Lessons From the Field: My Experience as a Transgender Undergraduate Student Doing Field Research

Abstract

Undergraduate field research experiences can be transformational for young scientists and are considered a critical training component for careers in fieldwork-driven disciplines such as ecology. Chances of harassment and identity-related problems are often exacerbated in a field setting, creating feelings of isolation for queer individuals. Prejudice-driven conflict can have both physical and mental impacts and negative fieldwork experiences can lead students to change their course of study or derail career plans. Efforts to increase diversity and inclusion in these fields are ineffective if students do not continue due to safety risks. Being transgender or gender nonconforming (TGnC) presents unique challenges when participating in fieldwork, especially at remote and residential field sites. With this come additional hazards and the need for unique support.

Passing is a term used to describe an individual's ability to be regarded as a member of an identity group, often to increase social acceptance or ensure physical safety (Tina Gianoulis 2010). In this context, passing refers to a transgender individual's ability to “pass” as the gender they identify as. Generally, a trans person's passing involves being perceived as cisgender and following traditional gender binary stereotypes. However, not all transgender people can pass as the gender they identify as, and many do not care to. In 2022, at least 41 TGnC folx were murdered in the United States (Human Rights Campaign 2023) (Folx is an inclusive spelling variant of folks [=people], often used by queer people; “Folx” 2024). TGnC folx are over four times more likely to be the victims of violent crime than cisgender people (Flores et al. 2021). Furthermore, violence against TGnC people is likely underreported. Within the context of field research experiences, the ability to pass is a matter of safety when one considers the likelihood of other humans as an additional field hazard.

When I was presented with the opportunity to do behavioral ecology research at a field station in East Africa, I was ready to have my own transformational field experience and begin training for a possible career studying primates. Obviously, I asked my sponsoring professor about my safety. When I asked specifically about my trans identity, I was told to simply inform the people I was working with that I was a man. Supposedly, if I told people I was a man, then I would be perceived as a man. I am not shy in admitting that my ability to pass varies. It is often the case that I am seen as a man until I speak, or people think I am much younger than I am. All that is to say, passing is not a given for me. Yet, they even told me that as long as I did not have to remove my clothes or go to the hospital, I would be fine.

My wide hips, gait, and small stature can all be seen as feminine features. My body could very well betray me. I have had top surgery, but what if people ask about my scars? Many people in the U.S. already understand what my scars mean. Others would never ask. This is not universal, though. In many cultures, personal questions of this nature are considered acceptable, and not answering may make people uncomfortable. Did I need to make up a lie? With two, very distinct (and precise), scars across my chest, what would a feasible lie even look like? My lack of male genitals is perhaps even more of a hazard. Theoretically, there is no reason for anyone to know about my genitals, but this is something that cannot be hidden if it comes to light. No lie would make sense.

They told me there had never been any issues before, so I should be safe. They put me in contact with a gay man who had been working at the same field station for years. I was excited to go and did not really understand the implications of this move. Now, I am much more privy to the fact that his struggles are nowhere near the same as mine would be. You can hide being gay. It is uncomfortable, it can even have negative psychological effects, but it is doable. Hiding my transness is not the same experience. My body is my body, and in extreme circumstances, there is no denying that.

The laws and social attitudes in East Africa were not in my favor. In the country I visited, it is illegal to be homosexual, punishable by life imprisonment or death (Equaldex). The laws surrounding being transgender are unclear because it is so taboo, however, this cultural climate implies a heightened risk of violence for TGnC folx. Maybe I should have done more of my own research, but I was a 21-year-old, low-income kid who was ecstatic to travel on the university's dime. Plus, the people in charge (my sponsoring professor, the university's travel advisor, and the gay professor) were telling me that it was safe.

To East Africa, I went. We stayed right smack in the middle of the forest, almost 2 hours from the nearest city at an established field station. The local people working at the station were incredibly nice, but none of them knew my secret and I went nearly 7 weeks without an issue.

When I got to the field station, I was confronted with several things I was unprepared for. There was an extreme lack of privacy. I shared a room with another researcher, Chloe. We had one private shower stall, the others were in gendered, shared shower houses, which also had the only flush toilets. Since I was presenting as a man, I used the men's shower house when I had to, but it was incredibly uncomfortable. I did not want to constantly risk exposing my transness.

Something else that quickly became apparent was the physical risks I had not been prepared for. We were taking photos of baboons when one of the locals approached and warned us not to get too close. This troop of baboons was entirely too comfortable around humans. They would get very close, we even found out that they had attacked some people in the nearby village. The baboons would steal food from the kitchen if you were not paying attention or come into the quarters if you did not lock the windows and doors. We carried “baboon sticks” to scare them off if they got too close. I expected there to be some physical risks in the forest, but I was not prepared for the risks present at the field station.

