KEYNOTE SPEECH DELIVERED AT THE COLORADO GOLD RUSH CONFERENCE, FEBRUARY 26, 2010 IN DENVER, CO

Good afternoon.

My name is Kelly Costello and it’s an honor to be speaking with you. When thinking about what I wanted to say today, I found myself being pulled in a couple of different directions. As someone who has maintained a fairly public profile in some ways, I wanted step back and take an opportunity to speak a little bit about my own personal process and identity. In addition, my former role as the Director of Advocacy at the Colorado Anti-Violence Program has impacted the way I participate and exist within transgender community. Looking at the way my personal and professional identities overlap has given me a clearer picture of the communities I want to help create.

I came out as transgender at 23 years old and started taking testosterone less than a year later. When it came to my gender identity, I’ve been able to trace back many years of questioning, but once I made a decision to come out, I felt confident in the process I began. Unlike many of the personal stories I’ve heard, however, mine does not involve a lifetime of knowing. I have not felt trapped in my body. I did not know at a young age that this is who I would be today. I decided to keep my given name, Kelly, enjoying the androgyny of it.

In most of my life, I am out as transgender. My family, friends, and coworkers know because this is an important part of my identity and, for me personally, it’s important to stay visible as a transgender person. This isn’t to say that I come out to every stranger I meet in passing. On the whole, though, I am consistently out and open about talking about this identity. Now that I am primarily perceived as male, when entering new social spaces, I am conscious of the fact that many people no longer read me as female, genderqueer, or transgender. I generally surround myself with queer community that celebrates fluidity in gender and sexuality.

There were two things that scared me most about coming out as transgender. The first was the idea of losing my stories. I enjoy telling stories of my past, reliving moments and giving insight into experiences that have made me who I am today. For years, I thought that coming out would mean boxing up those stories and putting them on a shelf. That the “me” I was before coming out would have to go into hiding in order to be “trans enough” or “male enough”.

The second fear I had was about losing my femininity. I’ve never been a particularly masculine person and I struggled with what coming out as male would mean. I wondered if I was unconsciously buying into expectations that I’d become more masculine once I came out. I went to workshops for transmen about how men sit, stand, bathroom etiquette, etc. While this information was useful in a lot of ways, especially in how to navigate public spaces safely, I never heard about other options. Everyone seemed to be striving for one version of masculinity that I didn’t find attainable or even appealing for myself. It was a masculinity that involved misogyny, taking up space and denying my past.

I remember my mom once telling me that she went to a meeting where she was told that she should mourn the loss of a daughter and celebrate her new son. She told me of her struggles with that idea, sharing that she didn’t think I was really that different. I completely agreed. I felt the same struggle with feeling pressure to compartmentalize, creating an artificial line in my life of before and after transition. While I know this process is important to many, it was one that didn’t speak to my experience.

I discovered that my barriers to validation were two-fold. I experienced resistance from non-transgender people in my life as they initially had a hard time changing pronouns. People told me that I wasn’t trying hard enough and that I wasn’t doing enough different for them to see me as male. I internalized those messages and, for a while, let myself believe that I was failing at the way I was performing gender. It wasn’t until years later that I’ve been able to carve out space for myself to live unapologetically.

The second barrier I found to validation was from within the transgender community. I received messages about what I needed to do to be authentically male, realizing that many people were so focused on a specific end that my actual identity became invisible. It was awful to feel disconnected from the community I thought would understand me the most. I began to self-publish zines, or little magazines, about my experiences and was able to connect with people who shared my feelings and values. With even just a little encouragement, I was able to grow more confident in my own identity and am now more able to connect with others more genuinely. In this process, I’ve developed some coping strategies that have helped me manage from day to day.

Sometimes I wonder if people mistake my humor and optimism with an ability to never get hurt; that by turning an awful conversation or remark into a funny story I don’t feel any pain or sadness. That everything always feels ok in the end. I often live my life by masking some of this pain in a laugh, trying to manipulate the situation afterwards to make it feel like I had some control. I do a lot of this unconsciously and was a bit surprised when someone once asked me, “Does anything bad ever happen to you?” I wanted to laugh in his face. I wanted to ask him, “Do you want me to make you a list?” Instead, I just muttered, “yes”, probably while still smiling.

I’ve realized that, in some ways, I have a hard time standing up for myself, especially when it comes to my identities. When faced with a particularly disrespectful e-mail interaction a while ago, I started thinking a lot about my gender identity while formulating my response. I thought about how much I struggled internally and then how much I’ve fought to have that identity respected and acknowledged.

