Bio: S Shah is a writer, facilitator, and filmmaker currently completing an MFA in cinematic arts in the United States. Prior to that, he worked as a trainer and facilitator at Gendered Intelligence and has delivered trans awareness training across the UK to a wide range of charities, organisations, and industries, including Anti Racist Cumbria.
Working class. British. Asian. Muslim. Trans. Person of Colour.
I am all of these things, and whilst categories are important when we’re trying to acknowledge power and oppression, I, like you, am also more than this. I can’t be contained solely by these words. No matter who you are, or how you walk through the world, we experience ourselves and the people we meet in explicitly unique ways.
In this article I’m going to attempt to explore the layers and nuance of these terms, how their overlapping natures are experienced, and the nuanced, messy humanity that contains them. I’m doing this from my own perspective with the caveat that I can only speak for myself. There may be people who resonate with what I write, and there will also be many who share some of those aforementioned terms who have different experiences. This is not to underplay the impacts of shared, lived experiences that can often bridge gaps between seemingly un-connected identities through the power of intersectional thinking.
As a born and raised Londoner, I know that being from the city forms another core part of my many identities. I’m a child of immigrants who has continued the tradition of migration (and doing it scared, audaciously, during uncertain times) by relocating to the American Midwest to study film. I am also newly in my thirties, which is strange to think about, because before coming out as trans and making the decision to start hormone therapy to begin aligning my spirit and body, I couldn’t see myself living past the age of twenty-eight.
The process of transitioning in all of its surprising and not-so-surprising moments has shed new light on these complex and nuanced ways our identities can be felt and perceived. Being trans, for me, is not a choice, but I made the choice to transition in the ways that I have. This has not only helped me blossom in ways I couldn’t imagine, but it has brought me closer to my faith. I think about the ritual of dedication and the daily anointment of testosterone gel and how it reflects the commitment to prayer and faith in the unknown: I don’t know how these things will change me, I cannot predict the future, but I believe in doing this I will become a better person and will be able to live a more authentic life.
“I think about the ritual of dedication and the daily anointment of testosterone gel and how it reflects the commitment to prayer and faith in the unknown: I don’t know how these things will change me, I cannot predict the future, but I believe in doing this I will become a better person and will be able to live a more authentic life”.
Transitioning as a Brown person has been an eye opening experience. I’ve noticed the way people read and treat me changing as I myself change, too. I’m also getting used to the new cultural codes of the US.
Before transitioning, I presented as a feminine cis woman. I wore makeup, I pretended to act shy and uninformed to soften the aggression of those around me, and I spoke only when I was spoken to.
To be more precise, I presented a type of femininity I believed was expected of me as someone existing within the heteronormative and patriarchal systems in both South Asian and British culture. When I asserted myself I was told I was being aggressive, overly emotional, reactive. I was read as irrational and animalistic: dehumanised, sexualised, commodified, and only existing for the desires of other people.
Now I’m being read more frequently as a small Brown man in America who is only occasionally effeminate, my assertiveness is admirable. I’m taken more seriously for my opinions rather than my looks. But I’m still Brown, I’m still queer-coded, and I’m still foreign. Meaning I have to work ten times as hard to get a fraction of the recognition I know I deserve. White women still get uncomfortable around me. It used to be because on some level they felt threatened by me as some kind of sexual competition. The racist, sexist stereotype and insistence of the perceived salaciousness of melanated women’s bodies is so ingrained into the ecosystem of white supremacy that it both terrifies and titillates the oppressor, confusing them into projecting the subsequent rage onto the very bodies they are mesmerised by. Now they feel threatened because of the racist stereotype that Black and Brown men are violent and even a sexual threat to women – a myth and stereotype which is constantly peddled in our news media and popular culture. I get followed around stores more, and men in bars in rural Wisconsin would like to make it known to me that they have a gun and that it is known to them that I am not from around here. I still get hyper-sexualised nonetheless, but differently. There is an expectation for me to be sexually aggressive, to “make the first move,” and to above all: desire anything that moves because that is what “men like me” do. I am still being read with a kind of fear and Othering. Now here in America, cis white men tell me I am often being too earnest and enthusiastic. They tell me to “man up” when I display a childlike wonder at the world with the new lease of life that I have gifted myself. As though these are feminising qualities that need to be repressed. But I will always love my femininity and my past connections to womanhood. It got me here, didn’t it?
