why i stopped fucking with gender

this is the rough text of a rough talk i gave at pechakucha night christchurch volume 31. you can listen to the audio at pechakucha’s website. it was written mainly for myself and my own exploration and understanding but presented in the hopes it may help some cis people understand and some other trans and non binary people relate.

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typical understandings of trans people and transitioning are pretty limited. there are a bunch of reasons for this, but i’m not getting into that tonight.

when people think of ‘transition’ it’s usually in binary terms, and it’s usually thought of as ‘complete’ – changing your name and pronouns and birth certificate and going through whatever medical processes are available or necessary. most importantly it’s thought of as the only way, the one everyone does.

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but transition is different for everyone. for some it involves aligning every aspect of their social identity and physical body with the gender they are, and often for some of these people that gender is ‘opposite’ to the one they were assigned at birth.

but that’s not the complete trans experience. a lot of people do most of those things and a lot do some and some do none at all.

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so, i’m sharing my story. this story is also not the complete trans experience in any way, it’s just mine.

i think i was a pretty standard ‘boy’, if a little (very) socially awkward and anxious. i enjoyed biking around and playing outside and building things. i had a terrible fashion sense. i definitely didn’t “always just know”

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i did just recently remember my stepfather getting the scissor sisters’ first album. looking at the tracklist he probably got it for the comfortably numb cover. but i remember – i must have been about 7 or 8 – looking at the album art and my parents flipping the fuck out.

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around the same age i loved mom’s that’s life magazines. i remember reading about someone who was so desperate for surgery they lopped their junk off outside a hospital.

i remember growing up very young with a good friend of my mother’s who left new zealand to access confirmation surgery. i later realised that i had had zero contact with this person once they left.

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that’s about all i remember encountering as a kid when it comes to gender variance, until i – like a whole heap of others – hit tumblr in my early teens.

i then remember very clearly thinking “oh god, i hope i’m not trans, that would suck”. i remember the motivation behind that thought – it was “i know these people are treated so terribly and i think there may be a chance that i’m one of these people but i can’t be because i can’t imagine dealing with all that shit”.

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by 17 i was going through the process of getting hormone treatment. i knew that to make sure the endocrinologist believed me i had to dress super feminine and act like a very heterosexual woman.

this is the photo i eventually came out with at 19 – an extra two years of the wrong puberty while waiting.

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Photos by Kerryn Smith

but this isn’t a coming out story, it’s a story of shifting gender. because that’s what it does, and it’s normal. i think there’s often a tendency among the cis population to believe that if a trans person’s gender – be it identity or expression – isn’t immutable it’s less valid. that’s not the truth at all. even cis people experience shifts in gender expression in some way or another. not a lot of people imply butch cis women aren’t really women.

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baby’s first undercut! note the wonderful lace glove. wearing traditionally hyper feminine objects and looks began as a means to access the healthcare i needed but i also feel that trans women should absolutely be allowed to be super fucking femme even when society says their bodies are not.

just because society expects us to be feminine doesn’t mean being feminine is not radical

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that undercut is definitely also the start of the absolute fun i have in messing with expectations and clashing traditionally gendered looks.

things pretty much continue the same for a solid year or so. I’ll note that this whole time i’d had what some people call ‘auxiliary pronouns’ – that is, two options. most people were calling me ‘she’ and ‘her’ but i also listed ‘a/ath/athes’ in my online bios, after Athena.

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they’re what some call neo-pronouns – that is, invented pronouns for those who feel like she, he, or they don’t fit. They’re not new at all; ‘e/em/es’ have been in use since 1890. ‘ey/em/eir’ can be traced to 1975 and are in common usage in trans and nonbinary communities today.

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this is me in late 2015. in a rush to take a picture of a bird on the gold coast i opened the wrong camera. the look of joy is absolutely genuine.

jumping ahead – because this isn’t a story that needs to be told step by step – what’s changed now?

basically, i started passing.

passing, if you’re unsure, refers to being perceived as cis. it’s something some people strive for – some because it’s what they feel they should look like, but also because passing means safety.

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passing means people not perceiving you as trans so not assaulting or abusing you for being trans. in terms of daily experiences, passing is a MAJOR benefit.

it isn’t inherently good or bad. it can provide life-saving safety (and definitely has for me) but it also came with invisibility.

i found the more i passed, the more people assumed i was straight, for example. i’d get people asking about my husband – and my kids.

