Rites of Passage

I recently took issue with a blog post by a cis woman who was actively defending the exclusion of trans women retaining their original issue genitalia from a sky-clad ritual. I got a little hissy, but managed to keep it out of my reply. “Educate first Michelle, then throw the fit.” It’s a hot button topic for me. We ended up getting into a very productive back and forth, during which she gave me some things to think about, as well as a few good ideas. I wanted to share the best one first.  I have, by the way, come to admire her, and her blog is over at May We Dance Upon Their Graves – trigger alert, it’s for adult survivors of CSA.

It occurs to me that I might not be blazing a new trail here, but if so, I’ve not been made aware. As we transition, we do some pretty significant things along the way. Things that are really a big deal to us, fill us with overwhelming joy and a sense of accomplishment, and lead women like me to blog about them. Think about your first facial hair removal, the very first HRT treatment, the first person you came out to. Afterwards, filled with heady glee, you probably went home, looked in the mirror, shouted “yay me!”, then had some wine or well aged leftovers and went to bed. Yeah, that’s pretty much what I did. You know what though, that really, really sucks!

After I went on about trans women being excluded from acceptance in the greater world of womanhood, and she gave me some points I’ll get to addressing in another post, she suggested it might be a good idea to have menarche-type rituals to welcome us into womanhood at various significant milestones. I didn’t know what a “menarche” was, so I looked it up. The menarche has to do with a woman’s first menstrual cycle and using it as a cause to celebrate, unlike the olden days when she’d be stuck in a windowless hut decorated with skulls on the outskirts of the village. People like to whine about modern times, but seriously, I wouldn’t want to go back. True, no matter how we feel on the matter, none of us will ever menstruate, sad to say. It doesn’t mean that we still can’t find cause to celebrate out own trans unique passage and significant events.

While it is gratifying in its own way to have my face blasted with lasers or have my nipples suddenly feel like I’m wearing a sandpaper bra, it would be yet even better to celebrate these occasions with a small group of both trans and cis women who are willing to support and thus honor the event. I know many are isolated and the idea of a party at Red Lobster is nice but just won’t happen. At the very least we can probably arrange web based events, maybe once a month or once a quarter, in honor of those who can’t get together physically. I think this bears more discussion. Usually I consider commentary a “nice to have”, but here I’d really like to hear some thoughts.

Something I’ve noticed about the humans is that we sure seem to love our rituals. A girls Bat mitzvah, a boys first communion, a young Satanists first sacrificial cat, or an indigenous South American lad sticking his hand into a glove full of excruciating bullet ants; we do extraordinary things to mark the passage of time and periods of major growth. Our loved ones and communities celebrate with us. Laughing, cheering, showering us with gifts, and getting stupendously drunk. At least that is how we like it to be. Jokes aside, it’s important to the human spirit to have important passages memorialized and elevated above the wearisome hum drum of everyday life.

If we can have a party or even solemn ritual to mark the long awaited growth of breasts, or mastectomy for my brothers going in the other direction, we should do so. Hallmark is not going to invent these holidays, so they must come from we in the trans community. It doesn’t have to be every little thing, just a few things many or most of us experiences that bring joy to our hearts because something long awaited has happened.

I’m going to suggest a few ideas and again, feedback would be wonderful. This can only work if a lot of us think it’s a good idea and work hard to make them things instead of idle wishes.

Women:

1. HRT letter
2. Official coming out to everyone
3. Initiation into womanhood
4. A year lived full time as the right gender
5. SRS

Men:

1. HRT letter
2. Official coming out to everyone
3. The conference of male status
4. A year lived full time as the right gender
5. Top surgery

I’m sure there are other and better ideas of course. The male and female transitions take somewhat different routes, but if we make our milestones similar, the greeting card industry may be more likely to crank out a few offerings for the occasion. In my mind, the initiation into the right gender is a deep and meaningful ritual wherein we are welcomed by our cisgender counterparts. This will take some time to get off the ground, but well worth pursuing, especially with the help of the greater LGBT community. What we are doing is so very hard, with so much loss and sadness along the way. I think we could stand a little celebration of us here and there.

