Who are the visible?

The visible are a select few that have been chosen to represent transness to the world whether they want to or not.

Viewing visibility solely through the lens of those who have reclaimed being visible does a massive disservice to those who have been non-consensually thrust into it. The visible are not just the trans people with brand deals and partnerships with over-priced unisex clothing lines, and frankly, it’s a little insulting to insinuate they are. Let us not forget the baby fagdykes who get asked if they are un garçon ou une fille in front of their whole eighth grade French class, or those whose ratty Party city wigs and garish tie-dye leggings catch the eyes of squeamish passers-by who are deeply rattled by anything that deviates from gender conformity: this is not the visibility of an icon, but one of a freak.

Of course, my sympathy goes to those deemed ‘freak-visible’ first. But that’s not to say I think ‘icon-visible’ is actually all that glamorous.

Visibility is a very strange way of living. Regardless of whether one is deemed an icon or a freak (or something in between, because did you really think I was going to try and construct a new type of binary in a TDOV thinkpiece?), the visible exist under a constant lens, observed, interrogated, worshipped, vilified, pushed, prodded, punished. The visible are expected to uphold a good image of transness, translating the intricacies of our lives into digestible content for those who want to become enlightened to our plights.

This inevitably results in our struggles are reduced to ‘feelings’ and our demands repackaged into ‘correct’ language, and allyship being relegated to reposting shareable graphics because frankly, it is a lot more convenient to navigate liberation through slogans than through structural change. A drawing of an imaginary ambiguously-brown, ambiguously-trans figure from an infographic cannot hurt you, or threaten you, or ask anything of you. It—I mean they only exist in your Instagram feed and cease to be when you decide to scroll past. The same cannot be said of living, breathing people who are unambiguously-brown and unabmiguously-trans, and continue to exist even when you try to look away. To recognize them as full people means to internalize that their experiences cannot be reduced to ten slides of a curated social media post, that they do not exist for your comfort or consumption (and frankly, no one does), and the world you know must be fundamentally destroyed and rebuilt if you wish for them to be recognized as your equal. But all of that would be awfully difficult (not to mention inconvenient), so the cartoon from the infographic gets to be the spokesperson for the visible.

What are the visible good for?

Visibility entails tangible enlightenment: by visibly (see what I did there) deviating from societal norms, it can be inferred that one has undergone enough self-actualization that they can lead the masses towards their own self-actualizations. This is nice in theory, but fails to account for the fact that this inference is false.

Regardless of truth, the visible are expected to become guides and mentors for those seeking a better life, trans or not. Sometimes, the visible will take on this task with a pay-it-forward mindset, praying that their position of visibility will benefit another. This is because the visible understand that the only way to live a better life is to understand that one is the master of their own destiny. What the visible may not realize is than not every ‘client’ understands this. 

Some clients come to the visible begging: please, I need help, please, listen to me, please, give me what I so desperately need, please please please please please. And the visible see someone with a problem that they know how to solve. And so the visible tell their client: I’m so sorry that happened, I think you should try this, I’m so sorry you’re going through this, have you considered doing such-and-such, I’m so sorry this is what the world is like, you are worth so much more, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. The visible realize their client has not come to them for guidance, but rather for coddling, to be told that the way they feel is ‘valid,’ to be told that just because they don’t have to change to be loved means they don’t have to change at all. The visible know better than anyone that change is freedom. They also know better that anyone that change is terrifying. With change comes sacrifice, instability, and worst of all, visibility.

So how are we supposed to see the visible?

As someone who has been exposed to way too many opinions about transness from all walks of life, I have found many people from all ends of the culture war like to make observations that cut corners with the finer details, e.g., why does this happen, what causes what, and do I actually believe this enough to think deeply about it… the nitty-gritty nerd stuff that makes politics hard. 