This particular interaction started when someone forwarded an e-mail in which she used the wrong pronoun for me when contacting someone else. I knew for sure that she was aware that I identify as transgender and as male. I also knew that she has a trans partner, so I assumed she understood the fragility of trans identities and the sensitive nature of language, especially pronouns. I waited a few days to respond until my initial anger wore off. I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it was an honest mistake.

My response, five days later included, “Just to let you know, I identify as male and use male pronouns. I noticed in your e-mail that you used "her" when referring to me. I just want to make sure you're using the correct language when contacting other people and mentioning me.”

I decided not to analyze it too much. Not to talk about the fact that many of the people to whom she was e-mailing only know me through my self-publishing. They don’t know the most recent developments in my identity. They may see someone using female pronouns and assume that that’s the most up-to-date, appropriate way to refer to me. Especially for folks who have little to no context for me. I hoped that my quick explanation would be all that was needed to correct the situation.

Her response to me included, “Sorry about the gender pronoun mix-up, but I must warn you, I make those mistakes ALL the time…” and “I will try to be more careful in the future but no guarantees.”

I was overcome with emotion but was having a hard time figuring out exactly what was going on for me. Was I overreacting? Was I justified in my anger? Was I taking away other people’s fluidity? Was mine being taken away? With all of this going on in my head, I knew I couldn’t respond immediately. I remember lying in bed, writing e-mails in my head until I fell asleep (which took a while because I felt really wound up).

I identify as genderqueer and I think it’s important to be able to switch pronouns whenever is appropriate, whether that is what makes someone the most comfortable or is a survival choice, recognizing that we all make decisions based on safety that might not always align with our actual identities.

Every time I thought I knew what I wanted to say, I’d get stuck. I identify as genderqueer and… No. It’s not ok that she was messing up my pronouns.

Each time, I’d end up in the same place. And each time, I’d get nervous. Maybe I’m not really genderqueer. Maybe I just used to be. Pronouns are non-negotiable with me. I must have unintentionally handed in my “genderqueer card” and shifted more to a binary when I was wasn’t paying attention. And here I am co-opting an identity that’s not even mine anymore.

But wait… I don’t believe in the gender binary. I honor that people are more comfortable at different places on a gender spectrum. I embrace fluidity. I can still use gender-neutral pronouns for friends. I still think it’s amazing when people consciously live in that in-between space; when people pick and choose what they like from various gender roles. So, did I only appreciate this in other people? Has being on testosterone moved me to a new place for myself? Passing as male most of the time, I realized that I no longer have to navigate that in-between space unless I intentionally put myself there. Was I still putting myself there? Or was I allowing my new-found male privilege to let me coast through life in a way I had never experienced before?

I was going in circles in my head about all of the ways that I was being inappropriate: using an identity that didn’t fit anymore, taking advantage of my privilege. This was exactly what I was trying to avoid. This was NOT why I wanted to transition.

I had to have several conversations with friends to get some of this worked out. I was struggling and was glad that as soon as I opened my mouth, I received the validation I so desperately needed.

I DO identify as genderqueer.

Yes, pronouns are non-negotiable for me. It’s not a request. I will not be flexible. I am not being inappropriate for demanding this. It has been a struggle to get to this place. I lived in Denver for a year before I went to Chicago and came out as trans. I wondered why it happened in Chicago where I didn’t have the social network that existed for me in Denver. After about a year away, I moved back here. And it was hard. People couldn’t get my pronouns right. Some people just didn’t know and I felt helpless and lonely and scared and was unable to tell them. And some people knew and kept messing up. I felt completely alienated from a community from whom I used to draw strength. I was miserable. And then I realized that was exactly the reason I had to leave in order to come out. I didn’t feel like I had the support I needed. There were too many people with assumptions about who I was and I didn’t see much flexibility in changing their minds, especially when I felt so nervous and unsafe expressing myself. Even when I had strong moments, they never stuck with me as long as the times that I didn’t stand up for myself, couldn’t stand up for myself.

While I enjoyed parts of my life in-between gender, being androgynous, dealing with others’ confusion around my gender, I didn’t feel like I had much power there. I wasn’t able to decide to step out of that when it felt more comfortable or safe to do so.

Instead, I had to learn how to defend myself, act tougher than I felt, take criticism, inappropriate comments, etc. I developed coping mechanisms that made people in my life think that everything was ok when I was falling apart inside. It was a very difficult time for me.

Now that I have facial hair and my voice has dropped, most people read me as male. When I begin contact with someone through e-mail, I wonder if they assume that the Kelly they are writing to is a woman. There are often times when the first phone or in-person interaction begins with an awkward readjustment of gender expectations. I love that. It’s amazing to see people confront their assumptions in ways that don’t feel as dangerous to me or leaves me feeling vulnerable in those same ways.

