BakiBakiBaki (they/them) and Papa Bear (he/him), Minneapolis to Mississippi to The Milkyway

To be Black, Native, and Queer is to embody the phrase, “loving throughout the cosmos”. To remember we are made from star dust and shall return. Queer love does not expire when we are slain. When we are murdered the love we gave grows to become as omnipresent as star shine be, as our stories are. From light years I’ve traveled to be born free and free our love shall be. I see myself as coupled still. The words “passing” and “transitioning” have spiritual depth not dependent on heteronormative understandings nor meanings. Crossing over and having a lover become an ancestor in their 20s is a part of being queer that can not solely exist in the realm of grief. We deserved celebration. Our love is abundant and joyful still…Not despite of distance and erasure nor because of it, like all and any love; our stories deserve context as our constellations combine, converse, and change.

Merit, Minneapolis, MN, USA -- he/him

Contentment is easy when you don't know what else there is. When I learned about the Internet at age 12, I thought the only website available was Wikipedia. I spent many pleasurable hours clicking from blue link to blue link, totally unaware that there was any other way to learn or explore using the Internet. I carried on this way for many years. One of the blue links I landed on, repeatedly, and with urgency, was the Wikipedia page for Eddie Izzard. I remember at the time, the language used to describe her was "transvestite". I was fascinated by this, and rankled. Rankled because this word "transvestite" felt important and huge. I didn't like it. It was easy to be content because I didn't know what else there was, and suddenly, I knew what else there was. Transvestite. It sparkled and smelled and burned. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I visited Eddie Izzard's page daily for years, and grieved when the term "transvestite" became too problematic to publish, and disappeared from the page. It took me many years to discover my own transvestitism , and the only reason I did is because of those early blue links cracking my contentment in half, and asking me for more.

Killian, Indianapolis, IN, USA -- they/them

The beauty of Queer is that it can have a plethora of meanings to a diversity of individuals. Personally, just existing as Queer is an embodiment of defiance and resilience. My Queerness is hard fought and highly valued.  As a nonbinary person, I have had to (and continue to) carve that path myself.  My Queerness is both personal and political.  Being Queer means not being beholden to societal restrictions and having the freedom to change – reflecting on who I am, who I want to be, and moving closer to my ideal.  I refuse to live according to cis het norms.  But I was not always empowered in my Queerness.

Even before I knew that I was Queer, I knew that I was different.  I was an awkward, blushing, freckled redhead with a rat tail and an obliviousness of conventional norms.  I vividly remember my mom videotaping in the park, calling “Hey, little boy” to me, and emphatically disagreeing because I was confused and afraid it was a trick.  Even though my parents tolerated my tomboy expression and active bucking of gender stereotypes, expectations became increasingly restrictive as I aged.  I was raised in a military family, which meant an environment where Queer slurs were pervasive.  As a budding Queer, it sent a clear message that being anything but heterosexual was not acceptable – not to even think about anything but cisgender!  The experiences of my youth deeply suppressed my understanding and acceptance of being Queer.

As a teenager and young adult, being Queer meant never quite fitting in.  At worse, it meant feeling confused, misunderstood, and isolated.  I rarely felt seen and I did not have the language to tell others who I was.  However, I did become comfortable with being different and alone.  At best, it helped to bolster my self-awareness and self-reliance.  While I appreciate the freedom and independence that comes with being Queer, it can also been a lonely journey.  At times I have felt like an outsider even within LGBTQ spaces.  When I learned about the nonbinary community, I finally felt that I had found a language for myself and people with shared experiences.

My Queerness extends beyond myself; it is about who I am with those in my life.  It is community and partnerships, specifically mentorship, collaboration, and love. The last being the most challenging.  Mentorship and collaboration come naturally to me. I work to surround myself with people from different experiences but who all see and appreciate me, as I do them.  Meeting a partner is something that has been easier to dismiss.  Perhaps I have internalized the narrative that it is harder to find a partner who will accept someone like me.  When I came out, it was not because I met someone (as some assume) or that I even thought I would find someone - I just wanted to be me.  I was more than okay with being single, as long as it meant living my life openly and proudly. Despite these real and anticipated barriers, I did meet someone.

