today, on national trans day of visibility, i can’t help but feel like visibility has teeth. soft celebration doesn’t always sit right when you’re constantly fielding judgment dressed up as curiosity, or dodging the casual violence of being misunderstood. i’m non-binary, and that alone seems to stir a nerve in people—as if naming myself outside their idea of what’s real is a performance. when really, it’s them who are performing.
i speak for myself and my lgbtqia+ peers—we’re not chasing the superficial attention you try to clone us to. we’re wading through the wreckage of narrow thinking, trying to build something tender from a world trained to look at us sideways through blue-block lenses, fuelled by fear and falsehoods. it’s all utter bullshit.
in kepa kurl, a sleepy coastal town on wudjari boodja, where i’ve lived for over 12 years (between high school and my indecisive, undiagnosed, problematic youth), i was nominated as citizen of the year. sounds sweet, right? but it hit like salt in an already weeping wound. i felt honoured and humiliated all at once.
the same shire that organised the awards has done very little to actually protect or support queer folk here. our youth are suffering. the arts are struggling. marginalised communities are dangling by a thread. the systems that should cradle us don’t even see us. and when they do, they look right through. i know this because i fit inside that gap—alongside friends and family who don’t deserve to be ignored either.
hey, humbly ignorant shire people—answer my fucking basic needs.
my first coming out was a mess. there was no buffer from the backlash. the second-guessing from people i thought were closest to me. the whispers. the cold shoulders from those who couldn’t bear to see the world reflected through someone else’s truth. i felt more closeted than ever, even after coming out.
it was the beginning of peeling off every bandaid i’d carefully stuck down. my immune system broke under the stress. my skin fought back. the trauma made itself known. and under the blistering ozone hole above this town, i stuck those bandaids back on, one by one, for years.
but eventually—slowly, painfully—they started to come off. i’ve fought for every inch of healing with a resilience that should make your eyes water. i realise now how much i inflated the rare moments of support into a kind of fantasyland. but proportionally, the real efforts just aren’t there. not enough to help us live freely, let alone prosper.
this town still clings to myths—structures built by generations who would’ve institutionalised someone like me. now they hand out medals as if that erases the silence, the inaction, the ongoing erasure.
being queer and an artist here isn’t just brave—it’s survival work.
local businesses treat artists the same way they treat teen employees—hire them before 17, drop them the moment they cost something. we’re expected to thank them for crumbs. this isn’t community. it’s curated exploitation. it’s slave labour in a rainbow shirt.
i was awarded for advocacy. but it felt like being handed flowers for cleaning up a mess no one else would acknowledge.
so i hung the certificate in the toilet, underneath an op shop print of brad pitt in interview with the vampire. two misunderstood deviants—one fictional, one fighting policy with spit and grit. a certificate stamped with an invasion day logo and a hollow slogan: reflect. respect. celebrate. sponsored by a media network outed for harassment and abuse. the irony writes itself.
i wanted to piss in a cup and hand it back as a bespoke gift.
i didn’t attend the sundowner or the award ceremony. the thought of someone shoving a camera in my face for optics made me sick. i already felt like a token, surrounded by yuppies who’d never understand the weight of this work.
so i wrote this to the one person i’d considered taking with me:
hey my chicken licken!!
i’ve decided not to go. while i’m genuinely humbled to be nominated as a representative of our lgbtqia+ community, i can’t shake the feeling that it’s a bit performative.
when it comes down to it, i don’t feel comfortable shaking the shire’s hand, knowing there’s so much more that could and should already be done to ensure the safety and support of the queer community here, hey.
truthfully, if i get the award, i’ll feel like a flashy queer token for the shire to show off their “diversity,” when in reality, i’ve never truly felt accepted here—and neither have my peers.
with invasion day so close, it all feels wrong. any kind of celebration feels off. maybe i’m being stubborn, but i don’t feel obligated to stand beside people who’ve made it so hard to prioritise art and creativity in this town. honestly, it feels like i’m being thanked for doing the work they should already be doing. it’s bittersweet, but i’m trusting my gut and not attending.
thank you for supporting me through it all.
—
on days like this, i honour all the trans and non-binary mob—especially our disabled and aboriginal folk from wudjari boodja—who carry double and triple the weight just to exist.
we’re not here to be symbols. we’re here to live. loud-as-fuck. awkward. beautiful. as wild as the landscape that raised us. and until the institutions and cliques around us stop pretending and start transforming, we’ll keep showing up—not despite the cracks, but because of them.
these days, i feel myself pulling away from kepa kurl more and more. the esperance community page alone is a warzone—loud with broken promises, midlife crises on digital display. stupidity is visible from my front door. i haven’t even left the house since getting back.
after time in the city, i saw what it’s like to exist in a place that doesn’t treat my identity like a malfunction. i want that space. i want to grow alongside my goals and my bleached eyebrows. i want softness that doesn’t require hypervigilance. but i’ve moved too many times. this doesn’t feel like a fresh start. it feels like mourning.
the detail is in the silence. the comment sections. or the lack of them.
as a non-binary, neurodiverse, disabled person (and no, i’m not ashamed to say all of that), i’ve never had a holiday from the constant tension. even when i left the country. even when i came back to places i thought were home.
this isn’t just a place issue. it’s a pattern. and i’m tired of running to and from.
boorloo isn’t perfect. but at least people don’t tailgate me on my bike to the shops. the heat still melts my nervous system. the overstimulation still eats at me. i zombify myself just to get through—so i don’t end up with another home job tattoo, a food strike, or a full-blown bender.
but between housing uncertainty, the NDIS’s failure, and a looming election full of power-hungry suits, my options are running dry. and honestly? it’s looking more and more like moving back in with my parents might be the only choice.
from a town that nominated me just for surviving it.
what a catch.
today, i’m celebrating visibility—but i’m naming the toll. i’m choosing to speak, even when the room would rather keep me quiet.
because i’ve copped enough shrapnel. and i’m done pretending the bombs aren’t theirs.