Tomorrow Will Be Different

by Sarah McBride

  He likely wouldn’t vote against the bill, instead opting to formally abstain by “not voting.” It’s a symbolic difference, and it didn’t help us get to where we needed to be. Symbolism doesn’t change the need for eleven votes to gain a majority.

  The other potential vote, Republican Cathy Cloutier, had voted in favor of marriage equality, civil unions, and sexual orientation nondiscrimination protections and came from a solidly Democratic district. She managed to return after each election by building a strong relationship with organized labor and voting on the more progressive side of social issues as well. She is probably, to this day, one of the last “liberal Republicans” in any state legislature in the country.

  While Lisa, Mark, and I, along with my parents, worked Legislative Hall, the field operation run by Equality Delaware and HRC had built an army of allies who were already emailing and calling legislators in support of the bill. While calls or emails may seem like a small gesture, lawmakers look closely at the number of constituents chiming in on a particular topic, and it can weigh heavily in their decision-making process.

  Some legislative aides reported calls ten to one in favor of trans equality, a striking balance in our favor. The field team also collected support for the bill from more than two hundred small businesses from across the state, a key constituency for more moderate Democrats and Republicans. Other national groups, like the National LGBTQ Task Force and the National Center for Transgender Equality, helped us locate trans people throughout the state willing to share their stories and lobby their legislators.

  These transgender Delawareans were the stories that highlighted the urgent need for the bill, that put a face and a name to the issue at hand. There was the older transgender woman in southern Delaware who was mocked and ostracized at the factory that she worked in. There was the transgender boy who was beaten up after the school forced him to use a girls’ restroom. There was the transgender woman who was summarily fired from her job at a grocery store after she informed her boss that she was transgender.

  And there was Matthew, a twenty-three-year-old trans man who had attended one of our trans community mobilization meetings. Matthew was just starting to transition, and he was slender, with short hair and small wire-rimmed glasses; he looked a few years younger than twenty-three. Out to some close friends, Matthew was still in the closet to his employer, his peers, and even his parents. I was instantly struck by his eloquence and warmth, and as we learned later, he lived in the district represented by Cathy Cloutier, the moderate Republican in the State Senate who we hoped would support our legislation.

  One of the more common refrains we heard from legislators, both in support and in opposition, was that they did not have any transgender people in their districts. It was an absurd conclusion to draw; after all, there were forty-one House districts and twenty-one Senate districts. Delaware is small, but even conservative counts estimated that at least two thousand transgender people lived in our state of roughly nine hundred thousand people. Later studies would estimate the transgender population in Delaware to be closer to 4,500.

  Matthew, however, was the only transgender person to step forward from Cloutier’s district. Despite not being out to nearly anyone in his circle of family and friends, he was determined to help pass the bill for his own sake. Matthew felt that a law like the Gender Identity Nondiscrimination Act would give him the legal tools—and personal security—necessary to come out and to live authentically. When I asked if he’d be willing to meet with his senator, he quickly said yes, and with just a few days to the vote, we secured a meeting with her.

  Matthew was fidgeting as we waited on a long couch in the Republican caucus’s waiting room. His nerves were no doubt exacerbated by the fact that we were in the lion’s den, the area of the building controlled by a party that opposed our basic rights and dignity. That opposed us.

  Senator Cloutier came out to greet us, and we walked back to her office, a small corner room filled with a desk and two chairs. The sun illuminated the two large windows in her office, but instead of filling the space with light, the bright windows behind her made the rest of the room feel dark. I opened by introducing myself and Matthew as “transgender Delawareans.”

  “Hold on.” Senator Cloutier stopped abruptly. “You are both transgender?”

  She was clearly shocked at the declaration.

  “Yes, ma’am, we are,” I informed her, not wanting to have her focus too much on how we looked.

  There is no question that opponents of our bill tried to paint transgender people into a caricature, but it’s always a point I want to be careful in pushing back on. Transgender people shouldn’t be treated with dignity because of how some of us look; we should be treated with dignity because we are human beings. The trans community is as diverse as any community. Some of us conform to traditional expressions of gender, while others transgress those boundaries in various ways, just like cisgender people. If our pursuit of equality is built on the ability of some of us to blend in, then we will leave many of the most marginalized behind.

  I quickly pivoted the conversation to the reason for the meeting: getting to know a constituent of hers.

  Matthew launched into his own story. “My family, my employers, and my peers are unaware that I am transgender, because, in all honesty, I am terrified to tell them,” he explained. “I am terrified to tell my employers and peers because I know that right now there is no protection for me.

  “I am a student with a two-year degree and a small résumé, and I am afraid to lose what few job opportunities I can find. Because of this, I have been delaying the medical and legal steps I need to feel safe and comfortable with myself, and struggle to hide my identity. It is a difficult and frightening position to live my life in, and often I feel absolutely alone.”