I am a skeptical optimist; I hope for the best but prepare for the worst - it is the conundrum of an overthinker.  Despite many lovely Queer couples in my life, I never dared hope that I would meet someone who saw me completely and wanted me for all that I was – past, present, and unknown changing future.  That was until I met my person.  We met a week before I was to (finally) have top surgery – something that was imperative for me despite anticipating it would increase other’s confusion about my gender and possibly lessen their attraction to my body.  Serendipitously, he had top surgery just months prior and was an invaluable support through the process.  An unprecedented understanding of gender and bodies developed between us.  Uncharacteristically, I felt myself leaning into the energetic emotions that were welling up.  I knew this was something exceptional.  When we embrace and our scars align, I feel more connected than I have ever before.  I am finally in a place where I am the version of myself that I am proud to be and comfortable with sharing.  This love, this Queer love, is beautiful and messy and radical and has forever changed me.

My Queerness is one of the many worthy parts of me.

Love, respect, and solidarity,

Killian

Finn, East Lansing, MI, USA -- they/them

God… I’ve had to fight so hard for this identity. This queer identity. I’ve lost so much for it; family, friends, a home, my faith, partners (even queer ones that couldn’t accept my nonbinary identity), nearly everything. The funny thing is, I’ve never regretted it. I’ve never once regretted coming out as queer or as nonbinary. I’ve lived on opposite ends of life stability – I’ve slept on park benches and dug food out garbage cans. I’ve also received a prestigious fellowship to complete my PhD. The contrast of those things in my life is stark, but they are deeply connected. Without the family rejection, without the stigma and discrimination I experienced on the street, I wouldn’t have found my chosen family, my unconditionally loving family. I wouldn’t have pursued a career in research to try help queer people be able to live their best lives.

What kept going through all of that - what keeps me going now, is me. My identity. Through all the struggles, all the ups and downs, I refused to compromise me. I refused to claim I was something I wasn’t, and I proudly clung to my queer self. I told myself, they can try to take every single last damn thing from me, but they can never take away my queerness. I own that. It’s my superpower.

Andi, Indianapolis, IN -- they/them

The first time I shaved my head, I was a brand new freshman in college. My dorm was populated with the kind of girls who probably went on to join sororities. They were hyperfeminine and excited to use their new freedom to become sexy, pretty women.

I wonder what these girls thought as they helped me shave my head. It was probably transgressive, an adventure, and alien. It was fun to do to someone else, but why would any woman want to rid herself of the crown of her femininity?

Well, because, in my experience, a girl really has to be pretty; to be otherwise is against the rules.

Pretty has something to do with cheekbones and the golden ratio, sure, but facial plainness can be forgiven as long as a woman adorns herself with makeup and clothing designed to reveal as much as conceal. She also must be young, thin, and sexy. If she lacks any of these remaining criteria, it is required that she always be trying to become as young and thin and sexy as possible. Natural body shape, disability, lack of money or time: none of these are adequate excuses. As long as it is possible for her to be thinner, look younger, or have more sex appeal, a woman is required to keep trying.

I don't want to be pretty. And I'm just so tired of trying. Because, no matter my effort, I could never crack the code of femininity. I could see the parts but not apply them. For me, pretty is a losing game. Pretty happens to other people.

In claiming a trans identity, I've liberated myself from the social requirements of femininity. I can take up space in the world, speak my mind, and be unpretty. Not because I've found a cultural loophole where I can have approval while failing at feminine requirements, but because I have created a space for myself where I need that approval less.

Every time I shave my head, it feels as liberating as that first time. I'm erasing femininity, othering myself, declaring to the world that I am not playing their game.

But even in this space, it's hard to give up on pretty altogether. I still fight urges to be as thin as possible. As a transmasculine person not on hormones, it's even more difficult to avoid the siren call of thinness because less fat equals less curves. God, I'd love to have a slender slip of a body with sharpness instead of softness.

