Would It Really Be So Wrong?

There are some who like to say that the ends never justify the means. I wouldn’t say never, but sometimes it’s true. If you are someone who is likely to go on a shooting spree to open up some seating for a sold out Air Supply concert, you may want to live hard and fast by this rule. For the rest of us, we usually try to do a little mental cost/ benefit analysis in our heads in the attempt to develop some contorted reasoning to do what we are inclined to in the first place. This is known as ‘ethical logic’ and is occasionally either and seldom both. Clearly I have something specific in mind.

Would it be wrong to utilize the power of our trans-ness to a positive political end, but in a sneaky underhanded manner? Now don’t get all indignant and snippy just yet; we are just talking here. “Gosh Michelle, whatever do you mean?” What I’m talking about is figuring out which candidates, local or national, have our best interests at heart, and then campaigning for the other guy. I don’t mean bumper sticker and lawn sign campaigning, I’m talking about loud, public, outlandish dress type campaigning. At public speaking events, debates, and even stationed near the polling places on election day, whooping it up to the heavens on how this guy, we really don’t like, is going to set us free on America.

Hold on, I can already hear some of you getting disgusted, but let’s talk this through for just a few more minutes. Imagine for a moment. Rick Santorum in his little sweater vest, pontificating about all the things said by JFK, MLK, but not the KKK that made him lose his baloney and Miracle Whip sandwich. Then there would be us, dolled up as Hollywood chainsaw hookers with a schoolgirl twist, shouting out, “Yay Rickie! He’s going to give us all government sponsored teaching positions in all the public schools! Yay!” Now you have Carl and Carla Conservative in the crowd thinking, “Wait a minute… I’m against diversity and inclusion! Clearly, I can’t vote for this meatball.” And the icing? Oh, Rick would be so super pissed.

You have to admit, that sounds pretty fun, right? Oh, just to see the look on his face! Alas, every which way I tried to contort this, and apply logical fallacy after logical fallacy, I just couldn’t crunch the numbers into a win. Would it be morally wrong? Ehhhh… that’s a question for philosophy majors living in their mom’s basement. It’s more of a ‘cut my nose to spite my face’ kind of thing. First off, the one who did win is going to remember that we campaigned for the other guy. Even if he was in on it, it wouldn’t be so easy to explain to the people who actually campaigned for him that he’s throwing us a bone. Second, if Rick the dick actually did win in spite of this, well, you can rest assured he knows exactly what we were trying to do, and be none too happy about it either.

The real reason this madcap caper is a non-starter is that even if we got a little play out of it, all the dignity and respect we managed to build with glacial slowness over the years would be gone. All the people who already thought of us that way would be justified in their mental image of a trans person. All the people who we won over and convinced we were regular human beings with the same needs and wants as them would now be in doubt. When the gay community adopted high camp years ago as a form of social protest, I don’t think they foresaw that even today a surprising percentage of people still think that is how “they” really are. We are still trying to live down Dr Frank, and probably don’t need more of a hassle. Still, one can daydream.

They Took Me to ‘Tootsie’

I was about 10 when my grandparents took my sister and I to the movies at the long gone Boulevard Mall Cineplex. I don’t know if Tootsie was necessarily the best choice, but old Papa was not terribly keen to sit through two hours of animated caterwauling. In any case, I absolutely loved it. Well, most of it. I wasn’t aware of what the film was supposed to be about walking in. I suppose it had been advertised on TV, probably during commercial breaks of ‘Bosom Buddies’, but I avoided that show like the plague unless I was alone, which was never. I had a little blushing problem when things hit too close to home. The nice part about the movie theater is that it is dark.

At the time Tootsie came out, “gender-bending” in the media was on a minor upswing. Prior to this time it was a rare day to even catch a Bugs Bunny episode where he wore a dress. From the moment Michael Dorsey became Dorothy Michaels, my eyes were riveted to the screen. I couldn’t imagine a character having a luckier break. I came away, however, a little bit confused.

For one, I developed the impression that attempting to look like a slightly dowdy looking ‘old lady’  (I was only 10 remember!) required an obscene amount of work. Not just eyebrow plucking and makeup, but gluing bits of foam to the face as well. I was very daunted by this and the idea of ever looking good enough to walk around in society and not have everyone know seemed hopeless. Not that passing at my age would have been even remotely difficult, but I understood by then that I was going to growing into some unpleasant changes. Of course I came to find this was pretty accurate, less the adhesion of shit to my face.

