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Mmmm, fully frontal prudity.

I have been a man in the eyes of the world for almost eight years now.

I transitioned slowly, thinking maybe people would be more accepting if they saw I wasn’t “rushing into things,” if I gave them a chance to adjust. Or maybe I thought I could do it so slowly that nobody even noticed. It didn’t work, of course. It might have been gradual for me, but for people I came out to, it was always sudden – one moment they didn’t know I was trans, and the next they did. There’s no way to ease people in like “I’m about 10% trans now, just put a pin in that… okay now it’s 20%… are you ready for more?”

(At this point I had long since been cutting my hair short and wearing men’s clothes and no makeup, but these are all things women can do. There’s no way to unambiguously signal maleness with personal styling alone, which is lovely for human diversity and all, but a big pain in the ass when you’re a coward trying to soft-launch a gender transition.)

I dragged my feet on every step, still trying to prove to the world that I had Extremely Slow Onset Gender Dysphoria; it took me two years from starting testosterone to come out at work, and four years to legally change my name and gender. Every night I’d have this conversation with myself:

And at the same time, I’m not sure I would have accepted a magic potion to become a cis man, if one had been offered. I’ve made so many friends in the trans community. I’ve gotten to decide what kind of person I want to be, far more consciously than most people have the opportunity to. I got to choose my own name! Not a lot of people get that! (Which is weird, honestly, considering that everyone has the opportunity. But I can count on one hand the number of cis people I know who’ve changed their name to one that simply fit better.) And I’ve learned a hell of a lot about gender, both what it feels like from the inside and how people treat you when they see you as a man or a woman.

The main thing I’ve learned is something I suspected all along – it doesn’t make that much of a difference.

This is weird to say when I’ve spent years on the project of changing my gender, but on a day-to-day basis, I’m still me. I’m not angrier, or hornier, or better at math, or worse at… I don’t know, sewing? You run into very silly stereotypes very fast when you start trying to drill down what the difference between the genders is supposed to even be. Eight years of testosterone and I still don’t understand football.

When I came out to my mom, she said “it’s like I’m losing a daughter,” which was an awful thing to say, and also a strange one. There was no point at my transition where female-me disappeared and male-me took over. I’m the same person and I don’t think that’s entirely because “I was always a man” or whatever – I think it’s because being a human is kind of the same experience no matter what kind of sex hormones you’re doing it with.

Even the changes in my body feel weirdly normal. If you’d asked me “what’s it like to be a guy with a half-inch penis?” before that was me, I would have thought it was really like something. Like oh you must feel terribly self-conscious about it, or must have a lot of confidence to compensate, or… anything other than the reality, which is that on most days, I don’t even think about it. My face was my face when it didn’t grow hair, and now that it does, it’s my face with hair on it. I’ve never had a lot of physical dysphoria, but I also don’t have any now. I’m just whatever shape I happen to be at the moment.

The way people treat me is a little more noticeably different. Mostly in what doesn’t happen. Men used to have opinions about me, sexually. Some of them were “you should fuck me” and some of them were “I wouldn’t fuck you,” but either way, they formed those opinions and often shared them. It doesn’t work the other way at all. I have no idea what random women in passing cars think of my sexual prospects.

(This is mostly a positive, but God, I miss picking up straight men. All you have to do is exist in front of them. Finding queer men who want what I’ve got is an entire goddamn outreach program.)

The standards are lower for me, too. If I exercise what I’d consider the bare minimum of politeness as a woman – smile at people, say please and thank you, listen when someone else is talking – I get told wow, I’m such a nice guy. Although if I try too hard to be nice to a woman sometimes that gets misinterpreted. It honestly hurt the first time I tried to make small talk with a cashier and she suddenly turned cold and distant in a way I’d never experienced when I was a woman. I don’t blame her for it, I blame cis men, I know exactly what they did to make her feel unsafe with me, but it did hurt.

People are a lot less likely to ask me if I have kids.

