STORYTELLERS VERSUS HATE —
TAKING PRIDE IN OURSELVES

“If God wanted people to do that, He would have given us removable parts.” My family was never shy about sharing their beliefs. This vernacular of the rural South was tossed around children like me without second thought. To this day, I credit my outspokenness to this atmosphere, and cherish that as a positive from an upbringing in Florida. However, my ideology and foundational beliefs have not correlated with my family’s in quite some time.

I remember as a child, our neighbor gave my family a tub of clothes they no longer needed. My mom offered me first pick. I remember sifting through chiffon and sequins searching for her grandsons’ clothes they’d grown out of. At the bottom of the bin, I found a pair of white pumps — too big for my childish feet and far too big for my understanding of who I was. Yet, for whatever reason, I secretly tucked the shoes under the worn-in graphic tees and turned the bin over to my younger brother. Months went on as I paced the floor of my room in the gender oddity I bestowed onto myself. I told myself I just enjoyed the sensation of being taller, until the day my dad almost caught me in them. I tucked my white pumps into the outside trashcan the next day.

The day I came out to my mom as gay, I came with a bag of clothes in hand. I explained with tears in my eyes, that should she want me to go I would, and I just asked for the one bag of clothes. The following moment of silence still rings in my ears and I can still feel the weight of the bag holding me to the floor. She hugged me, encouraged me that we would figure it out, and told me what time we were having dinner. I was 16. I have yet to have a similar conversation with my father. I am now 26.

After completing my undergraduate degree, I began exploring my gender. It started small with crop tops. Over time it grew into platform shoes, dresses and miniskirts. Eventually I came to understand my identity and explained to my friends the concept of trans-femme and nonbinary. These titles still feel mostly right. Any weekend, you could find me dancing the night away in a leather skirt and heels with all the conviction in the world. People would ask me, “Danni, aren’t you worried about being you in the South?” It had never crossed my mind. Often, people there assumed I was a cisgender woman, and I would “femme it up” as I would say, to ensure my safety but otherwise never thought twice. Confidence was a quality I had to fight for after years of physical bullying in primary and secondary school, and I am not prepared to let it go by any means.

In April of 2023, I was coming home from a vacation in the Panhandle when we stopped at a rest area in Okaloosa County, outside of Fort Walton Beach. In my zebra skirt, I chose to use the family, single-use stall next to the women’s restroom. As I walked out, a man approached me and asked what business I had in the women’s restroom. I knew better than to engage and continued on my way. He followed and vocalized how disgusting he thought I was. Another man joined him. My pace quickened until I grabbed my partner and said we needed to leave quickly.

I spent the next 30 minutes in the car looking out the back window to see if we were being followed. I called my mom once my hands steadied. My mom asked me: “What makes him think he could do something like that?” All I could think about was the anti-LGBTQ and specifically anti-trans legislation that gave him the right and audacity: Florida’s House Bill 1069, Senate Bill 254, HB 1521, SB 266, SB 1580. But what I said was, “I don’t know mom.”

Four months later, I graduated with both my master’s degrees, packed my car and moved to Southern California in seek of a safer environment for me and my partner. I proudly work as the executive director of Fraternity House, a residential care facility for the chronically ill, giving compassionate accommodations to vulnerable individuals living with HIV/AIDS. There are many things I love and miss about the South, but the hateful rhetoric and oppressive laws are not among those. Queer Southerners deserve better. I know I did.

Thankfully, many of them, including my mother, have changed. I hope to see a day when those “many” grow into a majority, and I feel safe enough to not shrink or contort. My pride in being transgender is unwavering. Anti-hate rhetoric begins with pride in ourselves and our communities.