There are certain brief memories that dash through my mind uninvited and unwelcome — recollections that reenforced my hesitancy to speak the words, “I am trans.”
I was a drag performer for several years. (Another story for another day.) A neighbor who was once a dear friend gifted me a beautiful Michael Kors bag. It was large enough to be my “drag bag” to carry makeup and jewelry, music and performance notes, even my roll of duct tape and bottle of super glue.
She said, “I just wanted you to know I support you. You can tell me you’re anything but trans. That I’d never understand.”
That was where she drew her line. Unsolicited.
Her comfort and willingness to accept divergence ended at bisexuality. Period. There wasn’t a hint of mean in her voice, it was all very matter-of-fact.
At that point I truly thought I had come to terms with my identity by proclaiming I now had a boyfriend, and further by performing in fabulous feminine attire.
“YES! — I am attracted to men!” “Yes, I’m a drag queen!” — would be enough to sooth my soul. And for a bit, it was. Until it wasn’t, of course.
So that neighbor’s comment stung and has replayed randomly since. Another time I was sitting in my business partner’s home office. We were talking about LGBTQ+ issues — surrounding a weekly LGBTQ+ event at the bar we owned together. He (Cishet) said, “I get gay. That makes sense. But I’ll never understand the trans thing.”
My reply was, “You don’t have to — it isn’t yours to understand. You are fully at home in the body you were born with. Nothing has ever felt incongruent. Good on you. All you have to do is respect who other people tell you they are. It’s that simple.”
He agreed he had no problem respecting pronouns and identities he didn’t “get it” and that was basically that. Except once again, here was someone very close to me warning me that they would never understand…Me. They were right there with me so long as I didn’t cross into territory they found unfamiliar and uncomfortable.
I am resoundingly fortunate to have a loving and supportive fiancé. Truly, he is an amazing man and I am grateful for him every day. And. In those first hours, that time immediately after I spoke the words he was trying to process, “I am trans” he said, “I didn’t sign up for this.” He said he needed a minute, and added a lot more comforting and supportive words, and we are still very much together, but I hear those words now and again in my head — and they still sting.
Offhanded comments like these stir up all the shame I felt when my mother discovered I’d swiped one of her nightgowns and worn it to bed. I couldn’t have been more than 8, but damn did she heap on the disgust and shame as she made me change into my little boy pajamas. There are many such examples where I learned what was and wasn’t acceptable to my parents, my siblings, our community, and society. I studied those words hard and did my level best to remember them all.
It always leaves me curious when a majority refuses to consider the needs or lived experiences of a minority — any minority.
Trans folk are a minority within the LGBTQ+ acronym, and an even smaller. minority in the general population. Now, there are more of us than they have accurate numbers for, but our percentage of the population is nowhere near that of cishets occupying the planet.
So we’re easily labeled freaks. Weird. Odd. Deranged. Mentally ill. Sick. Perverse. Etc.
The word I use to counter ALL of these narratives — the word I freely offer to you and hope you’ll adopt — is Rare. RARE.
We are not strange. We occur as naturally as the rest of the population — just with far less frequency.
The simple fact of the matter is that we Know who we are and did way before the language caught up.
We know we are different from most of those we encounter.
“They” occur with far greater frequency. Dare I say they are… common.
I can’t tell you what full congruence feels like. I’ve not yet experienced it. To know that one’s body and internal identity comfortably align, or align with society’s expectations and definitions of gender, is a concept foreign to my lived experience.
I must accept this — it doesn’t truly matter whether I want to or not.
To be healthy and come anywhere near the concept of “contentment” or “ease” — I have no choice but to accept that my experience of this life comes with incongruence to “their” lesson plans.
The majority often refuses to see things from this perspective (waves vigorously) over here.
They cannot conceive of it and don’t care to. They’d often rather insist that I don’t know my own mind. I am mistaken about my own wiring. I can’t be something they don’t want to understand — so I must be “wrong.”
And when humans decide other humans are simply existing wrong — a great deal of suffering is often inflicted without a care.
To a certain extent, I think we are still in a learning phase where the trans community and the broader world is concerned — that I accept. So I am more inclined to offer education than a harsh correction, assuming no ill intent is in evidence.
I do think this generation of the trans family owes it to future generations to enlighten, educate, and allow a bit of initial space for learning. None of us should have to keep doing this shit 20 years from now, but provided the questions are not creepy or personal — I go ahead and answer them.
When the question IS creepy and personal, I steer it. “Would you ask the woman you work for such a question? Are you comfortable asking her about her genitalia? Perhaps you’re curious about her labia?” Or, “Maybe go ask that business man in the suit how big his dick is? Or how low those balls hang and if they’re ever in his way.”
They usually get the point quickly. Of COURSE these questions would be wholly inappropriate under almost all polite circumstances.
I’ve often said, “unless you are interested in sleeping with a person who also wants to sleep with you — these answers are fully none of your business.” Cishet folks frequently seem to think they have ownership over trans bodies. And they are far more fascinated with our genitalia than we are with theirs — at least that’s my general experience.
There is even a narrative in the trans community that deeply disturbs me — a hierarchy if you will. I’m just going to state no one is more or less trans because they have taken hormones, had multiple surgeries, or otherwise completed a list they found right for them and could afford.
I have trans sisters with decidedly deep voices some might label masculine. I have trans brothers who have decidedly higher pitched voices and large breasts. I have enby (nonbinary) siblings that most would not consider androgynous. SO?
I seriously have no time for infighting. The very nature of being trans IS self identification.
And there are myriad reasons someone may not give one fuck about how you think they should show up. And they’re all valid, and none of anyone else’s business.
We’ve got real enemies out there. They legislate against us. We need strength to deal with them. I suggest we find that strength by leaving our trans family to live in their own peace, however and wherever they may find it.
So among those of us who identify in some way as trans, I’d like us to carry a gem with us that reminds us we have great intrinsic value, and that value affords us the ability to at least accept one another. Trans folk are each and all RARE in this world. And that which is rare is precious, of high value, and deserving of respect.
Get out there and shine!
Peace, Lovelies,
-MM