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But also, in many places ‘trans panic’ is a legal defence for murder.

It’s one thing to have an awkward conversation online, but it’s FAR safer to do that there than in a bar with someone you’ve been chatting to and you’ve JUST THEN realised they clearly don’t know you’re trans. there’s no way to know how they’ll react, but from experience, it’s far more likely to be a) creepy fetishisation b) anger and violence, c) weird over-acceptance, d) actual decent reaction.

So, i decided to fuck it.

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my wonderful flatmate gave me this INCREDIBLE and VERY QUEER jacket. i wore it out of the house a few days later, in a conscious effort to present more queer and pass less. i was crossing colombo st down by victoria park when a car actively accelerated towards me less than 50m away.

weirdly i think this is a good summation of why i stopped fucking with gender

Jennifer Shields 16.pngIn a text I wrote for pride last year I said:

“Forcing people to recognise [our abjectness], our queerness, challenges their stable, normative world. In a world where, for many of our most vulnerable, being visibly queer and trans is a death threat, the responsibility to embody this challenge may fall to the more privileged.”

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I stand by this. And I am in a position of privilege – I’m Pākehā, I’m () in a full time job, but also I’ve absolutely had it. I’ve been through all the shit and survived (if not unscathed) and I am 100% unwilling to let anyone else go through any of it if I can prevent it at all.

Sometimes that means standing up to aggressive drunk dudes on late night streets, but I think it also means not letting my identity slide into the background.

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so what does this mean for me? my gender is one big “who the fuck knows”. it’s open. it’s less “have to be traditionally feminine” and more “queer hard femme”. it’s singlets covered in sawdust but also crop tops and fancy white jackets but also hot pink leather jackets that might get me run down. it’s not worrying about strangers calling me ‘sir’ because the people who know better don’t – and that confusion is kind of the point.

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Photo: Janneth Gil

what does it mean for everyone else? not much at all, actually

i’m quite okay with people understanding me as a binary trans woman – i think it’s important. that’s the way 99% of the world sees me, so that’s how i get treated. i’m subject to misogyny and transphobia and queerphobia – that term still describes me even if it doesn’t necessarily describe my gender.

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so i think materially it’s important to express those aspects. i use ‘she’ just as much as i do ‘they’ because it’s rare to see a trans woman in this industry or, heck, even in this city. it’s important to me to express both those parts of myself to aim to be a possibility model for as many people as i can.

currently my gender expression is a lot more jeans and a lot fewer dresses – but that could change tomorrow, who knows? i think, most of all and most importantly: i dont want to look or be cis



Guest post; Implementing the Statistical Standard for Gender Identity: How should Stats NZ ask the question?

Gloria Fraser, Victoria University of Wellington

Statistics New Zealand’s decision to include categories beyond ‘male’ and ‘female’ in a new gender identity statistical standard has been hailed as a “world first”. And, unfortunately – it is. We live at a time when an exploding body of research documents the alarmingly high levels of violence and discrimination experienced by trans people, when trans women and girls appear on the cover of Time and National Geographic magazines, and when we are having more conversations around gender neutral bathrooms than ever before. In spite of this, the overwhelming majority of gender identity questions on surveys, healthcare intake forms, and censuses around the world continue to offer just two response options. With this standard (and restrictive) measure of gender identity, it is impossible for trans people to be counted. Nonbinary people are rendered entirely invisible; they cannot select either gender item, so are excluded from reporting their gender at all.

New Zealand Census questions on sex, taken from the 1916, 1986, and 2006 questionnaires. The 2018 Census will likely be the first ever to ask New Zealanders about their gender identity.

The use of a ‘male’/’female’ tick box to measure gender identity is more than just poor methodology; this has serious consequences for the health, wellbeing, and social inclusion of trans people. Without accurate gender identity data it is impossible to establish the size of the trans population in New Zealand. International research estimating the proportion of the population who are trans produces wildly varying results; data from presentations to overseas gender clinics give estimates as low as 4.6 people in 100,000 (perhaps because they ignore that not all trans people present to specialist clinics for gender-affirming healthcare). Another study claims that the number of people falling under the trans ‘umbrella’ may be as many as 1% of the population.

