violence

by

Reject Trans Doom-Posting

This week I took the long train down to the south of England for my friend Robyn’s funeral. She died very suddenly three weeks ago, aged just 32.

Robyn gave so much love to the world, and was so loved in turn. Around a hundred and fifty people crammed into a small building for the service. There weren’t enough seats for everyone, so many stood at the back and sides of the room. I sat on the floor. More attended online.

We shared stories from Robyn’s life, learned from each other, cried together. Like many funerals, especially for young trans people, it was absolutely gutwrenching. It also helped move us towards closure. It was good to be in community together, to think and speak not just of Robyn’s past, but of our collective futures. Robyn lived life to the absolute maximum. Surely we could take inspiration from her example.

Photo of a punk crowd having a good time. In the centre of the image, a white butch woman exclaims and points with delight.
Robyn at Manchester Punk Festival 2024. Photo by Chris Bethell for The Guardian(!)


After the funeral, I stayed the night with queer friends in rural Surrey. We went for a curry, toasted Robyn, caught up about our lives. We talked about work and about books and about art and about holidays we wanted to take. That evening I felt tentatively more at peace with the world.

And then I looked at my phone. And I learned that another young friend, Jessica, had also just died.

***

It’s a shit time to be trans. Many people are saying this.

But then again, when has it not been a shit time?

Eight years of moral panic have taken an enormous toll. In the UK, as in many other countries, our civil rights and our access to public services, public spaces, and public life are all being rapidly rolled back. Politicians and influencers fall over themselves to promote anti-trans violence and praise one another’s incendiary takes. We are less safe at work, at home, in hospitals, in schools, and in the streets.

Trans people often die young, including too many of my friends. Sometimes (all too often) we die by suicide, driven to despair in a world full of hate and malice. Sometimes (mercifully less often in the UK) we are murdered, usually in incredibly violent ways. Other times, it’s more complicated. I think of Denise, who died a sudden death from melanoma. I think about Elli, who died of Covid-19. And now I also think about Robyn and Jessica, who each died suddenly of apparently natural or accidental causes.

These days, the high rate of untimely trans death can feel like a consequence of the trans panic. Certainly I believe it’s making things worse. However, this phenomenon pre-dates the current political situation. Trans people disproportionately died young in the 2010s, at the time of the so-called “tipping point“. Trans people disproportionately died young before this too. Sociological theory can tell us why.

A decade or so ago, I worked for a couple of years in Warwick Medical School. I was there to teach medical students about social determinants of health. The basic concept is that our general health is affected enormously by the context in which we live. This includes factors such as the resources and services we do and do not have access to, and barriers we might face in attempting to access healthcare services or otherwise look after ourselves

So, it’s not a coincidence that – for example – life expectancies are shorter in poorer neighbourhoods, or that Black women are more likely to die in childbirth. There is nothing inevitable or biological about any of this, something intrinsically different about poor people or Black people. The issue is that entire groups of people are more likely to experience particular kinds of illness, and more likely to die of things others might survive. This is because of the social disadvantages they face, and because of the discrimination they experience at the hands of bigoted doctors and nurses.

There is a massive scientific literature on social determinants of health. I’ve contributed to it myself, co-authoring a recent study showing an association between transphobic microaggressions and poor mental health among trans people. For this reason, I know it’s no coincidence that so many of my trans friends have died untimely deaths. Trans people are more likely to have worse health because of transphobia. They are less likely to receive timely and effective treatment because of transphobia. This means when trans people are seriously ill, we are on average less likely to survive. I see this when I look at the academic literature, and I see this every day in the lives trans people I know.

I see the impact of transphobia when I look at Robyn’s life and death. Her health deteriorated significantly in her final years. She was afraid to seek help from doctors though: and for good reason, given the discrimination she and many of her friends experienced in NHS services. I wrote my entire goddamn PhD thesis on this problem.

Things were even worse for Jessica. I witnessed so many organisations and institutions in her home city of Coventry failing her time and time again. I could fill whole books with accounts of the violence done against her. She was failed by her school, her church, a political party she gave so much energy to, the council, the local hospital, the psychiatric ward, the housing association. Just last year I sat helplessly on the other end of the phone while she attempted suicide, doing the best I could in this moment to ensure that she was not alone.

