What’s Going On with Anti-Trans Legislation Targeting Youth?

“If I Don’t Say Something, No One Will”: 6 TGNC+ Perspectives on Trans Visibility in the US South

We’re all members of Alternate ROOTS, an organization which uses art and cultural organizing to uplift creations and efforts that directly address oppression in all its forms! March 31st was Trans Day of Visibility, a day to honor the lives of Trans folks while combating negative tropes or narratives around what it means to be trans! This year, we brought together members of the Alternate ROOTS Gender Equity squad to uplift narratives and experiences of transgender, non binary, intersex, and 2-spirit (TGNCNBI2-S) folks in the South, their relationship to visibility, the work they do, and the importance of celebration TGNCNBI2-S lives and legacies while they are alive. We asked them a few questions, so check out the responses below.

What is your name?

N. Nathalie Nia Faulk

How would you describe your work?

At the intersections of oration, history, performance, healing justice, cultural organizing, and individual and organizational development. Co-Director of Last Call (lastcallnola.org) Southern Organizer Academy (southernorganizer.org) and so many other things!

How would you describe your gender identity?

Ultimately as an Ebony Southern Belle! Pragmatically as Black Trans Femme nonbinary.

What are your pronouns?

I lead with They/Them and also accept She/Her

What does being Visible as a TGNCNBI2-S person mean to you? Benefits? Cons?

I think being visible brings a desire /destruction paradox. I think there are often people who see TGNC folks and are immersed in a wave of desire. Desire to know more about them, desire to access the freedom we have, desire to live in their truth, and yes Desire to love us. But because of the trap that is patriarchy and white supremacy, there is an element of cognitive dissonance that leaves room for destruction. This leads to violence, transmisogyny, and tranmisygnoir. Ultimately though, visibility means our community sees themselves in positions of power, in the history books, media, politics, and we are reminded of our inherent value because of it.

Why is it important to celebrate TGNCNB2-S Visibility ? How do you celebrate?

Because we are the blueprint for radical transformation! Trans and gender non- conforming folks, and black women and femmes, have been the healers, leaders, culture creators, at the forefront of everything since the beginning of time. This celebration reminds us and everyone around us to honor this legacy and to continue to radically imagine a world where TGNCNBI2-S folks are all living lives of abundance.The world is better and more free when our cultural practices and magic is made visible. I will be at a demonstration, then in the park, then on zoom with my people! I celebrate with affirmations, dancing, dreaming, and white wine hunny.

What is your name?

indee

How would you describe your work?

I am a performance based artist and cultural worker rooted in a radical queer Black feminist politic. I hold space for TGNC artists and community to gather and play.

How would you describe your gender identity?

When I was young my mama told me that indee means the flow of the river. Over the years I’ve grown to define my gender identity the same way. We flow and shift and change day by day. On forms I tend to check “other” and add in “non-binary trans”

What are your pronouns?

They/Them/Theirs & He/Him/His

What do you love about being a TGNCNBI2-S Artist in the South?

Black People. And I know we everywhere, but Black SOUTHERN people are and will always be my heart. The way we love up on each other. Take care of each other. Check up on each other, sometimes a little too much. It’s the cadence of our little sayings, the burst out loud laughter. The dramatics in the everyday stories of nothing. I love Black southern people.

What does being Visible as a TGNCNBI2-S person mean to you? Benefits? Cons?

It means being hyper-visible and invisible at the same time. It means being the only one, or one of two. It means having to speak on behalf of others. It means if I don’t say something, then no one will.

What is your name?

岩下龍太 (Ryuta Iwashita)

How would you describe your work?

My work has been focused and loosened around performing arts, movement/somatics and an embodied self-actualization practice called “SOTAI,” which derives from my fluid life being between my home country, Japan and the United States.

How would you describe your gender identity?

The awareness of an embryo. Expansive, unconditional and poetic.

What are your pronouns?

They/them

What are the biggest challenges about being a TGNCNBI2-S Artist in the South?

The feeling of scooping water out of the ocean with a small bucket.

What does being Visible as a TGNCNBI2-S person mean to you? Benefits? Cons?

Visibility for me is awareness of spaciousness and ease. Cis, hetero, white culture’s emphasis on “filling up space with information” and “getting to the point” does not leave us spaciousness and ease. When the fluidity in my body is noticed and acknowledged, the space becomes tender, and tenderness invites vulnerability and intimacy, which we often are conditioned not to share with people.

Why is it important to celebrate TGNCNB2-S Visbility? How do you celebrate ?

As much as I enjoy shaking my body and screaming out loud, I would be celebrating TGNCNB2-S Visibility with deep rest in my ancestral body which includes all the mixed identities and formless containers. It is our core, seed and infinite wisdom.

What is your name?

Hannah Pepper or HP

How would you describe your work?

I’m a film and theater actor and collaborative performance maker.

How would you describe your gender identity?

I would describe my gender identity as fluid and nonconforming.

What are your pronouns?

They, she, he and ze.

What do you love about being a TGNCNBI2-S Artist in the South?

The South has such a strong history of resisting white supremacist patriarchy, and with that comes a rich history of trans brilliance and gender liberation. As a white person not from the South, when I moved to New Orleans 12 years ago, I immediately recognized how lucky I was to be able to come into my own TGNC identity in a place where so much space for TGNCNBI2-S identities has been and continues to be created, especially and continuously by Black trans folks. I love that the South has such a deep history of movement building through cultural organizing, because as TGNC folks, we are constantly creating cultures for ourselves, and here we can really see the way that is creating ripples of real change in the world around us.

What are the biggest challenges about being a TGNCNBI2-S Artist in the South?

Less specific to the South, but as an actor, sometimes I am sad that my gender fluidity is not legible to folks I collaborate with; the discourse around authenticity in film and performance can make me feel like I am continuously inauthentic because my gender is not fixed. On a larger and more pervasive level, the ongoing toll that racial capitalism and structural violence has on TGNCNBI2-S folks, especially BIPOC folks, is an existential threat to TGNCNBI2-S artists in the South. We make so much brilliance with so little, but it makes me sad to think of what would be possible were our communities not under constant threat of displacement and death.

What is your name?

Spirit Paris McIntyre

How would you describe your work?

I’m a cellist, lyricist, vocalist, writer, Reiki practitioner, Compassionate Facilitator, Visual Artist, and Community Organizer

How would you describe your gender identity?

Gender Expansive

What are your pronouns?

Spirit, They, and Them

What do you love about being a TGNCNBI2-S Artist in the South?

The South, especially New Orleans, has given me the space to experience the presence of Ancestors and Spirit without judgement. This has and continues to shape my way of being, thinking, feeling, exploring, and expressing. They walk so potently among us here, it is undeniable.

What does being Visible as a TGNCNBI2-S person mean to you? Benefits? Cons?

It means taking up space intentionally; feeling something and saying something; leaving things better then when you found them. Benefits – you can uplift others; Cons – folks want to determine how you lead and who you center.

Why is it important to celebrate TGNCNBI2-S Visbility? How do you celebrate?

Being seen, understood, and celebrated is very important to me as a Leo. There is a deep compassion and vulnerability that’s needed to honor one’s multiplicity, nuance, and intersections. Being able to honor it in myself so that I can hold space for the honoring of it in others within the larger TGNC+ community is necessary for our freedom! Everyday is an opportunity to unlearn harmful oppressive narratives that constrict expression, so that we can heal and more fully be exactly what our Transcestors and Ancestors have envisioned for us. I celebrate by leaning into my curiosity, this keeps me open…

What is your name?

Ryan ( Raven) Crane

How would you describe your work?

I’m a multidisciplinary artist, critical thinker, and curator. I co-curator a gulf-south exhibition called The Black Brown Biennale and I am a co-conspirator in Black ™: a text and performance-based collaboration between myself and Slant Rhyme.

How would you describe your gender identity?

Lately, I haven’t really attempted to describe my gender, as I am a bit fatigued on the topic of gender but, my “gender” is tied into my Blackness, and in the tradition of Audre Lorde’s, “naming myself for my self . . .” I would say trans and gender non-conforming. I am originally from “Houston, Texas” the occupied lands that are home to the Karankwana, Coahuiltecan, Atakapa-Ishak, and Sana tribes. There is a rich history in my lineage of farmers, sharecroppers, cowboys, and southern Black folks who steward the land so my gender is also “cowboi” and “cowthemme”.

What are your pronouns?

They/ He/ El/ Elle/ Ryan

What do you love about being a TGNCNBI2-S Artist in the South?

I love being a part of the rich tradition of BIPOC trans visual artists, musicians, and movement workers. I love the weather, the food, the richness of the land, the gulf south waterways, and our ability to do so much with what we have. It’s like throwing shade in face of white supremacy every day getting to be Black, trans, an artist, and in the south! Infrastructurally and systemically the odds are often against southern trans artists so connecting and supporting my community is imperative.

Why is it important to celebrate TGNCNB2-S Visibility? How do you celebrate ?

Visibility is a trap as long as we live in the ongoing colonial project. For me, it’s important to not only celebrate but to support, and continue to be vocal about a world where TGNC+ people thrive. I want my BIPOC Trans siblings to get tangible reparations, Land Back, arts, and culture back in our communities and not stolen away in museums, and an acknowledgment that TGNC+ BIPOC have always been at the forefront of cultures and movements on Turtle Island and abroad. I can’t reiterate enough that Trans folks have always been present throughout history, celebrating visibility isn’t enough, and (pre-colonzaination) our Black and Brown TGNCNBI2-S ancestors were an integral part of the vibrant fabrics of our communities. I want trans folks to thrive, and to be cared for like the way we do for the community and each other. This means an investment in liberation. I want Black trans women to be paid, migrant trans folx to move in borderless lands, gender affirming surgeries for free as a part of healthcare for all, and for BIPOC Trans folks to know of and be able to remember our pre-colonial lives and have to access to our histories, art, and culture.

The State of Trans Lives in the Birthplace of the American LGBTQ Movement

This is the fourth piece in a partnership between Autostraddle and Transgender Law Center to provide data and reporting on why anti-trans violence occurs. Read more of the series. You can also find more data compiled by Transgender Law Center here.

New York has long been heralded as a progressive place, especially for LGBTQ issues. Many youth born elsewhere come here looking for a space to define themselves on their own terms. I was one of them.

The history of the Stonewall uprising, the ballroom scene, and the extravagant Pride parades are just a few historical examples of why New York City has become an LGBTQ touchstone. But each year, New York state ranks among the highest in the country when it comes to anti-trans homicides. Between 2017 and 2020, at least nine trans individuals were reported murdered in New York state, making it one of top five states that are most hostile to trans people. It’s possible that more murders went unreported.

The numbers contradict existing stereotypes wherein the South is discarded as hotbeds of conservatism. One could argue that the way New York has branded itself as progressive allows it to conceal the violence that is inflicted on marginalized communities like trans people.

Cecilia Gentili has witnessed the true nature of New York’s violence for the past ten years as a community advocate. Prior to that, she was a long-time undocumented sex worker who had been incarcerated in a migrant detention center.

“We as a state like to be portrayed as the progressive state, but in reality, part of that equation comes from keeping conservatives from upstate content,” Gentili commented. “And that means not passing legislation that is supportive of sex workers or trans people or LGBT rights or women’s issues.”

Indeed, when examined more closely, the Stonewall uprising—which has now acquired international recognition as the impetus for the LGBTQ movement in the U.S—occurred because of the brutality of the New York Police Department during its raids of queer gatherings. Similarly, the underground balls were a response to widespread family rejection and poverty. Queer families became a source of abundance when LGBTQ youth were denied basic resources that anyone would need to survive.

The policing that forced a response from icons like Marsha P. Johnson, Miss Major, and Sylvia Rivera is still a marked presence in the city. The NYPD is the largest police force in the country today, and is unique in that it has what it calls a “counterterrorism bureau,” something typically reserved for militaries. In 2011, former mayor Michael Bloomberg boasted the following: “I have my own army in the NYPD, which is the seventh largest army in the world.”

There is a history of NYPD targeting trans people for arrest, disrupting their lives and contributing to a cycle of poverty that entraps trans people in a web of violence. And state laws long supported the NYPD’s abusive behavior. Up until recently, Section 240.37 of the New York Penal Code allowed officers to arrest trans people if they suspected them of “loitering for the purposes of prostitution.” Community organizers called it the “walking while trans” law because of the way it criminalized trans people simply for existing.

“This is just another case of how much the lives of trans people are decided by cisgender people who have no idea of our experience. And it’s all a power game,” Cecilia Gentili told me.

As a response to ongoing violence against trans people and sex workers. Cecilia Gentili founded DecrimNY, an initiative helmed by a number of organizations working to end the criminalization of sex work altogether in the state.

As an effect of the heavy police presence, Black residents have historically been more likely to be entangled in the criminal legal system than their white counterparts. While Black people account for about a quarter of the city population, they make up nearly half of all arrests.

Black trans women face compounded violence, as they’re targeted in more ways than one. A legal case that rose to national recognition in 2019 was that of Layleen Xtravaganza Cubilette-Polanco, who was arrested on misdemeanor charges. Some of Polanco’s charges had to do with sex work. Her bail was set $500, an amount she couldn’t afford to pay. She was consequently jailed at Rikers Island, famous for stories of cruelty that occurred within its walls. The jail has in the past been nicknamed “Torture Island” and “Gladiator School.”

On June 7th, 2019, Polanco died from a preventable seizure while in solitary confinement. Video footage surfaced last year showing guards laughing at Polanco as she lay unconscious in her cell. Staff did not provide proper healthcare that may have prevented the seizure, nor did they fulfill their obligations to keeping her alive while she was unconscious.

Her death was one of the many that were commemorated in the Brooklyn Liberation March, on June 14th, 2020. The event is reported as having the highest turnout for trans lives in U.S. history, and it occurred during the ongoing Black uprisings. The thousands of attendees, all wearing white, showed up to listen to Black trans activists speak to how violence against Black trans people occurs from both police and civilians.

For many, the march was a return to the roots of Pride month, as a protest against state-sanctioned violence. But the event couldn’t have happened without the momentum built by Black trans leaders who’ve forced the mainstream to acknowledge the margins. While many point to the Trump administration as the source of violence, many Black trans people have been decrying their plight for many years.

“I think that they keep using Trump as the problem. And Trump was only a problem that they allowed to be a problem,” said LaLa Zannell, who has been a crucial figure in Black trans communities and has devoted over ten years of work to ending violence. LaLa’s comment speaks to the way Trump was an embodiment of a national culture that is bigger than any one president — a culture that disregards the value of trans lives.

Chin Tsui has experienced this throughout his incarceration after immigrating from Hong Kong as a child. After being kicked out of his family home for being trans, Chin was left vulnerable while living on the streets. Chin was repeatedly a victim of human trafficking, wherein his life was threatened and he was coerced into performing illegal activity for his traffickers. Eventually, Chin ended up in immigration detention. He was put into solitary confinement for 19 months, often 24 hours a day, because he is a trans man.

According to Transgender Law Center, “LGBT people are rarely screened for human trafficking and until an expert asks the right questions, victims suffer in silence and fear.”

“Being an immigrant and trans, you’re a big target,” Chin told me. When Homeland Security Investigations confirmed his convictions were tied to him being a victim of trafficking, ICE reconsidered his case. Chin was released in March of 2020, after over two years in immigration prison.

Chin’s life illustrates what happens when trans people are denied the resources they need to thrive: housing, employment, and adequate identification documents, among other things. The poverty rate in 2015 for NYC was 19.9 percent, but trans people experienced poverty at a rate of 37%, according to the U.S. Transgender Survey. When seeking housing, 27 percent of trans people found themselves homeless, and almost one in three avoided a shelter for fear of being mistreated for their gender identity.

“We’ve seen that for public shelters, when we sent community members to public shelters in the city, they experienced a lot of violence,” said Cristina Herrera, who founded the TransLatinx Network in 2007 to address the needs of transgender immigrants. “And some are at women’s shelters and we’d see that there’s a lot of violence coming from cis women.”

Herrera’s two decades of advocacy work has led her to witness how trans communities develop shame and self-doubt as a result of countless barriers in their lives. These internal battles become their own additional obstacles that trans people must overcome.

“Many times they choose not to report [attacks] because dealing with violence, being a survivor of violence, it creates a lot of shame. You feel a sense of guilt in a way, because you blame yourself for not putting yourself in better situations and better economic opportunities,” Cristina explained. “But our communities are set up to fail.”

In 2019, community members celebrated the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall uprising, with New York City being chosen as the year’s site of World Pride. The resilience of trans communities had reverberated all around the globe. But it wasn’t without loss.

Trans communities shouldn’t have had to build resilience through suffering, through mourning.

