When I got to the VA Primary Care Clinic this morning, this wrinkled old white dude shouted, “SMILE!” at me. Nobody’s ever done that before, although I knew it would happen, eventually. I turned in his direction before I’d processed what he said, because I had heard a loud noise (him barking at me). Once I understood what he’d said, a split second later, my face showed my irritation with him before I turned back to what I was doing. As I was looking away, I saw him turn to an equally old and white comrade, and say, “she doesn’t wanna smile.”
I didn’t have the time or the energy to get into it with him right then, but I did resolve, next time, to say something back. I’ve come up with a canned line that I think will work, something along the lines of, “oh, I’m sorry, sir, we’re all out of smiles, but I do have this fresh middle finger for you.”
Friday, January 30, 2015
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
Playing "What If?"
I often daydream about the life I never had, the life I should have had, as a young woman, as a girl who knew she was a girl from the moment she even perceived gender in any way. But I realize that it’s fantasy, that my life would not have been magically delicious if I’d figured this shit out sooner; that I would’ve been a young woman, yes, and that I would also have had all the same joys and successes that any young woman can have; but that I would also have made many of a young woman’s mistakes, and suffered many of the abuses that young women suffer.
I’m incredibly lucky to have realized my dysphoria when and where I did, at the age that I was (that I still am). I have a patience and perspective that I could never have had if I’d realized when I was 8, for example.
I’m not at all suggesting that it’s better to start transitioning later, just that there will always be difficulties, and there will always be things that are easier, whenever we are talking about multiple periods within a lifespan. You are responsible for your own happiness. You can focus on what the world owes you, what you know you deserve, but will never be given, or you can focus on what’s good, or maybe even better, about the way things actually are.
I’ve discovered that the more I allow myself to feel grateful for the positive aspects of my transition, the more positive aspects I realize there even are.
I’m incredibly lucky to have realized my dysphoria when and where I did, at the age that I was (that I still am). I have a patience and perspective that I could never have had if I’d realized when I was 8, for example.
I’m not at all suggesting that it’s better to start transitioning later, just that there will always be difficulties, and there will always be things that are easier, whenever we are talking about multiple periods within a lifespan. You are responsible for your own happiness. You can focus on what the world owes you, what you know you deserve, but will never be given, or you can focus on what’s good, or maybe even better, about the way things actually are.
I’ve discovered that the more I allow myself to feel grateful for the positive aspects of my transition, the more positive aspects I realize there even are.
Monday, January 12, 2015
Two Things Are On My Chest
I have to get two things off my chest. One positive, one negative. I’ve been meaning to post about the positive one for awhile, but the negative one has kind of forced my hand, because they are related. Bad news first.
I had to block someone today. A guy I met at Ai, and felt close to as a friend, someone I’d played songs with and carpooled with, and generally got on pretty well with. He posted a video the other day called “The Wife Hack,” which features some run-of-the-mill misogyny, the old “crazy vs. hot” graph kind of thing. Not really funny at all, and actually only mildly offensive because of how common it is to have that sort of background drone level of misogyny just in the air all the time. The kind that we all just expect to be there anyway.
But, towards the end of the video, the presenter warns men that if they meet a girl who is less than 3 (out of 10) crazy, and more than 8 hot, they have to get out of there, because “that’s a tranny.” He goes on, as if that wasn’t bad enough, to say “it’s a dude,” to the approving guffaws of his production crew.
I’m sure most of you can see what is wrong with that. If you honestly can’t, allow me to explain. First of all, “tranny” is a slur, as bad as any homophobic or racist or sexist slur against any other group of people. It is almost never funny, and when it is, it is delivered expertly from a VERY select group of people. It is a word of hate and violence, and its primary purpose is to strip people of their humanity, to make it harder to identify with them; to make it easier to hurt or kill them without remorse.
