Everything I, A Straight White Man, Have Learned About Trans People

An argument that compassion is manlier than hate

In 2024 the Trump campaign spent $215 million on ads attacking trans people. That’s $134 per-trans American, according to Montana state representative Zooey Zephyr. In one of his first acts as president, Trump issued an executive order declaring that the federal government would only recognize two genders. And during his State of the Union on March 5, the President told multiple lies intended to villainize trans women. Nationwide, there’s 425 anti-trans bills being heard by state legislatures as we speak.

Trump’s hatred is supported by, or perhaps originated in something called the “manosphere,” a cringe-inducing collection of podcasters and influencers like Andrew Tate, Joe Rogan, and Jesus Christ, who are all working to try and radicalize young men to act in favor of tax cuts for billionaires by turning them into the biggest pieces of shit possible.

Throughout all that, some Democrats are trying to walk their party away from the cause of trans equality, even going so far as to argue support for trans rights is what cost America the election.

That’s all pretty fucking disgusting. At no point is it ever appropriate for society’s most powerful people to target the most vulnerable, and especially to do that just to accumulate more power. Nor is it ok to witness that, and do nothing. Let me explain my own relationship with trans people, and hopefully you’ll begin to see things my way.

I used to live in Hollywood, in a pretty nice house that was reasonably affordable because, at the time, it was right on the edge of where a good neighborhood turned into a bad one. There were homeless people, but they mostly minded their own business. I’d take them a paper plate of leftovers, or hand them a couple bucks if they were outside the house. Then developers started putting up luxury hotels in the part of Hollywood where all the crack heads hung out. That forced the criminal homeless element down into the neighborhoods, and things went to shit.

Working from home as a writer, and being pretty broke myself at the time due to a quixotic effort to try and build a motorcycle publication relevant to the outside world, I had a little time on my hands. And I used that to enforce a zero tolerance policy for crime on my block.

During my my two or three-year career in vigilante justice, I stopped a rape, got into an actual sword fight like a freakin’ musketeer, tackled a guy who was high on PCP and had ripped a lamppost out of the ground in order to smash parked cars with it, then held him in a headlock for 45 minutes waiting on the LAPD to show up, and of course emptied an entire can of bear spray into a home invader’s face at point blank range.

But the problem with vigilante justice was that pissing me off didn’t always add up to an actual crime. At least not one that always justified the punishment. I threw one of my trash cans through the windshield of an Escalade, after the bro driving it littered in my driveway. I destroyed a homeless encampment set up outside my house, and threw all their camping gear over a razor wire fence into a post office parking lot, where it probably still sits. When they got new tents and tried to set up again, I trash talked one of the kids until he punched me in the face, made sure I had a witness, and pressed charges.

And I do mean kids. A lot of the homeless population in Hollywood at the time were teenagers. I’d find out why later on.

So, like any normal human being, I started to struggle with feelings of guilt. Not just because I was realizing that people maybe didn’t deserve to get bitten by my dog just because they were having a bad day on the wrong block, but also because I’d started to earn good money again, and it was hard to square that with the intense poverty going on right outside my gate. I hadn’t volunteered for a while, thought that might be a better outlet for my energy, and went looking for opportunities.

One of my friends was a social worker, and worked with a group home network that was helping formerly-homeless teens put their lives back together. Working with those kids to provide fitness mentorship, hikes, and to take them on camping trips somehow sounded like a good idea to everyone involved, so we just started doing that together.

Having lived in London, New York, then Los Angeles, I’d encountered trans people plenty of times before. But this whole charity thing was the first time I’d ever really become close to a trans person. It took a little while to earn trust, but after showing up for some group dinners, and leading everyone on hikes in Runyon and Griffith Parks, we embarked on our first camping trip, in the mountains above Santa Barbara.

One of the girls had never left east LA before, much less been outside the city. She was convinced that everywhere in California was either San Francisco, or Los Angeles, but couldn’t decide which one we were in. It was her first time seeing the Milky Way, and while I was eventually able to convince her that wasn’t pollution, we could not come to terms on geography. We ended up compromising, and agreeing we were in Sacramento.

When we walked back to the campfire, we found other kids sharing their stories. One had slept in a drawer in their mom’s studio apartment, before ending up on their own when the mom got a new boyfriend. Another had been raped and beaten by their own father for years, before they built up the courage to run away. Another had lost their dad to Afghanistan or Iraq, and just slowly ended up on the streets as their mom descended into alcoholism.

