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By Gee Imaan Semmalar
It is a recent development that the word “transgender” has made its way into common usage in India as an umbrella term to describe various gender-variant identities. Though there are many local terms to refer to trans feminine gender identities—aravani, kinnar, hijra, thirunangai, mangalamukhi and others—the term “transgender” is increasingly being used in state policies as well as by activists. Scholars Susan Stryker and Paisley Currah explain, “Because transgender can be imagined to include all possible variations from an often unstated norm, it risks becoming yet another project of colonization, a kind of Cartesian grid imposed on the globe for making sense of human diversity by measuring it within a Eurocentric frame of reference, against a Eurocentric standard.”
On one hand, globalized activism, NGOs, the classification regimes created by the state for administrative control, and the pressures felt by gender-variant communities to make themselves legible (in order to access state benefits) form the politics that have popularized the term “transgender.”
On the other hand, there is a particular way in which some trans activists rely on Hindu epics to prove that gender variance has always existed—to counter criticisms of homosexuality and gender variance being “western imports.”
Some of the local terms like “aravani” , in fact, are derived from Hindu myths. While this is a result of an unfair burden of proof imposed on vulnerable communities, relying on Hindu myths to affirm our identities gives rise to another danger—of a regressive kind of trans identity politics that does not take into account the brutality of the caste system that finds its origin and sanction in the same Hindu religion.
Caste is a system of vertical social stratification based on exclusion and violence, and intrinsically linked to Hinduism and its notions of purity and pollution. According to it, caste is transmitted intergenerationally, and occupations and social status are fixed based on caste. For the caste system to perpetuate itself, people are required to marry only endogamously (within one’s caste). Similar to the anti-miscegenation laws that were practised in the U.S. until the Supreme Court declared them unconstitutional in 1967, the caste system even today enacts a stringent punishment on those who defy the rules of endogamy.
Anti-caste revolutionary and leader, Dr B.R Ambedkar, historically places the system of sati, child marriage and compulsory widowhood as mechanisms to maintain caste endogamy. According to his formulation, when a woman and a man marry endogamously, and one dies before the other, it creates the problem of the surplus man / surplus woman. Now, after the death of the husband, the surplus woman becomes a threat to endogamy and caste morality if she loves or cohabitates with a person of a different caste. So, the practice of sati, in which the woman burns herself on the funeral pyre of the husband, was created. To prevent the husband from outliving the wife (which would result in the “problem” of the surplus man), compulsory widowhood or marriages of older men to younger women/girls was promoted. Many inter-caste couples who defy the rules of caste endogamy have been and continue to be expelled from families, made to flee, and often, brutally murdered.
I strongly believe that our movements for gender justice compulsorily have to be anti-caste. Apart from the fact that anyone with a sense of justice and equality should do everything to destroy the caste system, there are various ways in which the violence faced by trans communities are rooted in the caste system.
It is a fact that many trans women across castes are disowned by their families, or leave their homes due to violence and join trans/hijra families, which work in a matrilineal (from the mother) system. The 1881 imperial census classified the hijras in Berar, under the title “hijada” and included them under the category of a “Mendicant and Vagrant Caste” whereas in Bombay, they were listed as a caste of dancers and musical instrument players. In Central Provinces, the hijras were included under the caste category of singers and dancers at birth and marriage feasts; beggars.
Whether it is British colonial records, media, court judgments, Hindu myths, modern day cinema, academic writings or social movements, the trans person is a figure who is hyper sexualized, overdetermined by gender characteristics/expression who is engaged in immoral activities and who is to be relegated to the peripheries: the perpetual “other” against whom public decency and caste morality could be constructed, reinforced and perpetuated.
Most narratives of family violence are rooted in the shame that families feel when their kids are trans. Shame and respectability in the Indian context are entirely linked with caste. I have often wondered why most trans men across caste stay with their families longer than trans women. The reasons could be the difficulties in establishing financial independence, the increased control and anxiety over our sexual safety and choices and the fact that masculinity as a trait is more revered than femininity, which is generally seen as a weakness when expressed by a person of any gender. So as a kid, I grew up hearing my relatives say with pride about me, “You know, she can do anything a boy does and at most times, even better.” Many years later, I have wondered whether they would have taken pride if I had been raised as a boy and expressed femininity.
