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Editor's Note: This article contains mention of suicide.
My 11-year-old loves sea creatures and the animated series Gravity Falls. He loves sleepovers with friends. He loves his younger sister, most of the time. He was also born into a female body.
One afternoon in fourth grade, E. demanded I take him to get a short haircut or he would chop it off himself. Sixteen inches later, I walked out of the salon with a pint-sized Justin Bieber. At dinner, E. said, “Mama, there’s something I need to tell you: I’m trans. My pronouns are he/him. And I’m changing my name.” It burst forth in a single exhale; then E. breathed for the first time in months. We live in New York, so his dad and I weren’t afraid for him. At least, not too afraid.
His journey has been relatively smooth, thanks to supportive friends, mental health professionals, and pediatricians. Which is not to say he hasn’t been bullied. Or that neighbors in our suburb haven’t questioned the validity of his experience — and our parenting. Or that we haven’t had to change schools to one where he’s not treated like a lawsuit waiting to happen. But compared to what so many trans kids go through, these are hiccups. According to the Trevor Project, 46% of trans and nonbinary youth have seriously considered suicide in the past year and 16% made an attempt. These numbers are even higher among trans youth of color and those who live in unaccepting places.
As the 2024 election heated up, it became impossible to ignore the oddly central place that E. and kids like him occupied in the rhetoric of the Republican Party, which spent $222 million on anti-trans and -LGBTQ+ advertising — more than on housing, immigration, and the economy combined. The latest iteration of our ongoing culture war has made scapegoats — and targets — of our nation’s estimated 300,000 trans youth, including my son and the children of such icons as Jamie Lee Curtis, Dwyane Wade and Gabrielle Union, Charlize Theron, Marlon Wayans, and, yes, Elon Musk. It’s no wonder the Human Rights Campaign has declared a state of emergency for LGBTQ+ Americans.
Now, the bullies are inside the White House. And so I am not surprised by the flurry of anti-trans executive orders issued since Inauguration Day. The first instructs federal agencies not to honor gender-marker change requests for passports, Social Security, and other programs. While this may seem superficial, it's actually life-or-death: Trans and nonbinary youth who change their legal name and gender marker are half as likely to attempt suicide. The second paints trans members of the armed forces as “dishonorable” and deprives them of fundamental rights. The third bans gender-affirming care for those under 19, in defiance of recommendations from every leading US and international health organization — a much more obvious matter of survival. And the fourth sets the stage for criminalizing teachers and school administrators who use trans students’ preferred names and correct pronouns, depriving them of a safe place to learn.
Whether you believe E. and others like him when they say they know who they are or consider them brainwashed and delusional, recognize that both biological sex and gender exist on a spectrum or insist that girls are girls and boys are boys, celebrate the patriotism of the roughly 15,000 trans servicemembers or deride them, I hope we can agree on one thing: The federal government has no business interfering in parental decision-making. We all want what’s best for our children, even if our approaches to raising and protecting them could not be more different. Part of what has made America an inspiration over the centuries has been its ability to hold so many ideologies and views at once without disintegrating. Falling into lockstep behind one administration which persecutes those with differing perspectives will harm us all, and make our nation less great.
If you met E., you wouldn’t think to inspect beneath his Simpsons boxers. You’d be too focused on his face, which wears a constant grin even in these dire times; his laugh, which fills our home and hearts; and his courage, which astounds us every day. If it were up to him, I’d reveal his full name here, printed with the same pride he exhibits as he walks the middle school halls decked out in the colors of the trans flag. But it’s my job as his parent to protect him, and the world is far too dangerous to forego anonymity. Still, our family understands the assignment, which is why I’ve shared his story, if not his name. I hope this helps you see the humanity in our 11-year-old — and in all trans kids.