Where do gender dysphoria and body dysmorohia intersect? At what point am I apologising for my body instead of affirming my identity?

The night before I was to sit for the portrait that accompanies this piece, I hadn't yet decided what I would write about. I found myself stress eating late into the night, a feeling of dread steadily pooling in my stomach. The later it got, the clearer my dilemma became. The thought of exposing myself on purpose, with no hiding, was terrifying. Maybe if I made myself sick, I could avoid having my picture taken. Maybe I could escape without being seen.

But I showed up. I took my dark eye circles, my puffy face, and my insecurities, and I made myself sit so that you could see what it is like. To be unpretty. On purpose. And so I could remind myself that the consequences of abstaining from the pretty contract are complex and worthwhile. Every time I am unpretty and don't apologize for it, I gain selfhood.

It is always a risk to be seen. I can still pass as female, and it feels safer to do that sometimes. Now that there are places where it is safe to be seen, though, I am finding that my concept of self is flowing outward to fill the the space around me. And as I emerge, I'm allowing myself to revisit the idea of beauty as it relates to self. I've been outside of the pretty contract long enough to glimpse what is truly beautiful about me.

I have delicate wrists, but strong hands. I love how my ears stick out and the way the curve of my eyebrow and the shape of my hairline echo each other. I am even beginning to enjoy the contrast of my masculine posture and my feminine silhouette.

The best parts are in the set of my jaw, where you can see bravery, and the way my eyes crinkle to show that I am kind. The person I am is written all over my body. I am learning to reclaim all these messages that my body sends about who I was and who I am becoming. And more and more often, I'm revealing them when people like you allow me the space to be vulnerable, to be authentic, and to be seen.

Emma, Indianapolis, IN, USA -- she/her

Being transgender sucks. It’s like living in a surreal alternate reality at times where nothing really seems to make sense. I’m actually pretty lucky as far as being transgender goes.

When I came out at work everyone was supportive or neutral, and I got a similar reaction when I came out to my friends. With a bit of work--make-up, wig, the right kind of clothes--I was able to pass long before I began HRT. Since starting HRT, I’ve noticed changes far earlier than I anticipated seeing them.

These are all things that I’m extremely grateful for. What they don’t change, however, is that for years I struggled to form emotional connections with people because I felt like there was something I was holding back and keeping secret, but even I didn’t know what it was. It doesn’t change that whenever things were good and I thought I was happy, there was always a nagging feeling that something was missing. It doesn’t change that I was never happy with my appearance and I didn’t know why.

When I look in the mirror, I see my face and on it are the remaining bits of stubble trying to grow back despite several attempts to burn them away with a laser. I notice how big my nose is relative to the rest of my face. I look at my hair and know that it’s just and overgrown boy’s haircut. I feel my chin and somehow it’s become absolutely massive. I can see how broad my shoulders are. I can see what remains of the muscles I worked so hard to build up to prove how manly I was. I can see so many things that I’m terrified will indicate to people that I’m a man rather than a woman.

Except, most of the facial hair I once had is gone. My nose looks completely normal, and although still short, my hair is the longest it’s ever been in my life. There isn’t anything wrong with my chin and I’m not really all that muscular anymore. If anything, I look pretty androgynous. It’s all in my head. My gender dysphoria is distorting what I see.

Then there’s the rare time where I look in the mirror and I see me, I see Emma. In that moment, I don’t see any trace of my old self. For that brief moment, everything seems right. For once in my life I feel like I’m beautiful. It’s a rushing feeling of being giddy and elated and relieved all at once.

And in an instant, its gone. I can no longer see myself in the mirror. Reality comes crashing back down and I’m left with a longing to get that moment back, to be able to see myself every time when I look in the mirror.

Thankfully, as time has gone on, I’ve been able to get more and more glimpses of myself in the mirror. Being transgender sucks, but it doesn’t have to forever.

Bert, Indianapolis, IN, USA -- he/him

don;t CRY Boi

Forward NEVER STR8 

boi. Never! fill ur heart with

hate boi.

Relax boi,

And enjoy

Stoopid Fokboi

"The show."