Why I Marched in the Pride Parade this Year

n.b.: I have a whole backstory as to my issues with the pride parade.  After writing it all out, I realized that none of it really matters, as I have clearly overcome them this year.

It has been a long road getting here, but I made it: I marched in the Pride Parade this year.  Having never attended the parade before, my ‘first time’ was to march in it, on the 50th anniversary of Stonewall.  Go big, or go home I suppose. 🙂

Twenty years ago, when all my trans issues ‘came to a head’, my wife’s position was “This is your problem, not mine.”  Her support / tolerance / acceptance of all this ‘trans stuff’ has waxed and waned over the years.  She never signed up for all of this, and there have been more than a few times where she made that known.  This put it on me to somehow ‘make it work’ and keep everyone ‘happy’.  Happy, of course, is a very subjective term, and for many years, I described what we had as a sort of detente with respect to my needs and what she would tolerate.

Twenty years is a long time, and people do not stay together that long by mearly ‘tolerating’ one another.  It is within the past few years, though, that I think the bigest change has happened.  I became more ‘out’ at work, more involved, and that had a positive effect on me.  I began to be recognized for being trans, and making a positive impact.  I began to feel ‘good’ about myself and what I might have to offer others.  That is not something easily hidden.

Getting laid off end of 2017 hit me hard, and it visibly ‘undid’ everything I had gained.  I think that maybe for the first time, my wife saw just how deeply this all impacted me.  I was not able to ‘tough it out’ as I might have in the past.  It was one of the few times in my life that I acutely felt the dysphoria many trans people experience.

It honestly took all I could muster to put on a suit and tie, to do my best impersonation of ‘a man’ when I interviewed here at NYL.  I was shaking when I left the house, but got it under control, and ultimately, I pulled it off.  Two weeks after startng here, I reached out to ODI about ‘being me’ at work – and within a month, I ditched the ‘man drag’.  I was aprehensive, but feeling better.

Fast forward one year here at NYL.  I was asked if I was going to march with NYLPride.  I said that I was considering it, but that I hadn’t decided.  As my n.b. above mentions, I have had mixed feelings about the pride parade in the past.  However, this was the first time in twenty years that I felt that I was at a place, personally, where I wanted to march.  I felt a real sense of being a part of a group that acepted me, and I found that I was comfortable with the idea of ‘marching’ publically, and with this group of people.

Before even offering that I was going to march, I asked my wife, “Would you be interested in marching in the pride parade this year?”  I honestly didn’t know what she would say.  She took a few seconds and answered, “Sure, why not!”  I was a bit stunned, but happy – and it became immediately clear that I could not back out now.  I was going to march, and so was my wife.  I then asked my daughter, who is home from college, if she and her girlfriend would like to march as well.  There would now be four of us.

If my wife has said no, I’m not sure I would have gone… maybe I would have – who knows?   For all the support I get at work, It cannot compare with the support of family.

And so after twenty years:

• with my straight(?) wife, holding a pride and trans flag up high
• with my bi daughter (and her girlfriend)
• dressed as a big ‘ol trans pride flag
• surrounded by a decidedly amazing group of colleagues and their families

I marched – not in the back, but up front – unapologetically owning who I am – perhaps more publically than I ever have before.

Here’s looking forward to 2020… 🙂

What’s in a Name

“Hey Donna!” Jasmine, one of the women at the registers, waves me over to take my order.

I have been frequenting a Starbucks on my way to the office. When asked for my name, I have been using Donna – which has been my ‘online’ name for the past twenty years. I also use it casually sometimes, as well as with people I consider closer than casual acquaintances. At my previous job, a had a number of friends there who called me Donna, or simple ‘Dee’. 🙂

The staff at the Starbucks only know me as Donna there. No one questions or second-guesses my name. In that microcosm, I am Donna and nothing else.

I point this out because trans people often get a lot of pushback when we ask people to refer to us in a way we prefer – in a way that is validating to us. People are quick to accept celebrities naming themselves: Sting, Lady Gaga, Bono, The Edge, etc… No one calls these celebrities out, saying “That’s not your ‘real’ name…” No one accuses them of being dishonest or deceitful. People accept and respect that this is how they wish to be addressed, and they do so without question. However, when a trans person chooses a name for themselves, it is often perceived that there is something ‘dishonest’ about it. We often get the question of “But what is your real name?” This perception is rooted in the notion that transgender identities are themselves not something ‘real’.

