NO STOPPING FOR WATER. None. C'est interdit.
So, I'd like to be able to talk about sexual things on this blog, through the lens of my own sexuality and thoughts on it. I've been debating how to go about this for some time. On the one hand, I'm extremely leery of being regarded as part of the "T-girl porn" culture, which is, I imagine, (prior to the whole Bruce Jenner media frenzy) one of the only ways in which many cisgender people have ever been exposed to the idea of a trans person. (In second place is The Silence of the Lambs, and don't even get me started on that.)
But on the other hand, when I have written about intimate events, actions, and thoughts, the responses I've gotten, most often from other trans women, have been resoundingly of gratitude and relief at the real reassurance that things that they had thought and felt were not things unique to them. That they weren't as alone as they'd previously believed, and that to feel the emotions they'd been feeling was not wrong or dirty. And in the end, I feel like almost anything I can do to help make the lives of other trans women even infinitesimally better or easier is going to be a thing I need to do if I am able. And I am able to write. Quite well, in fact.
I suppose that when this blog has been around for awhile, fingers crossed, it will become apparent that sex and gender, as topics, appear not terribly more frequently than they cross the minds of people in general, anyway. This should, I hope, contribute to my goal of sharing my life as fully and honestly as I can, to demonstrate how much more like everyone in the world I am, than unlike.
I will make every effort to appropriately tag posts that deal with sex and sexuality, or that show perhaps more of my body than is appropriate in some settings, as nsfw. But that is, really, more of an acknowledgement of the realities of our culture (that these topics, and images of the naked body, even in mundane and non-sexualized contexts, are literally "not safe for work") than any tacit agreement that shame and filthiness are intrinsic parts of sex or sexuality, or our bare bodies.
With all that said, my number one debate had been not so much about whether to write at all, but about tone; how to approach writing this way if I was going to indeed do it here, seriously, rather than in fragments on my tumblr. My first thought, to counteract the idea that there was anything pornographic about what I was sharing, was to use the driest, most clinical language possible. But sex is not really dry and clinical. We have to approach it that way to study it in any useful, quantifiable way, but that is not its nature.
On top of sex not really being a dry or emotionless topic, inherently, there's the fact that I do already have some idea how to talk about sexual things, because I often do this with my friends already. And we're casual about it. Nobody says "I stimulated him orally until he ejaculated into my mouth, at which point, I swallowed the semen." Right? Nobody's high-fiving you for that. We say, much as you probably say, "I blew him and swallowed his load." High five.
So, that's the tone you can expect from me when I'm writing about sex. It's not going to be overly (or overtly) sexual just for the sake of being sexual, but it is going to be casual, while remaining as descriptive and detailed as it needs to be to get the point across. The point of the text will never be to describe any particular event, but rather to describe enough of it to provide the full and necessary context to understand my conclusions about it. It would be the way I would say things to my friends, because really, that's what I'm hoping you will all be. And I'm hoping that my openness, as soon as I can manage to really get over myself and be as open as I'd like to be, will really help a lot of people feel more comfortable with their own sexuality. I'm sure I will start to get some unsavory attention for this, but I suppose I'll have to just deal with that when or if it happens.
Anyway, a couple of positive things happened for me in the shower just now. The first was just noticing a bare boob shadow for the first time, against the shower wall. I was like, “is that my shoulder? Noooo... Cooooolllll...” (I confirmed what it was, naturally, by cupping and lifting it. It was the left one, if that matters to you for any reason.)
The second (and far more impactful) was that I regarded my penis as feminine for the first time. It was purely subconscious, like my spontaneously regarding myself as beautiful (in a sexual context) when I’d been in the shower the other day. I immediately felt very similar sensations to that previous time — I at first felt very warm inside; happy, and pleased with myself and my body, as it is.
And then I felt a strong sense of unease.
It wasn’t quite so strong as the last time, but then, this was not a sexually charged moment. I don’t think I was even washing my penis, at the time. In any case, I didn't start crying, I just felt sort of gross. I am going to guess that this was a manifestation of cultural influence on my own self-perception. My unchecked thought was that my penis was feminine, which pleased me, because that is how I perceive myself; but my higher, culturally-influenced thought has always regarded any penis, automatically, as absolutely masculine. As literally representative of masculinity.
Ultimately, a lot of my own perception of my gender is tied very strongly to appearances, not just in the visual, but in the visceral aspects of creating those appearances. Which means that, since I will spend a great deal of my life wearing clothing, I need that clothing to be what I perceive as truly “feminine” clothing. (Realize that I am only speaking for myself, here. Whatever defines femininity to you personally is up to you, of course, as it is for me with my own body.)
And that means that I do still think that, even if I consider the possibility of a future where I do not dissociate as strongly from my penis as I do right now, I will end up having full SRS, and not just an orchiectomy. I’ve not touched it in months, aside from incidental contact; nothing sexual, at any rate. Not by choice or force of will, but because I rarely even register its existence anymore. This has been one of the most pleasing results of HRT.
I do still start crying a little bit sometimes, depending on my mood, when I see myself naked. Mostly because of the penis. Somewhat the facial hair and adam’s apple, but those can be addressed to some degree with shaving and makeup and lighting. But the penis is just... there. It’s this big, external reminder that my body isn’t what would really feel right to me. It’s a body part that ultimately defines what it means to be a man for a lot of people, and that is not an easy association to erase when the vast majority of one's entire culture is bent on reinforcing it.
And that is the real issue. I've been wrestling very much recently with how far to transition. My first thought, on realizing I'd misunderstood my gender for my entire life, was that I wanted a completely female body, to the greatest extent possible. And at the time, that meant vagina, breasts, hips, slimmer natural waist, no facial hair, no adam's apple, fundamental vocal frequencies about an octave higher, and certainly not a penis or anything associated with it. The reason that I wanted this was for comfort. To feel right in my own body, to feel at home, and not like I'm stuck in a maze that I cannot understand any more than I can escape.
But I have since realized that that sense of comfort does not really come from inside me. It lives inside me now, but it came from my environment. It was cultural. This is the confusing part about it, for a lot of cisgender people, I think. Passing can be about many things. It's often about avoiding discrimination and harassment and violence. Sometimes even death.
At its core, for me, passing is about personal comfort, and that is informed by our culturally-defined perceptions of gender. When I am out in public, passing is to some degree about what everyone else sees. But when I am alone, and, truly, all the rest of the time, too, passing is not about what everyone else sees, it's about reacting to the judgments that everyone else makes and acts on. And I carry those with me everywhere. I imagine everyone does.
