What to Expect When You're Suspecting

I have always felt desperate to not be left out; my urgent desire to be a member of a group doing something secret and exciting often spurred my adventures as a kid. That held true even when what I was doing was not a secret nor particularly exciting, when exclusiveness was the option offered. When my best friend and I got chosen in the 6th grade to work on a special project in my elementary school, I was elated at the prospect. It unfortunately meant skipping classes (which we enjoyed...because we were nerds), but we were entering the inner sanctum of knowledge at our large Catholic school: the book room. The book room housed all of the school's text books and workbooks, located in the same building that housed the principal, administrative offices, the first graders and the kindergarteners. It desperately needed organizing, and when our teachers were asked for recommendations for hard working, smart kids to tackle the task, he and I got selected. I was elated to hear our names called over the intercom when the school secretary summoned the two of us after recess. We left class to the confused looks of our peers, school bags on our shoulders, and walked along the breezeway that oversaw the vast parking lot and playground, which was vacant save one P.E. class running laps around the lengthy field. We were positively giddy, and struggled to walk slowly, with the strict and solemn dignity befitting impending 7th graders. I can't even tell you who it was that walked us into the room and explained the job, because I was blinded by the awesome.

I remember tiny kindergarteners walking by in a line as we stood outside of the door, looking up at us with urgency and admiration. Or maybe they had to use the bathroom. I remember that the room was locked, and required a key to open...this was just too wonderful to be true. It had no windows, no other doors, and the smell of the books only added to the wave of frenzied seduction that I had only ever felt on Christmas morning. Before us, as the florescent lights flickered on, were stacks and shelves of books emanating a sweet, warm aroma that mixed pleasantly with the vague food smell that was ever-present in the cafeteria on the other side of the wall. As the faceless authority figure left us, she closed the door and we stood there for a moment. The pale blue painted cinderblock wall was barely visible for the teetering skyscrapers of science and literacy. My best friend claimed all math books in virtually the same breath that I claimed the English books, and we dove into our claimed sections. It didn't take us long to discover that these books were somewhat familiar...we had used some in past grades, re-discovering old favorites and even our own younger, sloppier, handwritten names scrawled on the inside covers. We re-read short stories and remarked on how little we knew in the earlier grades, largely shunning the books that we would be using in the future. A sense of accomplishment washed over us, feeling that we were no longer the clueless larvae that read these simplistic works, A child experiencing nostalgia is a mixture of premature wisdom and naive arrogance. As such, we neglected to realize the chrysalis that we were weaving as burgeoning pre-teens; that we were just a different stage of ignorant.

The job ended up taking four afternoons, and not for lack of focus. While we occasionally fell enamored with a particular work, we quickly came to our senses and went about the business of being diligent workers so as to merit the trust of authority. More projects came, and each time, the mixture of inclusion and exclusion was a cocktail unlike any I would ever experience. My constant need for approval compelled me to accept any and all honorific duties offered me; nothing was too hard or menial. Choir, debate, library cleaning, prop creation, plays, team sports, working the ice cream machine during lunch, teaching CCD, lunch at the convent, peer ministry, babysitting, window painting. Everyone wants to be accepted. I took it to extremes...I needed to be acknowledged and well thought of, and when I failed to achieve those goals, I tried harder amidst crushing heartbreak. Nothing ever filled me up, not merit points, kind words or new assignments; I had something to prove and god damn it, I would keep pumping quarters into that slot machine until it hit, because the rush of trying was enough to make the possibility seem tangible. I bent until I broke, placing the satiating of that hunger above all other pursuits and punishing myself for any perceived selfishness. Any criticism or critique shattered my self esteem, and grades became the harshest thing I could handle; imagine my surprise when I finished school and the critique of my person didn't stop. I don't know the exact moment that I broke, but I hadn't realized that it had happened until I began coughing up the shards in 2014.

I still want to be well thought of; it's a deep part of my make up. I fear anything that might make people think less of me, be it my snoring, the way I chew my food, or not fitting into a comfortable category. But it's morphing into something else, into new discoveries about myself and boundaries that have to exist. I feel like every few weeks, I am straining against the confines of the story I had told myself about who I am and what I'm comfortable with. As it turns out, self discovery banishes comfort to the balcony like a smoker at a party, to ruminate and reflect on its choices. I have long favored comfort-seeking over facing the reality of who I am and what I need.