Second, when you call a trans person “it,” unless that is the pronoun they identify with, you are denying their identity. You are saying that you know their gender better than they know it themselves. You are saying that their gender is their physical sex, in defiance of not only that person, but every creditable medical authority on the issue, who practically unanimously agree that gender is in the mind, not the body. When you say that a trans woman “is a dude,” you are perpetuating the extremely damaging myth that a trans woman is just a guy who wishes that he was, or thinks that he is, or is under the delusion that he is a girl. That is almost exactly backwards. A trans woman is a neurotypical female who has a physiotypical male body.
In any case, that storyline is the thing that allows people TODAY, in America, to murder trans women nearly without repercussion in every state except California. (The so-called “trans panic” defense, that states that someone was so dismayed to find that their lover had parts or a history they didn’t expect that they HAD TO MURDER THEM.)
I have been very lucky to have realized who I was when I did, and where I did. I did not have to live with the conscious knowledge of my dysphoria in secret for very long at all. Even then, knowing that I was constantly on a journey towards public life as my real self, it was bearable. But there are other trans women who are nowhere near as lucky as I have been, who figure out who they are, and then are forced by family or friends, people who supposedly care about them, to pretend that they are someone else. I can barely imagine what hell that must be. It is almost certainly the reason why trans women have a vastly higher suicide rate than many other groups, by volume.
If all of this is pointed out to you, and your response is something along the lines of “I still think it’s funny,” or, “learn how to take a joke,” you are saying that your laugh is more important than someone else’s BASIC DIGNITY, than their simple HUMANITY, and you fucking disgust me. Do us both a favor and block me right now if that is you. Don’t just unfriend me. Become invisible to me. That is the kindest possible thing you could do for both of us.
And now, on to the good news. I have been so incredibly blessed (says the agnostic girl) to have friends who have supported me so completely as I travel the long road of transition. Most importantly, friends who have been perfectly at ease to be out in public with me, at the movies, at the mall, at a restaurant, at Target, at Costco, at the court house, at Starbucks… anywhere, everywhere, as if the fact that I’m trans has no real significance as far as being seen in public with me — the way it ought to be, but the way that it, sadly, often is not.
So, a long overdue and heartfelt thank you goes out to Hailee, Dillon, Kat, MJ, Alex, Jackson, Amy, Brandy, Joe, and, of course, Jenn; and anyone else I may have forgotten about just now, as I rattle these off off the top of my head. Please consider that a further compliment, to all of you — that your numbers are so great that I can hardly remember who’s been out in the world with me, in Seattle, in Edmonds, Arlington, Smokey Point, Everett, all over the place. Just out with their friend, Sera, like she’s any other friend of theirs.
You are not just showing me that my being trans is no big deal — you are showing everyone.
And that means the world to me.
I had to block someone today. A guy I met at Ai, and felt close to as a friend, someone I’d played songs with and carpooled with, and generally got on pretty well with. He posted a video the other day called “The Wife Hack,” which features some run-of-the-mill misogyny, the old “crazy vs. hot” graph kind of thing. Not really funny at all, and actually only mildly offensive because of how common it is to have that sort of background drone level of misogyny just in the air all the time. The kind that we all just expect to be there anyway.
But, towards the end of the video, the presenter warns men that if they meet a girl who is less than 3 (out of 10) crazy, and more than 8 hot, they have to get out of there, because “that’s a tranny.” He goes on, as if that wasn’t bad enough, to say “it’s a dude,” to the approving guffaws of his production crew.
I’m sure most of you can see what is wrong with that. If you honestly can’t, allow me to explain. First of all, “tranny” is a slur, as bad as any homophobic or racist or sexist slur against any other group of people. It is almost never funny, and when it is, it is delivered expertly from a VERY select group of people. It is a word of hate and violence, and its primary purpose is to strip people of their humanity, to make it harder to identify with them; to make it easier to hurt or kill them without remorse.
Second, when you call a trans person “it,” unless that is the pronoun they identify with, you are denying their identity. You are saying that you know their gender better than they know it themselves. You are saying that their gender is their physical sex, in defiance of not only that person, but every creditable medical authority on the issue, who practically unanimously agree that gender is in the mind, not the body. When you say that a trans woman “is a dude,” you are perpetuating the extremely damaging myth that a trans woman is just a guy who wishes that he was, or thinks that he is, or is under the delusion that he is a girl. That is almost exactly backwards. A trans woman is a neurotypical female who has a physiotypical male body.