Second, I already kind of understood from glimpses of ‘Bosom Buddies’ that boys dressed as girls were supposed to be hysterical. This confirmed that notion very well. “If I am ever seen dressed like a girl, people are going to kill themselves laughing at me.” As a hypersensitive child with an overdeveloped need to please, being the butt of intense ridicule did not seem like a desirable outcome. I had enough inner conflict over my penny loafers, which I loved for being appropriate for feminine feet, but too publically gender ambiguous, even though half the boys in my class had them as well.

Finally, I absolutely hated the ending. Here she was, living a wonderful, successful life as Dorothy and she willingly (willingly!) goes back to being dumpy old Michael! Why? Why would she do that? For the life of me I could not conceive of a worse way to have ended the thing. Oh, it was so depressing. What the hell was wrong with her… him… anyway? It wouldn’t be the first time either. Every movie I ever saw thereafter where a boy successfully integrated into female society, accepted for who she is, they blow it in the end. It was sadistic film making in my book. How could they bill these films as “zany, laugh-a-minute romps” when the ending would make old Aeschylus himself, the Eeyore of Greek drama, weep bitter tears.

It wasn’t until much later that I understood the tragic-comic element of the story was that they were reduced to appearing as women in the first place. They had sunk as low as they could go and then found an even deeper basement in adopted femininity. Fumbling through ridiculous tribulations like makeup, pantyhose, walking in heels, endless girl talk, and inevitable come-on’s from the ‘wrong’ kind of man, they are broken down. As a dubious benefit to his humiliation, they learn to be better men and in the end are restored to their rightful status at the top of the food chain. OK, I know this probably wasn’t the overt intention, and my little speech would be looked at as ‘Femi-nazism’ by blowhards like Rush. I’m not completely wrong here either though, just to keep it in perspective.

Be that as it may, I prefer my version of the ending; the one that never seems to get filmed, or even appear in the director’s cut, of gems like Sorority Boys or one of the endless iterations of Freaky Friday where gender swap is used as the clever catch. It’s OK, I don’t need the media to conform to my particular preference. As long as I have directors privilege in my own life, the ending is going to be just to my liking, and that is all I really need.

The GSA is AOK!

I decided to take it easy today and pick a topic I think we can all agree on. The Girl Scouts of America totally rock. Well, the majority. What prompted this post is my sense of outrageous disbelief about what I have been seeing in the news lately. If someone were to predict even two years ago that America’s little darlings were going to be the target of the almighty wrath of right wing fury we would have laughed and laughed at their clever little joke. As it is, I’m still having a hard time believing these stories are not originating with the Onion.

In case there is anyone who doesn’t know what I’m talking about, the Girl Scouts, a venerable all-American institution devoted to inspiring empowerment, charity, good works, accomplishment, excellent manners, and waist busting cookie sales, are now under attack. The initial crime was the inclusion of a young trans girl who wished to participate in this noble tradition. Oh, how the blood began the boil! “If Jesus were here right now, why he’d turn into that Narnia lion and disembowel not only that little pansy, but all the whoring Jezebels who accepted Satan’s own bugle boy into their midst!” I don’t think that is the direct quote from anyone in particular, but it’s also not very far removed either. For anyone new to this blog, I’m not against people of faith, just the whole concept of employing their god to smite people they happen to disagree with.

Immediately a schism formed after another little girl, also a scout and presumably with great parental encouragement, denounced the GSA in general for their devilish compassionate inclusion and urged us all not to buy cookies. In short, the anti-Scout has arisen among us, dedicated to fear, intolerance, and whatever the opposite of charity is. And a cookie boycott? It would be like Ronald McDonald urging us all to go vegan. I’m pretty sure they would make him give the costume back, so not too sure what is happening here. Even if it doesn’t hurt sales, it’s pretty antithetical to the mission. The GSA is big on heart, maybe not so big on business strategy. They are probably just too nice to give her the boot and make her join the Sunflower Girls with Peter Brady.

A snotty tween mouthing off on YouTube isn’t really such a big deal. After the shocking failure of her pissy rant, the real puppet masters came out, infuriated that the GSA continued on doing exactly what they were founded to do, and sell cookies. Clearly the GSA had been hijacked from a merit badge motivated organization to the powerful enforcement wing of Planned Parenthood dedicated to ensuring that each and every member achieved a viable pregnancy and quickly aborted it, preferably in the third trimester. I don’t even really know how to express my feeling about such absurdities without resorting to even more absurd cliché expressions. Yeah, it’s trans people who exhibit delusional instability.

