GenderBendy

The conundrum of male privilege

“Do you think that as a trans woman there are still some aspects of male privilege that have shaped you?”

My friend Anne asked me this question last week, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. It’s an excellent question, and I’m grateful to have been asked it. What has been the effect on me of having lived the first 46 years of my life as a man? What of that still lingers? With what consequences?

Thank you, Anne, by the way, for the value-neutral “shaped”...so much better than, say, “skewed,” “spoiled,” “corrupted,” “ruined,” etc... :-p  There are people who would say that having lived as a man makes me a worse woman, or no woman at all, so I would also like to allow the possibility that in some ways having lived as a man might make me a better woman, too.

All those years I spent impersonating maleness, I was not self-aware as trans. Very early on I pushed my femininity down so hard and deep that I could not directly experience or express it. Still, from elementary school through the first year of college I struggled to find a mode of boyhood I could inhabit. I was gentle and emotional. I wore my hair long, often triggering gender confusion in others. I was routinely bullied and shunned. Childhood was lonely and difficult.

Things got better in college. I cut my hair, grew a beard, and threw myself whole-heartedly into my masculinity project...and I found it easy, in part because I had begun to discover the many compensations of being taken for a man. For example, I took full advantage of the privilege of moving through the world without fear. I went for long runs and bike rides in remote places late at night; I travelled and camped alone. I was as oblivious as any other young male-bodied person to the dangers all female-bodied people face.

Other privileges:  as a sexual being, it never even occurred to me that I didn’t have to worry about being abused or getting pregnant. As I made my way through school and on into the world of work I accepted without a thought that I was taken seriously as a student, as a job seeker, as an employee. In my daily interactions with others I felt entitled to press my point, to interrupt, to oppose others. I found it unremarkable that in a group enterprise my idea often ended up being what we were all working on. I developed and expressed a high opinion of my own qualities - intelligence, creativity, talent, self-knowledge (ha!) - and there was no one to gainsay me, at least not based on my apparent gender. All these privileges I took for granted.

No doubt at times acts and words of mine suppressed or silenced female people around me. I hope it didn’t happen often, but then I wouldn’t know, would I? Fortunately I was raised a good feminist, and so have less to reproach myself for than I might otherwise have.

When I came out as a trans woman, some of the privileges of masculinity evaporated immediately. My sense of safety is gone. I am vulnerable both to those who would do harm to women, and to those willing to act on their transphobic or homophobic impulses. (Once they’re beating the crap out of you, it is not going to do any good to explain to them that you’re not actually a drag queen.) Note that one of the effects of hormones is significant loss of muscle mass and strength, so I can’t count on being able to defend myself physically any more than other women.

With regard to social power, as people begin to accept me as a woman, I have discovered how hard it can be to get a word in when some male person is holding forth; I have found myself in a subordinate role in groups of which men have taken charge; I have been addressed with condescending banter from guys who would have formerly addressed me seriously, as an equal. It is most educational.

There is a disturbing twist to this part: When these moments happen, I feel affronted or devalued or silenced...and at the same time I cannot help feeling a little spurt of joy, because I know I’m really being seen as a woman. Once, back when I was putting on fake boobs and hips and dressing up and practicing walking in public, I got cat-called in an alley in Ogunquit by some unseen man. “Hey, hot mama!” he shouted, and even as I thought “asshole,” I also smiled and put an extra little swing in my hips in response. Hmm. Thoughts, anyone?

What I have retained from my male-time is, I think, I hope, mostly internal and mostly positive. Changing my public gender has not changed the fact that I am accustomed to being taken seriously by the world. I am still willing and able to stand up for myself. Having experienced being both masculine and feminine among others, I am both aware of and empowered to respond to the abuse of social power. I am self-confident and sure of my own strength (most of the time).  My psyche, free from the scars of rape or abuse, feels basically sound.

On the other hand, life as a trans woman involves a deep feeling of insecurity. Once I staked a claim to manhood, and the world capitulated. Now I have staked a claim to womanhood, and the world has said, mmm, maybe sorta, but maybe not so much. Most of the time the joy of my release sustains me in the face of society’s ambivalent welcome; but when my confidence is low I find myself worrying that the world is right. Have all those years inhabiting masculinity somehow made it impossible for me ever to be a “real woman”? This persistent anxiety can bring me to tears.