The institutional failings experienced by Robyn and Jessica and so many others are the result not just of ignorance, but of actively malicious transphobia and transmisogyny. I believe these factors contributed significantly to their untimely deaths.

How can any of us expect to find hope and purpose in the face of such violence?

***

In recent months I have noticed an uptick in trans doom-posting. By this I mean trans social media posts, blog posts, and videos which dwell entirely on negative feelings and convey a sense of hopelessness.

A prominent example is Shon Faye’s recent essay, well, it’s over, which she describes as “a brief eulogy for the ‘trans rights’ movement”. Shon observes that powerful transphobic movements in the USA and UK are succeeding in many of their aims. They have spread fear and disinformation far and wide, made allies of mainstream politicians and media platforms, and enacted bans on trans healthcare. Now they are attempting to criminalise our very existence, as part of a campaign to eliminate us altogether.

Shon’s conclusion appears to be: well, that’s it. We’re all fucked.

“Today I doubt I will see another progressive measure (either in legislation or healthcare policy) put in place for trans people in my lifetime. Who knows what may yet be taken away.”

I very much empathise with her account of trying to talk about this in any way with cis friends and family:

“their instinct is to try and generate hope or minimise despair [which] typically minimises the gravity of the situation and the depth of my grief and exhaustion and fear – increasing my resentment.”

Shon concludes that she doesn’t want to hear “fucking platitudes” – “there’s time for hope later”. For now, she wants time to grieve. I’ve seen similar sentiments shared by other authors on various social media platforms, including posts from extremely popular trans meme accounts.

I understand intimately where all of this is coming from. Just look at everything I said earlier about social determinants of health. I recognise the violence we are subject to, and its costs. This post too is written from a place of deep grief.

But there is also the question of where and how we grieve. We do need space to vent and to despair. But we also need space to process, and figure out what happens next. Ideally, we need places and times we can do this collectively, rather than just being isolated as individuals. Robyn’s funeral offered this.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t talk about what is happening to us. What I am concerned about is the individualising effect of public platforms, and the parasocial relations we hold with high-profile accounts. We tend to consume doom-posting on our own, on a phone. We often have no-one to process it with, and little context beyond the content in front of us. In this way, doom-posting offers only a partial account of reality, and no way out from despair.

And there is a way out. We find it in community.

***

Look, I have a great deal of respect for Shon Faye. I have a hard enough time navigating the consequences of my own very minor microcelebrity. Shon has to tackle a great deal more attention: from trans people looking for someone to idolise and/or tear down, from cis readers who project heroic expectations onto her, and from haters who see her as the antichrist or something. She’s great on camera, and a brilliant writer. I would recommend her book The Transgender Issue to literally any cis reader. I also recognise that her blog post comes from a place of incredible pain.

At the same time, I am concerned that many trans people and allies are putting way too much energy into engaging mainstream institutions and liberal systems on their own, individualistic terms, rather than looking to the alternative power and support we can build in our communities. Notably, a lot of Shon’s post talks about civil society, legislation, lobbying, and the role of organisations such as Stonewall. This is definitely a realm in which “trans rights” face a seemingly terminal decline. But it is also not the first place I would look for real, grounded hope.

You can find a similar energy in Jules Gill-Peterson’s dire essay Reject Trans Liberalism, which is referenced by Shon. Jules’ piece simultaneously criticises the trans liberation movement for being about more than transition, while also insisting that preparing ideologically sound documents for the US supreme court is a radical act. It posits a false and ahistorical dichotomy between transsexuals (good, pure, radical) and transgenders (bad, elitist, liberal). The essay does not consider how gender diverse people might work together or support one another across our differences. This contrasts with existing critiques of trans liberalism already advanced by activist-scholars such as Nat Raha and Mijke van der Drift. Again, don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge fan of Jules’ previous work. But as trans people, and especially as trans women, we owe each other so much more than this.

Now, I’m hardly without fault. This very blog is replete with examples of myself and others putting untold hours into lobbying politicians, participating in public consultations, advising the National Health Service and so on and so forth. In her post Stepping Over The Line, Josie Giles, who once again I admire greatly (look, I just fucking love trans women) argues that:

“Theoretically, an army of well-resourced energetic activists could simultaneously engage in state-centred advocacy and also do grassroots politics. In practice, it doesn’t happen. In practice, state-centred pseudo-organising dominates the social media feeds and the limited energy reserves of an already depleted community, and absorbs what little money is available to pay for the salaried self-licking ice-cream cone of the lobbying profession.”

