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Tuesday, March 24, 2015

My Gender Journey

On the eve of starting T, I felt the need to reflect on how I got here. This isn't going to explain why I'm starting T - the answer to that is simple; it's that my body feels wrong and I think T may help to correct that. This is going to explain how I figured that out.

I'm writing this partly to share my story, with trans* people and non-trans* people alike, in the hopes of fostering more understanding for everybody – but I can't deny that I'm also trying to justify to myself something that feels unreal and unbelievable. A year ago, I had no inkling I'd ever want to transition. I'd had my doubts about gender, but identifying as trans and wanting to transition to the other sex were things that I never thought would happen to me.

There might have been a few flickers, when my trans male friends spoke of their transitions, of breast binding, of the end of menstrual periods - there may have been flashes of "Whataboutmecouldthatbemetoo?" Which were promptly quashed because no way, I was cisgendered. Just because I disliked having breasts and a period and having a curvy body instead of a flat, muscular one and wanted to pass as a guy sometimes but couldn't because of my curvy body - that didn't mean I was trans. I was just - not that feminine. Maybe genderqueer, because I didn't "get" girls and had no interest in acting like one or being one.

Well, unless it was to dress up like one occasionally to get the attention of boys. Boys liked it when I dressed up as a girl. They didn't like it when I dressed macho. They liked my chest and couldn't get why I exercised constantly in an effort to make it smaller.

Ever since I started caring about boys (junior year of high school), my outward presentation and even my self-image were a war between what I wanted and what I thought others wanted of me. I tried to deny what I really wanted – to wear cargo pants and be tough and macho - to make myself more desirable to others, particularly to straight guys.

There were gaps where my own desires started to claw their way out. A year of singlehood during which I owned that I was very "macho" and decided I needed to date women, because I was too macho for a man to accept. I felt my dissociation from the female gender so strongly that when I did end up dating a man after all, I told him, the night of our first date, "I'm not a girl." I thought he accepted me, with my cargo pants and my macho tendencies, but gradually I found he preferred to see me in a short skirt. Well, that's just what guys want, I figured. They like girls in skirts. And it was fun to play the girl. That was when I felt really desired. Being myself? No one wanted that version of me, so why bother?

And then I met someone who did want to see the real me, and that's when it all came crashing down.

I don't know why it was that in June 2014, a blog post, a text conversation and a google chat suddenly ripped my body issues wide open. Maybe it was the explosiveness of years of repressed feelings spilling out into the light when they finally found an audience who would not judge, condemn or reject them. Not just any audience - for most of my friends are people who would never judge someone else's gender or body feelings - but my primary romantic partner. I was used to hearing (or picking up from subtle clues) what I had to do to make someone else happy. But my partner told me to do what made me happy.

At that time, I didn't know what would make me happy. I only knew what made me feel terrible - my chest. I suddenly loathed it more intensely than ever before and wished it would go away. I suddenly understood those frightening scenarios of trans people who are driven to amputate body parts, because that's how badly I wished my chest would go away.

I didn't, of course, cut off my chest, but the next day I put on a sports bra and felt some relief. It was less visible; in fact, I was remarkably flat compared to before. 





In the midst of my angst, my partner had asked me, "So do you think you're still a girl, or are you genderqueer or trans?" And I replied in anguish, "I don't know!" I hesitated to admit to myself that what I was feeling was dysphoria, that sense of discomfort or dislike or hatred or anguish toward one's own body that I considered characteristic of being trans. How could I know what dysphoria felt like, how could I claim to be experiencing it? That was for trans people, and for me to claim it felt appropriative. Because I wasn't trans; I couldn't be. I would know if I was trans. I would just know.

Genderqueer, though - that was an identity I had toyed with for a long time. Surely, the sense I had that I wasn't a girl, and now the way I hated that mark of femaleness, my breasts, qualified me as genderqueer. Surely I could safely say, I'm not a girl, so…I must be no gender at all. Genderless. Nothing.

So I set about trying to live as nothing. At least ostensibly, I tried to present myself as neutral. The trouble was, people kept perceiving me as a woman no matter how hard I tried, and that bothered me. I experimented with clothes and hairstyles and tried to find a look that would be perceived as "ambiguous" or "confusing," that would prompt people to wonder, Is that a man or a woman? I called it my "balancing act," and it was an extremely anxious time for me. 