Population size partially determines the amount of funding that is allocated to serving the needs of a particular group. Because most official records do not capture data on trans people, trans New Zealanders are, most likely, receiving far less than their fair share of medical and mental health care. On top of this, with every research survey, census, and demographic form that fails to acknowledge the fluid and non-binary nature of gender identity, the common cultural gender binary is legitimised and reinforced. We need gender identity measures that challenge this binary, ensure all New Zealanders are counted, and give people the opportunity to correctly identify their gender.

It is wonderful that Statistics New Zealand has decided to collect gender identity data, and to ensure that their measures are inclusive of trans and nonbinary people. For the reasons outlined above, the importance of this data cannot be understated. If Statistics New Zealand do this right, New Zealand would be in an absolutely unique position. We would have population-level data about the needs of trans people, which could be linked with health data (e.g., cancer registrations) to generate urgently needed transgender cohort studies.

Statistics New Zealand has not announced how the gender identity question in the 2018 census will be worded, and when I contacted them recently I was told that this decision has not yet been made. The classification of gender identity that has already been released, however, suggests that the direction in which Statistics New Zealand is heading may not be quite what we hoped.

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Statistics New Zealands classification and coding process, released July 2015.

Upon release of the statistical standard, trans community members pointed out that this method of classifiying gender identity is othering – it separates trans and nonbinary people from the cis population. Statistics NZ has also used terminology which is frustrating for many in the community, such as “transgender male to female” and “transgender female to male”. A recently published paper by leading scholars in the field reflects these concerns: Pega and colleagues note that the standard may “obscure some of the complexity within the broader transgender population”, is not intersex inclusive, and does not guarantee that all trans people will be counted. What is to stop a trans woman from identifying as female or wahine, either to avoid othering herself, or because this is a more accurate reflection of her identity than ‘trans’ or ‘gender diverse’?

I do not envy the job of Statistics NZ. Somehow, they must (1) collect data that identifies trans New Zealanders, while (2) not othering trans people. It seems that it is easy to meet one goal, but is it possible to do both? Let’s think through some options.

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Statistics New Zealand’s suggested examples for phrasing gender identity questions.

Personally, I’m a fan of the open-ended box. It allows people to freely self-identify so it isn’t othering, it doesn’t require people to choose between identity labels, and it doesn’t ask people to take on identity labels that might not feel right for them. This question alone, however, doesn’t get around the problem mentioned earlier: if someone writes in “woman”, how do we know if she is cis or trans? We need to face the fact that this matters – if we don’t know this, we can’t count trans people, and we need good data to fight for policy change and funding increases.

The other two options also face this problem – with just one item, we cannot guarantee that we have identified all trans people. On top of this, I seriously doubt there are many people out there who individually identify as “gender diverse” – while this may be a suitable umbrella term, individual identity labels tend to be slightly more specific.

One alternative option, that may meet both goals of (1) collecting data that identifies trans New Zealanders, while (2) not othering trans people, is to ask the question in two steps, by firstly asking about gender identity, and secondly asking about sex documented on a person’s original birth certificate. This way, trans women and men can identify as women and men, while being identifiable as trans because their assigned sex at birth differs from their gender identity. This option is recommended by the Centre of Excellence for Transgender Health.

Because I doubt that Statistics New Zealand has the resources to code open-ended responses from the entire population, the gender identity question would probably be best answered by selecting options from a categorical list. Respondents should be able to select multiple options, so they do not have to choose between, for example, identifying as a woman and identifying as trans. Empirical evidence suggests that these questions are easily understood by the general population, even if some don’t understand what it means to be trans, genderfluid, nonbinary, or agender. An example follows:

  1. How do you identify your gender? Please tick as many as apply.
  • Male
  • Female
  • Transgender
  • Genderfluid
  • Nonbinary
  • Agender
  • Different identity (please state) _________
  1. What sex were you assigned at birth, on your original birth certificate?
  • Male
  • Female
  • Indeterminate
  • No sex listed


As with any measure of gender identity, this measure is not perfect. Perhaps most worryingly, it asks people to disclose their sex assigned at birth, which has potential to be uncomfortable or distressing. Because of this, it will be important for Statistics New Zealand to explain why this information is so crucial to collect. On top of this, it is impossible to construct a complete list of gender identities, meaning that some identities will always be excluded from listed options. Hopefully, the inclusion of an open-ended box will ensure that people of all genders can accurately describe how they identify, and could be an important space for culturally specific identities such as takatāpui, whakawahine, tangata ira tane, fa’afafine, and akava’ine.

