Over 200 laws designed to bar trans participation in society have passed in recent years<\/a>, with the number of proposed state and federal bills expanding from 701 in 2024 to 940 in the first six months of 2025. Less than two weeks ago, the U.S. Supreme Court delivered an opinion<\/a> (United States v. Skrmetti) that allows states to deny access to gender-affirming care for people under the age of 18. These measures criminalize trans people and our allies and accomplices in every area of public life. Looming threats of harassment, violence, and arrest appear ever more pointed as fearmongering over our bodies, identities, and expressions increases.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Across this spectrum of grief and joy, trans people in the U.S. are thinking about health care access, personal safety, migration and home, and economic survival. If authoritarian and anti-trans policies become acceptable norms, trans people with enough money and resources might look to leave the country entirely. Others without those resources will lay low and limit the amount of time they spend in public. Many will go back to getting health care through underground markets, or forgo it altogether to avoid emergency rooms and institutions in general. The death toll for trans people will likely rise. Some trans people will move to more populous corners of the country to survive by finding each other; others will stay in their remote corners and fight to figure it out, by necessity or by choice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n While the reality we face today is not a single reality, there is a shared theme of precarity. This country is increasingly dangerous and hostile, and no one knows what\u2019s to come. There is also a shared sentiment of solidarity. Trans people have each other\u2019s backs, and our communities are strong, bolstered by generations of experience with near-total marginalization.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Our lives continue amid the political turmoil: trans people will raise children, tend animals, make gardens, party relentlessly, fall in love, go to grad school, make art, create collectives, get hired, get fired, fight for housing, walk streets, shock people in bathrooms, generously explain things, angrily explain things, raise money for each other\u2019s surgeries and bail funds and rent, be embraced or rejected by family, be lonely, stick together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The following stories cover a range of identities and geographies \u2014 individuals, collectives, and couples. They reflect an uncertain future: a daily struggle for safety, and an awareness of the constant possibility of joy. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Table of Contents<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Morgan Peterson: Sioux Falls, South Dakota<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n Joselyn Mendoza: Queens and Brooklyn, New York<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n Wilson and Miss B Haven: Durham, North Carolina<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n Willy Wilkinson: Oakland, California<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n Vera Verbel: DeKalb, Illinois<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n On a Wednesday night in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, a group of kids gathered around a raised fire pit to set their given names \u2014 also known as deadnames \u2014 ablaze.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt was 18 middle-schoolers and an open flame,\u201d Morgan Peterson says, laughing. \u201cIt was a very loud event\u2026it was really cathartic for them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Phoenix Festival, as they called this event, is one of the near nightly happenings at the Prism Community Center<\/a>, an LGBTQ2S+ community center opened in 2024 by the Transformation Project \u2014 a support and advocacy organization for transgender people and their families. On Tuesday, they held a casual hangout for trans adults, and on Friday is a moth-themed, goth-hosted art show called Metamorphosis. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Peterson, a 26-year-old administrative assistant and youth support worker at the Transformation Project, gives an enthusiastic walk-through of the center. \u201cDo you know what the P in Marsha P. Johnson stands for?\u201d Peterson asks, beginning our tour with the massive posters of Harvey Milk and Marsha P. Johnson just inside the entrance. \u201cPay it no mind!\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n We view two rooms deemed \u201cMarty\u2019s Closet,\u201d where trans people can try on and take home gender-affirming clothes with the help of a volunteer stylist. People come to the center throughout the week to find support and concrete resources, all of which are particularly popular with youth. During the summers, Peterson says, they often have dozens of young people at their events and hangouts. It\u2019s also welcoming to more than just trans-identified people: While it\u2019s trans-centered, this is also the only LGBTQ2S+ space in all of South Dakota. Many travel across the state and even across state lines to access this community.