Notices of the American Mathematical Society
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Transitioning as an Early-Career Mathematician
I am a mathematician. I majored in mathematics and physics in college, where I fell in love with the abstraction and patterns that gave me a sense of universal truth. I found my area of geometric measure theory while I was in graduate school, and I continued to learn harmonic analysis as a postdoctoral lecturer. I discovered a passion for education, curriculum development, and pedagogical research around this time, leading to a teaching postdoc and eventually a teaching professorship that I currently hold. I am also a transgender woman who came to this personal truth about herself at the age of 29.
For me, being transgender is a source of joy and the deepest happiness that I’ve felt; it’s also a source of struggle, challenge, discrimination, and emotional labor. This identity and awareness permeate every aspect of my life, my career, and my living in American society in 2024. My goal here is to explain some of the surprising things I’ve learned through my transition and to discuss how these discoveries intersect with me being an early-career mathematician. Although every transgender identity is unique, we are every bit as diverse and complicated as non-trans folks. I hope that what I write here will resonate with other genderqueer people. I also hope to give a bit of insight into the trans experience, and help spark conversations about how to support the trans community in a time when the community is the focus of political debate and frequently subjected to extreme discrimination and legal restrictions.
0.1. Terminology
As with any mathematical paper, it’s important to get the key definitions correct. I am a transgender woman who was assigned male at birth. This means that when I was born, someone made a choice to check the little “M” box on my birth certificate and kicked into operation a whole set of legal and social mechanisms—all without asking me for my thoughts. For most people, this is okay and these folks are called cisgender, or just cis; all it means is that your internal sense of self matches how society treats you. If you’ve never really thought about these things or had a complaint with your assignation, then that’s pretty typical. On the other hand, my internal sense of identity is female, regardless of what decisions were made more than 30 years ago. This means that I am more at peace, more fulfilled, and just plain happier living as a woman.
Some important notes need to be mentioned here. First of all, gender is different from sexuality. Gender is about our internal sense of self, whereas sexuality is about who we want to have relationships with. Many transgender people are straight, gay or lesbian, asexual, or on any variety of spectra of desire for relationships. Secondly, gender itself is a broad spectrum that incorporates all sorts of expression (both along the traditional male/female binary as well as directions of being agender). Thirdly, there is a huge amount of diversity even in terms of transgender identities: after finding out that one identifies as being trans, some people dress differently; some change their pronouns (e.g., from he/him/his to she/her/hers or they/them/theirs); some use medical interventions such as hormone replacement therapy or gender-affirming surgery; some do nothing. In any case, the spectrum of trans identities is every bit as rich, complicated, and messy as cis identities—so it’s always dangerous to assume that you know a person’s thoughts or feelings just from knowing their gender identity or which pronouns they use.
Likewise, it’s important to discuss pronouns and lived names. Pronouns are not the same as gender; many people use multiple sets of pronouns (such as he/they) and this may differ from a stereotypically masculine or feminine presentation. Likewise, many trans people change their name, and it’s common to use it as a lived name for a long time before it is legally changed (if ever! Remember that not everyone does this). I do not refer to these as preferred pronouns or names because they truly are lived; if a trans person tells you their name or pronouns, listen to them and use them. Being misgendered or deadnamed (i.e., unwillingly referred to by your previous name) can be profoundly insulting and painful experiences that erase our identities and tell us that our truths do not matter. When we make mistakes, it’s frequently best to address them, apologize for them, and move past them.
Finally, to emphasize: every transgender life and experience is different. I speak for myself and myself alone; there are many ways in which I experience privilege (e.g., as a white, able-bodied, native English speaker in academia) and many ways in which I do not. I do not speak for all transgender people, and there are so many trans authors—especially those from indigenous, BIPOC, and two-spirit communities—whose work should be read, discussed, and elevated.
0.2. My story: the joy of being trans
Although I didn’t have the terminology to describe it then, many of my oldest memories revolve around wanting to be a girl—as if it was something that I could aspire to. Due to the social expectations and religious pressures in my childhood, I chose to suppress this. To act “normal” and to fit in as best as I could. But suppressing the complicated parts of your life also mean that you don’t get to fully experience the happy, exciting, or awe-inspiring parts either; it just emotionally deadens you. I also didn’t know that being gay, or queer, or transgender was something that was okay; as with many others who grow up in a religious or socially isolated home, I didn’t know any out queer people until I was late into graduate school.
My feelings about being out of place and of trying to play-act as a man pushed me into deep depression and anxiety, and I didn’t even know what was wrong. I compare this to the feeling of a left-handed person who was forced to write with their right hand; something feels wrong, and you don’t quite get how everything comes so easily to other people, and you’re never quite as good at it as the others. It took the isolation of the pandemic (between online teaching, not seeing family or friends for months, and the constant background of fear) to finally break me and force me to face the deepest source of my unease in the world. I came out first to myself, then to my partner, then to some of my closest friends. Work and family followed shortly after that and I began to transition.
