We just got conversion therapy banned in Appleton. This is my testimony; others did more of the heavy lifting and this was the final public meeting about it. It was initially promoted by two council members – Katie Van Zeeland and Vered Meltzer – after which it went to the Board of Health twice, then went to Council this past week.
We won, and that’s fantastic. We celebrated.
What’s harder to talk about is that a few days later, after all the hullabaloo ends, the bad taste remains in your mouth: for four hours we were in a room, and for four hours LGBTQ+ people spoke, listened to each other, supported each other. But we also heard the side that wanted to keep conversion therapy – or at least not ban it outright – and while you know, in the moment, that people are saying ignorant and hateful things, dragging out every negative trope of gay life you can imagine – recruitment, disease, moral depravity, etc – you have to stay focused. You think about what you’re going to say. You hug people and thank people who are on your side.
But on Sunday, a few days later, you can still taste all the bile the other side spewed. Most are smart enough these days not to say that they hate gay people outright – they feel sorry for gay people instead, etc. – but the effect is the same: you leave knowing there are people in the world who think LGBTQ+ people are wrong, bad, needing fixing.
It won’t stick, and I know that. I’m writing this mostly to check in on all the other people who were there Wednesday night, who are hearing similar things in their cities and counties, who go online and read about whatever new transgender ban is out there. As you’ll hear in my own testimony, it’s not like you can miss it: these messages are everywhere.
I’m glad to have done my little part in removing this thread from young people’s lives. I am happy I’m able to find something to say to a group of elected officials that they might take to heart. I’m perhaps most pleased that I can channel my rage long enough to say something, anything, at least.
What I’ve learned to do is this: do what you can when you can and then try to do a little more.
To my elders: Listening to the haters here – who use the word “homosexual” as if it causes them physical pain even to say it – made it feel like 1965, or 1975, or even 1985. I can’t imagine what it was like for you when there was no friendly side, when there were no allies, when we were dying of ignorance. Thank you for finding some magical way to believe in yourselves and in the future.
To the kids: so many of us will do whatever we can, whenever we can, to make sure you find that person, that relative or friend or stranger on the internet, who will tell you that you are loved, you are worthy, you are awesome.
To my fellow activists: keep on. Hold tight. Rest and recharge and live to fight another day.
I haven’t thought of that room, that apartment, that period in my life for a long time, but the other day for whatever reason Sinead O’Connor came up and I found myself watching the video for “Mandinka” and was so overwhelmed by how incredibly sad it made me not to be young anymore.
It’s been happening a lot. I don’t think I’m sad about getting older; that’s just what’s what and I’m honestly kind of pleased and surprised to still be alive at 50 having used up too many of the ‘god watches over fools and drunks’ passes allotted me.
The idea to celebrate National Coming Out Day came from a couple of places: the sense, first of all, that it was long overdue that this city, which is generally welcoming, make that apparent. I’ve been here for a decade and although there are always jerks – everywhere & not just here – the majority of people here have wanted to learn more about LGBTQ lives.
Plus there’s a lot of us here.
I’d just been in NYC in the week leading up to the 50th annviersary of Stonewall when the city, via an innocent interactive “What’s Your Question Wednesday” Facebook post, mentioned “Selfie Day” – a day of civic engagement nationwide, when people come take selfies next to City Hall. My friend Nate Wolff asked, “Why hasn’t Appleton ever done anything for pride?” and the answer we got was dismissive and condescending. I posted in response about the importance of pride as did quite a few others, and what became clear was that the person doing the communicating for the city and the mayor was not up to speed on the city’s policies or the mayor’s emphasis on creating a welcoming, inclusive city. The city had done things; we just hadn’t heard much about them.
So there were meetings with Mayor Hanna and with the city’s diversity coordinator, Karen Nelson, who promised they would do better for the next Pride month. But a lot of LGBTQ people were upset and wanted the communication guy’s job, to be honest, so I suggested that they maybe had to do something sooner. A lot of universities do things in October precisely because most schools are out in June, so I thought that might work. It would be a day, not even a month, and it would be a good trial run for the next Pride month.
I knew that SCOTUS would be hearing arguments about LGBTQ employment discrimination the same week and I figured we would either all be very, very worried or maybe feeling relieved, so it might be a good day for LGBTQ people to feel the support of local businesses and to celebrate ourselves.
It feels like we’ve reach Mach 1, broken the sound barrier. As I said, the city has long been affirming of LGBTQ rights: we have a great NDO that includes gender identity & expression, big employers like KC and Goodwill who employ LGBTQ people, and a few colleges and nearby cities that are affirming. What we didn’t have was visibility.