I asked LaLa Zannell what gives her hope. “Every day I get up, I have hope. Because I know that somebody is not here no more,” she said. “I’m able to wake up and catch that first breath in the morning. There’s hope because I’m still here. It’s another day for me. I am honored to be here, still have another 24 hours. And there’s hope for me to get something done, to leave something here, to push something, to advance something, to combat something.”

Zannell’s words echo the signature exclamation from Miss Major: “I’m still fucking here.”

The cycle of loss makes it easy to forget that trans people have long thrived before the first police raid on Stonewall Inn, in cultures all around the world. And many years, from now, trans people will continue giving birth to social movements, families, artistic innovations, and more.

Just as Chin Tsui said to me, “I’m not asking the whole world to accept us, but they need to know we are here, we’re not going nowhere.”

The Barriers that Keep Trans People From Thriving in Texas

This is the third piece in a partnership between Autostraddle and Transgender Law Center to provide data and reporting on why anti-trans violence occurs. Read more of the series. You can also find more data compiled by Transgender Law Center here.

Before the end of the first quarter of 2021, twelve transgender individuals have been violently killed. Since 2017, there have been 139 reported murders of transgender individuals in the United States, according to research from Transgender Law Center. The murders in Texas over that time make up nearly 10% of them. These numbers do not just reflect the lives that were taken away, they reflect the lives that will continue to be in danger until further change is made.

The biggest threat against trans folks in Texas — and all over the world — isn’t just a weapon. It’s a wall. The barriers put in place to keep transgender people, trans women of color especially, from living within our society eventually keep them from living at all.

Like many Black trans women, Mya Petsche has dealt with these oppressive systems firsthand in Dallas, and shares her experience as a way to educate others to prevent that same hardship. Her activism began on Trans Day of Remembrance in 2019 as she read through the long list of names being memorialized that night. “I was thinking just how tragic it is that someone could take someone else’s life away because they fear what other people think of them or what they think of the other person.”

Petsche explained that fear is nearly inescapable for trans individuals: “We have to live in fear… having to watch our backs. We have to be silent or scared to go to the restroom or do anything that people could call ‘confrontational’.”

To Petsche, the violence ends where access begins. For trans people, that is making sure that housing, jobs, and gender-affirming identification documents are accessible. These are basic necessities for any human being before they can live a fulfilling life. Petsche isn’t the only one who believes that increasing access to resources will decrease anti-trans violence in Texas.

Verniss McFarland, a national community mobilizer, consultant, and local leader in Houston acted on that belief when they founded The Mahogany Project in 2017. The non-profit works to “reduce social isolation, stigma, and acts of injustice in TQLGB+ Communities of Color” by providing a safe and affirming space for trans people to be uplifted in the community as well as by increasing their access to resources and self-defense tools. McFarland makes a point that one of the primary issues that trans people face concerns body autonomy: the right to govern one’s own body without the influence of an external party.

“People telling people what to do with their body, how their body should exist, how their body is offensive to others, whether their body belongs…” McFarland remarked. “One of the biggest things that I think is wrong here is individuals telling another individual what to do with their body.”

Controlling trans bodies has long been the implied goal of the Texas legislature. In our current 2021 legislative session, several bills have been introduced that are either anti-trans or directly affect the lives of transgender individuals:

• House Bill 1424 would allow any medical professional to refuse care to a transgender individual by way of religious freedoms, even if the procedure in question is live-saving care.
• House Bill 3083 would legally protect any pharmacy or pharmacist who refused to provide medication due to “religious belief” or “moral conviction.”
• House Bill 1148 prohibits trans minors from amending their birth certificate to match their gender identity. Not having up to date identification makes it difficult to get a job or driver’s license. It also makes it dangerous to navigate spaces where you need to show ID.
• House Bill 369 aims to criminalize HIV, which would not only keep trans individuals with HIV from accessing treatment but would also keep sexually active trans individuals from getting tested.

This is nothing new. In 2017, there was a legislative attempt to prohibit trans people from using the right restrooms in schools and public buildings (like many hospitals, parks, DMVs, and government buildings) and additional bills introduced to keep schools and local governments from protecting trans people from discrimination.

The message sent to trans people? We don’t want you in our public places. The goal is to keep trans bodies from receiving care. The goal is to keep trans people out of society, whether that means scaring us into isolation or letting us die. The introduction of these bills encourages members of the public to fabricate “what if” scenarios to incite fear to and justify violence against trans individuals, specifically trans women.

“There’s a direct chain reaction… it’s another form of violence if we’re being honest,” said Emmett Schelling, the executive director for Transgender Education Network of Texas (TENT), a statewide policy, advocacy, and education organization has worked to fight laws and propositions as a form of harm reduction.

Schelling, who often testifies against discriminatory legislation at the Capitol recently found himself testifying in favor of a bill for the first time — House Bill 73. “It was a literal elimination of gay and trans panic as a legally allowable defense here in Texas and filed by Representative Gina Hinojosa. It sucks. That’s our good bill.”

Gay and trans panic is legal defense, which claims that a person’s sexual orientation or gender expression can trigger violence against another person. It was debunked by the American Psychiatric Association in 1973, but continues to be used as a murder defense to this day. Schelling asserts that transphobia isn’t actually the main issue here; the violence clearly conveys the larger struggle of marginalized communities existing in a society founded on the systemic structure of white supremacy.

“We’re not just fighting a trans-specific oppressive system,” Schelling said. “We’re fighting a system that’s rooted in white supremacy because white supremacy is the brother of transphobia which is why when we see the manifestation of the violence is largely geared towards black trans women and trans women of color.”

Diamond Stylz, the executive director of Black Trans Women Inc., an organization that is dedicated to the socioeconomic empowerment of black trans women, takes it a step further. If white supremacy is on one side of the coin, she argues, misogyny is on the other. Just as the majority of murdered Black trans women are killed by their intimate partners, Black cis women are often killed in similar ways. “The CDC told us in 2015 that Black cisgender women have one of the highest rate of intimate partner homicide. Cisgender women and trans women need to get together and really figure out how are we going to stop the violence against us,” Stylz said. “Change legislation with sex workers. Decriminalize it. That will stop violence. Adding legislation that adds stigma doesn’t work.”

This stigma not only encourages police officers to mistreat trans women, but it also encourages to neglect them, which can lead to the police just allowing fatal encounters to happen.

“I’ve been in a situation like that where they spilled my tea, and the whole tone of the police change. Once they find out I’m not a cisgender woman, they say, ‘You should have fought back,’” Stylz explained.

The problems trans people face are not simple. They are deeply rooted in the American legacy of violence that have plagued marginalized groups for centuries.

In 50 years, I want us to be beyond fighting for the right to exist. I want us to be in a situation where resources are readily available, where some resources aren’t even needed anymore. When someone has the fantastic realization that they’re trans, I don’t want any feelings of fear or worry to follow. I want there to only be peace — something that in 2021, many of us can’t find in life or in death.

The answer is eradicating stigma through education and action. We need people to know what the problem is, we have to work together to dismantle the oppressive systems above us by being true allies to each other, by listening to each other, and by creating access for each other. We must break down the barriers that are intent on keeping trans people out of society and out of existence. Trans people should not have to show up to save our own lives alone.

The Roots of Anti-Trans Violence

This is the introduction to a partnership between Autostraddle and Transgender Law Center to provide data and reporting on why anti-trans violence occurs. Read more of the series. You can also find more data compiled by Transgender Law Center here.

Year after year, journalists reported the ongoing murders of trans people — the majority of them Black trans women — demonstrating the “epidemic of violence.” The reports of community members’ deaths caused continuous ripples of grief and fear.

Under the legal system, these homicides were interpersonal acts: one individual committing a crime against another. In reality, these deaths are not singular events. Rather, the theft of trans lives is made possible by the neglect and violence of many institutions. Murders are the result of multiple incidences over the course of a trans person’s life: every time we’re abandoned by our families, every time we are refused healthcare, every time we are denied access to a homeless shelter, every time the police profile us as sex workers and incarcerate us.

Trans people are trapped in a web of violence wherein the very entities charged with caring for us instead treat us as disposable.

Who has blood on their hands? Not just perpetrators of the homicide. The federal government, state legislatures, Immigration and Customs Enforcement, police forces, homeless shelters, prisons, healthcare providers, and discriminatory employers all contribute to making us vulnerable.

In order to end the violence, we have to understand its roots. We have to transform all the conditions that lead to the violence in the first place.

Autostraddle has partnered with Transgender Law Center to study how anti-trans violence is embedded in our society. We chose to feature four regions that are among those with the highest rates of anti-trans violence: Louisiana, Texas, New York, and Puerto Rico.

We’ll present data and reporting that features local community organizers who represent the possibility of a future of interdependence and mutual care among all people. We’ve also included resources, organizations, mutual aid funds, and collectives from each region, majority trans-led, for readers to donate and support.

We must plant new seeds. We must water them so trans people get to bloom without fear.

This Is an Essay About Penises

When I was a toddler I would push on the head of my penis until it disappeared inside itself. I would watch in fascination as it slowly unraveled into its usual form and again in fascination how easily I could make it disappear. I thought it looked like a rose blossoming and — more miraculously — unblossoming.

This is the kind of story I grasped onto and shared when I was first accepting my identity as a trans woman. It seemed to confirm that I was different and had always been different. I told myself this memory proved my transness and therefore proved my womanhood. Of course, I could just have easily been a curious little boy exploring his body.

Last week during the Senate hearing on the Equality Act, Senator Kennedy began by saying that he believes gender dysphoria is real. He then directed a series of questions to the witness, renowned transphobe Abigail Shrier. “Would this bill require schools to open up a junior high school women’s locker room to a boy who identifies as a girl?” he asked. “Would this bill prohibit the boy with gender dysphoria from exposing his penis to the girls?”

If you’re a cis woman reading this in good faith, your response to these questions is likely disgust. You think of yourself as trans-inclusive; you have trans friends, you date trans people. Maybe you’re my friend, maybe you’re dating me. You recognize and protest against this obvious transphobia. But conflating genitalia and gender is not exclusive to the Senate — nor is it exclusive to intentional, obviously malicious transphobia. It’s ingrained in you. It’s ingrained in me. It’s why I felt like I needed proof of bottom dysphoria to be a woman. It’s why you carelessly say things that make the dysphoria I have so much worse.

I spent years not thinking about my penis — or, at least, thinking about it as little as possible. I did not share the dick obsessions of the other boys my age. I didn’t partake in the measuring contests or the group masturbation sessions or any of the other super gay things supposedly straight boys do with their hormones. When I did start masturbating, I always watched cis lesbian porn — or more esoteric penis-free content like the opening moments of Barbarella. I came directly into the toilet desperate to reduce the length of the experience — and the clean-up. My sex dreams never involved genitalia. One moment my body was pressed against another body and the next I was waking up covered in shame.

When I started having sex, my penis maintained this same level of importance. My first girlfriend and I mostly had what straight people call foreplay and I’d call one-sided lesbian sex. We’d make out and grind against each other and then I’d go down on her until she came. The end was mere obligation — I’d put my penis inside her to quickly release my desire while dissociating away from the moment itself.

The specifics changed slightly, but this is pretty much how I had sex until I came out. I wanted the intimacy and the release and to do a good job. But I didn’t care about my own pleasure beyond a drive to appear normal. I continued to masturbate directly into the toilet.

After I transitioned, my penis became the most important part of my body — at least, to other people. The disinterest I’d felt all my life disappeared with my self-ignorance. Suddenly, my detachment turned into active disdain. This increased dysphoria was made worse by the watchful eyes and invasive questions of those around me. I wanted to shove my difference in people’s faces with a punk defiance, but sometimes I just felt like hiding. I’d wear tight pants that showed off my bulge all the while oscillating between feeling rebellious and feeling insecure. In the four years I’ve lived openly as a trans woman I’ve struggled between proudly declaring myself a chick with a dick — even saying the phrase “chick with a dick” — and wanting to pivot my life choices so I could get rid of that identity as soon as possible. There is a difference between one’s politics and one’s feelings.

The fraught nature of my body increased once I was single. Dating as a trans woman in the lesbian community is challenging. But it would be more accurate to say that I have dated adjacent to the lesbian community. I don’t date lesbians. Or, rather, they don’t date me. I’ve had sex with one lesbian and our pants stayed on — if you call that sex. Of course, that doesn’t mean cis lesbians aren’t interested in me. But if cis men are likely to fuck a trans woman in secret, the cis lesbian counterpart is drawn out emotional affairs with no follow through. There’s just… something… missing. Wonder what that could be.

This is not exclusive to cis lesbians. Plenty of other cis queer women and AFAB non-binary people are perplexed by my body. Some avoid me, others fetishize me. And while the obvious answer is to just date other trans women, there’s no guarantee with those experiences either. The most fetishized I’ve ever felt was with another trans woman. We’ve all been raised with the same transphobia.

To quote the prophet Mitski: I don’t want your pity. I’ve also had a lot of great experiences — relationships, flings, one-night stands — that have allowed me to uncover new parts of myself while connecting with others. I feel totally confident in my ability to find love and sex and chaos and anything else I seek. But this essay isn’t about any of that. This essay is about penises.

The most frequent microaggressions I experience involve AFAB people talking about how they don’t like dicks. Or how they don’t like men and expressing that by referencing dicks. Or talking about how they do like dicks but immediately associating those dicks with cis men. Everyone may be obsessed with the genitalia of trans people, but AFAB queers are obsessed with the genitalia of cis men. I get it. It’s easier to talk about “dicks” than it is to talk about patriarchy. It’s easier to lament a body part than confront the trauma of compulsory heterosexuality or the trauma of sexual assault. It’s easier to say you “miss dick” than to admit that as a bisexual person you are still drawn to cis men despite the harm other cis men have caused you. But as cathartic as it may be to blame penises for abuse and desire, these feelings are misguided. They allow cis men to evade responsibility for their actions, blaming innate biology for their harm. And they imply that trans women are not only men, but men to be feared.

You can learn people’s pronouns and post things on Trans Visibility Day and tweet all about how Trans Women Are Women, but if you are still associating genitalia with gender then you have done a whole lot of surface work and changed none of your core beliefs. And so, when I hear these comments, it’s unsurprising when you don’t want to date me. And so, when I hear these comments, it concerns me when you do.

It’s exhausting to spend so much time defending a part of my body I don’t even want. People stifle their feelings for me because of my penis without realizing they might never even see it. The only dick I’m fucking you with is my strap-on. And if I do eventually trust you enough to let you interact with my penis it certainly won’t be the same as whatever experiences you’ve had with cis men.

But this would never be my rebuttal, because my loyalties do not lie with some cis woman and my desire to get laid. I will always care more about trans women who will never have access to surgery. I will always care more about trans women who don’t even want surgery. I will always care more about trans women who do want their dicks sucked. Because discomfort with one part of your body does not make you trans and does not make you a woman. The same way a cis man is still a man if he doesn’t like getting head. The same way a cis woman’s gender is not changed by wanting someone to deep throat her realistic strap-on. Trans and cis, our bodies vary, our relationships to our bodies vary. Sex is about discovering and connecting across those variations. Good sex anyway.

The fact is I don’t think any of the discrimination and fetishization I experience is really about my penis. No body part is that powerful. My penis is simply a representation of my transness, of my difference. Some people feel it invalidates their queer identity. Other people feel it validates their queer identity too much. And most frequently it just makes people uncomfortable when attached to someone with such good tits because that goes against the cis white heteropatriarchal worldview that was forced upon us all.

I am tired of educating people on this history. I am tired of educating people on the most basic principles of biology. I am tired of first dates turning into gender studies classes. I am tired of not knowing why things didn’t work out with someone and then finding evidence in their microaggressions months later. I am tired.

As the transphobia in media loses its subtlety and an unprecedented number of bills targeting trans people — especially trans youth — arise across the country, I feel more certain than ever that visibility and mere acceptance are not enough. The only way to fight transphobia in a way that’s substantial, effective, and permanent, is for our culture to shift its very notion of gender. That is not going to start with transphobes. That’s going to start with people who consider themselves trans-inclusive, but have so much internal work left to do. That’s going to start with a queer woman who respects my pronouns, but is still uncomfortable at the thought of my penis.

I’m not asking for perfection. But I am asking for effort. Not for my sex life — I wouldn’t date most of you anyway — but for my humanity, for the humanity of so many. Don’t repeat platitudes. Really unlearn your binary connections between genitalia and gender. Really unlearn the associations you bring to bodies you’ve yet known. Really unlearn these things and start seeing trans people as individuals, as people. Unlearn these things because if you don’t trans lives will continue to be debated in the Senate and I will not fuck you.

