Trans matters in education: insights from students.

INTRODUCTION Erica Rand

In 1993, at a feminist bookstore, I happened upon Stone Butch Blues, a new novel by trans activist Leslie Feinberg that had just been published by a small press, Firebrand Books. It concerns a character, Jess, whose sex/gender identity does not match the female sex assignment that Jess received at birth. I brought the book to my lover, Jed Bell, because it reminded me of some things that she, as I knew him then, had said, things I had little reference for or relation to. (When a student recently asked what I would do if I could change one thing about being a woman, I answered, on a far shallower plane than she expected, that I wished high beds were good for your health.) Stone Butch Blues shook my lover's world, and consequently mine. He came to understand himself as FTM, or female-to-male, identified. I, too, had to reexamine my own knowledges, identifications, and pleasures. What does it mean about sex and gender if someone can change categories: that the categories we have are badly defined, not so firmly bounded, inadequate in number, or simply fraudulent? Challenges to a fixed gender binary weren't new to me, but they pushed me harder, differently, when they emerged close to home. What kind of dyke am I, or femme, if my girlfriend turns out to be my boyfriend? Read that question with both its accusatory and inquisitive inflections, and in every pose from hands-on-hips (gender everywhere) to despair to rebel rule-breaking to quiet contemplation; I alternated among them. All of this was really hard work for us, individually and together. The speed version I sometimes tell myself or others is that I brought this book to my girlfriend and 12 seconds later he was editing FTM International's newsletter. But the erasures there astound me periodically when what's missing shows up to knock me around. It's telling that I can't quite remember when during (or not during) that "12 seconds" and why, though definitely not for reasons all about gender, "ex" starts (and stops and starts again) to prefix "lover."

Part of what was so hard back then was lack of resources. We knew few people going through similar things; every text or video or contact was a precious, if not always enabling, discovery. Several years into it all, a first-year student emailed me--maybe because I served as a faculty advisor for the campus queer group--because Feinberg's book had blown her away, too. She was justifiably shocked to find me already enmeshed in a version of that story. Few people around here then, either on our campus, at Bates College, or in the surrounding area of central and southern Maine, had much to go on, which was one reason that Jed moved to San Francisco. Slowly, but perceptibly, however, resources were emerging.

It's 2003 now and a lot has changed. Books, conferences, film festivals, sup port groups, web sites, tv movies. "T" is uttered, if not always honored, alongside many a "GLB." Trannies pop up everywhere, it sometimes seems. Recently, while skimming CosmoGirl! in a waiting room, I read a letter to the editor by 21-year-old Lace Wilson, who recounted getting over 4000 emails, almost all positive, after his story of female-to-male transition appeared in that (!) magazine. Some emailers said his story introduced totally new information; others that they would stop harassing people like him; most talked, he said, about "how hot I am" (June/July: 24). The fact that I could run across this material in a mainstream teen magazine--I saw another trans biography in People this spring--speaks volumes. So does the validation of a young person's ability to know what's up with his, her, or neither his nor her sex/gender, and of the right to act on that knowledge, even when permanent bodily changes are involved. I'd had trouble accepting that myself. With Jed, who was in his mid-20s then, I kept pleading, "How could you even know for sure before you're 30? We change so much before then." Interesting, how I picked a knowledge threshold exactly one of us had crossed. He kindly tells me now--when I fret over having not supported him enough and falling short of my own principles about respecting young (even much younger) people to know and direct their own lives--that he contributed by feeding me doubts he needed me to express back then. He also tells me how many trannies are themselves surprised by what young trans people now can know that they know. As he says, however, we need to accept that they can.

"Trans Matters in Education" brings to Radical Teacher five short essays by trans-identified students, or recent students, from early college through graduate school. Some of them participated in a panel discussion I brought to campus in conjunction with my course, "Women, Gender, Visual Culture," which considers the roles of the visual in the construction of gendered identities. Kael Parker, the Education and HIV Prevention Coordinator at Outright Portland, a group for LGBTQA young people, helped to coordinate the panel (which also had connections to Outright Lewiston/ Auburn). His own website, "Kael's Page," at http:// kpscapes.tripod.com/--he describes it as "an evolving representation of who I am and what I stand for ... [as] a 22 year old stonebutch, uncle, activist, transguy and many other things"--is itself a great read and great resource. (I also recommend the FTM International website at http://ftmi.org/for bibliography and links.)

