While browsing my Facebook feed on an early summer day in May 2017, a post with the trigger warning “inconsistent use of pronouns” grabbed my attention. The post, shared within a private Facebook group for (foreign) LGBTQIA+ individuals and allies living in Japan, featured an article recently published in The New York Times. Titled “Japanese Transgender Politician is Showing ‘I Exist Here’,” the article focuses on Hosoda Tomoya, a Japanese trans man who recently won a seat in the local city council in a suburb just outside of Tokyo (Rich, 2017). Hosoda made history as the first trans man in the world to be voted to public office, and the near-full-page article delved into Hosoda's life history, his journey into politics, and the challenges that he faced as a trans person living in Japan. What the author and the subsequent commenters of the Facebook post found “baffling” about the article was the use of the pronoun “she” when referring to Hosoda's childhood years as a girl named Mika, whereas throughout the remainder of the article, “he” was used to refer to Hosoda. This inconsistency was deemed by some as “poor etiquette,” particularly from a reputable outlet like The New York Times. What the readers were not aware of, however, was that Hosoda himself had approved the use of the pronoun “she” in that specific section of the report. The reason he provided was that it is an undeniable fact that he had “publicly lived as a woman before chiryo” (transition, literally medical treatment) and therefore did not see anything wrong with using the feminine third-person pronoun (private communication). If Hosoda himself did not find the pronouns “inconsistent” or offensive, should the general readers take issue with them? In the middle of 2020, I received an email from a graduate student based in the United States who had recently read one of my articles. The student took issue with my use of the term “FTM,” pointing out that by using it to refer to my research informants, I am perpetuating the “linguistic violence” associated with the term. In that article, I drew on my fieldwork in what I term the Japanese FTM community in Tokyo to show how seemingly mundane social events, such as drinking parties that are organized by and for trans men, can function as a site for my informants to negotiate inclusion and belonging as trans without undermining their male public selves. Within this community, “FTM” (the English acronym for female-to-male transgender) is the preferred term of self-reference, both in written form and in speech (transliterated as efu-tii-emu in Japanese). Although I was aware of the debates surrounding this term in English-speaking contexts, where it is considered outdated and criticized for emphasizing a notion of change that contradicts the experiences of many trans individuals who have always identified as such, I chose to use it to refer to my informants because they have consistently used it to describe themselves and others within the community. The term “FTM,” originally borrowed from English, is used in the Japanese context to describe individuals whose karada no sei (literally the sex/gender of the body) is female but whose kokoro no sei (literally the sex/gender of their heart) is male. Alongside its counterpart “MTF” (male-to-female transgender, transliterated as emu-tii-efu), these terms have gained prominence in both government publications and writings by transgender individuals as appropriate labels to reference toransujendā (the Japanese transliteration of the English term transgender). Toransujendā, as a new category of personhood, emerged in Japan in the late 1990s following the introduction of the medical condition seidōitsuseishōgai (Gender Identity Disorder, henceforth GID) along with the official recognition of seibetsutekigō shujutsu (gender affirming surgery, literally sex reassignment surgery) as the appropriate “treatment” for GID. Despite the recent global trend toward demedicalization, transgender in Japan remain predominantly understood in medical terms, and the “wrong body” narrative continues to be invoked by many trans individuals seeking access to hormones, surgery, and legal gender recognition. In that article, I should have explicitly acknowledged the potential harm that the term, along with notions of medicalization associated with the term, may inflict on certain trans individuals. I should have also pointed out that I recognize that not all trans men in Japan identify with and use the term “FTM.” Perhaps I could have used the Japanese transliteration efu-tii-emu instead. Nevertheless, based on my analysis of Japanese trans autobiographies (such as Sugiyama, 2006) and from my fieldwork, I observed that the medical discourse has played a significant role in providing a new and legitimate way for understanding gender non-normativity in Japan—an aspect traditionally associated with the realm of sex and entertainment (McLelland, 2005). The