At the coffee shop, on the phone, on the sidewalk?

Gender is wired into our daily lives, and you might not even notice it.

People assume our gender and pronouns based on the way we look and the way we sound. Quick, snap judgements made before we can even introduce ourselves. If you’re cisgender, you probably don’t even think twice about it, but for trans and nonbinary people, these can be constant (and exhausting) moments of friction for self-identity and expression.

Voice is a huge part of that.

That thing that lives inside your throat and helps you communicate with the outside world. Our ears hear a sound and immediately attribute femininity or masculinity. Add singing to the mix here in our trans and nonbinary choir TRANScendent and we’re in for a whole new world of gender identity.

Hormone replacement therapy (HRT) can be a common part of gender-affirming care and transition.

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So, anyone seeking feminizing HRT will not experience a raise in the speaking pitch, tone, etc. Place a voice on HRT in a choir, and now we’ve got a prime opportunity for dysphoria without the proper care and support for these voices.

We interviewed DMGMC singer and TRANScendent founding member Liam Shipston on our latest episode of Trans Tea to talk more about his experience on testosterone-based HRT, as well as navigating gender identity in the choral world and in the Des Moines Gay Men’s Chorus (DMGMC) and TRANScendent.

Talk soon,

Tristan 💖

We were busy, ok?

Tessa & Tristan are back in action and have sooo much to share. Check out the latest episode of Trans Tea on YouTube or listen on your favorite platform. 👇

Listen to Trans Tea 🎧

On this episode, we’re catching up about our incredible weekend with the Des Moines Gay Men’s Chorus at The Silver Party, our 25th Anniversary Celebration concert June 26 & 27 at Sheslow Auditorium Drake University. We’re officially in summer mode—gay, tired, and ready for a pool. 🏊‍♂️

Also, I may have told my therapist I “barebacked” at the Blazing Saddle on accident. 🤦 You’re gonna have to listen to hear the full story… 🤣 Oopsie.

Talk soon,

Tristan 💖

Pride month has consumed my time in the best of ways—I was busy living the things I usually write about. Queer joy, music that matters, life in Iowa, and of course, the Des Moines Gay Men’s Chorus.

It was epic.

Last weekend, we celebrated the 25th Anniversary of the Des Moines Gay Men’s Chorus at The Silver Party at Sheslow Auditorium at Drake University. A stage filled with 25 years of legacy, history, and music that matters.

This chorus has changed so many lives, and I can’t stop reflecting on how something this loud, this joyful, this unapologetically queer started just 25 years ago.

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Standing on the stage with TRANScendent at this anniversary concert hit harder than I expected.

They sounded incredible. Don’t just take my word for it. Check out our performance of “Weightlessness” by Pax Ressler, text by Joseph Shapiro:

I’m still beaming with pride. Standing before my ensemble of trans and non-binary singers raising their voices together to make such beautiful music was nothing short of breathtaking.

They sparkled. ✨

To top it off, we also welcomed our new Artistic Director Chase Shoemaker to the podium for his first concert with us. He’s remarkable. Check him out →

Conduct your first DMGMC concert and celebrate the chorus’s 25th anniversary?—it was an incredible undertaking. Did I mention there was a disco ball?! 🪩

Bring on the next 25 years.

While the weekend was filled with nostalgia, it reminded me of the momentum we experience every week in the DMGMC—one of the nation’s only trans and non-binary ensembles, new commissioned music that celebrates our LGBTQ+ history, and a community of singers who are proud to be who they are, showing up week after week.

I got to be part of that 25-year lineage this weekend, right here in Iowa, a state that spends a lot of energy telling us we don’t belong here. We’ll show up on that stage anyway, and we’ll keep on singing.

Thanks for sticking around during my quiet weeks. More coming from me soon. Filming our next episode of Trans Tea this week. Haven’t listened yet? Check us out →

Talk soon,

Tristan 💖

Our rights are up for grabs at every turn. Safety feels like a luxury we can’t afford.

But here’s what I know to be true: the queer community we crave? It’s already here. Right here in Des Moines. Right here in Iowa.

Last spring, I stood on a stage with Iowa’s only trans and nonbinary ensemble TRANScendent and looked out to a sanctuary full of queer people at the Trans Lives Festival → (yes, Iowa has one!). 🏳️‍⚧️

We were singing “Love is Love is Love is Love” — a community anthem by Abbie Betinis from the Justice Choir in Minneapolis — sung in a round along with our audience members. Trans voices, nonbinary voices, queer voices joining together in song.

