Coming Up to and Above The Surface: Finding Strength in My Non-Binary Identity

By Jayce Tyler

The first time I “came out,” it was more of being pulled out. My parents had just discovered I was gay and the world turned upside down. My father was angry with me, but I couldn’t understand why because he has a lesbian sister and a gay brother. My mother simply ignored me. I spent the next few years silencing the things about myself that I knew my parents would never understand. 

I was born and raised in Houston, Texas. At the time, I didn’t think much about how that would affect my identity as a queer person—mostly because, after my parents’ reaction, I decided I would never come out again. I went through high school pining after one girl, but after my parents outed her to her parents, she wanted nothing to do with me.

My senior year of high school, I realized that there was a disconnect between being born a girl and feeling like one. I started wearing wool sweaters and beanies—even in the Houston heat—just to hide my chest and the length of my hair. I was unidentifiable as a boy or girl, and that felt right to me. The first time I stumbled across the term “non-binary,” I couldn’t believe how much it described me. I started asking my friends to call me Jayce and to use they/them pronouns to refer to me. It made me feel like I was seen, when my entire life I’d felt like a shadow. But as much as I wanted to tell my parents, I couldn’t. I didn’t feel safe.

By the time I went to college, beginning at the University of Houston in Victoria (UHV), I’d convinced myself that I was bisexual. I was so afraid of dating girls that I went through tons of abusive relationships with men—all because my parents viewed my attraction to them as “normal.” I didn’t correct people on my pronouns, even my partners, because I was terrified. I was the only trans person on campus (that I knew of), and I didn’t want to expose myself and face potential negative reactions from others. Plus, before Orange is the New Black aired and I was introduced to Laverne Cox, I had never heard of a Black trans person. And so, I sat in a hetero–passing relationship for four years with a man who I was convinced I’d marry because he’d met my parents and they liked him. It wasn’t until I had a mental breakdown, where I ended up leaving Victoria, that I realized that all of my relationships had common denominators: me, men, and “passing.” 

When I enrolled at the University of Houston’s main campus, I made it my mission to maintain my identity as Jayce, pronouns and all. I emailed my pronouns to my professors and even shyly stood around whenever the LGBTQ Resource Center was out tabling. I was still too afraid to be part of the community, but knowing the Center wasn’t far away was a beacon of hope.

The summer of 2018, I thought about coming out to my parents as non-binary. They’d noticed when people sometimes called me Jayce or my name was listed as such on paperwork, but they’d never grilled me about it. Then, we had a big fight that led to me being temporarily homeless. My family had, once again, made me feel unsafe and unloved. Fortunately, I remembered my connections with the LGBTQ Resource Center on campus. I reached out to the Center’s director, Lorraine, and she and the LGBTQ Alumni Association worked together to secure temporary housing for me while I waited for the fall semester to start. 

Besides having one or two gay friends, I’d never really been connected to the LGBTQ community. So when Lorraine and the Alumni Association helped me, I felt like I was a part of something more. Here were people like me, of different identities and who knew nothing about me, but who still cared enough to help me. It was like I’d been drowning and the hands that they extended pulled me up to and above the surface.

When the semester started, I decided it was time to either burn the frayed ropes of the bridge that connected me to my parents, or attempt to repair them. I put my parents and other immediate family in a group text and told them what I’d been hiding for three years: I am Jayce, a non-binary person. I use they/them pronouns. I invited them to ask questions and gave them an ultimatum—either stick with me or get used to never hearing from me. When they replied, it seemed like we’d reached a breakthrough. Their responses were indifferent, but to me, that was more than enough. I could be myself without having to hide.

Unfortunately, I had put too much faith in my family. My mother tried, but eventually went back to calling me by my birth name. My father told me he would never call me Jayce because it wasn’t the name he’d given me. In general, my family struggled to use the correct pronouns before they gave up completely. I was back to square one. 

At the same time, I was struggling to define my sexuality. I felt like I was a lesbian, but if I didn’t identify as a woman, how could I be? I felt guilty for all the men I’d dated and felt like I didn’t belong. 

It took lots of self-isolation and struggles with my mental health before I put my foot down. I was going to be a non-binary lesbian, and I wasn’t going to let anyone hold my past or my identity against me. As for my family, I’d never felt a part of them anyway, so where was the harm in cutting them off?

I’m 22 now and neither my mother nor my father are in my immediate familial circle. My friends and peers all use my correct pronouns and have never known me as anything but Jayce. I have an amazing job at the LGBTQ Resource Center, working with the people who gave me a chance. I am finally allowed to be myself and do work for the community that took me in without any questions.

I am Jayce, and after all that pain, I’m doing okay.