Me, Myself, They

by Joshua M. Ferguson

  The visibility of the project in the media caught the attention of an extremist anti-LGBTQ and anti-Semitic group in Europe. They responded to the film’s subject matter by creating a petition that employed transphobic rhetoric fuelled by an archaic perspective on trans people. The petition claimed that we were travelling to Switzerland with “Western LGBTQ lobby” interests to pervert Swiss and European children and indoctrinate them into the evils of transsexual ideology. It was clearly written by people who were also misogynistic, deeply racist, and altogether homophobic and transphobic. Their goal was to appeal to the Swiss cantons (similar to provinces or states) of Obwalden and Nidwalden to stop potential public funding for the film. They claimed that we were planning to damage and brainwash the minds of Swiss children by perverting the classic Swiss children’s tale Heidi with our genderfluid version. Of course, Limina is nothing like Heidi, and it was never our intention to make a genderfluid version of anything — Limina was a completely original idea! Needless to say, this hateful characterization of our film and the petition against it was surreal and disturbing, and at the same time highlighted the reason for the film in the first place.

  The petition against Limina is an example of the censorship and vitriol that a trans artist — any public trans person, really — faces every day. It condemned all trans people in sweeping terms, and made the retrogressive and dangerous claim that trans people are mentally ill, which flies in the face of the widely accepted position of the World Professional Association of Transgender Health (WPATH). On a personal level, I was called a “spawn of Satan,” among other expletives.

  The transphobic attack on our little film resulted in serious pressure being placed on the public officials in Obwalden and Nidwalden. We became concerned that the criticism would scare the committees and officials who adjudicate applications into acting against our funding applications. And yet, Limina’s subject matter was welcomed by many established and notable organizations in Canada and Switzerland. Canada’s oldest transgender organization stated, “We at Gender Mosaic wish to denounce any petition or action that seeks to block or hinder the Limina film project.” Gender Creative Kids Canada said, “Gender identity is naturally occurring in all human beings and develops in early childhood. Gender Creative Kids Canada supports film productions that represent a broad range of gender identities in children and young people.” Transgender Network Switzerland (TGNS) expressly distanced itself from the petition and welcomed the aims of Limina. TGNS president Henry Hohmann stated, “Children, in particular trans youth, have the right to live their gender. Information of parents and schools, but also the visibility of trans children in our society is one of our key concerns.” And Dr. Cecilia Dehjne, one of the authors of the 2011 Swedish study cited by the petition, stated that “this petition incorrectly uses our research to attempt to prove that gender confirmation surgery increases the suicide rate for trans people. I denounce this petition’s dangerous and misguided use of our research and this misuse is what actually could harm trans people and by that increase the risk of suicide.”

  In response to the personal and professional attacks, Florian and I publicly explained that the collective’s intent to influence government funding bodies in order to silence our film only served to validate the importance of a film like Limina. We emphasized that our film would highlight the role of parental support, acceptance, and appreciation of trans youth, and was grounded in the awareness of accepting gender-creative children. The tactics employed to censor our film proved that transphobic people see a world that is changing. The rise of what they call the “LGBTQ Lobby” and “Gender Lobby” unhinges the mechanisms of power that are at the foundation of their attempts to colonize and indoctrinate based on a Eurocentric patriarchal system of power. Limina was to be a work of art imbued with empathy and kindness to challenge fear, intolerance, and hatred through an articulation of humanity, and serious attempts were being made to prevent our artistic expression.

  I received a direct message on Twitter from a young person during the backlash. This person described how their father was against our film and had signed the petition to censor it. I moved the conversation to private to seek additional information as I wondered why this young person was reaching out to me. They explained that their father was “very religious” and intolerant of the LGBTQ community. They responded by saying that they were looking forward to the film and praised us as an inspirational force in their life. They wanted us to continue to spread our message of acceptance and love.

  Amidst the difficult process of dealing with the hatred and fear directed at us, here was this young person clearly coping with their own identity and how it related to their family dynamic, reaching out to me to show kindness and appreciation. This moment fed into our determination to make the film. Here was an example of our film’s message already reaching beyond bigotry and religious dogma to a new generation who wanted to move forward with accepting people as they are. It validated how art can act as a cultural intervention, and it helped me to focus on the kind message that can overshadow the hateful ones stemming from fear.

  We decided to film Limina in Vancouver after all. As we feared, the Swiss cantons rejected our applications for funding, and without their support we couldn’t afford to make the film in another country on our limited budget. So we found a location in Vancouver that suited our vision of a small Swiss village and shot the film with an amazing Vancouver-based cast and crew. Limina screened all over the world at two dozen film festivals, and then it made history in a big way for non-binary visibility, awareness, and recognition.

