Lightning strikes as a storm chaser drives to Tucumcari, NM from Dalhart, TX
Words by Liana DeMasi
photographs by allie + jesse
The pursuit of extreme storms, like the weather industry, is a space dominated by white, straight, cis-men. But there’s much to learn from changing weather patterns in the fight for trans equality.
Raychel Sanner sets up her camera on the side of some dusty, wire fence-lined road and hustles back into her red Hyundai hatchback. A car is ambling down the road in our direction, and Jesse, Allie, and I stare back and forth between the approaching car and Raychel as a storm accumulates behind us, some 50 miles away. Later, as we watch the time lapse, we’ll be able to see how quickly the dark clouds rolled through the sky, nearly doubling in size—the result of two storms joining.
The car gets closer and closer, kicking up rocks and dust as its license plate becomes visible. I look at Raychel’s face, which is seemingly stoic but likely a little anxious, as it stands in stark contrast to the excited smile that was on it just moments before. I consider taking the license plate number down in my Notes app. I consider the storm behind us, and I wonder where I ought to direct my anxieties. The car approaches, and I am convinced the four of us hold our breath. I can make out the small chili peppers on the left side of the license plate and start to memorize the letters and numbers. But as quickly as the car came, it sped right by us—it didn’t notice our queer and trans bodies filming a coming storm just steps from someone else’s property line.
Raychel gets out of the car, a smile spreading across her face. “Listen, it’s just not worth the risk!” We all nod our heads in agreement, laughing at ourselves for having been so nervous; so cautious. We are somewhere in Southern New Mexico, about three hours from Roswell, which is to say that we’re nowhere near a city. New Mexico is a pretty liberal state, having just passed House Bill 7, which protects reproductive and gender-affirming care, as well as the Human Rights Act Expansion, but safety is not guaranteed for us. No amount of passing can stave off the nerves on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, either. You are certain that your identity is written across your forehead, that they can smell your sexuality, your gender, in your pheromones. And even when your oppression gives way to resilience, when you can see an accumulating storm 50 miles out with such open land, a locked car door does not always prove a safeguard against someone who hates you. Or against the weather.
Raychel is a trans woman in her mid-30s. She has a nine-to-five working for the ACLU as a senior digital media strategist, but during the storm season—which is becoming longer and more intense as a result of climate breakdown—she’s on the road, live streaming her chases to her growing number of followers, many of whom are also her students. Raychel founded Titans University with a few of her peers and together they teach aspiring storm chasers their craft. Originally from Oklahoma, Raychel’s been storm chasing since she was a kid, where she and her family “watched storms like some people watch sports.” So it’s no surprise that she has been a freelance storm chaser for years, starting with local news stations in her home state. When the reality of her gender identity became too all-encompassing to ignore, she knew she couldn’t stay in Oklahoma, so she started looking for a job elsewhere. Upon being hired by the ACLU in New Mexico, she and her partner Sarah moved, and Raychel started her transition.
“The weather industry, like every industry, is run by white, straight, cis-men,” Raychel says. “So before I transitioned, I was able to claim some comfort in that, some authority, but I knew jobs would dry up if I stayed in Oklahoma.” Storms would continue to form whether Raychel was there to chase them or not, but her choice to leave Oklahoma in order to honor her truth while continuing to do what she loved meant that she was able to become a trans person of authority in storm chasing. This representation comes at a time when the weather and trans identities exist in similarly precarious climates.
A tornado requires the perfect set of criteria in order to form. The land in the Midwest is flat and open, which means that the winds are able to move relatively uninterrupted. The combination of dry, cool air from the Rocky Mountains and the west and the humid, warm air from the south, can create the perfect conditions for a tornado, which is why Tornado Alley has historically been parts of Texas, Oklahoma, Colorado, Kansas, New Mexico, Nebraska, and South Dakota. But with the increase in warmer, moister air as a result of climate change, Tornado Alley is expanding east. Late last year, a tornado tore through parts of Kentucky, and in March and April of 2023, two more hit Mississippi and Missouri, respectively. While these states are part of the new, extended Tornado Alley, they are not historically known for severe tornado activity, which tends to coincide with a lack of preparedness. There were five fatalities in Missouri, 25 in Mississippi, and 80 in Kentucky.