Channeling Ari Koivunen \m/

I thought what I wanted, what my identity was, was to be neutral, but even more than that, I wanted so badly not to be seen as a woman. And so, I learned what it felt like to be misgendered. The starkest example is when I went to a friend's birthday party, and she introduced me to someone as so-and-so's sister. Sister. The word made my stomach sink. How could I be someone's sister when I wasn't a woman? The next day I told the relevant people that I preferred the term "sibling."

Already in June, too, I experimented with something I'd wanted to try since college - passing as male. Although I called it "dressing up as a guy," because since I didn't see myself as male, it didn't make sense to me that I should pass as such. My first attempt was June 20, 2014, at the Agalloch show at Empire. I was incredibly nervous about it. I texted my partner, "I don't know if I'm more nervous about passing or not passing." If people actually took me for a guy, what would I do? And what if people saw through me - read me as "a girl dressed as a guy"? But I got there very late (a couple songs into Agalloch's set) and only talked to a few friends afterward. They didn't seem to notice anything different about me, even though I didn't generally wear baggy shorts or button down shirts before then. My first attempt at passing as male was a flop.

The next time that I tried - at the MoCo Ag Fair on August 11 - went a little better. Early on, a ticket seller addressed me as "ma'am," which made my confidence in appearing male plummet. But later on, a food seller refrained from addressing me either way, even though he called my (cis male) friends "sir," all the while giving me a friendly smile. I don't know what he saw, but at least he didn't address me with female terms - which is still the best I can get most days now.

That was also when I started learning and consciously trying to walk and stand "like a man" and to use a lower voice. One of my friends gave me a great deal of advice on the subject, some of it helpful, some of it disheartening. (The best advice, though, came from my friend J at MD Renn Fest in September. They key to moving "like a guy," it turned out, was moving so as to avoid squishing things. You know what things I'm talking about :P)

The corollary to trying to pass as male was that I started to have a strong sense of crossdressing whenever I dressed overtly feminine. The most extreme case was when I wore a bikini to the beach in early August. When I removed my shorts and tank top to reveal my very skimpy bathing suit, I felt so intensely crossdressed that I was sure someone would see through me, see a man in a women's bathing suit, and come over to me waving their finger and saying, "You shouldn't be wearing that!" It was the last time I ever wore something blatantly feminine in public.

Going out as male also forced me to come up with a different name - for I could hardly try to pass as male, but then introduce myself with my female name. But since I thought of myself as genderless, I wanted something neutral, so I used the name "Sascha" at first. I only used that name a few times though. By the end of August, I couldn’t bear to introduce myself by my female name, even when I wasn’t trying to pass as male. I felt like I was misrepresenting myself, and setting other people up to misgender me. Yet Sascha was never a name I intended to use full time; it wasn’t quite me enough. I still wanted something ambiguous, though, because at the time I still didn’t think of myself as male. And then one day I remembered how a college professor had made fun of Finnish researcher with a name that’s male in Finnish but female in the U.S. It was a name from my heritage and there were family reasons, besides, which made it a fitting name – so I decided to stick it to that professor and use that name.

In August, I finally changed my pronouns as well. It happened very publicly and suddenly. I was at the birthday party of a close friend on August 17, and the friend’s spouse (also one of my best friends) said several things about me to the gathering using female pronouns. It felt so wrong, I couldn’t bear it, and then and there asked my friends not use female pronouns for me anymore. That evening I made an announcement on Facebook that I wished to be called “they” (or “xe” for anyone patient enough to learn an obscure pronoun).

By the end of August, it became clear to me that I was expressing myself in more and more masculine ways. I had stopped wearing anything remotely feminine – capri shorts, women’s sandals and sneakers, any hairstyles other than a “guy” ponytail or simple braid – and attempted to wear male attire as much as possible, especially to my office job, which was the only place I had really worn feminine attire to begin with.



With this tendency toward masculinity, I suspected I might be transmasculine – but I couldn’t find a justification for that, since it’s not defined by presentation. Women can express themselves masculinely – wearing male clothing, acting in a masculine manner – and yet still be women; that’s the very definition of butch women. The difference, I felt, was that I figured butch women would feel proud of the fact that they are women. I felt the exact opposite. I felt that I wasn’t a woman, felt pained whenever anyone perceived me as one, and felt self-loathing whenever I contemplated my female body parts. But still, did that make me transmasculine or just plain old genderqueer?

