Two trans Americans explain their move to the UK and what life was like in the US
BY LARA IQBAL GILLING, IMAGE BY CHALFFY FROM GETTY IMAGES SIGNATURE/ CANVA
In January, Aim Vandenberg legally changed their name and threw a party to celebrate – which they describe as “a week of elation”. Their friends decorated their house with trans flags and posters, and they listened to RuPaul for hours.
“It was so wholesome and wonderful, but I still didn’t feel fully me,” Aim says. Despite wanting to, they hadn’t changed their legal gender marker to X because of the safety risk that Trump’s administration poses to trans people.
The US president started signing anti-trans executive orders on his first day in office. They range from restricting federal funding for gender affirming care to banning trans people from serving in the military. Passports and other legal documents can now only carry one of the two recognised sexes, male and female, which must align with your gender assigned at birth.
As a result, trans people are leaving the US. Aim left in April to find a new home in Europe. As the only visibly queer person in their area in Salt Lake City, Utah, they had felt unsafe since just before the election. “I felt like a circus monkey. People were always staring at me everywhere I went or would check my shoulder at the grocery store,” they say.
After spending November and December angry and numb, Aim began to feel “overwhelming fear” in January. “The pain of dehumanisation – it feels like acid on your skin. It feels like you’re disintegrating in real time, and you can’t do anything to stop it, and also that you’re invisible.
“It was so hard to get out of bed. I almost killed myself in February because it hurt so fucking bad, and didn’t know what to do. Every time that I asked for help, everyone just felt further away.”
Selling their belongings evoked similar pain. They haven’t had a relationship with their parents since age 17, and consider their dog, Potato, to be their family. “It wasn’t just stuff,” they say. “It was my whole life that I had to give to strangers for a dollar out of my garage. I had the only stuff that my mom had ever given me.”
Three days before Aim’s flight in April, the English Supreme Court defined “woman” and “man” by biological sex in the 2010 Equality Act. Obtaining a British Global Talent visa suddenly became less attractive. “I don’t wanna build a whole life here, and then three years from now have to uproot my whole life again,” Aim says. “That was really discouraging. It will kill me if I have to do this again.”
Despite this uncertainty, pro-trans American organisations still advise trans people to emigrate. US-based charity Trans Rescue says: “We believe that a Trump presidency will end any notion of safe states or of sanctuary cities, and thus our advice remains that if at all possible, as a trans person you should consider leaving the USA.”
Samual Kahrs knew he would leave when he saw that Trump won the election. The 19-year-old American started applying for his British passport straight away, having already got citizenship through his mother. “I knew that I couldn’t live through another Trump presidency,” he says.
Shortly after Trump won presidency in 2016, Samual came out as trans and experienced suicidal ideation. “I knew I couldn’t deal with getting into that dark place again or losing my gender affirming care,” he says. “The idea was unimaginable. If I hadn’t started testosterone at 16, I wouldn’t be here. It saved my life.”
He moved to Harrogate in January, where he lives with his great-aunt.
Growing up in Republican San Tan Valley, Arizona, means that Samual has dealt with prejudice before. “In school I dealt with death threats. Boys would come up to me and say, ‘If we see you in the boys’ bathroom, we’re gonna beat the shit out of you. We’re gonna cut you.’ I’ve had guns pulled on me while driving because I had a Kamala poster up in my car.”
Samual believes that this “constant fear” is the experience for most trans and gender-nonconforming Americans. He was reluctant to go outside, although top surgery helped to ease the anxiety.
He was only partway through his first year at university when he had to leave. Now he won’t see his friends until 2029 at the earliest.
Angry and sad at having to leave the only country and people he’d ever known, he says: “It feels like I’m living two separate lives – one where I prepare to spend the rest of my life here, and the other where I’m planning to move back. Part of me is getting used to being over here. But there’s this other part that is still so attached to the US, even though it doesn’t feel like it accepts me. My dream was to serve in the state legislature and write laws. Losing that dream has been hard.”
If you have been affected by any of the topics in this story, please reach out for help. You can contact organisations like Mermaids, MindOut or Switchboard.
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