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I am transgender.
Mostly, but not really.
Since age 5, or even birth — but, really only recently.
Am I making any sense? If not, it is because I have yet to make sense of my gender identity and expression for myself. I was 5 years old when I first acknowledged that my own sense of self, interests, and experiences bear little resemblance to what we define as “man” and “masculinity.” Early on, I knew that I wasn’t like other boys, and later learned that I like other boys. So, adopting a bisexual, and then gay, sexual identity made sense. But, with exposure to LGBT and women’s studies in college, I knew my uniqueness transcends whom I find attractive. So, upon discovering genderqueerness, I adopted that as my own, and began identifying as queer more broadly. Queer as an identity reflects my attraction to masculinities (no matter the bodies that expresses them) and maleness (no matter the genders it expresses); it also reflects that I do not neatly fit into the category of “man” (nor “woman” for that matter).
Joining the cult of academia, beginning with my graduate studies, proved to be a hard-right turn in my intellectual, professional, and personal development. There were blips of authenticity, resistance, and fierceness. I had a tongue ring for a month. Had both ears (re)pierced for a few months. Did a little drag. But, as I attempted to advance professionally, I caved to the pressures to be gender-conforming — both in my appearance and in my scholarship. As a researcher, I write with unwavering authority. When I present at academic conferences, I no longer bang on the podium, despite my internal anger about the issues of my research — discrimination, violence, oppression. Slowly, I have moved away from the full suit and tie look to teach, but that really just means no tie.
As a fat Black/multiracial genderqueer person, the implicit and explicit pressures to sever ties with my own identities, politics, and communities for the sake of professional success proved traumatizing. My own parents’ hesitation to accept my queer sexuality when I came out at 17 pales in comparison to the misery of graduate school. I am closer with my parents today than ever in my life — even after recently coming out as non-binary to them. (Mom: “Hmm, I saw this coming.” Dad: “Non-binary? What the hell is binary?!”) My grad school advisors… not so much, despite their supposed life-long investment in my career. And, I imagine the more I veer away from my training, the less likely they’ll care what becomes of me. In their eyes, it was my career to throw away, anyhow.
Late in my first year of college, I stopped taking calls from my parents. I made clear that they either accepted all of me or none of me. I was tired of lecturing them in public spaces about why I was taking classes in queer studies and “insisted” on being publicly out. My Dad eventually drove the 45 minutes to see me. (I wouldn’t have agreed to see him, but my dorm’s front desk called my room and said, “there is a cop here to see you!”) Refusing to look him in the eyes, I told him I was on full scholarship and could figure out summers, so I didn’t need them anymore. I didn’t see his heart break a little every time I said that. Eventually, he got through to me, we had a nice heart-to-heart over lackluster pizza, and have been close since.
I wish I had been as cavalier with my grad school advisors. Sure, I pushed back, and eventually took my current position despite their opposition. But, I only rarely stood up for myself, and regularly caved or at least tried to compromise. Their voices, with their goals for my career, remain in my brain. By design, grad school is about professional socialization — that is, a systematic program of teaching new values and ways of viewing and behaving in the world. And, the program was somewhat successful in re-programming me. But, not enough to do so completely. I am like Seven of Nine on Star Trek: Voyager; my scars are reminders that I once was Borg, and occasionally the Borg way of thinking trumps an independent perspective. (No, I’m not a Trekkie. Well, you can say I’m a second-generation Trekkie. I’m fairly fluent, but only talk Star Trek with my father.) So, even in deciding to write this essay after much back-and-forth, I feel I have a mini fierce queer activist on my left shoulder who is constantly reading the mini R1 minion on my right shoulder for filth. On my right, I hear, “but you’re a professor! Professors don’t write personal blog posts like this! Professors don’t blog! Professors aren’t trans…” And, there it is. The transphobic roots of my academic training.
Then, why write this essay? Wouldn’t my time be better spent working on a manuscript about transphobia than publicly agonizing over whether I am, indeed, transgender? I can’t right now. Aside from the fact that I am exhausted on so many levels after a difficult semester, I can’t sit down to do research on other people yet because I need work. Yesterday, when I sat down to make a list of research projects I wish to pursue over the next five years, it morphed into journaling about whether I am truly trans. There is internal work that cries for my attention when I sit down to do research that I tell myself is detached from me as a person. I need to write this. I allowed my personal journey and development to be interrupted during my academic training; I internalized (at least partially) the view that my scholarship is divorced from the scholar — the myth of “objectivity.”
