Living on the Northern Line seemed like a great idea when my group of friends and I were choosing our first place to live after graduating from college.
After a short walk through the local park, we reached the very end of one of the longest metro lines in the capital.
For the first time, London was within reach – but excitement quickly replaced fear.
So much so that I stopped going to work because I was afraid of the commute.
At the time, my gender expression was deeply inspired by the power of the 80s and the confidence that androgyny gave me. However, being confined to a small subway car often became an overwhelming experience – especially when I was around people who didn't agree with my appearance.
People stared, pointed or whispered, and even took photos without my consent. It became an everyday occurrence. Every morning and evening when I traveled, I prepared myself not only for rush-hour lines, but also for my security and privacy to be compromised.
Soon, if it's already dark or getting late, I will completely avoid getting on the subway after leaving verbally attacked and followed.
When this happened, there was usually a scattering of people on board, but they either had their heads down or were asleep. It just seemed to be the case.
No one looked up to see if I was okay. Headphones firmly on, ignoring has become common.
Even during rush hour, seats on both sides were empty because people didn't want to be associated with an visibly queer person on board.
It made me feel invisible and hyper-visible at the same time. It was dehumanizing, and yet after a while it no longer seemed abnormal. Although that didn't make it any less terrifying.
How a non-binary person public discourse about “what it means” to be non-binary created a social atmosphere in which strangers thought it was fair game to poke and prod at me to find out who I was.
Their curiosity was no longer something they could keep to themselves, and I realized that public transportation gave them a chance to do so without shame.
Over time it started to take its toll and I stopped going out. I didn't leave the house, and if I did, I didn't use public transport. This meant I quit a job that required travel and social plans with friends.
As such, my mental health suffered and my friends noticed a difference in me. I didn't want to subject them to the secondary embarrassment of witnessing the street harassment I had encountered.
On the rare occasions when I did dare, I drank to feel “confident” enough to stand up to people who would be violent. Then it became a self-destructive cycle that I needed help to get out of.
After seeing several trans and non-binary people create GoFundMe pages to help with private transportation, I decided to give it a try. I shared it on social media and the support I received was amazing.
People donated so that I could afford taxis, which in turn provided me with newfound freedom. During the trip, for the first time in a long time, I was able to let go of my fear and felt safe re-entering the world.
I finally felt like there was a way to avoid street harassment that wouldn't cause me to shrink into an inauthentic version of myself.
It only lasted a few months and believe me, not everyone was so nice.
Anti-transgender people started tearing me down, saying it was narcissistic and fraudulent.
So, when I heard about the recently reported 20% increase in hate crime on public transport against women and girls from 2023, my heart sank.
I know the fear and pain these women would feel just wanting to get from point A to point B – it's something no one should ever have to experience.
I also thought about transgender and gender non-conforming people, who are also a group of people afraid to use the bus or subway.
According to research, one in five LGBTQIA+ people also admitted to feeling unsafe when using public transport in London. Additionally, almost four in five people believe that it is dangerous for them to look or act visibly LGBTQIA+.
It reminded me how interconnected our desire for freedom from male violence is, and that we must take care of each other now more than ever if we are to feel safe living our lives.
Not long after I was gratefully using private transportation, the Covid 19 pandemic hit. Suddenly everyone was afraid of public transportation, and the experience away from any public interaction became a chance to reset.
Coming back out into the world, I was nervous about how I would feel about jumping underground, but during isolation I grew into myself in a way I hadn't before.
My gender expression changed, becoming less feminine and more masculine. I felt a confidence in myself that I hadn't seen before, so reemerging as a different version of myself meant I could start over.
I felt stronger as I stepped onto the train car, not because I was no longer eye-catching, but because I used isolation as a chance to truly figure out who I was and how I wanted to share it with the world.
But that doesn't mean I forgot how I felt.
I recently saw a woman on a train sitting alone with a group of soccer fans diagonally opposite her. It was already late, so I knew it would be the height of fear. So I sat down across from the woman and pulled out one earphone to keep my mind clear and make sure she wasn't being targeted for harassment.
I wanted to be present in that space to make sure I could provide her with an allyship if she needed it, just like I wanted people to do for me.
Whether it's talking to a vulnerable passenger or noting what stop you're at and getting off with them to see if they want to report the incident to staff, these little moments can make a difference.
We must care for each other no matter where we travel – in life or just on our train ride together – because allyship should be something that becomes second nature to us.
Despite our differences, our agitators are often the same.
Do you have a story you'd like to share? Contact jess.austin@metro.co.uk.
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