Body in Progress

Transitioning with Me

2011-07-27T10:31:00.004-04:00

I am continually amazed by my parents. Certainly I am amazed at the unconditional love they have shown me starting with a young, introverted tom-boy, to a butch lesbian and then to a transgendered son. What continues to be remarkable is that they have not stopped telling their story. A few months ago their church presented a symposium on GLBT folks in the church. On Sunday the told our story--my transition and their journey with me. I could say more but in this case they can speak for themselves. Below is a link to their story.

http://thespiritspace.blogspot.com/2011/03/march-27-from-elizabeth-to-eli-made-in.html

You need to walk more.

2011-05-03T19:40:00.002-04:00

Anna and I were out at a plant nursery outside of Philly near Chester. This wasn't any sort of "boutique nursery" but a place where people go to buy plants. As we were selecting our purchases the woman working there tapped my stomach and said "you're eating well." I said Anna was cooking well and thinking it was just a conversation starter--an odd one, but still. She then told me to walk more and that I was too young. I said I would and moved on. Anna spent the rest of the time there worried she'd say something to her, but she never did. Instead she said it again as we were checking out and then as we were leaving. I don't know why, but she wouldn't let it go. I told her I rode a bike to work and that seemed to appease her a bit.

It's not the first time an elderly person has told me to loose a few. Still, it struck me that she never would have said that to me were I still a woman. To a woman, Fat is a dirty, shameful word. To a man it's a beer belly, a spare tire, something to take care of but not something to be ashamed of--though this isn't always how it feels. Still, I didn't get that same feeling of all the blood rushing to my face that I used to get when someone even seemed to reference my weight as a woman. I didn't trip over my words or feel like crying. Over the past 5 years some of the shame had left.
I don't know what all of this means, but I do know that fat is definitely a feminist issue. Women's clothing is Plus Size, men's suits are Executive Cut. The tone, the shame, the descriptors, they all change from woman to man.

I don't have any answers, but maybe these folks will. Check out Front Street on May 5 where they will talk about the question "Is Fat a Feminist Issue." They include some pretty smart folk so there will probably be some really good questions. I can't guarantee any answers.

SURROUND SOUND
FOR THE
UNDERGROUND.
http://saramccool.com/frontstreet.html

http://www.ustream.tv/channel/front-street

Front Street is a talk show showcasing current culture and politics in Chicago, hosted by Sara McCool. Guests will include local artists and social critics.

Episode "Is Fat a Feminist Issue?" This Thursday 5/5 at 7:30 -8:30pm CST.

Investing

2010-10-21T17:57:00.004-04:00

About 6 or 7 years ago, before or very early on in my transition, I went to a queer conference at Center for Lesbian and Gay Studies at the City University of New York. Between lectures I was standing alone in the lobby and a older butch dyke walked up to me. We had never met, but I had seen her at a conference I had attended previously. She looked at me, perhaps made a little small talk, and told me she had something for me. She asked for my address.

A month or so later a box arrived in the mail. It was full of neck ties and a short note that said something to the effect of "I thought you might like these." No name, no return address. This small gesture may have simply been an attempt on this butches part to clean out her closet, but to me it was the act of a queer mentor I had never had before. It was someone taking me aside, telling me they knew what it was like, and offering a bit of hope the only way she knew how.

I am wearing one of those ties today. I still have no idea who this woman is, but I think about her every time I open my closet. We never know where our mentors will come from, and now, as I grow a little older, I think about how I never know whose life I am going to touch. I have a lot of ties I don't need and I am sure that young queer is out there. If it's you, let me know.

Getting Better

2010-10-15T17:16:00.005-04:00

The world is (rightfully) having a strong reaction to the wave of gay suicides and general bullying going on. There is Dan Savage's new "It Gets Better" campaign which seem to be getting lots of the attention. I certainly appreciate the waves of people coming forward and am thrilled with how many un-famous, totally normal people are participating. Regardless of my opinion on the project I think there is always value in queer people telling our stories.

Still, if I had seen these movies when I was in high school I wonder if it would have made a difference. Would they have calmed me, given me hope? A part of me thinks that this future these people are describing would seem so far away, so remote that although I would have greatly valued seeing positive images of queer adults, it would have been very hard to imagine my life ever being like theirs. I was too busy trying to figure out what I was to imagine any day beyond tomorrow.

I am more interested in the world getting better, and getting better now. I, like so many It Gets Better videos, could tell you about how I grew up in a small, religiously conservative town in the mid-west. I could tell you about the boy who wore a "God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" shirt to school. Or the one who wrote his research paper for Advanced Composition on how gays should not be in the military. He defended his position by stating that gay soldiers could get shot and bleed on not gay soldiers and give them AIDS. I know I probably would have been harassed or beaten up if I had come out at Holland Christian High School as a lesbian, or, heaven forbid, as a trans man. And I could tell you about how I have transitioned, moved to a large urban area, have friends that like me for myself and a fiancé who loves me for the person I am, but in this case I'm going to lay off the personal and talk about the world.

The world is changing--and its changing fast. My sister is 6 years younger than me. By the time she was in high school her friends knew I was queer and thought it was "cool." I was a groomsman in her wedding and walked down the aisle with one of her high school friends in front of many people who 10 years ago would rail against the evils of homosexuality. I thought all this was amazing, but I was blown away when I saw the story of Oak Read.

Oak is a senior at Mona Shores High School in Muskegon, MI. Muskegon, though larger than Holland, is still in Michigan. I remember playing Mona Shores in sports matches as a student. There wasn't much remarkable about the students, but now I will never forget them. The students of Mona Shores High School voted Oak Reed, a pre-op FTM, to be their Homecoming King. The school then stripped him of that title claiming he couldn't be Homecoming King because he was registered at the school as a female. The students revolted, starting a Facebook campaign in support of him (which, by the way, has over 12,000 members). These students, in my mind, are doing more to make queer teens feel safe than 100 videos by Tim Gunn could ever do.

The world is changing. People are changing. Some more slowly than others, but they are changing. As adults we need to keep telling our stories, as parents we need to teach our kids to love everyone, as allies we need to create a safe space for queer youth to be loved unconditionally. But, to all the young people out there--take a lesson from Mona Shores Students. It's getting better. It will continue to get better. And when history is written this is not an issue you will want to be on the wrong side of. Stand up for someone so they don't have to stand alone. It could change the world, or at least someone's world.

It's getting better

2010-10-15T17:16:00.003-04:00

Oak is a senior at Mona Shores High School in Muskegon, MI. Muskegon, though larger than Holland, is still in Michigan. I remember playing Mona Shores in sports matches as a student. There wasn't much remarkable about the students, but now I will never forget them. The students of Mona Shores High School voted Oak Reed, a pre-op FTM, to be their Homecoming King. The school then stripped him of that title claiming he couldn't be Homecoming King because he was registered at the school as a female. The students revolted, starting a Facebook campaign in support of him. These students, in my mind, are doing more to make queer teens feel safe than 100 videos by Tim Gunn could ever do.

Coming Together

2010-06-09T11:46:00.003-04:00

My last post was a bit of a love letter about the project Embodiment: A Portrait of Queer Art In America. This past weekend I had the opportunity to participate in another great photo project by L. Weingarten called A Series of Questions. In his own words:

This ongoing body of work explores the power dynamics inherent in the questions asked of transgender, transsexual, genderqueer, gender non-conforming, and gender-variant people.

Many documentary photographic projects that deal with trans issues exploit the genders of their subjects, pointing to an "otherness" or inappropriately exoticizing their bodies. A Series of Questions seeks instead to make visible the transphobia and gender-baiting that can become part of everyday interactions and lives, forming a fuller picture of the various lived experiences. In so doing, this work contrasts with the dehumanizing approaches that predominate the images made of transgender, transsexual, genderqueer, gender non-conforming, and gender-variant people, which often focus solely on their gender or trans status, or use them to further a specific point about social construction and gender.

I was drawn to this project for the way it exposes the level of invasion trans people experience on a day to day basis. Strangers asking questions about our bodies and relationships that they would never ask anyone other than perhaps a very close friend. By turning the very personal questions outwards, the public is forced to grapple with what these questions mean and how uncomfortable they can make us.

The only other person I had modeled for in this intimate sort of way was Molly, and we had known each other for a long time prior. I was a little apprehensive about what it would be like with a stranger. Being photographed can be a really intimate experience. Good photos and photographers ask you to expose a lot of yourself. To truly participate I knew I needed to bring that to the table. The experience ended up being wonderful. We went to a park in deep South Philly (not necessarily known for it's queer friendliness) and although we got a number of stares I always felt comfortable, protected and safe. (Anyone who would like to participate in this project should contact the artist.)

The experience reminded me how great it is that there are a number of projects that are focusing on queer communities--projects looking beyond ourselves and trying to capture our worlds. Aside from us as queer people taking control of own representation, I love how these projects are forming bonds within our communities that otherwise never would have been there. I am able to meet artists and models and through my being photographed I have a shared experience with countless others.

I've noted before that transitioning is a very isolating experience. We transition (some of us more publicly than others) we feel awkward and uncomfortable and lonely and lost. Then we begin to pass and, for some of us, we're so relieved that we just want to be left alone. This happened to me and being left alone was fine, until I realized I was alone. Not literally alone, not unsupported--I had great friends, a wonderful family and an amazing partner. I just didn't have that same group around me that seemed to come out of nowhere when I moved to college and really came out publicly as a dyke.

Part of this is certainly a change in life circumstances. I don't want to go out to a street fair, get wasted and look at at people. (All those things are great, but I'm partnered and too old. I prefer to sit and get wasted in a darkened bar or my living room.) I've met other trans guys, many of whom I like a lot, but for what ever reason our paths don't cross on a regular basis and I don't feel that sense of connection.

These projects make me feel a little more connected, they help us all be part of one big picture. I recognize names, I recognize faces, I recognize people. We are making our own culture and we are beginning to do it smartly, consciously and, most importantly, we are doing it together.

The Chance to Change Everything

2010-04-24T11:43:00.004-04:00

About 10 years ago, while studying abroad in Glasgow, Scotland, I met a wee lil' dyke named Molly. We hit it off right away. She always had her camera over her shoulder and documented many of the crazy times and personalities that mixed together to make an unforgettable year.

We stayed in touch for a while but over time lost track of each other. I never forgot her spirit or her work. When I was in New York working on my MFA I began to wonder whatever happened to her. Using the magic of Google I learned that she was also in New York getting her MFA at SVA. Our paths had crossed again and I couldn't be more pleased. We managed to find each other right as she was beginning to flush out a new project photographing queer youth. I'd been photographed by Molly before and was happy to participate again. She showed up at my apartment while I was hanging new curtains. I was wearing pajama pants, a white t-shirt, bunny slippers and a tool belt. She dug in my closet, found the perfect outfit (which still included the bunny slippers), helped me bind my breasts, gel my Mohawk and for the first time in a long time I felt happy in my body.

One peek at my facebook pictures and it becomes pretty evident that I'm not always aware of my face when I'm being photographed. Somehow Molly goes beyond the face and finds the strength, vulnerability, power, hope and pride in a person. She can find that part that's been beaten down to the point that you think it's lost. Just when you're ready to give up on it you hear "Stop! Don't move. Right there."

These photos are more than great pictures that you want to show your friends, they are more than the perfect head shot. They are a window into a world that is often forgotten. Instead of categorizing and dividing us into small groups--butch, femme, trans, bears, fat, thin, dyke, lesbian, gay, southern, east coast, west coast, leather, religious, etc--this project brings us all together into one beautiful, powerful force. A force that covers every inch of this country and has the chance to change everything. This project is more than a project, it is a movement. A movement with the chance to change everything.

There are very few things that I feel this passionately about, but, my friends, even if it's only $5 put it towards something more lasting than a beer. Its not often that your money has the chance to change the life of both a young queer in Iowa, and every queer in the country. But don't take my word for it. Watch the trailer below.

Collecting: Body, Memory and Meaning

2010-02-26T11:00:00.001-05:00

I saved my last bras--one black and one white sports bra. They were over a year old and were stretched to the point of barely being functional. Every time I thought about replacing them I couldn't bring myself to do it. I was waiting for top surgery. Buying a bra would be admitting defeat, putting surgery off even longer. I continued to wear them and wait for the day.

The other day I was cleaning my studio and found them stuffed in a Strawbridges bag deep in the bottom of a box. When I pulled them out to look at them I thought I'd feel something. Some memory, some pain, some tears pushing behind my eyes, but I didn't. So often the objects I expect to hold meaning simply don't while those things that seem completely mundane are impossible to let go. Instead of meaning, these bras just looked like tattered, smelly bits of fabric. I rolled them back up and put them back in the bag and box. I don't need to save them but I still can't throw them away. It has been so long. Maybe I just need to wait for the memory and meaning to hit me.

I have heard of a lot of guys ceremonially burning their last bras, but I never felt the need. I guess I preferred to just wait for them to disintegrate. Like my bras, the person I was before I had surgery didn't go up in flames, but slowly changed, morphed and eventually became the person I am today. The woman slowly degraded and the bras will as well.

Collecting

2010-02-24T14:00:00.000-05:00

I've kept all my empty Testosterone bottles. I don't know why. Somehow they feel important. A bottle I waited 25 years for, a bottle full of a substance other men make naturally.

But maybe it's better this way. Better to wait 25 years for this substance, this bottle could never be taken for granted.

After almost six years the bottles no longer symbolize manhood, but they still hold all the weight of memory. The memory of change, of accomplishment, of hope. Every injection used to hold so many emotions, but not any longer. The emotion couldn't continue. Now it is just a fact, sometimes a nuisance. But five years, ago everything changed. I kept the bottle.

When masculinity goes down the toilet.

2010-02-23T18:25:00.005-05:00

It was the Philadelphia Eagles stadium--a shrine to masculinity. I was there to hang artwork for The Print Center. In addition to the on field pursuits, the owners of the Eagles also donate money to the arts and have local galleries and schools hang artwork in their club lounges. It was my first year on the job the first time the union workers had had a seemingly straight guy come in to hang art. Not only was I "straight," but I love football. I was excited to be there and the carpenters could tell. I got a tour of the field, got to walk through the visiting team's tunnel. I felt like one of the guys.

After a couple hours of "supervising" I had to pee. It was the off season so the stadium was pretty empty. One of the carpenters unlocked the men's room. I walked into a stall and sat down hoping no one else walks in. I still believe that men can hear that I am sitting down to pee. I quickly did my business and went to stand and pull my pants up when I hear a loud splash. I freeze, look down between my legs into the bowl and see my dick floating in the yellow water of the toilet.

My first thought was to sacrifice the dick. Just flush and run. Or just leave it? I spend what feels like forever just staring at the silicone soft pack bobbing just below the surface. I have to do something. I man up, fish my dripping penis out of the toilet and wrap it in cheap, single ply toilet paper. Then what? I knew I couldn't stuff a urine soaked soft pack in my pocket. I'd have to wash it off. I begin to panic. The stadium was empty except for the crew, but what would happen if someone walked in and saw me soaping up a soft pink penis, detached from my body, in the bathroom sink? I knew that if someone were to need the restroom, now would be the time.