Conditions to Transition

I saw a newsfeed come up on Jenny Boylan’s FB updates that seemed to cause a lot of hullabaloo. Rather than get lost among the many dozens of commenter’s, I thought the notion deserved a little more thought than a quick “yeah!” or “here are 17 points of disagreement that will never be read”. Imagine, me with opinions! I’ve become such a cheeky lass in my middle age.

The big issue was that Jenny congratulated a FB trans friend for having the courage to decide not to transition, or at the very least delay it until a later date. Yes, yes, I can hear you gasp from way over here, but stay with me a moment, because it’s the reason behind the gasping outrage I would like to discuss. It does hit a nerve though, doesn’t it?

We all know no one transitions on a whim, waking up one morning, stretching, and thinking, “yeah, I think today I’ll start living as the gender other than the one I had been.” I can only speak for myself, but until I was able to come to terms with my identity, make the leap forward to do something about it, I was seriously starting to lose it. If I could look into a parallel dimension and view the me who decided to tough it out as a male, I’m very sure I would be looking at a wretched wreck of a human being, probably jobless and single but due to a much less amiable path. Ugh. No way! If it looks like I’m going out either way, I’m at least doing it as me. Those of you on the path of transition know what I’m talking about.

Here is why it strikes a discord when we hear of those who decided not to transition, or worse yet, changed their mind mid transition. It can be frightfully invalidating. After all the endless explanation to everyone affected by our transition, defending the absolute necessity in the face of all catastrophe, anyone can point to this person and say, “well, she didn’t have to do it, are you sure you did?” It was a real piece of work convincing yourself to begin with, then everyone else, and right there is an example to the contrary. It’s hard not to get rankled by the concept. It falls in parallel with a gay man saying he acknowledges his homosexuality, but is sticking with women.

Where I understand naary feelings this idea engenders, and I do get them as well, I also have to acknowledge that we don’t really know what it’s like to be in those shoes. In mortal terror of both the devil and the deep blue sea, sometimes going with the known evil is all a person can muster. They certainly aren’t doing it to give you a harder time with it all, but making the best possible decision in alignment with their capabilities. We know what it’s like to be hanging on by a thread, and sometimes that thread is all we have until the right time comes.

Did this person have courage to make this decision? I think so. Think about it and take your own sensibilities out of the picture, because really, aside from a little kick in the cred, it doesn’t mean much to you. They got to the point where they were able to admit being trans. They probably already told a whole lot of people about it. They may have begun the process. Then to go back and decide not to continue. Ugh! No one who knows is going to look at them the same again. Everyone is going to wonder when the shoe is finally going to drop. The specter of transition out of necessity to survive always lingering, just waiting for the right moment of mental weakness. It takes courage and grit to know thyself and chose the other path. I’m reasonably certain it is not any less bloody than our own, but without the benefit of at least being you. I don’t understand it. I just don’t have that. I can admit it sounds much harder than anything I would like to do though.

At the end of the day, no matter what our feelings are about it, this person is going to do what is best for their situation. Whether we agree, disagree, hate them, applaud them, or ignore it completely, it doesn’t matter. On that point I think we can all agree from experience.

My Name is Michelle, Dammit

“A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet”, or so claimed old Bill Shakespeare. I wonder if he would have felt the same if he was born with one of those Dickensian names like Chuzzy Wuzzilwhillikers? I’m thinking no, no he would not. Norma Jean and dozens of other celebrities will also testify to this in their adoption of new monikers that are more suited for the spotlight instead of mopping up spilled Clamato in aisle 3. To those of us who were born trans and fitted with most unfitting names understand this very well. That’s why I’m Michelle, dammit.

When I was but a child and dressed, I did it because it felt more comfortable and correct, but never gave any thought to my name while doing it. Yes, I already had identity issues, but I was also under the assumption that certain things were immutable, like bodies and names. One would only change the latter if on the lam after being framed for some horrible crime. The closest I came in those days was to imagine a kind of secret identity sort of thing and used to fantasize about running around Kenmore at night as the Ghost in a white leotard and tights, fighting crime and letting villains and police alike mistake me for female and thus removing all suspicion from my household. I got as far as attempting to make a costume, but it didn’t turn out right and I never ventured forth, probably for the better. Don’t you look at me that way, I’ve already let on that I was a pretty weird kid, so nothing should surprise you anymore.