This brings us to the paradox of ‘visibility privilege:’ although not very widespread (I hope), there are some who have this idea that the state of being visibly trans is evidence of living in a just society where trans visibly is not only attainable, but celebrated and socially advantageous. At this point in this piece, I don’t really know what to say except ‘we’ve talked about this enough already to know there’s other stuff going on, too’ Simply put, it’s a very convenient way of looking at trans positionality that doesn’t demand a ton of mental energy or critical thought (side note: I think I’m noticing a patterns between the standards of liberal allyship and the general liberal apathy towards any ‘inconvenient’ truths about trans people, and life in general. Anyone else seeing this?)

‘Visibility as a privilege’ checks out if you are visible on your own terms, but also assumes that visibility is always the reward of self-determination and never the product of ostracization. As idealistic as it is to say that bravery is only gifted to the fortunate, it is a disservice to those who are visible without fortune: do the visible who live a life with no flowers, forced into a world where they are met with ridicule and scorn, only commended for their ‘bravery’ in the context of public humiliation, wield societal power over those who live in the shadows of their own fear? If visibility is a privilege then why are so many terrified of what visibility entails?

So… It’s March 31st, and I need to publish this because I promised myself I would. There are a lot of loose ends in this piece, so many things I have to say that don’t really have a clear goal or conclusion to be drawn. For the sake of respecting the deadlines I’ve set for myself, I leave you, the reader, to read this and think of it what you will. Hopefully you liked what I had to say. Maybe you thought this was pretentious garbage with nothing new to say (I wouldn’t be offended; I value honesty much more than I value flattery). But regardless of what you think of it, here’s what I want to say about Trans Day of Visibility (without tearing my hair out trying to make my opinions sound as poetic as possible):

I’m glad we have TDOV. I appreciate a day where trans people are united and get to celebrate ourselves however we please, whether it’s through self-important puff pieces like this one or mirror selfie thirst traps (I like this observance a lot more than how I’m choosing to observe right now). What I don’t appreciate is the co-opting of our liberation movement and having it flattened into a single day of performative allyship. What good is celebrating ‘visibility’ when we are stripped of our dignity, denied basic services, forced into destitution, and treated as second-class citizens in every sphere of life? Do you really think I give a shit about being seen as ‘inspirational’ in this fucking economy? Don’t get me wrong, I love a day where I can get an easy pick-me-up from people telling me how brave I am for posting a shirtless selfie on my Instagram story, kind of if dapping your old friend from high school up at the ten-year reunion carried merit as a performance of allyship and moral goodness (and my trans siblings can experience this too), but I can’t help but feel apathetic to it when what few protections we have are destroyed in the background and replaced with new ways to kill us? I mean, it’s nice, but who will rise when shit gets really ugly for us? How many shirtless selfies does it take for my peers to open their eyes to how we are treated, and will it be enough to change anything? After all, what is one single day of trans visibility without a future of transgender security, transgender dignity, transgender pluralism, transgender knowledge, transgender wisdom, transgender compassion, and everything else trans people give not only give to the world, but need to truly prosper? 

Anyway. That was a lot. Happy Trans Day of Visibility.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that your childhood was spent in a panopticon disguised as a paradise.

Your journey of discovery is burned into the internet for your parents’ indulgence.

I’m sorry that your short-term pride comes at the cost of long-term disclosure.

Your chance to slip through life with ease was blocked by your parents’ desire for a pedestal.

I’m sorry that you were touted as a ‘hero,’ a ‘trailblazer,’ ‘the change we need.’

Your parents thought your reflection looked cute in their senators’ cold, dead eyes.

I’m sorry that your existence is such a hot-button issue.

I’m sorry that you can never fall off the grid.

I’m sorry that your youth belonged to everyone but yourself.

I’m sorry that your health is a vessel for your family’s frustration.

I’m sorry that you will be the only one to remember the lashings-out.

I’m sorry that you must smile through it all.

Above all, I’m sorry that my utmost gratitude for you must be preceded by condolences.

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2. the anger issues thing is a lie. anyone who says this is either a fear mongering liar or mega-projecting. you’re more quick to emotions and maybe a little bit moodier but that’s just a general endocrine thing. your menopausal loved ones can vouch for this.

3. the middle-aged businessman on the metro is not the heartthrob you think he is.

