Boiling/
Point

From his first day as a sales agent at a national cell phone retailer, Harrison Otradovec felt unwelcome. He would sit in the bathroom at work and just cry, and then cry again on the drive home; not wanting to reveal to anyone how much he was hurting.

He noticed things — he wasn’t given a name badge, wasn’t trained through new hire orientation, and felt increasingly ostracized by his leaders. Small things, he noted, but they mattered to him — Harrison started to feel like he wasn’t a valuable member of the team.

“As a gay man, I came to feel that who I am was part of the reason I was treated differently. I felt like I did not matter, like I was dirt,” Harrison said on a sun filled summer afternoon from a park in Appleton. He’d driven down from Suring with his husband, who was undergoing minor surgery while Harrison shared his story. It had been several months since he’d left; yet darkness seemed to prevail, tears staining the edges of every word.

Harrison felt alone.

A Florida native and Oneida tribal member, he grew up flamboyantly understanding what it feels like to be different in the Bless Your Heart South. “I’ve always believed that people should be judged by their work ethic, their character, and how they treat others,” he said proudly. “Instead, I found myself feeling like I was the problem simply because of who I am.”

His supportive husband knew something was troubling him at work. Proudly out; by day two, leadership at every level encouraged and participated in what he knew was clear discrimination. Harrison felt like a shell of himself. He knew it was because he had a husband that he was “trouble.” When he brought his concerns to HR, they called it “unfair treatment” — the Midwest Nice way of saying “You don’t belong.”

After 6 months, isolated, broken, and swept under the rug, Harrison Otradovec was terminated for gross misconduct. Now, his claims are under EEOC investigation for his severe emotional harm and eventual separation from the company. Harrison declined early mediation.

“It’s not the money. This is wrong. I feel like my civil right has been taken, that’s not ok. No money can buy that.”

Harrison Otradovec wants accountability.

Wisconsin was the first state in the nation to ban employment discrimination based on sexual orientation when Assembly Bill 70 was signed by Republican Gov. Lee Sherman Dreyfus on February 25, 1982. In 2026 that promise collides with a federal government that has largely stopped enforcing LGBTQ+ workplace protections, a state law that still excludes gender identity, and survey data showing 47% of LGBTQ+ workers face discrimination in their lifetime.

For someone filing a discrimination complaint in Wisconsin right now, the more reliable path runs through the state Equal Rights Division rather than a federal EEOC that has deprioritized these claims — but both routes end in “no reasonable cause” the majority of the time.

Where We’ve Been

Wisconsin’s 1982 law wasn’t inevitable — it was fought for.

• Rep. Lloyd Barbee introduced the state’s first LGBTQ+ decriminalization bill in 1967; Rep. David Clarenbach carried Assembly Bill 70 to passage fifteen years later.
• Clarenbach’s argument: the question was never whether homosexuality was admirable, but whether discrimination was tolerable.
• It passed with Republican votes providing the margin. Republican Gov. Lee Sherman Dreyfus signed it, saying government has no business in people’s private lives.
• Wisconsin was the first state in the nation to do this. The crowds chanted: “Wis-con-sin, gay rights state.”

Where We Are Now

The law has never been finished.

• Gender identity was never added to the 1982 law — that gap is still open today.
• Bostock v. Clayton County (2020) closed it federally, but only for employers with 15 or more workers, and federal enforcement has been gutted since January 2025.
• Wisconsin’s Equal Rights Division — covering employers of any size — is currently the stronger path for a filer. Both systems still land on “no reasonable cause” most of the time.
• The ERD’s own guidance draws a fine line: unfair treatment isn’t automatically unlawful. That distinction is exactly what Harrison’s HR used against him.

What’s Next

The fight is active, not historical.

• Gov. Evers vetoed five anti-LGBTQ+ bills in March 2026 alone.
• Wisconsin’s conversion-therapy ban for minors is under direct legal attack right now.
• Fair Wisconsin is drafting the gender-identity protection bill that’s been missing for 44 years — a bill Wisconsin should have finished on its own anniversary.

That’s the gap Harrison fell into.

The loudest voices in the room are often celebrated. They’re also the first to get managed out when they start naming patterns inside systems that value the status quo. Harrison fell into this trap by living authentically — something he’s fought for his whole life growing up in Florida as part of the queer Tribal community.

