Following on from Sunday’s post, I’d like to feature a guest post written by a dear genderqueer friend. As they say below, they and I enjoy a beautiful Side A/B solidarity in our friendship, and part of that means we do hold different convictions. I want to be transparent about that, and to offer clarity for my readers that I very much want to amplify other voices through this platform, including voices whose perspectives disagree with or even challenge my own. I feel comfortable holding space for this (dare I say I even value it!), and I hope our readers will practice nuance and humility as they listen generously to more diverse voices.
When my friend suggested writing about their experience of TDOV, I was delighted to hear their perspective, and I hope you will be too.
Conservative feathers were ruffled by Trans Day of Visibility falling on the same day as Easter, but for me, it was a plus. Especially so soon after the creation of Queer Worship Night (something Matt can elaborate on later). I see it as a coincidence, perhaps it’s a sign from God; either way, it’s a good excuse to start a conversation about being genderqueer in Christian communities.
I want to say something about what TDOV means to me, and what Easter means to me. The honest answer is: not much, until recently. As a semi-closeted they/them, who has been in-and-out of conservative Christian circles, I’ve felt discomfort, to say the least, with being visible. Accustomed to cutting off parts of myself in Christian and conservative circles.
Partly, the intention of TDOV may have been to draw attention to the fact not all trans people are safe to be visible; it’s still shockingly unsafe to be genderqueer in 2024. Days like TDOV typically serve as a reminder, to me, of my own lack of safety in community.
However, this year was the first year I’ve felt safe, seen, and – I suppose – saved, all at once. The meaning of that, and the significance of my relationship with my Creator, is complex and personal; something I’m still navigating.
Here’s how the week(end) panned out:
Passover
After a long week of facing the hell of intersectional oppression (I can’t even tell you the week I had), I got to spend the night with Matthew and our friends. We shared Passover dinner, in a deliberately queer-affirming space. Friends, meeting together, in Side A/B solidarity. I’m Side A, for the record – and I love that my Side B friends respect and accept my position. Being in spiritual spaces, in a spiritual community deliberately crafted by queer hands and queer bodies, feels, in itself, like rebirth.
Good Friday
Continuing the theme of affirming Christian solidarity, I shared an ecumenical Stations of The Cross with several progressive congregations. I met people from churches I didn’t even know existed, comrades with long histories of resistance and justice for marginalised folks in my neighbourhood. I had conversations about institutionalised racism in education, climate activism, and shared pain and hope with people I now call solid allies. That night, I attended a silent liturgy at an open and affirming church, which likened the crucifixion to the death of the Asian and Amazonian rainforests. I felt I was amongst my people, those who really get it.
Saturday
After making new connections with affirming Christian leaders, I visited the same church as Friday evening. We raised our voices in gratitude and praise to a Creator that has overcome death and sin. It mimicked the light at the end of the tunnel that I see when I witness people experience this revelation: homophobia and transphobia, violence and discrimination towards LGBT+ people, was never part of God’s design.
Sunday
Surviving a patchy night’s sleep after watching Dune (I’d love to look as queer as Timothée Chalamet), I woke up at dawn. I missed the local dawn service, but had time to think about my relationship with Jesus and catch up with my neighbours before church. I think that’s the heart of what Christian community was always supposed to be.
Sunday service was neatly sandwiched between a morning catch up with a bestie and Easter lunch with new Christian friends. Over snacks and a colouring-in tablecloth (which was a lot of fun – and reusable!), one of our host’s children joined the conversation. “Have you heard about the nonbinary Pokémon? Their name is Aegislash!” They excitedly showed me a meme and we shared a genuine laugh. We continued colouring in the table cloth with trans flag colours, to celebrate TDOV.
As the conversation continued, someone mentioned an indigenous lecturer who had suffered a stroke in public, and nearly died. People kept walking past her, ignoring her pain. “I bet if they were white, people would have stopped,” the same child interjected. The message was clear. That comment defines what Easter now means to me; hope for the rebirth of the original intention of Christ: communities upholding intersectional solidarity.
Singled Out 