He/She/They: How We Talk About Gender and Why It Matters

by Schuyler Bailar

Trans children experience up to five times higher rates of depression, self-harm, suicidal thoughts, and suicide attempts than cisgender children their same age.39 Some 82 percent of trans people have contemplated suicide and approximately 40 percent of us have attempted at least once,40 with transgender youth exhibiting even higher rates: 86 percent of trans youth contemplate suicide and 56 percent actually attempt it.41

In 2021, researchers at Harvard Medical School studied thousands of people (17,151 to be exact) who had socially transitioned at some point in their lives. An overwhelming majority of people (86.9 percent) persisted in their gender identity—and what researchers discovered about the 13.1 percent who de-transitioned is even more illuminating. It’s not just that people do not de-transition often; it’s that when they do, it’s not because they’re not trans, it’s because of transphobia and related social/interpersonal pressure. And, most people who de-transitioned did not get surgery or take hormones; those who are able to access medical affirmation are far less likely (by nearly eight times) to de-transition.

It is rare for kids—especially younger ones—to have many questions following these explanations. Usually, they nod in understanding and are ready for the next question. Sometimes, they’ll excitedly engage with me to share about their own gender experience and how it relates to what I’ve said. It’s quite beautiful. We often forget that kids are wonderful at emotions. They live in emotion.

There’s a difference between teaching him fear and teaching him awareness. One will cause him to draw inward, the other will allow him to walk the world with educated courage. So teach him to be mindful. Teach him to be careful. Teach him to understand his surroundings and his positionality in the world. But don’t teach him his identity is something to fear, something he should worry about. Teaching a child to fear being themself is not going to bring them joy or emotional safety; it’ll likely bring the opposite. The best thing you can do is create safety at home—the world is going to be mean and scary no matter what. I know you want to be a safe place for him.”

And, at the end of the day, you can’t control what other parents do. You can only control what you do. If you want your child to adjust how he is presenting himself to make other people more comfortable, then you are prioritizing other people’s judgments and your fear of those judgments over the freedom of expression and the well-being of your child.”

You might have noticed that panic about bathrooms was incited by right-wing politicians—who statistically are more likely to be sexual assaulters themselves (recall Chapter 12). This fabricated panic dismisses the root of the fear they are instilling: If you are afraid of men—presumably cis men—masquerading as women in order to assault them, you are afraid of toxic, predatory cis men. You are not afraid of trans women.

Ninety to 93 percent of child sexual assault victims know their offender—with a third to a half of the perpetrators being family members.21,22 Only about 7 percent of perpetrators are strangers. Eighty-eight percent of perpetrators are male. So let’s put that all together in the plainest words: the people who are most likely to sexually abuse your child are the cis men already in their life—their father, their stepfather, their grandfather, their uncle, their brother, their mom’s boyfriend, or other male friends.

We must cease punishing marginalized groups for the toxic behavior of cis men. It is valid to fear cis men—patriarchy has caused the most harm to the most people for the longest period of time. But the solution is not to remove the rights of trans people because cis men might abuse the law. The solution is to teach men to be better.

Here’s another common complaint: You’re doping, so it’s unfair. I’ve received this argument at approximately the same frequency as the first. And it’s equally baseless. My testosterone levels were strictly regulated as mandated by the NCAA rules at the time. I was required to apply for a waiver that permitted me to take testosterone while competing on the men’s team. I was also required to submit lab work testing my hormone levels multiple times per season, every season, to prove that my testosterone levels were within average (cis) male ranges. I maintained hormone levels in the bottom half—usually bottom quarter—of that range, well below the average men’s athlete’s levels, which are usually higher than the average cis man’s.

“Trans women have higher levels of testosterone!” This is usually one of the first semithoughtful arguments against trans women in sports. However, in all elite-level sports in which trans feminine athletes are permitted to compete in the women’s category, testosterone levels are regulated in trans women athletes. Trans women athletes I know have testosterone levels far below average cis women.