The thing that I've realized, thanks to discovering Laura Jane Grace, is that we can change those cultural definitions. And to some extent, this is already happening. Everything I am doing is geared towards doing that, if you really examine what I'm trying to accomplish.
I spent a few days really agonizing over what to do about my voice. I felt such a tremendous sense of obligation to not change it. Because representation is so, so, so incredibly important. But then I acknowledged that I'm already greatly shaped by the cultural definitions I'd developed and carried over the course of nearly 40 years. I recognized that to not get VFS, possibly making my own life more unpleasant than it needs to be, would be martyring myself to some degree. And I concluded that that isn't necessary.
Where that's left me in regards to transition broadly is not very different a place than I was before, but with a very different mood. Previously, I had a plan, and I was very driven in moving it forward and sticking to it religiously. Now, I have a rough outline, an order of operations (haha), and the actual plan part of my plan is to just see how I feel when I reach the point where I have the resources to actually take the next step. Whatever that may be.
Showing posts with label transsexual. Show all posts
Showing posts with label transsexual. Show all posts
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Friday, April 24, 2015
Feelings Are the Best
I know you’ll probably think that’s sarcasm, but it’s not.
Have you ever had your heart, like... not broken, but... like, you saw it roll off the edge of a table or something, right as it went over the edge, and there was nothing you could do to stop it, and now it's got a little crack? And you're just like, "oh. Well."
Captain America was flirting with me last night on Ok Cupid. It was a really light and pleasant conversation. He obviously didn’t really understand trans women or trans issues very well, but he seemed to be genuinely making an effort, and not fetishizing. He behaved as if he were honestly open to challenging his core beliefs, and revising them as appropriate. I felt like he was flirting with me as a human woman, and not as a trans girl like the ones from his favorite porn, or whatever the hell it is that I get much more often.
I had some trouble sleeping, so I allowed myself to imagine him in bed with me (which, by the way, is a terrible idea). Mostly just lying there in his arms. Some other stuff, too, but mostly that. And I got to kind of air some of my fears in a safe and vacant space, and just sort of enjoy that warm feeling you get when you immediately like someone on several levels, and you know that they feel that way about you, too.
I woke up stupidly early this morning, and I couldn't get back to sleep, so I went to see if he’d sent me any notes. And he hadn't.
But he had deleted or suspended his account.
So, to recap (and expand), this was my journey:
I challenged a lot of this stuff. Internally, I mean. You know, like, “no, I’m not an idiot, I just opened myself up and then he disappeared, and that’ll probably happen again, but I can’t become too afraid of the possibility of this kind of pain to keep being open.” Anything that I had been automatically concluding was bad about me, or my fault, I was able to challenge and basically discard. And I gradually stopped crying.
So now, I’m just kind of like: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
I had been upset. I had been really very upset. I felt the feels. And then they left. And now I’m basically fine again. And it’s that easy.
I spent so long avoiding feelings at all. I literally spent decades experiencing no emotion because I had become so afraid of how painful it was. My favorite therapist used to ask me, at the start of every appointment, "how do you feel?" and I would answer, "I don't know." But one day, maybe six months along, I said, "sad," and he said, "good! That means you're starting to experience emotion again." I was not pleased.
But now that I’ve discovered who I really am, I’ve also started to feel. Everything. Completely. All the time. And I love it. All of it. Even the bad. It’s so much simpler and cleaner this way. It feels natural. It feels right. It feels like being alive. And now, instead of carrying around some nameless distress that I can’t put my finger on for the rest of the day or the week or whatever, I’m just barely annoyed.
Feel your feels, people. Just... fuckin' feel 'em, it's so much better, I promise.
Have you ever had your heart, like... not broken, but... like, you saw it roll off the edge of a table or something, right as it went over the edge, and there was nothing you could do to stop it, and now it's got a little crack? And you're just like, "oh. Well."
Captain America was flirting with me last night on Ok Cupid. It was a really light and pleasant conversation. He obviously didn’t really understand trans women or trans issues very well, but he seemed to be genuinely making an effort, and not fetishizing. He behaved as if he were honestly open to challenging his core beliefs, and revising them as appropriate. I felt like he was flirting with me as a human woman, and not as a trans girl like the ones from his favorite porn, or whatever the hell it is that I get much more often.
I had some trouble sleeping, so I allowed myself to imagine him in bed with me (which, by the way, is a terrible idea). Mostly just lying there in his arms. Some other stuff, too, but mostly that. And I got to kind of air some of my fears in a safe and vacant space, and just sort of enjoy that warm feeling you get when you immediately like someone on several levels, and you know that they feel that way about you, too.
I woke up stupidly early this morning, and I couldn't get back to sleep, so I went to see if he’d sent me any notes. And he hadn't.
But he had deleted or suspended his account.
So, to recap (and expand), this was my journey:
- he’s kind of cute
- he’s kind of a tool
- okay he’s trying
- he really is kind of cute tho
- oh my god that is adorable
- ok here are some things i am afraid of
- yes thank you
- goodnight
- if you’re still up, i can’t sleep for some reason
- this feels so nice
- oh
I challenged a lot of this stuff. Internally, I mean. You know, like, “no, I’m not an idiot, I just opened myself up and then he disappeared, and that’ll probably happen again, but I can’t become too afraid of the possibility of this kind of pain to keep being open.” Anything that I had been automatically concluding was bad about me, or my fault, I was able to challenge and basically discard. And I gradually stopped crying.
So now, I’m just kind of like: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
I had been upset. I had been really very upset. I felt the feels. And then they left. And now I’m basically fine again. And it’s that easy.
I spent so long avoiding feelings at all. I literally spent decades experiencing no emotion because I had become so afraid of how painful it was. My favorite therapist used to ask me, at the start of every appointment, "how do you feel?" and I would answer, "I don't know." But one day, maybe six months along, I said, "sad," and he said, "good! That means you're starting to experience emotion again." I was not pleased.
But now that I’ve discovered who I really am, I’ve also started to feel. Everything. Completely. All the time. And I love it. All of it. Even the bad. It’s so much simpler and cleaner this way. It feels natural. It feels right. It feels like being alive. And now, instead of carrying around some nameless distress that I can’t put my finger on for the rest of the day or the week or whatever, I’m just barely annoyed.
Feel your feels, people. Just... fuckin' feel 'em, it's so much better, I promise.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Cellos for Violins
One of the only things I liked about The Jason Construct was his voice. It wasn't always that way. I always wanted to be a good singer, and I always wished I was, but I didn't get any real encouragement, and friends would usually take cracks at my singing voice, so I did it less and less. Even when I took my very first demos to a real studio to get mixed and treated by a real audio engineer, the guy said my songs sounded good, but that I needed to get a new singer. And he wasn't even trying to be a dick, he was just being an objective professional. (Fun story: I ran into him again about 20 years later, when I went to my school's open house to find out more about it. He's an instructor here for audio, and used to head the department.)
