Hats off to the ladies in City Hall room 269

With all the budget talk, taxes and general fear and despair in the city of Philadelphia, I thought I ought to tip my hat to some of the greatest ladies I've run into in a while. I'll name no names to protect the awesome.

My legal name change went through in August but in order to take care of any of my identity documents I would first have to go to City Hall to get a certified copy. Not only did this cost over $40 after a long process that has nickle and dimed me to death, but I in no way felt like dealing with City Hall. For those that have never been, Philadelphia City Hall is an enormous building and incredibly physically daunting. It just felt like an intimidating and grossly overwhelming endeavor. After weeks of dragging my feet I finally steeled my reserve to just get it taken care of.

I rode my bike straight up Broad Street, entered where I had when I had attended my hearing. I prepared for what would hopefully be one of the last times I would have to show my ID and get a name tag that said "Elizabeth." However, this time no one asked. I just got a sticker that said Eli.

I went up to room 269 expecting a long line but instead walked right up to the counter. This efficiency was tempered by a sign on the wall that said all certified copies would be ready for pick up in 3-5 days. I cringed at the thought of having to psyche myself up all over again to enter the building. I handed the women my paper and said I needed a certified copy. I bit my lower lip as I watched her read the paper that lays way too much of my life bare and exposed. She looked up, said "$42," and immediately went to make copies.

"Is it less expensive if I buy two copies at the same time?" I asked.

"Yes. Two copies would be $83.64," she said with a coy glint in her eye. I smiled and said I'd pass on that "deal" and just take the one. While she went to make the copies I joked with her co-worker finally giving in to feeling a bit of comfort about the way things were going. The first woman sat back down and asked when my birthday was--I assumed for official reasons though no where on my documents is my birthday listed.

"2/16/79."

"Get out!"

"That your birthday?" her coworker asked.

"No, mine's the 21st. His is just two days after Valentines Day," she said.

"I'm always getting cheated on Valentines Day presents," I chimed in, her use of 'his' ringing in my ears.

"At least it's not in December," she said, "I always felt bad for those people in December." I nod as she signs the papers in front of her. She then looks up and smiles. "Well, I'm going to say to you--Merry Christmas," and she stamps the embosser, "Happy Valentines Day," she stamps it again, "and Happy Birthday," and again. She hands me some paper and holds up three fingers. "Always keep one for yourself," she tells me.

I thank her with a look of shocked amazement. Something free from City Hall? I didn't think that was possible. I left room 269 and walked out into the cavernous hallway. It was a small success in the grand scheme of things but somehow it felt like so much more.

A Line in the Sand Revisited

I had just been thinking of the Semenya story (the runner with ambiguous gender) today and wondered what ever came of it. Someone brought it up at dinner and I heard some of the rumors. Then a friend posted this link and asked what are they doing to this girl?

Turns out she may be gender variant. Read the story. I've already said most of my thoughts in my origional post (linked above) but I think the last line of the video is the most interesting--"if she didn't know, she wasn't cheating. it's not like she was taking drugs" (quoted very loosely). There are, again, so many bigger theoretical questions but now, in the very base level of competition, I am also wondering--if she is "mostly male" (whatever that means) and were to compete with the boys--how would she do? Even better--assert she is a woman and say fuck all you all and race the men. We could use another Billy Jean King!

I got a name...

My name and gender are finally legally changed. There are still hoops to jump through and forms to submit, but that's just busy work. I am no longer at the mercy of courts and judges and someone else's opinions.

I thought this day would come with me screaming and cheering from the rooftops. Initially just the feelings of relief were overwhelming. When I finally heard the news I didn't cheer--I quietly began shaking. The end of waiting. Anna and Laura knew because they were with me, but beyond that I didn't tell anyone. I didn't know how. Although it's an obvious milestone it also felt like a very strange thing to share. I told my parents that night, gradually told my friends, but for a very public transition this was a very private milestone. I've been met with some very unexpected mixed feelings--moments of questioning.

I don't regret my transition, but I do often miss my dyke self. This name I have given up feels like the last public part of that identity. Getting carded in public was often embarrassing and awkward, but getting carded at a gay bar made it look like I belonged. Even if I publicly walk through every minute of every day as a man, I still carried a little bit of my history in my wallet.

