It's been so long since I've posted anything that I doubt anyone will read this, let alone notice that I'm back. That's okay, though. A great many things have happened since I last felt the need to publicly broadcast my feelings.
To start with, I've reached a comfortable place with my gender identity. I identify myself as gender fluid. I don't think of myself as any particular gender over another; I'm more of a blend. I have days where I feel more masculine or more feminine, but mostly I feel like....everything? If that makes sense. It's about the same place I was at the last time I posted, but I have settled quite comfortably into this. My preferred pronouns are they/them/theirs (neutral).
Secondly, I've been with my significant other for nearly four years now. He is very supportive of my gender identity and sexual orientation. I call him Husband even though we're not actually married because we've lived together so long and we act like we're married. We have FIVE babies! Fur babies, that is. We are not ready for tiny humans yet. We have two cat babies named Bailey and Violet. We also have three wiener dog babies named Little Man (Littles for short), Olive, and Alfie.
I have accepted a job in sales and am making progress in my budding career, although I have not entirely shelved the options of being a famous writer or movie star.
Lastly, and perhaps most shockingly, we now live in the BIBLE BELT! Yes, go ahead and laugh. No, my religious convictions have not changed in the slightest. I am now a godless liberal trying to make my way in North Carolina, amongst toothless hillbillies and Bible-thumpers. Oh lord...this should be interesting....
Friday, January 13, 2017
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Why I am vacating this planet ASAP
1. Having to explain my gender identity to everybody
2. Having to work with angry customers all day
3. Stephenie Meyer
As soon as space travel is possible, I'm finding my own little habitable rock and living there, free from judgment and never-ending paragraphs.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Worth the Pain
So my family is on vacation in Florida, which means I am house sitting. I have spent a whole week with my cats! I love it!
I move around a lot. I lived in one city for two years, and in another city for a year, then lived with my parents for a few months, and now I'm back living in the first city I moved to. My lease is up in a month and I'll be looking for a new place to live. I should probably just settle down and quit moving.
For once, however, I have actually developed a routine! I get to see Invader Zim Friend every Saturday now. We get together, drink wine, and watch scary movies. However, last week there was some slight deviation from this routine, because I got a new tattoo on Saturday.
Invader Zim Friend has a friend who just got her tattoo license, and I had the brilliant idea of asking her if she would do my next tattoo! Now, Tattoo Artist is absolutely amazing. She is a fantastic artist and the tattoo turned out gorgeous despite some...complications.
Like I said, I had a brilliant idea. Asking Tattoo Artist to do my tattoo was not the issue. It was the placement of said tattoo.
I have acquired six tattoos in the last two and a half years. I absolutely love them! I intend to have more. However, apparently I was unwittingly smart in choosing the placement of my last five tattoos. I wanted my sixth on the back of my calf. What I neglected to do was take into consideration that there is a giant bunch of nerves down the back of the human leg. I asked Tattoo Artist to stab me with a needle and inject ink into my skin directly on top of that bunch of nerves. In a situation that I was expecting to be slightly uncomfortable, like the last five times I've gone through this, I was suddenly in a tremendous amount of pain. I might even have been able to handle the pain alone, but it did not stop there. My leg started to twitch involuntarily. This twitching soon evolved into seizure-like leg muscle spasms. I had to brace my leg against the headboard of the bed I was laying on, and even so, the process still took three hours and two smoke breaks.
I commend Tattoo Artist for toughing out those three hours while I whined and complained and twitched.
But now I have a tattoo on the back of only one leg. I am uneven. I don't like it. If I have a tattoo on the back of one leg, it's going to drive me crazy until I even it out and get a tattoo on the back of the other leg.
Tattoo Artist, I advise you to hide until I come to my senses.
I move around a lot. I lived in one city for two years, and in another city for a year, then lived with my parents for a few months, and now I'm back living in the first city I moved to. My lease is up in a month and I'll be looking for a new place to live. I should probably just settle down and quit moving.
For once, however, I have actually developed a routine! I get to see Invader Zim Friend every Saturday now. We get together, drink wine, and watch scary movies. However, last week there was some slight deviation from this routine, because I got a new tattoo on Saturday.
Invader Zim Friend has a friend who just got her tattoo license, and I had the brilliant idea of asking her if she would do my next tattoo! Now, Tattoo Artist is absolutely amazing. She is a fantastic artist and the tattoo turned out gorgeous despite some...complications.
Like I said, I had a brilliant idea. Asking Tattoo Artist to do my tattoo was not the issue. It was the placement of said tattoo.