In a way, he wasn't wrong. I did need a new singer. I needed the new singer that I became after I started learning how to actually sing, instead of just doing it and hoping for the best. It started with a book: Set Your Voice Free, by Roger Love, a "vocal coach to the stars" kind of guy who had coached the likes of Billy Corgan and Michael Jackson. The book came with a CD, and I was able to do exercises as if guided by a live coach, sort of.
I made noticeable and excellent progress with my voice. The difference is hugely apparent when you compare an older song like one big walking, which predates my exposure to any vocal training of any kind, to i've lived too long, or three days in a hospital, both of which I wrote and recorded after working with the book. The first song is a bit pitchy, definitely screamy, not inherently unappealing, but definitely of a garage aesthetic. If the sound of a clearly untrained singer wailing over washed-out guitars with a high noise floor appeals to you, then it's a shame we didn't know each other back then. In the second two, it's clear that someone has given me a stern finger-wagging about proper breathing, and there's the beginnings of an understanding of middle voice. It's all much stronger, purer, steadier... less pitchy until I get to the very highest chest voice notes when I'm belting.
By the time we get to more recent recordings like resection, which follow two quarters of vocal coaching with a retired professional touring opera singer who had over 30 years of experience, an even bigger improvement is heard. I have more confidence, so any shakiness in delivery can be attributed to the emotive performance, not incapacity to actually hold a note. It becomes a deliberate choice to introduce it (or allow it to be introduced, more accurately) rather than just a quirk of this performer. Harmonies beyond the simplest arrangements are still magical and confusing to me, though. I have been known to drift from track to track, and stumble my way through multiple keys on my way.
But then I had my gender revelation. And I felt so incredibly, indescribably happy.
One of the first things to really bring any kind of melancholy back into my head was realizing that part of why my voice had always bothered me and seemed inadequate was that it was a male-typical voice. I mean. Testosterone will do that. Usually. Anyway, in sort of having become accustomed to my depressive state, I had started to cling to my voice as the one really redeeming quality about me.
I've always loved the sound of the cello. I can't even remember the first time I heard one. I can't remember not knowing and loving that sound. One of the most effective ways for me to try to come to terms with the placement of my chest voice range (about an octave lower than I would feel more natural in) was to tell myself that I was more like a cello, which I adore, than a violin, which I could kind of take or leave.
And then I realized who I was, and without really thinking about it too consciously, I stopped singing. I had gone from constant singing anytime I drove anywhere by myself to sort of humming along in falsetto, maybe. I had gone from bringing my guitar to school and just breaking it out and playing little sets wherever I was, to barely even touching my guitar.
Part of this had to do with writing. A quick pass over my earlier lyrical work reveals a pretty clear and serious trend. Everything I wrote was rooted in self-hatred. I had an endless void of it to draw from, and I wrote pretty prodigiously. The works that are "complete" enough to even share on the web site make up probably less than half of all material I've actually produced. The rest is scattered in 20-second clips on various drives, ideas for later, along with scraps of lyrics in tiny text files with names that make no sense to me until I open them, and remember how that particular play on words worked.
But suddenly, not only did I not hate myself anymore, I loved myself. I liked myself, on top of that. I would still hear music, but not as often, and not the same kind. I had stopped hearing lyrics entirely. My need to share information about myself was channeled elsewhere. I revamped my tumblr, turning it from another run-of-the-mill League of Legends blog into a much more fashion-oriented blog, with much more feminism than I had previously reblogged, as well as shared pictures from my Instagram. The one constant between the two styles was cats. Lots and lots of cats. Okay, and owls. But those are really just flying cats, and you will never convince me otherwise.
Another part of why I had stopped writing, never mind that nothing was really coming to me anymore, was that I felt very acutely how wrong my voice was for me. I wrestled with how to solve that problem for awhile. My preferred course for awhile has been to try to acquire or save up enough money to get Voice Feminization Surgery (VFS). Yes, that is a thing. I had seen some videos, patient testimonials, from a place called Yeson Voice Center. Videos like this one:
This same bit of text was used when I first started going to speech pathology appointments at the VA hospital. It's phonemically balanced, so it provides a good "drone" to get a baseline on someone's vocal properties.
Speaking of speech pathology, that's another possible "solution." I never liked the idea of trying to change my natural vocal habits, because it feels too much like an act. I want to be able to just relax and be myself, not worry about whether I managed to convince enough people that my voice was a cis woman's voice. I've noticed that in interactions with strangers that are going to be very brief, such as with a bus driver (usually), I will pitch up, and try to alter timbre as much as possible, too. Which, you would think, I would consider to be putting on an act. But it's so automatic that I don't think of it that way. But with friends, or on dates, or for more extended interactions, I just relax and talk.
A long time ago, I fell absolutely in love with a band called Crumb. I used to frequent Moby Disc, when I lived in Los Angeles. I would scour the dollar bins, and try to find cool, edgy, unknown bands. Most of them were trash, to be honest. But a few of them were just. Fucking. Amazing.
Crumb was one of those bands. I started going to every Moby Disc location I could find, so I could rifle their dollar bins, and get every copy of Romance is a Slow Dance, to give away to anyone I thought was worthy of it. Not long after that, Seconds Minutes Hours came out, and I happily paid full price for it.
Years later, I started looking for their work again, because my copies had been lost when our storage locker had been robbed, along with all the other CDs I owned, basically. And I thought that Crumb had put out more records, at first, but a closer look showed that it was a different band called Crumb, and still more research showed that my beloved band called Crumb had broken up after their second album. But, I did finally find some old MP3 rips of those albums that had managed to survive, and I started listening to them again.
And somehow, I found good-Crumb lead singer Robby Cronholm on Twitter. And I wrote him a note kind of telling him about how I'd found his band way back when, but didn't know they had broken up, but that I found his new band while I had been looking for his old one. I told him that I was glad to know that he was still making music, and that I looked forward to hearing more. I asked him if he'd listen to some of my music, if he wasn't too busy, and let me know what he thought, because I really respected him as a songwriter, as a singer, as a musician.
And he wrote back.
This blew my fucking mind, at the time. This guy, to me, was really basically in the same league as Billy Corgan or Morrissey. Really, I felt very much as if either of those guys had written me back. I would listen to Crumb, then some Smashing Pumpkins, Morrissey, back to Crumb... it was all professional-quality music with high production values, excellent songcraft, and very, very skilled performance. So, I told him that.
