Alexandra Charitan

On May 28, 2020, Sterling Constantine Cherise turned 21 years old. Almost no one who celebrated a birthday after mid-March did so without complications. But instead of a Zoom party or virtual Quarantinis with friends and family, Cherise, a Black trans man, received a tense text message from his parents: “You have no idea how this affects our lives,” they wrote, referring to his decision to begin transitioning earlier in the year. “You’ve been lying to us your whole life.”

One day earlier—and just two days after George Floyd’s murder—38-year-old Tony McDade was fatally shot by an officer with the Tallahassee Police Department. There are likely several reasons that McDade’s death isn’t as well-known as Floyd’s. Maybe the collective consciousness had reached a saturation point after the deaths of Breonna Taylor and Ahmaud Arbery and repeated viewings of the Floyd video. Or maybe it was because McDade, initially misgendered by police and news outlets, was a Black trans man.

Cherise was shaken by McDade’s death, but wasn’t surprised that it hadn’t inspired the same level of outrage as Floyd’s. “A trans man died close to the day that I was born—and no one was talking about it,” he says. “That could have been me. If I would have killed myself back in March, I would’ve been buried as a girl. It would have been horrible and no one would have known.”

Today, Cherise refers to his mother, who is “Portuguese and white passing,” and father, who is Black, as his “biological parents.” He says that while he was growing up, it was never acknowledged that he was Black—and his mother raised him “to be like a little white girl.” Things went from bad to worse when he was outed as a lesbian and later, when he came out to them as trans. But like a reluctant Rumpelstiltskin, Cherise must’ve learned at an early age how to spin the straw he’d been given into gold.

So, instead of spending his 21st birthday getting blackout drunk and celebrating his own life, Cherise chose to honor McDade’s—by joining the protests that had sprung up in the streets of D.C. It was not only Cherise’s first time protesting, but he says he had never even been in a crowd of people that large. He made preparations to quarantine before returning to his job at George Washington University—that is, if he managed to make it home at all.

Cherise says that he is increasingly aware of the dangers that follow Black men (and even more so, Black trans men and women) in America. Every time he went out, he made sure people knew where he was, shared passwords with friends, and saved instructions on his phone (the Gen-Z version of a last will and testament).

“If I’m going to get killed out here, at least I will die as the person I am,” he says. “I’m not afraid to die for what I believe in. I will march until I can’t walk—and I did. I will do whatever it takes to make my voice heard for everyone who wants to be out here and can’t be.”

‘THE NEXT SERENA WILLIAMS’

Like many people who identify as LGBTQ+, Cherise has always had a complicated relationship with his biological parents. Growing up in south Florida, Cherise says they made sure he was too busy with school work and extracurricular activities to have any semblance of a social life. He was classically trained in violin and piano; he was a varsity athlete, competing in swimming, diving, track and field, volleyball, and gymnastics. His father had aspirations to make him “the next Serena Williams,” but Cherise never even liked tennis.

His mother never wanted children and his father “wanted a baseball team.” No child should ever be made to feel as if they’re a compromise, but that’s exactly what Cherise says he was repeatedly told. They sent him to private school, in part because Cherise says they didn’t want him to be just “another dumb Black girl.” “I was a trophy child,” he says. “It was my job to make it out and represent all the work my parents put in, their sacrifice. I was taught to give 100% in everything all the time—and even if it was close to that it still wasn’t good enough.”

It wasn’t until he came to Washington, D.C. to begin classes at GW, that Cherise realized just how much his strict, isolated upbringing had negatively affected his mental health and self-image. It was traumatic enough to be forcibly outed by his peers in middle school (he uses the word “hellscape” to describe much of his life pre-transition). But by the time he realized he was trans, Cherise says he was “probably 24- to 48-hours away” from throwing himself off a bridge.

Cherise called his mother to inform her that he had already made a doctor’s appointment and was going to start taking testosterone. “I don’t have any other options,” he recalls saying. “It is this bad. I’m going to do this because there is nothing else I can do. I’ve lost everything and I need to make this life or death decision.”

