This is such a great article.  Please reblog!

Shows how gender stereotyping effects everyone and how easily it can be overcome when someone cares.  I only wish more teachers took initiative like this.

“Your eyebrows look great” she says.

“Thanks!”, I reply and make what I am sure is an awkward smile.

“Do you do them yourself?” she asks.

“Yes. I fill them in a bit with powder and then finish them with some gel.” I tell her.

I’m not accustomed to being complimented by people I know, let alone a stranger. And I do not consider myself to be anything special in the looks department regardless of my gender presentation – so I was caught off guard by the whole thing. But I realized quickly she was being sincere about it and before I knew it, I found myself caught up in another conversation with a woman about make-up.

She asks if I pluck them and I tell her I do. She gets her’s threaded in California she tells me, as she’s out there about once a month. A bit more chat and we get on the subway and sit to continue our discussion.

“Your makeup is nice. Who’s shadow do you use?” she asks.

“It’s Bare Minerals powder” I tell her.

She confesses to having never tried it because it seems messy. As with Dana a few weeks back, I explain to her the proper way to put it on as she listens intently. A bit more about how nice it looks and I can feel myself blush a bit.

“Do you use shadow primer?” I ask her.

“What’s that?” she asks.

There is something not right (in my opinion) with the idea of me giving make-up tips to a woman. Nonetheless, I continue and explain what the primer is, how to apply it and I recommend she get the Urban Decay Primer Potion. She has dark skin and I tell her that it goes on with no real color, so it’s a good choice.

“Have you been wearing that all day?” she asks, motioning to my eyes again.

“Yes – Did my eyes at 6:30am” I tell her and smile a bit. “It really makes your shadow last.”

More chit-chat about how much we both love MAC and such when the train gets to 34st and I have to get off. I get up and tell her it was nice to meet her and to have a great evening. “Same here – and thanks for the tips!” she smiles and waves and the doors close.

As I walk up the stairs, I have this funny feeling about me. I’m not sure how to explain it other than it felt really really good. I know she didn’t think I was a woman, but then it didn’t seem to matter to her either. We talked like me being me was the most natural and ordinary thing in the world. Maybe that was what I was feeling… For a few minutes, I wasn’t a transwoman or transsexual or crossdresser or genderqueer or anything more (or less) than just a regular person in the world.

A girl could get used to that if she’s not careful…

I sit down and Dana (the nail tech) commences to ply her craft on my digits. We chat about the kind of stuff you chat about when getting your nails done: our kids (she has a teenage daughter), weekend plans, and – well – girl stuff. I see she has a tube of MAC DazzleGlass lip-gloss sitting out and I comment it’s a pretty color. She proceeds to tell me the story behind it (she does makeup and such for fashion shows and was given it as a gift) and how she’s not sure she’s loving it. I tell her I have the same type in a different shade and she asks me to put it on so she can see how it looks. I feel myself blush a bit but oblige her and brush on a coat.

“Oooo – I like that!” is her reaction. 

And so for the rest of the time, we chat about make-up. She compliments my eyeshadow and I tell her it’s a loose power type. She confesses she has no idea how to use it and always makes a mess, so I explain the technique I use – a bit of information she is happy to learn.  And so on and so on for the next twenty minutes or so.

I’m sure there are people who will dismiss this as wholly vapid exchange, but is it any more so than say a discussion about golf, or a reality TV show? I don’t think so. People have all sorts of ‘meaningless’ conversations all the time. What made this interesting (to me at least) was the fact that I was having it.

There was an ease to the conversation: nothing forced or uncomfortable about it. There was nothing about being ‘trans’ or any kind of ‘why’ to the conversation.  In a word, it was all quite natural and it felt nice – and, dare I say, fun. 

I love moments when all the nonsense fades into the background and I get to just be me.

I hand the conductor my ticket today and he asks me “How would you like me to punch this? I’m not trying to be rude or disrespectful, I just don’t want to offend you.” It takes me a moment to reply: “Female is fine, thanks.” He punches my ticket and hands it back to me. “Just trying to be respectful. Have a good one.” – and he moves on the the next seat.