Naturally I have to give the GSA huge kudos for doing the right thing by supporting a kid who wants to be a scout and learn from the principled traditions of the GSA. I wish it happened much sooner. I was subjected to the Boy Scouts; an experience only made bearable by my father’s presence at the majority of the camp-outs. The few times I ventured on my own were not exactly comfortable. My pack was inhabited by a lot of violent little monsters who liked to issue grave threats midway through a “nature hike” when the whiskey and weed came out. And true to the stereotype, my Scoutmaster was brought up on pedophilia charges, although I have to caveat that by saying I was neither victim nor witness. Getting to the point, being ‘not a boy’ in Boy Scouts was not an enriching experience. I would have been much more comfortable with the GSA, and felt a hell of a lot safer as well.

At the last Spectrum meeting I attended, the subject about honoring the GSA as the theme for our next Pride float came up. I completely agree they should be thanked and honored, but giving the matter further thought, I’m not sure having a bunch of middle age trans women dressing in tween and teen girl uniforms will send the message we want received. Given that I imagine we can only find adult sized scout uniforms in the same sort of store that sells ball gags, and that everyone knows this, the whole honoring concept can easily be taken the wrong way. I think the better route might be to issue warm and heartfelt thanks, and support those Girl Scouts who stood to be counted for doing the right thing in the face of adversity. Nothing says thanks like picking up 7 boxes of Samoa’s.

Comment Responses to “I Hate ‘Transsexual’”

Holy potatoes! I had intended to dedicate today’s post to how the GSA is AOK in my book, but my last post on the word “transsexual” managed to bring out some *strong* feelings in the people who read it. It just wouldn’t be right in my book not to address this, so I’m going to attempt to discuss some of the commentary received on my main blog Michellelianna, my reposting on PinkEssense, personal messages, and of course Facebook. It would appear I jangled a nerve or two. If I miss anyone’s salient point, mea culpa, I’m doing this from memory.

I’m going to start with the easy stuff first. A few respondents became very indignant about being lumped into a generalized category with cross-dressers, female impersonators and such. I was disappointed to see the term “pervert” being thrown about. I absolutely do not agree with this thinking. Yes, I got annoyed when several people asked me if I could “just do this on the weekends”. My irritation was their misunderstanding of my existence, and assuredly not that people for whom this would be an acceptable solution are in any way less than. We are not all the same under the transgender umbrella, but we are equal. As a class so frequently misunderstood, feared, and attacked, I think the very least we can do is show a kindness of spirit, understanding, and inclusion. I’m willing to be proven wrong on most issues, but not this.

On to a topic even easier… I know I used the term “transgendered” and that is doesn’t officially exist anymore than “gayed”. I’ll confess right now. I make words up. All the time actually. Incredibly, I am hardly ever called on it. Here is my thinking: if I make up a word, it fits the flow of what I’m typing out, and people understand what I’m attempting to communicate, it is then a word, “official” or not. I know this irritates the hell out of purists, but chances are I’m not going to stop. I do have a degree in English and I do understand this makes my little habit nearly unforgivable, I also feel all rules are made up and therefore changeable, breakable, and somewhat illusory to boot.

One of the more prevalent types of comment can be boiled down to, “why are we so focused on labels anyway?” That one is more difficult. I do have a lot of thoughts on the matter I’m going to address in a future post regarding why it is so difficult to get anything done (which to summarize, is that I think the trans community is trying to address way, way too many things at once, and currently the notion of “trans community” is an ill defined collection of individuals). For the record, I also don’t think a lot of time should be focused on labels. The intent of the post was to present a slightly humorous look at my personal peccadilloes regarding language. Should I ever have the opportunity to address Congress or even appear on ‘AM Buffalo’ for some reason, I’ll come armed with much more relevant subject matter.

Someone wrote up a long medical sounding description wherein she and I were referred to as “Wolffian Females”. I immediately agreed as my last name is Wolf and I identify as female, so this made perfect sense. Then she totally lost me with a description of nephritic tube formation and I wasn’t so sure. On about the fifth reading I think I understand and agree and concede that Wolffian Female sounds a lot nicer to me than transsexual, which I still find a bit naary.

I received lots of pros and cons regarding the word transsexual itself. The main takeaway was that the ‘sex’ in ‘transsexual’ is not meant to convey libidinous preference, and also that cisgender people often take it that way anyway, making us all uncomfortable. I’ll clarify. My discomfort is not with the word, but with the way people say it that it comes out very lascivious sounding, especially when uttered by Tim Curry or Stewie from Family Guy. I understand a certain segment of the population tends to fetishize our condition, and that is one thing. I just don’t want to give the impression that I do.

I got a very clever reference to the Transgender Borg indicating the eventual assimilation of individualized pockets of trans around the planet that will one day speak with one voice, and hopefully shoot lasers at our detractors. It is certainly an interesting idea, but at the moment it resembles a bunch of cats duct taped together. If it does happen, I call dibs on being Seven of Nine, figuring I have ample time to get my buns in shape.

