Dawn Longie

I write this as a veteran’s spouse, a mother, and a member of this community. My family has faced the struggles that too many veteran families know — fighting for care, for dignity, for truth. That’s why I joined an open platform I thought would help us. Instead, I found something far darker.

The same hateful division that has rocked our nation recently — the kind of rhetoric that has fed political violence — is here in Montana. I never wanted to believe it, but I have seen firsthand how it lives, quietly and loudly, inside the platforms and corners of our community.

The platform I’m talking about is the Hot 101.9 app, home of The Big J Show, hosted by Jason Harris (“Big J”) and Justin Hutchinson (“McLovin”) out of Billings. I was drawn to it because it seemed like an open space where anyone could type in their perspective, anonymously or under their real name. I loved the idea of that. And for the most part, I used my full name because I wanted to stand behind what I said. I thought it was a place for honest dialogue. I thought it could work.

When I started engaging on the app, my husband — a veteran — and I were struggling. The VA was not treating him or our family well. I reached out to let the hosts and listeners know veterans in their community were suffering and needed attention. Their response was to tell me to go to the VA. When I explained the VA itself was the problem, they told me to go talk to Senator Jon Tester. So I did. I looked into Tester’s record and found that his priorities and policies were not serving veterans like my husband.

So I came back to the app and shared what I found. For a while, my presence created some productive conversations. But things escalated. Yes, there was discourse — but there was also an onslaught of hate. Every day I would enter the app to speak truthfully and respectfully about veterans. I had a knack for tying any topic back to veteran issues or VA failures. That consistency earned me a nickname from listeners: “crazy vet lady.” Not affectionately. That didn’t bother me much — but what did cross the line were the damaging personal attacks and slurs I had to dodge just to stay in the conversation.

And then, Jason Harris crossed a line no host should ever cross. On air, for nearly 40 minutes, he berated me. He called me a “b$#@! wrapped in an American flag.” He said I had a “wonky v&^%$@.” He told the audience I’d had an abortion (I have not). He mocked my marriage and called me a b$#@! more times than I could count. And then he said this:

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something bad to happen to someone so much as I want something bad to happen to Dawn. Normally, I wouldn’t want something bad to happen, but I’m like, no, I’d like it. I’d kind of like to see something bad happen to Dawn personally.”

That was not banter. That was a public wish for harm, directed at me by name, broadcast to this community.

Afterward, Harris and I had offline conversations. He gave me a weak apology, which I accepted — not because it was enough, but because the issues were too important. Veterans need advocacy. The show needed to be educated on how to speak about veterans and what they truly need. And most importantly, I wasn’t going to let them portray Jon Tester as a hero for veterans when his record showed otherwise.

And in time, those discussions mattered. By pushing back and staying engaged, I helped shine a light on Tester’s record and his real priorities when it comes to veterans. I do believe these conversations dented Tester’s reputation with veterans and helped Tim Sheehy get elected — which is what veterans in Montana needed. I’m not naïve enough to think my efforts were the only reason, but I know they made a difference.

But here’s the truth: despite that brief burying of hatchets, the hosts continued to allow hate toward me. They allowed rude comments about my motives, my integrity, and my intentions. At one point, someone on the app called me “HAMAS” just for sharing an opinion about men in women’s locker rooms. The hate didn’t stop there.

About two weeks before Charlie Kirk was assassinated, users on the app called me a “Nazi” because I said American troops deserve support and should not be painted as villains. The screenshots speak for themselves: I was arguing that comparing current servicemen and women to Nazis was damaging and wrong — and for saying that, I was branded a Nazi sympathizer. Neither Harris nor Hutchinson disavowed the language or removed the comments. That silence gave permission for the hate to continue.

So yes: their platform, under their leadership and guidance, has set the tone for hate that fuels division — the same kind of hate that culminated in the assassination of Charlie Kirk.

I confronted them about this directly, giving Harris and Hutchinson the opportunity to take accountability. They refused. Instead they deflected — at times saying, “I can’t take responsibility,” and at times denying they’d seen hateful content and saying things like, “If it’s there, stop it; I don’t see it.” But they seem to have forgotten how they themselves have allowed people to treat me — so it’s time to remind them. And let me be clear: I have these conversations recorded.

People have asked me if I ever felt unsafe. The answer is yes — then and now. I have been looking over my shoulder since everything that happened on that app. For years, I tried to convince myself it wasn’t that big of a deal. But after seeing what happened to Charlie Kirk, I realized the hate I experienced is part of the same pattern — a culture of hate that creates real danger.

So why did I stay? Because this was never about me. If it had been, I would have stopped. This was about correcting damaging narratives and advocating for veterans and their families. Because that’s what this comes down to: I reached out to them as the spouse of a veteran in their community and a listener. They were the ones who made it political. And when they didn’t like what I had to say, they attacked me for it. This was politically driven hate, aimed at a veteran spouse over a nonpartisan issue — the kind of hate and division that is plaguing our whole country.

That’s my broader goal: to change the narrative around veterans and veteran care. This was never just about a “beef” with radio DJs. This became a case study in how veterans and their families are treated when they speak up in their own communities. Veterans are not burdens — they are assets to our country. Their experiences are vital to building a stronger nation. They deserve respect, and our communities deserve to be educated on the real issues they face when they return home.

And so I’ll close with this. I’d like Harris and Hutchinson to remember something: as far as I’ve come, and as much as I’ve accomplished in my fight for veterans, I first reached out to them. I came to their platform in good faith, hoping for dialogue. They dismissed me, mocked me, and allowed others to smear me. But in the end, the best thing they could have done for me was point me toward Jon Tester. That’s where my real fight began — and for that, I thank them.

Montana — hate is here. Division is here. And unless we demand accountability, leadership, integrity, and civility, it will destroy us from within.

We can, and must, do better.

Sincerely,
Dawn Longie