by Andrew Kravig
Every single day, we hear folks talking about how these are “unprecedented times.” Which is true, of course. These times do feel overly “unprecedented.” But what does that mean? What does it actually mean, as a lived experience, to chart an existence in a world where there is not an instruction manual or reliable guideposts to help you navigate?
This week many of us observed Transgender Day of Visibility (TDOV). There are two days a year that are set aside to remember the lived experiences of trans folk, TDOV and Transgender Day of Remembrance (TDOR).
The first is meant to be a celebration of liberation and how glorious it feels to come out into the sunlight, “out of the closet,” to take up beautiful space in this world with all of our cisgender siblings. It’s a reclamation of space, of stories, and of dignity.
The second day, TDOR, is a more somber occasion, commemorating all the trans lives that came before us. Lives that were perhaps spent in shadows and exclusion, or that were cut short by those whose smallness and anger couldn’t abide the transgressive beauty of transgender existence. Trans elders are hard to find. So many lives have been lost to hate, neglect, disease, silence… TDOR is the day when have chosen to remember them, mourn them, celebrate them, and thank them for paving a path that we can walk today.
Both of these days, TDOV and TDOR, are reminders to keep up the fight and push through the odds, even when those odds feel unprecedented.
How I Spent Trans Day of Visibility
As is tradition, members of my community planned a gathering for TDOV, a small event to share stories and revel in the joy of living out-loud and proud as trans folk. However, this year was different from past celebrations. Many of the elders and participants received threats of violence, even death, and angry protesters were ready to drown out the voices of the storytellers. A small security team was quickly thrown together, in order to stave off the worst of it, thankfully. But these scare tactics are effective and prevented many participants from attending, out of legitimate fear for their wellbeing. Fear of the violence some humans are capable of when they don’t like your identity, or believe it should be illegal.
It seems that every single day I have a new reason to meditate on what it means to be deemed “illegal.” This is, by no means, a new meditation. For years there have been members of our communities — friends, family, loved ones — who were referred to as “illegal” because of their place of birth, immigration status, or what documentation they did or did not have. Referring to another human as “illegal” quickly became a shorthand for “I don’t like you and I want you gone.” It is an easy way to convey violence without raising a fist. It is the weapon of cowardice and smallness. And the list of “illegal” things is getting longer each and every day.
It would take too long to list all of the words that have been banned by our current government. Every day there are new orders, released to departments and offices across the nation, outlining what can and cannot be said. These rules are often enforced with clownish levels of idiocy and mismanagement, making them easy to laugh at and ridicule. But the malicious and fundamental weight of these new guidelines is meant to press against our chests, make it hard to breath, make us afraid to utter the words we (and our ancestors) have fought so hard to speak out loud.
These ridiculous rules make all of us more unsafe, to be clear. You may not be trans or a woman or protesting the genocide in Gaza, but you should really care about the fact that the USDA is no longer allowed to use the words “pollution,” “clean,” “climate,” “vulnerable,” “safe drinking water,” (and more!) in its environmental reports.
No matter your political affiliation, these guidelines will endanger your community’s health, sooner or later. Entire communities have had their histories erased from government databases because of references to “native American” history, “BIPOC” individuals, “resistance” movements, or “conservation” efforts. It is a violent, vocabulary cleansing, and it is doing its job with vicious efficiency.
The Cost of Visibility
This week found me contemplating the price we must pay to be heard. To speak up, to voice our dissent aloud, to bravely assert our right to exist, to resist those calling for us to go away, quietly, into the night. We exist. No human is illegal. And I will not let go of the words my ancestors and elders fought (and died) to protect.
I think it may be true, that all times feel somewhat unprecedented. History does not exactly quote itself, but it sure does rhyme. Yes, we’ve never been here before, but those who came before us crossed a similar land, and they somehow made it through to the other side. We carry the torch now. We are the stewards of the world they left for us. And we will get through this, together, because we will not allow ourselves to be silenced.
Silence can be dangerous for many reasons, anyone who has lived "in the closet" knows this all too well. And sometimes silence feels necessary, as anyone who has lived under an authoritarian regime knows all too well. Speaking up does not always mean you are picketing on street corners or marching outside of your legislator's office. Sometimes it means that you are finding ways to intimate your innermost thoughts and feelings, putting words to the secrets your heart is keeping.
Sometimes it means doing so in community spaces with others who love and support you. And sometimes it means finding a therapist who can help you hold your words gently, understanding all of the feeling and lived experience that those words come bundled with. Trust me when I say that there are therapists out here who know your language, who care about your words, and who want to walk this road with you. Maybe you don't feel safe enough to shout and riot in the streets. That's okay. Start in a quiet room, sitting across from another human whose only goal is to listen, and listen well.
Your existence is resistance. Especially in unprecedented times.
Your voice matters. We are here to listen.
Let's chart a map of our own. Together.
Read more about trans affirming therapy here.