Daily Transgender Trauma: The Courage to Just Walk Out the Door
Sometimes I pass and sometimes I don’t
It starts with bravery. You know… feeling the resident fear of something deeply and doing it anyway.
Life whizzes by, window by window, stranger by stranger, friend by friend. Some stops are yours, and some aren’t. I’m not the only one here. Painfully aware of that. People fill the space, each mostly minding their own business. I think carefully — how many are there actually?
The more the better most of the time for a girl like me. More eye witnesses should anything go down, I think. There aren’t so many right now compared to rush-hour, but where are they? Exactly? Distance to them? Where is my nearest exit? Distance to that? Am I at risk? Panic begins to whelm.
Are they suspect? Wait, is that profiling? Am I just as bad as a Minneapolis beat cop? Better safe than sorry? Guilty until proven innocent? Gawd I hope not.
Breathing deep, I keep my cool. Maintain my stealth. I make sure to smile. Not too much, just enough. Watch my posture. My jawline. The wind blows my hair into my face, sticking to my freshly applied lipstick as the train keeps moving, moving, until it stops. The doors open as a series of air-breaks exhale loudly. Crowds hurry in and out through the opening.
And then it happens. In the blink of an eye, it’s gone. The bravery. It’s out the window. I freeze. Will I be safe in there? There are cameras. Then again, there were cameras the night I fought off two teenage car jackers under bright lights at the gas station.
A shudder runs up my spine and I begin to sweat, again.
I walked out my front door this morning into a world full of more doors. More doors, and also strange and un-vetted people. So breathing deep, I step through the opening and into the subway car.
Eyes wide open. Scanning, assessing, profiling, selecting, sitting.
Sitting hopefully alone — at least a seat away, anyway.
Breathe I think.
Breathe. Posture. Jawline. Smile.
I study my surroundings, but I fear looking too directly at anyone. Eyes always adrift I take notes again. We are now more densely packed. Some of the people now decidedly inside my bubble are the same, but some are new. My curiosity remains on the new faces — some standing seemingly at the ready, some shrouded with scarves and hoodies, and still some are lost in a book — no, sorry, lol, their phone.
I keep asking myself questions. Where are they? Exactly? Where is the nearest… exit becomes useless as the train jerks forward along the tracks and into the dark cavern towards the next stop. Breathe, girl. Breathe.
On every train, there is at least one person checking me out. I cannot tell if they have clocked me or not. Though my T-levels now read close to zero and my E-levels register well above that of pubescent girls’, testosterone ran rampant in my body for long enough.
Sometimes I pass and sometimes I don’t, but it’s a delicate matter. Ever the self critical, I do hope I’m more paranoid than I should be. I can’t be that important to them — surely they are thinking about something else.
Except, they are still staring. I will them to look away — it doesn’t work.
Warmth begins to travel from my stomach and flushes my chest and cheeks. A pool of sweat forms in the small of my back above my waist, and then drips, distracting me from my mental spiral. The train moves above ground and at least offers a distraction — somewhat of a salve for my situational social anxiety. I pretend the people aren’t there. I pretend they aren’t staring at me. I pretend I pass. And my heart rate begins to slow again. I will get through this. I can. I will.
These micro panics cut by the thousands manifesting often as shadows of the residual feelings from past aggressions. Never fading completely, always there just enough to remind me. Stories blend together over time, and once accurate details evolve into learned emotional responses. My constant reprocessing has altered the images, but I can still feel them all just the same.
These feels are what drives my insanity. They are fed by experiences comprised of the news and personal experiences. The news is horrific in comparison to my own story, but they do validate each other. People are actually harassed because their gender is not clear. Some of those people are actually attacked. And some of those people are actually killed. I have been harassed. I have been attacked.
But I keep walking out my door. I keep on keeping on. I do because I have to. Life is too short to waste it. Even if there are others who would deny me of my existence if they had the chance, I have to persist.
I am a woman. I am a family member. I am a mom.
I am an employee. I am a leader. I am a manager.
I am a friend. I am a teammate. I am a neighbor.
I keep walking out my door because, whether I chose to be or not, I am a role model for my children. I want them to be brave. I want them to think for themselves. I want them learn how to navigate this very unforgiving world without letting it rob them of their souls. I am a role model for my employees. I want them to know that trans people are people. We have jobs and skills and knowledge to offer. We are not tokens. We are not fake.
And so I walk out the door.
Head held high.
Every day.
I find the courage to just walk out the door.
Love,
Nicole
