I hate drama and feeling happy/in pain at the same time. The worst part is watching everyone else involved feeling the same way. Or even worse, not knowing what is going on.
This weekend was amazing on so many fronts. I'm exhausted and have to give a presentation tomorrow. The shot was easy, I really don't feel any changes, although my voice cracked twice today...but it has been doing that sporadically since adolescence. (Ah the thrills of having a low female voice) 50 milligrams is such a tiny dose.
It was good to talk with my brother this week (via AIM), I'm glad he called when he read the name change on my facebook profile. I feel like the best way to negotiate this situation is setting healthy boundaries with my siblings and then with my parents. My Dad emailed me with to wish me a happy Easter and fill me in on some of the things he's doing. That made my day. I also called home and got the message machine to wish the fam. happy Easter. I kinda miss LAUMC's sunrise service and the Easter brunch tradition. But I had a wonderful time with Keith and Marcel today...and Toby and Eleanor tonight.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Pooped but Pumped
The HDS Service trip was beyond comprehension. I really feel like I've come home. I can't imagine a better Spring Break. My room is eerily silent.
This Friday I start T.
Shake and Bake. Whack and Rake.
This Friday I start T.
Shake and Bake. Whack and Rake.
Monday, March 19, 2007
T Update (not the hot drink type)
Friday is a big day for me T wise...I'm not starting but I will find out whether I can start on Good Friday like I've discussed with my therapist. I've been green lighted by her, and she doesn't see any reason why my primary won't do the same. We shall see.
In other news my non-bio Mom from Berk visited me this weekend, which rocked over Boston, Chicago, Heinz it's America's favorite ketchup. (If you know either of us you'll know the great musician I'm referencing) My former roommie said I need to rent the documentary on the Lost Boys of Sudan. It's on the list!
I leave for Louisiana this Saturday on the Div School's Service trip and looking forward to it. Just hope there aren't any airport issues with me not looking like my ID. It'll be warm while we're there, and interesting to see how the aftermath of Katrina/the failed Levees still affects folks down there.
Need to call the folks back home and get a haircut. Wish I could somehow see Cait and Aimers over Spring Break, oh well there's only so much a tranny boy can do...
In other news my non-bio Mom from Berk visited me this weekend, which rocked over Boston, Chicago, Heinz it's America's favorite ketchup. (If you know either of us you'll know the great musician I'm referencing) My former roommie said I need to rent the documentary on the Lost Boys of Sudan. It's on the list!
I leave for Louisiana this Saturday on the Div School's Service trip and looking forward to it. Just hope there aren't any airport issues with me not looking like my ID. It'll be warm while we're there, and interesting to see how the aftermath of Katrina/the failed Levees still affects folks down there.
Need to call the folks back home and get a haircut. Wish I could somehow see Cait and Aimers over Spring Break, oh well there's only so much a tranny boy can do...
Friday, February 23, 2007
Coming out as an act of faith: or finding my lost Y
(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.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Mi Nombre
That name
In your voice suddenly recalls
hot tears, warmth, strength, touch, sadness, laughter and yes even the alluded magic I had
purposefully forgotten.
And the time between who I was, who I am, who I will be – merges.
For the gap of an hour and twenty-three minutes.
And I wonder what happened…
His-story: I was born. I and my mirror image. We danced and I put him away. The rainbows dazzled my eyes and I thought he’d stay away for good. But everytime I should have felt rainbows there he was instead. And when I looked in the mirror I kept waiting for him to reappear. So now he has reared his head again, and it’s ugly to remember that you’ve never met him. But you’ve known him all along. I knew somewhere you’d come into the story.
Her-story: I was born. I and my mirror image. We danced and she put me away. I watched the colors entice her and felt her rejection. But I knew that the unintentional invitation would always come. She’d unlock the door; being surprised and relived to find me. Standing, waiting, knowing. Too many tears. Knowing the I was really i was Thou. And the fact that you knew me without any name made it that much easier, that much more difficult.
We talk. Or rather I talk. And –ie tells me to shut up. I see the other side of the mirror, and learn how much I’ve forgotten myself. I wanted adolescence so badly I forgot adulthood. And when we talk I remember why I wanted adulthood. You have always been dealt a lower hand then you deserve. But I cannot tell you that now. I did, I would have once but I lost part of you then, and I don’t want to loose the rest of you now.