In any case, that storyline is the thing that allows people TODAY, in America, to murder trans women nearly without repercussion in every state except California. (The so-called “trans panic” defense, that states that someone was so dismayed to find that their lover had parts or a history they didn’t expect that they HAD TO MURDER THEM.)
I have been very lucky to have realized who I was when I did, and where I did. I did not have to live with the conscious knowledge of my dysphoria in secret for very long at all. Even then, knowing that I was constantly on a journey towards public life as my real self, it was bearable. But there are other trans women who are nowhere near as lucky as I have been, who figure out who they are, and then are forced by family or friends, people who supposedly care about them, to pretend that they are someone else. I can barely imagine what hell that must be. It is almost certainly the reason why trans women have a vastly higher suicide rate than many other groups, by volume.
If all of this is pointed out to you, and your response is something along the lines of “I still think it’s funny,” or, “learn how to take a joke,” you are saying that your laugh is more important than someone else’s BASIC DIGNITY, than their simple HUMANITY, and you fucking disgust me. Do us both a favor and block me right now if that is you. Don’t just unfriend me. Become invisible to me. That is the kindest possible thing you could do for both of us.
And now, on to the good news. I have been so incredibly blessed (says the agnostic girl) to have friends who have supported me so completely as I travel the long road of transition. Most importantly, friends who have been perfectly at ease to be out in public with me, at the movies, at the mall, at a restaurant, at Target, at Costco, at the court house, at Starbucks… anywhere, everywhere, as if the fact that I’m trans has no real significance as far as being seen in public with me — the way it ought to be, but the way that it, sadly, often is not.
So, a long overdue and heartfelt thank you goes out to Hailee, Dillon, Kat, MJ, Alex, Jackson, Amy, Brandy, Joe, and, of course, Jenn; and anyone else I may have forgotten about just now, as I rattle these off off the top of my head. Please consider that a further compliment, to all of you — that your numbers are so great that I can hardly remember who’s been out in the world with me, in Seattle, in Edmonds, Arlington, Smokey Point, Everett, all over the place. Just out with their friend, Sera, like she’s any other friend of theirs.
You are not just showing me that my being trans is no big deal — you are showing everyone.
And that means the world to me.
Sunday, January 4, 2015
Sensitivity Training
My electrologist and my esthetician are both cis women, and they will answer some of my questions and concerns with phrases like “women have that problem, too.”
I know that they mean “women who were assigned or designated female at birth, sometimes expressed as ‘AFAB’ or ‘DFAB,’ have the same problem that you, a woman who was assigned or designated male at birth, or ‘AMAB’ or ‘DMAB,’ are asking me about.” Getting upset with them for not having the vocabulary that they, in their own lives and social strata, do not have any real reason to have or understand, is pointless.
At best, I would upset them and make them feel shitty for having not known something that they had no real reason to know. At worst, I would perpetuate a stereotype of the embittered trans woman who hates the world because she thinks the world hates her.
So I get over it. I know what they meant, and they know what they meant, and taking offense because someone told me I’m supposed to is a waste of everyone’s time.
If I hear from either of them (or anyone else from whom I receive trans-related services, or commonly feminine services like waxing) that they have so many new trans clients, I might bring up some vocabulary to educate them, and empower them to feel more capable of connecting with their clients as people. But, until then…
Morning Belle
I tend to sleep naked.
It’s just the most comfortable way to curl up, for me. I’ve preferred it for as long as I can remember, probably from the first time I tried it. It’s not always possible, but right now I have my own room, and some modicum of privacy, so I am basically always naked by the time I’m bedding down for the night.