A lot of us are trapped there. We’ve learned to be out loud in public spaces, defending our community with year round Pride. We struggle quietly with self advocacy in private spaces — work, family, relationships all impacted by a history of defending our intersectionality.

Self advocacy burnout is not a character flaw. It is the result of a system that asks you to fight for basic dignity and then grades you on whether the fight affected your performance.

While he seeks accountability for the discrimination he felt during his tenure, Harrison’s case is pending. Although he’s not the same person he was, he’s slowly finding pieces of himself again.

Harrison recently started a remote position as one of ten peer support counselors contracted with the Oneida Tribe by Canada’s Tricycle Data Systems to provide nightly support to Tribal members struggling with LGBTQIA+ & Two Spirit identities, recovering from PTSD, and healing through loneliness, depression, intergenerational trauma, and addiction. The support services are tailored to the Tribe.

He says it helps as part of his healing journey to hear exactly what he went through, knowing he can meet his callers with care.

“Because there are still moments when I struggle with what this experience did to me. My family reminds me every day that I have value and I know I do. I earned my bachelor’s degree and I’m currently pursuing my master’s degree. I’ve worked hard,” Harrison said through proud tears.

It shows.

45 years ago, Wisconsin became the Gay Rights State; the first to establish fair workplace and housing guidelines for equality. Today, Harrison Otradovec is speaking up for himself —

and everyone else who has struggled with feeling small in someone else’s system.

“That’s something I’m continuing to work on, and I’m proud of the progress I’ve made. There were times when everything felt so dark that I questioned myself in ways I’ve never had before.

No one should ever leave work feeling like they have no value or like they don’t belong. The reason I’m willing to speak about this is not to influence the investigation — I respect the process and I believe it should be allowed to run its course.

I’m sharing my story because I don’t want anyone else to experience what I went through.”

When I asked Harrison what he wished he knew before, he smiled fiercely and proclaimed loudly,

“To anyone who feels like they’re facing discrimination or being treated unfairly, I want you to know this:

Your voice matters. Don’t be afraid to speak up, reach out for support, document your experiences, and don’t lose sight of who you are.

I know it can feel lonely, and I know how hard it is to take the first step, but if you don’t use your voice, who will?

My hope is by sharing my journey, someone else will find the strength to stand up for themselves, and remember that their value is never defined by how someone else treats them.”

Harrison’s words hit close to the heart for this author. I’ve cried in my car many times when I felt like I didn’t belong, coached friends through tireless job hunts of endless rejection while i was dealing with my own, watched relationships around me crumble, not excluding my own family and marriage, because of what I learned from watching Nice before I understood Kind.

I lived quietly inside them until last year when the silence got too loud — silence I created by turning off parts of myself for other people’s comfort. Until therapy taught me I’m not responsible for that.

Until I grew up.

I learned to see the way these systems break down for being “too much” every single day when we’re just trying to be.

As I closed our conversation, I applauded Harrison for his courage. For his willingness to speak up. For being himself. Both in our early 40s, I shared a remark a much younger friend shared with me earlier that day after being let go from another job that couldn’t hold him: he called me an elder.

As Millenials, we are the new Queer Elders, standing on the cusp of another Silent Generation. We have to get louder for ourselves first so we can protect the space to teach the next generation how it felt to be quiet so they can be proud.

What the Legacy of Queerness means.

“Kindness. Kindness is everything. Somebody is probably not having a good time. Have compassion or work toward it. Therapy when you need it.”

I’ve never been prouder of someone who’s grown through so much when I asked Harrison what he wants his legacy to be.

Wisconsin is known for being Midwest Nice. We learned to smile tight through our lisps, hold our wrists a little straighter, and perform “gay” in a way that fit the mold. We’re more out than ever, but a lot of us still struggle to be authentic in spaces that don’t want to understand our queerness.

It’s time to take back our state with disruptive stories of Fierce Kindness after generations of pleasant Midwest Nice.

“This makes me feel valid, like my voice is heard and this is the first time in six months. I’m proud to be Oneida. I’m proud to be LGBTQ. You can’t mess with the rainbow.”

You really can’t.

Blessings to you and your husband, Harrison; and thank you.

This is your story. I just get to tell it.

Who’s next?