Halloween Dreams

Halloween used to be one of my favorite times of year. You can probably see where I’m going with this, but let’s drag it out, because the way I write you would think I get paid by the word. Someday maybe, for the time being, each syllable is simply helping me put off something I probably should be doing instead. OK, back to Halloween. For children it’s about the candy (OK, fine, it’s still about the candy for me, as anyone could tell the way I race my son around well beyond his endurance just to grab every free and heavenly morsel), and for some it’s about the dark spookiness (fine, that’s me too – when I saw ‘The Addam’s Family’ I deeply envied their lifestyle), and others still it’s about the costumes. Yeah… the costumes.

As a younger child, I was generally consigned to that neoprene boxed bullshit from Gold Circle, but as I got older, I started making my own costumes. Not the ones I wanted to make, but nevertheless, I got to be creative. One year my dad took us up the Kenmore Fire Hall for the costume contest. I won second prize for my Viking outfit – a Timex calculator watch I wore up to my senior year of high school – but first prize went to a cheerleader. The cheerleader was a guy. While I wasn’t super excited to not take first, I was thrilled to find out that this kind of thing was an option. Who knew you could just do that? It was the early 80’s and the very notion of anyone who didn’t answer to Dustin Hoffman going in drag was, as Vizzini put it, inconceivable. It was too late for that year, but my mind was a whirl with possibility.

As it turns out, my mind was to remain a whirl for a good long time. Each year my anticipation would grow and I would plot out how to make this happen. The problem was that my severe phobia around the subject prevented me from broaching it, and the actual day of Halloween always ended up a total bummer as I stomped around in some stupid male costume. What the hell? In 8^th grade my friends and I all talked about going around female. It was an idea I didn’t originate, but heavily promoted thereafter. We planned too early and somehow it changed to just telling our friend Jeff that we were going to do this, and then show up in male costumes to embarrass him. I thought this was just far too mean to both him and me, and got them to change their minds. So close!

No longer a child, and pressured by society to put aside childish things, I refused to capitulate. Every year I planned to make my breakthrough first public appearance female and it was going to be great! My nemesis was my absolute inability to get over my worry that if I showed even a tiny slice of my femininity, I would be found out and horrible, terrible things would happen. I’m still not sure what, but it all seemed very real and pressing at the time. Eventually, I finally got my chance.

I resigned myself that it was never going to happen with my friends around. One evening in late October when my roommate was a work (and before the dreadful couch incident), I dressed and went out the front door. I had the perfect cover – I was on my way to a Halloween party and isn’t this costume a hoot? In reality I was hoping that this was a fallback plan and that I would move about undetected. I walked a few blocks over to the 7-11 just for the sake of buying cigarettes. Yes, I used to smoke, but long since kicked the habit. I felt I was passing up until I asked for a pack of Camels and the cashier gave me a startled look. Just like now, I thought I was talking very feminine but apparently not. I nervously laughed off what my “girlfriend” put me up to while sweating off layers of dollar store foundation. I practically ran back to the apartment.

This did embolden me, and I decided to try the same thing a few nights later. Nothing better than a roommate with a swing shift job! This time I gave up the notion that people were not going to know and climbed the hill up to Tops, the grocery store in back of place. This was the night before Halloween, so I was very comfortable that no one was going to think this was really the real me. There were a lot of people in costume there, and for the most part, nobody paid me any attention whatsoever. In the checkout line, a girl in front of me told me she thought my shoes were really cute and it made my night. I was absolutely flying about my accomplishment and began scheming how maybe I could be doing this every night he wasn’t working, even after Halloween. It never happened. I was caught not long after and ended up joining the Air Force instead.

Now here I am 15 years later and Halloween is on our doorstep. My son is wildly excited and keeps changing his mind about what he wants to be, even though he already has a costume and will be wearing it. Me, not so much. I’m me now, and the idea of dreaming up a costume seems almost silly. I’m too old and too embarrassed to dress up in any of that cute and sexy shit they sell at Spirit, and after working on my appearance for a year and half, not loving the idea of going the gross or scary way. Maybe next year. My ex suggested I take the opportunity to cross-dress and go male. Yeah, I just don’t think so.

Confessions of a Formerly “Male” Miss Smartypants

Having a female brain in no way guarantees one understanding of certain things until actually living the life. Like the whole nature vs. nurture debate, some things are innate and others just have to be learned, often the hard way. Being born gonadally and endocrinally challenged virtually guarantees a bevy of opportunities to learn the hard way, or at least with a New Jersey assload of redacted opinions and practices. If a bunch of words have to be made up in the process, so be it.

In my more masculine life I used to like making little jokes about women and the whole thing about not having pockets, or at the very least, not putting anything in them. “Seriously, do you really think that if you stuck a wallet in there, people would look at you and think you naturally have a large square lump on your ass? Or that it makes you look fat? Please.” Yes, I was a real cut up; loose and free with my witty sarcastic observations. So smug. So smug.

Flash forward to now, and yes, I do feel pretty much like a giant jackass about all that. Just the other day I stuck a folded up twenty in the front pocket of my khaki pants, agonized in the mirror for a few moments, and then took it out. Instead, I choose to lug around a now 20 pound purse with lord knows what inside rather than risk someone think I was sporting a perfectly symmetrical pocket of lard in a unlikely location, as if that would be the pressing thing to worry about in regards to my appearance.

