Gender Policing in Bathrooms Makes Us All Less Safe. My Experience Is Proof

Yahoo

28-03-2025

Jonathan Kirn
In this op-ed, Stacey Monroe, a co-lead with the Trans Empowerment Collective, reflects on experiencing anti-trans harassment, linking the policing of bodies with increased violence.
While driving for Uber and Lyft earlier this year, I stopped at a QuikTrip in Texas to use the restroom. As I entered, I heard a voice from one of the stalls call out, 'Hello, I have a question for you.' Then she asked, 'Are you a woman or a man?'
The question hit me like a slap. I am a Latine woman of trans experience, and for much of my life, I've known my identity could make me a target. But I also have the privilege of what some call 'passing'—appearing to fit societal norms for my gender. I had not faced in-person harassment for years. My initial reaction was confusion: Why does this stranger care about my gender? My body tensed for a moment as my mind scrambled for a response. Before I could find the words, she began to harass me, spewing hateful, transphobic remarks. As far as I knew, the woman had never seen me (she was in the stall the whole time), but her attacks were extremely personal. Perhaps, our paths had crossed in the QuikTrip before I entered the restroom?
My instincts told me to document the interaction — for evidence and for my safety. The political climate against trans people had never felt more hostile. Trump was about to take office for a second term with promises to target trans people, amid a surge in hate crimes against us. I had no way of knowing what might happen. But I was so close to peeing myself. I went into a stall, locked the door, and pulled out my phone to start recording. Her voice was laced with disgust as she said, 'I want to know if you had a sex change and you're actually a man.' I kept asking her, 'Why are you asking?' She doubled down on her bigotry. 'I'm asking because that means you're stronger than I am and I want to know if you're a man or a woman,' she said. My heart pounded. The sheer absurdity of her reasoning left me stunned. Did she really believe my right to be in the restroom hinged on whether or not I was physically stronger than her?
Eventually, she walked out of the restroom and I could hear her yelling in the middle of the gas station where there were other customers, 'There's a man in the women's restroom!' It was humiliating, infuriating, and deeply unfair. Her transphobia wasn't just an attack on me; it was a reminder of how emboldened people feel to police others' identities.
The moment left me shaken and reflective. I had been singled out for simply existing. It also reaffirmed for me how policing bodies — especially those of marginalized people — makes everybody less safe. If this could happen to me in such an intimate space as a restroom, what other forms of violation might be normalized? This isn't just about restrooms. It's about control —about policing bodies and stripping people of their right to privacy and peace.
As Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (D-N.Y.) pointed out in November, the normalization of gender interrogation in public bathrooms doesn't make people more safe. In fact, it primes girls and women for assault. It's invasive and opens the door to inspection of people's bodies.
The policing of trans people in restrooms is part of a global pattern of policing bodies, borders, and identities. Undocumented people face dehumanization every day—from being labeled 'illegal' to being detained and deported from home and permanently separated from family. Black and Brown communities face disproportionate police violence and systemic racism. Disabled people, too, are often excluded, neglected, or abused in public spaces. These struggles are deeply tied together, not just in theory, but in the lived realities of those most affected by systemic violence. That is why, as a community organizer, I don't just fight for trans rights. We can't fight for trans rights without also fighting for immigrant rights, racial justice, disability rights, economic justice, for human rights overall. Anti-trans legislation often overlaps with anti-immigrant policies, and disabled people of color face compounded systemic barriers. These struggles stem from the same systems of oppression that seek to divide and dehumanize us. A fight for one must be a fight for all.
How You Can Make Bathrooms Safer for Trans and Nonbinary People
As activists like Miss Major Griffin-Gracy, Raquel Willis, and Angela Davis have long emphasized, our collective liberation is bound together. When one of us is not free, none of us are. Their work has consistently shown how interconnected struggles for gender justice, racial justice, and human rights fuel meaningful change.Just as trans people and other marginalized communities fight for their right to exist, Palestinians are fighting for their right to live with dignity, free from violence and discrimination. Immigrants in the U.S. are fighting to do the same. As are trans people, and all marginalized people. It's interconnected, and it's why our collective liberation is so important.
The obstacles we face are enormous. They can leave us feeling powerless. But we are not powerless. Even the smallest gestures can make a difference.
When I stepped out of the restroom, I saw the woman who had harassed me in her car. I knew it was her by the way she stared at me, her eyes full of disdain. I recorded her and her license plate. It gave me a sense of agency in an incident that otherwise made me feel helpless. In the video, you can see her backing up, her windows rolled up, but her mouth moving furiously. I couldn't hear her, but I could only imagine the hateful nonsense she was spewing. She flipped me off before driving away. My body was shaking.
But what happened next gave me a glimmer of hope. A QuikTrip employee approached me and asked if I wanted her to call the police. I told her no; I don't trust the police to handle situations like this in a way that prioritizes my safety or that of others. Police officers have a long history of targeting marginalized people—especially trans women of color. Instead, I suggested they ban her from the store her so she legally wouldn't be allowed back on the property. Then, the employee shared something personal: she has a son of trans experience, and seeing this blatant transphobia deeply upset her. She even offered me a free coffee—a small token, but one that felt like an act of solidarity in an otherwise awful moment.
What's particularly exhausting is how these moments stick with us. They're not just incidents of harassment; they're reminders that to some my identity is still up for debate, that my safety often hinges on the goodwill of strangers, and that existing in public as a person of trans experience comes with a cost. Now, every time I enter a public restroom, my heart races. I scan the space for the possibility that my presence will once again be questioned, that my identity will be debated as if it's something others have the right to decide. The fear lingers.
At the same time, the QuikTrip employee's kindness was a reminder of what solidarity looks like. She didn't just offer me a coffee; she shared her own connection to the trans community and expressed genuine empathy. Moments like these highlight how even little gestures of allyship can ripple outward, inspiring broader societal change. Her compassion reminded me that there are allies out there, and that we are not alone in this fight for trans liberation. She also set an example for those around her—her coworkers, customers, and anyone watching—that hate will not be tolerated, and that standing up for others matters.
Stories like mine matter. These moments—big or small—paint a picture of what it's like to live as a person of trans experience today. They show the challenges we face but also the allies who stand with us.
To my trans siblings: You are valid. You are loved. And we will keep fighting—together—for a world where our existence isn't questioned, policed, or attacked.
To allies and broader communities: It's not enough to be supportive in private. Speak up in public, disrupt hate, and challenge the systems that perpetuate violence. Businesses can take note—by adopting clear policies to prevent harassment of trans people in restrooms and training staff on how to support marginalized individuals, they can make public spaces safer for everyone. This fight needs all of us—because silence is complicity, and real change demands action.
Originally Appeared on Teen Vogue