But, why publicly? Why risk the potential consequences of transphobic and queerphobic discrimination in my profession? I won’t try to convince others of the benefits of baring your soul on the internet. But, for me, I feel a sense of release when I push back on the social forces that are constraining me, erasing me, killing me. Why should I privately struggle through the transphobia and cissexism that I have internalized when these are forces that affect us all? I know that I am not alone. I write because there may be others out there struggling, too. And, I know I’ll likely hear more hostility or at least crickets than any sort of appreciation. And, it’s not about feeling appreciated. It’s about sharing my journey with others — perhaps even those who will simply read and learn. To ignore the critics, and haters, and trolls, and bigots, and nay-sayers, I now just write for me — the me of the past who wishes he had stumble upon a professor who spoke so openly about their gender journey. I write for the future me — the me of 10 years from now who has no regrets, and sees sharing such vulnerability and uncertainty as just what you do.
And, see, now I feel better. The R1 minion stormed off. The mini queer activist is doing her victory dance, muttering “why y’all gagging so? She bring it to you every ball!”
Thank you for tuning into my journey.
A great deal of victimization research has investigated factors that explain differences in fear of crime, including prior victimization, community disorder, and population density. A number of scholars have examined gender differences in fear, consistently finding that women experience greater levels of fear than men. Given the high level of violence against LGB people, particularly anti-LGB violence, it is surprising that no studies to date have considered sexual orientation differences in fear of violence.
Doug Meyer and I recently published an article on gender and sexual orientation differences in fear in the Journal of Homosexuality (April 2014). This was the first study to examine whether sexual minority (e.g., lesbian, gay, and bisexual [LGB]) people are more likely to report fear of crime and violence than heterosexuals. In light of the extensive work on women’s heightened levels of fear relative to men’s, we also considered whether sexual orientation differences in fear differed by gender. I briefly summarize our study below.
We used data from the General Social Survey, a nationally representative sample of adults in the US. Our outcome of interest was self-reports of fear at night. That is, whether respondents said yes to the following question: “Is there any area right around here – that is, within a mile of your residence – where you would be afraid to walk alone at night?”
We found that approximately one-third of adults reported being afraid to walk alone in their own neighborhood. As prior research has indicated, women were significantly more likely to report fear than men (44% compared to 19%). Similarly, sexual minoritiesand people of were significantly more likely than heterosexuals and non-Hispanic whites, respectively, to report being afraid to walk alone at night. These differences are displayed in the graph below.
Next, we assessed whether these initial sexuality differences in fear hold once accounting for gender, race and ethnicity, age, education, income, religiosity, urbanicity, and region. Indeed, even net of these other factors, sexual minorities were significantly more likely than heterosexuals to report fear at night. Women and Blacks and Latina/os were also significantly more likely to report such fear than men and non-Hispanic whites, respectively. We found other significant differences, as well: greater fear with decreasing income; and, greater likelihood of reporting fear among Southerners and those living in urban areas.
In sum, we found that sexual minorities were significantly more likely than heterosexuals to report being afraid to walk alone at night in their own neighborhoods. Women, people of color, and lower-income individuals also shared this heightened sense of fear relative to men, non-Hispanic whites, and higher-income individuals, respectively. Considering these patterns, we decided to explore the intersections among sexuality, gender, and race and ethnicity in these reports of fear, which I discuss below.
Intersections among Sexuality, Gender, and Race and Ethnicity
The graph below displays the reports of being afraid to walk alone at night in one’s neighborhood for the four gender-sexuality subgroups: heterosexual men, heterosexual women, sexual minority men, and sexual minority women.
Sexual minorities’ and women’s higher reports of fear compared to heterosexuals’ and men’s, respectively, mask the patterns at the intersections of sexuality and gender. The effect of sexuality on fear is gendered, wherein it distinguishes reports of fear among men but not women. Heterosexual women (44%), sexual minority men (41%), and sexual minority women (46%) are significantly more likely than heterosexual men (19%) to report fear at night. However, the three former groups’ reports of fear do not significantly differ from one another.
