By Artemis T. Douglas


It’s a beautiful, wet morning in Dublin. There’s just enough precipitation to feel like the sky is spitting at me, but it’s not fully raining.

As I start this article, the sun is not quite up. This is not where I’d ever thought I’d be, but I’m loving (most of) it.

More importantly, I am okay- I am safe.

I couldn’t say the same last year, nor could I say this about the version of me that didn’t pull the trigger on the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

I won’t talk around it any longer- I wasn’t safe in the United States. My research, my work, were not either.

My research highlights and centers trans women, my journalism is trans focused, and my life is that of an impoverished transsexual woman. By discourse-based “wisdom” I am either lying about being poor, or I am among the only lucky ones and am evil for using that luck to become safe.

The discourse is wrong.

However, today as always, I am not worried about myself. I am worried about my sisters, the dolls of history- and you, the reader of this article- whether or not you consider yourself a doll.

Today, I am uninterested in disproving notions that I am somehow evil for getting out- my colleague Jane already addressed this with her recent opinion piece.

Rather, I am interested in demonstrating that you can get out.

To do so, I talked to another trans woman, Cirice, who got out. I only had two questions for her.

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