On TDOV.
The absurdity of how much worse things have gotten for trans people in America is not lost on me this TDOV.
Maybe, invisibility would be nice for a change.
What does it mean to be visible? That which can be seen, perceptible to the eye. We speak of visibility in positive terms, or as something that moves us forward. In retrospect, all we see is the world becoming a progressively more just place. However, this fails to recognize the blowback experienced at the cost of that progress. The Loran Scholars Foundation has invited me to reflect on the idea of risks for good — actions we take as scholars in the spirit of character, service, and leadership that have the potential to change the world for the better. What does it mean then, if your very authentic existence becomes one of those risks?
As a transgender woman, I find the idea of visibility to be an odd goal for our community. For so many of us, visibility can be humiliating, dangerous, and ultimately deadly. Avoiding visibility as much as possible was basically my sole purpose in the beginning of my transition. That is why, for those with the opportunity, we subject ourselves to expensive, invasive medical treatment and bureaucratic, degrading legal processes. For many of us, the goal is to become invisible; indistinguishable from the majority, conforming perfectly to constructed boxes of male and female. This draw is so immensely powerful that when ignored or repressed, it can devolve into horrible things.
Transgender youth are four times more likely than cis youth to experience depression. When denied accommodation to access gender-appropriate facilities, they are 45% more likely to try to take their own lives. It’s estimated that 40% of transgender adults have attempted suicide in their lives, compared to less than 5% of the U.S. population as a whole. People who wish to debate our existence will point to these statistics as evidence that we are sick or deluded. The reality is that when properly affirmed in our identities, allowed to transition in the ways that feel right to us, and accepted by family, friends, and society, these statistics return to the baseline of the cisgender majority.
I am extremely privileged to live in a city like San Francisco and be able to progress through my transition surrounded by a supportive queer community. However, throughout the world, an unprecedented attack on transgender people—and especially transgender youth—is underway. In the United States, there are currently 150 pieces of legislation that target transgender kids moving through over half the states. These attacks fall predominantly along two lines: banning transgender women and girls from competing in athletics with other women and girls and attempting to limit or restrict access to lifesaving, gender-affirming healthcare.
In North Dakota, Arkansas, Iowa, Texas, and countless other states, bills are being progressed that would subject all female student athletes to invasive and expensive questioning and examination of their bodies through forced genital screening or chromosomal testing. Historically, these policies in sport have been weaponized against Black and Brown women who do not fit the rigid mold of white femininity. These sports bills are being marketed as an effort to “protect women and girls,” at a time when there is, at best, inconclusive evidence regarding supposed performance advantages of transgender girls and women. They fearmonger that a tidal wave of “biological males” masquerading as women will flood into women’s athletics, robbing opportunities for titles and scholarships that would otherwise be won by cisgender girls. However, in most of these states, lawmakers cannot identify a single instance where a trans girl caused a problem or took an opportunity away from a competitor. To date, not a single transgender person has ever qualified or competed on the Olympic stage, although we’ve been permitted to compete since 2003. Trans athletes only make the news when we win, which is about as frequently as any other athlete. Transgender kids want to play sports for the same reasons their cis counterparts do: to find a supportive community, stay active and healthy, and participate in the joys of competition. It is clear that these lawmakers are in search of a solution to a problem that does not exist.
In Alabama, HB1 and SB10 would make it a felony for doctors and healthcare professionals to prescribe puberty blockers to trans youth — proven-safe medications that delay the onset of puberty to allow kids to explore and solidify their gender identities before beginning hormone replacement therapy or pursuing surgeries. This bill was written with an emergency authorization provision that would enact it within 30 days of signature by the Governor. Besides devastating Alabama residents, this piece of legislation will force the gender clinic at the University of Alabama Birmingham to shutter its doors, cutting off healthcare and services for children across the Southeast. Is gender-affirming healthcare, supported by organizations like the American Medical Association and the American Psychological Association, such a dire emergency that lawmakers must put an end to it immediately, in the midst of a global pandemic?
These same bills will require teachers in schools to forcibly out gender non-conforming students to their families at the first sign that they may be exploring or questioning their gender identity, possibly subjecting them to abusive and intolerant environments in the home, or being kicked out and made homeless. Among trans people, it is particularly common to be kicked out of a family member’s house at a young age upon coming out. According to the Revolving Door study by the Coalition on Homelessness, more than 45% of unhoused transgender respondents in San Francisco became houseless at or before the age of 18—a disproportionately high percentage compared to the broader unhoused population. Currently, 1 in 10 unhoused trans respondents initially lost their housing due to family members unaccepting of their gender identity. Is the exploration of one’s self at a young age such a horrific transgression and threat to the classroom environment that it should be punishable under law?
Taken together, these attacks represent a coordinated and deliberate attempt to legislate transgender people out of existence. They simultaneously ban life-saving healthcare that helps trans kids conform with their gender while condemning them from accessing sports based on perceived differences from cisgender kids. Look no further than the recent outcry around the inequality on display from the NCAA’s treatment of women athletes — the same politicians shouting that we need to “Save Women’s Sports’’ have been completely silent on the real issues that threaten women’s athletics. This onslaught is deliberate and intentional — the bills across the country read like carbon copies of each other, and have been supplied to lawmakers by notoriously anti-LGBTQ+ hate organizations like the Alliance Defending Freedom. You can trace the lineage of these efforts to suppress us back decades, through the alarmist bathroom bills that previously popped up across the country, to the long fight for marriage equality.
When I began my transition, my goal was invisibility. I was ashamed of my transgender identity, because I internalized the dehumanizing messages spread about people like me. By virtue of my whiteness, my socioeconomic status, and my “passability,” I had the luxury of hiding this part of myself and moving through my transition sheltered from the public abuse and hate that so many others in my community endure. However, with time, my confidence slowly returned and I began to unpack my self-loathing to find beauty in my transness. I realized that the same privileges that have made my transition journey as smooth as it has been have charged me with the responsibility to show up for those without them.
I no longer hide the fact that I am transgender, regardless of the risk it poses to my safety and well-being. These days, when the fury I feel towards lawmakers attacking vulnerable trans youth becomes a storm I cannot control, I feel compelled to scream from the rooftops for these kids. I recognize that my risk for good is to live authentically and boldly as an example of trans joy.
We’ve been on the frontlines of the fight for equality since the first brick was thrown at Stonewall. This is our moment: the time when we need support more than ever. Trans people today subject ourselves to the risks of visibility so that those who come after can lead a safer, more just existence, no matter who they are or where they live. To me, that is something worth celebrating.
Calling all cis allies: if you are looking for ways to help support the trans community at this time, follow @chasestrangio on Instagram for updates on how to contact lawmakers and legislators. Watch Changing the Game — a documentary on trans athletes in sport — streaming on Hulu now. And most importantly, consider making a donation to the following organizations (in the order of priority):