4. the inner workings of your body are changing at rates that you cannot keep up with. you will not know how much to eat or sleep or shower and you will look, feel, and smell like a fucking mess. eat a little more than you think you can stomach and spend a little more time in the shower.

5. manspreading is okay in moderation. ya gotta do what ya gotta do.

6. you might (key word: might) lose fat on your injection site, which will make injections more painful. patches and gel are always an option.

7. hormones will not solve all of your problems. they may give you the avenue and confidence to articulate your struggles more clearly, but that will not change the fact that you struggle. 

8. no part of testosterone is completely irreversible. acne can be fixed with a good skincare routine. invest in a good razor if your hairy legs are a turn-off. making your voice higher isn’t as hard as you think. leaving and turning around is so much easier than people make it out to be. it is okay to be wrong. but that doesn’t mean everybody else is.

9. it’s fine to just shut up sometimes. i can't recommend this enough.

10. fuck patches, actually. T makes you sweat like a pig and hairy as hell, which makes the adhesive null and makes it a bitch to rip off respectively. best to stay away altogether if you ask me. just use gel if needles are that much of a no-no.

11. there will be times where you don’t have the answers. hand the microphone to the people that do.

12. celebrate the people who celebrate you.

13. be nice to trans kids.

14.  you will be severely unhappy if you transition with an image of your end goal in mind.

15. stop picking at your skin and then complaining about your acne scars!! goddamn!!!

16. first it’s one hair that’s coarser and darker than the others. then it’s two hairs, then four, then eight, then hundreds…

17. fat redistribution is a process of losing what you have and gaining back. the fat on your body won’t magically change places. and by god, it takes fucking forever. you’ll probably forget it’s supposed to happen by the time it actually does show up.

18. the mildly naїve but ultimately well-meaning people in your life are so much better for you than assholes who happen to be ‘enlightened.’

19. ‘one pump of androgel’ is completely arbitrary. you do not control how much goop comes out. It is the pump’s decision and only the pump’s decision. you are at the mercy of big pharma.

20. wield the power you have amassed in such a short amount of time with extreme caution.

21. there is no such thing as a permanent state of self.

22. there are some fucked-up parts of the community that aren’t worth anyone’s time. don’t explore them. ignorance is bliss.

23. no side effect of T is that bad (except for ass hair)

24. there are so many people who are so, so proud of you for reasons you may never fully understand. to them, your presence is a testament to your perseverance. roll with it.

25. people are gonna say weird things that’ll freak you out. someone else’s poor word choice is not worth your energy.

26. you do not owe anyone a performance.

27. going over your dosage is no joke. too much testosterone in your body will make you feel like complete and utter shit.

28. you actually have to put in the work if you want to get ripped like the bros whose transition timelines are the top results on google images. that being said, you are under no obligation to become a gym rat.

29. The clothes you couldn’t bear to wear as a girl will look really, really good on you as a man. 

30. behind every mentor, influencer, role model lies a deeply flawed individual who is trying their hardest to fight for you and so many others. become your own mentor, influencer, role model in the inevitable event that you are let down. 

31. some people are insatiable. you can give them all the love and advice in the world and they will still hurt you at the end of the day. there is only so much you can give. save your energy for the people that matter: the people who make you happy, the people who make you a better person, and most importantly: you. 

32. love does not come free with your hormones, nor does it appear anywhere in an informed consent pamphlet. that doesn’t mean it isn’t coming. 

33. the only liberating sex is the type that makes you feel good. anyone who tells you the ‘right’ way to use your body can fuck off. 

34. every change you make should be for you.

35. wait for the world to turn some more before you make the same mistakes again.

36. i love you so much and i am so, so proud of you.

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Five is half a decade. 

Five is full beards and grizzled visages. 

Five is past the scope for many informed consent brochures. 

Five is okay, move on with your life, the only part of the show that’s still going is the evidence that it’s done. 

But most importantly, it is the first time you truly realize that the fact that it feels like you have been doing this for a long time is kind of fucking insane.

At least this is true when you’re nineteen. 