Sick burn!

Meme depicting two femme white women. One is labelled "trans NGOs", and is holding the other woman firmly by her hair. The second woman is labelled "broke trannies facing a highly funded segregation movement". The first woman is force-feeding the second woman a bottle of milk, labelled "email your MP".
Meme acquired via one of them social media platforms we’ve all heard so much about.


I do disagree with Josie a little. Unlike Shon and Jules and also Josie, I transitioned in the early 2000s. This was well before the tipping point, and before most trans civil rights even existed in law. I remember how we fought successfully for changes that genuinely improved many people’s lives. I feel it will always be worthwhile to use what levers we can to minimise the harm caused by those who have power over us. Lobbying is the most accessible form of activism for some people. I still have an auto-reply on which encourages every damn cis person who emails me at work to contact their MP.

But Josie is completely right that many if not most trans people can and should be putting a lot more of our energy into grassroots politics. This must necessarily involve re-imagining what our worlds could look like, using what we already have as a basis from which to build. I know from lived experience that we can not only survive in the absence of certain civil rights and recognition, but also see material improvements in our lives when we come together. I met Jessica because we built trans-led community services in Coventry from the ground up.

Similar points are made by Roz Kaveney, who first came out over 50 years ago. In her criminally underrated 2022 poetry collection, The Great Good Time, Roz does reflect on the violence faced by young trans women in her youth. However, she also details the vibrant lives they lived together, the joys they experienced, how they shared housing and clothes and had each others’ backs. In a short forward to the book, she notes:

“I observed a lot of bleakness creeping into trans social media and thought it my job as a community elder to remind young people that things have been, if not worse, then at least as bad in different ways”.

As Josie states in Stepping Over The Line, white, middle-class trans people in particular need to understand in this current moment that we are as disposable to the ruling classes as any other minoritised individual. Our strength lies in practical solidarity with others subject to the violence of corporations, fascist movements, and the state. To once again reiterate the point, we need to be in community with one another.

Both Robyn and Jessica’s lives offered perfect models for this.

***

Every single speaker at Robyn’s funeral talked about how much time and energy she put into punk and folk music, building and fixing things, and caring for others. She was a loud, proud butch who was incredibly committed to sustaining community wherever she went. When she saw a need, she sought to meet it. Many of us only wished that she was better at asking for or accepting help herself.

If a trans person needed somewhere to stay, Robyn would put them up. If a trans person needed to move house, or was being evicted or was fleeing a violent relationship, Robyn would turn up with a van. If a trans person was having trouble at work, Robyn would show up online or in person with sensible advice. This attitude inspired Robyn to volunteer with groups such as Reading Red Kitchen, a grassroots project which provides a social foodbank and free community meals for asylum seekers experiencing food poverty. For Robyn, radical politics could never simply be about slogans and demonstrations: it was about cooking, connecting with others, and washing the dishes.

None of this is to say that Robyn was never found at a protest: quite the opposite. When I lived in the south we co-founded Trans Liberation Surrey, a collective which worked to oppose transphobia in a county hardly known for its activist movements. My most treasured memory of Robyn is from this time, when we attended a small anti-fascist demonstration in Wokingham. A coalition of neo-nazis, anti-vaxxers, and climate conspiracists descended on the town to protest a drag queen storytime event for young children. Robyn and I joined other locals outside the library to wave rainbow flags and play upbeat music, enabling families to attend the event without disruption.

Photo of people with placards around a banner labelled Trans Lib Surrey.
Trans Liberation Surrey, at Surrey Pride 2021.


Jessica was also extremely motivated to help others, in spite of her own difficult circumstances. Like Robyn, she was a committed trade unionist. For many years she was also involved in a small political party, before eventually being ejected for challenging the leadership. Her motivation for this was a genuine belief in the possibility of positive political change, and in the potential for people to come together and make that change happen. Later in life she would rediscover her Christian faith as alternative vehicle for community action.  

