How To Support Your Transitioning Partners and Friends

feature image photo by Patricio Nahuelhual via Getty Images

First of all, thanks for reading this. I’m guessing you’re here because you care, and that’s a lot of the work already done.

Okay, so someone close to you has begun a gender transition. Well, transitioning seems like a monumental event, but the end goal is often just comfortable normalcy. As a supportive part of that journey, you’ll witness the surprise and mundanity in transition. So here’s one trans woman’s take on making our lives a bit better while we give our birth gender the finger.

Some basics about gender transition

So, what is a transition? I (and my academic work) characterize being transgender as having a sense of gender that is different from the one assigned at birth. That definition is purposefully broad. It leaves space for people who know they’re trans but can’t live as they want to (ability). It leaves space for recognising there is no wrong way to be your gender (flexibility). Lastly, it leaves space for people to remake themselves after birth (agency).

That paradigm is also valuable to non-binary gender transition. It doesn’t enforce conventional masculinity or femininity as a transition goal. People can become more than one gender, or none. I once met someone who described themselves as gender non-compliant, and I try to honor their energy every day I live.

It can be helpful to see a transition as smaller, interlocked transitions. Social transition involves changing one’s gender as it relates to daily social interactions: names, titles, presentation, and gendered behavior. Medical transition covers the part we can’t resolve through force of will. Hormone replacement and surgery come to mind, but medical transition can also include speech therapy, psychotherapy, and a host of allied healthcare professionals. There’s also the bureaucratic transition where legal documentation is settled. I’m still procrastinating on that one.

Your part is easier than it sounds

That may sound like a terrifying amount of stuff to deal with. But rest assured, if it’s a bit overwhelming for you, it’s probably intense to the one doing it. As someone supporting the process, you won’t be exposed to every step. Transition is an act of personal agency–a trans person has to start and carry every decision themselves.

There are a few things you can help with, though.

1. Uphold their autonomy

The best thing you can do for the trans person in your life is to respect their autonomy. Gender transition is an intensely personal effort, and nobody’s choices receive universal approval. But what matters is that the choice was theirs. I don’t approve of the transition choices made by every trans person I’ve ever known, but I recognize that it came from their deeply thoughtful place.

If a person makes their choice in a reasonable frame of mind and is aware of the possible outcomes, then it’s theirs to bear. This applies to their medical decisions (surgery or not? Hormones: no, maybe, yes, or big yes?). This applies to the name they did or didn’t choose. It applies to their aesthetic choices.

I’m just going to quote from a clinician’s care manual, because it’s my article and I want to. One of my favorite manuals of transition care simply says: “Autonomy in the context of transgender healthcare involves transgender people being able to make informed choices for themselves regarding gender affirming care and being free from experiencing harmful pathologisation and other barriers to accessing this care.”

The thing that eased my transition most was knowing my loved ones trusted me. It’s amazing how much of a difference it makes to be trusted.

2. Be prepared to answer questions and chat

I often compare gender transition to a second adolescence. Adolescence is more than biological puberty. It’s also learning one’s gender role and how it relates to the world. Same for transitioning out of one gender into another — it takes a lot of learning to learn an entire gender.

My girlfriend was my main source of info during transition. She fielded the countless How To Girl questions I had. We discussed how to style myself, react to sexual violence, and do basic skincare. Then, because skincare is an obsession of hers, she told me way more than the basics. I cherish her time and knowledge, even though I’ve never wanted anything to do with topical Vitamin C.

The trans person in your life will be filled with questions. They might approach you because you have relevant expertise. Maybe your expertise is that you are their gender. You might even be the only option.

An earnest offer to be there and answer questions about ‘being’ a gender goes a long way. It assures us you’re present on our team. It lets us know that we can confide in you.

3. Make space for yourself and know your limits

If you’re close enough for someone’s transition to be relevant to you, then it’ll impact your life. You’ll have to adjust the mental image of who they are and what terms you use to refer to them. If your lives are tied, you’ll see deeply sensitive parts of the process. It’s imperative to work through your feelings and find support for yourself when you feel overwhelmed.

That’s not to suggest that being near someone in transition is inherently traumatic or difficult. A well-supported transition can become a source of joy despite the challenges. But transition fundamentally changes a person, and you’ll have to process a lot of related feelings.

There are also times when you don’t have to be the only resource. These include:

• When being transgender interacts with severe mental distress like anxiety, depression, suicidality, eating disorders, and problematic substance use.
• Situations where they suffer verbal, physical, or sexual violence.
• When their support needs exceed your expertise.
• When support needs outstrip your capacity to provide it.

If situations like those arise, you should handle them like any other interpersonal challenge: with the help of relevant and reliable support. This could mean joining support communities or consulting trans rights organizations for info. You may need to start therapy to discuss your experiences in confidence. Maybe you need to re-assert your boundaries to ensure your well-being.

Many of us tumble into a mentality of wanting to be the best ally ever, lest we be seen as discriminatory or unsupportive. It happens to me. It happens to every queer person I’ve discussed this with. The reality is that we all have a right to take reasonable steps to uphold our well-being. We’re no use to each other if we’re breaking down.

Easier…and harder than it sounds

Like being transgender, supporting a trans person is both simpler and more challenging than it seems. Nobody is a perfect ally, and perfection is not a reasonable standard anyway. What is reasonable is asking people to respect our agency, speak with us, and look after each other.

As I have done here.

Now go forth, and try your best.

Top 10 Things I’m Looking Forward to After Top Surgery

feature image photo by Johner Images via Getty Images

I’m a few days out from Top Surgery after four years of waiting, five dead-end consultations, one AWOL surgeon, and one almost-breast reduction. It’s been a ride, and it’s still hard for me to accept this is happening for me. I have grown so accustomed to disappointment during this process that every time I get a call from an unknown number, I assume it’s someone telling me that my surgeon has left the practice or that my date has been moved or that my insurance has not approved me for the procedure.

The last phone call I received was a first, though, which was to schedule my pre-op appointment. That’s the furthest I’ve gotten in this process, and that milestone is doing a lot of work to keep me optimistic in the days leading up to my surgery date. I’m so eager to have all my ducks in a row that I keep calling my surgeon to ask, “Can I pay you now?” as if folks don’t have their surgeries canceled and lose their deposits all of the time. I’d pay double if it meant this one sticks.

Assuming all goes well in these next two weeks and my surgeon doesn’t go on a spontaneous vacation, I don’t lose my job and therefore my health insurance, I don’t catch COVID during the second highest surge in the pandemic, and another world disaster doesn’t happen…I’m getting Top Surgery.

There’s a lot that I’m looking forward to, but there are 10 things that I really think will be the tits post-op.

1. Going for a run

I grew up an athlete and thoroughly enjoy being active. But ever since I’ve presented masc, I can’t bring myself to work out much. This is especially true for running, which you’re not supposed to do in a binder. Any time I go for a run in a sports bra, I run the risk of giving myself a black eye — not to mention the pain of slamming breast tissue even in the highest impact bra money can buy.

2. Wearing dress shirts without having to adjust my binder every 20 minutes

I love dressing up. It’s one of my favorite things about being transmasc. I love wearing suits and tuxedos, even when the occasion doesn’t call for it. The tricky thing about that is once those bad boys are on, they’re not very easy to mess with. Any time I need to adjust my tissue in my binder, which is roughly every twenty minutes, I have to unbutton three to four buttons on my dress shirt and try to adjust myself without wrinkling or drawing attention to myself.

3. Wrapping a towel around my waist after a shower

OK, this one is mostly to just feel cool and hot. It’s objectively cool that dudes can just throw a towel around their waist, yeah?

4. Waking up in the morning and putting on a t-shirt (and that’s it)

For four years, I have woken up each morning and strapped my chest down in a binder. I’ve carefully picked out shirts that don’t show the shoulder straps or the racer back. I’ve bought tank tops a size too small to keep everything flat and tight underneath. I’ve bought shirts that are too big for me in an attempt to, but barely ever successfully, hide my chest. The thing I can’t wait for the most is just being able to throw on a t-shirt in the morning and carry on about my day.

5. Feeling good in every outfit

As a pre-op trans guy, there are about three to five outfits I feel like a rockstar in. All of the rest make me feel like some kind of cartoon character, some of which are not even human! I know I won’t wake up from surgery and magically have good fashion sense, but I’ll at least be one step closer to figuring it out.

6. Reduced back pain

When I was in the early stages of pursuing Top Surgery, I had a consultation for a breast reduction which required chiropractic scans. In those scans, you can see where my spine starts to curve and it is precisely where my knockers are. It’s not all their fault, I do have scoliosis, but it is a medical fact that the size of my chest is fucking up my back.

7. Improved posture

This is a piggyback from #6, but I imagine with the absence of a few pounds on my chest, I’ll have an easier time working on my posture. Do you remember when, a few years ago, on TikTok, men were holding their partners’ pregnant bellies from behind, giving the pregnant one immediate relief? I had my partner do that with my boobs, and I felt like I was in an entirely new body.

8. Being slutty in tank tops and vests

Oh, the sweet envy I get from seeing my transmasc friends in homemade tank tops, crop tops, vests with arm holes far too big, and wife pleasers. Sure, I will have to work on my arm definition but that’s work I’m willing to put in for the ultimate payoff. Could I look like Jacob Elordi? Fuck no. But I could get close to Barry Keoghan.

9. Chest tattoos

This one isn’t a definite move, but it is an exciting possibility. A chest tattoo could be really fun…I’m thinking maybe a clock surrounded by roses?

10. Sex without boobs

Let me clarify…I would love for boobs to be present, just not my own. It’s something I’m kind of just meh about right now — I don’t feel the need to bind or conceal during sex, but if I catch a glimpse of them at the wrong time I start to go to The Weird Gender Place. I might miss nipple sensation for a bit, but boy would it be dope to not have the biggest rack in the bedroom anymore.

You Need Help: As a Transmasc, Am I Welcome in Lesbian Spaces?

feature image photo by Kent Andreasen for For Them

Q:

So I started testosterone as part of gender affirming treatment back in January of this year. Over this time I’ve started to realise that I might identify as a man rather than as non binary and the physical changes from the T has meant that most people now read me as male and use he/him pronouns for me.

The issue is that this should be a really positive experience, and in a lot of ways it is, but I’m also feeling incredibly sad because it feels like I’m giving up a big part of my identity. It took me a long while to come out as a teenager and ever since then I’ve been really proud to identify as gay. It’s a label that’s informed the way I move through life and being part of the queer community is important to me. Now I’m being read as a straight man with a girlfriend, it just feels really incongruent with who I am and my life experiences have been up to this point.

For example, I’ve definitely noticed the way people respond to me is different. Male privilege means that people interrupt me less/tend to be more helpful generally but conversely, I can see that women/non binary/queer people are more guarded around me – which I 100% understand because as I would be as well, but being on the other side of it feels really strange.

So even though I feel much more at ease with myself, I still feel like I’m going through a bit of an identity crisis. My girlfriend joked that she’s now the only gay one in the relationship (she’s bisexual) and that I’ll have to make peace with being a straight man – which now I’ve thought about it is true. I’m only attracted to women so it feels wrong to co-opt a word that doesn’t really apply to me anymore but I’m also genuinely a bit heartbroken to give it up. Equally, I don’t really know what spaces I’d be welcomed in anymore. For example when I was thinking about who to reach out to for advice, I immediately went to autostraddle as I’ve loved and donated to this site for years. But even as I’m writing this, I’m realising that I should maybe no longer be included in this community.

So I guess my questions are, is it still ok for me to use the word gay to describe myself even as a transmasc who’s interested only in women? And do I have to just make my peace with leaving lesbian spaces even though I’ve spent the majority of my adult life as part of that community? And is it ok to grieve that part of my life despite the fact that I’m now benefiting from male privilege? Is it ok to even submit this question to your website?

I don’t know. I’m just feeling very mixed up about everything — do you have any advice?

A:

Hey friend! First things first, congratulations on starting testosterone. I know there’s a lot of thought and care that goes into making a decision like that, and it’s really cool to take that step towards feeling like your most authentic self. Congrats on one year. I’m in a very similar situation as you. I came out as non-binary in 2020, and it took me a long time to accept the “trans” label, mostly because I didn’t think I was deserving of it. Over the past three years, I’ve adopted the label “transmasc” and am slowly beginning to lean more binary as I prepare for top surgery and am considering starting testosterone, and I use they/he pronouns. I thought it might be helpful to know about my identity before I jump into advice.

You’re completely valid for feeling a loss of an identity that felt correct to you for so long. I still, to this day, cling onto my dyke identity despite also only dating women and presenting very masculine. You see, for me and you, dating women wasn’t the only thing that made us lesbians or gay. It’s an entire culture with a rich history of tradition, identity, protest, community, and so much more. Who we have sex with is just one piece of that puzzle, and maybe for you, it’s a small piece. It’s natural for us to want to hold onto that, and I don’t think anything we do with hormone replacement therapy or pronouns needs to take that away from us.

Where I do think we should be conscientious is why and how we experience privilege as masc-presenting folks in the world, and especially in the queer world. You’re already recognizing the ways in which you’re experiencing life as a passing trans guy, which is miles ahead of what most cis men are doing. It’s a tricky thing, because passing can be so affirming (while also recognizing it’s not a competition, it’s not the end-all-be-all, etc.) but can also mean we walk through life a little differently now. Perhaps there are ways you can signal your safety to folks without outing yourself or putting your mental or physical safety at risk. Maybe it’s a pin or a flag or just the way you handle the space you take up in lesbian spaces. You can even ask your lesbian friends about ways in which you can take up less space in those situations, and they may have helpful suggestions for you.

Because yes, sure, technically as a trans dude, a lesbian bar or event may not be the most accurate space for you. But…there are no trans guy bars. There are hardly any transmasc-specific spaces, and those become less and less abundant the further away you get from major cities. So we pivot, and we choose a space that is most comfortable or known to us, and that happens to be lesbian spaces. In my opinion, so long as you’re not hogging the pool table, mansplaining, or picking fights, you’re more than valid in being there. I live in New York City, where lesbian spaces are fading all around us, and me and my transmasc homies are always hanging at dyke bars. We patronize the business, we tip our bartenders well, we don’t get in the way, and we sing our hearts out to MUNA when it comes on.

On the other hand, there is something to be said about this limbo in community that you’re feeling. Why not lean a little bit the other way just to try it out? So, rather than bask in the comfort of the lesbian spaces you know and love, why not take a bit of a risk and try to make community with other trans guys? Again, there may not be physical spaces for us the way that there are for cis gay men and for lesbians, but there are online communities and other opportunities to engage with folks like me and you. I’ve made a ton of transmasc friends through social media, recreational sports teams, and hobbies like comedy! I know that making friends as an adult is already hard, but it can really make a difference to have folks in your corner who can relate to your day-to-day life.

Recently, and with the expansion of queer discourse online, there’s been a lot of conversations around the definition of lesbian, and more specifically, who is allowed to be one. Some transphobic folks, and more specifically, TERFs, believe you must be a cis woman, others argue it’s for any non-male to claim, and a lot of the younger generation couldn’t give a shit who uses a label as long as they do so with respect. At the end of the day, labels are up to the individual. And yes, they change! I went from being a cis-het woman to a bisexual woman to a lesbian woman to a nonbinary lesbian to a transmasc lesbian. I think the most important thing about that evolution is that we try our best to live in authenticity, contribute to our communities, protect our siblings, and create a better world for new generations of queer folks to come.

While I still use the terms lesbian and dyke to describe myself, I have also really enjoyed using queer as a descriptor. It’s such a great way to make an umbrella statement: I am not cis-het. And maybe it describes who I have sex with, maybe it’s about my gender, but mostly it’s about living a life that is outside of pretty much every binary. Have you experimented much with using this descriptor/label? How would you feel about spending a few days or weeks using it as a label to yourself and to trusted loved ones and see how it feels? It might help you still feel the familiarity and comfort of identifying as gay while also more accurately and really, vaguely, describing your identity.

I truly admire how thoughtful you are as you navigate this new part of your life, this new way you’re being perceived by the outside world. As trans folks, we are constantly juggling multiple avenues of oppression, countless opportunities to feel dehumanized throughout the day, and, as you said, identity crises. The fact that you are taking others’ feelings of safety and comfort into account as you go on this journey is so beautiful and so representative of what being a part of this community is. I think all of your questions and concerns are valid, and you shouldn’t feel bad for having doubts or apprehensions about any of this.

However, I think you should give yourself some grace. I think you should take as much time as you need and even if it’s little by little, chip away at the root of some of your questions. Internalized transphobia could be at the root of not wanting to give up the gay label. Wanting to remain in lesbian spaces might be a self-preservation technique, because maybe you’re not ready to hit Buffalo Wild Wings for the Bills game with the boys just yet. You are quite literally going through, and please forgive the pun, a transition. These things take time. Don’t let the male privilege get to your head, and continue to have open, honest conversations with the queer folks in your life, even if you conduct little check-ins like “Hey, I recognize I’m the only guy here tonight, is that cool with y’all?”

As for your concerns with your belonging within the Autostraddle community, you are welcome here. You are celebrated here. Your being here is crucial in expanding the queer community as a whole, rather than one specific label. I’m going to link some pieces we have put out recently that are written by and for transmasculine folks, but I also want you to know that we don’t only have to consume content that is by us and for us (but it’s pretty dope when it is). Autostraddle is historically and famously a lesbian publication, but lesbians date trans folks, sometimes they become trans, sometimes they are trans or they have a trans best friend or trans sibling, and so on and so forth. We can all learn from being in community with one another, and I would go as far as to argue that it makes us all better queers when we can understand experiences outside of our own.