I didn’t decide to actually name my female self until college and dabbled with a lot of different M based names. I don’t know why, but it seemed important to keep the same initials at the very least, partially because I liked the way I could sign things as MW by connecting the last leg of the M with the first of the W. For a while it was a close call between Molly and Michelle as I liked both equally. In retrospect, I chose slightly better as I ended up with a Molly, and sharing the name would have been just strange. Not that it would have eclipsed the gender change or anything, but still. Instead, Michelle just felt right to me and is now one more thing I share with my mother in law.

One of the cool parts about transitioning is that you get to choose your own name. The downside is that people feel free to comment on your choice of name, where they never would have had you been labeled at birth, even if you got stuck with Hubert or Blanch. At least after middle school anyway. As with many trans, I picked the female equivalent of my original name. I liked my original name, but it just wasn’t quite a fit. It didn’t stop me from getting questions and critique though, including from my own mother who came right out and said she wasn’t a fan. Don’t even get her started on my middle name. With her though, I understand. She did pick out ‘Michael’ like 10 years before I was born, so I can’t help but feel sympathy and understanding, and I’d keep it if it didn’t make me stand out.

As this has turned into a rambling type post instead of having a clear agenda  or anything, I’d like to finish by saying names are often a dead giveaway in telling if a person is transsexual or a CD. Most trans usually won’t go with something ostentatious like  ‘Isabella Nylonluvr’ or ‘Chestity LaRue’, and instead stick with Diana, Christina, and of course, Michelle. There are exceptions of course, but it seems like a rare CD who goes with ‘Joan’ or trans who adopts ‘Bambi’. We seem to have much less a desire for the attention. At the end of the day though, it’s just a name, rose smelling or not. Just don’t call me Shelly.

Why I’m Not a Bitch

The whole idea of comparing a woman to a dog in order to be extra derogatory almost certainly came from a man*, and like all mean and demeaning things, it caught on quickly. While never intended to be exactly empowering, in recent years attempts to take the word back have been made with varying success. Adorable band geek Michelle in American Pie uses it to assert her sexual dominance over dorkalou Jason Biggs in a witty role reversal. Paris Hilton tried to make it as ubiquitous as “bro”, by using it on everyone leading it to achieve the same level of charm. All in all, for the most part, the original meaning as “you are like unto a thoroughly disagreeable crotch licking animal” continues to stand. So why do some trans women immediately begin shouting from the rooftops, “I’m a bitch!” upon starting transition?

Veering left for a second, I’m going to make a bold statement and say that I think the future of heterosexual sex would be in grave danger if men and women truly understood each other. It’s probably good that the misunderstandings persist as I believe they allow for procreation of the species and help avoid public screaming matches. Because of this, when a man calls a woman a bitch, she can soften the blow by assuming he is reacting out a complex emotional conflict and denied the use of a lengthier, more accurate description due to gender limitations. He of course really means nothing more than, “I think you are like a crotch licking animal”.

Here’s the thing. Cisgender women have no reason to know this. Trans women though… I don’t like it either, but none of us can deny that for a good chunk of our lives we were accepted as card carrying members of the great big sausage party. Behind the lines in disgusting places like locker rooms, we know what men really think in male only environments. I think it is why a lot of us have a hard time finding attraction there, no matter what our orientation would have been had we been born in the correct body. Getting to the point, we all understand that when a guy calls a woman a bitch, his intention is to be insulting and hurtful. So why do some insist on doing this?

Those of us who identify with one of the binary genders know that it is very desirable to our self esteem to be accepted by the cisgender versions of ourselves. For many trans women who feel they are female and not a third or separate gender, it feels very good to be considered to be one of the girls. I am one of them, and in the past I’ve complained much about when we are excluded on account of having been born different. I really hate it when the reason is given that we didn’t have girlhoods and therefore enjoyed a patriarchal favorable upbringing. I think this is false and mean in spirit. In some cases though, I kind of see their point.

