Introduction: Born Female.
Scene 1: As I am tying my Little Mermaid shoes, I ask "Mom, did you ever want to be a boy?" The answer: No.
Scene 2: Temporarily crippled by a drunk driver at four, the same girls who wouldn't let me play daddy in house gather behind my tiny wheelchair and we chase the boys.
Scene 3: My friend convinces me to play pregnant bunnies. I feel physically ill while I shove ten pink stuffed rabbits up my shirt.
Scene 4: I marvel at Mary Frances' amazing breasts held back by only her white sports bra as she changes in my room. I am dreading the day mine appear.
Scene 5: I convince my mom to buy me boy shorts to conform to the school dress code. This my first step towards freedom.
Scene 6: My heart is broken when my first girl love tells me I cannot comfort her because I am not a boy.
Scene 7: I explore my boyfriend's body, intrigued, only to figure out years later, I was envious, only to figure out years later that it didn't invalidate my attraction.
Scene 8: I try my hand as a butch top. No success.
Scene 9: I find the girl of my dreams. I confess to her that I have too much gender. That's okay, she says, I have too little.
Scene 10: We have found a third. We marvel at each other's duct taped chests while the first watches feeling like we are finally right together.
Scene 11: The third leaves, breaking both of our hearts, but not after setting the wheels of gender turning in my head. I decide to try my hand at male. Success.
Scene 12: I come out to my parents. I stammer as I try to explain trans to my father. "I am a guy" is a lie, but that is what he understands. A week later, I baffle my mother by coming home wearing eyeliner.
-----
Written in a Gender Theory workshop with the Salt Lines Tour.
3.31.2009
3.05.2009
Originally Written 2.17.04
I thought I'd put something in here about when I first started figuring out my gender problems. As you'll see, I've come a long way:
So, for all the world to see, I'm griping around with gender issues. And, quite frankly, I wish I weren't. Because, like everything else that involves me, it's not simple. I would be fine if I came to a realization that maybe I was transgender. I mean, as fine as...well, you get my point.
However, I think, that when it comes to that, just like everything else, I'm stuck in the middle.
I've always had this uncomfortableness with my body. But it wasn't enough to send up any red flags in my head or anything. When I was little, I played the Dad in house, but mainly because he went to work and came home and didn't do much. The mom had to cook and clean. And the kids had to be all baby-like, and I was taller than most the kids anyway. It wasn't an issue of me wanting to be a guy. Going through puberty - what girl doesn't wish she was dealing with random erections instead of monthly bleeding and cramping?
I came to terms with my sexuality at the end of 9th grade. And the discomfort with my body lessened greatly. Mainly because it explained how I could look in the mirror and think that I was sexy in the way that I saw it. That if I saw myself on the street, I would go "Wow, she is hot."
That was all fine until I got involved with Jim. I'm just generally uncomfortable with myself - not the situation - when things get intimate. Something about me just feels...off. And it was a bit of a hurdle. And Jim is just amazing to deal with it, because it still comes up occasionally.
Maybe I would feel more comfortable in my body, were I a guy. But honestly, I don't think so. Emotionally and mentally, I am very female. So why is that a problem? Were I a guy, wouldn't I be saying "Well, I feel like a guy, but I'm emotionally a girl, so where does that put me?"
Where does that put me?
2.07.2009
Body Image
I've been thinking a lot about whether or not I'm "worthy" of being able to transition. This was on my mind a lot last night as I was having an interesting Friday night spent with one of my good friends and also the singer of my band. First, we did a workout video entitled "Ballywood Booty." This is a video that not many men, gay or straight, comfortable or uncomfortable, would ever do in their lives. Here is my favorite lesbian hanging out with Hemalayaa to give you an idea of what I spent my evening doing:
Of course, I couldn't just enjoy the ridiculousness of the workout, I had to analyze everything. I was wearing a ridiculous outfit (my gay.com muscle shirt and white gym shorts) and had a lot of fun. But while I was swerving my hips around (and getting a little hard watching Hemalayaa do the same), I was caught up in how much I would like to look like her and be able to move like that (and by that, of course, I mean a girl). I have often wished that I could just fit into the girl half of the world. I mean, I like girls. In general, I dislike guys. I never wanted to be a straight girl, just maybe a tomboy who was more in sync with her body. In fact, a lot about being a guy scares the crap out of me. The thing about that is, however, that as scary as it is...that's still how I feel I should be.
After the workout, I went upstairs and put my jeans back on and looked at myself in the mirror in the jeans and the muscle shirt. In my head, I would look smoking hot in that outfit. It's not too tight, but just enough to show off my body. I looked into the full length mirror, however, and that image was shattered. My (thankfully) small chest is just big enough to throw off the whole illusion and scream "LESBIAN." Later, we went to a show where there were a bunch of older, somewhat butch lesbians dancing and having a great time. There was a very cute couple. As I was looking at them, as cute as they were...that is not how I see myself in thirty years.
After my shower this morning (and after shimmying into my new underworks compression shirt), I put the muscle shirt back on. Suddenly, when I stood in front of the mirror, I looked like I thought I would (well, minus the sideburns, but that can come later). All these little moments are adding together to say that transitioning would be the right decision. I'm glad that it's not working the other way around.
The more I stay in here
The more it's not so clear
The more I stay in here
The more I disappear
As far as I have gone
I knew what side I'm on
But now I'm not so sure
The line begins to blur
Of course, I couldn't just enjoy the ridiculousness of the workout, I had to analyze everything. I was wearing a ridiculous outfit (my gay.com muscle shirt and white gym shorts) and had a lot of fun. But while I was swerving my hips around (and getting a little hard watching Hemalayaa do the same), I was caught up in how much I would like to look like her and be able to move like that (and by that, of course, I mean a girl). I have often wished that I could just fit into the girl half of the world. I mean, I like girls. In general, I dislike guys. I never wanted to be a straight girl, just maybe a tomboy who was more in sync with her body. In fact, a lot about being a guy scares the crap out of me. The thing about that is, however, that as scary as it is...that's still how I feel I should be.
After the workout, I went upstairs and put my jeans back on and looked at myself in the mirror in the jeans and the muscle shirt. In my head, I would look smoking hot in that outfit. It's not too tight, but just enough to show off my body. I looked into the full length mirror, however, and that image was shattered. My (thankfully) small chest is just big enough to throw off the whole illusion and scream "LESBIAN." Later, we went to a show where there were a bunch of older, somewhat butch lesbians dancing and having a great time. There was a very cute couple. As I was looking at them, as cute as they were...that is not how I see myself in thirty years.
After my shower this morning (and after shimmying into my new underworks compression shirt), I put the muscle shirt back on. Suddenly, when I stood in front of the mirror, I looked like I thought I would (well, minus the sideburns, but that can come later). All these little moments are adding together to say that transitioning would be the right decision. I'm glad that it's not working the other way around.
The more I stay in here
The more it's not so clear
The more I stay in here
The more I disappear
As far as I have gone
I knew what side I'm on
But now I'm not so sure
The line begins to blur
2.04.2009
Same Name, Different Pronouns
As I try again my hand at this whole blogging thing...I thought I'd update from last time.
The most recent post was about how I had started going by Ryan in April. That went amazingly well. A little too well, one might suppose, as it forced me to deal with so many things. Mainly, that it suddenly became completely unbearable to continue to use female pronouns with myself. Evey "her" and "she" grated on my ears like an obvious absurdity. About two months ago, I started using male pronouns with a couple close friends and that very quickly spread like wildfire. After my initial test period and acclamation (getting over the "who the hell is 'he'?"), I was suddenly so much more comfortable that I came out to my college activist group and the lgbt discussion group. Also, I got an internship at an lgbt organization, and immediately started going by male pronouns. Almost too quickly (I probably should have waited a little bit for this, but too late now) I came out to my parents.
