Campus Engagement

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."