Coda: God Bless Everyone in This Men’s Room

2025. Last month my friends and I were in Detroit for the annual meeting of the American Association of Geographers, the yearly research conference put on by our professional association. While we were there, we made sure to sneak off to some queer spaces. At the end of the week, we ended up at a doll’s night techno party. It was full of trans people—with a transfemme, dykey kind of energy—and it was the most epic inversion of the very white, cishet, professional space we’d been in all week.

We are at the party, having a great time, shaking off the constraining energy of our “professional” embodiment: breathing, moving, touching, laughing, dancing. When I had to go to the bathroom, I went in the men’s room, which is now the default for me. I pushed open the door and found myself waiting in a line to use the stall.

I hated standing in line in bathrooms—I didn’t like to linger in any bathroom anymore. What, for much of my life, felt like a safe and casual social space now felt like a gauntlet. I felt too visible, like if people were able to look at me for too long, they might turn against me.

These days I typically didn’t mind using the men’s room, save for the piss everywhere. But when I had to wait in line, I got anxious. There were two guys in front of me. I panicked for a second—flipping into an anxiety response—thinking I should come back later. But then I noticed something. This wasn’t the usual situation. No one was using the urinals. I lifted my eyes from the floor, looked around, and realized we were all trans. I had never been in a men’s room inhabited solely by trans men. I relaxed, leaning against the wall casually. I relaxed and looked around, studying the strange wallpaper, the abandoned urinals, the drug test kits strewn across the counter by the sink. I took a selfie in the mirror, playfully wondering if I could be seen to belong here. I relaxed, coming to dwell, if only for a moment, in this surprisingly capacious space.

We waited patiently for each other to take our turns, and that waiting, that shared presence, felt like a witnessing, felt like a way of holding each other, even if we were only strangers and said nothing.

After a few minutes, that quiet, tender moment broke, and the high frequency of the party returned to my consciousness as it spilled into the space. Other people—variously gendered—popped in, trying to pee or looking for their friends. One person opened the door, took a look around and, seemingly amused, declared, “God bless everyone in this men’s room,” before leaving again.

With those careful words, this strange blessing, they broke the spell of my anxiety, of my disorientation, of my alienation. And I felt space open up again.