There are very few instances in which I feel as if I have
truly made a difference within my community. It’s not that what I do doesn’t
mean anything, but that if I have no experiences to base what I am doing off
of, I can’t connect personally. Mid semester I accepted that I was transgender
and not gay. I felt as is if masculine pronouns didn’t quiet fit and I realized
the embarrassment I feel due to certain parts of my body wasn’t supposed to be.
The turn around from the moment I accepted what made me different to openly and
proudly expressing it was short and allowed for me to help friends who have
been struggling with that I took for granted by the little amount of time I
needed.
The UCF
student body has been receptive and understanding of my newfound identity and
has done nothing but support me. For that, I’m thankful. Over these past few
weeks I have grown with and in front of people who have seen the positive that
has come from it. In consequence to this, I was approached by a person who I am
lucky to call a friend and asked if I would speak at their ‘Transgender Day of
Remembrance’ candlelight vigil to honor the lives that have been lost from
homicide due to disgust with and misunderstanding of the transgender community.
This event of which was put on by LGBTQ services was one of many that were
taking place across the world.
Speaking at
such an event was one of the most humbling experiences of my life. Looking out
into the crowd, seeing everyone gathered together in the cold in honor of those
who have passed brought tears to my eyes. Issues like the ones that this
memorial addresses truly hit home with me and solidified what I want to do. I
want to be an advocate and activist for the Trans* community in addition to
being a family psychologist for those with Trans* kids, spouses and family
members in general.
Later that
night my facebook was flooded with messages of thanks, gratitude and praise and
I finally felt like I made a difference—I felt like the reason I was put on
this earth was finally validated. I realized that giving a speech about
something I was totally and utterly passionate about came naturally to me and I
look forward to being able continue doing this in the future.
Word Count: 411
My speech was as follows....
"When I was first asked to speak at this
year’s Day of Remembrance, I wasn’t sure what I was going to say or why I was
asked in the first place. I’m relatively new to this—I started this school year
thinking I preferred masculine pronouns, my name was still Nicholas and I still
considered myself to be gay. I wasn’t comfortable that way, but I made due. It
was only until about mid semester that I said those three words that answered
the burning question as to why I am never seemed to be content with myself no
matter what I did; “I am transgender.”
I used to fight a
war against the mirror until I recently realized that it was more painful to
stay enclosed within my flower bud than it was to blossom. Blindly, I let go of
everything I knew and hoped to God my hands would find there way to the hope I
needed to carry on. Thankfully I found that hope, and in doing so I learned
that it is in the darkest of times that your eyes can truly see. I learned a
lot about myself in these last few months and am fortunate enough to come to
the realization that acceptance was the only way for true happiness.
If
there is one thing I know about myself it’s that no matter the topic at hand, I
seem to always look at it from a different angle. Usually on a night like this
you hear speeches containing messages about hope, change and progress—this is
not one of those speeches. You would hear speeches about a need for educating
the general public or to be out and proud so that people know we are here. This
is not going to be one of those speeches either. We are all here with reasons
to be hopeful and we are here to celebrate the lives of those who have passed, but
we also have different things we must address.
Each
year the names of those who have lost there lives are read, and their stories
told as we recognize the injustices done unto them for being, or appearing to
be, trans. We recognize those whose stories we do not know and those whose
names we will never know. However, the names of which we read belong only to a
small group of victims within our community. Rarely do we talk about the
largest group of victims—those who are still with us.
Violence is a
conniving thing. It doesn’t need to involve fists, bullets or bruises to make
people take their own lives. It happens every day. Those who are overwhelmed from
pain and suffering—those who are driven to the breaking point by cruelty and
intolerance—are just as much victims as the names of those you will hear
tonight.
Far
too often we don’t think about what we are going to say until we can’t take it
back. We use the wrong pronouns, we don’t use the correct name. I may be
recently out, but already, whenever someone misgenders me by using “He” or
calls me Nicholas instead of Nicki, a part of me looses hope that I will ever
be the female I was meant to be. The light at the end of the tunnel that used
to seem so close, looks further away.
There are people
in my life that simply refuse to use the correct pronouns when talking about me
or the correct name because it is an inconvenience to them. They don’t wish to
make an effort or even to acknowledge the fact that what they are doing to me
is so emotionally taxing it’s a struggle for me to keep my emotions hidden. So
to all of those here tonight who do not fall under the Trans* category—be it
homosexual, heterosexual, bisexual, pansexual, omnisexual—you have cisgender
privilege; don’t abuse it. Know that what you say influences the actions of
those within the trans community and that your words could easily translate
into one more name needing to be read next year.
When
you really take time to look at the trans community, you will see that we are
no different than our cisgendered counterparts—there is equally as much
distain, misunderstanding and hatred for our community, as there is within it.
This person was cast out because they don’t want the surgery we had. That
person is shunned because they non-op. He becomes a part of the out-group for
looking too trans, she is left out because she has passing privilege. Nobody
talks to him because he doesn’t want hormones. Those people are seen as lesser
because they genderqueer, genderfluid, or agendered.
We
blame people outside of our community for suicide when in reality our own hands
aren’t as clean as we think. Disrespecting people, isolating and making them
feel worthless contributes to suicide and all
of that can be found in our community. Is it right to demand respect from
others when we can’t even respect our communal family? No matter if it is said
behind their back or openly to them, think about things you say too your communal
members and ask yourself what if; what if they took their lives tonight? How
would you feel? We spend too much of our time tearing each other down for this
or that. There are far to few of us to survive that kind of division.
We
are all individual cogs in this figurative clock of progress. Only when meshed
together completely can the hands of time move forward into a more accepting future.
Being a community doesn’t mean we all need to like each other nor does it mean
we have to agree about everything. But
what it does mean is this. It means we need to acknowledge the legitimacy of
every person’s life. It means there needs to be an understanding that every
voice, no matter how small, deserves a chance to be heard. It means respecting those
around us and those whose names you will hear tonight for loosening their grip
on the familiar and seemingly secure enough to embrace the new and unknown.
One. That’s what
we are. We are one community, one people, one world. We have one thing in
common—we are human. And as humans we need to realize every soul is as valid as
the next. The people around you, they are no better than you; they carry no
more significance than you do. Suicide takes too many of those souls away from
us, and for those who are left here, we carry scars on our hearts. There are people who are struggling to hang on
right now. Some of those people are here with us tonight, and others aren’t
because it is too hard for them to walk out the front door. Either way. They are all victims—don’t let
them be a memory we must call on.
We may have
different ideals and beliefs but no matter our morals, we are all a part of
this community. If you are a victim I want you to know I feel stronger knowing
I’m not alone on this path to equality. I want you to know that you add value
to this world—a value no other individual could ever replace. Stay strong;
every war must come to an end. We can all be survivors. But if eventually the
pain becomes too much to bear and you cant seem to hold on any longer, loosing
you would break my heart. And I know I’m not the only one here who feels that
way. So, I would like everyone here who
feels remotely the way I do—any of you would be destroyed by the loss of anyone
of your peers here tonight—to raise your fist in solidarity to show your
community you care and that they are not alone in this fight."