I never wanted it to end.

It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t an “I wish we could do this…” It was queer community in action on a beautiful spring afternoon in Iowa.

TRANScendent didn’t appear out of thin air. It was founded in 2023 by trans singers who needed it to exist — people who showed up and built something because they wanted a space and place to call theirs.

Every Tuesday, I get to share that space with these amazing musicians. We warm up. We run music. We sing. We spill tea (obviously 😏). We laugh. We get chills. We sparkle.

That’s it. That’s the community.

My trans siblings showing up to be. To sing. To share. Queer community can happen in these small moments, and it often does.

If you think trans people can only survive in big cities… think again.

Trans people have always been here. In churches. In small towns. In grocery stores. In rehearsal rooms. We are already here, every Tuesday night, making music.

TRANScendent is headlining at the Des Moines Trans Lives Festival this weekend.

Come.

Not because one afternoon of queer joy fixes everything, but because you deserve to be surrounded by your community literally singing your praises. You deserve to feel what I feel every Tuesday night: voices united, refusing to be quiet. Joy.

→ Saturday, June 6, 2026, 10a – 5p at First Unitarian Church of Des Moines (1800 Bell Ave., Des Moines, IA)

Catch TRANScendent’s performance at 4:30p in the sanctuary.

So, here’s what I want trans people in Iowa to know this June:

Come see us.

Talk soon,

Tristan 💖

PS my girl Tessa and I just started a trans podcast. If that’s your thing, give us a listen. Promise it’s worth it. 💖

Listen to Trans Tea 🎧

Episode 2 of Trans Tea is here! 🎉💖

The tuxedo: a choral tradition, a symbol of formality, and — for a lot of trans and nonbinary people — a complicated relationship. In this episode, Tessa & Tristan dig into gendered clothing in the choral movement: what wearing a tux really means when you're trans, how their own journeys with clothing have shaped who they are on stage, and whether it's time choral tradition caught up.

Featuring Tristan Miedema & Tessa Tura from Iowa's only trans and nonbinary singing ensemble TRANScendent.

Welcome to Trans Tea, a podcast all about queer life in the Midwest — the community, the trans choral movement, and the queer stories yet to be told. Co-hosted by Tessa Tura (she/her), drag entertainer, queer activist, and one of TRANScendent's founding members & Tristan Miedema (he/they), director of TRANScendent, Iowa's only trans and non-binary singing ensemble. We're here to talk about queer Iowans living out loud and the voices making it happen. So consider this your invitation — sit back and grab a cup, cuz we're spilling, and the trans tea is always hot.

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🌈 SHOUTOUTS
🪩 DMGMC.org for Tickets to The Silver Party!
❤️ Learn more about First Friday Breakfast Club: https://ffbciowa.org

🍵 THE REFILL
Check out Common Love DSM: https://www.instagram.com/commonlovedsm/

Want to support our work?
☕ Buy us a tea at buymeacoffee.com/transteapodcast

🍵 Buy me a tea

💖 FOLLOW US 💖
⁠⁠Tea with Tristan⁠⁠ on Substack
⁠@TristanMiedema⁠ on Instagram
⁠@TristanMiedema⁠ on TikTok
⁠@TheTessaTura⁠ on Instagram
⁠@The_Tessa_Tura⁠ on TikTok

🎧 LISTEN on your favorite platform: https://tr.ee/transtea-podcast

See all our links:
https://linktr.ee/tristanmiedema
https://linktr.ee/tessatura

#transvoices #transchoralmovement #transchoir #transchorus #queervoices #queermidwest #midwest #iowachoruses #choir #choirhumor #choirrehearsal #transpodcast #lgbtqchoruses #galachoruses #queermusic #queerpodcast #queerpodcasts #transpodcasts #transpodcaster #desmoines #desmoinesia #nonbinary #nonbinarypodcast #nonbinaryvoices #nonbinarymusic #transmusic #transmusicpodcast #transgender #transrights #choirlife #genderedclothing, #queerfashion #tuxedo #choirperformance

It’s heeerreee!!! Episode 1 of Trans Tea. 💖

Featuring Tristan Miedema & Tessa Tura from Iowa’s only trans and nonbinary singing ensemble TRANScendent.

