"beyond Borders: Lgbtq+ Travel Insurance Considerations In European Destinations"

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"beyond Borders: Lgbtq+ Travel Insurance Considerations In European Destinations"

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They're Calling For Our Extinction': Uganda Activists Call On Eu To Cut Aid Over Anti Gay Law

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All cookies that may not be necessary for the website to function and that are used specifically to collect user personal data through analytics, advertisements or other embedded content are called unnecessary cookies. It is mandatory to obtain user consent before running these cookies on your website. Beyond Boundaries and Binaries: Trans Travelers Share Navigating the World Bani Amor identifies with the conventional male-female binary, not just one gender. or others. Here's how travel helps them gain perspective on what it means to belong.

At the bus station in Guayaquil, Ecuador, I stopped and saw two bathrooms in front of me, full of bladders. They quickly shoved me into the women's bathroom, hoping that my hat, large backpack, and swarm of people around me would make me invisible—or at least invisible—in a public restroom. In the stall, I took off my hat and ran my fingers through the short hair on my shaved head, staring at the toilet bowl as beads of sweat trickled down its porcelain rim.

The next few minutes were devoted to mild panic attacks as I tried to work up the nerve to use the plastic device that allowed me to pee standing up that I had started using during my transition years ago. But the threat of a nearby "freak conversion" clinic had me constantly watching my back. (Local human rights groups in Ecuador have reported that clandestine, unlicensed clinics use violence to "treat" LGBTQ people in the country.) I'm afraid someone will see my feet in the wrong direction in the bathroom and call the guards to make a fuss. I was taken to "recovery" so after about 20 minutes of anxious thinking I decided to crouch instead of stand to pee so I wouldn't be noticed or seen.

Years After Same Sex Marriage, Now What?

Gay, queer, trans, non-binary – all of these identities seem blurred to those who pass by and stare at you, wondering, or out loud, what is it? Ever since I was a child, I've been used to seeing him everywhere I go. From a young age, my baggy clothes, short hair, and combat boots attracted not only attention, but stares—from the teacher who ran away from me after another student kicked me out, to strangers (old enough to be my father). . who repeatedly called me sir while scolding me for talking in the cinema. I quickly realized that the line between how society defines "man" and "woman" is tightly controlled and whether we venture into another country or across the street, to be trans and be visible in the world. — is radical and dangerous at the same time.

I first confirmed my gender identity 11 years ago when I posted an ad on Craigslist looking for a companion. It's like, I'm a 20-year-old genderqueer punk looking for someone who's never driven me to New Orleans. Serious inquiries only! A week later, I sat with the Haitian children who answered my ad on some rocks on the outskirts of Brooklyn, where we looked out at the black water of the Manhattan skyline and felt our gender issues. After a potential travel partner gave me a passport, I decided it wasn't appropriate, so I headed south on my own.

I officially started transitioning a year later—I had a chest strap, took testosterone, and went to a support group for trans men. After a lifetime of gender dysphoria that felt like the world wanted my body to be something it wasn't, I knew my gender identity was somehow trans, but being outside the gender binary wasn't a conscious choice. . . There seems to be only one path: "from woman to man". (At least that's what everyone around me said.) Still, after I transitioned, I wasn't seen as masculine like other trans men, even though I struggled to pass as a woman. After all the physical and emotional trauma I went through, I just wanted to escape again. But this time from a distance.

After living in the United States for 21 years, I finally saved enough money to buy a one-way ticket to Ecuador, where my mother's family immigrated more than four decades ago. I had always felt out of place in my world—neither a citizen nor a complete stranger, male or female—and I looked to Ecuador, a place I had dreamed of since childhood, as my final chance to feel whole. I hoped that a trip to my family's homeland would provide a timely escape from my confusing gender questions and a chance to start over. But travel doesn't work like that.

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There are no transit travel guides, much less for people who have to introduce themselves to relatives they've never met in a country they've never been to. My distant family members are waiting for their girlfriend to arrive on their doorstep in Ecuador; instead they got me. When we first met, each of my aunts cornered me and began their inevitable interrogations about my trajectory toward motherhood (a conversation that many Latina teenagers look forward to). Is that a boy? ¿No tienes esposo? ¿No tienes hijos? Pues, ¿cuando vas a tenerlos? I thought my hairy legs, bald head, facial piercings, tattoos, and masculine clothing — all universal symbols of queerness and gender nonconformity — would answer this question. It turns out my family looked far into my identity to find the answers they wanted. You'll find a man soon, Mia, they promised before muttering to each other as they left.

But there is no pretense outside my family home. After panicking in the bus station bathroom, I boarded a bus headed from Guayaquil (where my relatives live) to the province of Los Rios, where I planned to spend a few days in the cloud forest before exploring other parts of the city. Ecuador. When the director saw me, he said to his friends: Women today are no different from men. Everyone was laughing. I floated in my seat as the bus pulled up to my stop in Los Rios. A group of people around me started shouting ¡señorito! until finally I stirred and stood up, realizing that I was the one they were calling. As I grabbed my things and got off the bus, everyone watched in silence. A few weeks later I was in Quito when a man stopped me and asked: ¿eres hombre o mujer?

Every day my gender is perceived differently, depending on the way the light hits my body or the way my shadow casts the ground, and I don't fight it. Part of being non-binary is accepting the reality that you can always be abused, so there's no point in fixing people. I'm used to answering with all kinds of pronouns, and I set my CouchSurfing.com profile to "multiple," the only identity option other than "male" or "female" on the homestay site. I decided it was better to be vague, although the hosts were always confused when I showed up alone.

As I walk from pueblo to pueblo in Ecuador, across the Andes to the Amazon and the Pacific Ocean, I rely on a code of silence to communicate with other strange locals—eye contact that lasts longer than usual, knowing nods are being exchanged in passing. on the street and an occasional smile that just says: I see you. More than ten years later, as I continue my annual visits to New York and

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