Franz Kafka was a Bohemian writer who saw little success in life and died relatively young from tuberculosis. He left behind a mountain of short stories and three unfinished novels, and these days we make cockroach memes about him. So, what does this sad man from Prague have to do with the terror of the trans experience?
The themes that pervade Kafka’s work include bureaucracy, guilt, shame, alienation, and confusion. For many trans readers, it’s easy to find a kinship with Kafka.
There is no singular trans experience; like every other life ever lived, each transgender, non-binary, and genderfluid person’s life is uniquely theirs. Depending on where we live, where we grew up, our financial situation, our culture, our religion, our social situation, and countless other factors, trans people face challenges that are often unique to us as individuals.
That said, as a group, there are feelings and experiences which trans and non-binary people commonly share. We cry together over them, make jokes about them, and find community because of them. It’s normal for a trans person, regardless of their background, to feel as though they live outside of normal society. We make up a tiny percentage of the global population, we experience feelings the vast majority of people can’t relate to, and we all — every single one of us — face adversity, estrangement, and ostracisation, whether that be socially, legally, or medically. We are “othered.”
And here’s the thing: As we continue to survive in the face of all this, it eventually starts to feel like nonsense. Our barriers to healthcare have no reason to stand; the laws that segregate us serve no purpose beyond cruelty for its own sake; the ways in which our families might ostracise us make no sense at all. Speaking from personal experience, when my previous doctor denied me hormones — and when my father refuses to use my name and pronouns — I no longer find myself crying and screaming. Instead, I scowl and say, Why the hell not?
Too often, the rules we are told to live by don’t exist for any satisfying reason. The rules of gender performance, of whom we can acceptably love, of social behaviour — they are arbitrary and hollow. They exist because they exist, and their existence provides a sense of rigid safety and familiarity for those who can comfortably live within them. But what about those of us who can’t? Those of us who ignore and question those rules, who see them for the empty nonsense they are?
Enter: Kafka. This sad little Bohemian man defined an entire style of literature which we now, kindly, name after him: the kafkaesque. Something is kafkaesque if it feels pointlessly, irrationally, bafflingly bureaucratic. A labyrinth that goes nowhere and exists either for its own sake or, more cynically, to cause someone frustration, pain, or exhaustion. And while so many of Kafka’s stories plainly express his exhaustion and confusion with capitalistic hierarchies and workplace bureaucracy, those tales also speak to the trans experience and can even bring us comfort as we come to realise our experience is not unique. Suddenly it’s possible to feel so much less alone in our struggles.
In his short story Poseidon, Kafka describes a version of the Greek god of the sea who spends his days at his desk doing paperwork. “You couldn’t say that the work gave him pleasure; he actually just did it because it had been assigned to him.” (Translation by Alexander Starritt).
This line so deeply resonates with the stresses and terrors of the trans experience. We are born into a body that gives us no pleasure, a body that is uncomfortable and itchy. We live in this body because it was assigned to us at birth, and we feel no joy when performing the arbitrary social behaviours associated with that gender.
People expect us to perform these behaviours dutifully. We must dance the correct dance. “He’d been appointed god of the seas at the beginning of time and that’s the way things would have to stay.” There is no explanation given and no rulebook to follow. Those of us assigned male or female at birth must act like men or women — just because.
“He would say that he was waiting for the end of the world; at that point there would surely be a quiet moment before it was all over in which, after finishing off the last of the accounts, he’d have time for a quick look around.” Sorry, Franz, but I’m not waiting for the end of the world. I’m rebelling against this cisnormative, patriarchal hellscape, and I’m doing it right now.
As trans people, we can often feel like monsters. A kinship with Kafka exists alongside a kinship for classic movie monsters, like Frankenstein’s creature or Count Dracula — strange outsiders who are shunned by society, who look and behave differently, who simply cannot belong in a hegemonic world. And Kafka’s most famous story is that of a massive bug.
In The Metamorphosis, Gregor Samsa wakes up one morning to find that he has been transformed into a massive insect. He didn’t ask for this but it’s his reality now. His first thought is, naturally, oh shit, I’m a bug. But his second thought is heartbreaking: that means I’ll be late for work! We don’t ask to be trans; we suffer with dysphoria and decide to do something about it. Dysphoria is a massive cockroach, and when many of us face up to it and do battle with it, we fear the repercussions: the confusion, and anger expressed by our families, friends, colleagues, and communities.
In the case of Gregor Samsa, he continues to live with his family in his bug form. They see him as something disgusting and annoying. They lock him away out of revulsion and irritation and lament the income he can no longer provide for the household. Too many trans people can relate to this kind of reaction from our families when we come out. Suddenly, we are seen as something strange and alien; our families behave as though the son/daughter they raised is now dead, and they might even hate us for killing them.
The most famous of Kafka’s three novels, The Trial, is an anxiety-inducing trip which follows a man named Josef K who has been arrested for a crime, the details of which are withheld from him. The agency that called for his arrest is nameless and clandestine, and nobody will answer any of Josef’s questions. He is left confused, disorientated, and directionless. There must surely be laws and rules in place, and those laws must explain what is happening to him — he simply isn’t privy to them.
The trans experience sometimes feels like living through The Trial. Heteronormativity and cisnormativity are defined by rules and patterns of behaviour that form over time and are reinforced by patriarchy. Being trans is, in itself, an act of casting that normativity aside, and learning about one’s own trans identity feels like wandering through a kafkaesque labyrinth.
As trans people, the very act of transitioning is something that goes against the grain. We refuse the costumes we’ve been told to wear. We wander through the cisnormative labyrinth, looking for ourselves and our community. We search for respite, for joy, for peace and belonging. We feel a kinship with Kafka as we walk this labyrinth, feeling confused and exhausted and angry.
But unlike Kafka’s protagonists, we’re not alone. And if we keep knocking against the walls of the cisnormative labyrinth, eventually they’ll come crumbling down.
HORROR IS SO GAY is Autostraddle’s annual celebration of queer horror.