Those things are not of equal importance but I know at least some of you care about both.

You Need Help: How Do I Navigate Femme Invisibility Without Changing Who I Am?

Q:

How do I let people know I’m a lesbian without having to shout it from the rooftops? I love my long, single-colored hair; getting my nails done, and wearing jewelry. Plus, I have a “professional” career, meaning no visible piercings, crazy hair styles, visible tattoos, or diverting too far from the norm of “business attire.”

I’m not a social butterfly to begin with, so it’s difficult for me to constantly try to find a moment to bring up that I’m gay. Please help?

A:

Hello fellow femme! I too like getting my nails done, wearing a full face of makeup no matter what and generally have a vibe that friends have referred to as “a mom trying to blend in at a club.” I know what it feels like to worry that The Gays™ think you are just tagging along.

Here’s the thing — you aren’t! I know it is hard to feel like the way you are most comfortable presenting yourself is what is keeping you apart from the community you belong to. But this is your community, you get to take up space, lipstick and all.

As with most things, context is king. Is it easier to express your queerness when talking with friends vs when you are at work? Probably! Take a moment and think about the spaces where it feels important to signal your queerness — what do they look like? Is your workplace somewhere you feel comfortable being out? If the answer is no, that is absolutely fine. It would be extremely naive of me to pretend that being out at work is a viable option for everyone; that is simply not true. We all need money to live, and you don’t owe your workplace every part of yourself because they pay you. Not to mention, if you have been working from home for the last year, it makes sense that it’s harder to make your queerness legible. In the pre-panorama time, a large part of being out at work for me was embedded in casual conversation with coworkers, something that doesn’t happen when you can’t step out to grab a cup of coffee after a meeting.

Let’s set work aside and ruminate on your social life. The spaces we occupy have changed dramatically in the last year, and I would wager that is part of the problem too. Even for those of us who are not super social, it’s hard to feel visible when you aren’t being seen by people! Unfortunately, I do not have a solution that will end the pandemic and get us back in the world at large, but maybe this is a moment for some self reflection?

When you think about your social life, who makes it up? Are your friends mostly straight? Mostly queer? A mix? I am not much of a social butterfly myself, but when I, you know, deign to interact with people, we are constantly talking about what I affectionately call “gay shit.” It’s a natural extension of the fact that almost everyone I know is queer. There is shared understanding and context (truly, it is king!) to all of our conversations. Is part of the reason you feel invisible is because you don’t have a lot of friends in the community to reach out to?

If you have a hilarious, deeply gay group of friends, ask yourself this: Are there queer femmes in your life? Getting to know more queer femmes has made a world of difference in how visible I feel on any given day. I don’t mean just the kind of uber high femme lesbians that make up the world of like, Grey’s Anatomy, but nonbinary femmes, hard femmes, lowkey femmes, femmes of all kinds! A femme identity means a lot more than the stereotypes we assign to it, and learning what it means to other people can be a really wonderful and eye opening experience for you, and the way you express yourself.

Now I think you are ready for my secret weapon, the thing that really flipped the script after years of feeling invisible: I simply refuse to be invisible! You mention that you don’t want to shout that you are a lesbian from the rooftops, and of course, there are places that would be unsafe to do that — but you might consider the possibility that there are more opportunities to do so than you think.

Because at the end of the day, what really made me feel erased was not the nails or the lipstick or the hair. It was shame. The world teaches us to think about queerness as something that needs to be disclosed, like codes for NASA shuttles, and that kind of messaging can be really damaging! We live in a society where compulsory heterosexuality is an unending, constant pressure, and as much as we try to push against it, it worms its way into our thinking as much as racism and capitalism and all the big evils of the world do. It can tell you, for instance, that it’s wrong to shout your identity from the rooftops, when honestly, it can be really empowering!

So here’s my final bit of advice: take note of the times you feel a prickling sense of uneasiness about your gay place in this world and try to chase it back to the source. Try to unlearn all the bullshit the world has told you about who you are. It will probably be hard, it will probably be uncomfortable, but I know it will be worth it.

Then come meet me on the rooftops, kay? We’ve got some shouting to do.

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

Tony Zosherafatain and Chella Man Discuss “Trans in Trumpland,” Collective Liberation, and Cool Moms

Tony Zosherafatain is the creator of “Trans in Trumpland,” a four-part docu-series on how the Trump administration has harmed trans communities. Among the executive producers is Chella Man, an artist and activist for both trans and disabled communities. Tony and Chella spent some time with me to chat about why the series is a must-watch, and how we’re still living in Trumpland, even with Trump out of the Oval Office.

You can read our review of the docu-series here.

Xoai Pham: Hi, everybody. I’m Xoai Pham, trans subject editor of Autostraddle. I’m super excited. I have the honor of interviewing two folks from the docu-series Trans in Trumpland. We have the creator Tony Zosherafatain and one of the executive producers Chella Man here with us. Thank you for chatting with me today. I’m super excited for this conversation. I want to start off by kind of grounding us in some context, right. So it’s not even been a month since the inauguration of the Biden-Harris administration. Trump hasn’t even been out of office for a month yet. And, and so I know that there are certain folks who are going to see this film would be excited to watch it. But question what it looks like for trans people in Trumpland when Trump is out of office? So what would you say to those people?

Tony Zosherafatain: Um, I think it’s a, it’s a good question. So I’m very happy that Biden won. And we’re about a month away, as you mentioned, and I think to what we’re seeing is, it’s, it’s really okay for people that are still in these, like, liberal parts of the country in New York City, LA, for example. But what I’m hearing from, like, the characters and trends in Trump land, and even just like friends that I have in red states, it’s still difficult. And why is it difficult is they still have these lingering state policies, for example, Ash in North Carolina, HB2, it’s still not formally like, it’s still a reality. So he’s dealing with that, the anti trans bathroom bill also, we’re seeing recently, I think it was Montana is trying to pass a bill that bars young trans athletes from participating on teams that align with their gender identity. And I think we’re seeing kind of still this incredibly bad momentum in these red states where trans people are this target, not a new target, but like, still a very strong target. And I think it’s a very hard reality still, for a lot of trans folks around the country. Because yes, we can have shift towards federal equality and inclusion. But what about the state level, it still is something that is, I think, going to be a strong focus for trans rights in the next four years. So it’s still really tough, a month away from the inauguration to be trans I think in a conservative state.

Xoai: That’s so true. In Montana, and in South Dakota, there are bills currently, that are meant to increase surveillance of trans athletes. And there are a couple other bills including in Kansas that are criminalize gender-affirming care for trans youth as well. So I’m curious for you Chella, what made you feel like you needed to sign on to this film, what, what really drew you to the message that the film was sending?

Chella Man: Well, during this time, you know, when Trump was first elected, I could not even vote. I was 17 at the time, and he actually came to speak at my high school in conservative central Pennsylvania. And that was just earth-shattering for me coming into my skin as a trans individual, queer individual, disabled individual, to see the kids that I grew up alongside for 17 years, just blindly walk by me while I protested outside of school. It just broke my heart. And I needed some kind of context, some kind of like solidified, condensed information of everything that happened to trans people over this time. And Tony, just, it was like this gift, like from heaven, you know, like he put into, he put so much work into this. It’s beautiful. The people that are highlighted, are articulate, are diverse. And I believe, like what they have to say is something that every—not only American who was under, you know, the Trump administration—
just anyone should hear because it’s just about human rights. It’s just about being a person that cares about other people. And so I mean, I wanted to sign on to this, because it’s, it’s imperative information, especially considering what we all just went through.

Xoai: What I’m really interested in is the fact that Tony, you are not only creating and, you know, running the show, but you are also in the film as a host and you’re engaging with all these folks from trans youth to two-spirit folks all across the country. And I’m curious, what motivated that decision for you to be a part of the storytelling as a trans person.

Tony: I’m glad that you really enjoyed this series Xoai, and that’s great to hear and Chella saying it’s beautiful and like Chella’s a great artist. So hearing that as well, I’m like, yeah, because I wanted to, like really capture people’s like, heartstrings, like get attached to their heartstrings and be like, trans people are human, we’re like your neighbors and stuff. So like, what motivated me and Trans in Trumpland to, like, direct it. And also be part of it is, I really like traveling and connecting with people. So I wanted to like be in front of the camera and like guide people, because I thought to myself, like how is everyone gonna be weaved together? Like these four characters that are very diverse. They’re like, all around the country. I was like, you know, I talked to my producer, Jamie. I was like, should I just be the host? Like, connect everyone and like the, the series follows me and like a red car across the country. And he was like, “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” So I guess what motivated me was like that artistically. But also, like, on a personal level, I’m like, I’m a trans guy. I’m also first-generation. My mom was from Greece, my dad’s from Iran. And I’m Iranian-American. So Trump impacted me as a trans person, also, as a first-generation American and an Iranian American. So I was like, Oh, I was, like, impacted by this a lot. So let me tell a little bit of my story, throughout this journey in the series. So I felt like a really kind of like personal connection to the subject matter, which is like investigating what Trump has done to a lot of folks over the past four years, and just kind of like, wanting also to meet the characters and, like, go into their homes and like, see where they live and like, meet their friends and meet their family. And I like really like connecting with people. So that like, really, got to me as like an artist. I was like, Oh, I want to make it very personal and, like show people that I had a hard journey with my family at first coming out.

Xoai: That’s so beautiful. Thank you, Tony. Um, Chella, how did you feel like you saw yourself in that film? In what ways do you see yourself reflected by the different stories that were told?

Chella: Um, that’s a great question. I mean, going back to the first also, you know, while Tony was talking, another thing that another thing that I was thinking immediately when I got this email that it was about trans people in front of the camera, and behind the camera, I was like, sold, period, because that’s what we need! We need people not only in front of the camera, but behind the camera. Like, immediately, I was like, Oh, great. This is not tokenization, this is like real shit. This is the stuff that actually matters. They’re going to talk about things not on surface level, we’re actually going to go in deep here. So I already knew it was beautiful before…Oh, gosh, so many different… What initially struck me was ash, and how young they were. Because going back, you know, I felt the same way like the way they were discovering how hard and harsh the world can be as a really young person to see the world support a person like Trump and all that he stands for it was a whole lot to swallow. So to see that I felt, I felt very seen. And not only that, I feel so grateful and lucky because of, you know, Ash has a really great relationship with them, their mom, and I do as well. And to see that represented, I immediately actually sent it to my mom. And I was like, Look, this is this. This is like us. And that’s rare. You know, for someone like me, it’s not often I can send something to someone and be like, Look, I that’s me that feel represented. So immediately, that was episode one. And yeah, I was just sold, I felt just like Tony, even though I wasn’t even in it, I felt a deep personal connection as well.

Xoai: Yeah, I love that the film presents trans people not just based off of our gender identity, it’s, it’s about all of us, because we’re so much more than our gender expression. And I think that that was really important to show. It also feels like a lot of times trans people are having to plead to sis people, especially people in positions of power in government and institutions in order to maintain our rights and our dignity. And so in this case, who would you say the audience of the film is Chella? Who are you, who would you say that the film is trying to speak to?

Chella: I would hope this film speaks to everyone. Because I mean, everyone has something to learn, like trans individuals. This is just taking a step back. I mean, this is more a film about anyone who faces oppression or adversity at all. Yes, I’m sorry, I stumbled on my words. But um, it’s all about how to stay strong, stay true to yourself, especially when, like you said, the people in power who do not in any way identify with how to stay strong, and how to build community and a support system under that, that will allow you to persevere despite what the world looks like around you. And I think that that is a story that could help not just trans people, but anyone. I mean, so many people have something to learn from this, any, anyone that goes through any hardship in their life, which is, I would say all individuals in the entire world can learn something from the resilience of trans people.

Tony: When I was developing the series, I was like, who is my target audience? Who do I want to speak to? And I knew that like trans and queer people would be able to feel connected to the characters and the underlying, like civil rights issues and whatnot. But I thought to myself, like, I do want everyone to feel like they can relate to the series and the issues discussed. And I want to say ditto to what Chella said, like, I think the target audience is like, is everyone in a sense, because it explores themes of like, not fitting in high school, bullying, feeling racism, and I think a lot of folks can relate to that all kinds of people, Americans, or even people abroad. And so I think it’s like the target audience is like, is everyone because it’s very heartwarming stories. And there’s also this big underlying theme of motherhood, that really connected everyone. And so I think, like, who doesn’t like cool moms? Um, so yeah, I think like everyone can get something from from this series. And I hope that especially people that may be more moderate or conservative will watch it too and learn something from it.

Xoai: I love that this is coming out now because there’s also there’s been a lot of discussion recently about trans representation, especially since the release of another documentary-style film Disclosure by Sam Feder and executive produced by Laverne Cox, who we love. And so I’m curious for the both of you, witnessing the way that trans people have become begun to take more ownership of our stories in cinema and TV, and not just producing fictional works, but producing documentaries, that, that actually analyze the ways that we’ve been portrayed and, and proactively seeks to change the ways that we were portrayed. How are you feeling about the state of trans representation today?

Tony: Disclosure really went in and analyze like how we were portrayed in the past how we are presently, and I think it’s kind of interesting to even just like bring it back to like these anti-trans state bills are coming through. It’s like, the double-edged sword I guess, I would say like increased trans visibility can also lead to increase like discrimination because the more we’re coming out and asking for rights and owning our power, the more people are like attacking us. And so I think that’s like interesting and I’m not going to say like that’s happening in every state or everywhere, there’s also, you know, a positive incline towards trans rights. But I think like, there is a big shift happening with, like kind of what I said earlier, where there are more trans people directing and producing things behind the camera, I think that’s powerful. Because in the past, we were more objects in front of the camera to be analyzed. And so now, when you can have trans folks telling their story in front of the camera, behind the camera, that’s incredibly powerful. And I think where we’re at is I do want to say, I think there can be more trans-masculine and non binary representations to be to be quite frank, I think we need more of that. And also trans people who are diverse, maybe trans people who are deaf maybe trans people like for me, I don’t see any Middle Eastern trans people. I’m like, where are you guys at? So I would like to see more diversity in the trans voices, less white trans people, and also just like trans people in everyday roles, like trans joy, not getting murdered, falling in love and getting married, but that, you know, like not getting broken up with ’cause we’re trans. So that’s what I would say is like, we’ve gotten to a good point, but we need we need more representation still.

Chella: I mean, I agree with everything that Tony said, we are taking steps forward, but we are also taking steps back. And I think that, you know, I often say if I were born in any other time period, I wouldn’t be where I am today, I’m so grateful to be on this surge of like social media and technology, technological revolution, because if it were not for my social media accounts, I wouldn’t be able to be my own representation in the same way. Like, of course, I could always look in the mirror and be like, you know, I know who I am, period. But I can broadcast that. And that changes everything, brings people together. And I don’t have to wait for someone to like, put my face on a billboard or like on a whatever, give me a platform. I was like, No, you know what, I’m just gonna speak my truth. And I know, I know, there’s people out there who feel exactly the same way. And of course, lo and behold, everyone’s on a continuum. And everyone suffers because of binaries, like not just gender binaries, but like disability binaries, and stereotypes and stigmas. And so it hurts everyone. So if you just build a platform, where you are authentic and you’re just like, guys, this shit sucks. What are we doing? Like, let’s just let’s have some space where we validate people who are on the continuum who exists outside of stereotypes. So many people feel that and are hurt by that and want to be free from that. And I think that this is, you know, this is the time.

Xoai: This is absolutely the time. I also wanted to ask, so in the past two weeks, there has been an ongoing, an onslaught of anti-Asian violence, especially against Asian American elders. Even in New York, there was a Filipino man who was slashed across the face on the subway while he was on the first while he was on the way to one of his two jobs. And then there have also been, there’s also been reported violence in the bay as well. And that’s only the violence that’s been reported and documented, right. And so, you know, in the last calendar year, we’ve witnessed, people become more and more invested in racial justice especially invested in ending anti-Blackness. How is this film connected to the uprisings for Black lives, the fights for Asian Americans, just racial justice in general? How would you connect this film with those causes?

Chella: For this film, I mean, I think I would go back to the people that Tony and Jamie chose to uplift. I truly believe in collective liberation. And I believe they chose people who face multiple cycles of oppression on a daily basis. And by uplifting those individuals, you know, we all benefit and we are all more empathetic and understanding of what people go through. So I think it’s just a matter of choosing marginalized people who are at various intersections of oppression, and fully allowing them to tell their stories unfiltered, without tokenization. And that’s what I that’s what I truly admired about about this docu-series is who was casting and who, who’s being uplifted and, of course, like the benefits of that we will all benefit from that.