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n These services are desperately needed: A 2024 survey of LGBTQ+ youth by the Trevor Project<\/a> found that 44% of trans and nonbinary youth in South Dakota had seriously considered suicide, and nearly 1 in 12 had attempted it. A quarter of LGBTQ youth in the state said they were physically threatened or harmed in the last year based on sexual orientation or gender identity, and more than half reported experiencing discrimination.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In the main space of the Prism Center, there\u2019s a snack table, an art table, event fliers on the walls, a free queer library, magazines with the stories of trans people in South Dakota<\/a>, and, near the entrance, one of my favorite features: the framed Kristi Noem apology. <\/p>\n\n\n\n When Noem (now the deportation-happy<\/a> Secretary of Homeland Security) was still governor of South Dakota, she and her health secretary pulled nearly $100,000 of funding from the young organization after a social media troll targeted Noem for allocating federal funds to a transgender community health worker. The Transformation Project sued Kristi Noem for discrimination in 2023, and got a $300,000 settlement from Noem\u2019s government. They also received a formal apology<\/a> signed by her health secretary, now displayed prominently by the coffee machine for all to see. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Peterson has theories about Noem\u2019s personality. Their therapist once saw her in a local caf\u00e9 and noticed that she kept her head down and avoided making eye contact with people. Peterson\u2019s analysis: \u201cShe is intimidated by people like us, because we’ve worked past all of these institutional horrors and our own personal horrors, and we’ve said, \u2018No, I’m going to be authentic. I’m going to look people in the eye and tell them who I am.\u2019 I pity her but I also hate her, because she\u2019s committing atrocities right now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n After six years of Noem\u2019s leadership, South Dakota checks a lot of the anti-trans boxes that have become a focus for Republican governors and legislatures. In 2023, the state became the sixth in the country to ban gender-affirming care<\/a> for trans youth. <\/strong>In March of this year, the new governor of South Dakota signed<\/a> HB1259<\/a> into law, making it illegal for trans people to use the bathroom that aligns with their gender identity in schools and government buildings. Legislators pushing for the bill said they would rather trans people in South Dakota prisons be put in permanent solitary confinement<\/a> than share restroom facilities. <\/p>\n\n\n\n But South Dakota, and particularly Sioux Falls, is also a hub for grassroots responses. \u201cWe’ve created a network of safety,\u201d Peterson says. The Transformation Project has health care providers, trans-affirming contacts in therapy, teachers, and even school therapists they can call on to support youth. They hold weekly hangouts for middle and high school students and help them advocate for themselves in school, or refer them to resources for mental health support. \u201cMost of the time they’re not even talking about their gender or sexuality [when they\u2019re here] \u2014 they’re just being kids and that’s all they really need right now.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n \n Deni Chamberlin (she\/her)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n \n Deni Chamberlin (she\/her)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n \n Deni Chamberlin (she\/her)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n <\/section>\n\n\n\n Peterson grew up in a 700-person farming town called Viborg, 45 minutes south of Sioux Falls, and left near the end of high school to study classical music at a boarding school before heading to college in Chicago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201c<\/strong>I have so much love for that town,\u201d they tell me. \u201cThat is where I learned what community engagement is, what it means to prioritize the community over the individual.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n The downside: conformity. \u201cLike, you would get made fun of if you wore the wrong brand of Ugg boot in my high school. It was really harmful. And it’s also a very Christian conservative town.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Peterson had barely heard of being gay, queer, or nonbinary until they left the state \u2014 and when they did, they say, \u201cit was all over.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n When they returned fully-formed and identifying as a nonbinary lesbian, they came to understand their experience of South Dakota in less black-and-white terms. They can envision the way their life might have turned out if they had never left Viborg, and never connected with another queer or trans person.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI think there’s a version of me out there that’s still closeted, and [is] just a band director in a small town somewhere, married to a man,\u201d they say. Still, what they have now is better: \u201cI’ve cultivated this wonderful community for myself.