All totaled it was about twenty seconds of interaction – but it was an important twenty seconds to me. One of only a handful of times anyone has ever asked – as opposed to assuming – how I want to be gendered.

A rather nice start to the day.

Winter 1998 : my friend Laura and I are swapping emails as I try and wrap my head around all this trans-crap. She keeps telling me how I am different from other people – from the cisgendered I walk amongst. I tell her I go to work, pay my taxes, own a home, a car, I support my family… I am the same as anyone else. She becomes indignant, as she often does, and tells me I need to f’ing accept that I am *not* like everyone else and I never will be. I’m not ready for this: I have spent a lifetime of effort to ‘be’ like other people. I don’t understand *why* I need to be different, especially when I cannot see it. I don’t *want* to be different – I never have…

June 1982 : I tossed out my stash of girly crap in an effort to prove that it’s all a phase. As the summer wears on, I become more and more frustrated and depressed. I think about how it might be best if the world had one less person in it. I figure a car accident would be best as it would be just that – an accident. I make plans, run the scenario over in my head… I am weak, and I ultimately replace my purged cache. I slip back into the darkness that is my secret self…

October 2008 : my former employer has become a casualty of the economy. I am in a mild panic as to what I am going to do: both in terms of my profession and my presentation. I managed to carve out a niche for myself as an openly trans person in an otherwise conservative industry. I really do not know how I did it or even if I could do it again. I also don’t know that I could go back to ‘being’ what I once pretended to be. As I drive to the train on a dark rainy morning, I think back to 1982. I close my eyes and press down on the accelerator. While it was only for a few seconds, I feel a sense that I have some measure of control over my life…

———-

It’s Monday, February 8 2010 at 9:15pm : I am driving home from the train station after what is a typical day. I am stopped at a light waiting to make a left turn – classical music, not my usual choice, plays as the light turns green and I start my turn…

It’s already too late when I see the headlights: I am mid turn and the lights are almost on top of me. There is no where to go – nothing to do. I look at the approaching lights and think, “fuck…”

There is this phenomena called time dilation wherein time moves at a different rate for an individual compared to an external observer: I am convinced it is as much a biochemical phenomenon as it is a physical one. Upon seeing the headlights, everything went silent – and things slowed to the point of almost stopping completely. I can only guess that my brain went into some sort of ‘overdrive’ – processing so much so quickly that it made the moment seem much longer than it actually was. The cliche of one’s life flashing before their eyes may not be far from the truth. It was like a core dump of my memories: good, bad, things I have not thought of for ages…

I remember what is probably my first act of public gender transgression. I was maybe fifteen and I had bought a small purple purse. I’m not sure what made me buy it but I did. It sat hidden in my room for months until one day I took it out and while no one was home, I bicycled to the mall by my house. I put my wallet and keys in it, put it on my shoulder, and walked around the mall. There was no ‘passing’ involved here – just some boy with a purse…

Bits and pieces of my somewhat odd life popped up – most of which have once again receded onto the darker recesses of my memory.

The irony of the situation was not lost on me. I found it morbidly amusing that things would end this way. I had thought about this before – many times in fact… What I never anticipated was that this might *actually* happen. That which I had been unwilling to pursue in earnest was now in full play and I was helpless to stop it. I remember thinking, “Be careful what you wish for…”

The silent eternity of the moment was broken by a loud pop as the glass behind my head shattered and things went black…

The pickup truck that t-boned me had spun my car around about 180 degrees. The car is rolling towards the spot from which I had just been when I regain some sense things and manage to drive to the side of the road and park. Dazed but seemingly OK, I get out of my car to see what happened: the rear driver side is caved in – it’s a mess. The other driver comes over to see if I am OK and calls the police. More people come over… “Are you OK Miss?” It does not register at first and I answer as best I can. I am stammering – unable to organize my thoughts, and it’s so cold out. I get back in my car to try and keep warm, call my wife and manage to tell her what happened and where – and ask her to please come down there.