I have never had to get in a physical fight over matters of manly honor. I didn’t really expect I would, but some guys seem to put a lot of stock in “women want to be equal to men, but can they fight like a man?” And the answer turns out to be that when you’re thirty-eight years old and you don’t start fights, this is literally never an issue.

Sometimes patients mistakenly call me “doctor,” and that never happened when I was a woman.

So if everything’s the same, why bother? It’s been a lot of time and money and needles and exposure to Republican opinions just to end up at “life is the same, except I’m on the other side of sexism now.”

I don’t know. It’s ineffable. It’s something that I want simply because I want it. And in eight years I’ve never stopped wanting it. I can picture myself pretending to be a woman again, but not being one.

That’s the sticky thing about being trans, when you get really honest about it. When you’re trying to explain it, you either have to point to goofy boys-blue-girls-pink shit like “I liked trucks as a kid,” or to… nothing, seemingly. To “just because, but it’s a very important just because.” Gender is extremely silly and arbitrary and I also don’t know why I have one, but apparently I do.

Being a man feels exactly like being a woman, except without the part where I’m being slowly worn down by the feeling that I’m constantly pretending to be someone else.

September marks National Suicide Prevention Month, a time dedicated to raising awareness about the critical issue of suicide and mental health. This observance becomes particularly important when focusing on marginalized communities, such as Black and Brown youth, who face unique challenges that significantly impact their mental health and well-being.

Suicide is a complex issue influenced by a host of different factors including mental illness, social environment, and cultural influences. For Black and Brown youth, these factors are often heightened by systemic issues such as socioeconomic disparities, racial discrimination, and cultural stigmas around mental health. The intersectionality of race and mental health makes it crucial to tailor suicide prevention efforts to address these specific needs.

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), the suicide rate among Black youth has been rising, with recent reports indicating a significant increase in suicide rates among Black and Brown adolescents compared to their white peers. Similarly, Hispanic youth also face elevated suicide risks, influenced by factors such as acculturation stress and familial challenges.

Suicide and mental illness are often thought of as a white occurrence. Despite the racial disparities — and the fact that suicide is the second leading cause of death among all adolescents — there has been an absence of research examining the racial and ethnic differences in youth suicidal ideation, plans, or suicide attempts.

This is partly because Black researchers who examine health disparities have sadly been underfunded. So much so the director of the National Institutes of Health issued a public apology for “structural racism in biomedical research” — but also because there are only a handful of academics who study these topics.

These days, people are hesitant to inject race into any conversation, and that includes about suicide. But the subject of race cannot be lost on this conversation, along with culture. Anytime we speak about Black mental health, it’s not just about one thing. It’s several things, including trauma that has not been addressed. Black and Brown youth are experiencing racism every day, in various areas of their lives.

A report presented to Congress in 2019 identified gaps in research and policy and has since resulted in more research dollars flowing to studies related to Black youth suicide, including a program to teach middle-schoolers about mental health and a suicide prevention intervention called Success Over Stress, which touches on themes like systemic racism and police brutality to help ninth-grade students at predominantly Black schools develop coping skills.

Systemic inequities play a substantial role in the mental health crisis faced by Black and Brown youth. Economic instability affects access to resources, including mental health services. Many families in marginalized communities struggle with financial constraints that can limit their ability to seek and afford mental health care.

When I was growing up, Black people rarely talked about or sought mental health services. If you even thought you were depressed or going through something, you were told there’s nothing the Lord can’t fix. You needed to pray. You needed to go to church and let the elders lay hands on you. You better not go and “tell them people all your business,” I recall a family member saying. This stigma is what kept Black people silent and hurting. Unfortunately, it has trickled down from generation to generation.

Black people face numerous challenges that affect our mental health, including high rates of unemployment, poverty, and incarceration; health disparities and disability; the emotional and psychological impact that the pandemic brought our way; and the steady rise of police shootings in our communities. All of these challenges are complicated by the intergenerational trauma of slavery, the very mention of which sparks a visceral reaction even now. Black people were brought to this country as slave labor, and, along the way, laws were passed to ensure that they and their descendants would continue to be enslaved forever.

