Cassie Workman Shares That On Stage And Off, There Are Two Worlds For Trans Performers

I am asked what it’s like. Every time I go on stage, I plunge into darkness. I no longer know what will happen, how deep it might get. You can’t escape the politics of your identity, and inevitably, the wear of that becomes the centrepiece of your life. The positivity, and the negativity, are indistinguishable, because ultimately they both support the same conclusion… life is harder now, and it probably always will be.

I hear it in body language, and in my head. Look at "him" there, guile emerging from polished trauma. Bruises rolled in glitter. Wonderful that it can take the vitriol it’s fed and hand it back as sugar. Parading about in 8-bit femininity, starkly playing charlatan, amusing for the stage, but poorly reviewed in the bathroom. There’s the constant mythologising of struggle, until you disappear under the tide of glances, and understanding smiles, and recoiling hands, and drunken provocateurs, and gentle embraces from friends – they are now all the same to me. I am asked what it’s like, I came out as trans, and honestly, it’s fucking hard.

I’m told so much what a triumph my coming out was, and how brave, but it’s impossible to hear the word "brave" and not be reminded that the world is openly hostile toward you. As I write this, I am still reliving today’s narrowly escaped assault. A man in an alley, in broad daylight, his laughing friend, his limp hands pawing towards my breast.

In front of heavy curtains I am brave and lauded, but presto, on the bus home I am "just a tr*nny", because that’s where I stop telling the joke, and instead, become it. The contrast between my two lives is the contrast of how we treat trans people. On our televisions, and in films, and on stage, we are increasingly accepted, our stories are watched and celebrated by millions, but in real life, what becomes of us?

The benefits of telling your story are often outweighed by the negatives. Transitioning in the public eye ring-barks you. The stage starts to look like the inside of Shamu’s enclosure at SeaWorld – a viewing window for tourists. I can feel my dorsal fin slowly curling over. Don’t get me wrong, for the most part I think people are supportive and comfortable, but the difference between what is sacred and what is profane, is who is viewing it. There are times when I walk on stage and people are laughing before I’ve said anything, and it’s hard to believe that’s a good sign.

And at home there are moments of sweet amnesia, where my body is cast before an illiterate mirror, where how I look means nothing, and more and more those are the moments I seek to inhabit. Outside, the passersby unpick the knots of me, and stare. Eyes are the points of knives, whispering, digging sharp elbows into each other – I see all of you, you know. They hate you when you "fool" them, they hate you when you don’t. This witch floats.

I had this desire to be transparent. I didn’t want to simply appear a year or more later as a new person. I think that creates a narrative that is unfair to trans people. I wanted to show the world the stages in between, in the hope others would grow alongside me. I wanted to demystify transition. I wanted to show its flaws and foibles, and I still believe that was the right thing to do. I didn’t realise the toll it would take. I am so tired of being scrutinised, I no longer consent to the humiliation of it, and where I left my old persona behind, there he waits, at the edge of every stage, ready to reclaim me. I don’t want him anymore, I don’t want to go back there.

I don’t want to go back there, because I love who I am. Life is hard now, but it’s mine. The fight for acceptance that once took place inside of me, now takes place outside. That’s really the main difference. I am asked what it’s like but it’s not possible to convey. I’ve stumbled upon some astronomical joy and people keep trying to throw blankets over it. I feel sorry for them. There is so much I don’t understand, but I understand this. The shape of it. Every day you choose to keep going, there is resistance, from people who are scared of your power. The cruel ones. It terrifies them that they have gone out of their way to make your happiness such a crime, and yet you claim it anyway. It terrifies them because it means they have no excuse to be miserable but their own cowardice. There is a paradise they are too weak to behold. They will punish you for their failings, but whatever they do, every day a peaceful shore comes into focus, closer, and more familiar.