I once wasn't worried about being 'visibly queer' in public. Now I am
Emesha Boyko | For CBC First Person | Posted: March 9, 2025 11:00 AM | Last Updated: 16 hours ago
'We need to show queer youth that the world is more beautiful with them in it,' Emesha Boyko writes
This First Person column is the experience of Emesha Boyko, a non-binary Winnipegger and advocate for the 2SLGBTQ+ community. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
WARNING: This column contains references to suicide and transphobic violence.
I came out as bisexual when I was 13 and had the good fortune of having fairly accepting parents.
I devoured lesbian literature and found myself at home among queers — people whose gender presentation didn't match their assigned sex or whose sexuality fell outside the approved margins. My friends' parents were almost entirely accepting, and I didn't encounter any direct homophobia until I was 19.
But then, walking through Winnipeg's downtown, a woman saw my rainbow hat and mitts, said "I hate (slur for gay women)" and punched a signpost. She saw my stricken face and made a semblance of an apology.
It was then I began to understand that I wasn't as safe as I'd believed.
When, in my 20s, I began asking friends and family to use neutral pronouns for me, I encountered a wide array of responses.
I'm grateful to have a strong community of 2SLGBTQIA folks who see me as I am.
- Emesha Boyko
Nobody was explicitly transphobic, but a boyfriend was annoyed that we had to spend any energy dwelling on gender, something he didn't encounter as a problem in his daily life. He, a cis man, could paint his nails without repercussion; I was anxious about which change room to use. When I headed for the men's room in a small bar, the barkeep simply shouted "No," and pointed me toward the line snaking out of the women's.
Why would my gender presentation bother anyone? It usually doesn't. I'm privileged, in a sense, that most people read me as cis. Being misgendered doesn't impact my self-esteem. I know that there are always aspects of ourselves that aren't understood by the general public, and I'm grateful to have a strong community of 2SLGBTQIA folks who see me as I am, without insisting on gender conformity.
In the last year, though, we've noticed a shift. To me, it seems as though previous allies of trans folk are being fed disinformation, and they've begun to believe it.
Ex-friends now believe my trans femme colleagues are pedophiles, or trying to gain access to women's locker rooms and bathrooms for nefarious purposes. They're in our DMs, parroting Harry Potter author J.K. Rowling's rhetoric about men and boys in women's sports.
Queerphobia, I feel, is on the rise.
A year ago, my friend Cora took her life. She had reached out for help, but no amount of community support could outweigh the voices opposing her very existence.
In her 30s and tired of being harassed and assaulted, she couldn't see her life getting any better.
Just weeks earlier, a non-binary teen was assaulted in their high school bathroom. That queer youth, Nex Benedict, died by suicide a few days later, and every queer person I knew was sick with grief.
Cora was hurt. She felt that we were paying homage to the dead, while neglecting the living. She wanted us to lavish affection and attention on trans people while they were alive, rather than pour all of our energy into bereavement.
Feeling a part of a group is just as much a biological need as food. - Emesha Boyko
She said, "Later in life, when the trans kids who survived that early abuse are forced into suicide by people who doxx us, call us pedophiles, isolate us socially, and cut us off from all support, y'all don't give a shit … or straight up agree that we deserve humiliation, poverty, violence, isolation, and the constant threat of death."
I was devastated.
I can't count how many times I've seen heartless comments directed to trans people online, suggesting suicide. These faceless keyboard warriors seem to have fully bought into a narrative that we have any agenda other than living a normal life.
A few years ago I thought, as a culture, we'd come a long way in resolving queerphobia of the past.
I hadn't felt much fear around being visibly queer in public until a few months ago. Since Sam Nordquist, a trans man, was found murdered in New York state this winter, I've been kept awake by intrusive thoughts of what the last few days of his life were like, of the last few minutes earthside for Nex and Cora.
When my gay Grade 10 friend was nervous meeting a guy for the first time, I asked why he couldn't be out. He soberly told me that his mom worked in the ER and saw victims of homophobia, and that he was afraid for his safety.
The dangers of being visibly trans are increasingly obvious these days. (Gender non-conforming folks now urge each other to date in groups, which is great advice.)
Someone at work asked what I think about children transitioning (not seeing me as trans) and I answered carefully. I held space for her concerns and she wrung her hands about chemical castration and social pressure and some amorphous agenda she felt was pushing surgeries on teens.
She was a social worker, loves her trans nibling, and still fell prey to these trending messages around brainwashing children.
We're told we have wildly unscientific views on gender diversity, even as anthropology, history, neurobiology and genetics describe it as a spectrum, rather than a binary.
I believe queer people are being regarded with suspicion and derision more than we were 10 years ago. The current U.S. administration has sanctioned an all-out character assault, accusing us of trying to molest and corrupt children by doing our jobs or existing out loud, in colour.
Our online platforms feel compromised, and we're more desperate for connection than ever, while feeling forced out of public view. Feeling a part of a group is just as much a biological need as food, and any gathering of queers could pull someone back from the brink of a mental breakdown.
At a vigil for three non-binary folks held in Winnipeg this February, I found a profound release in crying with others. I'd love to counter the looming feeling of impotence with shared positive experiences. Every virtual and in-person queer craft night could be a lifeline.
We need each other, and we need to show queer youth that the world is more beautiful with them in it.
If you or someone you know is struggling, here's where to get help:
- Talk Suicide Canada: 1-833-456-4566 (phone) | 45645 (text between 4 p.m. and midnight ET).
- Kids Help Phone: 1-800-668-6868 (phone), live chat counselling on the website.
- Canadian Association for Suicide Prevention: Find a 24-hour crisis centre.
- This guide from the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health outlines how to talk about suicide with someone you're worried about.
Support is also available for anyone who has been sexually assaulted.
You can access crisis lines and local support services through this government of Canada website or the Ending Violence Association of Canada database. If you're in immediate danger or fear for your safety or that of others around you, please call 911.