More people came up to the car: “Miss, are you alright?” It’s a bit clearer now. All I can think is “Please, not here, not now…” I stammer out a reply in the affirmative… I just want everyone to go away and leave me alone, but I know better. An ambulance shows up and the EMTs proceed to strap me in a collar and onto a backboard. “Move her this way…” “Tilt him back…” Under different circumstances I might have been amused, but right now I just want it all to go away. I tell them I’m fine, really – but they say that once they have started they have to follow through.

I am in the ER, strapped to this board – and my wife is here with me. I feel so silly all tied down – silly and embarrassed about the whole thing. The ER team come in and take my temperature and ask some questions: my name, the date, do I know where I am – standard stuff. The decide they want to do an EKG and proceed to undress me: cutting off my sweater, pulling off my pants, my shoes and socks… I become painfully aware of myself. I’m laying there in panties with red toenails when they put a gown over me. One doctor fumbles trying to get my earrings off and I have to help him. I am sure that they have seen stranger than me in the ER, but I’m not thinking of that now. I’m embarrassed: both for me and for my wife. I wish I had died at this point. I can only imagine what they think of the stammering tranny they have here. After what seemed like another eternity, they get me all hooked up and leave the room…

With the commotion finally subsided, I begin to cry. My wife has been here this whole time – in the room as they all very professionally did their jobs. She has been here as they all got to see the prize of a husband she landed: painted toes, girly undies, long hair, earrings and remains of my makeup… I not crying not for me, but for subjecting her to this. She comes over and asks, “What’s wrong?” I lie and tell her it’s all just a bit overwhelming.

Not knowing how long I will be there, I tell my wife to go home at around midnight. A CT, x-rays of my knee… As I am lifted and moved about, I do my best to maintain some modesty, but have only minimal success. I am only slightly relieved that my embarrassment is confined to just me at this point. Again, people are professional about it all, but I know that once back in my berth I’ll become fodder for as least a good giggle.

I remember when two years ago, my physician suggested I get a mammogram. She was professional about it: I’m 45 and I have breasts – it just made sense. When I go to have it done, I am asked “Why are we doing a mammo today?” By the third time, in an attempt to defuse my own anxiety, I cup my breasts, smile and say “Because of these.” No one was laughing or even making fun, but it’s one thing to walk anonymously down the street as trans – it’s an entirely different thing to have to confront it so intimately.

By 4:00am my films are read and I am given a clean bill of health – and allowed to go home. My adventure for the evening is almost over.

———-

It’s 4:30am Tuesday morning and I have been up for twenty four hours: my wife picks me up at the hospital and takes me home. If she is embarrassed by any of this, she doesn’t show it or mention it: not now or in the days following. I think about what it is I do – walking this line between two worlds.  There is a sort of blissful ignorance about it: I *do* what I do and never consider the implications of it until it’s thrust in my face. I wonder if it’s all really worth the effort.

I wrote about this about three years ago.  I have a rather narrow definition of transition as it applies to transgender people.  It is a definition, really, of transsexual transition – one with surgery and legal name changes and the like.  It implies things about me – about my identity and my intentions – that I don’t know are correct.  And because of this, it do my best to avoid using the term in reference to myself.

But it doesn’t stop others from using it.  It seems that idea of ‘transition’ has broadened some – and I likely fall into the group of people who have transitioned ‘socially’.  Back when I started to deal with all of this, I friend of mine lived her life as a woman with no desire for surgery: she called it ‘crossliving’.  Some called her a non-op transsexual, some called her a crossdresser, and some called her a fraud.  But she was living a life true to how she identified.

It would be hard for me to say she had not ‘transitioned’.  Twelve years later, I look at myself and find I am doing something similar.  No, I have not changed my name or made any ‘body mods’ – but my presentation is clearly more feminine.  As I made my way to the discussion the other night, three times I was addressed as ‘Miss’.  It happens a lot and I cannot deny that I like it and that it is what I want people to see.