Tony: Yeah, ditto to what Chella said, um, it really saddens me to see like the wave of anti-Asian violence. I actually have had a friend recently she’s queer, and went to college together and she’s Chinese. And she was actually had a guy come up to her face in Queens and he was like yelling at her. And she posted about on social media and I was just like, are you fucking kidding me? We used to be roommates. And she would tell me just about, like what she would experience daily in New York City in Queens. I’m so really upset about that. And I think like Trump for the past four years, has not only exacerbated transphobia, but also racism, everything every ism every phobia, and when I was like, thinking about kind of creating this series, I was like, how can I also kind of like highlight people who faced double oppression. So whether that be immigration status, um, you know, I want to say ageism, too, with ash or racism, like with Evonne, who’s a Black trans woman in Mississippi that we filmed? How can I kind of like, tap into these waves of anti-Blackness, anti-Asian sentiment, anti-immigration sentiment the past four years, and now, because that hasn’t gone away with Trump getting out of office. So I want to kind of, I wouldn’t call it a connect back to what Chella said, which is that I made sure to choose characters that aren’t just trans, but also face other isms and other levels of injustice. And I also, for me, personally, as a documentary filmmaker, I wanted to be a passive post, because I have privilege in the sense that I’m coming from New York City, traveling to conservative state, so I have legal privileges. And also, I’m a mixed trans guy, so I can have white privilege. So I was like, I want to be a passive host in the series and not take away from people’s voices in these states, who, you know, are Black, are Latina, are facing potential deportation, because that’s an incredible difference in privilege that I had. So I wanted to make sure I gave everyone proper time. And I think that’s the storytelling is the way that I’m kind of like highlighting these multiple injustices in this series.

Xoai: What I, what I also love about what you did, Tony, was that even though this film is about the present, and it is a, it’s a nonfiction account of the present, it also feels like it’s a capsule of what could be possible in the future, especially when you were speaking to the person who is to spirit and is still preserving all of their heritage and the traditions that they come from. And I it makes me think what the future of trans people could look like, in the US and also elsewhere. So I think a lot of times we’re caught up responding to the types of violence we face and trying to solve those issues. And I think it distracts from us being able to envision what kind of world we want to inherit. And I think it’s intentional that we are kept from that. So for the two of you, what would you say in about 50 years, in half a century and around 2071? How would you want trans people living?

Chella: Freely! No restrictions as they are, I just want them to fucking tell the truth and like, hopefully, the gender binary, doesn’t exist, or at very least, is like less strong than it is now. I just I want people to not be afraid to be themselves. I don’t want colors to have gender. I don’t want smells to have gender with the actual. I just like, I just want people to be able to be people. Like stop stop with the stop with the categories. That’s that’s what I would have to say. But 50 years. that’s a, that’s a long time.

Tony: 50 years, like the gender binary should like just not exist, like, ’cause for me, even though like I’m a binary trans guy, like when I was filming in North Carolina and met Ash, I was like, Ash came out at 12 as like transmasc, but now is like moving more non-binary. And then like, meeting his friends who were Gen Z. I’m like, y’all are really woke right? And they don’t even like believe in gender categories. I was just like, I’m like sitting around and here’s like this young trans mass youth with like, cis male and female friends and they’re like talking about all these issues, and they’re like on TikTok and whatever kids are doing these days. I’m like, wow, like, yeah, 50 years, I do feel like the gender binary won’t exist. We won’t have these like gendered parties and also just like, legally and politically like, it should not be even a discussion. Do trans rights exist or not, or do trans people exist or not in this country. Like we should not be having that conversation even now. That’s what I would hope.

Trans in Trumpland will be available on February 25th to U.S. and Canadian audiences on Topic through Topic.com and Topic channels through AppleTV & iOS, Roku, Amazon Fire TV, Android, and Amazon Prime video channels.

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Wrestling With Kamala and Beyond: Reckoning With Blackness, Womanhood, and What Comes Next

Welcome to Autostraddle’s 2021 Black History Month essay series. In their recent stirring multi-media anthology Black Futures, Black queer creators Jenna Wortham and Kimberly Drew ask, “What does it mean to be Black and alive?” And so, this Black History Month, Autostraddle is reaching past, and pushing forward, to explore realities beyond (the pain of) what we have inherited.

I. Birthright

Akron, 1851. In a meeting hall full of both Black and white faces, a six-foot-tall woman with oiled leathered skin rises to speak. She is rumored to be man. She be too tall, too masculine, too Black to truly be woman. Her feminine birth name betrays the whispers – Isabella; her declared name signals that she is more concerned with a higher purpose. Sojourner Truth (meaning one who is seeking truth) addresses the room, giving a concise speech that would later be recorded and recited by Black scholars and activists alike for centuries to come.

“Ain’t I a woman?” she asks the crowd. “Nobody ever helps me into carriages, or over mud-puddles, or gives me any best place! And ain’t I a woman?” Ain’t I worthy of being helped? Of receiving the best? Of being loved like white women? Of being cared for in this world? Ain’t I worthy of being seen in the most delicate ways possible?

150 years later, Black women are still asking the world the same question. We ask when Serena is ridiculed for arguing during tennis matches, when Michelle is compared to monkeys, when we are shackled during childbirth, when we are raped, when there are no marches when we die, every time there is another report of a Black trans woman killed, when Breonna is murdered while sleeping, when we breathe without asking permission:

Ain’t we women? Ain’t we worthy of being seen in the most delicate ways possible?

History tells us “no” and so we hunker down. We cling to ourselves, uplift each other, scrounge up ounces of #blackgirlmagic to make the world better and more bearable for the next generation who will ask the same questions of their world.

To be Black and woman is my birthright; to be loud in my defiance, fierce in my brilliance, magical in my resilience, beautiful in my melanin; to be sister, daughter, sis, queen, star, baby girl. It is all I have ever known — until now.

II. Womanhood

Vermont, 2020. My body, a Judas in all her forms, bled the day we won. Blood drenched my boxer briefs as my body celebrated a victory for womanhood, for Blackness, for a return to a democracy that pretends to care about folks like us. I sat on the toilet in our tiny mountainside bathroom and cried. When the blood comes, the tears most always accompany it. When my female organs remind me of my birthright, my stomach knots and my body contorts into an unfamiliar “she” that I used to be. She goes to buy tampons because she is always out. She washes her underwear, curses her maker, and informs her wife that the devil is visiting despite all of the cease and desist orders she has written to the universe.

I know that womanhood and periods are not synonymous. I have read the essays. I have reminded people on the internet — reminded myself — that not just women bleed, that gender and sex are not the same thing. When I was younger, I bled only once each year and considered it a gift of apology from a creator who made a mistake in assigning my organs. Unfortunately, my irregular periods were as short-lived as my femme stage of queerness. These days, my period reminds me that I cannot read and discourse my way to self-acceptance. Bleeding is one of the last things that connects me to a female-ness that makes Black womanhood almost unbearable.

In a meme-worthy video, Kamala Harris’ voice comes in a half-whine. “We did it, Joe.” She is smiling, dressed down in athleisure, outside in the sunshine. I watch the video again. I do not smile. There is no sunshine in my windowless bathroom.

Kamala Devi Harris — Black and South Asian, an AKA from the Bay would be our next Vice President. As usual, Black women did The Most. The best part about Black women is when we do The Most. On graduation day, we show up with noisemakers and signs and cheers even when they ask us to hold our applause. Can’t nobody tell Black women to hold our applause for our success. Mama gon’ scream for her baby no matter what. Kamala is ours and Black women make it known. So my body, clinging to Black womanhood, traded in air horns and applause for blood clots and cramps.

When I stand up and look in the mirror, I see my mother in my reflection: short hair, glasses, smirk, big eyes. I see my grandmother in my mother. See her mother in her.

“We did it,” my ancestors echo.
“Who is we?” my soul responds.

Over the next few days, Black women show out.

“You know she went to Howard, right?”
“Let me get my pearls out, chile!”
“They ain’t gonna know what to do with themselves now.”

In art, Kamala walks with Ruby Bridges’ shadow. She stands on the shoulders of giants, painted with John Lewis, Martin Luther King, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and John McCain. In essays, she becomes our heroine – the first, the holiest, the Blackest despite her South Asian heritage that is not honored as much as it deserves to be. She is not only our next vice president. She is woman. She is Black. She is worthy.

 Ain’t we women?
“Hell Yes,” we chant and promise to don pearls and Chucks in her honor.

For the victory of Madame Vice President Kamala Devi Harris suggests that Black women are now “worthy,” a cause for celebration. We — Black, women, and tired — have been chasing worthiness since before Sojourner asked that room in 1851; since they ushered us off of ships in shackles and priced us for auction; since they stripped us of our names, homes, and womanhood and called us Black.

In the “we” that won, I search for my own joy and came up empty. This is not my first rodeo. I know girls like Kamala. Those who are the epitome of Black girlhood in the best ways possible with light skin, thin frames, straight hair, pearls, and parents who got money so they could get all the degrees. The ones that get the world and say “you can, too,” reaching down to pull me up. I am too heavy though, too rough, too unpolished, not enough money, gold chain dangling instead of pearls.

The progress of Black girls and women like Kamala Devi Harris has never guaranteed progress for folks like me. I have spent my life mourning my inability to twist my spine, slim my thighs, soften my soul to be woman enough.

III. Girlhood

Virginia, 2007. In the picture, I am wearing a pink linen skirt suit. Draped in part-tablecloth, part potato sack, I smile flanked by my two best friends in high school. They are twin stallions, beautiful in both body and soul. We each hold a glass of water while posing for the photo. I really wanted a glass of punch, but when I saw the punch bowl, I also saw the future — red punch on my linen skirt suit that was my mama’s favorite outfit for me.

“You look so neat,” she had said when I came out of the dressing room months earlier. Neat was mama’s best compliment for fatness. According to my mother, there were three rules for fat Black girls:
1. Never smell.
2. Always watch your mouth — use correct grammar and act like you got sense.
3. Wear clothes that fit; be neat.

She never said this but from personal experience, I knew that fat Black girls were not as beautiful, as delicate, as woman as skinny Black girls. I knew that skinny Black girls were not as treasured as skinny non-Black girls. I knew that skinny white girls were the best. I knew that this worked for everything. I knew that my straight shoulder-length hair was my best womanly feature which is why my mother spent $40 every other week to get it done. Five years later, when I decided to cut my hair off, my mother sent me a two-page email begging me to reconsider. The fear between her sentences echoed the quiver in her voice I’d heard a few years prior when I told her I was queer. She was not afraid of who I was becoming, but how the world would treat me when I became it.

I don’t know why my mother thought linen would be a good idea for her tomboy daughter. I actually don’t know why anyone thinks linen is a good idea. It wrinkles within minutes and never looks as crisp in real life as it does on the plastic mannequins in department stores. The linen skirt suit came from Dress Barn. I’d outgrown the junior sizes back in elementary school and was forced into womanhood before I was ready. To be fair — I’m not sure I would’ve ever been ready for Dress Barn. The truth is I was born as queer as they come. I am queer boy, queer girl, queer being, queer beast, queer heaven wrapped in messy, rugged, caramel-coated melanin.

Looking back at the photo, I can feel my mother’s pride — of me, her daughter who won a scholarship she would later waste in a year of recklessness; her daughter who managed to keep Pepto-Bismol linen skirt suit wrinkle-free despite being crunched into an auditorium seat for an hour; her daughter who smelled good, used correct grammar, and was neat; who was beautiful, Black, and woman on that day.

Months later, I would wear the same linen skirt suit to a different function. The blood would come and spot the back of it. Instead of washing it out, I would throw it in the trash without telling my mother. When my mother died eight years later, my body bled for a month in clotted mourning that spoiled every pair of pants I loved (none of them linen nor pink).

IV. Reckoning

Inauguration Day, 2021. Kamala Harris is dressed head-to-toe in a purple outfit designed by Christopher John Rogers. She pulls it off. I imagine myself in the same suit and see only “Violet. You’re turning violet!” vibes. I do not watch the inauguration. I am worried that there will be another attack — on the proceedings or on my own soul. I cannot take another day of tears, isolation, and heightened gender dysphoria.

Later, I watch a recording and watch her raise her hand and solemnly swear to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; to bear true faith and allegiance to the same; to take the obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; to well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which she is about to enter.

Pause. Rewind. Play. Celebrate.
Pause. Rewind. Play. Grieve.
Pause. Rewind. Play. Rage.

We did not ask for this. We asked for revolution, for abolition, for a radical shift in our being and dreaming. We got Kamala and once again thanked a country for giving us less than we deserve. In America, being grateful for receiving less than we deserve is our birthright as Black women.

On plantations, Black women toiled day and night under white masters, spent their days in their master’s fields and kitchens preparing gourmet meals for others, and hoped to get scraps to nourish themselves and their own. Black women spend their lives twisting their forms and tongues in hopes of being worthy of the humanity we deserve. Centuries of years later, we remain malnourished in almost every way possible, still settling for table scraps. When you are hungry, the crumbs taste like heaven.

“Celebrate the progress, shea. Be grateful for representation. Be happy to be Black and woman and American today.”

I stopped believing in the lie of progress a long time ago. America sold us a promise of progress and said “just a little bit longer.” Ain’t nothing revolutionary about assimilation; about being just palatable enough for them to say “I guess so” and mark your name on the ballot as the lesser of two evils.

I will not downplay the success of Kamala Devi Harris, our first Black, South Asian female vice president. She is brilliant, strong, beautiful. An alum of the most prestigious HBCU, a former attorney general, and the daughter of scientists, she has a panoply of accomplishments. Her greatest accomplishment may perhaps be her appeasement to whiteness so much so that enough white folks found her palatable to vote her into office. 150 years later — they say Kamala’s win is their answer to Sojourner’s question, but what Kamala’s victory signifies is not a victory for Blackness or Black womanhood; it is a reminder that this white supremacist nation rewards those of us who are able to get as close as possible to whiteness, to womanness.

I don’t know Kamala personally, but I know her in the way that we all know someone who reminds us of someone. I’ve been chasing Kamalas (and their victories) my entire life. What I know for certain is that the progress of wealthy, well-educated, cishet Black women has never ensured the progress of folks who look and sound like me — fat, queer, fluid, loud, and not quite woman enough.

For months, my body has been mourning the faux revolution they sold us — crumbs disguised as a feast worthy of celebration. I am tired of settling for table scraps in both politics and life. I want the entire loaf I deserve — personhood that is elastic and brilliantly queer, a Blackness that is not judged by its palatability to whiteness, to be considered worthy and affirmed regardless of how I measure up to standards of womanhood.

V. Beyond

Today, 2021. When I wear a suit, my little sister smiles and tells me I look neat, a nod to my mother’s legacy of wanting us to feel worthy and safe in this world as Black women. I smile back and tell her I always look neat, that I am my mother’s child.

She asks me if I am still her sister. I tell her yes because it is all I know and brother feels too harsh for my kind of delicate. A friend stops mid-sentence to apologize for saying “girrrlllll” as she reads someone for filth. I tell her not to apologize. That I am okay with it. That “girl” feels like home uttered from her tongue. I do not say that I am scared. That sisterhood, girlhood, and womanhood feel like the only pieces of my mother and grandmother that I have left. That leaving it behind means going beyond what I know to be true. That I am afraid of answering my own “Ain’t I A Woman?” question with a resounding, “no” or “not quite.”

Two years ago, I sat in the backseat of a packed UberPool in Boston and composed a thread where I tried to make sense of being both a Black woman and non-binary. The thread was welcomed by a community and friends who would love me no matter what.

The truth is I haven’t felt like a Black woman for years. But it is all I know and I believe in the magic of Blackness so I committed to bending and breaking it, taking pieces that would make me feel included, affirmed, and part of what I know to be true. These days, though, the louder Black womanhood becomes, the less it resonates with my own being.

When we were little, they told us we were pretty. They said we could grow up to be whatever we wanted. They dressed us in the most beautiful dresses, spun us around, and called it magic. They said that Blackness was holy, womanness was the most wonderful thing in the world, said the combination of the two was the greatest gift God gave to this earth.

In their truths, we molded ourselves to fit the image of what is beautiful, magical, Black, and woman. My mama raised me to be a strong Black woman and perhaps the strongest thing I can do is release womanhood for something truer, an existence where the can never be enough “too much.” Where my too muchness, queerness, and ruggedness stretches into infinity and we call it beautiful, dope, and magnificent

With Kamala Harris’ inauguration and “success” as a Black woman, I am forced to make my own commitment – to asking my own questions and finding my own way; to reckoning with and dreaming of what comes beyond a womanhood that only ever felt as comfortable as a pink linen skirt suit.

Ain’t I a Woman? I don’t know.

