On a stone slab by the cold waters of Austin’s Barton Springs, transgender Texans celebrate existence. Against the best efforts of the state, they’re still here, laughing and swimming in the heat of a late-August afternoon.
Each year, nearly 800,000 people pay a small admission fee to pass through the gates of the capital city’s spring-fed treasure. Inside, visitors plunge into the pool, which stays between 68 and 74 degrees year-round, then lounge on the grassy hillsides that surround it.
That summer day, though, we weren’t within the manicured grounds of the official swimming hole but beyond its boundaries, on its spillway, where there are few rules and fewer lifeguards. This is the “free side.” A pink-, blue-, and white-striped Pride flag hung from the fence dividing us from the paying crowd. Water splashed out of the pool and back into the springs themselves, past a cement wall splattered with graffiti chaos. The sounds of rambunctious dogs, allowed on this side, mingled with 2010s hits (“Born This Way,” “We Are Young”) from a large Bluetooth sound system, perched precariously at the water’s edge.
It had briefly stormed earlier, recalled Eden, one of the organizers of this Barton Springs “takeover.” But right as the event’s 2 p.m. start time approached, “The sun came out and people started showing up.”
It was a typical afternoon at the springs: a day for paddleboards, for sharing beer and weed, for filling a grill with sizzling burgers and dogs. In many ways, it was a throwback to an older Austin, before tech money accelerated the pace of slacker life. But the reason for this particular gathering was anything but the typical harmonious vibes of the spillway.
Five weeks prior, on a similar afternoon, three men’s verbal harassment of a group of women had turned to transphobic slurs and physical violence, according to interviews and a video of the incident posted to Reddit. A Good Samaritan, a young single father who’d gotten to know the women that afternoon, ended up in the hospital when he tried to step in to protect them and took a punch to the jaw for his efforts. (In mid-September, police issued arrest warrants for two men in connection with the assault.)
Eden, who requested partial anonymity, is part of Trans River Day, an informal group that usually organizes mass gatherings in San Marcos. This time, the group had brought its event to Austin to show that trans people wouldn’t be intimidated from enjoying the same cool waters as everyone else. “We will protect each other,” she said.
But it wasn’t just trans people looking out for each other. Eden told me that a free-side regular named Tim had approached and given her a beer, saying he’d been keeping an eye on the group “to make sure no one gave you any trouble.”
Eden estimated that about 100 trans, nonbinary, or gender-nonconforming people stopped by. “Everyone is having the best day.”
Sometime between the violent attack and that calm August afternoon, someone had repainted part of the graffiti wall with the words “Protect Trans Joy” in stark, fresh black letters on a white background. All across the stone slab, LGBTQ+ folks sat in clusters, talking and dipping in and out of the water together. There were colorful swimsuits and dark black gothic beachwear, trans women topless and in bikinis, and shirtless trans men with their top surgery scars on display. Happy people who use every pronoun and none at all.
One group was sharing snacks on a red checkered blanket until its owner came to collect it. “Sorry, sir, ma’am. I need this blanket back.” He then apologized for not asking about pronouns first, sparking a playful discussion of gender-neutral alternatives. “How about ‘chef’?” suggested one person as the group stood up.
“Yes, chef,” said the blanket’s owner. More laughter. Then the weekly drum circle began in the park.
Clouds gathered again as the sun started to set, and cisgender and trans folks alike wandered off to catch a rhythm together. Before leaving, I stopped to talk with two more participants, Jenna Madden and Aofi Ortega. Madden expressed a common sentiment I’d heard from others, including Eden: “Trans visibility is important, but also trans people deserve to have fun.” Ortega called the day “beautiful” and said she wished there were one every month.
“It’s such a beautiful culture,” she added, a hint of sadness in her voice as the day came to an end. “I really, really truly love my friends, and I wish that more people were willing to be friends with them.”
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