When your country strips you of rights and protections, it tells you that it no longer recognizes you. Other times, you realize that you no longer recognize your country. People leave; families rupture along political lines; friendships shatter; people and institutions that used to be widely admired are vilified, and yesterday’s villains are sainted; familiar faces disappear from the public sphere; an aggressive conformity takes hold; the material conditions of life change.
The indefinite suspension of Jimmy Kimmel’s show signaled just such a shift in landscape. The news tells us that we are moving from one country to a different, autocratic one. The television shows us: This country looks different, sounds different and feels different. A familiar face and a familiar voice vanish. Some people turned on their televisions on Friday night to see a memorial to Charlie Kirk when they expected to see a comedian welcoming his next guest.
What unites the many actions of the Trump administration, from the sledgehammer it has taken to government programs to the demonstrative cruelty it has built into immigration raids, is that they transform the daily physical, economic and psychic experience of life. President Trump is remaking the country in his image: crude, harsh, gratuitously mean. The ongoing attack on civil society, which his administration plans to intensify in the name of Charlie Kirk, is a part of this program. Civil society makes life more livable. The administration’s message is that the work of civil society no longer belongs in this country.
And neither do trans people. The government’s official policy is that we do not exist — and yet, somehow, we constitute a danger to the country. The fact that Kirk was killed while he was answering a question about the purported prevalence of trans mass shooters (a fiction he had helped promulgate) and the news that the suspect in Kirk’s killing apparently has a romantic partner who is trans have hypercharged this process of disowning.
On Monday morning, before returning from a weekend away, I entered the following words into the search bar on my phone: “famous trans people.” Then I tried “transgender journalists,” “transgender professors” and a few similar queries. My name did not come up. This was my inexact way of measuring the risk that someone would target me. It appeared to be low, even after a weekend of Donald Trump and his prominent allies blaming the left in general and trans people in particular for Kirk’s assassination. OK, I thought, I could go home, for now.
The feeling that I am on borrowed time in my own home is a familiar one. Twelve years ago, I was forced to leave Russia to protect my family from a campaign to take children away from L.G.B.T. parents. In the years since, Russia has been adding L.G.B.T. people to a list of “terrorists and extremists.” Other lists — of “foreign agents,” “undesirable organizations” — are for journalists, academics, media outlets and universities. For a while after Russia issued the arrest warrant that resulted in my being sentenced in absentia to prison, I had a recurrent nightmare: I am on a plane to Moscow, which is exciting, until I remember that I will be arrested as soon as I land.
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The post I Look at This Country and I See a Stranger appeared first on New York Times.