After hearing of Jessica’s death, our mutual friend Charlotte reached out, and we asked one another how we knew her. It turned out Charlotte had also been a member of that political party, and reconnected with Jessica several years later as they both sought new ways to make a difference in the world. In turn, I explained how Jessica and I met while lived in Coventry, and was myself involved in organising trans community social events, meals, and punk nights. Charlotte and I also both knew Robyn. “Christ Ruth,” said Charlotte, “trans lives are so entangled and we often don’t even realise”.

So it is. Right now, Jessica’s Facebook wall is replete with people thanking her for being there as a friend, for providing them with advice, for helping them come out.

In a hostile world, we are everything to one another. In the face of the most horrific hate, our love is so powerful. Such love survives death.

Selfie photo taken by a white woman with shoulder-length brown hair. She is wearing colourful clothes and a cross around her neck, and smiling at the camera.
Selfie taken by Jessica.

***

This is where I find hope. At protests and demonstrations, sure, but more importantly in the contexts where we give each other’s lives meaning.

I find hope in community meals, mutual aid, queer bars and queer bookshops and queer gigs. I find hope in small parties, in big Pride events, in quiet meetings at work, in food pantries. I find hope in housing projects and healthcare projects, and in the Glasgow Electrolysis Project, which has created actual jobs for trans women and a vital new service for hundreds of us across the city. We know we are failed constantly by mainstream institutions: rather than seek incremental change, is it not time to re-imagine the clinic, re-think the workplace? Our problems will not be solved by refusing to engage with existing services, nor by creating trans charities that replicate existing hierarchies. We need to find ways to build something new entirely.

I find hope in the fact there are more of us out than ever, more connected than ever. These collective endeavors are all so much more important than anything I personally might write, any research I might do, and certainly any “progressive” policy I might influence.

Doom-posting and finger-pointing cannot deliver any of these things. We need to take the time to connect with one another, especially outside the internet. Yes we need to grieve, but we need so much more than this. We need to actively look after one another, and provide space for rest and recuperation. We need to have each others’ backs. We need to connect across difference, and not (re)create hierarchies of oppression or need.

These are no fucking platitudes. This is my life. This is the lifeblood of our shared communities. This is how we create better social determinants for our goddamn health.

Long may we live together.  

Photo of a butch white woman playing a banjo next to a Scottish loch.
Robyn in the Highlands. Photo by Elaine O’Neill.

by

RCGP host conversion therapy conference in London – protest 23 March

On Saturday 23 March the Clinical Advisory Network on Sex and Gender (CAN-SG) are hosting at conference at 30 Euston Square, the headquarters of the Royal College of General Practitioners. CAN-SG are described by Trans Safety Network as “an organisation composed mainly of activists involved in the pseudoscience network SEGM, and the anti-trans conversion therapy campaigning body Genspect“.

A noise demonstration will be held outside the conference venue from 10am on 23 March, hosted by Transgender Action Block, Lesbians and Gays Support The Migrants, and The Dyke Project.

Protest poster, which reads as follows. Noise demo against Royal College of GPs conversion therapy conference. 30 Euston Square, March 23rd, 10am, 2024. Get loud, get angry against institutionalised abuse. No parasan. Full youth autonomy now. No cops, no SWP, no Tories.



According to the Memorandum of Understanding on Conversion Therapy, an agreement signed by 40 leading professional bodies and healthcare providers, conversion therapy “is an umbrella term for a therapeutic approach, or any model or individual viewpoint that demonstrates an assumption that any sexual orientation or gender identity is inherently preferable to any other, and which attempts to bring about a change of sexual orientation or gender identity, or seeks to suppress an individual’s expression of sexual orientation or gender identity on that basis”. Conversion therapy has been described as a form of torture in academic work and by UN experts.