This of course means I also wake up naked. While I assumed I was a guy, my head was too full of despair to really notice myself in the mirror, and even when I did, it was with disgust and self-loathing. Most mornings, I would just get up, throw on some pajamas, and get on with the morning routine of cat maintenance and getting ready for school or whatever. That was after my daily realization that I was still, unfortunately, alive, and that I would probably not be so lucky as to die that day, or later that night in my sleep, which was my most fervent wish for a very, very long time.
Even after I realized I was a girl, my mornings would go similarly. It’s a more involved routine, now, with shaving and makeup and stuff if I’m going to leave the house, but, less the persistent wish for death, the start hadn’t changed. I would get up, either not notice my reflection at all, or if I did, not really pay it any mind, throw on some pj’s, and do my morning bit.
But now it has changed. I wrote the other day about waking up and catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and really being happy with what I saw. I wrote about it because it was unique, it was a one-time event, and that made it remarkable. But the same feeling struck me today, although I did not sit around and revel in it. Mostly because I’m ravenous, and I’m about to go find some food. But before throwing on pajamas so I can leave my room and go forage, I saw my reflection and I smiled and watched myself stretch.
I was pleased with myself and my body and what I am. What I am now, and what my body is becoming, a little more every day with HRT, and a little more every week with electrolysis. Some people confuse this kind of self-love with vanity. It’s nothing like that. There is no context of comparison, here. I don’t look at myself and think, “look at that sexy bitch, so much hotter than all the other girls,” or anything of the sort. It’s just me, and without any point of reference for comparison, I love myself, I love my body, I feel feminine and beautiful and sexy and mysterious, and I’m so much happier than I’ve ever been.
It’s just the most comfortable way to curl up, for me. I’ve preferred it for as long as I can remember, probably from the first time I tried it. It’s not always possible, but right now I have my own room, and some modicum of privacy, so I am basically always naked by the time I’m bedding down for the night.
This of course means I also wake up naked. While I assumed I was a guy, my head was too full of despair to really notice myself in the mirror, and even when I did, it was with disgust and self-loathing. Most mornings, I would just get up, throw on some pajamas, and get on with the morning routine of cat maintenance and getting ready for school or whatever. That was after my daily realization that I was still, unfortunately, alive, and that I would probably not be so lucky as to die that day, or later that night in my sleep, which was my most fervent wish for a very, very long time.
Even after I realized I was a girl, my mornings would go similarly. It’s a more involved routine, now, with shaving and makeup and stuff if I’m going to leave the house, but, less the persistent wish for death, the start hadn’t changed. I would get up, either not notice my reflection at all, or if I did, not really pay it any mind, throw on some pj’s, and do my morning bit.
But now it has changed. I wrote the other day about waking up and catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and really being happy with what I saw. I wrote about it because it was unique, it was a one-time event, and that made it remarkable. But the same feeling struck me today, although I did not sit around and revel in it. Mostly because I’m ravenous, and I’m about to go find some food. But before throwing on pajamas so I can leave my room and go forage, I saw my reflection and I smiled and watched myself stretch.
I was pleased with myself and my body and what I am. What I am now, and what my body is becoming, a little more every day with HRT, and a little more every week with electrolysis. Some people confuse this kind of self-love with vanity. It’s nothing like that. There is no context of comparison, here. I don’t look at myself and think, “look at that sexy bitch, so much hotter than all the other girls,” or anything of the sort. It’s just me, and without any point of reference for comparison, I love myself, I love my body, I feel feminine and beautiful and sexy and mysterious, and I’m so much happier than I’ve ever been.
Saturday, January 3, 2015
On Misgendering
I was misgendered a few times yesterday, but most of them did not really bother me that much.
The first time was one of the nurses accidentally saying “him” about me, but when I called her on it, she got really defensive and said she had not said that (which is kind of nice, I guess, it at least shows that she knows it would be wrong). I pointed out that she had done it while not looking at me, and that I’ve noticed that that’s relatively common among people who absolutely do not mean to misgender me at all. I think it’s because they only hear my voice, and their brain automatically says “male,” which makes sense. It’s kind of frustrating, but it doesn’t upset me the way that someone deliberately being shitty about my gender would.