• A Trans Guy’s Guide to the Men’s Bathroom by Gabe Dunn
• Testosterone Can Grow Prostate Tissue and Other Things They Don’t Tell You About T by Max Gross
• A Trans Guy’s Guide to Grindr by Gabe Dunn
• A Transmasc’s Guide to Developing a Healthier Masculine Sexuality by Dev Ramsawakh

You can chime in with your advice in the comments and submit your own questions any time.

A Trans Guy’s Guide to the Men’s Bathroom

A Trans Guy’s Guide to the Men’s Bathroom feature image from Sean Murphy via Getty Images edited with a picture of Gabe.

Welcome back to a Trans Guy’s Guide. Today, we are in the unenviable position of jumping tush first into the world of the men’s bathroom.

It’s obvious to say using the restroom as a trans person is not smooth streaming. There’s the overarching safety issues and the crossover with homophobia. But there was so much else I was unprepared for when I made the switch. I’ve used public bathrooms my entire life. How different could the vibe be?

Very different. Horribly different. The rules of the men’s room are chaotic, toxically masculine, and barely intelligible.

I continued to use the women’s room as long as I possibly could. I don’t pass, per se, but I have reached the point where I have enough of a little mustache to cause concern among the ladies. I could see in the mirror after I pissed that I very obviously did NOT look like the girlies anymore and it was turning heads.

I am now exiled to a gross, new world. I’ve lamented that more than any cruel transphobia and systematic oppression. It’s the men’s bathroom that is going to cause me to de-transition.

It’s that bad, y’all. Brace your nostrils and let’s enter together. In a not-gay way.

1) The men’s room is not clean. Ever.

Everything smells bad. The ground is sticky. The seats have piss on them. There’s poop streaks on the bowls. There is a notable difference between the air and cleanliness of the women’s and men’s bathrooms. It is everything people joke about and more. When I walk out of a men’s restroom, even at a very nice restaurant or a high-end clothing store, the bottoms of my shoes peel off the floor with every step. The men’s room at Gucci? Looks like the women’s room at a 4H campsite. A girl’s worst is a boy’s best.

Even if a janitor just went in there to clean and you go in first, it will not be clean. That’s the magic of the men’s room.

There’s also nowhere to put anything without it getting dirty. As the MC in “Paris Is Burning” says, “It is a known fact that a lady do carry an evening bag.” But since presumably there’s no ladies in here, there’s nowhere to put a bag. The era of the metrosexual is over. To be a man means you must only use the pockets you have. Carry a wallet or get fucked.

What I’m saying is there are no little hooks! If I go into a men’s room and there actually are ways to hang a bag or jacket, I am so pleasantly surprised. Otherwise, I’ve had to try to hold my crossbody away from my lap while pissing. I’ve put my fanny pack in my teeth or around my neck.

There’s also no place to dispose of a tampon or pad so you can’t place your bag or phone or anything on the metal box for tampons to hold it either. If you take out a used sanitary napkin or Playtex, you gotta carry it out and toss it in the communal garbage or… I don’t know… eat it?

2) Men do not lock the door.

Fellas, is it gay to lock the stall door behind you?

In the women’s room, when you push on a stall door, if someone is inside, the door will be latched. Not so in the men’s room. When they turn their backs to the door and whip their dicks out to piss in the bowl, they do not lock the door behind them. The etiquette is to lightly push on any door that seems cracked and wait for it to bounce off the back of the man inside. The guy grunts his displeasure and you check the next one.

Do not make my mistake of seeing a door slightly ajar and absolutely slamming it open under the WILD assumption that the stall was not being used. I have hit more men in the shoulder blades in the last year and a half than a Swedish massage therapist at a hotel spa. You literally have to creep to the door, push it lightly, feel resistance and move on. This is truly unhinged, but it is the law of the land.

3) No one talks.

You know the old trope that women meet their best friends in the bathroom? You go in, you see a girl either absolutely killing it with her outfit or crying at the mirror and suddenly ten years have gone by and you’re Maid of Honor in Veronica’s wedding? That is not happening in the men’s room.

It is silent. Straight, cis men probably think if they speak to another man in the bathroom, it could be mistaken for cruising. The fear of a public misunderstanding regarding the old “sticking one foot under the stall to see if the other guy is down to clown” move is still going strong. (In the gay men’s room, this is a best case scenario, tbh.)

In this same vein, I encountered a new social dynamic with my straight guy friends. When you go to the bathroom with your girls, you chat the whole time. The presumption of sharing one type of parts means any noises or unearned intimacy was looked over.

When I’m at the movies with my straight guy bestie and we’re talking, I’m used to peeling off to our separate bathrooms and pretending we each don’t have genitals. I’m still getting used to following him in, wondering if we should keep talking or if that’s weird. Wondering if we should be in stalls next to each other or if that’s weird. Wondering if when he uses the urinal in front of me, I’m supposed to feel like he truly sees me as a guy or if that’s weird. It’s all very weird!

4) Don’t worry if you have to wait for the stall.

This is for those of us who have not had bottom surgery that allows us to pee standing up. If there is any talking inside the bathroom, it’s by the professional attendant hired to be inside the men’s room. That person might shuffle you along toward the urinal to keep the flow of traffic going if the bathroom is particularly full.

If you “pass” as a cis guy, some people will be grumbling about you holding up the line. Others will assume that if you don’t use the urinal, you’ll be pooping. (Both of these will come up later.)

If you’re waiting outside a single bathroom or a Port-a-Potty, in a public gender neutral line, a nosy patron might also step in. This person will be a cis (mainly straight) woman who suddenly has an urban planning degree when it comes to bathrooms. She’ll make the revolutionary comment that all the girls in line should go first because they have vaginas. This requires the trans guy to have to out himself in order to avoid the assumptions about his parts. It’s extremely annoying.

You have to get good at standing your ground, having an uncomfortable but not dangerous confrontation, and not worrying about what people assume you’re doing in there. There’s no “gender detective” as Portlandia put it and even the chick forgetting trans men exist has no real power over you. No one cares if you sit. They will just think you are pooping and you have to not be embarrassed about that.

“Next up! Urinal’s open,” someone will say to you. Gesture for the person behind you to go ahead of you. Say, “I’ll wait but thank you.” Be firm! Maybe you’re not pooping! Maybe you’re doing drugs! They’ll never know!

5) Wear a hat.

Gas stations are their own beast and it really depends on what city you’re in when you use a rest stop type bathroom. As someone who drives across the country every so often, if you walk into a place and you don’t feel safe peeing there, you gotta pack it up. There have been multiple occasions where I’ve just peed on the side of the road rather than deal with a potential hate crime. I’ve never pooped on the highway though, so in an emergency you may need to wear a hat. (Not to poop in. Jesus! To hide your face.)

Pull the rim of the baseball cap down and use it to cover your forehead and hairline. If you have some hair in front, put it down as bangs over as much of your face as you can.

As a woman I was taught to remain vigilant, and always take in details in public, in case someone attacks me. (I watch too much true crime.) As a guy though, looking into people’s faces gives them the ability to look at you! The more they look, the more they might clock you. And in such a small space, and in an area you’re not familiar with, this is not good. Better to get in and out with most of your head covered and your eyes on the floor.

6) Use a product that lets you pee standing up.

You’ll have to carry it on your person and wash it at the sink after. Unless you also carry wet wipes and do it in the privacy of the stall, which is probably safer but requires carrying more stuff and if you’ll recall there’s no hooks for bags.

You’re also gonna get pee on your hands, but so do men. And most of them don’t wash their hands. You will wash yours.

The market is flooded, pun intended, with all sorts of pee devices. They range from around 10 to 45 bucks depending on the quality of the plastic or how much it’s designed to look like a cis dick. Some have names with female puns or pastel colors, which are mostly for women going camping. (Because the gender binary forbids women from pissing into anything that isn’t pink.) If that causes you dysphoria, there are stores that cater specifically to transmasculine people who want to stand to pee.

Personally, those devices are affirming, and helpful in an emergency unsafe bathroom sitch, but in general they take too much time for me. I like to rush in and rush out, basically sliding across the seat like I’m stealing home base with my ass. If I do stop, it’s only to put three or four of those sheet barriers on like that’s gonna help at all with the germs. The men’s room smells horrible. I don’t want to stay another minute if I don’t have to.

How come cis people never have to think about all of this just to use the bathroom? Because, my dude: God gives his worst piss options to his handsomest little angels.

In Genderqueer, a Word To Call Home

At St. James Catholic Preschool, where I had my first years of education, Power Rangers was the recess game of choice. I rarely participated, having no knowledge of the show and little patience for the squabbles over plot and character that took more time than the game itself. The roles were limited anyway: with only six Rangers and a couple of villains, a group of kids was always left spectating.

I agreed to play only once. It was at the request of my best friend Nolan, whose patience for two-person make-believe only went so far. He reserved our spots with sometimes-bully Benton, and when recess came, we gathered at the jungle gym with the other Rangers-to-be. Immediately, one of the girls, Stephanie, informed me that there was a problem: only the Yellow Ranger and the Pink Ranger were girls, and they were already taken. Thinking nothing of it, I told her I would happily play the Green Ranger, since that was my favorite color, anyway.

This, I quickly learned, was not an acceptable response.

I have no memory of whether the game started, or if I ended up being a character at all. All I know is Stephanie laughed in my face and told me that wasn’t allowed. Then, later that day, during arts and crafts time, she pulled out an easel and told us all to gather around. I didn’t think much of it at first; Stephanie had always liked attention, and I figured this was another one of her performances. I watched her take out a pink marker and a green marker, coloring in a messy circle on the whiteboard with each one.

“Pink is for girls,” she told us, pointing to the pink circle. “Green,” she pointed now to the green circle, “is for boys.”

This was classic Stephanie, making up arbitrary rules and trying to convince everyone to follow. I stayed at the back of the circle, only half paying attention. Then I heard my name.

“Daven,” Stephanie said, pointing at me now with an accusatory finger, “likes green.”

I don’t know what I said to Stephanie, or how any of my other classmates reacted, but I remember being furious. It wasn’t so much the insinuation that I wasn’t a girl. It was the limits she was placing on me because that’s what she thought I was supposed to be. That’s what I thought I was supposed to be at the time too. I didn’t know there was any other option.

Joke’s on Stephanie, in the end: the following year, she was one of the only girls in my kindergarten class not to get an invitation to my birthday party. (My mom said I didn’t have to invite anyone I didn’t like, and I didn’t pull any punches.) And almost two decades after her attempt to humiliate me for not being enough of a girl, I realized she was right. I wasn’t even one to begin with.

I first encountered the word “genderqueer” during my mid-2020 lockdown-fueled gender reconsideration era. I’d come to accept a few truths about myself:

1. I wasn’t a girl.
2. I wasn’t a boy.
3. I didn’t like the colors of the non-binary flag.

So it started as a superficial thing, more about my aesthetic disagreement with the pairing of purple and yellow than any real beef with the term itself. But as I tried “non-binary” on for size, I kept running into its limits. It felt incomplete — a clinical term, a technical definition, describing what isn’t instead of what ​​is. I had recently seen some Instagram infographic about using “non-men” as a way to describe, well, people who are not men, and the creator expressed their dissatisfaction with the term. What was the value of a word that centered the very thing it was trying to exclude?

I felt similar sentiments toward “non-binary,” and for a while refrained from using it. I didn’t quite vibe with “trans,” either, because I was presenting very feminine and still thought I needed more marked changes in appearance to claim transness. (I would learn later that being trans isn’t about physical appearance or binary notions of “passing” and these days I happily use the word to describe myself.) When I came across “genderqueer” while scrolling through a list of LGBTQ+ identities, it was the first time I really felt seen.

In the grand scheme of queer terminology, “genderqueer” is a pretty recent addition. It surfaced in the mid-to-late 90s, perhaps first used in print by Riki Anne Wilchins in the spring 1995 issue of In Your Face, the newsletter of trans rights organization Transexual Menace. “[The political fight against gender oppression] is not just one more civil rights struggle for one more narrowly defined minority,” Wilchins writes. “It’s about all of us who are genderqueer.” She goes on to list a number of gender identities and expressions that fall under the genderqueer umbrella.

The early uses of “genderqueer” in the late 90s often referred to individuals whose presentation challenged the conventional expectations of their assigned gender, regardless of their actual gender identity. While that remains true, in the early 2000s the term began to function as a gender identifier of its own. 2001 saw the founding of United Genders of the Universe, “the only all-ages genderqueer support group, open to everyone who views gender as having more than two options.” In 2004, evolutionary biologist Joan Roughgarden referred to “genderqueer” as defining the third-gender space that exists in many non-Western cultures. By the time I was drawn to the satisfying pastel green and purple stripes of the genderqueer flag in 2020, I was joining a long lineage of people who eschewed the gender binary.

Some things I love about “genderqueer”:

• It’s a wiggly word. I don’t know how to expand on this except to say that I see it in my head in wavy purple block letters, Word Art style. Much like my gender, it’s weird, spunky, and hard to read.
• It has “queer” in it, a word I love, but, as a lesbian who will defend identifying specifically as a lesbian to the death, I don’t often get to use in describing my sexuality.
• It holds so many possibilities. As an umbrella term, it provides a home for the many specific gender terms from outside the binary, from agender to genderfluid and everything in between. And on its own, it conveys a sense of expansiveness that I’ve felt about my gender since before I had the words to identify it; a joyful space of experimentation and potential.

In early October, author Davey Davis tweeted: “resurgence of genderqueer is so interesting.” The responses are eager and earnest, a chorus of “We’re back!” and “We’ve been here!” It was this tweet that planted the first seeds of this essay, reminding me of my roots and the word I fell in love with when I was still trying to give my gender identity a name.

Despite my initial identification with “genderqueer,” I’ve more or less left the word behind in the past few years. “Non-binary” is just more common; it’s recognizable to people outside of the queer community, and at this point it’s listed on some forms at work and the doctor’s office. I started using it more because it was a step toward acknowledging my gender in a way most cis people in my circles could understand. It was palatable to them.

“Palatable” is a strange word to use here, because, of course, trans identities of all stripes are presently under severe political and personal attack across the U.S. What I mean is that “non-binary” is palatable to a specific, but nonetheless broad, crowd of liberals whose allyship begins and ends with the memorization of politically correct language — and, since I live in Boston, those are people I often find myself around. For them, “non-binary”is well-circulated; it’s used with enough regularity in the New York Times and on Netflix originals to give it credence. I rarely hear genderqueer used by anyone who doesn’t identify as genderqueer themselves.

This is not to say that these liberal circles are uncomfortable with the word “genderqueer.” (I don’t have data to back that up.) But I do suspect there’s a reason why it was “non-binary” that became the third-gender term of choice. It acknowledges the capacity of one’s gender to be something besides woman or man… and that’s about it. “Non-binary” makes no attempts to describe what exists in the space beyond, only slots those of us who claim it into another defined category. I would bet this problem of language is in part responsible for the narrow understanding of how a non-binary or genderqueer person can look and behave.

When your gender is defined by what it isn’t, it’s harder to make space for what it is.

I have no idea where Stephanie is today. She moved away the summer before first grade, and we weren’t exactly primed to keep in touch. Nolan and Benton went on to different elementary schools, and I’ve long forgotten their last names. I think about them all sometimes, and I wonder who they’ve become.

But the person I think about most from that class is one I haven’t mentioned yet. His name was Cole, and he was quiet and blond and not someone I particularly considered a friend. I don’t think he ever got a role in Power Rangers. But as we were leaving class after Stephanie’s little show, he stopped me and whispered, “It’s okay. I really like the color pink.”

It meant a lot to four-year-old me to know I wasn’t alone. I wonder what Cole is up to these days, twenty-something years removed from that preschool playground. I wonder if he’s queer.

I don’t hate the word “non-binary.” I have nothing against people who feel represented by it; I use it to describe myself and likely will continue to do so. But it barely scratches the surface of who I am and the identities I am proud to hold.

My gender is a grand and beautiful thing. It has too much presence to be defined by an absence. It exists beyond explanation, more expansive than anything a scrambling of letters could capture. But as long as I’m operating within the constraints of language, as long as I exist in a society that demands categorization, “genderqueer” is the word that holds me best.

This piece is part of our 2023 Trans Awareness Week coverage. Our Senior Editor, Drew Burnett Gregory, felt like cis people were plenty aware of trans people in 2023 thank you very much, so this week trans writers will be taking us back into recent history — specially post-Stonewall (1970) to pre-Tipping Point (2013).

You Need Help: I Feel Disconnected From Gender As a Concept

Q:

What’s great: scores of my friends are having really great and meaningful moments of gender discovery and euphoria – finding new ways to dress that feel right, finding ways to express themselves more fully, getting gender confirmation procedures, trying out neopronouns, and generally finding gender to be an important and fulfilling area of their life.

The more I get to witness and participate in this, the happier I feel — but also the more disconnected I feel from gender as a concept. I have always hummed along assuming I’m a cis woman, but i have never felt strongly about that, and I’ve felt super uncomfortable volunteering “she/her” pronouns at work and other places — but I also don’t really want to switch to “they/them,” because the few times I’ve tried it out it doesn’t feel any more “right.” I don’t feel like a “woman” — and after talking to cis and trans women and non-binary people about what gender and “woman”ness feel like and mean, I don’t feel NOT like a woman either. I have a body that is pretty much universally gendered as “woman,” and while I hate that, I also hate the thought of making changes to my body. When I wear dresses, I don’t feel particularly at ease or uncomfortable or affirmed or dysphoric; when I lift weights and get swole, I don’t feel like I’m moving towards or away from anything.