Do you have a flag? Eddie Izzard once asked, and it turns out, most businesses didn’t. So I told the city I’d fundraise the money to buy them; I’d fundraise to pay people to canvas businesses; I’d fundraise to pay someone to design a logo, and the rest is history.
It’s hard to explain how big a deal it was and how big a deal it really wasn’t. The impact was tremendous. The excitement and enthusiasm of local businesses and business owners was tangible. It took an unusual alignment of bad communication, timing, anger, and impatience. It took a diversity coordinator – an office of one – who very much wanted to do something, and a mayor who backed her.
It was a lot of work, a lot of administration, a lot of emails, a lot of willpower. I was lucky to have a co organizer who owns a car because I don’t.
It took, to no small degree, the loss of a former student who both me and Nate loved and respected tremendously. Zac Presberg’s memory is what kept our fire lit. We did it with him in mind every minute, and made sure we added voter registration to the work, in his honor. We both miss him, very much.
Walking from Lawrence to City Center on Friday afternoon was like nothing else I’ve ever experienced here. I’ve been here 10 years and I’d never seen a pride flag up anywhere other than the local gay bar; in Brooklyn, nearly every bar has a rainbow decal or flag up somewhere. And I’ve known so many students at LU who needed to see them, so many adults who needed to, so many young people. Too many. This area has lost far too many young people to suicide due to bullying; one of the first times I was called on to do some education for local leaders was because a young person had taken their own life.
Some days there is way too much pain and way too much loss and way too much worry about the future. I have been worrying about gay people since I was very very young and people only assumed I was queer because of my gender. I have been married to a trans woman for nearly two decades and in that time things have gotten better but lately they are getting worse – a lot worse, and too fast.
Activism can be lonely work. We’re not normal people. But I have had so many people in Appleton and elsewhere who have said the right thing at the right time or posted the right meme at the right minute. So walking down College Ave, the main drag in Appleton, to see shop after shop after shop with a flag up felt like a homecoming for this activist. Appleton has never quite felt like home to me, and New York always will be, but for those few minutes, walking down that avenue, remembering all the people who were excited to receive their flag and who asked if they could put it up early and if they could keep it so they could put it up in June made me realize that I am more of this place than I ever thought.
I’m guessing that other LGBTQ people felt the same way. In fact I know they did. Even some who aren’t here, the Appleton queer people who grew up here but left told me they were moved that their hometown had done this, finally. The person who watched a friend get gay bashed posted that her same friend would have been happy to see it. Former students told me. Older lesbians told me. It’s difficult to put into words how a simple gesture like a flag can suddenly make you realize that there are people who care, there are people who know how hard it is, there are people who don’t know but want to help however they can.
It’s not legislation. It’s not a cure. It’s not an end to the violence. But it is meaningful, and it is comforting. While I was walking that avenue with tears in my eyes it was perfect.
Thank you so much to so many people who helped, encouraged, volunteered, celebrated. Thank you to Tim Hanna and Karen Nelson, of course. But Nate Wolff (Team HellWolf is now a thing), Kathy Flores, Nick Ross, Vered Meltzer, Reiko Ramos, Nik Shier, Cory Chisel & Ade Denae, the good folks at Rainbow Over Wisconsin and their board, & everyone who donated time or money or just sheer fucking enthusiasm: it was so easy to ask and so hard to imagine but here we are, through the sound barrier, and now we figure out what next.
Love to you, Appleton, and your shitty cold weather and warmer hearts: you did good.
National Coming Out Day is celebrated annually on October 11th. This year, Nate Wolff and me and the City of Appleton decided to celebrate it in a big way because our community is feeling hurt and under attack. Deaths of trans women are epidemic, youth suicides are on the rise, and this week, the Supreme Court of the US is deciding on cases that could change our right to be who we are, to have a job, to exist with dignity.
Traditionally, National Coming Out Day is when LGBTQ+ people who are out already think about what it took to tell people they are LGBTQ+ and what it means to live their lives out of the closet. But more importantly, it’s a day for all the people who aren’t out, the invisible members of the LGBTQ+ community.