"Transgender" is not a comfortable word for me. Not anymore.

I have used it, fluently, for about nine years. That was about the time I got involved with the queer community in New Orleans, and more specifically when I met the drag kings in my life. I threw myself into that world, pursuing the same fulfillment I have always chased. The opportunity to portray a masculine character in a largely queer female space attracts all kinds of gender queer and cisgendered folks.  In my view, the troupe is an identity lab, where folks come and explore a side of themselves they don't often get the chance to experiment with. As a result, I have witnessed lives changing in many ways. Young, aimless kids become salon stylists, nurses, small business owners. Drinking and drug use wax and wane until it gives way to partners, ambition, and higher expectations. I've also watched people crack under the pressure of being a Z-list celebrity, placing themselves under a microscope when they have no firm sense of themselves to cling to. Pathological liars become combustible, thieves become pariahs, and the overly-ambitious come undone. When you strip away the artifice of PacSun, Hot Topic and spirit gum, what you are at the bottom of everything dictates what you grow into. Hard workers are hard workers still, but work smarter for the strain. If you were a con artist, you probably still are, but take more or less pride in it. If you were friendly and generous along your journey, you're likely still that way but far more thrifty with your friendship. Many things change, but not the original material of your character that you were born to sculpt with. If you were hiding from yourself from the start, discovery flanks you slowly, astride self doubt. Make no mistake, it will run you down in the end.

Among the many paths and choices I have witnessed, I've also watched people declare for the transgender draft, and attended numerous T Parties to wish them well as they departed for that war. "Transgender" was a unique, formidable, respect-driven word in my mouth when I was first introduced to it. I viewed these individuals with an air of wonderment, as I would a person whom travelled the world with $20 in her pocket. I was supportive of those I ran across, with a sense of uncertainty about what it was they were going through, and what it said about me that I was not. I offered support and brotherhood...from behind my D cup breasts and shaven legs. I became aware when they stopped shaving their bodies, and wondered, fleetingly, how they dared to do it. I swallowed my inexplicable anxiety when they announced that they had contacted a surgeon for top surgery, not daring to show how left behind I felt. I was the scarcely-walked dog perched on a dusty couch, peering through a dirty window, watching a stray living the dream. I eventually came to the conclusion that I only felt envy because of this thirst to be included. That was my assertion, for a moment, because I felt so broken and desperate to be involved that I would put nothing past myself. Eventually, though, I started to think it was because top surgery would make drag easier, and my dress shirts fit better. (Not necessarily in that order.)

I know things now that I didn't before, but rather than reflect on what a fool I was for the earlier denial and ignorance, I look to how much more I have to discover. I also consider questions of identity and acceptance every day, and chief amongst them is how legitimate the word "transgender" is when I try to relate to it. It's awkward and clumsy, a shoe in an unfamiliar style that I am not sure will fit no matter how I tie it. This may end up being yet another party I am not comfortable at, but I never much cared for formal parties. I will try to make the changes that matter, to seek that deep internal comfort I never attempted, and pay less attention to the label. No one is going to eat me; I don't need a label describing exactly who I am. Perhaps all the inclusion I truly need is on a porch with a beer and those other people who realize the chrysalis we have all woven.

"I said 'There are two types of men in this world, and you're neither of them.'"

As a young primate, I took cues about my development as a human being from my peers and popular culture. I watched My So-Called Life, and developed an affinity for dying my hair red and wearing flannel. I listened to my friends gabble on about boyfriends and school and drugs, an endless cycle that repeated itself via handwritten notes passed between and in classes. (These have been replaced by texts, in which teens now try to reveal their souls to one another in 160 characters or less. Yes, I'm judging.) I heard the rebellious music of my generation on pop radio stations, sandwiched between commercials for jewelry stores and weight loss drugs. Every so often, a story about someone leaving home and adventuring in a far off place would surface, and the person would claim to be "finding themselves". I found the proposition of finding one's self absurd, even offensive. Find yourself? Your actual self? Life is not an Easter egg hunt, with your rightful sense of person concealed in purple plastic, hidden just in that bush around the corner.