The CAN-SG event speaker lineup is a who’s who of conversion therapy proponents and anti-trans activists, including:

  • Stelley O’Malley, founder and director of Genspect, who has described seeking to suppress the gender identity of teenagers in her therapeutic work, adding: “I don’t think you should have empathy or sympathy” for young trans girls.
  • Michael Biggs, an anti-trans campaigner linked to a prolific troll account on Twitter.
  • Richard Byng, a member of anti-trans pseudoscience network SEGM.
  • Rachel Cashman, a campaigner against trans inclusion in schools, and supporter of Women’s Declaration International (WDI). Under their former name of Women’s Human Rights Campaign, WDI have openly called for the “elimination […] of the practice of transgenderism”.
  • Az Hakeem, a member of Genspect and an active opponent of a proposed legal ban on conversion therapy. Hakeem was reported for conversion therapy to the GMC by a former patient.
  • Anne Hutchinson, who has promoted materials by Genspect in training for South London and Maudsley NHS Mental Health Trust.
  • Riittakerttu Kaltiala, a Finnish clinician and opponent of affirmative care who contributed evidence for Florida’s ban on medical transition for young trans people. I have not found any evidence that Kaltiala opposed Finland’s policy of forced sterilisation as a condition of legal recognition for trans people, which was repealed only last year, but am willing to be corrected on this. According to a recent academic biography, Kaltiala sits on the advisor board of the Cass Review.

The Royal College of General Practitioners (RCGP) are signatories of the Memorandum of Understanding on Conversion Therapy. Signatories agree that conversion therapy is “unethical and potentially harmful”, and commit to ending this practice in the UK.

Following complaints from LGBTIQ+ groups and their own members, the Royal College of General Practitioners (RCGP) released a statement saying that the conversion therapy conference would go ahead. In the statement, they argue that their headquarters building, 30 Euston Square, is “an event space run by an independent events company”. However, the statement opens by saying that the RCGP has “reached the decision that the Clinical Advisory Network on Sex and Gender (CAN-SG) conference can go ahead”, and later adds that “the College would be at risk of being faced with a claim for breaching the Equality Act if we acted otherwise”. This implies that the RCGP do, in fact, have control over their own building, and have taken the active decision not to oppose the conference.

Legal threats are increasingly common from anti-trans campaigners, who argue that cancelling contracts or events constitutes an attack on their “gender critical” views as “protected beliefs”. The CAN-SG conference has been widely reported as a gender critical event, and indeed several of the speakers appear to describe themselves as “gender critical”. However, the issue with the event is not the beliefs of the speakers or organisers in and of themselves. It is that they are actively promoting disinformation and harmful practices.

The RCGP’s position is therefore one of gross cowardice, and demonstrates that they are not actually committed to preventing harm against trans people in healthcare settings. It costs the RCGP very little to sign a document claiming that they oppose conversion therapy, or condemn the UK government for failing to introduce a legal ban. However, now that the fight against conversion therapy has come to their door, they are not prepared to act.

It is within the power the RCGP to ensure that the CAN-SG conversion therapy is cancelled. They have chosen not to do this. It is within the power of the RCGP to oppose CAN-SG in court, if it came to that. They have chosen not to.

This reflects the same failures we have seen from bodies including NHS England and the Cass Review. I am often asked why trans people do not trust doctors. This is why. We are failed by medical professions over and over again.

Change happens not because powerful organisations allow it, but because ordinary people fight for it. A true commitment to ending conversion therapy can be seen not in the actions of RCGP, but in the work of groups like Transgender Action Block, Lesbians and Gays Support The Migrants, and The Dyke Project. I am also hugely grateful to grassroots organisations such as Trans Safety Network, Health Liberation Now, and Gender Analysis for gathering a lot of the information I collated in this post.

That power also potentially lies with you. Trans support groups and harm reduction networks for people self-medicating can be found across the UK, and will always benefit from your support. And you can complain to the RCGP here.

by

13 days to defend trans and queer kids

On 12 March 2024, the UK Department of Education consultation on draft guidance on “gender questioning children” for schools and colleges will close. Until that date, we have our best possible chance to fight for the safety and wellbeing of young people.

Last month I wrote a long blog post and zine about this draft guidance: New Year’s Resolution: Smash the New Section 28. I argued that the guidance resembles the notorious anti-gay law Section 28, in that it aims to both directly oppress LGBTIQ+ young people, and create an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty around supporting them. This is to be done by reinforcing a strict sex binary. The guidance directly targets young trans people, but also threatens to enforce sexist and homophobic standards on all students, e.g. through stating that school uniforms should be allocated on the basis of “biological sex”.

