Joy in a marginalized body has always been a form of resistance entwined with the politics of queerness. After all, Pride, before its corporate takeover, was a parade to celebrate the anniversary of a riot. Today, because of the internet and the ubiquity of social media, queer people of all gender identities have access to a range of images and stories of trans people. For years now, we’ve had earth angel Laverne Cox telling us and everyone who will listen that #transisbeautiful. We’ve got Janet Mock making history as a director and writer on FX’s Pose, which is fundamentally a show that repositions trans bodies as glamorous, regardless of the brutality that surrounds us. We are taking back the narrative that has defined us in the collective imagination for decades now: Sad, tragic, deceptive, and (often in the case of trans men) invisible. And, mostly, we are doing that with our humanity, and our joy.
If I pay attention, happiness because of and not despite my trans status is embedded into every aspect of my life. I am a happy trans man. That’s a sentence I couldn’t have imagined writing even a few years ago. But the truth is, while the rise of social media has made trans people more visible, it hasn’t kept trans women of color safer from violence. And despite the incredible efforts of women like Mock and Cox, trans people are still navigating many of the same myopic cultural narratives around gender and our bodies that have defined binary standards of beauty and “acceptability” since Christine Jorgensen became a transgender celebrity in the 1950s. She was celebrated for passing just as she was also treated as a spectacle, which is still what seems to draw cisgender people to trans stories today.
This makes our public expressions of joy particularly potent. Trans joy is about insisting on our humanity — and I don’t mean the trans-person-as-metaphor framing, the one where we are heralded for our enviable relationship to “authenticity” or “bravery” (which are true enough words, but still more about the culture’s perception of us than anything else). There is very little humanity in being a spectacle or a saint.
The harm of a narrative built on overcoming obstacles can be difficult to quantify, but this week I received a question that captured it perfectly — and also so startled me that I had to reread it three times. “Part of me recognizes that the trans experience isn't rooted in suffering, but doesn't it seem like it?” asked an 18-year-old nonbinary trans person (I’ll use they/them pronouns for this person, as I’m not sure what pronouns they use). Doesn’t it, though? They went on to write that they’re “not denying” the incredible hardships of living in a trans body, but then detailed their induction into online trans spaces with a strikingly beginner’s mind.
“On FTM facebook groups full of hypermasculine guys, I see that transness is all about self-hatred,” they wrote. “I feel like the way I explored my identity was not right. I do not have enough distaste for my body. My chest is not big enough, I should not be dysphoric. I have not attempted suicide yet. The voice of internalized transphobia is not constant. I do not hate myself enough.” They are stuck in a new binary, they said. “I do not want to be a trans person who fits perfectly into the cis ideal of beauty and has suffered enough to be ‘brave.’ Or do I?” they continued. “What is your experience navigating such restrictive boxes?”
This letter so upset me, I almost didn’t write about it. But that felt cowardly, and antithetical to this column. So, instead, I spent all week thinking about how we can better detoxify our own stories, scrubbing them of the medical and media narratives that have defined our bodies for so long. How can we live our trans lives in a world full of violence without turning that violence on ourselves? One answer is the radical embracing of joy (a concept that is, of course, not new, nor confined to trans bodies: See the Black Joy Project). But it’s true, I rarely see trans people celebrate our transness outside the models we’ve been given to do so. These cis narratives of “finally being oneself” aren’t exactly wrong, but they do force an extremely narrow lens onto the richly rewarding experience of living in a body that transcends the limitations of our patriarchal, binary culture.
My trans joy is often less about “becoming,” and more about moments where I am aware that my very existence undermines a system that is toxic to the bodies of everyone around me — when I’m happily surprised by my reflection, when I pull on a T-shirt that fits perfectly, when I see a trans character on screen not treated like an anthropological experiment. These are my moments of joy in this body. I destabilize the lie that there is anything “natural” about the subjugation of certain people by others, all because of some preordained bullshit tied to the gender we are assigned at birth.
To help me answer this young person’s question, I asked other trans people about what gives them joy, and spent the week heartened by their responses below. We are crucial — you are crucial — and your life may be one of resistance, but it will also will be one of sweetness, and beauty, and love. In fact, pretty much everyone who wrote to me about joy acknowledged the way love is braided directly into it. We need it to survive, and it begins with letting go of self-hatred, as trite as that may sound. Doing so is a process in our toxic culture, and not an easy one. But here’s what can happen when we do:
“I love being out and visible...knowing that it could be helping someone else find who they are, and feel comfortable knowing they aren’t alone.” — K
“Trying to figure out if I was trans felt a lot like there was a continuous storm in my head. It was hard to think about anything else, and it was hard to find even a handful of moments of internal peace. Around the time this started, I started going to a humanist congregation. They incorporated a lot of artwork into their services, and one Sunday, a poet came to perform. Several of her pieces related to womanhood and the legacies of mothers, daughters, and sisters. I felt torn, as I often do, by the desire to honor and embody the resilient legacy of my mothers and grandmothers, but also that deep alienation as someone who has never felt ‘right’ with womanhood. After some moments of listening, it was like someone tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘You can put down this burden of trying to be something you’re not. You don’t have to try to be a woman anymore.’ I’ve known logically that I could make this choice, but it felt like I’d been given permission by something strange and unknowable outside myself. I felt like I was setting a large burden down. I felt light, almost like my head was full of bubbles. I left the building after the service feeling so euphoric, so light, and so hopeful. It felt like I was experiencing everything for the first time.” — K.J.
“The biggest joy is the connection with other trans folks. When I made the leap to come out, it did not go very well. But the people who were there to catch me were my trans fam. And that’s pretty joyful.” — A
“[What gives me joy is] when I feel so safe with my people that I can freely share my experiences [from] when I was pregnant. Being masculine-presenting now as a trans nonbinary person, I feel like my pregnancy and birth experiences are not accepted and I feel left out. Except when I’m with my queer family.” — M
“The most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced as a trans person is the joy of trans folks crowdsurfing at Against Me! shows ever since Laura [Jane Grace] came out. The primarily cis/het punk world literally lifting up trans people and supporting them physically and spiritually — I can’t say I’ve experienced such joy anywhere else.” — L
“My family have pretty much dropped off the face of the planet since I came out as trans, though tbh, they were never really allowed anywhere near me for the past 10 years, anyway. Coming out was mostly easy, as my friends are wonderful, but I was worried about the people in the new community we’re in, and how they would react. I asked my neighbors, owners of a local flower shop, to sign my name change form and they offered to hold a naming ceremony. I don’t usually like to be at the center of things, but this just felt right. We went ahead with it, made in [sic] an open invite, and my pal created and led the ceremony. My partner made me a crown of leaves and flowers. There was poetry and hugging and high fives, and a tent full of people welcomed me with my new name. It was like finding family.” — H
It is a rare gift to be born in the right, trans body. We’re out here living joyously, even if people don’t always see us. We love more, we live more, and we are more for our bodies, not despite them.
Send your questions about gender — no matter how basic, silly, or vulnerable, and no matter how you identify — to thomas@thomaspagemcbee.com, or anonymously through Thomas’ website. Each week, Thomas will be writing based on your responses.
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