emergence of terms like “FTM” has empowered many Japanese trans individuals, enabling them to move from an unspeakable, “unacceptable and abominable existence” (Sugiyama, 2006, pp. 65–66) to one that is comprehensible and sanctioned by the authority of medicine. The enactment of a law in 2004—the Exceptional Treatment Law for People with Gender Identity Disorder (Seidōitsuseishōgaisha no seibetsu no toriatsukai no tokurei ni kansuru hōan)—that allows trans individuals who have received a GID diagnosis and who have undergone gender reassignment to legally change their gender further legitimizes their existence.i Most, if not all, of my informants—who come from diverse backgrounds and are at various stages of transition—identify with and embrace the label “FTM.” Many even prominently feature it on their social media profiles. Although some individuals may not identify exclusively with the term “FTM,” given the term's cultural significance within the Japanese context, would it not also be an act of violence if I were to adopt a different term for this community, thereby erasing its history and denying my informants of the subjectivity and empowerment that “FTM” affords them? Both episodes reminded me of an incident at the 2009 Netherlands Transgender Film Festival recounted in Leung (2016). During the screening of the documentary Transvestites Also Cry (2007), which follows the lives of two Ecuadorian migrant sex workers in Paris, several audience members walked out of the theater in protest. They were apparently upset by the filmmaker's use of the pronoun “he” to refer to the protagonist in the film, who identifies as female. They were also offended by the term “transvestite,” which the filmmaker used as the translation for the Spanish term travesti, a term that the subjects in the film used to refer to themselves and others in their community. As Leung (2016) rightly observed, the filmmaker could have avoided controversy by titling the film more “correctly,” albeit somewhat awkwardly, as Transgender People Also Cry. However, even with a more accurate title, the subjects’ use of pronouns was never consistent, and they also employed terms like “homosexual” and “tercer sexo” (third sex) alongside “travesti” to describe themselves and their friends. Other visual cues in the film further underscored the “noncoherence between categories, identities, and experiences” (ibid., p. 435). What we can glean from these examples is that although “correct” terminologies hold significance, they cannot fully capture the complexity of all trans lives and experiences. What may be considered acceptable or preferred terminology in one context may lack relevance or appropriateness in another. Yet, the dominance of Anglo-centric perspectives in public and academic discourses surrounding queer and trans issues has led to the widespread assumptions about the universal applicability of English terminologies and identity categories. As a result, local ways of understanding and articulating diverse gender identities and embodiment—which emerged out of historical, social, cultural, and political contexts that may differ significantly from those of the Anglo-West—may become overshadowed or replaced entirely by the ostensibly more “correct” terminology and the associated notions of trans identity that they convey (Leung, 2016). I certainly do not doubt the importance of using trans-affirming language. As Zimman (2017) observed, language is one significant site through which trans identities are negotiated, validated, and undermined. The advocacy for transgender language reform, a cornerstone of trans activism, has catalyzed a critical reevaluation of linguistic practices in many Anglo-Western societies in recent years. From the adoption of gender-neutral pronouns (such as singular they/them/theirs) to the development of new gender identity terms (such as the word “non-binary”), the push for trans-affirming and gender inclusive language has challenged the normalization of transphobia and cissexism in everyday language use, prompting better recognition and affirmation of trans people's self-identities (ibid). However, as Cameron (2012 [1995]) reminded us, “language is a highly variable and radically context-dependent phenomenon which may have effects on perception, but only in conjunction with other factors” (p. 142). Although language can perpetuate certain beliefs and assumptions, it alone does not create them. Terminologies and perspectives are inter-related, yet perspectives are not universal. Therefore, it is crucial to consider language within its broader sociocultural context. Returning to Hosoda's case, many English-speaking readers today might similarly find the use of a female third-person pronoun for someone identifying as male inappropriate. Although Japanese language is generally perceived to be gendered—an ideology often reinforced in school textbooks, media, and daily conversations—pronouns, in