I also argued that there are important reasons for hope, and many routes to resistance. One possible option is to take part in the consultation itself, but there are other approaches too, including noncompliance and resistance in schools, contacting politicians and unions to raise the alarm, supporting trans youth groups, and creative forms of protest.

Since I wrote Smash the New Section 28, the situation for young trans people has continued to deteriorate. In the UK, the Government has very quietly introduced a second consultation on proposals to segregate trans college students who are on trips or who would otherwise be sharing accommodation with other students. In the US, the murder of trans student Nex Benedict in a school bathroom shows just how dangerous the UK proposals would be in practice. I have updated my original post to reflect both of these events. Moreover, it’s emerged that the Royal College of GPs are hosting a conference for conversion therapy advocates in London, and the British public are more openly prejudiced towards trans people than they were just five years ago.

However, it’s also been really heartening to see how many people have read the blog post and shared the zine over the last month. I have particularly appreciated the support from the amazing independent Leeds book shop The Bookish Type, who have been giving away loads of free copies of the zine. I have heard from parents and bureaucrats who say they are using what I have written to argue for independent guidance that actually supports trans and gender non-conforming young people in schools and college.

Importantly, my writing is just one piece among many. Important critiques and consultation guides have been published by people and groups including The Diversity Trust, Just Like Us, Nancy Kelley, Gendered Intelligence, LGBT Foundation, Mermaids, Stonewall, and the Trans Learning Partnership. If you’re aware of any good writing or resources, please share in the comments and I will add it to this post.

You and the people you know have the resources to take action against the new Section 28. If the guidance is implemented, this will not be our only opportunity to fight back, but it is the best opportunity. Think about what you can do before 12 March: whether it’s writing to school governors or an MP, agitating in your workplace or union, or sharing information with others.

As ever, we can never win freedom alone, but have so much power when we act with others.

Photograph of a women holding a zine titled Smash The New Section 28. The woman is white and has shoulder-length brown hair, and is wearing glasses and a grey t-shirt. She stands in front of a large book shelf.
by

WE ARE REVOLTING: my first Trans Pride

There are a couple of looks I am very familiar with as a trans person.

One is primarily a look of confusion. It is the kind of look you might expect to receive if you were wearing a boot on your head. You have disrupted the everyday order of things, and people don’t know how to respond.

One is primarily a look of disapproval, communicating a barely-contained sense of disgust or revulsion. It is the kind of look you might expect to receive if you have smeared shit all over your face and are walking down the street as if nothing is wrong. You have disrupted the everyday order of things, and people are very unimpressed, but perhaps aren’t quite yet ready to shout or spit at you. But you imagine that they would quite like to.

I’m very used to these looks because I have received them a lot over the course of my life. More often when I was younger, my face and body as yet unchanged by oestrogen. But I still receive such looks now and again to this day, particularly when I put less effort into conforming to stereotypical expectations about how a woman should look or carry herself. Perhaps I have put on less makeup, or I am wearing baggy clothes, or I haven’t brushed my hair for a couple of hours.

Other trans people – particularly other trans women, and especially trans women of colour – are less fortunate than me. People don’t just look at them. The looks are merely where it starts. Then people shout at them, or spit, or throw stones. People pinch their arses or grope their breasts. I hear these stories from my trans friends pretty regularly. It’s like everyday sexism with the volume turned up.

Other trans people – particularly other trans women, and especially trans women of colour – are less fortunate still. People stalk them. People assault them. People rape them. People kill them.

They do this because we are revolting.

It starts with a look. Call it the cis gaze.

~

Today I saw so many looks of confusion and disapproval. I felt the revulsion. It was visceral. It was contained. It could not harm me. I was amongst hundreds like me.

Today I took part in a Trans Pride march for the first time.

placard

Waiting for a bus before the march. Photo by Sophie Wilson.

Trans people have, of course, taken part in LGBT Pride marches for as long as they have existed. Trans Pride marches, however, are a relatively new phenomenon. The first Trans Pride in the UK took place in Brighton in 2013.  I attended Trans Pride Leeds, which is in its first ever year.

I have previously marched in LGBT Pride parades in Birmingham and London, and attended Pride parties in Coventry and Leamington Spa. On these occasions, people throng the streets. There is a sense of celebration. There is a giant street party. People come out to see the happy gays. They mostly look on with enjoyment. It is a family affair.