I also used to smirk about women who looking exactly as they did the last time I saw them, go on and on about looking like shit that day. In male life “looking like shit” means you just crawled out of the swamp after being lost for a week, or ripping open the seat of your pants on a crate and then tried to fix it with staples and a wool pea coat tied around your waist. The definition has since been modified. A lot. Now looking like shit means I spent 5 minutes less time getting ready in the morning. Maybe my eyeliner smudged just a tiny bit, or a slight puff of wind mussed my hair. Sometimes it’s just that I dared have a slice of cheese on my sandwich and gained 11 pounds overnight, leaving me feeling like an overstuffed sausage in the same outfit that used to be falling off of me.

We’ve all heard the long running joke about the woman circling around for the closest parking spot to go to the gym. Guys get a real kick out of this ridiculous looking paradox and have a really good chuckle every time it’s brought up. Me too. Well, that is until it finally sunk in that men have virtually zero risk of having someone lying in wait for them because they happen to be wearing easily removed clothing. When the mental trade off suddenly becomes ‘burn 5 more calories or significantly reduce the risk of rape’, it suddenly doesn’t seem so silly. I will, however, hold on to the idea that it is kind of silly that I’ll circle to park close on occasions when I’m wearing ridiculously uncomfortable shoes.

Speaking of which, I also never understood why anyone would subject themselves to wearing ridiculously uncomfortable shoes. Most of these are heels of course, and some are real foot killers, not to mention impossible to run in. It was beyond me that women would wear shoes that not only made her feet feel like they were caught in a bear trap, but also leave her prey to less fashion conscious assailants. Honestly, even now it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Well, except for one factor that trumps all. But they look so pretty! Laugh if you want, but it’s good enough for me.

Book Review: The Collection from Topside Press

A few weeks ago I was asked to read and review the long awaited compilation of transgender themed short stories by Topside Press titled The Collection. OK, that isn’t quite accurate. I heard they were looking for reviewers and jumped up and down yelling, “pick me! pick me!” until they finally sent me a review copy in the mail. I’ll be totally honest here as well. Aside from the subject theme, much of my interest was rooted in the fact that I submitted a number of stories for consideration, all of which were rejected in the compilation process. Don’t get all snitty for me, they were right to do so. Yes, I was a trans woman, but none of my offerings had a trans theme as all were written back when I was still writing all male like.

After reading the choices that were included I was forced to wonder if I would have made the cut anyway. As with any collection, some were better than others, and a few were downright outstanding. Overall The Collection is a symphony of many disparate transgender voices that manages to come together with poignant harmony. Each story truly deserves its own review, but in the interest of brevity, I’ll talk about general impressions.

I loved the mix that was selected for inclusion. I’ve noticed that an awful lot of trans literature tends to be a bit, well, dreary. This is reasonable since the trans experience in life often tips heavily toward the negative. There were a number of inclusions that had a very dark and pessimistic feel to them, but all were refreshingly bereft of the whininess I detest. Instead, many of these packed an emotional punch that only a well told story can. It’s not easy to attain emotional identification with characters in the short story format, but this was achieved multiple times, and often with characters the reader has almost nothing in common with.

I was also very pleased by the lighter offerings included. Aside from appealing to my own personal bent, they counterbalanced the heavier. A few even resembled superhero and ‘Buffy’ style fan fiction, though of a higher quality grade than often encountered in the sites dedicated to such.

As the content, the mix of authors and themes was inclusive to most of the trans community. Most. Equal space was allotted to trans women and trans men, with a few gender-queer offerings included as well. There was a notable absence of cross-dressers at least in terms of protagonists, but my understanding was that the focus was always intended to be transsexuals and GQs. I did, however, notice that for the most part, character representation was limited to those under 30. Some could conceivably be older as age wasn’t mentioned, but the work in general could be described as Millennial. This by no means turned me off, but I will admit that it will be harder for the over 40 crowd to see their own lives and experiences reflected.

My only other impression that isn’t absolutely glowing is the potential lack of accessibility to cisgender readers. While anyone trans will be pulled right into this and find it hard to put down, I’m not so sure someone cisgender will have the same experience. There is a good possibility that the contents may prove to be too alien and hard to relate to. I could be wrong; after all, what do I know of cisgender thinking? While this will surely be a huge hit in a ‘for us by us’ kind of way, a barrier may exist that prevents this from being propelled into the mainstream. I am hoping to get some allies to read this and give impressions, so expect a follow up.

My final verdict: if you are transgendered, you should definitely read this. You will identify with it and you will enjoy it. Lord knows if you are here on my site swallowing down my ramblings, this is going to be a big spoon full of sugar. If you are cisgender and looking to expand your horizons, this is an excellent read and a window into minds you probably don’t quite understand, but we love you for trying.

Finally, on a more personal note, I think supporting the work being done by Topside Press is important. It’s not always easy for us to get our voices heard, and the idea of a publication company devoted to transgender literature is both refreshing and an absolute necessity. Each time we are heard and perhaps understood by the world at large, it chips away at transphobia and other negatives we continuously deal with. Helping them helps us, plain and simple, and trust me, you get a bang for your buck here.

The Collection

Edited by Tom Leger and Riley Macleod
Topside Press – $32.95 hardcover, and 19.95 paperback

www.topsidepress.com

Also,  if you could go ahead and click the link above so they know I sent you, well, super appreciated!

