feature image photo by STEFANI REYNOLDS/AFP via Getty Images
Transness is a gift and something that has severely improved my quality of life. I fall in love with transness more and more each day, with every new trans person I meet and every new thing I learn about myself. I struggled with suicidal ideation, drug abuse, and harmful relationships for a large chunk of my life because I was living in a body and mind that was not my own. I used to feel like I’d never grow old. When I came out, my problems didn’t magically disappear, but I gave myself a fighting chance to face them head-on with newfound clarity. And I did, working so hard to be where I am today: over two years since my last panic attack, sober from hard drugs, in a loving relationship with both my partner and myself, and happier than I’ve ever been. Transitioning saved my life, not just in terms of survival, but in the richness and depth it has brought to my existence.
But I’m having complicated feelings about legalizing my transition.
I’ve only been “out” as trans for about four years, though it feels like it’s been much longer than that. I’ve taken my time during my transition, careful not to rush decisions about my body, my identity, and their interaction with the world. It took three years from when I knew I needed top surgery to actually have it — partly due to financial and logistical challenges, but also to give myself the time to reflect on such an important decision. I spent two years speaking with friends, doctors, and conducting my own research about starting hormone replacement therapy before I started taking testosterone. Despite what you may hear politicians on both sides of the aisle or your uncle or coworker or even your friends say about the availability and accessibility of gender affirming care, this is neither easy nor quick.
As much as my transition is a deeply personal journey, the external pressures and political environment complicate this process in ways I never anticipated.
Since Trump’s re-election earlier this month, trans folks have received well-intentioned and conflicting advice from various sources. I’ve been told I should buy a gun, learn how to fight, or even move out of the country. I’ve been advised to seek EU citizenship through a grandparent, change my name and my gender marker, make all my social media accounts private, stockpile my hormones, get a hysterectomy, erase all evidence of my transness from public record, and marry my girlfriend of one year while I still can. Cis and trans folks alike are quick to label these actions as ‘alarmist,’ while others insist they’re absolutely necessary. Listen, I am not going to buy a gun. I already have a strap I’m bad at using. But there are precautionary measures I’m taking to ensure my safety when Trump takes office in January.
I’m currently petitioning to change my name and gender marker, something I never anticipated doing at this stage of my transition. I’m in a somewhat unique position with my name, because the name I go by, and have gone by since I was a teenage girl, is my last name. My going by ‘Motti’ is not connected to my transness but rather a result of growing up an athlete with three other ‘Emily’s on the team. Sure, it’s incredibly convenient that I have a built-in name that works for my transition, but it also presents some unintended complications. If my chosen name is my legal last name, then what do I do about my legal first name? I’ve never thought to pick out a new one. Friends have suggested I move my last name to my first name and pick a new last name, but I don’t want to have a different last name from my family. A small, unserious part of me thought I would just figure this out if and when I get married… I could take my partner’s last name and move ‘Motti’ to my first or something ceremonious like that. I didn’t think I was going to have to make this decision, let alone in such a hurry.
Truthfully, ‘Emily’ never felt like a deadname to me. It’s just a name I don’t really go by. But it doesn’t hurt me to be referred to by it. So I never felt an urgency to change this, especially considering the headache and cost of the paperwork. This has been complicated by the fact that I am only recently ‘passing’ in public spaces — and that’s being generous. I have absolutely no doubt that in Trump’s America, there will be threats to my safety if I am referred to as ‘Emily’ in a doctor’s office, job interview, pharmacy, or other public space while looking the way I do right now, and I have no intention of stopping HRT. I’d immediately be outed to those around me, and frankly, I cannot trust them to react neutrally to that information. I’d love to blame this fear and anxiety solely on conservatives or Trump voters, but sadly, Democrats have shown their true colors since the election by scapegoating trans people for the results, and I can no longer feel safe with them either.
To protect myself, I’ve made the decision to legally change my name before I am really ready to. For the same reasons, I’ve decided to legally change my gender marker to male, even though I don’t fully identify as a binary trans man. Non-binary is still a part of my identity, and while that may change as my transition progresses, I’m not there yet. I find myself using terms like ‘trans dude’ and ‘trans guy,’ and I alternate between they/them and he/him pronouns as I ease into this transition. I find a great deal of comfort in being able to, again, take my time and care with these decisions. However, I fear what may happen if I present my ID with an ‘F’ for ‘female’ to a bouncer, healthcare provider, or TSA agent.
I travel frequently, including to Florida to visit family, and I’ll be attending weddings in two countries over the next two years. In New York, my rights to change my gender marker on my state ID are likely protected, but I’m unsure about the federal rules for changing sex designations on passports after January. Although I just renewed my passport this summer, I’ll be doing it again once my petition is approved. I will legally be a male — not a dude, not a guy, but a male.
What troubles me the most about the quickness in which this is happening is the focus I have to put on how well I “pass” now. Passing has never been, nor is it currently, a goal of mine. Of course, I prefer to be gendered correctly, but I personally have no desire to live a stealth life. I find myself justifying this decision to update my legal documents with “Well, now I’m passing in public more than I’m not,” which is putting more value on my ability to pass than I’m comfortable with. I want to be seen as a man, but a trans man. I hate that folks are finally using the correct terms and pronouns for me, and my first instinct is to make it legally-binding. I never wanted this to be a metric by which I measure my transition, but now it’s something I find myself talking about frequently. When I sit with the decision to change my marker from “F” to “M,” I find myself running down a mental checklist of all of the physical traits that would justify me being “M” and frankly, I think that sucks. For me, for others, for my understanding of gender expansiveness and fluidity. If anyone has any ways in which they like to signal to the world that they’re trans while “passing,” I’d love to hear from you in the comments.
I deserve to feel joy and excitement about this decision. A part of me does, but a larger part is overcome by anxiety and uncertainty. It feels as though this moment has been stolen from me and my transition has been fast-tracked out of fear and necessity, not agency and choice. I know I am not the only person who feels this way post-election and that this will be a common theme for marginalized folks over the next four years and beyond. A lack of agency, actions motivated by fear, speed racing through complicated government-issued paperwork, and throwing a ton of money to state and federal agencies already using our tax dollars to fund a genocide — it’s difficult to find the bright side in any of that, but I’m trying my best.
Since election night, numerous name and gender marker change events sprung up in NYC and beyond, proving we will always have our community to fall back on. I’ve seen friends get their petitions notarized together, some even picking out the same names, at their favorite dyke bar. It all reminds me of the stories I’d hear about lesbian and gay couples getting creative with their weddings before 2015 and how these individual moments really belong to the collective. It feels weird to experience nostalgia for something that happened less than a decade ago and even weirder for something that may happen again.
I’ve found ways to bring levity and meaning into this situation by asking my Instagram followers what name they’d assign me and rejecting all of them, having my girlfriend’s mom notarize my petition at the bar of a Brooklyn Comedy Club, and picking a new name that’s still connected to my family. I’ve even written some new standup material about the whole ordeal, which is a sure fire sign you’re going through it!
Many steps of transition are moments for celebration. For some people, the legal aspects of transition might be just that. But if you’re feeling complicated about any aspect of transition right now, you’re not alone. We should be allowed to do these things not out of fear but because it’s what we really want and need for ourselves, not just for safety.
