As Ohio prepares to legislate school bathroom usage by sex, trans people ask who is going to check?

Kaden Jarosz, a 19-year-old Oberlin College student, stands for a photo in his residence hall. (Ryan Loew/Ideastream Public Media)

Like many transgender people, Kaden Jarosz is cautious about where he goes to the bathroom for his own safety.

"We literally just want to do what we got to do and get out," said Jarosz, a 19-year-old Oberlin College student and transgender man.

One place where he didn't have to worry about using the bathroom was in his dorm. It had one gender-neutral bathroom and two other multi-stalled bathrooms that use the "E-system" to indicate with whom they're comfortable sharing the space. "E" stands for "everyone."

"It's usually on 'everyone,' so you do that," he said as he reattached a sheet of laminated paper to the door with Velcro so "E" faced upright. "If you are only aligned with wanting women in the restroom or people who identify as women in the restroom, flip it like that."

He flipped the sheet of paper again, which also had the option for total privacy with "me, myself and I."

"It works. It works really well," Jarosz said.

Kaden Jarosz shows a multi-stalled bathroom inside his Oberlin College residence hall on Monday, Dec. 16, 2024, that uses the "E-system" to indicate with whom students are comfortable sharing the space. "E" stands for "everyone." (Ryan Loew/Ideastream Public Media)

Under Ohio law, the "E-system" would be illegal starting on Feb. 25. Oberlin has now scrapped it and converted the dorm bathrooms to two single, all-gender restrooms and one women's room.

Since Jarosz lives on campus, his dorm is subject to the  “Protect All Students Act.” Often called the transgender bathroom ban, the new law requires Ohio schools to designate multi-occupancy restrooms, locker rooms and "overnight accommodations" for exclusive use by male or female students based on their original birth certificate.

That means thousands of transgender students, staff and visitors across the state will no longer be able to legally use the bathroom that corresponds with their gender.

"Honestly, it's very demoralizing because like... even though this was a safe place, it might not be anymore," Jarosz said.

Transgender youth and their families as well as legal experts are watching the upcoming implementation of the law with trepidation. They say it is unclear how the law will be enforced, and they have questions about the practical application of the law, including, who will check whether an individual in a school restroom is in the bathroom that corresponds with the sex on their birth certificate — and how they might do that.

"It certainly is signaling. It's certainly terrifying and threatening to trans students and their families," said Freda Levenson, the legal director of the American Civil Liberties Union of Ohio. "It also creates questions about the fairness of implementation."

Ohio Rep. Adam Bird, R-New Richmond, one of the bill's sponsors, said in testimony before the Ohio House education committee in 2023 that school leaders asked him to create such a bill for consistency across the state.

Levenson said it will do the opposite.

"It makes it very difficult for people and also educational institutions to negotiate this," Levenson said.

It’s hard to be certain what punishments noncompliant schools or individuals may face: there’s no enforcement outlined in the bill.

“We want to protect our children from exposure to the opposite sex while in a private place like a restroom or locker room.”
— Ohio Rep. Adam Bird, R - New Richmond

At least a dozen other states have similar laws, an analysis by Ideastream Public Media showed. Enforcement isn’t clear in those places either. It does not appear anyone has been charged with violating bans in other states, although LGBTQ+ advocacy groups say it’s hard to be certain.

Even without punitive measures, the new law may embolden private citizens to take enforcement into their own hands, said Jory Ross, a 31-year-old doctoral student and graduate teaching associate at Ohio State University.

"OK, so the law says you're not allowed to be in this room based on what I'm guessing is in your pants or what I'm guessing was originally on your birth certificate," Ross said. "And so that's just sort of like license to be you, to be deeply unpleasant to trans people just trying to live their lives."

The legislation is intended to protect other students who may feel unsafe, according to Bird.

"We want to protect our children from exposure to the opposite sex while in a private place like a restroom or locker room," he said in his testimony.

