tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16691736827568077162024-03-14T01:40:21.622-07:00My life with a transman (FTM)I'm a female-born and identified partner, wife, girlfriend, squeeze, lover—you name it—of a Transman (FTM). After spending his life stuck in the wrong body, he's transitioning to become the man he has always been. This is our journey from my point of view. Right now it's anonymous so if you know us, please respect that. But we both really appreciate comments. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-33266660689950560642014-02-24T10:48:00.000-08:002014-02-24T10:48:02.193-08:00He is a man. I am a woman. Together we are queer.I just want to report that this weekend, A. and I went to a lesbian event together. I should said A., I and his beard attended a woman's event. I checked with the organizer and everyone was cool. It was a <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj87UeIbKlEDgWbQH4crHxYgomOxIudmFhSm0XkMCZnXR_-GeR3WBIsrz4AQzfFKii8OV5bgGx2o3E5hMcpkoZL_GQ_6zgrQ_m53eO1JHRjGaXs61e6usYkDX8D_a21C1Pl7PFzwlkoAyw/s1600/o-HRC-TRANSGENDER-COMMUNITY-facebook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj87UeIbKlEDgWbQH4crHxYgomOxIudmFhSm0XkMCZnXR_-GeR3WBIsrz4AQzfFKii8OV5bgGx2o3E5hMcpkoZL_GQ_6zgrQ_m53eO1JHRjGaXs61e6usYkDX8D_a21C1Pl7PFzwlkoAyw/s1600/o-HRC-TRANSGENDER-COMMUNITY-facebook.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">HRC logo (I'm borrowing)</td></tr>
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fundraiser as well. (<a href="http://www.hrc.org/">Human Rights Campaign</a>). Did people give us you know, the *look*? A little. But I think they were more concerned about my woefully out-of-fashioned jeans (which I still rocked) than anything. Actually, I don't think anyone gave us funny looks because of who we were. I felt my usual social awkwardness (nothing to do with our status and noted that some of the women ignored me, but I'm pretty sure they were looking for dates or maybe I was just boring. In other words, it was no big deal. And I bet if someone had taken a poll, no one really would have cared that there were men there (including at least one transman). He's part of our community now. Cool. That's the thing: I never wanted to suggest that A. is still a woman. I just am suggesting that there's a special case for transmen who are with women who identify as queer. If a transguy is straight and with a heterosexual woman, he probably won't want to attend lesbian events. But finding a home somewhere in the queer community is really important to me—and to him. So thank you women and thank you HRC.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-74960559095377971462014-02-19T11:17:00.001-08:002014-02-19T11:17:20.220-08:00How can you be a lesbian and be with a man?!Of all the comments made <a href="http://transmanpartner.blogspot.com/2014/02/banningFTMs.html#comment-form">here</a> and at John Aravosis' <a href="http://americablog.com/2014/02/dumped-community-valentines-day.html">post</a> (I read all on my blog because I actually have to pre-approve them before they're posted but I did not read all <a href="http://www.americablog.com/">AMERICAblog</a> because they were giving me intestinal distress) one keeps coming back to me: <div>
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It was just a little snippet at the end of a <a href="http://transmanpartner.blogspot.com/2014/02/banningFTMs.html#comment-form">comment</a>: </div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: justify;">"</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: justify;">It makes me wonder. The author, in not realizing why a womens-only space wouldn't accept a trans man (because they view him as an equal male?) <b>and also as still ID-ing as a lesbian, seems to not take the male-ness of her spouse as seriously</b> as the sponsors of the dance do." </span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px; text-align: justify;"> (</span>bold added by me<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px; text-align: justify;">.)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px; text-align: justify;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">When A. and I first started telling folks about his transition, they always asked: does that mean you're still a lesbian? Most of the time I'd laugh it off and joke well, I'm kind of a failed lesbian: I'm so bad at it that I'm with a man. Get it? Yuck Yuck. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Then it started to be less funny. Because I started asking myself the same questions. And the answers were not readily apparent. In fact, I'm still in that process. They demand digging down to my very core with deep questions, like: what am I? Who am I? What am I attracted to? Who am I attracted to? What is love? What does it mean that this person who I thought was a woman ( albeit a very masculine one) and had a female body, now is identifying as a male and has a male body. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful image courtesy of <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/lel4nd/">Leland Francisco</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">When we first entered this, I identified as bisexual. Because I have had attractions to both men and women. But when I unpacked that – looked at it little deeper – the truth is, I haven't had a relationship with a man since college. And even then, it was not so great.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Part of me wants to stop writing right now because I'm feeling vulnerable. But I also feel like it's important to say this stuff so I'm going to go for full exposure. Besides, I've written about it before. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">The first time I kissed a woman (in college) changed everything. I got to experience that aha moment of pure joy and revelation. I suddenly understood the whole hullabaloo about sex. Oh…. I get it now! lightbulb moment. I'm sure many people can relate. Sometimes I shudder to think about people who've never gotten to experience that.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"> But does this mean I am a</span> six on the <a href="http://www.kinseyinstitute.org/research/ak-hhscale.html">Kinsey scale</a>? No. But I'm probably a 4.5 to 5. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And guess what? I didn't CHOOSE my orientation any more than you did, or any more and A chose his gender. I don't want to get into a discussion about how we came to be our gender and sexual orientation. But I can tell you that I did not consciously set out one day to become attracted to women. I just was. I just am. And A. did one day set out to become a man. He just was. He just is.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So he is respecting my sexual orientation and I am respecting his gender. Telling me that I should no longer identify as who I am is just as bad as telling him he no longer should identify us who he is.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'm not sure why this is so complicated.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Now as for us, we are dealing with our own issues with sexuality and attraction on our own terms.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-30375460714372187792014-02-17T12:03:00.001-08:002014-02-17T14:25:53.692-08:00Gendercops beware: you've been infiltrated<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
Many people who read my post here, at helen boyd's post <a href="http://www.myhusbandbetty.com/2014/02/14/15749/" style="color: #1155cc;">here</a> and <a href="http://www.myhusbandbetty.com/" style="color: #1155cc;">here</a>, and John Aravosis' post <a href="http://americablog.com/2014/02/dumped-community-valentines-day.html" style="color: #1155cc;">here</a> (HUGE thanks to these two by the way) seemed to read something like this: OMG a dude wants to break into our women's space! And he's a not just a dude. He's a <b>straight</b> dude who has ton's of places where he can hang with his girl.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small; text-align: start;">Art courtesy of </span><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/samirluther/" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: arial; font-size: small; text-align: start;">Samir Luther</a></td></tr>
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Be grateful he's transitioned and move the fuck on. He's not a lesbian anymore. Get out of our women's only space and stop being so damned selfish and ruining it for all of us who need that space. </div>
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Um, I'm paraphrasing and in some cases exaggerating, but that was the sentiment. </div>
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So what about that response bugs me?</div>
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Beyond the obvious (calling me selfish, etc.) was the more subtle. When I wrote that blog post, I was trying to express how I, the lesbian PARTNER of a trans guy, was feeling about being cut off from my community. It hurt. It hurt way worse than I could ever have imagined.</div>
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But most folks addressed the issue as if my transman was the one banging on the door. Don't get me wrong: he was upset that a community he's been a part of and supported for decades simply gave him the boot. (Not to mention that while it was NOT a PFLAG even, it was raising money for that organization). But I was trying to explain how being a partner of someone who has transitioned is very tricky. In some ways, his sudden visibility means that part of me is suddenly invisible (my gay part) He's well-aware of this tradeoff. And I'm not upset with him. It's hard for me but I absolutely want him to be authentic. He's a much better person for it. It's no one's fault. It's the way it is. </div>
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But it's absurd to say he's no longer part of a community because he's suddenly visible.</div>
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Which leads me to the second point: <b>he did not suddenly become a man</b>. He simply chose to honor who he's always been and bravely transition medically so that his insides and his outsides match. A. has ALWAYS been a man. Since birth. He's just always been stuck in the wrong body. (I'm not speaking for all transgendered people. God knows, I'm not expert. I just know our experience.) Which means, you know what? That, he, a MAN has been attending lesbian events for YEARS. He just didn't have a male appearance back them. So he already infiltrated. </div>
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But it was cool, right? Because he looked like a woman. And you know what? I know for certain he wasn't and isn't the only one. I didn't go to the dance, but I'd put all my money on the fact that there were a few female-appearing folks there who really were men.</div>
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What I'm saying is that these spaces that proclaim to be for women only have been one big illusion.</div>
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Splitting hairs, am I?</div>
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Think about it. </div>
