I’m often asked ‘but what can we do?’ by exasperated people in my comment section looking for an answer; a place to put their anger and turn it into action. Some weeks I’m asked about this in the context of violence against women, other weeks it’s aimed at the Tory government, sometimes it’s a vague gestation at the world around us.
Yesterday I received a DM from someone asking how they can be a better ally to trans people.
I am not trans. I am not an expert in allyship as it is not something I think can be self-crowned, but I do try hard every day to improve as an ally to different marginalised groups and show up. My main advice? Listen and look to the people who are coming from a place of lived experience and authority. In this vein, I wanted to do a special newsletter with some resources from trans and GNC folk. Their work is invaluable, and we must pay attention:
Bee creates beautiful art and resources. This illustrated infographic is digestible and useful. Please share it far and wide. They list the following advice:
Use people’s correct pronouns.
Speak out against transphobia (online and IRL).
Join protests, sign petitions, and amplify campaigns where possible.
Talk to friends & family about the importance of standing up for trans rights.
Listen to, and learn from the trans+ community. There are so many educators and resources online.
Support trans+ creators.
Shon Faye’s The Transgender issue: An Argument for Justice
Shon’s book is vital reading. It’s an overview of the systemic violence and discrimination trans people face in Britain today – from access to healthcare, to poverty and homelessness –that asks and outlines what it will take for trans people to achieve true liberation. In the book’s prologue she writes: “The liberation of trans people would improve the lives of everyone in our society. We ought to seek justice – for ourselves and others alike.”
The entire book is now available on Spotify for those with a premium membership.
Travis Alabanza’s None of the Above: Reflections on Life Beyond the Binary
This is another book that I think should be required reading. Below is an extract, that I hope will inspire you to go to your local library asap.
‘What the fuck is that on your face?’
The shopkeeper, who has been at my local shop all my life, asks me this, in the middle of a busy store full of my community. Mothers, aunties, school friends, the girl who is always on her phone, the guy who works in the laundrette, who two years later I will suck off in the back room.
I grew up in one of those council estates where the corner shop is also the church, the meeting place, the babysitter, the vets, the hangout spot and the exchange centre all in one. The corner shop, in a place where the nearest grocery store is over 15-minutes’ walk, becomes a well-populated cross-section.
I have not been back to my council estate in years, and if I was more invested in the accuracy of this imagery than my own mental health, I would have walked back there for writing this book. I always thought I would. I imagined a cinematic homecoming where I return to take notes on the place I spent the first 18 years of my life. Dressed in a chic investigator’s outfit, I would ignore how hard that return may feel, so I could describe accurately how the bricks were more of a rusty brown than a bright orange. Or how the bus stop pole had a bit of graffiti that said ‘batty boy’ on it that you could not miss.
But unfortunately, I cannot do that. Maybe it is resentment, or fear, or something I haven’t yet identified – but there are too many things blocking me from returning. In my memory, it still looks like every other council estate you have seen. Maybe on my return I could have found the specific red within the brick, or remembered which letter was sometimes missing on the bus stop sign, or the particular mixture of smells that came through the neighbouring gardens.
There were the essential pillars holding up the shape of our council estate: a corner shop, a chippy and a green that I used to play on as a kid until I became too feminine to feel safe to do that. It took an hour to get into the centre of town, on a bus that would try to run every 30 minutes but would always be late. The estate housed a mixture of Black, South Asian and white families – in varying degrees of poverty – and the odd family that had been promised this area would be the next up and coming thing, which of course never happened.
We owned our council house, because my dad had bought it for us before he left. I think he fell into the category of people who thought the area would become something. Yet without a dad in the picture, and just Mum working as a receptionist to support two kids, we now sat in the varying degrees of poverty bracket that enclosed the estate.
‘What the fuck is that on your face?’
I remember I am 15 now. I am embracing the richness of my colourful paint. I am real. This is my corner shop, like it’s everyone else’s.
‘It’s lipstick. I bought it with my own money.’
He says the next phrase almost without missing a beat. Without any pause to remember he knows my mother, my neighbour, my school friends, the girl who is always on her phone, the guy who works in the laundrette, who two years later I will suck off in the back room.
‘This ain’t a thing we do round here, son.’
I have to pause, to make sure I have heard it right. I cannot believe a man I have known for so long would say this to me, in front of everyone. I am yet to be of an age where a man’s betrayal is like the background score to my life. Status works differently on estates, and I am working hard to try and survive the increasing number of heckles I receive whilst waiting for the bus, or the growing rumours that I am going into town to go to gay bars. It has been working because – until this point – no adults have been involved, which equals my mum not knowing any of this is happening. The ‘this’ here meaning other people’s anger, not my own identity.
I am not worried about my mum reacting to my queerness, more that she has enough on her plate to worry about, without adding my safety to it, so I have always assured her there is no danger with a confidence I have learned to perform – one that exudes ‘I am absolutely in control’. Secrecy, in my eyes, equals safety – and this shopkeeper saying this phrase feels anything other than secret.
‘This ain’t a thing we do round here, son.’
Downloadable resources and articles are a good place to start, too. Like the below:
And, of course, depending on your means you can show your support financially. I’m told the best support is on an individual basis- donating to someone’s crowdfunder.
Channel your anger into productivity. Into doing. Into learning, educating others and being vocal.