“That’s Not Her Real Hair You Know”

I originally dubbed the theme of this year as ‘Embrace the Awkward’. I think I’ve done a pretty good job so far and there has been no shortage of awkwardness to embrace. In fact, some days I’m positively smothered with it. My original hope of course was that the necessity would just fade away from conscious thought, just like that thing I was probably supposed to do but can’t for the life of me remember. If you are reading this while waiting for me to pick you up at the airport, I’m really, really sorry and probably already in bed, so…

Last weekend we took a nearly 200 mile road trip just to get a grilled cheese. I know, but this was supposedly the most awesome grilled cheese there has ever been. Even Guy Fieri said so. On the way there, my 5 year old was getting pretty antsy and was failing to recognize the jeux de vie and eclectic delight of driving for over 3 hours just for a sandwich I often make at home. We decided to pull over and find a playground where he could run off some steam and tire himself to hopefully sleep for the rest of the trip. We found one. A good one too of colorful plastic with those bouncy pads all around it, much unlike the steel frame monstrosities sunk into concrete slabs we delighted in back in the 70’s. We had it to ourselves until a little girl showed up to play.

I got my first compliment of the day when she asked our friend Amy if that was his mom over there, pointing to where my ex and I were sitting. She answered yes, and girl asked, “yeah, but which one?” Seriously, it made my day. Not long after though, when she and my son were sitting on the swings, he casually mentioned, “that’s not her real hair you know.” That’s nice, I finally get a wig that looks like my real hair and I’m blown in by a kindergartener. The little girl was too curious to let this go by and came over to question me about it. My ex thought on her feet and explained that some women lose their hair for a variety of reasons and thoughtfully excluded ‘male pattern baldness’ as one of them. She was satisfied and went back to playing.

Aside from the occasional “Mike” or “he” that is just going to come out of the mouths of people who have known me a long time, the gender shift has gone pretty smoothly with this one exception. Not the disclosure to the little girl, but having a very open and honest 5 year old. When we are out in public, I have pretty much given up any expectation of trying to pass. When I bought him a little wooden model, he told the cashier he was going to put it together with his dad. She asked a question, and he pointed right to me, “this is my dad right here!” He’s been calling me Maddy for months now after we adopted the naming convention thought up by Jenny Boylan’s sons, but somehow whenever we get in public, I’m all of a sudden back to dad.

In case I’m painting a whiney type picture, I need to say that aside from the mental expletive when it happens, this doesn’t bother me. I’m thrilled that he’s trying and that our relationship hasn’t suffered an iota since my change. The truth is that no matter what my gender, I’ll always be his dad and it’s never wrong for him to think that or say it out loud. It might catch me off guard, and it might be terribly awkward at times, but compared to what so many others go through with children, I’ll take this in a heartbeat.

7 Warning Signs of Post Traumatic Guy Syndrome

No matter what symptoms I plug into Web MD, Post Traumatic Guy Syndrome never seems to come up. I may, however, be at great risk for either scurvy or kuru, even though I eat lots of fruit and hardly any human brains. It stands to reason I guess, since I just made the term up while stepping on the toes of our veterans who have very real, and very debilitating problems as the result of being put in situations of high risk of imminent death. I really think I might be at risk though, and if you are a trans woman, you probably are as well.

If you are a trans woman, or at least know some or one, you may have noticed that some of seem just a little bit off. OK, to be less PC, some of us come off as batshit crazy, or at the very least, went through a long adjustment period as they settled into womanhood. I think the root cause of all this is having to have lived for so many years as a male; an endeavor that was bound for failure, but attempted with great vigor for decades at a time. We like to tell children that they can be whatever they want to, but the reality is that over time, if what you want to be just isn’t you, it’s not going to bode well and you may end up just a little bit fucked up in the process. Prior to the onset of PTGS, there are a number of indicators and symptoms worth taking a look at even though I just made them up on the fly.

1. Sporadic Dickheadness: Guys often exhibit this trait from time to time, and it’s often in good fun. The medical terminology often refers to it as “ball busting” which is known to manifest in the presence of other men, especially when camaraderie is high or alcohol is being consumed. Sometimes the effects are felt by women, but they are often dismissed as just boys trying to be funny. When a woman, particularly a trans woman, shows signs of this, it’s not good. Other women do not lightly suffer this type of crap from other women. As a trans woman, sporadic dickheadedness will probably show up from time to time as a latent effect from male life. Fortunately, the worst side effect is simply being asked out to lunch with the girls a lot less. Secondary symptoms: mild depression and suspected alienation.

2. Minor Adjustments: Until surgical correction takes place, even the very best of restraining methods tend to fail from time to time, or become unbearably uncomfortable at inopportune times. In male life, dealing with this area was simple and expected. A quick look around followed by an over the slacks crotch adjustment, or a more covert hand in the pocket fix was socially acceptable. Women, however, never publically adjust their crotch for a variety of reasons, the least of which is lack of necessity. When discomfort arises, it’s easy to forget you are wearing a skirt and pantyhose, and that grabbing yourself in that area, unless in total privacy, is bound to get noticed. This symptom is unconscious and nearly unavoidable. Secondary symptoms: burning embarrassment lasting for moments to days.

3. Stoic Silence: When men are not interested in a topic being discussed, it is socially acceptable to remain in stoic bored silence until a conversation shift occurs. Women generally ignore this since they are under the impression that the men will probably not add much anyway. A woman, however, displaying this trait is often written off as being a real cold bitch and someone not to be invited again. After decades of enjoying this symptom without repercussion, a trans woman may be surprised and dismayed by the impression they are giving as being cold, or worse yet, just a guy. The only remedy is getting used to talking in groups about shit you really don’t care about. Secondary symptoms: more depression and perceived alienation.

