Author Kacen Callender Says There's No Shame in Not Coming Out

"Celebration and self-love can be quiet, internal, without saying a word to the world."



In an unapologetic essay, National Book Award-winning author Kacen Callender poses the question: Does the expectation that a person should come out inadvertently create a narrative that people who don't come out are weak and dishonest?

We put a lot of pressure on queer and trans people to tell us who they really are. But Callender suggests that we should instead put more pressure on all people—particularly those who are straight or cisgendered—to create a space that's safer to do so, especially for people of color, who are more vulnerable to violence.

Coming out should, first and foremost, be a celebration of the self. Whether one does so publicly or privately is up to the individual. As Callender so eloquently puts it, "celebration and self-love can be quiet, internal, without saying a word to the world. A person can be honest about their truth and their identity with themselves, without ever needing to tell anyone else."

Ididn’t come out—not to everyone, anyway. I told one family member that I’m queer, trans, and nonbinary, but I didn’t want to tell anyone else. I didn’t know how they would react to my identities, especially when many people in my family have made anti-queer and anti-trans statements in the past.

Over the years, I spoke openly about my identities on social media and in interviews, wanting to create more visible representation for Black, queer, and transgender and/or nonbinary readers—but some family members inevitably found my interviews and asked questions: “What do they/them pronouns mean? What does it mean to be nonbinary?” Many showed their love and warm acceptance, but thinking back on this now, I realize that they found out about my identities. I technically never came out to them.

I write for primarily children and teens. In my middle-grade novel, King and the Dragonflies, the main character King decides that he doesn’t want to come out to everyone, either—only to the people he trusts and feels safe with the most. While writing King’s story, I wondered why there’s an expectation that people will eventually come out. I’m not knocking anyone who chooses to come out and celebrates that they’ve shared their identity—of course, after a long, hard-won history of fighting for LGBTQIA+ rights (and with so much more work to be done), this is a valid choice, too. But does the expectation mold another narrative that’s potentially harmful?

I’ve often noticed much of the pressure comes from inside the community. We say that a person is brave if they come out, even in the face of anti-queer and anti-trans bullies, and that a person is honest only when they’ve told the truth about their hidden, secret identity. But our secret identities aren’t framed like we’re superheroes in disguise—though maybe they should be. The assumption is that if we keep our identity a secret, this means that we’re ashamed of our true selves. I’ve even heard other queer people suggest that it’s our duty to come out—that it’s the only way to show pride for ourselves and our queer community.

What does this suggest about the people who choose not to come out? Are we liars, and are we cowards? Do we not have any pride? Writing for children means that I keep the safety of young readers in mind. How many young people are living with anti-queer, anti-trans family members, and would be in danger of being abandoned and thrown out of the house if they were to come out? LGBTQIA+ youth represent 40% of the houseless youth population. How many young people would be assaulted, physically and emotionally, if they came out in a place where they weren’t safe? When we imply that someone is brave and honest and strong for coming out, are we pressuring young people in unsafe environments to come out because they don’t want to be seen as weak cowards and liars?

"When we imply that someone is brave and honest and strong for coming out, are we pressuring young people in unsafe environments to come out because they don’t want to be seen as weak cowards and liars?"

I worry especially for young people who depend on adults for survival—but I worry for independent adults in unsafe situations, too, and the ways we shame each other and ourselves.

We absolutely should celebrate our identities and love who we are in any way that we can. But sometimes, celebration and self-love can be quiet, internal, without saying a word to the world. A person can be honest about their truth and their identity with themselves, without ever needing to tell anyone else.

When I’m out in public and I’m inevitably misgendered, nine times out of ten, I don’t correct anyone. I ignore strangers’ confusion as they say, “Sir—er, ma’am—er—sorry, what should I call you?” I have to admit, I absolutely love confusing people’s assumptions of gender identities, but if speaking and interaction are involved, I don’t always feel safe enough to say, “I’m nonbinary, and I use they/them pronouns.”

Trans people, and especially the vulnerable group of Black trans women and trans femmes, are murdered every year at extreme rates. Many queer and trans people are and have been historically assaulted and killed for “hiding their secret.” I can feel the stares and sometimes even hear the whispers of strangers I pass by on the street: “Is that a man or a woman?” I so wish I was in a world where I’d be safe enough to turn with a smile and say, “Neither!” Instead, I speed up my walk, thinking of the too many stories I’ve read about people who were attacked and killed because strangers wondered similar questions.

There’s a cultural shame for not wanting to tell others about my identities—an expectation that I should be “brave” in the face of potential danger. But why isn’t the responsibility placed on making this a world where I can safely exist?

There’s been a lot of talk in the queer community around the phrase coming out and the implications that we’re coming out of the closet (I’m assuming the very same shadowy closet that’s hiding skeletons). Many have suggested another phrase instead: inviting in. If I tell anyone about my identities, it’s because I’m inviting them in—sharing a part of me with someone I love and trust and feel safe with…not out of obligation, but because I want to.

It’s funny: I’m all right with declaring to the world in an article like this that I’m queer, trans, and nonbinary, but there are still a number of family members that I will not tell personally, knowing that I don’t feel safe with them. I’ve dealt with the anti-trans rhetoric of trolls online, but it hurts more when a family member, someone who should love you, spews the same sort of hatred. There are still a number of people in my life who I haven’t invited in. I probably never will.

And I don’t think the responsibility should be on me to tell them. Instead, I think the responsibility is on others around me: to prove to me that they are safe people who will not dehumanize me, who will understand that I’m worthy of the respect and love that every human being in the world deserves.

Society still needs to prove that it’s safe by creating systemic change that offers stronger protections for trans and nonbinary people, with more support to battle houselessness and lack of stable job opportunities (especially when compounding intersectional identities of race—a major reason why Black trans women and femmes are so vulnerable). Culturally, we need to end the anti-queer and anti-trans rhetoric that constantly slips into media and everyday discussions on gender identity and expectations of gender roles, and the incorrect belief that biology equates to gender, or that biology is even binary. (It’s not.)

Individually, a person can prove their safety to me by educating themselves about gender and sexual identity with resources through media or information online. A person can prove their safety by being open to hearing with an open heart, processing my words and the words of any person this society was systemically designed against, instead of defensively readying the reasons they believe I and others are wrong. A person can prove they’re safe by showing they are more interested in change, whether they receive credit for helping others or not—that performative allyship to soothe their ego is not the ultimate goal. A person can prove they’re safe by treating me with empathy, without needing to have lived my experiences.

"If I tell anyone about my identities, it’s because I’m inviting them in—sharing a part of me with someone I love and trust and feel safe with."

There isn’t enough space in this article to break down the ways this world can prove that it’s safe for me to exist and live in and love my Black, queer, trans body—how the world can and needs to change so that people like me can walk down the street with a smile, shouting our identities, if that’s what we choose. Because, hey, even if this world was safe for us, we might still decide that no one else needs to know about our identities—that we can smile in the mirror and know our self-love and self-pride is and always will be enough.

Why the Author Kacen Callender Chooses to Not Come Out