Welcome to Trans Tea, a podcast all about queer life in the Midwest — the community, the trans choral movement, and the queer stories yet to be told. Co-hosted by Tessa Tura (she/her), drag entertainer, queer activist, and one of TRANScendent’s founding members & Tristan Miedema (he/they), director of TRANScendent, Iowa’s only trans and non-binary singing ensemble. We’re here to talk about queer Iowans living out loud and the voices making it happen. So consider this your invitation — sit back and grab a cup, cuz we’re spilling, and the trans tea is always hot.

🍵 THE REFILL

Check out lavender legal here: https://www.lavenderlegalcenter.org

💖 FOLLOW US 💖

⁠⁠Tea with Tristan⁠⁠ on Substack

⁠@TristanMiedema⁠ on Instagram

⁠@TristanMiedema⁠ on TikTok

⁠@TheTessaTura⁠ on Instagram

⁠@The_Tessa_Tura⁠ on TikTok

🍵 Buy me a tea

See all our links:

https://linktr.ee/tristanmiedema

https://linktr.ee/tessatura

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We gather around the piano, put our hands in the center, right over the keys. I gaze at all of my trans singers.

I start the count:

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

TRANS! We all holler together.

I’ve performed a version of this ritual my whole life.

Soccer huddles in elementary school. Football in middle school.

Arms in, someone shouting something like “defense on three!” The dance was always the same: huddle up, count off together, and holler something into the air.

I did it every time, though I never once felt like I belonged.

I was performing a ritual. Going through the motions. You put your hand in because that’s what you do, because the team is watching, because the coach is watching, because you don’t want to stand out.

The words we screamed didn’t mean anything to me. Just a play, a cheer, a pump up. A noise we made together to signal that we were a unit—even when I never really felt part of it.

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Then I became the director of TRANScendent.

Iowa’s only trans and nonbinary singing ensemble, a small ensemble from the Des Moines Gay Men’s Chorus. A non-auditioned small group of singers who show up each week to make music together.

I don’t remember exactly when the “trans on 7” huddle started. It was probably one of the silly things that came to my mind mid-rehearsal. Just ask my singers, they see me in my rarest of forms. It grew out of the ensemble organically, the way all the best things do.

But at some point, it became tradition.

One. Two. Three.

I am a non-binary person sitting at a piano in front of a room full of trans and nonbinary singers in Des Moines, Iowa—a state that has spent the past few years trying to legislate us out of existence—counting down to the moment we all scream our identity at the top of our lungs together.

Four. Five. Six.

The one thing we all share and always will.

Seven.

I couldn’t even tell you why we count to seven, but it feels pretty lucky now.

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I’ve thought a lot about what queer joy actually feels like. I’ve written about it, talked about it, built this whole Substack and some social media channels trying to document it (feel free to give me a follow → ☺️).

I used to think of it as something mostly emotional—a feeling. Safety. Visibility.

But TRANScendent taught me it can be physical.

It can live in your throat and your chest and your hands pressed on top of another trans person’s. It can be loud. It can be a little silly. It can happen in a rehearsal room in the middle of Iowa on a Tuesday night, surrounded by people who came from all over the metro because this is the only space in their week that is entirely, undoubtedly theirs.

I realized the huddle I had spent my childhood faking was finally mine—and queer.

So, shall I count us off?

As always, thanks for reading. Next time, a podcast announcement… 😏

Subscribe now so you don’t miss it!

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Talk soon,

Tristan 💖

The middle school football coach yelled, “Miedema, you drop that ball again?!” in a guttural hyper-masculine tone.

Through tears, I nodded.

“Well, you better start running!” he growled.

I was being punished. A seventh grader who dropped a fucking football—told to run laps because I made a mistake. What kind of encouragement is that to a little closeted queer kid?

I even remember how ridiculous the masking tape with poorly written MIEDEMA on my helmet looked. All of us just characters in a silly sports play with a last name and one goal: win.

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The word athlete has always made my shoulders tighten. It takes me back to that moment on a practice field on a hot August day. Where failure meant shame and that I needed to be disciplined. Where my athleticism or ability to catch a touchdown pass was the only thing that mattered.

I didn’t give a shit.

I didn’t even like football. I was there because my twin brother was, and we did everything together. And, my parents were the kind that encouraged us to try everything: sports, music, clubs, etc. I’m so grateful for that. Thankfully, music and the arts stuck, not a stupid sports ball.

Then I found Pridefit.

A queer, online fitness community dedicated to creating a space for LGBTQ+ people to workout, sweat, move, and feel good—all from the comfort of my living room. I had been following Sam Leicht, Pridefit’s founder, on YouTube for years, watching his workout videos regularly, and was thrilled when he launched the app back in 2023.