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Now that I understand gender a lot better than I did even a year ago. I get it. Just because you look like you're a woman, doesn't mean you are. Just because you look like a man doesn't mean you are either. In fact, many people do not fall on this binary scale of gender. Genderqueer, asexual... etc. Even Facebook <a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=567587973337709&set=a.196865713743272.42938.105225179573993&type=1&stream_ref=10" style="color: #1155cc;">gets that</a>. So this idea that you can throw a single-sex event is kind of antiquated. </div>
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But let's say you're cool with people simply identifying as male or female and choosing it for themselves. Fine. How the hell are you going to enforce it?</div>
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Are you going to tell that super butch looking person who is packing but appears to have breasts somewhere under that binding and plaid button-down and speaks in a lowish voice that she (or is it he?) is not welcome? What about that woman who has visible beard stubble, an Adam's apple and sounds little like Johnny Cash? Are you going to tell her she's not welcome?And hell, what do you do with that person who walks into the door and looks, well like both genders... or neither one? </div>
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To those who tell us that A. and I are now a straight couple and we have plenty of places to go where we're welcomed, I'm tempted to give the big fat middle finger. But I'm trying to have a rational conversation here (even if it's just one way). So I'll say this. We are NOT a straight couple. That's the whole point! I'm basically a lesbian and my partner is a transman who had found a home in the lesbian world for many years. Do you really think that we'd be at home in a straight world where the price of admission would be to stay in the closet about who we really were, lest we offend someone, or godforbid, make someone feel uncomfortable? Or worse? Think this through, people: let's go with it. A and I go to a dance. It's straight. We dance. We have a great time. We meet lots of wonderful straight couples. We make friends. Then in conversation I slip and call A. "she" because it happens. They figure it out. And maybe they're not such nice people. Maybe they're offended that we basically deceived them. Maybe they just don't like queers. Maybe they decide to beat the shit out of A. to prove a point. Maybe.Yeah, we'd feel so welcome at that place. Thanks lesbians. </div>
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When you tell us to stay out of your community, you're actually telling us: go back into the closet and please for goddsake, stop making us feel so uncomfortable. Because that was the reason given to us for staying away: seeing a person who looked like a woman dancing with a person who looked like a man would make women feel uncomfortable. Because obviously that's a really good reason for exclusion. We all know that we should never offend.</div>
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Yeah, I'm pissed. Because I thought of all the people I know, lesbians, who have been oppressed, mistaken for straight and dealt with narrow-minded shit their whole likes —at least they'd understand what it's like to be excluded, to be shunned, to be told they're something that they're not, to be excluded. Many do, but many don't. </div>
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One person who I considered to be an expert on the topic (well more than one) told me that hey, this wasn't a lesbian-only dance. This was a woman-only space and that straight women were welcome. And even *they* couldn't bring their partners. To that I say bullshit. Two things: if a straight woman is attending an all-woman's dance on Valentine's day, she either isn't really straight or doesn't have a date. A straight woman who is dating a straight man really does have many places she can attend while being completely authentically herself. So she's choosing to hang out in a mostly-lesbian environment. Good for her. I'm happy for her. But that doesn't mean that a LESBIAN who is dating a MAN who used to identify as LESBIAN has those same options. </div>
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Get real. </div>
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And to those people who say, hey, cool your partner is passing and is a man and go celebrate at a straight bar of your choosing, I also say, what about me? There I said it. What about me? I'm not straight.</div>
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So yeah, I'm not going to drop this.</div>
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I'm fine if you disagree with me. But I ask you to do so intelligently. I.E. calling me selfish and other names is not intelligent. Give me a good argument. </div>
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For those who tell me there are plenty of openly gay places that will welcome you, I say THANK YOU. This isn't about us, personally, having a place to go. I'm blessed to have amazing friends and family (queer, straight, etc.) who love us and have accepted these changes gracefully. I have attended gay spaces where we've been completely welcomed. </div>
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So this really isn't about me personally wanting to find a space. But it is about wanting people to think a little more deeply about this issue. What's female? What's male? What's inclusive.</div>
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Bottom line, hang out with whomever you want. That's the beauty of a free society. But when you open your doors to the public, when you raise money for an inclusive organization, it's just not cool any more.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-45893009958292517912014-02-13T17:35:00.000-08:002014-02-14T15:30:00.997-08:00Getting dumped on Valentine's DayUPDATE: It's been quite an emotional roller coaster. I want to make a clarification: This is a private group of women holding a fundraiser. It is NOT a PFLAG group. PFLAG, itself is trans-inclusive and trans-friendly. In addition, trans-women are welcomed at the dance. (Not sure about people who don't identify as either binary but that's a different issue.)<br />
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I was really trying to express how I felt as a partner who has lost this part of her community. It just hurts. <br />
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I understand that we no longer belong as a couple in a women's-only space. In the meantime, if this helped spur a little more discussion, I'm glad.<br />
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I love my partner fiercely. He's very brave and loving human being and I'm lucky to have him by my side.<br />
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Happy Valentine's Day.<br />
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A, who is now passing with a beard these days, told me yesterday, hey that Valentine's day dance we're planning on going to Saturday? Well, those words we've been dreading are right there on the flyer: “Women only.” I kind of knew
we’d eventually hit the lesbian-only/women-only etc. wall. Because now we’re
not two women together. We’re one <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cisgender">cisgender</a> female (meaning woman-born woman) lesbian and one transgender male.
Actually, we’d hit the women-only thing before, but it was a bit different. I’ll
tell you why in a minute.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So A emailed them, you know, just to be cool. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4CYA563ChGlSSv60KbwmDrRL-F3LvIStvs16vpBDupl_Sj859ns0c_cKFGUXqBs8QXLAuljiWXNe8GKdzXWd0L-OwjTW950pwnrQ_cOuIQl-BujUYvV4lgwDVp5w08yX612bj_TszCc/s1600/noftmhere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4CYA563ChGlSSv60KbwmDrRL-F3LvIStvs16vpBDupl_Sj859ns0c_cKFGUXqBs8QXLAuljiWXNe8GKdzXWd0L-OwjTW950pwnrQ_cOuIQl-BujUYvV4lgwDVp5w08yX612bj_TszCc/s1600/noftmhere.jpg" height="293" width="320" /></a>Hey, I understand wanting single-gendered spaces. I have
nothing against them. Women’s space
is awesome. Sometimes you just want to be in a place where you don’t have to
deal with men. In fact, I was often the first person who gave the evil eye to
the straight couple flaunting their heterosexuality at a gay bar. (Now I see
things differently but hindsight’s like that). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And men-only spaces? Right on. Men should have places where
they don’t have to deal with females. As long as they’re not excluding us in
board rooms or business, I’m good. Want to get your man-on, dance around naked
and bang on drums? More power to you, brothers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, there is no neat category for folks who were born with Type-XX parts and a Type-XY brain (or vice-versa).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So A wrote a super polite email (see
below) saying hey, he’s just transitioned and now appears to be the man he’s
always been inside. But he'd like to go with his girlfriend, who, by the way, is still a lesbian
(if it’s confusing for you think about how confusing it is for me). So would it
be cool if he showed up with his lover for the Valentine’s Day dance? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The response in a word?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’re not welcome. Don’t come. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But no worries because there are lots of places where you can
go. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It felt a lot like we were being dumped and told, hey, babe,
you’ll be fine. There are plenty of other fish out there. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Really? Because while we can pass for a straight couple, we
really aren’t that. I’m not so sure how many places a transgender dude
and a lesbian could feel safe, at the least and like they’re at home with their
community, at best. But that's not even the point. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In retrospect, yeah, we probably shouldn’t have asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe we should have just shown up. Did I mention that this women-only dance is a benefit for PFLAG, which used to stand for Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays but now, according to their mission statement, also includes bisexuals and people who are transgender. (Perhaps they've forgotten about the T). But I digress. I don’t like to go to parties where I’m
not welcomed. I was going so I could to be with my friends .</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t anticipate how that rejection would make me
feel. It hurt. It hurt me. It hurt the man I love. Happy Valentine's Day. Thanks PFLAG. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
True, I could have gone solo. A even sweetly suggested I do so. But seriously. Would you? Would you attend an event from which your spouse was banned?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I told you there was
another time we were excluded. A company had advertised an all-women’s
whale-watching tour. I asked if it would be cool if A came. She told me no, it would not be cool to bring
your man. I was a bit bummed. But I was OK with it. You know the difference?