I haven't worked out all these feelings yet. Looking back I remember myself as a strong, outspoken, confident dyke. Now I often feel like an awkward, timid self-conscious man. I was watching Gran Torino recently and there is a scene where Clint Eastwood is teaching a teenage boy to be a man. The more time I spend as a man the more important those lessons I missed out on become. I assumed the life lessons learned as a woman and as a human would translate. I would be the same person needing the same skills in a slightly modified body. In many cases this is true. Dealings with friends and other women are comfortable and casual, but men treat men differently. This isn't bad, it's just different. It's something I have never learned. Men have thicker skin and mine is thin.

So this signed petition is met with relief and also a feeling of great responsibility. Relief that my presentation and documents are now consistent. The limitations I used to experience in travel, renting a car, in feelings of personal safety no longer have to be an issue. There is also a responsibility to myself to be honest and live with integrity. Responsibility to own my past though it could now easily be ignored. A responsibility to let go of my feelings of fear and danger--fear became a part of me and it's time to let it go.

A line in the sand

I don't know how many of you are aware of the Track and Field scandal surrounding Caster Semenya. This 18 year old from a South African village competed in the 800 meter run in Berlin and won by such a margin that her sex/gender (articles are mistakenly using the words interchangeably) is now being called into question. This investigation is raising so many questions that I don't even know where to start.

First there are the initial, somewhat surface questions. According to the New York Times (linked above) and the Yahoo article I have read, Semenya's sex/gender was initially called into question when she bettered her time in the 800 meters by more than seven seconds. What does it mean that someone performing well means that one can't possibly be a woman? Still, this alone is not enough to spark an investigation. There has to be further complaint. Complaints something like this, perhaps? (from the NY Times)

Some of Semenya’s competitors in the 800 meters considered the issue straightforward after Semenya romped to a commanding victory at the world championships Wednesday. “Just look at her,” said Mariya Savinova of Russia, who finished fifth. Elisa Cusma of Italy, who was sixth, told Italian journalists: “These kind of people should not run with us. For me, she’s not a woman. She’s a man.”

Her parents have no question about her gender and say she is simply a hard training and determined athlete. Her former head master thinks she is a boy because she only wears pants and plays soccer.

The process by which they are determining gender is complex and ultimately could end with just as much confusion and disagreement as they started with. This young runner will have to face a physical medical evaluation, and includes reports from a gynecologist, endocrinologist, psychologist, an internal medicine specialist and an expert on gender. They could find nothing abnormal, or they could find a host of genetic, hormonal or chromosomal variations. Either way, does that mean she is not a woman?

These inquiries are not new, but they aren't generally played out this publicly. I think this case will ultimately raise more questions than it answers, but these questions that will undoubtedly come up are things that I would really like to talk about.

At what point would Semenya be considered a man? Apparently the Bantu, a group of indigenous South African people, may be more predisposed to being hermaphrodites but they do not always have obvious male genitalia. They are genetically female yet have both testes and ovaries. Would her evolutionary heritage push her over the male line? Would high levels of testosterone make her a man? This could be caused by congenital adrenal hyperplasia. What is considered high? All women have some testosterone in their system and some have more than others. Would a Y chromosome determine her manhood? There are plenty of people who have chromosomal abnormalities most of whom never realize it. Is it looks? Is it actions? Is it a court (as I just experienced first hand)

And if it is deemed that she isn't "entirely female" does that mean she is not allowed to compete? Most athletes have some sort of genetic predisposition that makes them more talented than the average person. Lance Armstrong has enormous lungs, Michael Phelps has a perfectly designed swimmers body, but because their abnormalities aren't tied to gender their achievements aren't in question.

Whatever the ruling body decides will not really be the truth and it won't bother to answer the broader questions of what makes a man or a woman and what does that distinction mean?

“It turns out genes, hormones and genitals are pretty complicated,” Alice Dreger, a professor of medical humanities and bioethics at Northwestern University, said in a telephone interview. “There isn’t really one simple way to sort out males and females. Sports require that we do, but biology doesn’t care. Biology does not fit neatly into simple categories, so they do these tests. And part of the reason I’ve criticized the tests is that a lot of times, the officials don’t say specifically how they’re testing and why they’re using that test. It should be subject to scientific review.” “But at the end of the day, they are going to have to make a social decision on what counts as male and female, and they will wrap it up as if it is simply a scientific decision,” Dreger said. “And the science actually tells us sex is messy. Or as I like to say, ‘Humans like categories neat, but nature is a slob.’ ” From the New York Times, Aug. 20, 2009

I couldn't have said it better myself--except maybe I'd say nature is more imaginative than sloppy.