There are still many similarities of lived experiences to be drawn from my time moving through the world as a woman to now. Especially in medical spaces. I often think of the obstacles my mother faced as an immigrant as she attempted to navigate medical spaces before there were many translations available, let alone diversity in medical practitioners. One would think that the person who knows best about what they need with regards to care and attention is themselves, yet we both have experiences of having our bodies and pain subject to assumptions and scrutiny. Thus, our medical needs have been dismissed, and we are left being treated as though our pain tolerance is higher than it is. Our mental health is often labeled as anxiety or mood swings where there can be underlying causes or other diagnosis to be found. I read this as an attempt to divert our attention from the oppressive systems that impact our psychological and physical health. This leads to a cycle of being forced to perform to access care by using language that might misrepresent us. Trans people, and more specifically trans women, have historically experienced similar mistreatments and misrepresentations and have as a result learned how to present in medical spaces to access treatment.
Women, Black and Brown people, and trans people, have shared struggles, even if one might only identify with one of those labels. I’d like to now argue that Black and Brown people and their communities can feel the impacts of transphobia even if they themselves are not trans.
The transphobia that cis people may face often impacts Black women the most. I am usually compelled to provide sources for statements like this, and I acknowledge that this comes from a defensiveness, an impulse to believe I am going to be argued with. But I have learned that no amount of proof or statistics can sway the minds of people who are set on not believing you. The thing that I have observed that often strikes a cord is being witness to this oppression playing out. To not critique the norms within white supremacy culture, which are held up as superior and desirable, is to live not only in delusion, but bad faith. There is no room for bad faith in my life anymore. I am in my thirties and understandably, exhausted. Western notions of conventional femininity and masculinity (I will give some examples, crass as they may be: women are small, petite, dainty, fragile; men are larger, thicker, brutish, resilient) have been forced upon Black and Brown people. If a Black or Brown person does not live up to these abstract standards, in which the goal posts keep moving (I enjoy watching JK Rowling update her definition of “woman” whenever a scientist enters the chat), then they are abused. Whether that’s on the streets, by their employer, by social media, or by an unrelenting and ever expanding system of contempt. The results of this psychological colonialism is breathtaking. We have been forced into a game that we will never win or even make it to a tie break.
“I have learned that no amount of proof or statistics can sway the minds of people who are set on not believing you”.
I think about women such as Michelle Obama, Oprah Winfrey, Serena Williams, and Imane Khelif. Other than being cis and predominantly Black, these women have the following in common: they are hugely successful, famous, and they do not look “white.” By “white” I am referring to the notions of western femininity I mentioned in the previous paragraph. These four women are women that I, like many others globally, have witnessed being bullied and harassed using transphobic and racist language that is heavily embedded in misogynoir. One doesn’t have to look very far to find material written about these women calling them “men” and insults I won’t repeat here.
“Transvestigation” is a practice in which a cis person (usually a celebrity or activist) is being scrutinised under the assumption that they are lying about their gender and concealing that they are actually trans. This new phenomena which is perpetuated by the news and social media, has led to women such as Imane Khelif and Bridget Macron (a white woman) being subject to wildly intrusive speculation. In both cases, there have been demands made to see their chromosomal tests and even their genitalia to prove that they are cis like they claim to be.
Taking away a person’s right to privacy, to look how they look, express themselves how they so wish, is a common, intersectional experience that can create shared experiences between women, Black and Brown people, and trans people, even more so when all of these identities are condensed into an individual.