But still, that word…  There is a ring of finality to it.  There is a sense that one has passed the point of no return and that all one can do is to soldier onward.  It’s a frightening thought to me – I don’t exactly know why, but it is.  I know I could not go back to the way I used to be, but still…

Even the bravest of us rarely has the courage for what he Really Knows. – Nietzsche

So very true…

All in all, I was pleased that the firm has as well thought out and defined policies as they do.  In fact, it was rather refreshing to hear us ‘discussed’ positively.  But, one thing still bothered me: where would I fit into these policies.  They seemed to be focused on transitioning and how to manage that.  They seemed to assume that one would move from ‘male to female‘ or ‘female to male‘ and that the end result would be clearly defined.  In short, it all seemed oh so binary.

Being the great orator that I am, I waited until after the official Q&A to speak to the HR Diversity rep who was on the panel.  I asked her now someone like me would fit in.  I related the story of my ‘transition’ (as others seem intent on calling it) and how I identify and waited.   I was pleased to hear that their policies were not so rigid and that rather than having a ‘process’ in place, they really looked at each person individually.  One would think that was a given, but HR can be a funny about stuff.  We chatted for a few more minutes and I will say that I left feeling rather good about it all – a pleasant surprise to be honest.

There is a panel discussion coming up on gender identity and expression in the workplace.  It is being hosted by a large investment bank and should be interesting.  I was asked if I had any suggestions for the panel and I offered to ‘tell my tale’ if they thought there was some value in it.  I like to think that what I did and where I did it is something a bit unique, and as another investment bank was hosting, it seemed like a good fit.

The event has been planned and the speakers chosen – suffice to say I am not among them. I’ll be honest, I never had any expectation of being on any ‘panel’ – I made the offer knowing it wouldn’t be taken – I made the offer knowing exactly what they wanted.

The ‘trans’ representative will be a transsexual who has already transitioned. The reason given for her being chosen: the people planning the event “didn’t know if the more hands-off (on the company’s end) non-transition transition experience would be too advanced for the audience of HR people.”

Too advanced???

My former employer was as high profile as any investment bank and they managed to see the value in allowing me the latitude to be true to myself.  It took them all of a week – which I’m sure amounted to about an hour’s discussion – to decide in my favor.  Their ‘advanced approach’ required them to make no real policy changes.  I wasn’t looking for anything that would cost them anything – I think that would be the case more often than not.  What it amounted to was that I was a valued employee there.

What I would like to know is why is it almost always transsexuals who are put up as the spokespeople of the trans-community? Not all transpeople are transsexual – in fact, I’m willing to go out on a limb and say that most are not transsexual.  We all do not transition – or at least transition in the same way.  And yet, time and time again, they are offered as the quintessence of transness.

I know why she was chosen: she’s safe. She fits the media-ready narrative of “I always knew I was a girl from early on…” through transition and up to “…and now I am a woman and happy.” It the side of trans that people have learned to at worst tolerate and at best respect.  It is the cleaned up and ‘sanitized for the public’ side of trans – presented in an easy to digest format.  I am sure she will look good and be thoughtful and articulate. The HR types will look at her and agree “this isn’t so bad – we can do this.”  It is the side of trans that is by and large neat and tidy: she’s female and a woman – just as it should be.  It’s not a bad side of trans, it just does little to challenge people’s perceptions and educate them as to the diversity in our community.

I see myself as the scary side of trans – the side no one wants to see. It’s people like me who ‘ruin things’ for everyone, at least that is what I have been told in the past.  I am the ‘less-authentic’ side – the ‘not really serious’ side – the guy who ‘just wants to dress up at work’ side – the ‘confused’ and ‘in denial’ side – the ‘freak’ and ‘weirdo’ side.  I amount to gender trash: something to be pushed aside and stepped over.  I have been made to feel at times that my version of trans has little intrinsic value.

Discussions around trans-people and the workplace seem to come down to debates over bathrooms, medical coverage and transition strategies – important issues (for transsexuals especially) but not the only issues for trans-people.  Speaking for myself: my health insurance is just fine, I am able to relieve myself as necessary without incident, and there was no need for a planning session when I did what I did.  Discussions around things like flexible dress codes, employee education and a top-down driven commitment to diversity and inclusion (for example), in addition to the other ‘issues’, would serve a far wider audience in my opinion.  Of course to do this, you need you have people who can speak to these other concerns actually speak to them – people with other experiences as trans-people.

