Few things are more trans than wondering if you are trans enough to call yourself trans. That’s my common refrain when someone in my orbit begins to question their gender and searching for words that fit. I remember turning to my partner in bed one bright morning with the same crisis in identity. “Most cis people don’t question their gender,” they told me, gently. I groaned, feeling overexposed and conflicted. I knew other non-binary people were trans, but was I?
I understood, at least intellectually, that if I called myself non-binary the term trans was mine to claim regardless of medical intervention, name changes and other adjustments to my life. In fact, I understood if I called myself non-binary, I would be, by definition, calling myself trans whether or not I used the term directly. After all, the definition of trans is simply someone who isn’t exclusively the gender they were assigned at birth.
But using the word trans felt so untrue in those early days of exploration. Womanhood had served me well enough for the previous 26 years. While I knew dysphoria wasn’t a prerequisite to be a card carrying member of the trans club, my lack of dysphoria still made me suspicious. Sure, I wanted nothing more in the world than to be non-binary and trans, but I also wanted nothing more than to be gay for most of my life and still understood myself to be heterosexual (compulsory heterosexuality is a trip!). Did simply wanting to be non-binary and trans really make me those things?
Spoiler: Yes. If you want to be a gender, you already are, in fact, that gender.
Very gradually, the word non-binary felt okay and hearing people use they/them pronouns for me no longer made me want to die of embarrassment. Both these things still felt jarring, but in an exciting way. I came to understand that disconcerting mix of dread and delight as gender euphoria, and suddenly non-binary wasn’t a word I was trying on for size, but my actual gender. But trans? I felt like an imposter whenever I’d put that one on. I love bright makeup, covering myself in glitter, loud earrings, and, in certain contexts, my boobs. Parts of my gender are unapologetically femme and no parts of masculinity seemed to fit at that time. Certainly, everyone would see I wasn’t actually trans, right? That I was a fake. And yet, I still knew I wasn’t a woman, and being non-binary inherently made me trans.
So, who was I? Up until now, I had always been more or less the same person. Sure, I had grown and come to understand the world better, but at my core? The progression from an overly-earnest lovesick middle schooler writing angst-ridden poetry during recess to a young journalist who hated cis men but was still far too eager for their approval was pretty damn linear. I was nothing if not consistent. But now? The rug had been pulled out from under me, and I’d been in a free fall for six months. I didn’t know how to find my footing. Or even who I was anymore.
This produced an all-consuming sense of dread. And an isolating one. I feared that talking to trans friends or my partner would be demanding inappropriate labor, especially if I ended up deciding I was cis. (Reader, learn from my mistakes and do not fear this—many trans people love to help crack eggs open). I eventually worked up the nerve to text a close friend whose analysis of gender and transness would challenge, inform and deepen my own.
They expressed that the need for certainty about being trans is, in itself, transphobic, for it requires cisness of everyone unless they absolutely cannot even fathom existing happily as a cisgender person. Such an understanding allows only for the smallest possible space for transness to exist and positions being cisgender as the default. They asked me why my uncertainly about being cis also didn’t disqualify me from using that label and pointed out the “always knew” and “born this way” narratives of being trans didn’t fit for everyone.
These words helped me to begin seeing the ways my ideas about transness were rooted in limited understandings of trans experiences based on cissexism and transphobia. They’re the ones that allowed a shift in my understanding of gender and, ultimately, allowed me to embrace the label trans. They’re the words I share when someone expresses they’re not sure if they’re trans enough to call themselves trans, because I now understand that concern itself is rooted in our culture’s cissexist understanding of transness. We cannot embrace ourselves fully or acknowledge the breadth and diversity in trans experiences until we break down that cissexism ingrained in our psyches and reevaluate how we conceptualize transness.
Trans and non-binary often appear as separate categories, and culturally, the most widespread understanding puts these two identifiers in a venn diagram. One can be trans, but not non-binary. One can be trans and non-binary. And one can be non-binary, but not trans. The first two statements are unequivocally true. But the last one? I find it pretty suspect most of the time.
I adhere to and strongly believe in the queer community norm of not forcing labels on anyone and allowing everyone to use those that feel right to them. And yet, when someone uses non-binary for themselves and rejects the label of trans, I often bristle. Of course, some reasons I hold infinite space for—such as understanding oneself outside of western, colonial contexts of gender or not wanting to share this part of oneself. However, most of the time, I find embracing the word non-binary while distancing oneself from the word trans is based on a narrow, cissexist understanding of transness. Either that or a well-meaning, but misguided and ultimately harmful fear of taking up space. Such concerns are understandable—I had them initially. However, I would argue one can be trans and recognize their needs shouldn’t be centered above more marginalized trans people who have more pressing material and political needs. One can be a trans person of particular experiences and recognize an inability to speak for the diverse array of trans communities. One can be a trans person who has certain privileges and does not use their trans status to deflect criticism when they misstep. In short, one can be trans, recognize they do not face the same oppressions or have the same experiences as all other trans people and occupy space in a way that doesn’t cause harm—or better yet, wield any relative privilege in a way that supports trans liberation.
In fact, I would argue that rejecting the word trans as a non-binary person actually takes up space in the very way many non-binary people who reject the word trans are often trying to avoid. Such an outlook reinforces the narrow, cissexist understanding of transness that limits the use of the word trans to those who cannot imagine themselves existing as cis; it reasserts the myths that someone must experience dysphoria to be trans and that non-binary people cannot be trans; and it contributes to a culture that makes many of us reluctant to adopt the word trans and, by extension, the internalized transphobia of other non-binary people.
Embracing yourself as trans, on the other hand, contributes to trans liberation. This helps chip away at our culture’s limited understanding of who is and can be trans, helping more of us find embodiment and ourselves. It widens and adds complexity to our understandings of transness while pushing back against gatekeeping rooted in cissexism. Embracing ourselves as trans also moves us in the direction of defining and understanding our transness by who we are rather than our pain.
In short, by claiming the label trans, we are creating more space for transness to exist—quite the opposite of taking up too much. So, yes, you are definitely trans enough to be trans. And I’m thrilled you’re here.
I appreciate you tuning into the first issue of The Trans Agenda. If you haven’t already, I’d sure appreciate it if you subscribed! Also, I’d love for you to share your thoughts with me on Twitter or Instagram. Or by using the comment button above.
I’m always open to constructive feedback and promise to listen to yours with humility and an open mind. I especially appreciate anyone taking the time and care to flag anything harmful or problematic I’ve written and not fully considered or thought through. Part of the reason I’m writing this newsletter is to work through some of my own thoughts. That means I may misstep from time to time. What I share is meant to be part of a conversation, not the final word on anything.
I’m working on:
Recommendations:
This moving, heartfelt obituary for pioneering trans journalist Monica Roberts, who wrote the TransGriot blog and started conversations about how journalists must respect Black and brown trans women in both life and death, is a must read. It’s from Andrea Jenkins, Vice President of the Minneapolis City Council and another trailblazer in our community.
I’m blown away by this incredible take down of the fear-mongering around detransition by Dani. It has so many profound insights and is one of the best articles I’ve read on the topic.
I highly recommend you check out this hot and sweaty essay about the ephemeral state of being in transition, feeling yourself and trans thirst traps by A.E Olsworth.
You were radicalized by gender studies probs and it's super sad. Hope you pull through amd sue those fucks and stop working with Katelyn Burns. An autogynephile who lies openly is probably not a safe bet for someone to trust, this is general advice. But yeah, gender ideology has pulled a number on you.
this spoke to me on another level thank you