Trans people spend the first part of their life with a name that carries with it a lifetime of baggage: the expectations of parents, family, friends, colleagues. These are expectations that often do not resonate with how we feel and who we know we are. For us, the act of choosing a name can be a re-birth of sorts. Choosing a name is an act of self-affirmation – one which roots the ownership of our identity with ourselves, as opposed to with someone else. It is very much the case that something is ‘real’ only in so far as we can name it: by choosing our names, we become ‘real’.

For individuals who have legally changed their name, that is their name; it’s use is not optional. Referring to a trans person by their birth name is called dead-naming, because for these individuals, the person with that previous birth name simply no longer exists. Dead-naming is never appropriate, so please just don’t do it.

For individuals who have not legally changed their name, there is still no good reason to not respect how an individual wishes to be addressed. If you can respect the use of someone’s ‘nickname’, you can respect a trans person’s ‘preferred’ name. My story about Starbucks illustrates just how much of a non-issue ‘preferred names’ should be. As I said above, no one questions or second-guesses my using ‘Donna’ as my name. As a result, I get to start my day with a bit more of a smile. 😀

I worked with a woman named Pamela – she hated her name and told everyone to call her Pam. If someone called her Pamela, she corrected them. In very short order, we all called her Pam, and it was a non-issue. If you meet a trans person (or anyone for that matter) and are unsure how to address them (name, pronouns) just ask. We like when people take the time to respect us enough to ask. And if a trans person ‘corrects’ you, don’t be offended – simply make a note of it and move on. The goal is not to make you feel bad, just to let you know, “Hey, this is what I prefer…” 🙂

Regards to Captain Dunsel

McCoy: Dunsel? Who the blazes is Captain Dunsel?

(cut to Chekov and Sulu, both expressing uncomfortable recognition of the reference)

McCoy: What does it mean, Jim?

(Kirk slowly exits the bridge without a word)

McCoy: Spock? What does it mean?

Spock: Dunsel, Doctor, is a term used by midshipmen at Starfleet Academy.  It refers to a part which serves no useful purpose.

I came out as non-binary / transgender in the early 2000’s. I did it by slowly changing how I dressed, waiting for someone to say something about it: no one ever did. Instead, I found acceptance from my colleagues and management. It was a good run – until early 2011, when I was layed-off and needed to find a new job. That was a stressful time as it meant cutting my hair, donning the suit and tie, and doing my best impersonation of a ‘man’ all for the purpose of landing a job. It worked, and I was employed again in less than three months.

After a few months, I was able (again) to present as I needed, and for the next seven years I enjoyed the support of my colleagues, and of the firm itself. I slowly became more visible, more vocal, and ultimately seen an a leader in the LGBT community at work. Over the last two years, I finally felt that I once again had a career as opposed to just ‘a job’ – and that I had found my place and my voice. For possibly the first time in my life, I started to truly feel good about my self – that events in my life were finally falling into place in a way that was life-affirming – that maybe I could feel ‘happy’.

For the past seven years, work had been my support network. It is where I have been the most ‘out and proud’ – it is where I have had the most support when I need it – it is where I have had the most encouragement: from my team, my colleagues, and even senior management. It is where I have been recognized for both what I do and who I am.

I was laid-off January 2nd, 2018.  I lost my support network, my friends, my outlet.  I am home alone every day, looking, emailing, applying.  It’s my fourth month of looking, and things are moving at a glacial pace.

My wife and I are fighting more lately.  She has this almost paralyzing fear about what is going to happen, and as a result she feels the need to try and ‘solve’ this, which has manifest itself as her advising / directing / controlling everything I do – criticizing every step I take looking for work.  I am emotionally exhausted trying to manage my wife’s sense of impending doom because I am not working.

I have this view of life, that people are the most honest when they are angriest.  There is no ‘filter’ when you are angry – just raw emotion delivered unprocessed.  There are the apologies afterwards, about not meaning any of it, but by that time the bell has been rung.  The monster keep caged has gotten out and done their damage.

The other day, during a shouting fest over a missed call from a potential job, (because I turned off the ringer on my phone at the interview that same day) the monster made their appearance.

“You’re just fucking sitting around, not fucking doing anything.”

Succinct, unfiltered, truthful.  What my wife sees, now that I am unemployed.

I have spent thirty one years providing for my family – my wife, my two daughters.  I have worked hard to be successful professionally.  I have fought against who I am so I could be a good provider – so my wife could stay home and not have to work for fifteen years and raise our daughters.  I have swallowed my pride, compromised my personal integrity, all so I could do the right thing for everyone else.  Rationally, I know my wife recognizes (some) of this when she not spiraling uncontrollably in fear of what will happen to us…

But deep down inside, I am a dunsel to her.  I can do nothing right, I have nothing to offer – I no longer serve a useful purpose.