We had it hard in our own way, but we were not victim to the same derogatory insults as cisgender girls. I can see cisgender women getting a little put out when we “take back a word” that was not hurled at us every time we offered a strong opinion. Unfair as it is, and regardless of our feminine equality to cisgender women, we can’t assume ownership of experiences we didn’t have. If a butch cisgender lesbian declared herself a “lady-boy”, we might find that a little offensive. If Mitt Romney, always a hillbilly in heart and mind, moved to Alabama and started pronouncing, “I’m a whiskey tango redneck, y’all!”, he could reasonably expect to get shot in the ass with rock salt.

The point is, yes, we are real women and it is right that we be accepted as such. At the same time, I think it would be better and more sensitive of us not to assume ownership of derogatory experiences we didn’t have. Lord knows, we have enough of our own to draw from if we want to take something back. Having someone call us bitches and really mean it like that isn’t one of them, so think we should respect our sisters and not use it.

*As referenced in my last post, a particular kind of man, ubiquitous** as they may be.

**Seriously Michelle, “ubiquitous” used twice in the same post? Ugh. Done for today.

The Issue Of Men

Somewhere along the line I went from being a conciliatory male apologist to a big angry feminist. That the time just so happens to coincide with my transition is pure coincidence. I mean, how could it not happen? If the home team just happens to be superior in every conceivable way to the rival franchise, it probably has nothing to do with the fact that I just moved to the city. Ugh! A sports analogy… how male. All kidding aside, I want to address something along those lines as I received some constructive feedback that my constant kicking of sand in the face of men comes across a little vitriolic. Let’s talk about that for a second.

First off I think I should clarify a few things. I don’t hate men or even masculinity in general. The vast majority of men, both cis and trans, have been genuinely good people with intelligence, sensitivity, empathy, and just and honorable intentions. My father was a very good man, and I hope to god my son will be as well. In the past and in the present, men have employed me, promoted me, helped me move, listened to my problems, worked for me with such engagement I burst with pride, and even now it is a man who is helping me transition here at work. No question about it, men can be very noble and do great things. “Yeah, yeah, men rock, so what’s the deal Michelle?”

Well, being born of unfortunate outer appearance, I’ve been shoved in with groups of boys and men since birth. One of the things I’ve noticed all through school, college, the Air Force, in various shit jobs, and even in a professional environment, is that men seem to like to be unbelievably nasty to each other and consider this a good time. I went on about ball busting in an earlier post, and it’s that I’m talking about. I’ve never fully understood it, but it led me to believe that men lack sensitivity about anything at all when said in jest, even if that wasn’t the underlying intention. This seemed like an open invitation to smack around these impervious galoots with no harm done. The gotcha of course, which I failed to realize, is that this only applies to each other. When women do it, it’s a whole different story.

Having a female brain, I never quite got the whole importance of the masculinity thing and considered it more of an affectation than a core identity issue. In truth, men can be very sensitive about it and get hurt feelings really quick or become defensive if they consider it threatened in some way. Women, including trans women, poking at it can be a bad time for them. It can be a little like the N word that way, but not quite understood by females to have the same level of impact. Sometimes it doesn’t, but sometimes it does. I’m not sure what always sets this off, but the comments received indicate that ball busting by females is clearly one of them. The others aren’t so clear to me, except for certain unavoidable things like my existence and gay male existence. That is where we can all run into some real problems.

Now that I have advanced my understanding of the lay of the land a little better, I can say with certainty that any negative comments toward males are emphatically not aimed at trans men, gay men, and the vast majority of the male population who are decent, noble, and chivalrous. The big angry feminist in me, however, can make no promises about the super testosterony types who wear their ball cap backwards, have contempt for women and the aforementioned types of men, and operate under the delusion that my existence is some sort of threat to their masculinity or that I have any intention of (yuk!) tricking them into sex. On them it’s open season; I simply don’t have patience for that kind of foolishness.

In conclusion, if you are one of the decent guys out there, cis or trans, of which I think you are the vast majority, you have my sincere apologies for any offenses I lobbed your way. Even having lived among you, I still don’t totally get you yet, but we can work together to understand each other. As for you other “men”, in the extremely unlikely chance you happen to read my material, game on.

Fit To Be Tied

I bought a copy of ‘Women’s Fitness’ the other day, and my first impression was, WTF? Seriously, what a load of crap. The big angry feminist inside me came roaring out like a banshee. I should probably explain a little bit how a glossy periodical had the power to make me see red.