It wasn’t a couples-kind of event. No one was saying, hey come to a romantic event, but please leave home that other person who no longer fits in our world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know what
it feels like?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">It feels like when I was 32 and my dad invited me but not my then live-in girlfriend to his big birthday party. It hurt. I told him I loved him and I respected
where he came from but I couldn’t come if my partner wasn’t invited too. He thought
about it and called me the next day. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He told me, honey, I want you to come and
your girlfriend is welcome. I love you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember crying because it took so much courage for him to
do that. It took strength for him to stand up for me and let the love shine through.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">We were family. We worked it out. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t want to yell at these women. I'm not even mad at them. I know
they’ve probably been through all the heartache I have and a lot more, feeling
rejected, threatened, and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>frightened,
for being who they were. I grew up in a homophobic world, too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They said that us
being there together would make women feel uncomfortable. So by being who we
were, we were hurting them. It feels too familiar. How many times have we heard straight men saying they didn't want gay men in the locker room because it made them feel icky? Since when is someone's discomfort with someone different a reason for excluding them? I doubt they would feel physically threatened by A. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But listen: I want all those women to have a safe place. I really do. They’re my
sisters. And to think that our mere presence would harm them? Ouch. When your family pushes you out the
door and says, sorry: we don't want you, and your mere presence sickens us, that feels pretty terrible. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I’ll be
fine. Yes, we'll be fine. We have plenty of amazing, wonderful friends of every stripe. But it
still hurts. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I guess I was hoping that maybe, just maybe this family
would open the doors just a little wider to let us in and celebrate
together. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not this time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
--------</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Below are the emails we exchanged with names and headers stripped out (I
left the rest as is) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From: </span></b><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<b><span style="background: white;">To: </span></b></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial;">---</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<b><span style="background: white;">Sent: </span></b><span style="background: white;">Wednesday, February 12, 2014 3:33:40 PM</span><br />
<b><span style="background: white;">Subject: </span></b><span style="background: white;">Annual Community and PWG Fundraiser for PFLAG</span></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.5pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hi </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial;">---</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> and </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial;">---</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We
have enjoyed your dances and want to come this saturday with my
girlfriend (lesbian) who has very gracefully accepted my recent transition (F
to M). Since the caption on your mailer starts out with "For Women
Only" I am wondering if I would still be welcome?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Please
advise as soon as possible because we planned to up with some of our friends
there but won't if my transgendered condition isn't acceptable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Thanks,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From: <</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial;">---</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
<span style="background: white;">Date: Wed, Feb 12, 2014 at 7:57 PM</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Subject: Re: Annual Community and PWG Fundraiser
for PFLAG</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">To: A></span><br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hi </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial;">---</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> -<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Congratulations on
your transition! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Your question is a
difficult one:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It's a dance for women
and the people attending expect to see women dancing with women. Whether
the women are lesbian or straight or bi - they're still women. If you
identify with being a man - then you're a man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I'm sorry if it's not
the answer you were looking for - but there are so many opportunities for women
and men to dance and play together. This dance is special and especially for
women.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">All our best,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial;">---</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> and <o:p></o:p></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial;">---</span></div>
<div style="background: white; border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From: <b>ME</b></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<span style="background: white;">Date: Wed, Feb 12, 2014 at 10:51 PM</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Subject: Re: Annual Community and PWG Fundraiser
for PFLAG</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">To: ---<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Cc: A and </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial;">---</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hi – I came home to
find out that we were no longer welcome in the lesbian world – at least at your
dance. On the one hand I completely understand wanting a women-only space. (I'm
assuming that there will be absolutely no men there at all. I'm also assuming
that trans-women will be welcomed, as they are women.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">On the other hand, I'm
broken-hearted. I've been in the lesbian world for 30 years and my partner has
been in lesbian world for 40. We are part of this community. Or were. True,
there are many chances for women and men to play together. (There are also many
chances for women and women to play together.) But we-- a lesbian and a trans
man really don't have many places to go and celebrate with our friends. I feel
I've lost our community. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">With a broken heart,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">ME<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-36311226509439583252013-08-13T11:49:00.001-07:002013-08-13T11:49:30.356-07:00Scraping the walls of my psyche. Or not.Hi loyal reader (or maybe readers) I never intended to take a break, but I did. For the last several months I've been busy with other things in life (caregiving, having surgery, traveling) and I found that every time I thought of catching up with the blog, I just didn't want to. I'm almost embarrassed to admit that, but it's the truth. So I just let myself not want to. Did you need to see another post on all the hair that he is growing? Did you need to see another one talking about my identity? Did you need to see another one talking about how weird everything is? Or how normal it's becoming? Exactly. I've pretty much covered the basics. And I guess I just needed a break from processing. Am I escaping? Possibly. I've noticed that I'm sort of actually actively avoiding thinking about the whole topic. Or maybe it's just that I come most of the good out and the continued posts were just short of scraping the walls of my psyche. And that kind of hurts. Anyhow, I've never been a person of few words so I'm sure I will post again soon. But I just call this a resting point.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-21225492360109555082013-04-22T11:31:00.001-07:002013-04-22T11:31:10.534-07:00Here hair, there hair, everywhere a hair hair<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS69lapDuEik6dLFmHKTzFCkSoaX2MKk7lpudhANhmZzTJcxJTQBRq4rbQKY9hWhyphenhyphen6S-Dscjd6ugrmO2GenFs0nXS1zsoqEiAz43eQoNLFPso8nfL0o6QlauRv85aOpztGrCX2wdwryBw/s1600/2081791806_c2fa67b06e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS69lapDuEik6dLFmHKTzFCkSoaX2MKk7lpudhANhmZzTJcxJTQBRq4rbQKY9hWhyphenhyphen6S-Dscjd6ugrmO2GenFs0nXS1zsoqEiAz43eQoNLFPso8nfL0o6QlauRv85aOpztGrCX2wdwryBw/s320/2081791806_c2fa67b06e.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo <span style="background-color: #fefefe; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">by </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/botheredbybees/" style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #0063dc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">BotheredByBees</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Just a quick note on hair. I know I've written about this before but I can't help myself. But really it's about living with an adult adolescent. So remember adolescence? It's that thing that happened when your body became – you know, an adult body. Now imagine if you were living with someone who <br />