I also found the phrase "time heals all wounds" equally maddening, as well as its illegitimate cousin, once removed, "it will feel better with time." The "wounds" and the "it" being something fairly devastating, like the death of a young child in my family. To look at someone who feels as though their heart has been ripped out, and say it will take time to feel better, is essentially the same thing as looking at a person who owns nothing but an oven and saying "bread will happen." You know what time gives you? Nothing. You have to keep going, and find your way through the brambles of the wilderness that is your life. No one else has lived it, you are the first one...you thought the path would be cleared for you? Grab a machete, rookie. Survival situations tell you who you really are, whether you eat the priest or the nurse first when you run out of coconuts on the island.

There are stories we tell ourselves, about ourselves, as we travel through our lives and try to learn who we really are. I have spent the past 35 years telling myself a story about this straight lesbian queer woman gender queer trans? person.

I first knew something was amiss in kindergarten. I learned the word "gay" at 10, at some other kid's expense when I was listening to my friends talk about him on the playground at school. I learned it meant me when I asked what "gay" meant. (I was devastated, until I convinced myself a few sleepless nights later that I was being imaginative and lying to myself to make myself more interesting. To myself. Just to myself, because I had ZERO intention of sharing this knowledge.  I realize now that this made no sense.) After six years of denial, shame, and confusion, I settled on "lesbian" as an identity after a lot of time spent in (useful) amateur counseling in an AOL chatroom called "Ask A Lesbian". I read the conversations for a while, and began asking a question after 3-4 days of just watching. I was racked with anxiety and uncertainty, which I thought I was hiding fairly well via black and white text. However, a profound bit of advice came from one of those women, when she whispered to me in a private message "Heterosexual people don't ask themselves that question THIS hard." She said it, because I needed to hear it. I needed someone, who was not assaulting me, to say "You are gay." I needed permission. It took my breath away. I laughed. I cried. I heaved. Twice.

I came out when I was 17, and I felt more free than I had felt since before I had grown breasts and lost the boyish frame of my youth. I didn't tell anyone how the relief of coming out began to mildew as time went by, because it did not feel like the entire truth. I internalized that confusion, telling myself that I was just feeling conflicted to make myself more interesting...to myself, because there was no way I was going to make myself more of a freak by telling other people. (Shut up.) I thought my brain was fucking with me, that I was just kind of broken that way, and this confusing feeling was part of the process of my brain being a pathological liar. Like my mind was telling me, "Hey, you know you're gay, right? Okay, maybe not. Wait, no, definitely gay. Tell everyone you're gay. HAHAHA, just kidding. You're something else and you just made ALL of these people believe you're gay. What are you, really? Um, we don't know, but gay isn't the whole story. Have fun with your lie, you lying liar."

Now if you would, please direct your attention to the first sentence of the previous paragraph. For my lazy folks:


"I came out when I was 17, and I felt more free than I had felt since before I had grown breasts and lost the boyish frame of my youth." When I say that I grieved over these two things on my chest, I more mean I lost myself in a kind of identity crisis. Up until that point, I thought every girl wanted to be a boy in some capacity; I sure did. But as my friends went through the same physical changes, they embraced them. THEY WERE ENJOYING THIS? Now I was really confused, and growing more concerned by the day that I would not be able to play the part of female. (Um, what?) To the more self-aware individual, this recognition would have set off some kind of alarm, but this was my normal. My body had stopped being home when I was about 7 and realized that I dreaded hand me-downs from my two older sisters. I was having to look in the "boys" section for clothes I liked. This wasn't just preference...it felt like a violation every single day that I had to wear that girl's school uniform that included a plaid skirt. I just had no language for it. I still struggle with the language, after years of exposure to the LGBTQ community and months of therapy. If confusion were a flashlight, I keep shining a flickering beam onto the same deeply rooted, pale and sickly question in my gut...am I transgendered? I have asked it for years, in the most silent, private, desperately sad ways possible.

Cisgendered people do not ask that question this hard. But I am filled with hesitation. Even now, I feel like admittng that I am transgendered is just a way for me to make myself more interesting. To myself. I never wanted to tell anyone. I still don't. I never wanted this, and I would change it if I could. But at this point, it is hurting me, and I need to stop hiding from it before I hurt myself in irreparable ways. I have many questions, but only one matters: what will I do with my one wild and precious life?