I asked the writers for essays that include something about their own gender identities, which include FTM (variously come by), MTF, and gender queer (one person on the panel who was unable to contribute here also identified as "gender neutral"), and something about what they want teachers, as well as other school personnel, to know. Together, the texts--three written just for this essay, two presented in public earlier--call for changes in curriculum, teaching, and classroom conduct. They invite us to be mindful of matters that might seem small, like the importance of consistently calling all students by their chosen names, and to be attentive to problems that we might have the impulse to explain otherwise; one author, for instance, wouldn't speak in dam when he felt like his voice might betray his presentation as male. They also draw attention to how issues like access to health care and the costs of transitioning affect trans students in ways we need to know about. Consider what it means, asks one writer, when programs demand that students spend many extra hours in unpaid internships or fieldwork, a frequent degree requirement that affects every student in a precarious financial situation.

These essays also testify both to the continuing growth of support networks and to how much further we need to go. The fact that I could make a few phone calls and get six trans-identified young people, with the experience and willingness to speak publicly as educators, to show up at my classroom in Lewiston, Maine should not be taken to represent a norm. As I learned during a panel with some of the same participants at the nearby University of Southern Maine in Portland, this concentration is not typical. Some of the panelists had moved to Portland from far more inhospitable places because they had heard it would be better here; the panelists also represented a big portion of the people who might be on the panel (shallow bench, in sports terms). The sunny letter in CosmoGirl!, and the two hostile letters that follow it, show this flip side, too. After all, the emails Wilson got about people turning away from ignorance and violence also reflect the presence of ignorance and violence. Indeed, as Jordon Bosse emphasized to me, in a follow-up email to the essay he sent that also stresses how issues faced by transpeople are integrally connected to matters such as race, "the violence faced by TG/TS [transgender/transsexual] folks" is extensive: "In the last two years alone, five trans teem have been murdered (4 of them people of color). Transpeople have been brutally murdered (often after being raped) at a rate of one per month for the last ten years, and the general public almost never hears about it. [They have been] beaten by police officers, refused treatment by emergency medical technicians, etc." Here is part of the imperative to educate both in schools and beyond. As key, I think, is a vision of pleasure and justice in which people of all genders can thrive.

Jordon Bosse

I am a twenty-four year old Female-to-Male (FTM) transman. I use the term "trans" to mean transgendered. I would generally be classified as a transsexual since I am altering my body to match my gender identity, but I find the word transsexual to be too clinical. Prior to coming out as transgendered, I identified as a butch lesbian in a community that supported and celebrated my masculinity. My sexual orientation is no longer so easily definable for me. Most of the time, I use the word queer to describe my sexuality. Even though I am primarily involved with women, I don't see myself as "straight." Sometimes I will use the word pansexual, which for me is about being attracted to people on an individual basis, regardless of sex and gender. The process of transitioning has opened a lot of doors, and I am exploring what it means for me to be a man.

I was a tomboy growing up. My parents were fine with my choice of clothes, games, and playmates until I started puberty. Puberty was a really hard time for me. Not only was my body betraying me by growing breasts and monthly bleeding, but also my parents suddenly had all these notions about how I should talk, act, and think. It was confusing because I was constantly being reminded that I had to "act like a lady" or that "girls don't ..." but I never felt like I was a girl. I knew that I was different from the few girl friends that I had, but I did not know how. I was "mistaken" for a boy in public all of the time, which embarrassed my parents who would correct the person, and then yell at me later. I was raised Catholic, and prayed to God every night that I would wake up with the body that I was supposed to have. When that didn't work, I decided to play along with my In junior high, I learned how to apply makeup and fix my hair from my older step-sisters. I wore skirts and dresses, but always with boxer shorts underneath and sneakers on my feet so I could still play soccer or football at recess. The make-up lasted throughout my first two and a half years of high school, and the girl clothes made only occasional appearances. School was okay, but I was miserable. I battled serious depression through most of my high school years, and my teachers were understanding. Even with the counselors that I was seeing, I felt like I could not bring up the fact that I felt like I was really a boy; I thought for sure I would get "locked up" for being crazy.

