The Day I Realized I Was Stealth
The cost of being seen as a man
Accidentally Stealth
“Hey, are you trans or are you like…gay?”
I blinked my eyes at the older woman standing in front of me at the checkout line, caught off guard by her question as I felt all eyes on me from random strangers within the vicinity. Here I was, standing in line at Trader Joe’s with a basket full of groceries wearing my Trans Justice Initiative t-shirt, a gift from the Human Rights Campaign for completing their leadership program.
My mind raced, trying to figure out what to say. It had been years since I’d been put on the spot because of my trans identity.
Should I lie and say I’m gay?
Dare I tell the truth?
I cleared the lump in my throat, responding to her question calmly.
“Yes, I am trans.”
Judging by her next statement, she must have realized (too late) that the question drew unwanted attention towards me, her next words calculated as she pointed to my shirt, “I ask because it says TRANS on your shirt.”
I curved my lips into a half-smile in response, hoping that would be the end of it. As the line moved along, the woman followed up with another question, “Are you gay or straight?”
I shook my head and said, “No, I’m pansexual. That means I love everyone and anyone, regardless of gender.” She tilted her head, confused, as she asked me if that was another name for bisexual. Before I knew it, I was thrust into an impromptu discussion on pansexuality, holding space for the subtle nuances of sexual attraction and gender identity. As an example, I shared an experience where I dated a non-binary person for the first time back in 2017, not pressuring myself to label my sexuality. I just let things unfold naturally.
As we inched closer to the front of the line, the conversation ended when a staff member separated us into two separate lines. I moved over to the line on the right side, making a point to avoid the woman’s gaze so as to not invite further conversation.
Once I got to the cash register, the cashier glanced at my shirt and simply said, “I like your shirt.” as she scanned the items in my basket.
I smiled back, grinning from ear to ear.
“Thank you.”
The Aftermath
As I walked out with my groceries, the weight of the conversation stayed with me. It triggered something that had been nagging me for the last 5 years: my visibility. Or rather, how I became invisible.
Ever since then, I couldn’t stop replaying memories of my transition journey—trying to pinpoint the exact moment where I had started to pass as a man everywhere.
While I couldn’t pinpoint exactly when that happened, one thing was certain: I was stealth.
In public, I am only seen as a cisgender man.
Don’t get me wrong, passing is a goal for some transgender people, whether for safety reasons or otherwise, but it wasn’t exactly my goal. Not anymore, at least.
I remember the days of myself, in my early 20s, rushing to change my legal name on all my documents and wishing for a full beard so I could stop being misgendered and not have my trans identity define my entire life.
But now, nearly eleven years later, I feel a quiet disconnection from the very community that once held and nurtured me. Unless I’m wearing trans-affirming apparel or someone recognizes me from social media, people usually assume I’m a cisgender ally.
It all makes sense now.
The transition milestones, moments of me wearing rainbow paraphernalia at Pride events and meeting other transmasculine people who started testosterone around the same time as me, they have all faded into memory. And while I still attend queer and trans events, I’ve noticed how cisgender allies greet me differently than they greet my more visibly queer friends.
The face in the mirror, reflecting back the unmistakable image of a Hispanic man with a full beard, has erased my trans identity and replaced it with male privilege. I was no longer the reflection of the everyday trans person.
Sitting with this realization, questions linger:
How will I move forward in my activism, knowing that my trans identity isn’t obvious to most people?
How can I use my privileges to better advocate and fight for my community?
If the world only sees me as a man and not a transgender person, how do I remind them (and myself) of the journey that brought me here?
How do I use that invisibility as a tool to uplift those who still need to be seen?
You can just be you, like you do; in trans spaces and talking to anyone who wants to listen and being part of the broad spectrum of trans people, you play an important role just as the lovely you exactly as you are. Others perceptions will always be there and is not always something you can control
My elder status has overshadowed my ", queerness" has overshadowed my lesbian marriage and now divorce. I get it.