was watching your body all the time. That must be what it's like to be A. I mean it's totally different because watching an adolescent's body is kind of creepy, unless you happen to be a fellow adolescent. anyhow I don't feel like going on today and frankly I'm not sure if anyone is still reading this blog but I just wanted to say it's weird. I mean I wake up and look at his chin and there is new hair. And then I look at his chest and there's new hair. It's just bizarre to live with someone whose body is changing like it is. It's not bad. In fact most of it is good because you know – men have hair. It's just different.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-16883942168201558582013-04-18T13:02:00.000-07:002013-04-18T13:03:12.559-07:00Should I come out??<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzrEZycZ4M60Nqm_D-xvmGyTAGRBtrFgmb-uBk-6r0hKC0h0XuTGl7LYgr9iylJgqv1FUUsDTR2djM3QW9VCroqZxdvrzL_axiWUZzPcvXrRYoV6zDwiL9pQkBgxN-vGbrTIeh_jN5SLk/s1600/2919833009_dfd88f202b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzrEZycZ4M60Nqm_D-xvmGyTAGRBtrFgmb-uBk-6r0hKC0h0XuTGl7LYgr9iylJgqv1FUUsDTR2djM3QW9VCroqZxdvrzL_axiWUZzPcvXrRYoV6zDwiL9pQkBgxN-vGbrTIeh_jN5SLk/s320/2919833009_dfd88f202b.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/oyj/" style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #0063dc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">sonofabike</a> via Flickr</td></tr>
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I've been laying low on the blog a little bit. That's not because I'm not into blogging. But I sort of reached transition overload. You know? When people ask me, "Hey! Whachu been up to and my response is my partner's transition... " I know it's time to take a break. Besides, R. (now A.) is in a good place. He had his surgery, is sporting new muscles along with body hair (if T didn't make your voice change and add hair I'd be on it) and is generally happier. So it's kind of been my turn to you know, quietly freak out a little, not necessarily put on my I'm-supportive-no-matter-what-face and just be. Those of you who know me also know that I've had my own health issues. Without getting into it, I had a little scare that made me think: hmmm. I need to focus on my own bad self for awhile. So that's what's going on. And frankly, processing is tiring. Like it would be easier with scotch, except I'm not drinking now.<br />
<br />
And notice I'm giving more details? (Yes, I'm fully aware that if someone for some reason wanted to ID me, they could). I'm just about ready to come out and be public. And guess what? I'm thinking most people will be like, eh. Oh, that's cool but no biggie.<br />
So should I come out? Does it matter?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-52475231628117696572013-04-05T18:12:00.002-07:002013-04-05T18:12:24.603-07:00That thing between your legs<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">As soon as I tell you that my partner's transitioning I know exactly what you're thinking: You are thinking Dick. You know -- Cock, penis, junk -- whatever you call the thing that dangles between most dudes legs. Because in the world we live in the thing that's the thing that separates men from women. Right? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLOOBz0BT2VFYFV4N6Hx8YTjVn-tpRqHRQTzg9lCMximkNJDENUra8Ue8pd5Xo3QEae37Uph6QUGWnnZWnGKYBWZ_HfNUBVXinGxsQWavC5y4-GJUIBxgTLak2rH6oPXjCykLF-w30U8c/s1600/81892179_3a5b5919a6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLOOBz0BT2VFYFV4N6Hx8YTjVn-tpRqHRQTzg9lCMximkNJDENUra8Ue8pd5Xo3QEae37Uph6QUGWnnZWnGKYBWZ_HfNUBVXinGxsQWavC5y4-GJUIBxgTLak2rH6oPXjCykLF-w30U8c/s320/81892179_3a5b5919a6.jpg" width="248" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo <span style="background-color: #fefefe; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">by </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/robotbastard/" style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #0063dc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">Mid-Century Pretty</a> via of Flickr</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">And you want to ask, right? Sometimes you do. But guess what? It may be rude, but I don't really want to talk about it. It isn't my place. And really, I don't really want to talk to most people about their sexual organs. (There are some with whom I have had in-depth discussions but the operative word here is "most." </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I know that most dudes have penises and most women have vaginas. Right? And that's just fine. Do we really need to discuss it? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">It reminds me of the days long ago: there was a time when I would come out to people and they'd ask, hey, like how do you do it? What kind of sex do you have? Seriously. Now they don't. Because guess what? Being gay is ordinary. Boring, even. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">And as Chaz Bono and many others have said, it's about what's between your ears and not what's between your legs. Trust me, once you live with a trans person, you get this. R is a dude. Plain and simple. Maybe he's a special dude -- an FTM dude. But trust me. He thinks like a dude. He acts like a dude. He talks like a dude. And now he's starting to look like one too. </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-64471723352786079242013-04-04T09:51:00.001-07:002013-04-04T09:51:05.431-07:00Reflections on a bigot I loved
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I wrote this for a class. But I thought it would be appropriate here since bigotry is obviously a major theme here. (It's only sort of fictional)</div>
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--</div>
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He misses the old days. You know the days. Fewer people.
People knew each other, who watched out for each other. People knew people. They
took care of each other. Life was simpler. Maybe not easier, but simpler.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6g1azrmDCWMmX78jfUqaOXyFk-RTOOhaxPM_KqFfdP5yltGXIAZjm4wvHa4kH9_grgUXIk31-tWrhfv_P0t4ZOTyW0yRj4iRSIH0uD5eWrDfGJ4Gk_UV2xWVuIUGJVqADx1sYAr7kqZ0/s1600/6878530449_59a9804976.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6g1azrmDCWMmX78jfUqaOXyFk-RTOOhaxPM_KqFfdP5yltGXIAZjm4wvHa4kH9_grgUXIk31-tWrhfv_P0t4ZOTyW0yRj4iRSIH0uD5eWrDfGJ4Gk_UV2xWVuIUGJVqADx1sYAr7kqZ0/s320/6878530449_59a9804976.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/canorus/" style="background-color: #0063dc; color: white; text-decoration: none;">canorus</a> via Flickr</span></td></tr>
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Not the way it’s becoming now. Where gays get are everywhere and
women leave their children. And worse. Where people who were born men become
women and women become men. It’s the way it’s supposed to be. Not the way God
meant it to be. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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He stares straight ahead, sitting on the couch, his belly
big, his milky blue eyes staring at the TV. We were watching the news, me and
grandpa. My special sweet grandpa who used to take me camping and throw me over
his shoulders and carry me around like a sack of potatoes. I loved that game.
I knew it was old. A sack of potatoes like he was back in Russia. I imagined
him in peasant pants and knickers, selling potatoes, even if he never did. But
it was my exotic projection. My grandfather with a smooth chest and a quick
smile. My grandpa who I have known in my heart was born old with bristly gray hair. Because he seems
perfect that way. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But now, he is sitting there, busting my illusion. He is
just like those men on the TV. He’s just as bad, just as crazy. I like to
forget this part of him. Because you can’t argue with it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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He knows I’m gay and said he didn’t care. But now he talks
about the way gays are ruining the country and I feel a clenching in my belly.
He looks at me. His eyes right on mine so intense I turn away. He’s almost
spitting, he’s so mad. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But I thought you were OK,” I want to say, “about me.” But I don't. Just stare straight ahead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-70229856276328139492013-03-28T12:59:00.001-07:002013-03-28T12:59:15.863-07:00Stop discriminating and let people choose their own bathrooms!So now that the transition is well under way and I've had a requisite number of crisis (I reserve the right to have more, by the way) I'm really noticing how transgender folks are increasingly showing up in the news. I guess now that it's no longer cool to discriminate against gays (more than half the country <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/03/27/arizona-transgender-bathroom-bill_n_2967997.html">blatantly discriminatory law</a>? (Yes they amended it but it's still awful.)<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQi8oZyMnSoxotX9vUwa4_sO6ZHaur-_ukZMCrbgtUZ-f6nAR1mXb4eDIYW03I65SSie-MOHNvDGPlLM6uEs97m1uM2NPIZPfvSbjtGr-r_7o6E73fk_5npeSzcGDifIq1o0d9z7eHmQk/s1600/5637768_d855ca4ca5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQi8oZyMnSoxotX9vUwa4_sO6ZHaur-_ukZMCrbgtUZ-f6nAR1mXb4eDIYW03I65SSie-MOHNvDGPlLM6uEs97m1uM2NPIZPfvSbjtGr-r_7o6E73fk_5npeSzcGDifIq1o0d9z7eHmQk/s200/5637768_d855ca4ca5.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sjungling/">scot2342</a> via Flickr</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
