Please be aware: This post contains references to transmisogyny, online harassment, and a mental health emergency.
I present on transness and its many associated topics professionally, and I believe heavily in the power of stories to help people understand and empathize with one another. A story I often share in my trainings is what I like to call “The Parable of Isabel Fall.” Unless you are a trans woman who exists in specific online circles or a fan of independent science fiction literature, you may not have ever heard her name, but the story of Isabel Fall is one whose shape you may be familiar with regardless. It goes like this:
A young woman by the name of Isabel Fall once submitted a short story to the magazine Clarkesworld, entitled “I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter,” referencing a common transphobic meme from the early 2000s and 2010s. The story, a personal favorite of mine, asks questions about militarization of even basic parts of our identity and what it means to be connected to violence in increasingly intimate ways in our lives — certainly not a light topic, but not out of the ordinary in science fiction. It was even nominated for a Hugo Award, a high honor in the genre. The author bio at the bottom of the submission was intentionally short: “Isabel Fall was born in 1988.”
Shortly after its submission, people began to ask questions, with a significant body of users on Twitter (now X) becoming both concerned and angry in their approach. Why was her bio statement so short? Why did she choose an inflammatory title? Why wasn’t it possible to find anything else by Isabel Fall on the internet, or a record of a person with this name? And from there, more questions. People demanded to know the exact circumstances of who this woman was, and her motivations. They conjectured wildly and aggressively, with each member of this social media mob riling the others up further. Was Isabel Fall secretly a cover being used by a cis man to mock gender expansiveness? Or perhaps a cis woman mocking trans women specifically? Was her listed birth year, 1988, an attempt to stealthily reference white supremacist dog whistles?
In an interview with Emily St. James for Vox,, where I received much of the context for telling this story (outside of what I personally witnessed), Fall revealed information I think is critical to understanding my relationship to Pride. Fall was a trans woman who, in publishing her story, was fielding the idea of whether womanhood would be right for her and whether the world could accept her as a woman (thus the short bio and the lack of other published material). Based on the public response, Fall made two decisions: the first being to check herself into a psychiatric ward, and the second that womanhood was not an option for her, and that Isabel Fall would never exist again.
This is not an uncommon story. From the time that I began questioning my gender, I have intentionally curated my online presence to include many trans women and transfeminine voices. There are women who have been pivotal to my self-concept that I fear I will never hear from again because of the social force of mobbing. There are versions of myself I will never know because I swallowed them whole to avoid the same fate.
When I think about Pride Month as a concept, it brings up some difficult thoughts that I’m not always able to square. One sentiment you’ll often hear during Pride is the centrality of trans womanhood, and especially of trans women of color, to the history of the LGBTQ rights movement, to Stonewall, to the collective future we strive towards. But these sentiments are not so often reflected in the real-time treatment we, as trans women, receive.
I have a complicated relationship to Pride because, unfortunately, it is sometimes members of my community (who I do, despite everything, claim as my community) who make up these mobs — up to and including other trans people. This is also far from a social media phenomenon; almost every trans woman I know has a story of being ousted by a friend group, treated coldly by an institution until the message to leave was unmistakable, or going to extreme lengths to always be accommodating to avoid this treatment. It is a truly fascinating rhetorical trick to lionize the importance of trans women to the collective whole while uncritically joining the very social wave that drags us out to sea. So what is there to be done about this?
I’ll be forward with you: I don’t know. I wish I had a better answer for you, but every time I have returned to this question in my drafting process, I think I have incredible ideas, and each time hit the wall before anything of substance comes free. Some (or most) of the issues we face are not so simple as to be dissolved with a few quick missives. I have some ideas I’ve been chewing on, however, and I can start there.
Consider what makes a person disposable in your eyes. What must a person do to justify discarding them — whether through social mobbing, incarceration, or other means. What is unforgivable? What proof is needed to determine guilt, and what means are permissible to force a person into exile? How eager are we to set up scapegoats for the satisfaction of saying, At least I’m nothing like that person. At least I’m a Good Person, and because of that Goodness I am safe. You are not safe, you are simply lower on the list of targets.
Consider your workplace, your social circles, your world. How many trans women exist in these spaces? Is it zero? Is it just one? How carefully do they tread? Do they correct sleights against them or do they “not like to make a big deal” of things? How careful are they not to be loud, or scary, or rude, or mean, or cold, or even perceived as such? How much do they trust you and the systems in place? Who actually cares about them when the pitchforks and torches come knocking?
Consider what it would feel like to live your life knowing that you are one person’s dissatisfaction away from the complete destruction of your social connections. How afraid would you be? How long would it take until your bravery, your pride, folded under you? How certain are you that you would fare any better?
As I said, I don’t have perfect solutions. And often, I feel like a checklist of proposed solutions never goes far enough. But what I hope to do in writing this is encourage you to think and to empathize, and to stand in the way in the future.
Parables have lessons; the lesson here? Pride only extends to those of us who are allowed to feel proud.
Someday, my sisters and I can let our masks fall and just simply be. This is not a future we can build alone. We need allies who can stand alongside trans womanhood. Listen to us when we say that we have seen these scenes of exile play out before. Act with us to interrupt them.