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n The day after our tour, we do some bird-watching in the park and go to the butterfly house that Peterson grew up visiting \u2014 two of their happy places. South Dakota\u2019s prairies and wetlands are a haven for creatures, and Peterson can spend hours outside, hammocking and identifying birds with the Merlin app. I\u2019m struck by their midwestern sweetness, their ease in nature. There\u2019s a toughness to it, too. <\/p>\n\n\n \n Deni Chamberlin (she\/her)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n \n Deni Chamberlin (she\/her)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n <\/section>\n\n\n\n \u201cI love woodpeckers. That\u2019s my favorite bird. They have a protective membrane in their skull to keep them from getting concussed when they jam their beaks into the side of a tree trunk,\u201d they say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n After the park, we go to Peterson\u2019s apartment, which they call their \u201cHobbit House\u201d \u2014 a quiet cove with knitted blankets, a comfy couch, a cuddly cat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere’s this part of me that’s just, like, the scared kid that wants to be safe,\u201d they say. But overall, they\u2019re not afraid right now. They think the future is bright. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Interpretation provided by Gloria Delgadillo<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Interpretation and additional reporting by Ale Pedraza Buenahora<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Joselyn Mendoza is a busy woman \u2014 classic New York.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI’m always rushing. Sometimes I feel like I don’t even have time for myself,\u201d she says, showing up to meet our team between her part-time job and a political lobbying event. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Mendoza wears jeans and a jacket \u2014 denim on denim \u2014 when we meet in a Williamsburg park. Her family has lived in the neighborhood for the last two decades, through the area\u2019s aggressive gentrification. Mendoza, 52, lives upstairs with her husband, nephew, sister, and brother-in-law. Her brother and his wife live downstairs with their three kids. After her stepfather died due to cancer and a lack of access to medical care during the COVID-19 pandemic, family became even more of a priority. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNothing really makes me happier than to be with my family,\u201d she says. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Mendoza\u2019s close with her mom, but it took years for her to accept her transition, she says. Even a couple years ago, when she went to get breast implants, \u201cShe really didn’t believe me when I told her that I wanted to go do this\u2026 I got my surgery, she didn’t even want to look at me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her mom, who was an advocate for immigrants when she first came to the U.S. from Mexico, has given Mendoza more credit as her own organizing work has begun to bear fruit. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Mendoza is the director of Mirror Beauty Cooperative<\/a>, which started as an effort by a group of Latina trans women to build economic independence through learning and teaching cosmetology skills.<\/p>\n\n\n \n Ale Pedraza Buenahora (they\/elle)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n \n Ale Pedraza Buenahora (they\/elle)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n <\/section>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis city is very, very expensive,\u201d she says, gesturing toward Williamsburg \u2014 land of high rents and $20 cocktails. \u201cThis is why many people actually engage in sex work.\u201d For trans women who are migrants, employment options can be extremely limited.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For Mendoza, \u201cdoing makeup really came out of a need, because I left school and I needed to do something. But I am more theoretical rather than practical.\u201d She has a cosmetology license, but her role in the cooperative is mainly obtaining funds, organizing workshops, and giving advice on makeup artistry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The cooperative\u2019s main offering is workshops, which happen two or three times a week in a windowless room inside non-profit offices in Queens. A smattering of Latinx folks of different identities show up and practice makeup, lashes, and hairstyling, with Mendoza at the helm. The group unloads donated makeup, mirrors, and other beauty supplies on a conference room table, and everyone gets to work \u2014 they\u2019re familiar and comfortable with each other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mendoza is a natural leader, but she\u2019s constantly crediting her team. \u201cWe need to work collectively, we need more than just opportunities, we need to come together,\u201d she repeats. \u201cWe need our own physical space to open up a beauty shop, and someone to finance it.\u201d Volunteers like Dani, a skilled eyelash technician, and Suleyka, a makeup artist, help out and fill in when she\u2019s away. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Dani has only been in the country for a month and a half. At our meetup in the park, he\u2019s visibly shy, but excited, too. Mirror, he says, \u201copened up a lot of doors for me \u2026I immigrated to the United States and I joined Joselyn’s group. Because I know that beauty’s always going to be trending, right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He loves that, even as a person who is so new to the country, he can share knowledge with others in the queer community. \u201cNo one can take away the knowledge that we’ve gained.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n \n Ale Pedraza Buenahora (they\/elle)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n \n Ale Pedraza Buenahora (they\/elle)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n <\/section>\n\n\n\n Lately, attendance at the workshops has been low. People are afraid to travel \u2014 even within New York City \u2014 because of ramped-up immigration enforcement. Still, Mendoza points out that the risk of deportations is nothing new.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOne of things that Trump has done is like, he’s really shown, he’s really reflected what the United States actually is. This country is racist. The United States is homophobic even despite the laws that exist,\u201d she says. Her community worried about deportations under Presidents Biden and Obama, too. \u201cI am scared,\u201d she says. <\/p>\n\n\n\n She envisions an event where all the people they\u2019ve trained can advertise their skills to families planning quincea\u00f1eras and other special events. \u201cIf we have to do it right here in this park, we will,\u201d she says. In the long run, she hopes to create economic stability for herself and other trans women with a shop that belongs to the community. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t want admiration,\u201d she says, \u201cI want a legacy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Wilson and Miss B Haven sit at a queer-friendly bar in downtown Durham, sipping the hair of the dog. They have just pulled an all-nighter, partying with a friend for a birthday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt was pretty chill,\u201d Wilson says, \u201cbut we did see the sun rise.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The following week, at an airy coffee shop in north Durham, Wilson has on a red dad cap that says, \u201cBlack Coochie Matters,\u201d and they\u2019re fresh off an \u201call-day-er\u201d \u2014 Miss B had three drag performances in different parts of the Triangle the day prior. \u201cI don\u2019t even remember falling asleep last night,\u201d Wilson tells me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n This unconventional and unpredictable schedule represents their relationship well: \u201cI\u2019m attuned to the divine timeline,\u201d says Miss B Haven, 28, an artist, drag performer, and \u201coverall good time.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Wilson, 32, is a journalist, photographer, organizer, and the Type A in the relationship when it comes to planning. \u201cI have gotten used to never knowing what\u2019s going to happen with her,\u201d they say. \u201cWe have very different relationships to time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n When talking about their first meeting at a dance party last summer, Wilson says, \u201cShe comes up to me and I ask her how she’s doing and she’s like, \u2018Better now!\u2019 And I ran to my friends and was like, \u2018Y’all, this girl so fine\u2026I don’t know what to do. I’m, like, freakin’ out.\u2019 And then one of my friends was like, \u2018Just go ask her to dance!\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThen we started dancing,\u201d Wilson says, \u201cAnd we’ve been dancing ever since.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Miss B adds, \u201cYou actually can find the love of your life out in the club.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n \n Jaylan Rhea (they\/them)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n \n Jaylan Rhea (they\/them)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n \n Jaylan Rhea (they\/them)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n <\/section>\n\n\n\n The second time the pair hung out, their night ended at Miss B\u2019s house, where Wilson watched as she did her hormone injection.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere was something very sweet and very magical about just being there, witnessing her,\u201d Wilson says. <\/p>\n\n\n\n After a casual summer, they made their relationship official near Halloween, when they attended a party dressed as Roger Rabbit and Jessica Rabbit \u2014 \u201ca really great T4T couples costume,\u201d says Miss B. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI always told all my friends, yo, I just know the moment that I really get into my T4T s**t \u2014 just know y’all better get me while you can,\u201d she continues. \u201c[Because] the schedule of people that I will be making time for in my day will be limited.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Wilson and Miss B describe an ease and a sense of intuitive understanding in dating another trans person. Both say their relationship helps them feel safe and grounded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBeing in a T4T relationship is very healing and…so affirming. When the world is out to get us\u2026we can just be with each other and be with our community,\u201d Wilson says.