At Birmingham Pride one year, I was stopped by a “community safety officer”, who objected to my placard. It was not family friendly, he said. If I didn’t destroy or cover it up, he would call a police officer and I would be arrested. At London Pride one year, some people sought to control entry to a women’s toilet, ejecting at least one trans woman in the process.

Trans people are not necessarily welcome at LGBT Pride events. Or, if we are, we are not as welcome as many of our cis gay, lesbian, bi and queer siblings. Or, if we are, we are not seen or celebrated in the same way. We are not as safely contained.

But: there are a lot more cis gay, lesbian bi and queer people at LGBT Pride than there are trans people. We disappear into the crowd. We cause less confusion. We bring less disapproval. We do not so easily revolt.

This is why Trans Pride is important. This is why Trans Pride is necessary.

 

 

Photo by Kayleigh Brooks
Photo by Ruth Pearce
Photo by Natacha Handley
Photo by Ruth Pearce

~

Today is Trans Day of Visibility, apparently. In the UK, trans people are more visible than ever.

Visibility has brought new dangers. We are currently subject to an unprecedented hate campaign in the media, spearheaded by “respectable” publications such as The Times and The New Statesman. On the Internet, we have attracted the dangerous attentions of a resurgent neo-nazi movement, their anti-trans campaigns bolstered by useful idiots who claim to oppose trans rights in the name of feminism.

Visibility has brought new opportunities. We see more of one another. We are more organised than ever. We have grassroots organisations in every city. We are producing art, music, plays, and films that speak to our own interests and concerns. We are marching in protest, we are marching in Pride. We seek gender liberation.

It will be a very long, very hard fight, but we are going to change the world.

We are revolting.

~

Today I saw so many looks of confusion and disapproval. I returned the gaze. I held my placard high. I shouted, joyously. They could not harm me. I was amongst hundreds like me.

I could not, would not be shamed, for I felt the power of Pride.

29792619_10211128952515449_1837457633094237365_n

Trans Pride placards. Photo by Natasha Handley.

 

by

“Gender critical feminism” is ideological war

Trigger warning for transphobia, suicide, violence, bigotry.

Today I was accused – in a comment, on a blog – of the “appropriation of women’s lived experiences”.

It’s a very small thing. Another mean comment from a mean person, in a vast Internet of bigots and bullies.

But it’s also a very big thing. It’s another microaggression in a larger struggle, a wider war. I don’t use the metaphor of “war” lightly: this is serious.

Some social historians might refer to this struggle as a front in the “sex wars”. Many radical feminists refer to this as a struggle against the language of “gender identity”. Medical practitioners regard us as one set of lobbies amongst many.

I call this struggle the war of trans liberation.

People are wounded, damaged.

I am damaged. My friends are damaged.

People die.

My friends have died.

There are many ways to die in this war.

—

This is an ideological war. It is fought in the media, where conservative commentators, radical feminists and uninspired columnists alike dehumanise us by lying about our lives, joking about our appearances, questioning the idea that we should have civil rights or even receive respect from others.

This is an ideological war. It is fought in the home, where many of us are not welcome. Where trans people are frequently rejected by parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles who believe the lies in the media. Where trans people are cut off from family events, or otherwise told to deny themselves.

This is an ideological war, but sometimes it is fought with fists in the streets and in schools and in public spaces, by those who do not regard us as human because they believe the lies told in the media and by our families. A disproportionate number of trans people are verbally assaulted, physically assaulted, sexually assaulted and raped.

This is an ideological war, but it is also fought in our heads, by those of us who come to believe the lies told in the media and by our families and by those who wish to visit violence upon us in the streets and in schools and in public spaces. We grow up responding to those who would dehumanise us by dehumanising ourselves. We learn to hate ourselves. It is no coincidence that at least one in three trans people have attempted suicide.

I have received an incredible amount of support and warmth from my own family and my friends. I have learned to love myself, and love the things that I stand for. I have built a fulfilling life for myself, a life of joy and creativity.

But I will never be free of this struggle as long as it continues.

And I will always resist.

—

For my own self-preservation and sanity, I mostly stay out of scuffles between trans activists and radical feminists on social media. Sometimes I disagree with particular trans activists: with the language they use, with the way in which they understand gender, with their perspective on feminism. This is not a disagreement based on fear of real harm.