For me, gender has always felt like something from the outside – a lens that other people use to interact with me whether I want them to or not. I keep trying to find the joy that I see other people find in gender identity – to find some wavelength that makes me feel more “me.” Identifying as a woman doesn’t feel right, but affirmatively identifying as “not a woman” also doesn’t feel right.

If this is being agender…what do I do now? I don’t know how to affirm my own opting out of something I never opted into. I don’t know how to express a lack of something. And I don’t know what pronouns I should use!!!

A:

I feel very similarly to the way you feel about my own gender — I feel unsure when asked about my pronouns because I genuinely don’t have a preference, and “she/her” feels wrong, but “they/them” and “he/him” don’t necessarily feel better. I don’t feel like “a woman” (but also, referring to myself as a “girl” when I was younger felt much more comfortable than calling myself a “woman,” now), and I usually relate more to how non-binary people talk about their gender than I do to how cis or trans women talk about their gender, but that can depend on who’s talking. Growing up, everyone knew me as a tomboy and I was sometimes read as male, and that was fine. I’ve said for years that my gender identity is “lesbian,” which feels even truer to me than saying my sexual orientation is “lesbian.” Mostly, I don’t want to be perceived at all.

Which is just to say, you’re not the only person out there who feels ambivalent about their own gender or isn’t sure where they fit, or what to do about it, or who can’t connect to these ideas that are so meaningful for others in the queer community.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how we might be able to let ourselves live in uncertainty. To know that just because a suite of labels exist for a certain element of our identity doesn’t mean every human soul will find one that fits them perfectly, or that we’ll find it by a certain age, or even that finding it will bring us euphoria. You say that your friends are “generally finding gender to be an important and fulfilling area of their life,” but it’s okay for you to not feel the same way about your own gender, or about gender as a concept.

That said, not being able to access the community that labels enable can suck, if that is part of what you are looking for. Feeling out of place in the category you’re assigned can be hard, too, even if you don’t know which category would suck less. I don’t know how to describe that strange, blobby, out-of-place sentiment, but I understand how deep the urge can be to reconcile it. I think, though, that there’s also peace to be found in just accepting that sometimes we will occupy spaces that aren’t perfect affirmations or reflections of who we are, because life is full of those spaces, and it’s unlikely you’re the only person in that space who feels the way you do about being there.

If you do want to explore this more, you could try simply A/B testing your gender — trying out different pronouns or different ways of describing your gender in different contexts or with different people, and see how they feel, if any of those get you to a place where you feel more yourself. You don’t owe anyone a linear narrative. It’s okay to change, rather than evolve — to try one thing and then pull back and then try that same thing again or something else altogether.

I hesitated for a long time to say “any pronouns” when asked to indicate mine for a bio, because I worried it was disrespectful or belittling to people who do use specific pronouns and are regularly misgendered. But I talked to some people about it and saw more and more people doing it themselves, and so I started doing it too, for the past year or so. Of course everybody generally defaults to “she/her” for me, but “she/her by default” is a fine place to be for me.

You know how there are people who are queer and it’s a huge part of their identity and they want to talk about it and find queer community and consume queer art and start whole entire websites about it, and then there are people who just like, date people of different genders? Maybe this is like that. Or maybe this is like sexuality itself — many allosexual people find exploring their sexual interests and having sex to be incredibly fulfilling and important and central to who they are, whereas asexual people wouldn’t necessarily find that same level of fulfillment. And then there are lots of people who are somewhere in the middle, there.

Neither of those comparisons are perfect comparisons, because gender is ultimately a thing that can’t really be compared to anything else, it is its own world of meaning, it is so elemental to how humanity has organized itself.

But maybe all any of this is, is a jumping off point.

When you say that you keep trying to find the joy that you see other people find in gender identity, maybe what I am trying to do here is ask you to give yourself permission to accept that you might not find that joy, and that’s okay. Maybe the joy you feel for your friends will be the most gender-related joy you experience, and even that, I think, is a lot of joy! But also, it’s possible that eventually you will, later in your own journey — maybe not right now, along with your friends, but eventually. I don’t know how old you are, but whether you are 25 or 75, it’s okay not to have it all figured out just yet.

Not every piece of who you are has to be part of an inevitable biological or psychological destiny that, with enough effort and introspection, you can accurately unearth and begin living within. Experiences change us, environments change us. The world changes around us and we change with it. All we can do is live with the truth as it presents itself to us, and do our best to find peace within the gray area, even if we can’t always find validation, or comfort there. Confusion is a wavelength too, after all.

You can chime in with your advice in the comments and submit your own questions any time.

Can You Feel the Kenergy?

I was discussing the Barbie movie with a friend who grew up socialized as a boy. I’d heard plenty on the internet from women who were overcome with the ending, with the talk of mothers standing still, daughters, childhood, the montage of girlhood. My friend told me about how it was filling them with deep thoughts about all the ways the women in their life, in their family most especially, were so systematically sidelined — not in the most malicious ways, no those were obvious — but just by their everyday environment. It was, for them, deeply, troublingly reflective.

The discussion was, for me, eye-opening. I didn’t realize that, for all my experience on this earth, that the boxes, so to speak, the way the environment we inhabit is specifically geared toward cis men, were not as visible as I thought they were. To be honest, I’d for the most part, cynically assumed that people favored by misogyny see its effects, even the smallest most mundane ones, and deliberately and consciously decide they’re not going to do anything to go against the status quo. Barbie handled that visibility / invisibility of privilege and oppression in a way that was clear and accessible. I was just taking that for granted, and yet, when I thought deeper about the politics of visibility / invisibility in that film, there was something that kept needling at me.

On the night of my trip to the movies itself, I went with a friend who’d embroidered their own Ken jacket, who was, honestly, most excited by the “Kenergy” of the movie. I’d dug out a pink, burgundy and black sequined 80’s vintage top I’d gotten at some thrift store or other, paired it with a vintage clip on earring, pleather dress underneath, steel-toed 11 eyelet black leather boots, and a ton of glitter and black lipstick. It was me going for Barbie, but giving Tank Girl. A part of my seeing Barbie, a private moment that people definitely didn’t see, was the brief few minutes where I considered a different look for the night. I pulled out a teal button down shirt with pink flamingoes on it. It would go just as well with the pink clip-on earring and maybe some shorts and the boots. It was très Ken. I put it away for the night. Maybe later. Maybe later, I’ll dress like Ken.

There’s a certain way I feel when I wear femme clothes. There’s a process, the way they highlight certain features, the textures and the shapes and the attention. While wearing masc clothes makes me feel like the fabric is sinking into my skin, femme clothes sit on top of my body, a mask on top of my person. As welcome as they are at times, and as much as gender is a performance no matter where you are located on any spectrum of gender identity and presentation, there is something that feels especially performative to me about dressing high femme — add to that doing it in a social context where a ton of people are doing the same, and the element of role-playing became a combination of fun and fraught.

Was it the distance and the dissonance I felt between what I looked like and did and wore as a kid, and the clothes provided for my Barbies? While my fingernails were crusted with dirt and my shorts grass-stained, my skin unevenly tanned and my shirt whatever 80’s hand-me-down I’d put on that day, Barbie wore high heels and form-fitting dresses in perfect 90’s style. Those clothes felt a portend of my future, a promise of adulthood to come.

Ken, on the other hand, was never meant to be the role model. He was, as the movie makes clear, a kind of accessory. “He’s just Ken.” He’s a part of what a successful life for Barbie looks like, but he isn’t his own person. You’re not supposed to want to be Ken. After all, “Ken only has a good day if Barbie looks at him.”

From his first introduction, Ryan Gosling’s Ken is a creature of longing. He desperately wants to be seen: by Barbie, as a man, as an individual, as someone with his own identity and agency. Yet, he’s distinctly invisible. His masculinity is invisible. It doesn’t matter if he feels it, it aches with rejection every time Barbie’s eyes glance off of him.

That’s what was relatable. As I sat in the theater with a hunger winding its way underneath my sequined top, it wasn’t that I was particularly moved about the bleak, gray, misogynistic real-world or that I was sobbing (like the stranger next to me), at the montage of mothers and children. No, the former was familiar, already deeply thought about — and not portrayed in the Barbie movie with the kind of nuance that I feel a lot of us need to really dig in. And the latter, well, I have mommy issues and attempting to conjure up memories of a loving mother doesn’t lead to much for me. No, it was the intense, bro-y choreography, the guys-just-being-guys of it all that made me long for a boyhood I never had and a kind brotherhood I’ve only ever been able to trace the edge of. Attempting to understand what it might be like to be a part of that boyish masculinity feels just about as fruitful of a quest for me as it would be to understand what actual genitalia might look like by staring at the smooth bulge of a naked Ken doll. There’s something there, sure, but there’s knowledge withheld.

After I saw the movie, I said to people that the politics are basic; go for the gay camp. But, at the same time, there’s something political about that camp. Weird Barbie’s a dyke who hangs out with Earring Magic and Sugar Daddy Kens. To deviate from the path of role models for the false promise of an adulthood that contains any semblance of egalitarianism, let alone a woman US president, is to plunge deeper into queerness. Things work similarly in the Real World.

Ken, too, moves into queerness when he perverts his prescribed role. His dress moves from clothes that match Barbie’s to his own clothes — which are leathery, feature cut-off sleeves, and involve a ridiculous mink coat and headbands. He and the other Kens decorate their new world with screens that display constantly running videos of veiny, phallic horses. Ken goes from living nowhere in particular to squatting in Barbie’s Malibu Dream House and turning it into Ken’s Mojo Dojo Casa House. Ken, on his identity journey, finds himself spiraling deeper and deeper into a performance of masculinity that queers itself — much like any leather daddy — for its over-the-top embrace of hyper-masculine aesthetics. Ken doesn’t just dance up against the homoerotic edge, he jumps into its waters.

In their song “Man I Am” for the Barbie soundtrack, Sam Smith intones:

“See, I’m the groove catcher, hottest thing
Six-pack and tight G-string
No, I’m not gay, bro
But I’ve been on that lay low”

But, really, not unlike saying “no homo” too often, this is saying “homo.”

And how I wanted that for myself.

Sometimes, a trans experience or a genderqueer experience isn’t a perfect straight line. It’s a push and pull, it’s a weighing and a series of decisions — what will I challenge myself on and what will I let slide. When will I let myself be led by desires that might ask more of me than I think I’m capable of giving?

In “On Liking Women” by Andrea Long Chu, Andrea writes, “The grammar of contemporary trans activism does not brook the subjunctive. Trans women are women, we are chided with silky condescension, as if we have all confused ourselves with Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, as if we were all simply trapped in the wrong politics, as if the cure for dysphoria were wokeness. How can you want to be something you already are? Desire implies deficiency; want implies want. To admit that what makes women like me transsexual is not identity but desire is to admit just how much of transition takes place in the waiting rooms of wanting things, to admit that your breasts may never come in, your voice may never pass, your parents may never call back.”

What leaves me in that waiting room of want? The answer takes us somewhere darker, out of Barbieland and firmly into the desaturated color palette of the Real World. For one, there was the topic of a conversation I had on a rooftop Monday night with a queer person who was repulsed by Ryan Gosling’s Ken’s response to rejection. We stared at the supermoon, occasionally made eye contact, and talked about rape and sexual assault and Ken’s candy-colored violence.

Because if Barbieland was the Real World, what would Ken have done? What would have happened to a Barbie who never felt a smidgeon of unease when brushing off Ken’s advances? What’s happened to me when I’ve turned down a man? A kick in the jaw, being locked in a room, late night phone calls from a stalker, and having “no” not matter. Did Greta Gerwig intend for the Kens to be so sinister in this moment, for Gosling’s Ken to embody some of our greatest fears around toxic masculinity and the entitlement that men feel to everyone else’s time, personhood, attention, bodies? Did Gosling dance enough to negate the fear screaming through the trauma that lives in our bodies? We were discussing it, so I don’t think so. I don’t think so at all.

The scene that revolved around “Push” filled me with unease. The words out of Ken’s mouth are exactly the last thing I ever need to hear from the mouth of a man ever again, let alone be forced to sit and watch or listen while a man does a thing.

And yet as unsettling as all of the Kens singing, in unison, “I want to push you around” to a circle of Barbies was — the compelling nature of Kenergy remains swirling around me. I’ll almost certainly watch the movie again, clasp my hands at the dance scenes, smile at the absurdity. His potential for violence is counterweighted intentionally with his himbo goofiness, his lack of self-consciousness.

There’s a specific kind of trans masc quality to the way that Ken dresses and takes up space if I’m being honest. That’s the siren call, the Kenergy, the alchemical reaction unintentionally put into motion by the various elements of the movie. I won’t say that was intentional, it’s just a thing that happened, just something you can see if you’re looking through the right rose-colored glasses, if there’s a want in you that’s strong enough to sharpen your vision.

I wore the pink flamingo shirt the next time I went out, just that Monday, to that rooftop potluck where I happily bro-ed out with a different group of friends and had deep and long conversations with fellow queers, including the one about Barbie and Ken and men and our pink genderqueer feelings blossoming in a gray, violent world because you can’t keep dreams down, not really. At a party where there was but a single token straight couple, the way that I was seen was a balm for the sharp plastic barbs that’d lodged in my heart while watching Barbie. And some days, some times on some days, really, if we’re being honest — once in a while — I feel like I’m Kenough.

This piece was written during the 2023 WGA and SAG-AFTRA strikes. Without the labor of the writers and actors who are currently on strike, movies like Barbie one would not be possible, and Autostraddle is grateful for the artists who do this work.

You Need Help: How Do I Navigate Misgendering as a Nonbinary Femme?

Q:

I’m a nonbinary femme and recently, I’ve started to feel quite bad about my gender presentation.

I’ve always loved playing with femininity, and I’ve always been very femme, wearing dresses and lipstick and the likes and it makes me feel really good about myself. Being femme, for me, was always connected to being nonbinary because the feminine presentation, to me, was something that I put on and not something that I was. I felt like femme was my gender, not woman.

A couple of months ago, I started coming out as nonbinary to friends and coworkers and I changed my pronouns from she to they/them. It did that because it bothered me that friends and coworkers would often refer to me as a girl or a “lady”, like “hey beautiful ladies” when they sat down at our table. I wanted them to be a bit more aware of my identity, so I told them and in those first conversations they were accepting.

However, the misgendering didn’t stop. Only a few people made an effort to remember my pronouns. I don’t remind them all the time but sometimes I do, but it doesn’t have any effect. Two friends have even told me that because of my appearance and my body (I’m female assigned at birth), to them I do still belong in the female category (as in my sex is female while my gender can be whatever I want). It hurts me when people say something like that because I want everything about me to be perceived as non binary, also my body.

Another friend had a negative reaction to my outfit at her birthday party. She had stated in the invitation that people should dress up, so I wore a suit, to which she said she was disappointed because she was expecting me to wear something “girly” like a dress. I know she’s being rude, but what I just don’t understand is why someone who knows I’m nonbinary and whom I had conversations about my gender identity with can still say something like that. It makes me wonder if maybe she wouldn’t have said it if in my normal day to day life I wasn’t as femme as I am. Maybe then it would click for her that I really am non binary.

As an effect, I’ve noticed that I’ve developed some body image issues. Like, now when I look in the mirror and I see myself with lipstick, I feel like the lipstick is the reason people misgender me and perhaps it’s unreasonable of me to ask people to validate me as non binary when my appearance is so femme. However, dressing more masculine in my day to day life doesn’t feel good either. So I feel stuck. Sometimes I even question if I should be non binary at all, because why can’t I just be ok with being called a woman, it would make it so much easier and also most non binary people I know have a very androgynous or masculine appearance.

Do you have any tips for me on how I can navigate all this?

A:

Hi, friend. I want to start by saying, unequivocally, that it is not unreasonable of you to ask that people gender you correctly. You’re absolutely right that your friend was being rude when she mentioned her disappointment over your outfit, and that shouldn’t have happened. It wasn’t your fault, or your responsibility. You deserve better.

But these issues run deep, so I hope you’ll bear with me as I dive all the way into this. I have a lot to say!

I’m thinking of my own childhood, when I wanted to change my name to Crystal Diamond, when I never felt fancier than when I wore a ruffled dress adorned in ribbons. This was back in the days of camcorders, and one Christmas, my dad set up the tripod in the corner and just let it record for hours. There are presents under the tree, I’m waiting for our other family members to arrive, and some choral arrangement is blaring from the stereo. My dress is white with red bows. I am six years old and dancing, dancing, dancing. I twirl, I skip, I spin. I time a dramatic leaping entrance from the foyer to “Carol of the Bells.” I have no sense at all of being observed. I am fully and completely myself.

This memory comes to mind because I am not femme now. The last time I wore a dress, I felt uncomfortable every minute. These days, dressing in femme-coded clothes feels personally fraught, reminding me too much of the ways I’ve performed gender, the people I’ve pretended to be. It feels even more fraught than being masc-presenting, although both roses come with their own particular thorns. (It’s funny, isn’t it, to be human? I wonder if there is any other animal with such a persistent awareness of others, any other mammal who incorporates external perceptions so solidly into their sense of self as they grow.)