Of course all those years living as a man shaped me. How could they not? If things about me still seem male in ways that confuse or offend people, all I can say is, I don’t like it either, and I’m sorry, and I'm working on it. As for having learned to love myself and to be forceful in the world, I cannot see these traits as bad.  My path turns out to be complex and sometimes perilous, with no clear end. I need all the help I can get. So while I am not done - and perhaps never will be - seeking ways to manifest these strengths in ways which more purely express my innate femininity, I am definitely keeping them, thank you very much.

Reporting from the Orinda, CA public library

Halfway through a week’s vacation in San Fran, and travelling trans has turned out to be utterly routine. Either I’m passing, or not noticing when people read me, or both. I do still want to be seen as female...but all I can muster when I’m not is a slight mental shrug, and on we go.

What’s turning out to matter on this trip is mostly family. I’m staying in the guest cottage of an aunt and uncle I’ve only known slightly until now, and I am very much enjoying becoming better acquainted with them, their daughter, and a couple of their grandchildren...preteen cousins whom I met for the first time yesterday. I’m enjoying talking family history with my aunt, my father’s sister. Last night I leafed through her baby book. I find myself fascinated by the women of my family, and I stared hard at pictures of my grandmother as a young woman. She had a hard life and was in some ways a hard woman, but she also had a strong smile and a twinkle and was frankly sexy in a couple of shots...in one picture showing off long muscular legs as she poses in shorts, straddling a bicycle. And my father’s two sisters were both gorgeous young women, and all girl...very feminine.

I have yet to connect with SF’s LGBT culture, but I will tonight; my friend Jamie put me onto an event (and is now insanely jealous that I’m going...sorry girl, I promise to tell you *all* about it) at an LGBT community center in the city, a panel discussion featuring both trans women and cisgendered women talking about femininity and feminism, and featuring a couple of bona fide stars...particularly Julia Serano, trans activist and author, and one of Jamie’s idols. Also, I’ll be taking my cousin out tomorrow for a well-deserved night out (she’s a single mom) to see the play M. Butterfly, the main character of whom is a trans woman. I’m looking forward to dressing for the occasion...I brought my kick-ass pumps, tights, red skirt, and other finery, and I am determined to wear them at least once. Even if it is pouring.

And, I have one other activity planned for this afternoon which may include an interesting gender-facet: I’ve found a chess club in the city where, apparently, you can stop by, pay a fee, and play some pickup games. I have not played face-to-face chess since before I started to transition - only on the internet - and I’ve wondered for a while now how my current gender expression will play in that world. Chess is still a heavily male-dominated sport, and there are still plenty of guys who hate to lose to a woman. How will they feel about playing me? Will they become flustered? Will I win games I would otherwise not have won, as a result? Am I in fact taking unfair advantage of their poor sensitive male egos? Do I care? ;-)

New tires, new insight

The tire purchase went fine. Of course. [See previous post for the setup on this.] They did a good job and charged me what it said on the website they would charge me. A little less, even. And they were courteous and professional. And I feel like a jerk for imagining any other outcome. Alas.

Thinking about it I’ve realized there’s another aspect of my discomfort around buying these tires besides the fear of being ripped off and the fear of unpleasant response to my transness...an issue I have struggled with all through the transition process. It is this:  As I let go further and further into my natural femininity, I keep finding myself also wanting to let go of feeling capable and responsible.

Apropos example: the other night when I saw my tire was flat, I had to work for a second to remember that I know how to change a tire. And beyond that, I really wanted someone else to take care of it. I didn’t want to change my fucking tire. The willful little girl at the center of my self pitched a tantrum...and I sighed, and put on a different pair of boots so I wouldn’t ruin my nice ones stomping on the tire iron to loosen the lug nuts, and changed my fucking tire.

So what am I, some kind of unreconstructed pre-feminism girly-girl, wanting a big strong man to take care of things for me? Does my innate definition of femininity turn out to involve weakness, helplessness? But then, isn’t it good to sometimes rely on others? Well yes, but...aargh! Round and round...I am still very much working out what it means to be feminine.