Statistics New Zealand may object to these suggestions on the basis that this kind of information is too complex to collect, code, and analyse. In response to this, I argue that it is unacceptable to lump such a diverse group into one umbrella category, as this leaves unexamined the needs within this group. The time has come for the collection of high quality gender identity data, where people of all genders can identify as they wish and be counted. Statistics New Zealand needs to ensure that no New Zealander remains invisible.

Gloria Fraser is a doctoral candidate at the School of Psychology at Victoria University of Wellington. She is particularly interested in the intersection of sex-sexuality-gender diversity and clinical psychology. Her doctoral research focusses on queer experiences of mental health support in Aotearoa. Gloria is also a research coordinator for the New Zealand Attitudes and Values Study (NZAVS). Gloria has used NZAVS data to develop a gender identity statistical standard for coding open-ended responses. This can be accessed as a technical document via the NZAVS website for use by other researchers.

weaponised abjection & queer identity / visibility / existence

written for a pride exhibition at RM gallery entitled ‘a bone, a flesh, a daddy’s nest’ featuring sorawit songsataya and bronte perry. this text was written to accompany bronte’s work and was re-exhibited at the christchurch pride art show 2017.

In her 2015 Sociology of Popular Culture course, lecturer Dr. Ciara Cremin began to express a non-normative gender presentation and attended lectures in lipstick and heels. While the class attendees themselves had very little obvious reaction to this, Cremin talked about the response of some colleagues and, more importantly, passers-by. While she restricted this presentation to the university campus – due to safety concerns – she nevertheless experienced people doing double-takes at her as they passed by. She mentioned this explicitly in a lecture and related it to normative assumptions being challenged. As Cremin was wearing clothes typically deemed those of a woman but did not otherwise fit the societal standard of “a woman”, this perceived dissonance meant people had to challenge their initial assumptions of her and her gender.

This is a phenomenon most, if not all, trans people experience, and on the scale of public reactions, a double take is significantly mild. Most experience harassment, slurs, and in the case of trans women of colour more than any, physical violence. It is a result of the normative confronting the othered, experiencing the abject as a physical reality.

While being visibly queer can be a threat to ourselves, it is also a threat to the normative. To those for whom the abject, the other – queerness – is part of another world, one that does not involve them; to those who believe queer and trans people are not a part of their lives, not people they would ever encounter, being visibly queer is a challenge. Forcing people to recognise our abjectness, our queerness, challenges their stable, normative world. For those for whom events such as the attack in Pulse nightclub is an attack on “all of us” or “every American,” for those who “just don’t know” if it was motivated by queerphobia, active, vocal, and visible queerness is a political and personal challenge.

In a world where, for many of our most vulnerable, being visibly queer and trans is a death threat, the responsibility to embody this challenge may fall to the more privileged. There is a responsibility in the queer community not to succumb to respectability politics, to conform ourselves to heteronormative society. The gay marriage movement fell to this conformity, simply expanding marriage instead of providing the rights and privilege that accompany marriage to those who are unmarried, unable, or unwilling to marry. Hate crime legislation also fell to this conformity, expanding the carceral state and filling prisons with more black and brown bodies instead of taking steps to dismantle it. So, too, was the push for inclusion in the military flawed, similarly expanding imperial forces that put millions of innocent lives at risk. Respectability politics are inherently humanist; an ideology that centres the ‘human’ and the normative. Abjection is post/trans/inhuman, and destroys that privileged centralisation. If humanism threatens us while forgetting us, erasing our histories, experiences, and bodies, then abjection forcibly and violently centres us, staring with a billion unblinking eyes and screaming with a chorus of voices:

W E  A R E  H E R E

If being abject is distant, is other, is not something normative society wishes to face, then weaponising that abjection, emphasising it and making it impossible to ignore, is a radical act. We wear the abject like an armour, refusing respectability politics and the normalising process. In this work, the abject becomes personal and weaponised. We are brought from the ‘other’ world where normative society relegates us, and into the world they occupy, in a physical and confronting manner. The abject is here, it is in your face, all around you, and it has a body. The space it occupies is one which disturbs identity, system, and order. It does not respect borders, positions, or rules. Parts of the artist’s body normally ruled as disgusting line the walls, creating discomfort, unease, and repulsion. But this piece is as much about your body as it is about the artist’s. It is impossible to distance yourself from the reality of the body; this is a body labelled as other, different, abject, though it may share many characteristics with yours. Let it challenge you and question you, and avoid the urge to distance yourself.