That didn’t get sorted out for a long time. What was clear to me was how I wanted to present myself and be perceived by others. By September, I no longer wanted to hear anyone call me, or more importantly, introduce myself to anyone by my female name; and I found that being called “they” wasn’t enough, and that I longed to be called “he” and to try to pass as male every day. So on September 11, I came out my friends by asking them to call me by a different name and male pronouns through a post on Facebook.

I thought that that was the end of it, for at that time, I had no wish to physically transition. I did wish I could have a deeper voice and more masculine musculature, but I didn’t want facial or body hair. That changed at the end of September when I met some people from DCATS who had been on T for years. Before that, almost all the trans guys I knew were just starting T, and so this was my first close-up glimpse of the potential power of T. These guys looked like men. That’s not the most PC way to say it, but that was my first reaction upon meeting them. These are trans guys? They look like men!

And so, later that evening I lay on my bed and daydreamed about having a male body, and thought for the first time about starting T.

It took me months to sort out whether to actually do it, though. Even now, on the eve of starting HRT, I still have my doubts. (Is it safe to admit that?) I still think sometimes, what the fuck am I doing? Do I really have to do this? But the pang every time I'm misgendered, the discomfort at the thought that other parents at school see me as my daughter's "mom," the way I can't stand to look at or think about my body or fully share it with my current romantic partner, these all tell me that, yes, if I want to happy with myself, then I have to. And I keep in mind the words of that person who helped me through my first dysphoric crisis, once I started changing my life: "Think of how awesome you feel now. Feeling awesome is always better than the alternative."

It took months, months of fighting self-doubt, and the fear of change and of coming out, and internalized cissexist attitudes - and I will likely go on battling those things for some time. But I have a fairly definite idea now of what makes me feel awesome. Accepting and taking pride in the fact that I am a man, even though I was born with female anatomy. Living as a man, and being perceived as one by others. And finally, I think that inhabiting a male body, being able to live as a man more thoroughly, to be more consistently perceived as one, will also make me feel awesome.

Some people know the endpoint of their gender journey when they start out, but I didn’t. I still don’t know where it will take me – how things will go on T, what changes I’ll pursue after that. For me, it’s a journey of exploration. There may be a destination, there may not. As long as I'm feeling more awesome about myself, it's all good.



Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Masculinity - For everyone, defined by no one

A few days ago I read an article about why someone would date a masculine woman instead of a (cis) guy (and why you probably shouldn't even ask that question to begin with). The article doesn't directly relate to my romantic relationship, since I'm not a masculine woman or a cisgender guy. But it makes a valid point and, more importantly, to me, the way it discusses masculinity made me think about how I define my own masculinity, and masculinity in general.

The article says that "masculinity doesn't belong to any gender" and that "a man’s masculinity [is not] more authentic, more natural, [or] superior to a woman’s masculinity." Men don't have any exclusive claim on masculinity. Which makes sense to me, since I lived as a woman with masculine traits for many years, and fully support women who want to express masculinity to do so. (And now I'm the converse, a man who expresses femininity from time to time. Or maybe a lot of the time :P)

It's not just that women can be masculine, though - it's that women's (or genderqueer or trans* folks') masculinity isn't any less authentic than (cis) men's. Masculine women or queers aren't imitating cis men; they're expressing themselves in the way that feels most natural.

At least, that's what I'd like to think. But where does masculinity come from if not from how cis men act? We could call it a loose collection of behaviors and attitudes that used to be most associated with straight, cisgender men, but can now be adopted by anybody. But even defining it that way has a really gross heteronormative ring to it. Yet what is masculinity if not "how mainstream heteronormative society expects men to act"?

Masculinity is important to me, but I have a hard time pinning down exactly what it is. It's in the way I dress, the way I walk and move, the way I act toward my girlfriend, and to a lesser extent the way I interact with pretty much everyone (especially at metal concerts and martial arts dojos). But a lot of that is defined by the general consensus of "how men act" (or dress). I won't wear a lot of things that are considered "women's clothing." I try to walk and move "like a man" and I try to "be the guy" in my romantic relationship. Part of that is intense discomfort with being perceived as female, or with feeling something I'm doing or wearing is heightening the impression of me being female. I long to be seen as male so I try to do and wear the things that cis guys do.

To a point, anyway. Many a time I've said to myself, "What's the point of all this if I can't be myself?" And so I haven't cut my hair, and I sometimes wear shirts that don't quite hide my curves just because I like them so damn much, and I still love pink and purple and anything with hibiscus flower print on it. I still cry sometimes - or a lot, this past week. I would definitely argue that being willing to let out my feelings, even in tears, doesn't make me, or anyone, less of man. Some people would disagree and say that crying isn't "manly." But I also have friends who would say that expressing one's feelings is a sign of strength, and therefore, not "unmanly."