His mother suggested he return to Florida, enroll in community college, and wait at least a year. Instead, Cherise chose to stay at GW and begin hormone therapy without his biological parents’ support. He hasn’t seen them in more than 2 years; in what little communication they do have, they frequently use Cherise’s legal (or “dead”) name and intentionally misgender him. “I’m realizing that the people who were supposed to care about me, don’t—at all,” he says. “They don’t care because I’m no longer doing what they think I should.”

BLACK ENOUGH

Personal identities are as layered and nuanced as the groups of people they attempt to describe; when he came out as trans, Cherise had only just begun to unravel the biases surrounding his own racial identity. “My parents had me being afraid of being Black and afraid of other Black people,” he says. Because he is mixed, or simply “not Black enough,” he says didn’t get courted by historically Black universities.

But he is Black enough to be followed by security guards for having the audacity to shop for groceries; because he knows how it feels, he says he’s careful not to follow women too closely, especially at night. “I don’t want to scare them because I have knowledge about how that feels,” Cherise says. “But also I’m uncomfortable being a Black man on the street—always thinking, ‘Is someone going to call the cops?’”

Currently, Cherise’s official ID still bears his dead name; Daunte Wright was shot and killed for having expired tags and too many air fresheners. “I feel like I occupy a very specific space where I’m terrified for my life for different reasons all of the time,” Cherise says. “I’m actively terrified not knowing if I’m going to make it home every day.”

When Cherise graduates in a few weeks with a BA in criminal justice and a minor in English, his dead name will be on his diploma. Changing your legal name is an expensive and arduous process—and not all problems can be solved with a trip to the DMV. Even if he had the time to navigate the name change, he can’t afford a replacement diploma. Contrary to the myth of the American Dream, those who work the hardest often have the least. “I have moved from being a Black woman in the U.S. to wherever on the hierarchy being a Black trans man is,” Cherise says.

MASERATIS AND MACBOOKS

Despite saying he grew up “on the wrong side of the tracks” in Broward County, Cherise attended a private school; less than 30 of the students were people of color. “We all knew each other by name and people would ask if we were related,” he says. While other 16-year-olds were driving Maseratis and using Macbooks as umbrellas, Cherise was training to be an Olympic athlete and endlessly studying to fulfill his parents’ wishes that he become a doctor. He entered GW as a pre-med major but switched to criminal justice after deciding that he didn’t really want to go to medical school, after all.

He had also been sick for years, not realizing that he was having an allergic reaction to the estrogen in his birth control; he’s since discovered that his body had naturally high testosterone levels long before he began his transition. Still, he maintained a full class load while also working in a lab several days a week. He had no choice: “I pay my own loans because my parents said ‘If you’re going to transition, we want no part in it.”

Although he discovered that the class dynamics at GW weren’t that much different than his highschool (“kids are partying in the dorms and driving McLarens and I can’t afford to eat this week”) after graduation, Cherise says he intends to get his master’s degree and then his PhD. He has aspirations to teach forensics, become a medical examiner, or work in Quantico, Virginia. But with only a few weeks of school—and at least 60 pages of writing—to go, even a gold-star student like Cherise is tired.

“I’m exhausted,” he says. “And I have to keep working or I can’t pay for groceries. And I have to keep working or I can't pay my tuition. It never stops. I have to adjust and I don't really have the wiggle room to say ‘I'm going to take a day to not do anything.’”

A WHITE FANTASY

Cherise acknowledges his excess of privilege far more than he bemoans his lack of it. But he’s also aware that in general, white people are more likely to have access to necessary—and in many cases, life-saving—resources such as health care, secure housing, and familial support. Cherise says the fantasy of “I’m going to come out to my parents and they’re going to accept me and throw me a gender reveal party and I can continue to live my life as if nothing has changed” is just not often available to trans people of color.