I’m thinking of Andrea Gibson’s poem, My Gender is the Undoing of Gender. I’m thinking of how when it comes to clothing, “gender neutral” always just means masc. I’m thinking of the money I’ve burned through this summer because surely all my problems will be solved if I simply find the right pair of swim trunks. I’m thinking of the Tiktok filter that gave me a full beard, and how much I wanted to adorn that person in a crown of wildflowers, soft leather sandals, an embroidered linen dress. I’m thinking of the long pink skirt from the dress-up bin that I wore as a strapless dress when I was little, one of the hanger loops around my neck so I wouldn’t trip on the hem. I’m thinking of the femme clothes I might want to wear again if I have top surgery, hanging in a little dream closet next to all the buttondowns I’ll buy.

And I’m thinking of the stars, which look to us like simple points of light in the dark sky, easily defined, no more mysterious than a candle, when in reality they are gorgeous, complex, and ever-changing. I’m thinking of how we didn’t get to see the complexity of a nebula for centuries. I’m thinking of how our perception and understanding of the stars must surely still be shaped by the constraints of our science and technology, even our culture.

Gender, presentation, and how those intersect for you may be the work of a lifetime. I know it will be for me. And isn’t that how it should be? After all, you are not one fixed and knowable thing. You are so much more than what any one person outside of you can see. You are starstuff.

Here is what I  know: You are not accountable to any other person in this world for your being, your gender, or even your presentation. Your work is not to make yourself more palatable to those who might misunderstand you. Your work is to be your glorious full self, too complex, too variable, to ever be pigeonholed by any other person on this earth.

And yet! We live in a society. Connection is important, and feeling seen is vital. Other people hold up mirrors that help define our reality, and when there are only distorted, non-affirming mirrors looking back at you, I know first-hand just how destabilizing that can be. The friends you’re describing to me aren’t just being rude; they’re also denying the reality of who you are right to your face. No wonder your sense of self has been shaken.

If you feel that these friends are worth keeping in your life, it’s time for one final talk with each of them. Because these talks take a lot of mental work, feel free to roll them out slowly or as misgendering incidents occur — there’s no need to exhaust yourself with a sort of grand opening of Boundary World. But if you want to keep spending time with these people, these talks do need to happen. I’ve included a little script below with important talking points; feel free to use it as a jumping-off place for what you want to say and how you want to say it. I like to break these scripts up into the conversation, instead of saying or sending it all at once, but having the script helps me keep coming back to my lines in the sand:

“It hurt me when you mentioned your disappointment about my suit/told me I still belong in a ‘female’ category/didn’t adjust the pronoun you use for me. It’s easy for all of us to make assumptions about people because of how they dress, and I realize you may not have seen how important this is to me. But my pronouns are they/them, and my gender is not up for debate. Using the wrong pronouns or calling me by gendered terms like “lady” makes me feel really unseen. I care about our friendship, which is why I’m telling you this again. I hope you’ll be able to adjust so that we can keep hanging out! Thank you for listening.”

And if they’re not able to adjust? It’s not your fault. It’s not because of how you dress or what gender you were assigned at birth. If someone can’t see or respect you when you give them the gift of telling them who you are, that’s on them. And it means they aren’t your people.

But your people are out there. I promise. And something else I know from experience? Having just one friend in your life who truly sees and affirms you — it can be everything. It can be enough. It can help you feel freer to move through the world in the ways that feel right and good and powerful for you.

Once you start looking for people who will truly affirm you, I’ve found that they start to pop out of the woodwork, even in my semi-rural hometown. I’ve found them both inside and outside of specific LGBTQ spaces; what mattered most for me was being able to move on from friends who couldn’t see me, so I’d have the energy and space to nurture friendships where I did feel seen.

Until you do find those people in your day-to-day life, please know: we are out here. I see you, and I bet you see me too. I’m sending you strength to keep wearing exactly what you want to wear, and wishing you the very best of luck. Shine bright, friend. 💙

You can chime in with your advice in the comments and submit your own questions any time.

Data Party! Insights into Nonbinary Readers from the 2022 Reader Survey

Feature image via the Gender Spectrum Collection

Nico: Hello fellow humans and a very happy International Nonbinary People’s Day to all who celebrate! I’m here to introduce this post, which, much like the 2022 Autostraddle Reader Survey, I worked on in collaboration with Riese, a human who loves data. What follows are some data points we found interesting when comparing survey results from our nonbinary readership against the readership as a whole (which includes nonbinary people). For the purposes of defining “nonbinary,” we included all folks who identified as nonbinary, genderqueer, genderfluid, or agender. While I know it’s not perfect and that some people identify with only one of these labels, we felt it was the best way to look at a group of readers who do not identify along the lines of binary gender. I should probably also define “interesting” which is a) something we thought you all would find engaging and b) areas where the results varied significantly between nonbinary readers and the population of survey takers as a whole, because, of course, there were many times where there weren’t notable differences.

Nico: Riese, what do you think of the above results? I suppose I should go back and look at prior years to see if it’s changed at all, but I know you’ve also done that.

Riese: I have! Some of the long-term data is hard to understand clearly because the way we asked about gender has also changed over time — like in 2011, our options were, well, very 2011: female (93%), male (1.45%), transgender (1.72%), genderqueer (8.32%), and “other” (1.75%). In 2016, we introduced language similar to what we’re using now, Now, our non-cis categories are trans woman, trans man, agender, genderqueer/fluid/non-binary woman, genderqueer/fluid/non-binary man, genderqueer/fluid/non-binary person. If we smash those last four identities together into one, we go from 23% under that umbrella in 2016 to 27.3% in 2022. We also added “I don’t know/still figuring it out” in 2022, which 5.8% of survey respondents (including me) picked, so that was a popular addition. A lot of people are on a journey. Another change I noticed is the most popular of the three “genderqueer/fluid/non-binary” options shifting from “genderqueer/fluid/non-binary woman” in 2016 and 2020 to “genderqueer/fluid/non-binary person” in 2022. But in 2020, those categories were already closing in on each other. I think people learned a lot about themselves in those years.

Nico: As a whole, I would say that AS is not very cis, are we? At least not compared to the actual general population.

Riese: So our survey sample is from all over the world, not just the U.S., but we do know that at least according to some studies,1.6% of American adults identify as transgender and/or non-binary, a number that’s even higher in younger populations — 5% of those under 30. A 2021 Williams Institute Study found that 11% of the LGBTQ+ population specifically identifies as non-binary — I think these numbers are changing pretty quickly, so I do consider that 2021 number a bit outdated, but, as you pointed out, 27.3% of our readers identify as outside of the gender binary, so that’s well over double the LGBTQ+ population as a whole, and 31.4% identifying as trans and/or non-binary. That’s not even including the “other” or “don’t know” group.

Nico: I am not super surprised by this, but also want to take a moment to shout out the nonbinary lesbians for anyone and everyone who’s sent us an advice question wondering whether they can still identify as a lesbian if they’re nonbinary or genderqueer or agender or genderfluid. Because you can! There’s nothing stopping these readers, and I hope nothing will stop you! I was kind of surprised to see fewer bisexuals per capita in the nonbinary category, but also, I imagine people are substituting queer for that.

Nico: Absolutely love to see the data bearing out T4T.

Riese: Yes, makes sense!

Nico: Again, not surprised that people who question gender and the performance thereof are also people who are willing or drawn to exploring relationship structures beyond more “traditional” monogamy. Although, monogamy remains the most popular relationship style overall.

Riese: Yes, this has been true historically as well.

Nico: When I saw this, I was like “OVER HALF?!” but yes, we have over half of nonbinary readers identifying as either disabled or “it’s complicated.” I do want to point out that internet lore and apparently also this study have demonstrated that there might be a correlation between neurodivergence and trans and nonbinary gender identities. As someone who has a doctor’s appointment to talk about potentially having ADHD and who knows what next week, I am being read for filth by these survey results, also. Based also on my friend groups and working at Autostraddle, I’m just like, yes, this could be part of the reasoning. I also think that people define being disabled differently, and again, if you’ve done a lot of work to get to know your relationship to gender, perhaps also your body, you might be more likely to learn about any disability(ies) you have, but that is me speculating based on this data. What do you think, Riese?

Riese: Yeah I have a lot of the same questions and theories you do! I’m not sure if I would check “it’s complicated” or “no” for this question personally — I do have fibromyalgia, ADHD and major depressive disorder but I don’t know if any of those things “count,” you know what I mean? It’s difficult to know how specifically people are defining themselves, if people are including mental illness as a disability, because it’s widely true that LGBTQ+ people are more likely to have a mental illness diagnosis. (I also think Autostraddle specifically might have a lot of readers with mental illness diagnoses because it’s something we’ve always prioritized discussing and normalizing on the site.) There’s also just, so much to be discussed when it comes to how your relationship to your body is shaped by a physical disability and then also by a non-“normative” gender identity and how those things overlap or don’t. I also found at least one study showing trans people were twice as likely to have at least one disability than their cisgender counterparts at similar ages.

Riese: Sometimes I forget that I chose this name and it’s not my given name but I did and it isn’t! I sort of changed it around when I realized I was queer.

Nico: Haha Riese I always forget that about you. You might not know it, but Nico is not my given name. This is also unsurprising! Lots of nonbinary people choose names that they feel better reflect their authentic selves and I love that for us. Below is a list of names, in no particular order, that nonbinary people reported choosing for themselves in the survey. Maybe you’re looking for some inspiration? See if you can find yours!

Here’s a list of the chosen names you shared with us

Names indicated by more than one person have a number (x) of people who said they used that name next to it.

• • Adrian
  • Aicerno ÓCathasaigh Ap Gryffydd
  • Alder
  • AJ (2)
  • Akiva
  • Al (2)
  • Alex (7)
  • Alistair
  • Alixe
  • Alixivy
  • Alyx
  • Amalthea
  • Ames
  • Amren
  • Andy
  • Ang
  • Angie
  • Antonia
  • Apple
  • Ari
  • Arlo Roan
  • Ash
  • Ash Journey
  • Ashur
  • Athena
  • Avery
  • b
  • Bec
  • Benji (2)
  • Bex
  • Bina
  • Bo
  • Bobbi
  • Bowen
  • Bree
  • Bridget
  • Cal
  • Casey
  • Cee (2)
  • CJ
  • Clark
  • Cole
  • Cora Fageaux
  • Crow
  • Dani
  • Danie
  • Danny
  • Dante
  • Dash
  • DC
  • Declan
  • Del
  • Dell
  • Dre
  • Drumlin
  • Dylan
  • E.N. West
  • eL
  • Eli
  • Ellie
  • Ellis (2)
  • Em (2)
  • Emma
  • Erika Hazel Karney
  • Eviah
  • Face
  • Fee
  • Femmaleboss
  • Feyi
  • Fleshie
  • Flórián
  • Florian Ilya
  • Foster
  • Franklyn
  • Grida
  • Hadley
  • Han
  • Harrow
  • Hector
  • idris
  • J (2)
  • Jack
  • Jai
  • Jaime
  • Jake
  • Jamie (2)
  • Jarvis
  • Jasmine
  • Jax
  • Jay (5)
  • JD
  • Jes
  • Jimmy
  • Jonah
  • Jonas
  • Joy
  • Jude
  • Jules
  • Julien
  • Kade
  • Kai
  • Kalirissia Freyadora Zarabella
  • Kasper
  • Kat
  • Kay
  • KC (“Casey”)
  • keith
  • Kellen
  • Kevriel
  • Kit Julian
  • Kj
  • kk
  • Kris (2)
  • Lane
  • Lauren
  • Levi!
  • Liam
  • Lilith Routh
  • Lily
  • Lin
  • Linden
  • Lini
  • Lo
  • Loghan
  • Luca
  • Luka
  • Lux
  • M
  • Mack
  • Macks
  • Maddie
  • Majd
  • Marcie
  • Maren
  • Marin
  • MB
  • Mel (2)
  • Micah (3)
  • Mik
  • Mika
  • Miko
  • Milo (4)
  • Mitchell
  • Mo
  • Mont
  • Moog
  • Morgan (2)
  • Morgan Van Kesteren
  • Moss
  • Nash
  • Nate
  • Nathalie
  • Neri
  • Nic
  • Nico
  • Niko
  • Nix
  • Nono
  • Olive
  • Oliver
  • ollie
  • Oskar
  • Otter
  • Pallas
  • Parker
  • Pepper
  • Perry
  • Pike
  • Psylocke/Tegan/Jamie
  • Quinn Jack Orion
  • Rae
  • Rain (2)
  • Red
  • Reese
  • regi
  • Ren
  • Rex
  • Rex (2)
  • Ricki!
  • Riddhi
  • Riley
  • Rio
  • River (2)
  • Robin (2)
  • Ron.
  • Roni
  • Rose
  • Rousz
  • Ryan
  • Sal
  • Sam (6)
  • Savvy
  • Sawyer
  • Sebastian
  • Seren
  • Shan
  • Shane
  • Shep
  • Shquam
  • Shuli
  • Silver
  • Simon
  • Sirius or Lorcan depending on the spaces I’m in!
  • Skay.
  • Skye Firestone
  • So
  • Sonia
  • Soren
  • Stokes
  • Sully
  • sweet pea
  • Tess
  • Thatcher
  • Theo
  • Theodore
  • Tree
  • V / Venn
  • Vika
  • Violet
  • Watson
  • Will
  • Willa
  • Wren
  • Z (2)

Getting Strong: A Conversation Between Two Nonbinary Humans About Weight Lifting

Feature image center photo via Jasmine Lin / Getty Images

Both Stef and Nico have both gotten into strength training in the past year, as you might know from some of Stef’s work. Erstwhile, Stef (easily) convinced Nico to subscribe to Arnold Schwarzenegger’s newsletter and also at one point recommended some shoulder rehabilitation exercises when they had an injury. In other words, they’re an awesome and supportive strength training / powerlifting advocate — and also a fellow nonbinary human. So, for this here International Nonbinary People’s Day, Nico and Stef sat down to talk strength training, weights and their relationships to themselves and their bodies and the sticky web of connections in between.

Nico: Okay, so first question, since this is a discussion for International Nonbinary People’s Day, I think it would be cool to start with talking about how we each identify, if that’s okay with you, Stef!

Personally, I tend to go with ‘genderqueer’ or ‘gender fluid,’ but I also see myself as being nonbinary, like by definition? As someone not doing gender on the binary? That sounds less sure than I thought it would, but that’s where I’m at! I also accept and use nonbinary as shorthand or as an identity I align with because I feel solidarity with other nonbinary folks.

Stef: Yeah, absolutely. I actually feel that entirely. I identify as queer and nonbinary because that’s the language we have to talk about how I feel. mostly, i just don’t identify with Gender^TM in general, haha. I don’t want people to be confused and think that I don’t recognize it or care about it… I just feel like it’s not for me, personally.

So I always kind of see myself as performing “Stef” as opposed to performing some other thing we’ve defined.

I hope that makes sense.

Nico: I can very much relate to that. I feel like I’m just here.

Just a guy here. On the Earth.

Stef: Yes, precisely that. i’m literally just some guy. and i like it that way.

Nico: I love that.

Stef: Yeah, I used to be kind of self-conscious about that because I think it’s cool that people feel so aligned with one particular identity or another. There is a lot of power in that. But as I’ve matured and gotten older, I’ve found a lot of community with people like me and people not like me so I see the power in it all equally now.

Nico: I think there is power in being able to step away from something that is not authentic to you.

Stef: Totally. That’s exactly it.

Nico: We’ve both come to weight lifting kind of within recent memory, is that correct? So, before we got into strength training, what kinds of associations did we have with strength-based sports (I hope that’s a term) and weightlifting? Had we ever imagined it would be for us?

Stef: Definitely. I just started weightlifting last August, so I’m coming up on my one year anniversary of this journey.

Nico: Congratulations on your anniversary!!

Stef: You know, in the 90s, I grew up watching guys like Hulk Hogan and Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone, and in the early 2000s, my little brother and I were huge fans of WWF wrestling. We loved people like Stone Cold Steve Austin and Chyna and Mankind and The Rock — it was kind of always there around me, but i was never interested in like the LIFTING itself. So, I guess I consider my main association with strength sports and weightlifting as coming through getting to know my close friend, Brendan. We met about seven years ago because we were both in the new teacher co-hort of the school we taught at. He’s been into strength sports forever and participates in strongman and powerlifting competitions. Honestly, for the first like five and a half years we were friends, I thought it was cool he did it but still felt very far removed from it as a fat person.

Nico: Did Brendan get you into it? Also we’ve talked about Arnold before. I subscribe to his newsletter because of you. Is strength training contagious?

I think I thought that like, trying to more seriously exercise with weights and strength train just wouldn’t be for me? I’d largely focused on cardio-based exercise, including and especially running. And that’s just a pretty different kind of movement. I feel like early associations I had with strength training are like, Arnold Schwarzenegger, The Trunchbull, Rowdy Roddy Piper, wrestlers yeah. It felt almost like, something kind of unobtainable? Like you already had to be jacked?

Stef: Okay so yeah, same experience for me! Like I said, I felt very far removed from it being fat my whole life. I didn’t know or see a lot of fat athletes (though they do exist! especially in strength sports!). By the time I became an adult, I was like “this sports shit is just not for me” but I see now that was more of a protective stance I was taking. like I didn’t want to be vulnerable and try something new or SEE if I liked anything. I just kind of wrote it off and went about my business, haha.

Nico: That’s really interesting… because yeah, you kind of have to be earnest about it if you’re going to strength train, right? And that means going to that vulnerable place, putting yourself out there.

