Transcriber: Eema Zaidi Reviewer: David DeRuwe
22 years ago, I went through a gender transition.
For the decade that followed,
fear drove me to put a great deal of effort
into hiding that specific part of my history.
I feared that knowledge of this would lead to unemployment
or, at best, hinder my career progression.
In the doctor’s office, I withheld this information
for fear of disrespectful or refusal of treatment.
My social identity was a delicate act that I played out
for fear of being treated differently or excluded.
I also presented a heavily curated version of myself to romantic suitors
to avoid being fetishized or experiencing other forms of violence.
Keeping my secret was emotionally taxing and damaging to my self-esteem.
Despite this, as a naturally private person,
I planned to live this way indefinitely, relying on daily alcohol to unwind.
One single action caused me to consider a new way forward.
Without my consent, my past was broadcast on social media
with specific negative language used to alienate me from my online friends.
I felt betrayed.
My right to choose how and when
to disclose this deeply personal information
had been taken away from me.
I was also terrified of unknowable consequences.
This situation occurred for the same reason I lived in hiding:
the world’s stereotyped view of transgender people
as revolting, deceitful predators, unworthy of love.
When my personal information was distributed,
I possessed a tool that I could use to fight this stereotype .
That tool was intentional storytelling, known also as a “parable” or “fable.”
Intentional storytelling goes beyond entertainment
to convey a specific moral lesson or belief.
My introduction to the concept was in the church where I was raised.
Although I didn’t personally connect with Bible stories,
I could see their value.
I found this method of conveying ideas easier than standard conversation,
so I quickly learned to create my own stories.
As my sense of identity evolved, so did my storytelling ability.
With the motivation and writing skills required to take back my narrative,
I began to share my story.
The process revealed truths about my place in the world,
which, in turn, allowed me to build deeper connections for a better life,
though at a cost.
It is important to note
that I received a lot of hate for doing so,
but for two reasons, I will not focus on that hate in this talk:
The pain it would cause me is not worth any potential benefit,
and at this time in history,
there is a more pressing need for positive stories and role models.
I started out by making YouTube videos,
so that people could see and hear me as a woman first
before learning of my less typical journey.
In the videos, I offered very little information
because I was still the very private person
who had lived most of her life in secret.
Essentially, I told the audience that I’d been through a gender transition,
it was none of their business,
and they should treat me as a typical woman.
Unfortunately, my videos raised more questions than they answered.
Growing tired of viewers expressing curiosity,
I took down the videos and attempted to return to my former secretive life.
Over the course of a few months,
it became apparent that it was no longer possible for me
to live as I had before.
In both my social life and at work,
I was continually approached with questions
by people with secondhand information about my gender history.
Then it happened while I was drinking socially with colleagues after work:
In my drunken state,
I allowed my accumulated anger to be released unfiltered.
Fearing a future of similar drunken reactions or worse,
I decided to take back my story
and answer the questions I have been asked most frequently.
With an extensive number of questions to answer,
I abandoned videos in favor of an open letter.
I carefully considered the specific language I used
and mentally prepared myself for possible backlash.
I also gave thought to the boundaries I wanted to create and enforce.
At first, I shared the letter only with a select audience
that I knew would respond well.
I progressively widened the audience
until the letter was available, public, to anyone at any time to stumble across.
As my audience widened, I was frustrated to be faced with even deeper questions.
It became apparent that, although they now had a guide to being respectful,
many people still couldn’t understand how it felt to grow up
with a gender that was different from their sex assigned at birth.
It also became apparent that people wanted to understand.
With so much already out in the open,
it seemed a small step forward
to write a detailed, first person novella of my early life.
It was painful to write about the cause of shame and ridicule,
but for the purpose, it felt worthwhile.
For many readers of my newly published memoir,
I was the only known point of contact
for related information, advice, and support.
What this meant
was that I became inundated with social media messages
or from people who wanted me to inform, advise, or support them.
For a while, I tried to help everyone who asked;
however, I soon realized there would always be someone who was willing for me
to prioritize their time and energy over mine.
To salvage some privacy and avoid burnout,
I was able to use intentional storytelling
to articulate healthy boundaries to an audience who didn’t understand
the cumulative emotional toll of their requests.
Years passed, and negative responses to my identity decreased,
yet my emotional response to any mention of the topic
was still as if I was being ridiculed.
Reflecting on my intentional stories,
I realized a pervasive message taken on in childhood
that had been affirmed through books and other forms of media.
Transgender characters were depicted as morally wrong, broken, or disgusting.
I saw nothing of romance, but plenty of dehumanizing sexual content.
Their trauma-filled stories ended
either with a stealthy transition or premature death.
The message I took from this
was that I could only live a good life if I hid my trans identity.
Acknowledging this allowed me to purposefully tell new stories
to directly oppose this message.
My stories also highlighted
a power imbalance that existed in every relationship in my life.
Trying to make up for my identity,
I realized I’d been supercharging any behavior, interest, or self-expression
that I thought was feminine and actively moderating the masculine.
Little by little, I've made changes to find my best fit.
I ditched my heels to live in boots,
my handbag to carry a backpack,
and no longer felt pressured to attend gendered social events
or modify my appearance to meet a standard that aligns with someone else’s values.
There have been far greater benefits, though.
After my gender transition,
there were people who caused me to stress in every interaction
because they couldn’t understand who I was,
and they were not open to learning.
The way I’ve shared my story allowed me to build a solid support network of people
who understand and respect me as a whole person.
In terms of health care,
for many years I convinced myself that my gender history had no relevance.
Writing intentionally about this aspect of life
helped me realize that I lacked the medical education to make this call.
These days, my regular doctors are equipped with my full story.
I understand that if it is ever relevant, there will be no time lost,
no stress added, as I work out when and how best to disclose this information.
Just three years ago, I had the courage and self-awareness required
to write an authentic dating app bio.
It included my history of gender transition
as just one of many small pieces that came together
to create a complete human being that is a sober, bubbly,
compassionate storyteller who loves dressmaking
and lived for years without fixed address as a pet sitter.
This helped draw in a partner who learned to love and respect me as a whole person.
We were also able to use intentional storytelling
to introduce me to their family in a way that answered potential questions
and articulated firm boundaries for discussion of my gender.
Having held the long term belief
that I could either be loved or open about my past,
this unexpected benefit of love
was worth every associated cost of telling my story.
If there’s a single idea I’d like you to take from this talk,
it’s that intentional storytelling has the power to counter bias perception
and build deeper connections to improve your life.
The stories we see, hear, and tell reinforce perception of us,
not just by others but also ourselves.
If you are often misunderstood,
I urge you to examine how people like you are represented in stories.
If you are not represented, consider this:
representation begins with someone telling theirs.
And if you are misrepresented, with many people using intentional storytelling,
representation will improve.
Thank you.
(Applause)