This history retraumatizes and reactivates centuries-old intergenerational fight-or-flight strategies for coping. I believe all of this plays a significant role in how our youth’s challenges are addressed — or not addressed properly.

In addition, schools in marginalized communities often face a lack of resources, which can contribute to academic stress and hinder access to supportive services, such as counseling and mental health education. Persistent experiences of racial discrimination and systemic racism can have profound psychological effects. Chronic exposure to these stressors can lead to increased feelings of hopelessness and depression.

Addressing the mental health needs of Black and Brown youth requires a culturally competent approach, including culturally relevant education about mental health. It should be tailored to relevant examples and language that resonate with the experiences of Black and Brown youth.

Mental health professionals should receive training on cultural competence to better understand and address the unique needs of Black and Brown youth. This training can help providers deliver more effective and empathetic care.

Promoting overall wellness is vital, such as programs that focus on building resilience and coping skills that can empower youth to manage stress and navigate challenges more effectively. I believe programs that involve family members and caregivers can enhance these support networks. It can help reduce the decades-long stigma and encourage open conversations in the home about mental health.

This month reminds us of the opportunity to focus on action and advocacy. We can encourage inclusive practices in schools, workplaces, and communities that recognize and address the unique needs of Black and Brown youth. Inclusivity can help create environments where everyone feels valued and supported. Through continued collective action and awareness, we can work towards a future where every young person has the resources and the support they need to thrive — and live.

The post National Suicide Prevention Month: Addressing Mental Health Challenges Among Black and Brown Youth appeared first on Black Girl Nerds.

In recent years, the landscape of STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics) has seen a growing acknowledgment of the need for diversity and inclusion. Spelman College, an HBCU (historically Black college and university) in Atlanta, Georgia, is taking a monumental step in addressing this need by establishing a dedicated hub for Black women in STEM. This initiative is not only a strategic move for the college but also a significant development in the broader context of STEM education and representation.

Spelman College has long been a beacon of academic excellence, particularly in empowering Black women through education. The new hub for Black women in STEM is a natural extension of Spelman’s commitment to nurturing and advancing the careers of its students. This initiative aims to provide a multifaceted platform for students to engage in cutting-edge research, receive mentorship, and build professional networks within the STEM fields.

A first-of-its-kind digital tool focused on Black women and data on their contributions to the STEM field was made possible by a $5 million grant from Google. It all started with a conversation held by Spelman’s Center of Excellence leadership advisory board over two years ago. When researchers realized the lack of data while attempting to champion the contributions of Black women across various STEM fields, they put their money where they mouth is.

The hub will offer state-of-the-art laboratories, dedicated research spaces, and collaborative work environments. It will also host workshops, guest lectures, and seminars featuring leading figures in STEM, further enhancing students’ exposure and opportunities.

The significance of Spelman’s new hub extends beyond the college itself. Traditionally, Black women have been underrepresented in STEM fields, which has long-term implications for innovation and diversity in science and technology. By creating a specialized space for Black women in STEM, Spelman is actively working to counteract these disparities.

In ancient civilizations, STEM roles were filled by astronomers, engineers, and mathematicians who built early technological marvels and made foundational scientific discoveries. History shows women in STEM roles during this time but societal norms limited their opportunities. During the feminist movement, increased educational opportunities led to a rise in women pursuing careers in STEM fields, including the establishment of organizations like the Association for Women in Science in 1971.

Black women have made significant contributions to STEM fields throughout history, though their achievements were often underrecognized due to systemic barriers. In the 19th and early 20th centuries, Black women began to make their mark despite facing severe racial and gender discrimination. Hidden figures Mary Jackson, Katherine Johnson, and Dorothy Vaughan were pivotal at NASA during the Space Race, contributing to crucial calculations and engineering tasks. They served as the brains behind one of the greatest operations in history: the launch of astronaut John Glenn into orbit.

Dr. Alice Ball, a Black chemist, developed the first effective treatment for leprosy, known as the Ball Method, in the 1920s. Despite her groundbreaking work, her contributions were not fully recognized during her lifetime.

The Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s helped to highlight and address the disparities faced by Black professionals. This period saw increased efforts to promote diversity and inclusion in STEM fields. Dr. Mae Jemison became the Black woman in space in 1992, and Dr. Jeanette Epps became notable for her work with NASA and the International Space Station.

Today, Black women continue to make significant strides in STEM. For example, Dr. Kizzmekia Corbett played a key role in developing the Moderna COVID-19 vaccine.

These achievements reflect a growing recognition of the contributions of Black women to STEM, though challenges remain. Black women are all too familiar with racial and gender biases that can impede our career advancement. This includes being overlooked for promotions, facing microaggressions, and dealing with stereotypes that undermine our expertise and capabilities.

A lack of visible Black women in STEM roles can contribute to feelings of isolation and discouragement. The underrepresentation of Black women in these fields can make it harder to find mentors who understand their unique challenges and experiences. Black women may face barriers related to access to quality education and resources. Disparities in educational opportunities, such as inadequate funding for schools in predominantly Black communities, can impact their ability to pursue and excel in STEM careers.

This is why diversity, equity, and inclusion initiatives are so important. Unfortunately, we continue to see programs being eliminated across the board. Addressing these challenges involves promoting diversity and inclusion, providing mentorship and support networks, and working to eliminate systemic biases and inequities in educational and professional settings.

We know that representation matters, especially when students see themselves reflected in their field of study or future career. It fosters a sense of belonging and possibility. Spelman graduates will be prepared to take on leadership roles and drive innovation in their respective fields. The initiative will help bridge the gap between academic achievement and professional success, equipping students with the skills and experiences necessary to excel.

Spelman’s initiative is more than just a campus development. By establishing this hub, Spelman College is setting a precedent for other institutions to follow. It demonstrates the value of investing in specialized resources and support systems for underrepresented groups in STEM.

As Black women continue to make significant contributions to science and technology, their success will inspire future generations and challenge existing stereotypes. Spelman’s hub will contribute to a broader cultural shift towards greater inclusivity and diversity.

The post Spelman College Creates Virtual Hub to Highlight Black Women in STEM appeared first on Black Girl Nerds.

This week on my podcast, I read my latest Pluralistic.net column, “Anti-cheat, gamers, and the Crowdstrike disaster” about the way that gamers were sucked into the coalition to defend trusted computing, and how the Crowdstrike disaster has seen them ejected from the coalition by Microsoft:

As a class, gamers *hate* digital rights management (DRM), the anti-copying, anti-sharing code that stops gamers from playing older games, selling or giving away games, or just *playing* games:

https://www.reddit.com/r/truegaming/comments/1x7qhs/why_do_you_hate_drm/

Trusted computing promised to supercharge DRM and make it orders of magnitude harder to break – a promise it delivered on. That made gamers a weird partner for the pro-trusted computing coalition.

But coalitions are weird, and coalitions that bring together diverging (and opposing) constituencies are *very* powerful (if fractious), because one member can speak to lawmakers, companies, nonprofits and groups that would normally have nothing to do with another member.

Gamers may hate DRM, but they hate *cheating* even more. As a class, gamers have an all-consuming hatred of cheats that overrides all other considerations (which is weird, because the cheats are *used* by gamers!). One thing trusted computing is pretty good at is detecting cheating. Gamers – or, more often, game *servers* – can use remote attestation to force each player’s computer to cough up a true account of its configuration, including whether there are any cheats running on the computer that would give the player an edge. By design, owners of computers can’t override trusted computing modules, which means that even if you *want* to cheat, your computer will still rat you out.

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(Image: Bernt Rostad, Elliott Brown, CC BY 2.0)

James Earl Jones, whose towering presence and unmistakable voice commanded both stage and screen, passed away on Monday at the age of 93. Known for his profound presence in theater, film, and television, Jones’ career has been a testament to the power of artistry.

