the cost(s) of visibility

[Hey, everyone! I was inspired to write this essay after reading Flint Del Sol’s Trans Day Of Visibility piece, “What Is Trans JOMO?” In part of his essay, Flint talks about how he felt the weight of being a “teachable moment” for the people around him during his teaching career, and as a recovering ex-academic who was trying to survive adjuncting while balancing surprisingly fragile friendships in my early- to mid-twenties, that really hit home. While this essay isn’t directly responsive to his entire piece, I do highly recommend you give it a read.]

I remember the last conversation I ever had with one of my best friends in Phoenix like it was yesterday. (And because, years ago, he told me I could write about him whenever I wanted in my essays, today I am taking him up on that.)

Even my best friends in the Valley kind of tended to forget I existed if I wasn’t putting myself in front of them on a regular basis (I blame both the wide range of neurodivergence and the transactional relationships that abounded), and COVID had pretty much nuked that in-person presence for me. But there was work to be done in and around the jazz community—isn’t there always—and even though I had no idea where I stood with the vast majority of the still-at-ASU crowd, I needed to start somewhere. So I started with one of the people who knew me best, who had watched me be a “teachable moment” over and over and over for years, and who knew I had a lot to bring to the table.

Partway through that conversation, it became abundantly clear that this friend in particular had entirely missed my coming out almost a year prior. I’m not going to place any blame on him for that; although we spent 2020 pretty glued to social media, it’s entirely reasonable that even someone closer to me might have missed that news. But even as I explained and he acted as though he understood what my new identity meant, he responded to my pleas for a seat at the organizing table by shoving me toward the women in the ASU hang. When I brought up concerns about persistent misgendering that would (understandably) likely follow me into those interactions and pointed out that I was bringing these things to this friend in particular because I thought he was a safer option, he got bristly.

In hindsight, it’s relatively clear to me now that he was (purposely or otherwise) ignoring his own status as a power broker and probably genuinely hoping to direct me to people doing more things he viewed as “activism,” but even under that relatively charitable interpretation, there is a distinct lack of doing anything to actually support the effort (and a great deal of throwing the women under the bus and casting them in roles they perhaps didn’t ask for or want). But at the time, it felt like the ultimate misgendering: an “I don’t care that you’re not a woman; they’re still the only people you get to organize alongside.” And, frankly, I still think this is likely a fairly accurate interpretation which can coexist with the more charitable guess.

The conversation went downhill quickly from there. He said I’d accused them of refusing to change (I hadn’t) and asked for more labor from me, the nature and content of which clearly exhibited that he didn’t know much of anything about how to make social spaces safer for trans people. I dropped resources in his lap, explained what each one was . . . and we never spoke again. I only found out weeks later from a (better) friend in the scene that he then turned around and trashed me to a bunch of ASU grad students—including the very people he had just encouraged me to contact!—twisting my words and alleging I said things I simply didn’t say. What started as asking a friend for help ended with him personally putting the final nail in the coffin of my existence in the Phoenix jazz scene at all.

I genuinely hope he’s grown as a person since then; I especially hope he’s learned enough that newly-out trans people around him now not only feel safe but are safe. Once upon a time he would routinely walk me to my car when we were out late at night, so I know he’s capable of being a consequential force for good. But why am I writing about this today, on Transgender Day of Visibility?

I’m writing this today because although I’ve had other similarly shitty experiences, this interaction is a great example of how even the simple act of making yourself visible as a trans person, even to someone you’ve spent over half a decade talking about gendered power imbalances to, can cause massive social and professional repercussions. And even though the better friend who’d told me about the ensuing gossip did what he could to correct the record, that one friendship is the only one I ultimately got to keep. None of the rest of them ever spoke to me again. And I’ll never pretend I’ve always had all the perfect words—hell, at least half the time I definitely don’t. If this had been a normal argument that we later reconciled, I probably wouldn’t write about it at all (or I’d use it as an example of a friendship turning out even stronger in the face of changing identity). But the decision to immediately turn around and trash my reputation within a friend group made up almost entirely of power brokers sets this apart. I became his learning experience, again, at the cost of my own professional mobility within the scene, again.

To this day, I still believe that for a variety of reasons resting mostly on the shoulders of various gatekeepers, I would only have been able to make something of myself in the Phoenix jazz/improv community if I’d stayed in the closet (and maybe not even then). Being visible in those spaces quite literally cost me my access to them the moment I was even concerned about being misgendered. And as much as I’d like to have some kind of happier message to share for TDOV today, more than anything I want to underscore how endlessly exhausting it is to be people’s “learning experiences” and “teachable moments,” a plight we as trans people share with the many other marginalized communities out there. And like those other marginalized groups, accepting visibility for the sake of educating cis people tends to elevate our risk profiles without a commensurate growth of support.

Back then, I didn’t have many close friends who did much more than tolerate my transness. Now my circles are smaller, but they’re infinitely more supportive. I no longer have to trade acknowledgment of my identity for respect. It does not (for the most part) cost me my authority in a space. I still teach on these topics and others as frequently as I can, but even when I have to critique my friends in order to educate them, my work is met with open arms instead of hyperdefensive disdain.

But it took me years to get there. People like This Guy In Particular decided for me that my friendship and care was worthless to them if I asked for too much. For a long time, I thought that was as good as it got; I didn’t dare dream of accessing this kind of love among my friends. (I wish he could meet the people I hang out with now.)

Every trans person deserves community—not only with other trans people but with cis society as well—and genuine, unreserved love. More than anything, in 2025, I wish us rest. I wish us the freedom and energy to do the things we want to do, whether that’s using the right bathroom or getting a correct passport or traveling the world or holding down a job or living a life in all its imperfect glory. And where some of those things aren’t possible, I wish us friends who take the time to listen and truly understand rather than expecting subservience and lighting our reputations on fire when we fail to meet those unspoken demands.

And, hey, everyone can grow. It’s been four years. I hope this guy has. But today is for us, and dammit, I’m going to rest.

If you read this essay and saw yourself in ways you maybe don’t love, consider joining my Discord server for more queer resources from around the web and easy access to my classes when I have the time and spoons to teach them. DM me on socials or shoot me an email to get an invite link.

Thanks for reading! If you learned something from this post and would like to tip me, head on over to my Ko-fi page. For more analysis and commentary like this in your life, check back again soon, and consider subscribing to my mailing list (at the bottom of the page) for quarterly update emails on my biggest projects. To support the long-term work I do as an artist and advocate, you can find me on Patreon and @honestlyeris on Instagram.