The Queer Little Library of Erlanger, Kentucky: A Response to Hate

Some moments carve themselves into memory with a sharp edge, a before and after you can never unsee. For Amanda and me, that moment came the day someone vandalized our home out of hate. They jumped our dog fence, ripped down our huge Pride flag, shattered the mount, and spray-painted our brick erosion wall. A deliberate act meant to erase us. Me, a privileged cis het, white man with a partner who is bi, queer, and proud. We sat there, stunned, as the weight of it settled in. The loud pop of destruction had startled us from the comfort of our living room, from an evening spent watching Alveus Animal Sanctuary—one of our favorite streams—only to realize that the real world had just sent a different kind of message.

Hate like that isn’t casual. It isn’t a passing thought or an accident. It’s calculated. It’s the kind of thing that makes you feel small in your own home. But if hate is intentional, then so is resistance.

So, we made a few decisions.

First, we did what anyone would do: we cleaned up. We bought a new flag mount, found some cover paint, and, within hours, a smaller but still vibrant Pride flag fluttered right back up where the first had been stolen. It was the older flag we'd saved in the basement when we'd replaced it with a new larger one. The smaller flag was a bit tattered, standing the test of time, but it still got the message across. So it went right back up where it was.

They wanted to erase us. We refused.

We thought about going bigger—painting a full mural on that white brick retention wall they'd spraypainted, turning it into an unmissable declaration of existence and joy. But the practical side of us hesitated. A mural would become a target, and unless I planned on standing guard 24/7 with a baseball bat, it wouldn’t last. Instead, we repainted the wall white, blending it into the background. It felt like a loss. Like we had backed down. And I hated that we let them have that small win.

But we weren’t finished making decisions. Fear was not going to win. Silence was not going to win.

The next decision was to install security cameras. We had debated it before, but this sealed the deal. We needed to protect our home, our dogs, and, frankly, our peace of mind. Those cameras still stand watch, a quiet testament to our refusal to be pushed into the shadows.

And then, Amanda looked at me and said, “Let’s build a little library.”

Not just any library. A free, take-and-leave space filled with diverse books, with a special focus on those that uplift and celebrate the Queer community. A beacon of knowledge and love, placed on the very land that had been attacked.

Amanda’s eyes lit up. “We could even put canned goods in it, and blankets, and other resources!” That’s where her mind went first—to care, to community. I love that about her. I agreed immediately.

That idea lit something inside me. We spent months collecting books—stories that educate, that comfort, that offer representation. I pictured them nestled in their tiny wooden home, waiting for the right person to find them. Maybe a young queer teen searching for proof that they aren’t alone. Maybe a parent looking to better understand their child. Maybe someone who had never before seen themselves reflected in a book.

We’re taking our time building this library right, saving up to make it something special. When it’s up and running, I’ll be rotating books every Friday, keeping the collection fresh and relevant, but not putting all my eggs in one basket, in case they try to erase us again by stealing the books and destroying them. And here’s the best part—if you’re local and want to see a specific book added, just reach out. I’ll make sure it finds its way into the little library.

This blog will serve partly as an information hub for The Queer Little Library of Erlanger, Kentucky. A place for updates, stories, and the ongoing journey of this project. For those following along on BlueSky, my profile is: https://bsky.app/profile/justindaze.bsky.social , I’ll be posting updates there too.

The act of vandalism that shook us so deeply could have left us feeling defeated. Instead, it reminded us why visibility matters. Why representation matters. Why fighting back—with love, with knowledge, with community—matters. The people who tore down our flag thought they were sending a message. And they were. Just not the one they intended.

Because here’s our message back:

We are still here. We are still proud. And now, we’re building something even bigger.

If you'd like to help me build it in any way, please reach out and email me at queerlittlelibrary@gmail.com . Thanks!

Stay tuned. The Queer Little Library of Erlanger is coming soon.