Dismantling the Glass Closet

For as long as I can remember—since I was about four years old—I knew I was different. I didn’t just look up to my mom; I wanted to be her. Not in the abstract “she’s strong” way. I mean literally. When no one was looking, I’d sneak into her closet and imagine myself growing up to be like her in a more literal way.

(Mom, if you’re reading, this is why your knee-high boots with that 3-4 inch heel might have disappeared and reappeared from time to time. I think I was pretty slick about it though.)

As a kid, I didn’t dwell on it. I didn’t have the words or understanding of what gender dysphoria is. And the older I got, the more it felt like something I wasn’t supposed to explore. I was atheist for most of high school because my youth group leader at church once said “because it’s Adam and Eve and not Adam and Steve,” after I asked what the problem was with being gay. It was an insufficient and unsatisfactory response to casting people out of the Catholic Church.

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The more I thought about it. Transitioning? That was taboo. Scary even. Maybe expensive. Potentially dangerous if I didn’t maintain consistent medical care. Definitely isolating. I would have been kicked out of what if finally now just Scouting, not Boy Scouting. So I shelved the thought—packed it away with the rest of the things we pretend not to notice. It just was something I chose to avoid for a time.

The first time I recall that told anyone I wanted to be a woman was years later, when I went to walk for my first diploma in Tempe, Arizona. I told my mom. We didn’t talk about it much. Maybe she already knew, and there really isn’t a lot to say. After all, she’s the same person who burst out laughing when, as a frustrated little kid mad at my brother, I once said, “At least my brother isn’t gay!”

What a comeback. I was so smart.

Anyway, “gay” definitely a fitting label for me. At one point, I briefly described myself as Agender Demisexual—though truthfully, I’ve never liked labels much. I don’t think the full range of human identity fits on a census form or a drop-down menu. I think it’s reasonable to say I’m “Queer,” but that’s about it.

For most of my life, I’ve lived in what I call the glass closet. You can see in. I can see out… I’ve never had much interest in making a public declaration, otherwise I would have in 2017 to score some point. I wasn’t putting a lot of work into hiding—but I wasn’t advertising either. This may be all I ever explicitly say. I can’t really say for sure right now, but I know once I publish this it is out there.

I registered for the Race Against Racism this year, and without thinking much about it, I marked my gender: Non-Binary. I forgot I was in an actual competitive race and those points of data matter and are public.

That was the moment the closet started to crack. I accidentally outed myself, and I definitely had raised some questions, although I think the fact there wasn’t an onslaught of them speaks to my “Glass Closet” metaphor. The rise of signing emails and stating pronouns was and is very difficult for me, so I typically haven’t done so unless I feel a lot of pressure to put ones down. Government forms, I just find it easier to maintain the “M.”

I’m not here to perform an identity for anyone’s comfort. I’m not here to plead for belonging. I’m not afraid of losing approval—from institutions, strangers, or even God themself.

Galatians 3:28 — “There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”

That verse is how I know: I don’t need God permission to exist. I AM.

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My favorite anime character had always been Emporio Ivankov—a fearless, genderfluid figure who lives joyfully outside and between the binary, and helps others become their truest selves. Ivankov gets to make it as if someone was always like they make them, with no taboo as long as you don’t let anyone know you had once been different.

In my early 20s, sometime shortly after the Mayoral election, I resolved the decision not to medically transition and become comfortable in this body as it grows naturally. That decision was incredibly difficult, and I made it alone. But it was mine. And now, years later, I’m still at peace with my choice. I’m comfortable in my body and, most days, I feel free. And for the first time, I am consciously choosing for that freedom to be visible—not just to me, but to others who might be quietly navigating the same journey. I see you.

In my city, I don’t care who you are, who you’ve been, or who you’re becoming. I care that you feel safe enough to be. I will die on the hill that is Lancaster City to see to it that you feel safe here.

So, I’m dismantling this glass closet.

I’ll repurpose the panes for windows in the housing we need to build.

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And to all my Municipal Monsters out there:

We’re gonna build a city that works for everyone—and it’s gonna be FABULOUS.

Please help me slay this election.