This month’s column is a continuation of Why the Umbrella Failed from the July 2011 edition.

If a "divorce" of transsexuals from gender diverse peoples were to take place, we still need to take care and be conscious of those who identify as both.  Historically, it has always gone very seriously tragic when communities have jettisoned people who don’t fit narrow idealized definitions.  Folks in the in-between are often not the exception that challenges the rule, but rather situated where they experience compounded ostracism that perpetuates even more isolation and marginalization.  Simply divorcing ourselves from each other doesn’t actually address colonial structures: it merely draws a new border and creates one more class to seek advantage over.  If we are to claim a true decolonial approach, that will involve both defining ourselves as distinct, and working with people outside our own bubble for our collective empowerment... without assuming that a single solution is going to accomplish that.

The "don’t call me transgender" argument stems from peoples’ desire to distinguish themselves from the relatively recent but large proliferation of genderqueer and transgressive narratives.  Those, in turn, stemmed from peoples’ desire to distinguish themselves from the medicalized and clichéd "man in a woman’s body" -style narratives before them.  We’ve been seeking to define ourselves the whole time, and that’s a necessary part of emerging as a movement.  But because we’re trying to present ourselves to the world as part of a single whole, doing so affects the self-definition of others.  This tug-of-war has been taking place for longer than we realize, and unless we reconsider why and how we’re trying to assert oneness, this will only grow more bitter.  And it’s unnecessary: total sameness is not a prerequisite for undertaking activism as an allied whole, nor for empathizing with people who share some of our struggles.

We’re drawn to the idea of community as some kind of nebulous ideal where we all share kinship, as a kind of family.  Many of us have sacrificed a lot in search of it, and perhaps we even need it.  We’ve been emotionally buoyed or wrecked by interactions because of it.  As romantic as the idea of community might be, there are obvious flaws with that logic — which is why The Community™ always seems to fail to live up to that promise.  There are kindred spirits to be found, yes, but not everyone in our neighbourhood can be seen as one.  Community can only ever be a loosely-knit coming together of diverse individuals who are unified only by the fact that they happen to live near each other and perhaps have some political needs in common.

We sometimes see the concepts of umbrella and alliance as interchangeable, but that is very much not the case.  There are very clear yet subtle differences in thinking that go with each concept, whether we’ve intended them or not.  Coming from an umbrella standpoint, we’re inviting people to "come over here and stand with me."  From an alliance standpoint, it’s a bit more of a realization that sometimes we need to stand with someone else too, and that sometimes requires stepping out of our own protective zone to do so — but also realizing that it’s needed.  An alliance acknowledges that we’re not all going the same direction, that we can only speak to our own experiences, and that it’s not up to everyone to focus on us but rather agreeing to exchange support among people who don’t always need the same things.  It also means realizing that our needs aren’t all the same, will sometimes conflict, and should probably be examined carefully before pushing solutions in order to minimize the harm we do to our allies.

That is, in an ideal version of alliance.  No approach is perfect.  Umbrella or alliance, both are vulnerable to paternalism, conflict, tokenism and betrayal.  Alliances still need the ability to recognize when they’re seeking to define others and the will to change it.  The primary reason for shifting from umbrella thinking to alliance between transsexual and gender diverse communities is to better recognize and empower the parties in question to voice their own perspectives and needs.  It becomes easier to recognize when troubles occur, since the collaborating partners have been more empowered to speak.  It’s a small difference that can mean everything.

So if it seems sometimes like I’m talking about platitudes, it’s because I am.  The practical application is still entirely dependent on our commitment to achieving an ideal and equitable result.

Many other communities have settled into alliance-based frameworks, even if they haven’t consciously done so or have later forgotten why.  Lesbians, gay men and bisexuals probably have a clearer thread uniting them — sexual orientation — but still have a myriad of differences, distinctions and places in which there is outright conflict.  For a gay man who is trying to communicate that his sexual orientation is innate and something he can’t just change through conscious choice or aversion therapies, for example, the very existence of bisexuals would at first seem to undermine him.  We choose to ally, and if we listen, we start to understand what’s at the root of those conflicts and see where both can co-exist.

As someone who is Métis (that is, part Native American — enough that I witness and sometimes experience some of the marginalization of Aboriginal peoples but not enough that I could speak to all of it), I can find some kinship with people of colour.  But at the same time, my experiences aren’t necessarily in line with the PoC narrative.  Discussion of issues affecting people of colour sometimes slip into the trap of speaking about only one or two colours.  If I were to voice my experiences while identified as a person of colour (I don’t, since I recognize that I’m largely seen as white), the first thing that would happen is that people would contest my right to identify that way; the second (assuming we get past that) is that they then try to find a way to fold my experiences back into the existing narrative.  As with those who’ve advocated an umbrella community, I don’t believe this is necessarily intentional.  But I’ve found it’s certainly more effective for me to communicate my relevant experiences as a Métis person, so that those experiences can be seen on their own merits and unencumbered by another narrative.  At the same time, I’m perfectly happy to ally with people of colour and do whatever I can to advance their needs and inclusion as well.  At that point, I’m more an ally than anything (hopefully a good ally), and inevitably need both my own language to describe my experiences, and a willingness to listen to others’.

If we were to look at how trans theory has evolved over the years, I’d bet we’d find that this is a discussion that we keep coming back to without realizing it, because umbrella thinking has started us on a circuitous path that keeps stirring up the same old unresolved conflicts, the same old unanswered questions about where colonial borders should be, the same questions of empowerment and disempowerment and the same resentments from erasure and betrayal, time and again.  Inevitably it needs to be revisited, lest it continue to hamper our collective (and hopefully reasonably allied) movements for transsexual and gender diverse people.

Next Month: Alliance... Why and How