Ross, a transgender woman, wonders how this would work.

"My expectation is at the college level... we're not about to start having, like, actual bathroom monitors," she said.

Levenson said with so much legal ambiguity, Republicans who supported the law may be more effectively creating a sense of discomfort and fear for trans people.

"It's cruel," she said. "It's benighted. It could lead to very serious psychological and even physical problems for the most vulnerable."

About 3% of high school students identify as transgender, according to data from the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. It’s a population that’s already at risk: 81% of transgender adults say they have contemplated suicide in their lives and 42% have attempted it, according to the Williams Institute, which studies sexual orientation and gender identity law and public policy. And studies show that transgender youth who can’t use the bathroom that aligns with their gender are at a greater risk of sexual violence.

The bill's other sponsor Rep. Beth Lear, R-Galena, said in her testimony that she’s also worried about trans students who could make what she calls life-altering decisions at a young age.

"Children are more apt to act rashly, less likely, or able to be thoughtful and rely more on feelings than reality," she said.

Lear said she doesn't believe in anything beyond two genders: male and female, assigned at birth.

"What about truth? What about reality?" she said. "Boys cannot become girls, and girls cannot become boys. You can dress up and pretend, but you cannot change your DNA."

An estimated 1 in 100 Americans is intersex, meaning they have genitals, chromosomes or reproductive organs that do not fit into a male and female sex binary.

Medical professionals typically assign a sex when a baby is born, including for people with intersex traits. Based on the legislation's language, intersex people will have to use the bathroom that aligns with the sex assigned at birth.

Neither Lear nor Bird replied to requests for comment. The Ohio Senate sponsors, Jerry Cirino, R-Kirtland, and Andrew Brenner, R-Delaware, who rolled the bill into legislation regarding changes to the state's College Credit Plus program, did not respond and deferred comment to the original bill's sponsors.

But even if there were people checking, 19-year-old Oberlin College student Rai said it’s not always easy to know if someone is trans.

Rai, who did not want to provide his last name to protect his safety, has already begun medically transitioning through hormone replacement therapy, which makes him develop traditionally male characteristics like a deeper voice and facial hair.

He's used the women's restroom before — as soon required by Ohio law — and said he's gotten looks and comments from those who aren’t comfortable.

"I’m just going pee. Like, I just need to wash my hands, and I'll leave," Rai said. "It's a really uncomfortable situation."

“I feel like I’m making other people uncomfortable. But truly, I’m a human being who needs to go to the bathroom.”
— Rai, 19-year-old student

Jory Ross worries that conservatives are testing how far they can push legislation against transgender people.

"If I am being barred from using the bathroom at my place of employment, then I don't know how I could continue to live in Ohio long-term," she said. "I don't know how I could have a future here. And that really sucks."

Levenson said the ACLU of Ohio will be closely monitoring the law’s implementation and enforcement.

If you or someone you know may be considering suicide, contact the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline by dialing or texting 988.

Originally published by Ideastream Public Media/aired on WKSU on Feb. 20, 2025.

Ohio women facing high-risk pregnancies weigh an uncertain future of reproductive rights

Ohio women facing high-risk pregnancies weigh an uncertain future of reproductive rights

Jena Gross almost died having an emergency C-section in 2021.

"It was terrifying because Ellie did not make any noise when they pulled her out of me," Gross recalled. "And so I am like starting to cry on the table. My guts are everywhere. My husband is like trying to figure out what's going on like it was. And I just kept asking like, 'is she okay? Is she okay? Is she okay?'"

She had to be induced at 36 weeks because Ellie’s life was at risk.

"It was the longest five minutes of my life," she said.

Now, Ellie’s a healthy toddler, and the 31-year-old Parma mother and her husband want to give her a sibling. But Gross's medical history raises the risks of miscarrying — and she feels unsure about future protections for herself and her family.

"I really want another kid... because I love being a mom. I love being with Ellie and everything," she said as she choked back tears.