And he wrote back again, gushing that anyone would ever compare him to Morrissey, because Moz is one of his main influences, and a major idol for him. (I will finally confess, here, for the first and last time, that I already knew that before I wrote him and told him that, because I had read it somewhere else. But it was still true. Sorry, Robby. Everything you know is a lie.)
We chatted on and off for awhile, but at one point, he sent me a note asking how I was doing, and I didn't see it for, oh, I don't know, maybe three years? To be fair, it was right around the time Jenn and I had gotten evicted, and were homeless for a fair time, without the best and most constant access to the internet. The first time I saw that note was in September of last year, about a month and a half after I had realized who I was.
So, I told him everything. And, to be honest, I didn't know exactly what to expect, but I was optimistic. He'd been such an absolute sweetheart before, taking time out of a busy schedule to listen to some random schlep's music and tell them that he thought it was really good, and actually make specific comments about specific songs by name... it felt like he really cared about other people and was a really great guy. But some really great guys have one big problem, and it's hating trans girls.
Robby Cronholm is absolutely not one of those guys.
Seriously, what an absolute sweetheart.
Anyway, part of this went over my head at the time. I didn't know the name Laura Jane Grace. And as this was while I was pounding my way through 21-credit quarters at school, I didn't really give any of this much thought. Partially, I realized later, because I didn't even understand his sentence because of the probable autocorrect error, "translation" for "transition."
Very recently, I saw some interviews with Laura Jane, and some performances, and I thought... wait a second... her voice is like mine.
This gets into everything I was talking about in my last post. I started to think that maybe the reason I felt like my voice was wrong for who I really am was that I was buying into a variation on the myth that femininity is only and absolutely defined by certain sizes, textures, and colors of things. This is really not that different from how most girls feel every day about their entire body, because our media is constantly telling girls that their bodies are okay, I guess... but they could be so much better, if only they bought this and used that.
I'm telling my story because I don't want the next trans girl like me, who figures out, just shy of her 40th fucking birthday, that she's been someone else all along, to feel like there's nobody else out there like her.
So now, I don't know. I don't know what to do about my voice. Before making the whole Laura Jane connection in the first place, I had started singing again, but only in private, because I figured that if I kept up on good vocal health and strengthening/toning techniques, I would recover much more quickly from surgery later. This was also the number one reason I agreed to try the voice feminization program at the VA hospital, with the speech pathologists.
Not long ago, I was in a Live Sound II class, and we needed a singer. So, I got up there and sang. I didn't want to, but I felt like I was the best qualified among those there by a fair margin, even as out-of-practice and self-conscious as I was. I suppose it's sort of ironic that when everything else flipped in my head, the one previous positive, my own view of my own voice, became really one of the only big negatives.
Later on, that instructor approached me outside of class about collaborating musically. He has a degree in music composition from Cornish, and generally knows what he's on about. He's also the drummer who had complimented me at the Up All Night event (in the paragraph by my selfie in the pink dress). I obviously said yes.
That, then, combined with having later found out about Laura Jane Grace, and hearing her sing and speak with confidence, had left me debating just how necessary VFS was, and how good it would be. Not just for me, but for everyone. VFS is not cheap. It has risks. And even if I get my voice pitched where I want it to naturally sit, with the right harmonics, it may impact how well I can sing. There's even a slim chance that something could go wrong, and I could lose my voice entirely, permanently.
Oh, or die. I mean, it is a major surgery with general anesthesia.
When I first realized I was a girl, I considered all of that, and determined that I'd rather try to get a voice that fit my self-understanding, even if it meant I could possibly never sing well again. Even if it meant I might not be able to even sing or speak at all again. Even if it meant I might die. That was a risk I was willing to take, rather than live with this voice. But why?
Because there's no representation. There are no girls out there like me, being shown in a positive light, speaking with their deeper voices. Girls who have cellos for violins.
But now that I've seen some representation, and I look at everything I say I'm trying to accomplish here, I feel like I almost have a responsibility to NOT get VFS. To keep carrying out my mission of living out loud as much as I can, of promoting myself into every possible space, of becoming everyone's trans neighbor that they know and love, or at least don't hate. To show everyone that it's okay to have a voice like this and be a girl, because I'm a girl, and I have a voice like this, and look at me, out there, living life.
While I was mulling all of this over, I messaged a friend that I met through school, another Cornish grad who works professionally now as a musician in Seattle. I asked him about an event going on tomorrow, downtown, and we started talking about similar concepts for the future. I mentioned wanting to cover a whole Radiohead album, because Thom Yorke is an absolute genius, and I love, love, love singing along with him. My friend, Tristan, said he'd always wanted to cover The Cranberries' first album.
It wasn't long before he asked me to send him a demo. I froze. I was terrified. But I mean, come on. I had literally just told him that I could do this. And then he asked, and I was like, Jesus Christ, are you serious? He said, "send me a video of you singing dreams, maybe just the vocal thing after the first chorus when it changes keys." In case you don't remember, he's talking about this part, which I'd completely forgotten about when I told him I could probably sing it.
Merde.
I listened to it through a few times to try to remember how it went, the pacing and cadence, the breaks in and out of falsetto. I had no real warm-ups. I had not really been doing anything for my vocal health or readiness all day besides drinking my requisite daily fuckton of water, and sitting here in relative silence. But then I went ahead and tried anyway.
I still can't believe I sent this to him. In my goddamn pajamas, no shave, no makeup, and no backing music. Solo vocal covers of existing songs that have supporting instrumentation always sound weird as shit to me. Then I sat around for a few minutes trying to pre-emptively console myself. This guy had just graduated Cornish, which has two very prestigious voice programs; one for classical, and one for jazz. And he had literally just said that he needed "a fucking good singer" to pull this off. And I briefly was a fucking good singer, I thought. For a guy. When I was in practice.
But I'm no Dolores O'Riordan. Just like I'm no Kimbra, I'm no Imogen Heap... none of the artists I feel like I ought to sound like, in my own head.
Anyway, he watched the video, and it sounds like he wants to put it together with me and see if we can't pull it off.
So, for now. Um. I guess I'll start trying to sing more, to sing like I used to. More seriously, with warm-ups. With less shame about the fact that I sound, to myself, like a guy. I sound like Jason. But maybe that's not true. Maybe Jason just always sounded like Sera.