favors gay marriage) it's now time to focus on a less powerful (they think) and less organized enemy: transgender folks. I'm not transgender (obviously) but since my partner is, I have a personal stake in this fight. So I ask, what the hell are Arizona legislators thinking with this <br />
<br />
Wait: I know. Find new enemies. Target them. Make people think about someone of the wrong gender seeing their junk (sorry because I think it's mostly young men who worry about such things) and voila, like you no longer have to worry about silly things like how the economy is going to hell.<br />
<br />
What are they going to do? Make us all drop our pants to prove we're the "correct" gender? Who else did that? Oh, yes, it was the Nazi's. Only way to prove men were NOT Jewish? Make them show their penises. If they were circumcised it was off to the death camps. Literally.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-29980378744409755392013-03-27T13:02:00.003-07:002013-03-27T13:04:03.691-07:00Now we can marry...oh the irony<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I just have to post one more thing. Like every queer person (and probably most people in the United States) have been following the back to back Supreme Court cases dealing with gay marriage. I don't need to weigh in on this except for to state the obvious: it's about time. But I just wanted to say how ironic I think it is that now that R has transitioned (well it's actually a process) he will soon legally become male. And guess what? We will legally be able to get married pretty much anywhere. It seems radically unfair that is to women we couldn't marry but now we can. We're still the same people. We still deserve the same rights. I hope the court will get this one right.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-80948094373920898392013-03-27T12:45:00.000-07:002013-03-27T12:47:52.283-07:00Top surgery and beyondIt's been nearly a month since I posted. And I can tell you the reason I haven't posted hasn't been because life has been boring. Quite the opposite. So much has happened it's almost impossible to catch up. So obviously I'm not going to take you through every nuance. But I will give you the one big highlight: since I last wrote, R had top surgery.<br />
<br />
Yep. It happened. <br />
<br />
I have so many mixed feelings about this that I don't even know where to begin. I feel like I should be writing something meaningful but it's almost too close to the bone. You know what I mean? No pun intended. <br />
<br />
On the one hand I'm very excited for him. It's actually kind of a relief that he's never expressed any hesitance about going through with the surgery. If it were me, I would feel very mixed. I mean it is surgery. But it's altering your basic architecture.<br />
<br />
And yes–I get it. That's the whole point. I'm actually really proud and impressed with R. He did it. It was brave. It was courageous. And it was actually extremely self-loving. And God knows, we all need to give ourselves love.<br />
<br />
On that level, he's actually been a role model for me. I'm typically female in respect to needs. Like a lot of girls, I was also raised to put other people's needs before my own. I don't always do them mind you. In fact, I think it can actually make one quite selfish. But I'm learning at my late age to put my needs first. It's actually healthy.<br />
<br />
And that means that I get to react to the surgery. I'm not exactly sure how I feel about it, but it hasn't been all positive. I feel like a bit of a traitor for writing this here. But I'm going to do it anyhow in deference to the fact that I've said I would tell the truth. Let's just say it's been difficult. It's not that I'm so into breasts that I can't live without them (although certainly I would want to.) I think it's more about being with someone who is essentially altering who they are. And yes–I know that R is simply becoming who he is on the inside. In other words, he's always been a man. He's just had the great misfortune (and I mean that sincerely) of having been born into a female body.<br />
<br />
But I'm still allowed to react, right? (I'm telling myself this) This is where I'm having difficulty. Because intellectually, I absolutely love what he's doing. I admire it and I respect it, as I said before. But it's major. I guess the whole top surgery thing–well that's the point of no return. His voice seems to get lower every day. His muscles grow. And his beard gets thicker. And then there is the hair. and actually I don't mind any of these changes. Some of them I actually like. But I have to tell you it's really weird to watch this transformation.<br />
<br />
But I will save that for another day–look forward to the post titled, living with a grown adolescent.<br />
<br />
So if anyone is still reading, thanks for the support. I really appreciate it.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-46829520546779150772013-03-03T18:27:00.002-08:002013-03-03T18:27:21.274-08:00Transition<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBLAlCIjqsGzZ4h75RXn39dIwvGpVRJ5xgiNC32T26TZQr4nJQYHMrWF5-RnFvayzM3kBoazAkEIiShGLrja2kQkE5x48C6N1kNM6afRC8yDvZRnNXUOb_5vnK2pFF9L2VnfIBUs6eivQ/s1600/4951163893_7b20eecccd_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBLAlCIjqsGzZ4h75RXn39dIwvGpVRJ5xgiNC32T26TZQr4nJQYHMrWF5-RnFvayzM3kBoazAkEIiShGLrja2kQkE5x48C6N1kNM6afRC8yDvZRnNXUOb_5vnK2pFF9L2VnfIBUs6eivQ/s320/4951163893_7b20eecccd_n.jpg" width="260" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo <span style="background-color: #fefefe; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">by </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/pennstatelive/" style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #0063dc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">pennstatenews</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I always thought transitioning was about changing genders—shifting from being a woman to being a man (or vice versa).<br />
<br />
But that's the thing. It's not. Not for the person transitioning, anyhow. For R transitioning means he is shifting from being in the body of a woman to being in the body of a man.<br />
<br />
The transitioning person is not really the one transitioning. I mean, he is. But he's not. R is re-shaping his body (through medical intervention) so that it matches his true gender. He's coming into his own. He finally will be able to slip into the body that fits. Imagine what it's like to go around life wearing the wrong suit of clothing, being trapped in it. I haven't experienced it, but I imagine it would feel like being stuck inside some constricting costume with a false body and head. Claustrophobic.<br />
<br />
He's getting to embody himself. (Forgive me if this is obvious but it's still new to me.)<br />
<br />The transition? The change? The shift? That comes for everyone else. Because everyone outside of R has known him as a woman (even if that's never what he was). He's changing physically. And the rest of the world—those who know him—must shift our thinking. We need to transition our thinking and adjust to this new manifestation of this human.<br />
<br />
And hell, I won't beat around the bush. That's hard. That's fucking hard. Because gender is so hard-coded into us (everyone points out that it's the first thing we humans learn about their offspring: boy or girl). So finding out that someone doesn't fit the mold quite as we expected forces us look inside and question ourselves. Maybe that's why people are so threatened, but they needn't be. The questions are important and the answers are fascinating.<br />
<br />
What is gender? What makes me a woman? What makes you a man? And why is it important? Why do we care about gender? The answers, of course, could fill volumes (sorry I don't have many answers; just questions).<br />
<br />
So the shift really is up to everyone else. R does not have to shift at all. He's already there. We just have to catch up.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-81385110756024966092013-02-26T09:11:00.001-08:002013-02-26T09:20:10.322-08:00Scratchy faceWell, I'll admit that this time I don't have a lot to say about this. But R is starting to get whiskers. I bought him a shaver for Valentine's day. I did a lot of research on Amazon and picked what I thought was the best one. I don't know if he appreciated it or not. Don't worry. I also got a more romantic present. Anyhow, it's just a little scratchy. I told him that to start passing, he had to shave because women have soft fuzz on their faces but guys don't. (I read that on a transman's blog. I'd give him credit but I can't remember which one.) Anyhow, I find it kind of sexy, which surprises me. But I definitely like him clean-shaven, at least for now. <br />
<br />
Photo by Leveretdreaming via Flickr<br />
<br />
<div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhWkaMcgeKc0GL7LAD1df2eiUvm-Bnt63aoeA6P2-MaOvYSzsyB5B_EZ5PkqtvyLsP0E9_uGhQAdAoWDrVEwVY8HLQC_2vdOhEf40QXb9GtL42WyHix-ADUp_1llMF_a7-mmpD8yuKcqM/s640/blogger-image-200482451.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhWkaMcgeKc0GL7LAD1df2eiUvm-Bnt63aoeA6P2-MaOvYSzsyB5B_EZ5PkqtvyLsP0E9_uGhQAdAoWDrVEwVY8HLQC_2vdOhEf40QXb9GtL42WyHix-ADUp_1llMF_a7-mmpD8yuKcqM/s640/blogger-image-200482451.jpg" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-2312661411585158022013-02-23T10:44:00.004-08:002013-02-23T10:45:33.564-08:00When she was a boy<br />
(I wrote this as an exercise for a class. It's fictional but true in a fictional way.)<br />
<br />