A false tautology has been created: transsexual <==> transgender.  The average person who has heard of either doesn’t know there is any difference.  When I approached my old firm’s LGBT group, the chairperson at the time – an SVP in HR and a lesbian – asked me how far into the ‘process’ (i.e. transition) I was.  I derailed her train of thought when I told her I wasn’t transsexual or transitioning, and then proceeded to educate her a bit regarding the the diversity that is trans.  Talk shows, documentaries, dramas – the ‘trans’ people in these are almost always transsexuals.  It’s not so much wrong as it is inaccurate – holding up only one example from any group of people ultimately does a disservice to that group.  It serves to silence the other voices in that group.

When will be the ‘right time’ for the rest of us?  Is it after a stereotype has been indelibly burnt into people’s minds?  After policy is in place that excludes us?  Is there a reason not to speak of us as a whole as opposed to just the top layer of the de facto hierarchy?  In my simplistic view of things, what is so advanced about the idea that we are all people going to work, supporting our families, paying our taxes, and making money for our employers – and as such, we are entitled to the same consideration?

I’ll attend the event and listen to the discussion. Twelve years ago, when I ‘joined’ the trans community, there never would have been any such discussion – so I want to hear what the HR types have to say: what their plans are for supporting ‘gender identity and expression’ in the workplace.  I’m curious to see how I will be represented, as it is the same representation that was there twelve years ago.

Who knows… perhaps I’ll be surprised…

It was never my plan – this thing I do at work: it just sort of happened. One day, about eight years ago, I just started dressing ‘differently’ at work. It was small things: pants, a shirt, my shoes – nothing dramatic: one thing here and there. But as time went on, I pushed things more and more – and my appearance became more androgynous. I waited for someone to comment, but they never did. And while I never openly discussed what I was doing, I knew it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Somehow, I managed to ‘express my gender’ in a way that made me feel good – and I did it in one of the more conservative of corporate environments: at a Wall Street investment bank.

I went to HR after 9/11 and basically outed myself to them: I asked to be allowed to follow the women’s dress code. I told them I wanted to make this ‘official’. A few questions and a week later and they said yes. Now, even if someone said something, it didn’t matter: I had special dispensation. My firm had talked about supporting diversity and they did, at least as far as gays and lesbians were concerned: I, however, was something alltogether different. I was genuinely shocked to find them willing to back up their commitment with action in my case.

In 2006, I officially ‘came out’ at work. That October, I was featured as our LGBT network’s employee of the month – and my photo and bio were posted on network’s website. Something inside me wanted to be acknowledged for who and what I was. I had been ‘out’ for a while now with respect to how I dressed, but now – there no question about it: I was the ‘T’ in the LGBT at the Firm. It was an odd feeling but it felt ‘right’ to me.

In 2007, Maggie Stump spoke at our Firm. She is a fund manager (and a very successful one) who transitioned on the job at another financial institution. I found her story inspiring – and a bit sad – as are many of our stories. I spoke with her afterwards (we being the only two transpeople in the room) and I told her how impressed I was with her and her accomplishment. She asked me my story and when I finished, she allowed that she was far more impressed with me. I looked at her, confused, and asked her, “Why?”. She looked serious as said, “Because what you are doing is *so* much harder than what I did.” It didn’t seem hard but I suppose maybe it is – I don’t know. I don’t get to ‘pass’ or blend in and everyone in my building knows who I am, even if they don’t know me personally.

To my knowledge, I was the only openly trans individual at the Firm. And to make it that much more interesting, I open identify as genderqueer and have no interest in ‘transitioning’ as the trans-community tends to understands it. I do not ‘fit’ what some expect a transperson to be, which is fine by me. It’s an odd place to be, but it’s who I am. Somehow, I managed to carve out my own very queer little space in an otherwise traditionally conservative environment. I am rather proud of what I have achieved and *where* I have achieved it. I have been asked, “How did you do that?” I honestly don’t know: timing, the culture of the firm, stupidity, luck – it kinda just happened. I don’t know that I could make it happen again.