<\/p>\n\n\n \n Jaylan Rhea (they\/them)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n \n Jaylan Rhea (they\/them)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n \n Jaylan Rhea (they\/them)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n <\/section>\n\n\n\n Miss B says she\u2019s from a \u201ccowboy-esque\u201d part of Texas. She moved to Durham for college and stayed because she loved the community. Wilson moved around the Midwest as a kid and took up residence in the Raleigh area at 14. Both came out as trans in the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, and see Durham as something of a safe haven for trans people.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDurham feels specifically like a Black trans mecca,\u201d Wilson says. \u201cJust last month, there was a Black trans film festival here, and it was so magical having Black trans people here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n But, they add, microaggressions and outright violence can pop up anywhere. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Miss B has recently had some explicit run-ins with gender harassment. Just a few months ago in downtown Durham, a right-wing extremist went to several bars, harassing people and spewing homophobic language \u2014 a story the couple followed closely (and recounted on the TransLash podcast), because downtown Durham\u2019s bar scene is generally queer- and trans-friendly. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou can feel that Durham is really like a safe bubble,\u201d Miss B says. \u201cI think that reality can quickly be bursted, unfortunately.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She\u2019s ready to get a gun for self-defense, but needs to deal with her nails first.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201c<\/strong>I’ve decided to go a little bit short because my friends told me\u2026 ‘If you’re going to learn how to shoot a gun, maybe you should learn first without nails. And then once you are a little bit more familiar, then it’s like, go off, do what you want.’\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Miss B is playful, not inclined toward fear, but she\u2019s concerned about losing access to hormone replacement therapy in the future. She also paused her own legal name change process after Trump came back into office. Some of her family members are trying to become naturalized citizens, and she doesn\u2019t want her legal identification to be an issue if she needs to provide documentation for their cases.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Wilson, who started doing volunteer trans advocacy in journalism school after writing articles about trans women in prison, is particularly concerned about the incarcerated trans women they work with, because for them, \u201cthere is no protection.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThese are my trans siblings,\u201d Wilson says. \u201cWe are as free as our kin.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n North Carolina and many Southern states have historically resisted placing trans people in facilities that align with their gender identities. In state prisons in general, getting health care or getting placed in the right facility can be a huge fight. Currently, a federal executive order is attempting to mandate the same anti-trans treatment in federal prisons, although a judge has blocked the administration from enforcing it<\/a> for now. <\/p>\n\n\n\n But fundamentally, the conditions that Republicans are bringing on nationally are not new here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAs a Black person who grew up in the ghetto, I’ve always been of the mindset that, like, nothing has really changed for us,\u201d says Wilson. \u201cThis just feels like the American experience.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Miss B says, \u201cIn the state of the world right now, it could be really scary and ugly. But\u2026surrounded in our love, a lot of times it’s like, well, we just don’t care. Because we have each other.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Willy Wilkinson is just back from a weekend in the woods with a bunch of other transmasculine folks, and he\u2019s glowing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI’ve been to more of these retreats than anyone,\u201d he says. Now in its 10th year, the Transmission<\/a> retreat brings transmasculine people together for a few days in the Northern California redwoods. Wilkinson says these retreats are healing. \u201cThere’s a certain timelessness to these experiences. The world can go to shit, but community is consistent\u2026 The joy we have when we relax and play in a safe environment elevates us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Wilkinson, a 62-year-old author, speaker, and public health consultant who founded API TransFusion<\/a> \u2014 a summer retreat for Asian and Pacific Islander transmasculine people \u2014 regularly gives workshops at these events. He quickly identifies himself as someone who loves to dance, play, and party. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPeople think, \u2018Why should I be partying?\u2019 because I\u2019m old. I\u2019m always gonna be partying. I can bust a move.