Around 11:55 pm on Saturday, November 19, 2022—just moments before midnight on National Transgender Day of Remembrance—someone walked into Club Q, a queer nightclub in Colorado Springs, and opened fire. The shooter killed five people and wounded at least 19 others before being physically overpowered by club patrons, especially army veteran Richard Fierro and an anonymous trans woman.
A few days later, the brutality of the shooting, the heroism of the patrons, and the vicious queerphobia implicit in much of the public response were all briefly overshadowed by an attention-grabbing headline: in a court filing, the shooter’s legal defense team claimed that the shooter was nonbinary and used they/them pronouns.
This claim was met with suspicion. Many LGBTQ folks were quick to point out that the shooter had never publicly claimed nonbinary identity or used they/them pronouns before. They also noted that the shooter had a record of expressing homophobia and anti-queer rhetoric. Some suggested that the identity claim was an attempt to avoid charges of a hate crime. Others, such as trans scholar Noah Zazanis, argued that it was an attempt to “prove a transphobic point.” All seemed to agree that the shooter’s identity claim was not to be trusted.
In response, some raised charges of hypocrisy. The right to self-determination is a central principle of trans-positive ways of doing gender. Trans and nonbinary people famously defer to one another about identity claims. For example, we often say that anyone can be nonbinary—that you don’t have to look or act a certain way to claim a nonbinary identity. On a very thin interpretation, these statements advocate for blanket identity validation: they suggest that any nonbinary identity claim should be immediately and uncritically accepted. If this is right, the argument goes, then trans rights advocates would have no grounds on which to question any nonbinary identity claim—including the shooter’s.
For nonbinary people, this conversation is exhausting. As we process the fear and grief that follow a(nother) brutal public attack on queer and trans people for having the audacity to exist, and grapple with the queerphobia and transphobia that makes those attacks possible, we are reminded that, paradoxically, our existence itself is consistently erased, the reality of our lives denied. Meanwhile, to question a claim to trans or nonbinary identity—even a transparently ill-intentioned one, made by someone who literally massacred us—might seem to cede ground to those who attack our legitimacy. I’m reminded of the old transphobic Internet meme: “I sexually identify as an attack helicopter.” This kind of claim doesn’t aim to express a genuine identity, but rather to force trans people into a catch-22: either accept this patently absurd identity at face value, and thus accept an equally absurd view about what gender is, or reject it, and abandon the stance that people’s claims about their own genders should be taken seriously.
This is a false dichotomy. To take someone’s claims seriously isn’t the same as uncritically accepting anything they say. Rather, the opposite: taking someone’s claims seriously involves holding them responsible for what they say. Talia Bettcher has argued that trans communities aim at the ideal of first-person authority about gender. As an ethical principle, first-person authority means treating someone as the authority about their own values and attitudes. This involves having certain rights, but also having certain responsibilities; it involves owing things to others in one’s community. People are accountable for the claims they make about themselves, including claims about their gender. They should not make inappropriate, irrational, or insincere claims, and they can be called out if they do. In turn, others should treat them as having the authority to make those kinds of claims. People have a right to self-determination—they have a right to tell us who they are rather than be told who they are—but, in turn, they are held responsible for what they say.
On this view, saying “I am nonbinary” is a bit like saying “I am your friend.” If I say “I am your friend,” I am claiming to have some values and attitudes. Other things being equal, we treat people as the authorities about their own values and attitudes. However, we can also hold them accountable if they say things that are inconsistent or inappropriate. If I say “I am your friend” but I have recently been telling lies about you, you might reasonably respond that the values and attitudes I am claiming are inconsistent with my behavior.
People also sometimes make claims for the wrong reasons. If you and I are arguing because I have lied about you, I might say “I am your friend!” in an attempt to derail your legitimate points about my bad behavior. You might challenge my claim on various grounds, including my timing in making it. Notice, however, that your challenge is compatible with my claim being sincere. I might really mean to be your friend, and still fail, for reasons that have nothing to do with my values or intentions. To determine that, we would need to know a lot about my inner thoughts and feelings—information that might be difficult or impossible to come by. But that’s not the point. The point is about what my claim is doing.
In 2017, during the early days of the #MeToo movement, Anthony Rapp publicly claimed that Kevin Spacey had sexually assaulted him when he was fourteen years old. Spacey’s response first distanced himself from Rapp’s claim by embedding his apology in a conditional: “if I did behave as he then describes, I owe him the sincerest apology.” Spacey concluded with a statement coming out as gay.
As in the case of the Club Q Shooter, Spacey’s identity claim received widespread condemnation from LGBTQ folks. However, unlike the case of the Club Q shooter, little if any of that criticism expressed doubts about the legitimacy of Spacey’s identity. Rather, the responses criticized his timing. For example, Wanda Sykes tweeted that he was using this revelation to “hide under the rainbow.” That is, no one questioned whether Spacey’s claim was true, or even whether it was sincere. They only questioned what he was doing in making it.