  The young performer who played the role of Alessandra, Ameko Eks Mass Carroll, identifies as genderfluid (under the non-binary umbrella). Ameko, who uses he/him/his pronouns, expressed his gender across a spectrum when we auditioned him for the part, but we didn’t ask for his identity during the audition or when we cast him. It was during filming that Ameko’s mother told us that he seemed genderfluid growing up. Ameko had told her that some days he felt like a girl and other days like a boy, and some days both. It was indeed a powerful coincidence that we had managed to cast a genderfluid performer in the role of Alessandra.

  When we finished the film, we submitted it for consideration to the Leo Awards, British Columbia’s annual awards competition for the film and television industry. A few months prior, non-binary-identified actor Kelly Mantle had made history in the United States by becoming the first performer to be eligible for both the male and female award categories at the Academy Awards. This decision made international headlines and inspired our own submission to the Leos. Florian and I decided to take a chance and appeal to the Leo Awards to accept Ameko’s submission in both the male and female categories for best performance in a short film, since Ameko told us clearly during shooting that he doesn’t exclusively identify as a boy or a girl. At the time, the Leo Awards only allowed each performer to be categorized as either male or female. I thought, since the Academy Awards did it, why shouldn’t other organizations around the world follow suit? The system of categorizing performers into male and female seemed arbitrary and archaic to me. I was interested to find out that at one time there was only one category for performers at the major film and TV award competitions, and women in the industry had to agitate for their own category because men were unfairly dominating. I understand the importance of this inclusion, but now that we are finally starting to recognize gender beyond just male and female, we need to make another shift to recognize members of the industry both in front of and behind the camera with their own identities, which might be neither male nor female.

  After learning that Ameko wouldn’t feel comfortable being identified with either the male or female category, we sent an appeal to the Leo Awards to consider our request, with the earnest approval of Ameko and his mother. It would mean a big policy change if they accepted our request, but the Academy Awards had already made the shift with my friend Kelly Mantle, so there was a precedent.
The Leo Awards eventually responded with a positive result. They agreed to our request to accept Ameko’s submission under both male and female performer categories. The decision made international news, with The Hollywood Reporter writing an exclusive and over thirty national and international newspapers following their lead. It was a historic moment for trans inclusivity in the film industry in Canada and beyond. It was also a moment to recognize that we all need to work towards creating a more accepting society. Achieving equality is not just a matter of making everything fifty-fifty — we need to also recognize people who don’t fit within this binary framework. Limina inspired productive conversations and signalled a shift in the film industry that will hopefully be followed up with more examples of industry members speaking out and tangible action to include more non-binary voices, characters, and stories in both film and television.

  Our latest project, Henry’s Heart (2019), is our last short film before we begin focusing on full-length features. Henry’s Heart continues our creative quest as filmmakers to challenge under-representation. This time, we focused not just on representing queer sexuality but also on including Indigenous characters to reclaim some of the lost history of Indigenous soldiers who fought on the side of Canada in many wars — particularly for our film, in the Korean War. Our cast and crew included Indigenous people, and on our production team we included an Indigenous associate producer who also acted as our Indigenous consultant for the production. Henry wasn’t initially written as an Indigenous character, but we ended up casting the magnificent Lorne Cardinal in the role, with the help of our casting director Candice Elzinga, so two of our four characters are Indigenous. We had previously worked with Lorne when he played a supporting role in Limina. We recognized his gift for storytelling, and it was the missing piece.

  This casting made for a powerful romantic connection between Henry, a Cree character played by a Cree actor, and Walker, a Musqueam character played by a Musqueam actor by the name of Malcolm Sparrow-Crawford, who happens to be the nephew of Leona M. Sparrow (Director of Treaty, Lands, and Resources for the Musqueam Indian Band). While shooting a special scene in the film in which the two characters lovingly embrace, my friend and our associate producer and Indigenous consultant Jules Arita Koostachin looked at me with tears in her eyes (something I’ve rarely seen), smiled, and nodded her head before giving me a warm hug signalling that we were paying respect with our story. As white settlers, we can’t claim that Henry’s Heart is an Indigenous story, but it does have a narrative that centres around a fictional story of the love found between these two Indigenous characters who meet each other during the horrors of war, a love that stands the test of time and will, we hope, be inspiring for viewers around the world.

  Henry’s Heart’s timeless love story elevates the power of nostalgia and memory. The representation of queer sexuality is intrinsic to the world within the film and reflects our own reality as filmmakers without a need for explanation.