Stef: I think it’s that and also just the fear of failure. Which, I’ve learned now, is a cool thing about strength sports. It’s like… you don’t fail in the same crushing ass way other athletes do. if you mess up a lift or don’t hit a goal, that just means you didn’t beat yourself. Of course, there are lifting competitions and everything, but a lot of the people I’ve gotten to know who are into this are into it to beat themselves, not someone else.

Nico: Yeah, because you’re only trying to make yourself stronger. It’s you vs past self.

Stef: Yes, you’re only trying to make yourself stronger! you vs. your past self, always!

Brendan did get me into it in a very round about way, and I know he’s hella proud of that because he said it today when we were talking about other stuff, haha. He basically very gently encouraged me to try it out after I asked him if he thought it would be a good idea to help fix some knee problems that I was diagnosed with last year. And since then, he — along with my strength coach, Vinny, and other people I’ve met — has been very supportive of me, like becoming full-on obsessed with it all.

Nico: That’s awesome. I love how supportive the community is.

Stef: Yeah, me too.

Nico: Your gym sounds awesome. I still just lift at home.

Stef: I wanted to ask you, what made you finally take the dive?

Nico: So, taking the dive was oddly related to, like, my gender journey actually, and kind of how I wanted to move through the world.

Stef: Oh wow, ok, yeah, please say more about that. If you’re cool with that!

Nico: So, I kind of veer over onto the masc spectrum sometimes, and was doing a lot of sort of testing those waters and feeling that for myself over the past couple of years, and late last fall, I think, I started wishing that I was 1) stronger and that 2) that I had a less like, “feminine” visual appearance (big scare quotes here because what even does that mean).

As someone who at the time (because we’re broken up yikes) was the heavy lifter of things in my queer relationship and also constantly confronting my limitations in that role while working on fixing up our old, beat up house and while trying to… I don’t know… just navigate existence, I started looking on social media and the internet for answers about strength training and weight lifting. But also like, specifically, I got into it because I started looking up exercise routines for trans dudes.

I arrived at it from a very gay place, haha.

Stef: Ok, yeah, that totally makes sense!! And I’m glad you were able to find something that made you feel more comfortable as you were navigating all of those questions and feelings. (I am sorry to hear about that break up, though!). Your story is much gayer than mine, lol

I honestly didn’t consider the implications on my gender feelings until I actually started. Then I started to realize how much more affirmed I felt in my identity, which was more of a weird coincidence. I think in general, it’s made me feel more comfortable being alive, and that just impacts everything else about me.

Nico: I love that! I was going to ask about that. Let’s talk about it.

Can you tell me more about how it makes you feel comfortable being alive?

Stef: Particularly in powerlifting (which is mainly the sport I practice with my coach, though we also do a lot of bodybuilding work, too), you’re doing a series of conjugate movements. So yeah, you’re lifting heavy shit, but the particular ways you’re lifting those heavy ass things helps strengthen multiple muscles in your body at a time. And what’s cool about that is that you get stronger all over. Literally, your whole body gets stronger if you’re doing it right. And so, you know, there are benefits to that.

You can do heavy lifting in regular life, you can walk further and faster, you don’t get tired as easily when you’re doing physical activity, etc. — like there is just this overall better body feel that I’ve experienced through movement that really impacts how I feel about everything else. I just feel more capable, and so that makes me more confident, and more confidence leads to feeling less self-conscious about how others perceive my gender presentation, etc. etc.

I hope that makes sense.

Nico: That makes a lot of sense! And is incredibly relatable, yes.

From my end, in terms of the intersection of identity + getting stronger, it has… like… even if I don’t feel like I’ve done very much in the way of altering the look of my body so far, I feel like the way it has allowed me to pick up heavier objects is super affirming, including, yeah, inhabiting and performing whatever ‘Nico’ is.

I think there’s something that happens, too, with getting to know your body and muscles in that way, where I feel more connected with myself, more connected to my connective tissue.

Stef: Oh yeah, absolutely!

Nico: And like my mind’s sense of my body and the way they relate is much stronger.

Stef: Yes, that’s so real.

I have spent pretty much my whole life ignoring my body, so this is a completely new life for me. I feel so tuned into to what’s happening in a way that I’ve never experienced. I was just talking about this the other day, actually… I wake up with a stiff back for all the days I have my period, and I never noticed that until recently because I was always in various states of pain before I started lifting.

And I asked the guy who owns the gym, “isn’t that weird? I should probably do something about that, right?” and he was like “how long has this been happening?” and I just had to say, “I really don’t know, man. I’m just noticing it now. I feel like I’m noticing shit about my body I didn’t even know about before” and he just laughed and said “yeah, that’s what happens when you do this” haha.

Nico: That’s incredible and also, I feel like, yeah, being more in touch with oneself also opens up more avenues for the act of self-care, in a very serious sense. Like, wow, the fact that you didn’t even realize you were hurting in a particular way, but now you do know, so you can address it.

Stef: Yeah, totally. That’s exactly it. I probably have had that weird stiffness forever, but I just didn’t register it. It’s wild.

Nico: Can you talk a little bit about your training program and what you’re working on now? I think it would also be cool to define Power Lifting for the class.

Stef: Powerlifting is literally the practice of three movements: the squat, the deadlift, and the bench press.

The idea is that you’re building enough strength to kick ass in those three arenas. Again, a lot plays into that (the amount you can train, genetics, other “supplements,” etc.) but basically, it’s you vs. your past self. You’re trying to get to the top of where you can go on those three movements.

Nico: Interesting!

Stef: Bodybuilding is kind of just what it sounds like.

You’re building muscle size, which doesn’t always mean you’re building strength. I know that sounds like it doesn’t make any sense, but apparently our bodies can do this. We can increase the mass without necessarily increasing the amount we lift. This is where you see people doing more isolated movements on machines and stuff… you’re working less muscle groups at a time HARD. So maybe you’ll do things like your back and shoulders or your triceps and biceps or your quads and hamstrings, etc. etc.

Nico: Thank you for the definitions!

Stef: Strongman/woman (these competitions are very gendered, just so everyone knows) is the freakiest one of all (because I think we’re all freaks, lol). Basically, you train with both powerlifting and bodybuilding stuff, but you also train more unconventional tools.

You’ll use a “log” for overhead pressing instead of a barbell and plates. You’ll walk with a yoke on your back or pick up heavy ass stones instead of doing a traditional squat. Strongman is kind of a “what heavy shit do we have around to lift?” kind of sport, which makes it a lot of fun to watch.

There is certainly a wide range of body types when it comes to powerlifting, where with bodybuilding, you can’t really do that. The idea with bodybuilding is that you’re able to show off all the muscle groups possible, so totally different vibe in terms of aesthetics and strength expectations.

Don’t get me wrong, though! Bodybuilders work their asses off. For the people who are competing, this is all HARD ass work.

Nico: I feel like i’m learning so much!

And also I especially want to go to a strongman/woman competition now and watch people lift logs and stones.

Stef: Haha, i just went to my first one earlier this year and it was a blast.

My training right now is a combination of powerlifting stuff and bodybuilding stuff. We practice a lot of deadlifting (just did 20 earlier today) and benching, and we do a lot of different types of squats. But we also do a lot of accessory work (these are the weights/machines that aren’t barbell-related). It’s good to have a combination of all of that… it’s called the conjugate method. You build strength more slowly, but more safely.

Nico: Nice.

Stef: I’d love to hear about your routine, too! Especially because you do it at home, which is something I haven’t ever tried.

Nico: So, I basically follow a pre-made routine that is, you’d probably define it as bodybuilding? Although I do all the deadlift / squat / bench press exercises, too, so maybe also a combo. It’s definitely intended to result in things like bigger arms, broader shoulders, etc. — and is designed by a masc lesbian/queer for other masc people. The program cycles me through 4 days / week of different exercises on different days and it works pretty well for me because I don’t have to think about what I’m going to do. I’m just like “oh it’s back day ok.” I got a set of dumbbells / barbells from a friend of my mom who no longer uses them, so they’re super vintage. I DO need to get a proper bench haha.

Want to see a photo of my creepy workout space?

Stef: Oh wow, that sounds like an amazing set up actually. you can literally gain so much strength with a dumbbell set and a barbell with some plates, so that’s awesome you have all of that!

And haha yeah, of course. I’d love to!

Nico:

Bleak is the new chic.

There’s also some resistance bands, etc. kettlebells.

Stef: Honestly, that’s just like the old days! You’re just following tradition. Back in the day, all strength gyms were like random ass spots in some building’s basement or some little spot in the back of a shopping plaza or some shit haha.

(I have been reading and researching a lot about strength culture, so that’s where that info is coming from, haha.)

Nico: Yeah, I feel like there is a time honored tradition of using dumbbells in a basement.

Stef: Totally. There really is!

You have some great stuff, though. I love the plate loaded dumbbells… so much easier on your hands because with most dumbbell sets at gyms, the handle gets thicker as the weight increases. It’s one of my weekly struggles right now.

OK! Getting back to a question you asked WAYY earlier about Arnold’s newsletter and the contagiousness of strength training…

First of all, you know I love Arnold’s newsletter, lol. It’s a really fun start to the day, and actually, he sometimes says some really useful stuff.

Plus Arnold is this character… he feels like such a big presence to me because of growing up watching his movies and stuff. I’m going through an Arnold phase right now, lol… just inexplicably slightly obsessed with his life (among a few other famous-ish strength people).

But yeah, I do think strength training is kind of contagious in a way. It’s a sport that requires skill, but not like kind of skill that seems unattainable. You need to know how to move your body correctly through the various movements and then from there, you decide how far you want to take it. Plus, it feels cool to get stronger! Like even if you have some physical limitations, there are movements you can do and places where you can feel stronger. And that’s really rad in my opinion.

For me, I hated the first month. I won’t lie. I was like “I do not want to do this shit” and then something clicked. I think it was just noticing differences in how I felt and getting to know the people who are constantly working to build and sustain this community. I was like “this is actually really cool” out of nowhere one day. And I just kind of got more and more emotionally invested.

Nico: I love that answer so much

Do you think you’ll be sticking with it for some time?

Stef: Yeah, I kind of feel like my body already made that decision for me. I don’t know how far I’ll go. I mean, right now, I’m considering doing a powerlifting meet at the end of this year (my coach is trying to gently persuade me as we speak) — but I don’t know if COMPETING will be a thing that I make a big part of my life. I’m happy to just go to the gym and work my ass off and feel the glory of that.

What about you?

Nico: I think I’ll keep up with it for sure! I’ve started blending in more running again, and I think I’m getting to a pretty happy balanced place, in terms of the movement I’m doing.

Plus, again, getting strong is cool as hell.

Stef: Oh wow, yeah, that’s awesome!

Nico: Well, this was awesome.

Stef: Before we close up, I want to also say that strength is relative! When I say getting strong rules, I don’t have any number or definition in mind when I say that. It’s cool for people, as INDIVIDUALS, to feel like they’re strong and capable and I encourage that whether you’re bench pressing 45 pounds or 445.

Nico: Oh for sure. Definitely closer to the 45 end over heeeere.

I love the way you’re like, coaching anyone reading this.

Stef: I always joke about how I’ll go to the gym and my brothers will be pushing 300 or 400 pounds, then I get on the bench with my 125 and they’re all hooting and hollering for me, haha. It’s a good reminder that it’s just about progression… getting stronger than you were last month. That’s all.

Nico: I feel so inspired! Thank you so much, Stef!

Stef: Yeah, of course! Thank YOU. I love talking about this shit so much, haha… it’s good to have a place to put it.

You Need Help: I’m 13 — How Do I Explore My Butch Identity?

Q:

I am a 13-year-old queer gal who’s always presented as a Blue Jean Femme — but for over a year now, I’ve wanted to present as butch. I hate wearing dresses, skirts and makeup and have always felt better in jeans. While I’ve always worn my hair long, I’m considering getting a faux hawk. I’m also a feminist and have recently realized that when I do feminine things like wearing lip gloss and styling my (sadly long) hair, I rarely actually enjoy it — I do it because I feel I’m supposed to. And I’m both thrilled to be moving in this direction and a little concerned about how it will go. Most of my female friends are very femme, and all my female relatives fall on the feminine side of androgynous, so I don’t have any butch role models other than celebrities.

The comments I might get worry me — I’m already a queer feminist, liberal and politically radical, homeschooled and a theater kid, so if I change my expression of queerness, I’ll likely get teased. I also don’t want to adopt any of the harmful parts of masculinity — I’ve been affected adversely by toxic masculinity before and refuse to embody it.

My questions are: How do I deal with any teasing? How do I rethink masculinity instead of just adopting it? What does this mean for dating? I’m attracted to both femme and butch girls, but I’m not sure if butch girls will want to date me once I make this change. And above all, how do I explore my butch identity rather than just getting the hair and the clothes?

A:

First, I want you to know that I think you’re so smart and so cool!!! I deeply respect your introspection, and I love that you reached out to Autostraddle for help. Thank you for trusting us with your thoughts.

Before I answer your questions, I’ll tell you a little about myself. I was once a 13-year-old feminist theater kid, too, but I’d only just started finding my way towards queerness at that time. I slowly started telling my friends I liked girls, and when I was 15, I came out to most of my family, my school faculty and my classmates. I’d always been drawn to a more masculine aesthetic, but I didn’t fully embrace my queer masculinity (at least not aesthetically) until I went to college.

Now I’m 32. These days, I don’t really know which word(s) I should use to describe my gender expression, but I’ve been increasingly drawn to “butch” because of its connection to lesbian history. And while I’ve used a number of different identifiers throughout my adult life — genderqueer, transmasculine, nonbinary — my lived experience most closely aligns with the experiences of butches. I don’t always feel like I need an identifier, but sometimes it’s helpful to have a word that efficiently describes how I move through the world — right now, “butch” does that for me.

Now that you know my qualifications, let’s get into your questions.

How Do I Deal With Teasing?

If you change your gender presentation, yep — you might get teased by your peers. You might get teased or questioned by adults, too. When I was an openly queer teen, adults were some of my biggest bullies. It sounds like you’re already open about being queer and having radical politics, so hopefully, that means you have some supportive adults in your life who will celebrate your butch journey. BUT, for you and for other young people who might be reading this, I feel obliged to say this: if you think that changing your gender presentation would prevent you from accessing care and financial support from your family or guardians, please put your safety first. I hate saying that. It sucks. The unfortunate reality is that when we’re kids and teens, we have to rely on the adults in our life to take care of us. Sometimes that means temporarily compromising some aspects of who we are (at least when we’re around our caretakers) until we’re old enough to live on our own.

If you think it would be best for your safety to hold off on adopting a butch aesthetic, here’s some good news: being butch is about so much more than having a specific haircut or dressing a certain way (I’ll get into that later). If, however, you feel confident that your caretakers will continue to support you through your exploration, then charge on forward into the Great Butch Beyond and dress however you please, wherever you please!

You might be wondering what exactly you should say in response to any snide remarks from your peers, and the truth is, I don’t know. From your question, it sounds like you haven’t experienced teasing in response to your gender expression yet (hopefully, you won’t be teased about this at all!), and I don’t know what kinds of things other young people might say to you. Instead of writing out a long list of witty responses to potential insults, I’ll give you some tips for taking care of yourself if and when bullies are getting you down:

1. Seek community with other young people who understand your experience.

When you’re experiencing teasing, it’s important to have people you can go to for guidance and a confidence boost. Those people don’t have to be butch or even queer — maybe they’re different in some other way. When I was in high school, there weren’t many other openly queer teens in my area. One of my good friends was a straight guy who, like me, experienced bullying. Even though he wasn’t gay, he understood what I was going through and even joined me at my very first pride parade. We built each other up when the bullies tried to get under our skin, and whenever we spent time together, I felt a little better about myself.

It sounds like you’re already involved in theater, which is an excellent way to meet people your age who don’t conform to social norms. Depending on where you live, there might be support groups or social groups for queer youth, too. If not, you can find queer community online. The Trevor Project has a moderated, online support space for LGBTQ+ young adults between the ages of 13 and 24.

2. Ask adults for help when you need it.

You already know how to ask adults for guidance — you wrote to Autostraddle! If light teasing turns into ongoing bullying and you can’t figure out how to manage it on your own, if you feel like your physical safety is at risk or if you’re experiencing bullying or discrimination that’s coming from adults, talk to an adult you know you can trust. Maybe that’s a family member, a teacher, a queer-affirming therapist or an adult who runs an extracurricular activity you’re part of. There is no shame in asking for help — I’m still asking mentors for help, and I’m in my thirties!

3. Remember that happiness is the best revenge.

When I was in high school, I used to listen to a song called “The Best Revenge” by a queercore band called Pansy Division. In the chorus, the singer repeats: “Happiness is the best revenge.” He’s talking about how bullies want us to feel ashamed — they want us to make ourselves smaller (or straighter). According to Pansy Division, the best way to spite those bullies is to keep on living our happy, queer lives.

Of course, it’s hard and sometimes impossible to be a happy person when you’re getting teased, especially if it’s happening often. That’s why my teen self tried to find joy in little things. Whenever I experienced teasing or bullying — whether that came from my peers, my teachers, my friends’ parents or my high school principal — I would try to do something that day that made my queer heart happy. I would listen to a queer band or read a queer book or write a story about two girls falling in love. You’re probably already doing little things throughout the week that make you feel like your queerest, butchest self. Write out a list of those activities and keep it somewhere safe — these are the most important tools in your metaphorical butch toolbox.

4. Remember that for every person who teases you, there’s probably another person who looks up to you.

This one might be hard to believe — at least, it was hard for me to believe when I was a teen. Even if you don’t get showered with compliments after you get your fancy butch haircut and start dressing the way you want to dress, some of your peers are quietly admiring you — they might just be too shy to tell you; or maybe they’re also butch, but they’re not ready to embrace that part of their identity just yet.