In a way, he wasn't wrong. I did need a new singer. I needed the new singer that I became after I started learning how to actually sing, instead of just doing it and hoping for the best. It started with a book: Set Your Voice Free, by Roger Love, a "vocal coach to the stars" kind of guy who had coached the likes of Billy Corgan and Michael Jackson. The book came with a CD, and I was able to do exercises as if guided by a live coach, sort of.
I made noticeable and excellent progress with my voice. The difference is hugely apparent when you compare an older song like one big walking, which predates my exposure to any vocal training of any kind, to i've lived too long, or three days in a hospital, both of which I wrote and recorded after working with the book. The first song is a bit pitchy, definitely screamy, not inherently unappealing, but definitely of a garage aesthetic. If the sound of a clearly untrained singer wailing over washed-out guitars with a high noise floor appeals to you, then it's a shame we didn't know each other back then. In the second two, it's clear that someone has given me a stern finger-wagging about proper breathing, and there's the beginnings of an understanding of middle voice. It's all much stronger, purer, steadier... less pitchy until I get to the very highest chest voice notes when I'm belting.
By the time we get to more recent recordings like resection, which follow two quarters of vocal coaching with a retired professional touring opera singer who had over 30 years of experience, an even bigger improvement is heard. I have more confidence, so any shakiness in delivery can be attributed to the emotive performance, not incapacity to actually hold a note. It becomes a deliberate choice to introduce it (or allow it to be introduced, more accurately) rather than just a quirk of this performer. Harmonies beyond the simplest arrangements are still magical and confusing to me, though. I have been known to drift from track to track, and stumble my way through multiple keys on my way.
But then I had my gender revelation. And I felt so incredibly, indescribably happy.
One of the first things to really bring any kind of melancholy back into my head was realizing that part of why my voice had always bothered me and seemed inadequate was that it was a male-typical voice. I mean. Testosterone will do that. Usually. Anyway, in sort of having become accustomed to my depressive state, I had started to cling to my voice as the one really redeeming quality about me.
I've always loved the sound of the cello. I can't even remember the first time I heard one. I can't remember not knowing and loving that sound. One of the most effective ways for me to try to come to terms with the placement of my chest voice range (about an octave lower than I would feel more natural in) was to tell myself that I was more like a cello, which I adore, than a violin, which I could kind of take or leave.
And then I realized who I was, and without really thinking about it too consciously, I stopped singing. I had gone from constant singing anytime I drove anywhere by myself to sort of humming along in falsetto, maybe. I had gone from bringing my guitar to school and just breaking it out and playing little sets wherever I was, to barely even touching my guitar.
Part of this had to do with writing. A quick pass over my earlier lyrical work reveals a pretty clear and serious trend. Everything I wrote was rooted in self-hatred. I had an endless void of it to draw from, and I wrote pretty prodigiously. The works that are "complete" enough to even share on the web site make up probably less than half of all material I've actually produced. The rest is scattered in 20-second clips on various drives, ideas for later, along with scraps of lyrics in tiny text files with names that make no sense to me until I open them, and remember how that particular play on words worked.
But suddenly, not only did I not hate myself anymore, I loved myself. I liked myself, on top of that. I would still hear music, but not as often, and not the same kind. I had stopped hearing lyrics entirely. My need to share information about myself was channeled elsewhere. I revamped my tumblr, turning it from another run-of-the-mill League of Legends blog into a much more fashion-oriented blog, with much more feminism than I had previously reblogged, as well as shared pictures from my Instagram. The one constant between the two styles was cats. Lots and lots of cats. Okay, and owls. But those are really just flying cats, and you will never convince me otherwise.
Another part of why I had stopped writing, never mind that nothing was really coming to me anymore, was that I felt very acutely how wrong my voice was for me. I wrestled with how to solve that problem for awhile. My preferred course for awhile has been to try to acquire or save up enough money to get Voice Feminization Surgery (VFS). Yes, that is a thing. I had seen some videos, patient testimonials, from a place called Yeson Voice Center. Videos like this one:
This same bit of text was used when I first started going to speech pathology appointments at the VA hospital. It's phonemically balanced, so it provides a good "drone" to get a baseline on someone's vocal properties.
Speaking of speech pathology, that's another possible "solution." I never liked the idea of trying to change my natural vocal habits, because it feels too much like an act. I want to be able to just relax and be myself, not worry about whether I managed to convince enough people that my voice was a cis woman's voice. I've noticed that in interactions with strangers that are going to be very brief, such as with a bus driver (usually), I will pitch up, and try to alter timbre as much as possible, too. Which, you would think, I would consider to be putting on an act. But it's so automatic that I don't think of it that way. But with friends, or on dates, or for more extended interactions, I just relax and talk.
A long time ago, I fell absolutely in love with a band called Crumb. I used to frequent Moby Disc, when I lived in Los Angeles. I would scour the dollar bins, and try to find cool, edgy, unknown bands. Most of them were trash, to be honest. But a few of them were just. Fucking. Amazing.
Crumb was one of those bands. I started going to every Moby Disc location I could find, so I could rifle their dollar bins, and get every copy of Romance is a Slow Dance, to give away to anyone I thought was worthy of it. Not long after that, Seconds Minutes Hours came out, and I happily paid full price for it.
Years later, I started looking for their work again, because my copies had been lost when our storage locker had been robbed, along with all the other CDs I owned, basically. And I thought that Crumb had put out more records, at first, but a closer look showed that it was a different band called Crumb, and still more research showed that my beloved band called Crumb had broken up after their second album. But, I did finally find some old MP3 rips of those albums that had managed to survive, and I started listening to them again.
And somehow, I found good-Crumb lead singer Robby Cronholm on Twitter. And I wrote him a note kind of telling him about how I'd found his band way back when, but didn't know they had broken up, but that I found his new band while I had been looking for his old one. I told him that I was glad to know that he was still making music, and that I looked forward to hearing more. I asked him if he'd listen to some of my music, if he wasn't too busy, and let me know what he thought, because I really respected him as a songwriter, as a singer, as a musician.
And he wrote back.
This blew my fucking mind, at the time. This guy, to me, was really basically in the same league as Billy Corgan or Morrissey. Really, I felt very much as if either of those guys had written me back. I would listen to Crumb, then some Smashing Pumpkins, Morrissey, back to Crumb... it was all professional-quality music with high production values, excellent songcraft, and very, very skilled performance. So, I told him that.
And he wrote back again, gushing that anyone would ever compare him to Morrissey, because Moz is one of his main influences, and a major idol for him. (I will finally confess, here, for the first and last time, that I already knew that before I wrote him and told him that, because I had read it somewhere else. But it was still true. Sorry, Robby. Everything you know is a lie.)