They recently started LIVE classes, taught by actual coaches live on Zoom, and I jumped at the chance to try it out. It seemed like the perfect blend of at-home workouts and a gym class-like experience.

I remember the first time coach Jo (s/o @juiceboxxofficial) gave me a form note during a LIVE workout. Something to the effect of:

“Hey Tristan, try hinging just a bit lower, you’ll feel it more in the glutes. Yes, that’s it, nice work!”

I know that seems like sooo not a big deal, but it jolted my system. I flashed back to that middle school coach again, but this time was different.

I felt safe. I felt seen. I felt stronger.

I adjusted, and just kept working out. No big deal. No yelling, no shame, no punishment. Just queer love—and to the tune of Lady Gaga playing in the background.

☕ Buy me a coffee

I get to workout with people from all over the country.

They know my name. They cheer me on.

Through Pridefit, I’ve found a queer community outside of the Midwest—strangers I'd probably never meet in person but see every morning in class.

I’ve learned that queer joy can be physical, it can be athletic. It can be in a burpee or a devil’s press (iykyk). Fitness belongs to me now, not a football coach, not a masculinized culture of punishment. It’s been quite liberating.

We end class with a mantra that has really stuck with me:

Thank you for showing up as yourselves, so that others can show up as themselves.

All I know is you’ll never hear a middle school football coach say that.

As always, thanks for reading. Share this post with someone who needs it.

Talk soon,

Tristan 💖

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Did you know Iowa has a trans chorus?

Yes, it’s true.

TRANScendent is Iowa’s only trans and nonbinary ensemble based in Des Moines as a small ensemble of the Des Moines Gay Men’s Chorus (DMGMC).

Founded by singing members in 2023, TRANScendent was formed in direct response to anti-trans legislation happening in Iowa, with its first performance in spring of 2023. I became TRANScendent’s director that fall, and we’ve been uplifting trans and nonbinary voices every since—performing locally at the Des Moines Trans Lives Festival (yes, we have one!), Transgender Day of Remembrance (TDOR) vigils, at DMGMC concerts, and pride events.

To be honest, I’m not surprised by this reaction. The way the media portrays trans people is typically negative, othering, and dehumanizing. You would assume trans people only exist in urban areas—surely not in the middle of cornfields in Iowa.

You’d be wrong.

Trans people have and always will exist everywhere: every community, every town, every country.

It’s no wonder trans ensembles are popping up—we need them.

The gay men’s chorus movement has paved the way for trans ensembles. If you’re unfamiliar with the queer chorus movement, you’d be shocked at just how many LGBTQ+ ensembles exist in the United States—there’s hundreds. LGBTQ+ choruses have boldly shown up for decades, fighting for our rights through song and visibility.

If you’re reading this and have sang in an LGBTQ+ chorus for 10+ years, thank you. The joys I get to experience today are because you showed up—on stage, in rehearsal, in our community.

Check out the Gay and Lesbian Association of Choruses (GALA Choruses) website for more →. It’ll make you smile, I promise.

TRANScendent is the only time in our week that we get to exist around only trans people—that’s incredibly powerful. I don’t think LGBTQ+ people have ever taken community for granted, because it’s kept us alive.

I’m so excited for the future of TRANScendent and other trans ensembles throughout the country. It feels like we’re just getting started. I’ve had the chance to meet directors of other trans ensembles through the GALA Chorus network, and it’s both inspiring and affirming to know just how important these communities really are. We all want to be seen, heard, and make music together. Queer art is activism. The proof is simply undeniable.

I’ve got so much more to say, so stick around. I’d love to share more with you.

Consider sharing this with a friend. This work matters, this work is important. If you’re a paid subscriber, thank you for supporting my work.

Talk soon,

Tristan

The endless videos, photos, and witty captions designed to capture my attention lead me to the same result each time—how did I get here?

As someone who works in digital marketing, social media is a huge part of my day: checking notifications, analyzing insights, engaging with other accounts, and the like—pun intended.

My phone is designed to suck me in. Red dots with notification counts, muscle memory to open Instagram, and countless circles to tap and see moments of friends’ days.

It’s no shock technology has taken us full circle. Flip phones made for calls and texts turned into touch screen social media machines in just a few years—we simply can’t keep up. Just google “dumb phone” and you’ll find a rabbit hole of people in the same boat.