On Becoming

The five year anniversary of my beginning T passed without much fanfare. I casually noticed that this milestone had passed one morning while I was shaving. It's important to keep in mind that when I say shaving it is not a full beard growth that I am scraping away at each morning, but a few patchy whiskers that after a week just make me look sloppy. I thought after 5 years of hormones I'd have more to show for it, but I'm also determined to let my transition take whatever form it will take.

Then last week I went to the doctor for depression. I'd been on anti-depressants before and after a year long experiment of being med-free I decided it wasn't working. Since living in Philadelphia I've been going to the Mazzoni Center. The Mazzoni Center is a queer health center and although I'm glad it exists, compared to Callen-Lorde, I was always disappointed. Every time I went to the Mazzoni Center I saw a different doctor, nurse and once a Temple University Intern. I understand internships need to happen but he was more nervous than I was and ended any chance of me actually asking for what I needed. It began to feel more like shopping than medical care. I would make an appointment, say what I needed and get a prescription. I would occasionally be told that I needed to get blood work done but never heard anything about these results. I always assumed they would tell me if something was wrong. I shouldn't have.

This past visit I saw Dane Menkin. He asked me important and intelligent questions when I talked to him about my desire for anti-depressants. He told me when I didn't answer his questions--which means he was actually listening to the answers. He was able to say things like "I've had a lot of success with this with my other trans patients." He had other trans patients.

Then he did something that no one else at the Mazzoni Center has ever done--he looked at my blood work. My testosterone level was only two thirds of what it should be. More disturbingly, it probably had been since I moved back to Philly 4 years ago and started a new type of testosterone. Suddenly everything began to fall into place--my depression, my irritability, my lack of facial hair, my womanly metabolism, my fatigue. I felt like a man, but I wasn't sure I felt normal. I wasn't sure because I had no normal to compare it to.

I think sometimes we have trouble taking control of our own medical care. We are so grateful to be getting any sort of care that we don't want to rock the boat. Its also hard when everything is changing to know if everything is changing enough or in the right way. What is normal when everything about this feels so un-normal sometimes?

I've started Welbutrin and upped my dose of Testosterone every morning. Its too soon to feel an actual physical change, but mentally knowing that I have a doctor who is actually invested in my health and paying attention to my shortfalls has changed everything. I may never be happy without medication, grow a full beard or loose all my lady fat, but at least I'll know I only have genetics to blame.

Naked City

In the prolog to the book Metropolitan Philadelphia: Living with the Presence of the Past by Steven Conn there is a great statement about personal stories that reminded me a lot of the post I wrote a couple weeks ago about meaning.

"There are a million stories in the naked city."

That line closes the 1948 classic film noir The Naked City....Its closing line, uttered by that same narrator over scenes of the city at night, has always struck me as the most astute characterazation of any city: a great city is, at one level, a vast accumulation of the individual stories--some extraordinary, some quite quotidian, each different, and every one undeniable.

We can imagine, if you like, that these stories exist in two directions--horizontally across the city at any given moment, and vertically through time. These two axes are equally important, for just as the city belongs to those who occupy it from day to day, their stories carry on a conversation with the stories--histories--of those who have been there before. Part of what makes any great city great is this ongoing, effortless dialogue between past and present. That conversation contributes to the unique sense of place every real city has.

I think this same idea can be applied to a movement. My struggles with transitioning, gender, relationships are equally important and meaningful in relation to you reading this blog today and the struggles of the Butches, Femmes and Dandies walking these same streets 60 years ago. It is our personal, undeniable stories that allow the queer rights struggle to have a real sense of person, of meaning and of importance. It is our relationship to eachother and to those that came before us that give us hope. It is our differences and our similarities with our past and with our present that tie us all together.

I don't have a whole lot of additional thoughts, but I thought that quote was pretty great.

Transitioned?

I really do believe that we are always transitioning, that the transition never stops. Still, what happens when we've had the surgery, we've settled into the hormones, we pass every day without question. Have we transitioned? I know I did a lot of Internet searching when I first began on this journey. I found some good resources about passing, binding, hormones, surgery, etc. It was useful information and it made me feel less alone. That was over 5 years ago. Now there is probably five times what there was when I was looking. There are blogs and websites devoted to every aspect of transitioning, but what about when the dust settles? Somehow this feels much more lonely. I don't want to seem like I'm complaining. I know many transmen would be thrilled to be where I am. I just wonder why we stop talking and sharing our stories when our voice drops and our top surgery stitches are removed. What does it mean to be a transman post-transition?