s Raining Men” under his breath and whispering “It’s just politics.”
Those state amendments weren’t just symbolic. They ripped away hope, split families, shut down local legal protections, and gave bigots legal language to wield like a machete. They sanctioned abuse with a smile. They handed fuel to preachers who screamed from pulpits and lawmakers who scrawled hatred into policy. Suicides rose. Kids were kicked out of their homes. People were beaten, arrested, denied healthcare, or forced into silence just to survive—and the entire time, Ken was there, cooking the numbers and smiling on TV, wearing a Republican Party lapel pin and hiding a rainbow tie in his sock drawer.
And now—now—he’s here. Gay. Open. Redeemed. Asking for empathy. Donating to causes. Probably has a professionally-lit video on Instagram where he apologizes in a tasteful sweater, with a plant in the background. Neat.
But here’s the problem: Queer trauma doesn’t vanish when the architect comes out. You don’t get to set the house on fire and then hand us a marshmallow and ask to be friends.
Do I believe in redemption? Sure. I have to. It’s how many of us survived. But redemption without accountability is just ego in a fancier suit.
Ken Mehlman didn’t just hurt us—he empowered a generation of people to believe we were unworthy. And not in abstract ways. In real, sharp, legislative ways. He made it harder for us to marry, adopt, visit dying partners, file taxes, inherit homes, access benefits, and walk into courtrooms as equals. That pain lingers. That damage lasts. And some of us are still burying friends from that era—because those policies didn’t just inconvenience us. They killed people.
And now the very man who helped paint the “gay = threat” billboard across America gets to walk around free, rebranded, maybe even praised for being “brave”? Spare me.
You were brave, Ken—but only when it no longer cost you anything.
So no, we don’t owe you applause. We don’t owe you a parade. We’ll take your money for advocacy groups. We’ll even let you march if you stay toward the back and carry your own water bottle. But don’t expect a standing ovation for finally deciding to join the people you helped demonize—especially when many of us are still cleaning up the emotional, political, and legal debris you left behind.
To be clear: I don’t want Ken Mehlman to suffer. I just want him to sit with the truth—that while he was strategizing to win Ohio, queer kids like me were in closets that felt like coffins. While he was playing electoral chess, we were surviving conversion therapy, silence, and shame. While he was hiding in luxury, we were hiding in fear.
So congrats on coming out, Ken. Sincerely. That shit’s hard. But don’t expect roses when all you ever gave us were thorns.
Now get in line, grab a clipboard, and do the work. Quietly. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll let you carry the glitter cannon at Pride.