Can't stop the signal

Just finished watching Still Black: A Portrait of Black Transmen, which I ordered a few days ago and which just arrived today! If you haven't already seen the link passed around, check out the trailer:

Overall I was impressed, there's some good filmmaking and some great interviews in there. I suppose really it is just a bunch of people talking about themselves; but when "themselves" is an intersection of transness, maleness, blackness, and various other -nesses, there's a lot to be said. This bit in particular struck me:

It's been important to recognize for me that my spiritual transition needed to precede my physical transition. That the physical transition without the spiritual is not fulfilling and is kind of perhaps leaning towards problems down the road in terms of self-acceptance and acceptance in the world.

And I would say, again, give the people that you are causing to transition with you at least as much time as it took you to find self-acceptance. Don't be impatient with your parents and your siblings and all those folks, because they don't get it. It's not theirs to get. We're in a position when we transition, we force people to transition with us. Our loved ones have no choice. They can either do it gracefully or not. But we're moving on, and they have to kind of get dragged along with us, and so sometimes that feels exactly like what's happening to them, they're getting dragged along like a hostage. And we have to try to make room for them to wrestle with their own stuff, and the ways in which I've found the most loving to do that is to just be present, and to be whole, and to be pleased with who I am. And to not be argumentative, or defensive, but to say, you know, I completely understand how you don't understand this. I wasn't fortunate enough to be born in the body that fit me, but if I had, maybe I wouldn't understand it either. Give them room to not understand.

-Louis Mitchell

from "Still Black"

I completely understand how you don't understand this.

re: The Biology of Forms

The above linked article at Questioning Transphobia is a followup to one the author Queen Emily originally posted in July at Feministe. Feministe is a ciswoman-dominated space, and thus generated a rather different response than that at the trans-heavier QT.

From the followup article, on the complicated intersection of biology, identity, and documentation:

The other goes that it is medically necessary to have “accurate” records, on the grounds of me being really a man, “biologically” speaking. Now this is a rather common idea, but it is nevertheless based on a misunderstanding of trans physiology.
...
Now this is of course rather flawed. Bodies just don’t work that way. Hormone treatment as many of y’all know changes all kinds of things. So for one of my emergency situations, when I checked in as female, I was having these stroke things causing me to lose control over one side of my body. The cause? Complicated migraines, a disease overwhelmingly experienced by women and intimately related to estrogen levels. In other words, if I’d checked the “biologically accurate” male box, it would have misled the doctors much more than my checking female is imagined to.

On a personal note: I recently bought a plane ticket. I have not gotten around to legally changing my name yet (for which I have only myself to blame). So when I filled out my travel forms I declared not only my gender but my Title (Ms, Miss, Mr, Mrs, Dr, etc) -- no title was not an option. So I lied, and claimed to be a Female, Ms. (name), because that's what will allow me to travel without question -- at least, if my presentation isn't too confusing when I go to the airport. I'm actually thinking of wearing a girly shirt that day, because these days, when I'm not in Faerie mode I get read as male much more often than not. Which, biologically speaking, is not entirely inaccurate.

Just a thought.

"I have a c*nt, so that makes me... a man"

Found this gem via bilerico. Funny, sarcastic responses to some of the questions trans persons get asked... a lot. <3



I especially like Charles' response to the first question,

"What if you were born into the right body?"

Um... I sort of like being trans. Uh... Do you mean into a body that might get me laid more? I kind of like my body. I don't... I don't think I understand this question.
What if you were born into the right body?

Sure, I experience body dysphoria at times. Sure, certain things about my life now would be easier if I'd been male-assigned at birth. And menstruation was pretty much the suck for most of my life and now that the magic of hormones has ended that I'm pretty much thrilled. But, two buts (heh, I said butts):

1. Easier is not the same as better
2. There are lessons I learned as a modern dancer about inhabiting exactly the body that I'm in as my instrument and using it and loving it. Body-positivity as a political and personal truth is really important to me; so if there are changes I want to make to my physical form, they are to move forward from this point, not to correct a mistake in the form God gave me. The complicated and unusual history that's written on this body is a blessing -- sometimes a difficult one, but never a curse.