I scurry to the sink. Rushing while trying to look like everything is normal. I run my dick under the painfully loud stream of water, picking off bits of toilet paper. Once I make it back to the stall I stuff it in my pants. After a few deep breaths I walk back out to the club lounge. So much for manhood.

Mom Remebers

2010-01-23T13:35:00.003-05:00

I called my mom last night and reminded her of where we were five years ago that night. She was with me in Baltimore and took care of me, emptying my drains, changing my bandages, entertaining me. On the day of the surgery Mom and Anna arrived with me at 7am and stayed in the waiting room the entire four hours of the surgery.

Since that time my mom's memories have faded but she said she remembers two things from that experience. The first was how kind and respectful everyone at Dr. Fisher's office was. The second was that they asked me if they needed to call me a cab for me after surgery to take me back to the hotel. That was when it hit her that people often go through this surgery alone. She said her heart just hurt for them.

I tell this story not to show how amazing my mom is (though she certainly is and that's something I never take for granted). Instead I am writing this to anyone out there who has had to go through surgery alone or will have to go through surgery alone--someone is thinking of you and caring for you. When she says her heart hurts, she means it. It may be of little comfort when you are climbing into a cab alone, but I hope it will mean something when you are lying in a hotel bed and looking at a body that finally makes sense.

Body, Revisited

2010-01-21T10:51:00.006-05:00

Five years ago today I was in Baltimore, lying on an table having my chest put back together. In honor of this milestone I have taken a story I wrote shortly after the surgery and cut it down to it's bare bones. Some of what I read had left my memory, some I will never forget. I've left what I feel are the most important parts--less story and more memory/feelings. You can read the full story here.

Anna and I sat silently in the brightly lit exam room. Neither of us knew what to talk about. I wanted to talk to Anna; tell her everything I was feeling but I couldn't open my mouth.

We were left alone to page through a notebook of surgeries, forcing me to face my expectations. I looked at the results. This was a book full of men who had had gone before me. Anna could see that they had not died, my mom could see that they weren't mutilated, and I could just look without having to face a million questions that I could not answer. What I saw was not perfection, but a natural variation. Mine would not be the chest of a man but that of a trans man.

We returned to the hotel room that night sensing the gravity of the next day, but knowing there was nothing more to say. Tomorrow night I was going to fall asleep in a body forever changed. As I tried to sleep fear welled inside me. I wanted to be comforted, told everything was going to be all right, but I couldn’t admit that to anyone.

We arrived back at the office the next morning. I was told to take off all my clothes except my boxer shorts. I sat in silence while Anna held my hand. Our palms were sweating and our fingers freezing. My nipples hardened, unaware they’d soon be sitting in a bowl of ice two feet from the rest of my body. With a flurry of tape measure and purple marker, their cold fingers moved rapidly to measure and mark my chest. I was lead down the hall into surgery feeling very alone.

Four hours later I awoke in a small dark room, freezing cold and about to throw up. Instead I forced myself to speak. “Tell Anna I didn’t die.” As my body temperature slowly returned to normal I remembered to look down at my body and saw myself for the first time. Anna appeared at the door gently asking how I felt while she rubbed my head and fed me ice chips. After no more than five minutes a nurse entered with my clothes. She wrapped my shirt around me and held out my pants for me to climb into. I’d just woken up but one look at her face told me to get dressed.

“Stand up straight,” I heard behind me. “You don’t have breasts anymore.” She had never witnessed me trying to hide a chest that didn't belong but now there was nothing left to hide. I grabbed Anna’s arm for support, cautiously put my shoulders back, and made my way to the waiting car.

Truisms

2010-01-19T16:18:00.003-05:00

I just found Jenny Holzer's Twitter page which is really a continuation of the Truisms series that she began in 1977. (If you're not familiar with Holzer's work I highly recommend checking it out.) Anyway, I was reading through her posts and found one that particularly resonated.

"SELF-AWARENESS CAN BE CRIPPLING"

I don't think it would have been possible for me to go through life without knowing myself, but there were and still are certainly moments where I wished I could pretend I had no idea. I don't think I could have truly become myself without transitioning, but there was certainly a time where acknowledging my self-awareness was the most frightening thing I had ever faced. If I acknowledged that I knew who I was, then I would have no choice but to do something about it. That is the other part of the equation. Integrity requires that once you know yourself, you then must become yourself.

Many people don't know who they are. They are stuck going through motions, but ignorance can be bliss. For some people that is happiness and I have no problem with that. Then there are those who know who they are, what they need and where they should go, but they do nothing. I find this incredibly frustrating. Self-awareness is a ride you can't get off of. Once you start you can't stop. But if you have done the work to know yourself you've already done the difficult part. Self-awareness is crippling, but knowledge without action will paralyze.

There are still times where I want to go back, still moments where I long for it to be easier, but we tend to remember things much better than they are. It was never easy and being here is worth it.

You don't know what you've got 'til its gone

2010-01-09T13:45:00.000-05:00

I've been incredibly lax about writing lately. I don't have any excuse other than laziness, but I do think the lack of compulsion to write has been somewhat telling of where I am in my life.

I got a new license a few months ago. I didn't realize how much legally changing my name and gender would affect me. It was something I had put off for a long time. I didn't want to deal with it, I didn't want to spend the money on it and I found it incredibly unfair that I had to do it at all. My legal name didn't come up much, it only caused the occasional inconvenience, it wasn't a big deal, it was important to recognize my female past--I came up with any number of excuses to put it off as long as possible.

The saying you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone applies to negative as well as positive. I didn't realize how much fear and anxiety I was carrying around in my back pocket until it was no longer there. I could show my license in a small Midwestern airport and not fear the questions, not wear bulky clothes to try to look female-ish, not be scared to speak. I could rent a car without fearing an awkward confrontation. I could buy beer in a small town and not fear for my physical safety.

I didn't realize the stress and fear i was carrying in my body and self, how my ID affected my self confidence and personal sense of safety. Now that its legal, my transition is completely on my terms. I can tell only who I want. Those that do not need to know can also be told, but I retain the power. My identity is truly my own.

I still had to go through and change my name with the credit cards and phone company but now I had the law on my side. I was legitimate in my request. I am still angry that the law has this much power over my gender, but I can't deny the strength and confidence this has given me.

I still get the occasional junk mail addressed to Elizabeth. I didn't realize until now that I used to actually feel embarrassed. Now I feel indignant. Indignant and a little embarrassed that I ever felt embarrassed. Transitioning will always be an incredibly emotional process but you don't know what emotional baggage you're carrying until you suddenly leave it behind. For a moment I stopped transitioning and started living. It felt really good to be boring.

Hats off to the ladies in City Hall room 269

2009-09-22T11:40:00.000-04:00

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

2009-09-12T01:35:00.000-04:00

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...

2009-08-22T18:09:00.000-04:00

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

2009-08-21T12:30:00.001-04:00

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

2009-07-18T16:08:00.000-04:00

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

2009-07-17T11:24:00.000-04:00

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?

2009-07-10T17:44:00.000-04:00

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?

Gender-no, baby

2009-07-09T16:10:00.000-04:00

A couple in Sweden has decided to raise their child gender free. The child, whom the article refers to as Pop, has "normal" sex organs, but the parents have decided not to reveal this information to the public. They say so long as they keep Pop’s gender a secret, he or she will be able to avoid preconceived notions of how people should be treated if male or female. Yes, but...

This experiment in and of itself is interesting on a number of levels. Even more fascinating is peoples responses to it. Slate's new spin-off site Double X made mention of this story here with a follow up post here (and a nice and much more interesting personal antidote with follow up comments here.) The Slate articles make some interesting points but the follow up comments are a great read. People seem to be getting very hung up on the nature vs. nurture debate that's been raging for years. As a trans person I have a very definite and final answer to the question "Is gender biological or socially determined?" The answer is most decidedly yes.

More interesting and relevant, I think, is not what this will ultimately do to Pop's gender once it is reveled but what it means for the idea of a genderless society. This is a point of contention within the transexual and transgendered community. Some want to transition and assimilate into their chosen gender and some want to get rid of gender altogether. Either way, living genderless in a gendered society brings up obvious real-life issues: using the bathroom, medical care and all those little things that are so much bigger than trucks vs. dolls. These are all the things that non-trans people don't have to think about but become huge when you're transitioning.

Although I think the Utopian ideal of a genderless society is perhaps interesting, I don't think it sounds like a society I'd like to live in. I like gender, I just don't like the amount of meaning we attach to it. What if gender carried no more meaning than color. What if I wore masculinity today in the same way I wore the color green. Gender is a wonderful, amazing, colorful world and worth exploring and exploding--much too interesting to get rid of altogether.

One day perhaps we'll be able to let children choose their gender. We'll be able to raise boys, girls and everyone else the exact same way. I applaud Pop's parents and think perhaps their experiment will push us in the right direction. Will Pop experience some awkward situations? Of course. We all do as children. I only hope that if Pop decides that Pop is a totally gender conforming girl or boy that Pop's parents will be OK. Sometimes parents get to struggle and push boundaries and sometimes parents have to settle for the fact that their children are decidedly and painfully normal and love them in spite of it.

On the bus

2009-07-07T11:46:00.000-04:00

When I moved outside of walking distance from my job I decided it was time to invest in public transportation. I was immediately surprised when my Transpass was assigned a "F" sticker. The irony of the name was not lost on me, but I was more confused about why this was necessary in the first place. Someone told me it was to prevent people from sharing passes. In true Septa fashion they had managed to deal with what could be a significant problem approximately half of the time.

At this time I was pretty butch, but my chest made me look fairly female. Additionally I realized that all you needed to do was put your finger over the sticker and it would hardly be visible. I never had a problem. Still, the stickers very presence grated on my nerves. During the height of my transition I was living in New York where the Metrocards are decidedly gender neutral. I moved back to Philly and bought tokens so I wouldn't have to deal with a gender specific pass. At the time self-preservation was most important.

Finally, someone is challenging this most backwards and useless of systems. An article in the Philly Weekly brought to light some of the very real instances of discrimination experienced by trans and gendervariant riders. A small grassroots group called Riders Against Gender Exclusion (RAGE) is working with the Citizens Advisory Committee. Additionally, Equality Advocates Pennsylvania have challenged the policy on the grounds that it violates the Equal Protection Clauses in the federal and state constitutions. 

I fully agree that stickers are annoying and in some cases dangerous. Still, for me it is just a bus and tokens are still an option. Then, when i think, "Does a bus pass really matter?" I remember that indeed, it was one woman's bus ride in 1955 that truly changed the world.

Below is a press release sent out by RAGE. For more information or to get involved visit their website or facebook page.

Gendered Pass Policy is “Irrational” SEPTA Committee Says;
First Victory for Riders Opposing Discrimination

SEPTA should eliminate the use of gender stickers in its fare system, decided the Citizens Advisory Committee at its Tuesday night meeting. The Committee unanimously agreed to draft a recommendation to the General Manager Joe Casey for a gender-neutral fare policy.

Several members of the committee voiced their disagreement with the current system that requires the use of M/F stickers on Trans and Trail commuter passes, as well as reduced fare cards for seniors and people with disabilities. The committee chair Bob Clearfield stated that “gender[profiling] has no place in the 21st century,” while others commented that using a gendered system to prevent pass sharing is “irrational” and that there is “no empirical data” to support its use.

Members of the grassroots campaign Riders Against Gender Exclusion (R.A.G.E.) also gave a statement about the implications of this policy on transgender and gender non-conforming people.

R.A.G.E. member Nico Amador cited one incident in which a rider with an androgynous gender presentation was questioned repeatedly by a SEPTA conductor in front of a crowded rush-hour train. “Not only are these incidents embarrassing and degrading for the people who experience them,” said Amador, “they also alert other riders to that person’s difference, exposing them to the risk of further harassment or violence.”

In the past week, R.A.G.E., whose Facebook membership is now over 600 people, has collected almost 400 petition signatures asking the SEPTA General Manager Joe Casey to stop using the gender stickers.

R.A.G.E. member David Conners, who also spoke at Tuesday night’s meeting, said afterwards, “Though we are extremely pleased by the support of the Citizen Advisory Committee, we realize that the final decision is in the hands of the General Manager Joe Casey and we intend to continue to apply pressure to see that this discriminatory policy is stopped.”

Old lesbians who look like men who look like old lesbians...

2009-06-19T14:47:00.000-04:00

I was walking behind this couple today. The person on the left looked like a pretty normal straight woman. On the right was someone with short but thick wavy hair, white sneakers, Dad jeans pulled up a little too high and a navy polo shirt. I immediately thought of one of my favorite websites, Men Who Look Like Old Lesbians. Thinking for sure this man walking in front of me was going to bear a striking resemblance to Billy Jean King, I passed this couple, turned and realized that this man in front of me actually was an old lesbian. An old lesbian that had no doubt been mistaken for a man at some point in her life. An old lesbian that was probably made fun of as a child for being a tom-boy. An old lesbian who, well, looked like an old lesbian. Here I am preparing myself to have a chuckle about the fact that this woman looks exactly like what she is. The irony is fantastic.

Every day gender blurs a little more. Girls look like boys who look like girls. I don't and never have advocated for a gender free society. I think the distinctions between the genders are important and wonderful. However, I'm all for the freedom to take on all those traits at once. Now that I am a man I feel much more comfortable taking on more womanly traits, traits that would have made me ashamed and uncomfortable in a world that saw me as a woman. Sometimes taking our genders full circle is what we need for everything to make sense.

The meaning of our stories

2009-06-04T15:35:00.000-04:00

I've been really struggling with meaning lately. It started on a personal level--what's the point of my work? It snowballed out of control from there. What's the point of any artwork? Is it a commodity? Is it entertainment? It's tough to be an advocate for the art when you're in the throws of an existential crisis where you're not sure you believe in art at all.

The downward spiral continued with wondering what the point of anything was? Why write if no one reads it? Who cares if someone does read it? It got even more ridiculous when I starting thinking things like what's the point of going to the gym? To get healthy, eh? Well, what's the point in getting healthy if we're all going to die eventually anyway? Why spend time with friends? Why drink a beer? Why laugh? Why talk? Why bother? I was close to believing there was little point to anything. My new philosophizing was leading me to a life where one would go through the motions and spent the rest of their time in a dark room staring at a blank wall. I knew something was wrong.

Last time I felt this way I saw an amazing presentation on artists in exile--women in the middle east telling their stories. It pulled me out of my funk and made me realize that art had the roll of communicator, telling a story that isn't otherwise told. I'm trying to remind myself of this now. I'm also trying to remind myself that it is darkest before the dawn. When I had my show in January I could see that the works had meaning for people. This was both energizing and perplexing.

Coming out as gay is community building, I think transitioning is an inherently isolating experience. We may find other transpeople to share the experience with, but for some reason these friendships have always felt oddly competitive. His voice sounds deeper, his arms are more muscular, his facial hair is growing faster. Maybe that's just me. Instead of coming out we are trying to fit in--fit in to our bodies, selves and a community of men. This is something we do alone. The more I "succeed" as a man, the more lonely it begins to feel.