What is beyond Black womanhood? Beyond the magic of Black girlhood? Beyond the connections of Black sisterhood? I don’t know.

What I do know is that I am ready to be fearless. To dream beyond Black womanhood and know that wherever I land, I — Black, queer, and not-quite-sure — am worthy, so worthy of all of the love, affirmation, and power the universe can muster.

I wish Kamala the best in this world. I wish us the courage to go beyond what has been defined for us. I wish us a world where Blackness and gender are as infinite and undefined as the night sky in the mountains. I hope that Converse comes back into style because they are timeless. I hope more people wear pearls because we all deserve to feel like royalty. And I hope that more of us feel comfortable with mourning and inaugurating ourselves into living authentically.

VI. Inauguration

I, shea wesley martin, do solemnly affirm that I will support and defend my right to explore and exist within, outside of, and beyond Black womanhood; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely but scared as hell, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the charge of being authentically and unabashedly queer, Black, and worthy of love; So help me God. Ashe.

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“Trans in Trumpland” Depicts the Past, Present and Future of Trans Lives

There is a point in the docu-series Trans in Trumpland where I’m forced to pause the film so I can cry. The mother of Ash, a trans high schooler who is the subject of the first episode, briefly interrupts a board game among the youth and says, “I made some veggie soup, and then I have plain pasta, Mitchell and Rowan, possibly…” It’s her soft-spoken dinner invitation to her son’s friends. In her voice and her eyes, I hear the temporary relief of seeing your child experience joy and friendship — a change from the everyday battles of raising a trans child in North Carolina.

I see my own mother in her eyes. I see the familiar apprehension of wondering if your child would live through the week. North Carolina has been an epicenter of trans rights battles for the past few years. In 2016, House Bill 2 made national news after being passed by state lawmakers, effectively determining that LGBTQ people aren’t protected from discrimination under state laws. It also restricted which restrooms trans people could use, and reversed any existing city ordinances that protected LGBTQ people. A year later, the law was partially repealed. As of last month, cities in North Carolina have begun passing nondiscrimination laws, affirming the rights of their LGBTQ communities.

The legislative back-and-forth confused many people. What the docu-series illustrates more powerfully than is represented in the news cycle is how an individual person’s life is changed. Even when a law doesn’t pass, or is repealed, it stokes fear among targeted populations. In Trans in Trumpland, Ash may go without water for the entire school day so he won’t have to risk going to the bathroom at all. “Because I’m scared of using the bathroom, I’ll often go weeks without drinking water at school,” he says. “I’m often so dehydrated that it makes it really hard to focus.”

The docu-series takes us through four red states: North Carolina, Texas, Mississippi, and Idaho. All four states voted Trump into office in 2016. They attempted to do the same in 2020. The series not only documents how Trump’s blatant anti-trans sentiments hurt trans communities; it illustrates the culture that is foundational to Trumpland.

Every person in the series had suffered at the hands of a transphobic culture, the very culture that allowed Trump to win a presidential election. That culture lives on, even without Trump working in the Oval Office.

But rather than simply presenting the culture of violence, the series’ creator Tony Zosherafatain delivered a resounding celebration of the relationships that sustain trans lives.

What Trump and his kin represent: exclusion, a reductive mindset, the few over the many, one-percenters, fear, binaries, and repression. Everything having to do with “making America great” was doing away with difference, serving a smaller and smaller elite, and having people believe there wasn’t enough resources to go around. As if trans people’s very existence was a threat to someone else.

Trans in Trumpland is a vision of a healed, unified United States: where differences add richness to our lives, where it’s about ‘we’ instead of ‘me,’ where there is such abundance in resources and community care that we generously spend our lives in the service of others.

Interdependence is the foundational message of the series. While two of the featured people in the series are filmed as the precious children of doting mothers, a third is a mother herself — Evonne Kaho is a trans mother to those who had been rejected from the families they were born into.

The emphasis on relationship-building as the key to trans livelihood is further emphasized by Zosherafatain’s choice to be the narrator and host of the series. He is in front of the camera, hugging the subjects, driving them in his car, sharing photos of his childhood self pre-transition. We witness trans people in conversation with one another. Some of the seemingly mundane moments become especially powerful, because they’re moments you wouldn’t witness in mainstream tokenizing portrayals.

As a trans viewer, I am validated by the impression that this was made by and for trans people. But the most powerful films can engage a specific issue while maintaining a universal audience. Trans in Trumpland does just that by depicting the space between trans individuals, the connective tissue, the conversations, the legacies carried forward. The docu-series highlights the thing that makes all of us human: the fact that we need love and care from one another.

Trumpland is a territory that all of us inhabit, whether we’d like to or not. And it is our collective responsibility to use whatever unique power we have to uproot the seeds of harmful ideologies. Because as the docu-series powerfully displays, we are all connected: every person, every community, every generation.

Trans in Trumpland is a much-needed reminder that trans people are the past, present, and future. That our lives are not a matter of political discourse but rather a matter of human dignity. That we are not only deserving of protection under the law — we represent the best parts of society. We create families where we have none, house one another when we’re shut out, give the love that we didn’t receive.

We are in a new wave of visionary trans filmmaking, with documentaries like Disclosure, feature films like Lingua Franca, and TV shows like Veneno. Remarkably, Trans in Trumpland is no exception.

Trans in Trumpland will be available on February 25th to U.S. and Canadian audiences on Topic through Topic.com and Topic channels through AppleTV & iOS, Roku, Amazon Fire TV, Android, and Amazon Prime video channels.

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Gender Fluidity and the Black Atlantic

Welcome to Autostraddle’s 2021 Black History Month essay series. In their recent stirring multi-media anthology Black Futures, Black queer creators Jenna Wortham and Kimberly Drew ask, “What does it mean to be Black and alive?” And so, this Black History Month, Autostraddle is reaching past, and pushing forward, to explore realities beyond (the pain of) what we have inherited.

I don’t remember when I stopped calling myself genderfluid.

Looking at my digital footprint, especially around my early days of gender exploration, the word felt like such a home. At some point, I grew tired of constantly defining and explaining and settled in under the nonbinary umbrella as the word seemed to eclipse and encompass all things not man or woman. But I miss my watery home and the ways it makes me feel connected to my human ancestors, and more importantly the Atlantic. The way the label gives me the freedom to be solid and slippery and still — down to the molecules, me.

Both of my parents swam in big bellies on the Atlantic, the children of American parents born on European soil. Before that, it gets hairy — with orphans on both sides, the trauma of enslavement erasing any tribal or national identity, and the toll of addiction severing any knowledge of even the Irish county my ancestors immigrated from. For me, I’ve found great comfort in the deep and wide of the Atlantic, and the way the water connects me to kin, named or unknown.

I never quite know how to respond when someone asks where my family is from. I can typically tell by the tone and the face if they’re trying to place me in a racial taxonomy to figure out how to treat me, or if they’re searching for a line of kinship. I typically just say “Black Irish” and let all the double meanings and beings hang in the air.

I think I stopped defining my gender as fluid to make myself more palpable. I grew up as the fly in the buttermilk, the lone Black face in class pictures — chemically straightening my hair for most of my teenage years in an effort to take up less physical and social space. Coming out as a lesbian I felt a need to stay even more in line — when I fell in love with a boy, I kept him hidden not wanting to make any more waves in my community. When I first bound my chest and looked in the mirror and saw a body that looked like a home I hid behind booze and intentionally forgot this homecoming for many more years — thinking how difficult it already was to be Black, queer, and mentally ill, I couldn’t possibly add being trans to the list. Coming out as trans was hard enough, and while genderfluid was used more in the early days of my transition it seemed to fall to the wayside and nonbinary seemed a term that cis people could more readily understand. I recognize now that I stopped calling myself genderfluid to make cisgender people more comfortable. So often in my life, I’ve whittled down my truths to make them easier to swallow or understand. I understand who I am, and that’s all that matters.

I’m the last generation of trans people that didn’t’ have words for ourselves or our experience, but as early as I could remember I knew I wasn’t a girl or a boy. My dear and darling parents graciously let me wear boy clothes most of the time as a child. I would sometimes acquiesce to wearing a matching dress with my sister for photos or big church functions, but for the most part, I wore baggy soccer uniforms. The only trans people I saw were on Jerry Springer when I was at home sick — and lord knows that wasn’t the positive mirror I needed. The first trans masculine person I ever saw was Max on The L Word, witnessing the abuse he faced and the exile from his queer community scared me into the closet for another decade.

I came out as genderfluid when I moved to the desert. On Tiwa Pueblo land I found trans community and queer people of color for the first time in my life. I met people that used they/them pronouns, that changed their names. I learned that I could take control of my body with hormones or surgery, both or neither. I discovered that these terms, these in-betweens or refusals to be pinned down could mean different things to different people. I learned that there was no script for this life, this body, this gender. The freedom I felt reminded me of long afternoons floating on my back, weightless and present.

One of the things I love about being part of the queer and trans community is how often our language shifts and moves with the times. In the preface to Transgender Warriors, the wise and inimitable Leslie Feinberg says, “The words I use in this book may become outdated in a very short time because the transgender movement is still young and defining itself. But while the slogans lettered on the banners may change quickly, the struggle will rage on. Since I am writing this book as a contribution to the demand for transgender liberation, the language I’m using in this book is not aimed at defining but at defending the diverse communities that are coalescing.” While I sometimes get salty about trying to stay hip and with it, I also celebrate that the changing language and labels have always been a part of trans history and there is nothing wrong with us hunting for and choosing words like feel like home.

I roll my eyes at the idea that trans people or anyone that exists beyond or without the gender binary is new — or a trend. Embracing my watery genderfluid identity is embracing my Atlantic legacy and the ways my ancestors might have understood my existence.

Water plays a big part in many West African cosmologies, from what I can glean from diving into voodoo and Santeria and what they were able to hide and keep from Yoruba beliefs. I’ve always been enthralled by the orisha Olokun. I’m not initiated in any of these traditions but have drawn great strength from learning from these living archives what enslavement tried to erase — especially around gender and sexuality. Depending on where you stop along the coast of West Africa or dock along the diaspora, Olokun has a different gender — but what tracks across the different belief systems and geographies is Olokun’s link to water.

I like to think of Olokun taking care of all the ancestors we lost to the sea, by force or by choice. Sharks knew to follow slaver ships because there was always blood. In the Wake, Christina Sharpe interviewed a physics colleague Anne Gardluski to ask about the presence of these ancestors in the ocean — she says that 90% to 95% of organic material in the ocean gets recycled over and over again, “no one dies of old age in the ocean.” The Atlantic, like many Black scholars have already noted, is quite literally an ancestor.

I always wonder what words my ancestors had for someone like me, what my role would’ve been in society. Until we recover these, I’ll stick with what I have. Here, holy and wholly, genderfluid.

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Scenes from a Gender 04: Stories of Trans Love

These scenes are written submissions from our staff and Autostraddle readers, illustrated by trans artist Bishakh Som. You can read more Scenes from a Gender here.

Submission from reader Felix Grego.

My name is Felix. My wife’s name is Leo. We met through mutual friends before the pandemic. By May 2020, everything felt uncertain except our love. Leo was working with the public, but with no health care. I work for a company that pays for my health care. We decided to get married that month to share my benefits.

The local county clerk’s office offered exceptions to help keep weddings small—the wedding just needed one adult to officiate and two witnesses. My queer neighbor officiated, and our two friends witnessed. The ceremony took place in our apartment building’s parking lot. We now felt ready for anything, including my upcoming top surgery.

After months of delays, I was finally getting the mastectomy I had dreamed about for years. Leo and I were nervous about the added stress of her taking care of me on top of working with the public in a pandemic. We found that the setting created tender moments. Soft touches, loving looks, and the feeling of safety around each other sparked an even deeper love.

I’ve since healed from my surgery and now pounce on any opportunity to take care of her.

I thought I would be unlovable if I transitioned. I thought that I wouldn’t be able to fit in with lesbians. I thought I wouldn’t be attractive to anyone. I tried to convince myself that I was unlovable.

But this experience has taught me that everyone is worthy of love.

Submission from reader Lana Pham.

I met Niko on Grindr. I had gone out with and spoken to other trans guys before, but had never been intimate with any until him. Many I knew or had encountered were either stuck in toxic masculinity or simply incompatible with me. I’m a slight narcissist, so I prefer guys similar to me — quiet, soft, playful, and mischievous. Niko met those requirements, and he was beautiful too.

I wasn’t nervous my first time with Niko and just hoped my cis-dick sucking skills translated well. In the dim light of my room, I could feel his packer underneath rough denim. I was lost in his soft kisses.

He suddenly undressed before me. And when I reached down again, his packer was gone. My hand instead met his wet excitement. After briefly rubbing each other, Niko directed his attention to my breasts with his mouth. He was gentle but firm, then slowly trailed his way down to taste more of me. He enveloped me fully, and I grew harder with every movement. I didn’t want him to stop, but I was excited to return the favor. After fumbling on my own, I directed Niko to sit on my face and take control. He forced my tongue between his lips. When he was finished, the makeup around my mouth had smeared off. I was erect, and he pulled me over to lie on top of him. I felt the full heat of his body as we continued kissing. With a simple shift, I slipped inside him.

I felt tense for a moment, but focused on the pleasure of our bodies instead. Internalized transphobia conditioned me to associate Niko’s parts with femininity, and after sex, I was left to ponder the hypocrisy in that. I was a trans woman who had spent years searching for self-love and sexual enjoyment despite the limitations of a cisgender world. I had allowed myself to remain confined instead of looking beyond what I had been taught. With Niko, I was experiencing my body without any scripts leading me. Enjoying each other’s bodies was the only guide. With most cis men, I have to align myself with cis women to accommodate their understanding of me. My efforts in doing so end up getting in the way of my own satisfaction. I didn’t have to perform with Niko. My body could just be. He was still masculine, and I was still feminine, regardless of what our bodies were doing. Niko widened my imagination to the possibilities of sexual intimacy. And unexpectedly, I was a little more healed.

Anonymous submission.

He told me that he decided to become a barber when he got kicked out of a barbershop at a young age. The shop wouldn’t serve someone they saw as a girl or queer. After that, he knew he wanted to make a safe space for trans and queer people. He’s about 20 years older than me, so he’s as much a mentor as he is a friend. Even after all the years of transphobia and marginalization he’s experienced, he wears his identity with pride and lifts other trans people up too.

I feel so much safer in his chair than with the cis guy I used to go to. He has never made me feel bad about being anxious around being touched. (I get a little shaky sometimes.) I know I can trust him enough to relax. He approaches me with sincere care and warmth, and an almost paternal sense of affection. He always makes sure to tuck an extra towel into the back of my shirt so the little hairs don’t get into my binder, because he knows from experience that it’ll drive a person crazy. He fist bumps me sometimes which is silly but also somehow very validating? I couldn’t explain why, but it’s good stuff. He always uses my pronouns right and compliments me with masculine terms, which no one else ever does. I leave the shop with the biggest grin on my face, and it sticks for hours.

The conversation flows so easily. I appreciate having someone who just gets it and let’s me gripe about getting deadnamed at the doctor’s office, or chased out of a public restroom. He’s someone who will celebrate the progress of my transition with me. The solidarity is life-saving. It’s wild because the town I live in is pretty traditional and conservative, and somehow I’ve managed to find this amazing little refuge.

It’s so rare that I feel completely understood and valued, and I feel like only another trans person is truly capable of that.

Submission from contributor Adrian White.

When the three of us are together, the air fills with magic. Wynn, Lysi and I are all non-binary, but we relate to our genders in very different ways. These differences are part of what made it possible for us to love each other so well through our transitions—a name change for me, HRT for Lysi, difficulty coming out at work for Wynn, pronouns and top surgery for all of us. We asked each other good questions, gave each other needed time and space, and gently pushed each other when we were scared.

Our trans love story is one of friendship, partnership, and family. Wynn and I are married, and Lysi is very much our chosen fam. The three of us feel like our own little organism, and each pair has its own independent dynamic, too. Though Wynn and I moved to Nashville from Dallas, we still find ways to be present for each other and continue to support each other through the lifelong journey of transition. Because of them, no matter what happens in this transphobic world, I can keep trans joy at the center.

A few months into the pandemic, Lysi drove through Nashville to visit family in Ohio, as their grandfather was in failing health. It had been months since I had looked forward to anything, and hugging them in the parking lot, masks covering our smiles, felt like coming home. We went to the patio area in our apartment complex and Wynn grilled bratwursts and vegetables. There was an ease of being together, in a time when absolutely nothing felt easy. Wynn and I have good friends in Nashville, but it’s different to spend time in physical space with someone who truly knows you. We covered a lot of conversational territory, but I couldn’t tell you specifics. I just remember feeling settled in my body and a deep sense of the way the three of us belong to each other and the joy of sharing a meal with another human being in the sunshine. As the pandemic continually draws me toward despair, I remember that evening and know that soon enough we’ll be together again.

