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.
Showing posts with label transition. Show all posts
Showing posts with label transition. Show all posts
9/16/09
8/11/09
"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?"
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
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
6/17/09
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
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
5/21/09
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.
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.
3/17/09
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