Back when I was still on a decade’s long quest not to be myself I ended up exploring a lot of dead end roads. Oh, so many, many roads, but we’ll talk about the rest another day. One of them had to do with the shape of my body. After marriage, apart from other changes, I went and gained close to 100 lbs in a little less than a year. Looking back, I think this was about an unconscious need to ensure I would not be tempted to go out and start a new wardrobe of clothing. Instead, I would be a happy fat man and that only.  I could be content being a junior Santa in training I thought. As it turns out, I was not and found panting in someone’s office after climbing a single flight of stairs fairly ridiculous. This was definitely not me.

If I wasn’t happy being a fat man, perhaps I would go in the other direction. I put together a killer diet and exercise plan that yielded fantastic results. I would build the body of a Greek god, bulging with toned, powerful muscles; a ripped dynamo of exemplary masculinity. I would resemble that guy I saw in a magazine curling a huge log with chains wrapped around it, fully ready for the Festivus feats of strength. I worked out every other day, bought increasingly heavy kettle bells and Craigslisted a weight machine. It was actually starting to work, until I came to the realization that my new bulging musculature was making me just as uncomfortable with myself as the spare truck tire did. What the hell? No matter, I was mere months away from admitting the truth.

During my quest for muscle nation domination, I subscribed to Men’s Health and Men’s Fitness, both excellent guides packed with medical and nutritional information, exercise explanation and demonstration, biology, featured subjects, personal testimonials, and product reviews. The focus was there, and I felt several magnitudes of healthy better just having read them. These were real men’s magazines! Screw ‘Maxim’ and its puerile little fart jokes and Downey-soft core porn; these are what “real” men read.

I picked up the women’s version of Health and Fitness expecting the same thing, but you know, for women. No. Not even close! Sure, there were a few good hints and tips and feel good stories sandwiched in with the unending stream of cosmetics ads, but it was nothing like the raw “you will be healthy and like it, fucker” feel of the male versions. Essentially, these read like Cosmo with a different cover theme. If I wanted yet more new techniques for painting my nails, getting rid of crows feet, telling what he is thinking in bed, or how to shellac a whimsical footstool I was all set, same as if I bought any of the other dozens of interchangeable magazines out there. If I wanted to understand the intricacies of muscle tone to achieve a killer caboose, identify various nutritional techniques to prepare for a marathon, or even how to work against this bloating thing I now seem to be getting about every month, I can go fry an egg. Sure there are some good recipes, but they seem just a little geared toward making sure “he” will like them too. Total, total bullshit.

Worse yet, I’m beginning to suspect this is only the beginning. Feminists have been saying for many decades now that it’s a separate but unequal world in spite of appearances and assurances otherwise, and I did believe them. There is, however, a difference between believing it and experiencing it. It’s not hard to understand why people get mad. Don’t worry, I’m just a little pissed, but I’ll be all right. Understanding is the first step toward change.

My Big Gay Roommate

In my sophomore year of college, one of my roommates came out as gay. It took some time as he struggled with everything that comes with being out to society, but unfortunately for him, some members of our little circle are intrusive by nature. The discovery of Playgirl magazines finally tipped us all off, after his joining the university Lesbian Gay and Bisexual Alliance (I think T’s were tacked on in later years), pink shorts, and having a boyfriend failed. I never said we were collection of junior Sherlock’s. I found this process incredibly threatening.

If you read some of my earlier posts, you are aware that I struggled long and hard not to be me, and often won for even years at a time. In college, with roommates, it was almost impossible to dress and the lull by necessity looked like a cure for my condition. I would try many such cures in subsequent years, but that is a story for another day. When my roommate was sexually ambiguous, I felt a little uncomfortable around him. When he was full blown out, and quite flaming at the time, my alarm bells were going off big time. Young and ignorant, I had no idea that trans and gay were different things. One cause of alarm then was that although he was gay, as I suspected I might be, he also exhibited behavior and tendencies that didn’t quite match up to my own self identity. This was confusing and produced big old bucket loads of anxiety.