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A Year of Intersex Victories

While 2020 has been a rough year for just about everyone, 2020 has also been a year of many intersex victories and of the overall global advancement of intersex rights.

The term “intersex” is an umbrella term that refers to anyone born with variations in their sex characteristics—including variations in their hormones, chromosomes, internal anatomy, and external genitalia. The term “intersex” refers to an entire community of people with over 30 medically recognized intersex variations. While intersex people might have the same diagnosis or similar variations, no two intersex people have the same experience—as intersex people come from all walks of life. Despite the fact that intersex people make up about 2% of the population, which is the same percentage of people born with red hair or green eyes, intersex issues are only just beginning to receive recognition in the mainstream media.

As an intersex person myself, seeing the victories that have taken place within the intersex community in the past year alone has been encouraging. Growing up, I was pressured into changing my body by doctors who didn’t understand me. Because of the lack of intersex education that existed at the time, I thought that surely they knew more than I did and had my best interests at heart. Unfortunately, I’ve come to learn that this is not the case. When doctors pressured me into taking hormones, they wanted me to fit into their idea of what a “normal girl” looks like. When doctors misdiagnosed me and hid my tests from me because of the stigma surrounding the intersex label, they wanted me to conform to the gender and sex binaries. For the longest time, I accepted that being intersex meant living in the shadows of shame and stigma that doctors imposed on me—but the wins that intersex people have achieved in 2020 is proof that things are getting better and that the next generation of intersex people won’t have to suffer the same way my generation has.

That said, perhaps the two biggest victories for the intersex community in 2020 by far have been the two children’s hospitals who have moved to officially end intersex surgery.

Intersex surgery—also referred to as intersex genital mutilation (IGM), a term that was coined by the Organization Intersex International (OII)—is surgery that is carried out upon the external genitalia of intersex infants and children when their genitals do not unambiguously pass as “male” or “female”. This surgery often includes clitorises that are deemed “too large” by doctors; urethral openings that are thought to be in the “wrong” place; and vaginal openings that doctors consider “too small,” or that are naturally closed. Though these surgeries are commonly referred to by the medical community as “normalizing”, they’re very rarely medically necessary and often create lifelong complications for the individual in question instead.

Over the past few years, more and more intersex people have begun to share their stories about the detrimental effects that intersex surgery has had on their lives. Clitoral reductions or clitoral “repositioning” often leads to scarring, nerve damage, and the complete loss of sexual sensation. Vaginoplasties can create chronic UTIs and require that a parent or doctor perform vaginal dilation until a child is old enough to do so themselves—which many intersex people experience as sexual violence that can lead to PTSD. Gonadectomies, often performed when a child’s internal gonads do not match their external anatomy, are sterilizing and force individuals onto lifelong hormone replacement therapy. And the repositioning of a urethral opening can create ongoing pain, scar tissue, loss of sensation, and the need for multiple follow-up surgeries as the individual ages. “I was born healthy, but my parents were told I needed surgery,” InterACT youth member Anick shared through the #MyIntersexBody campaign. “My first surgery was at four months old and since then I’ve had more than I can remember because of complications.”

Anick, a youth member of InterACT.

Further, not only are these surgeries physically damaging, but they continue to perpetuate a culture of shame around intersex bodies—and the resulting social and medical stigma is the reason that so many intersex people don’t talk about themselves, their bodies, or the consequences of a surgery that they never agreed to. “I wish they had left my body alone,” InterACT youth member Banti shared, a statement that many intersex people have echoed throughout the years.

The Intersex Justice Project (IJP) is one organization, co-founded by Pidgeon Pagonis and Sean Saifa Wall, with the primary goal to end intersex surgery—a phrase that sparked the #EndIntersexSurgery hashtag and movement on social media. Over the course of a three-year campaign, Pagonis and Wall directed their efforts to end intersex surgery at the Ann & Robert H. Lurie Children’s Hospital of Chicago. This campaign included protests outside of Lurie Children’s; a “takeover” of the L train in Chicago, where intersex activists spread awareness by reading aloud intersex human rights violations taking place at Lurie Children’s; a call-to-action on social media to pressure two of the doctors performing intersex surgeries at Lurie Children’s to cease immediately; and a petition on Change.org that garnered nearly 50,000 signatures.

On July 28th, Lurie Children’s Hospital became the first hospital in the United States to apologize for performing intersex surgeries on intersex children and infants, and to express that they will no longer be performing intersex surgeries unless absolutely medically necessary moving forward. “Intersex activists are pushing for a model of existence that is outside of these very rigid, socially-constructed norms,” Wall shared with me, pointing at the gender norms and expectations evident within the history of intersex surgeries like those performed at Lurie Children’s. “We’re fighting for the complexity of our bodies. We’re fighting for our bodies to exist exactly as they are.”

Sean Saifa Wall and Pidgeon Pagonis stand at a rally speaking to a crowd.

A few months after this decision on October 21st, the Boston Children’s Hospital similarly announced that it will no longer be performing two common types of intersex surgeries—clitoroplasties and vaginoplasties. Though this decision did not come with a formal apology nor assurance that the hospital will cease other intersex surgeries and proecdures, it remains a historic decision that sets a precedent amongst children’s hospitals. “One hospital was cool, but people might [consider it] an anomaly,” Pagonis told USA Today. “Now that there are two hospitals, people in the community are going to feel more ability to pressure their hospitals to do the same.”

But these wins aren’t the only wins that the intersex community has experienced in 2020, nor have all wins been contained solely to the United States. Because the fight for intersex rights has thus far been a global fight, many other countries—and many international intersex activists—have seen the recognition and advancement of intersex rights too.

On August 25th, Ecuador’s National Assembly approved a new health code aimed at explicitly guaranteeing the rights of intersex people. Specifically, this new health code prohibits any medical procedure “that violates the personal integrity of any person who has not reached puberty” except when medically necessary—a direct push to permanently end intersex surgeries in Ecuador. Should this bill pass into law, it will ensure that all future intersex children born in Ecuador will be the sole decision-makers for any surgeries or procedures that they undergo.

On October 1st, 33 countries around the world called upon the U.N. Human Rights Council to protect the bodily autonomy of intersex people. “Our bodies were born whole, and only we should have had the right to decide what happens to them,” Mauro Cabral Grinspan of GATE, a global campaign for trans, nonbinary and intersex people, said. This is the first time that a global push for intersex rights of this kind has taken place—with each state acknowledging the harm done to intersex people and urging their governments to take action in the fight for intersex rights. Back in 2013, the U.N. acknowleged intersex surgery as a form of torture and called upon its states to repeal any laws allowing genital “normalizing” surgeries without the informed consent of the individual in question. That said, the global fight to end intersex surgery is gaining considerable support—a move that should prove to be instrumental in stopping the human rights violations still happening within the global intersex community.

On October 26th—also known as Intersex Awareness Day—Oklahoma City, OK passed a resolution for the city to officially recognize Intersex Awareness Day for the very first time. The resolution was co-sponsored by Councilmembers Hamon and Cooper with the help and insight of intersex activists Elena Hight, Fallon Magnus, and Bria Brown-King. By recognizing Intersex Awareness Day in this way, Oklahoma City is tangibly spreading intersex awareness and educating its community on intersex history and the intersex experience.

On November 6th, in the days leading up to Intersex Solidarity Day on November 8, Belgium’s Institute for Equality between Women and Men (IEWM) released a new campaign to spread intersex awareness. This campaign included a brochure filled with the testimony of intersex parents, stories from intersex people, and information about intersex-affirming organizations, alongside a video explaining what it means to be intersex. “Adults with intersex variations often say they would have preferred to make an informed choice themselves,” the IEWM noted. Thus, by circulating these resources, the IEWM is taking steps to ensure that the future parents of intersex children in Belgium can make the most informed decision possible to avoid pursuing nonconsensual intersex surgeries.

On November 30th, the Dutch government issued a written apology to its transgender and intersex citizens who were, between 1985 and 2014, required to undergo sterilization in order to legally change their gender. In fact, not only did the Dutch government apologize to those affected by this law but it also agreed to compensate nearly 2,000 transgender and intersex people with 5,000 euros each. This acknowledgment both takes accountability for the past, and promises bodily autonomy and integrity to future transgender and intersex Dutch citizens.

Despite the victories that 2020 has brought the intersex community and the moves made to push intersex rights in the next direction, the intersex community is still up against many challenges. The widespread lack of comprehensive intersex education means that the parents of intersex children are less equipped to make informed decisions about raising intersex children with bodily autonomy. The lack of training that hospitals and medical professionals receive on intersex issues and bodies means that a large majority of intersex people avoid seeking medical attention because they fear being mistreated. The social shame and stigma surrounding the intersex experience means that intersex people are often too afraid to discuss their needs and experiences. And, of course, intersex surgery is still happening on countless intersex children and infants every single day around the world.

But thanks to the tireless work of intersex advocates of many generations, progress is inching forward. Slowly, but surely, we’re creating a better future for intersex people.

2020 has turned out to be an instrumental year for the intersex community—but with the support that the community has gained this year, and a better understanding of the aforementioned issues, 2021 is shaping up to be even better.

Scenes from a Gender 03: Trans Resilience Throughout 2020

These scenes are written submissions from our staff and Autostraddle readers, illustrated by trans artist Bishakh Som. You can read more Scenes from a Gender here.

Submission from reader Alex Danvers.

This year, I came out as nonbinary to my in-laws and it’s been a bit of a bumpy ride, particularly regarding my mother-in-law.

When I was trying to explain my change of name, my mother-in-law gave ‘helpful’ suggestions like “why not just use your initials, then you don’t have to tell people” and “people just won’t understand” and “you can’t explain it to people like [my wife’s uncle]”.

Cut to a few months later when Christmas cards started arriving in the mail. They were addressed to me, in my name. Not my deadname. The first was from my mother-in-law, the others were from all of the extended family members that she had told.

Submission from reader Asher Firestone.

I’ve had a really interesting journey of reciprocal top surgery healing with my friend, Hands. They’re a body worker, and a couple days before my surgery in September, they gave me this energy massage in the backyard of a house they were catsitting at. They imbued a rosemary-oiled release into my old chest, and then we sat in a hot tub musing about their dreams of a flat chest.

I ended up having a pretty rough recovery period, and they helped me film a short movie about it so that other trans folks would feel more comfortable talking about the pain of this process. They ended up staying with me for three more weeks than expected — to massage me, cook for me, watch reruns of Sister, Sister with me. The next month, they moved in with a friend two houses down from mine, and we began making calls to their insurance as I slowly gained the strength to chop my own veggies and reach for the shampoo.

Now, they’ve asked me to be their primary caretaker for their top surgery in February. It feels so cosmic to be able to give that love and nurturing right back to them. All our queer friends on the street will chip in lasagnas and gentle walks, just like they did during my healing a few months ago. Building a trans community happens in both these small and profound moments of connection, and the two of us are thrilled to frolic around the Hudson Valley this spring in our tiny tops and big grins.

Submission from Autostraddle writer Drew Gregory.

Like many people, when I was first coming out, I felt insecure about the identity I was fighting so hard to claim. I felt outside the community that I was losing so much to join. I now know there’s no right way to be trans, but when you’re raised in a cis-centric world it’s hard to feel comfortable in a trans identity, especially your own.

Around this time I went to see the trans play of the New York theatre season. It was well-reviewed and buzzed about and I didn’t relate to it at all. I spiraled. Maybe I wasn’t really trans. Maybe this was all fake. My therapist had recommended spaces for me to meet other trans women and those spaces had felt equally alienating. Why wasn’t I fitting into those spaces? Why did I bristle at the conversations of these fellow new trans girls? Why didn’t I connect with this play about trans people — about me?

A week later, my girlfriend and I went to a reading of Wig Out! by Tarell Alvin McCraney. Her friend had helped organize a weekend-long event called Interfest billed as “a free arts and ideas festival for liberationists to radically engage, boldly express, and joyously unify as a community.” I didn’t know the reading had a trans actor or several genderqueer characters or really anything about it except that McCraney co-wrote Moonlight. I didn’t go in looking for connection or validation. But I found it.

As a white trans woman, theoretically the “trans play” should’ve been more relatable than McCraney’s Black queer play about ballroom. But the messiness of the show’s approach to gender and performance and community connected with me so much more. This play, and specifically this community-focused low-budget reading of this play, helped me realize that my idea of transness had been limited by an assimilationist mindset. I’d left one box only to try and fit into another — that’s why it felt wrong.

Transness and trans community will always be about expansion to me. I want to revel in our differences — our different experiences, our different perspectives, our different desires. There’s nothing wrong with fitting a conventional trans narrative, but I learned that day there are other options. There are so many more narratives we can create.

Submission from trans subject editor Xoai Pham.

This year, the holidays were different because my father came down with COVID-19. For much of my life, my dad has been the silent protector. And in this case, he was in a state where he needed protection himself. He was bedridden for weeks.

On a day where his symptoms were particularly bad, we decided to take him to the hospital. There was a moment when the nurse wheeled him away: I had a chance to ask her for a private moment with him but I shrunk in fear. I couldn’t face him alone while he was hurting.

As he recovered at home, I realized that there was so much I wanted to say to him. How proud I was of how he did as a father. How sorry I was for all the times I was unkind. And how I wanted him to forgive himself for all the ways he is hard on himself. So I wrote him a letter almost every day. The combination of physical and emotional support was important to motivate him to get out of bed so his body could get stronger. I asked him how he felt about the letters after he had regained his health, and he told me he cried. That was enough for me to understand.

My relationship to my father is an example of trans resilience. We often talk about trans resilience as the trials that trans people survive. Our resilience is also the ways that we contribute to the resilience of our communities. Our resilience is reflected in the depth of the bonds among us. In a world that creates circumstances of violence that tears trans people from our families, this holiday season was trans resilience. Not because I survived — but because my father did.

10 Times Trans and Gender Nonconforming People Destroyed 2020

For many trans people, 2020 just revealed to the general public the kind of inequities that they had always been facing. For others, the pandemic heightened barriers to important resources like housing and healthcare, which have long been withheld from trans people.

What 2020 has also shown us is exactly how bright trans people shine in a world that tries to dim us until we disappear. Trans people have been the leaders we need.

1. Modeling Mutual Aid Before It Became a Commonplace Term

Calls for mutual aid circulated widely at the start of the pandemic, when our families were losing jobs and wondering how to pay rent. Donations poured into mutual aid funds to support individuals who didn’t have the means to eat, while many elected officials and the rich fled to quarantine in their vacation homes.

But prior to the pandemic, trans people have long practiced mutual aid in order to keep their people alive. For the Gworls, run by Asanni Armon, helped keep Black trans femmes housed by hosting celebrations and redistributing entrance fees. Black and Pink, with local chapters across the country, made sure people who were incarcerated were not forgotten by fundraising for hygiene supplies. Meanwhile, COVID-19 rates were exponentially multiplying in prisons that had already jeopardized trans lives, contributing to the deaths of Layleen Polanco and Roxsana Hernandez, among others.

2. The Launch of the Trans Journalists Association

Started in February of 2020, the Trans Journalists Association (TJA) filled in glaring gaps within the reporting practices about trans lives. Both in life and in death, trans people have regularly been referred to by their birth name and assigned sex, rather than by who we say we are. Often, community members are left to advocate for our friends against a hostile press.

TJA has created a comprehensive guide for the media to combat insensitive reporting, covering correct pronoun usage, harmful stereotypes, and disinformation. It also has provided tools for employers to diversify their newsrooms and create equitable environments after trans reporters are hired.

3. Leading the Uprisings for Black Lives

Hours after George Floyd was murdered at the end of May, Black trans and queer organizers in Minneapolis mobilized to petition for the police to be defunded. This demand caught fire across the country, shedding light on the legacy of police officers as modern iterations of slave patrols and agents of genocide against Indigenous people.

Organizations like Reclaim the Block and Black Visions Collective in Minneapolis reminded the world to dream of liberation. They are not alone. Local organizers across the country had long called for the abolition of police and prisons, as they only exist to harm marginalized people. What grassroots power showed us during these uprisings is that our communities have long kept us safe and the solutions lie within our commitment to one another.

4. 15,000 Turn Out for Black Trans Lives

The Brooklyn Liberation March in June is speculated to have had the largest turnout for trans people ever. Black trans community organizers were at the center of the event, highlighting how Black trans women in particular were both targets for lethal violence and Black trans leaders were dismissed by movements for justice.

