When I wrote From Both Sides: A Transgender Experience in the Beer Industry in 2018, I came out swinging. A light jab here, a slip and a missed cross there, a few punches landed from out of nowhere. The article was a lengthy criticism of the British beer industry from the perspective of a queer trans woman, and it was my first-ever published piece. I took aim at everything that frustrated me, like the homogeneity of the industry, and its unwillingness to address that fact. Some took heed; I was pleased with the way the blows landed.
Now, with less polish and direction but the same blistering fury, I’ve become a whirling dervish of sloppy punches. Anger clouds my aim and rage overextends my reach; I’m all buckled knuckles and cracked skin. I feel like flinging my fists every which way in search of connection as I sweat and swear and scream.
I’m angry because trans people, and particularly trans women, are under attack from the British government, the media, and now a crackpot billionaire author with nothing better to do than bully already-marginalized people. And I’m angry because the beer industry is still dragging its heels, despite innumerable calls to Do Better.
Exasperatingly little has changed since I wrote “Both Sides.” At the time, numerous people claimed it would “change the industry.” But when I periodically write different versions of the same article about being queer in beer, the answers I get from queer and trans people about our roles and experiences in this industry have varied little from those first interviews I conducted in 2017. There are still too few of us, there’s still too little representation, there’s still too little training, education, or support. The same conversations are still being had on “diversity panels” by the same few faces. And so, uncomfortably, here I am. Again. Still.
To provide additional context for my current anger, you only need to look at how the British mainstream media violently shits on trans people from great heights, with great regularity; how “radical” “feminists” have co-opted British women’s movements for the purpose of anti-trans hatred; and how trans children have been centered in a “debate” that actively puts them at risk of harm and mistreatment by further stripping away already-stretched-thin, vital care. You can read this article, this research, or this study to learn more.
The most recent dredging of this deep well of anger began when JK Rowling explicitly sided with TERFs. Seeing Rowling so unabashedly own up to her transphobia once again stoked the fire of the great gender “debate” in the media, causing commenters to publicly wonder if trans people should exist at all, and why are they all being so mean to the nice lady who wrote Harry Potter?
The feeling grew with the news that our bumbling, inept prime minister is scrapping reforms of self-ID legislation, despite overwhelmingly positive public support. It got even worse when I read about the latest murders in a long, brutal series of violence against Black trans women.
I can’t even begin to process, much less describe, the effect that scrolling through Twitter and seeing that another trans person has been killed has on me. I still remember the first time I discovered that trans people, and in particular trans women, are commonly murdered simply for being trans, which seems to happen with particular frequency in North and South America. The feeling sickened me, and instilled a fear that I might be next.
At the time I failed to spot the pattern: 90% of murdered trans people are Black trans women. As a middle-class white trans woman living in London, I am protected by my overlapping privileges. The closest I’ve come is a particularly weak death threat some petulant taxi driver threw at me. The same cannot be said for trans people of color across the world.
At the time of writing, at least 26 trans and non-binary people are known to have been murdered this year: Alexa Negrón Luciano, Valera, Patsy Andrea Delgado, Ajita Bhuje, Dustin Parker; Neulisa Luciano Ruiz; Yampi Méndez Arocho; Monika Diamond; Lexi; Johanna Metzger; Serena Angelique Velázquez Ramos; Layla Pelaez Sánchez; Penélope Díaz Ramirez; Nina Pop; Helle Jae O’Regan; Tony McDade; Dominique “Rem’mie” Fells; Riah Milton; Jayne Thompson; Selena Reyes-Hernandez; Brayla Stone; Merci Mack; Shaki Peters; Bree Black; Summer Taylor; Draya McCarty. 24 were murdered in the U.S. and Puerto Rico.
This number grew by six between the first and second drafts of this article, and increased again by the third. The transphobia of Rowling and the media at large will only fuel this number’s growth.
In June, Black Trans Lives Matter marches took place in the U.S., catalyzed by the murders of Dominique “Rem’mie” Fells and Riah Milton. Similar protests took place shortly after in the U.K. The skew of this violence, weighted so heavily towards trans women of color and Black trans women, is why the fights for trans lives and Black lives are so inextricably linked.
Against this backdrop, what’s the point in writing about beer? In using something as trivial-feeling as beer as a vehicle for fundraising and change—in existing in this world at all when trans people are so routinely threatened and menaced? Should I not use my privilege as a white, middle-class, able-bodied trans woman living in one of the richest countries in the world to fight harder for trans rights? Surely, the idea that brewing collaboration beers under the banner of The Queer Brewing Project to make the world a better place is nothing short of naive. What the fuck was—am—I thinking?
I don’t have any answers. My head tells me that I should fight in any way I can, and that I can’t solve all of the world’s injustices, or even just transphobia, in one country. But my screaming, breaking heart says that beer might not be enough. Maybe placing my hope for change within a homogeneous, static industry—one that seems only to care about LGBTQ people in June, when it can sell Pride beers—is just pissing in the wind.
It might sound unreasonable to expect the beer industry to stand up to injustices and prejudices. “Stick to beer” ad nauseum: it’s an industry and, in light of the pandemic, is struggling even with the basic production of beer right now. But to listen to that is to ignore the human aspects of beer, as well as the very purpose of it: to bring people together. I would argue that it’s entirely fucked if its only purpose is to bring certain types of people together.
That means to ignore beer’s power is folly. As the present moment has shown, breweries and industry figureheads have great sway and influence. Choosing to be silent on Black Lives Matter and other injustices relegates them to being the concern of other people, not you, enjoying your nice, apolitical pint. If breweries used their reach to stand up and speak out, others may well feel emboldened to do so, too. Too often, breweries fear taking a stance—worried about losing custom and revenue—because of the implications of being the only ones to do so.
As hollow as statements like “I see you,” “I hear you,” and “I stand with you” can seem, they’re certainly a step above abject silence. I’m forever perplexed by my irritation at receiving such platitudes—I’ve long since lost faith that people would stand with me—but at the very least, seeing people step out of their comfort zones to tweet about trans rights makes me feel a little less isolated. Seeing a brewery raising money for trans rights organizations makes me feel more like it’s an “us” problem, one that the beer world gives a shit about, as opposed to a “me” problem.
As I wrote in “Both Sides,” the responsibility of dismantling systems of oppression lies solely with the oppressors, yet it has historically fallen to those who suffer the most: from Black people tasked with fighting racism to LGBTQ people fighting homo- and queer-phobia, the oppressive majority simply turn away for fear of “saying the wrong thing,” or because it’s “not their fight.” I’m guilty of this. We all are. But those who aren’t battling for their lives should shoulder more of the responsibility, not less.
If the industry is ever to change, it needs to look beyond its woefully restricted bubble: as Crowns & Hops’ merch reads, “Black People Love Beer,” and if you’ve ever been to any type of queer event, you’ll know queer people love it, too. There are markets this industry overlooks for fear of having to do work, of having to reach new communities, of having to confront its long-held and deeply rooted prejudices. That has to change.
I’m not giving up on beer. At the very least, I enjoy drinking it, and I’m too entangled within its social web to step away completely. But right now, I’m paralyzed. How do I reconcile my frustration and anger with the entire industry? How do I wrap my head around the futility of my role within it when all I can see is injustice? How can any of this possibly matter?
Every time I try to figure out a path forward, I stall. My rational brain kicks in, looking for solutions and navigable routes: articles; plans; answers; beers; this blog post. Underneath, my emotional brain lists in the windless seas of apathy. There is no route to run through this. There is only waiting. Either for the anger to subside and the resolve to return or for others to step in.
