Spitfire is proud to share personal reflections from our own Ben Christiason on the power of storytelling at a time when civil rights are under attack. Ben reminds us this is the time to validate and nurture stories for trans people themselves instead of stories that seek to justify trans people’s existence in the first place.
In 2014, I came out as transgender in the town of Cedar Falls, Iowa, as a high school sophomore. As far as I know, I was the first openly trans person at my school and the first openly trans athlete (a very novice cross-country runner) in the state. Unlike the hyperscrutiny on trans women participating in sports, there is little outrage at trans men joining boys’ teams. Deeply held sexist ideals about femininity have caused an outsized focus on trans-femmes. Simply put, people did not care that I joined the men’s cross-country team because I was not deemed a “threat.” Perhaps if I had been a faster runner, there would have been more pushback. Instead, I was basically a pre-pubescent and scrawny athlete wearing the equivalent of an 1890s corset (my binder).
Before coming out, I would scroll YouTube and rewatch vlogs of people coming out, which is where I heard the term “transgender” for the first time. I remember feeling electric sparks shoot up and down my body and warmth spreading through me as I heard stories and learned language to help me express what I was feeling in my body and mind.
When I came out as trans to my parents, who were loving and supportive when I came out as gay in middle school (even including it in our annual holiday newsletter), they reacted with fear, confusion and even a little anger. Because my parents are proud progressives and incredibly loving parents, their reaction sent me into a dark spiral of self-hatred and social withdrawal. My future began to shrink out of sight. I went to the darkest of places — the very place parents and friends fear most for those they love.
My solace came from watching trans people share their stories online — stories of pain and joy, of transition, of community support. Eventually, I sat my parents down and we spent hours watching these videos together. Teenagers not much older than me shared their unique definitions of gender, transness and identity. I watched my parents’ understanding shift in real time. That night of watching trans people tell their stories changed something in my parents — and our family — forever.
Today, my parents are proud co-founders of an LGBTQIA+ health clinic in the Iowa town where I grew up. The clinic fills a gap in care — a gap that forced us to drive hours for my own early transition care as a high schooler. When I received my first hormone shot at an Iowa LGBTQIA+ health clinic at age 17, I remember thinking, “I actually have a future. I can be happy.”
A decade later, on the afternoon of Feb. 28, 2025, Iowa Governor Kim Reynolds signed a law removing gender identity as a protected class from the Iowa Civil Rights Act — she made Iowa, where I was able to first be myself, the first state in the nation to strip civil rights protections from a previously protected group.
Transitioning in Iowa was not easy. To most people in my life, I was the first and only openly trans person they knew. My family and I received hateful letters in the mail; I lost friends; and classmates and their parents even openly condemned me. I had to explain and defend myself repeatedly — to school guidance counselors, therapists and family members. And to make matters worse, I was a teenager going through the regular rounds of teenage agony and angst!
Many people often were acting out a desire to try to “protect me as a young person.” What those people didn’t realize was that if I didn’t come out, if I didn’t start transitioning socially and physically, I wasn’t going to be around much longer to even engage in their perhaps well-meaning intentions. Having the ability to transition in Iowa saved my life.
In March 2023, that life-saving gender-affirming care became illegal in Iowa.
And now, nearly two years later, Iowa has stripped all civil rights protections for trans Iowans, making it possible for a trans person to get fired from a job or be denied a place to live simply for not fitting into a false set of binaries and expectations relating to expression and gender.
While I am devastated for my trans and queer loved ones in Iowa, I am reminding myself of the power of storytelling. While visibility has been a double-edged sword, I know that sharing trans stories has saved more lives than we can possibly know. Sharing trans joy, trans community and trans stories does not mean sharing stories that make transness more “palatable.” These stories are a lifeline to young trans kids who need to know they are not alone. These stories are a reminder that there are infinite ways to move through this world — ways that are richer, more expansive and more beautiful than the binary roles we are told are the only acceptable way to live.
Trans people are magic. And our stories matter now more than ever. This is the time to validate and nurture stories for trans people themselves instead of stories that seek to justify trans people’s existence in the first place.
Iowa’s decision will not stop trans people from existing or sharing their stories. No law can erase us. We are the future.
