Happy Star Wars Day from Horace and Abigail!
Earlier this week I had a day where I simply could not shake the restlessness from my bones. At work, I found myself compulsively reaching for my phone whenever there was a moment of quiet, and scrolling through Facebook, then Twitter, then Instagram with robot-like intensity. Later in the evening, I messaged my partner asking that we watch some TV when I got home. She graciously agreed to this and once home, I poured my remaining anxiety into becoming absorbed in episode after episode of Person of Interest, a show about government surveillance, murder and rogue spies. Nothing like a good conspiracy to soothe my frayed nerves.
Only the next day did it occur to me that the day before had been the 12th anniversary of my friend Alex’s suicide. The body remembers even if the mind forgets, it seems. It finally made sense why I had felt so out of sorts. I was annoyed with myself for having forgotten the date’s significance. It somehow felt disloyal to Alex’s memory. Like I was turning my back on her by not honouring her memory on this one day. And yet part of me felt relieved, that finally, after 12 years of dreading this one day in the year, I had managed to move through it without being completely incapacitated. Surely, this was progress?
Alex had changed my life. Though we were never romantically involved, we held a deep emotional connection. She was a few years older than me, and everything I wanted to be but wasn’t. She was a mentor, a friend, a confidante and an employer. She was funny, and smart, and charismatic, and charming. She was outspoken, ambitious, creative, loyal, brave and fearless. She was also reckless, impulsive, generous to a fault, and fragile. More fragile than I could ever know, it turned out.
I met her at a time when I was just beginning my transition from female to male. Even before I’d decided to transition she recognized something in me, something that we shared, and she reached out to me, offered to be my friend when I had few friends I felt comfortable trusting with my burgeoning identity. She never lectured me, or told me what was right or wrong, she listened to me, offered a kind ear when I struggled with my family and their rejection of my struggle. I loved her. And trusted her. And it was largely because of her that I thought transitioning possible. In her I saw someone who had dared to follow through with the task of leaving their birth-assigned gender behind to embrace their true self. She wasn’t an outcast or someone to be pitied; she was an ambitious young woman who had been assigned male at birth, who dreamed of becoming a lawyer to continue the good fight so that others could have an easier path ahead than she had had.
Only later did I learn that behind her sunny, teflon-like exterior lay an abyss of suffering into which I could not follow her – because she would not let me. We were only close friends for the span of one year, at the start of a rare and beautiful friendship that only comes along once in a lifetime. And during that year, I truly began to embrace my own masculinity and made steps towards living my identity out loud. During that year, my relationship with my biological family disintegrated because of what they viewed as my self-destructive behaviour. During that year, too, my father was diagnosed with cancer, Alex died, and then four months later, my father passed away too. That year was my watershed moment. There is my life before 2005, and after.
Before I met Alex, I had obsessed daily about my own suicide. I derived a perverse pleasure in imagining different scenarios. It wasn’t a question of if but rather of when; I considered suicide a forgone eventuality. And it wasn’t just despair that drove me to think this way: I saw my death as a kind of moral duty, my gift to humanity. In my own eyes and in the eyes of my birth family, I was an aberration, a freak of nature; at best I could hope for the world to tolerate me. But I didn’t want to be tolerated. I wanted to be embraced. And since my birth family clearly couldn’t do so, I assumed the rest of the world wouldn’t either. But Alex showed me a different way of seeing. She refused to have the world belittle her. She stood up for herself, for her friends, and for her beliefs. She didn’t cower in silence or hide away her difference. She embraced it. Because of her I started to imagine that life might be worth living after all, even without the support of the people who raised me. Because of her I thought I, too, could maybe access a life of joy and relative prosperity.
The day I found out of Alex’s death, I also received an email from my mother. In it, she told me I was going to hell, that I was a disgrace to my family, and better off dead. Whatever love she may have felt for me at one time, was clearly gone. And in that moment I realized that I no longer had the energy to fight to regain it. That moment released me. A calm spread over me, as I woke to the fact that I could choose to stop fighting a losing battle, and that choosing this didn’t mean I had to die. That, in fact, if I wanted to survive, I would have to do the unthinkable: I would have to leave my biological family behind.
It’s a strange twist of fate that Alex’s death woke within me a desire to live, no matter the price. It felt like the universe had pulled a sick practical joke. Here I had been the one constantly rattling on about suicide while Alex had been the stalwart survivor. And then the universe had taken Alex and left me. If it hadn’t been so truly awful, the irony would have been funny.
Twelve years later, and I am still here. And every year when April hits, I brace for the storm of emotions that come with remembering not only Alex but my own life before I met her. If I am here today, it is because of her. If I write about trans issues, that too is because of her. If I care about women’s issues, it’s because of her. If I seek to be more visible about my own trans identity, rather than simply living my life quietly, it’s in part my way of honouring her memory and her willingness to speak out, bravely and proudly, for me and for so many others.
Maybe after 12 years, I can allow myself to focus less on the day she died and embrace the life she helped me value. I choose to see that as progress.
In our latest webcomic, our vacationing mouse and tortoise duo have distinctly different views about their hotel room.