Still, our stories are important--all of our stories. Instead of acting like a three year old and continually asking why I am learning to accept and believe this. The memories that connect us and the stories we tell keep time moving and turn our interactions into something bigger than ourselves. Rather than trying to figure out what that something is (which I think is pretty much impossible), I should just give in and contribute to the story.

Whoa, Baby

2009-05-14T16:44:00.000-04:00

The appearance of Thomas Beatie on the cover of the Philadelphia Weekly's "Queer Issue" a couple weeks ago sparked a whole new wave of feelings, many of which I've been struggling for the past couple weeks to explain. As far as pregnant trans men go, I don't feel so black and white about it as many people I know do. In general I say do what you want to do. Live and let Live. Unfortunately it's so much more complicated than that.

I would personally love to have a baby, but there are concerns beyond just simply wanting to have a child. For one thing, I'm concerned about what the effects of incubating a baby in eggs that have been pickling in testosterone would be. Medical issues aside, however, I don't think that wanting to have a child is an intrinsically female thing. I think more men would choose to have babies if it were genetically possible. In many cases it has been women that have had the strongest reaction to the Pregnant Man story. For some it is a mental misunderstanding of the difference between Gender Identity and Sex making some wonder why he would transition if he wanted to have a baby. I can explain this away with some clarity, but I can't explain away the feelings and resentments that seem to linger.

I do have major issues that go much deeper and are much more complicated than simple medical concerns. Thomas Beatie was all over the news. GLBT groups, many at a loss for how to respond, issued statements criticising the sensationalization in the media, but it can't be ignored that Beatie was the one that put his story out there. Although seemingly mild mannered and "shy," this level of attention can be very addictive. He doesn't seem to have considered the needs of the greater community nor is he conscious of the effect his actions have with regards to social and legal matters. I struggle because I don't want to say that if you don't fit the mainstream queer you should shut up. The mainstream becomes a bigger and bigger stream everyday and a stream I didn't fit in not too long ago.

However, I think it is every queer persons responsibility to manage their visibility responsibly and be conscious of the greater community. I personally got really nervous when he showed up on the cover of the Philly Weekly as I'm waiting for my court date for my legal name and gender change. The Advocate--the first to break the Beatie story--also offered an article on it's potential aftermath for trans advocates. Here's an excerpt, but check out the rest of the article here.

"Some trans activists also note that this story has a high “ick” factor for the general population. The first reactions [author Jamison] Green read online were discouraging. “They wrote ‘disgusting’ or asked, ‘How can someone do that to themselves and think he is a man?’ and worse,” he recalls. “I worry that for the uneducated and less accepting, this brings back the whole ‘freak’ label to transgender people.” When she saw the teaser for the Oprah show, alarm bells went off for Cathy Renna, managing partner of Renna Communications, a New York City–based firm that develops communications strategies for LGBT organizations. “My sense is that this story has all the hallmarks of one that could be easily sensationalized—one that could easily set back some of the improvements that have been made by transgender people,” she says. “Beatie’s article opened the Pandora’s box.”

Think about what happened in 2003 after the Massachusetts supreme judicial court ruled that the state had to allow marriage as an option for gay couples. Other state governments panicked. Twenty-three states amended their constitutions to limit marriage to one man and one woman, joining three that had done so earlier. Some states, such as Michigan, even went further—using their amendment to justify denying health benefits to the gay partners of state employees.

“Generally, with the public and mainstream media we’re still doing Trans 101,” says Renna. “I worry this kind of story will create a whole new level of regulation. Anti-trans groups will use this as ammunition to influence politics to make laws that won’t let trans people make decisions about their own body. I so hope I’m wrong.”

That’s not just negative thinking. In Japan it’s illegal to transition if you’ve already given birth or fathered a child. So far no such law exists in this country, although three states—Idaho, Ohio, and Tennessee—will not allow their transgender citizens to legally change their gender on birth certificates."

It was his appearance on Oprah that partially got me jammed up in Michigan with the Department of Vital Records pointing to his story as a reason I could not change my birth certificate. Still, my court date is probably a couple months away and if Oprah couldn't keep him in the spotlight I doubt PW will. The story already seems to have waned.

But even in its waning, the existence of more and more pregnant men can't be ignored and I know it's an issue many transmen struggle with. I asked one friend about his issues. "I don't know. I guess because it's sooo not something I would want to do and I consider being pregnant very female, in fact. [Also,}] I guess because I've struggled so long to be "accepted" as a "real live boy" that [FTM's getting pregnant] just make it harder for me with the rest of society because automatically people then assume I'm the same as so and so....I don't know. It's not a feeling/thought process I'm particularly proud of but...there it is."

I think most everyone considers being pregnant to be a very female thing, but would we if it didn't have to be that way? I don't know?

I understand why he feels that way and I don't think it's something he needs to be ashamed of. Beatie and others are making it difficult for other trans guys if not simply giving us one more thing in an already long list of things that we, as FTMs, need to explain. For a while I was bombarded with questions about Beatie simply because I am FTM. In many ways, these pregnant men are putting the quotation marks back around the "man" in transman.

However, I can't help but recall butch dykes not being asked to participate in early gay rights marches because they would make the "just like you" approach that lady-like lesbians were going for less effective. It's true that butches upset the mainstream appeal of white collar gays, but the "just like you" approach also doesn't really work in the long run.

I also think there's a definite pendulum swing to transitioning. It's necessary to overswing to really masculine and then you kind of swing back a bit. I don't know if i would have felt differently about Beatie's story in year one of my transition than I do now. I know I am different. I'm a different kind of guy. Lately I have been thinking a lot about reconciling all that makes me a man with everything that makes me different. Trying to be OK with that difference is really hard. It's hard not being in the same queer community, it's hard feeling different, and sometimes jealous, than other guys, it's hard figuring out how to have sex with my parts and not loose that masculinity. I feel like I'm in a back swing right now and it's really disorienting.

Ultimately, masculine is different for everyone--trans and biological guys alike. It doesn't have to be macho. A masculine swing could be whatever your version of masculinity is. If being a man for you always meant not having to wear a shirt in the summer than maybe you never wear your shirt in the summer. Then you eventually realize that all guys have to wear a shirt sometimes in the summer. Topless on the subway is not very classy as I was totally disappointed to learn.

I'm sure the Beatie stuff will all shake out in the wash and ultimately be good for the movement. I'm also sure that some people will be hurt in the process. I'm more interested in the internal dialogue that this could spark for the trans community. When so much of transitioning is about feeling "normal" for the first time in our lives, any threat to that can be really unsettling. Still, it's the freaks and outsiders that have changed the world. Personally I really wish Thomas Beatie would just shut up and go away, but publicly I'll defend his right to exist no matter how much I cringe while doing so.

When I grow up...

2009-03-27T15:44:00.000-04:00

When I was a kid I had small dreams. I wanted to work in either the 1 hour photo-mat booth in the K-Mart parking lot or collect tolls on the Chicago Skyway. I clearly had a thing for small, enclosed, glass spaces. I think I also kind of liked the idea of not really having to interact with too many people. This was a time when gender, identity and personal fulfillment didn't really matter. A job was a place you went to every day so you could "bring home the bacon" as my dad called his daily trip to the office.

As I got older my plans got bigger. For a while I wanted to be an astronaut. I even went to Space Camp twice. Then I realized I'd probably have to join the military and that idea kind of fell by the wayside. I thought about medicine, but I had a AP Bio teacher I couldn't have followed if I was chained to his ass, didn't do very well in the class and gave up on that idea.

Around the time I was applying to college I was also realizing I was queer. Colleges were picked as much on their population of queer students as they were on academic programs. I was consumed with discovering myself and finding a place I felt safe enough to do so. Picking a major was secondary. I was relatively good at everything I tried so the decision was based more on feeling. Psychology interested me, social theory and anthropology informed me, but it was through art that I was able to really focus on my identity, my relationships and who I wanted to become.

This is not a post about the wonderful and healing power of art though. Although I am sure I learned a lot about myself and am a more well adjusted person because of it, I now find that I have absolutely no idea what I really want to do with my life. When I really get down to it, what I really wanted to become when I grew up was a man. I've done that for the most part. Suddenly I feel like I'm in a kind of transitioning hangover.

In undergrad I used art to study what it meant to myself and my relationships to be a masculine female who loved other women. In grad school I spent two years recording and documenting my transition to manhood. Both of these endeavors got me to where I wanted to be in life, but now that I'm there I don't know what to do next.

I don't regret my decisions, per se, but a part of me wonders if I should have stuck with psychology or science or math or something that would have pushed me into an obvious career path with the possibility of actually making some money.

Transitioning can sometimes feel like a full-time job, but instead of getting paid you are the one putting out the big bucks. You spend all your energy watching, learning, experiencing and trying to understand yourself. The rest of your time and money goes to hormones and surgery and doctors and lawyers just to make your body and your documents fit the person you are in your soul. As much as you look forward to the end, sometimes the end can feel really empty and disorienting. Most people spend there teens figuring out who they are while I faked being someone I wasn't. While all of my friends were spending their 20's figuring out what they wanted to be, I spent them figuring out who I really was.

I don't think that my transition will ever be finished. It will always be something I am aware of, learning about and studying. But it no longer takes the time and energy of a full time job. Sadly, as few jobs as there are out there for artists, there are even fewer for professional FTM's. Even if there where, I'm not sure I'd want that job. It's too bad, too. I've studied all my life for it.

A Boy Named Sue (or in this case Elizabeth)

2009-03-18T14:11:00.000-04:00

The act of changing my name and identity documents is a giant pain in the ass. It's been something that I have been admittedly reluctant to do--not because I don't want it done, but because I am angry that I have to deal with it at all. Not only is it wildly expensive (and getting more expensive by the day thanks to a giant increase on court fees), but there are also seemingly hundreds of little steps that must be completed. These must all be completed in order, on time, and of course they generally cost money.

One of these steps is getting a set of fingerprints taken. The assumption is that if you're changing your name for any reason other than marriage than you must be doing it for fraudulent purposes. Attaching a fingerprint card to your name change papers allows your identity remains fluid even as your name changes.

Fingerprinting is one of the less expensive steps of changing your name--it costs about $25. I got mine taken at a strange little place on the corner of 2nd and Chestnut in Old City Philadelphia. Of course, you must bring ID such as a drivers license or passport--the very ID you are trying to change. I walked in, said I needed a set of fingerprints and placed both my drivers license and credit card on the counter. My license says the name Elizabeth, my credit card says Eli. "Getting your name changed?" the man behind the counter asks. I was surprised at how trans-savvy he was and said yes. "Eli is way better, man. I mean, what were your parents thinking naming you Elizabeth? Is that your mom's name or something?" Realizing he missed the glaring "Female" on my license, I simply stammer "It was my grandma's name."

"Aw man, that's awful. How could your parents do that? You definitely need to get that changed. Definitely." I agree that it was a cruel joke, but don't tell him that it wasn't my parents fault. They didn't know. It was more an unfortunate twist of fate.

A Clear Conscious

2009-02-19T11:15:00.001-05:00

I have always lived my life with a great degree of self-consciousness. I don't mean the "OMG, I'm so fat" shallow kind of self consciousness. I mean the deep down, every moment consciousness of my self. I think about things every moment of every day. I am hyper aware of things most people take for granted.

I am conscious of my body: it's masculinity, its female parts. I'm conscious in the locker room at the gym of the scars on my chest and the lack of a bulge in my shorts. I'm conscious of the hair on my stomach and how it helps me pass.

I'm conscious of my bodies size, it's shape. I am conscious of not fitting places. Of not wanting to sit in a booth at a diner or go to a small, crowded restaurant because I will not be able to get between the tables without disrupting other patrons.

I am self conscious about the sound my piss makes when I use the bathroom. Do other guys notice that I don't use the urinals. Do they hear that I'm sitting down to pee?

I'm self conscious about sex. I don't have a dick. My body can't have the kind of sex my mind wants to have.

I am self conscious about my artwork. Every time I finish a major project, I think I will never have another good idea. I am self conscious of what I am working on now, about whether or not is important enough, whether or not it is meaningful. I am self conscious about the work other artists are doing. Am I conceptual enough? Am I smart enough? Do I care enough? Is this really important?

Lately I've been experiencing the constant feeling of identity consciousness. I don't mean the grandiose concept of identity. I mean literal identity documents. Last week I had to get a new social security card. I haven't legally changed my name yet. I have a New York License which says "Elizabeth." My birth certificate says the same. This doesn't bother me so much. When I got the license I was Elizabeth. Same when I was born. But filling out the forms now, writing the name Elizabeth and checking the female box made my heart hurt. I was conscious of what I was and what I wasn't. I was once again aware of my body. I pulled my sleeves down so my arm hair wasn't visible. I limited my speaking so my low voice wasn't so obvious. I kept my jacket on so my flat chest wouldn't be noticed. I went backwards.

The woman behind the counter looked at my documents, said "Elizabeth?", did a slight double take, shook her head and stamped my forms. I received my Social Security card ten days later in the mail. Today I went to the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation to get a PA drivers license. I woke up this morning and almost backed out, but forced myself to brave the scrutiny for the second time in as many weeks. I got there and realized that transgenderism aside, I was perhaps the most normal person in the building. I could fill out a form, I could write a check, I didn't talk to myself, I didn't seem crazy, I could get a license. Self-consciously, I responded to Elizabeth, checked the box marked Female, and walked out with a valid ID. My identity may not have been validated, but at least I learned that every so often I can let go of my self consciousness. Maybe it was like coming out, maybe I was simply ignored. Either way, sometimes people simply don't care.

Explicit Content?

2009-02-18T12:19:00.000-05:00

Remember when Ellen came out on her sitcom? Remember how such a basic act earned her a parental warning? Probably the tamest, cleanest TV show on television and it got a warning that it contained explicit content. That was over 10 years ago. I had hoped things had changed.

I have long been a fan of Law and Order in all its forms. I have religiously watched Law and Order SVU since its inception. Some are a bit boring, some a bit over the top and some are downright excessive. But I had never before seen a warning for explicit content until last night. The story went like this--there is an attempted murder of a repo man in a strip-club parking lot. Benson and Stabler eventually meet the man's estranged wife and his 13-year-old transgendered child who becomes the prime suspect. The trans guy from the L Word makes an appearance as well as some other trans folks.

I think the story line was good and for the most part very sensitive. The only fault I give them is trying to fit too much in the episode. My question is--What's the deal with the parental warning??? I've seen date rape and sexual abuse graphically depicted on this show. Certain scenes have made me change the channel or look away, and this was tame in comparison.

Check out this interview about the making of the episode. Although I might make a few changes to TV Guide's language, I am pleased to see Law and Order doing such decent background research. This is an episode I would have consumed with every fiber of my being had I seen it when i was a kid. Although I am pleased to see a show talking about these issues in a fairly normal and straightforward way, I am saddened to know that NBC considers this explicit. Although things have certainly changed in the past ten years, it remains a fact that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Upcoming Exhibition

2008-12-19T15:31:00.001-05:00

Dear Friends, Please join me:
Eli J. VandenBerg: Prints and Drawings
Opening Reception: January 9, 2009, 6-8pm
The William Way GLBT Community Center
1315 Spruce Street, Philadelphia, PA
Work will be on view January 5 – February 27, 2009
On view will be prints and drawings from the last five years including work from the Passing Series, Body in Progress and brand new images of Philadelphia from the Place and Home series. Please email me for more information or send me your address if you'd like to receive a postcard for the show.