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I’ve been fed ads for the Brick, a glorified NFC tag with accompanying app to block—or “brick”—certain apps on your phone. Comment below if you know what I’m talking about. This is not just setting screen time limits in your phone settings, easily dismissed with a quick tap.

This is significantly more strict.

You literally cannot open a blocked app until you physically scan the NFC Brick with your phone. Now, being pretty tech savvy (and cheap), I quickly found a way to DIY this functionality with a different app, called Foqos, along with a door fob on my keys.

It was fairly straight forward (and free). Check out the tutorial I followed here →.

Once I hit start, I cannot access social media apps until I physically scan the NFC fob attached to my keys. The app starts a timer to show you how long you’ve been “bricked.” Most days after work, I start the brick and remain social media-less for the evening and until the next morning when I need to access the apps again for work.

Don’t get me wrong, I still try and reach for my phone to pull up Instagram, but now instead of being sucked in, I simply can’t open the app. I’m met with a temporary Foqos screen with a gentle push back to reality (see below).

I’m reminded “Oh yeah, I’d have to go scan the damn thing.” It creates the friction I was looking for—did I need social media right now, or was I just bored?

Now, the important part here is that your scannable tag remains fairly inaccessible. My keys live by the door while at home, and in my bag while out. If I really need my brick to access socials for work, I can find it. But, it’s inconvenient enough that I’m rarely tempted to unbrick.

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I’m shocked at how much this matters.

An “ignore screen time limit” button is far too easy to break through. The physical scanning step forces me to work to get on Instagram, and I just never find it’s that worth it. I can never just “check one thing.” I hate to admit it, but I don’t have that kind of self control. I’m always pulled into a story, a video, and suddenly minutes have flown by looking at things I’ll likely forget in the next hour.

I’ve found some weekend peace for the first time in a long time. I can watch TV without a phone in my hand. I picked up a book for the first time in over a year. I still haven’t finished it, but I’m trying! I even colored in a coloring book—I can’t even tell you the last time I had used a colored pencil!

Give it a go. It’s not perfect, it’s a little scary, but it’s forced me to stop and think intentionally every time I seek an escape into my little screen. There’s no better feeling than starting that Foqos mode at the end of the day—it’s quite freeing.

Talk soon,

Why did you leave music?

Didn’t you get your degree in teaching?

Well, what are you doing now?

I’ll admit, they’re valid questions. Shifting from a career in music—teaching private voice lessons at the university level—to digital marketing and social media management isn’t what I’d consider typical.

These questions are often well intended with curiosity and intrigue. Yet, a handful of people approach me with a “What have you done?!” sort of mentality. More of a “Really? You’re not teaching anymore? Wasn’t that your major?” kind of tone.

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The runaround of student recitals, performances, private lessons and frequent coaching requests. Anyone else nodding along? You get your first paycheck—it’s not enough—but you talk yourself into it because you love it. After all, finding an arts job today is no easy feat.

I loved it, for quite a while.

I felt like I had really made it. Many of my colleagues in grad school couldn’t find the university teaching jobs we all fought over: application after application. I felt lucky—like I had won the grad school lottery. It was the first and only university job I had applied for after graduating during the pandemic.

It wasn’t enough.

The first time I admitted that was terrifying. I felt like a failure. How could I leave a job that I dreamed about? I felt like I had worked so hard for 6 years in university and grad school, and leaving this job felt like I was throwing it all away.

I made many excuses:

Well, at least I have summers off.

I can relax during holiday break.

You are lucky to have this job.

It’s not enough money, but what else would you do?

These were simply procrastination tactics. The truth is, you can’t stay in a space or place that doesn’t give you what you need. I should’ve left sooner, but excuses kept me. My internal imposter voice saying “Maybe you’re only worth this much” was strong for a very long time.

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Now what?

I just celebrated 3 months in my new job working from home (almost 4 at this point), and I haven’t looked back. I almost forget what it felt like to get up and head to the voice studio every day for an endless stream of lessons. It feels like a distant memory.

I’m trying to lean into the joyful memories, the impactful moments, the lesson discoveries that kept me there so long, the incredible students who still reach out and ask how I’m doing.

So, I guess I have an answer for next time someone asks why I left.

My success in life has nothing to do with my job or a major in college. Rather, it’s the commitment to choosing the best version of me, wherever that may be. Though I don’t claim the identity of “teacher” much anymore, at least I can claim Tristan. I think it’s a pretty good one so far. 💖

As always, thanks for reading and supporting my work.

Talk soon,

T

I know it’s just another year, but something feels different this time around. I really feel another decade of life has passed.