I feel like I have lost everything, and accomplished nothing, with every day sucking just a bit more from me.  I go to sleep hoping that I don’t wake up – that I can finally be free of all of this.

Because right now, I am just so tired of being alive – and I have no good reason to continue.

Whinging

I’ve not written in a while. It’s not for a lack of topics (I have a lot I want to write about) but more a matter of time and motivation. I have been insanely busy at work – and not in a good way. I don’t mind busy – I can even thrive on it for short spurts – but the busy is there is rooted in stupidity and confusion and I have no tolerance for that. It’s become a place at which I really do not want to be. That’s a problem as ‘work’ has become a bit of a haven for me these past years. It’s where I ‘get to be me’ more or less.

‘Getting to be me’… what a sad and pathetic way to look at life.

For what now feels like as all too brief time, I was kinda happy with myself. I had lost some weight, liked how I was dressing and liked how I was being read. I thought I had worked things out well enough to have a reasonably ‘good’ life. The truth is that right now I just feel… I not sure what it is I feel really. It’s not ‘sad’ or ‘angry’ or ‘depressed’ but some mix in which I can not easily separate out the individual emotions. They are mixed in a way where it has become this new feeling unto itself. It’s a feeling which has no name, at least not one I can express.

As I got dressed for work the other day, I put on a favorite sweater I have: short sleeved, asymmetrical neck, grey and tan color-blocked coming down to about a tunic length. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror looking at myself and realized how ridiculous I looked. 6:15am and I’m already defeated for that day. I took it off and put on what has become my usual garb: a solid color knit top. I looked again and felt only somewhat less foolish this time. Sure, I know we all have bad days, but every day is becoming a bad day for me.

The noise just feels like it’s getting louder and louder.

Compounding this is the fact that my parents have decided the they no longer need me or my family – their granddaughters – in their life. I won’t go into the details because to be honest it’s all crap, but back in May I was told some pretty nasty stuff on the phone by them. They had nothing good to say about my daughters – nothing much to say about my wife – and some choice comments about me as a person. I was gobsmacked by it all and left feeling confused and hurt. Since then, I have run this through my head almost every day, trying to rationalize it. I know that there’s nothing I or my kids have ‘done’ to deserve this, but that does little to change the emotional impact. Rational or not, I am left trying to figure out at what point I became such a disappointment to them.

About maybe twelve years ago, when I was working thought this trans stuff (as if I’m not *still* doing that,) I went and spoke to them about my ‘gender issues’. They said that they had always known, and when I asked why they hadn’t ‘done’ something about it, they replied that they just figured I would work it out. At the time I thought that was kinda cool of them, but reframing has taken place and now I’m not so sure that their ‘progressive’ approach was all that. Because you see, in the time since that chat they have never once asked me “So how are you doing with all of this?” One would thing that they would realize how difficult it was for me to come and talk about this and that they would want to know how I was doing.

One would think…

I think I became a disappointment the day they realized I was not the ‘boy’ I was supposed to be. I think they chose to ignore it hoping I would ‘grow out of it’ at some point. I think from the day I spoke to them, I have never been anything but a disappointment. They used my daughters as a shield behind which to hide – as an excuse for further distancing themselves from my family and me. Like I said, I have reframed things, but to me, this was all an excuse to be ‘done’ with me. They could now focus on my brother and sister and not have to worry about the tranny-freak son of theirs.

My brother called to wish me a happy Thanksgiving.  He’s not bought into the bullshit and wishes there was some way to remediate this.  I asked him if he was going to Mom and Dad’s and he said he was.  I paused for a moment: Mom, Dad, my brother and his wife and daughter, and my sister and her current ‘guy’ (a whole other story) – all of them together for the day… It hurt to know that my ‘family’ was getting together for what is *the* family holiday – and that I was not welcome.  I told him to have a great day and we would get together some time around Christmas.

I could go on but I won’t. I thought that I had a good relationship with my parents, but it seems to have been mostly a front on their part. I have succeeded in turning this from ‘my parents are being petty assholes’ into this being some failure on my part to *be* the person they wanted.  Maybe I’m right – maybe not.  It’s not really important which reason is right: they have said and done what they have and I don’t know that it can be undone.  To be told however indirectly, “We don’t love you” and to know it’s likely been the case for a long time… I don’t know how to express how that feels.