I guess I should explain that besides just switching pronouns, I more or less decided to transition. It is something I only touched on briefly in this blog and usually with great trepidation, but it is something that I had slowly come to accept as an eventuality in my life. The trick to it being an eventuality is that eventually I would have to deal with it.
A trip to the ABC store is what triggered the whole avalanche of thought processes. I just wanted to buy some rum to make truffles (although those truffles never got made...), so I picked up a bottle and got in line. The cashier said "I can help you here, sir," and I flinched and walked up to the counter. I normally would have been ecstatic to be sir'd, but in a situation where someone is about to look at my license, I would rather it didn't happen. I showed him my ID (with long hair and all), and he didn't believe it was me and said as much. I grabbed my student ID and handed that to him too. In the process, I said five words, and he suddenly "realized" I was a girl. He proceeded to give me a long-ass explanation, that quite frankly, I've since forgotten because it was so aggravating, as to how exactly he knew I was a girl and pointed out all my features that told him.
I suddenly realized that I just didn't want to be a girl anymore.
I facebook messaged a friend of mine and we got together to talk over some coffee. He asked me what it was that was keeping me back from transitioning and I realized, besides fear, nothing. There was nothing in being a girl that I wanted to hold onto. I had coffee with another friend a week or so later and he had pretty much the same thing to say. Over the terms of the next couple of weeks (full of sleepless nights), I realized that it was something that I could see myself doing. That I could see myself being happier as. That I could see my future in a much clearer picture.
In my head, I always imagined myself male. It was not that it was a conscious choice, but more the subconscious knowledge that I could not be an older woman. The word "woman" makes me sick to my stomach as it is. That is NOT me.
Today, I became frustrated with my counselor. I am seeing him through University Counseling Services. I think I am one of his first transgendered patients. I like him overall, although I always end up defensive when talking about anyone but myself. Like when I talk about the conflict with my family in high school, he always points out what was wrong with how they acted. Clearly, I know he is right, but I feel like I should justify their actions. I became frustrated today because he very suddenly became alarmed that I was moving too fast. Firstly, I don't need him to be alarmed about how fast I'm moving because I already thought of that. It is alarming me. Everything is happening too fast to process, but at this point, I've done everything I'm going to do for like six months at least. I have tried to explain to him the complexities of my gender identity. He seems stuck on the fact that I don't identify 100% male. That I said in a perfect world, I wouldn't have to choose. I know he is just trying to make sure that I don't make poor decisions, but at the same time, it seems like he is trying to get me to change my mind.
I haven't touched upon sex with him, which I suppose would make a big difference. I also realized as I read back on this blog, that I have gotten increasingly uncomfortable with my body as I become more entrenched in figuring out my gender identity. I still agree with genderqueer, but there is more to it. This is why I feel like that humurous identity of "lumberjack" fits me so well. Lumberjack is inherently masculine. It involves flannel, boots, and facial hair, but our infused meaning into it is an element of gender bending. I will never fit cleanly into a box, but I want to at least make an attempt to find a box that I am physically and mentally most comfortable in.
In my counseling sessions (I hate the word therapy), I have expressed an exhaustion with fighting the world. It is true. I am tired of fighting. Obviously, that is the wrong reason to change my body in irreversible ways. But that is only half the story. I wouldn't be quite as tired if I didn't feel like I were fighting for something that wasn't true. It's not that I don't fit into society's idea of "girl," it's that I flat out am not a girl. Am I 100% boy? I don't think so, but I'm some percent.
I should have facial hair. I should have a deeper voice. I should have a flat chest. I should have a penis. When I look in the mirror or at my body, these things are not there and it makes me sad.
I am tired. I am tired of convincing myself that my body is the one that I am okay with.
But I know that someday,
someday, I'll offer up
a song I was made to play
until even the mocking birds
don't know what to say
The most recent post was about how I had started going by Ryan in April. That went amazingly well. A little too well, one might suppose, as it forced me to deal with so many things. Mainly, that it suddenly became completely unbearable to continue to use female pronouns with myself. Evey "her" and "she" grated on my ears like an obvious absurdity. About two months ago, I started using male pronouns with a couple close friends and that very quickly spread like wildfire. After my initial test period and acclamation (getting over the "who the hell is 'he'?"), I was suddenly so much more comfortable that I came out to my college activist group and the lgbt discussion group. Also, I got an internship at an lgbt organization, and immediately started going by male pronouns. Almost too quickly (I probably should have waited a little bit for this, but too late now) I came out to my parents.
I guess I should explain that besides just switching pronouns, I more or less decided to transition. It is something I only touched on briefly in this blog and usually with great trepidation, but it is something that I had slowly come to accept as an eventuality in my life. The trick to it being an eventuality is that eventually I would have to deal with it.
A trip to the ABC store is what triggered the whole avalanche of thought processes. I just wanted to buy some rum to make truffles (although those truffles never got made...), so I picked up a bottle and got in line. The cashier said "I can help you here, sir," and I flinched and walked up to the counter. I normally would have been ecstatic to be sir'd, but in a situation where someone is about to look at my license, I would rather it didn't happen. I showed him my ID (with long hair and all), and he didn't believe it was me and said as much. I grabbed my student ID and handed that to him too. In the process, I said five words, and he suddenly "realized" I was a girl. He proceeded to give me a long-ass explanation, that quite frankly, I've since forgotten because it was so aggravating, as to how exactly he knew I was a girl and pointed out all my features that told him.
I suddenly realized that I just didn't want to be a girl anymore.
I facebook messaged a friend of mine and we got together to talk over some coffee. He asked me what it was that was keeping me back from transitioning and I realized, besides fear, nothing. There was nothing in being a girl that I wanted to hold onto. I had coffee with another friend a week or so later and he had pretty much the same thing to say. Over the terms of the next couple of weeks (full of sleepless nights), I realized that it was something that I could see myself doing. That I could see myself being happier as. That I could see my future in a much clearer picture.
In my head, I always imagined myself male. It was not that it was a conscious choice, but more the subconscious knowledge that I could not be an older woman. The word "woman" makes me sick to my stomach as it is. That is NOT me.
Today, I became frustrated with my counselor. I am seeing him through University Counseling Services. I think I am one of his first transgendered patients. I like him overall, although I always end up defensive when talking about anyone but myself. Like when I talk about the conflict with my family in high school, he always points out what was wrong with how they acted. Clearly, I know he is right, but I feel like I should justify their actions. I became frustrated today because he very suddenly became alarmed that I was moving too fast. Firstly, I don't need him to be alarmed about how fast I'm moving because I already thought of that. It is alarming me. Everything is happening too fast to process, but at this point, I've done everything I'm going to do for like six months at least. I have tried to explain to him the complexities of my gender identity. He seems stuck on the fact that I don't identify 100% male. That I said in a perfect world, I wouldn't have to choose. I know he is just trying to make sure that I don't make poor decisions, but at the same time, it seems like he is trying to get me to change my mind.
I haven't touched upon sex with him, which I suppose would make a big difference. I also realized as I read back on this blog, that I have gotten increasingly uncomfortable with my body as I become more entrenched in figuring out my gender identity. I still agree with genderqueer, but there is more to it. This is why I feel like that humurous identity of "lumberjack" fits me so well. Lumberjack is inherently masculine. It involves flannel, boots, and facial hair, but our infused meaning into it is an element of gender bending. I will never fit cleanly into a box, but I want to at least make an attempt to find a box that I am physically and mentally most comfortable in.