When she was a boy she had feet that could fly. They were her wings, her feet clad in boys shoes, sturdy and tight, her chemistry set at home. The other boys – they all knew she was a boy. She imagined herself a fisherman or a fireman or an astronaut.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS5ugWYKTjNF-188KdY267nJQQc2trGQpKAlBGokLSP78N9-5x4lI5p3MDD87mw3zvz_eXWD2domPoXDqqpb9K_gjNiLVJqN-Gu2d3S9_SfXmVVdSjyESQnJGugy38bj1plyzaGbc3VhY/s1600/4925015302_9dd21010b0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS5ugWYKTjNF-188KdY267nJQQc2trGQpKAlBGokLSP78N9-5x4lI5p3MDD87mw3zvz_eXWD2domPoXDqqpb9K_gjNiLVJqN-Gu2d3S9_SfXmVVdSjyESQnJGugy38bj1plyzaGbc3VhY/s400/4925015302_9dd21010b0.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">Photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/wallyg/" style="color: #0063dc; text-decoration: none;">wallyg</a> via Flickr</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Sometimes she was a pilot who could climb into a cockpit and soar above the world. When she was a boy, she was not a sister. She was not a daughter. She was a sailor. She was a cop. She was a construction worker who drove huge trucks that crunched over gravel and picked up impossible loads.<br />
<br />
When she was a boy she was kind and smiled toothy grins. She caught spiders and bugs and burned wings under magnified glass.<br />
<br />
When she was a boy, they told her she was a girl. They put her in pink dresses with lace and beads that she picked off in church. They made her sit still with her legs together, her knobby knees scraped and accustomed to shorts and high speeds.<br />
<br />
And she knew in her heart that she would not grow up to be this other thing. But she really didn't think about it. She thought of the sun in her face. She thought of the tricks she would play on her sisters – like any big sister. Because she knew she was a boy.<br />
<br />
"Mom – I can't wear that. I'm a boy." And her mother would look sideways at this child and her contrariness. She would stare and ponder because no one ever told her about little girls that grow to be boys and men.<br />
<br />
"You're a girl and that's that."<br />
<br />
And she would go off crying. But then her dad would come in to give her a fishing rod and she knew that he knew that she really was a boy.<br />
<br />
When she was a boy, when it was late at night and she couldn't sleep, she knew the truth: that she would grow up. She wished every night and yet she knew that her body would betray her further. And eventually it did.<br />
<br />
But now she is grown. Her parents are long gone. The memories of them telling her what she wasn't when she knew she was, long erased. And she looked at himself in the mirror and saw the betrayal. The body of a woman.<br />
<br />
But that was all about to change. And soon, she would be a man. The man she was meant to be. And people would no longer doubt her. And they would no longer say she grew up as a girl who was a boy. They would just know she when she was a boy she was a boy. And now she was a man. A real man.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-25694929770297582892013-02-20T23:40:00.004-08:002013-02-20T23:40:38.937-08:00A long overdue marriage
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I see his body shift. I see it remolding itself before me. I
am living with a gray-haired (although he dyes it like I do) adolescent. And
it’s exciting and scary. And real.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo via Flickr by <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/brizzlebornandbred/" style="color: #0063dc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-decoration: none;">brizzle born and bred</a></span></td></tr>
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But the irony is that while his body is changing—that can’t
be denied (I’m the one shooting him up with man-juice every week) he’s not
really changing at all. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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He’s always been a man—inside. Now he is simply becoming
whole. He’s uniting his outsides with his insides. In essence, he is marrying
himself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It should be perfect, to see a human growing into himself,
occupying all that he is. He is finding his Nirvana. And it is perfect. I love
watching him slipping into himself, one body part at a time. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And I also feel loss because I’m losing the thing he
was—even though I know now it was a false front. Some changes I’m loving.
Others, I fear. What will it be like when he has no breasts? When his face is
rough and scratch? When is forehead is broad with masculinity? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I guess that’s the irony: as he finds his place in the
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essential questions: who am I? Who am I when I’m with him? What makes a woman?
What makes a man?</div>
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<br /></div>
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I’ve always been drawn to the deeper questions. But now I
must face them head on. And it’s disconcerting and scary and exciting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-76599903305097446632013-02-17T11:03:00.000-08:002013-02-17T11:03:27.577-08:00Yes, I suppose I'm a failed lesbian<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr3USrfMQWXy6LqMKE8wWH_qoZk_etkUxrcPQCmgq05Yy5pFgCKZyRTGkNWxO3XMsXvzhu43-gHRGITiQiZ-DTWrMGriK6993k38IUt3sAiw2-u102yw8CsRjUI-2lkZzVloEPWipnWl8/s1600/22283929_e8f5be163c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr3USrfMQWXy6LqMKE8wWH_qoZk_etkUxrcPQCmgq05Yy5pFgCKZyRTGkNWxO3XMsXvzhu43-gHRGITiQiZ-DTWrMGriK6993k38IUt3sAiw2-u102yw8CsRjUI-2lkZzVloEPWipnWl8/s400/22283929_e8f5be163c.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo via Flickr by <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/joshbousel/" style="background-color: #0063dc; color: white; text-decoration: none;">joshbousel</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So now that we're more out, when I tell most friends—gay and straight—they inevitably ask me one important, compelling question: will you still be a lesbian? I laugh because I'm asked it so much and it's so obvious and because, well, I don't have an answer. have no idea. R tells me yes, I will still be a lesbian. I tell him that who cares? I've never been a particularly good lesbian. I mean, I've always insisted I was bisexual, even if it's true that I haven't been in a relationship with a man since college and even then, I knew I would prefer to be with a woman. He keeps saying, but I'm a transman. I keep saying, transman or bio-born man, you're still a man. You'll look like a man. You'll act like a man. In fact, you already act like man. You are a man. Right? So if I'm with a man and I'm a woman, I guess that makes me, like, straight or at least a failed lesbian. Yup. D'ja hear about the lesbian who finally found the woman of her dreams and it turned out she was a man? OK, it's not funny without some politically incorrect reference, but you get the point.<br />
<br />
So on a serious note, does it matter? I keep telling myself that at this stage in my life, who really cares what people think? Seriously, I've never been one of those women who completely identifies with being a lesbian. Don't get me wrong. I'm out and I know that's how the world labels me. But internally, I've always just felt like me. My friends come in every flavor and I like it like that. So far, no one in my life has said or even hinted at cutting me off. It would surprise me if they did. That did, incidentally, happen when I came out as gay. But I was much younger and it was a totally different era.<br />
<br />
Now I joke that the world will see me as just another boring straight person. Sigh. It will probably be weird when we start passing. When we hold hands publicly, which we do now, nobody will look at us twice. Of course, they don't really do that now. But that's because we live in a gay friendly place where most people really don't care.<br />
<br />
But I can't wait for those heterosexual privileges to reign down on me. Where do I pick up the card? I know you get a toaster for being a lesbian. What do you get for being straight?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-64274441593036248082013-02-16T10:27:00.004-08:002013-02-16T10:27:35.763-08:00Why they name kids at birth...This is a post for those who actually know who I am (which I assume is most of you) and keep asking, so like, what the hell is is name? And you're tired of me glaring back and saying, hey, it's complicated.<br />
<br />
We had chosen a name. Actually HE had chosen his OWN name. It began with R. Thus, the R reference (ok, not that clever but it works). But he didn't like the way I said it. I guess there was a little unintentional disdain. But you know, when your girlfriend becomes your boyfriend, it's complicated and of course, there are some hard feelings and I think I'm allowed a tad of disdain along the way. But honestly, I think he's reading too much into my tone. I think it sounded funky because R is a little like ARRRR... or like you know, a Pirate Name.. like ARRRRHHHH.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo via Flickr by <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/earlg/" style="color: #0063dc; text-decoration: none;">Earl - What I Saw 2.0</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>But there were other problems with the name that I won't go into lest I reveal it. So that name is probably out.<br />
<br />
Then he was going to masculinize the name he goes by. I thought that was great. I even suggested it. But then I started using it and that felt wrong too (OK before you misinterpret this, this is NOT all about me. It's HIS name, but since I'm the one who will be using it the most, how I say it is apparently important.) But his given name was too associated with being, you know, a chick.<br />
<br />