We chatted on and off for awhile, but at one point, he sent me a note asking how I was doing, and I didn't see it for, oh, I don't know, maybe three years? To be fair, it was right around the time Jenn and I had gotten evicted, and were homeless for a fair time, without the best and most constant access to the internet. The first time I saw that note was in September of last year, about a month and a half after I had realized who I was.
So, I told him everything. And, to be honest, I didn't know exactly what to expect, but I was optimistic. He'd been such an absolute sweetheart before, taking time out of a busy schedule to listen to some random schlep's music and tell them that he thought it was really good, and actually make specific comments about specific songs by name... it felt like he really cared about other people and was a really great guy. But some really great guys have one big problem, and it's hating trans girls.
Robby Cronholm is absolutely not one of those guys.
Seriously, what an absolute sweetheart.
Anyway, part of this went over my head at the time. I didn't know the name Laura Jane Grace. And as this was while I was pounding my way through 21-credit quarters at school, I didn't really give any of this much thought. Partially, I realized later, because I didn't even understand his sentence because of the probable autocorrect error, "translation" for "transition."
Very recently, I saw some interviews with Laura Jane, and some performances, and I thought... wait a second... her voice is like mine.
This gets into everything I was talking about in my last post. I started to think that maybe the reason I felt like my voice was wrong for who I really am was that I was buying into a variation on the myth that femininity is only and absolutely defined by certain sizes, textures, and colors of things. This is really not that different from how most girls feel every day about their entire body, because our media is constantly telling girls that their bodies are okay, I guess... but they could be so much better, if only they bought this and used that.
I'm telling my story because I don't want the next trans girl like me, who figures out, just shy of her 40th fucking birthday, that she's been someone else all along, to feel like there's nobody else out there like her.
So now, I don't know. I don't know what to do about my voice. Before making the whole Laura Jane connection in the first place, I had started singing again, but only in private, because I figured that if I kept up on good vocal health and strengthening/toning techniques, I would recover much more quickly from surgery later. This was also the number one reason I agreed to try the voice feminization program at the VA hospital, with the speech pathologists.
Not long ago, I was in a Live Sound II class, and we needed a singer. So, I got up there and sang. I didn't want to, but I felt like I was the best qualified among those there by a fair margin, even as out-of-practice and self-conscious as I was. I suppose it's sort of ironic that when everything else flipped in my head, the one previous positive, my own view of my own voice, became really one of the only big negatives.
Later on, that instructor approached me outside of class about collaborating musically. He has a degree in music composition from Cornish, and generally knows what he's on about. He's also the drummer who had complimented me at the Up All Night event (in the paragraph by my selfie in the pink dress). I obviously said yes.
That, then, combined with having later found out about Laura Jane Grace, and hearing her sing and speak with confidence, had left me debating just how necessary VFS was, and how good it would be. Not just for me, but for everyone. VFS is not cheap. It has risks. And even if I get my voice pitched where I want it to naturally sit, with the right harmonics, it may impact how well I can sing. There's even a slim chance that something could go wrong, and I could lose my voice entirely, permanently.
Oh, or die. I mean, it is a major surgery with general anesthesia.
When I first realized I was a girl, I considered all of that, and determined that I'd rather try to get a voice that fit my self-understanding, even if it meant I could possibly never sing well again. Even if it meant I might not be able to even sing or speak at all again. Even if it meant I might die. That was a risk I was willing to take, rather than live with this voice. But why?
Because there's no representation. There are no girls out there like me, being shown in a positive light, speaking with their deeper voices. Girls who have cellos for violins.
But now that I've seen some representation, and I look at everything I say I'm trying to accomplish here, I feel like I almost have a responsibility to NOT get VFS. To keep carrying out my mission of living out loud as much as I can, of promoting myself into every possible space, of becoming everyone's trans neighbor that they know and love, or at least don't hate. To show everyone that it's okay to have a voice like this and be a girl, because I'm a girl, and I have a voice like this, and look at me, out there, living life.
While I was mulling all of this over, I messaged a friend that I met through school, another Cornish grad who works professionally now as a musician in Seattle. I asked him about an event going on tomorrow, downtown, and we started talking about similar concepts for the future. I mentioned wanting to cover a whole Radiohead album, because Thom Yorke is an absolute genius, and I love, love, love singing along with him. My friend, Tristan, said he'd always wanted to cover The Cranberries' first album.
It wasn't long before he asked me to send him a demo. I froze. I was terrified. But I mean, come on. I had literally just told him that I could do this. And then he asked, and I was like, Jesus Christ, are you serious? He said, "send me a video of you singing dreams, maybe just the vocal thing after the first chorus when it changes keys." In case you don't remember, he's talking about this part, which I'd completely forgotten about when I told him I could probably sing it.
Merde.
I listened to it through a few times to try to remember how it went, the pacing and cadence, the breaks in and out of falsetto. I had no real warm-ups. I had not really been doing anything for my vocal health or readiness all day besides drinking my requisite daily fuckton of water, and sitting here in relative silence. But then I went ahead and tried anyway.
I still can't believe I sent this to him. In my goddamn pajamas, no shave, no makeup, and no backing music. Solo vocal covers of existing songs that have supporting instrumentation always sound weird as shit to me. Then I sat around for a few minutes trying to pre-emptively console myself. This guy had just graduated Cornish, which has two very prestigious voice programs; one for classical, and one for jazz. And he had literally just said that he needed "a fucking good singer" to pull this off. And I briefly was a fucking good singer, I thought. For a guy. When I was in practice.
But I'm no Dolores O'Riordan. Just like I'm no Kimbra, I'm no Imogen Heap... none of the artists I feel like I ought to sound like, in my own head.
Anyway, he watched the video, and it sounds like he wants to put it together with me and see if we can't pull it off.
So, for now. Um. I guess I'll start trying to sing more, to sing like I used to. More seriously, with warm-ups. With less shame about the fact that I sound, to myself, like a guy. I sound like Jason. But maybe that's not true. Maybe Jason just always sounded like Sera.
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Welcome to My Life
I should clarify something. When I started this blog, I knew I
wanted it to be a platform from which I could disseminate some firsthand
accounting of the experiences of a trans woman. But then I started to
wonder, should I write only about things specifically related to
medically transitioning, like HRT, electrolysis, and SRS? Or, would it
be better to just treat it like a diary, and rely on tags to sort
content for people who only want to read about certain things?
Ultimately, I realized, my number one goal in any media is to present the trans experience as just one part of the larger whole human experience of any number of people's lives. That I want to shift the focus of the concept of "transgender person" away from the "transgender," and towards the "person." I mean, when you get right down to it, that is the problem. People who hate transgender people, usually in concept, without any actual firsthand knowledge of or exposure to anyone they know is trans, hate because they do not feel anything in common with us.