When you put up a pride flag, for National Coming Out Day or
in June for Pride Month, the most important message you are sending isn’t
necessarily to the adults who are out and have been out. It’s for:
the gay men who work in education who still face
religious people who know they would not be
welcome in their place of worship as themselves.
working class and poor people who can’t afford
to be out due to the risk of unemployment and housing discrimination.
parents who don’t want to be judged unfit
because of their own orientation.
transitioned trans people who are accepted as
the gender they are and who don’t want to be considered less of a man or a
woman because of how they were designated at birth.
those who are most marginalized by other aspects
of identity such as race and who face greater risks of violence and
people who don’t identify strongly ‘enough’ in
any identity to come out in one.
people who worry their families won’t accept
them, who worry about losing lifelong friends.
people who are in a heterosexual marriage or
relationship who don’t want to hurt the person they are with and are raising
trans people who can’t be out in the military.
people who don’t want to disappoint their
parents and families, no matter their age.
new immigrants who don’t want to lose the only
people in their community who share their culture and speak their language.
parents with adult children who adore them and
who they’re afraid of letting down.
people who use different pronouns at work than
they do in their private lives.
people sleeping in shelters terrified to lose a
place to sleep.
couples who never feel safe holding holds in
anyone whose access to medical services or
mental health care might be hindered.
those who are financially dependent on someone
But most importantly, your visible pride flag is for the
young people who are LGBTQ+, who can’t come out, or be out, because they have
so little autonomy in their lives, who don’t get to choose who their parents
are or what their religion is or even where they go to school. It’s for the
young people who are bullied because they are different and no one at their
school is helping. It’s for the young people who worry about disappointing
their mom or dad or grandma or uncle, who think it’s impossible to live a
happy, productive life as an LGBTQ+ person, or who believe there is something
wrong, or evil, about them because of who they are or who they love.
So often events like this feature the people who are out –
who are organizers, activists, small business owners: the people who have
already navigated coming out and being out and have found some happiness or
success in life. But this event is not about us and never has been. We come out
in order to tell our young people that they can be loved, feel safe, have a
job, be successful, have families. We come out so they know their elders are
out here loving them even when we don’t know who they are yet. We come out so
they know we’re here and that someone cares about them living their lives to
their fullest potential. We come out so that those young people live to be
adults because too many of them don’t.
We come out because we can and we know others who can’t,
won’t, shouldn’t – yet, or maybe ever.
That’s why you put up a rainbow: it is a promise to all the
invisible LGBTQ+ people that you understand they exist, that their lives are
not easy, and that they are loved and valued and celebrated.
My friend Rachel See of NCTE was in the courtroom today and wrote this compelling observation about what it was like.:
I don’t think I’ll be able to forget the look I saw from the bench. Near the start of the first case, Justice Kavanaugh looked up from whatever he was reading and seemed to stare straight at me. Straight through me. I met his gaze for a few moments, and then I realized that Aimee Stephens was sitting immediately behind me.
I don’t know what was running through Justice Kavanaugh’s mind. He asked a single question this morning, about whether the statute used the literal or the ordinary meaning of the word “sex”. I feel incapable of reading those tea leaves.
But in those few lingering moments, feeling his gaze upon me, I felt literally judged, as a trans woman, by a man in a position to affect the lives of me and my family and friends and the 1.4 million trans adults in America. A man with the power to declare, as Justice Sotomayor suggests the Court should say, that “invidious discrimination” against LGBT people must stop now, and that courts can and should use the broad language of Title VII to do so. But also a man with the power to declare, as our adversaries would have him say, that sex assigned at birth is destiny, and that an employer can dictate where you pee. And, by extension, someone with the power to declare that “invidious discrimination” against LGBT people will be permitted by the law, and even be encouraged in the name of “religious freedom”.
It is the most-uncomfortable I’ve ever felt in a courtroom. My heart goes out to Aimee Stephens, who felt the true focus of that gaze and the scrutiny of the Court and the media and all the vile hatred that we see on Twitter and “in the comments”. Aimee looked so tired this afternoon; who wouldn’t be tired, under all that scrutiny? I can’t imagine what she’s been through these past months, and I am in awe at her quiet strength and perseverance.
For all the discomfort I felt from Justice Kavanaugh’s scrutiny, the message I want to deliver to my trans and nonbinary friends is that you are seen by people who love you. You are seen by people who look upon you with friendship, with compassion, with love. By your chosen family, by allies, by people who will fight for all of us. In a few months we may very well lose at the Supreme Court; win or lose on these cases, the fight will continue. And we will not be alone, because we exist. We are seen. We are loved.
I’m actually a little surprised – and very excited – to report
that I just read a new trans book I really liked:
Sorted by Jackson Bird. Not
to be a jerk, but the prospect of YETA (Yet Another Trans Autobiography) usually
fills me with dread. I’ve read way too many of them and they tend to repeat
But this one I liked. I was only vaguely
familiar with Jackson Bird as I’m not much of a YouTuber – I prefer reading
over listening or watching things for info – and while I expected this to be
the regular I was born / my gender wasn’t right / some bad
shit happened / I transitioned narrative, it wasn’t. Overall
it’s a great introduction to trans identity: Bird’s voice is engaging and warm
and funny, and his informational sidebars – on
things like hormones and pronouns – are pretty much on the money, brief, well
worded, and smart.