I do still enjoy being able to live parts of my life between genders. Through mannerisms: the way I sit, the way I cross my legs, the way I gesticulate, the way I dance. Through clothing: I love dressing in drag, feeling more comfortable in dresses now than before I transitioned. I love showing up to parties all dolled up in a wig, a super-cute dress and wearing a petticoat. I love that I can do these things and not have my gender challenged. My friends do NOT get confused, mess up pronouns, or wonder how this fits into my identity.

I have come a long way in learning to defend my own identity, but still find myself occasionally performing to the expectations of others. It’s interesting to me, then, that the nerve I lack for self-preservation, I’m able to tap into when working on behalf of others. I’ve discovered that I’m much more comfortable challenging people in a professional role.

From February 2007 to this past month, I have worked as the Director of Advocacy at the Colorado Anti-Violence Program, a statewide organization that works to eliminate violence within and against lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer communities. While I have recently left the organization, I remain committed to the incredibly important and meaningful work that is being done by CAVP. In my three years there, I have primarily coordinated the 24-hour crisis hotline and provided direct services to people who have experienced violence. In this time, I’ve found that one of the reasons I respect CAVP so much is that the people in leadership in many ways reflect the people who are accessing services. We share identities, experiences, fears, successes. I believe it allows us to have a more personal impact when we can understand the concerns a caller voices. At the same time, there is a larger emotional impact on us as advocates when we share this identity. It’s not always easy to separate experiences of violence when we’re talking about our own communities. It is a constant reminder of the work that needs to be done to recognize the dignity and safety of everyone in the LGBTQ community.

I have worked on many cases that have impacted my life and have remained in my memory, but there is one that stands out. I became the spokesperson for the Zapata family after Angie was murdered in July 2008. I remember getting that first call. I remember being on the phone outside of a restaurant where I was having dinner with a friend, trying to be where people couldn’t hear me because of issues of confidentiality and struggling with being on the phone while the wind was whipping around me. I remember the first time I talked to Angie’s brother, Gonzalo, and eventually her sister, Monica. I remember the way her mother, Maria, sized me up the first time we met and later would repeat the story that if she didn’t like me or trust me that she would have gotten rid of me. Fast. And for some reason, she did trust me. In the time since that first call, I’ve grown to love and admire the Zapata family, bearing witness and sharing in their grief, their strength, their pain and their love.

I acted as the spokesperson for the Zapata family, conveying emotions and facts, acting as a buffer for the family from the media. In this time, I grappled with figuring out how much of myself I would bring into my work. I came out as transgender to the Zapata family and had a very accepting (and humorous) response. I wanted to be honest about my own emotional investment and the way Angie’s death was impacting me. While preparing for the trial, I talked to people and spent time writing about how I didn’t want to lose myself in the process. Despite my intentions, I often found myself compartmentalizing. I allowed myself to be the “victim advocate” instead of a transgender person who fears transphobic violence. It was easier and emotionally safer for me to go to a place of being useful, rather than allowing myself to react from a place rooted in emotion. Looking back, I don’t know if I would have done anything differently. I reacted in a way that meant I would be able to make it through the trial in one piece.

In the months leading up to and during the trial, my relationship to Angie’s death became the focus of my life, both intentionally and unintentionally. When I would see people, they would ask me about the case and I would feel compelled to answer, even though I wanted to carve out a space in my life to talk about other things. I didn’t want to always have conversations that felt so difficult and yet it was the only thing I had going on in my life. I used confidentiality as an excuse not to talk, relying on the fact that I was unable to share many of the specifics I knew of the case, but also refusing to talk about how I was feeling. This meant that I withdrew, feeling really lonely and disconnected from people.

In the courtroom, the real issue on trial seemed to be Angie’s gender. The defense was based on “trans panic”, relying on the idea that Angie did not disclose her transgender status. Unfortunately, there was not a larger discussion about how arguing about whether or not Angie was out was completely inappropriate. This only led down a path of victim blaming.

As the safety tips released by the National Coalition of Anti-Violence Programs reminds us:
Above all else, remember it is your right to choose if or when to discuss your gender identity, your genitals, or any other part of your body. If someone insults or attacks you because of their expectations about your body, that is NEVER YOUR FAULT.