I have acquired six tattoos in the last two and a half years. I absolutely love them! I intend to have more. However, apparently I was unwittingly smart in choosing the placement of my last five tattoos. I wanted my sixth on the back of my calf. What I neglected to do was take into consideration that there is a giant bunch of nerves down the back of the human leg. I asked Tattoo Artist to stab me with a needle and inject ink into my skin directly on top of that bunch of nerves. In a situation that I was expecting to be slightly uncomfortable, like the last five times I've gone through this, I was suddenly in a tremendous amount of pain. I might even have been able to handle the pain alone, but it did not stop there. My leg started to twitch involuntarily. This twitching soon evolved into seizure-like leg muscle spasms. I had to brace my leg against the headboard of the bed I was laying on, and even so, the process still took three hours and two smoke breaks.
I commend Tattoo Artist for toughing out those three hours while I whined and complained and twitched.
But now I have a tattoo on the back of only one leg. I am uneven. I don't like it. If I have a tattoo on the back of one leg, it's going to drive me crazy until I even it out and get a tattoo on the back of the other leg.
Tattoo Artist, I advise you to hide until I come to my senses.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Why getting ready in the morning takes me so long
A lot of people can wake up in the morning, go through their routine, and be out the door in 15 minutes. Not so with transmen. It's really annoying because I'm always tired and I want to sleep in, but no, I have to take an hour to make myself presentable as a boy. My morning routine consists of:
1. Dragging myself out of bed
2. Brushing my teeth
3. Showering
4. Standing in front of the mirror, examining my chest, and trying to determine whether it has miraculously gotten any smaller overnight
5. Running a hand through my hair to feel how long it is and wondering what constitutes as too long and trying to work out a budget so that I may be able to afford a haircut before Christmas
6. Locating my packer. I have to allow extra time if it needs washing and/or an application of corn starch to keep the material from being too sticky
7. Finding the most comfortable pair of underwear to wear over my packer
8. Wrestling myself into my binder. I need to allow extra time if I'm wearing my newest binder, because it hasn't been stretched out as much as my last one and requires a lot of yanking and thrashing and wiggling to bring it completely over my chest
9. Selecting the pants and shirt that make me look flattest
10. Putting on my shoes, and taking a moment to lament that I am still wearing the same worn-out old pair and reworking the budget in my head so as to allow myself a new pair before the old ones fall apart completely
11. Trying to decide whether to wear a hat or not. Does it make me look more like a boy? Will people notice?
12. Going out and fretting over whether or not I pass well enough
1. Dragging myself out of bed
2. Brushing my teeth
3. Showering
4. Standing in front of the mirror, examining my chest, and trying to determine whether it has miraculously gotten any smaller overnight
5. Running a hand through my hair to feel how long it is and wondering what constitutes as too long and trying to work out a budget so that I may be able to afford a haircut before Christmas
6. Locating my packer. I have to allow extra time if it needs washing and/or an application of corn starch to keep the material from being too sticky
7. Finding the most comfortable pair of underwear to wear over my packer
8. Wrestling myself into my binder. I need to allow extra time if I'm wearing my newest binder, because it hasn't been stretched out as much as my last one and requires a lot of yanking and thrashing and wiggling to bring it completely over my chest
9. Selecting the pants and shirt that make me look flattest
10. Putting on my shoes, and taking a moment to lament that I am still wearing the same worn-out old pair and reworking the budget in my head so as to allow myself a new pair before the old ones fall apart completely
11. Trying to decide whether to wear a hat or not. Does it make me look more like a boy? Will people notice?
12. Going out and fretting over whether or not I pass well enough
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Friday Nights
What can be a trans person's worst nightmare? A Friday night out on the town.
Weird, right? You're probably saying to yourself, "But Friday nights are great! It's the start of the weekend, you can go get trashed with your friends and sleep in the next morning!"
And I agree. Friday nights can be some of the best times of your life, especially if you're like me and stressing over school and have withdrawn until you have no social life whatsoever and you realize, six months later, that your friends haven't heard from you in months and may be wondering if they missed a funeral or a hospital visitation or a going away party.
I took a leap back into the real world yesterday and went out to dinner and karaoke with a big group of friends. Don't worry, I did not actually do any singing. Everyone's eardrums are intact and functional. Or if they're not, it's not a result of my ghastly singing skills.
I love this group of friends. I got to go out with Invader Zim Friend, who I hadn't seen in quite a while due to me having vanished after starting grad school.
Invader Zim Friend and I met up with a group of folks, including her special someone. We amounted to a group of ten. Now, this group is very LGBT-friendly. About half the group, in fact, was made up of fantastic homos.
We went to dinner and then across the street to a karaoke bar. Everyone got along wonderfully and, for the first time since my vacation, I actually got to relax and enjoy a night out.
The problems began when I left the group and went home.
