Then a young transwoman—I think she’d been on hormones for a year—weighed in. “It’sgoing to hurt more than you can imagine,” she wrote, “butyou will have real feelings. You’ll walk outside and feel the sun and the rain on your face. You may go through hell, but it will be worth it.” Though I had never thought about transition this concretely—to me it still seemed like the magical fantasies of transformation I had lived on for years—her words had a shockingly familiar quality. This was the voice that had called to me all my life. No more distance, no more numbness, the voice would whisper. You too can be human. Now I knew that the voice had been right. I did have real feelings. I felt pain, loneliness, terror, hope, exhilaration, triumph. I might not be a woman, but I had become human.
—Joy Ladin
In my work as a feminist, a human rights and social inclusion activist, policy expert, educator, and ethicist, I seem to be advocating for universal human dignity all the time. People regard this as a virtuous, even noble, undertaking, and they frequently wish me well. Still, it’s an odd banner to carry; no one seems to have an iron-clad definition for dignity even if everyone has a pretty good general idea what it means. For most, the discussion is a parlor room nicety, only occasionally verging on a provocative conversation. I’ve even heard it referred to as the “dignitarian discourse.” If such a discourse truly exists it is largely an unfocused discourse, with no clear goal except to make people pause for a minute and take stock. That stocktaking generally concludes with a something-ought-to-be-done sentiment expressed in varying degrees of fervor or outrage, but human dignity is always quick to be hushed into irrelevant silence when strategic national self-interest or other more pragmatic and immediate concerns are raised. And raised they are, as those whose weary worldliness and cynical air of authority reassert ownership of the discussion, which world-weary and cynical folk are prone to do. Whole books and seminars with that hard and incisive edge of cynicism are regularly offered on topics of the day, which almost all lead to one overriding conclusion: humanity as a moral concept is largely a failed experiment. It is now largely taken as self-evident truth that humans operate only from incentives and disincentives (which of course can and will be manipulated by the powerful), and that violence, inhumanity, exploitation, lust for power, greed, and impunity are simply the way things are in the world. If you propose a countervailing view that argues on behalf of a gradual but largely unwavering progression of human civilization, progressively more aligned with some notion of universal human dignity and compassion, you are dismissed as a farsighted (but unworldly) philosopher at best, or at worst a naïve Pollyanna unschooled in reality and ignorant to what really matters: power. Or, as our new president proclaims, “America First!” The question of how we ought to respond to the human dignity of those beyond our geographic borders, or on the other side of that new wall, just doesn’t matter.
In any event, I continue to join with feminists, human rights and social inclusion activists, development practitioners, educators, and others with a similar set of concerns and hopes to advocate—fiercely—for universal human dignity. Tilting at windmills perhaps, and even if comforted by a conviction that humanity as a species has indeed become more civilized in the past millennium, we are left with the truth that we have a spotty record in making the concept of human dignity an influential concept. If public policy really gave credence to human dignity and allocated resources, participation, laws and regulations, and behavior accordingly, the world would need to change entirely. So much of the world’s economy is built on exploitation, on domination and subjugation, on violence at multiple levels, and on othering people who don’t fit in. Yes, people just like me. So many of our values are shaped by what can be monetized, making the vast majority of the essential social and community caring and nurturing roles of women invisible to economic analysis. None of this bodes well for dignity’s debut as the framing paradigm of a new age.
What would it mean to be a dignified human, and what factors would disqualify certain people? When talking generalities, we just don’t know. Instead, we need to be talking about someone who is present, who is authentic, accessible, and self-ish. Dignity, like justice, may work well as a general concept for crafting speeches and slogans, but it really only starts to make a difference when you connect with the look-them-in-the-eyes part of human dignity. I am called to offer such stares, again and again, as I make my case for my humanity.
Stereotypes don’t have eyes to look into. So many transgender persons have experienced so much pain and exclusion in our lives, and suffer so much doubt and insecurity, that looking into our eyes to find dignity is never going to be easy. Those eyes—eyes just like mine—are seldom where the world looks to find dignity, much less humanity. Many of us think of a dignified person as one who is celebrated, to whom medals and honorary degrees are bestowed, as someone who stands tall (and who, by the way, is generally assumed in the abstract to be male). In my life, however, many of those with the most poignant and compelling narratives of dignity and deep humanity are the ones who are despised, abused, ridiculed, excluded, even violently attacked. My transgender Ugandan friend Beyoncé Karungi is one such woman of dignity, of resilient humanity, and unmistakable femininity. Her story is replete with so much victimization and hardship, yet she is emphatically not a “victim.” She is too dignified to be reduced to that status, and her humanity shines out like a beacon to all those who are able to see her as the person she is, who dare to look her in the eyes. She has owned her integrity, her self, despite living in one of the most challenging and transgender-toxic cultures in the world. She continually inspires me with her unselfconscious lesson that humanity rests in each person, of any gender, who is wholly present as herself, himself, or hirself. Oddly enough, “humanity” is probably pretty much perceived in the same way that Quakers look for “that of God” in each person. In either interpretation, that quality is what binds us to each other, that empowers us to elevate our ambitions to achieve not only greater justice in the world, but to go for the gold prize: love and caring.
For many transgender people, being present in an authentic way is our only crack at demanding that our dignity be acknowledged and respected. In making that demand we risk a great deal: humiliation, ridicule, exclusion, or violence because we are transgender; misogyny and condescension because we are women; wrong pronouns and off-color humor because we’re just not worth the effort of taking seriously. For transgender women everywhere, we work long and very hard to earn the “s” in front of “he.”
Those pronouns do matter, as much as I like to pretend that I’m beyond that. It almost never happens anymore to me, but during the earlier stages of my transition it was an almost daily hurdle. Some people see the use of wrong pronouns as a way to show their displeasure or make it clear that they aren’t “buying it.” After all, it’s a very effective put-down, although after a point it makes everyone present feel deeply uncomfortable as it becomes clear that either the transgender person or the person refusing to use the correct pronouns just looks silly. For the transgender person, even that risk of being the one who loses is humiliating and deeply hurtful. Other pronoun abusers are just creatures of habit who fail to take even the most basic measures to correct themselves before or after using a him, a his, or a he when speaking to or about a transgender woman. In general, transgender people forgive them. We’ve much more important battles to fight than overcoming habitual pronoun miscreants.
In the end, the pronouns, stereotypes and labels won’t matter. We will stand or fall on our humanity, and on our dignity. Refusing to accept our assertion of our gender is nothing less than a rejection of that humanity and that dignity, after we’ve put it all on the line. While we won’t bend to letting others define us, we do need to live, work, love, and play in a society of human beings. We are who we say we are, and while it isn’t much to ask of others, it is everything to us. I am Chloe. Accept that I am here, female and very human, fierce yet vulnerable, tough yet sensitive, with a heart filled with love and warmth. I am at peace with who I am. I’ve struggled so hard, for so long, against such outrageous odds, just to be able to write those words.
I’m self-ish. I have to be. Find room in your heart for me, and for trans-gender people everywhere, and your heart will grow.
It’s a pretty good deal.