But when I am accused of the “appropriation of women’s lived experiences”? Ah, now this goes to the core of our struggle.

Quite frankly: how dare they? How dare they accuse me of appropriation for the way in which I move through the world?

My lived experience is my own. I live as a woman. I go to work as a woman. I enjoy my hobbies as a woman. And what I mean by this is that I am perceived by others as a woman. It takes many to  construct this social reality of “womanhood”, which is real to me because I interact with many others on an everyday basis.

I receive sexist comments from men in the street for existing as a woman. I am aware of how being a woman limits my opportunities, and places me at risk of gendered violence.

This is my life experience. The experience I have had my entire adult life.

By conflating trans struggles with “appropriation”, (or worse, “rape”) and trans agendas with the agendas of the medical profession, so called “gender critical feminists” visit a symbolic violence upon trans people that ignores and perpetuates real, everyday threats and experiences of violence.

This is why trans women find themselves being denied a space in feminism. This is why trans women are kicked out of women’s shelters and rape crisis centres. This is why trans people learn to hate themselves. This is why trans people kill themselves, or are killed violently by others, or die in the streets.

I can empathise with “gender critical” feminists, and I have written in the past from a place of attempted understanding. And I’m always happy to be critical of gender.

But I have no interest in a truce.

This is an ideological battle fought over my life and my body.

I intend to win.

by

Save Fernanda Milan

[Trigger warning: rape, transphobia]

A Guatemalan asylum-seeker is fighting to avoid deportation in Denmark.

Fernanda Milan was horrifically mistreated upon her arrival at the Danish refugee camp Centre Sandholm. Her hormone treatments were suspended and she was placed in the male wing of the camp. She ran away after being gang raped by several men who forced their way into her room, and was then trafficked to a brothel before finally being offered support by anti-trafficking organisation Reden International.

But Fernanda faces worse should she return to Guatemala. Trans people in the Central American country face violent murder at the hands of vigilantes and the police. Trans activist Johana Ramirez, of the Latin American and Caribbean Network of Transgender People, estimates that the average life expectancy of trans people in Guatemala is 25. Oppressive “Christian” moral values are reinforced by the powerful Roman Catholic Church.

Danish authorities don’t take transphobia seriously. Fernanda was told by police to accept personal responsibility for her rape because she “chose” to be trans. The Danish Red Cross –  who run Centre Sandholm – appear to deny all responsibility for the incident. “Basically a transgender woman is likely to be placed in a male dormitory but in a single room. But we would not place her in a women’s dormitory because that is definitely for women, where cannot permit ourselves to place a man.” says Red Cross head of asylum Anne La Coeur.

Denmark does not recognise gender identity as grounds for asylum, meaning that Fernanda now faces deportation on Monday 17 September. Denmark, along with the UK and Ireland, opted out of the new EU directive on asylum that includes gender identity.

“What I’m most afraid of when I go back, isn’t being killed. What really petrifies me is being attacked and tortured,” says Fernanda.

This shocking miscarriage must justice must not go ahead.

You can take action to support Fernanda by signing this petition.

(Petition is in Danish: Fornavn = 1st name, Efternavn = Surname, By = Town/city. For country select “Storbrittanien” if you are a UK citizen living in the UK)

There is also a protest taking place outside the Danish Embassy in London on Monday 10th September.

by

Boosting the signal: support CeCe

For various reasons I can’t make it down to the Free Cece solidarity demo in London today. So here’s a post to let you know what you can do if you, like me, won’t be there.

CeCe was recently jailed for manslaughter following the death of a man involved in an attack upon herself and her friends. If you haven’t yet come across the case, background information can be found on on the Support CeCe McDonald site (trigger warning: description of racist and transphobic violence), and in this video.

Needless to say, the situation is a sad reflection upon the impact of multiple inequalities faced by individuals who experience intersecting oppression, particularly black trans women.

If you want to support CeCe through writing to her, sending books or anything else, there is plenty of information on how to get involved on her support site.

It’s likely that further UK actions (e.g. a letter-writing campaign) may follow the London demo, so I’ll endeavour to post about that if it happens. A Leeds-based working group can be found on Facebook here.