Nineteen is a not-very-big number sandwiched between lots of actual big numbers. 

Nineteen has garnered a reputation online as one of the ‘bad years,’ possibly to compensate for having no associated major milestones (and let younger people know that they still have things to look forward to):

You can vote but you can’t smoke weed. 

You can pay taxes but you can’t book a hotel room. 

You can voluntarily go under the knife and surgically alter your body to align with your soul but you can’t go clubbing. 

It’s a fundamentally embarrassing age: you have one full year of adulthood under your belt, which is impressive only to children and your parents. Barring extraordinary circumstances, nineteen is hardly an age to be seen as an expert on anything.

Speaking of extraordinary circumstances...

I started testosterone less than two months shy of my fifteenth birthday. 

I am not the first person I know to have undergone hormone therapy, but if I’m not mistaken, I don’t think I’ve met anybody my age or older who started at an earlier age. So naturally, I have complicated feelings about this. 

On one hand, I am consistently reminded of how fortunate I am to have had access to lifesaving medical care at such a young age. On the other hand, I am consistently reminded of how isolating the experience of the transsexual child is. The transsexual child is reminded constantly, by everyone around them (key word: everyone), that whether they are met with fascination, ridicule, envy, or danger, they are different. They are not doing things the way things are normally done.

And as is the case with every way you were treated as a child, it sticks with you for a very long time.

I’m now approaching the point in my life where I can do things the way they’re ‘normally’ done (give or take). It is at this point that even though the world around me grows louder and scarier, my own world starts to quiet down. 

My old name and sex only exist in my (several-years-expired) passport, a few very old medical records, and the minds of estranged relatives. My top surgery scars have healed to the point that my surgeon has no reason to ever see me again unless I want another procedure from him. The hardest parts are over, and thank God I didn’t have to do that shit as an adult.

According to the aforementioned informed consent brochures, I should have experienced the full effect of testosterone therapy by now. I do not accept this as fact, but as a reminder that these brochures were not made with me in mind. At least, that’s what I tell myself. 

Because otherwise, the brochures lied to me.

At my lowest moments, I look at my naked body in the mirror and see a mish-mash of poorly proportioned androgyny. My broad shoulders taper into skinny, hyperextended arms that give up before they enter the weight room. The upside-down triangle of my torso flips itself right-side-up once it reaches my belly button. And worst of all, my muscular thighs would be a source of pride if they weren’t betrayed by the rest of this lithe, twinky body.

I know I shouldn’t think these thoughts. Not everyone has made it to where I am, and not everyone will. But in these lowest moments, I ask this Ken/Barbie Frankenstein’s monster the same thing I’ve been asking it for the past five years: is this it? Is this really the best we can do?

Spoiler alert: it’s not.

In the grand scheme of things, I’m still young. 

The brochures say my hormonal transition is supposed to be over by now, but after five(!!!!!) years of hormonal transition, I can confidently say that a piece of paper I got at a doctor’s office when I was fourteen is not the supreme arbiter of my life trajectory. 

That piece of paper failed to account for the intricacies of life: the thousands of genes that make us who we are (gotta love the endless possibilities of the human genome), the idiot doctors toying with our dosages to the point of committing medical malpractice (a story for another day), and the possibility that the person reading this brochure hasn’t completed natal puberty yet. 

That brochure helped me prepare for where I am today, and now I no longer need it.

So what happens next?

I have no fucking idea.

Five years from now, I could be totally unrecognizable.

Five years from now, I could look exactly the same. 

Five years from now, I could get in a freak accident that completely resets every single sex-altering procedure I’ve ever had, forcibly de-transitioning me and erasing the payoff of my expansive and miraculous gender journey.

Five years from now, I could wake up, change my mind about all this, and deliberately erase the payoff of my expansive and miraculous gender journey. 

Five years from now, I could be dead (for any number of reasons, it comes for us all eventually). 

And whatever happens, it will be my problem five years from now.

But for now,

Who cares?

This piece is dedicated to anyone who is, or ever has been, a transgender child.

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