Asher McMaher watched as kids excitedly darted into a local library, surrounded by rows of supporters waving Pride flags and cheering them on.
“It’s a parade,” McMaher said, recalling a recent action by Trans Up Front IL to support families attending a drag story time at the Edgewater Branch of the Chicago Public Library, 6000 N. Broadway.
Soon, the kids would be sitting down for a drag story time centered around queer-themed picture books like The Rainbow Snail by Karin Akesson and Julian is a Mermaid by Jessica Love—completely unaware that several anti-LGBTQ+ protesters had shown up outside to try to shut the event down.
“I was just watching the kids have fun,” McMaher said. “It was the community showing up to make sure these families felt safe—and they did.”
McMaher leads Trans Up Front alongside their partner, Charlee Friedman.
Together, the two have shown up for transgender youth across Illinois with protests drawing as many as 5,000 people, dance parties defending other drag story times, and words of affirmation delivered at contentious school board meetings.
The grassroots organization, which came together just before its first protest in February, is quickly becoming one of the state’s most visible defenders of trans rights.
But behind the growing movement is a family that’s been quietly doing this work for years—organizing their community with urgency and parenting their children with radical love.
A movement in motion: Trans Up Front’s rapid rise
Trans Up Front’s recent action at the Edgewater library branch was the latest in a growing series of pro-trans demonstrations staged across Illinois.
The group’s first protest was held Feb. 15 after Lurie Children’s Hospital quietly paused gender-affirming care for transgender youth patients, complying with one of President Donald Trump’s anti-trans executive orders. On a snowy afternoon, several hundred people rallied in a park outside the hospital to denounce the institutions’ early compliance with Trump’s order.
“We needed to send a clear message: trans kids deserve care, not cowardice,” McMaher said. “And we weren’t going to wait for anyone else to say it.”
Since then, Trans UP Front has organized:
- A Trans Day of Visibility protest that brought more than 5,000 people to Daley Plaza for a rally and a march through Chicago’s streets —even during a torrential downpour.
- Counter-protests at more than a dozen suburban school board meetings—including in Deerfield and Naperville—to defend transgender students being targeted by hate groups and anti-trans rhetoric.
- A drag story time defense at the Beverly Branch of the Chicago Public Library, 1962 W. 95th St., where volunteers flanked the event with signs of affirmation and safety.
“Even at the ones with just 20 or 30 people, we take a moment and go, look at what’s happening,” McMaher said. “People come up to us and say, thank you for putting out that call to action.”
Their advocacy has even extended to a national stage. Earlier in June, McMaher was invited to speak at the WorldPride Human Rights Conference in Washington, D.C., where they joined a panel of global trans leaders about amplifying underrepresented voices and moderated another on LGBTQ+ leadership development.
Throughout the conference, they connected with prominent figures in LGBTQ+ advocacy, including Sarah McBride, who was recently elected the first transgender person in Congress; Virginia Sen. Danica Roem; trans activist and model Laith Ashley; and prominent drag leaders like Bob the Drag Queen, Peppermint and Mrs. Kasha Davis.
“All of these people—people we look up to—are coming up to us and saying, ‘What you’re doing is so important,’” McMaher said.
While Trans Up Front may appear to have burst onto the scene overnight, the group’s formation follows years of quiet, sustained advocacy.
Before launching public actions, McMaher and Friedman were already embedded into support networks for trans families. They run an online Facebook group for parents with transgender kids, through which they host educational sessions, support group meetings and offer guidance for families navigating gender-affirming care.
“Parents would message me and say, ‘I just found out my kid is trans. What now?’” McMaher said. “So we started teaching. Every week. For free.”
At the same time, McMaher was quietly supporting Chicago’s leading LGBTQ+ organizations serving the trans community. At Lurie Children’s Hospital, they helped create a video training staff on trans and nonbinary youth. At Howard Brown Health, they helped with the organization’s trans resource guide. And at Brave Space Alliance, they assisted in organizing its Unicorn Ball fundraiser.