Gay for Obama

2008-10-22T10:45:00.000-04:00

I ordered an Obama sticker online. After much deliberation I went with "GLBT for Obama." I actually thought twice about ordering it. I felt almost disgusted with myself. I used to be such a proud and outspoken queer person. I had rainbow stickers on my car and although I gave up the rainbow jewelry and freedom rings when I hit my twenties, there was still no mistaking that i was a dyke. Then i transitioned. When you transition it almost feels like you're being shoved back in the closet, sometimes against your own will. If you look like a dyke you will not look like a man. If you present as queer you will not pass as straight. I struggled to reconcile these feelings, but still transitioned very much in the open. Then i returned to Philadelphia and although many knew me from before, so many people knew me only as Eli that I could slip so easily into just being a man.

Drawing attention to my transness brings up obvious base concerns. What will my neighbors thing? What will they think of me, what will they think of Anna? On one side they're very Catholic, on the otherside they're raging conservative christians (with McCain signs and stickers all over their house, which started this bumper sticker shopping in the first place). I hate that these concerns creep into my mind, but i have spent so long feeling uncomfortable in my own body. I do not want to feel uncomfortable in my own neighborhood or home. I hate being reminded of all the awkward fear and hyperawareness that i felt when i first came out over ten years ago. I want to be open and out, but even beyond these concerns there's something inherently different between being an out dyke and an out FTM.

When i was open about being a dyke i was allowing, sometimes forcing people to see who i really was. When i come out as trans there is a fear that people will see what i am not. I fear that they will look closer at me trying to find the woman in my past, that that they will look at me and say "I never would have guessed you're woman," forcing me to remind them that i am not. There is so much emphasis put on passing and when you come out as trans you in some ways cease to succeed in what could be considered the most important part of transitioning--presenting as your chosen gender.

I still bought the sticker. I still put it on my bike. Nothing has happened, no one has said anything and i doubt that anyone will. Sometimes it's just as important to remind yourself as it is to remind others of who you are and where you came from.

The power of truth

2008-10-18T11:59:00.001-04:00

I have to rent a car. What should be a completely mundane task is wrought with anxiety for me. I haven't changed my ID yet. I know I should have taken care of this a long time ago, but I didn't. It's a lot of time, a lot of money and a whole lot of hassle. In my every day life I am honestly not that affected. I do still look like my ID picture for the most part. It's the name Elizabeth and the glaring "F" that cause the problems.

I try to get myself psyched up for the confrontation, but avoid it at all costs. I carefully shave in the morning and put on baggy clothing. I even honestly consider trying to make it look like I have breasts. These parts of me that I spent a lifetime trying to pretend weren't there I am now trying to hint at. Imply breasts to prevent an even more awkward situation.

One time a few years ago, I presented my ID. The woman at the counter examined me and the license carefully. I was then asked to sit down. A few moments later I hear them call "ELIZABETH?" I turn and walk deliberately back to the counter. A second woman turns to the first and says, "See, that's Elizabeth. She answered."

A second time I made it into the car fine, but had to show ID again to get out of the parking lot. The attendant had apparently just gotten yelled at for not checking ID's well enough. She wasn't taking any chances with me. She looked at the ID, looked at me and said "This isn't you." I stammered that it was. "No. It's not. This is a woman's ID."

I choked on the words. "I know. I am Elizabeth." I wondered why on earth anyone would believe that if I wanted to steal an ID I wouldn't just take a man's. Finally, after considerable back and forth, after trying to ignore that my identification didn't match who I was anymore, I decided to take a chance on the truth. "I was Elizabeth. I was a woman. Now I am a man. I haven't changed my Driver's License yet." She looked at me. Looked closer at my picture. Saw hints of the man now was in the face on that picture.

"I am so sorry." She began gushing. "I am really really sorry. I just got yelled at by my boss and I just..." she went on an on, apologizing for something which I could not blame her for. I would have questioned me too.

WHAT WILL YOUR PARENTS SAY...

2008-10-09T13:31:00.001-04:00

I've been blessed with parents who not only accepted my transition, but wanted to take this journey with me. I think sometimes we forget that for our parents it isn't just a matter of accepting but they are coming out as well. In my case it was telling everyone in the small town I grew up in that they now had a son when before they had two daughters. Its a complex road full of twists and turns that seem to sneak up on you when you least expect them.

My parents recently told their story in their church. My sister said that some people even stayed through he second service to hear it again. I asked them to send it to me and as long as they approve I will post that as well.

Note: Parts of this story may have been recycled into "Living my Legacy" which was also posted here so if pieces sound familiar, forgive me.

In May my mom came to New York. I would be visiting the doctor for the first time to investigate hormone replacement therapy and I wanted her to be there. It wasn’t anything as metaphoric as my mom being present at my birth as a girl and re-birth as a boy. Rather, she had been there when I broke my leg, she had been there when I got my first and second set of stitches, she was there for my first visit to the GYN appointment and it seemed only natural that she be here for this. She arrived at my house and we immediately opened a bottle of wine. What began as idle conversation had, by the third glass of wine, turned to tears. I didn’t know how to explain to my mom, who had tried to raise me to be a proud woman, that I had made the decision to become her son. She was supportive and respectful, but also sad. She cried for the childhood she felt I had lost and she cried for the woman I would never become. “Your dad and I are just mourning. It feels like a loss.” These words stayed with me long after they were uttered. I suppose I understood what they were feeling, but I didn’t want to acknowledge it. Doing so would have meant that a part of me was dying and for the first time I had begun to feel truly alive.

The next day my girlfriend Anna arrived from Philadelphia and we all went to the doctor together. I stayed quiet during the visit and let my mom and Anna ask the questions. A form was passed around that listed possible side effects, everything from acne to death. They asked a few questions about the drug’s safety but not what was really on both of their minds. That was a question that the doctor could not answer. I knew they were thinking was, “Does he really have to do this?“
I tried to treat the rest of the day like a vacation for my mom, but this just wasn’t possible. The two women that care about me the most had spent the morning asking questions about whether or not testosterone would kill me. Suddenly becoming a tourist was out of the question. We ended the day with dinner in SoHo, not talking about what was on all of our minds. Anna was scared, my mom was concerned and I was exhausted. I knew they were thinking about the risks and whether it was worth it. Hormones had been my plan for months, but for them it had only been a reality for a few hours. I wouldn’t have been able to defend my choice if asked, I would have only begun crying. Thankfully, both these women knew me well enough not to ask. They allowed me the comfort of talking about books, school, art, and the food on our plates.

On Sunday my mom left, but told me she wanted my dad to come visit. She said that after twenty-five years I finally seemed comfortable in my own skin. She wanted my dad to see this. So, in August my dad flew from Michigan and I met him at my front door. He did a slight double take before hugging me explaining later that he expected to see me with a full beard after being on testosterone for only two months. I didn’t tell him I had run home expecting whiskers after only two hours. Clearly neither of us knew what to expect. The next day we boarded the subway and road to the West Village where we rode the elevator up eleven floors to see my therapist. I needed to say some things to him that I wasn‘t sure I could without the help of a mediator and the motivation of paying $100 an hour. All the effort I had made that summer to keep them updated on my progress seemed oddly unimportant to them. The weekly phone calls as my voice changed, the photos, the stories about my new support group, it all seemed so common to them. A daughter becoming a son is not an everyday occurrence. It’s hard to learn a new name when you worked so hard to choose the first one. It’s hard to know what to do with the memories of a daughter when he’s creating new memories as a son. Things felt like they were changing every moment of every day, and there they were all the way in Michigan. Why weren’t they struggling like I was? Why didn’t they feel as unbalanced and turned around and spit out as I did? “Well what would you like me to do?“ he asked. “I don’t want to question your decisions or make you think I don’t love you and respect what you are doing.” A loss of respect wasn’t what I was afraid of--it was loneliness. I needed them. I needed to feel confused and scared and excited with people who knew me and not just what I was becoming. Mom, him, my sister, and Anna were the only people close enough to me to really experience this transition the same way I was. I needed them to see me as I changed even if I was five states and 750 miles away.

Before he left I asked a favor of my dad which turned out to be the more difficult than any other part of my transition. I asked for a picture of his chest. I wanted my nipples to look like they would if I had been born his son. “Honey, I love you, but that’s a little too weird.” He could not forget the female chest in front of him. “I don’t think I can look at you with your shirt off and think ‘that’s where my nipples are,’” He paused and sighed. “I’ll think about it.” It wasn’t the changes in my body that concerned him as much as the relationship they suddenly had to his. I was beginning to inhabit a body like his. Eventually he would see me with my shirt off for the first time since puberty and seeing his body reflected in mine was maybe too much. Still, he would think about it. That was all I was asking for.
In November we all traveled to Washington to share the holiday with my mom’s family. Surrounded by extended family my dad turned to me, patted my hand and said, “Honey, it’s still a little weird for me, but if you want a picture of my nipples you can have that.” What began as a routine holiday dinner became a most intimate moment between father and son. Not only had he offered me his chest, he had done it in front of the entire family.

In December I asked my mom if she could take the picture of my dad’s chest and bring it with her to my surgery. She arrived in January two days before my consultation with the surgeon and told me he just couldn’t do it. “He tried, he really did, but it was just too weird for him.” That was ok. I would have to leave my nipples up to fate. Surgery would create a piece of me. I needed to accept the stitches and the scars however my body saw fit. This recreation was not something I could control. My parents had no control over the daughter they gave birth to, and in two days we would travel to Baltimore to create the son I always was.

Memories, cornered in my mind...

2008-09-05T12:05:00.000-04:00

I spent the evening last night remembering my transition. I told all the great stories that had become lodged in my psyche, moments of awkward humor or brilliant awakening. In some ways I had meticulously recorded my transition, but, like all records, it was a record of things I wanted to remember. As the evening wore on, however, I began to recall moments that has just slipped away. I began to wonder about those moments that I simply didn’t want to recall. Moments that were so defeating and heartbreaking at the time that I didn’t think I would ever want to go back to them. We all remember those times when we begin to pass, but what about all the times we don’t.

Here I am years later being asked questions by two people that, together, provide my perfect combination of feigned confidence and total anxiety. I see myself in both of them so clearly that anxieties and fears I totally forgotten come rushing back. Some stories I’m learning are somewhat universal, moments that many if not all transmen share. Others are stories I keep hearing, stories that seem to be universal to everyone but me. Seemingly more common are the feelings--feelings of guilt, shame, awkwardness, annoyance, anger, fear, pride and bravado.

So, in the interest of full disclosure, here are some memories that at the time I probably preferred to forget…

I had decided to transition, I had decided to make art about it and that seemed to be the end of it. Nothing was happening. I didn’t know what to make work on, I didn’t look any different, but I went from a confident dyke to a terrified and nervous nothing. Maybe I wasn’t trying hard enough. Maybe if I only put a little effort into it something would begin to happen. If you knew me then you knew I had D breasts. I didn’t bind. It wasn’t because it was uncomfortable or hot or suffocating, though it certainly was all those things, it was that it didn’t work. I would have gladly turned my breasts into deflated pancakes if I though it would make me look like a man. It turns out that I passed more often when I didn’t bind. The minute I put on a binder my stomach turned into knots and any eye contact I made with the world took on a dear in headlights terror. This fear took away any masculinity I may have gained by a flat chest. Still, I kept going back to it. I wasn’t trying hard enough. I woke up that morning and decided to bind. Anna and I were going into Manhattan and I was going to be a man. I got out of the shower and with Anna’s help, began wrapping more and more fabric around my chest. A sports bra, ace bandages, another sports bra, an undershirt and then a sweater. It was the tightest I’d ever gotten things and I thought I looked good. I couldn’t breath, sit normally, walk normally or really talk, but surely I must look like a man. The entire subway ride into the city I was feeling alright. My eyes darted from face to face looking for any acknowledgement of my masculinity. The next stop was lunch—my first interaction with another human. The first words out of his mouth—“can I help you, ma’am?” I wanted to cry. I didn’t say anything trying to decide in that split second if I should correct him, trying to force myself to say “actually, it’s sir.” Instead all I could choke out through my constricted chest was “one slice of plain.”

I hoped the old wives tale was actually true—that when you shaved a hair a darker one grew back in its place. Before I took a drop of testosterone I was going to try to coax a beard out of my fair skin with shaving cream and a disposable razor. I went to the dollar store by my house in Brooklyn. I picked out some shaving cream from the shelf, but the razors were behind the counter. I gathered all my courage and asked for a bag of razors. The Dominican man behind the counter looked closely at me and then said “for your face?” Yes, I told him, thinking I had finally passed. “You don’t look Puerto Rican,” he tells me as he turns and grabbed a pink bag from the wall. I wrinkled my brow, not following. As he tossed the razors on the counter he explained that these were the best for ladies faces. Easy on the skin. All his customers prefer them. He didn’t think I was a man but a Puerto Rican lady trying to get rid of my feminine mustache. “I’m not Puerto Rican,” I said, affecting the lowest voice I could muster. I left before he could recommend a woman’s shaving cream.

And finally (for today)…
You know how annoying 13 year old boys can be? I Was That Annoying. The great thing for these kids is that they have no idea just how obnoxious they are, but when you have the mind of an adult and the hormone levels of a child you unfortunately know better. Even worse, there is nothing you can do to stop it. I was passing most of the time so I no longer had this look of terror frozen on my face. I was no longer spending all my energy trying to be a man, but belong. It was non-stop over compensation. This need to be a man, need for the approval of my peers, approval of girls, approval of adult men and although I saw myself as a train wreck in slow motion, there was nothing I could do to stop my hormonal wrangling not for king of the hill, but for a spot somewhere along the side of it. I would push a bit too hard, talk a bit too loud, and my jokes were a bit too inappropriate. I totally wanted to pee on things. I got drunk and spray-painted something (I have no idea what) on the side of a bodega. If I thought I could get away with body checking everyone on the subway I would have. I wanted to be a man, but as annoying as I was, I had to be a boy first.

india recognizes third gender!

2008-08-25T00:06:00.000-04:00

I wouldn't have expected India to be such a trend setter. little did i know...

this is taken from The Inda Times

So far Pooja, a 25-year-old transsexual from Salem in Tamil Nadu, had nothing to prove her existence in government records because she had refused to be identified as either a male or a female, the only two options available in the gender column of the application forms.

Finally, the state has recognized her as an individual and given her a ration card where the sex column is marked T instead of M or F.

The step by Tamil Nadu's civil supplies department marks the first time that authorities anywhere in India have recognised the group. In Tamil Nadu alone, where transsexuals like Pooja started getting ration cards on Thursday, it would allow the estimated 40,000 members of the community to identify themselves as a third gender.