We investigated whether race and ethnicity intersected with gender and sexuality in reports of fear, as well. The graph below displays fear for each racial/ethnic-gender subgroup.
We found that the effect of race and ethnicity on fear at night was unique to men once we controlled for the effect other sociodemographic characteristics. That is, like the effect of sexuality, race and ethnicity distinguished men’s but not women’s reports.
We were unable to consider simultaneous intersections among sexuality, gender, and race and ethnicity due to the small number of sexual minorities. You can see differences just in percentages, without controlling for the effects of other sociodemographic characteristics, in the graph below. These patterns should be interpreted with caution given sampling constraints.
One in six white heterosexual men reported being afraid to walk alone at night in their neighborhoods. That jumps to one in four for heterosexual men of color, and approximately two-fifths of white heterosexual women and white sexual minorities. And, half (or slightly more) of women of color and sexual minority men of color reported fear at night. These differences in fear mirror the disproportionate violence experienced by individuals who hold multiple disadvantaged identities.
Using a nationally representative survey, we found that sexual minorities are more likely than heterosexuals to be afraid to walk alone at night in their own neighborhoods. However, this sexuality gap reflects differences among men; substantially more women (both heterosexual and sexual minority) and sexual minority men report fear at night than heterosexual men. A similar gender-specific effect exists for race and ethnicity. Black and Latino men are more likely than white men to report fear at night; however, fear does not differ by race and ethnicity among women once accounting for the effect of other sociodemographic characteristics.
Our paper emphasizes the importance of studying the intersections among racism, sexism, heterosexism, and other systems of oppression. Prior research comparing women’s and men’s fear of crime and violence has (unintentionally) assumed that these gender differences hold across sexual orientation, race and ethnicity, and other statuses; however, we found that it appears to be limited to white heterosexuals’ reports of fear. Given the vast diversity among women, as well as men, these groups’ experiences should not be treated as universal. Our other studies highlight the urgent need to attend to the lives of multiply disadvantaged individuals (e.g. Black LGBT people), who are often the most vulnerable to violence and discrimination.
Last week, I participated on a panel, Transgender People in Criminal Justice and Law Enforcement Settings: Recent Research, hosted by the Virginia Anti-Violence Project (VAVP) at University of Richmond’s downtown campus. Dr. Eugene F. Simopoulos, a forensic psychiatrist, presented a thorough review of gender identity and expression, and the treatment of trans people in the criminal justice system and medical institution. Responses were offered by Edward Strickler (secretary of the Board of Directors of VAVP), Rebecca Glenberg (Legal Director, ACLU of VA), and me (in my capacity as a sociologist). Our collective goal was to educate local law enforcement about trans people, particularly their treatment within the criminal justice system, and hopefully offer recommendations for improvements. Below, I offer the notes from my response to Dr. Simopoulos. You can see media coverage of the event at GayRVA.
As a sociologist, I study discrimination, and its consequences for marginalized groups’ health and well-being. There are two features of my scholarship that I believe will be useful for today’s conversation about trans people generally and in the criminal justice system specifically. The first is to offer a critical sociological perspective for understanding discrimination. The way that most people understand discrimination in an everyday sense is fairly narrow. In particular, discrimination is thought to include specific, rare, and identifiable events of unfair treatment that are committed by specific, identifiable perpetrators who harbor prejudice toward a particular disadvantaged social group. Thus, the intent of one’s actions are crucial here, regardless of the impact on the victim.
However, as a sociologist, I recognize that discriminatory treatment is much more complex than this, and often occurs in the absence of explicit, conscious bias. The discriminatory acts perpetrated by a member of a dominant group against a member of a stigmatized group are merely the behavioral component of a system of oppression. And, these acts are justified by the ideological component of this system of oppression, or what we typically call prejudice. I suggest, then, that we think about transphobia as a system of oppression. The discrimination and harassment that transgender people face is neither rare nor random; rather, trans people repeatedly face discrimination, harassment, and violence across multiple contexts, and throughout their lives.
Transphobia Is A System Of Oppression
Transphobia, as a social system, includes the discriminatory acts perpetrated by cisgender (i.e., non-transgender) people against transgender people. It also operates through important institutions in society – the medical institution, the criminal justice system, education, the military, and so forth. It shapes the policies and practices of these institutions in ways that disadvantage, harm, and/or exclude transgender people. Finally, transphobia manifests as laws and policies, particularly at the federal and state levels, that disadvantage, harm, and/or exclude transgender people. This includes seemingly-neutral laws and policies that are harmful, nonetheless. One example would be the push for voter identification laws, which places additional burdens on trans people, particularly those whose legal documents do not reflect their current gender identity.
