The Rotterdam Transkoor sings quite low. Trans men’s voices change naturally after hormone injections. They get the beard in their throat, just like boys in puberty. It works differently for trans women. Their bodies change after estrogen injections, but their voices do not. At most, they can make adjustments with speech therapy.
It is what it is. Nobody cares. All members love the choir, which has existed for eight years. It is probably the only trans choir in the Netherlands. The 8th anniversary has just been celebrated with family members and friends. They talk about it in a circle at the location in South Rotterdam.
The festive performance was exciting, a few things went wrong. A plug suddenly came loose from the electric piano, someone managed to solve the problem by diving. Most of it went well: no one fell off the stage. The audience, mainly family and friends, went crazy. The singing was beautiful. And almost everyone felt comfortable.
The latter is the most important because all choir members are familiar with an intense feeling of discomfort. Speak to them and you learn that the discomfort has many facets: it is the feeling of not being able to be who you are. It is coming out as a transgender person or as queer and the reaction to it from others: parents, family, friends, acquaintances and strangers. And it is the long and often difficult process of becoming who you are.
All members love the choir, which has existed for eight years
There is no inconvenience on Thursday evenings. That makes those evenings so important for the choir members. “It is a relief for me to enter a room and not be the only one in something,” says Lenn Vlassak (31).
“We all share the transgender aspect,” says Skylar Neeleman (25).
“Even before your transition, you can be who you want to be in the choir,” says Reno de Vries (33).
“I tell the others annoying questions I get from outsiders on Thursday evening,” says Marion Ter Meer (76). “Then I’ve lost it.”
Forging unity
The choir was founded by a few transgender people (the organization thinks the word transgender sounds too harsh) who enjoyed not only talking to each other but also doing something: singing, for example. Singing teacher and singer Nadja Voigt led the choir. The members love her because she teaches well and at the same time managed to forge a group of singers that vary widely in age and background into a unity. She has an eye for sensitivities, insecurities and misunderstandings that can arise.
The choir is part of the Expertise Center for Sexuality, Sex Work and Human Trafficking (ESSM), which falls under the Humanitas foundation. The center offers assistance to people with an LGBTQIAP+ background from Rotterdam. There are support groups and personal guidance. There is a support group for trans men, one for trans women, one for young people from secondary school age and a group for loved ones and partners. And there is an intermediate group for those searching for their sexuality, (gender) expression and gender identity, where the central question is: who am I in this heteronormative society? And, oh yes, there is also a living room for LGBTQIAP+ young people from sixteen, The Hang-Out 010, in a secret location in Rotterdam.
We all share the transgender aspect
Mat Schellekens is coordinator of the Transkoor and guards the choir members like a hen does its chicks. Because it is precisely the people who do not yet fully realize that they can be who they are, that they can be in a vulnerable position, he says. At the same time, he doesn’t want to hide them because there is no need for that. “They are often strong people.” Moreover, there are more people who benefit from the Transkoor, he thinks. And they need to know that it exists. “It is a place where you can be yourself, where everyone uses the correct pronouns. People come because they enjoy it, not because they need help.”
No explanation needed
These support groups are nice in the beginning, says trans man Reno de Vries (33). Just before and during his transition, he often felt misunderstood and was able to vent to people who did not need an explanation. At the same time, in those groups it was mainly about problems. There is also room for this in the choir, but singing makes it much lighter. In between you support each other, he says.
People come because they enjoy it, not because they need help
The choir is also a group of friends. Reno transitioned at the same time as two choir members. They visited each other when they were recovering from surgery. But the period before that was also nice, says Reno. When you start a transition, you have so many questions. People had already moved on from the choir. They could explain.
Trans man Skylar liked that he could see what it could look like in the choir. He was 16 when he joined the choir and that was before his transition. “I was the youngest at the time and felt very welcome. And the others were worried about me. I wasn’t allowed to go home alone on my bike.”
For Lenn Vlassak (31), the choir means being able to walk into a room without being the exception. “Everyone can be one hundred percent themselves. Everyone knows what it feels like not to be able to do that and knows the struggle to get out of it.” Lenn is non-binary and had never heard of it until three years ago, but he did have an vague feeling of unease. “It was about non-binary in a podcast and I thought: that’s me.”
Trans people relatively often face misunderstanding from close family and friends. For many members, the choir is one chosen familysays Mat Schellekens. Reno is fortunate, he says, that his family supports him. Lenn told friends and family more than two years ago that he is non-binary. That meant saying goodbye to the entire family and friends, except for his partner and one girlfriend. Lenn comes from a small village, just across the border with Belgium, where everyone knows each other. “For my mother, my outing felt like cheating, my father, brother and the rest of the family followed her in,” says Lenn. “I am very sad about that, I am a family person.” Lenn already lived in Rotterdam at the time. “There I found an environment in which I was celebrated, not tolerated.”
Trans woman Marion Ter Meer (76) is also saddened to no longer see her children and ex-wife. She lived her entire life as a man and only sometimes dressed as a woman indoors. She decided not to transition until after her retirement. Only when she stopped working did she feel like it was possible. According to her, it led to her divorce from the woman she loved. Seven years ago she came to Rotterdam to start a new life. Looking for contact, she ended up at the choir.
Reno is fortunate, he says, that his family supports him
A blessing, she says. The members understand each other. A man in the seniors’ apartment where she lives asked bluntly in the elevator what she was; a man or a woman. She felt anger but couldn’t say anything. She could share it with the choir. By the way, she later expertly put him to shit in the common room of the apartment. The choir had a good laugh about that.
Transgender people recognize those situations. Lenn says he initially laughed it off. Now it indicates which pronouns it wants to be addressed with. “When they say: ‘I’m going to do my best’, I say: ‘I’m sure you will succeed’.” Nowadays, Lenn does not avoid confrontation with impertinent questions. “If someone asks what I have in my pants, I say: ‘I don’t ask how long your penis is.’ Then it’s usually done.”
It is also a generational issue, Marion thinks. Even though she is trans herself, she has trouble with queer pronouns and all the English words that young people come up with. “They have their lives, I have mine. I learned to just call queer people by their first names, so you can’t make a mistake.”
Bitterballen
Choir members who undergo gender confirmation surgery receive extra support. Marion underwent several operations for her transition, not all of which went well. She was in a lot of pain and had to recover for a long time. “The compassion, cards and messages from the choir members did me very good at the time.”
At one point Reno thought: I don’t need the choir anymore. He was who he wanted to be. He looked like that too. No one questioned that. He thought: if I stop, I won’t meet people like me anymore. He stayed.
Over the past year, Marion suddenly felt a bit too old for the choir. She did not know the songs that were being sung, she had difficulty memorizing those unfamiliar lyrics. But she didn’t want to leave. She is now on the board and no longer comes every week, but she does come regularly. “Then I’ll take my air fryer and bake bitterballen.”