This endorses the community's alternative gender status and allows them to avail of government welfare schemes without being forced to present themselves as males or females.

"It's a move to support these marginalized people. They exist and we cannot ignore them. We have to accept them as third gender," said social welfare minister Poongothai Aladi Aruna, a gynaecologist herself.

"We started with ration cards because it was the simplest thing to do. Other documents such as passports and voter identity cards will involve policy decisions of the Centre."

LIVING MY LEGACY

2008-08-02T14:17:00.000-04:00

Summer is all about the reality show and realizing your dreams. I see these talent shows and hear people tell their gut wrenching stories about how they've given up everything to follow their dream of being a musician, dancer or fire eater. How they've sacrificed and toiled because this is the only thing they want. Then I think about my own life--what do I want more than anything? For a while I was really feeling down because I couldn't come up with anything. I started to feel passionless. Then I realized that it wasn't that I didn't have a dream, but rather that my dreams had been realized. Ever since I can remember I've wanted to have a partner that I love and care about, own a home of my own and, most importantly, to become a man. Over the past few years I've attained all these things. It's not that I have no dreams, it's that I simply have to dream up some new ones.

Below is a story chronicling the ups, downs and ultimate wonder that my dreams of transitioning could become a reality.

When I move to New York I will become a man. This is what I kept telling myself. Passing had been on my mind for over a year, but the thought of transitioning in Philadelphia where I had spent the last five years was simply too daunting. I though Harry Benjamin‘s Care Guidelines were hard and fast rules. The thought of living as my “chosen gender” for at least a year before I could even be considered for top surgery and hormones terrified me. I tried to learn ways of passing by joining a drag king troupe, but the only thing I liked about being on stage in drag was that I looked like a man while doing it. Inserting this masculine look into the rest of my life without the dim lights of the bar achieved only a few odd stares and a friend asking me why my boobs looked “kinda smushed.” How would I tell my friends and co-workers I was now a boy when I couldn’t even convince a stranger? Unassisted manhood would have to wait until I left.

For the first time since undergrad I would be entering an entirely new world where I didn‘t know anyone. I wanted the transition to be immediate. I wanted to bind my breasts and answer to a boy’s name. I hoped everyone could just assume that I had always been the man I now claimed to be. Unfortunately it was not that easy. I went to bed ready to bind my breasts the next morning. I woke up unable to do just that. I told myself it was because of the temperature. “It’s August. You can’t begin regular breast binding in August.“ Really, it was that I thought I could never pull it off. No one would believe I was a man. I‘d just be the sweaty dyke with “kinda smushed“ boobs that couldn‘t breath. I’d also enrolled under the name Elizabeth, not knowing I could do anything else. With every building I went to and every form I filled out, I had to say this name. By the third time of repeating a name I couldn’t identify with, all the bravado I had taken with me to New York had drained from my body. I was standing on the steps of South Hall when one of my new classmates asked me my name. “B-“ slipped from my mouth before I could stop myself. I choked on “-etsy” and went home feeling defeated.

This defeat was really self-prescribed. At every necessity to passing I had placed a road block in my path. I hadn’t chosen a name, much less used it on enrollment records, I wouldn’t bind for fear of looking stupid, and most importantly I had a hard time believing I really was a man. If I couldn’t believe in my manhood I could not expect it from anyone else. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t physically ready to safely walk through life as a man who may not always look so “manly.“ I wasn’t mentally ready to defend my chosen gender which was questioned at every pass. I wasn’t emotionally ready to deal with those who didn’t believe in my manhood, and most importantly I wasn’t spiritually ready to stop feeling apologetic for who I was. I still though it was my problem that I didn’t look like a man, that it was my fault I was challenging others to stretch their minds around gender past what they understood it to be.

I began to realize the every day, unexpected practical challenges of becoming a man—moments where I was forced to make split second decisions as if I’ve lived them my whole life. Saying my name when I wasn‘t even sure what it should be, that moment’s hesitation before I chose what public restroom to use, filling out paperwork and feeling like I was required to check male or female when neither of these was really accurate; all of these mundane things became high stakes decisions. Every time I checked “Female” on a form I felt that much further away from becoming a man. Every time I wrote my name I lost a little bit of myself.

I finally gathered the courage to change my name. As much as I wanted it to, changing the name and pronouns people used to refer to me was not something I could subtly accomplish. I didn’t want to choose a name, my parents were supposed to do that for me. I didn’t want to tell people to use male pronouns, that was supposed to happen naturally. I didn’t want to be aware of my transition. I just wanted to have always been a man. I felt bad for asking something of people that I was certain they had never encountered before in their lives. Even the most sensitive of people needed to hear from my own mouth, “I am becoming a boy and changing my name to Eli. Please refer to me with male pronouns.” Most people needed to hear this more than once. A name isn’t just a name. It is the sound that is immediately connected with your person and knowing this made it hard to ask someone to change and even harder to correct them. Thankfully I was surrounded by people that wouldn’t listen to my apologies, they simply kept trying. Some asked what name I wanted them to call me, some needed to be told. Some waited for me to tell them to use male pronouns, some just started on their own. Everyone respected my decision.
Still, I was struggling. After six months of thinking about transitioning, the pressure to actually do something finally became too much. I showed up in the nurse’s office in January crying and shaking, begging for refills on my anti-depressants. She asked if I’d ever considered therapy. I nodded, glad she had asked, and was ushered into a serene, light blue room across the hall. While the noise machine hummed outside the door my new therapist Jennifer kindly asked me my name. I told her I didn’t know.

“People have started calling me Eli,” I said quietly.

“Is that what you’d like me to call you,” she asked?

“I guess,” she waited expectantly. “Yes,” I concluded, “Call me Eli.” She nodded and wrote my name on my chart. I had done it. I had finally made a decision and was beginning to take control of my life.

Together we worked on how to live with the most honesty possible. I knew I always wanted top surgery, but I was concerned about hormones. The health risks were a part of this concern but I was more worried about becoming just another straight, white male. I was scared of loosing the community that had made me the person I was. I didn’t want to loose the feeling of pride in walking down the street as a open queer person. My politics as a feminist and my personal identity seemed to be in conflict until Jennifer finally asked me, “What do you expect to see when you look in the mirror?“

“A flat chest and facial hair,“ I said without hesitation. That was when I knew that I needed to start hormones.

I had my first shot in June of 2004. After leaving the doctor I went to get sushi at a small takeout stand in a hallway between a laundry-mat at an apartment building on west 17th street. As I ate my avocado roll I waited for my first surge of manhood. The photos of the smiling Japanese owners on their trip to the Vatican stared back at me while the radio in the back room whined grainy hymns accompanied by a thumping bass beat from the dryers no more than twenty feet away. While I chewed, I waited for my whiskers to grow and my womanly body to fade away. When I opened my front door two hours later I went straight to the bathroom and inspected my face. Nothing. Not a glimmer of a hair, much less a five o’clock shadow. Nothing had changed. There would be plenty of time to become the man I wanted to be.

When I had begun seeing Jennifer I told her that within the next year I wanted to have top surgery, and just short of a year later, January 11, 2005, I went to Baltimore for chest reconstructive surgery. Something that the year before was just a dream I never believed could be a reality had actually come true. I woke up in the recovery room and looked down at my body. For the first time I saw the body I had always seen in my mind.

The most remarkable thing about all the doctors and therapists I have seen is that I was never asked to explain myself. I never had to prove my manhood. I was in the midst of a dichotomy between a medical profession that had seen this all before and a community of people that were struggling to understand me. In retrospect I wouldn’t have even known how to explain myself. I wouldn’t have been able to prove anything to anyone. Everything felt uncertain. I finally realized I couldn’t know for sure until I took the leap to start transitioning. I thought critically of each and every decision I made along the way. My most difficult critic proved to be myself. Once I had accepted the decisions I was making and the person I was becoming, my community, both medical and social, supported me in living my reality.

At some point in my childhood I had seen something on TV about sex changes. I was young and naive and thought maybe things would just be ok. I could go to the doctor, get the penis I seemed to be missing and restart my life as a boy. When I told my parents I wanted to be a boy at nine years old I realized from the looks on their faces that it wasn’t that easy. Now, seventeen years later it still isn’t that easy, but it is possible. It hadn’t been since puberty that I could spend a summer without my shirt on. I’ll have to wait a while longer to pee standing up. Still, what was a dream at nine is becoming a reality at twenty-six. That thought still amazes me.

A Series of Questions Photo Project

2008-07-19T14:09:00.000-04:00

I was recently made aware of a photo project currently looking for volunteers. It looks like it could be a really wonderful project and I appreciate the artists intent to examine trans and gender issues without exploiting the subjects. I personally am interested in participating and I encourage any other trans folks out there to do the same.

“A Series of Questions” is a photo project exploring the power dynamics inherent in the questions asked of transgender, transsexual, genderqueer, gender-variant, and/or gender non-conforming people. Participants are photographed holding a sign upon which is written a question they have been asked. The questions are then turned on the viewer, shifting the dynamics under which they were originally asked, forming a larger series of questions which many of the people photographed face as a part of their daily lives.

Many documentary photographic works dealing with trans* issues and gender exploit the genders of these subjects, pointing to an “otherness” or inappropriately exoticizing; this body of work seeks to instead point to the transphobia, genderphobia, and gender-baiting that can become part of everyday interactions and lives, forming a more full picture of the various lived experiences."

Politics and the Popularity Contest

2008-06-25T11:56:00.000-04:00

From "The Onion"

Grandmother Proud To Have Lived Long Enough To See First Viable Female Candidate Torn Apart
June 16, 2008 Issue 44•25

PEORIA, IL—Seventy-six-year-old grandmother Anita Graney told reporters Monday that she was "overwhelmed with pride" for having lived to see the first viable female presidential candidate in the nation's history so successfully run into the ground by vicious media attacks and hubristic, arrogant miscalculations. "Hillary [Clinton] showed America that a woman can be politically destroyed just as completely and heartbreakingly as any man," said Graney, a lifelong feminist. "What an amazing example for today's young women who aspire to fail spectacularly at the highest levels." Graney expressed hope that one of her granddaughters might someday be the first woman to get utterly eviscerated in a nationwide general election.

The Primaries are finally over. They have been over in Pennsylvania for some months. Certainly, most are thrilled that it’s over, but I can’t help but feel disappointed at the outcome. This has nothing to do with the potential abilities of Senator Obama. In fact, during the Pennsylvania Primary I’ll be the first to admit that I found his advertisements a bit intoxicating. I found his speeches inspiring when often times I found Clinton’s speeches would somehow make me cringe. Cringe because she sounds annoying, cringe because she sounds petty, cringe because I know she didn’t really mean it that way. She’s like a really old, dear friend that you try to introduce to your new “cool” group of friends and you keep feeling the need to apologize for her.

Still, in spite of all this cringing I still believe that she is the better candidate. I’ve long believed that the best presidents are also probably the worst campaigners. By this same token, some of the best campaigners make really awful presidents. George W. is a prime example of this.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am completely confident that Obama will perform better than W., but I’m also confident that most anyone could perform better than W. I’ve discussed this campaign a lot with my mom, a strong, smart second wave feminist, and found that we both share this somewhat surprising intense feeling of sadness. What I fail to understand is how she got pegged as “the Washington machine” and he became this voice of inspiration. I remember listening to the Slate Political Gabfest and hearing them talk about the Super Delegates. This was just before the PA primaries and everyone was talking about how maybe, just maybe, if Hillary won by a big enough margin then maybe, just maybe the Super Delegates would decide she was the better candidate and give her the push she needed to get the nomination. As this conversation wore on Emily Bazelon (who always sounded to me like she really liked Hillary, but was embarrassed to say so) said that she just thought it would be a very bad political move for these Super Delegates to essentially take the nomination away from “the first viable African American candidate” and give it to Clinton.

Maybe I was sleeping for a few years, but when have we ever had a viable female candidate? When did the first woman president become less important than the first black male president? Clinton may have been involved in politics for a very long time, but I happen to think that can be a good thing. She spent her entire campaign on the defensive and the press counted her a looser before she even had a chance to play. All her supporters seemed to melt away as she no longer looked like the “cool” candidate, with only Tom Brokaw coming to her defense. Even just the fact that she is referred to by her first name and Obama by his last seems to imply some subtle underlying sexism.

Hillary Clinton came to Pennsylvania. She sent her daughter to Woody’s (a local gay bar) while Obama called the most famous lesbian he knew (Melissa Etheridge) and had her call in. Clinton may not always connect with the people, but at least she tried to do it in person. Obama settles for flashy TV adds and had Shepard Fairy make inspiring posters, allowing the "cool kids" to make his case with him. I know I sound angry, and I am.

I don’t mean to digress. I get it. She lost. Obama won. I know I’ll vote for him come November considering the alternative, but I just can’t wrap my heart around being an Obama supporter just yet. As a final thought I just want you to ask yourself why being against Barak Obama or even simply for Hillary Clinton made you a secret racist or working class stoop while everyone could freely rail on Hillary Clinton’s every move and no one was accused of being a raging sexist.

From The Chicago Tribune’s June 25 article Devil in a pantsuit or the demonization of Hillary Clinton

When the doctor checks to see if the patient is still breathing, it's disgust, not compassion, that leaks out between his syllables: "You couldn't kill her with an ax," he sneers.That patient—the wide-hipped, unwieldy woman at the heart of Dorothy Parker's 1929 short story "Big Blonde"—is a familiar image in books, films, songs, comic books, TV series, video games and, now, politics: The woman as monster. The over-large, over-ambitious, overbearing creature who irritates everybody, the death-defying witch who just won't go away—and who therefore must be destroyed.She's a vampire, a zombie, an alien, a werewolf, a psychopath, a serial killer. She's Alex, the Glenn Close character in "Fatal Attraction" (1987), who ... keeps ... on ... coming. She's the looming, clutching, stifling mother or wife or girlfriend in a Philip Roth novel. (Which novel? Take your pick.) She's the eerie, outlandish creature in the Sylvia Plath poem "Lady Lazarus" (1965), who proclaims, "Out of the ash / I rise with my red hair / And I eat men like air." She's the vengeful giantess in the 1958 film "Attack of the 50 Foot Woman."

It’s the acceptability of this rage that makes me the saddest. The complacence when Chris Matthews refers to Clinton as a she devil makes me furious. Perhaps the underlying rage has the same source for us both. You see, Clinton, to me, does not seem like a she-devil. She seems like a smart, compassionate, caring, assertive woman. She reminds me of my Mom.

Good News, at least for those of us with insurance

2008-06-19T11:25:00.000-04:00

I always felt that you can't have it both ways. Gays went from mentally insane to cured in the 70's, The Pentagon decided they agreed in 2006, but trans people are still on the books. Gender Dysphoria is still a recognized medical condition and Gender Identity Disorder is still on the books. Thankfully the treatments have changed. People are no longer shuttled of to loony bins and made to feel even crazier like in The Last Time I Wore A Dress. Now, assuming we have a decent doctor we're prescribed hormones instead of Charm School. However, it's all out of your own pocket. Top surgery cost about $6000, the bottom is even more expensive and insurance won't help a bit.