After the U.S. Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade in 2022, Ohio’s abortion laws changed significantly and quickly: hours after the Supreme Court decision, the state implemented a Heartbeat Law which dropped the limit for an abortion from 22 weeks of pregnancy to about six weeks, which a judge temporarily blocked. Then, Ohioans passed a constitutional amendment that put the limit back at 22 weeks.

That tumult is terrifying for Gross and other women like her who worry the law could change again while they’re pregnant.

'You can't watch a game that way.' Play-by-play delay fouls up Guardians games for visually impaired

'You can't watch a game that way.' Play-by-play delay fouls up Guardians games for visually impaired

Ken Hoegler vividly remembers the moment he became a baseball fan.

After years of bouncing between foster homes, the Cleveland native finally landed in one that stuck. One of the first gifts from his foster parents was a small transistor radio.

"The first thing I heard was Jimmy Dudley doing a broadcast of the Cleveland Indians and broadcasting a home run, and I was hooked," said Hoegler, now 66 years old.

Dudley was the voice of the Indians from 1948 through 1967. The team changed its name to the Guardians in 2022.

The radio meant more to Hoegler than it would to other kids; He has been visually impaired his entire life. He experiences games by listening.

In the decades that followed that first game, Hoegler brought his guide dog and his radio and listened to live commentary at the stadium.

"There's something about it: the energy, the people, the sounds," he said. "I believe it was the greatest game ever invented by humankind.

But a broadcast delay has since hindered his ability to enjoy his favorite pastime: He'd hear the crack of a bat, the crowd's thunderous applause and, as other fans around him were already settling back into their seats, be left to wonder what happened for 30 seconds while the play-by-play caught up.

Ohio City farm seeks to grow more jobs for international refugees in Cleveland

Ohio City farm seeks to grow more jobs for international refugees in Cleveland

Half a world away from what was once home, Tantine Mukonge bent over the soft earth and tugged at a ripe tomato.

The 37-year-old mother of four has worked on the Ohio City Farm since she first arrived in Cleveland in 2017 from a refugee camp in Rwanda, where she lived for 18 years after fleeing violence in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

“Here is more better because I [am] working, and I find some little bit of money,” Mukonge said of Cleveland. “But in the Africa, [it] was a little bit troubling.”

The five-acre farm, located just off the bustling dining and retail corridor of West 25th Street on Cleveland’s West Side, is a peaceful oasis in the center of the quick-paced urban environment: Crickets chirp among fields of produce and greenhouses and the soft chatter of Swahili and other languages.

'It can be life and death': Homeless advocates concerned some choose streets over shelter in winter

'It can be life and death': Homeless advocates concerned some choose streets over shelter in winter

On a winter day, before polar winds descended on Cleveland, Raysean Johnson stood outside his forest green tent posted on a tree lawn along Superior Avenue in Downtown Cleveland. He’s been unhoused for nearly five years, bouncing between homeless shelters and city streets — and this winter is his first living outside.

A car pulled up and a stranger handed him and his girlfriend Myesha Carroll a bag of supplies.

Carroll thanked the woman, but the contents of the bag were baffling: false eyelashes, microwave popcorn and food they had no way to cook.

"Why would they give us canned goods?" Johnson said with a chuckle.

"Right, like, how we supposed to microwave this?" Carroll asked, joining in on the laughter.

"I’m not savage, I’m not eating this out of no can," Johnson said, as he put the can of mushroom soup back in the bag.

Johnson said he’s grateful for the help, but it’s an example of how people — including those responsible for solving the problem of homelessness — don’t understand what people living on the streets need.

Northeast Ohio temperatures have now dipped into the single-digits with subzero wind chill further stressing the safety net system already struggling to accommodate Cleveland’s estimated 250 chronically unhoused people.

'The solution may come from the average one of us.' Can grassroots funding create a safer Cleveland?