However, if a trans person says you’ve misgendered them, odds are that they heard you right and you slipped and didn’t notice. Given that their dysphoria is a real and awful thing to have to live with, it’s probably best to just apologize for it sincerely, even if you don’t remember doing it, or think you didn’t. Acknowledge the fact that they are vastly more attuned to incorrect gender pronouns addressed to them than you (likely) are about (hopefully accidentally) using them, and just let them know that you would never intentionally do that. Maybe even thank them for pointing it out, if you really want to come out like a hero.
The next time was when I went to the Travel window (where veterans get their reimbursements for travel expenses related to getting medical care). I was signing up for direct deposit, but my legal name is one thing, and the name that my bank (still!!!) has is my old one. I didn’t want there to be any problem, so I was explaining the situation to the lady at the window, and showed her my court order for the name change. She was asking a superior about what to do, and at first, she referred to me in the masculine. While I was upset, and maybe visibly so, since there was this thick panel of bulletproof glass between us, shouting at her about it would’ve just been embarrassing, so I had to ride it out.
The really cool part about this is that while she was trying to explain the situation to her supervisor, she seemed to become confused, herself, about what she was saying, as she looked back and forth between me, my paperwork, and her supervisor. Midway through her explanation, she switched to feminine pronouns for me, and stuck with them from that point forward, and for some reason, that was far more pleasing to me than if I had corrected her and gotten a simple apology and had her correctly address me from there. Something about it was really beautiful, and I felt (oddly) more acknowledged in my gender than any other way that it could have gone, I think.
The last time I was misgendered yesterday was in the kind of situation that it still most commonly occurs in, which is when I call phone support for anything. I don’t blame these people; my name is kind of unusual, and I still sound like a guy on the phone. I had called about a problem with my phone bill, and the guy who answered kept calling me sir, so I gently corrected him. He apologized profusely, and I let him know that it was okay, and that I wasn’t upset with him, because I understand why he’d make the mistake. But he seemed genuinely upset that he’d insulted me (in his view; I didn’t feel particularly insulted), and got my payment for the billing changes reduced after convincing his supervisor that that’s what they ought to do because of his rudeness. Or however he characterized it, I don’t know.
The thing that all of these events have in common is that none of the people involved really deliberately misgendered me, or refused to acknowledge or accept my gender. And that is extremely heartening. Not just for me, but for trans people in general.
The first time was one of the nurses accidentally saying “him” about me, but when I called her on it, she got really defensive and said she had not said that (which is kind of nice, I guess, it at least shows that she knows it would be wrong). I pointed out that she had done it while not looking at me, and that I’ve noticed that that’s relatively common among people who absolutely do not mean to misgender me at all. I think it’s because they only hear my voice, and their brain automatically says “male,” which makes sense. It’s kind of frustrating, but it doesn’t upset me the way that someone deliberately being shitty about my gender would.
However, if a trans person says you’ve misgendered them, odds are that they heard you right and you slipped and didn’t notice. Given that their dysphoria is a real and awful thing to have to live with, it’s probably best to just apologize for it sincerely, even if you don’t remember doing it, or think you didn’t. Acknowledge the fact that they are vastly more attuned to incorrect gender pronouns addressed to them than you (likely) are about (hopefully accidentally) using them, and just let them know that you would never intentionally do that. Maybe even thank them for pointing it out, if you really want to come out like a hero.
The next time was when I went to the Travel window (where veterans get their reimbursements for travel expenses related to getting medical care). I was signing up for direct deposit, but my legal name is one thing, and the name that my bank (still!!!) has is my old one. I didn’t want there to be any problem, so I was explaining the situation to the lady at the window, and showed her my court order for the name change. She was asking a superior about what to do, and at first, she referred to me in the masculine. While I was upset, and maybe visibly so, since there was this thick panel of bulletproof glass between us, shouting at her about it would’ve just been embarrassing, so I had to ride it out.