The relationships built in those spaces—along with the years of supporting trans families in online communities—laid the foundation for the larger movement McMaher and Friedman are now leading.
Their work didn’t begin with a megaphone outside Lurie Children’s Hospital. It started in Zoom calls with nervous mothers and fundraisers for local trans organizations, years before Illinois knew the name Trans Up Front.
The movement at home
The inclusive values McMaher and Friedman bring to rallies and protests are the same ones shaping their family life. Together, they’re raising a blended family of five kids and three cats—each with their own identities, interests and needs.”
“We view every child as unique,” McMaher said. “We practice gentle parenting with options. We meet them where they are.”
That philosophy plays out in constant dialogue between the two parents and their kids, Friedman said.
“We talk about what care looks like for each of them,” Friedman said. “That’s the root of everything we do.”
Their 13-year-old daughter, Noella, is a transgender, a lesbian and a rising STEM star who recently served as the hydraulics engineer on an underwater robotics team and has ambitions of becoming a physicist at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
Noella is also no stranger to advocacy, having walked runways at both New York and Paris Fashion Week, spoken at protests and joined her parents on support calls with younger trans kids. In one recent case, Noella helped a 10-year-old girl talk through her options for coming out as trans.
“The kid was very shy, but Noella got her comfortable enough and talking,” Mcmaher said. “She was amazing.”
Noella’s confidence and clarity in her identity were also transformative for McMaher, who found the confidence to come out as trans themself after watching Noella.
“When she came out, it kind of opened a door I didn’t even realize I was keeping shut,” McMaher said. “Her bravery gave me permission to finally step into who I’ve always been.”
The family also includes Mariana, 22, who came to McMaher as a teenager and is now living on her own with two children; Quince, a 15-year-old queer teen and gifted artist; Levi, an 11-year-old boy with autism who uses a wheelchair and is homeschooled by Friedman through a special needs program; and Rory, a 4-year-old who is being raised gender-neutral so Rory can determine their own gender identity.
“The only people who know what Rory’s sex assigned at birth is are the people who’ve changed Rory’s diaper,” McMaher said. “And that’s how it should be.”
That level of care and respect extends across their entire household, where each child’s identity is met with curiosity, not assumption. Differences are something to celebrate, Friedman said.
“We have different colors, we have different abilities, we have different backgrounds, we have different sexualities,” McMaher said. “They call us the Skittles family.”’
Caring for this family means honoring differences at every turn. McMaher is Deaf, and both they and Friedman have navigated trauma and marginalization in their own lives—lessons that now guide how they create stability, choice and safety for their kids.
“It’s a little chaotic,” Friedman said with a laugh. “But we know what’s best for each of them.”
On weekends, they make time for “Family Adventure Day,” which might mean a trip to the Field Museum, the bowling alley or an ice cream shop. For McMaher, who aged out of the foster care system with few childhood photos, documenting these days has become part of the mission.
“I take a million pictures,” they said. “I love memories. And I want them to remember that we were here, together.”
What comes next
At home, McMaher and Friedman built a world where every child is seen, supported and free to be themselves. Their advocacy is an extension of that.
“This is just how we live,” Friedman said. “We raise our kids this way. We show up this way. And we want that for every trans kid out there.”
As Trans Up Front grows, they’re focused on creating systems that can outlast any one action. The group is developing a statewide ambassador program to train other trans advocates in their local communities and launching a mutual aid fund to support families in crisis with gas money, emergency needs or relocation support.
“Protests are powerful,” McMaher said. “But what happens after the march? What happens to the family who still has to get to a doctor’s appointment across the state, or who’s trying to move out of an unsafe situation?”
But sustaining that work takes resources, and Trans Up Front is currently raising funds to help cover mutual aid, transportation stipends and community organizing materials.
“We know how to show up,” McMaher said. “But to keep doing this, we need help.”
They envision a future in which Trans Up Front is less reactive and more sustaining, so the systems they’re building can offer not just solidarity, but stability.
But supporting kids will always be central to the movement.
“That’s why we’re building this together,” Friedman said. “Not just for our kids—but for every kid who needs someone to show up.”