All in all, it seems like a pretty divisive issue. Some don’t care, some care a whole lot. Some like the standard terminology, and some make my dislike border on apathy. Others offer alternatives that while likable, will probably never go into vogue. I still don’t care for it, but on the same magnitude that I don’t care for orange clothing; it doesn’t enrage me, I’ll never buy it, but I suppose I’ll put it on if there is nothing else to wear and find a way to live with it. Until the Transgender Borg catches me unaware in her hideous pumpkin colored pants suit.

I Hate “Transsexual”

I know I already talked about allowing words to push my buttons and how I wasn’t going to go apeshit on someone for calling me a tranny. I still hold to that, but let me tell you, I still can’t get comfortable with the word transsexual. It’s stupid, right? I mean, by very definition, I am a transsexual and meet most or all of the criteria as defined in the DSM V… that says I have gender identity disorder? Shit, my copy at home is still the III-R from back in college. Nevertheless, I, Michelle Wolf, am a Transsexual. It’s true… buy why does this make me uncomfortable?

I’ve never made it a secret that my preferred term is Transgendered. I know this is an umbrella term and by co-opting it I’m pushing aside the cross-dressers, female impersonators, gender queer, third sex, intersex, no sex, two-spirit, and every other slightly different but equal group that might also prefer it as an exclusive definition. It’s not fair of me, but I still want to do it. Why, why, why? I think it really comes down to the fact that ‘transsexual’ just sounds incredibly creepy.

I don’t think there is such a thing as a good ‘creepy’. Creepy is when you shake hands with someone who uses way too much lotion. It’s like going into a corn field with disconcerting blonde children who never smile. Too creepy; I’d rather be boiled. Maybe it’s that double ‘s’ in the middle of the word. It’s very German. These are the people who turned the whimsically delightful notion of going to camp into the worst thing ever. I think if someone opened a transsexual gym, people would imagine it has whips, chains, leather and probably a gimp or two running around. I’m probably one of the people who would think that.

That half the word is ‘sexual’ doesn’t help at all. When many people hear the term, I would not be surprised if they assume it’s some sort of fetish where the person being described derives some intense orgasmic delight over the prospect of changing their gender. Those of us who are trans know there isn’t an iota of truth to that. It takes about a week on hormones before even the thought of arousal is a thing of the past. Yes, we know it, but just type it into any search engine, even wavy-gravy hip Amazon, and the vast majority of offerings are meant to titillate, to put it politely. I’m OK with being misunderstood, but not so much when it involves shallow breathing and upper lip perspiration. Ew.

So what do we want to be called? If we stick with the DSM, switching it up to become GID’s would fit, unless we don’t care to sound like we fast tracked a later in life high school diploma. Given a choice, I’d just go with ‘woman’, but we are human and must classify well beyond logical reason. ‘Transgender’ you know I’m down with, but tired of being corrected or asked to qualify, bringing me back to ‘transsexual’. Something about ‘t-girl’ just pisses me off. I have no reason for this, but it does. We could make up something new. Sisters of Loki? The Untesticulated? Reidentified? I’m being facetious.

Truth be told, if I could come up with some catchy new term that would be enthusiastically adopted, I’d do it. This blog just doesn’t get enough hits. Our lives are such that unless we are unquestionably passable, we are going to have to spend a significant portion of our lives having to explain what we are supposed to be anyway. If a single word could sum it all up succinctly, it would be a wonderful thing. In the mean time I’ll stick with transgendered and the strong probability of invasive questions to follow.

Hormonapalooza (Part I)

I began hormone replacement about twenty or so weeks ago, and I have to say, there are a few things no one really warns you about. Yes, yes, I heard all the cautionary tales up front from my peers and therapist about all the gloomy catastrophic consequences and such. That I’m not seeing so much. If people at work notice I’m filling out my sweater a little more, no one is saying anything. In ‘Under the Radar’ I talked about a former co-worker who was sporting some generous B’s under their shirt and very long hair and no one thought much of it, and if they do, so what? What I’m talking about is a dark new relationship with food and my body that goes virtually ignored in guy world.

I was talking with my friend Dave on the phone and began complaining about my weight. You might not know it to look at me, but a few years back I was rocking the scales on a Homer Simpson level. I developed my own weight loss program and dropped nearly 90 lbs in a little less than a year. A somewhat modest diet and a little weekly exercise and the fat melted off my like Frosty in a boxcar. Here I am on a few months of hormones, and winter is back baby, and apparently just a little pissed. All I need do is draw breath in the same building as a 5 Guys burger and I’ve gained four pounds. Because I haven’t been on the hormones for quite long enough, it still doesn’t go to my hips and ass where it belongs, but the old gut. Nice and effective for achieving that ‘man in a dress’ image we all try so hard to strive for.