In my counseling sessions (I hate the word therapy), I have expressed an exhaustion with fighting the world. It is true. I am tired of fighting. Obviously, that is the wrong reason to change my body in irreversible ways. But that is only half the story. I wouldn't be quite as tired if I didn't feel like I were fighting for something that wasn't true. It's not that I don't fit into society's idea of "girl," it's that I flat out am not a girl. Am I 100% boy? I don't think so, but I'm some percent.
I should have facial hair. I should have a deeper voice. I should have a flat chest. I should have a penis. When I look in the mirror or at my body, these things are not there and it makes me sad.
I am tired. I am tired of convincing myself that my body is the one that I am okay with.
But I know that someday,
someday, I'll offer up
a song I was made to play
until even the mocking birds
don't know what to say
4.04.2008
Name Change
So four, maybe five, people are starting to call me Ryan. Starting to go by Ryan has been something that I have been considering doing since my senior year of high school. I am about to hit my senior year of college, to give you some perspective. I had planned originally to start going by Ryan when I got to college, starting fresh with a new name. I wouldn't have to explain it that way. I could just say that I've always gone by my middle name. It makes sense. I chickened out. I didn't bother saying anything and I let it slip to the back of my mind, always using the excuse to myself that, well, it is too late now.
I shouldn't have passed up that chance to not have to explain it. At that time, however, I was worried about someone calling me Ryan in front of my parents and then having to explain it to them. I don't know why I'm so afraid of explaining it to them. My dad just gets me. He probably wouldn't even ask. My mom and I talk about trans stuff all the time. We haven't talked about genderqueer stuff but she is extremely open minded and I don't think she would actually have a problem with it.
I am not changing my pronouns, however. I don't pass very well. The fact that Ryan is my middle name makes it so much easier. All I have to say is that I've always hated my first name and I finally decided to go by my middle name. Ryan is gender neutral, obviously, it's my middle name.
Now the thought of telling people scares the shit out of me. What if someone calls me in my lie about hating my first name. I don't hate it and I've come to identify with it but it's so girly that I am starting to feel uncomfortable telling people my first name when they first meet me. I always dread roll call in classes when professors call Felicia on the first day and I raise my hand, terrified that they will act awkwardly if they had assumed I was male before. I mean, I'm not gonna change it on my roll call, so I guess it doesn't matter. I will be going by F. Ryan. Well, if we get this non-discrimination policy passed, maybe I can change my roll call. That would be fantastic. Either way, I am terrified of having that conversation with people. What if they ask too many questions? What if they become uncomfortable with me? I mean I'm not sure what else I could throw at my good friends that would surprise them.
I have no reason to be very nervous. I know it will all be okay in the end. I had hoped to figure some of it out in writing this but I still have no cause. I guess it is the conversation. The what-ifs that are eating at me. That is the part that scares me the most when I think about whether or not I want to transition. Right now I don't think I do. But the thought of having to come out if I decide to terrifies me.
I don't want to have that conversation.
I just want to be me. No explanations necessary.
You know how it feels
You read between the lines
And know me better than I do
I shouldn't have passed up that chance to not have to explain it. At that time, however, I was worried about someone calling me Ryan in front of my parents and then having to explain it to them. I don't know why I'm so afraid of explaining it to them. My dad just gets me. He probably wouldn't even ask. My mom and I talk about trans stuff all the time. We haven't talked about genderqueer stuff but she is extremely open minded and I don't think she would actually have a problem with it.
I am not changing my pronouns, however. I don't pass very well. The fact that Ryan is my middle name makes it so much easier. All I have to say is that I've always hated my first name and I finally decided to go by my middle name. Ryan is gender neutral, obviously, it's my middle name.
Now the thought of telling people scares the shit out of me. What if someone calls me in my lie about hating my first name. I don't hate it and I've come to identify with it but it's so girly that I am starting to feel uncomfortable telling people my first name when they first meet me. I always dread roll call in classes when professors call Felicia on the first day and I raise my hand, terrified that they will act awkwardly if they had assumed I was male before. I mean, I'm not gonna change it on my roll call, so I guess it doesn't matter. I will be going by F. Ryan. Well, if we get this non-discrimination policy passed, maybe I can change my roll call. That would be fantastic. Either way, I am terrified of having that conversation with people. What if they ask too many questions? What if they become uncomfortable with me? I mean I'm not sure what else I could throw at my good friends that would surprise them.
I have no reason to be very nervous. I know it will all be okay in the end. I had hoped to figure some of it out in writing this but I still have no cause. I guess it is the conversation. The what-ifs that are eating at me. That is the part that scares me the most when I think about whether or not I want to transition. Right now I don't think I do. But the thought of having to come out if I decide to terrifies me.
I don't want to have that conversation.
I just want to be me. No explanations necessary.
You know how it feels
You read between the lines
And know me better than I do
2.07.2008
Memoir for Teaching Writing
The sun was always warm but never hot as it set over Lake Royal on our Wednesday night soccer practices. I was only seventeen, not quite sure what to do as head coach of the Red Barons, a group of enthusiastic five and six year olds who were as excited about being at soccer practice as they were about the rest of the world. The Red Barons, five girls and three boys, would run through their drills having lots of fun even though they didn’t really understand why they were doing drills in the first place but knowing that the promised scrimmage (or “real soccer,” as they called it) was coming at the end of practice. I would play with them and chase after their stray shots to keep the tiny, size three soccer balls from floating away in the lake or being stolen by ornery geese. Their parents were excited, too; they could be found sitting on the sidelines in lawn chairs and on picnic blankets chatting eagerly with each other about their days and their young soccer stars.
I was always nervous about what the parents would think of me, being that I was still a high school student, that I had never quite grown out of being a “tom-boy,” and that I was coaching their impressionable young children. Adults in general made me uncomfortable as I got older; I liked being the parent-friendly kid with good manners that my friends’ parents did not mind having around. As it became clearer and clearer that I was never going to grow out of being a “tom-boy” and that it became clearer and clearer that I was their son’s or daughter’s “gay friend,” I worried about what it would do to my parent-friendly reputation. I know that there is nothing wrong with being gay and that the last thing I should be doing is feeling guilty about it, but I could not help but shake that feeling that these kids’ parents would figure out that I was gay and start thinking of me as some evil pervert.
I just loved soccer. It should not even be a “gay” issue. Why did something so simple as soccer have me questioning myself so much? People do not have an issue with the “gay thing” as long as I keep my mouth shut. Don’t ask, don’t tell. That’s the way the world works. It is the “tom boy” thing that makes people uncomfortable, that makes me tell without ever saying a word. The formal word for it is gender variance. Being a gender variant individual is what gets me thrown out of public bathrooms and what makes me fear for my soccer moms’ and dads’ approval.
I did not, however, fear for my team’s approval. They were eager to learn the basics of soccer. I was more real than Mia Hamm or David Beckham and therefore better. At the ages of five and six, it did not matter that I was only seventeen. They thought I was thirty years old, at least. They certainly did not assume that I was gay. To them, I was Coach Felicia. That is all that mattered.
Once I got over being dumbfounded by the fact that it was me, in fact, that had to run practice and come up with the drills, I loved every second of it. Wednesdays were my favorite day of the week. I had certainly never looked forward to my own soccer practices over the years as much as I did to the ones with the Red Barons. It was an hour of life where I could be myself and combine two activities that I loved into one: playing soccer and working with kids. I came up with my own drills and I also had the chance to bring back some of the more enjoyable drills that had fallen by the wayside in my own soccer career as I had gotten older. I taught the kids how to do throw-ins, goal kicks, corner kicks, and all those essential parts of soccer. My favorite part, however, was talking about my team’s days had gone and having other meaningful discussions with them.
