It’s been hard to sit down and write this article, not because I didn’t want to, but because I’ve been scared to. I’ve been scared to fail, to not write something good enough, for people to judge me, for me to miss a punctuation somewhere and be seen as a blemish on the name of transpeople and nonbinary people around the world.
And I realized something—this was the same kind of anxiety I felt before helping organize a protest for transrights.
A few months ago, my classmate (and now good friend) Charlie (he/him), invited me to help him with a class project. Actually, I interjected myself into his project. Towards the beginning of class, Charlie announced his plans to hold a protest for transrights. I can still remember the way his voice shaked, how he wringed his hands together. And I remember how brave I thought he was. And I thought that maybe some of his bravery would rub off on me. So, I asked if I could be a speaker and from there, we were a team!
We had a month to plan a protest in front of the California State Capitol building in Sacramento. How do you even start a protest from the ground up? Who do you call? What do you bring? I contacted multiple local organizations to see if they would like to support. I made a couple posters and figured out where to rent a microphone and podium. I felt pretty good about myself! And I quickly began to imagine it all: Speeches, chants, large crowds, countless posters, and endless energy.
That’s not quite how it went.
Local organizations didn’t get back to me (understandably so! I was a random college student with an unknown name and no networking power) and costs started increasing with every planned rental and printed flier. The dream of a massive protest quickly turned into a nightmare of something I couldn’t achieve.
The morning of the protest felt like a bad omen. Overcast skies and hot wind told me that even the elements had it out against our protest. But, I hopped in my car and made my way to California’s capitol building. I glanced over at the west steps on my way to the parking garage. Another obstacle—a small group of people setting up their own protest during our reserved time.
My stomach churned and ached. Charlie told me he was on his way. How could I break it to him that someone took our spot? And would they be friendly towards us if we asked them to move? Was their cause similar to ours and could we share this space? Our permit was valid, would they respect its authority?
Our protest was over before it began.
Or was it?
It wasn’t! The group of strangers turned out to be Charlie and his family and friends! And everything was perfect.
We set up a bright blue canopy and played Lady Gaga music. As time moved forward, pressure began to melt away.
Curious onlookers came by and asked questions about our cause. They told us about family members who were facing backlash for their identities and feeling helpless in helping them. They read our posters and were shocked by the legislation aimed towards transpeople. They appreciated the education we gave them and, above all, they encouraged us to keep fighting.
Between visits from passerbys, we danced, sang, drew up more posters, and created new bonds of friendship. I would be chastised thoroughly and doing a disservice if I didn’t mention our impromptu squat workout in the name of transrights.
This protest wasn’t the massive demonstration I set it up to be in my head, but it never needed to be. We still spread awareness about issues and we informed people on how to support transpeople. And for the queer folk who may not have felt safe publicly approaching our booth: You’re why we do this. You’re why we smiled in the hot California sun and raised attention to the struggles we face. You’re why we all continue the fight.
In the cheesiest way possible, what I’m trying to tell you is don’t let the impossibility of perfection prevent you from doing something you’re passionate about and from making new friends.