Why I Choose Not To Speak on Discord (An Answer to a Different Question*)
Subject to continual revision, destabiliation, and change...
"Hey Snoopy, why don’t you speak on Discord in our calls?"
"Because I’m Trans."
There’s something in the humor of this exchange, an absurdity that both gestures at a deeper truth and sidesteps it entirely. On the surface, it’s an explanation—perhaps a touch of deflection. Beneath it, though, is the paradox: my silence isn’t about hiding but about asserting myself. Speaking, after all, would mean entering a system that defines me through assumptions I reject. Silence, for me, is a way of carving out space—a way to embody femme and fae without surrendering to the cisnormative logic that demands I prove it.
Imagine a person refuses to clap at the end of a play. Their friend whispers, "Why aren’t you clapping?" and they reply, "Because I’m the audience." The friend looks confused and says, "But the audience is supposed to clap." And the person responds, "Exactly. That’s why I don’t need to."
Zizek would interject here with his characteristic energy: "You see, this is the brilliance of ideology! The refusal to clap does not mean the person is rejecting their role as the audience. On the contrary, it performs it more fully! By refusing the symbolic gesture, they assert their position in the structure itself. It is the same logic as the Lacanian 'forced choice': the illusion of freedom lies in the expectation that you must choose within the frame of preordained roles. The act of silence here, the refusal to clap, disrupts the mechanism of the symbolic order and exposes its functioning."
Gender, as I was taught to understand it, always seemed like an inflexible set of rules: you were either "man" or "woman," and each came with its own set of expectations. These weren’t just roles; they were ideals, impossible standards to live up to. The "man" is supposed to be strong, rational, self-contained, and masterful, while the "woman" is nurturing, self-sacrificing, and perfectly feminine. These roles are not just limiting—they’re traps. No one can ever truly embody them because they are designed not to be embodied. They exist as unreachable ideals, much like the Nazis’ "Aryan" archetype. The point isn’t to live up to them but to internalize the failure of not doing so, perpetuating a system that keeps everyone striving, conforming, and self-policing. These ideals are fascistic, not in the overt sense of jackboots and uniforms, but in the way they operate in our minds, demanding submission to something that can never be real.
From a young age, I felt the weight of these expectations. Dressing in my mother’s discarded clothes or playing in "girl" clothing felt natural to me, like I was aligning with something true about myself, but it was clear this wasn’t acceptable. I remember trading underwear with the priest’s daughter across the way. For her, it was probably just a way to avoid trouble for wetting herself, but for me, it felt like a small act of resistance—a way to access a truth about myself that the rigid gender binary wouldn’t allow. These moments felt right, but they were fleeting, overshadowed by the cultural insistence that this wasn’t how I was supposed to be.
Later, in 2020 or 2021, I came out to friends as a woman and began using she/her pronouns in certain online spaces, like Discord. It was a step toward claiming an identity that felt more authentic, but it also felt like trying on a "costume mask." It fit better than the default role I’d been handed, but it still didn’t capture everything. Over time, I found myself more drawn to fae/faer pronouns, which feel closer to the truth—a reflection of something fluid, otherworldly, and uncontainable. Yet, alongside this alignment, I’ve often felt a paranoiac-critical sense of being "wrong," like I’ve been replaced or misaligned. This isn’t just a personal flaw or insecurity; it’s the residue of those unattainable ideals of "man" and "woman" haunting my identity.
But in these moments of silence—whether online or in my day-to-day life—I begin to see a different path. The silence isn’t just absence; it’s presence. On Discord, my refusal to speak becomes a way of refusing the binary logic that demands I reveal myself through voice. My voice, after all, is a trap—it would situate me within the same Symbolic Order I am working to dismantle. As Zizek might say, the moment you speak, you’re already caught in the system’s rules. But what happens when you remain silent? That silence becomes something spectral, haunting the assumptions people make about identity, gender, and presence.
My close friends know who I am. With them, I don’t have to explain, perform, or justify. I simply exist as myself. The rest of the world doesn’t need access to that truth unless I choose to share it. And that choice feels freeing, not limiting. Online spaces, like Discord, offer a different kind of liberation. These spaces are built on personas, constructed identities, and playful masks. But in that environment, I find I can exist as I am, without pretense. Because it’s a place of masks, I don’t feel pressured to wear one. She/her, fae/faer—both flow naturally from who I am, always valid and always true. They’re not roles to try on; they’re simply part of me.
Online, I don’t feel the need to explain how these pronouns coexist or negotiate their place. They just are. This isn’t about rejecting one thing or embracing another—it’s about living in the fullness of what feels real. In these spaces, I don’t have to define myself for others. I don’t have to ask permission to exist in my fluidity. I’m not hiding, and I’m not revealing. I’m simply being, and that is enough.
This sense of being "wrong" or "misaligned" isn’t unique to me. It’s a symptom of a larger system designed to make everyone feel this way. The ideals of "man" and "woman" are simulacra—perfected images that don’t correspond to reality but demand endless simulation. No one can ever fully simulate them, because to do so would be to expose the lie at their core. Their power lies in their impossibility. They demand we strive toward them while ensuring we fail, reinforcing a system that keeps us all striving, all compliant, all ashamed. In this way, these ideals function as the fascist in our brains, a system of control that operates from within.
For me, the process of rejecting these ideals began with small acts of resistance—those childhood moments of playing in clothes that felt right, the choice to use she/her pronouns online, and the gradual embrace of fae/faer as a truer reflection of myself. These acts are not just personal—they’re political. By stepping away from the binary and embracing a more fluid identity, I’m rejecting the oppressive logic that demands I strive for something unattainable. Fae/faer pronouns are more than just words; they’re a reclamation of my narrative, a way to define myself on my own terms.
Understanding gender as a process of becoming, rather than a fixed state, has helped me see that these ideals are not something I’ve failed to reach—they’re something I’ve chosen to reject. The tension between how I see myself and how I present isn’t a flaw; it’s a space of praxis, where I can actively reshape my identity. By refusing to conform to the binary and embracing the fluidity of fae/faer, I’m not just finding a way to describe myself—I’m creating a new way to exist, one that resists the oppressive forces that shaped those unattainable ideals.
Rejecting the "man" and "woman" as unreachable, oppressive ideals isn’t just liberation for me—it’s liberation for everyone. These constructs are tools of control, and by exposing their impossibility, we can start to dismantle the systems of power they uphold. Gender, I’ve come to realize, is not a prison. It’s a playground, a space of creativity and becoming where I can exist authentically and contribute to a broader vision of fluid, expansive humanity.