I *did* stumble across a new insight the other morning which helps me feel a little easier about this issue: perhaps my weariness with being capable and responsible does not proceed out of my gender identity, but out of my character and history. Gender is still involved, but as a detail, not as the driving force.

Here’s the scenario: There was five-year-old little me, a dutiful over-achiever; and I discovered that the world wanted me to be a boy, and then a man. Another little trans girl might have bucked, but I hopped right to it. I was the sort of girl who did what she was told. And beyond that, I was seduced by the challenge and the hope of reward if I did a really, really good job. I didn’t just set out to be a man; I set out to be the *perfect* man - strong, capable, responsible, selfless, reliable, gentle, kind, virile, romantic, courteous, gentlemanly...

Oh, how I had to clamp down on my wild girl-self to do that. And I kept it up for over 40 years before I finally realized the project was doomed. Is it any wonder I want someone else to change my tire now? And shovel the driveway and make the money and save the world? I'm sick of all that stuff. I want to play!

Locker room denoument

So today was my first day in the women's locker room.

I gave some thought to The Moment this morning as I was dressing and selected both my over-the-jeans knee-high boots and big flashy earrings; for additional femme triggering/moral support I also wore the flamboyant black-and-white striped plush bucket-hat I picked up on sale at Target the other day...it makes me look like a slightly batty society matron out shopping on the avenue.

At the gym I stopped in at the office first to write a check for my yoga class, and expressed again my trepidation (see previous post) to Wendy, the nice woman who works there. I asked which door I should go in to have the shortest shot at a private changing stall, and she offered to walk me down. I accepted gratefully.

On the way down the stairs she mentioned that just inside the door she was taking me to there was a handicapped bathroom stall, and suggested I might be more comfortable changing there.  I felt a twinge. I was braced for the full experience, all ready to elbow my way through the teeming crowds of naked women without batting an eye...and also I wondered just for a moment whether I was being gently shunted to a side-path (equal but different)...but I let both thoughts go and decided just to see how it was and figure out what do to in the moment.

We entered the door. Short hall, turn right. No one in sight. Big fans humming loudly. A glimpse of two young women in racquet-ball outfits chatting way down at the other end of the room. A ten-second tour from Wendy of the shower area, where the other changing stalls were...the sound of someone showering around a corner, otherwise deserted. I opted for the handicap stall, changed into my yoga clothes, and left the locker room without meeting another soul.

Yoga was more that fun...it felt like finding something I’ve been looking for for a long time. I am stiff and weak and couldn’t do some of the poses at all, and I’ll be sore tomorrow.  I am definitely going back next week.

When I went back to the locker room after class the handicapped stall was taken, so I ended up in one of the private stalls in the shower area after all. Wet floor...had to carry my socks and boots out into the hall after to put them on. Didn’t meet or even see anyone this time either.

To summarize, no big deal. Anticlimax. The outcome I was hoping for. Yay! There still may be uncomfortable moments in the future, but I know my way around now. I’m good to go.

The most obvious differences between the men’s and women’s locker rooms at this particular gym: The tiles, lockers, walls and floor in women’s are prettier colors than in the men’s; every shower stall in the women’s has a curtain, while  men get the “gang shower”; both facilities are clean, and the men’s doesn’t smell bad, but the women’s smells nicer; and, the voices murmuring far away had a higher softer timbre, gentle and unaggressive. I liked it. I felt I belonged there.

Date bars for snowblowing

I came out to my next-door neighbor, D, back in the fall.  D is single and lives alone. He's in his early sixties, I guess, and works as a handyman. The coming out was a spur-of-the-moment thing during a casual conversation at the border-line between our backyards. He's a bluff masculine man, and I gather he's conservative and religious, but he said something like "I respect that...a person has to do what a person has to do," and it seemed we were fine.

D has a snowblower, and these last two big storms he has come over and cleared my plow berm for me. This was a real help. I'm not getting any younger, and the hormones have taken some of my upper body strength. Also, doing the first big shovel back in December I ripped something in my shoulder. It still hasn't healed, so I have been hurting.