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He also swims in the San Francisco Bay almost every day. \u201cThe pandemic turned me into a sea creature,\u201d he says. \u201cBeing in nature reminds you that wherever you’re at, things will evolve and change.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n \n Jordan Reznick (he\/they)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n \n Jordan Reznick (he\/they)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n <\/section>\n\n\n\n Right now, change feels cyclical. \u201cThis particular moment, in some ways, feels a lot like the 80s,\u201d he says. \u201cIn the 80s, we really didn’t have anything but ourselves. And there was this concept of family. People would say, \u2018Are they family?\u2019 Meaning: Are they gay?<\/em> But it was generally used in reference to the broader LGBTQ community \u2014 even though we didn’t really have that term at the time\u2026 So we can wink, we can wave, we can connect with folks with a shared experience of the power of self-expression, the joy in the community, and know that we’re not alone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The father of three teenagers, Wilkinson also considers trans community his family. \u201cI love being \u2018brother\u2019 or \u2018uncle.\u2019 I love how so many of our trans sisters are mothers and daughters to one another \u2014 Miss Major, Cecilia Chung \u2014 elders uplifting and caring for our younger community members. When you\u2019re experiencing transphobic harm, when you\u2019re struggling to survive on multiple fronts, maybe your friends, family, and community turned their backs on you. Those who have survived the most harm don\u2019t do you like that, even if it\u2019s the middle of the night. That\u2019s family \u2014 trans family.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Wilkinson grew up in a San Francisco suburb in the 60s and 70s, where \u201cthere was not much consciousness around race or around LGBTQ issues,\u201d he says. \u201cIf people were throwing racial epithets on the playground, nobody was saying, \u2018Don’t do that.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n But despite having little context or information about trans identity, he always knew he was male.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhen I was four years old, I asked my dad about the people on the money. I said, \u2018Are they all white men?\u2019 And he said, \u2018Yes, they’re all former presidents.\u2019 So I decided at age four that I wanted to be a white man, because I figured that was the only way to be president and get anywhere in the world,\u201d he says with a self-effacing grin. \u201cOver time, I did work through my own internalized racism, but the idea of being male never changed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He took the name Willy (derived from his last name) at age nine. But even at 18, \u201cthere was no route to transitioning to male. There was no visibility of anybody transmasculine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n By the 1980s, he was living in San Francisco as a butch lesbian, organizing the Asian lesbian community. Working as a community health outreach worker in the Tenderloin district, Wilkinson helped people access resources for HIV prevention and safer drug use. He provided services for transfeminine people working the streets, but he wasn\u2019t always recognized as part of the trans community. He felt like an anomaly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI really felt that my gender identity was inextricably linked to my mixed heritage, and that I was a third-gendered person,\u201d he says. \u201cI was considered a weirdo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Now, he identifies as a trans man and says he\u2019s loved seeing so many people embrace nonbinary identity, \u201cbecause there are as many genders as there are people embodying them. There are as many genders as there are stars in the sky.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n \n Jordan Reznick (he\/they)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n \n Jordan Reznick (he\/they)\n <\/p>\n \n \n <\/figcaption>\n \n <\/figure>\n <\/section>\n\n\n\n His health care work gradually connected him to other trans people as they built the modern trans movement in the 1990s. \u201cOver time, we developed a concept of trans health,\u201d he says. \u201cEarlier, we didn\u2019t have that language. I started working in HIV prevention, focusing on trans individuals. It was from HIV\/AIDS that we really began to look at a broader health picture of trans people… And then we were talking about transition-related care, and later gender-affirming care\u2026 It evolved over time.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n In 1996, the City of San Francisco conducted the first large-scale study of transgender health, with over 500 participants. Then, the San Francisco Transgender Film Festival<\/a> was launched (then called \u201cTranny Fest\u201d), and more of the marginalized stories about transmasculine people and trans people of color began to emerge \u2014 first through these grassroots events, and later in the media.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat was exciting, documenting our stories,\u201d he says. Wilkinson was a spoken word performer himself, and appeared in one of the early films Christopher Lee<\/a> and Elise Hurwitz directed in 1997: \u201cTrappings of Transhood.