On Trans Visibility in a Culture War Part 1: The Setup
Becoming visible wasn’t something I set out to do when I transitioned—it just happened. I’ve since discovered that my reasons for staying invisible were sound. I was a stressed professor and chair of a research ethics board when the visibility of trans students at a local university set off a chain reaction that culminated in my transition (read more about it here). Hearing a conservative coworker rant about trans students protesting for better washrooms made me realize that something was off in how I perceived my own gender.
Trans visibility is a double-edged sword. Without other gender-nonconforming (GNC) people living their lives around us, more of us would remain unaware or closeted. And it’s the positive examples that help us the most. I’d seen movies and TV shows where trans and GNC characters were exoticized, killed, or made the butt of jokes, and I never once made the connection that I might have something in common with them. My subconscious may have said, “Nope!” and decided it was best to keep me in the dark.
Between the light-bulb moment in 2015 and the summer of 2020, I was first too afraid to be visible, and then I wanted to be seen only as a cisgender woman. I wanted the medical transition part of my life to remain a private matter between my doctors and me. My union wanted me to join Pride and diversity committees, and I wasn’t proud and didn’t want anyone to think of me as diverse. My gender dysphoria made it hard enough for me to look at myself, much less invite others to see me as someone different from themselves.
Another local woman felt as I did at the same time. She identified as a heterosexual woman and resented the heightened visibility of the trans community. She said, “Ten, twelve years ago, I was just a tall woman, and nobody thought anything of it. But because these gender nonconformers are being so loud and proud ... now everybody looks, and they can see, oh, that tall woman with a deep voice, maybe she’s a dude.” Her story came to light because she resented the visibility so much that she burned a Pride flag on a university campus, was caught, and charged with criminal mischief.[i]
Visibility makes it harder for some of us to live in “stealth,” where few know our secret. When more of us were living quietly, a six-foot height, a lower voice, an Adam’s apple, a brow ridge, or large hands might lead a stranger to think we were a strikingly tall cisgender woman. Now that more people have seen trans women on TV and made the connection, it’s easier to “clock” us as having transitioned.
It wouldn’t be a problem if everyone accepted or revered us and our powerful spirits, as pre-colonial peoples did in South Asian (Hijra), Indigenous (Two-Spirit), and Filipino (Babaylan) cultures. The stigma of being trans in the colonial world causes deep internalized transphobia and makes us hide or risk our safety. Trans visibility has led to a backlash and a flare-up in the culture war, making it harder for even cisgender women to use bathrooms. In 2007, a lesbian attending Pride in New York City was challenged by another woman in the restroom. When she didn’t leave, a bouncer was sent in to chase her out. Trans panic triggered more recent harassment of cisgender women in bathrooms in the U.S. House of Representatives, Connecticut, Nevada, Massachusetts, Minnesota, and Arizona.
Positive visibility can educate society at large and foster greater acceptance. Negative stereotypes in the media, on social media, and from fearmongers go unchecked when few have met a trans person or witnessed uplifting representations. It’s harder to dehumanize someone when you know them personally. We need to hear about trans people living their everyday lives.
It was in that spirit that in July 2020, CBC Vancouver put out a call for listeners of their “They & Us” podcast on pronouns and gender to submit their stories. I responded with this:
I transitioned four years ago, late in life, and lived for most of my years triggered by hearing the incorrect pronoun and name. Whenever I’m correctly gendered, especially on the phone, where they can only hear my voice, my heart rises. When I came out to an aunt, she revealed that my father also identified as female, and they kept it a secret. He took his own life, struggling to come to terms with his sexuality, gender, and pronouns, so I appreciate how fortunate I am to live where and when I do, in a time and place where I am more accepted than he could have been.
A CBC reporter contacted me in August, interviewed five of us over Zoom, and sent professional photographers to our homes to take a few photos for the accompanying web story. The other four: Romeo Reyes is an actor, singer-songwriter, tattoo artist, transgender advocate, and model; Satsi Naziel is a Wet’suwet’en and Chilean artist; the late Rev. Catherine Hall was an Anglican priest with a trans son; and Sasha Torchinsky is a writer, artist, and storyteller.
During my interview, I said I felt validated when someone used the correct pronoun and described my positive classroom experience when a student asked me which pronouns I use.
On November 8, while the CBC team was writing the web story, they posted the edited video in advance on YouTube, Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. The reporter sent me the links and said, “I want to note we have a 24/7 moderation team reviewing comments every half hour on Twitter/FB/IG. Comments have been turned off on YouTube.” When I clicked on the Instagram link, I saw the post’s text was a quote from my interview that read, “It makes my heart rise. I feel very validated, I feel very myself,” and continued, “We asked our readers to share why their pronouns matter and how their pronouns reflect their identity. Here are five of their stories.”
The reporter emailed me on November 17 at 7:04 p.m. to ask how I was doing:
I hope you’re well. First, I wanted to see how you’ve been doing since the video rolled out. I understand it’s a topic that incites a strong reaction online, and regrettably, leads to hate comments. What’s the response been like on your end? Is there anything you’d like us to know? We’re very open to feedback on the video and the overall process.
On that note, I’d like to update you on the project. We chose to take the video down earlier this week on Twitter due to the number of hateful comments. Unfortunately, Twitter is a platform that we can’t moderate to the same degree as YouTube (where we can turn comments off), or Facebook and Instagram, where we can remove comments.
One of the participants in the video was understandably upset about the comments on Twitter. They asked that we remove the video on that platform and post a statement denouncing transphobia. This had support in our newsroom, but it was a decision that made its way to CBC News’ editor-in-chief, the director of journalistic standards and practices, and the head of social media. The original decision was to avoid posting a statement, so as not to incite more trolls/hateful remarks, and to minimize any more harm against you and the others featured in the video.
We had another discussion the next day, including myself and Faith Fundal, the host of They & Us, and ultimately we felt this wasn’t the right call. We firmly stand by the LGBTQ+ community, and we felt that removing the video without acknowledging why only empowered trolls. We ultimately posted a Twitter thread with an apology: [link to now deleted post].
To that end, we paused the rollout of our web story last weekend. We wanted to respect the fact that one of our participants was upset with CBC. We also want to continue telling stories about the community and giving space to their voices.
That leaves us in somewhat of a grey zone. We may not move ahead with the web story as originally intended. However, the They & Us team is looking at producing a few more episodes, and thought perhaps they could share some of your stories along the way — if that’s something you’d be interested in.
This project has sparked so many important discussions in our newsroom: how we responsibly share these stories on online platforms, how to keep you and other subjects safe, and how to be transparent about our journalism. I’m very open to hearing your thoughts and how you feel CBC could best serve the community in this case.
I found the apology on Twitter, dated November 13:
This week, we posted the video “Why My Pronouns Matter,” featuring 5 British Columbians describing how their pronouns reflect their identity, which speaks to our mandate of reflecting the diversity of Canadians. It generated a lot of hate speech.
We removed the video from Twitter to protect our participants, but we failed to say why — that we removed the video because of the hate directed at the subjects. That was wrong of us. It unintentionally gave power to that hate, and for that, we are sorry.
The video is part of CBC’s “They & Us” podcast, which explores gender identity/expression, and the serious threats made to people who live their lives openly and honestly. We will continue to tell important stories like these.
What did you think? How are you doing? I’d love to chat…
[i] She burned the Pride flag specifically because she also disagreed with combining an identity (trans) with sexual orientation in the Pride grouping.