We Need to Talk About Trans Youth and Trans Joy
And how it is so, so important to preserve it as best we can
I grew up cisgender, so I don’t understand what it feels like to be trans.
My experience as an asexual woman gave me a good idea of what it feels like to be an ‘other,’ as did growing up autistic. Disability and a largely unknown sexuality — one I didn’t even understand myself — made me an outsider to a lot of ‘normal’ adolescent life.
I know what it feels like to sit outside of a conversation and be turned into the butt of the joke, even when the speakers didn’t realize I was the person they were talking about.
It hurts.
Kids and teenagers already have to deal with discomfort with their bodies and their sense of self; a lot of it is in the midst of severe changes as they grow and learn and experiment. But most kids don’t have to contend with the feeling that their body quite literally does not fit their brain.
Trans kids have it so, so much harder. At least I didn’t have to convince anyone to respect my gender. Apart from one kid who was confused by the presence of a slight moustache on my lip, I’ve always been comfortably assumed to be the woman I am on sight.
I have Endometriosis, possibly PCOS — I don’t know the new name for it, bear with me. Body hair is a constant irritation for me. Let the record reflect that in spite of what Incels might think, cisgender women do, indeed, have body and even facial hair!
We just shave, dude.
I had a friend growing up who was different in many of the same ways I was different.
They were what we thought of as a ‘tomboy,’ much like I was as a child. They were the daring one, who could kick off their shoes and climb the basketball hoops like a monkey. They got in trouble when the teacher caught them, sitting high above us enjoying the view of the playground.
They were awkward in social situations, like I was. Shy, anxious when the center of attention. There were times I stepped in to help finish a presentation for them because they froze up in panic and hid under the teacher’s desk, fighting tears.
They were, by far, the most incredibly creative artist I’ve ever seen, with a talent that could not be contained. They got an image in their head and had to build it with whatever they had on hand, and it was always amazing in the end.
We became friends when I tried to stand up to bullies in their defense. I got my butt kicked, but I tried.
Anyhow, years later, long after we lost touch, I met their mother at the school I was attending. She was a teacher. The ‘girl’ I thought I knew, it turned out, was now a young man.
At first I was shocked. Then I thought about it. A lot clicked into place.
The next time I saw him when he visited his mom at work, it threw me for a loop. The kid who was terrified to be looked at was wearing the most incredible hand-sewn, hand-embroidered waistcoat straight out of the 1800s.
He made it from scratch. The whole outfit. He looked like a Founding Father, striding down the hall with his head held high, utterly unbothered. It was like a switch flipped, and suddenly he was in his element. People stared, and he didn’t even seem to notice.
My shy old friend was now confident and proud. The only thing that changed was he was now recognized for who he actually was, and openly accepted by the people that loved him.
He got the care he needed to become who he knew he was, rather than bending to pressure to behave the way he was ‘supposed’ to.
That’s all it took. He was happy, and comfortable, and enjoying his life.
Even writing this out, I have some tears in my eyes, because the difference was so incredibly moving.
I have other trans friends and loved ones in my life, people I met after transition and people I knew before they came out, and their experiences of being accepted and exploring themselves mirror that old friend.
They are happier, more expressive, more eager to be themselves than ever before.
I can’t fathom how anyone could want to deny them that.
Solidarity wins.