---

Sometimes I find myself in the position of being the 'good' trans friend that you can talk to about stuff without setting off a landmine of rage. In large part this is a choice, a natural one that comes from my generally even-tempered approach to the world, from my tendency to detach and intellectualize problems and think about them calmly and rationally, and from my intense desire to understand the world from perspectives that are not my own. Sometimes I recognize that this can be problematic, and sometimes I have to remind myself that understanding other perspectives doesn't have to undermine my own. I wish there were an easy way to communicate that the reverse is also true -- that my perspective on gender does not have to invalidate that of my cis* friends who have trouble shifting my pronouns and/or don't think they'll ever be comfortable thinking of me as a he. As long as there is tolerance, and a recognition that if that barrier to accepting my male identity exists, it will be a barrier between us in certain situations. And as long as we all remember that I am more than my trans identity (and really, if we're not the most intimate of friends, as long as you use my new name and the pronouns I ask you to use, I don't really care if in your own head you think of me as a man or as a nontraditional woman -- that's a concession I wish I didn't have to make, but it is a reality.)

Sometimes it's really nice to see the kind of truthful sarcasm in the above video, though. So when I'm asked the standard questions, I'll probably answer them kindly and truthfully, or tell the asker to please back off because my genitals are none of their business, but my inner monologue might be a little different. Especially if I'm tired and cranky.

---

In transition news, I've started to see a tiny bit of growth on my upper lip like a wisp of a hint of a mustache. \o/ It's possible I'm the only one who can see this.



It's the little things that make me happy. :D

---

FTM voice recordings

So a few weeks ago I started doing little voice recordings to chronicle the changes I'm going through. I have no idea if they'll be of interest to anyone but me, but today I started uploading them to imeem anyway. My page is here:

gelasius on imeem

... and the first two recordings are uploaded here:

Gabriel Faith 071609

Gabriel Faith 072409

That's all, folks. :)

Last night, on chat...

Gay friend: Can I ask you a really personal question?
Me: Of course.
GF: When you're ready for the surgery, do you get to pick the size?
Me: *sporfle*
Me: That's not what I was expecting.
GF: Because I want to help you shop.
Me: [gives Trans101 explanation of how there isn't really a The Surgery for FTM and how it's unlikely I'll be doing anything of the sort anyway.]
GF: I'm just saying, I know dick.

Then we talked about packies and STPs for a while and he told me I'm hot as a guy and would totally give me head (might want to check with his husband on that one, *koff*)

::amused::

that was a joke, ha ha, fat chance

One of those 'well, duh' facts about transitioning around people who knew me before: Make jokes.

It's a truth well known that humor is good for defeating the elephant in the dining room. My friends are kind, generous people who don't want to hurt or offend me, so for the most part they're not going to make the first jokes while still concerned about slipping up on their pronouns. Since I'd MUCH rather my friends feel comfortable around me and sometimes call me 'she' than tiptoe around me and worry all the time and always always call me 'he', I've been working at demonstrating my willingness to be communicative. Examples:

S: Yeah, last year her boots... 'his' boots were different. SORRY.
me: No, 'her' is right. Last year it was 'her' boots.
S: *frustrated glare*
me: I'm just messing with you now.

(Okay, so that was a little mean. But S. said it was actually helpful in not worrying so much. So.)

[on a swivel stool that won't stay put; usually it rotates to the left, but when I sat down it started rotating to the right]
me: See? I go both ways.
G: Yes. Yes you do. *snickers*

Chicago transgender groups in the news

Maybe it's just my boundless optimism, but the title of this article makes me a little sad:

Transgender Chicagoans find refuge in their city

Refuge? Not community, or pride, or something else actively positive? "Refuge" sounds like an apology, like transpeople are on the very fringes of society and grateful simply to survive on the scraps tossed to us by the generous normals, or something. I know the intention of the article is in the right place, and it's always good for our groups to get exposure, but somehow it just rubs me wrong. Like it's just reinforcing the unhelpful idea that trans*people are all victims.

::sigh::



(unrelated) Note To Self: Flirting with heterosexual boys now makes them uncomfortable. Don't overdo it.

hehehehe...

\o/

re: your acne

Wow, I really am turning into a teenage boy. I just discovered that men's swim trunks are the most awesome things ever and now I want lots of them. Mesh lining. MESH. LINING! I'm wearing them right now. :)

I've started my Renaissance Faire season (opening weekend this Saturday!) which means another couple hundred people joining me on my gender transition. Yes, I know, this is terribly self-centered of me, but that's my vantage point. Sometimes it feels like every moment I've lived for the past few months is about the transition, like I'm always in the spotlight. (Sometimes, I even like it.)

Every time I'm spoken to, my gender expression is considered. Every time I'm referred to, there's a hesitation before my pronoun is used. My very existence makes people feel weird for using a pronoun they didn't use last year; or guilty for using the one I don't prefer; or resentful of me for making them think about it. And for that, I do genuinely apologize. Not for doing what I'm doing, but for the side effects that come along with it. This isn't so much a fabulously unknown discovery as... something that's good for me to remember, and something I'm learning the realities of. Something else I'm learning is that my image is shifting in my mind faster than it's shifting in the outside world and that the flow of pronouns around me is something of a gauge* for that external image. It's going to take time, and the truth is that I have the opportunity to step back and watch it happen. (Sometimes, that's kinda cool.)

Is this a depressing post? It doesn't feel like one -- but the image in my mind is not, at times, the one that others see.


*one of those words that's just weird and never feels like it's spelled right, argh.

And the circle widens...

So, late last night I changed my display name and made a coming out post on Facebook, which is about as public a place as I have online. My network there includes some people I rarely or never see and am only connected to through that medium. After posting and receiving some comments, I updated my profile there to link to this blog, and added a gadget to this blog to link back there. So now my life is all open and stuff. Um.

Below is the text I used in the note. It got... a tad long.

My Facebook Note
Wednesday, 17th June 2009, 3:00am

Hi.

I am in the process of social, medical, and legal gender transition.

My new name is Gabriel. Nice ta meetcha!

And that, my friends, is the super short explanation of why my facebook profile name has changed. Some of you may not have noticed. Some may not care. Some already know this through a purple vine of some sort (or personally, even!). In any case, I seem to have been neglectful in actually writing this note to let you, my pals, know what's going on with my life. NOT my intention at all, I assure you. I have kind of gotten caught up in the New York Scene, you know how it goes, city that never sleeps, blah blah blah. So I suppose in part it's that I'm coming back to my life in Chicago on Saturday, and to my life at Faire on Sunday, that I've emerged from the fantasy world of being an extended houseguest on Manhattan's UWS and written down some thoughts.

The longer version, which may contain things of a personal and/or adult nature:

On the evening of January 25th, 2009 while I was watching an episode of "Witchblade" (which has nothing to do with this story, but, you know... flavor text) I looked up and said to myself, "Self," I said. "You're going to spend the rest of your life as a man, aren't you?" "Yes," Self responded. "We are." And thus the decision was found to have been made. You see, Self and I have had many conversations of similar subject over the years. In the past these little chats have resulted in my trying boxer briefs and loving them, buying and wearing lots of clothes on the Men's side of the store, learning about and deciding to identify with the wonderful term "genderqueer", realizing that being with a guy felt kinda gay and being with a gal felt kinda hetero, writing blog posts about gender identity and theory, noticing that strangers often called me 'sir', and noticing that I liked it when this happened.

I texted five friends with the query "What would you do/think/feel if I decided to live as a boy?" and received responses ranging from "You mean you're not living as a boy now?" to "I think that would work, and would probably be harder for you on the inside than for us on the outside."

I tossed around name ideas for some weeks -- see above, re: gender identity, I've thought about this before. Even so, there was a period there when I wasn't sure I'd be able to give up the name I'd spent so many years building an identity around. This was something I had to work through. (Which is, in part, why I totally understand why some of the people close to me will have difficulty making the change. I had to grieve the loss of name, and it was my own damn choice!) In the end I chose Gabriel, for several reasons:

1. It's thematically related to my previous moniker Faith. Biblical, conceptual, evocative. Angelic.
2. It sounds nice. The solid and liquid phonemes mesh together deliciously and roll together pleasantly.
3. It's the name of a couple of fictional characters and real people whom I admire so it has positive associations for me.
4. Its common nickname Gabe has the same long-A central vowel and thus is a small shift from Faith.

Through the next month or so I gradually told some of my friends and my parents and sister about my decision. I tweeted about it. I came out on Livejournal. I started going to a Chicagoland FTM group and met some awesome new friends. I think it was sometime in early March that my BFF and I had our first phone conversation about this whole transitioning thing. His response: "Come live with us, so we can be your support."

So I did. Early in April, I gave notice at my two jobs, packed a large suitcase and a cat carrier (I do NOT take long trips without taking my Lorelei bebe, no thank you), and hopped on a plane to New York.