I’ve experienced this firsthand. Even though I wasn’t embracing a butch aesthetic in high school, I was very openly queer. Long after I graduated, a number of my former classmates reached out to thank me for being open about my sexuality. Some of those folks are the same people who once told me I was going to hell (and some of those people turned out to be part of the LGBTQ+ community, too!). So trust me — there are going to be people who will deeply respect your authenticity. And I’m one of them!

5. Pump yourself up!

The world can be hard on butches, and sometimes you have to be your own butch cheerleader. If teasing is affecting your confidence, put on an outfit that makes you feel extra handsome and give yourself a pep talk. I’m serious. Talk to yourself in the mirror or record a video of yourself listing all of your best qualities. If that feels silly, write out your list instead or try writing a letter to your younger self.

Sometimes when we’re hurting, it’s actually the little kid inside us who’s suffering. Some people call that our “inner child.” I like to imagine my eight-year-old self meeting my adult self — and I know that eight-year-old Ro would be STOKED to learn how adult Ro turned out. You can try this, too: What would eight-year-old you or five-year-old you think of you at thirteen? What kinds of things have you learned and accomplished that you can share with your younger self? Looking at how far you’ve come and how much you’ve evolved might help you feel pride in who you are and who you’re becoming.

How Do I Deal With Other Uncomfortable Butch Experiences?

There’s this other thing that happens to butches and other gender non-conforming people that isn’t exactly teasing, but it’s definitely uncomfortable for some of us: once you embrace a butch gender expression, some people might think you’re a guy. I live in a big city now where most people are used to seeing a variety of gender expressions, but some people see my short haircut and masculine clothing and assume I’m a man (or more often — a teenage boy). I’ve been asked to leave the women’s locker room and the women’s bathroom many, many times. I’ve been called “sir” or “young man” by bus drivers, flight attendants, cashiers, servers and even doctors. This happens even more often when I’m in suburban or rural areas.

While there are definitely some butches who also identify as trans men or genderfluid and/or use he/him pronouns, I’m not one of those people. Still, being perceived as a guy doesn’t bother me, and I don’t waste my time correcting every single person (honestly, I like being called “sir”). Sometimes I just roll with it, especially if it’s a brief interaction. If, however, they’re interrogating me about my gender (“Are you a boy or a girl?”) or if they’re demanding that I leave a gender-specific space like a women’s bathroom or locker room, that’s a different story. Usually I’ll just say, “Don’t worry — I’m in the right place,” and most of the time, they leave me alone after that.

This might happen to you, too. Depending on where you live, it might happen a lot. I live in the US, where multiple states are rolling out anti-trans legislation that specifically targets youth. It seems like a scary time to be gender non-conforming teen here. If you’re in the US — or really, anywhere — there might be adults who don’t want you in spaces that are supposed to be for “girls” or “women” because of your gender presentation. If you’re worried about having a potentially awkward or dangerous encounter in a gender-specific space like a public bathroom, bring a friend or a group of friends with you or opt for single-user bathrooms and locker rooms when they’re available. And if someone thinks you’re a dude when you are not, in fact, a dude, remember that they probably mean well — they just haven’t met many people like us.

If strangers don’t assume you’re a guy because of your hair and your clothes, they’ll probably assume you’re queer. This might be helpful when you want to signal your identity to other queer people, but sometimes, depending on where you are and who you encounter, being read as queer can lead to some tough encounters, too. And other aspects of your lived experience, like your race or your religion, might impact the ways in which you experience homophobia. I’m a white person who grew up in a predominantly white, predominantly Catholic town, so that’s the only experience I can speak to (but hopefully, we’ll get butches of other backgrounds in the comments who can share their experiences with homophobia, too).

To be clear, I’m not saying any of this to scare you out of adopting your best butch style — these are just things to keep in mind if you live in or travel to an area where homophobia and transphobia are rampant. Even if you live in a liberal town or city, homophobes are everywhere, so it’s a good idea to anticipate their presence. As a queer adult who’s lived through some of that stuff, I wouldn’t be doing my job as your Butch Wilderness Guide if I didn’t warn you about it. My hope for you is that your young butch life is fun and exhilarating and free from the judgement of close-minded people.

How Do I Kick Toxic Masculinity to the Curb?

While embracing queer masculinity can open you up to ridicule, sometimes it comes with privileges, too. For example, I’m rarely sexually harassed by men, and in some situations, I’ve found that men take me more seriously than feminine straight women, queer femme women and femme nonbinary people, probably because they don’t view me as a sexual object. Whenever I can, I try to use this privilege to advocate for others.

I know you’re worried about adopting harmful aspects of masculinity — if that’s something you’re already thinking about, then I’m confident that your version of masculinity will be positive and considerate. “Masculinity” is subjective, and you get to make it your own. When in doubt, use whatever privileges you have to advocate for others. Remember that no gender or gender expression is better, more capable or more valid than any other. Respect the heck out of femme folks. And don’t make assumptions about what other people want and need based on their gender expressions.

Also, having solidarity with trans people is really important, especially right now. Some butches connect with the word “trans.” Others don’t. Regardless of how you feel about your gender now or in the future, the current legal attacks against trans kids, trans-affirming families and trans adults are, in some ways, rooted in a fear of people who disrupt gender norms — and butches disrupt gender norms! Even if you don’t consider yourself part of the trans community, speak out against transphobia whenever you can. LGBTQ+ people have to look out for each other, especially when some our most vulnerable community members are in danger.

How Can I Explore My Butch Identity Beyond My Outward Gender Presentation?

If you asked ten butches what is means to be butch, you’d probably get ten different answers. For years, I didn’t think I could call myself “butch” because I’m not a gruff, beefcake car mechanic, but it turns out that masculinity varies widely across countries, cultures, families, communities and individuals. My version of masculinity looks like this: I’m a caretaker. I will bike many miles to bring food and meds to a sick friend. I will be the roommate who unclogs the drain. I will send an encouraging text to a colleague who’s struggling. If I see someone getting harassed on the bus, I will offer to sit next to them.

There isn’t anything inherently “masculine” about taking care of others in these ways, but in my own brain and body, this part of my personality feels connected to my masculinity. I wish I could explain exactly why, but ultimately, it doesn’t matter.

I’ve also been told that the way I stand, walk and speak is “masculine.” This is just how my body naturally works. In the past — even recently — I’ve tried to hide some of these things in conversations with new people and even in work meetings, because some people have said I come off as “too serious,” “too aggressive” or “intense.” I’m working on embracing these parts of myself now. Maybe you have some of these qualities, too — and if not, that doesn’t make you any less butch! I know butches with high voices, butches who sway their hips when they walk and butches who talk with their hands. You don’t have to change your body’s natural mannerisms to call yourself butch.

Quick aside: speaking of bodies, there are all kinds of butch bodies out there! We rarely see butches on TV or in movies, but when we do get a taste of butch (or at least butch-ish) representation, the butches we see are usually thin and white. But guess what? There are lots of people of color who describe themselves as butches, studs, masculine of center, masc, etc. There are also fat butches, butch trans women, butches with big chests, butches who’ve had top surgery, disabled butches, nonbinary butches, long-haired butches — I could go on. Sometimes when you’re exploring a new aspect of your identity, you might feel like you have to emulate something specific. But there’s no one way to be butch.

So how do you identify your own butch qualities? Journal! I can tell you’re a keen observer and a great writer. Scribbling down your thoughts or typing them out might help you understand yourself a little more intimately. If you need some journaling prompts, here are some questions you can ask yourself:

To me, being butch means…
I feel the most confident when…
I feel the most comfortable in my body when…
It’s 2032. Here’s what I’m doing:

Talking to friends and mentors is also a great way to learn about yourself. If you have LGBTQ+ buds, ask them how they see their own identities.

Finally, seek out butch representation in media and see whose experiences speak to you. For me, learning about butch history helps me conceptualize my own identity and my place in the world. A few years ago, my friend gave me a book called Butch Heroes by Ria Brodell, which profiles 28 butches and transmasculine people from history. This book reminds me that there have always been gender outlaws in this world. Now I get to be part of that legacy, and so do you.

Since you like theater, you’re probably familiar with the musical Fun Home, which is based on a graphic novel by Allison Bechdel (it’s sad — really sad — so if you’re not familiar with Fun Home, maybe read a quick synopsis before you commit to checking it out). I especially appreciate the song “Ring of Keys,” which chronicles the moment when a young Allison Bechdel encounters a butch person for the first time.

I’m also a big fan of a zine and Instagram account called Butch Is Not A Dirty Word, which features images of butches and their stories. If your particular flavor of butchness is underrepresented in media, you’ll probably find it here.

I’m not super familiar with young adult fiction, so I asked my fellow writers at Autostraddle to recommend some YA books with butch, masc and stud representation. Here are some of their suggestions, plus some others I found listed on our website:

Last Night at the Telegraph Club by Malinda Lo
Like Other Girls by Britta Lundin
Home Field Advantage by Dahlia Adler
One in Every Crowd by Ivan Coyote
Girl Mans Up by M-E Girard
I Am Your Sister by Erika K.F. Simpson
The Difference Between You and Me by Madeline George
Lumberjanes by Shannon Watters, Grace Ellis, ND Stevenson & Gus Allen

As a final piece of guidance for your butch exploration, remember to stay curious. Gender expression, gender identity and sexuality are fluid, and you can experiment with different things at different times — I certainly have. No matter where you’re at in life, run towards whatever feels authentic and exciting for you right now.

Do Butches Date Other Butches?

When it comes to dating, there are definitely butches who date other butches! In fact, most of the butches I know are into other butch people. There’s even a whole issue of Butch Is Not A Dirty Word celebrating butch4butch love. Personally, I’ve dated people with all kinds different gender expressions.

While some might have a certain type, I think most people are attracted to folks who are confidently and authentically themselves. And if your authentic self is butch, then other people are going to be attracted to that! I was really worried that I would have a hard time dating after I embraced a masculine aesthetic, but the exact opposite happened.

Does that mean every single person I’ve ever had a crush on liked me back? Nope. Unrequited love happens to all of us, and there will probably come a time when you’re into a girl who just isn’t into you. Maybe that’s happened already. Remember that you don’t have to change yourself for a crush, and trying to change yourself probably won’t feel very good (no matter what the musical Grease tries to tell you). Eventually, your heart will be drawn to someone who likes you exactly the way you are, and if that doesn’t work out in the long-term, don’t worry — you’ll have plenty of opportunities to meet new people, and you’ll learn something new about yourself from each person you date.

Oh, and the best way to find out if a girl likes you — whether she’s butch, femme or something else — is to tell her you like her or ask her out! I know that putting yourself out there can feel scary, but it’s the only way to know for sure if someone is into you (and even if she’s not into you, she might respect the fact that you were confident enough to say how you feel).

Before I sign off, I have to tell you this: when you sent your question to us, the Autostraddle writers and editors were SO EXCITED to hear from you, and we are absolutely blown away by your thoughtfulness, your intelligence and your bravery. No matter what kinds of experiences you have in the future, please remember that there’s a group of queer adults at Autostraddle who are rooting for you. Now go out there and live your best butch life!

Love,
Ro

To the Trans Kids Reading This – Keep Glowing

The Evolution of Unclockable Transgender Tuck Kits

As a transfeminine person, the word tucking makes me cringe. I think of former bullies making fun of drag queens. I’m transported to my initial puberty, when my body was slowly moving away from my mind and soul and I wanted to stop the process of masculinization—and couldn’t. Today, tucking is a means of safety. The world we live in means having to conform to a level of binary gender that makes it dangerous to step out of those boundaries.

Coming from this experience, I was shocked to learn about a product called Unclockable, through a sponsored advertisement on Facebook. The name alludes to the term used among trans communities of going about public life while passing as cisgender. The initial imagery featured a pink triangle with a feminine eye inside of it. It looked like the symbol for a queer secret society, instead of a serious product. It described itself as a “tuck that’s breathable, secure, patent pending & medical-grade.” I lurked the comments and aligned myself with other skeptics, eventually stalking their instagram and website.

After an hour of swiping through before and after photos of transgender women and celebratory statements of gender euphoria, I found an image of Matty and their father. In the caption, Matty explained at the time that they identified as a trans woman and developed the product for over a year. Matty proudly modeled the tucking tape, revealing the Unclockable logo under a pair of back-laced panties. My skepticism subsided.

Three years later, I reached out to Matty Bleistern, the founder of Unclockable. We agreed to meet at a tea shop in Greenwich Village in New York City. They made a point of calling me before, to warn me about their current gender presentation. “So nothing is static. Everything’s changing all the time. I have. I’ve got a more non binary understanding of myself now,” said Bleistern. They had evolved a great deal since the beginning of their company and transition. At our meeting they wore a full beard, a high and tight haircut with a French striped t-shirt. Their pronouns changed from she/her to they/them and their name from Maddie to Matty. This was a sharp contrast from the ultra-femme red summer dress and soft bangs on the Unclockable website.

If I hadn’t known Matty’s story, I may have been annoyed that someone presenting masculine is selling tuck kits, targeting trans women and drag performers. There is a sensitivity you don’t learn unless you experience the need to tuck. I would have been mistaken. When Matty began their transition they checked as many boxes off the list as they could. They started hormone replacement therapy, changed their name, and dove into transfeminine adolescence headfirst. They came out to their family friends and felt the deep pain of potentially losing loved ones. It wasn’t until after this experience that they founded Unclockable with their father, Mitch.

Trans people working through gender dysphoria will go through any means to express their identity. This is especially true for trans women living in areas and countries that are unsafe.

In their three-year history, the company has received mostly positive feedback from people who have felt empowered to express their gender identity more fully. But there are others who are still understandably skeptical of the company. “We’ll get a lot of like judgmental comments saying we’re making someone feel insecure about their body, when the opposite is actually true, which is that we’re empowering people to feel comfortable looking in the mirror. And to say that the alternative to that is unsafe, is an understatement,” said Bleistern. The most common criticism is that Unclockable is assuming all transfeminine people should be working towards achieving cisgender passing standards. Matty explains that the name, Unclockable, was not related to your ability to conform to binary gender standards but your ability to have an appearance that matches your own gender identity.

Matty’s goal with Unclockable, is to help people avoid the painful and unsafe methods Matty has tried themself. “I’ve found myself in the dark corners of the internet looking for ways to tuck and it gets dark. Some of the things people are doing are really unsafe. I’ve seen people using duct tape, even medical glue,” explains Matty. Trans people working through gender dysphoria will go through any means to express their identity. This is especially true for trans women living in areas and countries that are unsafe.

“I could have just made this thing for myself, and cut a bunch of tape together. And that’s it. And I could show my friends, right? Maybe if I did that, I wouldn’t have a business but I certainly wouldn’t have reached the number of people that I have,” said Bleistern.

In the early days of Unclockable, there was little separation between Matty and their invention. “I’d say, it’s evolved into not just the work of one person or two people. So yeah, so I guess it’s evolved with a sense that it’s no longer just about me”, says Bleistern. Matty progressed deeper into their own gender identity, realizing they weren’t as binary as they thought. At that point the founder and the product began to separate and Matty’s invention grew from a kitchen prototype with a vague logo to a sought after product backed by a skilled distribution and marketing team.

The evolution of Unclockable represents an extraction of Matty’s ultra-feminine persona. It was the creation of a very specific experience through transgender feminine gender identity. This is a period no trans person wants to remember once they move past it. Matty seems to have lived in this period and never moved on. Instead they peeled it away and let it live on its own as a company. It exists as a representation of the painful transfeminine adolescence that is necessary for many transfeminine people to realize their fully actualized femininity. It’s a necessary moment of pubescent cringe people usually only experience once. That moment is frozen in time as a company.

Looking back, I wish a company like Unclockable existed when I was starting my transfeminine journey through gender. Instead, all I had was trial and error and the hope that one day transgender people would be a normal part of human existence. The existence of a product like Unclockable proves that there are enough of us out there who are fighting for the need to feel whole. The cringe that I felt when I first learned about the product was a projection of my own memories of my trans adolescence. The company simply reminded me of how much I and every trans person who has moved into their experience of gender maturity. It is a company that exists beyond its founder and beyond my limited initial assumptions.

“It’s the most rewarding experience of my life, Bleistern comments. “I’ve never had a kid. I assume that changes your whole life. And so I think this product is kind of out there interacting with people changing their lives, and that blows my mind every time I think about it.”

You Need Help: I’m a Trans Woman Looking For Affirming Lesbian Content

Q:

Hi :) My name is [redacted], and I’m a trans woman. I spend a lot of time on lesbian instagram and tiktok, and while there’s tons for me to relate to, it feels conspicuous how little trans women’s bodies are shown or mentioned in the lesbian memespace. Many meme accounts and other such will share beautiful art and artists depicting lesbian intimacy, even including non-binary people. But I just don’t see trans women included in that kind of thing. There will be these super relatable memes about dating as a lesbian, coming out, all that. But it feels like there’s never a reference to coming out as a trans lesbian, or any of the problems that we face, or the joys that we also have as trans lesbians. It feels like the most popular voices in online lesbian culture either don’t know any trans women in real life, or are afraid to include trans women in their material.

So what do I do? Do I ask [redacted lesbian IG memer] to post more trans shit? Do I have any right to ask people I don’t even know to include me? Thank you for your time!