I have found over the years that talking with young children is one of my favorite pastimes. One can talk to a child about anything in the world if it can be simplified down to the child’s terms. Sometimes in trying to tell a child about a problem that I was having, I would break it down and realize that it was hardly anything that I should be worrying about at all. The other wonderful thing about talking with young children is that they are never afraid to ask about exactly what they want to know.
“Why do you wear boy’s clothes?” Lydia, one of the Red Barons, asked me one day.
I froze. What do I say? I certainly was not about to go into an explanation of gender identity, the gender binary, and how I do not fit in it, even though that is exactly what had been occupying my mind lately. I thought for a second and quickly came to an answer. Or rather, I came to a question.
“Why do you wear girl’s clothes?” I inquired.
It was her turn to think. She looked up to the sky as she twirled her finger in her gigantic mass of curly brown hair.
“Because,” she replied, “they’re comfortable.”
“Well, that’s exactly why I wear boy’s clothes.” I said.
It was as simple as that. Lydia continued on with her drill, accepting my answer with no hesitation.
Another day at practice, we were finally getting around to our habitual “real soccer.” I was setting up the cones for makeshift sidelines and goals when I started thinking about how to split up the teams since we were missing one boy and one girl that day. In order to make the teams even, I decided that it would be the girls against the boys and me. I figured I could probably count for two Red Barons and make the teams even without making one of the girls be “on the boys’ team.”
I called out to end the water break and announced that it would be boys against girls with me playing on the boys’ team.
“But you’re not a boy!” Zach informed me.
“I know, but this way the teams will be even.” I told him.
It was at this time that the conversation went on without me as the Red Barns began to talk amongst themselves.
“Well,” Stephanie contemplated, “she does have short hair.”
“That’s because she has a Mohawk!” David protested. I did not have a Mohawk; I had a faux-hawk, a close relative of the Mohawk that involves more hair.
“No she doesn’t! A Mohawk has dots on the side. She has more hair.” Zach argued. I am assuming that by dots he was implying that the sides of my head needed to be shaved to qualify for the full blown Mohawk.
It was then that Lydia looked up at me and simply stated, “You’re weird.”
I laughed and we went on with the scrimmage. Not another thought was given to how my gender may or may not be determined by my hair that may or may not be a Mohawk. I chuckled to myself on the drive home.
I was glad to have the break of the soccer practices. It was a chance to get away from the heavy load of schoolwork as I neared the end of senior year as well as the thoughts that had been weighing heavy in my head about gender. I knew I did not fit into traditional gender roles; I had known that much for a while. I was trying to figure out how I could possibly manage to fit into this binary world in a way without completely alienating myself. I struggled to find allies I could talk to. Much of the world is unready or unwilling to think about gender critically. It is a system far too ingrained in society to be something to be messing around with. That was precisely my problem.
As I spent more time out in the world by myself, the fact that my gender ambiguity made people uncomfortable became more apparent. When I went to Starbucks to grab a latte, the barista would go back and forth between gender pronouns feeling embarrassed, apologizing profusely, and then forgetting my drink order. I would smile and reassure him that it was fine but I could not help feeling a little like it was my fault that I had embarrassed him so much.
I also developed a fear of public bathrooms, even within my own school. There is no place where it is more terrible to transgress gender norms than in bathrooms, it turns out. I have only been thrown out of one bathroom so far and barred entrance from another, but I learned quickly that I was not welcome in the deeply female world of the women’s bathroom. My entrance into the bathroom has often caused silence accompanied by horrified stares that were followed by snickers and loud discussion of whether or not I was in the wrong bathroom once I went into a stall. I learned which bathrooms in my high school were nearly always empty. I often walked across the school to use the bathroom in the music wing because I knew most of the people in band and was less likely to run into an uncomfortable situation.
As I got my identity more clearly into focus, the world around me seemed to start spinning out of control. Gender, I learned, dictates everything. Being ambiguous in appearance, and worse, actions made me an instant outcast wherever I went. I started to fear meeting new people, like my soccer parents, because I did not want to deal with their silent judgment and often awkward exchanges.
Toward the end of the soccer season, my hair had started to get too long to put up into its faux-hawk and I started wearing a hat to practice to keep my hair out of my eyes. The first day I wore a hat, I was shooting some goals with the kids who had come early while we waited for everyone else to arrive.
Zach, from far away, yelled out, “Who’s that boy?” He didn’t recognize me in the hat. I said nothing, waiting for him to get closer.
“You’re not a boy,” he yelled out once he recognized me. “You’re just Coach Felicia.”
I smiled. He understood me. They all did. Here, in the world of the Red Barons who were too new in this deeply gendered world to be made uncomfortable by my gender nonconformity, I was just Coach Felicia.
I was always nervous about what the parents would think of me, being that I was still a high school student, that I had never quite grown out of being a “tom-boy,” and that I was coaching their impressionable young children. Adults in general made me uncomfortable as I got older; I liked being the parent-friendly kid with good manners that my friends’ parents did not mind having around. As it became clearer and clearer that I was never going to grow out of being a “tom-boy” and that it became clearer and clearer that I was their son’s or daughter’s “gay friend,” I worried about what it would do to my parent-friendly reputation. I know that there is nothing wrong with being gay and that the last thing I should be doing is feeling guilty about it, but I could not help but shake that feeling that these kids’ parents would figure out that I was gay and start thinking of me as some evil pervert.
I just loved soccer. It should not even be a “gay” issue. Why did something so simple as soccer have me questioning myself so much? People do not have an issue with the “gay thing” as long as I keep my mouth shut. Don’t ask, don’t tell. That’s the way the world works. It is the “tom boy” thing that makes people uncomfortable, that makes me tell without ever saying a word. The formal word for it is gender variance. Being a gender variant individual is what gets me thrown out of public bathrooms and what makes me fear for my soccer moms’ and dads’ approval.
I did not, however, fear for my team’s approval. They were eager to learn the basics of soccer. I was more real than Mia Hamm or David Beckham and therefore better. At the ages of five and six, it did not matter that I was only seventeen. They thought I was thirty years old, at least. They certainly did not assume that I was gay. To them, I was Coach Felicia. That is all that mattered.
Once I got over being dumbfounded by the fact that it was me, in fact, that had to run practice and come up with the drills, I loved every second of it. Wednesdays were my favorite day of the week. I had certainly never looked forward to my own soccer practices over the years as much as I did to the ones with the Red Barons. It was an hour of life where I could be myself and combine two activities that I loved into one: playing soccer and working with kids. I came up with my own drills and I also had the chance to bring back some of the more enjoyable drills that had fallen by the wayside in my own soccer career as I had gotten older. I taught the kids how to do throw-ins, goal kicks, corner kicks, and all those essential parts of soccer. My favorite part, however, was talking about my team’s days had gone and having other meaningful discussions with them.
I have found over the years that talking with young children is one of my favorite pastimes. One can talk to a child about anything in the world if it can be simplified down to the child’s terms. Sometimes in trying to tell a child about a problem that I was having, I would break it down and realize that it was hardly anything that I should be worrying about at all. The other wonderful thing about talking with young children is that they are never afraid to ask about exactly what they want to know.
“Why do you wear boy’s clothes?” Lydia, one of the Red Barons, asked me one day.
I froze. What do I say? I certainly was not about to go into an explanation of gender identity, the gender binary, and how I do not fit in it, even though that is exactly what had been occupying my mind lately. I thought for a second and quickly came to an answer. Or rather, I came to a question.
“Why do you wear girl’s clothes?” I inquired.