My 20s were monumental for me. I graduated college, went to grad school, got my first “real” job, and saw some incredible accomplishments: music direction awards, the Emerging Leader LGBTQ+ Legacy Award from DSM Magazine, became director of TRANScendent (Iowa’s first and only trans/non-binary singing ensemble), to name a few.

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I don’t tend to be someone who carries regrets, but if I had to name one, it’s that I spent a lot of my 20s waiting.

Waiting for permission.

Waiting for opportunity.

Waiting for approval.

Waiting for praise.

Waiting for happiness to fall in my lap.

And after all that waiting, I’m tired.

Tired of letting my imposter syndrome speak too loudly. Tired of not trusting myself and my abilities. Tired of waiting for someone to validate me. If there’s a rite of passage to turning 30, I’m sure it’s this.

I’m nurturing and working through traumas I’ve carried with me from poor leaders who micromanaged, power-tripped, and talked down to me. I’m not there yet, but I’m trying.

I’ve actually started tracking some new habits in this app, and it’s already been quite inspiring. I’ve committed myself to becoming less distracted at work. I’ve started to create more: writing, drawing, and coloring (with real markers and paper, wild right?!).

I’ve picked up reading again—slowly, but it’s a start. I’ve “bricked” my phone from social media for a majority of my day (post about this coming soon 😏).

I’m starting to rewire my brain and break the bad habits that lead me to waiting.

I’m starting to take myself seriously. The skills and talents I have are valuable, hirable, appreciated, and important. I feel freer already.

So, cheers to less waiting, more creating, and breaking old habits. Here’s to 30 (ah!).

Thanks for following along.

Talk soon,

Tristan 💖

Since then, there has been significantly more research and publication (though not enough) on how we can invite and create safe spaces for trans singers to thrive in musical spaces like a chorus.

I have experienced a stark discrepancy of inclusion for trans singers in choral spaces throughout my 18 years singing in a choir.

I’ve seen it all—the good, bad, and “only women can sing mezzo” of this conversation.

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Now, as the director of the 4th largest trans & non-binary chorus in the country (TRANScendent of the Des Moines Gay Men’s Chorus1), I’ve got a few things to say about how we continue to cultivate safe spaces for trans singers in the choral movement many of us know and love so deeply.

1. Wear name tags with pronouns

It’s simple, but effective. We’ve worn name tags in the DMGMC for years.

When you use and wear your own pronouns, it welcomes a trans person to do the same. I cannot tell you how many “introduce yourself” moments I’ve been in where I’m the first person to share my pronouns: “Hi! I’m Tristan, my pronouns are he/they…”

It’s awkward. It’s incredibly outing, and it singles out any trans or non-binary person in the room before you even have the chance to share your favorite coffee drink.

And, above all, it’s incredibly helpful to learn singers’ names. It’s a win-win all around.

I’d be embarrassed if you knew how many times I’ve had a brain blank and needed to look at a singer’s name tag at rehearsal. It’s very Andrea saving Emily at the Runway Gala.

2. Stop saying “men” and “women” when you really mean “tenors” or “altos”

Voice parts have been historically gendered throughout the classical cannon. Choral directors frequently refer to tenors/basses as “men” and sopranos/altos as “women.” This isn’t usually with any ill intent, but it reinforces a very gendered history of choral music and one that doesn’t reflect the modern queer choruses of today.

We have women singing tenor, trans men singing alto, non-binary folx singing soprano, and everything in between. Singers sing in sections, not in genders.

I see many directors have success with terms like “trebles” for alto/soprano voices, or “tee bees” (TBs) for tenors/basses. “Lows,” “middles,” and “highs” are terms I use weekly in TRANScendent since we sing mostly 3-part harmonies. It’s a simple way to correctly refer to the people in front of you.

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3. Cultivate community for trans singers to thrive

I don’t mean just creating a trans support group in your membership or starting a trans/non-binary ensemble like TRANScendent. I mean building community that uplifts and supports trans singers on a regular basis.

Are you using singers’ correct pronouns? Are you using gender inclusive language? Do you have all gender or individual restrooms available at rehearsal? Are you creating opportunity for part-hopping to honor changing voices from HRT? It all builds community and access.

Being trans is not a concert theme, a call-out when singing a song by a trans composer, or an affinity group. We are a real, integral part of the queer choral movement.

Community is built every rehearsal you make trans people feel safe and empowered to just be. There are too many forces working against trans people out there. Let’s make choirs a home for singers to just show up, thrive, and of course, sing! 🎶

Thanks for reading.

