Have you ever seen a “gut-punch” movie? It’s a cliché, but undeniable; the empty feeling in your stomach that aches like a fist just left it. I had never been affected by a movie, not in any serious way. Some of that can be attributed to movie choice. When I decide to watch a movie, my motive is relaxation, not engaging in spectacle on our glitchy TV that requires full reboots to function as intended. But after I started a “mini-movie club” with a friend who was determined to expose me to serious movies, our pathway of movies took us through “movie greats”, and the first was Brokeback Mountain. My friend had always wanted to watch it, and I, after skimming the IMDB description, decided it was worth a watch. We made some popcorn, because neither of us understood how much of a “not-popcorn” movie this was, and rented the movie for $6.99. It was a very beautiful movie at the start. A little shocking, but I felt for the characters, bought into the reality they created in their pocket of Wyoming. And then the “gut punch” feeling started, the popcorn bowl forgotten. I stayed. No matter how much the hate, the lying, the danger of it freaked me out, I knew this was a reality people had to live in. Maybe not my reality, but I couldn't bow out and remain ignorant. Jack and Ennis’s relationship was dangerous. That was the way of being gay in the 60s west. I repurposed my panicked energy into anger at Ennis. Surely, there was a solution better than the unfulfilling, heterosexual marriage and “fishing trips” he was peddling. I remember the moment Ennis retold seeing that body when he was a kid. The body of the man who lived with his partner in a ranch, just like Jack had suggested. The body in a ditch, mutilated. The body was shown for one second, in a far-lens shot, out of focus. I made up an excuse and left. Locked myself in my room and took deep breaths, alternating between looking at the floor and the bright spots left in my eyes when I closed them. I should have understood that was foreshadowing. I shouldn’t have been shocked when Jack met the same fate as the man in the ditch; being a victim of a vicious hate crime. But I still was. I didn’t know what to do. I felt sort of... Helpless. I kept thinking about the movie, about the deaths, replaying them. Even now, I’ve gotten surprisingly glassy-eyed from writing this essay, and reliving those memories. In theater class, we learned about catharsis, the feeling of emotional release one feels during the dramatic climax of a play or movie. But, denying catharsis was a way to jump-start social change. People who leave a movie dejected and unsatisfied tend to enact change in the real world, to find a personal catharsis. I was more driven than I had ever been to enact change and do good for the people around me, especially those in the queer community. I’ve started directing plays about queer love and pain, so everyone in my community can hold onto something together. It’s always such an incredible feeling. I started watching more difficult movies after that. They help me gain perspective. They help me empathize with the people around me. And even though I can’t find comfort in movies like I used to, they drive me to find comfort by creating strength in my community.

My plan for making a positive impact is to use my Psychology degree to become a mental health therapist for the 0.2% of Americans who are transgender young people, like me. The total population of transgender people in America is 0.8% of the total American population. I grew up surrounded by people who hadn't even considered transness, let alone knew someone who was trans. (I'm setting the stage for the shock I felt when politicians began calling attention to the "sea” of trans people in our country, and how they were destroying our nation's values. Where is this “sea”? I'd love to visit. ) I had no idea, when I stepped out of my home, that the larger world in America would be so horrified, concerned, and disturbed by my name, what I wore, and how I talked about myself. But, maybe I was too naive as a fresh-out-the-closet 13-year-old stepping out into the world, because I had already been greatly disappointed by the reactions in my own home with my family. At the time, it was this horror so deep in my mind, I couldn’t feel anything else. I was trapped in the web. Everyone around me was so convinced they’d lost something. A daughter. But, I was there. I was right there. Beyond the doorframe, across the dinner table. I was the same kid. I’m grateful they opened the door, reached across the table. But those 6 months of disregarding who I’d told them I was only broke trust. However, it taught me that anyone can change, even when it seems impossible. That gave me hope. While it may have seemed to my family like I emerged from my room one day completely decided, I had been experiencing some other aspect of transness that haunts me to this day, since I was 12: gender dysphoria. Gender dysphoria is hard to describe. I usually just tell people to imagine someone constantly calling them a guy, or calling them handsome. Not surprisingly, it makes you feel crazy. And on top of that, I was trying to embody masculinity without the (toxic). Trying both to affirm yourself so you can feel comfortable in your body, while not accepting hyper-masculine ideals that tell you that you can’t cry or hug people or else, “you’re a girl”; except that threat is real. People will see me as a girl if I do any of those things, because their standard of my masculinity is so high, because I’m already “deficient” in their eyes. Missing some piece of being a man. Now, I see the news. And, I feel safe in Illinois. Well, safer than other places. But there are still the elevated numbers of transgender unhoused youth, the unsolved murders of Black trans women, and video clips of people wishing death on the 0.8% of the American population. I struggle every day, and yet I am still so insanely lucky and privileged that I am able to access binders, that I know trans people in my community, and that I have a mental health therapist. I’d love to say I overcame my adversity, but things, especially nationwide, are still bad. Saying we’ve “overcome” diminishes all the work that must be done. But, I’ve found joy. Joy I could never find from being someone else. Joy from strength given to me by our community of trans people. I want to be able to pass that on to the next generation; the knowledge that it can get better.