Using the bathroom shouldn’t require a threat assessment.

I live in Seaside Heights, in Ocean County, New Jersey.

New Jersey is generally considered a liberal state, especially when it comes to LGBTQIA2S+ protections. We have protections for transgender people. We have protections surrounding restroom access. Pride events happen throughout the state every year, and it feels like that list keeps getting longer.

On paper, this should be one of the easier places in America for someone like me to exist.

But New Jersey is not politically uniform.

And Ocean County is very different from the image people outside New Jersey might have of the state.

Ocean County is red. Conservatism isn’t some distant political concept here. It is part of the culture around me. It is visible in the signs people put in their yards, the things people say online, the arguments at local government meetings, and sometimes in the policies our elected officials pursue.

In Toms River, the county seat, the mayor has publicly pushed back against efforts to provide housing and services for people experiencing homelessness. The town even became embroiled in a fight involving eminent domain after a local church proposed expanding services for people in need.

And yet, we also have Pride.

Pride Exists Here, Too

Exit 82 Theatre Company in Toms River holds Downtown Toms River Pride every year.

It isn’t hidden away somewhere.

It’s downtown.

It’s public.

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It’s visible.

And Pride has grown beyond Toms River itself, with events reaching into Seaside Heights, the town where I live.

There is something genuinely wonderful about that.

For a weekend, rainbow flags appear in places where I have become accustomed to seeing very different political symbols. Queer people gather openly. Trans people are visible. Families show up. Allies show up.

For a moment, the county can feel different.

But Pride doesn’t erase fear.

It doesn’t magically make every uncomfortable calculation disappear.

And one of those calculations follows me almost every time I leave home.

I Still Have to Use the Bathroom

I am a transgender woman.

My driver’s license says F.

New Jersey law protects my ability to use facilities consistent with my gender identity.

I know that.

Intellectually, I know that.

But knowing the law and feeling safe are two very different things.

Because every time I have to use a public restroom, there is still a moment of calculation.

Who is around?

How crowded is it?

Are there children inside?

Are there men waiting outside?

Did anyone notice me walk in?

Did someone look at me differently?

Is somebody going to say something?

Most of the time, nothing happens.

But the fear isn’t really about most of the time.

It’s about the one time when something does.

What If Someone Decides I Don’t Belong?

I’m afraid someone will call the police.

I’m afraid I’ll find myself standing there trying to explain that I am allowed to use the restroom while strangers watch.

I’m afraid that a father might see me entering the women’s restroom, decide that I shouldn’t be allowed to use the same bathroom as his daughter, and take matters into his own hands before anyone has an opportunity to explain anything.

I’m afraid of someone confronting me.

I’m afraid of someone following me.

I’m afraid of someone deciding that whatever they believe about transgender people gives them the right to police where I am allowed to pee.

And strangely enough, even the alternatives don’t always feel safe.

If there is a single-occupancy or “family” restroom available, I sometimes worry about using that too.

Will someone decide I shouldn’t be using it because I don’t have a small child with me?

Will someone confront me for taking a restroom they think belongs to families?

Will someone ask why I didn’t just use the women’s room?

There is seemingly no door I can walk through without first imagining how someone else might react to me opening it.

This Is the Part Laws Can’t Immediately Fix

There are people who will read this and say:

“But you’re protected by law.”

I know.

That’s part of what makes this so difficult to explain.

Legal protection matters enormously. I would rather have those protections than not have them.

But a statute cannot stand beside me outside a restroom.

A law cannot guarantee that the stranger walking toward me knows what the law says.

It cannot guarantee that they care.

And it cannot prevent someone from doing something frightening before the situation ever reaches the point where somebody calmly explains everyone’s legal rights.

The law might ultimately be on my side.

My fear is about what happens before we get to “ultimately.”

So What Am I Supposed to Do?

People have offered suggestions.

Go to the restroom with friends.

Never go alone.

Have someone wait outside.

I’ve even heard the suggestion that one person in a group could wear a Bluetooth earpiece and jokingly pretend to be “security.”

And maybe those things would make me feel safer.

But think about what that actually means.

It means my ability to comfortably leave my home depends on whether another person is available to accompany me.

It means dinner, shopping, a concert, a boardwalk night, or just an afternoon somewhere becomes easier if I have an escort.

I don’t want an escort.

I want to pee.

That’s it.

I want to be able to walk into a restroom, close a stall door, wash my hands, and walk back out without conducting a threat assessment first.

For most people, that is one of the most ordinary things imaginable.

For me, it isn’t always ordinary.

I Don’t Know How We Fix the Fear

Maybe time fixes some of it.

Maybe visibility does.

Maybe every Pride event in a conservative county makes the next one a little less remarkable.

Maybe every openly queer person simply existing in public changes someone’s idea of what their community looks like.

Maybe younger generations will grow up finding transgender people so unremarkable that someday this entire conversation will seem ridiculous.

I hope so.

But right now, I still get scared.

Not hypothetically.

Not because someone on television told me I should be afraid.

Not because I spend too much time reading politics.

I feel it when I’m standing in a real hallway, in a real restaurant, store, theater, amusement park, or public building, and I realize that I have to choose a door.

And then I have to convince myself to open it.

And For Now, This Is What I Do

For me, I’m probably going to keep doing what I always do.

If there’s a single-occupancy restroom available, I’ll use it.

If there isn’t, I’ll use the women’s room.

And once I’m inside, I’ll do what I’ve learned to do.

I’ll sit quietly in the stall.

I’ll listen.

I’ll wait for a lull — that moment when I don’t hear anyone else in the main part of the restroom.

Then I’ll come out, wash my hands, and leave.

And I’ll continue hoping that nothing happens.

That’s such a strange thing to have to hope for.

Not acceptance.

Not celebration.

Not even understanding.

Just nothing.

I want using a public restroom to be so completely uneventful that I don’t remember doing it five minutes later.

Maybe someday it will be.

For now, though, I open the door, find a stall, wait for quiet, wash my hands, and walk back out into the world.

Hoping, once again, that nothing happens.

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