And so every morning now, I look in the mirror at this ‘person’.  I don’t like them / me.  I don’t like who they were or who they are.  The things that used to make me feel better now seem to make me feel worse.  I’m just in a bad place – like being in a pit where the top is just out of reach.  The frustrations of my job and my family have only served to amplify the gender dissonance I have.  I feel like there is nowhere for me to go to find some peace.

I’m angry, sad, hurt, frustrated, confused, tired…  I feel like I could go on with the list and *still* not convey it adequately.

I feel like I just want to disappear…

Objects in the Rear View Mirror…

“Objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer then they are.” A great Jim Steinman / Meatloaf song full of over-the-top angst wherein the singer reflects on moments of his younger days. We all have memories we tuck away and all but forget about – but now and then something stirs them and it can feel like only yesterday when they bubble up to the surface of our consciousness.

‘Out of the blue’ as they say, I was contacted by a high school classmate – one of the few with whom I got along. He has put a group together on Facebook for our class and was inviting me to join. He also mentioned as this is our Thirty Year anniversary there would be a class reunion and he hopes I would attend…

A reunion …

… and things start bubbling up …

I went to a private ‘college prep’ school my last three years of high school. It was a good school and my parents sent me there ostensibly for a ‘better opportunity’ than public school: I cannot fault them for that. It was the kind of school where my entire class was only maybe sixty kids give or take. The kind of school where many (or most) of the class had all attended there since they were little: they grew up together, hung out together. It was a rather cliquish group from well-to-do upper middle class (or better) families: an economic strata to which I didn’t really belong.

… :: bubble :: …

I got on well enough with some in my class, but for most I might as well have not even been there. There are kids with whom I never exchanged a single word in the three years I was there and I’m pretty sure that I had a class with everyone at some point. With few exceptions, no one was actually mean to me – it was more like I just wasn’t there. It wasn’t really a new feeling as I have felt like I was on the outside looking in for a while. My secret cross-dressing and confusion as to what drove me to do what I did served to make me feel quite alone in the world – at that time on my life, I didn’t know that there were other people ‘like me’.

… :: bubble :: …

My senior year was especially hard. I liked a girl in my class and worked up the nerve to ask her out: she said no. Told me I was sweet and such but she wasn’t interested. I suppose deep down I knew that would be her answer, but it didn’t matter – I was still devastated. It only added to the brew of darker thoughts I had been having and I took to ‘joking’ with a girl friend of mine about how I might best kill myself.  She was less than amused but did listen to my whinging and did her best to help.  She succeeded in that respect and I did manage to put my failed (and embarrassing) attempt at romance out of my mind.

… :: bubble :: …

There is one incident that still stings like it was yesterday – one of those things that is almost too clear for how long ago it happened. It was by the book lockers and I had just put some things away and was about to head off to class. One of the girls in my class – one with whom I never really spoke much – walked up to me with a bit of a smile. I said ‘Hi’ and she asked without hesitation “So what are you, about a B cup?” I just stood there, embarrassed and humiliated as she patted my chest and walked away with the same smile. I wonder if she remembers this the same as I do… I find it amusing that she has friended on Facebook. I’m guessing she has since forgotten the incident. I wish I could as well.

… :: bubble :: …

To be fair, it wasn’t all bad.  I had some good friends and I did have good times in high school.  I realize that I view the past through a rather darkly tinted lens.

… :: bubble bubble bubble :: …

Do I want to see these people again? Do they want to see me? The didn’t care thirty years ago, why would they care now? As I finished the email I got to relive all of that ‘stuff’ I had buried away long ago. But in doing so, I found that time has managed to mellow my feelings a bit. It was a long time ago now and none of us are the people we were back then. I accepted the invite to the class group and told him that if I can muster the courage, I’ll likely attend the reunion.

As I look in the mirror, the images begin to fade and once again return the box in the dusty corner where I keep them.

Now to find some nails to secure that lid. 😉

Undoing Gender Stereotyping

Please click and read : One teachers approach to preventing gender bullying in a classroom

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.

Wanting what I have

My wife and I don’t talk. Not that we’re silent around one another, but we don’t talk about important things – things which when left unsaid only serve to widen the gap between us. We don’t talk about sex – who’s satisfied, who’s not. We don’t talk about my transness – at least not seriously. I consciously withold on this for fear of upsetting her – for fear of losing her. Every day, in the back of my mind, is the thought that today might be the day when she tells me she’s had enough of this and that it’s over.

I live with this all the time. It’s a fucked up way to live.

