The original post is located at www.elle.com
Growing up, I developed a clear idea through TV and movies how to think about trans people. I believed trans people were duplicitous; I believed they were pariahs; I believed they were worthy fodder for ridicule, but neverāeverāworthy of love. But I also knew I was trans.
It took me until I was 30 to come out. When I did, I was terrified of how people would treat me. To one friend, I came out over textāmy lede buried beneath apologies for even sharing this news. A week later, he took me out to gay bars to show me around. Over coffee with another friend, I muttered, āI think I might be trans,ā after a half hour of blundering small talk; that afternoon, she gave me a tote bag full of makeup. āThat makes sense,ā my mom said, over the phone. Nearly everyone in my life was supportive, and, in hindsight, my trepidation seems a little excessive. Three years later, I can hardly remember the intensity of my fear.
This doesnāt mean my fears were unfounded. They were valid for all the predictable reasons that prevent trans people from living safely. The first time I ever went out femme in public, for instance, a car followed me around the block; the third time, my partnerāone of the first people I dated after coming outābragged about doing whatever she wanted to me without verbal consent. Both occurrences were scary, but they were, I believed, what I should have expected. Blatant and implicit transphobia is too often the air that we breathe. J.K. Rowling continues to attack trans people online, despite having everything better to do. The BBC recently ran a fear-mongering piece about cis women being āpressuredā to date trans women. In 2019, Human Rights Campaign declared the killings of trans people a national epidemicāin particular, the killings of Black trans women. The murders of trans people have only increased since then.
My greatest fear, however, was a bit more mundane: I was terrified no one would ever love me. Worse, I believed I wasnāt deserving of love, or that the love I received would come with certain provisions and impediments.
Iām hardly the first trans person to have this concern. Jules Gill-Peterson, a professor based in Maryland, told me she was prepared to resign herself to a life of isolation after transitioning. āOne of the many transphobic lies that we’re told in this culture is that trans people are isolated and not lovable,ā she told me. These lies are largely made up of tragic tales of rejection and violence. I donāt want to give the impression that itās not hard to be trans in America. Over the last year
But for Gill-Peterson, dating has āhelped [her] get over that internalized messaging really fast.ā Translation: People found her hot. Though Iām too shy to call myself hot on the record, my experience has been similar. Thanks to the popularity and critical acclaim of work like Detransition, Baby, Framing Agnes, Gender Reveal, and so much more, the stories of trans people are finally being rewritten. So for Valentineās Day, I talked to some trans writers and artists about falling in love: The unique joys of loving while trans, the sexiness of it, the moments of self-reflection and growth. Cis people donāt know what theyāre missing.
A.E. Osworth, a novelist based in Portland, met their boyfriend, the writer Alex Marzano-Lesnevich, online a little over a year ago. Not on a dating appābut through a DM. āThey very sweetly asked me a question about teaching. And I answered very earnestly, and did not understand that they were flirting,ā Osworth recalled. They mostly dated cis people before meeting their boyfriend and naively assumed dating a trans person would mean reaching a magical state of pure understanding. āThat is a very sweet way of being wrong,ā they joked. Both Osworth and their boyfriend identify as non-binary, and their ability to āhold space for really different conceptions of each other’s genderā feels, to Osworth, āreally fucking trans.ā
āFreerā is the word Frankie de la Cretaz, a sports writer living in Boston, used to describe how their relationship changed since they came out as trans. Freer in the sense that they can explore their identity without fear of rejection; freer as in hotter, and more exciting, and intimate. Their partner is transmasculine, and when the two started dating, de la Cretaz identified as a queer cis woman. When they came out, however, their partner wasnāt surprised. āI think he saw me for who I was before I saw myself,ā they told me. āThere’s something really beautiful about that.ā
Portland novelist Emme Lund met her partner at a party in 2005; a decade into their relationship, her partner came out as genderqueer. A few years later, while walking her dog, Lund realized she wasnāt cis, either, and when she told her partnerāafter completing the walk, she assured meāthey were nothing but loving and supportive. The first dresses Lund wore belonged to her partner. Coming out has made things a lot easier for them both. āWeāre both able to be who we are,ā she told me. āWhich is a lesbian couple.ā More importantly, their relationshipātheir marriage, as of last yearāhas only deepened since Lund transitioned. āWhen you share yourself with someone and you have a good relationship with that person, you can’t help but grow closer and fall more in love.ā
Iāve felt the same way in my current relationship. Before we went on our first date a little over a year ago, my partner knew I was trans. Nonetheless, I was nervous to dress femme around her, worried being my true self might push her away, that it might result in the hermit life that Gill-Peterson also feared. When I think of being seen, of being supported, I think of the time we went to the movies, after only a couple months dating. Before leaving the house, I agonized over whether to wear a new dress, worried she might not be attracted to me if I did; in the end, I decided to wear itāI wanted to wear itāand, when she met me at the theater, her first instinct was to compliment my new dress. She offered the kind of support Iād never safely received in prior relationships, and our connection evolved in ways neither of us expected. With her, I had nothing to worry about.
Dating, of course, is a separate animal from long-term relationshipsāand more prone to ghostings and dud dates and the occasional absolute sicko. In Alabama, Emrys Donaldson, a college professor, is only just getting back into the dating pool after medically transitioning during the pandemic. Before he transitioned, he āwas very nervous that no one would want me anymore.ā In reality, itās been much easier for him to find people with whom heās a lot more compatible. āMost of the assholes that wouldn’t work out anywayā¦swipe left and I swipe left on them.ā Donaldson spends a lot of time in Atlanta, where heās met more trans peers and elders. Expanding his community has meant seeing more models for trans love. āI’ve met trans guys who have been in good relationships for a really long time,ā he told me, but acknowledged āthere’s always a need, or a thirst, for more elders.ā
Like Donaldson, Denne Michele Norris, an author and editor based in Harlem, is returning to dating as pandemic restrictions ease up. Though she identified as non-binary for years, she came out as a trans woman last year, and her experience dating has run eerily close to that of her cis girlfriends. āFor the first time in my life [Iām going on] dates that feel like what I was taught a date was supposed to be when I was in high school.ā Chairs are being pulled out. She has not paid for a thing. Crucially, she doesnāt feel fetishized by the people sheās seeing. Norris is excited to create her own model for romantic relationships. āOne thing that queerness and transness, in particular, has shown me is that I don’t have to start with a specific expectation for what anything looks like in my life.ā
Gill-Peterson has also given a lot of thought to creating models for trans love. Sheās hesitant to idealize queer loveāwhich runs the risk of concealing abuseāand has learned a lot about romance from friendship. Both require āgood communication, good boundaries, and [are] open to building forms rather than presuming we know in advance what a good relationship is.ā The freedom she is describing was echoed throughout my conversationsāthe freedom to be yourself, the freedom to create new expectations, the sexual freedom borne out of being in-tune with your body. For Gill-Peterson, this freedom is beautifully trans. āYou have this real improvisational freedom that can allow you to figure out how you go together with other people in ways the straights and the cis could only ever dream of.ā
At the risk of idealizing: trans love, at its best, is a dream. Itās sexy. Improvisational. Open. Honest. Hot. Tender. Loving. Imaginative. Caring. Did I say sexy? Sexy. This is the story that ought to be told, because this is the story thatās true.