Eye Contact with Strangers
A litmus test for navigating public safety.
In public spaces, I spend a lot of time looking around. I take note of how present I feel in my body, the demographics of the people around me, and the general vibe. It has taken me a lot of time and effort to not feel entirely on-edge when surrounded by strangers. I no longer keep my gaze down and am no longer filled with fear if I hear a raised voice in public. I consciously pay attention to my surroundings and am intentional with my eye contact. I may be 5’1, but I do not feel small, and I’m proud of the effort it’s taken me to get here.
Much of this has to do with the work I’ve done to reduce my anxiety and PTSD symptoms, such as EMDR therapy. The way I ground and situate myself in public spaces also has to do with my present need to navigate bodily safety. As an openly queer and often clock-y trans person, public spaces can be dangerous. Unfortunately, the trans issue that most people are familiar with is our use of public restrooms, as if we only become visible when we need to pee. As a trans person, every step into the public eye is a dance that can and does too-often have fatal consequences. Black and Indigenous trans women and femmes experience the highest number of assaults and murders for being trans. The more intersecting marginalized identities a trans person has, the harder it is to live a safe life, or to live a life at all.
It doesn’t take a lot of Googling to find the hundreds of anti-trans bills that have sprung up across the US in recent years. The far-right fear machine has shined a spotlight on the existence of trans people, as if we suddenly appeared with the rise of the internet. It is true that the internet allows us to form communities in new ways, and it has helped people who never had language to describe their experiences to understand themselves more deeply, but people have existed outside of the gender binary across cultures throughout time. Trans people have been here and will continue to be here. We have become visible in a new way thanks to technology, which is great for representation and finding each other. The catch is: the more visible we are, the more people can tell when someone is trans. There are people out there who see us and want to hurt us.
I recently read a self-defense guide for trans women and femmes that was shared in an essay written by Devon Price. The guide discusses the importance of building solidarity through small gestures towards others, increasing the likelihood that they would stick up for you if someone starts acting aggressively towards you. I have written previously on how we know things without language, and navigating public safety is the perfect example of this experience. Trans people, amongst other marginalized folks, can intuitively feel when a space is safe for them or not. Sometimes the signs are obvious, such as a bar full of drunk people in MAGA hats. You probably wouldn’t find me close to a space like that, much less using a bathroom in one. Other times a space may appear safe but being within it for an extended period of time feels much different. I think back to a previous service job I had, where the walls were covered in signs about respecting trans people, but the owner and manager refused me livable hours for discriminatory reasons. Not to mention the clientele who misgendered me constantly despite us having pronoun pins - a man once telling his young grandchild to “Listen to the nice lady, or man, or…whatever you are.”
Personally, I feel the safest in diverse spaces. I prefer to be surrounded by people of differing races, ages, genders, and backgrounds. Unfortunately, Pittsburgh isn’t exactly known for being friendly towards diversity. It is an incredibly red-lined city, where segregation of space is very apparent if you’re paying attention, or experiencing exclusion. This does make it a bit easier to immediately tell if the people around me will disdain me for being myself. People in Pittsburgh are as self-conscious as they are judgmental, and aren’t afraid to look at you with a mix of confusion and discomfort.
This past weekend, my partner and I went on a date for her birthday and Valentine’s day to a mini golf bar we had never been to. This was in a neighborhood we’ve gone out in before, so we knew the general atmosphere would be safe enough for us to dress-up and express our authentic selves. Although people from the suburbs frequent the establishments there, it is also populated by city folks, and we figured we’d see at least a few other queer people there. A lot of these thoughts are unspoken knowings between us - we think of these things because we have to.
Before leaving, we mused about how even if we didn’t see other trans people there, us being visibly trans might be inspiriting to someone still figuring out their gender identity. This isn’t to say that trans people can always tell when someone else is trans - my partner and I are nonbinary and clock-y, so other trans people might just be passing very well! Although we did see a few lesbian couples enjoying the space, neither of us noticed any other stand-out queers. On the bright side, there was a single-use gender neutral bathroom (win). It’s unfortunate that the gentrifying areas of Pittsburgh are the ones with the most gender neutral bathrooms. I doubt any of the business owners would go out of their way to vote against a transphobic legislature.