There are many exclusions that trans people face in health care, education, employment and more, all of which which are compounded by factors of caste, class and ability. In the third world, apart from government hospitals lacking trans-specific health care services, privatisation of health care makes the cost exorbitant and the culpability under medical negligence laws minimal. Since trans people constitute a group that is neither numerically large nor in possession of much buying power, very minimal funds are allotted to trans-specific medical research. This results in poor knowledge about trans health care even among medical professionals. It is common knowledge that historically until now, a significantly smaller amount is spent on cis women's health and research than on that of cis men. Thus, compared to cis people, hardly any money or attention is given to trans people; our lives don't seem to matter to governments or medical institutions
What is the most accessible trans surgery globally? Breast augmentation. Why? Because, in a hetero-pornographic sexual division, cis men want cis women to have . Tbigger breasts. And so, a small number of trans women are able to access a surgical intervention designed for maximising the pleasure of cis men and reclaim it to affirm their own gender identity.
Most trans women in India either beg or do sex work for a living. This could be because most of them are rendered homeless at a young age and drop out of schools. The possibility of continuing education within the hijra family is minimal due to financial and social reasons. Add to that the fact that most cis people are prejudiced. They fear or mock trans women (this is a common representation of trans women in most regional and national cinema) and are not willing to employ them.
As my sister Living Smile Vidya says, “Begging and sex work have become almost like fixed caste occupations for trans women in India.” The only other jobs are provided by NGOs which depend on HIV funding and retain feudal power structures of having cis, dominant caste people at the decision-making level in high salaried posts with trans women from lower caste backgrounds working in low-paid positions as condom distributors or community mobilisers. Having said that, the fact that NGOs provide a semblance of dignity in employment where a trans woman can work in an office rather than face public and police harassment doing street-based labour cannot be denied.
In November 2014, 53 trans women were rounded up by the police in Bangalore city under the Karnataka Prohibition of Beggary Act, 1975. Trans women who were in any public place were rounded up regardless of whether they were begging or not and forcibly taken to an infamous rehabilitation home called Beggar's colony. Just as certain tribes were deemed criminal in the British colonial period, the entire trans community is targeted and criminalised under various laws like the one mentioned before, the Karnataka Police Act 36 (A), the Immoral Trafficking Prevention Act (which in practise, criminalises all women in sex trade and not just traffickers) the public indecency and public nuisance provisions etc. Trans women are seen as a “polluting” presence along with other marginalised communities that do street vending and other street-based labour. Public indecency and the notion of immorality are concepts intrinsically linked to caste patriarchy.
The rejection of endogamous reproductive function by trans people means an abdication of the reproduction of caste relations and labour force making us lesser citizens of the Brahmin empire/Indian nation state. I opened my heart and mind to the possibilities of creating families outside of heteropatriarchy and caste endogamy after I started living among trans communities. Trans communities have a familial system in which sisterhood across caste is possible and often practised. There are of course, caste practices and differences among trans communities, however the collective experience of being disowned by families, structural exclusions in employment, education and housing create at the very minimum, the possibility of a strong sense of belonging and “consciousness of kind”. I have seen trans women raise orphaned babies into strong, beautiful people. My most beloved trans brother was raised by his trans mother. I am inspired by so many such stories of resilience, courage, love and beauty. On the most depressing days I just think about how privileged I am, and how much harder I need to fight to destroy systems that oppress me and systems that benefit me
Nina Simone when asked in an interview about what freedom meant to her said, “lack of fear.” I believe we all need to fight until every single one of us can say, “I have no fear. This is what freedom feels like.”
 In the Mahabharata it was prophesied that the Pandavas would win the battle of Kurukshetra only if they sacrificed a ‘perfect’ male from among themselves. Aravan, the virgin son of Pandava prince Arjuna, offered himself up for sacrifice. But he had a request: that he be allowed to spend one night as a married man. No king was willing to give his daughter in marriage only to have her widowed the next day, so finally, Lord Krishna assumed female form and married Aravan, and after a night of sexual bliss, Aravan was beheaded. Some trans women in Tamil Nadu consider themselves to be the female form of Krishna and perform widowhood as Aravanis at the Koovagam festival conducted every year.
Gee Imaan Semmalar is a 29 year old writer, trans activist and theatre artist from India. He co-founded Panmai theatre along with Living Smile Vidya and Angel Glady in 2014 and toured extensively in India and internationally with their debut production Colour of Trans 2.0. He works voluntarily as a working group member of Sampoorna, the largest network for trans* and intersex Indians globally. He scripted, directed and acted in Kalvettukal (Sculptures, 2012) on Trans men in South India. Recently, he co-directed and acted in a stop motion animation film, "Won't the Real Transformers Please Stand up?” He can be reached at email@example.com
If you haven’t noticed, the Transgender Train has definitely left the station. Transgender people are now featured in magazines, television shows, books, websites—you name it. And yet, for some of us, it can start to feel overwhelming.