The really cool part about this is that while she was trying to explain the situation to her supervisor, she seemed to become confused, herself, about what she was saying, as she looked back and forth between me, my paperwork, and her supervisor. Midway through her explanation, she switched to feminine pronouns for me, and stuck with them from that point forward, and for some reason, that was far more pleasing to me than if I had corrected her and gotten a simple apology and had her correctly address me from there. Something about it was really beautiful, and I felt (oddly) more acknowledged in my gender than any other way that it could have gone, I think.
The last time I was misgendered yesterday was in the kind of situation that it still most commonly occurs in, which is when I call phone support for anything. I don’t blame these people; my name is kind of unusual, and I still sound like a guy on the phone. I had called about a problem with my phone bill, and the guy who answered kept calling me sir, so I gently corrected him. He apologized profusely, and I let him know that it was okay, and that I wasn’t upset with him, because I understand why he’d make the mistake. But he seemed genuinely upset that he’d insulted me (in his view; I didn’t feel particularly insulted), and got my payment for the billing changes reduced after convincing his supervisor that that’s what they ought to do because of his rudeness. Or however he characterized it, I don’t know.
The thing that all of these events have in common is that none of the people involved really deliberately misgendered me, or refused to acknowledge or accept my gender. And that is extremely heartening. Not just for me, but for trans people in general.
Loving the Skin I’m In
I woke up early this morning after a very busy day yesterday. I’d crashed around 9:30p last night, hard, and woke up to no alarms or anything else at about 2:45a today. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I felt beautiful and pretty feminine. (Usually, I only feel beautiful and feminine when I’m not looking in a mirror, unless I’ve done my makeup and gotten dressed.)
I got up and looked over myself more fully in the full-length mirror, and felt really pleased. My breasts aren’t really all there yet, which is to be expected after barely over two months on HRT, and a really low dose, to boot. But they’re coming, same with my hips. I had my eyebrows waxed yesterday, shaped in a much more typically feminine fashion, and I’m going to continue with my plan of having the electrologist kill stray hairs as they come back in, so my brows will stay this way permanently without my having to go have them redone every month or anything.
I had also just gotten my legs waxed yesterday, and while they’re still a little irritated, they’re smooth and beautiful, and I love them. Bare, smooth skin is one of my strong personal markers for my own femininity.
I sort of wandered around my room naked for awhile, petting cats and talking with them, and just feeling really warm and happy in a way I’ve not felt since I first realized my gender dysphoria. I have loved myself since then, but I have not always been in love with myself, and today, so far, I am. I’m not happy with my body in terms of where it’s at; there are things I want to keep improving on, like having the facial hair permanently removed, and getting into better shape. But I’m grateful that I have such a thin frame, and that it was never particularly masculine, because that makes it so much easier for my feminine aspects to develop and really define me, physically.
I almost want to share nudes. Almost. Nothing pornographic, mind you, just me and my bare skin, being beautiful and happy.
I got up and looked over myself more fully in the full-length mirror, and felt really pleased. My breasts aren’t really all there yet, which is to be expected after barely over two months on HRT, and a really low dose, to boot. But they’re coming, same with my hips. I had my eyebrows waxed yesterday, shaped in a much more typically feminine fashion, and I’m going to continue with my plan of having the electrologist kill stray hairs as they come back in, so my brows will stay this way permanently without my having to go have them redone every month or anything.
I had also just gotten my legs waxed yesterday, and while they’re still a little irritated, they’re smooth and beautiful, and I love them. Bare, smooth skin is one of my strong personal markers for my own femininity.
I sort of wandered around my room naked for awhile, petting cats and talking with them, and just feeling really warm and happy in a way I’ve not felt since I first realized my gender dysphoria. I have loved myself since then, but I have not always been in love with myself, and today, so far, I am. I’m not happy with my body in terms of where it’s at; there are things I want to keep improving on, like having the facial hair permanently removed, and getting into better shape. But I’m grateful that I have such a thin frame, and that it was never particularly masculine, because that makes it so much easier for my feminine aspects to develop and really define me, physically.
I almost want to share nudes. Almost. Nothing pornographic, mind you, just me and my bare skin, being beautiful and happy.
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