I took a year off between high school and college. I had been living on my own, barely making it, and I wanted to be in a better place emotionally and financially before going back to school. During that time, I became involved with a local G/L/B/T/Q/A youth organization. It was there that I learned the word "transgender," and after a lot of research and thinking, decided that was where I fit. This changed a lot of things for me. I picked a new name, and asked that people use male pronouns. People's reactions were mixed. When I finally started school at the local branch of the University of Maine System, things got rough. I had to use my birth name on all of my records because it was still my "legal" name. That meant that prior to the first class for each course, I had to approach the professor and ask that they use my chosen name instead. Most were great about it, but occasionally the professor would forget and use my birth name during attendance, drawing confused stares from my classmates. The restroom situation was hard to navigate. I almost always had comments made when I was either entering or leaving the women's restroom. Since I had not started hormones or anything, I was not confident in my ability to use the men's room without problems. I learned to use the restroom during class since they were less busy than designated break times. I talked to an administrator who suggested that I use the restrooms in a part of the building that was still being renovated; it was a far walk from where all of my classes were located. I was quiet in most of my classes. I have always been kind of shy, but I used to be serf-conscious about my voice. Most of the time, my voice was the only signifier of my sex. People who addressed me as sir would change over to ma'am as soon as I spoke, which I found really frustrating.

I was preoccupied with researching trans stuff and looking into transition. It became the lens through which I looked at most of my subjects. As a matter of fact, I came out to most of my classes through some sort of project: a self-portrait in Art; a research paper on transitioning for FTM's for English; an activity on sex, gender identity, gender expression, sexual identity and role expectations in Sociology. I had to fight with more than one professor to get the non-traditional topics approved. After a year and a half at that school, I decided that I needed some time off. I had been working and going to school full-time, and dealing with all my new knowledge about myself. I spent most of the time feeling totally overwhelmed.

I had changed my name after I had saved up enough money, and was looking to begin my physical transition. I was not sure how to find a therapist and doctor who were knowledgeable and/or willing to work with me. I had no health insurance at the time. I knew that nothing pertaining to transition would be covered by insurance, but just office visits are expensive. I was referred to a therapist who was very knowledgeable and willing to work with me on a sliding scale. A year and a half later, I found a doctor who (after a lot of education and a little persuasion) was willing to prescribe and monitor testosterone. Hormones have had a huge impact on the way that I look and how I feel about myself. My reflection in the mirror is becoming a true reflection of how I see myself, which has been very empowering.

Things started to get more settled, and I decided that it was time to go back to school. I looked into a few non-traditional distance learning programs, and found a great one at Goddard College. I wanted a schedule that is a little more flexible since I am still working full time. I am just about to finish my first semester. I was able to study gender, transgender, transsexual, and transitioning in greater depth with the support of an amazing advisor. She was very open to the idea. She asks great questions and provides encouraging feedback. It's more of an on-going dialogue than a definite teacher/student line, which makes me feel like I really have some power in the decisions around my education. It feels less like work to be studying something that I am passionate about!

I have tried to think of what kinds of things would be helpful for teachers to know. Having a teacher/professor who can act as an advocate can be helpful. This can mean talking with administration about unisex bathrooms and knowing if there are resources in the area that might be helpful for the student. A teacher can help by not making assumptions about students, and asking if there is a name or nickname that the student prefers. Chosen names mean so much; using them (regardless of whether they are "legal") validates our identity and sense of self. If you are not sure if pronouns should be changed, ask the student. The language of the transgender/transsexual community is ever-evolving. It would be helpful to have at least a basic knowledge of terms. In classes where it is appropriate, teachers can talk about G/L/B/T issues. Teachers can invite area people with some knowledge in to talk with the class about their experiences. It would also be helpful for teachers to not reinforce gender role behavior. "Gender variant" behavior can be turned around to be positive. There are a variety of ways to experience this life. Teach children to experiment and celebrate differences instead of teasing.

GENDER LIBERATION FOR THE SELF

Lyndon Cudlitz

GLBTQA Resource Center, University of Southern Maine

At birth we are wrapped in pink or blue blankets, depending on our assigned sex. From then on, we are socialized as boy or as girls. We are taught how to look like them, to act like them, to think like them, to fed like them, to be them.

What happens, though, when that just doesn't feel right? What does it mean when a female just doesn't really feel like a girl? Well, if she feels like a boy, she may later seek to change her body to better fit how she feels. We start using male pronouns, and he starts using male restrooms. Yet, what if that female doesn't feel like a boy, but doesn't feel like a girl either?

Growing up, I had the oddest combination of interests. I would play dress-up with my sister, but then go outside to set up intricate forts and play war with the neighborhood boys. I would garden with my mother and work on cars with my father. I taught ballet and then became a firefighter.

