Written yesterday afternoon, shortly after getting on the train
Just boarded the train back to Chicago and, as hoped, I have lots to reflect on. Lobbying went pretty well, which I’ll cover shortly, and networking was fantastic, which I’ll also discuss, but first I wanted to talk about a little bit of a breakdown I had last night before bed. I met another trans woman about my age in DC, who I’ll call J, and we hung out a lot the last few days. She ended up crashing at my hotel room last night, and we talked for a long time about our experiences as trans women, lobbying experiences (it was her third or fourth year at the NCTE lobbying events), and our broader lives. While we were taking, I – with expecting to and without intending to – started to cry. Which gave way to heavy, cleansing sobs.
My tears were the release of a combination of things. First, traveling is stressful. Even the train, which I really did enjoy more than flying (and hope the return trip will less stressful, with an additional pillow and some sleeping pills), wasn’t without stress. One of the things I liked about the train – the socialization – also meant that I was talking more about why I was going to DC than I might be while flying. And since I didn’t get a ton of sleep, and my seat-mate was (as I mentioned) a bit much. On top of that, running around – meeting people, meetings, listening to the TSA being stupid, and then of course the lobbying itself – was very draining, both physically and emotionally. And the lobbying brought to the surface that I, like 26% of trans folks, had been fired because of who I am. Bringing that up, even if it made my story that much more effective to legislators, was surprisingly raw. But as I lay there crying, talking with J, I realized a some of my tears were from a feeling of having found a community of like-minded trans people, only to lose it almost instantly.
A search for community shouldn’t strike anyone who is a regular reader as something unusual. For a while now, I’ve been making an effort (sometimes greater, sometimes lesser) to find other queer – and particularly trans – people my age in Chicago. People my age who are like me, by which I mean at least somewhat similar age, background, education level, socio-economic status. I’m not saying my friends and I have to have those things in common, but it’s harder to build bridges with someone whose life history is so different from my own. And I was exceptionally relieved to see that there were so many other young trans folks, in their twenties or thirties, at the conference. I admit, I haven’t done a ton of looking in Chicago, but my preliminary efforts haven’t turned up such a great group of people who I could see casually hanging out with, and with whom I’d love to develop friendships.
And then, as quickly as the community was formed, it disappeared when the conference was over.
The title of this post comes from part of the discussion J and I had. I said that, in spite of my work as an educator and performer and activist, in spite of my five visits with lobbyists earlier that day, in spite of knowing that I’m an effective and occasionally eloquent speaker, I felt like I didn’t live up to some of the trans activists I was meeting. That I had a hard time imagining the conference organizers, these strong trans men and women I’d been meeting, going home after a day of lobbying and bursting into tears.
J replied, “Of course they do. Or, if they don’t any more, they did once upon a time.” She’s undoubtedly correct. I bet most of the folks I met at the conference wouldn’t believe that I went back to my hotel and cried, because I kept myself together where and when it counted. And I certainly needed the emotional release.
So maybe activists do to cry.
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