“I believe in Black trans power” is a phrase immortalized by Raquel Willis, former executive editor at Out and now communications director at Ms. Foundation. The march was a culminating event based on a legacy of interdependence. Generations of Black trans people like Marsha P. Johnson and Miss Major had been building the power that called on thousands of people this year to show up.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Raquel Willis (@raquel_willis)

5. Freedom for Trans Migrants

Two transgender migrants, Chin Tsui and Sza Sza, were released from migrant prisons this year, thanks to the work of Transgender Law Center and the Black LGBTQIA+ Migrant Project.

Faced with neglect from institutions meant to deliver resources to the public, trans migrants often creatively make ends meet with labor that is unjustly criminalized by the state. Some trans migrants are even profiled by police as criminals even when they aren’t engaging in any illegal activity.

Chin Tsui and Sza Sza had their lives on the line. They had to protect themselves against transphobic violence in addition to a virus that had been spreading in prisons. Campaigns that coupled legal strategies with public pressure led to their release.

6. A Supreme Court Victory for LGBTQ+ Workers

A monumental victory after a barrage of discriminatory rules unleashed by the Trump administration, the landmark decision over the summer ruled that LGBTQ workers were protected under the 1964 Civil Rights Act.

The ruling came as a relief. It meant that LGBTQ people had legal precedent to assert their rights when enduring the kind of mistreatment by doctors and homeless shelters that was openly encouraged by the government. But this couldn’t have happened without the brilliance of trans lawyer Chase Strangio and the advocacy of Laverne Cox, who created a media firestorm surrounding the case.

7. The Release of the Disclosure Documentary

Policy must be coupled with culture changes in order for trans people to truly claim liberation. Disclosure, another project helmed by Laverne Cox as executive producer, documented the media representations that contributed to the stigma associated with trans lives.

Starting with early portrayals of gender transition as uncivilized, the documentary takes us through to present day. Now, trans characters are onscreen more frequently than ever, but rarely played by trans actors. The title draws associations of the pivotal moment when cisgender people discover the assigned sex of a trans person, but in this case, the disclosure moment is a reclamation of power by filmmaker Sam Feder.

8. Hospitals Announce an End to Intersex Surgeries

In July, Lurie Children’s Hospital in Chicago put forth an apology and promised to end surgeries on intersex babies. As a community with little visibility and ongoing abuse from the medical establishment, intersex community organizers have had to build up public knowledge for decades.

Sean Saifa Wall (left) and Pidgeon Pagonis taking over a public train to protest against intersex surgeries at Lurie Children’s Hospital in 2018. Intersex Justice Project/Sarah Jane Rhee

Many intersex people are also transgender, as they do not identify with the sex they were forcibly assigned at birth. The campaign was won by two trans and intersex advocates who co-founded the Intersex Justice Project: Sean Saifa Wall and Pidgeon Pagonis. In October, Boston Children’s Hospital also issued an overdue apology and a commitment to ending certain surgeries on intersex babies. The momentum that’s building around the inherent dignity of intersex people cannot be overstated.

9. Mainstream Recognition for Artists

Trans and gender nonconforming artists have rarely been acknowledged as the cutting edge of artistic disciplines but much of mainstream art has been influenced by many of our communities. Pose documents the ballroom scene of New York that taught Madonna how to vogue. Icons like Big Freedia who helped popularize the bounce genre of music. Beyoncé, Drake, and Lizzo have all either used samples or collaborated with Big Freedia over recent years.

This year, Venezuelan trans artist Arca received the recognition she deserved with a Grammy nomination for best electronic/dance album. Prior to this recognition, she had collaborated with Kanye West, Bjork, FKA Twigs, and Frank Ocean.

Our community also rightfully took up space in magazine covers. After being snubbed by the Emmy Awards along with the rest of the Pose cast, Indya Moore took the rest of the year by storm with a cover on both Vogue Italia and Vogue India. Among those who worked with Vogue are also Chella Man and Aaron Philip, two trans disabled models of color who have been pushing the industry to meaningfully invest in trans and disabled talent.

10. Celebrating Electoral Victories

The year ended with a celebration. Many trans communities got to see their own friends and family members take on elected positions within government.

Among notable firsts, Stephanie Byers of the Chickasaw nation became the first trans Native American to hold public office in the country. She joins a record number of Native women who have been elected this year. Trans women took on races in areas without a large population of LGBTQ people and it paid off: Taylor Small became the first openly trans person elected to the Vermont legislature, Brianna Titone won in Colorado against a Republican who ran transphobic ads against her, and Mauree Turner became the first openly nonbinary legislator in the Oklahoma state house.

Sarah McBride—among the brilliant trans artists, service workers, caretakers, and community organizers who were our heroes this year—gave us the unapologetic energy we needed to take more power for ourselves next year. An anonymous person messaged her on Twitter asking, “I am confused, are you a boy or a girl?”

McBride responded, “I’m a senator.”

Hope that clears things up. pic.twitter.com/6JjBjG4QAO

— Sarah McBride (@SarahEMcBride) November 23, 2020

Respect Your Elders: Carter Bachmann Came Out as Trans at 64

Respect Your Elders is a monthly column in which Lou Barrett sits down with an LGBTQ+ elder in their community and gets to know them over a cup of tea. Or, a Zoom session for social distancing! 

Carter Bachmann, age 64, was a real treat. He came out as a trans man earlier this year. Carter is funny, and a great storyteller.

“This is something I’ve waited for since I was six years old,” he told me before his dog, Kaia, started barking, and he had to tend to her. “My sister was my mother’s daughter. I was dad’s kid. His nicknames for me were sport and buddy.”

Like many of the people I’ve interviewed, Carter referenced Christine Jorgensen as the only trans person of note at the time he was figuring out who he was. So, talking about feeling different didn’t feel like an option for him.

Carter noticed his attraction to women as a kid, and kissed a girl for the first time at the age of eight. Carter told another story about a little who girl fell off the monkey bars and broke her leg. None of the kids on the playground knew what to do. Carter took the initiative to pick her up and carry her to the nurse. “I’ve always been taking care of people younger or smaller than me. It’s been like that my whole life.”

Carter’s first girlfriend outed him in high school, and his parents didn’t take it well. “They didn’t stop loving me, but they made things very difficult for me.”

He ended up moving in with his girlfriend for three months because of the friction their relationship caused with his family. “Right around Christmas time I started getting a big case of the guilts. I knew I should at least make the attempt to go to Christmas dinner. I called my uncle and he said you better get your ass over here or I’ll come get you.” His uncle knew Carter’s mother was heartbroken, and all she wanted for Christmas was to see her kid.

After breaking up with the girlfriend who outed him, Carter started dating a new girl. They’d often spend weekends at a gay bar that held weekly drag shows.

Carter became a regular at the bar, and became friends with many of the queens, including a guy named John whose drag name was Dana. Carter got t-shirts made that said Danamanians to support his friend and would join his friends at a table that ran alongside the catwalk. A dozen or so of John’s friends would sit there every weekend. “That was our table. Period. End of discussion.”
After a Saturday show, not long after Carter’s second breakup, John and Carter sat in the dressing room. John said, “I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. Actually, no I’m not,” and started putting makeup on Carter’s face. He’d decided Carter looked like Liza Minnelli. John gave him a dress and heels and taught him how to walk.

“Oh, by the way, I’ve entered you in a contest. It’s two weeks away,” John told him.

“Oh my god!” Carter yelled out to me just as he had to John decades earlier.

On March 12th, 1978 he participated in the contest, and he won. That started his career as a drag performer. He didn’t need a wig. He just cut his hair, and did his makeup.

In 1981, in the middle of a recession, Carter moved to Cleveland to get better work. After couch surfing, he eventually found his own place on Coventry, right in my current neighborhood.

On September 27th, 1981 he met a girl through a friend. They all went out dancing together, and she and Carter hit it off. She was straight. One of Carter’s friends was her dance partner and decided to switch partners so Carter could dance with her. She was nervous, but they had an immediate connection.

They got married just three months later, and had been married for 35 years until she passed away almost four years ago.

Carter brought her into the drag scene. “Do you know like, everybody?” his wife asked after seeing how limitless Carter’s network seemed to be.

Carter’s wife, Ronnie, didn’t want him to do drag. “I was the masculine one and she wanted to keep it that way,” he explained.

A few months after she passed, Carter resurrected Liza Minnelli. One of his friends suggested he come to an event dressed as Liza. He did, and upon showing up to the bar he sat down next to Lady J., an famous queen in the local scene, who immediately told him he needed to be in one of her shows.

Carter started preparing and needed to pick a new name. He initially chose Terri Mann.

“That’s pretty plain,” a friend told him.

“Not if you introduce me right,” Carter added. “I’m Miss Terri Mann.”

After playing with Liza for a little bit, someone suggested he tried performing as a king.

At the time, he’d only done so once before, in 1979. This was my favorite story.

John’s manager told Carter that he needed him for a project. He needed Carter to play John’s date to a pageant, and John didn’t know. They got Carter a tuxedo and an old fashioned medical abdominal binder, and brought up a makeup artist from Miami to do his makeup with facial hair.

It took 4 hours.

“I went down. I got in the limo. Picked up John. He had no idea who I was.”

“Wow!” I laughed.

He said for the week prior, he stuck his face in the freezer and got himself a cold so his voice would be lower.

They did the promo and went on with the night. They took the limo and John invited him up still not knowing who his king was. “I knew all his moves. I knew his pickup lines. I knew exactly what he’d do when we got in, and he did not disappoint.”

Carter laughed. “He told me to make myself comfortable and offered a drink, and said I’m gonna get into something more comfortable. He came back and laid on the couch and was being all sexy and shit. I decided I had to tell him or this poor boy was never gonna talk to me again.”

Carter went back to the bathroom and took off all his makeup and the facial hair and put on a t-shirt and shorts. He went back to the couch where John had laid his head back, awaiting his date. Carter slowly walked up, and kissed John’s forehead, “John?” he asked. John jumped up, “What are you doing here!”

“Honey,” I told him, “I’ve been with you all night.”

To close, I asked Carter what advice he had for younger LGBTQ+ people.

“Having presented a woman, a lesbian, and then come out as transgender man… don’t be afraid. You’re not alone. We are worthwhile. We are forever. We are everywhere. All you have to do is look for us. Be who you are. Take the time to figure out who you are. Don’t take drugs, cuz they don’t help. Figure out who you want to be, and then be that. If you’re worried the timing isn’t right, wait til it’s right. You know you. You can still be you. Just remember, you’re not alone.”

Carter was so entertaining and had me laughing the whole time. Talking to him was a joy.

Respect Your Elders: Tea with Trans Playwright and Actress Christine Howey

Respect Your Elders is a monthly column in which Lou Barrett sits down with an LGBTQ+ elder in their community and gets to know them over a cup of tea. Or, a Zoom session for social distancing! 

74-year-old Christine Howey and I met at Phoenix Coffee on Lee Road on the east side of Cleveland. Christine is most known around Cleveland for creating a one-woman show, Exact Change, to talk about her experience as a trans woman, which she adapted into a film. Her daughter, Noelle Howey, also wrote a book called Dress Codes: Of Three Girlhoods — My Mothers, My Father’s, and Mine, which, like her mother’s play and film, gained nationwide attention. In fact, Christine and her daughter ended up on Oprah’s couch.

Christine serves as the Executive Director of Literary Cleveland, an integral part of Cleveland’s literary community. Literary Cleveland provides writing classes and workshops to new and experienced writers throughout the Cleveland area.

Howey came out as trans in 1990 when she was 45. “I came out here in Cleveland, my hometown. Back then, we didn’t have the word transgender,” she told me. “I thought about leaving town, not having to drag my past along with me, but I was political enough to think there was nothing wrong with this and I wanted to make a statement.”

When I asked if Christine knew other trans people when she came out, she told me about a local community of crossdressers and transgender people. She attended a yearly festival in Provincetown with them.

I asked her more about creating artwork about her identity.

“After I was about 20 years into my life as Christine, I was getting very frustrated by seeing that nothing much was changing. Transgender people were still being assaulted, killed, committing suicide. I felt that since I was a writer, I was a performer, I could put that together and maybe do a show and break down some barriers.”

The show is composed of 40 poems that make up the voices of her family, friends, and others.

When the show started, Christine was performing five times a week. She eventually performed in New York, where she received great reviews. She also created a film after fielding ongoing performance requests from universities

Christine decided to come out in her 40s, encouraged by some of the women she met in Provincetown. Older generations of trans people often lived closeted. I asked if she’d considered that. “I couldn’t put my history away without putting my daughter away and that wasn’t gonna happen,” she told me.

Staying closeted, she told me, “was a rational alternative to god knows what could happen if you come out publicly.” She shared how she was fired from a job, “For no reason, because that’s Ohio.” To this day, with the exception of state employment, Ohio does not have statewide legislation that protects LGBTQ+ people from wrongful firings.

I asked if there was any media she saw as a young person that helped her figure out who she was.

“When I was 7, I saw a headline in the newspaper, ‘Soldier Becomes a Woman,’ about Christine Jorgensen.” She recalled the memory, smiling.

When Christine was in high school in the ’60s, she tried to do research about trans people in the library. “I would go to the card catalog and look up ‘homosexual’ or ‘transexual,’ and they all had a red dot. A red dot meant it was confined to a cage on the top floor of the library and only professionals, doctors, psychologists, professors could access that information.”

“When you try to find out who you are and can’t find any information, the message is, ‘you’re something really awful,’ because this can’t even be spoken of in polite company.” Christine talked about all of the feelings she’d internalized from trying to do that research. “You never really shake that,” she told me.

People say, ‘Must be interesting. You’ve been both a man and a woman,’ when in actuality I was never really a man. I studied so hard to be a man.” She went on to describe her experience with sports and swearing, her attempts at conforming. She wasn’t ‘girly’ so no one ever suspected she was trans.

During her 15 -ear acting career, she always played the villain. “I was always the bad guy, the villain, homicidal maniac, the devil, Richard Nixon.”

I was very entertained by this. “What does that do to a person’s psychology?”

“Oh, it was fun. First of all, they’re great roles. Every actor knows the villains are the best roles.” She continued, “I figured if I could fool people so well, eventually this will just click in my real life and it’ll feel natural.”

I asked if her acting career influenced the way she saw herself at all.

“Not really,” she answered, “I learned how to be an actor and play a role. When I made the transition, I had to learn to be myself”

Lou and Christine

We briefly talked about Christine’s relationship with her parents. She shared a beautiful story about her mother, which is included in Exact Change but still made her cry.

“She didn’t know how to deal with me as Christine. She said, ‘I have all of these friends who know I have two sons. How am I supposed to introduce you? What if we’re out to dinner and a friend comes over? How about I introduce you as my niece, Christine?’” She continued, “I said okay, if that’s what you have to do, that’s fine. Then we went out to dinner, and a friend of hers stopped by and she said, without a beat, ‘This is my daughter.’”

I asked Christine what advice she had for younger trans people.

“I think it’s hard for people in a different way now,” she offered. “It’s sometimes so accepting that when people start exploring their gender, people say, ‘Okay, let’s go shopping. Tell us who you are.’ They want answers right away, but it’s okay if it still takes time for people to figure out who they are.'”

What Mattee Jim, Navajo Trans Elder, Teaches Us About Remembering

A month of convergence: the pandemic, ongoing uprisings to defend Black lives, Native American Heritage Month, Trans Day of Remembrance, and a presidential election. After what felt like a year of waiting to exhale, Mattee Jim celebrated the loss of President Trump with a symphony of honks and rejoicing voices. “I was cruising up and down for four hours. I didn’t even mind going slow,” she said. Many were dancing in the streets. She placed her trans flag on her dashboard so it could be on full display: as a Navajo trans woman, many parts of her were relieved.

Mattee Jim is of the Zuni People Clan and born for the Towering House People Clan. This is how she identifies as a Diné — the word that those in the Navajo nation use among themselves. She’s speaking to me from her office at First Nations Community Healthsource, where she’s returned, despite the pandemic, to ensure her Native communities have the resources for HIV prevention. She’s been doing this work for several decades.

She was born in Gallup, New Mexico, which lies near the arbitrary border that cuts through the Navajo nation, a line meant to indicate when New Mexico becomes Arizona. Navajo voters like Mattee were instrumental in flipping Arizona, a battleground state, blue. Yet, in many exit polls depicting voter statistics by race, Indigenous voters were forgotten, placed into the “something else” category.

