I am Here; I am Alive: On Trans Visibility and Activism

by Isaac Albanese (he/him/his)

(This piece is part of our series of writing from trans people for our Protego campaign, which fights for trans rights and safe spaces. If you have a story or perspective you’d like to share, email katieb@thehpalliance.org

If you’d like to support Protego, you can donate here.)

Why is it important to be a visible transgender activist? Simple. You as a trans person are a person of value, of worth, and most importantly authenticity. Your continued existence is a bold truth that only you can speak to the depths of. It is an act of revolution and self-love, regardless of how difficult it may be. You may be struggling through it, but you’re living it. The world needs to know that you are here, you are alive, and you are lovable.

Trans people, and especially trans women of color, face alarming rates of murder, violence, suicide, and self-destructive behaviors. On TV and in movies, trans representation largely takes the form of a joke or a tragedy. State legislators are hurrying to pass laws barring us from necessary health care, respectable treatment in prison, and the basic right of relieving oneself in a public restroom. It takes a toll on our mental health to be dehumanized in this way.

Speaking out as a trans person first and foremost makes statements: I am here; I am alive. That’s only the beginning, but just enough to give those who have never seen their lives reflected and respected in the world, hope. We need to be heard and we need to be seen — as more than a punchline, as more than tragic victims, as more than genitalia, hormones, or surgery, to claim the humanity that hate, fear, apathy, religious rhetoric, and unconstitutional laws have taken from us.

We need to be role models.

In search of my true self, I’ve assumed three different identities. The first was that of a gay woman and the second a transgender man. The third? The third I’ll get to. Changing gender is such a radical act, I assumed that a community of people who similarly crossed the line between socially defined female and male would not abide by strict gender roles. I was wrong. The excitement of newfound identity gave way to panic at that realization.

When one lived experience resonates with enough people in a community, it is understood as true for every person in that community. It becomes a truth — our truth, and when we buy in without a second thought we let the dominant narrative become a standard measure of our identity. It drains the vibrance from the bigger picture in favor of a simpler scale of gray.

It’s easy to fall into the mindset that the work is already being done and that there is nothing you can share that hasn’t already been shared. But the truth is, you never know. You never know who may need to hear exactly what you have to say. You never know who is wondering if more people could be open about that one thing that you’ve experienced. You never know how many people from different intersecting identities can relate. You also never know how healing the process might be.

That’s what I found when I spoke.

In the process of coming to terms with my identity for the third time, I gradually started sharing it with more and more people in public settings. It caught the attention of the Men’s Health Coordinator at Brown University, who asked me to participate in the Men’s Story Project that he helped bring to campus. My draft was reviewed, and I was asked to focus in on the exclusion and isolation that I had felt within the trans male community as it is often a story untold, and yet a common theme among traditional, cis masculinity.

When I stood on stage that night, my emotions spun into spoken word. I realized the importance of my story. I realized that my story needed to be told because of the snaps I heard from several people in the audience when I referred to a push in “someone else’s right direction”; because of the number of people who reached out to me after the Men’s Story Project to individually share similar experiences that I otherwise would not have known we had in common. To my surprise, many of them were cis men.

These small and simple interactions provided much needed validation for my identity because of what it took to get to the stage that night. Two years of anxious ruminating thoughts that disrupted my everyday life and kept me from doing all but surfing the internet, wondering if I had made a mistake and how I could possibly face the world if I had; worrying about meeting new people and what name to use; worrying about the obvious changes in spaces with people from my past who didn’t know; thinking about dropping out of school; looking desperately for something, anything, to cling to in order to determine my identity; knowing that if I opened up to my parents about my struggle, it would set them back years should I find my identity were indeed transgender.

It took two years of depression calling me back to bed so that I lay dormant twice as long, wishing I’d never questioned my gender identity in the first place; wishing that I weren’t experiencing the confusion; wishing I were just gone; avoiding the sadness is my grandmother’s gaze at the loss of her middle-namesake; dodging people from college when meeting up with friends there; avoiding the questions about my transition and wellbeing that came from friends expecting endless positivity; living two separate lives, neither of which fit; and avoiding introducing myself in new spaces as often as I could because I just wasn’t sure what name to use.

I went from not fitting in on one end of the binary to not fitting in on the other. What was the point? I could only see in black and white, but my life and my identity are gray.

I needed someone to tell me that I was okay. I needed someone to tell me that there was no rush to transition. I needed someone to tell me that questioning and exploring are valid spaces to exist within. I needed someone to tell me that I might not fall on either extreme of the binary, or smack in the middle, and that was okay, too. I needed someone to tell me that they would accept me no matter who I discovered myself to be.

Gender is not binary — we can identify as non-binary, agender, genderfluid, or many, many other names that help us know ourselves. I now live more authentically and feel more comfortable with my body, my roles, and in my engagements with other people. I am Isaac, not a trans man but a trans person, using he/him/his pronouns.

I speak to shed light on the ways that the same exclusive and isolating cis masculinity impacts trans communities; to model vulnerability and let people in questioning spaces or all over the spectrum know that they are not alone; and to encourage open dialogue about inclusivity within communities.

My narrative is my narrative. Pretending that this wasn’t my experience to protect a simplified trans narrative doesn’t help anyone. There is a lack of narratives on questioning gender identity while struggling through the beginning of a binary transition and that is largely what contributed to the anxiety and depression I experienced. There is no race to transition. There is no “right” way to transition. That’s not to say that my experience is every transgender person’s experience. I can only speak for myself.

I offer two pieces of advice. The first is that any time you speak publicly, add the caveat that you are speaking from your experience and your experience alone.

Secondly, being out and visible while trans is not for everyone. There’s an unknown factor — a risk of safety that’s undeniable. Due to the intersections of our identities the risk is greater for some than it is others. For example, I am a white, able-bodied, middle class person with both straight and male passing privilege. In other words, although I am transgender and therefore no stranger to the unique challenges and disadvantages associated with this identity, I walk through the world with nearly all the privilege your average straight, white, cisgender, able-bodied, middle class man would have, at face value. It is safer for me to speak publicly about my gender identity than it would be for a trans person of color, a trans woman of working class, etc. Unfortunately for this reason, the demographics behind the trans narratives most readily available to us tend to be dominated by people like me. The least we can do to give back is take the time to familiarize ourselves with our intersecting identities and recognize what privileges we hold.

It can be frightening to be a visible activist. To stand in front of a room of strangers and say “I am here. I am alive. I deserve this space. I deserve to be seen.” When we’re trans, and we speak up, we might face violence, discrimination, ostracism, loss of friends, family, housing, employment. But if no one speaks up, then we may very well face violence, ostracism, loss of friends, family, housing, and employment alone. If no one speaks up, we risk leaving a generation of trans and non-binary kids to feel like they are alone. It’s our courage — our overwhelming drive to foster the inclusive communities for which we’ve had a need — that makes our visibility so powerful. The goal is that we’ll all be safe enough to stand on stage if we want to someday.

Until then? You are here. You are alive. We love you for whoever you discover yourself to be. We are with you — you are not alone.

About the Author

Isaac is the Administrative Coordinator for the Student Activities Office at Brown. He wants to help shed light on the impact that pervasive and exclusive masculinity has within the trans community. You can check out the stage piece mentioned in this article right here in our Protego series.