But maybe all that is changing. The American Medical Association, at it's annual conference in Chicago, called on insurers to start coughing up some dough. Resolutions 114, 115 and 122 were passed by the AMA's House of Delegates noting that Gender Identity Disorder is an internationally recognized medical condition. Delegates highlighted the need to combat the emotional pain and physical incongruity and downright awkwardness associated with gender dysphoria with proper access to mental health services, hormone treatments, and surgical procedures. I personally have parental support that boarders on crazy. They paid for my surgery and even flew in from Michigan to enjoy the ride. I had great friends who helped me raise $500 for my stay in extended care, but not all of us are that lucky. After seeing women self-inject silicone under their skin to gain some curves, or seeing the deflated chest and crushed lungs of a man who's been binding for years I'm happy to say that maybe some physical and mental pain can be avoided.

Like I said, you can't have it both ways. If I'm sick help me pay for my treatment. If my care is cosmetic, take GID off the books.

Resolution 114: Removing Barriers to Care for Transgender Patients
Resolution 115: Removing Insurance Barriers to Care for Transgender Patients
Resolution 122: Removing Financial Barriers to Care for Transgender Patients

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NOW BLOW ME

2008-06-12T18:14:00.000-04:00

My birthday had ended a few hours ago, but in my drunken stupor that was nothing more than a technicality. I had settled comfortably into the beer stained sofa at The Boiler Room on the Lower East Side, sipping my drink and watching the interactions between the remaining men around the bar. As the night came to a close, it was clear everyone knew this was their final chance to find company for the night. A pudgy, balding thirty-something leaned in towards a lanky black man and lingered just a second too long. I sat back and smiled.

At the end of the bar one man sat alone, ready to make his move. He looked over, moved his glassy, drunken eyes up and down and squinted, either in an attempt to look sexy or focus. I wasn’t sure which. I am certainly no stranger to gay bars, but the directness of gay men’s dating rituals compared to the shy lesbian flirting I was used to never ceases to amaze me. After about five minutes, the man slid down from his bar stool. With a gaze that never left the direction of his prey, he walked slowly and deliberately past me into the bathroom. I turned to look behind me. No one followed him in. After a few minutes he emerged from the bathroom seeming angry and defeated. He stormed over to his stool, grabbed his coat and walked towards the door, first stopping directly in front of me. I looked up to see his rejected eyes glaring directly into mine.

At that moment I realized I was the one he was after. It was me he wanted to “do” in the bathroom. As the door swung closed behind him, a wave of excitement passed over me--not sexual excitement, but a misguided sort of pride. For the first time in my life I felt like a cheap piece of meat and I enjoyed it. I was the one being looked at. I was the man someone wanted for the night. Not only did this drunken stranger see me as a man, he saw me as a man he wanted to fuck. This was unlike my private sexual experiences where every fear and insecurity I’ve ever had can come to the surface. In this very public place I was a male sexual object. What had just occurred wasn’t a sexual day dream with 25 years of body disconnection behind it. This was a real life moment, lustful and sexual. The memory was permanent. Never would he know that my body was any different than his. Being desired like this did more for my confidence as a man than years of therapy ever could.

The haves and have-nots...

2008-06-07T16:15:00.000-04:00

I’ve begun going to a gym. There little chance of me wasting away to nothing, but the physical activity does offset my love of cheese. This experience has become a rather intense lesson in the fragility and limitations of passing. I’ve joined with two friends. Both male, both gay. Having a set of queer backups added a certain amount of safety, but they aren’t always with me and even if they are, they don’t change the fact that I have no dick. It’s a tenuous and vulnerable space to begin with. Men with all their parts are cruising, or not cruising; looking and not looking and trying to not be looked at while they show off. It makes me very conscious of what I do and do not have. I do have scars. I don’t have a dick.

Do people notice when I am changing and wearing boxers? What about briefs? Are people looking, and if so, how closely? Underwear has always been a distinct marker of manhood for me, but never to this degree. I quickly realized that using the elliptical in boxers inevitably makes one short or the other ride so far up my ass that I can taste the fabric. I switch to briefs.

I’ve got a soft pack. I’ll wear that. And I did. It was all fine until I was finished changing and actually using the elliptical machine. The feeling of soft rubber chafing against my crotch and slowly ripping out every single pubic was not the burn I was hoping to feel. There would need to be a barrier.

I went home that night and modified all my briefs, sewing pockets or pouches into each of them. The next day I tried again. All was fine until the inevitable bouncing began. Suddenly it started moving against my leg. This is probably the exact same thing an actual dick would do, but with an actual dick is attached to your actual body. You do not need to worry about it slipping out of your underwear, through the leg of your shorts and to the gym floor. Packing was not going to work. I needed something more secure.

Sometimes I pack and sometimes I don’t. It doesn’t seem to make that much of a difference. I am always aware of my body. Wear the wrong shorts—the ones that are a little too tight and ride up a little too high—and I’m sure my hips will give me away, or I’ll be stricken with camel toe so blatant that it will serve as a giant vaginal highlighter. Wear big and baggy shorts and they sink into nothing when I sit against the weight machine.

I’m sure that everyone feels this self-awareness at the gym. Gyms are a haven of embarrassments. Still, somehow farting on the treadmill seems slightly less concerning than exposing your vagina in the locker room.

I’ve begun swimming. Feeling the water flow over my bare back and chest is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. This liberation is tempered by the vulnerability I feel when I take off my bathing suit. I am naked in a bathroom stall. Men all around me and my body exposed. Will they see me through the crack in the door? With the door suddenly open? What will this mean? What would happen? Though I do sometimes wonder how people would respond if I joined the group shower in all my transsexual glory, self preservation keeps me from finding the answer. Some things are better left unknown.

“IT’S A FEEL GOOD SURGERY”

2008-06-06T16:36:00.000-04:00

Anna and I sat silently in the brightly lit exam room. Neither of us knew what to talk about so I uncomfortably looked around the room. Where there were normally posters encouraging you to quit smoking or practice safer sex, instead were advertisements for Botox. Posters which exclaimed “I can look years younger” replaced those I normally saw declaring “Silence=Death.” Health and safety were replaced by opulent vanity. Pictures of Dr. Bev with her show dogs littered the counter by the stainless steel sink. These were not the surroundings I expected for such a life changing surgery to take place. I wanted to talk to Anna; tell her everything I was feeling but one of the office nurses was in the room with us. This woman’s life seemed so far from my own that I couldn‘t bring myself to open my mouth. Finally Anna broke the silence. “ Do you perform this surgery often?” she asked.

“Oh yeah,” the nurse replied. “One week it was the only surgery we did, the whole week straight.”

“Wow,” Anna exclaimed, “That is a lot. Do people come from all over?”

“Sure. We get people from all over the country and Canada. Once we even had someone from England.”

“That’s quite a trip. He must have really wanted it done right away,” I chimed in.

“So the doctor is pretty good then?” Anna said, hoping for anything to calm her fear that the tomorrow I would die on the operating table.

“Oh she’s the best,” the nurse gushed. “It’s really a great surgery, you know. It’s a feel good surgery. You guys are just so appreciative and happy when it’s done, like a huge weight has been lifted off your chest.” Anna and I looked over at each other, struggling not to laugh. “We just love you guys.”

The surgical nurse entered just in time to save this particular guy from losing his composure. Betty was all business and not one for idle chit chat. My mom was brought into the room and immediately the explanation began. Nurse Betty pulled from her pocket a clear rubber grenade shaped object with a tube attached to it, saying these would be sucking fluid from my body following surgery. My mom and Anna simultaneously cringed at the thought of anything being sucked from my body. Betty showed them how to dump the fluid, clear any tissue and clots that might block the tubes, and replace the suction. For the first time during this experience, someone else would be taking care of me. Knowing that I didn’t have to listen as if my life depended on it freed me to watch everyone else’s reactions rather than controlling my own.

“Once you dump the fluid and tissue in the toilet, record the amount on this piece of paper. Once you’re down to 25cc on each side for a full 24 hours the tubes can be removed.” My girlfriend and mom maintained their disgusted look while she explained how either they or my doctor at home would pull the tubes from my body and clean up the holes left behind. Rather than begin to worry about who would do this procedure when I was home, I forced myself to completely stop listening.

At the conclusion of the demonstration we left the bright lights of the exam room and were ushered across the hall to look at some before and after pictures. Nurse Betty opened the door and escorted us into a dimly lit room that seemed more fitting of a brothel than a doctor’s office. There were waist high, faux granite pillars, and a painting of a nude female graced the wall above a red velvet Victorian love seat. We were left alone to page through a notebook of “feel good surgeries,” forcing me to face my expectations. I knew I would be left with scars, but I was more worried about the placement of my nipples. I had seen some of the doctor’s earlier work where they seemed to almost be in the armpit. Displayed in our laps were high nipples, low nipples, nipples that looked like pieces of chewed gum, and even some that were missing altogether. I noticed the results got progressively better with each surgery she performed. Aside from an occasional nipple complication the finished products looked pretty good. More importantly, however, this was a book full of men who had had gone before me. Anna could see that they had not died, my mom could see that they weren’t mutilated, and I could just look without having to face a million questions that I could not answer. What I saw was not perfection, but a natural variation. Mine would not be the chest of a “man” but that of a trans man. I stood up feeling a little more content about what tomorrow might bring.

Our minds racing with information, we left the room and asked the receptionist where we should visit on our first trip to Baltimore. On her recommendation, we climbed in the car and headed for the waterfront, a final outing for my female chest. At the aquarium we imagined postcards of my breasts posing with the dolphins. For the first time I was able to laugh about the presence of my chest, knowing that tomorrow it would be gone. We all returned to the hotel room that night sensing the gravity of the next day, but knowing there was nothing more to say. The appointment was set, the balance on the surgery paid, and tomorrow night I was going to fall asleep in a body forever changed.

As I laid down, an instinctual fear began welling up inside me. I wanted to be comforted, told everything was going to be all right, but I couldn’t admit that to anyone. They were just as scared as I was. I had made this decision. Admitting my fear would only make the situation worse.

We arrived back at the office bright and early the next morning. I was ushered into the exam room with Anna and told to take off all my clothes except my boxer shorts. Once I had stripped I sat in silence while Anna held my hand. Our palms were sweating and our fingers freezing cold. My nipples hardened, unaware they’d soon be sitting in a bowl of ice two feet from the rest of my body. Dr. Bev and Nurse Betty entered with a flurry of tape measure and purple marker. Their cold fingers moved rapidly to measure and mark my chest.

“This is really the worst part,” Dr. Bev assured me. I expected the upcoming pain of having a part of my body removed to surpass the pain of that particular moment, but I wasn‘t going to argue. I pulled a surgical gown over my chest and my mom was invited in. She and Anna were given a refresher coarse on my drains and bandages. Once they felt certain they could perform their nurse-like duties they both kissed me and wished me good luck. I slid off the exam table and shuffled down to the operating room in nothing but a loose fitting gown and my boxer shorts.
White Christmas crooned from the stereo as I entered the operating room and lay down on the table. Apparently the snowman underwear I had haphazardly chosen that morning inspired one more day of Holiday music. The anesthesiologist explained what was going to be happening while Nurse Betty hooked up blood pressure monitors to my legs and right arm. She mechanically rubbed my hand with the affection of someone who sees this everyday. The anesthesia gradually overtook me, and I fell asleep listening to hollow talk of her new Buick.

Four hours later I jolted awake in a small dark room, freezing cold and about to throw up. Instead I forced myself to speak. “Tell Anna I didn’t die.” A woman I couldn’t recognize smiled and said ok, while another nurse covered me with a blanket and turned on a vent that blew hot air up my shorts. As my body temperature slowly returned to normal I remembered to look down at my body and began to smile. Anna appeared at the door asking gently how I was while she rubbed my head and fed me ice chips. After no more than five minutes Nurse Betty entered with my clothes. She wrapped my shirt around me, leaving the buttons to Anna, while she held out my pants for me to climb into. I wanted to point out that I’d just woken up and perhaps should stay a while, but one look at her face told me to get dressed.

“You might want to think about flip flops next time,” scolded Nurse Betty. My shoes, which this morning had slipped on quite easily, were now impossible.

Knowing there’d never be a next time I stood and resolutely shoved my feet in. Proud of this small accomplishment, I began to shuffle towards the door.

“Stand up straight,” I heard behind me. “You can do that. You don’t have breasts anymore.” Although Nurse Betty had never witnessed me trying to hide a chest that didn‘t belong, her words echoed the fact that there was nothing left to hide. I grabbed Anna’s arm for support, cautiously put my shoulders back, and made my way to the waiting car.

WELCOME TO THE MEN’S ROOM

2008-06-04T13:22:00.000-04:00

It was December of 2004 that I began consistently using the men’s room. There wasn’t a deliberate decision that caused me to change my bathroom of choice. Instead of waiting until I felt certain of passing I just instinctually gravitated towards the men’s room one day, and I went with it. I don’t quite know what I expected to find behind that door. Men’s bathrooms were not completely unknown to me. As a defiant butch dyke I would enter when the line for the ladies room was too long, but during those visits I always felt like I was subversively crossing over into foreign territory. Now I was expected to suddenly feel comfortable enough to relieve myself.

My hand gently nudged the door open so I could peer around it to see if there was anyone behind it. Finding no one, I lowered my head, gathered my resolve, awkwardly folded my arms to hide my chest and pushed the door fully open. I crossed the threshold and, without looking right or left, rushed to the nearest stall. Once the door was locked behind me I realized I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Should I life the seat? The sound seemed important then how would I go to the bathroom? Peeing down my leg was no way to end my first visit here. I stared at the toilet for a long time, weighing my options when I finally decided it would be better to sit, but take a shit as well in order to save face. The toilet flushed and I waited. When I was sure there was no one else in the bathroom I slowly opened the door. Immediately fearing someone would enter, I bolted out of the stall, hurriedly ran my hands under the faucet and slid into the booth across from my parents.

Without having said a word about this groundbreaking ordeal my mom told me the waitress had come. “I told her our daughter will be joining us before it dawned on me that you were probably in the men’s room.“
The stress didn‘t end with this initial success, but it gradually became less intense. Eventually I could use a busy bathroom and at least act like I belonged even if I didn’t feel like it. I could managed to walk past someone using a urinal and not step away in fear of invading their personal space. This singular bodily function challenged me to reinforce my gender every time I had to go. People would realize the rumors were true when they passed me coming out of the men’s room. As I became more comfortable, they became more comfortable or at least stopped looking so confused. Gradually I was able just walk in, take care of business, and leave. Most days it even felt natural, routine. Still, some days it felt like the biggest, scariest decision ever. These were the days that I was sure someone would stare, ask me to leave, treat me like I didn’t belong like I couldn‘t possibly be a man.