After all, it’s not like we were taught what any of this gender stuff meant when we were growing up. And it’s true that a lot has changed in a short amount of time. How can we be expected to keep up?
We are living through an age of unprecedented visibility for trans people—on the news, in TV shows. It’s a time of cautious possibility, a time of uneasy fear.
Visibility is powerful. Representation of trans folks in the mainstream makes real the possibility of our lives. Visibility shines a light on others’ paths, saying, yes, you can walk here too.
When I began my transition from female to male in high school, I was prepared for the worst. Horror stories of rampant bullying, hostile teachers, and bigoted administrators filled my head. Why would I expect anything else? All I had ever heard was that being trans in school was hell. When the school year began, I headed into the classroom anticipating a war.
With the new school year just around the corner, we are getting more and more inquiries about the best way to talk about gender identity in the classroom.
The past few years have seen an exponential rise in the visibility of transgender people, particularly in popular media. Many such representations have done the work of showing transgender people in a positive (or at least neutral) light, taking down some of the stereotypes about us that have prevailed for decades.
Last week, we shared current trans leaders’ reactions to the election results and their inspiring words of solidarity and encouragement. This week, as we recognize Trans Day of Remembrance, we pause to remember the generations of trans leaders who came before us. Whatever ability we have to embody our genders authentically and survive in the face of oppression is directly tied to the work they did, in their individual lives and on a collective level.
It’s been inspiring to be here—a meeting of wonderful minds interested in health, spirituality, sex, and most importantly, what it means to live authentically.
In light of the recent election results, many cisgender people have reached out to me to ask what they can do to help support me and other members of my community.
With threats to reverse policies that have made it easier than ever for trans people to change their gender markers on federal IDs, to overturn Obama’s recent directive demanding schools allow trans people to use bathrooms that align with their gender, to enact state and federal anti-transgender legislation, and to repeal the Affordable Care Act, trans people, like so many other minorities, are increasingly concerned for our safety and well-being.
The recent election results have shaken me and many of my loved ones right down to our glittery, queer boots—and for good reason. There is a red House, red Senate, a white nationalist president with a conversion therapy-promoting sidekick to look forward to come January. To top it off, Trump has vowed to repeal the Affordable Care Act (ACA) in his first one hundred days in office, which will leave many folks, especially low income trans folks, vulnerable to lapses in critical care of all kinds.
It was late one evening, and my wife and I had had a pretty rough day. She had been in physical pain all day, and we hadn’t much money left to last until payday. We were hungry, broke, exhausted and ready for a break. As we were driving, our tire blew, and it was the final straw. Our spare was already flat. We felt hopeless and didn’t know what to do. Perhaps that’s the definition of a crisis.
By Aisling Fae
In 2014, I attended my first ever Trans Day of Remembrance event. I marched with a demonstration led by the Brooklyn Community Pride Center into Manhattan. The procession broke off but most of us moved on to the LGBT Center on 14th Street where several people spoke and reflected on the importance of remembering the lives lost to transphobic violence.
From the onset of the event, something bothered me. The night started with a quote from President Obama who that year had affirmed his commitment to protect "transgender Americans." Several of the invited speakers mentioned “transgender Americans” in their statements to the crowd. After the invited speakers, members of the public were invited to go to the mic and say whatever they felt needed to be said: say the names of people they lost or air their frustrations at having to live in this world that seldom cares for transgender lives. Several non-Americans took to the stage to speak about violence they've experienced in their home countries and for the people they lost back home in countries like Argentina, Brazil, and Mexico, which also have extreme murder rates. When I was given the opportunity, I decided to speak to an issue everyone else seemed frightened to address. The issue Americans ignore—including transgender Americans—is how we’ve failed those of us who aren't American, but who live here.
I wasn't the only immigrant in the room. Cristina Herrera, a trans Latina, was the project coordinator for the Gender Identity Project, the group that planned the event. Many of us were there in force, we helped organize the event, and took care of feeding those in attendance. The trans Latinas are comprised of Latina trans women of all types of immigration statuses, including undocumented. This event would not have happened without them. Most trans organizing in New York City would not happen without Latina trans women and immigrant trans women from all over the world. So, to come and listen to people speak incessantly about "transgender Americans" and their plight was more than a little bit insulting.
I immigrated to the U.S. from the Dominican Republic in 2010. I came as a student on an F-1 Visa. I set out to immigrate to the U.S. in what conservatives call "the right way". I attempted to go through the correct process, but the process failed me. In 2014, after I graduated, I found myself in the “process” but barred by a bureaucratic slip-up. I never got the work permit that would allow me to stay. I moved back to the Dominican Republic, but by this point I realized I was a trans woman. I could not stay in the Dominican Republic where I had no support network and no real way to medically transition. And so, I moved back to the U.S.—New York City—to live with a dubious legal status.