He points out that gender confirmation surgery—like most procedures in the for-profit U.S. healthcare system—is expensive; since he can’t afford it, he says, “the only thing in my head that’s keeping me trans is testosterone.” But if you can’t afford the psychological therapy required before starting hormones (or the prescription drugs themselves) you’re going to turn to less regulated, and often unsafe, sources. If the dirty needles don’t get you, the body dysphoria will; too often in America, it’s dead if you do, and dead if you don’t.

Although the number is rising, only about 20% of people say they personally know an out trans person (and awareness isn’t always immediately followed with dignity and respect). As Oprah’s recent Elliot Page interview and the Netflix documentary Disclosure shows, trans representation in the media has come a long way from laughing at Bugs Bunny in a dress—but increased visibility often comes with heightened vitriol and violence. Less than half of the way through 2021, attacks on the trans community—and particularly trans youth—are only ramping up.

GRAVEL AND GRAVESTONES

Despite what certain Republican lawmakers and clergy members would like you to believe, trans people are (unsurprisingly) like everyone else: they’re just people trying to make sense out of, and live their lives in relative peace. For the first 20 minutes of our Zoom interview, Cherise and I talk about things as scandalous as hair dye and whether or not we are morning people (he is, I most definitely am not).

Struggling with your gender identity doesn’t make you a monster—but taking control of the process doesn’t make you a magician either. “Your mental health is not going to be fixed just because you’re starting testosterone,” Cherise says. “I still have an eating disorder and suicidal tendencies. I still have to go to therapy every week, I still have to address all of these things—sometimes it gets worse as it gets better.”

While everyone is different, adding testosterone (or estrogen) to the equation does change things—hopefully, but not always, for the better. Since beginning hormones last year, Cherise says, “I have to reevaluate my life every day. I don’t look the same every day, I have to readjust.” He notes the usual suspects: his empathy took a nosedive along with his impulse control and the tenor of his voice; he’s physically hotter and emotionally colder than he used to be. He takes his jacket off during a late-December photo shoot at Black Lives Matter Plaza and says without irony: “Everything is buried under a very thick layer of ice. And as hard as I want to crack through that ice—and as much as I can see and acknowledge what’s underneath it—I can’t reach it.”

The downs of transitioning may get more column inches (and movie scenes), but for every valley there’s usually a corresponding peak: “On the other side of it I think, ‘This used to send me into hysterics and I no longer care,’” Cherise says, laughing.

We speak for a second time on May 18; when the Derek Chauvin trial comes up, Cherise says the media should be focussing on how many victims of police violence never even receive a chance at justice. He says he’s not particularly interested in the outcome, while acknowledging that this willful avoidance of the televised trial is another one of his privileges.

Two days later, Chauvin is found guilty on three counts; it’s a start, but Cherise thinks there’s so much more to come before we can even begin to abolish the police. “I don’t think that this system of mass incarceration or capitalism is constructive in any sense,” he says. “But you’re asking people to build a castle out of gravel and gravestones and it just doesn’t work.”

He partly thinks it’s generational but theorizes that many people may simply be immune to change. His face mask is printed with the phrase, “Just trying not to die. Assholes live forever;” he knows that waiting for Boomers to die off may not be a practical political strategy. “If there are enough people willing to uphold a system, there will never be enough people to take it down,” he says.

FINDING THE WORDS

Cherise also knows what it’s like to feel as if your castle built of gravel has been compromised. When he was 16, he managed to sneak a girlfriend into his house exactly once before his parents found out and grounded him; he went off the grid for so long friends thought he had died. A friend suspected he might be trans when they were just 12 years old, but Cherise didn’t find out until almost a decade later. “I think people see it—whether you’re trans, gay or nonbinary—and you show and tell people before you (or they) have the words for it.”

When he finally found the words—and the courage to say them—he not only lost contact with most of his immediate family, but also several friends. “People are often unwilling to accept trans people because they’re under the assumption that they’ve known you best, or at least more than others,” Cherise says. “Not everyone understands the burden and is willing to share it with you. And take responsibility for their own transphobic or homophobic beliefs—or any other biases they may have.”

