How West Virginia’s First Transgender Elected Official Is Influencing Local Politics

WHEELING, W.Va. (AP) – When Rosemary Ketchum is introduced as the first openly transgender person to win elected office in West Virginia, there is often a look of shock on people’s faces.

“People will think, ‘How did this happen?’ Like I won the lottery or solved a Rubik’s Cube in front of them or something,” she said. “They think it’s magic.”

To her, it doesn’t seem like magic. But in a way, she can understand their surprise. Of the handful of transgender officials in the U.S., only a few have been elected in similarly rural GOP-controlled states.

Ketchum, 29, is one of them. And next week, she could be elected again — this time as mayor of Wheeling, a former coal and steel production center about 60 miles (97 kilometers) from Pittsburgh.

Growing up, she said she saw businesses close and people struggle to find housing and mental health support amid the opioid epidemic. Her spirit is optimistic, however, and she often recalls the memory of first encountering Wheeling’s motto, “the friendly city,” on a welcome sign.

“I didn’t run for City Council to make history – I ran to make a difference in my community,” she said of her motivation for running.

Wheeling is a city of 26,000 with a unique place in West Virginia history. It is situated in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains along the Ohio River in an area that seceded from Virginia and the Confederacy in 1863.

More than a century later, a group portrait hangs in Wheeling City Hall. Ketchum is impossible to miss: Standing next to seven men in suits, she’s wearing a red dress and black heels, and has platinum blonde hair. She also stands out in meetings, with her nails painted red and her laptop adorned with a Taylor Swift sticker.

At a recent council meeting, she asked questions about pending water and sewer projects, thanked city officials for their work and urged residents exposed to recent flooding to get tetanus shots at the local health department.

For Ketchum, going to college – let alone working in politics – was not in the cards.

When she was in high school, a tragic fire destroyed the family home and left her homeless. They had no home insurance or savings and had to temporarily move into a neighbor’s basement.

“We didn’t have a backup plan,” she said. “And unfortunately, many working families are in the same boat.”

After the fire, Ketchum arrived in Wheeling at age 16, in the midst of a gender transition. The family received food stamps, and Ketchum worked as a bartender after high school. She later became the first in her family to graduate from college—and credits the fact that she was able to live in public housing for allowing her to do so.

She later served as associate director of the city’s local chapter of the National Alliance on Mental Illness — a job that combined with her lived experience to shape the way she approaches public policy.

In 2023, Ketchum was one of only two city officials to vote against an ordinance aimed at cleaning up homeless encampments. She helped establish the city’s first in-house position focused on homelessness – to help people find mental health support, permanent housing and employment.

Ketchum responds matter-of-factly when people ask her how she got elected as an openly transgender candidate: She put her name on the ballot, knocked on doors, made calls to ask residents what they were interested in, and then trusted them to make decisions. a decision.

“I didn’t determine or assume what they would think of me – I gave them the opportunity to think for themselves,” she said. “I didn’t walk up to a door and say, ‘Oh, this person has a Trump sign, they’re going to hate me.’”

Wheeling is the county seat of Ohio, where 38% of voters registered as Republicans in 2023, compared with 34% as registered Democrats, according to state data. City council positions are nonpartisan.

Ketchum has some voters who have never met a transgender person before — or the idea of ​​gender nonconformity makes them uncomfortable. But she sees it as a test of leadership and motivation to work harder to respond to community concerns, which range from affordable public transportation to supporting small businesses.

“I find it fascinating that someone can say, ‘You know what, those trans people on television, on the internet — I don’t know about that, but I have to say that a trans person helped me pave my path or fill my path. hole or trim the tree in my yard or fix my sidewalk,'” she said.

Kellie Ahmad, a local artist and Ketchum campaign volunteer, said she greatly respects the way Ketchum deals with his detractors.

“She still has people who hate her, calling her and saying, ‘There’s a lot around me that needs to be cut — can you do that?'” Ahmad said. “Which just goes to show: ‘I could fundamentally disagree. of who you are as a person, but you are effective.’”

Dianne Ketchum, Rosemary’s mother, said it wasn’t easy watching Ketchum enter the world of politics. She saw how, as a child, her daughter was bullied because of her gender identity.

But the world has changed since then and perceptions of trans people in the region are starting to change. People like Ketchum are a big part of that, Dianne Ketchum said, noting that she has seen people talking about trans people with more tolerance and understanding since her daughter came out.

“A lot of people changed their minds because they met my daughter,” Dianne Ketchum said.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, the council made Wheeling the only city in West Virginia to declare racism a public health crisis. Then they banned conversion therapy, a powerful yet symbolic measure.

Ketchum said that when he’s campaigning, people don’t talk about which bathrooms they think trans people should be able to use, or whether kids should read books with LGBTQ+ characters at school. People often want to talk about repaving their roads or concerns about how many young people are leaving the state — one of only two states where the population declined in the 2020 census.

“It gives me more respect, frankly, for my neighbors,” Ketchum said. GOP lawmakers’ focus on book bans and bathroom access may attract attention at the state and national level, but “it doesn’t work at the local level — it doesn’t register,” she said.

She said many people have developed apathy or distrust in government. But she doesn’t engage in cynicism. Instead, she gives voters her personal phone number and maintains regular business hours at a local grocery store where anyone can stop by to talk to her.

Ketchum talks about making streets safer for pedestrians, revitalizing downtown, and navigating the delicate balance between preserving and restoring ornate but dilapidated structures throughout the city. She smiles with pride as she shares progress in rehabilitating a historic suspension bridge – which leads to an island in the city, where she worked at a family-owned bar.

“Sometimes we call it ‘the friendly city’ and that seems aspirational because we’re dealing with a lot of tension and there’s a generational divide in some ways – especially in politics,” she said. “But I see it here every day. We’re getting somewhere.”