For me, it can be challenging to listen to my community members discuss how excited they are about all the things they have access to that many of us do not. Those of us who are legally allowed to live and work in the U.S. are still not able to vote on the very issues that will affect our lives. We are forced to rely on well-meaning Americans to secure our rights. Many of us who are transgender and immigrants devote our lives to trans activism, sex work reform, anti-racist crusading. We are also helping secure the rights of people who do not in turn, think about what we are going through as immigrants.
Recently, the State of New York where I currently live passed regulations expanding Medicaid to cover several trans-related expenses, including surgeries. With a heavy heart, I've read the requirements for some exciting opportunities, scholarships, internships and job training only to be disappointed when I arrive to the condition that states, "must be a U.S. citizen, or permanent resident to apply."
Many believe that because gay marriage has become the law of the land, I can get citizenship. The fact is that the costs to immigrate through marriage, between $1000 and $3000 dollars in fees and related costs, is not an attainable option for me.
Most trans people are discriminated against when it comes to hiring and employment, but trans immigrants are not only matched with the transphobia involved in looking for work but also the struggle of finding work as an undocumented citizen. These restrictions force us into poverty and into dangerous means of survival. Trans immigrants have to turn to sex work, drug dealing, and other high-risk jobs—snubbed by the same Americans who will mourn us after we die.
Those murdered in the US in 2016 were overwhelmingly black and brown trans women. Often, they were also sex workers killed by clients. The complicated picture is that many of the same people who show up to Trans Day of Awareness are the people who seek to pass legislation outlawing or over-regulating sex work, making it more difficult for sex workers to get good help and protection and subjecting them to police violence through stringent regulation. While these laws are bad for American sex workers, they hurt immigrant sex workers all the more as they also have to worry about ICE whenever they go on the job.
On this trans day of remembrance, I’d like to ask that we recognize all that immigrant trans people do for our community and our country, and that you take a moment to consider the various ways in which you can help us and consider us. Giving us space to speak about these problems, being mindful of advocating for other issues that can unintentionally impact and hurt us, or helping us find healthcare are a few ways to support transgender immigrant people. With the looming threat of an authoritarian fascist government that openly seeks to incarcerate and deport us, we need your engagement, support and your allyship. We are immigrants, but we need to be considered as Americans—our plight must be considered. Don’t let this day pass by without thinking of our unique struggles because now more than ever we need to be remembered.
Aisling Fae is a transgender woman of colour, writer, scientist, and activist. She was born in the Dominican Republic, and now resides mostly in Brooklyn, NY, where she is a member of the trans literary scene. She sometimes lives in Berlin, Germany, where she organises spaces for trans women, and tries to foment and create a trans literary scene in the city. More of her work can be found on her website Transfaerie.com. She's on twitter @transfaerie.
In one week, on Tuesday November 8, 2016, voters all over the United States will head to the polls to cast their ballots on Election Day, but early voting has already begun in many states. Voting is a key part of maintaining our democracy and having our voices heard. Right now, it is the single most important thing we can do to change things for the better, for all of us.
On Monday, October 24, 2016, an 18-year-old transgender girl said she experienced a feeling of "nothing but love and support" when her North Carolina high school announced that she was homecoming queen. Selena Milian had recently won the popular vote for the school award at Overhills High School in Spring Lake, NC the previous week—on Friday, October 21st.
It’s believed that Selena, who is also Native American, is the first transgender homecoming queen to be crowned in the state of North Carolina.
Twenty-four years ago, in 1992, my son, Harry, told me, “Inside my head I’m a girl.” He was two years old. I had no idea what that meant. I felt disoriented even trying to process it. The internet was no help, because there was no internet. Books didn’t exist on how to raise children who didn’t fit neatly inside a box that was either pink or blue. And terms like transgender, gender nonconforming, and gender fluid were rare or nonexistent.
When I was 16 years old, I thought for sure I was a lesbian, and I came out of the closet.
What does the word ally even mean?
For one thing, it’s context-dependent. But at least within the LGBTQ “conversation,” it seems we often describe the role of ally as a friend. In the case of trans folks, we tend to talk about how a cisgender person can be a great ally by being directly supportive and understanding of a trans person.
Coming out as transgender is a very scary process—particularly when you’re in the uncertainty phase, considering thoughts like whether you’re just experimenting or feel fundamentally at odds with the gender you were assigned at birth.