  Matthew began to tear up as he talked to the senator. “This bill…this bill would tell me, and people like me, that we are not alone.”

  He paused. “Can we count on your support, Senator?”

  Matthew was still nervous. I could see his hands shaking as he talked, but he had clearly moved Senator Cloutier. With tears swelling in her eyes, she stood up from her desk chair, walked over to Matthew with open arms, and said, “Yes, Matthew. Yes, you can.”

  I felt a huge sense of relief. I was hopeful we could secure this senator’s vote, but I wasn’t entirely sure. With one individual and his story, we suddenly had enough votes to pass the Gender Identity Nondiscrimination Act through the Senate. Delaware would be one step closer to being safe for me to come home to, for Andy and me to start a life together there, and for all transgender people to live and thrive.

  * * *

  Throughout the lobbying, Andy and I did our best to see each other as much as possible. He’d come up to Delaware on the weekends and try to distract me as I’d count and recount the votes. The weekend before the all-important State Senate vote, when I called him nearly in tears, he left a work conference, jumped into his car, and drove straight to Wilmington to help calm my nerves. We’d watch movies and take walks around the beautiful tree-lined neighborhood I grew up in, each excursion broken up by a frantic rehashing of the vote totals.

  Maybe I’m missing something, I’d nervously think. Obviously there was no new information and the numbers had not changed, but each time I’d recount I’d breathe a sigh of relief.

  Just after two p.m. on a humid Thursday in June 2013, the State Senate, the upper house of Delaware’s legislature, gaveled in. On most days, the gallery of seats above the Senate floor is empty. On that day, the seats were filled with transgender people and their loved ones anxiously waiting. Delaware is the only state in the union that allows members of the public to sit on the floor when the Senate is in session, and Senator Henry had reserved some spots for Mark, Lisa, my parents, and me just a few feet away from the senators on the Democratic side of the aisle.

  It had already taken ten year
s for the sexual orientation nondiscrimination bill to pass through the State Senate in Delaware. But this was the first time a bill explicitly related to the transgender community had been brought before the state’s legislature. Please, God, don’t let this take another ten years, I routinely thought to myself.

  Matt Denn, the candidate who nine years before had let my friends trail him with a video camera during his first race for insurance commissioner, was now lieutenant governor and, therefore, presided over the Senate. After a few minutes of technical business, he called on State Senator Margaret Rose Henry, the prime sponsor of the gender identity bill.

  Senator Henry rose from her desk and addressed the presiding officer. “Mr. President, at this time I request that Senate Bill Ninety-seven be brought before the Senate for consideration.” My heart swelled with pride when she started reading from remarks that I had helped draft for her: “I’m proud to stand as the prime sponsor of Senate Bill Ninety-seven, the Gender Identity Nondiscrimination Act of 2013. This bill would add basic protections on the basis of gender identity to their stated…to the state’s…to the state’s pre-existing…”

  She paused after getting tripped up. “I’m sorry, I’m just a little nervous,” she explained, clearing her throat. She was obviously feeling the weight and attention of the issue that now rested on her shoulders. The fact that a veteran legislator was so clearly nervous only amplified my butterflies.

  Senator Henry continued: “This bill simply provides for the same protections already afforded to everyone on the basis of race, religion, ethnicity, and sexual orientation. It would bring Delaware law in line with the values and actions exhibited by Delawareans on a daily basis. It’s time for the transgender boy who faces bullying in our schools every day to know that things will get better. Quite simply, it’s time to treat everyone fairly,” she said in closing. “At this time I’d like to call as a witness Sarah McBride.”

  The Delaware Senate sometimes welcomes individuals to testify when considering bills. They usually try to limit the testimony to a few people, but my parents and I would be speaking, in addition to Mark and Patty Dailey Lewis, Beau Biden’s deputy in charge of the Child Predator Unit, who would be representing his office.

  I nervously made my way up to the podium. Standing at the lectern, facing the senators, I looked past them—out over their desks and up to the balcony, where members of the transgender community patiently and anxiously watched.

  I have to admit that I had mixed feelings about my central role in everything, but particularly in the Senate debate. On the one hand, privilege shields me from much of the worst discrimination faced by the transgender community; on the other hand, those same privileges allow me to shoulder the burden of public education with less risk to my safety, security, and economic well-being than would be imposed on others. Additionally, my existing personal relationships with these legislators made it even harder for them to say no to me and, therefore, the broader community. I felt a moral responsibility to use that privilege and those relationships to subvert the power of prejudice.

  “Thank you, Senator,” I began. I could feel the lump in my throat.

  With the Democrats seated to my left and the Republicans to my right, I instinctually gravitated toward addressing the senators on the friendlier side of the aisle, so I had to consciously force myself to also look at the side readying to oppose the bill.

  “My name is Sarah McBride and I’m a transgender Delawarean. It’s an honor to speak to you today.