And I feel like this isn't just a thing among my friends, but that society as a whole is slowly shifting in this direction - allowing men to express their feeling more, even through tears. The idea of what's masculine is changing. And so perhaps we can't pin down what exactly masculinity is or who defines it, because it's a diverse and fluctuating concept. The idea of what constitutes "masculine" behavior varies not just from culture to culture, but from person to person. And it's constantly changing over time. Fathers are much more involved with their children now (at least, in the US) than they were in the 1950's. "Sensitive" guys are starting to be valued, and people keep telling me, "it's ok for guys to cry." My generation takes equality and egalitarianism between men and women for granted (at least in name if not always in deed) when that wasn't the case 60 years ago. And individuals and organizations are focusing on teaching healthy masculinity that doesn't contribute to sexism or relationship abuse and can lay the basis for true equality between men and women (and everyone else).

With so much change and variation, is there even any point to the concept of masculinity? At some point, will this individualistic and varied (and hopefully, progressive) spectrum of what constitutes masculinity become so broad that it's meaningless, because the definition of "masculinity" is different for every person, and ultimately it just boils down to people expressing themselves how they want, regardless of sex, gender or norms?

I think eventually we'll arrive at a freer, more progressive, more egalitarian concept of masculinity, but I don't think the concept will go away. Due to the demands of biology, I'm fairly sure the distinction (not dichotomy, or binary, but just the difference) between female and male, and with them their associated behaviors and attitudes - femininity and masculinity - will go on existing for quite some time. But the definitions will only become looser, more open to interpretation, more available to be practiced in diverse ways by various people.

So who defines masculinity? Whoever practices it does. This used to be restricted to cis men, but more and more, anyone can do it. Anyone can claim a piece of masculinity for themselves, and no one can tell them they can't or that they're doing it wrong.

What's Right Ain't Always Easy

I've been poly for, gosh, over two years now. It's hard to believe it's been that long.

Especially considering that I still feel like a poly n00b. Because in fact, poly can still be really hard for me at times.

I got into poly because I liked a girl, and didn't want to break up with my boyfriend for her, and it just so happened we all liked each other and formed a triad for a while. But I stayed poly because I believe in the tenets of openness and honesty - to myself as much as to my partner(s) - and freedom - for my own feelings as much as for my, and my partners', actions.

And that's why, when given the chance to back down from a boundary that turned out to make me a little uncomfortable in practice, I chose to hold my ground and fight the good fight against my own insecurity and jealousy. Because I didn't get into this just to slowly slide back into monogamy because that's what's comfortable and my girlfriend would be fine with it. I got into this so that I and the people I love can express their love and affection freely, so that I don't have to censor myself, and so that I don't control the bodies of other people in my life.

The thing is, change, even good change, is uncomfortable. I've experienced this in a variety of contexts recently. Even though I prefer a male name and pronouns now, introducing myself with them was a little awkward at first. Confronting my privilege on various fronts is uncomfortable. So why would living as poly when I've grown up in a largely monogamous society be any different?

It's worth facing the discomfort, though. I wouldn't feel right with myself if I didn't support my girlfriend's freedom to do what she chooses with her body. The boundary that we have concerns what can be done spontaneously and what needs to be discussed first, and I think it's a reasonable boundary. It's something that allows us to express ourselves, our feelings, freely to a certain extent, without having to delay to discuss it first.

The spontaneity part, however, led me to feel that something was sprung on me without being discussed first (earth to Tal: that was the whole point of the agreement!) which made me feel uncomfortable. Why didn't she tell me ahead of time? After a long phone call and equally long series of text messages, I realized that was the point. She didn't have to tell me ahead of time. That was what I had wanted - for us, both of us, to be able to do things to a certain point without needing to stop and talk about it.

Now, what actually happened - she wanted me to clarify so there are no misconceptions, since people we know IRL read this blog - is that while she was out of town, she slept next to someone and let them spoon with her. This is no big deal. I definitely have no problem with spooning, since there are about half a dozen friends that I would happily spoon or cuddle with, without it even being sexual. Physical contact is a nice thing. And I want my girlfriend to have nice things.