One day, I was walking through a trail at the field station, a trail I had walked many times a day for several weeks. I heard the monkeys above me, nothing unusual. They moved through this part of camp quite often. I was heading to a quiet location to relax. Suddenly, I heard a thud. A large branch had fallen ahead of me, and a female monkey was on it. I jumped, neither one of us was prepared to confront the other. She let out a call as she scurried back up into the trees. Before I could even react, I heard the dreaded alarm calls.

For my independent project, I was very interested in aggression in male monkeys of this species. They have a ritual of behaviors they use to ward off major predators. These mobbing behaviors are fascinating, but I had never imagined I would be on the receiving end of them. Suddenly there were at least 3 large males on the ground, I didn't stop to count. They were a lot bigger than I expected them to be. My initial reaction was to slowly back up, I did not want trouble. They followed, clicking at me, standing on their hind legs. I was clutching my baboon stick. The monkeys backed me up against the fence, I was terrified. Their teeth are surprisingly large, and seeing them bare in front of me is something I will never forget.

I decided that this was the moment to run. I turned my back and sprinted faster than I had ever run before. The monkeys followed. Before I could even process it, I felt a searing pain. I was screaming in terror, in pain, in fear for my life. As I approached our duplex, Chloe panicked, waving her arms. The monkeys decided that this was the moment to retreat. I immediately started sobbing. Several more senior researchers ushered me into their cabin. They pulled out a first aid kit and called a medical professional on-site. Everyone was in shock.

I had two major bites. One on my lower back, and one on my backside. It was then that it hit me–this could be a problem. Chloe helped me clean off the wounds initially, but we hadn't been trained in first aid for animal bites. The doctor and a local veterinarian came by to instruct us. Neither one was aware of my identity. They took us up to the shower house and sent someone to get clean water from the kitchen. My sponsoring professor was frantically calling from the U.S. but I was too shocked to talk to them and handed my phone off to someone else. I had to strip down to my underwear so they could scrub my wounds. I was in the middle of camp where everyone could see. Being so exposed made me nervous, what if they could tell? The medical professional thought it would be best if I completely stripped and rinsed off. I convinced them to allow me to go into one of the shower stalls with only Chloe to help. They stood outside, calling a driver to come to take me to the hospital. It would take 45 minutes for the driver to arrive.

The fear of going to the hospital finally settled in when we were done cleaning my wounds. Panicking, I contacted a senior researcher that I had befriended but she was not on-site. She was in town with another fellow researcher. They attempted to calm me down, told me to refuse treatment until they were there, and promised to meet me at the hospital. I was in pain physically, but the anxiety was at the forefront of my mind. When I arrived at the hospital, both researchers were thankfully waiting for me. I breathed a sigh of relief, at least someone was here to help. I was able to see a doctor almost immediately. He asked everyone to leave, but my friends refused to leave my side. They were too worried about the repercussions. He asked to see the bites and this is where my friend jumped in. She told the doctor that we had already cleaned the wounds and that he didn't need to inspect them further. She told him that I was just a “shy mzungu” (an endearing term for white people). He was a bit offended by this, and later told someone that he thought she was racist for not allowing him to do his job. I still feel bad for that. Crisis averted. I still had to get a rabies and tetanus shot, as well as take antibiotics and post-exposure HIV prophylaxis. My fear of being found out temporarily subsided as I dealt with the physical ramifications of the attack.

I was asked if I would like to stay to finish my research, but I simply could not. The fear of my identity being found out gnawed at me. I panicked every time I walked through camp. Someone had to walk me to the latrine because I was scared to go alone. When I heard the monkeys, I refused to leave my quarters. I was hyper-aware of my interactions with other people. Suddenly, I could not stop thinking about my height (or lack thereof), my higher voice, and my transness, things I had not been self-conscious about for years. I ended up staying at a tourist resort for several days while arranging air travel home.

When I finally returned home, I breathed a sigh of relief, though I began to grieve the loss of my love for fieldwork. I was angry about my experience. It appeared as if nobody really understood how much was at stake. I had not been exposed, but if I had, the consequences could have been fatal. Why was not anybody acknowledging this? At the institutional level, it seemed as if this event never happened as my attempts to report the incident were fruitless. There were no changes in policy, no rethinking of the risk in taking undergraduates into these circumstances, and no justice for me. Students will continue going to this field station. I ended up taking a leave of absence from school because I was unable to continue working in an institution that had failed me. I didn't think I would ever go back. Everyone meant well, but I was vastly underprepared. In retrospect, I wonder: shouldn't there have been a plan? Considering the physical nature of fieldwork, the likelihood of a hospital visit is much higher than in other fields.

Mentors who send students into the field must think about and plan for the worst-case scenario. They must also be able and willing to adequately portray risks. I was told about the worst-case scenario, but there was no plan for if that happened. If I had been more cognizant, I likely would have decided to pursue fieldwork experiences elsewhere. The likelihood of having a TGnC person on your team is increasing, but so is the risk of violence for TGnC folx. Building plans for TGnC folx in your risk-management plans is essential. You may not know the identities of every student you are sending into the field. It is best to be prepared rather than having to react to a dangerous situation.