4. Speaking in Tongues: As a male, it was expected that you know at least a dozen lines each from ‘Monty Python: Quest for the Holy Grail’ and ‘Scarface’. Chances are, you played along unless you are like me and unable to remember movie lines. Hopefully you did, and didn’t just stand there feeling like a schmuck like me. If you were successful, it’s now ingrained and going to come out from time to time. Remember though, you never, ever hear women drag out the infuriating ‘Knights Who Say Nee’ bit. This is good, because no one needs to ever hear that again. As a trans woman there is a good chance you will, and be left standing there feeling like a schmuck as you suddenly become aware of the disgusted and annoyed faces around you. Secondary symptoms: crippling embarrassment.

5. Benjamin Buttonitis: This morning I dressed my 5 year old for school, then came to work and noticed 30 and 40 year old men wearing essentially the same thing. Well, except for Spiderman sneakers that blink. As a male you probably got used to doing this, because aside from formal affairs and high power business, men’s and boy’s styles are virtually indistinguishable. Because of this, many trans women fall into the same trap and think that cute skirt in the junior’s section is perfectly all right to wear. It’s not. Unless you occupy a demographic where dying your hair Smurf blue is all right, there is a rigid age demarcation for clothes. The real kicker is that nobody is going to tell you to your face, because female culture doesn’t lend itself toward making others feel bad about their appearance, so this symptom can persist for a long time. Secondary symptoms: constant paranoia that people are talking about you and judging you, mainly because they are.

6. Space Invader: While never specifically taught, casual observation will reveal that when sitting or walking, men take up the maximum amount of space humanly possible, while women tend to fold themselves into the most compact package, often at the expense of comfort. Think of a man on a couch. Arms spread out over the back and legs splayed open to display his crotch. Now think of a woman. Arms and elbows tucked in, and legs demurely crossed at the knees or ankles. He’s taking up at least 2.5 seats worth of space, and she’s scrunched into three quarters. Trans women easily revert to the male configuration because it’s way more comfortable, but end up looking like a lumberjack in drag no matter how pretty they might otherwise be. Secondary symptoms: more paranoia caused by weird stares and people standing rather than risk sitting next to you.

7. Up In the Sky, It’s Super-Guy!: Men are expected to jump in and solve problems first, and listen second. Women often to the opposite and provide a good ear to listen, and assistance only when requested. This can get confusing if you are used to firing off the means to solve everyone’s worries or worse, jumping into a physical situation. When you do this as a woman, other women get annoyed, because if they wanted someone to go off half cocked, they just would have told a guy about it. With men it’s worse. While they will tolerate this from other men, they really don’t so well with women, and sure as hell don’t want it from you. Secondary symptoms: feeling left out of the loop; sometimes punched.

There are probably a lot more, but these should be a good start to watch yourself for as regularly as you check your breast for lumps. These items along with the secondary symptoms may indicate you are a candidate for PTGS, unless you are naturally an insensitive asshole, and then the secondary stuff doesn’t apply so much. While not fatal, PTGS can leave you depressed and lonely, and wondering if this was all worth it. Caught in time though, a full cure is possible along with a long and happy life as the correct gender.

Trans Disclosure: Everyone Loves Surprises, Right?

How many bar pick up anecdotal horror stories have we all heard that ended with the lovely lady Frat Boy Frank brought home really being a dude? I’m pretty sure every male reading this, as well as every trans woman, has heard this one more than once, even if you spend Saturday nights playing a dreary Dungeon’s and Dragons derivative. I know I’ve heard it, and I ran with the uber-geek D&D playing crowd, even though every moment hearing about the imaginary exploits of a fricking wizard named Pantsoff filled me with despondent melancholy. How true is this sort of thing anyway? And even if so, what’s there to talk about?

Before we start getting nickpicky and drill down into the fine details, I have to wonder what the actual incidence rate is of a skanky bar pick-up really being a man in drag. I made a very half-assed attempt on pulling up some statistics on this, but came up with nothing. I’m not sure why this isn’t one of the census questions, but that just goes to show how closed our society really is. I would guess that the majority are either urban legends, or outright lies started by other men who are using the unsavory sounding allegation to engage in ball busting when the victim doesn’t provide them with enough ammunition. It wouldn’t surprise me though if this did happen occasionally.

I’m going to take a moment to wade into uncomfortable territory for some of you. No, no, not you; I’m talking about one of the other readers, so relax. It is my understanding that some cross-dressers engage in these activities for sexual reasons. This bums some of us out because even up close, cross-dressers and transsexuals look a lot alike. Go look at my FAQs if you don’t know the difference. This isn’t an activity I really have any negative feelings about, although it does sound inherently dangerous to me. Some men can react very badly, especially if they are under the impression they are “being tricked into being gay”. Things can get violent from there, and honestly, no one really likes a ‘Crying Game’ surprise, especially after their 243^rd attempt with their foolproof ‘tired, ‘cause you’ve been running through my mind all night’ line finally paid off. It probably does happen from time to time, though I doubt the man in question is doing much recounting of his conquest to his buddies after.