There are many stories I could (and will at the slightest nudging when you see me in person) tell you about my nearly three months in New York. We had a lovely ritual Farewell Femme party at the end of April wherein:

1. I wore an evening gown
2. My friends took turn braiding and then...
3. ...cutting off my long hair
4. I changed into a suit in the middle of the circle (of the NY branch of my nearest and dearest)

I got a job at BFF's office, which is a little company of four people in a big office building at Grand Central. I have been Gabe from the start, I have spent my days signing emails as "Gabe" and being referred to as "he" and using the men's room. I have now become so used to this that it startles me when I'm "ma'am"d and hardly notice getting "sirred".

In case you want details of the medical transition: On Friday the 5th of June, 2009 I began hormone therapy. This means, for now and evermore, a weekly intramuscular injection of .5ml (at 200mg/ml) of Testosterone Cypionate, which I am learning to give myself. I will shortly begin to go through puberty again: complete with voice breaking, beard-growing, and acne. Oh, and in case you were wondering: No, I do not currently plan to have any surgery. Who knows what the future will hold? As for the "legal" part of the transition, I hope to be dealing with name change and suchlike over the summer.

So. Hi! I'm Gabriel Faith Howard. Gabe-for-short seems to fit me, but I do love the sound of "Gabriel" too, so whichever you like is cool with me. It is now, I posit, appropriate to refer to me with pronouns of the he/him/his variety. I am after all, realigning my place in this world to match what I am becoming in truth: A man. A transman. An FTM. A white dude with short hair. That guy over there.

Please know that I have much patience with these two requests and only ask (not demand) that you begin to think of me in these terms if you can, and that you feel free to ask/express/communicate with me about any concerns or questions you have.

-gabriel faith

Further thoughts on that submission post for Gender Outlaws: The Next Generation

Here.

I'm thinking seriously about submitting something to this anthology. This is in part because it's a platform for voices to be heard by wide audiences: the original Gender Outlaw is one of those books that sometimes appears as the (or one of the) Token Trans book(s) in mainstream bookstores. There are two problematic aspects of the submission post and its comments that I've seen, which I see as two opportunities. Yes, I am an incurable optimist. Whut.

1. There's this comment thread that really makes me want to get non-North-American trans voices into this anthology. I fear Mr. Bergman is being a bit "Gosh! Really? Should we? Okay!" about it. So if anyone felt like spreading this around to gender variant writers you know that aren't in the US and Canada, that'd be neat.

2. There's also a discussion further up about whether or not it's okay for Mr. Bergman to use the word "trannie" in this submission post, and whether he should retract it and apologize to those who abhor it. Feelings are hurt, people get upset, the OP is sort of understanding but in the end brash and unapologetic... it's another day on the internet.

Rather than boycott the anthology, which is one approach, I am filled with a desire to do what I can to actually give the collection some trans perspectives that may be different (or new) to those of the organizers: because I choose to take bearsir at his word that this is what he wants, and hope that it is true. It's the cold marketing soul in me, you see -- I may not think that the editors are the most awesome things ever with absolutely no flaws, but they're doing a good and important thing and they have the connections to make this important thing available to lots of people.

Also at the end of the day, Kate Bornstein and S. Bear Bergman are people I can admire.

on labels, identity, and offense

Note: This is sort of a post-about-a-post, but it's also just a post about me and thinky gender identity things that happens to use another post as the springboard. After the first paragraph I use the phrase "OP" instead of the original poster's name: in part to emphasize that I'm trying to be more universal than specific, and in part because I'm lazy with typing. If you're new here, I'm a transguy who's mostly socially transitioned, has just started on hormones, and plans to get a legal name change as soon as he saves enough money.

I've gotten a lot of cool links from elke-tanzer's post requesting women bloggers, vloggers, and twitterers. I also seem to be at odds with some people who found the post and were angered by her initial wording of the gender-specific request. There's a full explanation and heavily edited wording there along with all the original comments, if you care to look at it.

The thing is, when I saw the (now edited) sentence:

Most of my Dreamwidth Circle of people are women, and while I do value the men and transpeople, and the folks who don't identify with any gender at all who are part of my Circle, I really do value the fact that most of the voices I read here on DW are women.

I felt like "transpeople" meant me, and this was a good thing. (I don't know if she was actually thinking about me at all, but really that's immaterial.) I'm still at that stage -- or maybe I'll always be there -- where I see a word that begins with trans* and I'm pinged into full attention the way most people are with the word "sex".

