Until recently, I was a music teacher in north Texas. I also happen to be trans. I have never, ever told a student about my identity. At work, I was “stealth” – a term that means that I passed as a cisgender man. Only my administrators knew I was trans, because I was not yet taking gender-affirming hormones when I started this job in my early 20s. I’m now in my late 20s.
My decision to stay stealth was affected by the political climate. Texas has been trying to pass a bathroom ban for 10 years, and in December, they finally implemented the rule. It applies to restrooms and changing rooms in public buildings, schools and universities.
Because of how I look, I can get away with going into the correct bathroom. But if someone were to report me to the district, it would cost my school $25,000 for the first offense, and then $125,000 every subsequent time. This law only applies to multi-occupancy, single-sex bathrooms – the type of boys’ and girls’ rooms you see in a public school like mine. Single-stall bathrooms, which are sometimes marked as gender-neutral, are still OK. Proponents of the bill say it’s not a violation of our civil rights because of that loophole. That did not stop some people from removing gender-neutral bathrooms and putting in gendered bathrooms – this happened at the University of Texas at Austin.
This is humiliation disguised as policy, and it is why I decided to leave a job I love
If someone reported me, my school would have had to pay the fine. But we’re living in a state where public schools are being strangled for money. School districts in Texas are underwater right now. It did not feel safe for me to use the correct bathroom, both because I wouldn’t want to be responsible for my administrators paying a fine, and because of the harm that might come from me being “caught”.
One day, I left school and drove to a gas station to use their bathroom. Another day, I held it and thought I was going to pee myself in front of class. I’ve gotten so many UTIs from holding it, it’s insane. I noticed that my mind was more clouded. My body was breaking down. I was exhausted because I was not sleeping. I still found ways to pull it together for my students, but I knew that eventually I wouldn’t be the best version of myself for them.
This is humiliation disguised as policy, and it is why I decided to leave a job I love and was born to do. My last day of teaching was before the winter holiday break.
I started playing music at the age of 11. I knew I was transgender, but I couldn’t put the words to it, so I played my instrument for comfort. It was a coping mechanism. Music class gave me a place where I felt like I belonged and had purpose. It helped me to see my body as something that was positive. Eventually, I went to music school and became a teacher, so I could help students find that safe space, too.
One of my favorite lessons was teaching students to read music: they would make their own comic strip and then write a theme song to go with it. I would take them outside and we would do rhythm counting activities, or I’d have them playing instruments in the cafeteria.
I’ve had parents come to me saying I helped their kids through some really scary, dark times. They got to see themselves in a creative way for the first time – they were not just sitting there working on skills they needed to take a state test.
I started teaching when Joe Biden was president. I felt a lot of optimism, like I was going to be able to be myself and have the career I wanted my entire life, but it’s just become progressively more dangerous.
In 2023 Texas passed a ban on healthcare for trans youth. I saw families drop everything and flee like refugees to northern states. When Trump won the election, every trans person in Texas went into survival mode. We shifted our chats to anonymous platforms, we started sharing our locations with each other to make sure we stay safe. It’s constant fear and worry.
Over 2025 Texas passed a devastating amount of anti-trans legislation. House Bill 229 introduced a very narrow definition of male and female it literally defines women as being weaker than men. Texans are no longer able to change our gender marker on medical or legal records, and we can no longer teach about sexual orientation or gender identity in schools – or even have, say, a Gay-Straight Alliance. I feel like I’ve been driving exactly the speed limit since Trump got elected, so no one pulls me over and asks to see my driver’s license – because in Texas, you can no longer have a different gender marker on your ID than your birth certificate.
Right after I left teaching, attorney general Ken Paxton launched a “tip line” encouraging people to report people ignoring the bathroom ban. The form requires “evidence” which can be submitted in jpg form. In Texas, it is illegal to photograph someone in the bathroom, but this now gives bad actors a pass.
I wish that more people would understand that being trans is just one small aspect of someone. I treat it like it’s part of my medical information – I only share if I need to, and I never shared it with students or parents.
This summer, I posted on a Facebook group for LGBTQ+ teachers saying something about how my students don’t know that I’m trans, but they know that I’m different from the other teachers and a safe person. Someone in a hate group saw this and anonymously reported me to my school, for what they called “grooming”. My school had to investigate as a formality. It’s been closed, but it bothers me that it’s in my file.
It also changed the way I advocate. I want to stay down here and fight for as long as it’s safe – and because I pass, I’m at a little less risk than other trans people – but I no longer protest, and I don’t put myself on the frontlines. I do smaller scale things like talk to church congregations about how they can be good allies to trans people.
Leaving teaching is like saying goodbye to a part of myself
What gives me hope? The harder things get, the closer I see my community getting. This morning, five people texted me to tell me they love me. I don’t know if I’m going to be OK in Texas, but I know that I have a big enough community that I will have somewhere else to go if things continue to get worse.
One of my friends helped me get work doing tech support for a financial company. It’s a way to get some of my dignity back. There are other perks: I’ll be working with some trans friends, and I’ll have better insurance. As a teacher, I had to pay $7,500 to get top surgery out of pocket – and I recovered in silence at work, because I didn’t want to tell anyone. In my new position, things like that are covered. Same with all my labs and medicine, which through my teacher’s insurance cost $600.
Still, leaving teaching is like saying goodbye to a part of myself. It feels like grief, like a loss. But it was so painful to walk into school every day knowing I was working for a system that rejects everything about who I am.
My goal as a music teacher was simply to be there for the kids. I was loved in that school. My leaving is going to leave a pretty big hole.
This teacher requested anonymity to speak freely out of fear for his personal safety and to protect the privacy of his former colleagues.
This interview was condensed and lightly edited.