It was a novel and not unpleasant sensation, having a man do something for me like that...something I would have found it hard to do for myself. Watching him work I realized I wanted to do something in return; and the impulse which came to me was take him some baking. I had already been planning to make some date bars, so I made a batch and a half. By the time they were done, though, he had left for the weekend. Word is he has a girlfriend down in Mass.

No matter. I bided my time; and this evening when I got home his van was in his driveway. So, I arranged the remaining bars on a paper plate (tasting the crumbs on the knife to make sure they were still fresh), covered them with foil, and put on my coat to take them over. Then I stopped and looked at myself in the mirror.

Purple nubby hat with my ponytail peeking out, pink coat, scarf, earrings still on from work, plucked eyebrows...my usual look, not provocative, but definitely femme. And I realized I was nervous. At the tender age of 48 I have still basically zero experience as a woman talking to men. Would he think I was coming on to him? Would he reject the gift? Had he decided upon reflection that I am a contemptible faggot and would he therefore offer me abuse, violence? Would he invite me in? Would it be terribly awkward?

Fuck it, I thought. I have had a generous impulse...I'm going to act on it, come what may.

Knock, knock. (No doorbell.) He comes to the door, wearing a vest and reading glasses, looking milder than his usual outdoor appearance...like an avuncular priest. I have a confused impression of a brightly lit, highly decorated, and somewhat feminine room - a plush couch covered in flower-print fabric, overlapping carpets, trim new-looking wood-veneer furniture, a large pristine aquarium glowing by the door. A friendly cat. I stammer my gratitude...we can't find a conversational rhythm, stepping on each other's lines...it is tolerably awkward. He accepts the plate with thanks. He invites me in, casual and friendly-like. I demur...gotta go get my dinner. He doesn't press the point. We wrap it up quickly and I'm away, feeling better than when I went over. Like a good neighbor. And, womanly.

Interesting experience. Nice guy. I hope he likes date bars.

From ecstatic to blasé in two years - First Event 2011

On Saturday I dropped in for the day at First Event, one of the major trans-gatherings that happens each year in the U.S.; it takes place each January at a Marriott in Peabody, MA, an hour’s drive south of my house. 

The First Event two years ago was the first time I ever wore women’s clothes in public, just a few months post-revelation, and it was an epiphany - one of the most intense experiences of my life. The second one, last year, was not quite as big a deal, but still, in those undercover days, a rare and exciting chance to go deep femme for *two whole days*. [Posts from last year here: getting ready (including a descrip of the first year), first day report, second day report]. This year I wasn’t even going to go until I mentioned it to my friend Jamie-Lynn and she agreed to come.

The day did yield a number of interesting moments:

Shopping for earrings in the marketplace, which was mostly focused on the needs of M to F crossdressers, I found myself passing by rack after rack because everything was just too over-the-top glam. I finally found a pair I liked at a little consignment table...quirky silver danglies featuring a variegated blue-and-grey stone bead. It was only when I got home that I realized they were clip-ons. (I still like them.)

In a panel of facial feminization surgeons, the frighteningly egotistical Dr. Z bustled in late and then hijacked the session to attack the work of Dr. O, considered by many to be the preeminent FFS surgeon in the world. He had slides of what he said were some of Dr. O’s patients (closeups of naked skull, the forehead skin clamped back), and was explaining how the work was fundamentally flawed. Dr. O was not there, but his devoted assistant Mira was...Mira who, in a session last year, told us reverentially that Dr. O is a Michelangelo. She stood up and interrupted Dr. Z’s tirade. He overrode her. She muscled in again. I left at that point - I hate that sort of conflict - but Jamie stayed, and told me after she interrupted to ask a question, which apparently derailed the battle...good for her!

I also had an interesting encounter with Jennifer, who was in the audience with me in a session. She asked a question, and her voice work was superb...a gentle, natural-sounding, and attractive womanly tone...so I began to observe her. She was about my age, height, and build, and had not, so far as I could tell, had facial surgery, but she snapped strongly femme. Her hair was soft and full and attractively styled; if it was a wig, it was a more natural-looking one than most around us. Her clothes were elegant and understated. She had a woman’s mobile face and quick soft smile, and she held her body folded softly in on itself, arms and legs crossed, spine pliable, head lowered diffidently. Her eyes also had a tendency to flit down.