My anxiety came out in unfortunate ways. I always had a bit of a blushing issue with LGBT issues, but it had never actually been a problem. After my roommate came out, I had my first big “episode”. I was taking a poetry class where the professor had us all sit in a giant circle to facilitate everyone seeing each other. I detested this arrangement, but loved the class and didn’t drop. One morning he launched into a discussion about Walt Whitman being secretly gay. I felt my face begin to flush, triggering profound panic, which led to exacerbated sweating. I was certain everyone was looking at me, and remained seated to avoid drawing further attention to myself. After that class a girl I had a small crush on suddenly became much more chummy and stopped with the constant references to her boyfriend every time we talked. I was no rocket scientist, but had a really good idea what that meant.

It got worse, leading to some real problems. Come to think of it, I’m amazed I graduated at all. I took a Psychology of Sexuality class and determined I would suffer though. I hid in the back corner where I could blush my prudish flushes in relative anonymity. When we started the chapter on gay and transgender issues I was unable to force myself to go and never returned to the class. Hooray for my only incomplete! Then it happened again in late spring when I was applying to be a Resident Advisor to score a single room, rent free. It was a group interview and sure enough, the question came up “how would you advise someone complaining of a gay roommate?” They had to be kidding me. My face turned as red as a Looney Tunes character who just ate a hot tamale, and my Secret was neither strong enough for a man or woman that day. Needless to day, I didn’t get the job.

It was time to explore this gay thing just a little bit more. My now former roommate liked to frequent the area gay friendly clubs like Underground, Cathode Ray and the long gone Buddies, and we took to going with him. I needed to get a better feel, as it occurred to me maybe my experience was “normal gay” and he was an outlier of some sort. I was comfortable enough going; at least these were people I didn’t worry about blushing in front of. If they thought I was gay, all the better. I didn’t get hit on much, although I once had a guy chat me up for a while and finally tell me I had beautiful eyes. I thought it was sweet, but it didn’t do anything for me. Apparently I wasn’t a gay man, so what the hell was I supposed to be anyway?

It took me a number of years to come up with the right answer, in spite of all signs that seem really, really obvious in hindsight. For all the tortuous freak outs his presence caused me, I’m very grateful for the experiences that helped move me forward toward an answer, even if it took a really, really long time. Since then we have stayed in touch more or less, and he has been immensely supportive since I came out, even though I was kind of an asshole back in day, super gluing spare change to his dresser and whatnot. I could not be more grateful that he let it go.

… OK, I just realized he might read this, so… by “big” I do not mean out of shape. In fact, he has better legs than I do. Seriously, he’s  a “too bad he’s gay” gay.

Just a Wee Drop O’ Courage

Some of us tend to get, well, a little snippy when someone calls us courageous. I’d like to talk about that for a second. A great many of us have written about the whole courage thing, how cisgender allies like to paint us as individuals who soar where eagles and angels fear to tread, and how much that notion ruffles our feathers. Yeah, it does, but it shouldn’t.

To anyone trans who might be reading this; you know what I’m talking about. A trans writer I deeply admire. Natalie Reed,  put if best in her epic post 13 Myths and Misconceptions About Trans Women over on Skepchick and Queerika. She likened us to someone running through a dark and stormy night, chased by wolves, finally making it to the safety of a well lit cabin and once inside, breathless from the terror inducing flight, are told how brave we are. The point is that very few of us perceive ourselves as brave. We usually transition because we are at the end of a pier that’s in the process of burning down, so the water suddenly looks really inviting, even if we think we can’t swim. We do what we need to in order to survive and continue living a productive life with at least a chance of happiness and fulfillment. We all understand that.

We use a lot of pretty language to describe our feelings; lord knows I never shut up about it, but attempting to convey our experience to the cisgender world is basically for naught. They are never really going to get it, nor should they, anymore then we really understand what it’s like to be cisgender. It is very validating, however, when they try, and that is what I think our focus should really be on.

When someone cisgender gives us credit for having great courage, it’s really them trying to put themselves in our shoes. If I understand correctly, the very notion of leaving the house presenting as the gender opposite as that they were born into is anything from uncomfortable to icky to terrifying. In trying to imagine that, they are attempting to visualize our experience and having the reaction appropriate to their own identity. Speaking for myself as someone afraid of heights, I find the notion of climbing up on the high board at the pool and voluntarily diving head first from it very naary and have a hard time understanding how a high diver, called to do this unimaginable thing for some reason, can. Frankly, I think it’s pretty awesome for them to try and we should recognize the empathy and support they are showing in this. It’s the thought that counts, and I for one am grateful.