I've mentioned before what a catastrophe sleeping is for me. Mostly because it hasn't been happening lately. It doesn't seem to matter what time I climb into bed, I still toss and turn, have nightmares, wake up repeatedly, and in the end get maybe a few hours of restless sleep. A few weeks ago, I gave up trying to make myself sleep and just kept staying awake, figuring that the lack of sleep would catch up to me sooner or later.
I left the karaoke bar early last night. It was only about midnight, but I was exhausted and it was looking like sleep might actually happen.
I did the smartest thing I could and parked in a lot five or six blocks away from the karaoke bar. Screw the walk. Parking was free.
The karaoke bar is smack dab in the middle of the city's bar section. I walked by at least eight bars, outside of which people were lining up to get in. Remember, it was only midnight. This is still early for most normal people. Especially college students. And my city is a college city. The biggest university in our state is located in my home city.
The sidewalks were packed with people lining up to park their cars, stand around and talk, get into the bar, and generally get in everyone's way. Seeing as there was no space to walk around anybody, I wound up trying to squeeze my way between groups of people.
One of the first things I heard someone say, as I went by them as carefully as I could and not shove them or knock them over, was: "What's your name?" in a very suggestive tone.
It was a young man who had said it. I ignored him, disinterested. He almost certainly thought I was a woman and I didn't feel like outing myself and causing a conflict when I could be on my way home to sleep.
I heard several muttered comments as I went by people, none of them audible and probably none of them worth my attention. What did catch my attention was one particular young man, as I tried to squeeze past him, his male friend, and their two girl friends. They were standing in a group smack in the middle of the sidewalk. I tried to work my way around the group but wound up being shoved directly into the middle of the group. I apologized and hastily worked my way out of the crowd. As I was leaving, I heard the young man say, "Hey, hey! Let's be friends!" to his group, in a mocking tone and with an overly exaggerated lisp.
This person thought that I was a gay boy.
Hey, I love men. I love women. I love everybody. I don't care who knows. What upset me was that this young man, like so many young, vain, self-pleased people, had decided to openly mock someone. I didn't care that I got made fun of. Hell, that's every day for me. But this kid seriously thought it was okay to make a comment like that, meant to make fun of gay folks.
I just have to wonder. In our vastly and rapidly changing society, it is absolutely NOT okay to make fun of people for their race, religion, class, ethnicity, etc. because if you do, you're labeled a f***ing racist or some other kind of horrid prejudiced douchebag, and also because it's now okay to be that kind of different in our society and most people don't want to offend anybody else, and because now the feelings of most of the minorities in this country are actually taken into account and all of a sudden people are like, "Hey! How would I feel if somebody mocked me like that?" It's taken this long for people to realize that other people are actually human beings with feelings and emotions that can be hurt in real life.
THIS LONG.
It is 2012, folks.
I am strongly reminded of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, which references Jesus in this way: "Some guy got nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change."
According to mythology and timelines, this guy was supposed to have lived two thousand and twelve years ago.
TWO
THOUSAND
AND TWELVE
*YEARS*
Folks, that is two millennia.
That is TWENTY centuries.
That's a long f***ing time.
Just recently, it has all of a sudden become a massive realization that we should be nice to each other.
The exception to the rule, of course, is the LGBT community.
It's still okay to pick on us. The law isn't entirely on our side yet so we're still not real people who are worthy of respect.
Two thousand and twelve years, people. Come on.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Mistake?
A big part of the reason that I haven´t been blogging much lately is because I sank into depression. I did mention this at one point, when I tried to blog again and spewed out a few lame posts. After these posts, events occurred that yet again caused me to hate myself and withdraw from the world.
I posted earlier this year about attempting to get into a comprehensive gender services program. This is turning out to be more difficult than I expected, and believe me, I expected it to be pretty f***ing difficult.
In the beginning, my therapist was an issue. She had been my therapist for two years and thus (I had assumed) was well aware of my needs. Apparently this was a very wrong assumption to make, because she was "not comfortable recommending me for hormones at this time."
I really didn´t feel like fighting with her. This woman wanted to talk about nothing besides my birth mother. Any and all other events, circumstances, emotions, or coincidences were linked to my birthmother, according to this woman. I´m sorry, lady, but I´m just not comfortable blaming my own feelings about my own damn self on a woman who was so absent in my life that she wouldn´t have known what I looked like had she not owned a mirror. She may be responsible for my variety of physical and mental health issues, seeing as the fact that she was pregnant didn´t stop her from drinking, smoking, and taking I don´t know what all. But how I think of myself has to do with me. ME, lady! ME! Me and other people and events that have been PRESENT in my life and thus made an IMPACT.
I solved this issue by dumping her. I feel better already. I can find other sources of my problems besides my bastard heritage and actually fix them instead of yelling at a headstone. I don´t think the headstone heard me when I tried to accuse it of things. At least, it didn´t respond.
