“American Teenager” reminds us that being seen as a trans teen—truly seen—is a form of resistance
Nico Lang’s nonfiction book “American Teenager” opens not with political statements about what it means to be coming-of-age as a trans person, but with everyday moments: a mop that almost groans against a floor in Alabama, Christmas lights going up early on South Dakota’s frozen streets, playing videogames on the couch. But through and through, the weight of 500 anti-trans bills across America shares space with homework, family dinners, and dog hair on everything. It’s both mundane and extraordinary at the same time.
Lang traveled across America spending time with a diverse set of families. Their goal? To paint a portrait of what it means to grow up, find joy, and make home in today’s America as a trans teen.
“The first couple of days was us deciding what story they wanted to tell,” Lang explains, their voice carrying the careful consideration of someone who understands the weight of representation. As a nonbinary journalist with years of experience covering LGBTQ+ issues, Lang approached each interview with a fundamental question: “20 years from now, will you look back and think, ‘Did you bring justice to helping tell these stories?’”
Books like “American Teenager” often confront the trap of choosing either pure struggle or unmitigated triumph for trans stories. “Sometimes you need joy to get through tragedy,” Lang reflects. “They’re experiencing these mixed emotions all at once.” This complexity shines through in stories like Ruby’s from Houston, who moves from contemplating suicide to finding love with a boyfriend who sees her completely, and celebrating her identity through a renaming liturgy at her Episcopal church. Or how Wyatt, who loves homemade smoothies, watches anti-trans legislation unfold on TV with his playful labradoodle, describing it as “like watching a funeral from the third person.”
The fear of forced migration haunts these pages, though Lang notes we see more anticipation than aftermath. “It’s not only impacting the trans kids who leave but also the people who love them,” they explain, pointing to Ruby’s elderly grandmother, soon to be left behind. The political implications are stark: “They,” referring to opponents of trans rights, “want people to leave Florida, and it’s making it more conservative. Florida used to be a purple state but now there’s no way it would elect an Obama-like candidate like it once did. And that’s somewhat intentional.”
Yet hope persists in unexpected places. Surprising to many, some of the trans kids found religious communities to be quite supportive. Lang shares their own surprise at finding support in religious spaces, recounting their own experience of coming out in a Baptist church. “I asked a Baptist minister if I was going to hell,” they remember with a grin, “I thought that was the default position but the pastor just laughed.” Although, this is not universally true, of course. Another pastor once told Lang that “God was going to shoot him down with a sniper rifle,” prompting the wry response, “Do they have open carry in heaven?”
“American Teenager” refuses to shape narratives to fit preconceptions. When reporters reached out to Ruby, “many reporters wanted to shape the narrative,” Lang explains. Instead, “American Teenager” lets its teenagers breathe, whether it’s Rhydian in Birmingham with their grass-allergic dog, Mykah navigating life as a Black trans youth in Appalachia, or Clint in Chicago finding strength in the Rocky theme song as his anesthetic drugs are being administered before top surgery.
“When you let them figure out what they want to tell,” Lang says, the truth emerges: joy and tragedy aren’t opposites but companions in the journey toward authenticity. In “American Teenager,” eight young people invite us to witness that journey, reminding us that being seen—truly seen—is perhaps the most powerful form of resistance.