It was her turn to think. She looked up to the sky as she twirled her finger in her gigantic mass of curly brown hair.
“Because,” she replied, “they’re comfortable.”
“Well, that’s exactly why I wear boy’s clothes.” I said.
It was as simple as that. Lydia continued on with her drill, accepting my answer with no hesitation.
Another day at practice, we were finally getting around to our habitual “real soccer.” I was setting up the cones for makeshift sidelines and goals when I started thinking about how to split up the teams since we were missing one boy and one girl that day. In order to make the teams even, I decided that it would be the girls against the boys and me. I figured I could probably count for two Red Barons and make the teams even without making one of the girls be “on the boys’ team.”
I called out to end the water break and announced that it would be boys against girls with me playing on the boys’ team.
“But you’re not a boy!” Zach informed me.
“I know, but this way the teams will be even.” I told him.
It was at this time that the conversation went on without me as the Red Barns began to talk amongst themselves.
“Well,” Stephanie contemplated, “she does have short hair.”
“That’s because she has a Mohawk!” David protested. I did not have a Mohawk; I had a faux-hawk, a close relative of the Mohawk that involves more hair.
“No she doesn’t! A Mohawk has dots on the side. She has more hair.” Zach argued. I am assuming that by dots he was implying that the sides of my head needed to be shaved to qualify for the full blown Mohawk.
It was then that Lydia looked up at me and simply stated, “You’re weird.”
I laughed and we went on with the scrimmage. Not another thought was given to how my gender may or may not be determined by my hair that may or may not be a Mohawk. I chuckled to myself on the drive home.
I was glad to have the break of the soccer practices. It was a chance to get away from the heavy load of schoolwork as I neared the end of senior year as well as the thoughts that had been weighing heavy in my head about gender. I knew I did not fit into traditional gender roles; I had known that much for a while. I was trying to figure out how I could possibly manage to fit into this binary world in a way without completely alienating myself. I struggled to find allies I could talk to. Much of the world is unready or unwilling to think about gender critically. It is a system far too ingrained in society to be something to be messing around with. That was precisely my problem.
As I spent more time out in the world by myself, the fact that my gender ambiguity made people uncomfortable became more apparent. When I went to Starbucks to grab a latte, the barista would go back and forth between gender pronouns feeling embarrassed, apologizing profusely, and then forgetting my drink order. I would smile and reassure him that it was fine but I could not help feeling a little like it was my fault that I had embarrassed him so much.
I also developed a fear of public bathrooms, even within my own school. There is no place where it is more terrible to transgress gender norms than in bathrooms, it turns out. I have only been thrown out of one bathroom so far and barred entrance from another, but I learned quickly that I was not welcome in the deeply female world of the women’s bathroom. My entrance into the bathroom has often caused silence accompanied by horrified stares that were followed by snickers and loud discussion of whether or not I was in the wrong bathroom once I went into a stall. I learned which bathrooms in my high school were nearly always empty. I often walked across the school to use the bathroom in the music wing because I knew most of the people in band and was less likely to run into an uncomfortable situation.
As I got my identity more clearly into focus, the world around me seemed to start spinning out of control. Gender, I learned, dictates everything. Being ambiguous in appearance, and worse, actions made me an instant outcast wherever I went. I started to fear meeting new people, like my soccer parents, because I did not want to deal with their silent judgment and often awkward exchanges.
Toward the end of the soccer season, my hair had started to get too long to put up into its faux-hawk and I started wearing a hat to practice to keep my hair out of my eyes. The first day I wore a hat, I was shooting some goals with the kids who had come early while we waited for everyone else to arrive.
Zach, from far away, yelled out, “Who’s that boy?” He didn’t recognize me in the hat. I said nothing, waiting for him to get closer.
“You’re not a boy,” he yelled out once he recognized me. “You’re just Coach Felicia.”
I smiled. He understood me. They all did. Here, in the world of the Red Barons who were too new in this deeply gendered world to be made uncomfortable by my gender nonconformity, I was just Coach Felicia.
1.03.2008
A Response
I should have expected so much intellectual shit from you. ;-) Now back to my normal aloof writing style (read the comments on the previous entry to catch up):
Where do I even start? I would like to say that I’ve thought about everything you’ve said, but I haven’t quite thought about all of it. Reading Transgender Warriors brought a lot of these issues with the social construction of gender identity to the forefront of my mind. And I appreciate and understand all of these. To step back and say that gender is all this social construction and we should just throw it out the window is great and postmodern and I am a great fan of postmodernity. I wish that it worked.
It all goes back to why I'm writing this blog. Why am I? Okay, so I am a bit of an attention whore. But fishing for attention aside, it was to figure out where I stand. It has a lot to do with the title, with the words to that song: To those that understand/I extend my hand/To the doubtful I demand/Take me as I am. I know exactly who I am and how I feel and how I want to be seen. What I want to know is where do I fit into this binary society? How do I exist and stay true to my inner self in this binary society? How do I teach those around me that there is no such thing as "normal"? How do I teach myself? How do I not absolutely despise the girliness that is such a key aspect of my personality? How do I not fret over every interaction with a stranger, wondering how I'm going to be read?
I am constantly trying to understand gender. Why do I like baggy pants? If girls wore baggy pants, would I want to wear tight pants? If I were male-bodied, would I want long hair? The funniest part about this whole gender thing is that it is such a big fucking deal, 90% of the world doesn't give it a second thought, and it is all completely ridiculous and totally arbitrary. If we took all the clothes away though, what would I have? How would I convey to the world how exactly I want to be treated?
There is a picture of me that I think is the exact expression of my gender. I was going to describe it, but then I decided to just post it. I don't know where the original one went, but this is slightly photoshopped, but you can see that:
That is me. It was before I started wearing boxers, but I had stolen the whole gym shorts under my pants thing from Jim. I want to be my image of masculine and this is it; my pretend-boxers (now real) sticking out of my pants and a sports bra. I know that there is nothing traditionally masculine about a sports bra, but in my little genderfucked world, it is one of the highest forms of masculinity. On a side note, I was probably 16 in this photo and I miss that stomach!
So I know in my brain that gender is this big social construct that shouldn't mean a damn thing. My biggest struggle with this is why, then, does my body not fit? As the Gender in Plaid photo suggests, why does my nudity end at the boxers? There is something there, tying sex and gender together, I just wish it made an ounce of sense.
Taking in the view from the outside
Feeling like the underdog
Watching through the window I'm on the outside
Living like the underdog
Where do I even start? I would like to say that I’ve thought about everything you’ve said, but I haven’t quite thought about all of it. Reading Transgender Warriors brought a lot of these issues with the social construction of gender identity to the forefront of my mind. And I appreciate and understand all of these. To step back and say that gender is all this social construction and we should just throw it out the window is great and postmodern and I am a great fan of postmodernity. I wish that it worked.
It all goes back to why I'm writing this blog. Why am I? Okay, so I am a bit of an attention whore. But fishing for attention aside, it was to figure out where I stand. It has a lot to do with the title, with the words to that song: To those that understand/I extend my hand/To the doubtful I demand/Take me as I am. I know exactly who I am and how I feel and how I want to be seen. What I want to know is where do I fit into this binary society? How do I exist and stay true to my inner self in this binary society? How do I teach those around me that there is no such thing as "normal"? How do I teach myself? How do I not absolutely despise the girliness that is such a key aspect of my personality? How do I not fret over every interaction with a stranger, wondering how I'm going to be read?
I am constantly trying to understand gender. Why do I like baggy pants? If girls wore baggy pants, would I want to wear tight pants? If I were male-bodied, would I want long hair? The funniest part about this whole gender thing is that it is such a big fucking deal, 90% of the world doesn't give it a second thought, and it is all completely ridiculous and totally arbitrary. If we took all the clothes away though, what would I have? How would I convey to the world how exactly I want to be treated?