My latest problem, however, has been my mother.
I can only guess my mother´s motivation for behaving the way she does. I´ve narrowed it down to:
1) She doesn´t understand, and is therefore pretending that the thing she doesn´t understand does not exist
2) She´s afraid of change
3) She thinks my transition is a way to get back at her for something she imagines I blame her for, such as a miserable childhood or being a bad parent (neither of which are true)
4) She´s afraid of what people might think of her if they find out her kid is trans
5) She is genuinely ashamed of me
Something I don´t think that my mother will ever understand is that my transition has nothing to do with her. I love my mother very much. I had a wonderful childhood and she is an exceptional parent in many ways. This change that I´m making isn´t about humiliating anyone, and nor is it about projecting blame onto anyone. It´s just something that I NEED TO DO. More than that, it´s something that I´m ready to do.
I´m not sure my mother realizes the damage she´s doing.
When the doctor I´m seeing in order to be admitted to the comprehensive gender services program asked if we could have a meeting with my parents, my heart sank. If he was going to form any of his opinion of me based on what my parents had to say, I was royally f***ed.
Still, I agreed to the group session. One of the reasons I´m taking this long and painful route to transition is because it has done much to reassure my father on the subject. He has admitted that he still doesn´t understand my transition, but the fact that I´m willing to go through such a grueling process has led him to understand that my feelings are genuine; that I´m concerned for my own safety; and that I am taking into account how other people feel about this.
In my lifetime, I have met far too many people who say, "If they can´t accept you for who you are, then they don´t deserve you."
Folks, this is a really popular phrase.
It also does not apply to me.
Think of me what you will, but I am extremely close to my family. Walking away from them is not an option. In all practicality, I can´t go anywhere within the state and not come across someone that one of my family members knows. I cannot effectively disappear when my family members will constantly be updated on my whereabouts and well-being whether I like it or not. But on a deeper level, these people are an essential part of my daily life. I live with my cousin. I work for my father. My house is around the corner from my grandparents and three streets away from my birthfather. Two of my cousins attended my previous college with me, and one of them attends the one that I currently go to. I see a dozen family members a day, whether it´s at work or at school or on the street. They had committed to me just as much as I have committed to them. Walking away would NOT be an act of self-preservation. It would serve only to alienate and isolate me.
So, when my father tells me that I am showing that I am considering how other people feel about my transition, he´s right, to a degree. I´m certainly not trying to be obnoxious about it or rub it in anyone´s face. It´s just that it´s a physical transformation as well, and I feel that other people need to at least be aware of what´s going on. Otherwise I could show up at my next family reunion and scare my grandmother to death with my new beard.
As far as I can tell, my mother´s problem with my transition is that she takes ANY information I offer as me rubbing her face in the issue.
For example, before I ventured out for Ecuador, I started packing. In the most politically correct sense of the definition, "packing" refers to your pants. A lot of transmen pack. Including me.
Now, I´ve heard horror stories of transmen being hauled off by airport security and asked to remove their pants because the security guards don´t actually know what a pack is. This, from my point of view, is understandable. If you haven´t come across something before, it´s ridiculous to assume that you can be able to identify it through magic or telepathy. And security has gotten increasingly tight at airports in the last few years. My mother´s water bottle and my brother´s shampoo were confiscated; so when you come across an unidentifiable object in someone´s pants, what else are you going to do?
This is not to say that I agree with transmen having to yank down their pants for an audience. I think it´s humiliating and it´s something that I never want to encounter in my life. However, I had never before travelled while wearing my pack and I wasn´t entirely sure what might happen.
I weighed the options of not wearing my pack, and carrying it in my suitcase. I opted against this because I didn´t want security to tear apart my bag if they couldn´t identify it. If it was attached to me, at least I could offer an explanation.
Now, imagine that you are a parent. If your child, even an adult offspring, were undertaking a journey on their own, and they got searched by security, would you want to know?
Most likely.
I am confident that my own parents would want to know.
Now, imagine that your adult offspring, about to undertake this journey, knows that he/she/ze is a potential security risk. Would you still want to know?
Maybe.
Imagine that your adult offspring knows that they are a potential security risk, does NOT tell you, gets dragged off by airport security, and is made to remove their pants in order to prove that they are not actually carrying anything dangerous. And imagine that you hear about this incident after the fact. What would your likely response be?
I am relatively sure that, after verbally abusing the security guards to hell, my parents would ask me what the f*** I was thinking and want to know why I didn´t tell them if I knew that something like this could happen.
With this in mind, I carefully approached the subject with my mother. I would have even left the contents of my pants out of it, dropping the subject after mentioning that security might examine me, except that she wanted to know why.