What got me is that while telling me about what happened, she said she told the other person, "I already cleared it with my boyfriend." Wait, what? When? That's when the anxiety kicked into overdrive. It took an hour of talking and texting for the emotional part of my brain to calm down and let the rational part remind me, We talked about it months ago. She cleared it then. I had just never processed it that way. I had been so focused on not going past the boundary, reminding myself, "Don't kiss anyone without talking to the girlfriend first!" (and, I even messed that up once >.<) that I didn't even think about what I could do. Or what she could do.

So I was caught off guard. I got confused, and anxious, and jealous. It took a bit to calm down the green-eyed monster and remember that, No, this was what I wanted, for both of us. I want this freedom for her.

During our long talk, my girlfriend expressed that since I was uncomfortable, and since she has pretty much no interest in other people, we can take a step back - she can avoid things like spooning with other people without talking about it first. It was very tempting to give in to fear and jealousy, and say yes to that. But that, I realized, would be tantamount to a slide back into monogamy, or even worse, a one-sided relationship where I can be poly because she doesn't get jealous, but she can't because I do. How is that fair? I don't want to give up on being poly, and that means I can't deny my girlfriend the same freedom. In fact, I want her to have it, to be able to express her affection and fulfill her physical needs as she sees fit. Those things make people happy, and I want her to be happy. Of course, it's preferable to do it with open discussion and awareness of each other's feelings. But to say that that we have to discuss before anything physical happens with anyone else seems unreasonably restrictive - being allowed to be mildly physical with other people without needing to talk about it first is reasonable, I believe.

Even though surprises unnerve me, and when I'm unnerved, the chain reaction to jealousy can get set off.

So what that means is that I have my work cut out for me. Because no way am I going to let this relationship be ruled by anxiety, insecurity and jealousy. I am better than that. I want something better than that for both of us. In a way, the incident was a wake-up call, that I had gotten complacent in the battle against the ingrained paths of fear, jealousy and control that monogamous culture has created in me. Because of those thought patterns, it's really not easy being poly - at least not for me. But it's something I believe in, and so I won't succumb to jealousy. It snuck up on me this time, but now I'm on my guard, so hopefully, the next time something spontaneous happens, I won't be surprised.

Monday, March 2, 2015

Isn't it enough?

Is this good enough?


Every now and then I look in the mirror, and I'm happy enough with what I see that I think to myself, maybe I don't need to change myself physically after all. Yesterday (when this picture was taken) was one of those days.

It probably helped, of course, that I didn't leave the house at all, so no one noticed my girly face or my not-quite-flat chest. It probably helped that I was wearing some of my favorite clothes - camo cargo pants and this shirt that Someone handed down to me, which is so soft and comfy yet doesn't emphasize my curves; in fact it does the exact opposite. And that I could wear my hair down and messy - death metal hair.

If I could look like this every day, would I be happy? Well, for one thing, I can't. Sometimes I have to go to work and tie up my hair and wear things that aren't cargo pants and T shirts. Sometimes I even have to wear a military uniform, and oh boy is it tough to be a guy with long hair and a girly face and high voice when in uniform >.<

And sometimes I have to undress and come face to face with my curves. I try to ignore them as much as I can, but sometimes something forces me to confront the fact that my body is shaped like a girl's body, and it makes me feel sick.

And then there's the fact that no matter what I wear, I still get called "Ma'am" sometimes (or "Mom" when I'm at my kid's school), I still get weird looks and awkward questions in the restroom, I still hate the way my voice sounds when I answer the phone at work.. It's not all about passing, but do I really want to live the rest of my life having people assume I'm the wrong gender, and getting them to acknowledge the right one only as a favor or through sheer brute force of will?

Yes, in a way wearing my favorite clothes and my death metal hair is enough - for now. It will get me through. For every day of being miserable while being constantly misgendered in uniform, there will also be a day of feeling good cause I'm wearing what I like and think I look tough and metal. But it's a bandaid. It's the bare minimum of being myself. Wouldn't it be cool if I could be myself no matter what I'm wearing? If being myself wasn't just an outfit that I have to take off at the end of day, but my actual physical reality?

I don't know what I'll look like after hormones, what extent of physical changes will truly constitute enough. Facial hair or no facial hair? How big of muscles? How small of a butt? A face that's only slightly less girly, or a lot less girly? I think I'll just know it when I see it. One day I'll be able to look at my body and not feel like it's a bad costume, but rather that it's me, really me.

And then finally my death metal hair will be just a part of a truly badass whole.