"Would you like a hug?"

Trans people seeing ourselves, past, present, and future

After I saw the headlines yesterday about SCOTUS’s terrible decision in Skrmetti, I drove seven hours solo to eastern Connecticut. This was my first leg on my already-planned road trip to New England for a trans health conference in Boston, with stops to see friends before and after.

While driving, I tried to assess my mood, emotions, reactions. I’ve spent most of my life dissociated from my body, so I’m an emotional toddler in some ways. Or at least a teen. Like a lot of trans and nonbinary people right now, I feel numb, sad, angry, heartbroken, defiant.

This is my first attempt at putting anything into words. Mostly, I’ve just shared and reposted resources and messages to trans youth that it’ll be okay, we’ve got you, we’ve been here before. And it is devastating.

My memories keep floating back to a recent experience:

A few weeks ago, I told a story live on stage at the Howard Theater as part of Story District’s OUT/Spoken Pride storytelling event. Milling about before the show, I watched guests trickle in and chatted with a few. One young person walked in with an older person, perhaps their dad. They reminded me of my son; early 20s, similar long brown hair, pulled up into a bun, taller than me at about 5'10". The only big difference is that my son rocks a thick beard (I’m not jealous—you’re jealous!), while this kid had smooth cheeks. For a nanosecond, I hoped they were my son, that perhaps he’d surprised me and flown out for the show.¹

After the show, with endorphins pumping, I shook hands, smiled, and thanked people who thanked me for sharing my story and vulnerability. A hired marching band played for the audience outside. Performers and patrons danced along in the street outside the theater.

The not-actually-my-son young person approached me, head bowed a little, and with a shaking voice said how much they liked and appreciated my story. We did not shake hands; I registered the non-shake as “a person who doesn’t like touching people due to sensory sensitivities” and not “rude” or “social faux pas.” One of my people.

I realized he was a young trans masculine person, not a cis boy like I assumed from afar, and my heart jumped in my chest.

“I’m so glad you are here. What’s your name?” I said.

“E——,” they said. (I’ll leave you to guess if it was Emmett, Elliot, Everett, Emile, or Edgar.)

I smiled. They smiled.

Their demeanor reminded me of me when I was younger—timid, quiet, scared to speak, terrified of taking up space. (When I was that age, a college professor labeled me “pathologically shy.”)

“I saw you before the show,” I said. “You look like my son. You remind me so much of him,” I said.

They looked up at me, straightened their back, and smiled bigger. This comparison pleased them, I imagine, for two reasons: 1) I’d seen them as a boy immediately, and 2) the fictive father-son connection.

Behind the timidity, I saw glimmers of joy and hope shine in this kid’s eyes. Young people need to see older versions of themselves so they can see a future with them in it. This is true for trans and nonbinary people, but it is rare because we are rare. And due to stigma and discrimination, too many of us don’t make it that long.

A moment of connection burned between E—— and me. They had just heard my story of realization, desperation, suicidality, hope, and triumph.

I believe they saw in me a future version of themself.

And I saw a younger possibility of myself, a young Will that never was: a young trans man, supported and allowed to blossom into himself.

People who transitioned later in life, like me, rarely see trans kids and young people. We were trans when we were young, too, but we didn’t have the words to label it, the support from parents, nor awareness in society. And gender-affirming care for trans teens (i.e., puberty blockers) wasn’t being prescribed this way in the 1980s.²

E—— shuffled their feet; they looked like they might cry. I felt a surge of paternal nurturing.

“Can I give you a hug?” I said. They nodded with a renewed smile and light in their eyes.

I enveloped them in my arms and held them.

“It’s gonna be okay,” I said. Instinct told me they needed to hear it.

Their head on my shoulder, I felt them nod.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

1. Don’t worry, bud, I didn’t expect your presence. If I wanted you there that much, I’d have offered to fly you out.

2. Reminder that trans kids receive NO transition-related medical intervention before puberty. Once they enter puberty, puberty blockers are an option, and for older teens, hormones become an option—with parents’, doctor’s, and therapist’s approval. That’s what Tennessee’s law banned, and SCOTUS upheld.