E. is one of the lucky ones. My husband and I saw this coming and did what was within our control to safeguard him. In November, we changed his legal name and gender marker, updated his passport, amended his birth certificate, scheduled surgery to implant a longer-acting puberty blocker to avoid intense dysphoria and psychological distress — all actions which are no longer possible either nationwide or in many states. Yet we still face grave uncertainty about our son’s health, safety, and future. I am buoyed by fearless leaders like the ACLU’s Chase Strangio, Rodrigo Heng-Lehtinen of Advocates for Trans Equality, and journalist Erin Reed, who will not back down in the fight for our children; and Rep. Sarah McBride, who is breaking barriers as the first openly trans person to serve in Congress. There are so many others — activists, storytellers, parents, and allies, not to mention the young people themselves — whose courage in the face of unthinkable cruelty inspires me to reach beyond my own child to lend my voice and support to this vulnerable community.
At the same time, however, the fact that many loving neighbors, friends, and family members haven’t checked to see how we, and E., are doing and ask how they can help despite this barrage of executive orders makes it clear that so few people recognize the threat is no longer abstract — it’s a crisis. We are all one millimeter away from losing our most fundamental civil rights: E. and other trans youth are the canaries in the coal mine. As the granddaughter of a Jewish refugee who fled Germany in 1931, I feel unshakable echoes of the Nazi rise to power. Pastor Martin Niemöller’s poem "First They Came," is cited so often it’s a cliché, but his admonition has never rung truer in my lifetime. If even our natural allies forsake us, I have no doubt the president will succeed in his efforts to erase E. and others like him — which will embolden his efforts to target and punish immigrants, dissidents, and so many more.
So reach out to the trans people in your life. Spread the word about the coordinated effort to eliminate them. Call your representatives. Protest with us. And, if you are in the line of fire of these executive orders as a teacher, school or hospital administrator, doctor, or mental health professional, do not concede or comply out of fear when you know what is right. If not now, when? We, and our kids, are counting on you.
Ali Moss (she/her) is a twice Emmy-nominated documentary filmmaker—who has now turned the lens on herself. She is working on a memoir about her commitment to breaking the cycle of intergenerational trauma. You can read more of Ali's writing on her substack, Like A Moss.
Editor's Note: This article contains mention of suicide.
My 11-year-old loves sea creatures and the animated series Gravity Falls. He loves sleepovers with friends. He loves his younger sister, most of the time. He was also born into a female body.
One afternoon in fourth grade, E. demanded I take him to get a short haircut or he would chop it off himself. Sixteen inches later, I walked out of the salon with a pint-sized Justin Bieber. At dinner, E. said, “Mama, there’s something I need to tell you: I’m trans. My pronouns are he/him. And I’m changing my name.” It burst forth in a single exhale; then E. breathed for the first time in months. We live in New York, so his dad and I weren’t afraid for him. At least, not too afraid.
His journey has been relatively smooth, thanks to supportive friends, mental health professionals, and pediatricians. Which is not to say he hasn’t been bullied. Or that neighbors in our suburb haven’t questioned the validity of his experience — and our parenting. Or that we haven’t had to change schools to one where he’s not treated like a lawsuit waiting to happen. But compared to what so many trans kids go through, these are hiccups. According to the Trevor Project, 46% of trans and nonbinary youth have seriously considered suicide in the past year and 16% made an attempt. These numbers are even higher among trans youth of color and those who live in unaccepting places.
As the 2024 election heated up, it became impossible to ignore the oddly central place that E. and kids like him occupied in the rhetoric of the Republican Party, which spent $222 million on anti-trans and -LGBTQ+ advertising — more than on housing, immigration, and the economy combined. The latest iteration of our ongoing culture war has made scapegoats — and targets — of our nation’s estimated 300,000 trans youth, including my son and the children of such icons as Jamie Lee Curtis, Dwyane Wade and Gabrielle Union, Charlize Theron, Marlon Wayans, and, yes, Elon Musk. It’s no wonder the Human Rights Campaign has declared a state of emergency for LGBTQ+ Americans.