She doesn’t realize just how f’ing hard it is sometimes to make all this work – to keep all the balls moving without letting them drop. Some days it’s effortless, while other days it takes all I can muster to make it happen. I can’t tell her this though, because if I do, then I’m having a ‘crisis’ – and the world is somehow falling apart and I’m running off to ‘be a woman’. She get’s that it’s difficult, but really doesn’t understand just how difficult.

And I’ve had little interest in sex. Sure, I like it – but feeling that I need it? It’s not that I’m ‘turned off’ by her or anything like that – I’m just not interested. Maybe I’m just used to not having sex… My therapist says it’s not all that uncommon.

And so on these points and others, I say nothing. I keep it all inside, save for sharing with my therapist and my GF on the train. But the one who needs to know this… I cannot tell – for fear of upsetting the delicate balance I think I’m maintaining.

It’s not working. Balls are dropping and I don’t even realize it.

And so I sit and think and long for something I cannot have. I torture myself over it and keep doing it because that’s what I do instead of talking with my wife – because it’s easier to hurt myself than it is to hurt her.

And she says to me, “Why don’t you talk to me? You don’t tell me anything.” Of course, to explain the reason for not talking is to have the very conversations I don’t want to have with her. Finally, I give in – a little.

We talk about sex – for like the first time in 20 years. We talk about about my fears of making her upset – of her leaving. We talk about how this is a difficult thing and I need to be able to say to her, “This is hard for me today.” and for her to not assume the worst. We talk about how she is always ‘waiting for the other bomb to drop’ with me – how she too lives with fears regarding this.

We start talking about a bunch of things – things about which we should have been talking all along. And for the first time in a long time, the gap between us seems that much smaller.

And I start to push my forbidden longings back into their hiding places.

My ‘gendered feelings’ are what they are. I can dismantle them and explain the parts in a non-gendered way, but when all pieces are combined, ‘gender-free’ just doesn’t work on them. But at the core of these feelings is a sense of intimacy I don’t think I’ve felt for a very long time: so long that I’m not even sure what it is any more. Maybe I never knew what it was at all? I don’t know…

But what I do know is that my wife and I love each other and want to be with each other. And perhaps instead of wanting what I cannot have, I ought to focus on wanting what I do have. Maybe the two are not that all that far apart from one another after all…

Of course, this means I have to keep talking – as does she. We’re not good at that yet, but we are talking – and that’s a start.

Miss White Pickett Fence

This is from about a year ago, posted to the mHB boards. I have recently been thinking about this and thought it relevant to share.

What attracts a trans person to Miss White Pickett Fence? Someone who is so obviously rooted in gender roles and “how life should be” and how in the WORLD do you expect her to grow to the point where she’ll accept trans in the bedroom, in the wider world or full time living?

She is the holy grail for the male bodied transperson.

“Miss White Pickett Fence” represents to us everything we are not and want to be: secure in her sense of self, well functioning in the world at large – in a word: Normal.

Yes, there’s that F’ing word again. It is the one thing we have most wanted in our lives – to be normal – like everyone else. We see “Miss White Pickett Fence” and think to ourselves, “That’s what I need, a normal relationship. If I could have that, than all the damn chattering in my head would go away.” We look at the relationship as what is missing in our lives – as the reason for why we are as we are. If we could have that, the world would be set right again.

And it works – for a while. We ride the high of being ‘normal’ – like everyone else. But soon the ride slows, the high fades and the chattering returns. We come to the realization that while it might have been what we wanted – it wasn’t what we needed.

And we look over at our beautiful, but painfully cisgendered partners and say to ourselves, “What was I thinking? Was I even thinking at all?”

So, who’s that ‘guy’ over there?

Nothing triggers dysphoric anxiety quite like the idea of having do the suit and tie thing for some ‘formal’ event…

Grief, Loss and Change

I think that as transpeople, we often fail to recognize or acknowledge how our change – coming out, transition, whatever – effects those closest in our lives. We downplay the idea that the others in our life feel a real sense of loss – profound loss – and that there is grief associated with that loss. We take the anger and sorrow and hurt expressed by others and turn it into something against us. But sometimes, it isn’t about us. It isn’t about blaming ourselves, what we did or didn’t do, or about ‘asking permission’ to be. Sometimes, it truly is about the others in our lives working things out for themselves.

Respect?

Coming out as trans practically guarantees one a loss of status as a viable person and therefore a loss of respect as a person. We become something ‘unreal’ or ‘impossible’ – we have every aspect of our being called into question – we become ‘incompetent’, no longer able to do tasks or make decisions we always have in the past. We now have to continually prove our worthiness to be called ‘human’ – and even when, in fact, we do manage to make our case, our status as such is called into question and respect still denied.