Talk soon,

T💖

At the risk of sounding dramatic, it changed me.

It re-ignited my fire for the queer chorus movement in a big way. It reminded me that the community created through choral art matters. It connects humanity in remarkable ways—seriously, google it, research shows chorus member heartbeats synchronize when they sing and breathe together.2

The coolest thing I learned? Choirs are one of the most Un-American things we could ever do.

For those new here, I’m on artistic staff for the Des Moines Gay Men’s Chorus (DMGMC) in Des Moines, IA. I serve as our General Manager—accomplishing administrative and organizational tasks—and the director of TRANScendent, our trans and non-binary ensemble, one of only a dozen in the country and the 4th largest.

Now, back to that Un-American thing.

Think about it, American capitalist culture thrives on selfishness, power, money, beating the other guy. The American dream hinges upon profiting off of people with less privilege than you. American and community are close to opposites.

Choirs, on the other hand, thrive on belonging, shared commitment, the sound of the whole above individual voices, blend, community. Choirs have to be one of the most Un-American things a person could do.

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I admit, I stole this concept from Ethan Sperry, ensemble bootcamp coach at the symposium. I’ve sung in a choir most of my life and have of course noted the incredible ways choirs improve the human experience. I was so struck by Ethan’s take, because it proved just how important choirs—and the arts—are in this country. They’re the best of us.

I’m a firm believer that singing in a choir makes you a better person.

If you have sung in a choir, I’m sure it’s easy to note the lessons you might have learned in the rehearsal room. Lessons that might never make their way into your heart by simply being American.

GALA Symposium was a weekend of reminders that the queer chorus movement matters, and it’s definitely what fuels my creativity, my passion, and my artistic soul. I’m not sure where I would be if I hadn’t found the Des Moines Gay Men’s Chorus, but I’m thankful for every note that has built the chord of my career—music theory cheesy enough?

I can’t wait to share more with you. Stick around for more gay chorus talk.

Talk soon,

T 💖

See some behind the scenes footage below! 👇

Our team is interviewing over 30 people who have had a hand in these 25 years as singers, patrons, collaborators, staff, board members, and even our former artistic directors. It’s an incredible feat to capture and filter 25 years of stories into one documentary, but the through themes are clear—community, acceptance, safe space, musical excellence. I can’t wait for you to see it.

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How did we get here?

Since 2001, the DMGMC has created community for originally gay men, but now serves as a haven for queer singers from all over Des Moines as we have expanded over the last five years to welcome singers of all gender identities and sexual orientations.

We have trans men & women, lesbians, gays, and even straight allies all in one room to sing as one and create choral beauty.

I feel lucky to have found this incredible community. When I joined in fall of 2020, I was one of only two singers who used he/they pronouns. Now, our chorus is almost 25% not gay men. I shared more about this on my TikTok.

I think this is due to a variety of factors, but notably the creation of our trans and non-binary ensemble, TRANScendent.

The DMGMC houses the 4th largest trans and non-binary ensemble in the country: TRANScendent.

I became the ensemble’s first director in fall of 2023, and since then, we have been awarded the Courageous Six Change Maker Award from One Iowa, have premiered a commissioned piece by trans composer Pax Ressler titled “They Cannot Erase Us,” and have headlined for the Trans Lives Festival in Des Moines. Incredible accomplishments given anti-trans legislation in our state over the past few years, including this very session.

I’ve never been more proud of anything than my dear TRANScendent.

I can’t wait to see the final documentary and share it with all of you. I feel lucky to be a part of this rich history, this legacy of the queer experience in Iowa, a place I’ve always called home.

Talk soon,

Tristan 💖

I’m finding it takes significantly more effort to pull myself out of these trenches each day. The small moments of bliss and queer joy matter even more and have become even harder for me to notice.

If you asked me 5 years ago, I would absolutely have labeled myself an optimist, so what happened?

I’m not sure if I’ve turned into a complete pessimist, but the optimism name tag has become significantly more difficult to pin on my chest each day.

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I spent a couple weeks noting the small things.

The quick moments of joy—queer and otherwise—that nourished my soul. I started to capture them, and with that small, intentional act, I found my internal monologue shifting almost immediately. Wow, what good things did I notice this week, today, yesterday? That’s not a habitual reflection for me anymore; was it ever?