On those days I just couldn’t handle the added stress of my bladder forcing me to face everything that was going on in my life. One day I didn’t want to make this major decision, I just wanted to pee. Mentally I knew no one would say anything. I had been using the same men’s bathroom for weeks without so much as an odd look, much less an incident, but I longed for the safety of being back in familiar territory, to once again feel like a butch dyke in the lady’s room. The minute I opened the door I knew it was a mistake. The old woman at the sink looked at me in shock. A little girl pointed and whispered to her mother. I could have turned around, apologized, said I got the wrong bathroom, but it wasn‘t wrong. It just wasn‘t right. I forged ahead to the stall in front of me and performed the same act I had when I first used the men’s room. I waited for the coast to clear, ran my hands under cold water and walked out the door as quickly as possible. It was then that I realized how foreign the lady’s room had become, that I had crossed that point of no return. Women chatted while they went to the bathroom. They waited around for their friends and fixed their hair. They performed rituals and routines that I had never been a part of. I suddenly had a longing for the silent peeing and flushing of the men’s room. That was, after all, what I was used to.

EXECUTIVE CUT

2008-05-31T14:18:00.000-04:00

The story below was written as a part of my graduate thesis. The thesis was completed in May of 2005. These actual events occured in February of 2005.

This wasn’t the first time I would be trying on suits. Rather, it would be the first time I felt like I was legitimately trying on suits. With a weddings and job interviews coming up and now that my breasts were gone it was time to own a suit that fit. Instead of running off to the thrift store and making do with the cast offs of others, I was going to be buying a suit that had never been worn by anyone else before. The fabric wouldn’t give me a rash, the pockets wouldn’t pucker at the hips, and the jacket wouldn’t pull over breasts that were no longer there. As Anna and I walked up Chestnut street I looked forward to finally being a man buying a suit and not a boy playing dress-up. I opened the door to Men’s Warehouse and with a deliberate gait walked directly towards the nearest rack of clothing. Navy blue and gray wool enveloped me to near claustrophobia. It was then that I realized I had no idea where to start, or even what size to look for. My sense of purpose waned considerably. I flagged down the first salesman I noticed and looking down at my shoes said, “I need a suit.” I then raised my head to see a very tall, lean redhead with a barely detectable smirk. I fought back the urge to point out every part of my body that was less than perfectly masculine. I wanted to tell him about my wide hips and big ass. I wanted to mention that I had short arms and really short legs. I wanted to let him know that I was really “curvy” for a man and when I saw him pull out a tape measure and kneel before me to measure my inseam I cursed myself for not packing that day and wanted to tell him why I didn’t have a penis. Instead I merely said, “I don’t know what size I am other than short.”

“Alrighty,” he said, looking me up and down. He measured me and said, “Well, you’re definitely short, and probably a 46.” He led me over to the seven suits that constituted the 46” Short section of the store. “You’ll probably want more of an executive cut.” I looked over at Anna, and we uncomfortably chuckled at the euphemism. “It’s a nice way of saying portly,” he went on to explain. The clarification was neither necessary or desired. He pulled a few suits off the rack and held the first jacket out for me to try on. I slipped into it and looked in the mirror. Unlike the thrilling experience I thought this first look would be, it amounted to nothing more than a hurried glance. I was terrified to look any longer. I don’t know if I felt like I wouldn’t look at myself “correctly,“ or if I simply wouldn’t like the reflection I saw in the mirror. I knew I should have taken a good look, but with both Anna and my tall, non-executive fitter expectantly staring, all I could think of was escape. I didn’t even know what to look for. Anna felt the fabric, and the fitter tugged and smoothed and tugged some more before ultimately informing me that this fit was no good. He then pulled out another jacket with the flourish of a man working on commission and had me slip it on. After repeating this same routine four more times he stated that this was the best fit I was going to find. It had “A generous cut in the front and a vent in the back for extra comfort,” which in laymen’s terms meant, “generous room for your hips, stomach, and ass.” Anna did her customary touch of the fabric while I looked around the thousands of suits and digested the fact that this was my best chance, this boring gray suit. I looked at Anna, ready to pull out my credit card and have the whole ordeal over with, but saw the hesitance in her face. I asked him if he could hold the suit so we could look around a little bit more.

He agreed but now with his less than positive pitch, a last ditch effort to make the sale. “Well, you’re always going to have trouble.” I nodded, knowing I probably was a difficult size. “You’re never going to find something right off the rack,” he continued. “Maybe you could try a children’s store and see if they have a ‘husky boy’s department.” I kept nodding, hoping he’d realize that what I was really saying was your help is gradually becoming the biggest slap to my self-esteem that I’ve experienced since elementary school. He didn’t stop. “I mean you could try a big and tall shop, but you’re not tall, just big.” My face began turning a deep shade of red when it finally hit me. I was no longer experiencing the soft pat on the shoulder that a woman gets while shopping. He saw a man before him and he was giving me the honest truth. Instead of trying to ignore every salesperson in the room thinking they’d direct me to the women’s department, I was asking advice and getting it. I was short, I was big, and I was going to have trouble finding a suit that fit. Although you’d never hear a salesperson telling a woman, “I’m sorry but you’re just too short and fat for all the clothing in this store,” to tell a man essentially the same thing was perfectly acceptable. Before transitioning, while not identifying as a woman I was still aware of what expected of me as one. The size and shape of my body was supposed to directly relate to my self worth. Today, while preparing to buy a $300 article of clothing that I was trying to believe I was enough of a man to wear, I was told that being fat was just a fact. It didn’t mean I was any less respected or any less of a man. It took changing my gender to hear the truth about my body that I had longed to hear my entire life. My body, whether it be fat or thin or something in between, was a vessel that housed who I was. It wasn’t what I was. I looked up at him as he handed me his card and thanked him for his time and honesty, man to man.

we're getting hitched

2007-07-07T11:07:00.000-04:00

Yes it's true. Anna and I are making it official. We had just had our five year anniversary so i figured it was time to piss or get off the pot. I recently got down on my knees (both of them because I really like her) and asked the lovely miss anna to marry me. She said yes and we drank champagne.

Then we went and met a couple friends for a cocktail and to show of our newly engaged selves. At the conclusion of the evening, Jean's drunken flailing arms and legs accidentally knocked a vase out of a window onto a crack whore down on the sidewalk who threatened to kick her ass. Stephanie, the diplomatic dago dragged her drunken ass downstairs to apologize and try to explain that it was an accident. The woman than slapped her accross the face. The ever elequent jeaner then came down and also tried to explain only to also be slaped. I then restrained her because as she lept at the woman. Then the crack whore said "what, you're going to bring down some dyke to do your dirty work" at which point anna screamed from the window "don't call my fiancé a dyke" and threatened to call the cops. Then the crack whore called anna a fat bitch so I started storming towards her and our other friend stepped in front of me and tried to calm the situation. The cops drove by, Anna and i went home. You know, just a really special, romantic night.

The end.

bravado

2007-03-29T11:06:00.000-04:00

i watched a documentary on a lesbian couple, both of whom are professional boxers. it made me miss it. it made me miss the bravado of being a defiant woman--a woman who will kick your ass, a woman who can stand up to any man, but even as i write these words i see myself writing a woman who isn't really a woman. it's not that i ever outright loathed my body, nor that i wasn't proud to be a part of a tradition of strong butch women, i just couldn't connect this history, tradition, body to my self.

still, i think how i want to take up boxing--lesbian boxing. then i remember i can't. i wanted to try out for a women's football team. i can't do that either. i'm now "just" a man. i never wanted to be normal, straight seems so boring, but pushing past the possibilities of gender has pulled me squarely into a new set of expectations where to feel subversive i have to take up knitting and cross stitching.

i still miss being a dyke, even though i'm not sure i ever was one.

one year ago...

2006-01-12T11:03:00.000-05:00

one year ago today was the first morning since puberty where i woke up without boobs. this self-designed body had become such a part of me that the event almost went completely unnoticed, almost became a moment that I'd remember, days later and wonder if i should have commemorated it in some way. Instead, my friend meg managed to remember one of the most monumental events in my life that i just happened to forget. Thank God we were already out at a bar so we could toast my man chest. still, i was left with this lingering feeling that it was something i should have remembered myself.

That year seems so far from where my life is now. I have finished school, left new york and moved in with my girlfriend. I no longer have a studio in which to stare at myself day in and day out, recording every change on paper. Perhaps it isn't that this change has been so natural as to fade into the background but rather that i no longer have time to marvel at the changes i have had the amazing opportunities to experience.

I no longer worry about hiding my chest, i no longer worry about speaking and my feminine voice giving me away. both are quite to the contrary. now i worry about hiding my drivers license and my social security card giving me away. Today, i have gone from battling the world's perception of me on a daily basis. I rarely get called anything but "sir" when I'm out in public. The fear and discomfort isn't as near to the surface, but the stakes somehow seem higher. will i loose a job when people find out? how often do i not even apply for a job because i fear this will be the case? i don't know the answers to these questions. what i do know is that people continue to surprise me. after all, two years ago today i never would have imagined looking in the mirror like i did last night and examining my new chest hair.

one year ago today i was lying in bed, tubes sucking fluid out of my chest. bandages covered the place breasts used to occupy and a compression vest held skin against muscle. this morning i woke up, scratched at an itch just below my scar before throwing on a t-shirt and stumbling down to work.

million lil' what?

2006-01-03T11:00:00.000-05:00

turns out that the Oprah book club memoir "a million little pieces" is closer to a work of fiction than a memoir.

According to The Smoking Gun website:
Of course, if "A Million Little Pieces" was fictional, just some overheated stories of woe, heartache, and debauchery cooked up by a wannabe author, it probably would not get published. As it was, Frey's original manuscript was rejected by 17 publishers before being accepted by industry titan Nan Talese, who runs a respected boutique imprint at Doubleday (Talese reportedly paid Frey a $50,000 advance). According to a February 2003 New York Observer story by Joe Hagan, Frey originally tried to sell the book as a fictional work, but the Talese imprint "declined to publish it as such." A retooled manuscript, presumably with all the fake stuff excised, was published in April 2003 amid a major publicity campaign. turns out that his alleged crime sprees were grossly exaggerated if not completely made up.

James Frey is in fact not such a bad guy as much as he'd like us to believe otherwise. so was this simply to sell books? perhaps. Memoirs are the genre of the day. Seems more likely to me that he was doing what boys and men do everyday, he was looking tough. To look at a photo of this man you'd think him to be a kind of nutty professor type, with a tweed sport coat and a pipe the more likely outfit than prison stripes. his look doesn't give much of a "bad ass" impression. perhaps this man wanted to say what all men want to say: "I'm tough, i can protect myself, and I'm so much more interesting than I look. Respect me." Last night i watched a show called "Raising Cain" about the disservice that our country had done to it's young boys. With the advent of school shootings and youth violence, we have gone from coddling our boys to fearing them. It seems to me that Frey has taken a normal teenage bravado of talking shit (although slightly misplaced on an adult his age) and made a fortune off of it calling it a memoir. I've never read the book, but i hear it's a good story. Sounds a little sensationalistic, but a page turner nonetheless. And although his posturing doesn't really bother me, his constant and consistent denial that anything in his book is less than true seems more intriguing to me. I'm sure he was a boozer, a user and a looser, but admitting he spent a few hours in jail instead of three months doesn't make his book any less interesting. Instead, it makes him less interesting. that's what this is really all about. I know I'm relatively new to this manhood thing, but i want to say that i think honesty is more important than how often you can swear and how many months you spent in jail. i wouldn't mind making "a million little dollars" i just wonder at what cost. my integrity is worth more than that. i think that's being a man.

directions...

2005-08-04T10:59:00.001-04:00

I'm waiting at the bus stop in china town and this group of five teenage boys comes up to me. my teenage years were pretty traumatic so i fear teenage boys way more than i do adult men. so they walk up and ask where canal street is, "ma'am." while I'm giving the one directions the other one is yelling in the background, "that's a man, yo." i give my directions and the kid turns to me and says, "I'm sorry, really i am. you are a guy right?" i just say it's OK and not to worry about it. happens sometimes. he runs off yelling at his friends, "you guys, i told you it was a guy. you guys are such dorks." it made me smile. when i looked like a girl i got mistaken for a guy and now i get mistaken for a woman. i still enjoy watching people argue about it after they walk away.

passing

2005-07-25T10:57:00.000-04:00

"excuse me, ladies."

huh? what's that about. not only am i packing, but I've paid a small fortune for this very flat chest. lady? i don't get it. i pass maybe 75% of the time so when i don't it catches me completely off guard. i have a very love/hate relationship with passing to begin with so i never know how to respond. usually when i open my mouth people look very uncomfortable and correct themselves which is attention i don't really want either. it would be nice to just not have to think about it but unfortunately that's just not possible...

on the other hand I'm glad that I've got knowledge that someone who has never seen both sides of gender will never have. being on both sides of "ladies" and "gentlemen" changes the way you see said ladies and gentlemen. thank god.

pre surgery post

2004-12-07T10:39:00.000-05:00

There's been a lot going on since the last time I wrote. I suppose I got so overwhelmed with the general act of living life that I didn't quite have time to relay the information. So here in a nutshell is everything that's happening.

My parents have offered to loan me the money for my top surgery and I will be paying them back gradually through various fundraising events. Thanks to all who have contributed so far. I have raised over $400 dollars, which is enough to cover my stay in extended care. I scheduled my surgery sometime in September with Dr. Fisher and have the date set for January 11, 2005. My mom and girlfriend will be traveling down to Baltimore and staying for about a week. After that I will return to Brooklyn and continue my recovery there.

In other news, I've been on hormones for about six months. My voice has dropped to a point where I have no trouble passing on the phone. I've hit a point where I never know how people are reading me when I'm in public. Perhaps they aren't so sure either because I rarely get called ma'am or sir. I have a few whiskers but nothing substantial. I do have a bit of a furry belly. However, the most notable feature change right now is my unbelievable acne problem. I've been told that it just looks like my skin is looking a bit more ruddy and masculine and thank you Meg for trying to make me feel better, but fact is I really look like a pimply faced teenage boy. What can you do, though? Going through puberty the right way this time makes up for some of the bad side effects.

Anna is still as beautiful and amazing as ever. Her jewelry donation raised $100 for my surgery but more important is her support and presence through all of this. It's by no means easy, but were doing our best to keep talking about everything.

Top surgery is on the calendar...

2004-10-01T17:50:00.000-04:00

The boobs are coming off January 11th, and it's going to be a family affair. My mom, my girlfriend, possibly my father and who knows who else are all trooping down to Baltimore to take care of business. what does this business entail, you may ask?

so I'm going down to see Dr. Beverly fisher just outside of Baltimore. I've heard good things about from other people so I made an appointment. I had to pay a 10% deposit of a $6800 cost upfront to schedule the appointment and I'll be paying the rest sometime in December.

the type of surgery I'm getting is double incision. what happens is a cut is made below the breast along the line of the pectoral. all the excess tissue and skin is removed through this cut and then I'm stitched back up. my nipples will then be grafted back on in a more boy like placement. after the surgery is complete my mom, girlfriend and i will be hanging out in a hotel nearby so we can go back to the care facility regularly to get my bandages changed as well as seeing all lovely suburban Baltimore has to offer from the comfort of my hotel room. after that it's back to Brooklyn where I'll continue to recover for who knows how long.
i had to quit smoking for this surgery otherwise there may be certain complications like my nipples falling off. that was incentive enough, but not smoking also promotes faster healing, among other things.

as the countdown continues i get more and more excited. now that all the forms have been filled out, the therapist's letter has been written, the surgery clearance appointment has been made all there is left to do is wait.

