Undocumented and LGBTQ+ in America
To be both undocumented and queer in America is dangerous. And in this political climate, that danger is only growing.
by Dr. Christy Perez
Diego is 26, gay, and undocumented. Born in Honduras, he came to the United States as a teenager and now lives in Atlanta—a city frequently celebrated as a Southern refuge for queer people. But that reputation doesn’t erase the daily calculations guiding his life: where he can safely go, whom he can trust, what might expose him. “I can’t separate them,” he said quietly. “They follow me into every room.”
His fear isn’t hypothetical. Honduras remains one of the most violent countries in the hemisphere, and persistent threats against LGBTQ individuals drive many to flee. Human Rights Watch chronicles high homicide rates and a system that often fails the most marginalized. For queer Hondurans, the journey north is one of survival, not choice. In the U.S., anti-immigrant and anti-LGBTQ rhetoric increasingly overlaps—and it has consequences. FBI hate-crime data places sexual orientation and gender identity among the most common targets of bias incidents. The Human Rights Campaign’s 2024 report confirms that fatal violence against transgender and gender-expansive people surged. In this climate, invisibility is survival.
Georgia lawmakers have doubled down on enforcement. House Bill 1105, now law, requires jailers to verify detainees’ immigration status, report undocumented individuals, and cooperate with federal authorities—even under penalty of misdemeanor charges or loss of state funding. AP News reported that critics warn it will undermine trust and deter immigrants from reporting crime. Soon after, Governor Brian Kemp announced a deeper state partnership with ICE under the 287(g) program, expanding local law enforcement’s authority to act as federal immigration agents.
“Everywhere I go, I feel like I’m carrying two targets—one for being undocumented and one for being gay. I can’t hide either, and I know at any moment one of them could be used against me,” Diego said in a confidential interview with Assigned Media. (Diego’s legal name is being protected in consideration of the likelihood of harm.)
The impact on lives like Diego’s is profound. He described how he avoids driving at night, now often declines certain social invites, and has begun keeping critical documents hidden in a friend’s home—“just in case.” In queer spaces that once felt like safe havens, Diego said he now weighs community connection against exposure. The more visible he is as a gay man, the greater his fear of a random ID check triggering deportation.
“People talk about safety like it’s just police or borders, but safety for me would be being able to work, to walk down the street, to love who I love without fear,” explained Diego. “Right now, none of that feels guaranteed. There is no safety.”
Legal shifts have social consequences. Courts narrowing non-discrimination protections and states enabling police-immigration partnerships don’t just change laws—they alter behavior. Landlords grow bolder in denying leases, employers gamble on intimidation over compliance, and some officers treat identity as justification for scrutiny.
Edric Figueroa, Director of the Zero Campaigns at the Latino Commission on AIDS, spoke with Assigned Media from the perspective of an organization that interacts with and provides resources and support to Latine LGBTQ folks in an effort to curtail the epidemic. He describes how the agency, first founded in 1990, has witnessed a custom of the government shifting accountability and targeting “the most vulnerable.”
"The increased focus on immigrants, political attacks on trans rights, and cuts to public health prove this country hasn't learned from its history,” Figueroa said. “Deportations and anti-LGBTQ laws are contradictions to public health, and no one feels this more than undocumented queer communities - particularly those living with HIV. Our commitment must be to meet their cruelty with creativity and their bigotry with boldness.”
Diego shared how even work spaces offer no relief, which makes sense. A Williams Institute study shows LGBTQ employees who are out are three times more likely to face discrimination than those who aren’t. Meanwhile, 58 % of Latinx LGBTQ workers report discrimination in the workplace. For undocumented workers, many federal labor protections remain inaccessible, and their vulnerability often translates into lower wages, illegal deductions, and fewer safety protections.
Community support has become a lifeline. In metro Atlanta, immigrant rights groups regularly host “Know Your Rights” workshops on how to respond to ICE encounters, traffic stops, or home raids. The ACLU of Georgia distributes multilingual resources, and organizations like New American Pathways link immigrants with legal aid and housing referrals. Yet even accessing these supports can feel risky. When Diego sought counseling after a violent incident, intake forms asked about legal status before asking about his safety. He left. A call came two weeks later; he didn’t pick up.
With frantic hand gestures that communicated his anxiety, Diego explained that he doesn’t want to be a symbol. He simply wants to exist without fear. But for someone who’s both undocumented and queer, everyday life is a negotiation with an unpredictable system. A mistaken stop today can unravel years of progress tomorrow. A viral panic tomorrow can turn neighbors into enforcers. He told Assigned Media that he pays attention to the news, reads community forums, and measures the city’s shifts through chatter—knowing the real change often shows up first in behavior, not headlines.
The dots are clear but politically inconvenient. Violence against LGBTQ people remains elevated; anti-immigrant enforcement is widening; and “public safety” often translates into policing identity and presence. For undocumented queer individuals, that convergence isn’t theoretical—it’s every day. To understand safety in Atlanta—or any city asking “Who is welcome here?”—we must ask: which protections are enforceable today, and for whom? Until the answers include people like Diego, our narratives of safety will continue to exclude those most at risk.
Dr. Christy Perez, also known as C-Dreams, is an award-winning journalist, visionary public theologian, and abolitionist strategist whose work bridges faith, justice, and storytelling. A 2024 PJP Stillwater Award recipient for Best News Story and Marvel Cooke Abolitionist Journalism Fellow, her writing has appeared in outlets including HuffPost, The Appeal, Filter Mag, Business Insider, and more. Drawing from lived experience and a career of movement leadership, she writes to expose systemic harm, uplift marginalized voices, and chart pathways toward liberation.