Or cock, or cunt, or boobs, or arsehole, or take your pick.

That is, I feel myself getting viscerally prepared to be either horrified or thrilled: horrified that I-as-trans* am being ignored, or dehumanized, or dismissed, or laughed at, or given violence; thrilled that I-as-trans* am being recognized, or welcomed, or noticed, or validated, or remembered. It so happens that I read that sentence and got a thrill: I felt welcomed, remembered, noticed.

So why is that? Let's deconstruct.

1. I'm new to calling myself transgendered, my transition is still fresh and active, and it's really nice to see a category into which I know I fit.
2. Maybe it's my brand of Geek self-identity, but being looked at askance actually feels like a good thing sometimes.
3. I am on the male side of Trans Ave, so it wasn't exclusionary to be put in a clause with "men" -- actually excluding the 'me' kind of people from a call for Women's voices is validating to my identity, because I don't belong there.
4. I still kind of identify as genderqueer or third gendered -- although it's not my primary identity now that I'm actively becoming a man in the eyes of the world, it's an identity that speaks to me philosophically and emotionally, so placing the Me gender separate from the Woman and Man genders is something I can get behind.
5. I know the OP as a trans ally who's passionate about justice and equality and learning new ways of implementing same. It's REALLY HELPFUL to know who it is that's speaking. In fact, because of my understanding of her intention, I read the sentence pretty much how she corrected it later: ...(cis and trans)women... (cis and trans)men and (those that identify first as)transpeople. Because if you put yourself in the "woman" part of that sentence, here is one person who's not going to deny you entry. Or so is my impression.

One of the fundamental points of dispute here is related to #4: that a phrase like "women, men, and transpeople" can be nonconsensual third-gendering language. Some transpeople fight to their last breath (at times literally) to be recognized as their newer gender For Real and are hindered by (well- or ill-meaning) people along the way who want to ungender them and place them in some woobly in-between space without their consent. Then there are also those people who fight to their last breath to BE that third- or other- or non-gender, and they may ID as many different things on the gender map, but often somewhere in the trans* family of words. And then there are the genderfuckers who think it's fun to use the word trannie, (and I may or may not be one of them, but that's a post for another time.) The point being, it's not right to ungender someone without their consent, but neither is it right to force-gender someone without their consent. How do we avoid doing one or the other when "transgender" is such a wide umbrella with such seemingly opposing identities under it? I don't want to kick the genderqueers out into the rain, and I don't want the cis-queers thinking they know how our genders work, and I don't want to stop the conversation about how we want the world to think about gender. And how to we balance un-gendering and forced-gendering with the initial point of female-oppressing?

No really, that wasn't sarcasm. I'd love to get some answers to that.

So what's the upshot of all this? If I take away the five points I made above, I begin to come to an understanding of why the original wording of the post was (unintentionally) hurtful to some people. I can (sort of, intellectually) appreciate why it became necessary to change the words that recalled negative experiences for my brothers and sisters. I respect the OP for her dedication to apologize, change, and learn. It also makes me sad, because this argument has taken away a set of words that was meaningful to me because they spoke to my way of being trans*; a set of words that it's possible my presence in her reading circle had encouraged in the past. Yes, I'm aware that I have other privileges that probably affect how I see things like this and how little offense I take at them. Not the least of which is that I'm pretty emotionally detached (just ask my exes), but also that I'm white, born in the US, from a liberal family with supportive friends, educated, employed, and as I said above: on the ftm side of Trans Ave. But if there's anything I CAN get passionate about, its getting inside both sides of a trans argument, so I wanted to say something.

Now to contemplate submitting something to that Gender Outlaws: The Next Generation anthology. I actually do hope there's at least one good "Why I Hate The Word Trannie" and one "Why I Love The Word Trannie" piece. Because that'd be awesome.

(x-posted to various journaling services)

Boyjuice!

Today I signed an informed consent form for Hormone Therapy.

Today I walked out of the health center with my first prescription for injectable testosterone.

Today I left the pharmacy with two tiny vials of liquid boyjuice.

Today I came home to my four non-blood family members and celebrated with a hilarious reading session of Baron Munchausen: The Roleplaying Game, along with Sam Adams Cherry Wheat and some delicious dessert wine.

Tomorrow I get my first doctor-administered injection.

HI.

adventures in doctor-land

The 21st of May: My first doctor's appointment at Callen Lorde to begin the process of Transgender HRT. As recalled one week later.

