Being Seen

Rose Hayes
Aug 31, 2018 · 4 min read

Being seen in fiction is powerful. It eases the ways in which society tries to erase our differences or use them to destroy us. Being present in fiction as we really are, even in SF&F, pries open space for us in the real world. Better still is fiction where our visibility is a natural consequence of the narrative and centered the lived experience of the character.

For trans characters, the moment when they become visible to the reader is usually linked to them becoming visible to another character or the narrator. All too frequently, a character’s withholding disclosure of their trans status is presented as a deception. But it can be done respectfully: Walther Davies in Seanan McGuire’s October Daye series is an example. Four characters observe Walther’s disclosure of his trans status, two of whom are family who had only known him prior to transition. For his Aunt, who recognizes him, it’s barely notable aside from the new name and pronouns. His sister is surprised and holds on to his prior name a little longer. The two who have known him only as Walther react mildly. It’s old hat to Tybalt, the centuries old Cait Sidhe. October, the narrator, keeps her processing of the new knowledge out of the narrative until Walther probes her about it later. Both Walther’s reticence to disclose and October’s processing pivot around the strained relationship of changelings to full-blooded fae (happily not used a proxy for human race relations). McGuire successfully avoids the major pitfalls by dint of respect for her characters and some slightly awkward exposition. What she can’t avoid is how the “passing as cis” cliche inherently endorses the assumption that people are cis absent (or even despite) evidence they may be trans.

As toxic as It usually is, the trope of the surprise trans reveal can be turned on its head. In Caitlyn Kieran’s “The Drowning Girl”, Imp (the cis narrator) doesn’t reveal that Abalyn, her girlfriend, is trans when introducing her. Later, she reveals it when Abalyn relate a story about her ex-girlfriend being surprised and angry to learn she was trans:

“I know. Terribly cliché. She was a little drunk, but I bought her another beer and we got to talking. She didn’t even realize I was a tranny until we were leaving to go back to my hotel room.”

The reader learns Abalyn is trans in a context that centers her lived experience and explicitly questions the idea that trans status is inherently one of the most notable things about Abalyn. Abalyn goes on to relate her ex was initially angry at the discovery but ended up pursuing her nonetheless. Abalyn ends the story with “You will find I can be a very forgiving soul, especially when pretty women are involved.” It’s a well-crafted fuck you to trans tropes.

I want to see more stories where the visibility and notability of a character’s trans status is entirely contextual and driven by the plot. Elizabeth May succeeds at this with her short story “Why They Watch Us Burn”, from the YA Anthology “Toil and Trouble”. All of the girls in this story have experienced the trauma of being. stripped of their names. We learn that the girl known as Green Eyes is trans because her lived experience amplifies the trauma for her. It takes May’s narrator just three sentences (emphasized below) to relay Green Eyes’ trans status and its precise relevance to this point in the narrative.

We were not permitted to use names, but we all had secret ones for physical features that made us stand out. Obsidian, Rose, Blue, Scar, Green Eyes, Hazel, Tall, Tiny, Curly, Red, Blondy, Porcelain. They called me Night, for my dark hair.

Green Eyes had suggested we learn our names from Before. In private. Just because they don’t treat us like we’re human doesn’t mean we have to do the same.

Green Eyes wanted us to know her Before Name so badly she cried. The name her parents had given her was for a son, and she had endured a long, hard, difficult road before choosing her name as their daughter. It was hers, and now it had been taken away. This place (them, the people who accused us) had taken away everything. Our names, our lives, our identities. Our struggles.

Elizabeth May does all this in the context of trauma shared by all the girls (cis and trans) while still slyly subverting the way deadnames are used as a weapon against trans people. It’s a technique that runs through the story, building commonality from difference and community from oppression. I recommend it.

The first of Seanan McGuire’s October Daye series is “Rosemary and Rue”. It’s kind of a love letter to San Francisco and the community of SF&F fans who live here.

Caitlyn Kiernan’s “The Drowning Girl” is one of the best novels I have read in the past decade. It won the Tiptree and Bram Stoker awards and was nominated for the Nebula. Cheryl Morgan’s review of The Drowning Girl is worth reading for its own sake.

“Why They Watch Us Burn” is the closing story in the multi-author YA anthology “Toil and Trouble”. I’ve yet to read them all, but the ones I’ve read have all been good. While some of the stories are more lighthearted, “Why They Watch Us Burn” is dark and angry.

    Rose Hayes

    Written by

    Geeky #Queer #Jewish Woman. Engineering director by day, Oppression fighting National LGBTQ Task Force director by night. Opinions are mine, not my employer’s.

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