There is a picture of me that I think is the exact expression of my gender. I was going to describe it, but then I decided to just post it. I don't know where the original one went, but this is slightly photoshopped, but you can see that:
That is me. It was before I started wearing boxers, but I had stolen the whole gym shorts under my pants thing from Jim. I want to be my image of masculine and this is it; my pretend-boxers (now real) sticking out of my pants and a sports bra. I know that there is nothing traditionally masculine about a sports bra, but in my little genderfucked world, it is one of the highest forms of masculinity. On a side note, I was probably 16 in this photo and I miss that stomach!So I know in my brain that gender is this big social construct that shouldn't mean a damn thing. My biggest struggle with this is why, then, does my body not fit? As the Gender in Plaid photo suggests, why does my nudity end at the boxers? There is something there, tying sex and gender together, I just wish it made an ounce of sense.
Taking in the view from the outside
Feeling like the underdog
Watching through the window I'm on the outside
Living like the underdog
12.26.2007
Sex and Romance, pt I
I’m writing about sex because I need to stop ignoring it. The issues that come with sex I can usually ignore until they’re happening, and before I know it, I’m in tears. This is really personal for me, but like I said, I need to figure it out.
Gender was something that I had never actually thought about until two things happened in my life: my close friend came out to me as FTM and I started reading the comic Venus Envy. I had experienced some gender dysphoria previously, but much of it was resolved when I cut my hair at age 16. Come to think of it, this all happened around age 16. Guess it really is a time of coming of age.
I was dating Jim for a while, having come out as bi a year or so before starting to date him, and still very much identifying that way. I guess it bears saying that my identity has been consistently evolving from the moment I first considered it. I suppose that is the trouble with being someone who just doesn’t fit into traditional categories. Anyway, Jim was the first person I had done anything sexual with at all. Being shy, I assumed that my hesitations had to do with that and not any underlying identity problems. Everything went pretty smoothly, from what I remember. I also know I could be blocking out anything that didn’t go smoothly. A good chunk into the relationship, I had developed a crush on a friend, A, that turned out to be mutual, which in turned developed into my first attempt at polyamory. Besides emotional complications involved with dating two people who are not also dating each other, when A and I got into a situation that was a little hot and heavy, I got hit with a brick wall otherwise known as a gender identity crisis. Previously, I remember asking Jim on the phone, “What if I’m transgender?” and him pretty much telling me that it didn’t matter to him and it was only what I made out of it. Well, I suppose this is what I hadn’t expected to run into, that “what if” becoming a top priority.
Although the situation is fuzzy and it doesn’t help that I am ridiculously shy anyway, I remember all the sudden becoming very painfully aware that in this sexual situation, there was something missing. Something that I was supposed to have that wasn’t there. The situation ended awkwardly, nonetheless, not amounting to anything. I am pretty sure that I receded into my head for a bit, ending the relationship and putting a hold on that friendship for a while. I was left with this new realization about myself, though, which I am glad I had while I was still with Jim. With lots of research and little actually talking to people (which was a new thing for me, I used to figure everything out in the public spectrum of blogging…go figure), I figured out that what made things not so apparent with Jim was that there was a lot of projecting going on, at least on my part. With him, there had never been any defined gender roles, and there were exactly one of every part that anyone could want; a flat chest, boobs, a penis, and a vagina. I think that having that situation in an intimate situation is certainly something that I miss, although now I am much better at dealing with myself and my body now than I was back then. Once I realized that I was projecting and that I could, well, I did it a lot more. I finally blogged about it as well as have many conversations with Jim as well as a few with my FTM friend and some other friends as well.
Jim and I broke up eventually and I was left fearing for my romantic future. I was certain that I would never find another that I was physically comfortable with. I had started speaking with A again and a couple months later, was convinced to attend a college drag show. (At this point, I was still a high school senior.) I jumped at the chance to dress up in drag. I had attended a local queer youth dance bound and packing but ended up mostly scared out of my mind of someone finding out. I headed down to the college and A set me up with my next girlfriend, J. J was, well, femme. And hot. And older. And I fell hard and fast. Luckily, she fell for me too. It was a long distance relationship and she shared my ridiculous amount of shyness, so besides our initial make-out, things moved really slow. I was glad of it, but I was really questioning myself. Sometime during the course of dating Jim, I realized that he was the only guy I had ever been attracted to and that I was more likely to like girls, and had changed my outward identification to “lesbian” even though I hate the word and certainly identified at the time as queer and/or genderqueer. I certainly never identified myself as butch, but in dating someone femme, I was suddenly faced with gender roles, something Jim and I had thrown out the window. In the few times that we did things, surprisingly, I initiated them and led the way. I felt like it was my duty, being the masculine one and all.
This brings me to one thing that I have always felt very conflicted about in my identity; I am a bottom. If you look at the way society views dominance, it is considered a masculine trait. If I had to say whether, overall, I felt more masculine or feminine, I definitely feel more masculine although I have trouble relating to both terms for sure. I often wonder how I can be both masculine and submissive. I realize that it is society that has decided that masculine=dominant and that I seem to say “Society says what? Fuck that,” to everything, so why should this be any different?
When thinking about being a top, as I sometimes try (and maybe am getting better at? I don’t know), I always seem to be missing the necessary tools. And aggression. It also doesn’t help that I seem to be the most ridiculously sensitive person ever and it doesn’t take much to overwhelm my sense and turn my muscles into jello. Actually, I don’t think I’ve even figured myself out enough to deal with this particular topic at this time.
I’ve run out of momentum at this time; expect more on this topic. I’ve only scratched the surface and most of this is stuff that I have already talked about before. Why is sex so complicated?
Tell me once again
What's below the surface bleeding
If you've lost your way,
I will take you there
Gender was something that I had never actually thought about until two things happened in my life: my close friend came out to me as FTM and I started reading the comic Venus Envy. I had experienced some gender dysphoria previously, but much of it was resolved when I cut my hair at age 16. Come to think of it, this all happened around age 16. Guess it really is a time of coming of age.
I was dating Jim for a while, having come out as bi a year or so before starting to date him, and still very much identifying that way. I guess it bears saying that my identity has been consistently evolving from the moment I first considered it. I suppose that is the trouble with being someone who just doesn’t fit into traditional categories. Anyway, Jim was the first person I had done anything sexual with at all. Being shy, I assumed that my hesitations had to do with that and not any underlying identity problems. Everything went pretty smoothly, from what I remember. I also know I could be blocking out anything that didn’t go smoothly. A good chunk into the relationship, I had developed a crush on a friend, A, that turned out to be mutual, which in turned developed into my first attempt at polyamory. Besides emotional complications involved with dating two people who are not also dating each other, when A and I got into a situation that was a little hot and heavy, I got hit with a brick wall otherwise known as a gender identity crisis. Previously, I remember asking Jim on the phone, “What if I’m transgender?” and him pretty much telling me that it didn’t matter to him and it was only what I made out of it. Well, I suppose this is what I hadn’t expected to run into, that “what if” becoming a top priority.