How might it feel to have your identity and right to exist in the world be stripped down to your body parts, or even to be told that your body is not what you know it to be? Cis women who present as masculine or butch, and women who don’t look “conventionally feminine” have been forcibly removed from women’s bathrooms because they don’t look woman enough to be there.
You may never have experienced this, but can you empathise (maybe from drawing from your own lived experiences) with how certain systems and stereotypes might also affect you?
However, it is equally as important to hold that people who do live within the same intersections that I do will not necessarily have the same experiences as me. For example, I encounter spaces such as restaurants differently to a white trans person. It was surprising to me to have my transness refused but the transness of my white friend be exalted. There’s also more of an expectation for me to be homophobic than, say, the white person I happen to be with. A middle class trans person may have access to a different quality of education and medical care than a working class trans person. We see this in the white trans celebrities the media has come to love who were able to transition from a younger age and access the puberty blockers, hormones, and surgeries they wanted because of access to money and also familial acceptance. I don’t think my family would have had the bandwidth to come to terms with my gender struggles twenty years ago. They were grieving and trying to survive. I forgive them for that.
“I don’t think my family would have had the bandwidth to come to terms with my gender struggles twenty years ago. They were grieving and trying to survive. I forgive them for that”.
In America I am read first as a Brown person and I am looked at with suspicion. When I speak I am read as a British person and people suddenly find me more intelligent and attractive and they look happier. When they get to know me for a couple of minutes and I am finally read as a queer or trans person they look like they’ve hit the jackpot and are so excited to be acquainted with someone so interesting. The point I am making is I am more visibly coded as a Brown person. Yet, I still experience things in a way that is specific to my transness that most cis Black and Brown people wouldn’t relate to. My first time entering a barbershop which was made up entirely of Black and Brown men held different stakes. I was met with confusion about my gender and even my sexuality, answering some awkward questions about my personal life and heritage. I can forgive these awkward questions a lot more than if they were coming from, say, one of my professors. I understand that these questions are coming in good faith and are a sincere way of attempting to connect, rather than an uncomfortable confusion because it presents a threat to the norms liberal academia. Honestly, I can forgive that to some extent, too. I do believe without curiosity and open, respectful dialogue, we can’t even begin to attempt to understand each other.
I’ve talked a lot about my experiences as a Brown trans person. I’ve talked about intersectionality, individuality, and how cis people can experience transphobia. I’ve waxed lyrical about how identities are nuanced and complex and we are more messy than simply that. My goal here isn’t to give you any neat answers.
If you spoke to me five years ago my voice and opinions would sound radically different. I’m not writing this to make people understand what it’s like to be me, because I myself am still figuring that out. Nonetheless, there may be feelings of confusion, guilt, or overwhelm. I wouldn’t be surprised if you, the reader, are thinking “what can I even do about this, then?” It’s a good question. We should be thinking about that, but not in a fatalistic way. If all hope was lost, I wouldn’t have taken the plunge multiple times in the past twelve months to be my true self.
An ideal world for me would be one where we speak to each other with humility and curiosity. One that does not reduce people to their body parts (such as asking a trans person if they intend on getting any surgeries, or if asking a Black woman if her hair is real). But one that aims for connection in good faith. To get there, we have to build spaces and dynamics that are rooted in feelings of trust and safety.
So, how can we create this space? We can think about the steps that need to be taken but it starts with you. What conversations are you striking up with your colleagues and families? Are you defending the Black and Brown trans people in your life? My philosophy is about being comfortable with being uncomfortable. We can’t know everything, nor should we want to. We can take accountability for the times we may have slipped up and made another person feel inferior. We can take responsibility for the inclusive worlds we are trying to nurture and commit to a life long process of learning and understanding. That’s part of why I am so dedicated to my faith-based way of living:
I cannot predict the future, but I believe in doing this I will become a better person and will be able to live a more authentic life.