We don’t see ourselves as brave because we are both in a “have to” situation, and at the same time are doing for ourselves to achieve peace and happiness. That said, let’s be honest. Who here prior to embracing their identity didn’t think that if they were caught in daylight cross-dressing they would instantly die. I certainly did! Peering out the front window for a safe time to run to the car, sitting in the car outside Wegman’s trying to psych myself to go in, teeth chattering and knees knocking. Even after the incredibly empowering experience of being in the Pride Parade last June, I found myself scared shitless walking a mile to my car alone because I stupidly asked to be dropped off in the wrong place. Sure it all seems silly now, but we all have to overcome some degree of fear to begin living our lives.

Whether these things make us incredibly brave, insanely foolish, or apathetic to negative societal opinion and danger I don’t know. Probably a little of each. It’s not always a warm and cuddly world out there for trans people, and we are well aware of that. The option to hide is there, but we push ourselves anyway. The dangers are real, but we face them. Maybe there is something to notion of trans-courage after all, even if we do acknowledge that we had to do it. I’m very certain that even as I write this, someone is hanging lifeless at the end of a rope, unable to face what lay before them, leaving all around them to wonder why and never know. If our friends and allies want to recognize that because their heart is in the right place, I’ll graciously let them and thank them. We just might deserve it, just a little bit.

Chameleon Karma

One of the harder parts of coming out to family, friends, and even the woman who greets us at the door every Sunday morning at Wal-Mart, is explaining away the deep and abiding skepticism. “Well, I certainly never saw anything!” True, true… but all that really means is that I was doing really well at my primary focus; hiding who I really was. Most times it was so deep down in there I was able to fool myself for years at a time. Remember as well that it’s not like people ever look at a little “boy” and say, “hmmm… I have to wonder, are they really a girl inside?” This certainly makes it easier for us, at least for a while.

People place great importance on their ability to detect profound differences in other humans around them. I’m sure it’s hardwired as a evolutionary advantage to protect ourselves and loved ones from malevolent predators like pedophiles, serial killers, and of course the ubiquitous aliens among us. Somewhere along the way most individuals let this kind of ‘Spidy sense’ atrophy because we have people for that now. Just like the 1% lost the advantageous skill of cleaning the toilet; they have illegal aliens who can do it. A rigorous deportation program means they can exchanged for new ones so you don’t even have to feed them. The point of course is that most people assume others are like them, especially if they look the part. It shouldn’t be a super shocker then that they couldn’t tell.

The reality is that if I can hide it from me, I can hide it from you. People still feel tricked and betrayed, or that if they weren’t able to tell, you might just be making this whole thing up. I totally understand not liking to be fooled, but when you think about it, how much of a horses ass do I feel like? I live in this body, and it wasn’t until I put all the pieces of evidence together on the cork board that I had a, “shit, that was Keyser Soze!” moment. It was really, really obvious in hindsight, but until the magic moment it was like looking at one of those maddening pictures you can see a sailboat in or something if you focus just right. Worse in my case, because someone actually told me 10 years ago and I was still able to let the information skim off my brain like a frictionless surface, only to be buried in my subconscious for a decade.

If we can’t admit we are trans, we can’t tell anyone. As for the indicative behavior, I’m always surprised when people are surprised we hid all that for so long. Really, they are sometimes. The reason of course is that the cross-dressing and thoughts, etc are things we are deeply embarrassed about and in many cases  would rather die than have someone find out. When the most powerful form of insult one can throw at a man is that he may be even a tiny bit ladylike, no one is in a hurry to fess up they know their shoe and bra size, the differences between woman’s, misses, and juniors, and how to put on pantyhose without getting a run. I saw a movie recently where one cop insulted the other by saying the sound of his pee hitting the side of the urinal was a little bit feminine. OK, that is pretty funny, but you see where I’m going.