This woman would not let go of a subject if you tried to pry it away from her with a crowbar. I even wound up admitting to her that I´d injured my wrist while tied down to a bed and enjoying an evening with a partner of mine, because she wouldn´t stop asking how I hurt my wrist! I gave her a variety of vague answers that did not satisfy her, until at last I burst forth with the incriminating information. My mother didn´t speak to me for the rest of the afternoon.
So I was cautious about telling her why I might be a security risk. But she had asked why, so I indulged.
The first thing out of her mouth after I explained was, "(legal name), it is entirely inappropriate for you to tell me what you´ve got in your pants!"
Yes, mother. The next time I decide to be publicly humiliated, I will politely keep the information to myself.
Airport security gave me no trouble, by the way. But the risk was significant enough that I deemed it important for my parents to be aware of what could potentially happen. But, as usual, I judged wrong.
Oh yeah, and despite a year and a half of knowing about my transition, my mother continues to call me my legal name.
Like I said, I don´t know if she realizes the damage she´s doing.
She and my father came along with me to the family therapy session. I was not aware, until the session began, that my mother had written out a "list of concerns" that she wanted to share with the doctor.
I was horrified to discover that my mother´s "list of concerns" was more like a list of accusations. She had come up with every reason she could think of that I should not transition.
She brought up some of my past psychological issues, which are now under control due to medication.
She brought up various interests of mine that are "girly," such as the Barbie collection that SHE provided me with and my favorite color being purple.
She brought up past incidents that I had wanted to forget, seeing as they were not some of my proudest moments, that had nothing to do with my transition.
My mother made me look like a desperate liar who will do anything for attention.
To her, it does not matter how I behave. Any attempt at putting on the façade of a lumberjack or frat boy only results in her accusing me of just that: putting on an act. However, any attempt to act like myself, do the things I like and behave in a manner that is comfortable to me, just becomes ammunition for her to use as evidence that I am, in fact, a girl.
I wouldn´t be half as upset if my mother had accused me of these things to my face. But no, she had to tell all of this to my doctor. The man who is supposed to be trying to get me into the gender services program. My father and I both have every confidence that he will approach the subject objectively and not let my mother´s accusations affect his decision. But I´m human. A small part of me is petrified that the doctor is going to tell me to get the hell out of his office, I am not and never will be worthy of medical treatment through their clinic.
I don´t know what to do any more.
What do you want from me, Mom?
Why can´t you love who I am...
...instead of who you want me to be?
I posted earlier this year about attempting to get into a comprehensive gender services program. This is turning out to be more difficult than I expected, and believe me, I expected it to be pretty f***ing difficult.
In the beginning, my therapist was an issue. She had been my therapist for two years and thus (I had assumed) was well aware of my needs. Apparently this was a very wrong assumption to make, because she was "not comfortable recommending me for hormones at this time."
I really didn´t feel like fighting with her. This woman wanted to talk about nothing besides my birth mother. Any and all other events, circumstances, emotions, or coincidences were linked to my birthmother, according to this woman. I´m sorry, lady, but I´m just not comfortable blaming my own feelings about my own damn self on a woman who was so absent in my life that she wouldn´t have known what I looked like had she not owned a mirror. She may be responsible for my variety of physical and mental health issues, seeing as the fact that she was pregnant didn´t stop her from drinking, smoking, and taking I don´t know what all. But how I think of myself has to do with me. ME, lady! ME! Me and other people and events that have been PRESENT in my life and thus made an IMPACT.
I solved this issue by dumping her. I feel better already. I can find other sources of my problems besides my bastard heritage and actually fix them instead of yelling at a headstone. I don´t think the headstone heard me when I tried to accuse it of things. At least, it didn´t respond.
My latest problem, however, has been my mother.
I can only guess my mother´s motivation for behaving the way she does. I´ve narrowed it down to:
1) She doesn´t understand, and is therefore pretending that the thing she doesn´t understand does not exist
2) She´s afraid of change
3) She thinks my transition is a way to get back at her for something she imagines I blame her for, such as a miserable childhood or being a bad parent (neither of which are true)
4) She´s afraid of what people might think of her if they find out her kid is trans
5) She is genuinely ashamed of me
Something I don´t think that my mother will ever understand is that my transition has nothing to do with her. I love my mother very much. I had a wonderful childhood and she is an exceptional parent in many ways. This change that I´m making isn´t about humiliating anyone, and nor is it about projecting blame onto anyone. It´s just something that I NEED TO DO. More than that, it´s something that I´m ready to do.
I´m not sure my mother realizes the damage she´s doing.
When the doctor I´m seeing in order to be admitted to the comprehensive gender services program asked if we could have a meeting with my parents, my heart sank. If he was going to form any of his opinion of me based on what my parents had to say, I was royally f***ed.