I am proud of you. I knew then that I’d be proud of you regardless. But that’s not an empty pride. It’s the pride of knowing, seeing, believing, loving. I feel like a mother (an odd thing to say from me). The older sibling I never was. I hurt that you accept your cards so often, when they aren’t worth your time. But that’s also why I love you, because you see in totality and love in totality. You always did that. (You even did that to me!) And I know it’s useless to tell you otherwise. Besides who am I to speak? It’s never easy to be dealt a new hand.
We are not so different you and I. We love differently perhaps, but not fundamentally. We hurt, run in opposite circles as we’re told. But when I hear you and when I speak I know it’s all a myth. But you’ve known that all along; that’s why you were the first to speak.
I hear the change in your voice, and your eyes are different too. They’re older, experienced direct with less naïveté. Well naïveté isn’t the right word. You’ve never been naïve. On the contrary, you’ve grown up faster then most people I know. In that way you always reminded me of sister. Perhaps it has something to do with being the oldest. I like the change. Expected it to be there, would have been disappointed frankly if it wasn’t there. And if you ask my family, I’ve never been big on change. It means you’ll surprise me, as you always have. And I love to be surprised by you.
I didn’t tell you about my lost Y. I stalled like when I wanted to tell you about rainbows. Am I ashamed? When I’m with you I remember how close we both were to our mothers. And when I return home it’s painful to see the gap between she and I. And I can’t bring myself to tell you about that. I feel like a failure, of –ie. Perhaps that’s all that Jean is; leaving out the best parts of a former self. A childish reinvention of a beloved woman, my mother’s mother.
But these things you do not need to know, so I do not tell you them now. But I instead I talk too much, about past loves and hurts women with whom I danced ungracefully. Trying post-high school divas everyone knew was wrong for me. The Dianas who love, but love the mirror more. And in the process I began to love the mirror too. You say you’re in and out with a man who love’s the mirror, and I wonder if that’s the way of things. We think that it’s all we’ll ever see and so learn to love what’s in front of us even while we know it hurts, and then it becomes familiar. Therein the danger lies.
I remember who I was and in that space who I wanted to become. And when I’m with you I still want to become that being. With the others it’s always been a Hollywood image of “perfection.” But all you want is a friend. A good, funny, kind, understanding, honest, loyal friend. No political, religious or social agenda. Just a friend. You turn off the floodlights, remove the make up, take away the script and remind me it’s not a performance. I’m not the author. I’m just Jean(ie).
In your voice suddenly recalls
hot tears, warmth, strength, touch, sadness, laughter and yes even the alluded magic I had
purposefully forgotten.
And the time between who I was, who I am, who I will be – merges.
For the gap of an hour and twenty-three minutes.
And I wonder what happened…
His-story: I was born. I and my mirror image. We danced and I put him away. The rainbows dazzled my eyes and I thought he’d stay away for good. But everytime I should have felt rainbows there he was instead. And when I looked in the mirror I kept waiting for him to reappear. So now he has reared his head again, and it’s ugly to remember that you’ve never met him. But you’ve known him all along. I knew somewhere you’d come into the story.
Her-story: I was born. I and my mirror image. We danced and she put me away. I watched the colors entice her and felt her rejection. But I knew that the unintentional invitation would always come. She’d unlock the door; being surprised and relived to find me. Standing, waiting, knowing. Too many tears. Knowing the I was really i was Thou. And the fact that you knew me without any name made it that much easier, that much more difficult.
We talk. Or rather I talk. And –ie tells me to shut up. I see the other side of the mirror, and learn how much I’ve forgotten myself. I wanted adolescence so badly I forgot adulthood. And when we talk I remember why I wanted adulthood. You have always been dealt a lower hand then you deserve. But I cannot tell you that now. I did, I would have once but I lost part of you then, and I don’t want to loose the rest of you now.
I am proud of you. I knew then that I’d be proud of you regardless. But that’s not an empty pride. It’s the pride of knowing, seeing, believing, loving. I feel like a mother (an odd thing to say from me). The older sibling I never was. I hurt that you accept your cards so often, when they aren’t worth your time. But that’s also why I love you, because you see in totality and love in totality. You always did that. (You even did that to me!) And I know it’s useless to tell you otherwise. Besides who am I to speak? It’s never easy to be dealt a new hand.
We are not so different you and I. We love differently perhaps, but not fundamentally. We hurt, run in opposite circles as we’re told. But when I hear you and when I speak I know it’s all a myth. But you’ve known that all along; that’s why you were the first to speak.