'The solution may come from the average one of us.' Can grassroots funding create a safer Cleveland?

As the last few warm days of summer clung on this year, four young boys stood on the corner of St. Clair Avenue and London Road holding up ice-cold water bottles and Coke cans, calling out to cars whizzing past.

It was at this intersection, outside a convenience store in Cleveland’s South Collinwood neighborhood, that a month before three teenagers were shot — one fatally.

It’s something these boys, all of whom were raised in Cleveland, have grown accustomed to, said 12-year-old Walter Boykins Jr.

“A lot of people have guns. Every time I see a gun, I run,” Boykins said. “You never know when a person will pull up and just start shooting. It’s messed up.”

Boykins said his father is ready to move because of the violence in the area.

“My buddy got shot in the head when I was 9,” Boykins said. “It was sad. I didn’t cry, though. It was real sad.”

His friend died, he said.

Gun violence in Cleveland is nothing new, but long-term residents say this year it reached a fever pitch unlike they’ve seen before.

Violence kept kids out of this Cleveland park. Now it's home to a basketball league hundreds strong

Violence kept kids out of this Cleveland park. Now it's home to a basketball league hundreds strong

On an idyllic summer day on the courts of Jefferson Park on Cleveland's West Side, 15-year-old Caden Hill, clad in a purple basketball jersey and white t-shirt, faked out a competitor, pivoted and leaped toward the rim of the basket. The ball sailed from his fingers cleanly through the net. He grinned as a teammate clapped him on the back.

"I enjoy playing because it's just something I love to do," Hill said. "Like to keep my mind off things, and it's a real challenge to get better and better every day."

Just a few short years ago, Hill couldn’t imagine playing where he is today. A slew of gun violence incidents in recent years kept the park on West 133rd Street largely empty of residents and kids.

“It used to be a lot of fights up here. People used to get shot up here all the time," Hill said. "It was bad. People just stopped coming up here."

Hill’s brother, Christian Simpson, recalls the violence well. His family lives just a few blocks away from the park, and he said a friend of his was shot there.

"Just knowing that happened, it was hard on a lot of people because it's like, ‘Dang, this is our park, why is this happening?’" Simpson said.

Despite protests and threats, these Cleveland drag performers aren't backing down

Despite protests and threats, these Cleveland drag performers aren't backing down

Veranda L’Ni is hard to miss. Dubbed as Cleveland’s tallest drag queen, she stands over 7 feet tall in her stunningly high heels. She ducks to enter the room, her vibrant rainbow wig grazing the doorway and all the children’s eyes are on her.

But it’s not just her stature that makes her stand out. It’s her unabashed assuredness in herself, in her art form and the way it makes people feel.

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Veranda L'Ni stands among the crowd listening to Erin Reed and Montana Rep. Zooey Zephyr speak. (Ygal Kaufman/Ideastream Public Media)

“We all want to enjoy something and go home feeling good,” said Veranda, who did not want to give her real name out of fear of threats of violence toward her and other drag performers. “And that's what drag does."

Out of drag, Veranda identifies as a man — one that’s remarkably tall at 6 foot 7 — but when he becomes Veranda, a character who uses she/her pronouns, something magical happens.

And she’s determined not to let that magic be dulled by the recent spike in protesters and hatred.

Their pregnancies fall just outside Ohio’s new six week abortion ban. What do they do now?

Their pregnancies fall just outside Ohio’s new six week abortion ban. What do they do now?

A nurse presses a gelled probe into a young woman’s stomach, squinting at the staticky gray image on the screen. The 22-year-old holds her breath and stares at the ceiling.

“Unfortunately, you’re at six weeks and three days, so we can't help you."

She’s three days too late.

The woman sits up and looks straight ahead emotionlessly, avoiding eye contact with the nurse, who hands her a half-sheet of paper with numbers for out-of-state clinics that could perform an abortion.

Suddenly, she begins to sob.