Although the situation is fuzzy and it doesn’t help that I am ridiculously shy anyway, I remember all the sudden becoming very painfully aware that in this sexual situation, there was something missing. Something that I was supposed to have that wasn’t there. The situation ended awkwardly, nonetheless, not amounting to anything. I am pretty sure that I receded into my head for a bit, ending the relationship and putting a hold on that friendship for a while. I was left with this new realization about myself, though, which I am glad I had while I was still with Jim. With lots of research and little actually talking to people (which was a new thing for me, I used to figure everything out in the public spectrum of blogging…go figure), I figured out that what made things not so apparent with Jim was that there was a lot of projecting going on, at least on my part. With him, there had never been any defined gender roles, and there were exactly one of every part that anyone could want; a flat chest, boobs, a penis, and a vagina. I think that having that situation in an intimate situation is certainly something that I miss, although now I am much better at dealing with myself and my body now than I was back then. Once I realized that I was projecting and that I could, well, I did it a lot more. I finally blogged about it as well as have many conversations with Jim as well as a few with my FTM friend and some other friends as well.
Jim and I broke up eventually and I was left fearing for my romantic future. I was certain that I would never find another that I was physically comfortable with. I had started speaking with A again and a couple months later, was convinced to attend a college drag show. (At this point, I was still a high school senior.) I jumped at the chance to dress up in drag. I had attended a local queer youth dance bound and packing but ended up mostly scared out of my mind of someone finding out. I headed down to the college and A set me up with my next girlfriend, J. J was, well, femme. And hot. And older. And I fell hard and fast. Luckily, she fell for me too. It was a long distance relationship and she shared my ridiculous amount of shyness, so besides our initial make-out, things moved really slow. I was glad of it, but I was really questioning myself. Sometime during the course of dating Jim, I realized that he was the only guy I had ever been attracted to and that I was more likely to like girls, and had changed my outward identification to “lesbian” even though I hate the word and certainly identified at the time as queer and/or genderqueer. I certainly never identified myself as butch, but in dating someone femme, I was suddenly faced with gender roles, something Jim and I had thrown out the window. In the few times that we did things, surprisingly, I initiated them and led the way. I felt like it was my duty, being the masculine one and all.
This brings me to one thing that I have always felt very conflicted about in my identity; I am a bottom. If you look at the way society views dominance, it is considered a masculine trait. If I had to say whether, overall, I felt more masculine or feminine, I definitely feel more masculine although I have trouble relating to both terms for sure. I often wonder how I can be both masculine and submissive. I realize that it is society that has decided that masculine=dominant and that I seem to say “Society says what? Fuck that,” to everything, so why should this be any different?
When thinking about being a top, as I sometimes try (and maybe am getting better at? I don’t know), I always seem to be missing the necessary tools. And aggression. It also doesn’t help that I seem to be the most ridiculously sensitive person ever and it doesn’t take much to overwhelm my sense and turn my muscles into jello. Actually, I don’t think I’ve even figured myself out enough to deal with this particular topic at this time.
I’ve run out of momentum at this time; expect more on this topic. I’ve only scratched the surface and most of this is stuff that I have already talked about before. Why is sex so complicated?
Tell me once again
What's below the surface bleeding
If you've lost your way,
I will take you there
12.23.2007
The Return
I've long ignored my own issues, long enough to have forgotten the password as well as the existence of this blog. Long enough to settle into a weird comfort zone with myself and the conflict of my career and my identity pushed far into the background.
I probably would have continued down this road of pretending everything was okay until something happened. Rather, until someone happened. Through the grace of the never ending web of dyke drama, the girlfriend met someone over the summer who, for lack of a better term, is a lot like me. I don't know what else to say there without going into too much detail. What matters is that I finally have someone to talk to and that I've realized I can't keep running from my life, from who I am.
I also have it good because the girlfriend has some gender issues of her own. I mean, I have somewhat of an ally. Someone who takes care to pay attention to how I feel, to how I want to be seen, to how I want to be treated, to how I want to be touched and where. And that is truly incredible. I'm not sure, however, if I am stable enough in my own gender identity, which for the most part is static, to help her deal with her own fluid gender identity. I am not exactly the person to help because I don't understand wanting to be girly one day and masculine the next. I have trouble dealing with this changing identity and how to deal with it. It present a whole new set of challenges that I don't know if I am in any shape to deal with. I apologize.
This new person (who shall henceforth be denoted with the initial C) can be more of an ally, I think. At least, in a different way. Spending a week with C gave me a really interesting chance to see how the world sees me. C is my height, of similar gender presentation, and similar mannerisms (including the whole valley girl aspect). I was always fascinated watching her talk because it was sometimes akin to looking in a mirror. I was also elated that my mother got to meet her because here was someone else, like me, in my house. I quickly realized, somewhat to my disappointment, that I wasn't seeing C like the world sees C, or like the world sees me, for that matter. I was seeing C through the tainted lense of being in a similar frame of mind.
Last summer, I sat in Jim's driveway and had a conversation with him about gender. It was about how he had fallen into the gender binary and how I was still out at sea. I bring this up because I told him that I had come up with percentages. I'm not even a math person, so I don't know why I bothered putting it in terms like this, but I had come to the conclusion that my gender/sexual identity was 30% lesbian, 40% straight guy (ish), 30% gay guy. The straight guy is in sexuality only, not in personality, thank you. Although I realize the broad generalizations I am making about straight guys being douche-bags, but I don't want to be lumped into that generalization myself. Jim made the observation that, yes, that is 70% male. And of course, this doesn't really quantify my identity in any real way, only in an extremely limiting system that somewhat makes sense to the average joe. It also more applies to the laws of my attraction and not how I act and/or present.
Back to my time with C. After I realized that I wasn't seeing what the world saw, I began to think about what I did see. C emanated male energy, and I am not even one who puts a whole lot of whatever into energies and auras, but there was a definite maleness about her. (I realize that I struggle with pronouns, as I often do about myself, but I am not quite comfortable with gender neutral pronouns; I also realize that if I used them more then I would be more comfortable.) A maleness that I can't quite explain nor address adequately in this post. I, per usual, began to wonder if only she had this maleness. That I was making it up that we were similar. Yeah, we ID'd similarly, but what does that really mean in the long run if she is standing there emanating this energy that I could only aspire to in order to be taken seriously.
We talked on our last night together about this. I confided to her that I was so excited to be around her and to have finally met her and to finally be with someone who was more like me than anyone I had ever met. I sounded like a total fanboy for sure, but I have made it a point lately to tell people how I really feel about them. I think it is important if at times awkward. She seemed to echo the sentiment (at least I remember that, it was two am so hopefully I didn't make it up). I told her that I saw her mostly as a gay man and to my surprise (and excitement!) she said the same about me.
I'm not sure how my girlfriend sees me, but it meant so much to hear someone say that. Instead of someone telling me that the male illusion failed because I was too girly and giggled too much, that I was being seen as I acted. I suppose in response to the first statement of this paragraph, I need to have that conversation. Granted, she knows how to treat me most of the time, but she's never told me how I appear. I've gotten so used to being seen as male until I open my mouth, that I never thought that anyone could see past that.
I have a lot more musings about my adventures in Women's Choir and the ever looming issue of Sex. I'm determined now, with new vigor, to figure myself out in the quietly public forum so that I have a record of it, so that those close to me can read what I can't say aloud, and so that maybe even perfect strangers can have a sense of what lies beyond the binary.
But some day we'll catch a glimpse of eternity
As the world stands still, for a moment
And I guess we will be making history
When we all join hands just to watch the sky
I probably would have continued down this road of pretending everything was okay until something happened. Rather, until someone happened. Through the grace of the never ending web of dyke drama, the girlfriend met someone over the summer who, for lack of a better term, is a lot like me. I don't know what else to say there without going into too much detail. What matters is that I finally have someone to talk to and that I've realized I can't keep running from my life, from who I am.