I approached her after the session and introduced myself. The first thing she said was “I’m sorry.” I was impressed by how feminine that was, and at the same time my inner feminist wanted to lecture her: “Honey, don’t apologize for yourself!” She shared voicework hints with me with which I am experimenting today: put your hand on your chest as you speak and make sure there is no buzz in the chest-cavity at all; visualize your voice as floating in the air out in front of your nose; and record and listen to yourself (yeah, yeah...I know that’s key, but I hate doing it.) My overall impression was of a person whose femininity is just shining out of her, completely unmannered and unselfconscious. She was inspiring.

And, there was the panel of trans youth with their parents. There were two trans girls and three trans boys there, ranging in age from 12 to 22 or so. It was the little 12-year-old trans girl who captured my attention. She had a child’s version of Jennifer’s natural femininity...to all appearances a pretty young girl in a baby-blue girl’s top, her long brown hair held back with hairpins just behind her ears. She was sitting next to her mom and paying close attention to all that was said, completely at ease, smiling often.

As we heard each family’s story in turn, I felt tears start to come. I had to leave for a while. It was the love and support of the parents on the panel which reached me the most. I so ache sometimes for my mother’s love...for her to know me and love me as a girl...and I can never have that. I could have been like that little girl, supported by her parents, planning an early and complete transition. I could have had forty more years of life as a girl and woman. It’s not the first time I’ve mourned these losses, and I don’t suppose it will be the last.

Jamie sat with me and gave me hugs...she was great. And it was fun sharing the conference with her...telling her backstories, pointing out VIP’s, listening to her network with the activists at tables in the marketplace, and just gabbing in the car on the way down and back. In the short time I’ve know her, she has become a dear friend.

So that was First Event 2011. The main insight from the day: I have come a loooooong way in a fairly short time. From ecstatic to blasé in two years...how ‘bout that.

A new normal

I put on a man shirt today. That’s unusual...I’ve been going through a long phase where I’ve wanted all my clothes to be feminine all the time, even the ones (underwear, socks) which people can’t see. But I was going out to shovel snow, and I wanted something warm which actually fitted, so I pulled out the soft heavy dark-blue cotton pullover with the zipper V-neck which I used to think looked somewhat feminine on me. It was so nice to have the shoulder-seams sit right, and the sleeves come all the way down to the bumps at the base of my palms with no tugging. Then I looked in the mirror and saw a female person wearing a man’s shirt.

What a sweet moment: my face, my hair, my body, and more importantly, how I was holding myself and the look in my eyes, all struck me as markedly more womanly than the last time I was able to objectively see such things. I work hard every day on femininity, trying new ideas, reinforcing old ones, laboring to internalize new habits in dress, movement, gesture, expression, speech, and affect...but for long stretches I can’t feel any change. Underneath, though, slowly and inexorably, I am changing, and today I got to perceive it. Yes.

I have felt intensely different for a couple of years now; different both from the man I used to be, and from the great majority of all you conventionally-gendered people in the world. The emotional upheaval of the name-change and going full-time recede into history, and now, all of a sudden, I feel a new kind of normal. It’s the normal of a person changing from a man to a woman who has gotten over all the gee-whiz, and who, while metamorphosis continues, just wants to create and work and nurture her kids and enjoy her friends and plan for the future and open more to the possibility of finding love...in short, to live her life. This is me now: an ordinary woman becoming.

Doesn’t matter that people are still unthinkingly reverting to “he”. Doesn’t matter that so many things about me are still so masculine...my face, my build, my voice...my glasses, for crying out loud. The world’s slowest magic trick is working. Behold, I will wave my magic wand and change from a man into a woman! Heeeeeeeh....[five years go by]....eeeeeey presto! Tada! :-)

Matriarchal pearls

I have an aunt - one of my father's sisters - who could be seen (if we have one at all) as the matriarch of the Bunker clan. She's in her 70's and lives alone, though close to, and involved in, the families of various children and grandchildren. I've always admired her for her marvellous mix of strength, independence, and eccentricity, and she can always be counted on for pointed insights pithily expressed. I love her dearly. :-)

We haven't been in touch much in recent years, but we've been corresponding recently, after I sent her my coming-out note. One of her latest letters struck me as particularly rich in insight, so I wrote back asking permission to quote her here, and she has written back to say "yes", on two conditions: that I not use her name, and that I quote her exactly, word for word. My pleasure, on both counts.