The woman, who visited the Northeast Ohio Women’s Center in Cuyahoga Falls on Monday afternoon, is one of many across the state whose unplanned pregnancies are further complicated by Ohio’s recent passage of the so-called “heartbeat law,” which outlaws abortion after fetal cardiac activity can be detected, typically around six weeks of gestation, except when the mother's life is at risk. 

The day Roe v. Wade fell: Reactions inside and outside Greater Akron's only abortion clinic

The day Roe v. Wade fell: Reactions inside and outside Greater Akron's only abortion clinic

It’s loud outside the Northeast Ohio Women’s Center.

Cars whiz down State Road past the abortion clinic in Cuyahoga Falls. Drivers pound their horns and jab thumbs up in support of two anti-abortion protesters on the sidewalk. Other passersby scream profanities, calling them “Nazis" and "losers" with the flick of a middle finger. Men with signs shout at women as they walk into the clinic, denouncing abortion as a sin and offering them flyers with pregnancy resources.

Seventy-four-year-old Mark Kaufman pulls his car into the lot and hops out to yell in the faces of two men, who refused to give their names, holding American flags and a sign that says “Business closed 2022.”

"You're just an angry old man," the protester says.

“Yeah, I’m an angry old man with a granddaughter who you just turned into breeding stock,” Kaufman screams, engaging them in a six-minute long argument.

But inside, it’s quiet.

In the operating room, a gray-haired nurse holds the hand of a woman as a doctor works to numb her cervix before removing the fetus. The woman squeezes her eyes shut as the nurse gives words of encouragement in hushed tones.

“You’re doing great.”

It’s Friday, just hours after the U.S. Supreme Court released its decision on Dobbs v. Jackson Women's Health Organization. The majority opinion effectively overturned Roe v. Wade, a landmark case in the 1970s that ruled a state law banning abortion was unconstitutional.

‘It made such a difference in my life’: Clinics, employers embracing gender-affirming care

‘It made such a difference in my life’: Clinics, employers embracing gender-affirming care

Julie Boylen remembers the day she finally found a doctor who could help her.

It was 2014, and she was on the floor of MetroHealth's Pride Clinic, a Cleveland-based medical office offering health care tailored to the LGBTQ+ community, including transgender patients like Boylen.

“I remember the lady telling me: ‘It's going to be OK. We can help you out here. We've got everything you're going to need,’ ” she said. “I broke down and cried on that floor. I did.”

Even now, eight years later, the memory brings tears to her eyes as she struggles to find the right words.

“It was a moment I needed so bad and it made such a difference in my life.”

In less than a decade since, gender-affirming care has expanded in the region with not only increased medical access, but also more employers insuring medications, therapy and surgery for the trans community.

‘I’ve grown up watching other children die.’ Young activists losing hope after Texas tragedy

‘I’ve grown up watching other children die.’ Young activists losing hope after Texas tragedy

Bree Chambers was 12 years old when a gunman tore through Sandy Hook Elementary, killing 27 people, including 20 young children.

At 17, the Akron native helped organize a walkout at Firestone High School after 17 students were shot dead at Parkland High School.

But now, following the most recent mass murder at an elementary school in Uvalde, Texas, the 21-year-old can’t help but think about all the kids who never got to do the things she did: graduate high school, attend college and begin a career while looking forward to graduate school this fall.

And all the hope she had years ago is running out.

'Completely broken': Exonerated death row inmate speaks out on flaws of capital punishment

Kwame Ajamu speaks about his time on death row. He spent 28 years in prison for a crime he did not commit. (Photo by Abbey Marshall)

Kwame Ajamu was only 17 years old when he was arrested and sentenced to die for a crime he didn’t commit.

It was a warm spring day on May 19, 1975. Ajamu, his brother and friend were wrapping up a basketball game. On their way home, the trio passed a crime scene where a money order salesman had been robbed and killed. His body was still on the ground, outlined in chalk. It was only a matter of days before Ajamu woke up in his bed, flustered and confused as armed Cleveland Police officers swarmed his home to arrest him.