Testosterone at 2 months

2004-07-25T10:34:00.000-04:00

It's been two months injecting Testosterone. Although I don't think I look all that different I'm starting to feel some of the effects. I've now had four half doses over the course of two months and my next dose will be a full 1 ml. I'm having some trouble sleeping and feel like I've been thrown into the rhythm of a teenager. Even when I'm exhausted I'm up until 2 a.m. and want to stay in bed until well past noon. I'm also beginning to break out a bit. Thus far my face has stayed pretty clear but my chest is covered in pimples.

I've graduated from self-injection school and can now give myself shots at home. As a graduation gift I got my very own Sharps bio-hazard waste container. After my shot on Friday I felt a bit achy all over. It felt a lot like the growing pains I had as a kid. I know I'm not supposed to get any taller, but it's nice to dream. More likely it's my muscles changing and growing.

The last major change I've noticed is in my temperament. In the past as far as the fight or flight instinct went I was pretty much a frequent flier. If provoked enough I would stand up for myself, but it certainly wasn't my first choice. Now I find myself getting angry a lot more quickly and instead of sitting down and "talking about my feelings," I'd rather hit someone. I know that I won't resort to violence, but it's an interesting feeling nonetheless. In time I think this energy could be a positive thing, helping me to be more assertive and stand up for myself better, but right now it's just a lot to try and understand and deal with. All in good time, I suppose.

One of the boys

2004-07-20T10:32:00.000-04:00

I've begun working at a fine art screen printing shop doing screen prep. They print for the likes of Chuck Close and Leroy Neiman. It's an interesting environment, watching the business of art. It's also interesting in that I'm the only non-guy working in the back room. My boss rarely refers to me by my name but rather "buster," "buddy," and "brother er...sister." I feel as though I've proven myself to be a hard worker in a rather physical job. It's just hard for me to ask for help lifting screens or anything like that because I don't know if people see me as more of a girl when I do or not. It's not surprising that anyone would need help maneuvering a screen that's 5 feet by 7 feet, but still.

It's a very active environment and I enjoy the solitude of blowing out screens and going about my business. It's also been nice being surrounded by men. I feel like I'm learning to be more assertive and not back down if I feel like someone is making fun of me. Chances are they are just joking around and I'm learning that in order to feel like "one of the boys" I need to give it back and not back down.

Dr. Tatiana's Sex Advice for all Creation

2004-07-15T10:28:00.000-04:00

When you gaze at a couple and wonder
What makes him him and her her
Beware, for it's easy to blunder
And be false in what you aver.
Some creatures change sex before tea time
Some others find two sexes dull
And that virile male fish has no free time
He's got all his kiddies to lull.
When it comes to the topic of gender
Mother natures been having some fun.
Take nothing for granted, remember,
You wont find any rules, not a one.

by Evolutionary Biologist Dr. Olivia Judson aka Dr. Tatiana
from
"Dr. Tatiana's Sex Advice for all Creation."

Who am I?

2004-06-03T10:11:00.000-04:00

I am a twenty-five year old white, queer, transperson, artist in a female body with a desire for a flat chest and facial hair.

I want to look more like a man but not loose everything I've learned being a woman.

I want to be able to live my life as both a man and a woman, or neither a man or a woman.

I want to learn what it is like to be a man so I can understand what its like to be myself.

I want to be a feminist and a sensitive man like my father and not loose my understanding of womanhood that goes above and beyond what anyone born male could have.

I want to change the way gender is experienced and interpreted.

I want to be true to every important issue of my identity, my life and my world.

I want to live with integrity and authenticity.

Now how do I do that? The first aspect of masculinity every trans guy I know takes on is male privilege, or so I've been told. What does this mean? What is this thing of male privilege and as I begin taking testosterone how do I avoid it? How do I avoid spending the rest of my life thinking of myself in male terms when I know that this is in no way who I am or what is authentic to me. To be perfectly honest, although I know taking T is the right decision, I'm terrified. I'm terrified not of the drugs, and not of the changes, I'm terrified of being honest with the world for the first time about who I am. I've never done that before. I've never let the world be able to see me at first glance. What will it be like being both male and female in everyday life? What will it be like being living gender theory, something that's usually reserved for college level women's studies classes. Here I am trying to become something that the world has no place for. The unfortunate thing about transgenderism is that it both undermines and reinforces the ultimate supremacy of gender as an inherent way we categorize our lives. I grew up a feminist. I knew the words to "I am Woman, Hear Me Roar" before I knew what they meant. I listened to "Free to Be You and Me" and knew all the words to every song. There was one song about mommies and daddies. "Mommies are women, women with children; some mommies drive taxis or sing on TV, yes, mommies can be anything that they want to be." Then the male voice comes on and says, "but they cant be grandpas or daddies." Here I am proving them wrong. My parents' daughter is becoming their son, sort of, and if I had children I would suddenly change from their mommy to their daddy. Biological determinism reigns supreme, even now.

Our mothers fought for so much that we take as fact, but no one ever fought for my right to be a grandpa or daddy. Our sex determines so much. If one wants to take on cross sex behaviors that is fine. Cross-sex identities are a bit more stigmatized, but allowed, assuming that the person once they cross the great divide of the sexes assimilates back into male or female. To do anything else would be a failure in transitioning. So what of me? I'm not a woman. I knew that from an early age. It had nothing to do with my interests, my attire, my friends. It was as inherent as anyone else's identity is. I never felt like I was in the wrong body then. And even now, as I am preparing to begin testosterone treatments in less than a week, I don't feel like I'm becoming a man. How would this be possible when I've had 25 years of the world reinforcing my femininity?

So where does this leave gender politics? Trans is the new queer. Tranny-boys are all over. It leaves one to ask, is this a personal gender identity or is it the new queer identity. Genderfuck and gender subversion have been around in queer circles for ever, but suddenly the word trans is being attached at an ever more rapid rate. On a personal level I sometimes find this disconcerting. Maybe I'm being selfish. Maybe I'm doing to these tranny-boys what lesbians did to bisexual women 30 years ago. I don't know. I don't know what kind of introspective personal journey these people have had to go on to arrive at that label. I only know my journey, where simply saying tranny-boy isn't enough, calling myself a man isn't authentic and being a woman is completely out of my frame of reference.

I grew up believing wholeheartedly in my boyhood. I took off my shirt when my dad did, I abhorred dresses and pink, and wanted a boys haircut as soon as I was old enough to know that hair was a signifier for gender. When I finally did get this haircut at six it was just in time, but almost too late. Adults started calling me young man and sir. I was so proud and confident, but the people around me that knew I didn't have the biological seal of maleness grew increasingly uncomfortable. My parents worried about my feelings being hurt, I worried about hurting theirs. I learned to operate in a world where every feeling I had was second-guessed. I learned to never trust myself. I was a boy where everyone around me expected me to grow out of my tomboy phase, and I did, I guess. I grew my hair long and became a feminist.

As a senior in high school I wrote an article for the school newspaper that took a paper known for such hard-hitting stories as doors on the stalls in the boys bathroom and got it pulled from distribution and locked in the safe. Barrages of calls by angry parents were made to the school. Perhaps this is first when I learned that identity and truth are powerful. My identity and truth, however, are more complex than being a feminist. What does it do to the feminist identity if I say I am not a woman? Sure I've estrogen pumping through my body right now. I menstruate with the full moon. I'm carrying around D-cup breasts and childbearing hips, but all that is going to change.

Will I no longer be a woman? Will I become a man? I can't be a man if gender is a social construction as many theorists are so fond of saying. I've been socialized as a woman. But if gender is a social construction and womanhood is what everyone has been socializing me towards for the past 25 years why is it that I remained convinced throughout it all that I wasn't a woman. If that's the case, why can't I extend the definitions of woman or even extend the possibilities of gender as a whole. I carry around so many agendas with me that I find it difficult to trust the instincts that everyone has to know to a certain extent who and what they are.

So lets go ahead and let the personal be political. I am not a woman. I've never felt comfortable with that. Everyone naturally assumes that that would make me a man, and I can't blame them. I saw that as my only other option as well even though that wasn't the truth either. I'm going to start taking testosterone. I'm going to have my breasts removed. I'll grow facial hair. My voice will drop. My body fat will redistribute. I'll probably look a lot like a man. I don't think that makes me a man anymore than looking like I do now makes me a woman. So I keep asking myself what am I? Identities, for being as natural and instinctive as they are, are more complex than we give them credit for, especially when were trying to figure out words to attach to them.

I'll let you all in on a little stream of thought. Trying to figure out this next sentence and act like I know what the hell I'm doing and becoming makes tears begin to stand in my eyes, tears welling up make me feel like a girl, feeling like a girl when I want to cry makes me angry that I can't cry as who I am. It makes me angry that I can't cry in front of anyone except my girlfriend. If I let the tears flow, will the answer come with them? There's so much pain in trying to prove yourself everyday and even as I try to explain it to you I get angry that you don't understand. I get even angrier that I don't understand. Most of all I'm angry that anything needs explaining at all.

Little kids aren't allowed to just be and let that develop. Even a four year old, for whom gender consistency shouldn't have set in yet, has trouble understanding that I'm not really a girl like his mom and I don't really know how to explain it to him. Sometimes I look like a boy, I tell him, and sometimes I don't. People can be either boys or girls if they want to. Its their decision. He nods as he looks at a picture of me with sideburns. He understands now, so why don't I?

from the mouths of babes...

2004-06-02T10:42:00.000-04:00

At four years old I didn't think gender consistency had set in yet. Not so for Liam (far right). Apparently he's an advanced child.
My friend Ursula and her two children came to visit me the other day. Unlike some parents who may worry about exposing their children to the tranny boy Ursie is quite excited that her children will be exposed to such things so early in life. You've got to love her for that.

As I'm putting my shoes on to go out Ursula informs Liam that I'm a boy now. Liam is having none of it. He knew me as Betz the girl and if I still look like Betz the girl why would he call me by a different name and think of me any differently. I can't blame him. I ask myself the same question sometimes. I called him over and he climbed up on my lap and we looked at some pictures of me. I showed him pictures of me with facial hair and without and asked him what I looked like in each, a boy or a girl? He said boy sometimes and girl sometimes. Then I told him that sometimes people look like girls and sometimes like boys and people can choose which one they want to look like and what they want to be. I'm sure his father would be freaking out if he heard me tell his son he could be a girl if he wanted. Liam said he understood and we left for the city.

Although Ursie and he had many more arguments that day about whether I was a boy or girl I feel like something must have changed in his mind. At least little Luxe doesn't care what I am. She's just along for the ride.

Getting the Go-Ahead

2004-05-24T10:51:00.000-04:00

My Visit to the Callen-Lorde Counseler:
Last week I had my appointment with the counselor at Callen-Lorde. I was admittedly nervous. I wasn't sure what I was going to be expected to do or say there. Would I be explaining myself and be expected to prove that I knew what I was doing or simply prove that I wasn't crazy? After 25 years of trying to explain it to myself I doubt my ability to find a convincing explanation in one appointment.

Thankfully every concern was put to rest immediately after I sat down. I was told I was simply there so that he could make sure I was getting all the services and support I needed. I was given a mental health seal of approval and can start hormones on June 6. After that I was sent to the Gay and Lesbian Community Center to join one of their support groups.

At my initial interview I was asked what gender I identified as? I thought this was a strange question to ask someone at a place called the Gender Identity Project. I answered Male, no trans identifiers, for the first time and it occurred to me what I was really doing. I wasn't crossing gender boundaries to exist on the other side, I was crossing so I could make my home on the border. Until I know what it's like to live as a man I can never know what it's like to live as both or neither. Sometimes you have to travel beyond yourself to know who you really are.

Begining Hormones

2004-05-07T10:53:00.000-04:00

My first trip to the doctor: 7 May, 2004

I made my first concrete medical step towards beginning my transition this past Thursday. I went to Callen-Lorde heath clinic in Manhattan with my mom and my girlfriend. It was an interesting experience I must say. The doctor was helpful and very matter of fact. I was just happy that my mom came along. They did a health history and took blood for some general health tests. Next week I meet with one of their gender counselors and then in a month I see the doctor again. If all goes according to plan I can begin T that day.

I didn't realize it would be so fast. I thought getting to a point of being able to start injecting would take longer and involve more red tape. Its kind of scary. I know I have a very supportive family and girlfriend, but they are just as confused and concerned as I am, probably more. I'm scared. I'm scared also that if I let my fears be known people will question my decision to do this. When I think about the practical issues I do begin to wonder. I think that's normal. I would like to have kids, but I'd have to freeze and store my eggs and I doubt I can afford that. I am scared of any personality shifts I may experience. I know that's my girlfriends greatest fear as well. I don't want to be a different person. I like who I am. She doesn't want me to be a different person and I understand that. The hardest part for me about this whole thing is that I don't live in a bubble. This is affecting so many people around me that I love and care about. It makes you wonder how far you can stretch people before they snap. My mom doesn't want to see me get hurt. I don't want to see her hurt. Everyone is kind of mourning. I understand that. I'm mourning too.

However, the other side of all these fears is excitement. When I don't think about the unknown, about the bad things that could maybe happen, when I don't think at all I'm excited. I'm excited to look the way I will. I'm excited to feel more at home in my body. I'm excited to feel like I know who I am. This whole process reminds me of when I first told my family I was queer. I stepped so gingerly. I wanted to make sure I wouldn't one day decide I like boys again and have to take it all back. The funny thing is looking at me now you'd never even think I would question it. The truth is you can never know how well something will fit until you try it on for size. You can only be so sure before you just do it. I've done everything I can to lead up to this moment. It's time to just do it.

The edge of a new begining.

2004-04-29T10:55:00.000-04:00

A Week Before Everything Gets Started:

Next week I go to the doctor. I'm excited about the changes hormones will make, but i'm not sure what to expect when I go to the doctor and ask to make those changes. Am I going to have to proove that I know what I'm doing? Am I going to have to say why I'm doing it?

I find it interesting that to a small child all I need to do is cut my hair and wear boy's clothes and to them I'm a boy. To an adult I have to change a lot more than that. When I used to teach pre-school all the kids called me a boy and I didn't feel the slightest bit of shame. Adults would call me sir and I would be nervous just waiting for them to find me out. With children there was nothing to find out. To them I was a boy. Is that my biggest worry about becoming a man--that people will "find me out?" I almost asked myself if that's why I want to go on T, but I know it's not. Ever since I made the decision to do this I've been so excited. I'm ready. I think I want to go on T so there is nothing to "find out." I am what I am. It's just hard and weird.

Why is it that I'm comfortable with people calling me Eli, but I don't correct them when they call me Ellie? Why is it that Eli is now my name, but I don't want to hear my girlfriend call me that. I don't want her to call me Betsy either. I've moved past that name. I just want her to keep calling me her teddy bear.