I check in at the front desk, and though I've been told ahead of time to bring proof of residence and proof of either insurance or income, in truth they don't ask for these things and seem to be taking my word for it. I head upstairs to the Medical floor and am shortly called into an examination room. A nurse takes my vitals and tells me "don't be nervous, we'll be good to you." Minutes later Hot Young Doctor Guy In A Tight Shirt comes in (I swear, I thought I'd fallen into a porn or something). As I'm more of the listening sort and am probably giving off Craving Information vibes, HYDGIATS spends what seems like the entire time talking at me about procedures and options and possibilities and side effects of going on hormone therapy. All the while he's listening to my lungs, palpating me... you know. Doctory things. Hahaha. He finishes up, asks if I have any more questions, and sends me off to another floor for my blood draw.

The phlebotomist is also distractingly attractive (and female), and I comment on her skill with the needle. She grins at me, sticks a wad of gauze to my arm, and sends me off.

At the front desk I pay my bill and ask about a counseling appointment; then it's back upstairs to schedule one. Surprisingly, they have an opening for that very day, so I head up to work for an hour before coming back.

At noon I meet with Hot Young Motherly Counselor (apparently I'm having a Shallow Day) for half an hour or so. She begins with:

"This is not a gender test. I'm not here to determine whether you're trans enough."

This is nice to hear. We talk about me a lot, and I find myself feeling oddly calm and open. I walk out of that meeting holding a list of local therapists I can check out. If I feel like it.

At the front desk, I make another appointment to see HYDGIATS in two weeks.

I've been waiting for this day for months, and at the end of it all I'm both massively relieved that it's finally happening and wondering what I was so nervous about in the first place.

A hunnert persent troo

This occurred a few weeks after moving out to New York to transition while living with my best friends; I hosted a party called Farewell Femme, wherein the guests were encouraged to come en femme. There was Drag Rock Banding. And then there was this.

The scene:

I wear a long black evening gown, elegant black satin sandals with six inch heels; my hair is down to my waist. On the chair in front of me is laid out a suit - Black, three-button, with a light purple shirt and a dark grey five-button waistcoat.

I stand in the center of a circle of friends, my head a garden of tiny braids that those friends have made. On the speakers, Bitch and Animal lay down the "Pussy Manifesto". I hold up the scissors: "Who's first?"

J's idea, so she's it. She approaches with the cheap hair scissors, dulled by casual use, and saws her way through a hunk of my long locks. She holds it up in her fist, triumphant and pleased with herself and proud of me as the cameras flash around us. She gives me a new hug: a welcoming hug. She tells me she can't wait to get to know me, steps back, shakes my hand. Nice to meet you, Gabriel. Holds up the hair: I'm keeping this forever. I'll keep this to remember Faith. J is a storyteller, you see. A real one, the classic kind, the kind to whom you want to entrust your history, knowing it's in good hands and will be incorporated into the stories that shape the future.

One by one they come at me with the scissors, each chopping off a hunk of hair to keep or to give back. We're creating a turning point in this journey from she to he, and everyone here knows it; except maybe for my cat, hiding in the other room waiting for all these goddamn PEOPLE to leave. Some of the guys shake my hand and promise to induct me into the secret handshake club of gay men (once I've gotten in touch with that part of my sexuality, of course.) All right, dude, now hug me like a man. Good ta meetcha, Gabe. Back pats. Hugs that linger, hugs that say goodbye and hello at the same time.

At last the braids are all gone, and I rub a hand vigorously through my short shagginess. I make an announcement.

"I'm going to change my clothes now! Anyone who might be offended by my boobies... well, I don't know why you're here in the first place then."

I remember a conversation from earlier in the evening, and continue,

"Besides, now? They're not boobies. They're MAN nipples."

I am VERY pleased with myself for this witticism, and begin the arduous task of unzipping my very fabulous and fancy sparkly black evening gown. It takes nearly a full minute. This is a LONG time when a lot of people are watching. Trust me. On the speakers I hear B&A singing the praises of "The Best Cock On The Block". Still struggling. At last I get the zipper down, shimmy out of the dress and shoes, and slip into a rather dapper three-piece.

