(I wrote the following piece for HDS's Queer Spirituality Zine last fall during National Coming Out Week)
It was the mirror that I faced, accountable to the child before me. he looked at me with pleading eyes and I knew right then that before his pain there was my own. For I was he. Would he be I? And I realized that only I could answer his question.
I wonder what happened to my lost Y. Was there a typing error? An alphabet soup scramble? I mean they’re so close X&Y. I waited, breath held. Stood in front of a mirror at five years old, hair pulled back behind my head with one hand, imagining how I’d look as a boy. Once when I sneaked a peek into my older brother’s health class book I read about kids who were both male and female. Maybe I’m one of them. Maybe God made a mistake. There were miracles in the Bible. So while my friends were praying for ponies or a trip to
When my twin and I would play pretend I was always a boy; I had a name and a personality which was somewhat different then “Jeanie” and in many ways was more authentic. Whenever my parents would enter the room there was an unspoken rule to snap back to “reality.” Playtime always ended too soon. In a way childhood afforded me the space to live in two genders and I hoped that when the hormones hit my body would reflect my “imagined” boyhood. But all that happened was disappointment, pain and confusion. I still remember the feeling of doom that came with my first period. I couldn’t avoid it now. My body wasn’t my own. Or at least it wasn’t becoming what I felt internally. Everyone at school was celebrating adolescence with bras and clothes and I just wanted to turn back the clock. At 14 I decided that some miracles could never happen, and I was meant to learn how to be female.
So I became invisible. I wore my brother’s hand me downs, long hair and became the quiet sweet kid in the back of the classroom. I wrote music and gave my favorite English teacher roses after I graduated. All I wanted was Shelbie Koch to notice me. To be able to wear cargo pants and go shirtless in the Summer. To sport a five o’clock shadow when I couldn’t get around to shaving in the morning. The worst were the school dances. Being shoved into a dress with makeup and the two hours it took to make my thick dark hair behave, I felt like I was in drag. One of my good friends made the wise observation, “Wow, you look…really uncomfortable.” Walking in high heels was awkward and all I wanted to do was hide in the bathroom. My mother was hoping that a few outings in dresses and some compliments would straighten her “tomboy” out.
But the opposite effect was produced; I came out as gay. I still remember the mourning in my mother’s voice as we sat in our rusty Oldsmobile wagon and her seemingly random question, “So do you want a sex change?” Quickly assuring her and myself that I was comfortable in my body I shoved that suggestion into the far reaches of my mind.
A year later I left my conservative Christian high school and entered the collegiate queer community. Quickly I began identifying as “woman oriented” because although I did not completely admit it I never really felt like a woman. I mean I loved the Indigo Girls, became vegetarian and cut off my hair….but cutting my hair wasn’t enough. It was the tip of the gender trouble iceberg. Folks were reading me as a butch lesbian when really that couldn’t have been further from the truth. The women I was with would get frustrated at my lack of aggressiveness and tough attitude. I tried to become something I wasn’t again because I felt guilty for wanting to change genders. As if I was betraying the very people who opened their arms to me. Am I misogynist for feeling like a guy? Why can’t I just learn how to be a butch lesbian? Do I have to give up being queer if I become a woman oriented transman? I’ve been called “fag” more times then I can count, but I have yet to be called “dyke”. I think the people who yelled those hateful remarks were more clued in about my gender identity then I admitted.
I still remember the transgender 101 speaker who came to my undergrad’s campus two years ago. Hearing him talk about the diversity within gender identity and expression struck a chord in me. And then came the part about transitioning and my heart started pounding: testosterone, top and bottom surgery, could this really be possible? I left early to attend my campus ministry meeting with questions I hadn’t allowed myself to ask surfacing in my mind.
Then came the Vagina Monologues. I watched the bravery of a classmate as he shared his past struggle, pain, and future hope. He became a friend and unknowingly blessed me on the final leg of my coming out journey. Amidst a community of gender violence fighters I realized that it was time to stop doing violence to myself. And now that I am 3,099 miles from Berkeley, California I find myself taking the next step along the path of reconciling outside with inside, past with present. Today I am coming out as a transgender man.
It is often said that coming out is a political act, but to me it is more then just that; it is a spiritual one. It is a way of reclaiming what has been lost or hidden and proclaiming what should be celebrated and affirmed instead of shunned. It is an act of vulnerability, of trust, of faith. It is an acknowledgment of the work ahead, process of becoming, excitement, patience and perseverance. It is a sharing, a rebirth, a step in finding my lost Y.