Cherise is so thoughtful and compassionate while describing the horrors he has faced—from forces both external and internal—that I wonder if he’s overstated the testosterone’s effect on his capacity for empathy. Then, as he often does during our more than 3-hour conversation, he explains a complicated issue succinctly and leaves me temporarily speechless: “The people who are repressed the most, end up feeling the most empathy towards the people who are oppressed the least.”

80% SPITE

When discussing the street protests that began at the end of May and continued well into the summer (and, in many places are still ongoing), the word privilege once again comes up. Cherise says it was a rude awakening for him to witness firsthand the raw, collective Black rage and police violence that his biological parents tried so hard to shield him from. Within a 5-minute’s walk from GW’s campus, Cherise found himself in a cloud of tear gas and rubber bullets. His friends urged him to keep his neon green braids so they could locate him on the national news and confirm he was ok.

“I made it home that night and thought, there is no chance I’m not doing this again,” he says.

On January 6, Cherise walked outside of his apartment and came face to face with “a group of Nazis waving Trump flags.” GW campus police escorted him safely to work, but he says he still suffers from PTSD. His phone remains broken from a flash bang and a rubber bullet casing hangs on his wall—grim reminders that “no matter how good you are, the system is going to view you as every other Black man that has ever walked the face of the planet—and nothing will be good enough to save your life,” Cherise says.

Although he’s learning how to be more in control of how he channels his perfectionism, Cherise is clearly still very much the trophy child his parents dreamed of—even if they may never realize it. He’s more thoughtful, gracious, and comfortable in his skin than I am with almost a decade-and-a-half head start (not to mention additional privileges). So I’m relieved when—in an attempt to mitigate an outright gush—I ask where his strength comes from and he calculates that “80% of it is out of actual spite.”

“Yes, so much of it is wanting better for the world and wanting better for yourself,” Cherise explains. “But so much more of it is that so many people told me I couldn’t do this—that I’m not enough. It’s not willpower—it’s because you want to prove that you are not a statistic.”

‘I DESERVE TO EXIST’

Cherise may have always known that his chances of scoring Olympic gold were statistically small—and that it was basically impossible to be the “good little white girl” he says his mom wanted. He also probably never imagined himself as a trans role model, but now recognizes both the power and the danger in speaking about something so personal. No two trans people, for better or worse, have the same experience because, once again, they’re just people.

“But if someone like me would’ve met my 13-year-old self when I needed someone the most, it would have changed my life,” Cherise says. “Maybe it wouldn’t have changed everything, but it would’ve given me enough insight to know that I wasn’t alone.

Like Page, and other highly visible, out trans people, Cherise thinks that all representation matters, no matter how insignificant it may seem. “There is always a chance that someone will pass you on the street and think ‘There’s someone else who is either my skin color or who has my hair texture or has some crazy hair color,” he says. “And then think, ‘If one other person has it or feels that way, maybe it’s ok that I do, too.”

Even if someone isn’t trans or questioning their own gender or sexual identity (two distinct, but often overlapping issues), Cherise encourages them to have conversations with people who are. “If they understand a raindrop in the ocean of my perspective on something, maybe it’s enough,” he says.

I begin to think that maybe Cherise didn’t spin his share of straw into gold, so much as learn how to weave it into a life raft for himself when his parents and society set him adrift. He may not be on solid ground quite yet (he does still have to write those 60 pages before graduation), but he’s getting there. He says that all the suffering will have been worth it if just one kid is spared the same pain he felt—even if he had to find out the hard way that you have to save yourself before you’re strong enough to help search for survivors.

“I believe that I deserve to exist,” Cherise says. “And if I have to shout it from the rooftops, I’ll do it. Once you start, you never stop protesting. You’re protesting whether you’re with five thousand people or you’re walking home alone at the end of the day—but I might as well die speaking as a Black man than say nothing as a Black girl. I would rather be wiser for the better than ignorant and happy.”