A:

Hi [redacted],

I am also a trans lesbian, and I have some social media recommendations for you (and hopefully commenters will too), but before that I have a question: Why do you want to see trans lesbian-specific bodies and content on social media? It might feel obvious, but I don’t ask that rhetorically. I want you to think about what you’re really looking for. What would seeing (more) trans lesbian-specific content on social media mean to you?

Something unfortunate that frequently happens online is trans women rightfully lament the fact that frequently, cis straight men and cis gay women won’t date us. Unfortunately, because of the extreme limits of social media for any kind of nuanced or meaningful discourse, this gets characterized as us commanding people to date us.

What people who share those feelings online are actually doing (usually) is expressing their feelings about the system of oppression we live within, about how it feels to have one’s identity invalidated, and how hard it is to pursue love and affection when you’re so marginalized. What they are not doing (usually) is trying to force unwilling individuals to rectify this situation. There’s a big difference between saying “it sucks that so many cis lesbians exclude us from being potential lovers” and saying “if you don’t want to fuck me, you’re a bigot.”

The difference between a lament and a command is frequently blurred online, and sometimes in our minds… and I think it might be blurred in your question, too. Is it valid to be frustrated like you are? Yes! I am too. Is it appropriate to ask a cis creator to include trans women in content? No. You probably do have the right to ask, but I don’t think you actually want to force unwilling individual cis people to create content that speaks to you. What it sounds like you actually want is for trans inclusion to be so mainstream in the lesbian community that they want to create it, or that trans lesbian creators become more popular. I feel you. We just aren’t there yet. It sucks! You’re on the right website, though.

Now, you asked “what do I do?” Ask yourself this, I guess: Why don’t you feel included unless some piece of content is specifically about trans women? Would a lesbian intimacy drawing, for example, only feel inclusive if you could see one of the girl’s penises? If you could see a beard shadow, an “Adam’s apple,” surgery scars, some kind of particular musculature or body shape that you associate with being trans? If they are literally in the process of injecting hormones? That seems… essentializing to me. I know there’s something special about seeing trans-specific lesbian content, but that content does exist. It’s not super common, but neither are we.

Something that helps me is realizing nearly all lesbian content is already inclusive of trans lesbians. I’ve rarely seen, and genuinely find it hard to imagine, memes or art that’s specifically about or for cis lesbians only. I’d recommend that you imagine that there’s at least one trans woman in every lesbian piece of content you come across unless specified otherwise! In my mind, for example? All the ladies below are trans! There’s no reason to believe they aren’t, even if the artist had different intentions. Click to see each artist’s Twitter handle, by the way.

The point is this: it sucks that we still have to struggle with inclusion in lesbian community, your feelings are valid, and I hope you’ll be OK whether or not you can find enough trans lesbian-specific content online. I hope you can find other types of content relevant, meaningful, and fun. I hope you’re building IRL, or more substantive than social media-based, connections with kind, loving people regardless of their identities.

Now, with all of that bluster out of the way, here are some recommendations. FYP by Shelli and No Filter by Christina are great sources for trans-inclusive lesbian celebrity content. r/actuallesbians is a very inclusive subreddit (note that it’s called that because the r/lesbians subreddit is just porn), though it seems to skew pretty young. Some meme pages I’ve laughed at: @trans_lesbian_things, @mtf.trans03 and @mtf.trans.memes, @sassy.trans, @_akuithakitten_, and @bigdyckmom6. Some artists with explicitly trans-inclusive lesbian art: Bonnie Guerra, Felix D’eon, Gabriella Grimes, and Valerie Halla. And if you’re into gaming, maybe check out Hardcoded or Knife Sisters (I haven’t played either yet, to be fair, but they’re highly recommended).

Hopefully commenters can provide more recommendations, and hopefully we’ll exist in a day when the majority of lesbian content online is either explicitly trans-inclusive or the culture will have changed to where it’s easy to assume it is. In the meantime, we’ll just have to remember that we are women, we are lesbians, and any lesbian content that doesn’t explicitly exclude us by default includes us.

You can chime in with your advice in the comments and submit your own questions any time.

The Films That Helped Me Feel At Home In My Agender Experience

The idea of gender has never come easily to me. Actually, that’s a lie. I’ve always known exactly what I was, even if I’ve never been unable to convey my own complicated, utopian, monstrous mode of being through words. Perhaps that is why film has proved so instrumental to my exploration of my own trans experience. Cinema has that unique ability to bypass conscious thought, while poignantly helping us arrive at a truth. So without further ado, here are a few of the films that proved transformative to me, as I came of age and came out as agender:

The Lure (dir. Agnieszka Smoczynska, 2015)

Part musical romance, part grisly horror flick, The Lure tells the compelling and sometimes absurd tale of two mermaids who take up work at a nightclub as adult entertainers. While one mermaid, Silver, finds herself falling in love with a bass-playing mortal (think Machine Gun Kelly, if he was Polish and still lived with his parents), her companion, Golden, is more comfortable devouring unsuspecting human men.

The debut of Polish director Agnieszka Smocynska is crowded with transitions, subtle and overt which defy easy categorization. There is something more than visceral, for example, during the scene in which Golden must decide whether or not to have her tail surgically removed, and replaced with a human torso and legs. That she is doing this not to reaffirm some integral aspect of her embodied experience, but rather to become more desirable to a human youth who would otherwise spurn her is potentially troubling. Her potential transition is neither a mutilation or a victory, but something in between: a labor of love.

But even so, what results is a very queer, deliciously unsatisfying homoerotic love triangle that pays no heed to the traditional rules of embodiment. In the figure of the mermaid, one is confronted by various uneasy binaries: neither fish nor human but rather a mythological, alchemical fusion. They are amphibious in addition to being sexually ambiguous. In short, the merperson is an epistemological menace and a symbol for the complex, fluidity of gendered experience. A similar kind of ambiguity ran rampant in me before I came out, dynamic and potentially, treacherous. I existed in the manner of an open secret, not hiding what I was, but not owning it either.

Ex Machina (dir. Alex Garland, 2014)

I’ve watched this film a dozen times, and not just because it’s very easy to crush on Alicia Vikander in her role as Ava. It would ultimately take me a few viewings to understand what exactly about the sci-fi thriller felt so vital to me: Ava is programmed to be straight and female without having any say in the matter. Her form is inscribed with a kind of coerced sexuality projected upon her by her male creator.

Watching Ava script her interactions made me realize that for much of my existence I had felt as though I were pretending or acting out a part for the convenience of others. Even so, I assumed that this was what femininity itself consisted of: the hollowing out of the self to make room for the desires of the masculine other. In a way, that is what I had been doing my whole life: attempting to play the part of a woman for the sake of the others around me, in the process negating who or what I really was. It never occurred to me that I might be allowed to identify as agender. Perhaps it is not so surprising then, that I, by some mistake of biology, gender theory, or philosophy, had come to identify as a robot. The cyborg, after all, is not constrained by normative identification—it is allowed to exist in all of its ambiguity because it simply does not have all the baggage of being associated with the human.

The Passion of Joan of Arc (dir. Carl Theodore Dryer, 1928)

Largely considered one of the best silent films to grace the cinema screen, La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc, is a study in face acting and harrowing emotionality. The piece centers, of course, on the historical Joan of Arc (Renee Jeanne Falconetti) who desperately attempts to maintain her composure and inner-strength as she is tried and executed for heresy. And then there’s Joan’s blatant refusal to dress in the garments commonly allotted to her sex and her unwomanly consorting with male soldiers. Joan’s justification is simple: she exists and moves in the interest of God. Every spar or slander mortal men might attempt to slight her with, is rendered foolish by her immortal creator’s obvious favor. Her unapologetic exaltation in the masculine, without conceding her feminine experience, is more than simply moving—it is divinely inspired.

I found myself crying the first time I watched this film, hopeful and grief-stricken all at once. That religious faith and trans experience could be indelibly intertwined was something I needed to see on screen.

Jennifer’s Body (dir. Karyn Kusama, 2009)

So, this movie is kind of about demonic possession, but also not? Really, it’s a heartbreaking commentary on being precocious, queer, and closeted in a small town in Minnesota, but I digress.

Jennifer oozes sexuality even before she’s transformed into a succubus, but it’s only after her transition that viewers begin to regard her physicality with a kind of policing skepticism. The demonic body, overlaid with heady shots thick with repressed queer desire is a poignant reminder of what it means to occupy a form that is perpetually being “othered”. In high school, I lacked Jennifer’s easy glamor, and her eventual violent streak. But I could understand what it was to be playing a part—to assume the position of the feminine despite my total alienation from it. And I could understand what it meant to be simultaneously natural and unnatural.

Spirited Away (dir. Hayao Miyazaki, 2001)

The first time I watched Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi, or Spirited Away, I was still young enough to be utterly taken in by the plot (in which a young girl’s parents are transformed into pigs and she must save them), but old enough to feel a certain unease with the startling conventions of the spirit realm. At the time, what I knew about myself and my queerness was mostly embodied, unconscious, intuitive. I lacked the language to mark myself with the labels I would later use, just as Chihiro is deprived of the kanji characters that spell her name.

I fell into a kind of terrified obsession with the unsubstantial characters that swarmed the epicenter of the action, Yubaba’s bathhouse, who I could not place amongst my own categorizations of being. My encounters with gender, like the protagonist’s encounters with the spirits, have been all of these things—faceless, unnerving, transcendent, inarticulable. One moment, I might be assured in the performance of my femininity or masculinity, the next, I would receive a revelation of vacuousness– of not belonging. Watching as another, albeit animated, fictional child suddenly found herself thrust into a world so entirely unlike her own, felt at once uncanny and comforting to me. After all, what is life in an agender body if not the constant experience of being in perfect familiarity with oneself, and being completely at odds with the expectation of gendered presentation?

For me, holding together an identity in the absence of gender is naturally uncomfortable. There is an incoherence, a dissonance, and an inarticulable grace that comes with accepting that human existence is all about paradox. Being agender is something like the impossible made possible, as rare and unexpected as accidentally landing in the Spirit Realm, or happening upon mermaids in Poland.

The Catch-22 of Being a Trans Woman Athlete

This Trans Day of Visibility, we’re publishing a series of essays from trans writers who pose questions about what being visible has meant for us. Who is seeing us? How do we want to be seen? And at what cost? You can read all essays from the series here.

Hi, my name is Jenna Weiner, I’m a trans woman athlete, and you’ve probably never heard of me before.

It goes without saying that this fact really shouldn’t be surprising, after all, my name hasn’t been plastered across the news. And yet, in the face of the breathless sensationalism that has surrounded trans women athletes the past several months, it honestly does feel like it.

So who am I then? As already mentioned, I’m a trans woman who currently plays both ultimate frisbee and disc golf and who advocates for LGBTQ inclusion in sports. I’m a San Francisco Bay Area local and I regularly work with LGBTQ youth. I’m an eldest daughter, a low brass musician, and a snow globe collector. I’m a trans woman athlete who’s not in the news and that shouldn’t be news.

This means that when trans women athletes win, we lose, and when we lose, we lose all the more. We’re caught up by transphobia and willful ignorance, between never-ceasing critique from our detractors and unsupportive virtue signaling from our supporters.

The recent fervor around trans women athletes, then, stands in stark contrast to my own experience. That’s because despite being openly and vocally trans in all facets of my life, I frequently feel unseen at the very same time. And with March 31st being Trans Day of Visibility, now seems as good a time as any to write to you from that space between the hypervisibility of my identity as a trans woman athlete and the near invisibility of my experience, between the drama of the news and the banality of reality.

At the core of this apparent contradiction is the truth that trans women, whether athletes or Jeopardy contestants, only come under scrutiny when we’re successful. When a trans woman wins, she’s seen as having some sort of unfair advantage somehow and her name is usually blasted across the airwaves. When a trans woman loses, nobody cares and all we hear is “you’re simply not good enough.” We’re then ignored until we win again or otherwise make some noise, but we can be as ordinary as anyone else and that should be okay too.

This means that when trans women athletes win, we lose, and when we lose, we lose all the more. We’re caught up by transphobia and willful ignorance, between never-ceasing critique from our detractors and unsupportive virtue signaling from our supporters. In practice, there is simultaneously constant debate about how much trans women athletes are an existential threat to women’s sports, while all I hear is near total silence each and every time I take the field. My identity is talked about everywhere, while my experience is talked about nowhere, except by myself to try and be heard in the world.

Take my sport of ultimate frisbee (“ultimate” for short), a broadly liberal sport that preaches inclusion and openness, which I’ve played for a decade—half of those years as an out and proud trans woman. During my initial years of transitioning I worked hard to share my story as a trans woman athlete in ultimate, and helped raise awareness and change policy to be more trans-inclusive. I found a welcoming community, and one I sorely needed as a trans woman trying to find her way in the world.

However, in the years since then, I’ve found that while I have been included and assimilated as a trans woman athlete in the larger ultimate community, my identity has been accepted only to be ignored. While feeling somewhat contradictory, I’ve realized that the path moves quickly from stated inclusivity to deliberate ignorance. The self-proclaimed progressive ultimate community easily rallies against external anti-trans policies and legislation, while the trans women athletes in their own sport receive nary a message or note of well-wishes.

This isn’t a call, though, for people in my life, in other trans women athletes’ lives, to bombard us with well-wishes for a week and then forget to reach out for the next year or until the next time my tweets pop up in your feed. Instead, it’s a call to demonstrate the care that many folks seem to feel in responding to the hypervisibility of transphobic policies and practices with actual thoughtful action, communication, and intention. To show the trans women athletes that are living, working, and playing right alongside you that you see them too.

Artist: A. Andrews.

For me, fundamentally living and working bring with them two basic goals: to simply be a visible trans woman and to be seen as such. And, if I can, to use the privilege that I have as a well-supported, well-resourced white trans woman to take on the bullshit and answer the hard questions so that others that don’t want to don’t have to. However, I’m not really asking for people to put me front and center. I realize what that can bring and what that can do to even the most resolute trans women with the thickest skins I know.

What I am asking for is for people to look past the sensationalism and recognize that there are folks being directly affected by these issues that are just as ordinary and out of the limelight as they are. Because all the while people are seeing trans women athletes like me doing the work and assume all is well even in the face of everything, each time I see a new headline questioning my existence it feels like a punch to the gut. Especially when it feels like I can’t escape the current hypervisibility, can’t avoid seeing news article after news article attacking my identity, and at the same time feel like that same identity is largely invisible to those who know me well.

It’s in that valley, that space, between hypervisibility and invisibility where I now stand. Hearing the world churn loudly around me with ceaseless debates about the visibility and authenticity of my identity, while within my own spheres things are largely silent, as if even my shouting into the void gets lost on its way.

The Day I Decided to Be Out and Proud as a Transgender Medic

This Trans Day of Visibility, we’re publishing a series of essays from trans writers who pose questions about what being visible has meant for us. Who is seeing us? How do we want to be seen? And at what cost? You can read all essays from the series here.

We walked into the hospital to pick up the patient. Our call is to transfer them to the Children’s Hospital an hour south. Little did I know this “kid” would rapidly confirm my career as a medic and why being an openly transgender medic matters.

At the time, around a year ago, I’m a paramedic student, in the process of completing ride-outs. Essentially an unpaid internship with the aim of obtaining on-the-job experience and demonstrating competent skills knowledge. The pressure is through the roof, I’m broke, and I’m riddled with anxiety, over-analyzing everything. Oh, and COVID, there’s lots of COVID. Because I’m a masochist, I also figured continuing my transition from female to male and having top surgery weeks before my ride-out was a great idea. Logistically speaking, it was. Emotionally? The jury is still out.

I made the decision to not openly identify as trans on the job. I acknowledge what a privilege this was to have this option available to me. My voice was deep and I had just enough hair on my face to pass as cis. The last thing I needed was to have awkward conversations with potential coworkers. So back into the warmth and safety of the closet I went. It was defeating, ridden with shame and if I could go back and do it again, I wouldn’t have.

I walk up to the nursing station and wait to be acknowledged. Nurses are the rulers of the healthcare world. Not doctors. Nurses. I know if I get the approval of the nurses, I’m in.

Artist: A. Andrews.

“We’re looking for…Amanda?” I stutter.

The nurse, without looking up, responds, “Oh ya, the transfer, one second.”

One second means when I am good and ready for you. I say thank you and wait patiently, trying not to hover. My partner is setting up the stretcher, a ritual in itself. Undo the belts, lower the bed, unfold the sheet, drape it over the bed, turn on the monitor. She, too, waits.

A few minutes later another nurse approaches and asks, “You’re here for the transfer right?”

“Yes, thank you” I reply. Manners always. She briskly walks over to the room where our patient is and starts running through her report.

The report is arguably the most important part of healthcare. Think of it as a game of telephone but you have to get it right. Accurate transfer of information ensures the consistency of care for the patient. There’s an overwhelming weight of responsibility when you are aware that your actions affect the well-being of another human. More often than not, one small, seemingly insignificant detail is the information that completes the picture, solves the mystery if you will. It is your job to not miss that detail. If nothing else, get that report perfect.

I am almost running to keep up with the nurse and make sure I am hearing and understanding every word she says, when we get to the room. I look in at the patient and see… me.

They are tall, but slim, perhaps undernourished, pale as snow. Their short brown locks frame their soft face and emerald eyes, glistening with fresh tears. They wear a worn-out band shirt from an era they weren’t even born in and plaid pajama bottoms. They look exhausted, in pain, uncomfortable. The color I am sure drained from my face as my heart began to bleed into my chest.

I take a step back from the room and turn to the nurse in a hushed voice, “Amanda?” My brow furrows into a shape inherited from my father, communicating one thing: explain.

