"A Minority Within a Minority": The Intergenerational Fight for Transgender Rights

On September 20th, Canada experienced nationwide protests targeting transgender rights, as well as counter-protests led by the trans community and allies. We are three years away from the next Federal election. In 2025, many students at the University of Guelph will have the opportunity to vote. I urge you to consider transgender lives as we select our new policymakers. We have two futures ahead of us - one in which transgender youth are protected, and the other one in which they have to struggle to survive. The choice is ours.

The following short story intends to represent the perspective of an individual reflecting on several pivotal moments for the trans community on either side of the border throughout history and serves as a commentary on how history often repeats itself. The perspectives represented in this text are informed by my knowledge and experiences. It may accurately represent your experiences, or they may not resonate with you at all. The purpose of this text is to provide readers with a space to reflect. How does the threat against transgender rights impact you, your family, your sister, your brother, your friend, or a stranger? This post is dedicated to all those who fight for their lives and right to safety. We see you and we stand with you in your fight. “Hate has no home here.”

Throughout history, you've always felt a sense of isolation. Somehow you're different from the rest of the world, and you are constantly reminded that the world in which you are living is simply not meant for you. The language doesn't even exist for you to express what you feel, so you live in fear, in the shadows, hoping desperately that you may find some others like you. But how? To be yourself is to paint a target on your back - to set yourself up to be the victim of violence. You’ll lose your job, your house, and your family. You’ve seen it happen before.

The year is now 1969. You finally feel a sense of belonging and peace within your small but united community. The hatred you've encountered has failed its intended goal of breaking you apart but rather has brought you together as a united front. They thought that by naming your “infliction” you would be further removed from the mainstream, further marginalized within an already brutally oppressive world. Yet, together you rose and refused to be silenced. Within the many spaces that denied you your expression, you found your way and established your community. Just as you breathe a sigh of relief, you find yourself pinned to the floor by a man dressed in blue, your beautiful face of makeup pressed hard into the cold concrete of the bar floor. You can hardly breathe. Amidst the sudden chaos, you can hear the familiar voice of your sister, “What the h*** are you doing!? get the f*** away!'' The voice is followed by indiscernible cries of retaliation as bricks, stones, and shot glasses are thrown, in simultaneous desperation and triumph. Despite the overwhelming pain and fear, you are filled with pride.

It is now 1970. A proud day marking a year since the Incident and a year since the start of the Revolution. Remembering the horrific scenes the year prior, you march on, your heart pounding you can feel your pulse in your neck. Your fear dissipates as you glance out towards the horizon to see the crowds of people, like you, who have gathered to march for their rights. It gives you hope. Hope for a future in which your grandchildren can live their truth without having to fear for their lives, or have their dignity stripped from them. As the crowd gathers to speak words of strength, resilience, hope and resistance. Your dreams for the future grow, and you feel a smile spread across your face as you witness what has been born out of the ashes of tragedy. 

Feeling inspired, you gain the courage to step out of the mass and walk up towards the podium to address the crowd. Prepared to speak your monologue of wisdom, you are met with harsh resistance and audible “booing”. You feel the fear rise in your chest as you assume that the authority has once again arrived to strip you of your right to your voice. However, when you look up into the crowd, you realize that it is your community of brothers and sisters laughing you off the stage. Your fear turns to anger as you reconcile with the fact that these people, the people who are meant to be your closest allies, feel as though you threaten their fight for equality. It is at this moment you are split into two. A minority within a minority. Pushed further towards the margins of the page. There is no space for you here. Before you can even think, you hear your voice echo “Y’all better quiet down! I’ve been trying to get up here all day, for your gay brothers, and your gay sisters in jail that write me every week! I have been beaten! I have had my nose broken! I have lost my job! I have lost my apartment!” Silence.

Decades later, it is better than you ever could have imagined. Though still fighting for freedom, your community is finally being recognized and included, in both the law and society. People like you now have access to life-saving gender-affirming healthcare. You witness the election of non-binary politicians and transgender mayors and judges. You finally see yourself represented and the path to fairness is aglow with optimism and hope for a brighter future for yourself, and the generations that will follow.

Time goes by and now the year is 2023. You can see your grandson, standing in a crowd of people chanting in unison “Hate has no home here!” You look across the street and are met with intense frowns and loud shouting. These people are holding signs protesting inclusive sex education, the freedom of gender expression, and most prominently, access to gender-affirming healthcare. That’s when you look back at your grandson to see tears streaming down his face, a look of utter despair, hopelessness, and desperation in his eyes. You see his look of devastation as he comes to terms with the prospect that the people who have always known him as a boy, may soon watch him undergo a female puberty as his body and his government betray him. “These people are questioning his very existence, as he stands right there,” you think to yourself. They are protesting his right to be here, his right to freedom, to autonomy, to make his own decisions, to become a healthy adult. The right of his friends and classmates to learn about experiences like his, so that they can better understand him and so that they can preach acceptance to their future children. How hurtful it must be for him to hear people say that their biggest fear is that their children may one day end up like him. How absolutely crippling.

You feel as though your soul has been crushed. You see your own struggle reflected decades later. “We have always been here,” you think to yourself. You’ve taken one step forward and they've pushed you two steps back. They gave you your voice, you thought they let you have it, so you let its beautiful sound echo. They let you have your voice, but now they complain it's far too loud. You are so tired. You can feel it, you can see it in the eyes of your beloved grandbaby. You can see it on the faces of the children, not those standing next to your grandson, but those in a wagon being pulled by a woman on the other side of the street, holding a sign that reads “Protect our Kids.” Despite the exhaustion, you know you cannot give up. He cannot give up. Neither can his children. You’ve worked too hard. You’ve lost too many brave souls who rest in power, in the face of violence. You’ve come too far. So you stand there, just stand there. And so does he, and so will they. Because deep down you know that presence is power. The simple act of taking up space moves mountains and it's far too late to turn back now. You have your voice, and you know you’ll be damned if you can’t keep it.