Still, I agreed to the group session. One of the reasons I´m taking this long and painful route to transition is because it has done much to reassure my father on the subject. He has admitted that he still doesn´t understand my transition, but the fact that I´m willing to go through such a grueling process has led him to understand that my feelings are genuine; that I´m concerned for my own safety; and that I am taking into account how other people feel about this.
In my lifetime, I have met far too many people who say, "If they can´t accept you for who you are, then they don´t deserve you."
Folks, this is a really popular phrase.
It also does not apply to me.
Think of me what you will, but I am extremely close to my family. Walking away from them is not an option. In all practicality, I can´t go anywhere within the state and not come across someone that one of my family members knows. I cannot effectively disappear when my family members will constantly be updated on my whereabouts and well-being whether I like it or not. But on a deeper level, these people are an essential part of my daily life. I live with my cousin. I work for my father. My house is around the corner from my grandparents and three streets away from my birthfather. Two of my cousins attended my previous college with me, and one of them attends the one that I currently go to. I see a dozen family members a day, whether it´s at work or at school or on the street. They had committed to me just as much as I have committed to them. Walking away would NOT be an act of self-preservation. It would serve only to alienate and isolate me.
So, when my father tells me that I am showing that I am considering how other people feel about my transition, he´s right, to a degree. I´m certainly not trying to be obnoxious about it or rub it in anyone´s face. It´s just that it´s a physical transformation as well, and I feel that other people need to at least be aware of what´s going on. Otherwise I could show up at my next family reunion and scare my grandmother to death with my new beard.
As far as I can tell, my mother´s problem with my transition is that she takes ANY information I offer as me rubbing her face in the issue.
For example, before I ventured out for Ecuador, I started packing. In the most politically correct sense of the definition, "packing" refers to your pants. A lot of transmen pack. Including me.
Now, I´ve heard horror stories of transmen being hauled off by airport security and asked to remove their pants because the security guards don´t actually know what a pack is. This, from my point of view, is understandable. If you haven´t come across something before, it´s ridiculous to assume that you can be able to identify it through magic or telepathy. And security has gotten increasingly tight at airports in the last few years. My mother´s water bottle and my brother´s shampoo were confiscated; so when you come across an unidentifiable object in someone´s pants, what else are you going to do?
This is not to say that I agree with transmen having to yank down their pants for an audience. I think it´s humiliating and it´s something that I never want to encounter in my life. However, I had never before travelled while wearing my pack and I wasn´t entirely sure what might happen.
I weighed the options of not wearing my pack, and carrying it in my suitcase. I opted against this because I didn´t want security to tear apart my bag if they couldn´t identify it. If it was attached to me, at least I could offer an explanation.
Now, imagine that you are a parent. If your child, even an adult offspring, were undertaking a journey on their own, and they got searched by security, would you want to know?
Most likely.
I am confident that my own parents would want to know.
Now, imagine that your adult offspring, about to undertake this journey, knows that he/she/ze is a potential security risk. Would you still want to know?
Maybe.
Imagine that your adult offspring knows that they are a potential security risk, does NOT tell you, gets dragged off by airport security, and is made to remove their pants in order to prove that they are not actually carrying anything dangerous. And imagine that you hear about this incident after the fact. What would your likely response be?
I am relatively sure that, after verbally abusing the security guards to hell, my parents would ask me what the f*** I was thinking and want to know why I didn´t tell them if I knew that something like this could happen.
With this in mind, I carefully approached the subject with my mother. I would have even left the contents of my pants out of it, dropping the subject after mentioning that security might examine me, except that she wanted to know why.
This woman would not let go of a subject if you tried to pry it away from her with a crowbar. I even wound up admitting to her that I´d injured my wrist while tied down to a bed and enjoying an evening with a partner of mine, because she wouldn´t stop asking how I hurt my wrist! I gave her a variety of vague answers that did not satisfy her, until at last I burst forth with the incriminating information. My mother didn´t speak to me for the rest of the afternoon.
So I was cautious about telling her why I might be a security risk. But she had asked why, so I indulged.
The first thing out of her mouth after I explained was, "(legal name), it is entirely inappropriate for you to tell me what you´ve got in your pants!"
Yes, mother. The next time I decide to be publicly humiliated, I will politely keep the information to myself.
Airport security gave me no trouble, by the way. But the risk was significant enough that I deemed it important for my parents to be aware of what could potentially happen. But, as usual, I judged wrong.
Oh yeah, and despite a year and a half of knowing about my transition, my mother continues to call me my legal name.
Like I said, I don´t know if she realizes the damage she´s doing.