There are still too few autobiographies
by trans guys and even fewer by trans men who attempted – much less thrived in
– a very feminine presentation. There was Matt Kailey’s Just Add
Hormones – rest in peace, Matt – and … and …. you get my
Bird’s telling of his story articulates
an important generational difference: his work unraveling his gender identity
comes before and during his complications with sexuality. For those of you who
are older, or who have only read narratives of older transitioners, this book
is a good way to change your perspective on how people experience trans
identity, and to put aside some presumptions about how people come to realize
their need to transition.
(Personally that’s still a puzzling thing
to me: so much of what Bird describes is so similar to my experience except for
that “oh, I’m a man” moment. I am trying to write about being gendery/non
binary but not trans in the new book, promise.)
If you’re on the feminine spectrum of things, this is a good book to see how the other half lives. If I’ve got any criticism, it’s that there’s a lot of privilege being expressed, but I also think he’d be the first one to admit as much.
Check him out. He’s got a bunch of videos but I liked this one especially for demystifying the sexual orientation/gender identity issue:
Hey everyone! It’s long overdue but I’ve just updated my professional website Helen Boyd Books where you can find my bio, info about the books, lectures/talks I’m available to give, and all sorts of other things.
Please do share the site with people who are in a position to hire me as a speaker, trainer, consultant, tutor… whatever it is. I’m good at a lot of things and I’m not teaching very much anymore and so could use the gigs.
Look at this handy dandy list of talks I can give:
Trans Etiquette 101 : How to Navigate Trans Identities and Pronouns
Co Conspirator to Transland: How To Ally
A Brief History of Transland: How Trans Identity Became Visible
Trans Relationships: Love Is Not All, Actually
Becoming Queer: Chosen Families and LGBTQ Life
Becoming Poly: It’s Not Pie
Trans Inclusive Feminism: Or, Why Trans Women are Women
Writing in Private, Publishing in Public: On Writing Memoir
Non Binary Identity: Emerging and Eternal Genders
OR I can tailor one to your group’s needs.
I’ve also gathered a bunch of video, links to interviews & articles, lists of my published writing, and descriptions of the books = basically everything you’d want to know about me as a writer and speaker.
i. sitting in the top observation deck in one of the seats that was in the windows and looking straight down between my new boots feeling suspended in light and sky and seeing all the way to pennsylvania, hundreds of feet above the ground, sitting on a few strips of metal and a masterwork of engineering
ii. passing through one day and stopping, briefly, to watch tibetan monks create a sand mandala — the image of which i meditated on for months after
iii. going to see radiohead at liberty state park across the river, concert tickets bestowed as a wedding present by our awesome friend michael because we’d never seen them. i danced the whole time, watching them framed by the lady and the towers, and that night my brand new husband expressed surprise and admiration that anyone could dance to 2+2=5 as we changed trains on the ground floor of marble and tall ceilings high on the music and the night and the stars and the 3rd encore oblivious, utterly, joyously oblivious of the scenes that would unfold in that same space not too much later
iv. the word welcome in hundreds of languages on the tourist elevators, very 70s design, different fonts for different languages, a comforting barrage of welcome wilkommen bienvenido bienvenu welcome. now step to the back to let another 400 people on.
v. i was supposed to do a reading that night. i have no idea if i ever did it, whether it was canceled or rescheduled.
vi. i was supposed to see a firewater concert that week and when it was rescheduled everyone was excessively, pathologically drunk and screaming the lyrics along with everyone and tod a. he’d go on to write “electric city” — his brokenhearted goodbye to his town: shine electric city shine like six thousand wings in the sky over the scene of the crime
vii. going up through the utterly familiar penn station to walk into a corner full of crowds and sunshine on 32nd street with men in full riot gear, army men with big guns, and knowing already that nyc would be ruined maybe not immediately, but eventually, somehow, for me.
viii. watching my jewish neighbors hold hands around the local muslim middle school and form phalanxes around the kids so they could get safely to their parents, buses, subway stations. oh brooklyn.
ix. walking into my office months later and seeing on my whiteboard 9/11 computer mendel noon. he lived because he was dropping one of his 13 children to school that day. i quit not long after, & not well. i’m still friends with mendel.
x. i still look for them when i’m home and have to remind myself that the new one is there instead and wish deeply for the multiverse where it isn’t & they are, instead, still.