Throughout all of my childhood and my adolescence, none of those activities felt wholly right for me. I didn't feel like the neighborhood boys, yet something certainly set me apart from the girls, too. I knew this my entire life, but I could never name it. I never had the words to explain how I felt.

Over the past two years, I became more involved in the transgender community. I began to understand the social structures of gender and the binary gender system--"boy or girl." I began to realize that it doesn't have to be that way. We don't have to live our lives as one or the other. I learned I did not have to identify as one or the other.

I learned of the term genderqueer, and, after many discussions with genderqueer-identified people, decided to use that term for myself. For me, it means that I feel like neither a girl nor a boy, but rather something else entirely. I reject the binary gender system for myself; I will not live in prescribed boxes.

My expression varies. I enjoy wearing different articles of clothing and expressing different pieces of me. Some days you may see me with my chest bound down, wearing baggy jeans and a baseball hat. Other days I may wear a skirt and pink tank top. I often blur the lines, expressing even more androgynously. Whatever my outward expression, though, my feeling of my gender on the inside always remains the same.

Here at USM, I am fortunate. There are other genderqueer-identified students who understand the way I feel. The GLBTQA Resource Center provides a supportive work environment for me. My friends at Portland Hall accept me and try to learn more about my identity. I am no longer hiding my feelings about my gender as I did in high school. I am able to live a more liberated life now that I not only understand my gender identity, but that I have the support I need as well

Mea Start Tavares

Growing up queer in midcoast Maine, it wasn't always easy to find a supportive community or to feel safe going about everyday life. When I was in high school and dyke identified, my girlfriend and I were met with physical hostility one day walking down the over-crowded hall to class. A semi-circle of teenagers formed around us as I stood there next to my girlfriend, telling her to be calm and that nothing would happen. I was so shocked when one girl stepped out of the ring and kicked my girlfriend into a locker that I couldn't even respond fast enough to stop it. That girl received two days of in-school suspension, whereas my friend Baley who upended a can of soda over a boy's head when he followed her down the hall screaming derogatory taunts, received two weeks out of school suspension for her actions.

When I made the decision to attend the University of Southern Maine, one of the branches of the UMaiIne system, I must admit I was wary about continuing my education within the state system. But being of the lower middle class as my family is, it was really the only choice that was available to me if I wanted to advance as a scholar. I started to identify as transgender about 3 months before entering college. This added to my apprehension. It was no longer just a question of surviving for 6 hours out of the day; but for 6 months out of the year. Questions about sex-specific housing, and the fact that I hadn't legally changed my name yet, came up. Not to mention how I was going to be received as a theatre major (the department I was admitted into), which, though very liberal, is also a very binary profession.

When I arrived at USM I found that most of my worries were not founded in reality, and that I was now in a more accepting and more educated world in which I had more leeway to be myself. I found that people accepted me just about everywhere I went, and that the campus was large enough to not have to deal with those who didn't. Even though my name was still filed as my birth name on all of my records, my professors were good about calling me by my chosen name and using male pronouns with some encouragement. They slipped from time to time, but were always receptive to my corrections. This required me to be out to my classmates, but I found that they were generally receptive as well. Some didn't understand, but those were the people I enjoyed talking to most. I found myself in numerous conversations with them, always pleasant, about what exactly being transgender was to me and how I saw myself in the world. And how the world saw me. I was beginning to find that the world didn't see me in the same way that I was viewed in high school and in my home town. At USM, people were always respectful and always made attempts to understand and gain perspective.

I think I have somewhat of a unique situation as a theatre major in that while I attend classes for grades, I also have to participate in the department productions for class credit. Though this requirement does not make it necessary for students to act on stage, it's one of the things that always came naturally to me and it's something that I found myself wanting to do. So I auditioned for the department shows, instead of working back stage. I auditioned for exclusively male roles. And to my surprise, I got them. I was in competition with all of the other males in the theatre department, and in my experience, the audition process was always fair. I don't think I had either an advantage or a disadvantage when auditioning. I was just like anyone else who came to try out for a part. So while passing in class was a big enough challenge, I was also attempting to pass while being placed in direct competition with biological males. For class credit.

I was amazed at how well this was received. Not only was my gender identity being validated, but also it wasn't being tokenized. That has been my experience with USM in general, in that they respect and acknowledge my identity hut don't make too big of a deal out of it. The health care system is amazing. I can't say enough good things about Bill Barter and Rosemary Prentice. I found both of them within the school system and both have proved to be excellent allies in my medical transition, which I am beginning this summer. All in all I fell far more comfortable within myself and my positive experience at the University of Southern Maine has been a large part of that.