She and my father came along with me to the family therapy session. I was not aware, until the session began, that my mother had written out a "list of concerns" that she wanted to share with the doctor.
I was horrified to discover that my mother´s "list of concerns" was more like a list of accusations. She had come up with every reason she could think of that I should not transition.
She brought up some of my past psychological issues, which are now under control due to medication.
She brought up various interests of mine that are "girly," such as the Barbie collection that SHE provided me with and my favorite color being purple.
She brought up past incidents that I had wanted to forget, seeing as they were not some of my proudest moments, that had nothing to do with my transition.
My mother made me look like a desperate liar who will do anything for attention.
To her, it does not matter how I behave. Any attempt at putting on the façade of a lumberjack or frat boy only results in her accusing me of just that: putting on an act. However, any attempt to act like myself, do the things I like and behave in a manner that is comfortable to me, just becomes ammunition for her to use as evidence that I am, in fact, a girl.
I wouldn´t be half as upset if my mother had accused me of these things to my face. But no, she had to tell all of this to my doctor. The man who is supposed to be trying to get me into the gender services program. My father and I both have every confidence that he will approach the subject objectively and not let my mother´s accusations affect his decision. But I´m human. A small part of me is petrified that the doctor is going to tell me to get the hell out of his office, I am not and never will be worthy of medical treatment through their clinic.
I don´t know what to do any more.
What do you want from me, Mom?
Why can´t you love who I am...
...instead of who you want me to be?
I survived the jungle!
It was a battle of epic proportions, but I did indeed survive the jungle! Even the crumbling, infested, most likely toxic hostel that Ecuadorian Friend and Other Friend and I staggered to, sleep deprived, at 3:00 in the morning after five hours on a bus.
I mentioned Other Friend the last time I came to Ecuador. The night that Ecuadorian Friend and I nearly got mugged, we had gone out drinking with two of his friends, one of whom was a modern hippie and the other I didn´t know very well. Ecuadorian Friend and I have spent a lot of time on this trip with that other friend, who I found out likes to listen to a lot of music.
So Ecuadorian Friend, Music Friend, and I took a bus from Quito to Tena. Tena is a city in the south of the country, from which we ventured forth into the jungle. I quickly discovered that Ecuadorian Friend had an elaborate plot to kill me and make it look like an accident.
The first thing we did on our first day in Tena was go rafting. Tena is in the province of Napo, and the Rio Napo flows right through the city. We took a truck to a spot about 45 minutes outside of Tena. This took us a good 44 minutes into the jungle.
Our rafting guide got our group (consisting of me, my two Ecuadorians, and six Russians) all situated with life jackets and helmets. Then he proceeded to explain what to do in the various circumstances that would involve you falling out of the boat. Luckily, I´ve been in dangerous boating situations before. If I had no experience, I doubt that I would have fared well at all, because as soon as the guide said, "If you fall out of the raft..." my panic sensors went off.
I managed to pay attention long enough to hear that you need to float on your back if you fall out of the raft, lest an anaconda grab your leg and pull you under and drown you. By this point, I had made it very clear to Ecuadorian Friend that if I was going in the water, I was making damn sure that he came with me.
The next step of the process was to climb down a steep, muddy, mossy, slippery hill to the water´s edge. I made sure that Musical Friend went first so that I´d have something to land on if I fell, which was more than a slight possibility, considering how graceful I am on flat ground.
Astonishingly, I actually made it to the bottom of the hill without falling. I then proceeded to slip on a rock while attempting to climb into the boat, try to catch my balance and miss (resulting in me shredding my right hand on said rock), and land on my right elbow (and crush it between the rock and my body).
So, as we began our rafting experience, I was bleeding and unable to move my right arm, which was not the best situation in the world because I needed to use both of my arms in order to paddle. I was debating going to a doctor, because my arm hurt so badly that I thought it might have been broken. But I was still able to move my fingers, so I proceeded with the rafting trip instead.
Within moments, everyone in our raft (Ecuadorian Friend, Music Friend, our rafting guide, and me) were soaked to the skin and freezing. Let me tell you, no matter how much Tena resembles an oven when it comes to heat, the Rio Napo is NOT warm.
I survived the rafting trip, although only barely. I fell out of the raft six times. Two of those tumbles occurred when the raft flipped over entirely. All of them occurred while attempting to steer through rapids. The last time I fell out, I got caught under a big wave in the rapids and got sucked underwater for a while.
The final stretch of the trip, however, went much more smoothly. My friends and I figured out how to sit and lean in order to keep the raft from flipping. By the time we were done, I was sunburnt, but not drowned. Sorry, Ecuadorian Friend. Your plan failed.
Yesterday, we went to the caves of Jumandy. This was definitely an experience worth the trouble! My friends and I emerged from the caves soaked and muddy and cramped and sore, but the adventure inside was unforgettable.