I am incredibly grateful that my partner is one of the kindest, most caring people that I know; her support kept me alive through some incredibly dark times. I am also proud of the community of friends that I was a part of; without them, I could never have started to live my authentic truth. As I initially came out, I was also deeply fortunate to work in a department where many of my colleagues were queer and the culture was open, validating, and supportive. There was never any doubt that I would be anything less than an equal, valued, and trusted colleague and friend. At the time, I didn’t really know any other transgender mathematicians; but believing that at least within my department I would be validated and loved made all the difference.
A few months later, I began the process of medical transitioning. As I grow through this experience, I am so deeply grateful that I could start the process. I have no regrets about my transition, save that I did not come out sooner. As people have started to naturally see me the way I am on the inside, I feel calmer and increasingly at peace. There are so many moments of joy that derive from this and from the simple feeling of relaxation in my body.
In many ways, I am now “fully” socially transitioned. I dress as I wish, I act as I wish, I speak as I wish. My name has been legally changed. For the first time in my life, I am unapologetically me. There is still a moment of joy every time someone calls me “Rose” or “Rosemarie.” There is still a moment of happiness in seeing myself in the mirror, being what I dreamed of. Many cis commentators reduce being transgender to dysphoria, that feeling of the distress from a mismatch between body and mind. But the counterpart to that is euphoria; the deep fulfillment and happiness and love that I feel when I just get to be me in the deepest ways possible. Moving through society as my true self helps me to realize just how much joy there is in life; to paraphrase the video essayist Abigail Thorn, living in my body is finally a source of relaxation and peace. This is not to say that my life is problem-free; there are many challenges, difficulties, and emotional labors that I face due to my femininity and identity. But I believe that it is important to center joy as a core part of the transgender experience—because it is.
0.3. On coming out
Many portrayals of coming out focus on it as a singular moment in a queer person’s life—the moment where they share their identity with the world; but this is far less complicated than the actual experience. For many queer people, myself included, it is a years-long process involving dozens of emotional conversations and moments of uncertainty. This is doubly true for trans folks, especially when there are changes in lived names or pronouns—as there were for me. The inconsistency between lived name and legal name can forcibly out a person; simply having to show ID or fill out an application on MathJobs can lead to this; and we have no control over it.
My coming out process started small. I consider myself to be the first person I came out to—because it was a struggle even to admit to myself that I was different. I then came out to some of my closest friends, then to my coworkers, then to my family, and then more broadly. Each conversation is exhilarating and terrifying at the same time because you don’t truly know how the person you’re telling will handle you sharing your deepest truth. These are some of the times in my life when I have felt the most vulnerable: in that moment between saying the words and hearing the response. On the other hand, when people have responded with joy (one friend in particular screamed in happiness!), I had some of the highest moments of my life until now.
But coming out is a huge challenge. Most people are not transgender, and many people still hold strong prejudices. There is genuine fear in coming out in the wrong context; transgender people are routinely fired, discriminated against, shunned or disowned, or physically attacked due to their identities. In the current political environment where transgender people are the “demon” a major political party fights against, this moment is especially fraught. In many states, it remains legal to discriminate against trans people in housing and employment and transgender people face high rates of poverty and marginalization throughout the United States. This is also a time when there are dozens or hundreds of new laws that focus on restricting trans rights and which work to marginalize or erase the community.
0.4. Transitioning on the job market
I was applying for jobs during the height of my social transition. In the space between when I submitted my applications for faculty positions and the time that I interviewed for them, I changed the name and pronouns that I use. I was also experimenting with new ways of dressing, starting speech therapy, and learning so much about being myself. It came at a time of incredible emotional labor but also happiness at being able to follow my dreams.
I chose to center my transgender identity within my application materials. I talked about how being trans had shaped my perspective in my teaching statement and my diversity/equity/inclusion statement. I included the pronouns I was using at the time on my CV. It would have been impossible to read my documents without knowing that this was a core part of me that shaped my experiences. I was incredibly nervous about doing this; in a sense, this was the first time I was coming out to a broader mathematical community outside my home department, and I didn’t know how people would take it. I thought that if I centered it, I could at least screen out a transphobic department or university without putting much labor into the process.
Happily, most of my experiences were very positive. In the job I currently hold, I felt so incredibly supported all the way through the interview process. The committee never called me the wrong name or made me feel like an other. The department chair offered to connect me to queer faculty on campus who had experience living in the area. They made efforts to make me feel welcome and safe and that being transgender was an asset and not a mark against my application. I feel beyond fortunate to have the job that I currently hold, and my department’s commitment to me has been apparent throughout my first year here. My department and university clearly work to support people with marginalized identities, and I have found a loving and accepting queer community that help me to work in the spaces that I truly care about.
Unfortunately, this is not the case in every department. As I met search committees, it became painfully clear to me that for many departments a commitment to diversity and equity are merely lip service or words on a departmental webpage. In one on-campus interview, I was repeatedly misgendered by the search committee to their faculty. While this may seem like a small word choice or slip-up, they are reflections of how important these issues are to a department. The indications that a department and a university give can really show the difference between paying lip service to DEI issues and being honestly committed to doing the hard work of creating an affirming and safe environment.