There are many important differences between these cases. For example, it’s been suggested that Spacey’s sexuality was an open secret in Hollywood, while there is considerably less evidence for the shooter’s gender. (Recently, after charges were filed, the shooter’s legal team began using he/him pronouns.) However, the response to Spacey’s claim can help us see how to handle the latter case. Legitimate doubts about the sincerity of a claim to nonbinary identity might, in the wrong hands, be used to undermine the right to self-determination. Moreover, trying to determine whose identity is real or sincere is uncertain ground; we don’t have reliable access to people’s inner thoughts and feelings. But we don’t need to play that game, because that’s not the point. What matters to our evaluation of an identity claim is what the claim does.
Recently, Quill Kukla and Mark Lance have argued that gender ascriptions—e.g. statements like “I am a man” or “They are nonbinary”—function as performative utterances. Performative utterances are statements that, in being said, perform actions. If I am your boss and I say “You’re fired,” I’m not stating a fact. I’m doing something; I’m firing you. This isn’t the kind of speech act that can be true or false. However, it can still be evaluated on other grounds. Do I have the authority to fire you? Is my utterance appropriate? Kukla and Lance argue that gender ascriptions aim to position someone within gendered social norms. To say “I am a man” is to request or demand that others view and treat me as a man, apply masculine norms to me, grant me access to gendered social spaces like men’s restrooms, and so forth. If this is right, then statements like “I am a man” should not be evaluated as true or false, but on other grounds. Do I have the authority to do that? Is my utterance appropriate?
The right to self-determination tells us that people should have the authority to ascribe gender to themselves; they should have first-person authority over their gender. However, trans people’s self-ascriptions of gender are regularly and systematically treated as inappropriate because we are not treated as having first-person authority over our genders. Evaluating a claim about trans or nonbinary identity is therefore a delicate business. It’s not enough to say that the Club Q shooter’s claim is inappropriate. We need to be able to say what would make such a claim appropriate or inappropriate. On what grounds can we say that some self-ascriptions of gender are better or worse than others?
The answer is not buried in the recesses of individual psychology. Rather, it lies in the ethical relationships between an individual’s claims and their community. The principle of first-person authority is not about individual freedom and self-expression. It is about being treated as the kind of moral agent who can stand up for their own commitments, values, and actions. To make claims about one’s gender is to invoke a set of rights and duties relative to other people, and to take responsibility for the implications of that claim.
Trans and nonbinary gender identities don’t arise out of nowhere. They are not ahistorical anomalies, nor are they personal feelings that are disconnected from social reality. Our genders are embedded in rich histories and connected to complex communal practices and norms. When trans and nonbinary people claim certain gender identities and ask to be viewed and treated in certain ways, we’re not making things up—any more than anyone claiming or doing any gender is making things up. We’re drawing on the social reality of trans history and community. That history and community prioritizes the right to self-determination and the principle of first-person authority. But these are not thin slogans that confer legitimacy on anyone claiming any gender for any reason. They are robust principles that guide our lives and our actions.
“Attack helicopter”-style jokes, therefore, fail as self-ascriptions of gender because they act as if these histories and social practices do not exist. Given a minimal understanding of trans existence, the joke falls flat. There are simply no real social practices on which “attack helicopter” means anything; there are no values and commitments attached to that identity; and, as far as I can tell, no one is actually working to build them.
The Club Q shooter’s claim was slightly different. “Nonbinary” does have a real social meaning. But that meaning arises from communities the shooter has actively tried to destroy. The shooter’s attacks on queer and trans people create an unbridgeable gap between the identity claim and the social practices which would make that claim possible. Suppose that, as I am actively trying to murder you, I shout “I am your friend!” You might reasonably take exception to that. It’s tough to claim allegiance to something one seeks to eliminate.
Robin Dembroff argues that nonbinary is a political identity; to be nonbinary is to reject the mandatory two-gender system. But “political” doesn’t mean “insubstantial.” Rather, the opposite; as the old feminist slogan goes, the personal is political. Politics involves both values and actions, and, unfortunately, sometimes actions conflict with professed values.
As noted above, trans and nonbinary people often say that anyone can be nonbinary—that you don’t have to look or act a certain way to claim a nonbinary identity. Like gender ascriptions, these claims are performatives. Specifically, they are invitations. There are communities outside of colonialist gender binaries, and you are welcome to come and see if they are right for you. There are (ideally) no dress codes for entry; that’s kind of the point. But being a member of a community means standing in certain kinds of moral relationships to others. It means being accountable for the values you claim to hold. And some actions are incompatible with the values that make nonbinary identity possible.
The Women in Philosophy series publishes posts on women in the history of philosophy, posts on issues of concern to women in the field of philosophy, and posts that put philosophy to work to address issues of concern to women in the wider world. If you are interested in writing for the series, please contact the Series Editor Adriel M. Trott or the Associate Editor Alida Liberman.
Rowan Bell
Rowan Bell is a postdoctoral scholar in Philosophy at the University of Missouri, and in the summer of 2023 they will take up a position as Assistant Professor in Philosophy and Genders, Sexualities, & Social Change at the University of Guelph. They work primarily in feminist and trans philosophy, metaethics, and social epistemology.
