Hudson Valley, NY

I moved to New York when I was 18 to attend a women’s college outside of Ithaca. Neither the college, nor the last ditch effort to identify as female worked out for me. But New York did. I went to school here, I owned property in rural Rensselaer County, and now am settling down in the Hudson Valley. I’m engaged, and we are launching our very own CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) farm this spring. That’s right, I’m a farmer. I work sun-up to sun-down, in all kinds of weather, to grow sustainable and delicious food for my community. I have a wonderful life.

I have had many experiences of discrimination as a transperson. I can recall times where I have been denied apartments, screamed at in public places, turned away from jobs I was overqualified to do. I’ve been threatened, attacked and homeless. So how, out of these experiences, do I choose to talk about just one?

When you are sick, you are vulnerable. I have the distinct advantage of having worked as an advocate and have learned how to get what I need. This wasn’t always the case.

I have asthma, the result of poor genetics and smokers for parents. I swear I could catch bronchitis by looking at a box of tissues. I had a particularly nasty case a few winters ago. I did have health insurance, though, so I headed to a walk-in after a Saturday shift. It wasn’t particularly busy, and I signed in at the desk and sat down.

At the time, I had a legal name that was distinctively feminine, but did not look distinctly feminine. Unlike today, where everyone assumes I’m a typical farm-guy, my appearance was confusing for people. The receptionist called my name, and coughing, I approached the desk.

“Um, hi…” she said, narrowing her eyes through her glasses. “What are you here for?” I smiled, automatic for a service worker and told her I was having trouble breathing and had asthma. “Well, we can’t help you. We don’t know where to put you.” She said and went to leave. “Wait…” I stumbled, confused. I didn’t understand what she meant. “Are you too busy to see me today? I don’t mind waiting, like I said; I have asthma so I really need to be seen.” The woman, returned to the window, sighing “We don’t treat people like you here.” Still confused, maybe from a haze of cold medicine, I said, “People with asthma? I don’t need a specialist or anything; I think I just have bronchitis.”

“No, we don’t know where to put you. You know, people who we can’t place.” The light went on. I stated, “Right, you don’t want me here because you can’t tell if I’m a man or a woman”. It was now too late to go elsewhere, and I was furious. “Unless you have gender-specific exam rooms or something, I don’t know why how I look would be a problem. I just need some antibiotics.” She stood her ground. “We can’t help your kind.”

A few more minutes of this conversation occurred. The others in the room were now listening and mentally taking apart my physical characteristics to see if they could guess my gender. Like a game. Whispers. Chuckles. Eventually, I saw a doctor who handed me some sample packets of antibiotics and ushered me out through the stares of the waiting room. I ended up returning to a different doctor days later. I had bronchitis and an ear infection and the antibiotics I was given weren’t the kind needed.

All I was asking for was treatment for a routine medical problem, but my appearance was so out of the routine that I was treated as a medical anomaly -- As if my right to literally breathe were offensive.