When Michael Phelps’s lactic acid levels were tested by the IOC, he was praised as genetically superior. Numerous reports were released about his amazing biological advantages—all in praise and celebration. “What an incredible athlete!” everyone said. On the other hand, no such jubilation awaited Caster Semenya (she/her) when she won the women’s 800 meter in the 2016 Olympics. When Caster Semenya was tested, her medals were taken from her and she was barred from competition unless she artificially lowered her testosterone levels.

Both athletes have biological differences resulting presumably from genetics—or at the very least, an intrinsic factor not altered by any exogenous factors—that could advantageously impact sport. Michael Phelps was praised. Caster Semenya was defamed and prevented from competition.

So yes, trans women absolutely can exhibit biological diversity… just like everyone else! Cisgender women exhibit biological diversity, as well. And what might appear a biological advantage might not translate into athletic superiority: plenty of very tall people are terrible at sports; plenty of short people excel in competition.

As they do with adult trans athletes, most naysayers get hung up on testosterone. Besides the fact that testosterone is still only one factor that can contribute to athletic ability, there are usually no differences in testosterone between those assigned male at birth and those assigned female before the age of twelve or thirteen.

Next, the claim that trans women are “stealing” cis women’s scholarships in college has zero data to support it: as of 2022, not a single out trans woman has ever received an athletic scholarship for a women’s sport in the NCAA.

Not only do privilege and oppression make impossible the existence of truly level playing fields, but the belief that one might never triumph over another athlete is far from unique or specific to competing against trans women. Most people in the swim community joke that racing against Katie Ledecky is a race for second place. She has largely been seen as unbeatable—and she has dozens of national and international titles to support her invincibility. But, accusing trans women of being unbeatable just because they’re trans is not founded in evidence or fact, and is just transphobic.

All this is to say: before I transitioned, I was the object of misogyny. Now, I am expected to be an accomplice to it. This has been an illuminating, difficult, and privileged experience in a variety of ways—and this chapter will attempt to explain some of them.

Patriarchy: A form of social organization that empowers men over women and others who are not men, placing men in positions of power everywhere—at home, at work, and in society at large.

Misogyny: In short: the hatred of women.

Toxic masculinity embodies multiple guises, mostly selling itself as the ticket to fitting in. And, in my experience, I’ve observed something surprising: engaging in toxic masculinity is not about impressing or courting women but rather is about impressing and fitting in with other men.

It is no coincidence that men are far less likely than women to access any kind of mental health resources, including therapy and medication;4 that men account for 90 percent of domestic violence;5 and that the demographic most likely to die of suicide are middle-aged white men. While suicide is the twelfth leading cause of death for the U.S. population as a whole, it is the seventh leading cause for men.

Demanding accountability from men is not awful or destructive; it is absolutely necessary. But, the problem is not cis men; it’s patriarchy, misogyny, and transphobia. The problem is not straight men; it’s homophobia. The problem is not white men; it’s white supremacy. Understanding these distinctions is crucial to dismantling the systems.

People might critique me for this: “If you wanted to be feminine, why didn’t you just stay a woman?” I did not exit the box of womanhood to jump into somebody else’s box of manhood. I am here to be myself—I do not subscribe to the dominant society’s strict guidelines of what manhood must look like. In fact, I have found great euphoria and connection through discarding those rules and existing just as myself.

Throughout my childhood, I was asked if I was “more Korean” or “more white.” I learned to stand firmly in my response: I am both. I am Korean. I am American. I am Korean American. Still, I have spent much of my life feeling stuck in between. I was never white enough to be considered with the white kids, and I was always too white to be included by Koreans or other Asians.

This convergence of marginalized identities can be referred to as intersectionality, a term coined by American lawyer and professor Kimberlé Crenshaw (she/her) in 1989. Crenshaw, a leading critical race theory scholar, first used intersectionality to discuss the intersections of race and sex, specifically regarding discrimination that Black women are subjected to.