When Dave said, “ah don’t worry, you’ll take it off in no time”, I went a little hissy on him. OK, maybe not just a little bit, but he had no idea. “Look buddy, you have no idea what you are talking about OK? My whole life I’ve heard men bitching about women and their obsession with weight. Do you have any freaking idea how hard it is? Things that used to just taste pretty good are now incredibly delicious. I can be in the worst mood ever and a pint of ice cream or a few pieces of chocolate ever and I turn into little Mary Sunshine. What do you know? To you it’s just ice cream, but to me all of a sudden it’s like filled with uppers. Of course all I have to do is breath near it and I gain a hundred pounds. I used follow my plan and lost 5 pounds ever two weeks and now I’m lucky if I drop half of one eating the exact same thing. Plus I’m in a horrible shit mood the entire time! Do you have any idea what it’s like eating raw green peppers all week and losing nothing for it? Sure, you joke about women but you have no fucking idea how much work goes into it. Ass clown!”

For the record I think he was just trying to be supportive, but his male view foolishness was pushing my buttons. Men. Men with their svelte muscle building testosterone and ability to eat cheese fries all week without being consigned to some fat boy store. I will admit that used to be me before the hormone changes that ensured a small fries at McDonald’s meant a trip back to Lane Bryant for pants that could be closed. Anyway, I let it go. He’s a guy and didn’t know.

Since we are on the subject, my whole hissy fit to begin with is sooo uncharacteristic. It seems I stumbled on another effect I was not at all expecting. Suddenly it seems that during certain times the tiniest little things drive me bonkers and I just want to tell everyone off. WTF? How can I have PMS? I can’t ovulate and I can’t get a period, both mainly because I lack ovaries and a uterus that sheds it’s lining on a monthly basis (more on my feelings about this in another post). It doesn’t seem at all right that I should be getting PMS, but yet here it is happening. One would think it came with the correct internal plumbing, but apparently all it needs is the juice to drive it.

The real message here is that there many more effects of hormones than you often read about. For the record I’m OK with this. Surprising yes, but it doesn’t feel at all wrong either. It’s as if there were dry stream beds running through my brain that I understood where there on a very esoteric level, but now that they are filled and flowing, things seem much more right than they used to be. Sure, there turned out to be a lot of life under the rocks I was unaware of, but even though it surprises me, I know it is supposed to be there and always was. I have no doubt further changes are coming and I welcome them. It’s not easy going through puberty again, but I also wouldn’t trade it for anything. Far better now than never.

Shiny Artifacts of the Past

“Everybody knows you can make a man a woman; just a shiny artifact of the past”, is how I thought the line went in Leonard Cohen’s classic “Everybody Knows”. My ears zeroed in on that for reasons that are pretty clear. Those really aren’t the lyrics by the way. I don’t get songs right, ever. Anyway, it’s close enough for my purposes as a lead in for what I want to talk about today. If you are good and read the whole post, I’ll share what the real words to the song are, and won’t you be disappointed!

A great many of the other trans people I’ve talked to have a very ambivalent relationship with their own pasts. This shouldn’t be surprising. Who really wants to spend a lot of time wool gathering over an extended tract of time where they walked around all clueless about their own core identity? Many of us, self included, feel just a little like giant foolish assholes about it. It doesn’t help that we are constantly reminded of enormous decisions we made based solely on an incomplete truth, or that those who knew us by a different name like to go back and grill us about whether we were intentionally lying, deceiving them, and how come we weren’t being a lot more obvious to maybe clue them in. “But I knew you, and you never showed any signs!” Wanting to retreat and say, “Ugh. Let’s pretend the past 30 or 40 years never happened, OK?”, is perfectly natural. Unfortunately, it is nearly impossible.

Back in the day when we were perceived as diseased perverse monsters, it was far more common for someone transgendered to nip out for a pack of smokes and disappear to another coast, the past left well behind. Nowadays we have it a thousand times better and usually transition with at least part or even most of our support network intact. The majority of these people knew you as the original name on your birth certificate and have ample pleasant memories of times spent with you when you looked a bit different. They like or love you for all those times spent and have stuck around because of that, and not because you can do an interesting trick with your deformed pinky finger. It goes much deeper. Consequentially, they are never going to see that person as being someone different who didn’t really exist, even if you really preferred they would.