The fact of a trans person's existence, that uncommon gender presentation, is, itself, such a fundamentally threatening thing, for whatever reason. It makes us seem so alien to some people that they can only think of the "transgender" part. Which means we're not actually people. So, if we die, who cares? The "trans panic" defense, recently outlawed in California but still legal everywhere else, exists as a testament to this problem. People would rather allow our murderers to walk free than to acknowledge that we are human beings. Rather than think, "how could one human being murder another?" they think, "I don't know, what would I have done if I found myself in bed with one of those freaks?"
The problem is a lack of education. Partially due to a lack of information. I've seen a statistic floating around that only 8% of people (maybe Americans, I can't remember) self-report as knowing a trans person. (That they know is trans.) Which means the rest of them are making up their mind about what trans people are based on the media, and not on their friend Sally, who was born Mike, or whatever. That's another barrier to humanization.
On top of all that, on the macro level, nobody is even sure how many of us there are. Part of that, again, gets back to the same lack of information generally about even the fact that we exist. I knew that trans girls existed, but the only ones I'd ever seen were in porn, so it wasn't something I really thought about much. It was so far out of my mind, and I so thoroughly lacked access to any real live trans people, that it took me a lot longer than it could have for me to even realize that I was trans.
Once we get past the how-many-even-are-there hurdle, it becomes pretty clear that what the mass media has decided is a good representation of the trans community is about as useful as the rest of what the mass media has decided makes for good representation: better than nothing, but only just.
So I concluded that it would be best to treat this more as a journal than as a very narrowly-focused trans information resource depot that would really mostly only directly help other trans people. I will do my best to tag things with some modicum of intelligence, so that certain topics can be followed more closely than others as you prefer.
The idea is to just lay my life out there, as much as I can. It'll be like reading someone's posthumously-published private journal, only while it's actually being written, instead of after they're dead. It'll probably be pretty embarrassing sometimes, and I will be alive to feel it, but if all goes according to plan, by the time THAT starts happening, people will be getting embarrassed right along with me, because they'll identify with me on some level.
I'm absolutely positively certain beyond even a shadow of a doubt that I am going to:
It's what I've started calling Aggressive Vulnerability. If you are just relentlessly open about your experiences, your challenges, your fears, your failures, your triumphs, your family, your problems, your solutions and compromises... if you just let everyone in, they are all going to find something in common with you eventually. And when they do, you become a part of them.
And when you are a part of someone, you aren't scary anymore. You become important, integral, familiar, known. They may still feel uneasy about some things about you. But they will listen to you when you speak, and they will see you as ever more human while they do.
The point is that I'm not here to put my best foot forward. I'm here to put my next foot forward, and it's not always gonna be pretty. But I will be moving. I hope you'll walk with me.
Ultimately, I realized, my number one goal in any media is to present the trans experience as just one part of the larger whole human experience of any number of people's lives. That I want to shift the focus of the concept of "transgender person" away from the "transgender," and towards the "person." I mean, when you get right down to it, that is the problem. People who hate transgender people, usually in concept, without any actual firsthand knowledge of or exposure to anyone they know is trans, hate because they do not feel anything in common with us.
The fact of a trans person's existence, that uncommon gender presentation, is, itself, such a fundamentally threatening thing, for whatever reason. It makes us seem so alien to some people that they can only think of the "transgender" part. Which means we're not actually people. So, if we die, who cares? The "trans panic" defense, recently outlawed in California but still legal everywhere else, exists as a testament to this problem. People would rather allow our murderers to walk free than to acknowledge that we are human beings. Rather than think, "how could one human being murder another?" they think, "I don't know, what would I have done if I found myself in bed with one of those freaks?"
The problem is a lack of education. Partially due to a lack of information. I've seen a statistic floating around that only 8% of people (maybe Americans, I can't remember) self-report as knowing a trans person. (That they know is trans.) Which means the rest of them are making up their mind about what trans people are based on the media, and not on their friend Sally, who was born Mike, or whatever. That's another barrier to humanization.
On top of all that, on the macro level, nobody is even sure how many of us there are. Part of that, again, gets back to the same lack of information generally about even the fact that we exist. I knew that trans girls existed, but the only ones I'd ever seen were in porn, so it wasn't something I really thought about much. It was so far out of my mind, and I so thoroughly lacked access to any real live trans people, that it took me a lot longer than it could have for me to even realize that I was trans.
Once we get past the how-many-even-are-there hurdle, it becomes pretty clear that what the mass media has decided is a good representation of the trans community is about as useful as the rest of what the mass media has decided makes for good representation: better than nothing, but only just.
So I concluded that it would be best to treat this more as a journal than as a very narrowly-focused trans information resource depot that would really mostly only directly help other trans people. I will do my best to tag things with some modicum of intelligence, so that certain topics can be followed more closely than others as you prefer.
The idea is to just lay my life out there, as much as I can. It'll be like reading someone's posthumously-published private journal, only while it's actually being written, instead of after they're dead. It'll probably be pretty embarrassing sometimes, and I will be alive to feel it, but if all goes according to plan, by the time THAT starts happening, people will be getting embarrassed right along with me, because they'll identify with me on some level.
I'm absolutely positively certain beyond even a shadow of a doubt that I am going to:
- make an ass out of myself
- say some shit that is totally out of line, and have to recant it later
- get super defensive just because I feel attacked even when nobody is attacking me
- change my mind and vigorously defend something I had previously attacked (or vice-versa)
- maybe change my mind again, who even knows
- apologize and hope that I didn't hurt too many people too badly
- fuck everything up all over again
It's what I've started calling Aggressive Vulnerability. If you are just relentlessly open about your experiences, your challenges, your fears, your failures, your triumphs, your family, your problems, your solutions and compromises... if you just let everyone in, they are all going to find something in common with you eventually. And when they do, you become a part of them.
And when you are a part of someone, you aren't scary anymore. You become important, integral, familiar, known. They may still feel uneasy about some things about you. But they will listen to you when you speak, and they will see you as ever more human while they do.
The point is that I'm not here to put my best foot forward. I'm here to put my next foot forward, and it's not always gonna be pretty. But I will be moving. I hope you'll walk with me.
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Panicked Honk
I knew I would look different, but I was not ready for how different. I had not realized how much my body language had shifted, or what sort of energy I was projecting then and now. Back when I started going out into the world as Sera, I was clearly very happy, and there's a sort of innocent beauty to that, but I definitely looked (and felt) like a newborn deer.