I offer this perspective of transphobia as a system for two reasons. First, I wish to highlight that the challenges to improve the treatment of transgender people are by no means unique to the criminal justice system. Second, I want to push our conversation about trans people’s interaction with and experiences in the criminal justice system into the broader context of transphobia. The challenges that transgender people face in the criminal justice system are both cause and consequence of the challenges they face in other domains of society. The National Transgender Discrimination Survey notes that trans people are more likely to interact with law enforcement and/or enter the criminal justice system because: 1) they are more likely than cisgender people to be a victim of a crime, particularly anti-trans hate crimes; 2) they are more likely to be homeless, kicked out of their homes by family or due to extreme poverty; and, 3) because of employment discrimination, many transgender people turn to sex work, selling as well as using drugs, or other parts of the underground economy.
Intersections With Racism And Classism
The second feature of my scholarship that I wish to share today is a framework that considers how other systems of oppression intersect with transphobia. Black feminist scholars have developed a concept called intersectionality to understand the interlocking and mutually reinforcing relationships among racism, sexism, classism, and heterosexism. We can add to this list transphobia. Relatedly, they argue that you cannot attend to one of an individual’s multiple social identities to fully capture that individual’s experiences, well-being, and status in society.
In today’s conversation, by thinking of trans people solely in terms of their gender identity and expression, we miss important ways in which transgender people’s experiences are shaped by their race and ethnicity, immigrant status, social class, and other identities. More specifically, we miss that certain segments of transgender communities – namely poor trans people, trans women, trans people of color, and especially trans women of color – are particularly vulnerable to violence, discrimination, harassment, sexual violence, poverty, homelessness, and poor health.
Findings from a few recent reports, including the NTDS Survey, and the National Coalition of Anti-Violence Programs report for 2013, suggest that these groups bear the greatest burden of the challenges that trans people face in the criminal justice system. And, these disparities exist in every context in the system, from interactions with police, to arrest, to treatment in prisons.
- While 60% of the transgender people in the NTDS survey report any interaction with law enforcement, the number jumps to 80% for Black and Latina trans women.
- Trans women of color are more likely to report being targeted, disrespected, and harassed, and assaulted by police than other trans people, and LGBT people in general. For example, under New York City’s practice of “stop-and-frisk,” wherein 90% of individuals who were stopped were Black or Latina/o, LGBT people, especially trans women, were disproportionately represented.
- Trans women, particularly trans women of color, are often stopped by police because they are assumed to be sex workers – a pattern that the ACLU and other groups has now referred to as “walking while trans,” akin to racial profiling or “driving while Black.”
- While only 3% of the general population has ever been incarcerated, 16% of trans people have ever been sent to jail or prison. And, that figure is 41% for Black and Latina trans women; almost all report that they were incarcerated due to transphobic bias.
- Among trans people who have been incarcerated, trans women of color serve longer sentences, and are more likely to be harassed, and physically and sexually assaulted by both fellow inmates and prison staff than other trans people.
- And, a greater percentage of trans women of color report that either other inmates or prison staff block their access to hormones or regular medical care.
To conclude, I want to reiterate the importance of recognizing the roles that race, ethnicity, immigrant status, and social class play – or, more specifically, how racism and classism intersect with transphobia. We must avoid thinking of and treating trans communities as a monolithic group, as there is a great deal of diversity within these communities.
References And Additional Information
- Simopoulos, Eugene F. and Khin Khin. 2014. “Fundamental principles inherent in the comprehensive care of transgender inmates.” Journal of the American Academy of Psychiatry and the Law 42: 26-36.
- Summary of findings [pdf] and full report [pdf] of National Transgender Discrimination Survey. (And, see my summary here.)
- Supplementary report [pdf] of Black respondents in the NTDS survey. (And, see my summary here.)
- Supplementary report Hispanic and Latina/o respondents [pdf] and Asian and Asian American respondents [pdf] in the NTDS survey.
