When I canvassed for the Human Rights Campaign in 2018, people would stop on the street to ask me questions about queer and trans identities. Sometimes they would tell me they “didn’t care what I did in the bedroom.” One woman put her hands over my head and prayed to “release the demons from my body.”
My primary goal was to spread awareness and raise funds to promote the Equality Act, a bill that would “provide consistent and explicit non-discrimination protections for LGBTQ+ people across key areas of life.” The Equality Act was introduced to the Senate in 2023, but has not yet been passed. These legislative changes take long-term effort.
But putting my body on the street as a trans person meant that the work I was doing and my own identity were deeply intertwined. As much as I tried to brush off these negative experiences, it was hard not to carry them with me afterward. My coworkers and I commiserated and took care of each other. We took long breaks in sandwich shops and cried and joked and swapped horror stories so we could come back and do it again the next day.
The work I do with FORGE is less front facing. I’m mostly behind the scenes, and have much more capacity to remove myself from a situation if it feels uncomfortable or unsafe. Everyone should have this choice and autonomy.
But often, for trans people, survivors, and people with other marginalized identities, doing advocacy work means encountering harm and having to navigate the challenges of boundary-setting. It sometimes means stepping back from advocacy and education to take care of ourselves. It sometimes means deciding to be uncomfortable in order to have a difficult conversation and process the impacts on us later. It means making these decisions on a regular basis.
Several months ago, I had the opportunity to see Schuyler Bailar speak at Powell’s Books. I arrived late to the crowded event and found a spot to sit on the floor behind rows of chairs, while others sat or stood. Despite having lost his voice, Schuyler read from his new book: He/She/They: How We Talk About Gender and Why It Matters, sharing a specific passage about coming out to his Korean grandmother who he feared would reject him.
The room was quiet until Schuyler opened up the floor for questions. Some of these were about his book, but mostly they were about more personal struggles and celebrations. Someone sharing the joy of recently starting testosterone. A parent wondering about how to maintain hope for their trans kid in the current political environment. A student seeking help with challenges with school. Talking about this book opened up a space for others to share and connect.
That is a pretty incredible thing. Schuyler consistently uses his platform to educate, but also to bring in the voices of other folks in the trans community. He welcomes questions and learning.
One of the key ideas that stuck with me about He/She/They was this intersection between the professional, the political, and the personal.
Especially in light of the 2024 election results, transgender people are extremely aware of our personal lives being made political. Lawmakers and public figures bring our identities, stories, and human rights into question against our will. For trans folks who are also educators whose work centers around trans identities and lives, the distinction between personal and professional becomes even harder to disentangle.
Schuyler writes about the many ways that cisgender allies react to him as an advocate, sometimes as the first trans person they have encountered (in sports, in an advocacy role, or in general). Many of these reactions are positive. Some are positive but convey another meaning underneath.
“‘You are so calm while others are not’ actually says: ‘I only respect and value pain when it is presented to me in a way I accept.’ It demands: ‘Do not show me the pain that this system–of which I am a part and likely perpetuate–has caused you. Pretend it doesn’t exist so that I am more comfortable in your presence.”
Transgender people in public-facing roles are expected to be patient, calm, and willing to field any possible question (however personal or invasive).
There often isn’t room for the pain caused by microaggressions; by hearing the same comments over and over about why people struggle so much with pronouns, or can’t envision change in their communities, or think that some aspect of trans humanity is “going too far.”
We are in the dual role of “traumatized community member” and “calm, logical expert,” often having to put aside the impacts of this trauma to embody the “perfect survivor” stereotype. We must be “likeable,” have a convenient story, and tell our stories in ways that prioritize the comfort of others.
I hope that all trans and nonbinary people involved in advocacy can extended kindness to ourselves. This is a difficult and uncertain time. We don’t know what the future looks like. Some of us are turning inward from advocacy roles and taking steps to keep our trans status private. For others, it feels even more critical to be loud and visible, and to educate whenever we can. Sometimes it feels like we owe an answer to invasive questions, orquestions or need to remain perfectly calm and diplomatic to avoid “doing harm” to public perceptions of transgender people.
For allies who want to learn, hearing directly from trans and nonbinary people about our real, lived experiences can be critical for bridging gaps in understanding. It might turn someone from a passive supporter to an active accomplice. It can make all the difference.
AND, trans and nonbinary people are deserving of privacy, of rest, and of having our boundaries respected. Even when we’ve chosen to be more public about our identities or made ourselves available for learning, we have to step away sometimes so that we can come back again the next day.
How do we know when to engage and when to step back?
In He/She/They, Schuyler uses the acronym “DEPTS” to decide when to engage in difficult conversations. He only engages when all of the criteria are met:
- Desire: I want to
- Energy: I have the energy (Another way to verify this one is to ask: Will engaging be harmful to me?)
- Productivity: I think it is productive–for the recipient and for me.
- Time: I have the time.
- Safety: It is [emotionally and] physically safe to do so.
This idea of “productivity” is challenging. In the example of educating someone who has asked an inappropriate question, Schuyler splits this into three categories:
- Productive for the inappropriate question-asker
- Productive for me, the disrespected trans person; or
- Productive for the greater society / others / purpose of learning.
He writes, “Because I want to educate, I often choose to prioritize the benefit to the question-asker and greater society, instead of myself.”
We’re often making these choices and assessments without even being aware of it. When someone asks for more of our emotional energy than we can offer, are we prioritizing the broader societal impact of education, or our own needs?
There is no right answer here. But over the next few years, I think many of us are (re)considering our roles in education and activism. Now is a good time to think about how we can make an impact without overextending ourselves. What questions can you ask yourself to decide if an interaction is productive for you? Could using a framework like “DEPTS” help you to decide if you are safe enough and have enough energy to engage?
Regardless of how much or little, how quietly or loudly, you choose to advocate for yourself and others, you deserve to choose when to step in and when to step back.