LARAMIE, Wyo. — The morning sky was still dark as Artemis Langford’s father hoisted the last of her belongings into her car for the drive back to college.
“Be safe,” he told her.
“I will,” she promised.
She didn’t mention how a day earlier, as she scrolled through social media comments, she saw someone had called her a “sicko” who should be torn apart in a woodchipper. Or how she discovered her name on neo-Nazi websites. Or how news stories about her had been posted on a forum for gun owners, alongside a hangman’s noose.
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It wasn’t what she imagined last year when she joined Kappa Kappa Gamma at the University of Wyoming, becoming the first transgender woman in the state to be inducted into a sorority. She thought she had finally found sisterhood and a place to belong after years of shame and loneliness.
Instead, she became a target.
Right-wing pundits portrayed her on national television as a predator — as a perverted man who faked his way into a sorority to leer at women. Death threats followed. Strangers began stalking her. Police assigned extra patrols to the sorority house.
But the most hurtful accusations came this past spring. That’s when Artemis discovered members of her sorority — seven sisters out of the 40-some members — were working with lawyers to oust her. On March 27, they filed a lawsuit in federal court against Artemis and Kappa Kappa Gamma.
“Hate from strangers is one thing,” Artemis said. “It was a gut punch after working so hard to get in to realize there were people who never wanted me there in the first place.”
Over the summer, she thought about quitting but decided against it — for herself, for the precedent it could set for other trans students and for the sisterhood she still hoped to find.
So on an early morning in late August, Artemis, wearing a black dress and denim jacket, got in her car, shut the door and backed out of her father’s driveway. She drove quickly, not stopping once in six hours to eat or use the bathroom. She worried how others in rural Wyoming might perceive her.
“I don’t pass well,” she said. “I’ve always been tall and heavy.”
It was almost noon by the time she reached campus. She and chapter leaders had agreed that she shouldn’t live in the sorority house, for her safety and theirs. But when she reached her assigned dorm, the parking lot was jam-packed, so Artemis reluctantly pulled into a space on Greek Row.
Just steps away sat the Kappa house. Along one wall hung a painted banner. “This is so the happy place,” it read in big black letters.
It took five trips to her car to unload everything. As she was standing in the parking lot, figuring out what to do about dinner, she saw them walking toward her — two of the Kappa sisters from the lawsuit against her.
Artemis turned away, but they had already spotted her and began whispering. As they passed, the two girls shot Artemis a look of disgust. She stared down at her phone, pretending not to notice. But the encounter left her shaken.
It felt like confirmation of her worst fears — that this semester would be no different, no less awful.
“Do I even have a place in Kappa anymore?” she asked herself. “Is it worth fighting for?”
Artemis remembers dismissing the idea with a laugh.
“Well, no sorority would ever have a trans person,” she said.
“Mine would,” her friend quickly replied.
For weeks, Artemis couldn’t shake that vision of a “forever home.”
Her social circle at UW at the time skewed heavily toward other LGBTQ+ students. Just weeks earlier, one of them — a fellow transgender student — had killed themself. Artemis was among the first to discover the body in the dorm and called 911. Soon after, another friend attempted suicide but survived.
Artemis had tried taking her own life, too, as a child and teenager. Now her LGBTQ+ community in Laramie, fragile to start, was fracturing.
She hungered for the support her sorority friend had described.
A history major, she started researching the origins of American sororities. The earliest began in the 19th century, when few women attended colleges. They often found themselves alone and denigrated, and they banded together to prove themselves equal to men.
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Artemis saw her own life in their stories. Fitting in had never come easily.
She grew up in a devoutly Mormon family. She watched Bill O’Reilly and Fox News on her grandfather’s lap. She was taught as a child how to shoot a gun and that there’s no place in heaven for gay people.
But even as a small child, Artemis felt something wrong inside.
When doctors diagnosed her on the autistic spectrum at age 8, she thought that was the reason. It wasn’t until eighth grade, when she began questioning her gender, that she felt she had found an answer. She remembered staying up one night in 2016 and praying for hours. She begged God to take away her pain and confusion. To make her like other boys at school. Or if not, to give her a sign that the woman she felt inside was real.
As morning dawned, she felt enveloped in an eerie but comforting silence and saw that as God’s reply.
“Be safe,” he told her.
“I will,” she promised.
