Queerness Blooms in Concrete

On transition, hypervigilance, and what keeps us going

Transition can create a kind of paranoid psychosis. It turns you antisocial and skittish like a street dog – every glance feels like a gunshot, every common area becomes a war zone. Every man you pass has the capacity to kill and is guilty until proven innocent. In this mindset, you are the judge, jury, prosecutor, and victim, fracturing your conscience with hypervigilance. This experience can vary based on where you live and how much you pass, but most trans people know what I am talking about. I think a lot of cis girls do, too.

Of course, transition itself doesn’t cause this pathology, the violence and discrimination levied at us because we are transgender does. You learn to expect discomfort and brace for impact. Dehumanization can be a self-fulfilling prophecy, where people extricate themselves from society because it is easier, and often safer, than trying to stay where we are not welcome. And then, the oppressor takes the consequences of their oppression as evidence for their beliefs. Y’all must be really fucking dumb.

I recently posted a Substack note saying, “being trans in this political environment is literally terrifying ♥️” – pretty innocuous, I thought. I put my phone down, came back an hour later and found it was reposted by Nazi incels. My notifications were flooded with dozens of comments calling me a mentally ill pervert. Some said it’s good that we are scared. Some said more of us should die. I’ve been in my fair share of internet beefs, but none rising to that level of pure hatred. I was scared I was going to be doxed or worse, so I deleted the post. Girl, the quiet part isn’t even quiet anymore. They’re shouting, and no one seems to give a fuck.

Since moving to New York, I had naively felt mostly protected from the ambient threats to trans livelihood. But that optimism was shattered when I saw a disturbing TikTok from a trans girl named Blair. She recounted the story of how she was cornered and harassed on a train in Bushwick. 5 men hurled slurs at her and said that they would have jumped her if she was alone. After watching Blair’s TikTok, I texted my friends that I need to buy mace.

Wherever we go, there is an ideological price on our head, particularly for poor trans women and women of color: whether in Colombia, where men broke Sara Millery’s arms and legs before dumping her into a river, or Brooklyn, where a man murdered Lorena Xtravaganza, a ballroom performer of the iconic House of Xtravaganza, and set her apartment on fire. These stories make my stomach turn, especially considering that Lorena follows in the heartbreaking lineage of Venus Xtravaganza, whose story in the documentary Paris is Burning was cut short because a man strangled her to death in 1988. So many years later, we still suffer the same fate of the women who came before us.

How do you keep sane when you can’t leave your apartment without wondering whether you will make it home? When your own home can turn into a crucible of fire and blood?

And while this violence unfolds, we’re subjected to the psyop of international politics that gaslights us into believing that women’s bathrooms and tennis tournaments are the most urgent issues of our time. Trans women are being raped, abused, and murdered — and yet JK Rowling is foaming at the mouth about who can play Wimbledon. Mind you, trans women aren’t even out here playing sports like that!! If you really want to come for our talents, ban us from making PC music and playing Dungeons & Dragons.

Then there’s the third level of meta-delusion: we are at once victims of crimes that are ignored, and accused of crimes we do not commit. TERFs can’t see our common enemy. The person who will kill you is not a boogeyman trans woman in a bathroom. It is a man, and he will kill you in men’s clothing, because he can. He doesn’t need to trail you down the street — he already has the keys, because he is your husband or father or uncle. The most dangerous place for women is not the public bathroom, it is the home. But that reality is too harsh for many women to face, so they will continue to stare us down with two black eyes.

I can only imagine how trans people feel in the Deep South and rural, conservative towns. I had a taste on a family cruise recently, where I was the only visible trans person swimming in a sea of old white MAGA folks – the type who have money but aren’t cultured enough to do something more high-brow with it #ALLSHADE.

I brought some cute, cunty clothes because this wasn’t my first rodeo, and if you’re going to be stared at, you might as well give them a show. Dolores and Richard from the country club were GAGGED, bitch. They could not handle the Diesel bikini top and Ralph Lauren mini skirt realness. There’s no cell service on the cruise, so it was literally my duty to give them something to talk about at dinner.

It’s easy to joke about being the transexual alien that was smuggled onto a cruise to ruin everyone’s wholesome vacay, but the reality was very uncomfortable. Thank god we bought the drink package because I was slizzard 24/7 to steel myself from the glares. It got to a point where I instinctually averted my eyes, afraid of what I would find. Or, I made the conscious choice to stare back. That wasn’t Baywatch, that was Tradewatch. Cuz trust, the trades were watchin.

On the last day, I was leaving the dining hall, when I saw an old lady staring at me. You could just tell her grandkids don’t talk to her. I stare back, and we lock eyes for 5 seconds that felt like eternity. She has a look of vague disgust, and doesn't turn away until I laugh as I pass her table, because you’re not beating me at this game, miss thing! Once I was a few yards ahead, I turned back and saw her husband, sitting across from her in serial killer aviators, staring. I had the passing thought that he might come to my room and kill me.

Transitioning is by far the hardest thing I have ever done. Pre-transition, I always heard girls say that, but it felt like they were speaking underwater – the message was muffled and unimportant. It wasn’t until I actually transitioned that I realized the gravity of my decision, how it would alter every aspect of my life. Being visibly trans in a world that hates you can feel like carrying the weight of the world. I watch my back walking home from the bar, and once I am inside, I go on my phone to be served a ragebait video about the latest anti-trans law or a street interviewer asking, “Would you date a trans woman?” or a Jubilee debate on whether we belong in women’s bathrooms.

Judith Butler writes, “It’s not possible to live twenty-four hours a day soaked in the immediate awareness of one’s sex. Gendered self consciousness has, mercifully, a flickering nature.”

I’d amend that to say: it's not possible to live sanely. Many trans people, including myself, spend far more time than is healthy thinking about our gender. But the world constantly holds funhouse mirrors to our faces, reflecting our identities back to us in distorted, hostile ways.

And yet, through it all, transition is also the most gratifying thing I have ever done. It is powerful to reclaim your agency despite everything telling you to stay put. I am happier in my body than I have ever been. I feel inside of myself for the first time. I never used to get excited to get dressed in the morning. Now, my wardrobe is an amusement park.

But the real magic of transition doesn’t happen alone. Loni, my bestie and roomie, recently got facial feminization surgery. It is an extensive, major surgery that leaves you bedridden for weeks. I’ve had the honor of caring for her during this time (amongst many other friends; she’s a popular gal,) and it’s been one of the most fulfilling, gratifying experiences I’ve had. Making her food, helping her shower, showing up for her in such a vulnerable moment. I know when it’s my turn, she’ll do the same for me.

Queer love is steady and infinite, even on the most unstable ground. It’s the light that seeps through the cracks in all of my insecurities and fears, spreading in a glittery feedback loop of joy. We embrace each other unconditionally exactly because we see how conditional heterosexual societies’ love and acceptance is. We climb out of all the dirt and filth poured on us through sheer brilliance, creativity, and resilience, and we do it without smudging our makeup.

Queerness blooms in concrete.