Ajamu recounted the story to a crowd gathered Thursday in St. Ashworth Temple during an Akron NAACP meeting. It was exactly 47 years after the day of the murder that changed the course of his life.

What followed was a wrongful conviction leading to 28 years in prison and a death sentence, all hinging on the testimony of a 12-year-old boy who claimed to witness the crime and later admitted to lying.

“The system is completely broken in every way,” Ajamu said.

Even after he was released on parole in 2003, it was another 11 years before he was able to be exonerated and clear his name, at which point his brother and friend were finally discharged from prison.

“If not for the efforts I put forth in those 11 years after I got out and the people who believed me, they would still be in prison,” he said. “They probably would’ve died in there.”

Ajamu is now using his story to mobilize Ohioans to advocate for abolishing the death penalty. He serves as the board chair of Witness to Innocence, an organization whose members are all death row exonerees that advocate for the end of capital punishment.

“I’m here because it has become my obligation and duty ever since the age of 17 to tell this story,” he told Akron’s NAACP members. “I’m here because you can actually see someone who was sentenced to die. You can actually witness what wrongful incarceration looks like.”

Death penalty resources better spent on victims of the crimes, advocates say

Ajamu was joined by his wife, LaShawn Ajamu, a Canton native whose brother was murdered 25 years ago in a road-rage incident. LaShawn spoke passionately against the death penalty, saying that while her family wanted to see justice served against the man who killed her 20-year-old brother, an execution wouldn’t have given them the closure they needed.

She called the argument of using the death penalty as justice for the family “political grandstanding,” saying the state’s resources would be better spent on providing resources for victims of the crime.

Ohio taxpayers pay approximately $3 million per death penalty case, compared to $1 million per life without parole case.

“My family, myself, we had never experienced the intense trauma of losing a loved one to murder and we had no idea how to deal with this pain,” LaShawn said. “No state, city or any agency provided my family with any information about resources available to help us deal with our murdered loved one… We were on our own as far as the state of Ohio was concerned.”

She argued that capital punishment processes prolong a family’s grief period, as appeals can span decades and do nothing to help them heal.

“Killing this man, it wouldn’t have brought my brother James back,” she said. “There’s no such thing as closure because there will always be an empty seat at my family table.”

Death penalty disproportionately affects Black Americans

Since 1976, approximately 35% of prisoners executed were Black, despite only making up 13% of the U.S. population.

In Ohio, as of fall 2020, more than half of death row inmates were people of color.

In addition, a prosecutor is more likely to seek the death penalty if a victim is white; capital defendants charged with killing a white person are twice as likely to receive the death sentence as those charged with killing a person of color.

“The death penalty is the sharpest edge of the judicial system that needs so much work, and it contains every issue within our justice system: you have discrepancies of race, prosecutorial and police misconduct, faulty eyewitness testimony, junk science,” said Jennifer Pryor, the director of organizing and outreach for Ohioans to Stop Executions. “You got so many pieces of every part of our judicial system that leads to wrongful conviction.”

And wrongful convictions happen more often than people might think: for every five people Ohio has executed, one innocent person was exonerated from death row. In total, Ohio has sentenced 11 people who were later proven innocent to die.

Speakers urge legislative action, constituent advocacy

Ohioans to Stop Executions provided postcards for all attendees to address to lawmakers and urge them to vote in favor of H.B. 183 and S.B. 103 — legislation that would end capital punishment in Ohio. Pryor said they plan to hand-deliver the cards to the Statehouse.

“We have a real opportunity,” Pryor said. “No death penalty repealment has ever made it this far. We are killing people who are innocent, we are harming families and we are costing Ohioans a lot of money.”

Originally published in the Akron Beacon Journal on May 21, 2022.