People sometimes privately share with me their concerns about medical treatment for transgender children, and those concerns sound familiar to me.

They ask why so many more children are identifying as trans now compared to a few years ago. They wonder if a young child might just be going through a phase and worry about the long-term consequences of medical intervention.

These fears sound familiar because I used to have the exact same thoughts -- until around five years ago.

That's when a dear friend shared that her high school-aged child identified as nonbinary. I had only known this child as the gender assigned to them at birth, and I really didn't understand what "nonbinary" meant. I felt awkward trying to use different pronouns, and worried that I would slip up and offend them.

My friend explained that her child didn't feel male or female, and assured me that it was normal to take some time to adjust to a new name and pronouns. She also said that she didn't have many answers about how to proceed, but wanted to support her child however she could.

I felt her palpable concern as a mother, and I have never doubted her fierce love for her child.

Over the years, I listened and asked questions as my friend and her spouse figured out this journey for their family. They sought help from the Washington University Transgender Center at St. Louis Children's Hospital, which was in national headlines recently when a whistleblower made allegations of misconduct and harm. The complainant says that puberty blockers and hormone therapies were given too freely to children and teens at the center, that there was a lack of disclosure about the medications' risks, and that patients with mental illness were inadequately evaluated.

My friend's experience with the facility was nothing like that -- in fact, quite the opposite. As the investigation into the whistleblower's allegations runs its course, it's important for political leaders to show compassion for those whose lives are at stake.

Over the past few years, I've met a handful of families with transgender children. They express feeling persecuted and attacked by lawmakers using their children as pawns in a culture war. They fear the state criminalizing them, or even taking their kids away, if they follow a doctor's guidance on caring for their child.

Consider this tweet by State Rep. Chris Lonsdale last week: "Sorry your (sic) hysterical about MO Republicans protecting kids. We aren't going to allow the mutilation of children in Missouri!"

It's awful to hear anyone insult and demonize the parents of trans kids, but an elected official implying that these parents need to be stopped from "mutilating" their kids is especially cruel and ugly. These are parents who have watched their children suffer and are desperate to help them. They are scared of losing a child to suicide, which is a higher risk for gender-nonconforming youth and adolescents.

While there are legitimate questions about how best to treat transgender kids, everyone of any political persuasion should be able agree on one thing: It's unacceptable to dehumanize trans children or their families. This should not be a controversial idea. Preserving the human dignity of the families affected should be the nonnegotiable baseline as we grapple with these issues politically.

As for Missouri Republicans "protecting kids," one could argue that they have failed to do so for years by turning a blind eye to allegations of sexual abuse at unlicensed religious reform schools, state-contracted youth residential facilities and summer camps. Victims say their pleas to investigate these institutions were long ignored. Missouri also brings kids into foster care at one of the highest rates in the country. The director of the state's child welfare agency said at a Missouri House committee meeting that the state has "effectively legally orphanized" around 1,500 children by severing parental rights before anyone was available to take them in.

Why haven't we seen the same sense of urgency to protect these children?

Rather than solving these real problems, some lawmakers have chosen to paint our friends and neighbors as monsters for seeking medical help for their kids.

It's an easier way to score political points. But it's not about protecting children.

Six years ago, Jason survived an attempt to kill himself.

He shared his experience on Facebook in an effort to help anyone else who might be silently suffering.

"I won't bother you with what happened Jan. 7, 2017, that led me to wash down 13 (or maybe it was 14) pills with a Budweiser tallboy," wrote Jason (last name withheld). "I had reached a destination I was headed toward for more than three decades. Since my freshman year in high school, I often believed death served as the only antidote for the pain I felt."

Soon after his attempt, he checked himself into a behavioral health hospital where he stayed for 10 days. There, he got a diagnosis, medication and therapy to begin to manage his condition. Even though he had supportive friends, co-workers and family who cared about him, Jason said he felt too embarrassed, sad and lost to ask for help.

Jason, now 52, reflected on what might have helped him when he was in crisis.

"It's hard for me to know for certain if there could have been any magical words that would have convinced me to seek help or to feel heard and loved, but looking back, I believe if someone I trusted had said, 'Jason, I know something is wrong. Your behavior isn't normal. How can I help?' I might have felt accepted and cared for and more inclined to open up," he said.

Advocates who work in suicide prevention say being aware of potential warning signs of suicide can be lifesaving, along with being present for those who might be having suicidal thoughts.

Research shows that rates of suicidal behavior have increased disproportionately among young people of color over the last few decades. Rates are highest among Black Americans 25 to 34 years of age, predominantly affecting young men. Black girls have the highest rates of suicide attempts, and young Black children between 5 and 12 have almost twice the suicide rate of their white counterparts.

The majority of people who die from suicide exhibit some signs beforehand. Whitney Boyer Shumway, president of the board of directors for the Missouri chapter of the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, is also a suicide attempt survivor. She says to watch for cues like out-of-character behavior or significant changes in a person's mood. They may even say phrases like: "It's so pointless," "I wish I could go to bed and not wake up anymore" or "I hate my life."

One way to start a conversation is by noting specific changes in the person's behavior or mood, saying you are concerned and that you want to help. It's critical to be nonjudgmental and to ask directly if the person has had thoughts of hurting themselves, Shumway said.

If the answer is yes, ask if they have a plan.