Our pasts may seem like artifacts of a different life, a different person, but we have to remember that viewing it that way can be an unkindness to ourselves and our loved ones. I try to keep that in mind, even when it’s hard. My partner/ spouse likes to keep pictures on the mantle, including several from our wedding day and a gigantic print of me in the Air Force. I don’t look like that anymore, but the slices of time the pictures represent really happened and that is what I really looked like during them. Maybe I was unable to be truthful with myself at those times, but still really was me. I was in those moments, and happy in them too. Well, for the most part. The Air Force picture fails to capture the presence of an infuriated drill sergeant screaming in my ear just millimeters outside the frame of the shot. I can look at them, and old albums as well, and think “good times, good times”, because they were.

The point is that we all took a long and winding road to arrive where we are, right at this moment. None of us sprang fully formed from sea foam like Aphrodite (or let’s face it, look like her either). Our present was built brick by brick by the artifacts of our past. All the things we did right, all the things we did wrong, and in all the ways we interacted with others; good, bad or indifferent. Maybe our names were different as well as our faces, but our histories are irrevocable, no matter what we looked like or how we presented ourselves. Unless you feel you turned into a real shithead, honoring the steps that brought you to today is not at all wrong, and probably a good thing to do.

It is, however, perfectly all right to be mortally embarrassed by it. It’s where our best stories come from.

As promised, the correct words are, “Everybody knows that the naked man and woman; Are just shining artifact of the past”. Wasn’t’ that worth waiting for? I still like mine better though.

Early Out

I was recently conversing with someone who self-identified as a cross-dresser rather than transsexual (I still prefer the umbrella term transgendered for the latter, but want my point to be clear) and much of what they were saying was eerily similar to thought processes I had some time ago when still struggling. It was very tempting to hit her with a grand revelation regarding her true self and sit back smugly as she mentally transformed in front of me, awash with gratitude for plucking the scales from her eyes. I made it a rule to do nothing of the kind and simply let her talk and listened. I wish C had done the same for me.

I’ve been slowly sharing some anecdotes regarding my personal journey here, and going to skip ahead a few years for the sake of making this point. I like how Homer Simpson begins tales from the past, so I’m going to begin the same way. You just can’t top that level of exaggerated style. It was the early aughts; a more innocent time before America dreamed of having a minority president and a tea party was still regarded as being something pleasant. The country was awash with the heady victory of vanquishing the Y2K juggernaut and I was riding the wave of optimism to take the next step in my journey of self discovery. Utilizing the ingenuity of new fangled web crawlers, I had discovered the presence of a local transgendered organization, the Buffalo Belles. Eagerly, I filled out the membership application, signed the check and walked it down to the mailbox in anticipation of a quick reply within the next 4 to 6 weeks.

Each day I arrived home and checked my mailbox and my caller ID. I assumed of course they likely had posh business offices downtown and would show up on my call box under the organizational name. My wait was rewarded, and I did receive a personal phone call when I happened to be home. An interview was required to vette me as acceptable for membership and we set up a time in my apartment. I dressed in the ‘Heathers’ style I was rocking at the time and slipped into my most enormous fake breasts. I waited anxiously for C to arrive, and she did, right on schedule.

I don’t remember much about the interview. I was pretty nervous but still tried to act natural and told at least a boiled down version of my life story. C disclosed early on that she was not a cross-dresser, but a transitioned woman. I’m reasonably certain I asked more than my share of inappropriate questions, and she was a very good sport about it. The concept of living that way, out there in broad daylight and all, seemed terrifying to me. At this point I had only ever taken brief walks in the wee morning hours or used the Halloween free pass to full advantage. I was also bewildered. She had been married and had children. She didn’t resemble Dr Frank in any way, shape or form. Somehow she was able to refrain from belting out half familiar show tunes.

My abilities as a chameleon extended to hiding extreme social discomfort, so I can’t blame her for getting the impression that I was casually relaxed when inwardly I was freaking out a little bit. She finally laid it on me. “I don’t think you are ready to hear this, but I really don’t think you are a cross-dresser, gigantic breasts aside, but transsexual like I am.” I agreed with the first statement. I was not ready to hear that. Not one tiny bit. I covered by giving her a wan, condescending smile, and begged to differ. She didn’t stick around to debate the matter, approved me for membership, and left.