I found a moment of joy at 8:30 AM on a Saturday morning at Walnut Hills United Methodist Church (our chorus rehearsal location) before a DMGMC board and staff retreat. I volunteered to go early and make a pot of coffee. The air felt crisp & clean. I took a picture.

I found another when making a weekend frittata in my new dutch oven pan from my partner, Chris. If you haven’t tried a Made In pan before… they’re worth every penny. The kitchen has always been a place of joy for me. I love to cook, try new recipes, and of course, eat them. It was delicious, obviously.

I accidentally took a photo with flash at the Saddle when trying to send my mom a picture of my tequila soda, lol—one of the seven deadly sins in my book. I chuckled, but loved the photo. My family is big into tequila. I only really drink it at my parents’ house, so its agave flavor has acquired quite a bit of nostalgia on my palate. I was missing my family that afternoon, so a tequila drink felt right and of course I had to document for mom.

It’s funny, this whole post feels like a cliché sign on a midwest wall: ”life’s about the small things" or something like that. But, I think those midwest mamas are onto something. It really does add up. The moments of tragedy and fear out there are so large, we need many small moments of joy and hope to even come close to breaking even.

All’s to say, take the damn photo. Set a reminder on your phone every day at 2 PM. You might never look at it again, but maybe it’ll bring you a few moments of bliss to take a step out of the trenches—if only for a moment.

Talk soon,

Tristan

See the full post on my Instagram →

Here are 4 things you can do in Des Moines this month (February) to find some queer joy:

1. Saturday 2/7: Flamy Grant at First Unitarian Church

2. Sunday 2/8: LGBTQ+ Library Cataloging Socials at DSM Pride Center

   1. The largest LGBTQ+ archive in the state of Iowa!

3. Saturday 2/14: Common Love Clothing Popup

   1. Free clothing exchange for queer folks and allies. I’m going to be out of town this weekend and I’m devastated to miss. 😫

4. Monday 2/23: LGBTQ+ Day on the Hill with One Iowa

What events are you going to? Let us know in the comments below. 👇

Talk soon,

Tristan

I’ve never been happier.

Higher education is a silly thing. At the ripe age of 18, many attend college only to be funneled into a major that promises a path to a career, an industry full of jobs (that don’t exist), and a “guarantee” for financial stability, right?

Wrong. I chose music. Fine arts ≠ financial stability.

Now, I didn’t have big plans for fame on Broadway, so I pursued teaching. I loved it. It felt so natural to me. Coaching voice students ranging from high school, collegiate, and beyond for nearly 10 years in genres like musical theatre, art song, opera, jazz, pop, and the like—something we call “cross-over training” in the biz. I coached trans women through gender affirming voice care vocal feminization. I directed show choir pit bands. I music directed and conducted the world premier of a musical. I won numerous awards. I got the “full-time collegiate teaching job” we all dreamed about in grad school (the financially stable path, remember her?). I felt on top of the world.

And then I got burned out.

Full-time studio instruction is no joke. From my experience, a typical professor at a university teaches around 12-14 credit hours per semester—roughly 12 hours of face-to-face (with students) class instruction. I was teaching 16 (20 class hours) on a salary below what a first year teacher would receive at a local public school. I was at a private, collegiate institution with a $50k+ student tuition. Something wasn’t adding up.

I loved the job. One-on-one vocal coachings for musical theatre students whom I adored. I got to make my own schedule, cater my teaching to students individual needs and voices, and cried as they graduated and left for beautiful careers just like I did. But that feeling kept creeping up from the back of my head… “I’m worth more.” Year after year, I was met with the same reality: this cannot be forever. I can’t go on like this. So I left.

I’m now a Digital Marketing Coordinator for a local distillery (that makes incredible spirits), I direct Iowa's only trans and non-binary ensemble (TRANScendent), do freelance social media management, and for the first time in a long time, I’m happy. I work from home. I have artistic energy for myself for the first time in years, and my social battery is beginning to recharge after giving myself to students for so long.

So, I did quit my job, and I got a new one. I let go of the idea that leaving my “industry” of the arts as a full-time gig was a failure. Well, maybe I’m still letting go. I clung to my community in the chorus, my queer rocks, my partner, and the things and people that remain steadfast when jobs come and go. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever done, but I think my shoulders have finally relaxed, mostly.

If you need a kick in the pants to make a change,

If you need to hear about cool queer things happening in Iowa,

If you want to learn more about trans people,

stick around.

Queer joy is just around the corner, kiddos.

Don’t forgot to follow me on social. 😉

Talk soon,

Tristan

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