Our ability to hide and blend for years and decades is excellent for getting by during that period, but like all things, it must be paid for. Most of us find that out when karma comes due when we start to transition. First come the examples of everything you have done that is “stereotypically” male, even if there are women who do or like the same thing. “You like ‘Star Wars’, that is such a male thing.” Pointing out that her female friend loves ‘Star Wars’ way more than I do, the reply is, “Yeah, but she’s not typical with that.” Seriously, like ‘atypical’ wouldn’t have been my middle name had I given the selection process a little more thought.

It’s all right though. I’m very willing to pay karma her just dues, her fair share, and everything she has coming to her. I may be deep in arrears for enjoying the benefit of some sweet camouflage, but I took the second notice seriously and now the balance is swinging in my favor finally. Who knew it could be so expensive not to be yourself?

Somebody That I Used to Know

“Seriously Michelle, you are going to reference ‘Glee’ yet again? God, I think I’m going to try and find some handmade steampunk themed stirrup pants on Etsy rather than read more of this crap.” I hope not. In spite of my comedicly flat opening here it was my hope that we have something to talk about, plus you simply don’t have the ass for those pants. OK, so I was watching ‘Glee’ and heard the Gotye song, “Somebody That I Used to Know” and thought it was something I thought I would like to hear again. My spouse/sister looked it up on YouTube and we watched a delightful video by the original artist a couple dozen times.

I’d explain the song in detail, but honestly, you are already in front of a computer so go look it up and come back to reading this. Really, it’s worth it. If you are rolling your eyes because everyone already knows about this, all I can say is look, no one who has even read one of my posts before would fling the words “hip” or “with it” or “not pathetically dorky” in my general direction.

The reason this is so popular, other than the gratuitous use of a xylophone and naked people covered in paint, is that it speaks to a very universal phenomenon. To stay on topic and not just write a teenagery gushy tribute to the song, I’m going to take a big leap and say that so many of us in the transgender community have a collection of such somebody’s as a direct result of our existence. I think the goat man [Editors note: Gotye did not choose his name on account of his resemblance to a goat] said it best, “and that feels so rough”. It does feel rough.

Now, I’m not bringing this up as an excuse to air some grievances at individuals who turned away or instituted a policy of radio silence once I came out as trans. OK, maybe a little bit, but I’ll leave out names. Been down that road before in a blog from years past where I under estimated the tendency people have to dive 38 pages deep into a Google search of themselves. I got quite the verbal spanking and promised not to do that again.

Most of the people I came out to reacted way more favorably than I could have hoped for. I will say this, no one told me off or anything, well, except for that one time, but I don’t think that happens much anyway. I wrote to one of my oldest friends and let him know. We were best friends in the first grade and virtually inseparable through all of grammar school and high school, lost touch sometime in college and reconnected on Facebook a few years ago. Just last March he came to my dad’s wake and we pledged to get together for dinner and catch up. Anyway, I wrote him in December. Nothing. I pinged him on my old male Facebook account and asked if he got my letter. Nothing. Now that it’s late spring, I’m beginning to think he’s now just somebody that I used to know.

I had a very close friend in the Air Force whom I loved with an intensity that has only been surpassed by my love for my spouse/sister. We worked together, spent every day together, talked almost every night after I came back to Buffalo, and she even came to my wedding. I wrote her a long letter as well and received only deafening silence in return. Honestly, I would have well preferred a nice venomous “fuck you, freak” because at least then I could have mustered some righteous indignation over the severance of the relationship.

“But you didn’t have to cut me off; Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing… But you treat me like a stranger and I feel so rough… I guess I don’t need that though, and now you’re just somebody that I used to know.”  It’s true really; all of it. So you all don’t take this the wrong way, yeah, it hurts a little, but just part of life in general. On getting my letter they may very well feel exactly the same way. “Michael” was somebody who they used to know and just got the news that he’s no longer there, and maybe never really was to begin with. Hurt feelings in transition often go both ways, and as much as tell ourselves it’s really only about us, we know that isn’t true, even if we want it to be.

So, as with anything in life, I say goodbye to some old friends, embrace even tighter those who stayed, and welcome new one’s who are happy to know the real me. All said and done, it’s a pretty fair trade if you ask me.  Maybe not so rough after all.