  “The last time I spoke in this chamber was when I participated in the Youth in Government program four years ago,” I said, referencing a Delaware high school program organized by the YMCA that brought students down to the capitol for a model legislative experience to debate and pass faux legislation. I had joined the program for my senior year of high school and loved every minute of it. We would take over Legislative Hall for a weekend, and at the end of the program, we’d write handwritten notes to the actual legislators whose desks we’d occupied. Standing at the lectern, I could see that many of the senators had the handwritten notes from that year’s class displayed under the glass on their desks.

  “I was one of those kids who left a note for a senator on their desk, and it spoke to my appreciation and respect for you and this Senate,” I improvised, hoping that the anecdote would remind them that I, too, was an idealistic kid who looked up to the body I was now addressing. “I thought that the next time I would be here would be to work for one of you fine people. But life intervenes, and now I’m here for a different reason: to ask to simply be treated fairly.”

  I stood before the Senate and recounted my journey to self-acceptance, the fear of coming out, and my parents’ evolution. When I got to a sentence about my dad, I began to tear up. “While it was hard for my parents at first, in time, my dad said that he didn’t feel like he was losing a son, he felt like he was gaining a daughter.”

  My voice began to crack. My parents were sitting against the wall to my left and I tried to avoid looking at them, knowing that the sight of my mom and dad beginning to cry would likely make me unravel.

  “While my experience when I’m with my family and friends has been positive, when I’m in Delaware, I live in constant fear that discrimination lurks around every corner. I have to build up so much courage to leave my house to walk down the street, to run an errand, or to go out to dinner with my family. Every day without protections, I am just one person’s kindness and acceptance away from being discriminated against.

  “The Gender Identity Nondiscrimination Act of 2013 would allow me to come home to my family without fear. For every young person struggling and simply in dire need of hope, and for every parent just like many of you who simply want their child to come home to their family, please…please pass this bill.”

  I exhaled. A few months before, displaying such vulnerability before that body seemed impossible, but through the last several months I had found my voice. I had realized that I could speak from a place of power if I spoke from a place of authenticity.

  Having done my part, it was now my parents’ turn. Holding each other’s hands, my mom and dad stood beside each other at the lectern and my mother began to read her remarks. “Good afternoon. We are Sarah’s parents, Sally and David McBride. We are here today to tell a story.

  “We have three children. Sean, who is the oldest, has just finished up his medical residency at Harvard. He happens to be gay, but that is just a part of who he is. Our second child, Dan, is a prosecutor in the Delaware Attorney General’s Office. He’s straight, but that is just a part of who he is.”

  And then she got to me. She described my work on political campaigns, my time at American University, and then the Christmas Day I came out to them as transgender. When I came out, she recounted how they were frightened my “future would be shattered by discrimination.” She told the legislators what she had told me: “I don’t want to lose my baby.”

  But, she explained, she had come to the realization that I was not only still her baby, but that I hadn’t really changed. The wrapping was just a little different.

  “She’s still my best friend and still a bright and compassionate person who wants desperately to come back to Delaware. As you can see, being transgender is only a part of who she is.”

  My mother, now crying, moved to the side, and my father stepped up, looking sad and, almost, in pain.

  “When Sarah first came out to us,” he began, “one of the first things I did was I went online to learn about what had just been told to us. And I came to a publication.

  “And it described the treatment of transgender people. It indicated that forty-one percent of trans people attempt to commit suicide because of the prejudice and discrimination that they experience. You can imagine how frightened I was that first day reading that. But I also read that that percentage comes down dramatically when the person is accepted by their family, and even
more so when they are accepted by their community.”

  My parents and me in our family living room during the fight for trans rights in Delaware. Our family had become the primary spokespeople for the Gender Identity Nondiscrimination Act of 2013.

  My dad talked about our family being embraced by everyone from our church to our governor. Those experiences, he said, “gave us the faith that people are genuinely caring and fair. And it has caused me to realize how much better this world would be if we cared for each other’s children like we care for our own.”

  As I watched my parents plead with the State Senate for basic dignity, I was not overcome with pride, but instead guilt. I felt bad that they were forced to bare everything before our legislature and the media. I felt embarrassed that they had to come defend me, as though I had committed a crime and they had to attest to my character. I worried that they felt humiliated, like they were groveling for respect.

  As I sat against the wall on the Senate floor, I began to cry. A photographer across the room zoomed in on my face and took a picture of me tearing up, an image that would be splashed across the front page of the newspaper the next day.

  At the same time, Democratic state senator Karen Peterson looked over at me and got up from her desk. Karen was our state’s only openly LGBTQ state legislator. While she and her spouse were well known in Delaware political circles, she had never discussed her sexual orientation or her relationship on the record until a few weeks before, when she came out publicly during the marriage equality debate.

  “If my happiness somehow demeans or diminishes your marriage, you need to work on your marriage,” she had said, declaring her sexual orientation on the floor of the Senate.