Trans and Queer Prisoners Share Stories of Vulnerability and Discrimination
At a Georgia prison, being queer makes you a target, and the staff may not be on your side.
by B Speaks
Georgia operates one of the largest state prison systems in the United States, incarcerating roughly 50,000 people across dozens of state facilities. In recent years, the Georgia Department of Corrections (GDC) has faced escalating criticism from federal investigators, civil rights groups, and the courts over violence, chronic understaffing, and unsafe conditions.
In 2022 and 2023, the U.S. Department of Justice concluded that conditions in Georgia prisons violate the U.S. Constitution, citing a failure to protect incarcerated people from widespread violence and sexual abuse within this system, LGBTQ incarcerated people describe an added layer of vulnerability, one rooted in stigma, institutional neglect, and policies that often fail to account for their safety. Their accounts align with findings from federal investigations showing that people who are already vulnerable are disproportionately harmed in Georgia’s prisons.
Marisol, a transgender woman incarcerated in a Georgia men’s prison, said her treatment diverged almost immediately after intake. Despite identifying as female and having documentation of her gender identity, she was placed in general population housing without additional safeguards. “Staff knew I was trans the moment I walked in,” she said. “They saw my paperwork. They heard me say who I was. But once that door closed behind me, it was like none of it mattered. They treated it like it wasn’t their problem.”
Marisol recalled to Assigned Media the incident when asking an intake officer whether she would be housed somewhere safer. “He just laughed and said, ‘You’ll be fine,’” she said. “But he didn’t have to live there. I did.” Within weeks, Marisol said she was harassed by incarcerated men and verbally abused by some corrections officers. She reported being called slurs, deliberately misgendered during count, and warned by other inmates that she was being targeted.
“Every night I went to sleep scared,” she said. “I’d hear people whispering my name. I’d hear them laughing outside my door. Sometimes they’d tell me straight up, ‘You better watch yourself.’”
She described trying to keep to herself, avoiding common areas whenever possible. “I stopped going to rec. I stopped eating in the chow hall,” she said. “I started timing everything so I wouldn’t be alone.”
Within weeks, Marisol said she was harassed by other incarcerated men and verbally abused by some corrections officers. She reported being called slurs, deliberately misgendered during count, and warned by other inmates that she was being targeted.
“I was attacked in the shower,” she said. “I reported it once. Nothing happened. After that, I stopped reporting things because reporting didn’t protect me.”
Federal standards, including the Prison Rape Elimination Act (PREA), identify transgender inmates as particularly vulnerable to sexual violence. However, advocates say Georgia’s housing and classification practices remain inconsistent, a concern echoed in federal findings that the state fails to adequately assess risk and intervene before violence occurs. Gay men incarcerated in Georgia facilities also report heightened risk.
Darius, who is serving a long sentence in a maximum-security prison, said to Assigned Media that even rumors about his sexual orientation altered how both inmates and staff treated him. “I didn’t announce anything,” he said. “I wasn’t out here trying to make a statement. I was just trying to do my time and go home someday.”
“But once people figured it out, everything changed,” he added. “All of a sudden, I wasn’t just another inmate. I was a target.” Darius said some officers began speaking to him differently in front of other incarcerated men.
“They’d say little things,” he recalled. “‘You good over there?’ ‘You feeling safe today? but they’d say it loud, so everybody could hear.”
He paused. “That’s not concern. That’s putting a spotlight on you.” According to Darius, those comments signaled to other inmates that he lacked institutional protection. “Once they think staff don’t care about you, that’s when it gets dangerous,” he said. “That’s when people start testing you.”
Threats increased, particularly from gang-affiliated inmates. Darius said he began receiving warnings from others on his unit. “People would pull me aside and say, ‘Watch your back,’” he said. “Or, ‘They talking about you.’ You live on edge all the time.”
When he attempted to report those threats, he said staff discouraged formal complaints. “They told me, ‘Just stay out of trouble. Keep your head down. Don’t make waves,’” he said.
“I remember thinking, how am I supposed to stay out of trouble when trouble is coming to me?” He said, “That’s not safe.”
The Justice Department has noted that incarcerated people in Georgia are frequently discouraged from reporting violence due to fear of retaliation or staff indifference, conditions that place LGBTQ inmates at even greater risk.
Medical care has been another focal point of litigation, especially for transgender inmates.
Jordan, a transgender woman diagnosed with gender dysphoria prior to incarceration, said her hormone therapy was abruptly discontinued after she entered state custody.
“I had been on hormones for years,” she said. “At first, they continued it. Then one day it just stopped, no medical explanation.”
Jordan described experiencing severe anxiety, depression, and physical distress after her treatment ended. Medical experts have widely recognized that abrupt withdrawal of hormone therapy can significantly harm transgender patients, particularly those diagnosed with gender dysphoria.
Her experience mirrors claims raised in a class-action lawsuit filed in 2025 by transgender people incarcerated in Georgia challenging Senate Bill 185, a state law banning gender-affirming medical care for people in prison. In December 2025, a federal judge permanently blocked the law, ruling that Georgia could not deny medically necessary gender-affirming care to incarcerated people.
The court found the ban violated the Eighth Amendment’s prohibition on cruel and unusual punishment. The ruling marked a significant victory for transgender rights in Georgia prisons and reinforced the legal principle that incarceration does not eliminate the right to adequate medical care.
Georgia’s prison system has faced similar scrutiny before. In 2015, Ashley Diamond, a Black transgender woman, successfully sued the Georgia Department of Corrections after being denied hormone therapy and placed in unsafe housing during her incarceration beginning in 2012. Diamond’s case prompted policy changes within the GDC and drew national attention to the treatment of transgender people behind bars. However, subsequent incarcerations revealed inconsistent enforcement of those reforms, raising questions about accountability and long-term compliance.
Beyond LGBTQ-specific lawsuits, Georgia remains under federal scrutiny for broader systemic failures. The Justice Department has cited severe understaffing, ineffective supervision, and a pervasive culture of violence, conditions that amplify risk for all incarcerated people, but especially those who are marginalized.
For Marisol, the combination of violence and institutional indifference shaped her daily life.
“You learn when to move and when not to be seen,” she said. “You learn that who you are can get you hurt, and that the system may not step in.”
Despite recent court rulings, incarcerated LGBTQ people remain cautious about whether legal victories will translate into meaningful change inside prison walls. Darius said reforms often feel distant from everyday reality. “Court decisions don’t change how officers talk to you,” he said. “They don’t stop someone from targeting you tonight.”
That gap between judicial intervention and lived experience remains one of the central challenges facing Georgia’s prison system. While lawsuits have forced the state to confront unconstitutional practices, advocates argue that lasting reform will require cultural change, consistent enforcement, staff training, and independent oversight.
As litigation continues and federal pressure mounts, the experiences of people like Marisol, Darius, and Jordan provide a grounded view of how systemic failures affect individual lives. Their accounts underscore a reality repeatedly documented by investigators and courts: in Georgia’s prisons, vulnerability is often met with neglect, and justice, when it arrives, comes slowly.
For LGBTQ incarcerated people, the fight for fair treatment is not abstract. It is measured in safety, access to care, and whether the system recognizes their humanity before harm occurs.
B Speaks is a writer and advocate interested in prison/criminal justice reform, LGBTQ rights, and government/cultural criticism. A graduate of the University of South Carolina, B served as a political strategist and grassroots organizer in Washington D.C. Currently incarcerated in Georgia, B writes to expose and challenge the realities of the carceral system, advocating for justice reform and the voices often left unheard.