What It’s Like To Be A Transman On Capitol Hill
I’d been working on Capitol Hill for two months when our IP address was blocked from Wikipedia. It was the third time that summer that the House of Representatives was temporarily banned for making “disruptive edits” to Wikipedia pages. Since the changes were made anonymously, it was impossible to say where they came from, but one thing was clear: the author was deeply transphobic.
The most prominent edit, and the only one removed from Wikipedia’s public archive, attacked Laverne Cox on the Orange Is the New Black page. Where the site noted the historic casting of a transgender character being played by “a real transgender woman,” it (very briefly) read that Sophia Burset was played by “a real man pretending to be a woman.”
The most egregious attack, however, wasn’t a specific edit, but something the anonymous author posted to Wikipedia’s comments page regarding their activity. To justify their abuse of Wikipedia’s open-editing policy, the user claimed that the changes were “to promote official business that has been explicitly authorized by the Representative.” The very thought that this activity could be “official business” was nauseating. How infuriating to think that my taxes could be, this very minute, paying someone to insult my community and our identities via numerous Wikipedia sites.
Because the entire House shares just a few IP addresses, it would be impossible to determine the office, much less the specific computer, from which the edits originated. As a result, the situation ended without resolution. But it left a mark on me, a weight I carried whenever I walked through the halls of the Capitol complex. I couldn’t shake the fear that the incident propelled. If someone was so unabashed in expressing their transphobia on Wikipedia — apparently encouraged to do so by a Member of Congress — who knew what they might be obliged to do when they encountered me in, say, the bathroom?
Until this incident, I hadn’t spent much energy considering the discomfort I might feel working in such an ideologically diverse environment. I, of course, knew there would be people who didn’t accept LGBT identities, but I didn’t concern myself too much with it, because I didn’t work with any of those people. As a fellow with the Congressional LGBT Equality Caucus, I worked almost exclusively with offices committed to making the country, and the Hill itself, a place where trans folks are welcomed and treated equally. Every day of my year-long fellowship, I felt privileged to have the opportunity to work in the House, and I was so proud to be welcomed into spaces where I could be a voice for my community in the real conversations that effect national LGBT policy. I even had the amazing privilege of talking to a few Members about transgender identities and the unique issues for which trans folks need legislative protections.
Unfortunately, I only spoke with Members who were already great allies to the community. I imagine that anti-LGBT-equality Members ignored me as much as I did them. When these Members appeared on C-SPAN, I acknowledged them tepidly, but otherwise I barred them from my consciousness. I suppose it was a defense mechanism, but it kept me productive and optimistic amid a truly dreary political atmosphere for LGBT-related legislation.
My defenses were completely overwhelmed when I read that these hateful Wikipedia edits were authored by some anonymous House staffer. I was suddenly acutely aware (and painfully so) that within the same building were colleagues who had welcomed me, sought my opinion, and respected me, and, now, as I reflected on this Wikipedia incident, people who might have scorned my presence and considered me a “real woman pretending to be a man.”
When I finally began to acknowledge the transphobia entrenched in my workplace, I felt truly alone. I was the only openly trans person on the Hill that year, and from the day I started, I was dedicated to increasing trans-visibility in Congress. I wanted to get more support — in the form of cosponsors, Equality Caucus members, and employers of trans staffers. But now, I suddenly felt the overwhelming pressure of my inevitable departure, and I wondered if the Hill really would be that much more welcoming for trans folks when I left. There were too many offices and too many staffers who needed to understand that trans identities are real and that trans people deserve respect and equal treatment.
What I really needed was help, in the form of other trans people, because their mere presence would do something that allies could not: more trans staffers would prove our existence, validate our identities and legitimize our legislative needs. As hard as the LGBT Equality Caucus fights for the recognition of people like me, our opponents continue to claim that they “don’t have any transgender constituents,” and that “these issues don’t apply” to their districts. Alone, I can’t deny these statements any better than my allies.
To pass LGBT-related legislation — namely the nondiscrimination protections we so desperately need — we must first convince our opponents that trans people live in every district, in every state, in every country. We’re even on the Hill. That’s the truth. But as long as only one or two Congressional offices have only one or two trans staffers, those who don’t want to believe it never will.
*Ben’s pronouns are he/him*
