When trans kids don’t exist.
Content Warning: suicide, transphobia, abuse.
I often hear people make the claim that trans kids don’t exist. It’s an absurd claim, and I want to take some time now to outline why. I want to get serious for a second, because we can talk about how absurd the Cass Review is — we can talk about it claiming toy preference is biological or height is gendered, etc. — but ultimately none of that really matters, because the UK government is going to use it regardless. Labour is going to use it regardless. We all know it’s nonsense, filled with pseudo-science and anti-trans rhetoric, but none of that matters. The culture war is on, the lines are drawn, and transgender people are going to suffer as a result.
When I was five or six years old, I begged my mum to let me be a girl. I wanted to go school and I wanted to be a girl. I couldn’t explain why, somehow I just knew who I was. People know who they are, and children know who they are. I am the living proof of that. Despite how much the ‘phobes like to claim they don’t exist, I was a trans kid. And I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was not a girl, that that was impossible, and that there was no way I could ever be one (or dress like one, look like one, talk like one, act like one, etc.). And that idea stayed with me all my life, and I was deeply depressed as a result.
When I was thirteen I took an overdose. I didn’t think I could go on being like I was, hiding and not being me. My depression had permeated every facet of my existence. I hated everything. I hated being with my friends — all boys — because I couldn’t understand them. I hated listening to them, I hated being seen as the same as them, and I hated that I thought I was the same. I couldn’t understand what they spoke about or why they all seemed so comfortable with themselves and with each other. I hated my body, I hated my voice, I hated myself. And I never told anyone how I felt because I had already been made to feel like what I felt was wrong and impossible.
As I got older, those feelings only grew, they never went away. I wore baggy clothes to hide my body, I grumbled, hunched myself, moaped around. And while I’m sure there are plenty out there who would say this is nothing more than your ‘typical teenaged boy’ I can assure you it was not. Your ‘typical teenaged boy’ does not avoid going out with their friends and family so they can stay home and try on the make-up they shoplifted because they were too scared to buy it in peace. I found life as a boy impossible. There are certain standards and expectations that were placed on me that I simply could not meet. It is not hyperbole to say that my entire life has been irreversibly damaged because of this. I have been the victim of abuse, and that abuse has not been taken seriously because I was considered ‘male’. I have tried to end my life again since then, sadly more than once, and this alone has been at the root of every single attempt.
I grew up under the UK’s Section 28, a piece of legislation that prohibited the “promotion of homosexuality” by local authorities. It meant I was never taught about LGBTQ+ people, about our history and about our issues. It meant I was never taught that we existed, and thus I was never taught that what I was experiencing had a name, had a language, had a precedent, and that I was not alone in that. I was ignorant, I did not know these things. Had I done, I perhaps would have been better equipped to understand my own experiences and the damage my life has sustained would not be there. It really is that simple.
So, when I look at what is happening now, at the rising anti-trans sentiment, at J K Rowling spitting rabid rage toward us, at Rishi Sunak claiming social transition is the same as forcing people to deny reality, at Wes Streeting praising the Cass Review, at Allison Pearson’s ‘evil trans ideology’, at Rosie Duffield’s hateful output, and at Keir Starmer’s silent complicity, it frightens me.
But, it doesn’t just frighten me because I and my community face an increased threat of violence and hatred, or because I am worried I won’t be able to receive the healthcare I need to be who I am, or that I won’t be able to go to the toilet when out in public, or that I won’t feel safe in a hospital, etc. No, it frightens me because I see things like the Cass Review, and in them I see Section 28. I see that same denial to educate, and I see that same ignorance. I see a kid like me, struggling with who they are, being robbed of the opportunity to have a happy life.
My experiences are not unique. In fact, within the community, these experiences are worryingly and painfully common. There are children alive now — and there are children yet to be born — who will have that same experience inflicted upon them. They too will feel that depression, they will be made to think there is something wrong with them, and that their inherent and undeniable sense of self and who they are is sick, twisted, and wrong. Some will not be as lucky as I, they will not survive. That is the reality of what is happening here. That is what we’re talking about. That is the simple truth.
When we say things like trans lives matter, that trans rights are human rights, and that trans kids exist and deserve to grow-up, these are things that we mean. These are the things that inform us. It is our own lived experiences that mean we understand what is at stake. We are not imagining, we are not assuming, and we are not indoctrinating. No one indoctrinated me (quite the opposite, in fact), and yet still, here I am. Trans people are people, whether you like it or not. If you truly want to protect children, then that must include trans children, and protection does not, ever, look like denying someone the basic right to be themselves. I want my community to be safe and happy. I want myself to be safe and happy. But mostly, I want those with power to do better. Allies, speak out. Politicians, stand up. Anyone, please? Can you hear us? Can you see us? Do you care? We are people. We are human. We deserve to exist.