She didn’t mention how a day earlier, as she scrolled through social media comments, she saw someone had called her a “sicko” who should be torn apart in a woodchipper. Or how she discovered her name on neo-Nazi websites. Or how news stories about her had been posted on a forum for gun owners, alongside a hangman’s noose.
Story continues below advertisement
It wasn’t what she imagined last year when she joined Kappa Kappa Gamma at the University of Wyoming, becoming the first transgender woman in the state to be inducted into a sorority. She thought she had finally found sisterhood and a place to belong after years of shame and loneliness.
Instead, she became a target.
Right-wing pundits portrayed her on national television as a predator — as a perverted man who faked his way into a sorority to leer at women. Death threats followed. Strangers began stalking her. Police assigned extra patrols to the sorority house.
But the most hurtful accusations came this past spring. That’s when Artemis discovered members of her sorority — seven sisters out of the 40-some members — were working with lawyers to oust her. On March 27, they filed a lawsuit in federal court against Artemis and Kappa Kappa Gamma.
“Hate from strangers is one thing,” Artemis said. “It was a gut punch after working so hard to get in to realize there were people who never wanted me there in the first place.”
Over the summer, she thought about quitting but decided against it — for herself, for the precedent it could set for other trans students and for the sisterhood she still hoped to find.
So on an early morning in late August, Artemis, wearing a black dress and denim jacket, got in her car, shut the door and backed out of her father’s driveway. She drove quickly, not stopping once in six hours to eat or use the bathroom. She worried how others in rural Wyoming might perceive her.
“I don’t pass well,” she said. “I’ve always been tall and heavy.”
It was almost noon by the time she reached campus. She and chapter leaders had agreed that she shouldn’t live in the sorority house, for her safety and theirs. But when she reached her assigned dorm, the parking lot was jam-packed, so Artemis reluctantly pulled into a space on Greek Row.
Just steps away sat the Kappa house. Along one wall hung a painted banner. “This is so the happy place,” it read in big black letters.
It took five trips to her car to unload everything. As she was standing in the parking lot, figuring out what to do about dinner, she saw them walking toward her — two of the Kappa sisters from the lawsuit against her.
Artemis turned away, but they had already spotted her and began whispering. As they passed, the two girls shot Artemis a look of disgust. She stared down at her phone, pretending not to notice. But the encounter left her shaken.
It felt like confirmation of her worst fears — that this semester would be no different, no less awful.
“Do I even have a place in Kappa anymore?” she asked herself. “Is it worth fighting for?”
A ‘forever home’
As a freshman, Artemis had listened to a friend describe life in a sorority. It sounded nothing like the movie stereotypes of keg parties and elaborate hazing. Her friend talked of being supported through tough times, helping philanthropic causes, finding a “forever home” she could rely on for the rest of her life.Artemis remembers dismissing the idea with a laugh.
“Well, no sorority would ever have a trans person,” she said.
“Mine would,” her friend quickly replied.
For weeks, Artemis couldn’t shake that vision of a “forever home.”
Her social circle at UW at the time skewed heavily toward other LGBTQ+ students. Just weeks earlier, one of them — a fellow transgender student — had killed themself. Artemis was among the first to discover the body in the dorm and called 911. Soon after, another friend attempted suicide but survived.
Artemis had tried taking her own life, too, as a child and teenager. Now her LGBTQ+ community in Laramie, fragile to start, was fracturing.
She hungered for the support her sorority friend had described.
A history major, she started researching the origins of American sororities. The earliest began in the 19th century, when few women attended colleges. They often found themselves alone and denigrated, and they banded together to prove themselves equal to men.
Story continues below advertisement
Artemis saw her own life in their stories. Fitting in had never come easily.
She grew up in a devoutly Mormon family. She watched Bill O’Reilly and Fox News on her grandfather’s lap. She was taught as a child how to shoot a gun and that there’s no place in heaven for gay people.
But even as a small child, Artemis felt something wrong inside.
When doctors diagnosed her on the autistic spectrum at age 8, she thought that was the reason. It wasn’t until eighth grade, when she began questioning her gender, that she felt she had found an answer. She remembered staying up one night in 2016 and praying for hours. She begged God to take away her pain and confusion. To make her like other boys at school. Or if not, to give her a sign that the woman she felt inside was real.
As morning dawned, she felt enveloped in an eerie but comforting silence and saw that as God’s reply.