Besides the fact we were the only two people wearing face masks (classic), we had a great time. The whole place was overly perfumed with a musk that wasn’t even good, so the mask did a great job of helping me breathe comfortably. The mini golf courses had cool, well-designed themes and the atmosphere was much more elevated than I was anticipating. The staff were all friendly, even if some of them lacked cheer. I can’t blame a single service worker for lacking cheer - I recognized the space for what it was: employing regional working-class people to serve largely ungrateful groups who want to get drunk and play mini golf. Depending on the night, I wouldn’t be very cheerful either.
If you’ve played mini golf at a popular location before, you know that there are periods of waiting for the group in front of you to finish the hole before it’s your turn. These were the moments I took full advantage of to check out my surroundings and get a vibe check on the people I was sharing space with. I always like the moments where I catch someone with lingering eyes, who makes eye contact with me and even smiles politely. I relish these interactions because they are human, and we are human, and there’s a lot of meaning in a shared smile with a stranger. On the opposite side of the spectrum, there are people who I notice looking at me with confusion or discomfort, eyes raking down my body, who quickly look away when I meet their eyes. Now, they could be confused for any number of reasons that have nothing to do with the sound of my voice or how I’m presenting myself. The point isn’t in the reasoning - the point is in the nature of the looking away.
There is another category of people who refuse to acknowledge that my partner and I exist near them. I’m thinking of the couple who were waiting for us to finish a hole, standing six feet from us. When I turned to indicate to them we were finished, both of them were looking around as if we weren’t there, rejecting my eye contact. I just shrugged and walked on. This isn’t to disparage people who are neurodivergent and have difficulty with eye contact. What I’m talking about is different - this is being surrounded by others with which you will have small interactions with by virtue of proximity, and noticing how they respond to your presence. When you’re trans, or otherwise marginalized, these interactions are important, and they add up. This is part of that unspoken knowing. My partner and I discussed the eye contact we were noticing with the people around us, commiserating on the shared experience of being fully avoided by some and openly stared at by others. These moments are intrinsically tied to our safety.
If a drunk stranger walked up to me or my partner and started openly harassing us, a bystander effect would fall over the crowd. Who will meet my gaze? Who will pretend they don’t see it’s happening? Who will look upset on our behalf? Who will join in on the harassment? These are things that can be gleaned from my standard vibe checks. I know the stranger in the room I would turn to and call to for help, and I know which ones not to turn my back on. I know the strangers who might become the harassers themselves. A psychologist once told me that I’m not feeling paranoia if I am experiencing a legitimate fear. This rocked my world because not only did it validate the fact that I do need to worry about my bodily safety with strangers, but it also meant my fear isn’t a diagnosable symptom of mental illness. Fear is a natural part of my life for being myself.
The threat of unknown violence won’t stop me from going to a mini golf bar and enjoying a date night with my partner. I felt no fear upon leaving the house, and no one did anything to make me feel afraid while we were out. It took years of work to not just be afraid, constantly. Marginalized people know that there is safety in numbers, that’s basic survival. The issue is that queer spaces themselves are not safe from the outside. At the queer bars, my fear isn’t being harassed for being trans, my fear turns to that of mass shootings. I look for exits, I know where I’ll hide, and I imagine in perfect detail the nightmare that would ensue if someone opened fire towards the crowd I’m in. It has happened to queer bars before.
In a world where people assume I am mentally ill, a child predator, or otherwise deranged for being myself, every detail matters. We begin to drown in the details, exhausting ourselves with exit strategies. I meet the eyes of everyone I see look at me, and I find those who will meet mine. It only takes a moment to establish a small connection, one that can blossom into a sympathetic interaction or a place of understanding. These connections can be life saving. They can build empathy, make someone question the voracity with which trans people are being legislated against. If more people cared to learn about our experiences and listen to our voices, then we wouldn’t feel so alone in the battle for our freedom and safety. I invite you to include more trans people and their lives into your worldview. You can’t see as human those whom you refuse to look at.
Stories Highlighting the Violence Trans People Face
Trans Man Advised to Use Women’s Restroom then Beaten Up and Arrested - this one really shook me up when it happened because it highlights the impossibility of there being a “right” bathroom to use.
Black Trans Woman Found Dead in Wilkinsburg - the first Black trans woman killed in 2022 was killed in Pittsburgh.
SisTers PGH keeps a running list of trans women killed each year, starting in 2015.
Trans People at Four Times Greater Risk of Violence Than Cis People