“He goes by the name of Zeke,” replies the nurse. “He identifies as male and although an aspect of his medical history, not why he is being transferred today.”

“Hey, Zeke,” I say as pleasantly as possible. “We’re here to take you to another hospital, do you need anything before we go?”

Zeke knew he was being transferred, his belongings nicely organized by the bed in anticipation of leaving. He requested to use the washroom before we departed.
My mind spun like a tilt-a-whirl. The scent of the psych ward I spent months in. The look on my mother’s face when I proclaimed I was trans after yet another suicide attempt. Then, fear.

I frantically thought to myself, Will Zeke know that I’m trans? Will he out me? What if he thinks I am just some dude? What if he doesn’t know? Should he know? What does it matter?

Then, as if the universe was sending me a message, my partner asks me, “What’s her story?”

My blood boiled. The fog swirling in my mind quickly dispersed and I looked my partner dead in the eyes. “He,” I said. “He.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, I heard that” they responded.

Zeke returned from the washroom and plopped himself on the stretcher. As we strapped him in, I began. “Zeke, my name is Fisher and my pronouns are he/him… what pronouns do you prefer?” Zeke responded. It was as much for providing comfort to Zeke as a silent message to my partner to reinforce how important getting his pronouns correctly were.

We laughed, we cried a bit and we sometimes sat in comfortable silence. In that “mood-lit” ambulance, for those minutes, we were just us. No patient, no medic. Us.

We loaded him into the ambulance for our journey. As Zeke and I sat in the back, just us, I found myself acting like a worried mother. Trying too hard to care for this “kid” while simultaneously trying to qualm my own fears.

We sat in silence for a bit. I turned on what I call the “mood lighting”. Soft, bluish purple tinged lights that frame the cupboards on the inside of the ambulance. Converting the harsh clinical environment from exam room to the coziness of a bedroom.

Eventually, Zeke and I talked about school, his boyfriend who was incredibly supportive, his eating disorder and how it makes him feel. He described his desire to find community and support but not knowing where to look, or how to access it. He was tired. Of being in and out of medical facilities. Of fighting with himself. I told him I could empathize. I shared my own battles with mental health, my stays in facilities, resources I used as a trans man. We laughed, we cried a bit and we sometimes sat in comfortable silence. In that “mood-lit” ambulance, for those minutes, we were just us. No patient, no medic. Us.

The increasingly bumpy ride told me we were in the city, Zeke and I’s time together was coming to an end. The ambulance pulled into the bay of the hospital. My partner opened the back doors, automatically turning the harsh fluorescent lights on. Shocking our sight and reinstating the status quo of our situation, of society.

Immediately after transferring care of Zeke to the children’s hospital, I came out to my crew. I walked out of the closet for the last time.

Surprise, It’s Depression: Recovery from Gender-Affirming Surgery

This Trans Day of Visibility, we’re publishing a series of essays from trans writers who pose questions about what being visible has meant for us. Who is seeing us? How do we want to be seen? And at what cost? You can read all essays from the series here.

*Full names are included where permission was given, while some names have been shortened or changed to protect individuals’ privacy.*

After all the preparation and longing leading up to top surgery, I thought I would feel relieved when it finally happened. I knew I’d be tired and frustrated during recovery, but I was unprepared for how drastically it would impact my mental health. For weeks, I found myself crying every night, feeling worthless, and losing sight of the future, despite the fact that I thought my chest looked great. Then, a friend told me about post-operative depression. Though it’s relatively common, there seemed to be very few first-hand accounts following gender-affirming surgery.

To understand why post-operative depression happens, we have to look at a number of factors beyond the physiological response to anesthesia. Many of us experience an emotional crash after a long build-up to surgery. Depending on the type of surgery, we may have significant loss of mobility, leaving us unable to get endorphins from physical activity and unpacking internalized ableism around needing so much physical support during recovery. Meanwhile, our body may struggle to make sense of why it was cut open as it works overtime to heal wounds it cannot understand as positive or intentional. Depending on surgery results, some of us experience disappointment or anger at surgeons who are not as trans-competent as they portrayed themselves to be. On the other end of the spectrum, we may feel guilt or shame about being depressed while being lucky enough to get the surgery and results we wanted.

Artist: A. Andrews.

Several people I spoke with mentioned that they were worried that if they talked publicly about post-operative depression, their stories would be weaponized as part of a transphobic narrative of regret when that was not what they were experiencing. Gavin Wyer, a 64-year-old trans man, shared with me that “depression is a normal reaction to the anesthesia [but] post-op depression is often read as regret and psychological in nature rather than a biological effect.”

Despite the fact that post-operative depression is so common, limited information leaves many of us unprepared. In the instructions I received for care after surgery, the possibility of post-operative depression was just one line of text with no recommendations on management, simply stating that after surgery “some patients can go through a brief period of depression.” When we are provided with some information, the severity is minimized.

“I think medical professionals should be a bit more realistic about recovery timelines, especially mental ones,” said Holl Chaisson, a nonbinary law student in Virginia. “Recovery has taken a lot longer than my surgeon led me to expect… and I struggled in part because I felt I should have been better faster, making the post-op depression worse.” Similarly, K, a Black trans masc person in their thirties who lives in Brooklyn, said that they felt like a burden during the early stages of recovery: “Once the drains were removed that feeling got worse because I thought [at that point] I SHOULD be able to get back to my regularly scheduled programming.”

In my case, I was told I should be able to do most things myself within a week. When it took me closer to a month to regain independence, I felt like I was a failure for needing so much more time and support than I anticipated. We need clear information and realistic timelines for both physical and mental recovery time, so we do not compare ourselves to unreasonable standards.

Visibility can be a trap in many ways because we never got to set the terms by which we are viewed.

By connecting with other trans people, I got reassurance that things would get better, but many people suffer through it alone. Lucy, a trans woman in her mid-thirties, told me that when she was struggling with post-operative depression following vaginoplasty, she felt incredibly isolated: “I looked around online, but couldn’t find anyone else describing my experiences. My local LGBTQ center had a one-off post-op support session, but almost everyone who showed up hadn’t had surgery. To make matters worse, the hosts had really excellent experiences with surgery and talked at length about how easy dilation is. I felt totally alone.” This isolation can have a severe impact on someone already experiencing depression. Those of us who are able to share information about these experiences should do so in order to reassure and protect our trans siblings.

If you are preparing for gender affirming surgery, remember that post-operative depression is a normal part of the process, and try to plan ahead. If there are certain times of day or moments that tend to trigger negative emotions, make a plan for that specific period. James, a biracial, nonbinary transmasculine person in NYC noted that “recognizing that there was a pattern to it helped me plan for it, even as much as I dreaded it— I could have all the lights on before the sun went down.”

If you have a trans-affirming therapist, schedule appointments for the first few weeks following surgery. Talking about your emotions and connecting with others can help minimize the isolation that worsens depression. Even if it is difficult to find trans people near you who are talking about post-operative depression, try to remember that this is a common experience, and that it will fade. Give yourself permission to just focus on resting as much as you can. Above all else, be patient with yourself while you wait for the passage of time to ease the physical and mental pain.

About a month after surgery, when my wounds had healed and my range of motion started to expand, my mental state started to shift. It felt possible to enjoy life again, at least in small bursts. I got together with friends and started a new job, and I loved my newly flat chest. Everything got a little easier. Still, at the two-month mark, my mental health is not completely back to where it was before surgery. I have easy days and hard days, and during the hard days I find myself easily frustrated, very low energy, and talking very negatively about myself. I am confident it will continue to fade, but in the meantime I am trying to be patient and remember that this is just another piece of my healing process.

I Wish I’d Medically Transitioned Before Giving Birth

This Trans Day of Visibility, we’re publishing a series of essays from trans writers who pose questions about what being visible has meant for us. Who is seeing us? How do we want to be seen? And at what cost? You can read all essays from the series here.

The moment I realized I wanted to have a baby, I was also coming to terms with the fact that I am transgender. I had just changed my name and started using gender-neutral pronouns, and the possibilities of who I could become were overwhelming. I couldn’t stop thinking about starting Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT). Everything was new to me: the language around being nonbinary, how testosterone actually changed a body, the thought of living past my twenties.

I called a local clinic and quietly asked if they had any doctors accepting new patients. When they asked me why I needed to schedule an appointment, my throat became an empty church—my sins exposed. I thought, going into that appointment, that I was certain about starting testosterone. But, when my doctor recommended I also find a back up birth control method like an IUD, I realized how much I had been holding onto the desire to have a baby.

Existing as a person who wants to have a baby in a world where the representation of pregnancy is mostly for cis women is exhausting. My community then was rock climbers and yoga teachers. Not the most trans-inclusive (or aware) groups of people. I didn’t know who to turn to for support with my unique experience of both wanting to transition and have a baby.

Artist: A. Andrews.

I decided to wait to medically transition. Sometimes I think I waited out of fear of what the people in my life would think of me. For years, I preached self-love and acceptance, exactly the way you were. I didn’t realize how much I needed to physically change before I could love myself.

A year into my decision to wait, the pandemic reached the United States. Days later, I got a positive pregnancy result. I remember watching myself pee on the stick, astral projecting into the tiny studio apartment bathroom where the clawfoot tub took up most of the space. I saw the range of emotions play on my face: fear, excitement, the idea that this meant I could have a baby and then transition.

Having a baby was by far one of the most badass and amazing things I’ve done in my life, but I did it all with a body that didn’t feel like mine. Pregnancy was rough. My body was changing at a rate most people would be uncomfortable with. I would stand in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom and stare from every angle. At my chest that wouldn’t flatten anymore. At my stomach that I secretly hoped people saw as a beer belly. At my hips widening, possibly forever.

My mom used to complain that having four kids ruined her body—her reason for getting a breast augmentation. My entire pregnancy I thought about the possibility that having a baby would completely deflate my chest. I hoped.

When it was time to give birth, I once again watched from the outside. I stood by the hospital bed, watching this other person push for three hours, incapable of opening their eyes. I whispered promises to this rented body: the sooner they are out, the sooner you can begin your own life.

My baby was born on January 6th, 2021. My partner and I stared at the freshness of this new living, breathing being. Hours after delivery, my doctor came in to check on us. “Well,” she sighed, “Democracy has failed us today.” We turned on our phones for the first time, abruptly losing the moment we’d waited nine months for, to see the white supremacist insurrection at the Capitol. Being a parent has been an overwhelming amount of feeling guilty. My therapist asks what I’m feeling guilty about and I recite: for letting my kid watch TV sometimes, for feeding them french fries, for bringing them into a world that is full of violence and climate catastrophe.

Following my doctor was the lactation consultant. She asked how I was feeling about breastfeeding, how the baby was latching. There had been no issues so far, and it was nice to feel like my chest had a job. But I knew I didn’t want this to be long term. I wanted to chestfeed for three to six months, but the lactation consultant pushed for a full year, and I didn’t want to deprive my baby of something that seemed so urgently necessary for their health.

As the months went on, I found myself dreading feeding sessions. I knew that weaning was a possibility, there was always formula, but everyone kept telling me how great I was doing, feeding them only my milk. I once again bought into the rhetoric of there being just one good way to have a baby. Around six months in, the depression and thoughts of self-harm were taking over my every breath. I knew my medical transition couldn’t be paused for much longer.

Finally, I would begin the process of weaning my baby off so that I could begin my own growth. It happened when they were 10 months old. I began testosterone on my 27th birthday, almost a year after giving birth. I wish it had been sooner. I wish I had started transitioning before I even got pregnant, so that I could have gone through pregnancy more comfortable in my weird body. I wish it was me giving birth that day.

Having a baby was by far one of the most badass and amazing things I’ve done in my life, but I did it all with a body that didn’t feel like mine.

Since starting testosterone, everything has changed. The cloud of dysphoria is beginning to clear. Despite the new challenges that come with a second puberty in my late twenties, getting up in the morning is no longer an act of resilience. I’ve been exploring my sexuality in a completely new way—where I used to avoid touch, I now lean into comfortably. I am starting to understand my body. Communicating my needs and desires to my partner has been a revelation, and the possibilities we can now discover together have invigorated a relationship where I’ve mostly felt absent. In the mirror, I recognize myself looking back. When I move, touch, breathe, I feel it happening in my body and my mind. I’m no longer watching myself exist, but coming into an existence of my own.

I don’t regret my choices around medically transitioning, but knowing now what I didn’t know then, I never would have waited. Transitioning has allowed me to prioritize my own mental health, something that pregnancy and parenting often kicks to the side. I’ve found empowerment through putting myself first, so that I can have the confidence to show up as a parent and a partner.

My therapist asks what I’m proud of, and I say, I’m proud that my kid can see someone every day who isn’t afraid of being the truest version of themselves.

What Trans Visibility Could Mean for Trans People, and Everyone Else

This Trans Day of Visibility, we’re publishing a series of essays from trans writers who pose questions about what being visible has meant for us. Who is seeing us? How do we want to be seen? And at what cost? You can read all essays from the series here.

These past few years, and this one in particular, Trans Day of Visibility feels less like a celebration and more a reminder of the ways we are under near constant surveillance. The only problem is that while we are being watched, we’re not being seen. Visibility can be a trap in many ways because we never got to set the terms by which we are viewed. Transness as it is represented in mainstream culture is almost never to the benefit of trans people, but rather uses trans qualities or characters for their metaphorical potential.

Cis audiences have been trained to view transgender stories not as fully realized narratives but as stand-ins for some larger force. Etymologically, the term “trans” is a Latin prefix and adjective meaning simply “to cross over,” and apologies for pulling a move from some freshman’s first English paper but this definition is important, because it demonstrates that historically ‘trans’ often acts as a metaphor to signal a transition or change.

Visibility can be a trap in many ways because we never got to set the terms by which we are viewed.

When trans people and trans stories appear in the lives of mainstream society, it is the transformation which catches the eyes of cis viewers more than anything else. While coverage of Christine Jorgensen’s transition after WWII was refreshingly positive by modern standards, it was not so much a story about a trans woman as it was a story about the marvels of modern medicine. Likewise, in the midst of the boom of both reality television and plastic surgery in the early 2000s, trans people appeared again in the popular imagination but this time as the consequence of culture obsessed with image above all else. In both cases, stories of trans people have been used as a stand-in for the insecurities cis society has dealing with a shift in societal norms.

What’s important to note here is that “transness” has been used to represent a wide variety of different social fears, particularly in a contemporary context. In a postmodern cultural environment where corporations and governments are increasingly vague in how they speak to consumers and constituents (in an attempt to appeal to the broadest denomination possible), metaphor has taken on extra importance. Without larger entities telling people what transness is ‘supposed’ to mean, individual bias and fear has seeped in. Where once trans people were expected to answer for one social fear, we now must answer for seemingly every insecurity cis people have about themselves and their surroundings.

The only thing that ties all of these readings together is the associative link drawn between being trans and social transformation. The latest wave of anti-trans legislation has dovetailed with other restrictions on bodily autonomy, access to healthcare, and anxieties about maintaining ‘proper gender roles.’ Trans people are perfect targets for such an assault because many of our material struggles relate to these three issues.

Artist: A. Andrews.

While many work to reduce trans experiences to some intangible force, it often works in the opposite direction for trans people. Being trans, you quickly learn the deceptive power of images, and to survive you must learn how to read subtext. Queer people love subtext and innuendo, because for so long we were unable to speak directly about our experiences. Code-switching is common in the community, and the meaning behind certain phrases can change based on context or overlap with each other. Bisexuality and Pansexuality, while often equated, represent subtly different Queer experiences, as do the many permutations of non-binary identities. It’s individual experimentations with these identities which allows them to change so rapidly. If LGBTQ represents a fragile ‘community of difference,’ then the trans umbrella represents an exponentially more tenuous grouping of ever-shifting gender and sexual identities existing between the states of reality and possibility.

It is the transformative aspect conservatives assigned to trans people which scares them. When they discuss trans issues, rarely do they speak in present tense. Lia Thomas is not an exceptionally talented swimmer in their eyes, but rather the first of many transfemme swimmers who will ‘destroy’ women’s sports if left unchecked. Much of the push for banning HRT is based upon the claim that those beginning hormones will eventually regret doing so, and is why conservatives immediately latched onto the findings of Bell v. Tavistock</, in which they supposedly found a case of a dysphoric teen going on hormones only to later regret doing so. The nuance of individual cases is removed so that there can be space for a menacing ‘other’ lurking somewhere in the near future. Much of this rhetoric can be found in anti-abortion arguments as well, with anti-choice activists arguing they speak on behalf of the yet to be born.

What’s ironic is that after decades of portraying trans people as fanatical melancholics gazing past ourselves in the mirror, unable to confront our reality, transness itself has become the reflection in cis society’s mirror that they refuse to face directly. Rather than greet us as individuals with complex and personal relationships to our identities, anti-trans activists must abstract our existence to justify their aims.

While conservatives have fully embraced the power of metaphor, they do so only to restrict rather than expand, and cast a veil over a reality they refuse to accept. The danger of unchecked metaphor can be seen in Texas, in the way in which it can transform the kidnapping of children into an act of preemptive rescue. While a judge has since blocked Governor Abbott’s directive to treat any instance of trans minors in the state as child abuse, the damage done to individual families is de-emphasized by those who’ve lost the ability to separate reality from their construction of it.

While we are increasingly able to speak as individuals, those with which we must negotiate refuse to treat us as such. Their eyes glaze by, fearful that we might return their gaze, and become an individual human rather than a concept.