So, without further ado, excerpts from my aunt's letter of Nov. 18th, 2010 (note that Don and Sue are my parents, both deceased):

You wonder what reaction all your progenitors would have had to your sex-change. Don and Sue, I know, would have wanted to be sure you were aware of all the difficulties you would incur but would have wanted only your well-being and happiness. Besides, if they disapproved, they would have had to forfeit their liberal credentials.

You're right about Grandpa Jack. He would have just viewed it as one more of the foibles of human nature, perhaps one that could supply an amusing and edifying anecdote about the world.

Grandma, on the other hand, due to her German or perhaps Victorian outlook would think that happiness was not a goal of life. A person should just play the hand they were dealt. She saw life and suffering as a duty to be borne.

***

You've set me pondering about lady/woman/girl for myself. Once when pumping your own gas first became an option I got out to fill up my tank. An old guy wouldn't let me so I went to wash my windshield instead. He grabbed the squeegie out of my hand and told me, 'Get back in the car and act like a lady!' So I guess I don't qualify there. I don't care enough about my looks or clothes, housekeeping or social activities. In other words, I'm not feminine enough for Lady although I don't cuss, spit or scratch while watching football.

I still see 'girly-girls' here at the Senior Park. They are eighty years old and batting their eyelashes and fawning over the few men we have here. I guess it's in the genes.

When I think Woman, I think of strident unattractive women with causes. I don't align myself with any of that although I have had jobs where men were the boss but women actually did all their work. My doctor, dentist, insurance person, financial advisor, and lawyer are all women but not on purpose.

I think of myself as a Person and treat everyone else that way. I don't align myself with any particular group expect the Good People of the world. I feel sorry for Blacks and other ethnicities who society forces to shoulder responsibility for all of 'their people.' so let's call me a Female Person.

That last insight seems particularly useful to me. When I rehearse in my head what to say to an inquisitive child who asks me if I'm a man or a woman, I can't quite get my mouth around "I'm a woman." It's more complicated than that. But "I'm a Female Person" works fine.

Thanks, Aunt ________! :-)

OK, Elizabeth, what next?

One month now since the name change. It appears to have stuck. Administrative hassle continues, but it’s fairly minor. Amazing how many places your name goes...I applied for a Macy’s card last week to get a discount on some boots, and was rejected because Elizabeth H. Bunker has no credit history. How do you get your name changed with Equifax? These and similar puzzles are keeping me busy.

In the meantime, what next?

Well, long slow processes continue...hormones, electrolysis. 

And, social transition. Saying “OK, I’m a woman now” is a beginning, not an ending. I still have almost everything to learn about being a woman in the world.

And, voice.  I feel more and more strongly that I will find the voice I want by letting go into it, rather than forcing it. It’s of a piece with my emerging feminine personality. Patience, Darling, patience. Just be. Just speak. Trust the process.

Otherwise, soon it will be time to start thinking about next steps. Specifically, SRS, or sexual reassignment surgery. (FFS, facial feminization surgery, will be the next, and final, big step after that.) I need to research surgeons...think about money...establish a timeline...get the preparatory electrolysis. Soon it will be time, as Lily put it, to go shopping for a vagina.

Soon. Not quite yet. When the ache drives me. Because, it *has* been pleasant, this last month, to have a little rest from the feeling of needing to press forward. It would be nice if that feeling could slumber for a little while longer. It does ride me so hard sometimes.

I do feel it stirring. The ache reawakens.

Exegesis 2011

Happy New Year in Paris! (Midnight is a relative concept.)
What is it to be a woman?
To feel the being of others.
Such a simple thing.
And when a woman is alone?
Then gender doesn’t matter.
New year, new life, same as the old...
Or no, not quite.
Change has direction, Darling.
I love you.
It doesn’t matter who you are;
I love you.
It doesn’t matter who I am;
I love you.
It doesn’t matter what happens next;
I love you.
Now is now is now is now now now now now now now now now..........