Intersectionality refers to unique dynamics of oppression that result from experiencing multiple marginalized identities, describing overlapping oppressions.

In our (Western) society, both Asian men and trans men are seen as less masculine, as less men, as smaller, weaker, meeker. Neither group is displayed often in the media, and when they do appear, at least historically, they’re represented as reduced stereotypes.

“You’re so brave,” I’ve been told on countless occasions. I want to remind you that, especially for those of us with intersecting identities, this resilience is not a choice. It may be brave, but it is also mandatory for us to be able to continue forward with our sanity intact and lasting capacity for joy.

Lastly, despite the fact that Black trans women like Marsha P. Johnson (she/her)i and Miss Major Griffin-Gracy (she/her) were crucial figures in the 1969 Stonewall Riots, much of the white, cis, gay, and queer community forgets and fails to pay homage to Black trans women.

“I’m a fat, Black, trans woman.” She grinned. I smiled back. Each of these describe a facet of her identity that is both political and powerful, she explained. “The objective of oppression [is] to shatter your ability to dream, to aspire, to envision… it’s meant to erase you. To essentially abolish you into the margins. And so, there is something powerful about being fat, Black, trans—and unapologetic,” she said.

How horrible it is that Black trans folks are still left out of mainstream activism not only due to transness but also due to Blackness. How incredible it is that they rise up, anyway—just like Marsha P. Johnson.

Due to ableism, disabled folks are more likely to experience housing insecurity, medical debt, food insecurity, verbal harassment, and violence. Nearly 25 percent of unhoused folks are disabled; disabled adults are two times more likely to experience poverty; and disabled adults are three times more likely to experience sexual assault.

I receive bigoted, hateful comments every day on social media, the worst of which usually contain some kind of wish for my death—either that I be murdered violently or that I kill myself. “They should bring back the gas chambers for your kind,” one commenter wrote a few years ago.

“I know it sounds kind of weird, but I tell fear and anxiety to come with me,” I confessed to my friend. “‘Come along for the ride,’ I’ll say to them. You can’t drive the car, but hang out in the back seat. I hear you, I see you, and I’ll be okay anyway.”

By any term, allyship is not truly allyship if it does not get at the root cause of oppression, if it is not active, loud, and in collaboration with the marginalized people for which it exists.

“I’ve been made to feel small and worthless because men like you speak over me or don’t think my contributions matter. I have felt unimportant because men like you don’t consider how their actions impact others and take up space because they think they are entitled to it. Don’t be one of these men.”

I have repeatedly been asked why these attacks on trans people are culminating now—why are there so many anti-trans bills, why is there so much anti-trans rhetoric, why are trans people seen as a threat?

These attacks are here because trans people are a threat—but not in the way the current accusations portray. Trans people are not a threat to children, women, or sports. No, trans people are a threat because our very identities disrupt the most basic conventions of Western society: cis white patriarchal power—the system of oppression that has built and controlled this country since its conception.

The crucial distinction is validity versus productivity. When someone asks me an inappropriate question, it is absolutely valid for me to get upset and answer angrily; it is not always productive. However, even in this dichotomy, it is important to ask: Productive for whom? I see three viable options: productive for the inappropriate question-asker; productive for me, the disrespected trans person; or productive for the greater society / others / purpose of learning. Because I want to educate, I often choose to prioritize the benefit to the question-asker and greater society, instead of myself.

Interpersonal interactions are arguably the most widely accessible arena in which we can make societal change because nearly everyone has someone they can talk to and engage with about these issues.

So many children do not have the privilege of supportive parents and teachers as I did. Having at least one supportive adult in a trans child’s life can reduce the likelihood of suicide by 40 percent.10 Be that supportive adult. It might save a child’s life.

Love can transcend all barriers if we let it.