  Diversity has become a buzzword in the film and television industry, though there is still a significant gap between the idea and a widespread authentic move towards representing our human reality. The promise of diversity to challenge under-representation will fail if media continue to rely on common tropes, formulaic and archetypical, rather than the wide and varied set of truths that many of us live. Media should reflect the reality of society. We are in a watershed moment for trans representation and inclusivity in the film industry. I know from experience that major studios want to involve trans people, including non-binary people, when telling our stories. But I think these studios are still trying to figure out how to include us in a way that would transcend the monolithic portrayal that ends up serving as the one and only representation. Studios need to hire the people whose stories they want to tell. They need to involve us, cast us, and consult with us.

  My interventions with my filmmaking have evolved from intentional, explicit representation to representing the reality of diversity for what it is — a powerful maturation that parallels my life as a person who understands the incredible power art can have as an agent of change.

  eleven

  The Advocate

  Over the nine years of my university studies, my experience of academia evolved. I developed an affinity for putting theory into practice by not only acting to reclaim myself, but working to assist people like me with my advocacy. Fighting the cultural schema of the gender binary was one such instance. Through my doctoral research at the University of British Columbia, I found the tools to carve out clarity about my complex trans identity, sharpening my voice as an advocate. What ignited from my research was an intimate path of learning to come to terms with my own language. I was able to do this subjective mining by first recognizing and then challenging a dominant idea that I termed the “transgender metanarrative” — the dominant understanding in society that most trans people are either men or women. Transgender referring to being a woman or man makes sense for many trans people, but it didn’t make sense for me. Consider it for a second: when you think about trans people, do the trans people that come to mind identify as trans men and trans women? This understanding is expanding as non-binary visibility widens, and I’m certainly not suggesting that our language shouldn’t elevate all trans lives, including trans men and trans women. This is especially important considering that much focus needs to be given to the lives of trans women, particularly trans women of colour, who have to face a high risk of violence in our society caused by the intersecting oppressions of race, sex, and gender. But the dominant narrative I was hearing about in the media made me think that there might be only one possible way for me to be a trans person.

  Was I a trans woman? Why didn’t I feel comfortable with that identity at the time? Coming to terms with the fact that I am neither a man nor a woman was a part of my process of rediscovering myself. I knew that I was not happy as a man or a woman, so something had to change. I thought that this change had to match what I knew about trans people through popular culture, and back in 2013–14 I wasn’t seeing anyone like me; there was a decided absence of non-binary trans people who were public with their identities.

  I had to come to terms with my non-binary identity. What I mean is that I finally found the language to describe me, that felt like home to me. I had always felt non-binary, even in childhood, but the dehumanization had ripped this part from me. And then my doctoral dissertation helped to heal me. It was literally writing my way through my identity that enabled me to unify the language and the feelings I had been having since I was very young. It all made sense to me. I began to think critically about how to take this knowledge, and what I had theorized in my dissertation, to create change not just for me but for the non-binary community. I wanted to make it possible for others to be seen as non-binary people, to assert our existence; I wanted to make this contribution to visibility. I needed to put it plainly into words that we exist — write about it, speak about it, and stamp it with my self.

  I started to enact my non-binary visibility through my online writing and by posting images of myself, selfies mostly, on social media in 2016. My dissertation would exist forever, outlining my thoughts and ideas, set in that specific time and place, which already, in some places, feel outdated.

  Yet I wanted my ideas to have a life outside of academia, where I could reach people. My first piece of published writing appeared in HuffPost on October 11, 2016, shortly after I’d completed my Ph.D. It was entitled “We Are Non-Binary Trans People and Yes, We Exist.” I wrote about the lack of non-binary visibility and how our erasure from discourse contributes to transphobic perspectives about our existence, pointing to emerging legal recognition of our community and subsequent backlash. The article was read by tens of thousands of people within days of it going live. Seeing my face on the front page of HuffPost felt surreal, but it felt right. I was proud of making this contribution to non-binary visibility, and the responses to this article were incredibly supportive and
appreciative. It was a turning point to transform my education into action. I discovered that I could make an intervention into the very problems I had examined in my doctoral research by writing short essays to confront non-binary erasure; I was turning my academic voice into practice.

  The reach of these online outlets opened a space for me to inspire acceptance and to raise awareness for non-binary people. Around the time my first HuffPost piece was published, non-binary activists in the United States started to make headlines with their historic legal wins for non-binary recognition. Sara Kelly Keenan became one of the first people in the United States, and the first person in the state of California, to be legally recognized as non-binary. Keenan would then become the first American to be legally recognized as intersex on her birth certificate. These high-profile legal victories for non-binary recognition started to make the impossible feel possible. It was an articulation of our identity, under legal terms, on a public scale, that propelled the conversation forward and widened our visibility. It was then, in early 2017, that I began to think about how I too could be officially and legally recognized as a non-binary trans person in Canada.