Now, the bullies are inside the White House. And so I am not surprised by the flurry of anti-trans executive orders issued since Inauguration Day. The first instructs federal agencies not to honor gender-marker change requests for passports, Social Security, and other programs. While this may seem superficial, it's actually life-or-death: Trans and nonbinary youth who change their legal name and gender marker are half as likely to attempt suicide. The second paints trans members of the armed forces as “dishonorable” and deprives them of fundamental rights. The third bans gender-affirming care for those under 19, in defiance of recommendations from every leading US and international health organization — a much more obvious matter of survival. And the fourth sets the stage for criminalizing teachers and school administrators who use trans students’ preferred names and correct pronouns, depriving them of a safe place to learn.
Whether you believe E. and others like him when they say they know who they are or consider them brainwashed and delusional, recognize that both biological sex and gender exist on a spectrum or insist that girls are girls and boys are boys, celebrate the patriotism of the roughly 15,000 trans servicemembers or deride them, I hope we can agree on one thing: The federal government has no business interfering in parental decision-making. We all want what’s best for our children, even if our approaches to raising and protecting them could not be more different. Part of what has made America an inspiration over the centuries has been its ability to hold so many ideologies and views at once without disintegrating. Falling into lockstep behind one administration which persecutes those with differing perspectives will harm us all, and make our nation less great.
If you met E., you wouldn’t think to inspect beneath his Simpsons boxers. You’d be too focused on his face, which wears a constant grin even in these dire times; his laugh, which fills our home and hearts; and his courage, which astounds us every day. If it were up to him, I’d reveal his full name here, printed with the same pride he exhibits as he walks the middle school halls decked out in the colors of the trans flag. But it’s my job as his parent to protect him, and the world is far too dangerous to forego anonymity. Still, our family understands the assignment, which is why I’ve shared his story, if not his name. I hope this helps you see the humanity in our 11-year-old — and in all trans kids.
E. is one of the lucky ones. My husband and I saw this coming and did what was within our control to safeguard him. In November, we changed his legal name and gender marker, updated his passport, amended his birth certificate, scheduled surgery to implant a longer-acting puberty blocker to avoid intense dysphoria and psychological distress — all actions which are no longer possible either nationwide or in many states. Yet we still face grave uncertainty about our son’s health, safety, and future. I am buoyed by fearless leaders like the ACLU’s Chase Strangio, Rodrigo Heng-Lehtinen of Advocates for Trans Equality, and journalist Erin Reed, who will not back down in the fight for our children; and Rep. Sarah McBride, who is breaking barriers as the first openly trans person to serve in Congress. There are so many others — activists, storytellers, parents, and allies, not to mention the young people themselves — whose courage in the face of unthinkable cruelty inspires me to reach beyond my own child to lend my voice and support to this vulnerable community.
At the same time, however, the fact that many loving neighbors, friends, and family members haven’t checked to see how we, and E., are doing and ask how they can help despite this barrage of executive orders makes it clear that so few people recognize the threat is no longer abstract — it’s a crisis. We are all one millimeter away from losing our most fundamental civil rights: E. and other trans youth are the canaries in the coal mine. As the granddaughter of a Jewish refugee who fled Germany in 1931, I feel unshakable echoes of the Nazi rise to power. Pastor Martin Niemöller’s poem "First They Came," is cited so often it’s a cliché, but his admonition has never rung truer in my lifetime. If even our natural allies forsake us, I have no doubt the president will succeed in his efforts to erase E. and others like him — which will embolden his efforts to target and punish immigrants, dissidents, and so many more.
So reach out to the trans people in your life. Spread the word about the coordinated effort to eliminate them. Call your representatives. Protest with us. And, if you are in the line of fire of these executive orders as a teacher, school or hospital administrator, doctor, or mental health professional, do not concede or comply out of fear when you know what is right. If not now, when? We, and our kids, are counting on you.
Ali Moss (she/her) is a twice Emmy-nominated documentary filmmaker—who has now turned the lens on herself. She is working on a memoir about her commitment to breaking the cycle of intergenerational trauma. You can read more of Ali's writing on her substack, Like A Moss.