The caves have water running through them. These vary from small puddles to little creeks to giant pools to rushing rivers. We had to wade through a stream to enter the caves, and then swim across a big pool once we were inside.
Inside the caves, minerals dripped from the ceiling and there was mud everywhere. We climbed through tiny crevices and narrow tunnels to reach wide openings where we could see fossils and the river.
Near the end of the caves was a waterfall. It wasn´t very high, but the current was powerful. We got to stand under it and let the water fall over us. I got blessed by the caves.
This was definitely the trip of a lifetime! I told Ecuadorian Friend that I´d pick on him in my blog for being a wimp on the rafting trip, but really, I see no need. He took me on the most amazing adventures, and all I feel right now for him is gratitude. We didn´t even get eaten by zombies.
I mentioned Other Friend the last time I came to Ecuador. The night that Ecuadorian Friend and I nearly got mugged, we had gone out drinking with two of his friends, one of whom was a modern hippie and the other I didn´t know very well. Ecuadorian Friend and I have spent a lot of time on this trip with that other friend, who I found out likes to listen to a lot of music.
So Ecuadorian Friend, Music Friend, and I took a bus from Quito to Tena. Tena is a city in the south of the country, from which we ventured forth into the jungle. I quickly discovered that Ecuadorian Friend had an elaborate plot to kill me and make it look like an accident.
The first thing we did on our first day in Tena was go rafting. Tena is in the province of Napo, and the Rio Napo flows right through the city. We took a truck to a spot about 45 minutes outside of Tena. This took us a good 44 minutes into the jungle.
Our rafting guide got our group (consisting of me, my two Ecuadorians, and six Russians) all situated with life jackets and helmets. Then he proceeded to explain what to do in the various circumstances that would involve you falling out of the boat. Luckily, I´ve been in dangerous boating situations before. If I had no experience, I doubt that I would have fared well at all, because as soon as the guide said, "If you fall out of the raft..." my panic sensors went off.
I managed to pay attention long enough to hear that you need to float on your back if you fall out of the raft, lest an anaconda grab your leg and pull you under and drown you. By this point, I had made it very clear to Ecuadorian Friend that if I was going in the water, I was making damn sure that he came with me.
The next step of the process was to climb down a steep, muddy, mossy, slippery hill to the water´s edge. I made sure that Musical Friend went first so that I´d have something to land on if I fell, which was more than a slight possibility, considering how graceful I am on flat ground.
Astonishingly, I actually made it to the bottom of the hill without falling. I then proceeded to slip on a rock while attempting to climb into the boat, try to catch my balance and miss (resulting in me shredding my right hand on said rock), and land on my right elbow (and crush it between the rock and my body).
So, as we began our rafting experience, I was bleeding and unable to move my right arm, which was not the best situation in the world because I needed to use both of my arms in order to paddle. I was debating going to a doctor, because my arm hurt so badly that I thought it might have been broken. But I was still able to move my fingers, so I proceeded with the rafting trip instead.
Within moments, everyone in our raft (Ecuadorian Friend, Music Friend, our rafting guide, and me) were soaked to the skin and freezing. Let me tell you, no matter how much Tena resembles an oven when it comes to heat, the Rio Napo is NOT warm.
I survived the rafting trip, although only barely. I fell out of the raft six times. Two of those tumbles occurred when the raft flipped over entirely. All of them occurred while attempting to steer through rapids. The last time I fell out, I got caught under a big wave in the rapids and got sucked underwater for a while.
The final stretch of the trip, however, went much more smoothly. My friends and I figured out how to sit and lean in order to keep the raft from flipping. By the time we were done, I was sunburnt, but not drowned. Sorry, Ecuadorian Friend. Your plan failed.
Yesterday, we went to the caves of Jumandy. This was definitely an experience worth the trouble! My friends and I emerged from the caves soaked and muddy and cramped and sore, but the adventure inside was unforgettable.
The caves have water running through them. These vary from small puddles to little creeks to giant pools to rushing rivers. We had to wade through a stream to enter the caves, and then swim across a big pool once we were inside.
Inside the caves, minerals dripped from the ceiling and there was mud everywhere. We climbed through tiny crevices and narrow tunnels to reach wide openings where we could see fossils and the river.
Near the end of the caves was a waterfall. It wasn´t very high, but the current was powerful. We got to stand under it and let the water fall over us. I got blessed by the caves.
This was definitely the trip of a lifetime! I told Ecuadorian Friend that I´d pick on him in my blog for being a wimp on the rafting trip, but really, I see no need. He took me on the most amazing adventures, and all I feel right now for him is gratitude. We didn´t even get eaten by zombies.
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