What National Coming Out Day Means to Me
This is likely the most personal or open I’ve ever been about my identity and relative place on the spectrums we all find ourselves in. So thanks for reading.
Last week was the first time I’ve ever been directly harassed because of my identity as a queer person. It was the first time that my own appearance, the fluid and empowering thing that it is, was used as a weapon to hurt me. It was a new and scary feeling. And I’m damn lucky that this is the first time that it’s ever happened so directly and hurtfully.
Coming out is an amazing process that I wish everyone would have the desire to do. For most of us who come out, connecting with wherever we feel comfortable on gender and sexuality spectrums feels terrifying, confusing, messy — and often wonderful and cathartic. Coming out is being true to yourself. It’s an honestly that many people aren’t forced to reckon with.
My coming out journey has recently felt a lot like a coming back. I was pretty damn unapologetic about who I was when I was little. Of course there was no intellectual discourse about gender identity going on in my head. I was me. I hated barbies and loved playing sports. There was a recognized term, tomboy, that made who I was an acceptable identity.
That was up until about 6th grade. Then something (puberty, middle school) happened and I got the urgent memo: You’re supposed to be a girl! No more tomboy.
And then I was thrust into about 10 years of discomfort. Trying to wear lip gloss, eye shadow, straightening my hair, wearing dresses. I dreaded dancing and getting dressed up. I sheepishly tried following my friends’ leads, all of whom seemed to have a handle on this whole “girl” thing with a lot more confidence than I did.
Sexuality was an interesting thing. I certainly found boys attractive. Interesting and invigorating? Not as often. Once in a very long time, if that. Finally, when I was 22, I began to open my eyes to my own queerness. Dating women came first. I had no conception of what “coming out” meant back then, only six years ago. It didn’t feel like I had been hiding something before — but I definitely felt better and more like myself. I fell in puppydog love years after my friends first had those experiences. I got my heart broken, too. And after years of catch-up I no longer feel “behind.” If anything I feel ahead.
How many people have spent six years of their lives on a constant journey of critical self-examination? That’s what it’s been. And it’s still ongoing. Every day I feel more non-binary on the gender spectrum. And I still embrace and celebrate my own fluidity. Quite honestly, it’s a blessing.
But being queer can be a lonely experience. My friends and family didn’t go on this journey with me. They support me, but most don’t always “get it” the way I wish they did. They don’t always understand the solitary sadness of what it can be to be queer. To know that you likely won’t ever be able to conceive a child with the partner you’re with. To go through the weird mix of emotions you might go through when being misgendered. To have such little visibility in our culture that one — ONE — androgynous character on a certain show called I Love Dick represents the entirety of times you’ve deeply felt represented by a character onscreen.
As much as I hate to admit it, we are undeniably sliding backwards right now. The man who harassed me recently was wearing a Trump hat, to give you a picture of how relevant this is today. There is no space for being lazy with activism. If you’re still misgendering people right now, I beg you to stop. Do your research. Try a little harder. If it makes you uncomfortable using the “they” pronoun, try practicing. Your effort is the least you can do. For the record, I’m still comfortable with using “she” pronouns. But if I were to ever change that, my support system will have to step up. If knowing that the same harassment that happens to trans people occasionally happens to me makes you want to change things, good. But I can handle that harassment by myself. I don’t need more strength or words of encouragement. I have a whole hell of a lot of privilege and resources. But not everyone does. Not everyone fits within traditional beauty standards. Not everyone has white skin. Not everyone lives in a mostly accepting environment. And people are literally murdered because of that — based on the same instincts and deeply held assumptions that led those people to harass me the other day.
So, please. I don’t want your hearts or your condolences, your strength or your pity. But I do want you to put in the work to be a trans ally. That’s my wish today. I’m happy to help you get started where I can. You can ask me questions free of judgment. And I hope you do.
Here’s a thread that I related with to get you started: https://twitter.com/RheaButcher/status/918187917125865472
