The brilliant, beautiful, indefatigable, and legendary (and I am in no way implying she's old) Cait Glasson recently floated an idea that I think touches on something very important:
Here's your prep work: think of something in your weekend that gave you gender euphoria. Anything. Whatever made you glad you are who you are, whatever gender or genders or lack of gender you are.
Now, initially, I'm thinking of calling this #TransGEM , for Trans Gender Euphoria Mondays. […] Can be something tiny. […] Could be something huge. Whatever. Just spread your joy, once a week.
We aren't defined by our suffering. Let us define ourselves by our joy. Let them know us for that, if nothing else. Let us all see what a huge range of experiences can bring this kind of joy to a huge range of people.
When in January the Queensland government imposed a ban on puberty blockers for young trans people (and only trans people), there was a hastily convened protest rally and march here in Melbourne. I was pleasantly surprised by the turn-out. There was little sign that the march had any kind of official approval, as there was very little in the way of police presence. Still there wasn't a single ugly incident I was aware of (perhaps the police should stay away more often). Unexpectedly inconvenienced drivers waved and tooted their support as we haphazardly traipsed past, and there was a joyously rebellious mood to the whole event. I was genuinely moved to tears on several occasions.
Given all that had happened around the world in the intervening couple of months, by Trans Day of Visibility I was more than ready for a booster shot, so I made sure to get to the associated rally early.
I'm not much of an activist. I've few practical skills to speak of, and can barely organise my way out of a wet paper bag, I'm uncomfortable carrying flags, signs, or banners, and my voice just isn't fit for extended bouts of loud chanting. Still, for any worthy cause, I'm more than happy to go for a slow plod around the CBD, and help bulk out the harmless old lady contingent that will hopefully cause the police to think twice before acting on their worst impulses.
However on this day, my malcontented feet never touched tarmac; I didn't timidly chant a single word. I just couldn't make it to the end of the opening speeches. It was one harrowing personal account of hardship and trauma after another. After a few of these I couldn't bear to listen to any more. So I went home.
I absolutely believe that these stories should be told — by the people whose stories they are. Under normal circumstances (Remember normal circumstances? Weren't they so much better than… whatever this is?), I have an inexhaustible appetite for bad news. Ask anybody who knows me: I am frighteningly well-informed about practically any depressing topic you could name, and were you to make the mistake of asking me about one of them, you would soon regret it. If I weren't perpetually quivering with moral outrage, I don't think I'd have the energy to get out of bed in the morning.
But even I have my limits, and as Cait says, suffering doesn't and shouldn't define us.
Beyond righteous anger, my other essential fuel is the euphoria I feel when I watch my trans Fediverse friends, acquaintances, and complete strangers blossom. This week, and every other week, what has brought me joy are their selfies, silly banter, and stories. The privilege of seeing brilliant and beautiful people grow in confidence and self-assurance, and delight in the freedom to be everything they have the potential to be, is such a gift. I cannot begin to express my gratitude.
We have an advantage over prior liberation movements. We don't need to demand both bread and roses. To be sure, we require basic dignity, respect, and equality. But the rest of society can keep their roses. We grow our own.