By the second picture, after only three months, there's a confidence, even as my expression seems to be focused on possible problems with the outfit I'd thrown together that day. There's a sense of self-assurance, a sense that, even if I don't put together a decent look, I'll be able to figure out specifically why it didn't work, and come up with something more interesting the next day. This looks like a confident girl, but a girl who is on some level not quite a girl, someone who is studying very intently what "being a girl" means to her, so she can live true to that.
But, by the third picture, a real relaxed and natural femininity is coming through, and, in a way, that makes it the most mundane picture of the triptych. It's not a trans girl, figuring out her girl-ness, experimenting. It's just a girl, who threw on a dress and some cute tights, and took a quick picture before heading out for the day. The beauty is in the mundanity. The questions it evokes are not "what is gender?" or "was that really born a boy?" but "where'd she get that dress?" or "I wonder what she's up to tonight?"
It was a nice lift to my confidence as I headed into the final few days of the quarter. During those final few days, we had professional musicians in to play our pieces from Music Theory II. A cellist and a pianist were tasked with cold-reading about 15 pieces by 15 composers, and playing through them as best they could. When they started playing mine, I was overcome, and started crying. I knew the notes, I'd written them. I'd heard it in MIDI through Sibelius. But I wasn't ready for how beautiful it would sound with the live cello and piano. Even when I watched the video of it later, showing it to Kat, I started to tear up at the beginning. It was just so beautiful.
In the ensuing days, I have had my entire weekend through today saved by someone covering the cost of my weed vape (freeing up money for me to do things like eat, and have gas in the car, while also having my pain management), I have had my closet door fixed and dinner bought (and brought to me!) by a different friend, I have had Alex bring me home 90% cacao dark chocolate, and double dark chocolate ice cream when I was going mad with my first actual true craving for anything in my life, and I have had Shayla buy me a delicious chicken mole lunch before spending the afternoon hanging out with me and going thrifting for a little while. I have had a random antiques shop keeper give me a little bunny bank, from the '70s, the exact kind I had as a kid, and had forgotten about until I saw it at that moment in his store.
You may look that over and think, okay, big deal, a few people bought some things for you, or gave some things to you. And that's technically true. But the touching thing about all of them, to me, was that they showed some consideration for me, and some knowledge of who I am, along with a kind or loving gesture of generosity.
With the weed vape, this person had an opportunity to pick one up at a great price. They thought, "I don't use these, but I know someone who does, and I bet she'd really like this," so they got it for me. They thought about me, without any real substantial interaction with me yet, ever, and they got me this gift. And, quite randomly, it happened to not only be a thing that I do in fact really like, but also a thing that saved my weekend and any hope of my being social through it. More than anything else, though, I am really just so incredibly touched that they thought of me. I did not think that I figured that high in their mind.
With the bunny bank, I was wandering around in downtown Snohomish, which is a very, very small town, making its downtown only slightly larger than a very upscale living room. I was waiting for Kat to get home, because we were going to have a sleepover. I didn't want to go eat, because I was hoping she'd get home soon enough that we could go grab dinner together (with money that had been released by the gift of the weed vape).
So, basically, that left antique shops. I was down for that. Unfortunately, they were all closed. Well, almost all of them. One was open, and had an older gentleman sitting inside it near the front, going over some paperwork. We got to talking, and he mentioned he has a daughter my age, and how he, like me, was a veteran. He was very friendly and kind, and it was nice to just talk with some stranger somewhere without the topic going straight to my gender. I told him I'd be back the following week, with Jenn, to buy two of the bunny banks, and he jotted down his number and said I should call ahead to make sure he was open, because he keeps whatever hours he feels like. How small-town is that?
After I'd thanked him and left, I wandered around for a bit longer, and then returned to my car to warm up and grab my jacket. I got ahold of Kat, and she made it plain she would not be back any time soon, so I had to go do something about dinner. I'd also built up a pretty serious need to pee. I wandered back into town, but I was getting this look from one guy in particular, outside a biker bar, that I could not read at all. Usually, I can tell if the look is generally positive, neutral, or negative, but I could not read this guy even a little bit, and that was far creepier than it would have been if I had just gotten a negative vibe off of him.
I found myself back in the antiques shop, asking Michael, the owner, where I could safely go to get food and a bathroom in town here. I related the thing about the guy whose gaze I could not decipher, and how it was kind of freaking me out. He asked which bathroom I use, and I said, "I use the women's bathroom." He told me that normally he doesn't offer, but since I was a veteran and all, I could use his restroom, at the rear of the shop.
When I came back out, he was talking about the place across the street for food. I told him I wanted a basket of chicken strips and fries, and that that was basically all I'd wanted for about a week. He said he wasn't sure if they had that, but that they definitely had fish 'n' chips (which I said I'd settle for), and that he knew the staff there, and they were all good people. He told me to say hi to Lisa for him. So, off I went.
He was right. All the staff were very friendly, and nobody gave me any funny looks. They let me order off of the kids' menu (since I am tiny and do not eat much), and I got to finally enjoy my greasy basket of chicken strips and french fries. Michael even showed up to sit with me for a bit, saying he had had it with his taxes, and what was the point of being one's own boss, anyway, if he couldn't just close up shop and go eat when he felt like it?
Before leaving, myself (when Kat told me she was just about home), I thanked him for coming to sit by me. Much like I talked about in a previous post, when cis people sit with me out in public, and just spend time with me like they would with anyone else, it shows the whole world how not big a deal my being trans is. I told him as much, and he told me one last time that I was very brave, and that it was inspiring to see, or something along those lines.
With the chocolate, that is kind of Alex being Alex, but usually when I offer to pay, he tells me how much it was, and I give him that money. This time, he told me the price, but then quickly added that I shouldn't worry about it. Jackson, the guy who came to fix my closet door, was the same way. I asked him how much the fast food was, and how much the door parts were, and he said he'd gotten it, and for me to not worry about it. People just coming around and taking care of me. And it feels so nice.
It also feels nice to not question it, to not sit here and be like, "what do they want from me?" or "what did they do?" To just accept that I'm kind and fun and cute and whatever else, and people like being around me and seeing me smile. There are people like that in your life, too, who want to just be around you and see you smile. You might not know who they are, but they're there.
On top of all that, it's a beautiful sunny day, and it's Trans Day of Visibility, so I am just being flooded with images of all the variety and wonder the world has to offer. I'm so overwhelmed by it all that I honestly think I'm making less and less sense with every word. So, I'll leave you with this:
When you find yourself, celebrate. Everyone will want to join in. Let them.
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