I am at an uncertain place in my life now. The firm for which I worked is in bankruptcy and I am now employed by the firm which purchased the leftovers: my fate there is far from secure. Maybe they will keep me – maybe not: I have to wait and see. Even now, six month on, I am not sure of my position. Assuming they do want me, will they want *me* – warts and all? Diversity in a corporate setting is very much a cultural thing and needs to be driven top down. My old firm had it – this new one does not. They say the right things, but have a less-than-stellar reputation regarding LGBT support. I am back to flying under the radar for the time being. I continue to do what I have done largely because my management hasn’t changed and they have always been supportive. But I know that there has been nothing officially ‘sanctioned’ by the new regime.

Then there is looking for employment elsewhere; who goes on the interview? I need to stay employed – but at what cost? Does the trans/genderqueer individual show up and risk being found “Not quite what we’re looking for right now…” Or do I get a proper haircut, shine my wingtips and ‘be’ whatever it is I need to be to find work. Can I really be that person again? If so, for how long? Can I attract the same lightning a second time? I don’t know the answer, but perhaps the questions are moot.

I shouldn’t be worrying about this; if anything, it should be the last thing on my list. I have my ‘priorities’ in order – but when does ‘me’ get to be a priority? At what point do I get to *not* push this to the bottom? It has taken me *so* long to get to this place – a place where I can more or less ‘be myself’ and have this be a non-issue for the most part. To start over again – or worse, give it up completely – I don’t know that I can do that.

In the end, I suppose I will have to do whatever it is I have to do.

The value of a thing sometimes lies not in what one attains with it, but in what one pays for it – what it *costs* us.” – Nietzsche

Here it comes, another lonely day, playing the game. I’ll sail away on a voyage of no return to see if eternal life is meant to be and if I find the key to the eternal dream…

I could find hundreds of lyrics and quotes to express my feelings and still it would only scratch the surface. I feel at times to be buried so deeply that there no surface through which to break – Or, it is there, but covered with a thick layer of ice – allowing glimpses of a sanctuary, all the while keeping it well out of my grasp.

I wonder what type of universe allows creatures such a me in it. I wonder what part in the grand design I play – the ‘reason’ for my being at all – especially as it is. Surely I could have served a more useful purpose were I better designed! But being as I am, I’m given pause by how ill-conceived a being I actually am, and how ultimately pointless my existence actually is.

It’s dark and raining as I drive down the parkway (old joke: why do we park on a driveway and drive on a parkway?) I close my eyes, and I think how easy this will be: no one will question the outcome. Save for a few months of sadness, I’ll scarcely be missed. On-line, I’ll be one name less – at home, one bother less.

Right now, the things in my life over which I have control – or feel I have control, are few if any. My ‘career’ – if one can call it that, is at the whim of Wall Street and a bad job market (for those who did not know, I worked for that bankrupt bank) – and my relationship with my wife rests on a solid foundation of mud. This has, to some extent, relegated other considerations in my life to a secondary status: the joke being that they have never been primary in the first place. Fodder for another day’s whinge.

I push down with my right foot. A sense of empowerment begins to full me: truly, something over which I have some control. The engine winds up and I think back to twenty six years ago – the year I graduated high school and that summer. I reasoned then that as a solution, this was not the best: it lacks assurances – and how I so desperately wanted assurances then as I do now. I recognize this for what it is (as well as for what it isn’t) and I open my eyes…

It’s dark and raining as I drive down the parkway. Earlier than usual today, the road is empty and I’ve managed to ‘drift’ over one lane – just before my exit. I take it, make my way to the parking lot and board my train – as I have done so many times before. As sit down and look around at unfamiliar faces and wonder if they are in any better control of their lives than am I.

A woman a few seat forward looks up and we exchange smiles. I think for just a moment about her drive to the train on a dark rainy morning. The doors close, we depart the station.