Once she was gone, I changed back to male mode. Her words bothered me more than I felt they should. Over the next few weeks, anytime I even touched on the notion that her assessment could possibly be true, my mind drew up bleak and terrifying images of a future swallowed in pain and despair. My inner drama queen was rampant, a real bitch on wheels. Ultimately, I rejected the assessment as far too inconvenient to possibly be true. I packed away my wardrobe to the basement. I never ventured out to a Belles meeting. I threw myself into career, friends and family. By the time my membership expired, I was already exploring on-line dating and had constructed a vision of the future where I was a solid, dependable family man, and nothing more. C’s visit was regulated back to a subconscious whimsy that when surfaced was pushed back down with detached indifference. I lost a decade that way.

Right in her assessment, but oh so wrong for speaking it to me! What if she said nothing and simply approved my membership? What if I showed to meetings and met others, some like me, some not? What if I was able to gradually draw my own conclusions born of self-discovery in an environment populated by friends who would understand and support me? What if, what if, what if. It does no good dwelling on it. It didn’t happen that way, so the only thing worth focusing on is what did happen.

Now, over 10 years later in C’s position, I’m talking to someone who could be me. Desperate for opportunities to let her inner woman fly free, but cowed by the incalculable price we all pay for being ourselves instead of who so many want us to be. If she is she, then she she’ll be. Dammit, I hate when I come up with these cutesy tongue twisters. Yes, or no, it’s not for me to say, and I hope everyone else can give her the space she needs to make these discoveries on her own terms. So many of us are anxious to validate ourselves by uncovering our likeness in others, whether it is truly there or not. Don’t read me wrong, I have that too, but bowing out. I think it might be the kinder path.

The Rocky Horror Picture Show

My first adult introduction to transgender culture was the Rocky Horror Picture Show featuring Tim Curry as the effervescent Dr. Frank. Simmer down now, it was the early 90’s, pre widespread internet and all. Aside from Bosom Buddies, my only exposure to gender issues was at Kenmore Books and News, the regularly picketed ‘dirty book store’. What I scoped out there as a filthier Rob Zombie grumped at me from the counter made Rocky look pretty mainstream. At least there were no petite ballerina types with enormous penises.

I really didn’t know what I was walking into. I had heard of Rocky, but only that it was something cool I needed to check out. The night we decided to check it out, we got ready by drinking a 12 pack each of Golden Anniversary beer and putting on costumes as Dan and JP, our friends who had been, were kind enough to inform us it was Halloween night. Saved from the faux pas of showing up looking ridiculous, I went with a dirty evil clown look. JP picked a sexy French maid number which filled me with repressed envy. He had just come out as gay, and the outfit was not helping much as I struggled with my own identity uncertainty, filling me with a big knot of crippling anxiety. Instead of exploring these feelings, I got drunk on the cheapest of all beers, smeared grease paint over my face and renamed myself Dark Pistacio. I took a little bit of a circuitous route to get to where I am today.

Walking in to the old Amherst Theater, we were greeted by Larry, a nebbish guy resembling Michael Jeter, the guy who played Mr Noodle’s brother, Mr Noodle on Sesame Street. Larry was wearing a beautiful black lace teddy and fishnets; not how he normally dressed when we made subs together weeknights at the school food court. I noticed a lot of people dressed that way. I thought I had found the secret door to the underground trans scene. The movie experience only reinforced that. Dr Frank was self described “sweet transvestite from Transsexual, Transylvania”. I was all kinds of confused. I had no clue yet what I was, but was reasonably sure I wasn’t that.

The members of the cast didn’t help matters much. Not the real cast, Susan Sarandon is above reproach in my book, but the ones who act out the movie for some reason, ad-libbing lines, songs, or entire scenes all willy nilly. It didn’t take long to realize I wasn’t quite like them either. True, they were also gender attire challenged, and geeks, much like myself, but a different kind of geek. The kind who thought wearing a cape to class had panache or would recite every line of Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail in German, even after you begged them not to. I was still inexplicably drawn to the entire experience.

After 12 years of Catholic school, followed by 1 year dorming at UB with an introverted roommate, anything that smacked against the hum drum of conservatism had a certain appeal. Knowing I was different, but not sure how, I was hungry for any experience that shoved me out of the mainstream I never felt I belonged to. At Rocky, people wore what they liked and went by preposterous names like Dr Eye, Jeff Death, and Monkey Jaw. Actually I don’t think Monkey Jaw was aware of her moniker, even though the guy known as Monkey Head was of his. I attempted to “blend” into this crowd by continuing the Dark Pistacio façade and deplorable hyper-masculine caricature. In hindsight it was a hideous fit and ultimately unsustainable. Eventually I came to the right conclusion that this wasn’t me either and lost interest.