normative usage, do not solely index gender identity. As Morita (2003) highlighted, “Japanese personal pronouns always index a specific social relationship […] Japanese speakers must choose certain address and reference terms to locate themselves as well as their interlocutors in the entire speech community to which both of them belong, giving an acknowledged role in society to each other” (p. 371). As such, Japanese speakers may use different pronouns depending on the social context, taking into consideration factors like gender, age, and status in relation to their interlocutors, all while adhering to lexical items appropriate for their gender. Gender, within the ideology of gendered language, is treated as a singular, unified concept where various aspects of gender, such as gender identity, assigned gender, legal gender, and gender presentation, are conflated into one. As a result, for many Japanese-speaking trans individuals navigating these gendered language norms, the choice of pronouns may not always be straightforward, leading to situations where they switch between “masculine” and “feminine pronouns” depending on the context. In the community that I studied, many trans men use the vulgar first-person “masculine pronoun” ore when speaking to their peers or younger members in the community. Those from working class backgrounds also tend to favor ore over boku (a first-person “masculine pronoun” used by men in informal settings), which is more commonly used among middle-class trans men or when addressing older or senior members in the community. The choice of masculine pronouns by these trans men not only indexes male gender identity or male social gender but also conveys additional nuances. For instance, the use of ore indexes attributes such as coolness and assertiveness (see also Miyazaki, 2023), whereas boku carries connotations of youthfulness, approachability, and polite informality. However, in professional settings outside of the community and on social media platforms, some of these trans men, who use ore and boku within the community but who have not come out or undergone transition, opt for “feminine pronouns” like watashi (a first-person pronoun usually used by women, but also used by men in formal settings) and kanojo (she). This choice, akin to Hosoda's situation, aligns with gendered speech conventions in Japan, where individuals typically (or are expected to) choose “feminine pronouns” if their assigned/social/legal gender is female. If criticism is warranted here, it should not be directed at Hosoda or The New York Times for their use of female pronouns on someone who identifies as male, but rather at the gendered language ideology that perpetuates concepts of “men's speech” and “women's speech” in Japan. Trans language activism (TLA) has indeed spread far and wide, reshaping ways of thinking and speaking about trans beyond the Anglophone sphere. In line with developments in the West, some trans activists in Japan today are also advocating for the use of “toransu man” (trans man) and “toransu ūman” (trans woman) as the more accurate and modern equivalents of “FTM” and “MTF.” However, as Zimman pointed out in the discussion article, the advocacy around trans-affirming language has largely been influenced by the perspectives of trans individuals and allies who hold privilege along other axes of identity. These individuals often tend to be white, highly educated, employed in elite academic institutions, able-bodied, and native English speakers. Using terminologies and linguistic practices deemed “correct” by a small group of trans activists and language reformers in a blanket manner, without consideration of the underlying power dynamics, can be problematic in several ways. Not only does it hinder TLA's goal of achieving sociolinguistic justice, but it can also perpetuate other forms of marginalization, such as the devaluation of Black language, as highlighted by Zimman. Furthermore, it can (re)produce a “hierarchy of experiences and subjectivities” (Leung, 2016), which privileges Euro-American understandings of gender non-normativity as modern and progressive while dismissing other (local) ways of imagining and expressing gender non-normativity as traditional and outdated (Leung, 2016; Grewal & Kaplan, 2001). To effectively achieve sociolinguistic justice, we need to provincialize Western perspectives on trans and its associated vocabularies (Chiang et al., 2018). Trans activists, individuals, and allies must move beyond Eurocentric thinking and recognize that the “correct” terminologies and categories originating from the Western trans movement may not universally apply to trans and gender non-conforming individuals in other cultures. Real progress toward sociolinguistic justice begins when we move beyond simply policing language use or correcting instances of what some may perceive as misgendering without considering the broader context.