Despite the Native words that are scattered across a map of the U.S. — Milwaukee, Oklahoma, Malibu, Tallahassee, Mississippi River, and Yellowstone National Park are just a few — the meanings of these words have been warped, assigned new values by colonizers. Few youth today are taught that both the American constitution and the Seneca Falls Convention of 1848, the first feminist convention in the U.S., were inspired by the laws and matrilineal traditions of the Haudenosaunee people. Indigenous knowledge has been the well of inspiration that colonizers have drunk from, only to poison the water later on.

A map of precolonial nations and tribes provided by native-land.ca.

Mattee was one of the Native youth whose life was shaped by the American neglect of Indigenous populations. Her decision to become sober at the age of 24 was the turning point. Three years later, she began identifying as trans, after she started working with the Coalition for Equality in New Mexico in the late 1990s, an organization that works towards a “reality of equity, full access, and sustainable wellness for LGBTQ New Mexicans.” Prior to that, she had never even heard the word “transgender.”

While Stephanie Byers of the Chickasaw nation has made history this year as the first Native trans person to be elected to office in America, Native trans youth rarely have the stability to become politically engaged. “Getting into politics wasn’t our priority,” Mattee explained. “How to get to the hospital, how to go to the grocery store, how to get transportation, our livelihood was first and foremost.” Due to high rates of homelessness, food insecurity, and unemployment, many Native LGBTQ people cannot afford to get involved in politics.

Over the last few years, Native issues have reached greater visibility, especially after the fight against the Dakota Access Pipeline began in 2016. Columbus Day in many cities has been renamed Indigenous People’s Day. Meetings and rallies, particularly among community organizers, begin with an acknowledgment of the original stewards of the land.

That work took decades of pressure from marginalized communities. After centuries of erasure, evident in the loss of languages, Native culture is still being preserved by protectors like Mattee. Despite the dual layers of invisibility being both Navajo and transgender, Mattee proudly proclaims her sacred role in community spaces she enters. While trans issues have become a national discussion only recently, gender-variant people from Indigenous communities have been historically accepted and revered for their contributions to society.

Diyingo ‘Adaanitsíískéés (We Are Sacred)

“From what I’ve learned growing up, the elders would tell us that we’re special people,” Mattee recalled. “A family was blessed to have someone in their family who was LGBTQ. The riches were the knowledge they knew, the roles they played, the tasks they do.”

Trans people in Indigenous communities, across the world, added to the abundance of knowledge about the human soul. As with the Navajo nation, trans people in Vietnam, called chuyển giới, were traditionally mediums who helped people speak to their ancestors. In India, the gender-variant community of hijras were revered as having the ability to bless or curse marriages through fertility rituals. Among the Zapotec people of Oaxaca, transfeminine muxes are often artisans and craftspeople. The city even celebrates gender diversity in a three-day festival called Vela de las Intrepidas. In Hawai’i, the māhū were people who could embody both masculine and feminine spirits, and they were traditional healers, caretakers, and teachers. Since the beginning of the fight for Mauna Kea, a sacred mountain threatened with destruction through the construction of a telescope, māhū leaders have been among those at the forefront of the battle.

From left: Vogue Mexico features muxe communities for the first time. The Kinnar Akhada community of India prepares to dip, in ritual, in the Ganga. Hinaleimoana Wong-Kalu, māhū leader and teacher, raises her fists in ceremony.

Through her advocacy work, Mattee educates on Native trans identity and has been viewed by her friends to exhibit cultural roles and characteristics of historical Native trans individuals such as Osh-Tisch. The name, which means “finds them and kills them,” refers to the two-spirit person from the Crow nation that earned her moniker through her fierceness in battle in the late 1800s. Osh-Tisch later was imprisoned by an American federal agent, who forced her to cut her hair, wear masculine clothing, and perform manual labor. The Crow nation stood by Osh-Tisch and found a way to remove the federal agent from their land. Chief Pretty Eagle called their treatment of her “unnatural” — a word often used today to disparage trans people rather than, in this case, the abuse of trans people. Since the time of Osh-Tisch’s life, the perils set up by colonizers have continued to plague Native trans people.

Mattee explains that for Native trans women, there are two overlapping phenomena: the ongoing genocide of Native people and the attack on trans bodies. The two are demonstrated through community-led initiatives meant to track the disappearance of these communities, one being Trans Day of Remembrance and the other being Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, Girls, and Two-Spirit People (commonly shortened to MMIWG2S). In the face of heightened danger, many Native trans communities end up tracking their own community’s survival, not being able to rely on the government or media. “We have Native trans women who’ve been murdered in the State and in our tribal communities…I’ve had conversations with other Native trans women. Within our Native communities, we know where the girls are. If someone was missing, we’d know.”

Her work has been bridging the worlds of trans justice and Native sovereignty. Speaking at the United States Conference on HIV/AIDS last year, she asked a crucial question: “A lot of Native communities, especially trans communities… at a lot of the meetings, trainings, and national tables, we’re not included whatsoever. How many of you are including Native populations in the work that you do?”

Her demand for inclusion isn’t simply about weaving Native people into advocacy spaces. Mattee embodies the world that colonizers have tried time and again to eliminate. She is the manifestation of the trans wisdom her ancestors had celebrated. Each time she commands respect, she invites us onto the bridge with her: the bridge between binary genders, the bridge between trans and Indigenous movements, and the bridge between our past and the future. She invites us into that world where we’re allowed to be our whole selves without limitations, whether we know it or not. It’s our job to accept the invitation by giving her and every ancestor before her what they’re due. It’s our duty to remember.

I Stopped Tweezing in Quarantine and Realized I’m Nonbinary

Quarantine has a lot of downsides. The crushing isolation, the unfathomable grief of mass death, the creeping feeling that we’re living through the literal apocalypse, the constant unconscious work of repressing all that so you can cross something meaningless off of your to-do list. But I have managed to find one silver lining: longer showers.

In the early days of quarantine, most of my time was booked up by either a Zoom call or the spontaneous crying that always followed a Zoom call. Showers provided a rare opportunity to stop panicking about all of the work I wasn’t doing, slow down, and take a moment to panic about something else.

On the 24th day of quarantine, I decided to take a shower in the middle of the day. I know it was daytime because I remember the sunlight disappearing as I closed my curtains. When I felt like being kind to myself, I would do the next part by the dim light leaking through the “blackout” cloth. This time, I did not feel like being kind to myself. I turned on all of the lamps in my room and took off all of my clothes. Then I stood in front of the mirror and stared.

I can’t remember how I reacted that time. Sometimes I would just stare at my body for a few moments and then move on. Sometimes I would flinch, but I always forced myself to look again. Sometimes I cried. I think I may have cried that time.

With that ritual out of the way, it was time to tweeze. Every week for the last decade, I’d removed the excess hair around my bushy brows, the random thick strays that pop up on my nose and chin, and, most importantly, the thicket of eye-catching baby hairs just above my upper lip. That day, for the first time in six weeks of hardly seeing anyone, I skipped the most crucial step and left my mustache alone. Then I took a very, very long shower.

Ten years earlier, I got onto the always-packed bus that took me home from school and stood in front of two girls who were traveling together. At some point, their conversation slowed and I could tell they were looking at me. I started to sweat under my uniform. I don’t think I was wearing headphones, but they must’ve assumed I couldn’t hear them because one of them asked the other aloud if she thought I was a girl or a boy. Then they started to argue about it. The one who thought I was a girl brought up my hair, but the other one said, “My brother has long hair too.” I could feel my heartbeat in my ears. The argument continued until the one who thought I was a boy wordlessly traced her finger across her upper lip in the shape of a handlebar mustache.

“I can hear you,” I said, so quickly it was embarrassing. “And I’m a girl.”

They feigned surprise so poorly that I instantly realized they’d known that I could hear them all along. Then the three of us rode in silence until I reached my stop and squeezed through the mass of human flesh to the door that was constantly asking people to move away. As soon as I got off the bus, I headed to the nearest pharmacy-slash-convenience-store chain and bought a pack of at-home wax strips. That night I waxed my upper lip for the first time. It hurt so bad I cried. The next day, every member of my family complimented me.

For the next ten years, I made sure to keep my upper lip hair to a minimum. At first, I waxed it every other week, but eventually I got tired of the pain and skin irritation and the acne I got from the oil I had to use to soothe the pain and skin irritation. I switched to tweezing, which hurt even more because it took so much longer. In those years, I came out (as bisexual), dated and broke up with my first girlfriend, dated and broke up with my first boyfriend, came out again (as a lesbian), and started exclusively wearing men’s clothes. In all that time, I kept ripping that hair out every other week.

Now, I imagine an alternate reality in which COVID-19 had never appeared and quarantine had never happened. Would I be typing something like this right now? Would I have hair on my face, or would it be smooth, red, and stinging? Would I know that I’m trans? Or would I still be pointing to that last vestige of my feminine presentation, that stretch of hairless skin above my upper lip, and screaming “I’m not one of them”?

The precious moments between the end of a Zoom call and the beginning of my tears were always devoted to my phone. As soon as a call ended, I would grab that hunk of glass and metal as if it were a floating door in a shipwreck and immediately open Twitter. Sometimes I searched for hashtags like #transmanthirstdae and scrolled through pictures of shirtless men and envied their scars. But often I would search for something easier for cis people to guess, like #translivesmatter, filter for the most recent tweets, and skim for people who used “transgender” as a noun, cis lesbians who proudly proclaimed their lack of interest in trans women, cis gay men who congratulated themselves for being satisfied with the body they were born with. Sometimes it was easy to find what I was looking for: At one point, all I needed to do was search for “J.K. Rowling.” I told myself I was looking for glimpses of my possible futures, but I lingered longest on the posts that told me that the path I longed for would certainly end in rejection or death. I can’t count the number of articles I read about recently murdered trans women and men, or the number of posts that implied that that’s what we deserve.

When I stripped down and stood in front of the mirror, the disembodied voices of my online enemies ricocheted through my mind. I asked myself if the pain I felt looking at my reflection was worse than the pain I would be setting myself up for if I told the truth. I demanded proof that I was dysphoric enough to require intervention. I forced myself to perform the pain that cis people expect to see before they deign to admit that we might be justified in seeking out lives that fulfill us. I wondered if I might be better off dead.

Week after week, I watched as my baby hairs grew in and obscured the masculine hairline I’d tried so hard to maintain in my pre-COVID life. I watched my body shrink as I lost track of how many months it’d been since I went to the gym. The short expanse of skin between my nose and upper lip became one of the few regions of my own body I could still control. If I’m being honest, I think I grew out my mustache to distract myself from the rest of my body. I learned to look myself in the eye until I could see myself for the person I knew I was instead of the person other people said I should be. Without surgery or hormones, I couldn’t do much about my body—but I could stop punishing my face and torturing my mind for not being sufficiently feminine. I couldn’t stop other people from expecting me to be someone I never was, but I could stop asking myself to play along.

And once I did, I realized that the people who mattered most to me never wanted me to suppress myself. My little brother — the fiercest ally I’ve ever met — texted me to ask if I’d rather be referred to by pronouns other than she/her. I didn’t reply. My girlfriend and my best friend — both queer women — asked me the same question in person. I got spooked and half-stepped, asking them to switch to they/them but forcing them to swear they wouldn’t use those pronouns for me in front of anyone else.

I took a shower a few hours ago. I didn’t look in the mirror beforehand because I didn’t want to. Afterward, I caught my own eye in the mirror as I stepped out of the shower and began to cry. I looked at my own face contorted with pain and told myself, “You can do this.” And then I smiled.

Few living Americans have seen a more trying time than this one. But if there’s anyone who knows how to look at a hopeless, joyless present and somehow imagine a bright and beautiful future, it’s us. All of us.

“Alice Júnior” Review: The Trans Girl Coming-of-Age Romcom of My Dreams

Stop what you’re doing right now! Well, okay, no, you can read to the end of this paragraph. But after that you are going to stop what you’re doing and watch Alice Júnior on Netflix. But, Drew, I’m reading this review during my lunch break and I have to get back to work. Sorry, you actually no longer have a job, your only job is to watch Alice Júnior and then return to this page to gush about it with me.

SPOILERS FOR ALICE JÚNIOR
SPOILERS FOR ALICE JÚNIOR
SPOILERS FOR ALICE JÚNIOR
SPOILERS FOR ALICE JÚNIOR
SPOILERS FOR ALICE JÚNIOR

Okay, phew, sorry, there was just no way I was going to be able to write this review without mentioning the ending. But also I couldn’t steal your joy by spoiling the ending! I’m sure you understand. Also, you’re welcome.

I watched the first 75 minutes of Gil Baroni’s new film Alice Júnior filled with giddy delight. I’ve seen a lot of movies with trans characters — a lot — and we simply do not get movies this joyful. This felt like trans Lady Bird by way of Scott Pilgrim vs. the World as it aesthetically mimics model/YouTuber Alice’s social media adolescence. There’s an energy from beginning to end — a playfulness — that felt fresh, and thoughtful, and so fucking fun.

Anne Celestino Mota is incredible as Alice, a character who would fit right in with the rebel girls of our late 90s/early 00s romcom favorites. She’s tough, but vulnerable. She’s fierce and funny and, most importantly, she feels real. She’s a teenage girl with needs and wants. She’s a teenage girl who needs basic respect and wants her first kiss.

Okay, so I was already eager to praise this movie for its aesthetics and its acting and its charm. I was eager to talk about Alice’s father as the model of a trans kid’s parent, about the way the movie shows the reality of transphobia without being exploitative, about decisions like giving Alice trans friends from back home and recreating the classic cis pool party scene through a trans lens and dozens of other little choices that usually are done so wrong but here are done so, so right. I was already beyond enthusiastic. And then the ending happened.

When cool girl Taísa was introduced, I immediately clocked her as queer. But I clock people in movies as queer all the time to no avail. The spark between Alice and Taísa could’ve just been a spark between Anne Celestino Mota and Surya Amitrano who plays Taísa. I didn’t dare to hope for more. And then it’s revealed that Taísa is dating Alice’s new crush Bruno and that seemed to be that. Friends, rivals, but not lovers — of course not. As rare as it is to find good trans representation, it’s even rarer to find good queer trans woman representation. I’ve written about this extensively and I’ve grown accustomed to it. I felt more than satisfied with this delightful straight trans story. I got potential throuple vibes the whole movie, but I’ve been trained to expect far less than that level of queerness. In fact, I watched the film panicked that in the end Alice would end up kissing her bully or God forbid the movie take a tonal shift and end in her death — that is the depths of what I’ve come to expect.

When Alice and Bruno peck in the kissing game and Taísa stormed off, I let out a sigh of relief — and disappointment. I guess there was still a part of me that hoped for a throuple or some queerness but that desire retreated back to reality. But then Alice went into the bathroom. But then Alice apologized to Taísa. BUT THEN TAÍSA KISSED ALICE. BUT THEN THEY WERE MAKING OUT. I jumped off my bed screaming like I’d just witnessed an against-all-odds game-winning moment from a favorite sports team.

Do you all realize how RARE AND UNEXPECTED that was?? Boy Meets Girl has a sex scene between a trans woman and a cis woman but it leads to her ultimate romance with a cis man. Adam has a queer trans woman we see with various people but it’s just a subplot. Glen or Glenda focuses on a trans woman engaged to a cis woman but it’s complicated by its 1950s POV. So Pretty has transfeminine people in relationships with each other but its intentions are far more abstract than romance. Bit has a vampiric meet cute and a casual relationship between a trans woman and a cis woman but it’s not the focus of the film. And Better Than Chocolate and a handful of other movies have trans women with queer romances but they’re played by cis men. That is it. I just listed off all the queer trans women in the history of feature films.

Alice spends the whole movie daydreaming about her first kiss with a boy, but when Taísa’s lips touch her own, we see her sparkle — quite literally. Trans people experience compulsory heterosexuality just like everybody else. In fact, for years heterosexuality was flat-out a requirement for us to transition. So there’s something especially sweet about watching this person who spends the whole movie certain about her identity find that identity shaken in this way she never expected. The movie doesn’t end with Alice and Taísa riding off into the sunset, but it does end with Alice changed forever by this experience. It changed me too.

I can feel myself healing when I watch something as queer and trans and free and fun as Alice Júnior. I can feel myself trusting the voice in my head that tells me who I am. I can feel myself shaking off a few more of the voices that still tell me I’m wrong. And while my experience watching this movie was overwhelming, I felt even more overwhelmed imagining its discovery by trans teenagers. It’s on Netflix! They can just watch it! They can stumble upon it whether they know their identities or are still figuring them out or both. This movie feels made for them in style and content and it makes me emotional imagining it through their eyes.

If Netflix streaming existed when I was 16 and Alice Júnior had been available, I would have come out six years earlier. I can’t know that for sure, and yet I absolutely do. I’m so happy for all the 16 year olds that have what I didn’t have. I’m so happy that at 26 I have it now.