Everything you've always wanted to know about trans issues (but were afraid to ask)

Writing for NS Trans Issues Week, Jennie Kermode outlines the facts about trans issues and language - an area where prejudice and confusion so often get in the way.

1. What is the difference between a transvestite and a transsexual person?

A transsexual person needs a permanent change of gender role, often accompanied by bodily changes, in order to feel comfortable. A transvestite, also called a cross dresser, is a man who dresses in a way usually associated with women, or vice versa. For some transvestites this is just a bit of fun or a way of challenging gender norms; for others it reflects a deep seated need. Some people go through a stage of cross dressing on the way to coming out as transsexual.

2. I've seen people talking about trans* issues. What is the asterisk for?

The asterisk shows that "trans" is being used as an umbrella term, covering not just transsexual people but also transvestites and people who don't identify as male or female.

3. Why do some people in the trans* community find "tranny" problematic?

It's a word that has strong associations wth pornography and it's often shouted at people in the street in an abusive way. This can be accompanied by a threat of violence — sadly not uncommon — so people are reminded of that fear when they encounter the word elsewhere.

4. What happens when a person transitions from one gender to another - what's the process?

There's no one-size-fits-all procedure. The primary process is psychological and social — learning to fit into a different social role and hoping loved ones can adjust to that. Most people take hormones, which can make them feel more mentally relaxed even before starting to change their bodies. Many go on to have surgery.

5. Do all trans people have surgery?

No. Some people are not able to, for medical reasons. For others, intimate changes don't feel necessary as long as their gender is generally accepted — after all, when we meet strangers, we don't usually need to see their genitals to decide what gender we think they are. Many trans men have breasts removed but don't have genital surgery because it carries a risk of urological problems. This means that the notion of "pre-op" and "post-op" trans people is misleading. For many, changing social role is a much bigger deal anyway.

6. What does being genderqueer mean?

This is one of several terms that people use to describe not feeling either male or female. This is different from just not having much sense of gender. For some people, it's a very strong feeling and may lead to them seeking medical assistance to align their bodies with their identities. For others, it's about creating a space in which to escape from the usual expectations of gendered behaviour.

7. I've seen some people call themselves "queer". Is that an OK word for straight people to use?

Because it has a history of being used as a term of abuse, it's best to avoid it in generral discourse. In smaller social circles you may find that people don't mind, but it never hurts to ask.

8. What inaccurate clichés about trans people do you see in the media?

Most transsexual people don't think of themselves as changing sex — they have a consistent sense of gender identity. Rather, they feel that bodily changes are about feeling more comfortable in their own skins and having their gender more easily recognised by others, confirming their existing identities. By and large, they are no more concerned about being manly men or beautiful women than the average person. Some know they will never "pass" very well but passing isn't the point — they hope people will respect the clear signals that they're sending about their gender. The media tends to find these concepts difficult. Likewise, it tends to present people without male or female gender identities as confused (much like the clichés that exist about bisexual people) whereas most have a very clear sense of their gender, it just isn't one that onforms with society's expectations. Finally, there's the notion that all trans people are attention-seekers. In fact, most just want to get on with their lives.

9. Are there more M2F transgendered people than F2M? And if so, why?

We used to think so but gender clinics now tell us they have about equal numbers coming forward to seek help. It's sometimes easier for trans men to stay in the closet because masculine behaviour in women is more socially acceptable than feminine behaviour in men.

10. What does "cis" mean?

It's simply a catch-all term referring to people who are not trans.

11. What kind of problems and challenges do trans people face in everyday life, and in getting treatment?

They are often rejected by family and friends, they can find it difficult to secure employment (especially before getting medical support) and they face high rates of stress-related mental health problems. It is estimated that around 45 per cent of trans people attempt suicide at least once — nine times the rate for the wider population. Trans people are often subjected to verbal abuse and threats from strangers and face a higher than average risk of being assaulted, with this being worse in some areas than others. Getting medical support is a bit of a lottery. There's a new system in Scotland which is very good, but not enough specialist doctors yet to make it work. In England, many people struggle to get taken seriously, face obnoxious treatment from medical profesionals (as exemplified in the recent #transdocfail Twitter thread) and face long waiting lists, while genderqueer people have to pretend to be transsexual if they want to get any treatment at all. This is particularly tough for people who can't afford to go private.

12. What proportion of the population is transgender?

This really depends on how widely you want to cast your net. Around one in five people try cross dressing, even if it's just for fun, and lots of people feel uncomfortable with the roles set out for them as men or women. The number of people who feel a strong need to change roles is much smaller, probably around 0.8 per cent of the population. Of course, that's still a lot of people overall, and the problems they face also affect their friends and families.

If you need to talk to somebody because you think you might be trans, The Gender Trust can help. For young trans people and their parents, Mermaids provides excellent support.

Jennie Kermode is Chair of Trans Media Watch and writes at Eye For Film

A person holds a placard reading "I am the one who decide how I dress and not your standards" as he takes part in the 16th Existrans in France. Photograph: Getty Images

Jennie Kermode is Chair of Trans Media Watch and writes at Eye For Film.

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad