In an open letter to the academic community in the summer of 2009, scholar Eve Tuck urged educators to reconsider the impact of what she called “damage-centered research” — work that focuses on peoples’ pain and brokenness to hold those in power accountable for their oppression.

It may be well-intentioned, she wrote, but this type of research “reinforces and reinscribes a one-dimensional notion of people as depleted, ruined, and hopeless.” Instead, she said, academics should seek to understand the complexity, contradiction, and self-determination of the people they study. Focus on their desires, not their damage, she said.

As Tuck wrote those words — seated at a little table in her Hudson Valley, New York, home — a young tomboy in rural Pennsylvania looked up at the night sky, caught a glimpse of a shooting star and made a wish.

I hope I wake up tomorrow and I’m a boy.

I’m David Hunt. Eli Butler’s wish did come true — eventually. The Pennsylvania tomboy is now a 22-year-old transgender man, living in New York City, and conducting academic research of his own. Research centered on the joy of being trans masculine. Research influenced by the scholarship of Eve Tuck and inspired by the trans masculine activists who paved his way.

“I no longer want damage to be the focus of research about trans communities,” Butler said in his senior thesis for a degree in peace and justice studies. “I want to shift the research narrative towards possibility.” I sat down with Butler to discuss his life, his research and the possibilities of the future. 

“I love being trans. Like, I've enjoyed this journey. I think that life is like, and for everybody is, is just kind of learning more about yourself every day and like making changes in your life that accompany that.   So I'm like still, still figuring out who I am as a trans person every day.”

That’s not to say the Pace University undergraduate’s life is free from oppression. On the day we talked, the National Park Service was busy rewriting history, erasing the story of the transgender activists who led the 1969 protests at the Stonewall Inn — what is now the Stonewall National Monument — less than two miles from the Pace University campus in New York.

But the Trump administration’s efforts to legally extinguish the visibility, even the very existence of transgender people, has galvanized the community. More than a thousand protesters rallied at the historic site on Feb. 14 to decry the park service’s erasure of trans history.

It seemed fitting that this demonstration of loud and proud queer community should happen while Butler and I discussed the focus of his senior thesis: community building by trans masculine people — past and present. 

In researching his thesis, at the New York Public Library and in archives of transgender publications and organizations, Butler discovered that trans masculine community building has a rich and layered history going back generations.

“I think that like a lot of times we think that trans people were all underground until the two thousands or until the late, you know, late nineties. But that was not the case. In reading these newsletters, I was like, wow, they've been telling us that we haven't existed until now. Like we have existed and been loud about it for, for decades now.”

The literature review section of Butler’s thesis is a history lesson chronicling the contributions of trans men who are largely unknown and unappreciated today, including Steve Dain, who made headlines in the late 1970s after transitioning and being fired from his job as a public high school teacher, and Mario Martino, who established a “counseling service for trans men” called Labyrinth, in 1968. 

By the 1980s, Butler discovered, many other trans male community leaders, including Jude Patton and Jeff S. (in Los Angeles), Johnny Science (in New York City), and Jason Cromwell (in Seattle), began to assemble localized support networks and community groups, appear on television talk shows, and publish newsletters to provide resources and spaces where other trans men could find support.

Bet Power “founded the East Coast FTM Group, the first female-to-male only support group in the Eastern United States while another pioneer, Lou Sullivan, launched a quarterly publication for trans men, the FTM Newsletter, in San Francisco in 1987.

In the 1990s, activist Loren Cameron published Body Alchemy, a book containing photographs, quotes, and stories detailing the everyday lives of trans men, including Cameron himself. “The work would stand as an important archival piece for trans life,” Butler wrote, and a symbol of a “new wave of visibility” for trans men. 

“It was really heartwarming to me to see the ways that different trans guys talked about themselves and talked about the other trans guys that they were with how similar it was to experiences that I've had and other people that have had. I just think there's so many similarities, even though we're living in such different political climates and, and like, just different cultural times. I think there's so many things that we can look back on and take inspiration from on how to organize now and, and how to, like, how to find our community and, and surround ourselves with, with our supportive community now.”

To learn more about community building by trans masculine men today, Butler interviewed three trans men: a licensed therapist in a Southern state who facilitates a virtual trans masculine support group, the leader of the Louisville Transmasculine Alliance in Kentucky, and a counselor for the Virginia Tech chapter of Delta Lambda Phi, a fraternity for gay, bisexual, transgender, and progressive men.

Among Butler’s findings, masculinity can be problematic.

“I see a lot of stuff online from people who are like, you're going to the dark side, like when, when you're, when you're, you know, transitioning into a masculine identity, like you're going to the dark side, there's a lot of like you, like, men are, men are bad and, and you're becoming a bad, a bad man kind of thing. And so I think a lot of masculine people like feel discouraged by that. And, and they want to to be around people who also see masculinity more in a more positive light. And I talk about that a lot in my, in my paper. I think that like, trans mask, people are trying to redefine masculinity in this non-toxic way, whereas like, people who, and, and, you know, growing up as a woman, I have had bad experiences with masculine people. But I, I more think that's how people harness their masculinity or, or how, like they are Yeah. How they harness their masculinity versus masculinity as a whole. Like, I don't see masculinity as an evil thing but I think a lot of people do. And so trans men are looking for other trans men who want to be masculine and who are in, in whatever way that means for them too. But they're not like demonizing becoming a masculine person. Trans guys who get top surgery want to be around people who understand what it's like to get top surgery, et cetera, et cetera. I think people just wanna like, feel surrounded by people who understand their specific situation.”

Butler found that community building evolved as a survival tactic to create spaces of support and understanding among an astoundingly underrepresented and isolated group. And he demonstrated that community building is affected by differences in geography and organizing styles. 

There are similarities between all of the groups for sure. Um, but you know, based on the different focuses of these groups, you're having different, you're having different community building experiences. Um, so like one of these was this like trans-masculine frat. Um, and so, you know, building community in a frat is so much different than building community in a support group. Um, like you're talking about different things, you're focusing on different things, but there is like this general, um, there's this general like relation between everybody, even these groups that are so different in how they go about building community, they are talking about and focusing on similar things. They're just going about it in different ways.

A nearly universal advantage of community building, Butler found, is its role in healing trauma. “Trauma isolates; the group re-creates a sense of belonging,” Butler explained, referencing the work of American psychiatrist Judith Lewis Herman.

I read a lot of books from therapists and psychiatrists about how building community heals trauma, which I think is especially important in the trans community … even if you're a trans person that hasn't experienced any kind of personal transphobia, you know, you're living in this society, which is just violently transphobic. And so building community like allows you to heal those wounds in a certain way … you're now in a place where people understand you, they understand your trauma. Maybe they've been through similar things, or in the broader, like, in the broader way. They understand exactly the feelings that you're feeling. And you can process that trauma together. And that is, that is the healing power of community.”

You’re listening to This Way Out: The International LGBTQ Radio Magazine. I’m David Hunt, continuing my conversation with Eli Butler about his research into trans masculine community building.

Butler’s academic work is informed by his personal journey as a transgender man. That journey began at an early age.

I actually realized I was trans when I was in the fourth grade. I think I was around eight years old. I changed my name. I went through like kind of a social transition, which is, you know, kind of the most that a lot of younger kids can do. I wore, you know, more masculine clothing.  I went by a different name, I went by different pronouns. I grew up in rural Pennsylvania. But my parents are pretty open minded in comparison to a lot of adults who lived in our town. And, you know, they kind, they embraced this, but I think they thought it was more temporary. Um, which, you know, is really common for trans kids is that like, it's a phase. Like you'll, you know, she'll grow out of this kind of thing. And so I was mostly regarded as a tomboy, um, even though I was very, very determined in my want to, to be considered a boy.

You know, my mom was like, I'll, I'll buy you the masculine clothing. Like, I'll do that whole thing. Just make sure that you, like your shoe laces are pink, just so that people know that you're like still a girl and not, you know, you're just a tomboy like, kind of thing. And I think, I mean, I have books like Get All About Me kind of books when I was a kid that's like, are you a girl or a boy? And I wrote in tomboy instead of Girl or Boy.

I was just a tomboy, et cetera, et cetera. And so I went back to living as a woman and identifying as a woman until around covid and Covid was really the time when I had time to sit with myself. And I feel like this happened to a lot of people, but in so many different ways, not just with trans stuff. It was like the first time you were forced to be alone with your thoughts and really like, reflect on how you see yourself, how you see the world. And that's when I realized that I was non-binary. And so I came out as non-binary and I was, you know, trans like trans mask non-binary at that point. And then when I finally came to college, I realized that I was more MAs, more binary masculine than I thought I was at first.

And so coming to college was when I started my medical transition when I was a freshman. I was, I was 18 and went on hormones. I, you know, then got top surgery. And being in New York City has like allowed me to embrace my trans identity, I think, in a more authentic way than it would've if I was anywhere else.

But even in New York, a metropolis with one of the world’s largest LGBTQ populations, Butler discovered something was missing in his life.

I knew very little queer people, let alone very little trans people where I grew up and moving to New York, I was expecting it to be this, like, I mean, I think of New York in terms of like the gay revolution of, of the seventies like expecting it to be like full of activities and clubs and groups of people that just like were so like out and proud about their queerness or their transness. And I, I came to New York and to a liberal arts college thinking that's how it would be. It would, I would find my people who understood me and, and it would just be so easy. And it was not, and I actually found a lack of transmasculine, specifically groups in New York City.

It was that experience — the longing for community — that led Butler to focus his senior thesis on trans masculine community building. In doing that, he discovered the challenges as well as the joys of creating change.

“One of my interviewees said something that really struck me. And, and this is how I think of how strengthening community needs to be now which is that community is a two-way street. And so, like you were saying, you know, when everything is good, you maybe don't necessarily feel like you need to, like, it's necessary to have community anymore. It's like, I'm good. Like I'm, I'm fine. And, and like, you're fine and you're fine. Like, I don't need to be relying on people, you know what I mean?”

“And then it's like when the shit hits the fan, then that's when you're like, Hey, does, like, can anyone help? Kind of thing. And so one of my interviewees is like, community needs to be a two-way street where, you know, you are not just coming to the community or trying to find a community when you need help. You are there all the time. You are there to support people when they need help. And then so that when you need help, you can, and you can come to them. But, you know, I think like in, I think some of this is, is just the way that the culture has become now. But there's this like kind of like drop what doesn't serve you kind of mentality. And so I think that people have a unrealistic expectation of community and how like, it's gonna be perfect.”

“It's not gonna be messy. Like it's, it's not gonna be messy. Like people will be able to be there all the time, and I will be able to be there all the time. Like, it's, I think that like, community is messy and I think that's what gives it, it's, it's kind of quality is that, you know, it's people, like people are, are trying to figure out how to communicate with each other and how to support each other in so many different ways. Everyone needs to be supported in a different way. Everyone has different accessibility needs, whatnot. And, and I think like sticking through the hard times is the most important.”

Now that his senior thesis is done, Butler has the time to focus on some community building of his own. He’s spearheading a project to create a quilt of trans joy — a project inspired by The Norfolk Trans Joy Community Quilt, a project led by partners Beau Brannick and Alice Bigsby-Bye in the United Kingdom.

“It's a quilt, a textile art project, um, where they invite trans people and allies to come and make a quilt square of what trans joy looks like in their life. So, you know, some people were talking about their religion and like, their intersections between their religion and their transness is what like gives them joy. People were talking about like their family accepting them, gave them trans joy, that kind of thing. And so they make a, a quilt or they make a quilt square, and then they put the quilt squares all together to make this big quilt, and they bring it to pride and they bring it to like, like vigils and like community events, stuff like that.

Um, and I just loved that idea. And so I, you know, communicated with the original creators of that to bring it to my university. And so this semester, that's what I'm doing. I am holding workshops where trans people, trans students can come in and, you know, their allies, their loved ones or their friends can come in, make a quilt square, then it's gonna be this big quilt of like trans joy, um, and it's gonna be put up in the LBTQ center at the school and whatnot. So it's like, it's half this like community building, um, and art focused kind of project. And it's also half like a political resistance kind of message, um, because, you know, Trump is targeting younger trans people and especially L-G-B-T-Q students at, at schools in higher education. And, um, so like, this is kind of a direct, a direct resistance to that, but centering that, the joy, the trans joy aspect, the, the pleasure and like the, the happiness. 

At the end of the day, Butler explained, building community is about finding your people — and finding your joy.

“I can't imagine being a young trans person right now, looking at the news and being like, wow, like my identity is all based in suffering.”

“Because that's, a lot of times what it seems like is, is wow. Like there's nothing good about being trans. And I've seen stuff like this. I, I've had younger trans people, like in my life, say this to me, where they're like, can you, you seem like you like being trans. Like, can you tell me that it gets better?”

“I like want to be living proof to younger trans people that like you can be trans and love being trans and be proud of it, and have joy in your life and find community that also like centers that joy.”

I’d like to thank Eli Butler for sharing his story for this program. Butler graduates this year from Pace University, where’s he’s majoring in women and gender studies and peace and justice studies with a minor in queer studies. For This Way Out, I’m David Hunt.