It took many more years before I came to the understanding that Rocky Horror was not a good representation of transgender culture, catchy songs notwithstanding. I have to wonder what path I would have wandered down had I not assumed Dr Frank to be a typical depiction, of whom I had an inability to relate. While I liked the whole gothic horror element in an Addams Family way, I couldn’t see myself running around in my skivvies while trying to build a blond dude in gold bikini bottoms in my basement. Still better than Buffalo Bill, but not much.

Ironically, in doing some Wikipedia research while writing this I noticed that the writer of Rocky Horror, Richard O’Brien (who also played Riff Raff in the film) identifies as either transgender or third sex. Part of his motivation for creating this delightful hot mess was his deep feeling that society should not dictate gender. I certainly can’t argue the intention, but for a young closeted trans woman, oh what confusion!

Sanskaras

The world has had no shortage of people claiming to be god. I’m pretty sure one of them sits but a stone throw away from my cubicle at work and is ready to present a strong case filled with self-aggrandizing ravings; if you are interested, I’ll introduce you to Brian. You can curse me for it later. In my early 20’s, a time farther away than I care to admit, I became aware of Meher Baba, an Indian mystic who died in the late 60’s, who in my limited philosophy, made about the best case I had heard. This probably doesn’t ring a bell, which to me was the seed of doubt. My conception of the almighty is that he or she would make a bigger splash when touching down on our big ball of mud.

The reason I bring him up isn’t religion, but a concept I was introduced to that bears retelling to the trans world. Baba’s teaching (he was vehemently against founding a religion, although a group called Sufism Reoriented sprang up to carry on the message) was an amalgamation of the overall Judeo-Christian-Muslim-Buddhist-Hindu-Farsi umbrella. Like Manichaeism, only different. Reincarnation figures big, with the end goal to shed our illusory identities and rejoin with the over-soul, or god, of whom we are part of anyway, but just are not aware. One of the analogies was as if the over-soul were the ocean, our existences are bubbles that formed within a wave, believing briefly to be something unique and independently different, until such occurred that they dissolved back into the ocean they were to begin with. Don’t worry, I’m not going to go much deeper than that. One of the things preventing us from realizing this and attaining the eternal bliss of godhood, are sanskaras, or impressions.

Sanskaras, in Baba’s teaching (borrowed from the Hindu tradition), are the impressions we accumulate lifetime after lifetime, that wind around our souls. Over many lifetimes, these build up like a plaque and become our identity. The path to god then is to unwind these impressions back. From there the philosophy gets somewhat esoteric, but the concept strikes me as relevant to transgendered people and the impressions we must overcome and unwind to drill down to our gender identities. By now you probably see where I’m going with this.

Born in a package that the world perceived as male, anatomically correct and everything, it was impressed upon me from the start and onward that I was this. Males are this, and as I was “male”, I therefore would also be this. Having nothing but my own deep thoughts to counter with, I got with the program and bedecked myself with those male mode impressions until they became second nature, no matter how uncomfortable they might be. Fortunately I was raised to be chivalrous and protective of women; it could have been worse. On the flip side I felt the need to adopt an interest in sports, cars, action movies and other subjects I found crushingly boring, but received social cues that I was expected to be knowledgeable about. Now I’m attempting to undo all of that and it’s not so easy.

Some impressions are easy to shed while others are hopelessly tangled. Back in the Air Force I bought my first used car, and all the men in the shop immediately wanted to come out and look at it, even though it was cold outside. I understood this was something men did, and still see groups of guys in parking lots, standing around, gazing at cars. That one is easy. I never got it, and still don’t, so I just no longer pretend.

Some are mixed. As a purportedly heterosexual male, I was expected to gawk when an attractive woman walked by. I understand women do not gawk so obviously, but at the same time end up staring because I want to see what she’s wearing to decide if it’s something that might look good on me. This is an impression I need to unwind, modify, and wind back in the right direction. It’s ok to glance to see what she is wearing, but cisgender women hardly ever do the bug eyed stare.

Some impressions I have to learn to drop, even if they were well meant in guy land. When traveling with a female companion, as a rule I would open the car door for her, wait for her to get in, and close the door behind her. This is a really good move for a dude. Doing at as a woman, however, just comes across as weird and makes people uncomfortable. Unfortunately there are hundreds of these impressions trans people must drop, modify, and add in order to fit in with the correct gender mores. Thankfully I was never into snapping bra straps, audibly passing gas, or ‘shot gunning’ beers. I might have a lot farther to go.

Baba was probably right – chances are I would be a lot happier and come closer to achieving bliss if I could just shed all impressions. I’m too excited to learn the ones that rightfully belong to me; it’s just been too long living the wrong way. Maybe in another life. If we are all just god in a cosmic drama of let’s pretend, I’ve got nothing but time.