This is an abject realm the artist, myself, and many others occupy; it is not yours, but ours. It is a space where, as Tame Iti said: “No one can tell you that you are not important and your experience does not matter and if they do, I challenge them to say it to your face where they can see your eyes and feel your breath.” Not everyone is meant to understand or relate to it, and it is not intended to make trans narratives and experiences easier for a cisgender and heterosexual audience to consume. It is intended to repel, and if it does, you must question why you feel repulsed.

Antonyms suggested by dictionaries for ‘abject’ may highlight this repulsion: the non-abject is apparently commendable, noble, excellent, exalted, magnificent, and most of all worthy and proud. These are things normative society does not want us to be, at least not without conforming to their standards. This is especially notable in times of turmoil and conflict; during the AIDs crisis, the ‘good’ queers were those who were healthy, ‘clean’, and in long-term, monogamous relationships. Recently a man was arrested on route to LA Pride with a backpack full of weaponry and explosives. People regularly ask “why is there no straight pride parade?” while police forces attend our own parades, arresting queer sex workers and protesters and other abject undesirables. Trans women get told “wow! I wouldn’t even have known you weren’t a girl if you hadn’t said anything!” as if congratulating them. Trans people get refused healthcare unless they conform to heteropatriarchy and its standards – trans women must be feminine and fucking cis dudes if they wish to begin HRT. Trans men must be hypermasculine in every meaning of the word – including the toxic elements that cause violence to so many of us. Humanist respectability politics cause violence to and within our community.

Abjection is a weapon of resistance. I am queer, trans, and crazy. I am abject, but I, too, am divine; I, too, am exalted and magnificent and worthy and proud.

March in Remembrance of Leelah Alcorn and in Support of Gender Education in Schools

On Saturday 10 January 2015, from 2pm starting in QEII square in Britomart, Auckland CBD, a group of trans people and their allies will march in remembrance of Leelah Alcorn and in support of gender education in schools. The march will end in Aotea Square

Leelah Alcorn suffered massive abuse from her parents and bullying in schools, both influenced by the culture of transmisogyny our society operates under.

Currently sex and gender education is optional in NZ, with many principals believing they have no queer or trans students in their schools. ERO has no indicator in any of their reviews as to how safe and accepting schools are for queer and trans students. Young trans people suffer heightened rates of depression, self-harm, and suicide. They also report lowered rates of support from parents and friends, and heightened rates of fear of being harmed at school.

Teaching gender in schools will go a long way towards beginning to dismantle this culture of transphobia and transmisogyny, and improving the living conditions of trans youth in our country.

Join the march event page on Facebook, sign the petition to support gender education in schools, and be there on Saturday if you can.

Consent App? Nope. Just. No.

Trigger warning for discussion of rape and consent issues

This new consent app is the next in line of rape-preventative measures that don’t actually do anything to address the problem. It claims to address “pesky he-said, she-said rape cases” by recording mutual consent via this fancy new app. Aside from the fact that women’s voices in these cases are doubted and delegitimise often for no legitimate reason, the solution to which isn’t an app but rather a change of attitude, the app itself has a huge array of issues.

courtesy of good2go

The app, whether intentional or not, actually does absolutely nothing for potential survivors of rape. Who it does work for is potential rapists and people accused of rape who pull the “false accusation” number. The consent given via this app is non-explicit, and naturally the app has no ability to record the withdrawal of consent. With the way our court systems currently treat sexual abuse cases, it’s more than likely that an initial “yes” via this app will be enough to convince any judge of continued consent regardless of either party’s actions after the app-mediated consent is given.

The app also doesn’t record any responses of non-consent or inability to consent, directly nullifying its usefulness for a potential survivor. It records “yes” responses in case of a “false accusation,” but doesn’t record “no” responses in case of an actual rape. That is, the app is useful to an instigator who may lose consent or believe they are not actually at fault, but not useful to someone who responds “no” via this app and is then subject to sexual advances or abuse regardless. With the rate of false accusations estimated at anywhere between 1-5%, and the rate of non-conviction for rape, why would the app work this way? To protect the masculine ego from evidence of being “turned down?”

Ultimately, this app provides zero protection for potential survivors of rape, and may actually even protect potential or actual rapists. After all, if someone is willing to rape, is it really that hard to believe that they’d also steal their victim’s phone to falsify consent?