When it comes to folks who are in the process of, or who have transitioned, the issue gets stickier. There are two schools of thought on the matter. The first is that successfully addressing a medical condition is really nobody’s business and therefore if they can’t tell otherwise, there is no need to disclose. The other is that intimate partners are due by common courtesy to be given information they might consider critical. “Do you have AIDS or any other STD? Are you going to tape this or wearing a wire? Have you lived part or most of your life as a male who was indistinguishable from other males for all intents and purposes?” Let’s look at each for a second.

I think the tell or not tell question really only applies to those who are post-operative. Having a penis is just a little hard to hide in an intimate situation, whether it’s a one night stand or longer term relationship. I suppose pulling a Tobias Fünke might work for a bit, but not long because nothing looks worse under a slinky negligee than cutoff jeans shorts. The feeling behind not telling is that it falls in line with medical procedures people don’t need to know about. Having an artificial hip, part of your colon removed, or even a nose job are not considered to be ‘need to know’ information when dating. If a person is self-conscious or embarrassed about their medical history, it should be their business if it doesn’t impact the other person. Our condition is not communicable, and therefore no one’s business unless we choose to disclose. If fully passing, the desire to do so can shrink faster than the genitalia of the Polar Bear Club.

True as that may all be, the opposing argument is that one should really disclose if about to get intimate with someone. There are a few arguments for this view. Remember the whole deception thing I went on about? People get really upset, and potentially vindictive, in situation where they feel they have been fooled and may have made different decisions in light of that knowledge. Explaining our pasts is not always comfortable, but it’s less uncomfortable than harsh recrimination, agitated rejection, and potential violence when the other person invariably finds out. Even if we do achieve 100% passability, it’s going to come out at some point given a long enough timeline.

Arguing that it is no one’s business is fine, but there are a lot of lines when it comes to intimacy. If you perceive that the other person will not care, it’s a good idea to say something now and avoid bad feelings later. This is far better when it comes to establishing any kind of relationship. I think most of us have already learned this lesson the hard way. If you think they would care, not disclosing transitions right into the territory of non-consent, or as people like to call it, rape. There is never a good reason to have sex with someone and have them feel violated after the fact. This is a big red line that may be legally vague, but kind of makes you a shitty person if you cross it.

Yes, none of this is at all easy. It does suck that we have yet another source of humiliation and possible rejection on top of all the others. In the end though it’s far better to take the moral high ground and live with another aspect of this condition than risking not only our own self worth and safety, but the emotional well being of someone else as well.

The Great Deceiver

One of the cute little names the bible comes up with for Satan is the ‘The Great Deceiver’. Not surprising as one of his big things is to spend a lot of time maliciously tricking people in ways most foul for the sole purpose of misleading them to grievous harm. Apparently this is all cool under the rules for reasons I was never really clear. Sometimes he seems to be trapped in a lake of fire, and in others destined for it but wants to get his licks in first. Anyway, no one is arguing that ‘Deceiver’ is appropriate for the worst guy ever. Transgender people have a good idea how he might feel about it.

It shouldn’t be surprising that trans folks are often called deceptive. Here we were, one day vetted members of our highly exclusive and secretive gender only clubs, and the next day peeling off rubber masks and yelling “gotcha!” at our stunned friends, family, and loosely affiliated peripheral folks. Well, so it seems to them. Some of them, particularly spouses, children, and sometimes parents, had huge vested interests staked on the reasonable presumption that we would in fact remain the same gender for the duration of the relationship, which is often life. This kind of assumption seems like a super low risk given as the alternative only ever happens in the movies, where it is more expected they would be an alien or some kind of unusually agile secret agent. I’m pretty sure ‘Honey, I Gots Me Some Boobs’ is lagging in production behind ‘Mr and Mrs Smith III: Try Not To Shoot Me In the Ass This Time’.

It’s hard to argue the label with loved ones. It’s true, I did paint myself as a man, and a masculine one at that, and all my words and actions were in appearance as such that no one would have any reason to suspect I was otherwise. When critical life altering decisions are based on this knowledge being accurate, it’s not hard to understand that less than joyous feeling might arise when a huge component of my identity turned out to be sham, an illusion, a deception. Of course that is only a little bit true. Let’s get back to that in a bit.

To add to our woes, we are often depicted as deceptive by members of society. These are people with no real stake in our existence, but somehow take it personally that we are attempting to “fool” them. I don’t understand this mentality at all. All I can imagine is that these are highly ego-centric personalities who can’t comprehend that something isn’t at all about them, somewhat like my 5 year old who is rapidly growing out of it. I think they are probably equally offended by the iconic ‘crying Indian’ who I’m sure they feel is personally accusing them of littering and yell at the TV screen in enraged indignation.

Finally there is the misimpression that we are out there attempting to trick men into sleeping with us. This one is a little trickier to address for two reasons. The first is that there is a great debate in the trans community regarding whether or not disclosure of our past is ‘need to know’ information for sexual partners. I’m going to write about this another time because it’s complicated. My personal opinion is that disclosure is the better part of valor, but then again, if I were ever to become intimate with anyone again, I can’t foresee getting to this point without that person having a clue as to my first 40 years. It’s also tricky because I can’t speak to the cross-dressing community who may actually have individuals who engage in this sort of behavior and make the rest of us look bad. Again though, I don’t appreciate the ‘deceptive’ label out of some cosmetic similarity being drawn.