My oldest friend (no no, not the friend who is oldest, the friend I've known the LONGEST) then gets the honor of taking the dull scissors and fixing the chop-do into something presentable, which is something he's apparently been longing to do for many years. I've, uh, never been one for caring about or HAVING good haircuts, you see. He tells me that he wishes he were still in seminary, because this personal ritual I've created tonight is exactly the kind of thing that could have given him a thesis topic. Then R - who's been with me through every stage of this transition from first decision on, and because she's WAY less dorky than I and knows how to dress a fashionable man she has promised to take me shopping once I'm settled into my new body-image - messes with the lay of the new haircut so it's adorably mussed and not parted in the center.

I am called alternately "Hitler Jungend -- it's so the fashion right now", "really hot as a guy - and now I'm a little more gay" and "someone who totally would fit in at a hipster bar in the West Village, that look is very in". I sip an excellent Bowmore single malt as the evening winds down and people begin to leave, though we continue to talk of gender and games and Roman emperors and orgies far into the night. At last I slip into the guest room, cat at feet and computer at the ready; I ruffle my short hair once more and smile, glancing at my shadow on the wall.

Hey, Gabe. 'Sup.

Androgyne

Tuesday, 12:30 am - Chicago's North Loop.

Three German college boys walk behind me on a narrow sidewalk with sophomoric swaggers. One darts forward to peek under my cap, past my deep blue hood. Darts back, laughs. I hear the chatter of a language I know just well enough to pick out bits here and there. A word something like "androgyne" pops out and slaps me like a sticky wet ball of tissue. I tense a little but don't walk any faster; a tiny part of me is grinning in anticipation, waiting for a shove, wanting to get into it, to make it real, to know I'm alive and I'm me and to prove to the assholes they don't control me. More chatter behind me and one eggs his buddy on, in English this time.

"Go for it."

A pause, and I'm relieved and let down all and once that he doesn't touch me, doesn't make it more personal, but he calls out loud enough I know it's meant for me.

"Hey, man, can you feel your balls? CAN YOU FEEL YOUR BALLS?"

A dozen beginnings to clever comebacks pop into my head as I roll my eyes, but witty banter has never been my forte. I raise my right hand instead, never breaking stride, and flip the guy and his buddies and any more sophomoric swaggering cocks who might be nearby a deep, silent, heartfelt Fuck You. He calls again.

"Oh, a tough guy, huh?"

A smile creeps its way unbidden to my face as I descend the steps to the Red Line.

Yeah. Tough guy.

And then I got on the subway and wrote that down.

moving about in the world of boystown

A month and a half after Beginnings I made a 'coming out' post to my livejournal. In its entirety, here 'tis.

Those who follow my twitter page will have already heard this, but I thought I'd make a semi-public post to chronicle my important life changes. The way to phrase my "coming out" to various groups of people is something that has occupied much of my mental landscape over the past few weeks, so I think I'll try out a few of the phrases I've been toying with.

I am undergoing gender reassignment.

I have decided to transition.

How would you feel about me if I were me, but a guy?

It's a boy!

Am I going to cut my hair? No, not at the present. What kind of a man has hair that long? THIS kind. It's Ren Faire hair, hair down to who-knows-where, hair like Samson's, don't you dare chop it off.

Note: This conviction only lasted another month or so, when I realized that shorter hair would help a lot in my initial transition phase.

Hi, my name is Gabriel. No, not like Sylar.

In practical terms, I'm currently negotiating the prospects of telling my employers, getting a court order to change my name, figuring out how to change the gender marker on my ID, calling up a doctor who may or may not choose to prescribe the great and revered T so my body can begin to reflect myself, and working out how to tell the extended family and so on who may have a harder time than my queer/geek friends to accept this revelation of myself as transgendered. And I'm contemplating the complicated life journey of becoming a man without having the traditional history of boyhood, but rather a rich and complex history of girlhood and all I have to say about that is...

Coming out as queer was so much less COMPLICATED.

Beginnings

On the 25th of January 2009, at approximately 10:30pm, I made a decision. Or maybe more accurately, I realized that a decision had already been made somewhere in my subconscious mind.

I decided I would live the rest of my life as a man.

I commemorated this decision with a text message to five of my friends:

What would you do/think/feel if I decided to live as a boy?

That evening, I had brief back-and-forth discussions with these friends about what I meant by that and what my name would be, and so on. Over the next few weeks I joined various trans groups discovered through the Howard Brown Health Center and started the process of planning my transition. I came out to my friends, my family, and my jobs. I was invited to go live with my friends in New York while I began this stage of my life journey.

And so it began.