Not My Story
I couldn’t truly say when I taught my first student identifying as trans. I mean, odds are I’ve had at least one every year in my career, but didn’t know it. In 2017, the CDC “added a question about transgender identity to its Youth Risk Behavior Survey for high schoolers,” which set a number at 300,000 13-17 year olds identifying as trans — approximately 1.4% of the nation’s population of that age group. To me, the fact that more students are identifying their gender in less traditional binary language, and that researchers are using more nuanced language in their surveys, has echoes of the increase in identifying students with autism: it’s not that the numbers are increasing, it’s that we’ve gotten better at looking for them.
This is not my story. I want to make that clear from the beginning. I’m just some guy who was born into a world that had already sat its ass on the universal scales in my favor: cis, white, hetero. Because of established power dynamics, I’ve had the luxury of always being able to enter any given world and be a tourist. If I’m going to write about my experiences with any marginalized group, I need to acknowledge this.
This part is my story, but I promise I’ll get to the point soon.
In 2012 I was offered the chance to open a new therapeutic classroom, an extension of a brand-new program started a few months before. The core mission was to help an exploding sub-group of students in the area: school-avoidant, internalizing kiddos who, instead of flipping tables and assaulting others, shut down completely (there’s some fascinating literature on how internalizing students are far less likely to receive support services than externalizing students, but I digress). Some hid in their bedrooms for weeks, some couldn’t bring themselves to leave their front door. Some took their internal pain out on themselves; many cut, or had suicidal ideation and attempts. I jumped at the chance to start something from the ground up. I loved my experience with this team and these students. And this was the first time I got to work with a population of trans kiddos.
This is not my story, it’s theirs. I can only speak to what I saw in those years; my intention is not to suggest that every school-aged trans kiddo had the same experience as these students. But the level of anguish, and pain, and self-loathing those students had to live through on a daily basis was palpable. Ciaran was the first trans kiddo I remember working closely with. He was really tall, like, a head taller than me and maybe 70 pounds heavier. I only knew him as Ciaran; I probably learned his deadname at some point but it never stuck in my memory. He was quiet, a very cliche gentle giant, who somehow managed to disappear into his body when worried. And he was always worried.
We started supporting Ciaran after a suicide attempt. If I remember correctly, his family was Irish Catholic, old school, and didn’t accept him as him. I don’t remember the specifics — often when I get a new student, I don’t ask much about their past unless they offer to tell it. Sometimes, kids just need you to know who they are right then, not as a kid with baggage. Regardless, Ciaran survived but stopped going to the Catholic school he’d been attending. Once he landed in our classroom things changed more rapidly than I expected. He got comfortable, and opened up as much as he was able. He still looked constantly spooked but he engaged with academics and, most importantly, made some friends. These kids were genderfluid and nonbinary and BIG D&D nerds. It couldn’t have been a better fit.
What struck me most about him, and often what strikes me most about many of the trans students I’ve worked with, is the quality of pain they are in. It radiates outwards, like a sunburn. Until they have transitioned (meaningfully to them, anyway), they feel stuck in this limbo of not-belonging, of being on the outside, even in their body. Often they are taught to distrust their own soul, and forced to believe in a reality that simply doesn’t match up with their internal experience. Beyond a body-snatching scenario, I literally can’t imagine how that feels.
Watching this anti-trans wave roll across our country, I am struck at how truly evil it all is. Manufactured outrage at marginalized groups for political points is nothing new; one could maybe argue that the only real change in tactics is abandoning the dog whistle and straight up saying who you’re targeting. What sets this wave apart, to me, is how invisible this group of people can be to the straight world, and how disproportionately it targets young people who already have a staggeringly high rate of suicidal ideation. It’s so simply this: people in power attempting to stay in power by setting whatever dogs they can on an unimaginably vulnerable group of young people. There is already a body count because of what these people experience growing up. Unchecked or unchallenged, this rhetoric and these laws will invariable make it higher.
This makes me so angry I wake up at night thinking about it. Especially because I’ve seen how transformative it can be to give these young people a place they feel seen, and heard, and treated as they see themselves. They always get better when you do that. They bloom, and they tend to internalize the slogan that’s tossed around every few years: it gets better.
I missed Trans Visibility day this year. I’m lousy at remembering days like that, really. I can barely remember my family’s birthdays without reminders on my phone blaring (HI THERE, ADHD!!!!). I figure, though, if I do more of this type of work — coaching, consulting, writing, whatever — I’m going to make more noise on days like this. I’m supporting kiddos from all walks of life on a daily basis in schools, but as my megaphone gets bigger I’m going to have to make more noise about it.
With that in mind, I’m offering the following:
If you or a friend of yours is in need of support or coaching with gender minority youth, at home or at school, I am waiving my deposit, you’ll get 3 hours work from me for free.
Resources for you or anyone you know who may have a trans person in their life that they want to support
Ways to get involved nationally, internationally, and locally. The Human Rights Campaign isn’t the only group doing the work, but they’re pretty great and have a lot of events nationwide. I’m sure if you google trans rights organizations in your area you’ll find something.
Make a ruckus. Make good trouble. Help people who can use it. Be loud about being an ally.