\u201d At the same time, a growing number of organizations that recognized FTM (female-to-male) identity and community began to pop up, in addition to more studies and news stories on transgender people generally, and transmasculine people specifically.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Wilkinson has celebrated as trans people have gained increasing access to gender-affirming care. \u201cAccess to care is truly one of the greatest victories of the transgender movement. I have seen people’s mental health status so elevated because of access to care. In the 90s when we did that large-scale study, one of the biggest findings was that suicidality was directly linked to access to care. Numerous studies since, including the recently released U.S. Trans Survey<\/a>, with over 92,000 respondents nationwide, corroborate the link between access to culturally competent, gender-affirming care and well-being.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n In 2006, California led the way by banning gender-based discrimination in health insurance, and again by requiring health care plans to remove trans exclusions in 2012. Increasingly, states began to include trans health coverage<\/a> in their federally funded Medicaid programs, and private insurers removed exclusions for trans health care. Finally, in 2016, the federal government under Obama declared<\/a> that federally supported health plans cannot discriminate against trans people.<\/p>\n\n\n\nMorgan Peterson: Safety and Support in Sioux Falls, South Dakota<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n
![\"\"](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-SD2-1024x680.jpg\")
![\"Morgan](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-SD5-1024x680.jpg\")
\n ![\"Morgan](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-SD4-1024x680.jpg\")
\n ![\"Morgan](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-SD6-1024x680.jpg\")
\n ![\"Morgan](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-SD3-1024x680.jpg\")
\n ![\"Morgan](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-SD1-1024x680.jpg\")
\n \u201cI dig deeper and I listen to my gut, which I’m getting better at listening to. That’s a completely different set of feelings, and those feelings are calm. Those feelings are reassured. Those are the feelings of all of my trans elders who have come before me, who are saying, \u2018No, we’re not going anywhere, and we’ve been fighting, so you can keep fighting.\u2019\u201d<\/h4>\n\n\n\n
\n\n\n\nJoselyn Mendoza: Cooperative Economics in Queens and Brooklyn, New York <\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n
![\"\"](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-NY3-1024x683.jpg\")
![\"Joselyn](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-NY2-1024x683.jpg\")
\n ![\"A](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-NY6-1024x683.jpg\")
\n ![\"Joselyn](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-NY4-1024x683.jpg\")
\n ![\"Joselyn](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-NY1-1024x683.jpg\")
\n \u201cBut like, what else is the alternative? It’s just like, are we gonna go back to hiding? Are we going to go back to living in the shadows without any freedom?\u201d<\/h4>\n\n\n\n
\n\n\n\nWilson and Miss B Haven: T4T Love and Nightlife in Durham, North Carolina<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n
![\"\"](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-NC12-1024x685.jpg\")
![\"A](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-NC7-1024x685.jpg\")
\n ![\"Miss](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-NC15-1024x1024.jpg\")
\n ![\"Miss](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-NC8-1024x685.jpg\")
\n ![\"Miss](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-NC4-1024x1024.jpg\")
\n ![\"Two](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-NC1-1024x685.jpg\")
\n ![\"Close](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-NC13-1024x685.jpg\")
\n \u201cI feel like anti-Blackness and transphobia go hand in hand\u2026 No place is absolved from that.\u201d<\/h4>\n\n\n\n
\n\n\n\nWilly Wilkinson: Community and Creativity in Oakland, California<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n
![\"\"](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-CA3-1024x768.jpg\")
![\"Willy](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-CA5-1024x768.jpg\")
\n ![\"Willy](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-CA4-1024x768.jpg\")
\n ![\"Willy](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-CA1-1024x768.jpg\")
\n ![\"Willy](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-CA2-1024x768.jpg\")
\n
![\"Vera](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-IL5-1024x695.jpg\")
![\"Vera](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-IL1-1024x680.jpg\")
\n ![\"Vera](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-IL2-1024x696.jpg\")
\n ![\"Vera](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-IL3-1024x680.jpg\")
<\/figure>\n\n\n\n![\"Vera](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-IL4-1024x841.jpg\")
\n ![\"Vera](\"https:\/\/translash.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/06\/TVOA-IL6-1024x680.jpg\")
\n