So I suggested a new name the other night. And he said, wow, that's the name I always wanted, but you told me you didn't like it. I was like, I did? I must have. But we were going through lists and lists of names.<br />
<br />
There were days when we'd be in the car and we'd go through a laundry list of dude names. How about Joe? NO. NOT JOE. OK, so how about Sam. Sam? What? No. Sam was the boyfriend of his best friend from high school who broke her heart and turned out to a low-class embezzler (not even for a lot of money). Well, you can see where I'm going with this. Every name had something attached to it.<br />
<br />
This is why parents name their kids AT BIRTH. Because they can't talk back and say, really? You're naming me, Henry? Also, even if they could talk back, at birth they know no Henry's yet (assuming that they do not, upon entering the world, remember that in a past life a dude named Henry owed them a lot of money and had toxically bad breath).<br />
<br />
So choosing a name is tough. Anyhow, I had no recollection of hating this name that the other night (Valentine's if you must know) sounded so great. So that's probably going to be what we're going for. I'll let you know when I can.<br />
<br />
And then, you know what? I've never liked my name. So maybe I'll change it too. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-19325251123665176872013-02-14T00:09:00.001-08:002013-02-14T00:26:33.937-08:00Coming out… again: the story<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px;">So the weekend began with me
freaking out, as I’ve been doing for weeks. I guess it doesn’t matter how old I
am. They’re my parents.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">So a day went by. There were no
openings. We went to Argo (great movie by the way) then came home and watched
Flight (not as great) and then it was night. I went to bed chastising myself,
wishing I had a Xanex to sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">The main mistake was telling
everyone we were going to come out. So everyone was asking how it went. It
didn't. It didn't go. God damn it didn't go. I felt a bit like a failure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTE6rLYEOpOoMz0wtz9ke_Xv2jIF-l188cqaadmvVQuCT3u-7RqEWFJRQq0p4NV_cduL9BgOulJWcHxo7JDyXEEANgELLk181lztAOESyWfGJ3WlBQRso6VRdCWOagdhvzavhe5tTJw_M/s1600/gettyview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><img alt="View from the Getty" border="0" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTE6rLYEOpOoMz0wtz9ke_Xv2jIF-l188cqaadmvVQuCT3u-7RqEWFJRQq0p4NV_cduL9BgOulJWcHxo7JDyXEEANgELLk181lztAOESyWfGJ3WlBQRso6VRdCWOagdhvzavhe5tTJw_M/s320/gettyview.jpg" title="View from the Getty" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">a sparkling day</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">When the next day they told us
they wanted to take us to the Getty Museum, how could I refuse? I’ve always
wanted to go. I thought, OK, I’ll do it later. After the museum. But then we
were sitting at the table in this incredible restaurant. It was one of those
rare glorious LA days. Chilly (for LA) and crystal clear. When I grow up, the
smog was so thick and hazy you couldn’t see the surrounding hills and achy
lungs after hard play were the norm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">So there we are in this
spectacular restaurant. Tables are sparsely set apart. Views from every angle
are stunning. I look out and see the stone buildings cutting against the blue
sky, houses and then the ocean – the metropolis. Around us, we could hear the
gentle clatter of lunch hour and the din of conversation in English, French,
Spanish – you name it. There we were, sitting on top of the world. And I knew
then it had to be then. There was never going to be a perfect moment. I was
never going to feel OK. I was always going to feel like I was a kid again,
telling them for the first time that I um, yeah, had a girlfriend. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">I nudged R under the table. I
gave him a look. He nodded. We’ve both wanted to tell them. And we haven’t. But
we knew it has to happen. Trust me. We’d discussed it many times with everyone,
including our therapist. They had to know. If we weren’t close with them, it’d
be different. But we were and our relationship is important.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">I won’t put quotes around what I
said because I didn’t tape it (sorry D&B, but as tempted as I was to
chronicle it all, it was more important to connect.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">So mom and dad, I have something
that I need to tell you. It might be a little shocking. I'm sure you're not
expecting it. And the last thing I would ever want to do is damage our
relationship. I feel we've gotten so much closer, especially in the last year.
And I want to tell you how much you mean to me (cue tears feeling eyes because
that is what happens.) I'm looking at my mother. She's a little wide-eyed. Clearly
she’s wondering what the hell I’m about to say. My dad is just looking at me.
It's not a very loud restaurant and at this point, I am totally focused. So we
thought of not telling you except that it's really important to us that you
know and we don't want to keep secrets. By now, I'm sure my mom is thinking, what
the hell are they going to tell us? I know I've built it up. But I know that
once we give them the news, they won’t really hear much else. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Then I turned to R. We’d talked
about how we were going to tell them. We’d even practiced. I didn’t want to
bungle it like I did so many years before. So I was to make the introduction
and then he’d actually tell them. It was, after all, about him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">(As an aside feels good to be
going back to the male pronoun. It makes my head swim trying to remember when
she's female and when to use mail. I guess it's all male from now on then.) So R
starts talking. He’s now done it a number of times and I recognize the story. He
is truthful and eloquent. And brave. Have I mentioned how brave he is? He is.
So brave, showing himself like that. To me that is true bravery. He starts by
telling them that as a little kid, he never felt like he was in the right body.
It's a weird thing to tell someone. But it’s the truth. And we decided that we
wanted to be honest. We needed to be honest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">I don't remember everything he
said, but he basically said he now had the opportunity to have his body and
brain match. And he’s taking it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">I feel him. His energy is strong.
He's almost beaming. This is how he is now, all the time. It's so weird that
well I'm going through all this stress, he's happier than he's ever been.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">We pause. My dad reacts. “I don’t
care in the least,” he says, leaning back in his chair. I see he means it. I
worry it’s because he doesn’t understand. But then I think, these are not the
same people I came out to nearly 30 years ago. I’m not the same person, for
that matter. Life has changed. We love each other. We’ve been through a lot. My
mom looks off in the distance, as if trying to figure it out. Maybe she’s
thinking of what she’ll say. Maybe she doesn’t know what to think. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">It’s an odd concept. But I don’t
feel any anger. I take a bite of my salad. Suddenly I’m voracious. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Nothing we tell them will make
them stop loving us. That’s what my mom says and then I really want to cry.
Because I really thought they might kick us out of their lives. I just didn’t
know what to expect. I wanted to give them the space to react however they
would, though. When I came out to them, I didn’t give them that space. I was
young. It was a different time. There was no gay marriage – no talk of it even.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">My dad pointed out that R had
always dressed like a guy and was sort of the man in our relationship. It’s
true. Funny, because it had always bothered me that we didn’t fit this new age
ideal of total equality. But it’s true. R is far more masculine. And over the
years, being with him, I’ve found that I’ve toned down my masculine side. But
I’ll save that for another post. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">He did ask why we needed to tell them, why we needed to tell anyone. And I've been thinking about this ever since. I think the answer is simple: to be authentic. To be truthful. To live a life that has meaning, one has to be open. That's just my philosophy.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Suddenly I feel like I have so
much to say. I feel released. The bottom didn’t drop out. My family did not
forsake me. We finished our lunch. We walked to some exhibits. It was hard to
focus but it was reassuring, like nothing had really changed. When I looked out
at the view, I felt free and expansive as the ocean beyond. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">After that, telling everyone else
seemed easier. What a release.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">I know there will be fallout. I
know that there will be issues about pronouns and treatments and us. But right
now, I feel strong and released. I will be blogging more. I already have a list
