Yes, It's True, I Cannot Get Pregnant Charlotte's Web Thoughts

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My working theory—and I’m being generous by calling it a mere “working theory”—is that a sizable chunk of cisgender people (that is, people who are not transgender) truly do not understand the controversy over trans-inclusion in pregnancy discussions.
Several years ago, pre-pandemic, I gave a talk to a law firm in D.C. about trans visibility, clarifying much of the understandable—but easily preventable—confusion over trans identities and rights. The talk went well! It was collaborative and informative, but afterward, someone in attendance walked up to me and, with the slightest tinge of annoyance or aggravation in their voice, asked if they could pose a “potentially insensitive question” to me.
I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve had those three words put to me since coming out.
The person’s question: “Can you get pregnant?”
Now, personally, I have no desire to be pregnant, and as much as I love playing Auntie Charlotte to my friends’ children and generally find kids adorable, I don’t want any of my own. So, this question wasn’t insensitive on that count, but the directness and tone of this person’s voice when they asked that question has stayed with me, even years later.
I still remember the look on their face, shades of subtle anger, and I couldn’t tell if they were asking this question to make a point (as though it couldn’t be made in a more polite way and also: why) or if they were trying to hurt my feelings. Maybe both.
I think most trans and nonbinary people are forced to make a quick decision when confronted with this kind of unnecessary hostility. We are forced to pick our battles—because there are simply far too many to negotiate daily—and decide if this is a moment worth engaging with our authentic feelings and to what level, be that anger or dismay or frustration or exhaustion.
If there is a large spectrum of possible responses bookended on one side by “be nice and diplomatic” and “let this a*****e know where they can stick their unnecessary question” on the other, I try my very best to yield to a polite median.
Of course, I had just given a productive talk, which required a lot of vulnerability, and I realized that my nerves were, perhaps, too raw to hew a dignified anger that illustrates as much as it admonishes. And I made a choice to swallow my own anger and be diplomatic, a choice I have made countless times in the past and will make countless times in the future.
“No, I cannot pregnant,” I told them. “I don’t have a uterus. I also don’t menstruate. Like all trans woman and some cis women, I have no idea what it’s like to experience these things. I try my best to be an effective ally to women who can and do experience pregnancy and menstruation.”
I don’t know if my tone had its own tinge of anger, but I would like to believe I kept a soft restraint.
They looked taken aback and didn’t know what to say in response. Their shoulders seemed to relax, their posture softened, their eyes dimmed from the alert status with which they had approached. They had come looking to have their own anger and annoyance validated, maybe to debate me, I guess, and suddenly, much to their surprise, they had nothing to be angry about.
“Okay,” they said, softly. “That makes sense. I appreciate your time. Thank you for answering.”
I had a question of my own for them and asked if I could pose it. They had almost seemed a tad apologetic, and I got the sense they wanted to make up for it by being amenable.
“Yes, of course, happy to answer.”
I asked: “How often do you point out the importance of ensuring that trans men and nonbinary people have access to the reproductive health care they need?”
They stared back in confusion, and a few moments passed without either of us saying anything. And then, some kind of