I think for the moment, we are just going to worry about the first one. After all, it’s the one that hits the hardest, makes us feel terrible, guilty, like really bad people, and causes the most harm overall. In most cases, we can’t argue that there was no deception. Sure, there are some in the trans community who had absolutely no idea up until the moment of epiphany. No cross-dressing, no mental anguish, no body dysmorphia. I think this is relatively rare. Most of us had some clue that we didn’t fit the old ‘Average Joe’ mold or at least suspected it. From the nosebleed section, it looks pretty cut and dry that we knew something critical, but neglected to disclose. Maybe it was dark and malicious, and maybe it was a lie of omission. Looks like case closed, we are deceptive and therefore directly comparable to Satan himself.

On a closer look though, there is much more to the story. For the lifetime leading up to the final self-admission, after which we generally go about telling absolutely everyone, we live in a miasma of paradox. I am male. I am female. The following statement is true. The preceding statement is false. For so much of that time we are missing the critical link that makes it all make sense, and even when we do come across it, it proves far too slippery to comprehend. Our minds scatter the evidence into self-contained, unlinked pockets of unfavorable information. Sequestered tightly with bright red warning tape and shrieking sirens that go off at the slighted approach. The concept of speaking of them is equal to someone with a crippling fear of heights egging themselves into a bungee jump. Another step and it’s all over, in the worst way imaginable. Confession isn’t so much as a considerate disclosure but a court admission of murder in the first of a white good ol’ boy in Texas where we are sure to be strapped into Ol’ Sparky for it. How can we plea to this terrible thing that after some highly selective rationalization doesn’t really apply to us anyway?

It’s not so easy though to communicate what it felt like to live in that mental prison. When we spring free, it’s with exuberance and unabashed honesty most have never seen in us before. All the dots connected, we paint a clear and compelling picture demonstrating without reservation that we are what we are and always were. After years and decades of denial, it becomes a mandate in our minds that the truth of our reality is validated not only by ourselves, but everyone around us. For anyone not living in our heads, this really, really looks like we pulled a fast one. “Ah ha! I got you, you silly gullible thing!” It’s easy to see how there might be hard feelings about this.

There was information that wasn’t shared and people got hurt as a result. It feels terrible and it can’t be undone, no matter what we might wish otherwise. ‘Deception’ though reeks of malevolent intent, and in most of our cases, that doesn’t really apply either. Much about us was far too incomprehensible to communicate. That which we did know was both too fearsome to speak and clothed in a disguise of meaningless trivial nonsense to contemplate bothering anyone with. In the end though, whether the fire was arson, or caused by simply being unable to admit that smoking in bed is dangerous, the result is the same. Destruction is destruction, and when it starts with you, you will always bear it, and it hurts the same each time you are reminded.

Body Dysmorphia is a Real Drag

In spite of being shot in the face with lasers multiple times and later being jabbed with a tiny cattle prod at the base of every hair follicle until my face swelled up to resemble that of a shaved gorilla, I still look in the mirror every morning and have to wonder if that is a woman or Magnum P.I. staring back at me. Maybe Ned Flanders; I was never cool enough to pull off a ‘Magnum’. At best I see your Italian Grandma, and that’s on a really good day. The reason for this, even though a scant few follicles are left alive (many less than Gramma Cippino, or even Snooki), is because I am body dysmorphic. As a trans person, it comes with the territory.

While I consider myself a woman, I’m OK with calling myself a trans woman, at least for now, wholly and completely for the reasons behind this dysmorphia. Any trans woman will tell you this starts at an early age. Even being raised to believe we are boys and such, part of us knew different and didn’t exactly experience a swelling of confidence upon hitting puberty and suddenly sporting a hairy set of testicles. Sorry to get gross on you, but no matter who you are, having to dry off a set of hairy balls after the shower does not make you feel feminine in the slightest. Sorry, that’s not an image anyone really needs in their head. Almost as distressing is the advent of body hair, facial hair, Adam’s apple, canal barge size feet, wide shoulders, and the unchangeable bane of us all, big meaty hands that look like they can just grab Gallagher by the head and pop it like one of his melons. Hormones are responsible for all of this, well, except the balls.

In the teenage years it’s pretty bad. When people called me “handsome”, I thought they were just being mean, or at best trying to make me feel better. When I looked in the mirror I saw a pimply, dweebier version of McLovin looking back at me. I didn’t date much because in my mind, who wants the discomfort of McLovin in their face trying to figure out what they are doing Saturday night? My one teenage relationship was with an especially aggressive friend of my younger sister, and I can say without reservation, she was one frustrated girl. I simply couldn’t get over my teenage boy appearance long enough to even attempt acting like a teenage boy. Pretty sure she thought I was gay.

As we get older, we learn to cope with this a little better, at least for a time. Kind of, I never quite mastered the appearance of a lack of body anxiety. As if all the rest of it wasn’t bad enough, I started going bald very quickly right after I turned 25. Like Air Force basic training wasn’t bad enough with the confined quarters, communal bathroom, and worst of all, showering with 50 guys at one time all pressed together because we had exactly 6 minutes and the spigots were 8 inches apart. Ugh! When the guys had their peach fuzz growing in and proudly comparing in the mirror, I stood alone, examining my barren scalp muttering, “What the fuck is up with this?” Of all things, I think this is the one that kept me in denial for so long.