Born in 1931, during the segregation era in Mississippi, Jones had limited opportunities as an aspiring actors. His early years were shaped by a turbulent family life. Raised primarily by his mother, Ruth Connolly, after his parents’ separation, Jones faced significant challenges during his formative years. Despite these difficulties, his mother, a teacher and a poet, instilled in him a love for literature and the arts, which would later fuel his artistic aspirations.

Jones’s early life was marked by his struggle with a severe stutter, which made communication difficult and led to him being mute for years. However, his mother encouraged him to overcome this challenge through poetry and speech exercises, laying the foundation for what would become one of the most iconic voices of our time.

Jones initially studied pre-medicine at the University of Michigan, before being drawn back to his passion for acting. He finally enrolled in the university’s drama program, where his exceptional talent began to take flight. His stage presence and ability to convey deep emotion were evident even in his early performances, and he quickly gained recognition for his skillful interpretations of complex characters.

After college, Jones served in the United States Army as a second lieutenant and continued to hone his craft through military theater. Jones made his Broadway debut in 1958’s Sunrise at Campobello and would win his first Tony Award for The Great White Hope (1969). The Pulitzer Prize-winning Broadway play depicted the struggles of Jack Johnson, the first Black heavyweight boxing champion, in the midst of racism in early 20th-century America. In 1972, Jones repeated this role in the movie version and was nominated for an Academy Award as best actor.

Jones would win his second Tony Award for Fences (1987) as Tony Maxson. Most people only remember Denzel Washington’s performance as Maxson in 2010, which was also quite powerful. But Jones commanded the attention of the audience with his booming voice and presence — like a maestro.

These roles were significant, not just for his career but for its impact on the representation of Black actors on stage. His powerful portrayals earned him critical acclaim and established himself as a leading actor known for versatility and depth.

One of the defining moments of his stage career came in 1964 when he played in Othello. At the time, there were few prominent roles for Black actors in classical theater, and Jones’ performance was a milestone. It was a significant step forward in the fight for racial equity in the performing arts.

If you have seen any of his performances, it was evident that he understood the human nature of his characters. Because of this, I believe it was why he was able to expand himself to a wider audience, showcasing his ability to tackle diverse roles with equal skill. When we think of Black actors who exude excellence and longevity, James Earl Jones is always at the top of the list.

Jones’s film career continued to thrive with roles in The Exorcist where he played Father Merrin, a role that highlighted his ability to convey profound fear and vulnerability. His work in Claudine and Roots further demonstrated his versatility and commitment to portraying characters with depth and dignity.

Jones shined in notable films Field of Dreams and The Sandlot. He also appeared in 2021’s Coming 2 America, where he reprised his role as King Jaffe Joffer, which marked his final screen credit.

One of the most iconic roles of Jones’ career was that of Darth Vader in the Star Wars franchise. That deep, commanding voice became synonymous with the character, and his performance as the Sith Lord is considered one of the greatest in cinematic history. The character’s voice, delivered by Jones, has become a cultural touchstone, and his work in the franchise has left a defining stamp in pop culture.

Jones also voiced Mufasa in The Lion King (1994), a role that allowed him to bring warmth and wisdom to a beloved character. He also had vocal roles in the remake of the film. Jones’s performance was a testament to his ability to connect with audiences of all ages, and the film still remains a classic today.

His television career included notable appearances on the series The Simpsons, where he voiced various characters, and Empire, where he played Lucius Lyon’s father. His ability to adapt to different mediums and genres speaks to his extraordinary range as an actor. His voice was featured in numerous commercials, video games, and animated series, further solidifying his status as a voice acting legend.

Beyond his artistic achievements, James Earl Jones was known for his commitment to social justice and philanthropy. His career has been marked by advocacy for greater diversity and representation in the arts. He supported various initiatives aimed at promoting racial equity. He spoke openly about the challenges he faced and the importance of perseverance. His success inspired others on the importance of diversity in the entertainment industry.

As we reflect on the life of James Earl Jones, it is impossible not to be moved by the breadth of his career. His extraordinary voice and powerful performances have captivated us time and time again. His legacy is a testament to the power of storytelling and the arts.

The post Remembering James Earl Jones appeared first on Black Girl Nerds.