I also have it good because the girlfriend has some gender issues of her own. I mean, I have somewhat of an ally. Someone who takes care to pay attention to how I feel, to how I want to be seen, to how I want to be treated, to how I want to be touched and where. And that is truly incredible. I'm not sure, however, if I am stable enough in my own gender identity, which for the most part is static, to help her deal with her own fluid gender identity. I am not exactly the person to help because I don't understand wanting to be girly one day and masculine the next. I have trouble dealing with this changing identity and how to deal with it. It present a whole new set of challenges that I don't know if I am in any shape to deal with. I apologize.
This new person (who shall henceforth be denoted with the initial C) can be more of an ally, I think. At least, in a different way. Spending a week with C gave me a really interesting chance to see how the world sees me. C is my height, of similar gender presentation, and similar mannerisms (including the whole valley girl aspect). I was always fascinated watching her talk because it was sometimes akin to looking in a mirror. I was also elated that my mother got to meet her because here was someone else, like me, in my house. I quickly realized, somewhat to my disappointment, that I wasn't seeing C like the world sees C, or like the world sees me, for that matter. I was seeing C through the tainted lense of being in a similar frame of mind.
Last summer, I sat in Jim's driveway and had a conversation with him about gender. It was about how he had fallen into the gender binary and how I was still out at sea. I bring this up because I told him that I had come up with percentages. I'm not even a math person, so I don't know why I bothered putting it in terms like this, but I had come to the conclusion that my gender/sexual identity was 30% lesbian, 40% straight guy (ish), 30% gay guy. The straight guy is in sexuality only, not in personality, thank you. Although I realize the broad generalizations I am making about straight guys being douche-bags, but I don't want to be lumped into that generalization myself. Jim made the observation that, yes, that is 70% male. And of course, this doesn't really quantify my identity in any real way, only in an extremely limiting system that somewhat makes sense to the average joe. It also more applies to the laws of my attraction and not how I act and/or present.
Back to my time with C. After I realized that I wasn't seeing what the world saw, I began to think about what I did see. C emanated male energy, and I am not even one who puts a whole lot of whatever into energies and auras, but there was a definite maleness about her. (I realize that I struggle with pronouns, as I often do about myself, but I am not quite comfortable with gender neutral pronouns; I also realize that if I used them more then I would be more comfortable.) A maleness that I can't quite explain nor address adequately in this post. I, per usual, began to wonder if only she had this maleness. That I was making it up that we were similar. Yeah, we ID'd similarly, but what does that really mean in the long run if she is standing there emanating this energy that I could only aspire to in order to be taken seriously.
We talked on our last night together about this. I confided to her that I was so excited to be around her and to have finally met her and to finally be with someone who was more like me than anyone I had ever met. I sounded like a total fanboy for sure, but I have made it a point lately to tell people how I really feel about them. I think it is important if at times awkward. She seemed to echo the sentiment (at least I remember that, it was two am so hopefully I didn't make it up). I told her that I saw her mostly as a gay man and to my surprise (and excitement!) she said the same about me.
I'm not sure how my girlfriend sees me, but it meant so much to hear someone say that. Instead of someone telling me that the male illusion failed because I was too girly and giggled too much, that I was being seen as I acted. I suppose in response to the first statement of this paragraph, I need to have that conversation. Granted, she knows how to treat me most of the time, but she's never told me how I appear. I've gotten so used to being seen as male until I open my mouth, that I never thought that anyone could see past that.
I have a lot more musings about my adventures in Women's Choir and the ever looming issue of Sex. I'm determined now, with new vigor, to figure myself out in the quietly public forum so that I have a record of it, so that those close to me can read what I can't say aloud, and so that maybe even perfect strangers can have a sense of what lies beyond the binary.
But some day we'll catch a glimpse of eternity
As the world stands still, for a moment
And I guess we will be making history
When we all join hands just to watch the sky
6.22.2006
Always on My Mind
I cannot stop thinking about it. I have never had these issues stay in my head so long. I think a lot of it has to do with me being home for the summer and not having much other stuff to do than sit and think.
Just now, I was asleep for like six hours and I kept waking up. I was so restless because it was all I could think about.
I do not want to think about it anymore!!! I know where I stand. I think. I like my body. I really do...ok, so a lot of the time I wish I was male below the waste but that is the one thing that I cannot do anything about! I also know that I want to pass.
I want to be a fucking teacher. I cannot be a teacher if I am female bodied passing for male. This is hell. Why does the world suck? I want to teach, but I do not think that I will be able to. I do not know how I am going to deal with this. It keeps pressing closer and closer.
Do I change my name? I like Felicia. It is so overtly feminine. I like Ryan a lot. It is my middle name after all.
How would I tell my parents? I guess I do need to get some input from experienced people. I am so tired of my mother being "disappointed" in me. This is just one more thing. Now I never will turn out to be her darling little girl. It was bad enough I had to be lesbian. It would be bad enough I wanted to be a boy. Something in between? Never.
I do not think that even if I transitioned I could ever be a high school teacher. Nobody would want some freak teaching their kids. I would have had to do it already. I would have to at least do it before I get out of college, get all the legal stuff done, make sure that it would say Ryan on my diploma. Make sure that they thought I was male my whole life.
I cannot pass for male. I am too feminine. Everyone would just think I was a gay guy. It would scream it on my resume. Even if I had a beard, everyone would know. I giggle too much. There's too much of the valley girl left in my system. I guess the male horomones would quelch my inner valley girl.
Why did I have to want to be a teacher? I do have a small ambition to be a librarian at the Library of Congress now, though. Or do youth outreach work. If I worked somewhere like NOVAM, I would be accepted. Hopefully.
Maybe I need to talk to someone. I think I know who I want to talk to if I decide to talk to someone.
I apologize for frantic jumpiness.
"Helpless hysteria
A false sense of urgency
Trapped in my phobia
Possessed by anxiety
Run
Try to hide
Overwhelmed by this complex delirium"
Just now, I was asleep for like six hours and I kept waking up. I was so restless because it was all I could think about.
I do not want to think about it anymore!!! I know where I stand. I think. I like my body. I really do...ok, so a lot of the time I wish I was male below the waste but that is the one thing that I cannot do anything about! I also know that I want to pass.
I want to be a fucking teacher. I cannot be a teacher if I am female bodied passing for male. This is hell. Why does the world suck? I want to teach, but I do not think that I will be able to. I do not know how I am going to deal with this. It keeps pressing closer and closer.
Do I change my name? I like Felicia. It is so overtly feminine. I like Ryan a lot. It is my middle name after all.
How would I tell my parents? I guess I do need to get some input from experienced people. I am so tired of my mother being "disappointed" in me. This is just one more thing. Now I never will turn out to be her darling little girl. It was bad enough I had to be lesbian. It would be bad enough I wanted to be a boy. Something in between? Never.
I do not think that even if I transitioned I could ever be a high school teacher. Nobody would want some freak teaching their kids. I would have had to do it already. I would have to at least do it before I get out of college, get all the legal stuff done, make sure that it would say Ryan on my diploma. Make sure that they thought I was male my whole life.
I cannot pass for male. I am too feminine. Everyone would just think I was a gay guy. It would scream it on my resume. Even if I had a beard, everyone would know. I giggle too much. There's too much of the valley girl left in my system. I guess the male horomones would quelch my inner valley girl.
Why did I have to want to be a teacher? I do have a small ambition to be a librarian at the Library of Congress now, though. Or do youth outreach work. If I worked somewhere like NOVAM, I would be accepted. Hopefully.
Maybe I need to talk to someone. I think I know who I want to talk to if I decide to talk to someone.
I apologize for frantic jumpiness.
"Helpless hysteria
A false sense of urgency
Trapped in my phobia
Possessed by anxiety
Run
Try to hide
Overwhelmed by this complex delirium"
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