So many times, we see headlines that talk about transphobic violence as because someone is transgender. This is not the case. It is because of the offender’s transphobic bias. I just want to let that sink in. We are not targeted for violence simply because of who we are. Coming out as transgender does not come with an agreement to be a target of violence. Yes, we must be conscious of our surroundings, but only because of our society’s failure to support our right to be safe. Instead, we become the cause of violence, taking the focus off of the person who is choosing to act on their bias.

At CAVP, we talk about an escalation of violence. Lower, more irritating levels of violence, such as isolation, stereotypes, and rumors can increase to discrimination and harassment. Social sanctioning of discrimination sets the stage for acts of more direct violence such as physical or sexual assault, and vandalism. Without intervention, we may see this violence escalate to life-threatening acts.

It is important to acknowledge when this violence is happening interpersonally, but also when it is being reinforced by institutions. In the trial for Angie’s murder, the prosecution consistently used female pronouns and Angie’s chosen name while the defense consistently used male pronouns and her legal name. This back and forth with pronouns and names was intentional, both sides trying to paint very different pictures of who Angie was. It was intense to witness, especially for those of us in the courtroom who were trans-identified. By using male pronouns, the defense attorneys were reinforcing transphobia, modeling behavior that is dangerous for many trans people.

One of the most profound and powerful moments I’ve ever witnessed was watching Angie’s sister, Stephanie, refuse to acknowledge the defense attorney’s use of incorrect name and pronouns while she was being questioned on the stand. After every question she responded, “Her?” “You mean my sister?” or “Angie?” Every single time. This act of resistance was felt by every person in that courtroom as we made teary eye contact with each other, our collective anger and defensive resolve being softened by this show of respect and love for Angie.

Throughout this process, I found myself constantly trying to find a balance between being an advocate and spokesperson for the Zapata family with experiencing my own process as a transgender identified person. Even though talking about anti-transgender violence has been a part of my daily work life for the past three years, being involved in a case like this made everything feel much more personal.

We know that bias-motivated crimes serve to disrupt and intimidate entire communities. I was impressed by the overwhelming response from community members, stepping up and offering various types of support. In a climate that could have shut many of us down, I saw Colorado activists come together to create change. Of course we were scared too, but we found strength in each other. While we did specific organizing of vigils, attended benefits and coordinated phone calls, much of the support we offered was more subtle. A hug in the courthouse. A squeeze of the hand. Eye contact from across the courtroom, acknowledging the pain we were all feeling. In those moments, I understood that I was part of something bigger. I was part of a community that, regardless of how well we knew each other, shared a profound connection in those moments.

After the trial, lots of people keep saying things like "congratulations" and "Aren't you glad it's over?" I found these responses frustrating and didn’t know how to react in the moment.

“Congratulations,” relies on a belief that prison sentences are what keep us safe. We demonize individuals, who do need to be held accountable for heinous acts, but we find false safety in thinking that these individuals are solely responsible for ongoing cultural bias. Without addressing transphobia and homophobia at cultural and systemic levels, we will not be able to prevent more losses of life in our communities. We must also recognize that lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer people in prisons are consistently brutalized, sexually assaulted, have medical needs ignored and hormones withheld.

Questions like, “Aren’t you glad it’s over?” feels complicated on a couple of levels. One, it implies that the Zapata family is now ready to move on, but in reality, they still need to live with the fact every day that someone in their family is gone. Two, it makes invisible the experiences of a lot of people who are experiencing transphobic and homophobic violence every day.

All of this is to say that there is still work to be done. In transgender community, spaces like this are important to come together and build community. It’s a place to honor each other’s experiences and learn from each other. I extend deep gratitude to the organizers of the Gold Rush Conference for creating so many opportunities this weekend. The important piece will be for all of us to take advantage of as many of those opportunities as we can. This will involve a personal piece of the way we each navigate the world. I hope that this will also involve ways to connect across identities. Being part of the transgender community is what brings us together this weekend, but we all have several other identities as well: race, age, class, ability, immigration status, sexual orientation. Let’s remember to bring all of ourselves into this space and make room for others to do the same.

As we have conversations about legal rights and education, let’s remember our natural allies doing work for racial justice, economic justice, environmental justice and immigrant rights. When we realize that our struggles are connected, we can build a powerful movement that honors all parts of our community. There are times to talk specifically about transgender rights and there are times when that focus may be too narrow. It alienates our allies as well as some within our community. In order to expect support from allies, we must also support their struggles.

I am excited to see so many faces here today, coming together to build community. It feels powerful to know that even though I may not share the same experience with my gender as some of you, that this is a space where I can give voice to my own process. I hope everyone has an opportunity to share part of their own process and know that each is equally important and valid in creating a strong and vibrant transgender community.

Thank you.