of topics. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0a0a0a;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-9792016222631137762013-02-09T17:16:00.001-08:002013-02-09T17:19:16.929-08:00OUT... It actually went better than I could ever expect. I'll blog more later or tomorrow. Thanks for all the support. Now it's official... and we will be coming out. Out. OUT. They did ask why tell? Why make such a big deal about it? I can't quite answer but for me it's about being authentic. That to me is so important to me. More important than anything in my life.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-23983346165990118002013-02-09T09:11:00.001-08:002013-02-09T09:11:04.076-08:00Not yetFor those of you who are wondering if we told my folks yet, we haven't. No time seems right. But it will happen. Probably today. Not looking forward to it. Wish me peace and truth!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-91568707994637270342013-02-05T14:15:00.001-08:002013-02-05T14:20:21.512-08:00Nature vs. NurtureWhen I'm feeling really Big and Generous I know that this is something R has to do. I don't personally get it on a gut level, but I can see that being born into the wrong body has caused angst his whole life. And now? He gets to deal with it. It's pretty amazing, actually. What a gift, right? And frankly, it makes a lot of sense. He's always been a he. Just in a girl's body. It's really making me rethink the whole nature/nurture thing. Things that I thought were socialized into guys seem to be implanted in the brain. I honestly think there's a biological basis for this condition. It's like somewhere along the line, wires got crossed. The brain was male, the body, female. I didn't think that before, but now I do. If you meet transgendered people, they always say the same thing -- that they were born knowing they were in the wrong body. Maybe one day scientists will figure it out. And before I get hate mail (or hate male) I'm not trying to cure anything -- just understand it. When I'm not feeling Big and Generous? Well, I just wish I could live in that part of myself all the time. But I don't. <br />
<br />
Photo by http://www.flickr.com/photos/aigle_dore/ vi Flickr <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglvS15GL_z8ZN9byPRdFjH-biE43-kCS755rol4u_L_DcERtQEkm3Khc39nHmfRovRkPvRVX1olbr099u18SRc8uXEdIFgQpnpRNIfqTTEoBOruuGB6fo4AfOIxay7f12G-ezfzTQdcWg/s640/blogger-image-1630593386.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglvS15GL_z8ZN9byPRdFjH-biE43-kCS755rol4u_L_DcERtQEkm3Khc39nHmfRovRkPvRVX1olbr099u18SRc8uXEdIFgQpnpRNIfqTTEoBOruuGB6fo4AfOIxay7f12G-ezfzTQdcWg/s640/blogger-image-1630593386.jpg" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-48158606522908216622013-01-29T15:14:00.001-08:002013-01-29T15:20:07.748-08:00Coming out. Again. And again. And again.The weird thing is this: When I came out to my parents as an impossibly young 20-something I naively thought they'd have realized it. I thought they'd have guessed. And I knew it would be a big deal but I didn't know how big it would be. In addition, I never said, Oh, I'm gay or I'm a lesbian or bisexual or any words like that. I said, "I have a girlfriend." Which was true. I did. Let's just say I didn't do it well and it didn't come out. Now, I face coming out to them all over again. And guess what? I'm embarrassed to admit it. I am. But I'm scared. Scared in a little kid being rejected kind of way. But I'm not a little kid. I'm an adult. And I'm not embarrassed. I'm not ashamed. At least I tell myself this. I don't want to go into all the details in this blog, but I will say I've imagined every possible outcome. It helps me to deal with outcomes by anticipating them. <br />
<br />
So here are some answers. No, I'm not transitioning, myself. No, it does not mean I'm straight. Yes, I still love R. Yes, I realize that the whole changing names thing is difficult. Yes, it's hard on me. And no, it doesn't mean anything will change. Well, everything will change. But this is the thing that I have to continually remind myself: R is no different. He has always been a man. He's just been a man trapped in a woman's body. If there's one thing I'm learning most during this transition, it's that he is a he. No doubt. And he has never had a moment of doubt that he's doing the right thing by making his body match his insides. That actually makes me feel good. Because I don't think I could handle it if he had doubts too. I've thought of not coming out. I mean, why do they have to know? If family circumstances were different -- if we didn't see each other very much, if I didn't have a large family and most of all, if I didn't care, I'd not say anything. But I care. I care so much. I care to the bottom of my core. I love them and I want to be close. And I pray (even though I don't pray), I pray that this does not harm our relationship. We need each other. <br />
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Photo by courtesy of hagit, http://www.flickr.com/photos/52886895@N00/ via Flickr <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizFkmGEIaHoqLdVHFP3BrM3cVA_aINB35FyVQd6NftdR7ocuBekI-hMOyaZc-clTUHjzI2t3uAZhF8yR1mtyvdqdHKrbkGotexltXQnXviInF4IYdwuLSVz93YDumfwDVeoGQm-EkOZMQ/s640/blogger-image-315110102.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizFkmGEIaHoqLdVHFP3BrM3cVA_aINB35FyVQd6NftdR7ocuBekI-hMOyaZc-clTUHjzI2t3uAZhF8yR1mtyvdqdHKrbkGotexltXQnXviInF4IYdwuLSVz93YDumfwDVeoGQm-EkOZMQ/s640/blogger-image-315110102.jpg" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-32509907864536694692013-01-25T17:47:00.001-08:002013-01-25T17:49:20.881-08:00HeSheHeSheHeShe<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyrDS9G456aiOjRkqegxRtd4ZlZomZcDIbMQ-YclGvKBel_MHyg4TefUOwtbtjAaAKVZKUzmNLb7Xalhj4FBM_3L3LijVR_oHat6mjkPhgnKgUFez0nqEQ5kD2jQf4bxbG6_4FNY2EjXU/s1600/2697514108_1dcee370cc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyrDS9G456aiOjRkqegxRtd4ZlZomZcDIbMQ-YclGvKBel_MHyg4TefUOwtbtjAaAKVZKUzmNLb7Xalhj4FBM_3L3LijVR_oHat6mjkPhgnKgUFez0nqEQ5kD2jQf4bxbG6_4FNY2EjXU/s320/2697514108_1dcee370cc.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/vanderwal/" style="color: #0063dc; text-decoration: none;">vanderwal</a> on Flickr</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So you try it. Try to get through a whole day without using a personal pronoun for the person you love. You think it's easy, right? I mean, who hard can it be to say, this person over here will have the Caesar for dinner. R has suggested this. While he's still not passing, we're in this never/never land, this in-between state. He's a he, but he's still presenting as a she. I'm getting to be OK with this. And I think he's OK because in his head, he's already a man. Has always been a man, (that's the point, right?) but his body is changing to match what's in his head. So it makes sense for him to want me to call him a he. And yet, it's awkward. Right? It's confusing in my brain. Because inside my little head, he is kind of still a she, even though he's never really been a she. See? If I complete that sentence any more, it will be as twisty as my thoughts. But the hard part is some people still know him as a she and some people still perceive him as a she. So if I say he, I get a funny look or a look of flat out confusion. And I get a dirty look from R. So do I really want to explain to the flight attendant that oh, he's transitioning? No. Do I need to? No. Do I feel compelled? Kind of. Kind of . Do I care? No. I don't care. I only care what R thinks. It's just confusing. Sometimes, even I find myself referring to a friend and inside my brain, the thought zips through: is that a girl or a boy? Gender. Gender. Gender.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669173682756807716.post-29046449190265458782013-01-21T23:01:00.001-08:002013-01-25T17:32:29.553-08:00Climb on a back that's strong<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIaMUwlCm2u7VWEw6e2z8FWWieRVj3qDzqUW5e0lBsnT6Uy-UELxoTmCX8qY7NJKLEH-3EaCws-2PejDFzId7dcmgx5vZ3uxt4j9zEgECxkpnwhjnW1nFxfUM80_nClqsSGQGzsfHTjuo/s640/blogger-image-699053903.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIaMUwlCm2u7VWEw6e2z8FWWieRVj3qDzqUW5e0lBsnT6Uy-UELxoTmCX8qY7NJKLEH-3EaCws-2PejDFzId7dcmgx5vZ3uxt4j9zEgECxkpnwhjnW1nFxfUM80_nClqsSGQGzsfHTjuo/s640/blogger-image-699053903.jpg" /></a>His back. When I wrap my arms around him, he's more substantial, harder, firmer. That's the first change I noticed. It was subtle and yet it wasn't. Just two weeks ago, I think. I digested the change with my hands, my arms, my body: this feels good. I liked the warmth of it, the solidity, like his new muscles and cells were filling a space that had been waiting for them. Like his body was beginning to assume its rightful place. Then my head came and as usual... Well, you know my head. It rushes into thoughts: boom, boom, boom. Flips through them. Oh my god. Shit. Holy Shit. Wait. This is really fucking happening? My girlfriend is really becoming a man? Holy crap. I mean, this is no longer simply an intellectual exercise of expectations and hypotheticals. This is suddenly concrete. Next up: hair, voice. Evidence of gender. Evidence of maleness. And then, I quiet my mind and I see that in R, masculinity seems to be discovering its rightful place, nestling in and planting its flag. It belongs. Every day I see more changes. Now he wears it on his face. I can't quite tell what it is, a broadening of features maybe. It's probably his forehead widening. He is changing before my eyes. It scares me. And there's something else, a start of what might pass for acceptance? Right now, with him laying beside me, gently breathing, ruffling through his magazine and quieting for a night of sleep, he seems calm. More peaceful than I've ever known him. Maybe it won't last (what moment ever lasts?) but in this one still moment I can imagine a different road ahead. Not so much a smooth one, as one that says, take me. Take me. I am what is right.<br />
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Photo by Fonzie's cousin courtesy of Flickr <br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02345335624720843559noreply@blogger.com0