*Trigger Warning: self-harm, depression, anxiety*
I sat down on the carpet and pulled the coffee table up close. Picking my supplies up off the floor next to me, I placed them on top of the paper towels; it wasn’t until later that I discovered I needed another layer, or maybe just different paper towels. I stared at the bottles of nail polish with a sense of anxious excitement that I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Of course no one noticed my awkwardly painted nails, or maybe they did and just didn’t care. But to me, they meant so much more than I could explain at the time. They were small symbols of a rebellious femininity I refused to acknowledge for decades.
The good thing about nail polish is its impermanence, the way it fades as it meets the realities of day-to-day living. It feels more suited to my hands after it’s started to chip – more raw and honest. However, when I started this transition – from adolescent to adult, from living a lie to unapologetic authenticity, from intensely hating my body to passionately loving myself – I chose a much more permanent symbol.
I never wanted tattoos as a kid. I remember asking my dad why he had one on his shoulder if the church didn’t allow them, and his explanations always involved the word “mistake.” The shame in his voice was palpable, a reminder of the divine laws and eternal consequences for how we use our bodies.
Despite the teachings of my childhood, I no longer felt the same way about my body. Maybe it’s more appropriate to say that I finally felt in control of my body after I came out. I finally started to love my body and myself, and that made all the difference. After more than seven years of self-harm, I resolved to treat my body the opposite way I was taught to treat it.
In other words, I was not going to force harm upon it anymore, especially not through self-injury.
It was an important moment for me. It was two and a half months later than my one year mark, but at least I followed through (something that seldom happened for 19 year-old me). I felt like the June bugs from my childhood, leaving behind a shell that I had finally outgrown. But it was more than that; it was a triumph I never thought I would achieve during the first six-months of my year long battle. I was celebrating overcoming an intense bout of depression, anxiety, and seven years of self-harm.
I was shocked when I heard that non-binary gender was legal here in Oregon. The overwhelming hatred against our community by the government, the “criminal” “justice” system, and individual and communal violence in the past few years has damaged my ability to hope for meaningful change. In fact, shortly after hearing this news, the shooting in Orlando happened. It seems that no matter what policy changes we gain, the violence persists.
Maybe that’s why I wasn’t too hopeful after I processed the news that Jamie Shupe was the first legally genderless person in the United States. As a non-binary activist, my mind went straight to what this would look like in terms of policy – and I started to worry.
How will the government apply this ruling? What will the requirements be to change sex/gender on legal documents? Will we be able to remove gender markers from our documents, or will they add a third option? How will this process include refugee new arrivals and asylum seekers? How will it include our indigenous and undocumented siblings? Who will this ruling be accessible to?
Most importantly, whose voices will be at the forefront? Over the past few decades, the “LGBT Movement” has largely been a legal and policy reform battle funded by those with the money to effect change. Our revolutionary history has faded, and our community has become increasingly divided by privilege and power. Continue reading “Activists: Say NO to a Third Gender Marker”
Unfortunately, the problem with fragility isn’t isolated to race. When it comes down to it, fragility is a privilege problem. It is one reaction you have in response to being called out for your privilege, and it’s a form of violence. It minimizes your responsibility to be educated about your privilege, and it continues our oppression to your benefit.
I’m a genderqueer writer and activist, and I often discuss issues that affect the LGBTQIA+ community. While I love the work I do, I am not required to educate you. Yes, I love to educate people about these issues. Yes, I’m going to continue to do it. However, that does not mean that you should expect me, or any other trans person, to educate you about our issues, especially when we don’t have a close relationship.
Here are some reasons you should stop it with the cis fragility:
I Get It. You Don’t “Hate” Me.
It seems that people think if they inject “I love you,” “I respect you,” “I care about you,” or “I’ll always support you, even if I don’t agree with you,” then they’re off the hook. Newsflash: It doesn’t make what you said any less transphobic and hateful. Really, all you did was show me that you have a very narrow and conditional definition of love and respect.
That’s something you should take some time to examine, away from the people it harms. Continue reading “Dear Cis People: Stop The Fragile Mindset”
A lot of people try to defend LGBTQIA+ rights because they say that we were “born this way,” or that “we didn’t choose to be this way.” FUCK THAT NOISE.
While I admire the sentiment – that LGBTQIA+ rights should exist and be protected – I deny that they should be protected because they are “natural” within someone “scientific” framework. There are a number of reasons why I reject this, and I’ll explain the main ones below.
Being Trans and Queer is Fucking Incredible
Oh, you’re straight? I’m sorry. You’re cis? That’s a bummer. In case you didn’t see how I feel about being trans and queer from the subheading above, I’ll say it again: being trans and queer is fucking incredible.
Continue reading “I Wasn’t Born This Way, but I’m a Human Being”