None of those were the reasons why some of those kids were trans. Trans people just are, like you are, or I am. But being trans was one of the things that had prevented them from finding help or acceptance, as they learned to navigate the world on their own, at way too young an age. All of them had eventually found their way to Hollywood, as they filtered through different communities towards one made up of people like themselves.

The social workers at the group home were engaged in helping the kids find the tools they needed to build successful lives. They developed career skills, sought out mentorship, and pursued job placements. Part of learning to fit back in to a world that had chewed them up and spit them out was learning to be comfortable in their own skin. So they learned to navigate the healthcare system in order to pursue gender affirming care. The group home gave them access to clothing donations so they could look nice at interviews or jobs. And the kids themselves helped each other with hair, makeup and styling. I was included in a discussion covering the finer points of tucking while the kids and I pulled weeds as part of a day volunteering in a national park.

This newfound sense of community wasn’t just giving the kids the ability to enter the workforce, it was enabling them to survive. Since first volunteering with trans kids over a decade ago, writing stories about it, learning to become an advocate for trans rights, and building meaningful friendships with trans people, I’ve had otherwise kind, but previously ignorant friends ask me all sorts of questions. One of those frequently tracks along the lines of: I didn’t see any trans people growing up, why are there so many now?

The answer to that question comes in two parts. One: There aren’t as many trans people as their prevalence in right wing propaganda would make it seem. As described at length in the pamphlet the Army distributed to its troops in 1945 to educate them about the dangers posed by fascism, that system of political control builds urgency by manufacturing the presence of “an enemy within,” around which it can rally obedience. To be effective, that imagined enemy needs to be both easily painted as an other, and lack the power to fight back. Two: Before they were able to create the smallest shred of humanity for themselves in contemporary western culture, trans people were forced to live in hiding, were murdered, or committed suicide.

While the subject lacks comprehensive data, studies have shown that even today trans people experience up to 19 times the risk of dying by suicided compared to the general population. Laws targeting trans people can increase that risk by 72 percent, while bullying alone can more than double it. Trans people are over four times as likely as us cisgender folk to be victims of violence. And that violence is getting worse as the right accelerates its villainization. Between 2017 and 2021 the number of trans people murdered in this country nearly doubled.

Those statistics compound with the risks faced by women and people of color. A trans woman of color faces not only the risks inherent in being trans, but also those faced by women and minorities.

Remember those numbers the next time you hear a rich, powerful white man open their mouth and attack the trans community. The kids I worked with as part of that group home in Hollywood are the bravest people I’ve ever met. The people who attack them are just scared by the cowards they reveal themselves to be in comparison.

Trans people face those risks every day, in any environment. Visiting a national park with my group, one park ranger got a little overwhelmed by something he obviously hadn’t experienced before, and addressed a teenager who had some innocent questions about foxes using the wrong pronouns several times, before I took him aside and corrected that. I’m sure you can see how a child, still learning their relationship with authority, could have their entire experience colored by such an interaction. Fortunately we were then tasked another ranger, who knew how to handle himself, and the kids went on to enjoy a wonderful weekend outdoors. He and I are still in-touch online.

And that’s why the most exciting part of working with trans kids was getting to witness them growing into fully realized versions of themselves, equipped with the confidence and experience necessary to deal with a hostile world.

After hiking into a hot spring out in the desert east of LA, we found two people already there, sitting in it naked. (As an adult leader of a youth group we all wore bathing suits.) Both were trans adults. Experiencing that moment through the kids’ eyes was one of the most positive experiences I’ve ever had outdoors.

The entire point of what I was trying to do was to give the kids the freedom and the sense of connection that so many of us find in nature. And this was that moment. Sitting there, awed by the stunningly beautiful location, with no one else around to cast judgement, a bunch of kids who had never before found belonging found two role models. They had total freedom to ask them about their bodies and their lives, and see modeled a celebration of two people who looked just like them being entirely at peace with themselves.

I felt better about myself in that moment than I’ve ever felt with someone else’s blood on my knuckles. Trans people are people, just like anyone else. Treat them like you would want to be treated, and you’ll feel a lot better about yourself, too.

Top photo: Diana Robinson

Wes Siler is your guide to leading a more exciting life outdoors. Upgrading to a paid subscription supports independent journalism and gives you personal access to his expertise and network, which he’ll use to help you plan trips, purchase gear, and solve problems. You can read more about what he’s doing on Substack through this link.