PUTTING THE SEX IN SOCIAL WORK

Danielle Nika Askini

This article comes at a small amount of pain to me. I had thought about the various issues that I face as a woman, as a Transwoman in college. Are there distinct things that make my life harder? Are there situations that set me aside from the people born-female getting B.A.s in social work with me? I could dig deep into the goopy pool of gender theory and try and drag something to the surface to point to my inseparable solidity with "female kind," but that would simply be false. The truth of my story is simply this: as a Transwoman, as a poor Transwoman who is also an academic, sex work and social work education have been inseparable in my life.

Most people think of Transgendered people in terms of "mid-life crisis transition." There is, however, an ever growing trend of young people (mid-twenties and younger, sometimes much younger) transitioning from one gender/birth sex to another gender/sex. (I say "another" not "the other" because "the other" implies that there are two sexes. Not all people fit those categories.) This poses some serious problems for young people. Many of us, either born male or born female, face an incredible expense to live, express, and present the gender we fell to be our genuine selves. This cost is about equivalent to getting a bachelor's degree at a state college (I've done the math ... they both work out to be nearly thirty thousand). I could go into great depth about the various procedures that some transpeople chose to undergo, but I will leave you with this: The average cost of hair removal alone is a whopping $6,000 for facial electrolysis. That does not include doctor's visits, therapy, prescription hormones + testosterone blockers, travel expenses to and from office visits, time away from work, cosmetics, clothing, or even REMOTELY the cost of Sex Reassignment Surgery(SRS) for some, which can total over $10,000 on a good day, with a cheap doctor in a third world country, or nearby Canada. [Note: female-to-male SRS procedures can add up to 10 times that much.]

So where does sex work come into all this? Why would anyone, let alone a person with a "Gender Identity Disorder" engage in "risky" sex work to finance their education and transition? It's simple. The money is quick and easy to make. The upfront costs are relatively low: a few sticks of lipstick, a good wig, perhaps some panty hose? Yes it's true ... in a town of 65,000 people, I have been a sex worker for about 4 years now as a Transwoman. There is a market (a larger market than most of us would like to admit) willing to pay for the services of "Sissy boys, Transvestites, Bottoms, Submissives, Transgendered women, Transsexual Women (Pre and Post operative)." There are many "fine gentleman" willing to pay a fine fee, often in my experience 3 to 4 times what a "regular street girl" can get. The price for this taboo type of sex is high. With the extra money comes a lot more risk. Higher levels of violence are reported by a number of trans-related media sources. Higher risk of HIV infection Transwomen are a population believed to currently have the highest sero-prevalence rate in any major city at nearly 33% say many sources *).

Here's how I got involved. When approaching my senior year in Social Work, I was told that my field placement would take up a voluntary 16 hours a week of my time, I thought "16 hours of sex work at night I suppose." I realized that, in order to do "the greatest good for the greatest number of people," I would have to risk my personal health and safety. I thought about how I would afford to maintain my transition, household, and education with this 16 hours chopped out of my 40 hour work week. (Really it's 20 hours with transportation added in). Two 20 hour jobs, both at which I face harassment and criticism for simply being me?! One twenty hour job at $8.37 an hour? $167 a week, $669 a month for 160 hours of work? The other a thankless position as a glorified office assistant to "get my wings."

Oh wait. That's right ... the last trick I turned about a month ago was for $750 for 3 hours ... hmm ... 3 disposable hours on a boring old Sunday night with a quiet, though scary man. It didn't take a Microeconomics or Accounting 201 class to point out the viable solution to finance both an education and a transition. Social Work meant Sex work for me. Sex work as a transgender woman ... a woman who by all accounts is merely a myth in our culture, an oddity that is fetishized by a small portion of men, loved by a handful of concerned people, and cast away in the images and discourse of our culture. So after three years of learning about "at risk" populations, I had to join an elite group of young women struggling to get by.

Social Work = Sex Work. It's a simple equation.

DIVERSITY OF THE TRANSGENDER COMMUNITY

Max Probst

Paper presented at "Transecting the Academy, Brown University Spring 2003.

The transgender community is made up of an extremely diverse population. We come from different sexualities, religions, countries, ethnicities, socioeconomic statuses, gender identities, ages, abilities, political views (and many more diversifies that would take me beyond this conference to list).