The technology and radar used to predict tornadoes have improved over the years, allowing experts to give a 10-15 minute warning in most cases. However, safety can only be achieved if a person hears the warning in time, has a shelter to go to, and is able-bodied and also able to get there in the allotted time. For folks in Oklahoma and Texas, such warnings are commonplace, but for the rest of the country, tornado safeguards have never been at the top of the list. The Southeast prepares for hurricanes, the West prepares for droughts, the Northeast prepares for brutal winters, and the Midwest prepares for tornados. This formula has, mostly, been long-followed because it assumes a stable environment, but as climate change gives way to instability, many of us will be facing natural disasters that we previously considered unimaginable.
In certain states, queer and trans faces won’t be trusted to deliver the weather.
The situation is just as uncertain—and dangerous—for trans people. In 2023, there have been over 500 anti-LGBTQIA+ bills introduced around the country, most of which target the trans community. In the last few elections, both New Mexico and Colorado have voted blue, and while voting trends don’t ensure uniformly liberal legislation, the states have only introduced four and two anti-trans bills, respectively. Any amount of anti-LGBTQIA+ legislation is abhorrent, especially when considering the recent Supreme Court ruling on 303 Creative LLC v. Elenis out of Colorado, but when weighing one’s options, those two states are safer bets for LGBTQIA+ individuals when we consider the other options in Tornado Alley. Texas has introduced 141 anti-LGBTQIA+ bills this year, Oklahoma is at 41, and Kansas is at 18. South Dakota and Nebraska have introduced five such bills in their states, and while that might seem on par with Colorado and New Mexico, both states have few protections for LGBTQIA+ individuals and families.
When we consider voting patterns, a state’s history of discrimination policies, and their number of churches per capita, we might not be surprised by their anti-LGBTQIA+ laws and rhetoric. In this same way, we consider the weather patterns in a state, as well as its topography and climate. Historically, these factors are reliable, so much so that an entire region can be labeled “Tornado Alley” or “unwelcoming” to certain populations. However, the historical patterns we have relied on in meteorology are shifting, and the new, expanded Tornado Alley seems to be following a similar path of destruction as various state’s legislatures. Iowa, Missouri, Arkansas, Mississippi, Louisiana, Indiana, Illinois, Alabama, Florida, and Western Kentucky and Tennessee are all new tornado hotspots. Collectively, these states have introduced 180 anti-trans bills this year alone. As our global climate destabilizes and anti-LGBTQIA+ laws and rhetoric worsen, safety, freedom, and livelihood continue to be elusive.
“There are three things that you cannot avoid in this life,” Raychel says. “Death, taxes, and the weather.” One of us makes a joke about tax evasion, and she nods her head and laughs. But what might be as unavoidable as the weather is our long history of gatekeeping who delivers it. Historically, and at present, white men have dominated the meteorology industry. We’ve been studying meteorology in one form or another since 340 B.C.E., and the first woman, Joanne Simpson, didn’t earn a meteorology Ph.D. until 1949. June Bacon-Bercey was the first woman and first Black woman to be a broadcast meteorologist in 1971. Today, women make up 23.7% of the field, whereas LGBTQIA+ people are at about 12%. These numbers aren’t staggering because women and LGBTQIA+ individuals are less likely than cis-men to seek a degree in meteorology. It also comes down to the fact that, in certain states, their queer and trans faces won’t be trusted to deliver the weather.
The weather is the weather, just as people are people, but we continue to politicize both identity and climate, instead of recognizing that one impacts an individual while the other affects us all. “When a tornado comes through a town, it doesn’t check to see which house voted red and which house voted blue,” Raychel says. “It’s taking out everything in its path.”
I think of Raychel, I think of our community, of all the people who stand at the dichotomy that is advocating for one’s identity and the planet. Of course, such a fight is intersectional, but then we are forced to advocate for our planet to a room full of people who try to legislatively write us out of existence. Raychel smiles and says that she’s been treated well in places she least expected it. “People will surprise you,” she says. But later that same day we chase a storm into Texas and she tells her live stream that she just lost about half her rights in 30 seconds. She is referring to several anti-LGBTQIA+ bills in the state, several of which ban gender-affirming care for minors and target the same treatment for adults.
This representation comes at a time when the weather and trans identities exist in similarly precarious climates.
I follow closely behind her in a separate car, so I don’t lose her in the rain. But part of me is still back on that dirt road, deciding between memorizing license plate numbers and preparing for the coming storm. I try to envision a world where we can focus on a single existential threat at a time, but all I can come up with is a guidebook for compartmentalization. I try to imagine a world in which we might live without having to fight for it, but the weather continues to turn, and my thoughts are drowned out by hail on the roof of the car.