After a while though, and it takes some of us longer than others, the dysmorphia gets bad enough that we have to do something, because age really isn’t helping. Yes, the final clarity of realization of our gender identities brings us to the point of transition, the body dysmorphia is what drives the need for all the really shitty procedures we go through in order to feel more like ourselves. In a perfect world, maybe I could feel just as feminine sporting a 5 o’clock shadow, Larry Fein haircut, flat chest, and proudly displayed package, but it’s not, and I can’t. I may never be pretty, but if there is something I can do to inch just a tiny bit closer, well, I’m signing right up.

One of the comforting things about having trans woman body dysmorphia is that most women have a touch of this anyway. It’s the reason something fitnessy sounding like ‘Women’s Health’ will have 11 different ads for Botox. There is just something not right about that. Page 23 has a nice little article on how to avoid food poisoning, and the very next page advocates having that very same life threatening bacteria injected right into your face. It’s also the reason that 112 pages of the rest of the 150 page magazine is filled with ads for products for things that promise to unnaturally make you look naturally you.  I eat all of this up, and so do you probably or they wouldn’t be wasting their money trying to sell you on schmearing your lips in fish scales to make them more kissable.

I have resigned myself to the understanding that I’m never going to told I could be a model or even have a washboard belly. It doesn’t mean I’m not still trying mind you, because doing something always feels better than doing nothing. After all, 3 billion women can’t be wrong, even if some of us do look like Magnum P.I. in drag, at least in our own minds.

An Other From Another Mother

My twin sister from another mister recently posted about the use and misuse of labels when it comes to dealing with people, and really, she did a fabulous job as always. It did get me thinking though because her inspiration was one of those ubiquitous Facebook placards people like to share on their status. I really think I’m in the wrong line of public blathering by the way. With those things all you need is a semi-clever blurb with either a colorful eye-catching background or old-timey line drawing and the thing goes viral. Nevertheless, Becky’s post along with one of those blurbs that keeps showing up in my newsfeed got me thinking. Look, the day has barely begun and I’m already tired, so I’m not even going to apologize for my blatant copy-catting, nor the use of 4 hyphenated words in one paragraph.

The one that was really showing up a lot for a while was a message that attempted to differentiate the labels of transgender and gay. Clearly someone got torqued enough about the public confusion on the matter and created a loud graphic to convey that “No. No, they are not the same thing.” Enough other people saw this and also decided they were torqued as well, but maybe not enough to create their own graphic, so instead restrained themselves to just hitting the ‘share’ button. That’ll show ‘em! Don’t get me wrong, because I do agree. Something about it bothered me though, and I decided to write it out. Honestly, at this point I’ll be just as surprised as you are as to how this post ends.

If you are a regular reader, you already know the difference between gay and transgender, so bear with me. I’m certain that just by typing “flying monkey” here, some search engine will draw someone who was looking for Wizard of Oz memorabilia; a chance I just increased by typing this. So for you who are way off track and stayed, I’ll clarify. Many people think LGBTQ is a classification or label unto itself instead of an ever expanding acronym representing a bunch of disparate groups jammed together under the banner of “not regular guys and gals”. I think it grew to LGBTQIA since I started typing, kind of proving my point. Basically the assumption is that if Carl the Cobbler can stretch his understanding past a binary, the best he’s probably going to do is make it to guys, gals, and other.

Everyone under the LGBTQIA banner is tired of this of course. Homosexuals have been dealing with this for a while. Since for a long time people couldn’t imagine a relationship that didn’t involve a gender binary, one of the same gender partners obviously had to take the role of the opposite gender. “So which one of youse is the girl anyway?” The fallacy of course is that even a gay guy attracted to a man, would need that man to be more like a girl for some reason. As I like to use ‘Glee’ as an example, we saw this when Sue wanted Kurt to wear a dress to compete against Unique in the Nationals and was surprised he didn’t want to since he’s gay. With lesbians, same thing, and yes, even in the butch crowd.

Transgender people have been dealing with this equally as long. If you don’t fit the stereotype of your birth gender, then you must be some kind of gay. This of course is what the nifty Facebook placard is trying to combat. “I’m trans, not gay! Well, unless I’m both which is true some of the time, but not always.” The gay folks and the trans folks are on the same page here. Mostly. Jim says he likes men, but doesn’t feel like a woman. Jean says she’s really a woman, but not a gay man in spite of the lingering penis. It gets a little messier when Jill pops in saying she’s really a woman, but likes women, but the penis doesn’t make her straight, so her gender identity makes her gay. The gay cisgender crowd doesn’t really have an answer for this, so it gets kind of mucky.

Now Carl the Cobbler is really confused. “This guy I known as a dude says he’s really a woman, but he likes men, but isn’t gay?” Time for a refreshing Genny Cream Ale pounder or twelve. Carl’s confusion annoys the crap out of us because nothing tweaks one’s beak so much as being misunderstood. Just ask Pink. To clear everything up in a jiffy, exciting Facebook placards were put together, along with the frankly well thought out ‘Genderbread Person’. I love the Genderbread Person because it’s a nice easy visual to show to people who have questions. That’s really the rub now, isn’t it?

Most people don’t have a lot of questions because they simply don’t care. It’s not at all important to their lives, so they gloss over it just the same way you gloss over your friend’s constant updates her passion for Clydesdale Rescue. “Yeah, yeah, big beer drinking horse is endangered or something. I just want to know if the Whiskerville Cooters won last night!” Making people interested enough to want to know if they don’t know you personally is a hard thing to do. The real question then comes down to, is it really worth all the effort?