With this complexity in mind, I want to take you on a journey of ANOTHER transgender experience that adds to the diversity that you probably won't find in your classrooms.

I was 15 and sitting by the swimming pool one New Jersey scorching summer, the sun gleaming down exposing all of the beautiful imperfections of my body: the cellulite, the blackheads on my nose, the light blonde hair growing in the shadow of my chin. My mother strokes my neck and asks, "What's this?" I was embarrassed, but at that point the hair on my neck and chin did not bother me as much as it concerned my mother. A week later I sat in the doctor's office waiting for test results from the endocrinologist. My facial hair and the hair that started to grow on my stomach, lower back, chest and in my ass crack, along with the absence of my period alarmed the gland specialist only to say, "there's nothing wrong with you, you just need to lose weight."

Throughout high school, I hid my facial hair just like thousands of females do by shaving, Nairing, plucking and I even tried electrolysis. I grew the hair on my head long so that I could hide my neck. I felt ashamed and abnormal. I never felt like a woman or a man, a female or a male. But that identity was not always negative. In college, I was exposed to people like myself, people whose gender expression challenged the norms of femininity and masculinity. I embraced the fluidity of gender, but continued to hide myself because of fear. When I told people that I identified as transgender, they thought I was a fake. How could this feminine, passing female identify with the trans community? They didn't know ME, the person underneath my clothes, They didn't know about the testosterone that lived underneath my skin that was flowing through my body that caused me to look at myself in a very different way.

I moved away from my family and friends for a while to attend another university on exchange. It was there that I decided to free myself of the shame and secrecy. I shaved my head and grew my natural beard. I never felt so free and scared in my entire life. But, most importantly, I felt like myself, the person I was hiding from for so long. When I went to the OB/GYN for my yearly, proudly sporting my beard, I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome otherwise known as PCOS. When my lab results came back with high levels of testosterone, it was confirmed. Seven years had passed since my first visit concerning this matter. And in those seven years, the issue was never brought up.

Today, people assume I am on testosterone and that my experience is the same as other Female to Males or that I just started transitioning when in fact, my journey has been quite different. It was groundbreaking for me to even write dais story, considering that I have never read any PCOS stories relating to transgender, nor have I read any transgender stories relating to PCOS. So in this Dialogue in Feminist Studies session, I would like to acknowledge and celebrate our diversity, the individual journeys that we have taken to get to who we are today. I hope we strive to no longer accept ourselves as having gender identity disorders and I hope that others see beyond the narrow definitions and examples of the transgender population (especially the misconceptions of all of us being in the "wrong body"). Furthermore, there is a strong need for inclusive research, writing and teaching that embodies the social needs, the medical needs, the history and the diversity of our struggle.

FUTURE AKINS, MFA, is a local feminist and practicing artist. She now teaches at Texas Tech University, in the College of Architecture and the School of Art. In May of 2002, Future resigned from her public school teaching position. Future has worked for museums, been an independent curator, and was on the national board for the Women's Caucus for the Arts. Recently, Future taught cognitively disabled adults painting at the local YWCA. She has worked with Barrio kids and has done other outreach activities. Future has lived in Lubbock, Texas off and on since 1967.

JORDON BOSSE is a 24 year old FTM who is working on a Bachelor's Degree at Goddard College. He is an HIV and Hepatitis C Prevention Educator and Transgender activist by day, and an avid writer and book worm by night.

LYNDON CUDLITZ is a 20-year-old polyamorous, pansexual genderqueer living in the Portland, Maine area. As a student at the University of Southern Maine, Lyndon works as a Program Coordinator for the GLBTQA Resource Center, co-facilitating the Gender Discussion Group and speaking to students, faculty, and staff about sexuality and gender.

MAX PROBST is a 25 year old graduate student in sociology and diversity studies at William Paterson University of New Jersey. His academic and research interests include pedagogy in higher education, LGBTIQA Studies and Transgender Identity Development. He is currently writing his thesis about social distance and attitudes toward lesbians, gays and bisexuals on campus. Max currently resides in Northern New Jersey.

ERICA RAND teaches at Bates College in Art and in Women and Gender Studies. Her writing includes Barbie's Queer Accessories and a book in progress called "The Ellis Island Snow Globe: Sex, Money, Products, Nation." She is on the editorial board of Radical Teacher, and spends a lot of time enjoying genders on the ice rink.