0.5. Transitioning in the classroom
Before I transitioned, I had already been teaching for nearly a decade as a graduate TA and as a postdoc. I fit exactly the stereotype of a slightly absent-minded mathematician—down to the plaid collared shirt and cargo pants. This also meant that students immediately viewed me as competent and intelligent, even when I was only a graduate student; it also meant that they were unlikely to talk to me as a human being, to come to me for support, or to show me who they truly were.
Now I am visibly queer in the classroom; I make a point of briefly coming out on the first day of class and to build community around the idea that everyone’s whole self is welcome. It is important that students can see people of all gender identities at the front of a math classroom, because there are students of all gender identities in a math classroom. One of my proudest teaching moments was at the end of a semester where a nonbinary student told me how happy they were to be in my class, because they had never seen someone like them as a teacher. Visibility and representation matter.
Teaching as a woman is a vastly different experience for me than teaching as a man was, and the labor of teaching has become so different and in many ways has increased. Students connect with me much more now, and are more willing to talk to me about the challenges that they face. This leads to deeper connections and more impactful teaching, but the unobserved labor of supporting students through crises or anxiety can have terrible impacts on faculty mental health and burnout. On a negative note, students are far more willing to openly doubt my competence in a field I’ve taught for years. I face sexist or demeaning comments routinely; in a surprise to me, very few of these have to do with transitioning. The vast majority come simply from being a woman in a mathematics classroom.
0.6. The silent labor of being transgender: thoughts for our allies
While transitioning has been the greatest source of joy in my life, being trans involves a lot of labor that does not fall on cisgender colleagues. Depending on the steps that a person takes in their transition, we may face dozens or hundreds of hours of legal and administrative work for a name change. Some of us have frequent medical appointments to manage hormone levels. Some go through hundreds of hours of painful hair removal, or months-long recoveries from procedures. While being deadnamed or misgendered might take a single word on the part of a colleague, it can have a strong emotional impact of reminding you how you are other and how your true self is not seen, tolerated, or loved. A political group demonstrating on campus might be a small distraction for a cisgender professor, but when such a group is actively working to criminalize or erase transgender identities, it is impossible to ignore. Even routine conference travel can become challenging due to harassment during an ID check and extra searches from the TSA. Many of us who are transgender women also face the burden of simply being a woman in academia, and have to deal with our opinions being automatically less valuable and learn what it’s like to be constantly spoken over. In any case, we face a naturally discriminatory environment where our concerns are not viewed as important, by default.
Because transgender people are a minority in most academic spaces (and most spaces within society, period), it is incumbent upon our cisgender allies to learn how to support our community. Building an inclusive department or inclusive pedagogical practice isn’t just a political goal; it has genuine impacts on people’s lives. It creates a space where we can all contribute, all bring our knowledge and creativity, and all explore the beauty of mathematics. As such, I wanted to share some thoughts for mathematicians about how you can help:
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Learn about transgender identities by reading and hearing their stories. Trans identities are beautiful and diverse and have been a part of humanity since the beginning. And do remember that every transgender person is different and none of us can speak for all of us.
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Remember that we are more than our gender identities; we are just as complex, fascinating, and messy as anyone else. Don’t reduce us to just our trans-ness, and don’t expect every trans person to educate you on trans issues.
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Calling someone the wrong name or wrong pronoun is something that unfortunately happens regardless of best intentions; if you do it, make a quick, sincere, and direct apology and move on. Don’t use it as an opportunity to bring up every moment that you’ve misgendered a trans person. Better yet, ask the person how they want it to be handled.
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If you see someone being called the wrong name or pronoun, address it. It can be exhausting for that labor to always fall on the queer folks in the community. This goes for pretty much any kind of discriminatory behavior.
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Remember that while intent matters, so does impact. Something might feel minor to you but be emotionally devastating to another person. Be willing to do the work to address this.
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Intentionally create welcoming spaces where trans people don’t have to worry if they’ll be safe or comfortable. Work with your campus’s LGBTQ+ center or its analogue to figure out how your department can be better.
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Think about intersectionality. Although our struggles are different, many of the things that the community can do to support women, racially marginalized groups, or disabled colleagues, are the exact same things that the community can do to support transgender people. Inclusive practices are often exactly the same as good practices.
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The responsibility to address transphobia belongs to all of us. If you aren’t sure how you can contribute, then read, learn, and discuss these issues.
0.7. Conclusion
I hope that there are two takeaways that you’ll keep: that being transgender can be a deeply joyful, satisfying, and fulfilling experience in a beautiful life. And that there is an incredible emotional labor that comes with being trans or actually transitioning. Our transgender colleagues deserve the support of their friends, their departments, and the mathematical community at large. I know that I am incredibly fortunate; I have had the privilege to work within departments that are affirming and am surrounded by a community that loves me as I am. Not every transgender person is so fortunate, and we, as the mathematical community, must do the hard work to bring in everyone.
Rosemarie Bongers (she/they) is an assistant teaching professor at UC Merced. Her email address is rosemariebongers@ucmerced.edu.
Article DOI: 10.1090/noti3006
Credits
Photo of Rosemarie Bongers is courtesy of Rosemarie Bongers.