In my opinion, no. People can speculate about my sexual orientation all the live long day and it doesn’t matter a tiny bit to me. This is because it doesn’t affect my life at all, nor do I expect it to. We have a big enough hill to climb just to get the world to recognize we exist and should thereby have equal rights and protection under the law. Compared to that, speculation on who I might be attracted to seems like a wee little hill of beans. If anything, we benefit from the association. Being gay is rapidly becoming more socially acceptable and rights and protection appear to be following. Hitching ourselves to that bandwagon isn’t the craziest move out there. Explaining to a weary state senator that yeah, they passed SONDA and since we are kind of the same after all, so GENDA should naturally follow, seems more effective than making a big deal that no, this is totally, totally different.

In a world where Carl the Cobbler is your average voter, I’m all right with “regular guy, regular gal, and other”, so long as other is perfectly equal. If it’s really that important that people know exactly what kind of other you happen to be, start a blog and broadcast it all out there. Unless they really know you, doesn’t it matter that much anyway?

Reparative Therapy…. Seriously…

California Gov Jerry Brown just signed a bill banning the heinous practice of reparative therapy for children. In case you are scratching your head as to why I care, reparative therapy (also known as conversion therapy) is psychological treatment developed under the notion that gay people are psychologically fixable by engaging them in an intensive process of convincing them they are not in fact, gay. In layman’s terms, brainwashing. For those of us in the transgender set, it is pretty concerning that such a therapy exists to begin with, especially since those who subscribe to such a fallacy are highly likely to throw us into that grand pile of humans allegedly in need of repair.

Yeah, I’m going to skip the social science history lesson here since Wikipedia covered it pretty well. Before I do my usual jag left into topics with not much more than a whimsical relationship to this, I will say a few things simply because I like to rant. I simply can’t believe such a “therapeutic technique” managed to persist! None of the science supports it, great harm can and has come of it, and again, the methodology is nothing more than attempted brainwashing. As per my usual schtick, I hold the faith based only crowd responsible for this, as the only plausible explanation for this still existing is that if you believe the bible trumps scientific observation, and the bible says homosexuality is not part of the natural order of things, it must therefore be either a choice or psychological defect. I still fail to grasp the notion of a deity directly inspiring or personally writing a holy text, then filling all of creation with profoundly inherent contradictions just to fuck with us a little bit.

This did raise a personal question. Actually I’ve been asked it before, but never talked about it here. If a therapy or cure were developed to make us not transgendered, would we do it? This is a tough one, right? I’m not saying if it could have prevented it in the first place – I think that most of us will agree would have been nice. If I was simply born female, I may have put my energy into doing something productive instead of utilizing an increasing logrhythmic proportion of my potential to attempt not being trans, then burning up the rest in dealing with transition when that didn’t work. Or I might have ended up raped and left for dead somewhere, but we’ll never really know either way unless I decide to jump from a bridge and get a glimpse of alternate reality from some buttinsky angel.

What about right now though? What if I could bring back ‘Michael’ as the real deal and not a shell of responses and habits aimed at perpetuating and passing the identity? Sure I’ve made some changes that can’t really be undone, but I was never that keen to grow a beard anyway. My marriage would be saved, my son would have a daddy instead of a maddy, I wouldn’t worry so much about losing my job, I could go into dark and scary places without worrying about jack shit, no more wardrobe worries, no more hormonal cycles, no more taking 2 hours to get ready in the morning, no more weird looks (well, I got those anyway, but for different reasons), and so on. I could be just a normal married, middle age dad clawing his way up the corporate ladder. But I also wouldn’t be me.

I have no idea how much my trans-ness really makes up the sum of my being. I’m plenty of things that have nothing to do with my gender identity. Everyone can make a big old list of personal attributes, good and bad, that make up what they consider to be themselves. On paper they seem separate and distinct; building blocks that when put together somehow resemble a person. Reality is nothing like that of course. We are a lot more like cake. OK, a really complicated cake with so many hundreds of ingredients that Julia Child herself would start flinging F-bombs and shooting her signature Colt 45 in the air if she had to make, but still. Take any one thing out and it’s going to fuck up the rest of it because everything is so hopelessly intertwined as to be inextricable. Even if so, it would end up being a soufflé or beef bourgeon without just that one little pinch of zazz.

Without my trans, I’m not really me. Plus, we have no idea what it’s really keeping in check as well. Without that core portion of my identity, I might be a real asshole. Sure, ‘Michael’ wasn’t, but ‘Michael’ was just a drab looking me going through the motions of being male. Turned into a real boy, ‘Michael’ just might be a real piece of work. The kind of guy who speeds through puddles to splash the poor schnooks at the bus stop, or asks you to come help him move his really heavy stuff and then feigns a back problem. Yeah, I don’t know that, but I really can’t be super sure either. I do know myself now after 40 years of not, so the idea of jumping over to something new sounds like more of a gamble than I really like to take.

The true frightening idea about this is that you can’t really change something so inherently intrinsic to a person.  My brain is female, and for so long was locked down, shackled in the basement of my subconscious. Staved, beaten down, and existence denied. When you are your own jailer, you know just the right torture to inflict to break your own will. I’m free though now, and no longer capable of being complicit in my own imprisonment. Maybe reparative therapy could chain me back, kicking and screaming, and sink me back in the deep end, but not for long. I learned too much the first time. I’m sure it’s no different for anyone else, and why I applaud Mr. Brown.