In red states, many academic researchers feel fear–and resolve

From ScienceMag:

For years, little rainbow stickers adorned the doors of offices and laboratories at the University of Alabama (UA). The emblems indicated the space was a Safe Zone, run by a professor who had been trained that year to support students experiencing discrimination, harassment, or other challenges because of their gender identity or sexual orientation.

One UA biologist had displayed the emblem proudly since their lab colleague first took the training in 2009, refreshing their knowledge annually. But this fall, the biologist says, their door and others are notably more barren. After a 2024 Alabama state law banned diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) programs at public entities including universities, UA stopped offering Safe Zone training—meaning no new stickers, and the removal of the old ones.

“That kind of [looks like] a minor thing, but I don’t actually view it as one,” says the biologist, who requested anonymity because of worries about politicization. They see it as a larger message about whom schools are meant to serve. “Normally, I wouldn’t have thought twice about [helping] students in need.” But now, the “prevailing mindset is: Don’t cause a problem.”

As academic researchers around the country reel from President Donald Trump’s administration’s attacks on universities, researchers in Republican-led states like Alabama are being hit with a one-two punch, navigating both federal pressures and state actions. A number of these actions extend beyond academics into the culture and inclusivity of schools, affecting many researchers who feel out of step with local politics. Scientists across these red states tell Science they are fearful, disheartened, and less able to focus on their research. All have had to balance personal and professional risks with staying true to their values and identities. Some are fighting back in small ways; others are looking to leave.

“I didn’t think it would get this scary this fast,” says a gender-minority postdoctoral researcher at Ohio State University (OSU) who requested anonymity because of uncertainty about political speech protections at the university. In March, Ohio passed a new law that applies to public universities and community colleges and bans faculty strikes and DEI, including in the form of women’s centers and diversity scholarships. It also restricts classroom discussions of topics such as abortion, electoral politics, and climate policies. Fear for their job has led the postdoc to withdraw from efforts to make science more accessible to gender minorities. “Being afraid now for my ability to make rent, my ability to stay employed, my ability to do work as my full self has been really eating at me.”

Researchers have similar fears in Florida. A 2023 state bill banned DEI, and the Association for Women in Science disbanded its southeast chapter earlier this year, says a neuroscience postdoctoral researcher at the University of Florida (UF) who requested anonymity to avoid employment consequences for herself and others. “There’s a lot of uncertainty about what can be said, what can’t be said, and what retribution could be.”

Being a scientist in Florida “feels a little bit like being a political football,” says Sarah, a UF postdoctoral ecologist who asked that her last name be withheld for fear of retribution. Trump’s second term has emboldened the state government, which was already targeting higher education, she says, including by removing general education courses and prohibiting collaborations with “countries of concern.” “There’s been real concerns about intellectual freedom.”

University administrations are caught in the middle. “Not only is the university administration not standing up [to the Florida state government], but it’s complicit by design,” Sarah says. Others acknowledge the pressures on university leaders. “I’d like to think that the administration is doing the best they can,” the UA biologist says. “We’re, as faculty, just cognizant of the sensitive nature of their positions … their hands are tied as well.” And University of Utah neurophysiologist Karen Wilcox, who has worked there for more than 25 years, says her administration has been “very communicative” about how the university is coping with the record cuts in federal research programs.

Still, Wilcox says, “[To] my worldview, there’s been a lot of unsettling things that have been happening.” In 2024, the Utah State Legislature passed a bill banning DEI offices and trainings, followed by a bill this year prohibiting the display of pride and Juneteenth flags on government property, including public colleges and universities. She worries these decisions could offer “a little bit of a preview of what changes might be coming down the pike” nationally.

Perhaps counterintuitively, working in a red state may help insulate scientists from some of those changes. The states’ conservative policies keep them “out of the glaring eye of the [Trump] administration,” says Mike Boylan-Kolchin, an astrophysicist at the University of Texas at Austin.

Kevin Liévano-Romero, a parasitology Ph.D. student at the University of Nebraska–Lincoln originally from Colombia, says that effect has eased some of his anxiety about immigration enforcement. Although simply following the national news “definitely adds a layer of tension or stress to my daily work,” he says, “I think we feel protected in Nebraska” compared with places with large Immigration and Customs Enforcement presences. However, he and other international students still avoid campus cultural events such as festivals and performances for fear of immigration enforcement, even though they have valid academic visas.

Nearly every person interviewed for this story knew someone who had moved to escape the new state policies. Wilcox plans to retire in Oregon, a blue state, partly because her transgender daughter-in-law does not feel safe visiting her in Utah. “If I were younger, and were trying to figure out the next 15 years in my career, certainly I would be looking elsewhere,” she says. As the postdoctoral neuroscientist in Florida looks for faculty positions, she is avoiding “states that have extreme limitations on reproductive rights access,” as well as places where her husband, a Black man, might not feel safe.

Some faculty have left because they require larger labs and more state funding than theirs can offer, says Bharat Ratra, a cosmologist at Kansas State University. But a Kansas house bill raised earlier this year also threatened the job security of tenured faculty. Meanwhile, Boylan-Kolchin says applicant pools for faculty and graduate student positions are skewing more male and less international. “I think that restrictive abortion policies and access to health care have played a big role,” he says. He also notes that a state bill passed this summer has eroded the power of university faculty by abolishing existing faculty senates. These bodies, which typically advise university administration on academic policies, must now allow the university president to appoint all of their officers and up to half of their members. “We’re seeing more consolidation of power,” he says.

Amid their worries, researchers have also found ways to uphold their values. Wilcox, in response to the flag-banning law, wears a lanyard decorated with rainbows. Ratra volunteers for the Nature Conservancy and donates money to politicians he supports. Sarah has joined a local political activism group. And Liévano-Romero volunteers as a Spanish translator at a health clinic, where staff provide students with advice on what to say if approached by immigration officials.

For the OSU researcher, simply continuing to note their preferred pronouns in their email signature and when meeting new people is an act of resistance, as is decorating their office with art featuring rainbows. They hope these steps “can express to folks who need it that I haven’t abandoned them—and express to me that I haven’t abandoned myself.”

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