- Summary of findings [pdf] and full report [pdf] of the 2013 National Coalition of Anti-Violence Programs report.
- It’s A War In Here: A Report on Transgender People in Men’s Prisons [pdf] by Sylvia Rivera Law Project.
- The Williams Institute report on Latina trans women’s experiences with law enforcement [pdf].
- “The Unfair Criminalization of Gay and Transgender Youth,” Center for American Progress, June 29, 2012.
- A Roadmap for Change: Federal Policy Recommendations for Addressing the Criminalization of LGBT People and People with HIV [pdf].
- Queer (In)Justice book
- “Dealing with Transgender Subjects,” Police Magazine, January 4, 2013.
- Resources from the Transgender Law Center
The federal challenge to California’s voter-approved same-sex marriage ban has raised a number of questions about the experiences of lesbian, gay, and bisexual people, same-sex couples and families, among other issues. It seems the trial is not only addressing the constitutional nature of a law that discriminates against a minority group because of their sexual orientation. In fact, it seems as though the entire claim that LGBT people are marginalized in our society is on trial — that, and tests for every stereotype about LGBT people (e.g., the supposed link between pedophilia and homosexuality).
Is Sexual Orientation A Choice?
One testimony seems to be the crux of the trial, but generally, in my opinion, irrelevant to whether discrimination is at play in banning same-sex marriage. Prominent psychology researcher and professor, Professor Gregory Herek, was called to the stand to testify on the etiology of homosexuality and the experiences of LGBT people on Friday, January 22nd:
Plaintiffs lawyers are already done questioning their final witness, UC-Davis psychology Professor Gregory Herek, who earns the distinction of being one of the quicker witnesses thus far (although cross-examination is just beginning, and that has tended to go for hours with the plaintiffs experts). Herek testified that research shows gays and lesbians do not choose their sexual identities, as same-sex marriage opponents suggest. And he also said they are subject to social stigma.
What I find interesting is that this question must be answered. Before the rest of the country can get on board with same-sex marriage, it needs to know that lesbian, gay, and bisexual people have run out of all of their options regarding sexual orientation. If they have not given this heterosexuality thing a fair chance, we’re not just going to concede to their demands for support for this gay thing. Research on attitudes toward homosexuality and LGB people has found greater acceptance when heterosexuals believe that homosexuality is not chosen and cannot be changed. Thus, even if it may seem irrelevant to LGBT people whose rights are on trial, it matters to the majority (heterosexuals) that currently have the power to approve or disapprove of those rights.
So What If It’s A Choice?
I know, I know — if evidence ever emerged that sexual orientation was chosen, at least by those who have chosen something other than heterosexuality, we would see a lot of lost support for sexual equality. But, therein lies two problems: 1) if it is chosen, why is choosing homosexuality or bisexuality wrong, and heterosexuality right? 2) why is choice bad? The heteronormativity and homophobia remains; this homosexuality/bisexuality thing better be beyond your own control, or, if not, you’d best be choosing heterosexuality. Yet, supposedly heterosexuals do not choose to be heterosexual. That’s quite the double standard. Secondly, why do we value and celebrate choice in other arenas of the social world, yet deny freedom to choose our romantic and sexual partners? Why should rights only be afforded if it’s a condition you cannot help? So long as one’s sexual and/or romantic relationship is consensual, who are we to determine whether it should be treated as equal to other types of relationships? I am going to take the radical step here and suggest that “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” should extend to consensual sex and relationships as well. If Katy Perry wants to kiss a girl and like it, whether because she’s naturally bisexual or just because she wants to see what all of the fuss is about, why should our support for her freedom to choose boys or girls be restricted?
Calling Heteronormativity Out
In some way, I suggest our next step is to ask “so what?” If you choose to be with men, with women, both, transpeople, intersexed people, Black people, Latina/o people, Muslim people, tall people, vegans who like Britney Spears, and so forth, why are your choices and freedoms any less valuable than someone who is naturally attracted to other groups? And, why is there so much focus on the origins of homosexuality and bisexuality, though not heterosexuality? Further, why do we care so much about the gender of object choice but we are not out searching for the “cause of interracial desires”, or why some people are attracted to muscular people, or taller, or nerdy people. I cannot imagine that every aspect of our “type” is naturally occurring, but frankly, so long as our actions are consensual, it shouldn’t matter.