One of the fun things about doing this webcomic is being able to borrow stories from our own lives as inspiration—including this trip we took over New Year’s to Nanaimo, BC. We had a similar moment to the comic in our hotel room, cracking ourselves up and declaring “that has to become a Horace and Abigail!”
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Stefan and Athena
In September 2016, a professor of psychology at the University of Toronto, Jordan B Peterson, caused a firestorm by stating in a series of youtube videos his opposition to a new bill being presented to the Senate for reading. Bill C-16 proposes to add gender identity and gender expression as protected identities under the federal Canadian Human Rights Act and Criminal Code.
Dr Peterson called the bill an assault on free speech and followed up his critique with a statement that he reserved the right to refuse to honour non binary students’ requests that he use non binary pronouns such as they, zie and hir, in his classes. He stated that mandating his use of these pronouns was a form of political authoritarianism. What he failed to concede was that in refusing to use students’ requested pronouns, he would in effect be robbing them of their right to define their own identities. Dr. Peterson has essentially argued that identities are negotiated, and that one cannot mandate someone’s identity into existence.
On that point Dr Peterson and I agree. Freedom of speech, freedom to debate and challenge each other, is critical to the healthy functioning of any society. If we can’t speak to those we disagree with, how can we hope to live with them? However, Dr Peterson isn’t asking for a debate on recognizing non binary identities. He has already decided they are not legitimate, at least not in his classroom. This is highly problematic for someone who claims to be against authoritarianism. Why should he have the right to define my identity, more so than I have the right to define my own identity?
Touting himself a a defendant of free speech, he participated in a debate in November wherein he argued that freedom of speech is not just another value, but a fundamental mechanism by which we “keep our psyches and our societies organized”. He argues, convincingly, that when an employer mandates anti-racism and anti-homophobia training to its employees, “you actually make people more prejudiced”.
But when on the one side you have a man who has been privileged by a social structure that values his voice because he is a white, college-educated male, and on the other, you have a transgender community who have faced inordinate levels of violence, and have been rejected from their families and communities based on prejudice, you don’t have a fair debate. It would be like asking a 17 year old amateur boxer from an underprivileged neighbourhood to step into the ring to face off with Muhammad Ali in his prime. It won’t be pretty. And it’s not a fair fight.
Not all transgender people are poor, uneducated or have been rejected by their families. And not all middle-aged professors have had an easy road to get to where they are. Of course not. But when a large number of transgender people have faced discrimination for who they are, have faced traumatic setbacks that have impacted their self-esteem and sense of self-worth, the decent thing for a society to do is to recognize this wrong and to do what it can to right it.
One of the hallmarks of trauma is that your rational brain, the cerebral cortex, goes offline. You go into reptilian brain mode: fight, flight, freeze. In cases of severe trauma, sometimes you lose the ability to speak at all. You shut down, experience intense emotions, debilitating flashbacks and uninvited disturbing thoughts. You live with a deep, unshakable, hopelessness that at times can feel so unbearable that suicide seems like a better alternative.
Like many transgender people, I have lived in that space. When you are there, you cannot debate. You are not in a position to articulate why you are triggered or offer up nuanced arguments in defence of your own position. Instead, you retreat into yourself, hold on for the ride as you enter the vortex of your own troubled mind. You lose yourself for a moment, but hopefully not before you reach out to those people, places, and experiences that you have learned to trust, that help anchor you in reality, that help pull you through so you can face another day.
While I value freedom of speech, I also recognize that hurtful speech must sometimes be limited, if only so that those who have been historically victimized can have a shot at putting aside their trauma for a moment and move toward reconciliation and healing. As a professor, Dr Peterson has an opportunity to create such a space in his classrooms. He may not respect his transgender students, or feel that he owes them anything, least of all the use of their requested pronouns. But are his feelings as someone in a position of authority really more important than the feelings of a transgender student who has been repeatedly marginalized and told that they have no value in our society? By refusing to address transgender students by the pronouns they request, he is in effect robbing them of their freedom of expression. He is silencing them.
You can state that they are weak for not being able or willing to stay in his class and debate him, but you would be ignoring the very real power he holds over them. He is a tenured professor with years of experience and training at public speaking and open debate. They are students still searching for their voice, and looking for a safe space to do so. Who is he to rob them of that?
We are each of us born into a gender; and for most of us the gender we are born into is the one we stick to for our entire lives. For a few of us, that doesn’t ring true. Yes we are a minority. But since when is being a minority reason enough for dismissal? The gender I was assigned to initially didn’t resonate with my internal sense of myself. Despite being assigned female, I saw women and I didn’t see myself in them. Who knows why. So I chose a path to align my gender expression with my internal sense of myself.
As a child I explored the world as what would today be called a tomboy. I climbed trees, played soccer, wrestled my He-Man doll with Mr. T. I played with My Little Pony and Barbie too. It took me a while to realize that I was expected to live my life within the box of woman, and that box came attached with certain expectations regarding my demeanour and behaviour.