"The goal is to keep them safe for now and connect them with resources to keep them safe (going forward)," she said. "Ultimately, you're only going to be able to provide that immediate assistance, like first aid. Your goal is to get them help."

Keeping a person safe in the short term may involve removing any lethal means to which they have access. If they have access to a gun, for example, consider asking: "Would you be OK with me holding on to that firearm to keep you safe for now?" You can also ask if the gun can be locked in a safe, with the key provided to you temporarily, or if a gun lock can be placed on the firearm itself.

It's also helpful to ask if the person has a friend or family member who can stay the night with them, or a place they can stay with others if they live alone.

As important as what you say is knowing what not to say:

-- Avoid trying to "fix it" if someone is sharing feelings of suicidal ideation.

-- Avoid debating the value of life or minimizing the person's feelings or problems.

-- Avoid passing judgment on a person's feelings.

"Individuals (who are suicidal) are experiencing intense tunnel vision," Shumway said. "Their logical mind is not processing or thinking of another way out of the pain they are enduring."

Tom (last name withheld), 45, has struggled with post-traumatic stress disorder and suicidal thoughts since he was a teenager. He's tried exercise, meditation, medicine and therapy to keep those thoughts at bay. In his darkest moments, he describes feeling like a balloon that might float away. At those times, it's helpful when close friends ask how they can help and tell him that they care.

"It shows you that there's a person in your life who is trying to ground you to the here and now instead of letting you float away," he said.

Conversations that shift him away from the temptation to die are also helpful.

Being empathetic, supportive and present -- without freaking out -- makes a difference, he said.

Jason shared similar sentiments and encouraged others to talk to their children, especially teens and young adults, about their emotions.

"The more open you are about feelings and emotions -- both yours and theirs -- the more comfortable they will be," he wrote.

If you or someone you know is in crisis, please call 988 to be connected to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline or 911 if a person is in immediate danger.

The College Board kicked off Black History Month by stripping Black history of ideas that might upset its conservative white customers.

For those who have read and studied American history, this move is appalling but unsurprising.

The College Board, which had introduced a new Advanced Placement course in African American Studies, cut seminal Black scholars and writers from the curriculum, including Kimberle W. Crenshaw, Roderick Ferguson, Ta-Nehisi Coates and bell hooks. The move came after Florida’s Gov. Ron DeSantis vowed to ban the course, although College Board officials say they had planned to expunge these “dense” secondary sources before the governor’s threat. The College Board also eliminated contemporary topics central to the debates about the Black experience in America, such as the Black Lives Matter movement and mass incarceration.

It would be interesting to see how many of the people up in arms about Crenshaw and Coates and critical race theory have ever read any of the aforementioned writers or texts.

When I taught a college writing course a couple of years ago, a legal essay by Crenshaw, a law professor at Columbia University, was part of the curriculum. In a paper published in 1989, Crenshaw describes how race, class and gender overlap with how individuals experience the world. One of the legal examples she cites is DeGraffenreid v. General Motors, a 1976 case in which five Black women sued General Motors over its seniority policy. The company did not hire Black women before 1964. So, when the company laid off workers using a seniority-based policy in the early 1970s, all the Black women hired after 1964 were laid off. Crenshaw points out that a policy like that didn’t fall under just gender or just race discrimination -- white women and Black men fared differently under this same policy. At the time, Crenshaw highlighted a shortcoming in discrimination law.

Thirty years later, this argument seems obvious and uncontroversial. But discussing the legal reasoning and arguments gave my students a way to engage with contemporary issues and debates. And yes, legal writing is often “dense” and challenging. Grappling with difficult texts is part of learning how to think critically and engage in these debates.

So perhaps it’s not the content itself, but the connections that students might make that are threatening to certain political interests. For example, the same governor who wanted to ban this course held a press conference before the midterms last fall praising police for arresting 20 Floridians, some at gunpoint, for allegedly casting a ballot when they were ineligible to vote. Fourteen of those arrested were Black. When four white residents of the Republican-leaning retirement community The Villages were later arrested for voting twice, there were not heavily armed police dragging them out of bed in their underwear.

In fact, two residents of The Villages who pleaded guilty were only required to take a 24-hour civics class in order to avoid having any criminal record. A New York Times review of 400 voting fraud charges filed nationally found that “those who are poor and Black are more likely to be sent to jail than comfortable retirees facing similar charges.”

From that perspective, it makes sense that the Florida governor would want Crenshaw’s ideas banned in the state’s schools and colleges.

A reader who wrote to me in defense of DeSantis suggested that the course segments in question were “too one-sided and so controversial as to not represent Black history.” The ideas of scholars are never presented in a vacuum as incontrovertible truth. They are an invitation for evaluation and debate. These writers, in particular, provide a way to think about how Black history influences the present-day Black experience in America.

The writer’s next sentence revealed his own agenda. The original course “included topics that were teaching how to think about race, not factual Black history,” he said.

It’s intellectually dishonest to teach Black history without thinking about race in this country. It’s a difficult topic that makes us confront the complex reasons that so many racial disparities persist long after slavery, Jim Crow and segregation.

Crenshaw and Coates are not the boogeymen these cultural warriors would like you to believe. Instead of letting politicians tell you what you are allowed to read or think, find out for yourself what they are so scared of.

Pick up a book by a banned Black writer and read.