As I got older, I learned that being woman entailed menstruating, developing breasts, and having the potential to get pregnant. It dawned on me that these things would likely happen to me, whether I wanted them or not. And I didn’t want them to happen.
It was hard to put my finger on what exactly made me feel out of place. There was no language for what I felt. I searched. For a time, I thought maybe I was a lesbian. But that, too, felt inaccurate, in no small part because as I entered puberty I began to realize that I was attracted to men as well as women. In fact, I didn’t think of my partners in gendered terms. I didn’t think of myself in those terms either.
I decided that I didn’t want to be a woman. That left me only one option at the time. If I didn’t want to be a woman, I would have to live my life as a man. So I started the process of transitioning. I began hormone therapy and later had surgeries to help me better deal with the discomfort I felt with my body. I left behind womanhood and the associations that went with it. I transitioned not because I felt myself to be a man, but because I didn’t want to be a woman. I transitioned to become myself.
Identities are messy things. They tend to press against the walls that try to contain them. After much self-advocacy, my legal paperwork now lists me as male. I worked hard for that designation. I am a man. Transgender is the adjective, the shade that defines my gender; the thing that makes me cyan rather than simply blue. And my sense of my own gender is still developing. These days I’d probably call myself a bigender man. Because that allows me to honour my early years as a girl, to integrate it into who I am today. Dr Peterson may not understand my need to do this. Nor does he need to understand it to accept it.
Apparently it matters a great deal to some people, what I have in my pants, or what my chromosomal makeup is. I’m not sure why. Perhaps because my ability to exist in the world as a man without the anatomy or chromosomes of a typical male disrupts a common understanding of what gender is: That gender, somehow, is intrinsically, inseparably linked to sex characteristics.
I think many people misunderstand that if gender is a social construct, then it is somehow not real. Money is a social construct – and I think most of us would agree that it is very real; our lives depend on it.
To conceive of gender as a social construct only loosely based on crude biological differences would mean that gender can be socially deconstructed, and reassembled in different ways. It would mean disrupting two fundamental building blocks of our society: our concept of man and woman. If we disrupt something so basic as that, what are the larger consequences? If gender isn’t inextricably tied to our procreative roles, then what is gender?
Money, too, has shifted its meaning over time. Originally defined as an identifiable object of value used as payment for goods and services, it has become more and more abstract. It used to refer to a coin, or piece of paper. These days we carry plastic credit cards which, presumably, stand in for the money we have in the bank; money, that does or does not actually exist in tangible form, as most banks don’t carry everyone’s money in cold hard cash but invest it.
Gender roles and the expectations that go with them may have originally been based on whether humans were born with penises or vaginas. But just as the meaning of money has shifted over time, from coin, to bank notes, to abstract numbers on a computer screen or cryptocurrencies like Bitcoin, gender too has taken on different forms. New currencies of gender are constantly being developed. Some will stick, and some will surely fall by the wayside as we aspire to have our gender realities socially validated. But these alternative gender currencies are no less real than the two we are most familiar with – man and woman. What they are is less common. All we, as a minority, are asking for is for a seat at the table.
Which brings us to the question: am I real if I identify as neither man nor woman, or as both, or as another category entirely? And is the fact that I am a social anomaly invalidate my existence, or reduce my value to society? I would argue that my being a minority does not mean that I am less valuable than anyone else. Or any less entitled to having my identity recognized by the likes of Dr Peterson.
I can be a contributing member of society, regardless of what’s in my pants, if I am seen as a human resource, not a human liability. I am as real as the Bitcoin or Linden Dollar (which is used in the virtual world Second Life). That is to say, I am a gender currency that is not yet fully recognized or used by mainstream society. And yet, I have value; I have value that can be converted into cold hard cash, if you know how to recognize me, and if that is your goal.
But society has a responsibility too; it has to want to value me. It has to choose to be open to my value. Dr Peterson argues that identities are a negotiation. That the universe depends on the balance between chaos and order, with the left representing chaos and the right, order. The assumption is that to recognize my identity would be to embrace chaos at the expense of order. I reject that notion. My defining my identity as non-binary does nothing to take away from Dr Peterson his right to define himself as a man. But his act of not recognizing my identity does rob me of my right to define myself.
Identity expression is a form of freedom of speech. To deny me the right to exist, is to silence me, is to impose a form of biological authoritarianism that runs counter to Dr. Peterson’s representation of himself as a champion of freedom. He states that identity is a “set of pragmatic tools” that carries you through life; that it is “not only your subjective whim”. His objection is to compelled speech, and yet he seems to have no objection to compelling people to fit into the gender categories he deems to be legitimate.
My gender may be atypical. It may not yet be fully understood in the scientific literature, or have a fully accepted name – or a commonly recognized role – in the world we live in. That is an ongoing negotiation. But my identity is as real to me as my monthly credit card bill or the iTunes gift card I got for Christmas. It’s all in how you use it.
If you’d like to show your support for the passage of Bill C-16, please go to this page created by the Mark S. Bonham Centre for Sexual Diversity Studies at the University of Toronto and send a letter to the Senators currently reviewing the bill.