I hear the change in your voice, and your eyes are different too. They’re older, experienced direct with less naïveté. Well naïveté isn’t the right word. You’ve never been naïve. On the contrary, you’ve grown up faster then most people I know. In that way you always reminded me of sister. Perhaps it has something to do with being the oldest. I like the change. Expected it to be there, would have been disappointed frankly if it wasn’t there. And if you ask my family, I’ve never been big on change. It means you’ll surprise me, as you always have. And I love to be surprised by you.
I didn’t tell you about my lost Y. I stalled like when I wanted to tell you about rainbows. Am I ashamed? When I’m with you I remember how close we both were to our mothers. And when I return home it’s painful to see the gap between she and I. And I can’t bring myself to tell you about that. I feel like a failure, of –ie. Perhaps that’s all that Jean is; leaving out the best parts of a former self. A childish reinvention of a beloved woman, my mother’s mother.
But these things you do not need to know, so I do not tell you them now. But I instead I talk too much, about past loves and hurts women with whom I danced ungracefully. Trying post-high school divas everyone knew was wrong for me. The Dianas who love, but love the mirror more. And in the process I began to love the mirror too. You say you’re in and out with a man who love’s the mirror, and I wonder if that’s the way of things. We think that it’s all we’ll ever see and so learn to love what’s in front of us even while we know it hurts, and then it becomes familiar. Therein the danger lies.
I remember who I was and in that space who I wanted to become. And when I’m with you I still want to become that being. With the others it’s always been a Hollywood image of “perfection.” But all you want is a friend. A good, funny, kind, understanding, honest, loyal friend. No political, religious or social agenda. Just a friend. You turn off the floodlights, remove the make up, take away the script and remind me it’s not a performance. I’m not the author. I’m just Jean(ie).
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Reflections on a Childhood Book in Regards to this Week
"I'll love you forever, I'll like you for alwaysAs long as I'm living my baby you'll be..."
Really? I wonder if the mom in this story ever thought about her child being trans (or anything outside of their own expectations)...Why is it assumed that it's a good thing for mothers to always think of their children as babies? What happens once that baby voices somthing the mother never suspected...is the child any less deserving of her love and respect? Where is the other parent/partner in this story? Just about every girl in my 5th grade class memorized this book for Speech meet (I did some poem by Edgar A. Guest) and everyone seemed to agree that it was somehow emblematic of what the mother-child relationship should be...I always felt kind of unnerved by it.
And some of the correspondences I've had this week make me wonder about this more. I feel like I've been erased (or at least that my parents feel as though they have to erase some of the happy parts of my childhood in order to meet this new stranger into their family) even while I've been in the center of my parents' thoughts. I want to tell them that I'm still here with all of my past (the happiness, pain, laughter etc.). And I don't intend on leaving. But I know this isn't true to their experience. It's shown me how tough it is to hear your child say they are now identifying with a part of a community you know next to nothing about personally. I read what they've written and get the picture of drowing...being thrown in the midst of something without an anchor. A lot of what I've realized is that my parents don't really know me...they've latched onto the most visible characteristics that they delt with four years ago...or they know the Jean that plays into the familial roles that we all fall into even if we've outgrown them. The one time they've seen me consistently is in that role which is something I've spent less and less time in since leaving for college.
In high school my parents used to say I wasn't "myself" and since coming to college they say they've seen more of "me" then they have in a long time. It's tough to say but have they considered the fact that this is because I've recieved the chance to find out and express "myself" without having to pretend? The relm of pretend was always the most deeply personal (and taboo) in my childhood. I had my boyhood there. I loved girls there. My twin and I established our unspoken truths about who we loved and were in essence. I've realized that in so many ways my twin has been my secret keeper (well really the family's secret keeper) in a really unfair way. I wish she could be free of our family somehow...as harsh as that sounds. I've taken her love and listening ear for granted too many times, so I've made a pact to consciously listen to her more and draw conscious bondaries. I think bringing pretend into reality is hard for a lot of people especially if it's associated with otherness or something that might make loving you harder to do openly without rejection from people you love or society at large. Realizing that claiming my transness and deciding to transition involved a lot of painful soul searching...but I feel like the final pretend is out in the open and like a newly born being I'm blinded by the world around me...seeing the world anew. Not a lot of it is what I'd call "pretty." I'm guessing this is what it's like for my whole family.
In the most painful moments of these last bunch of months I've told myself that I should keep my transmale identity in the place of pretend. I see my life staying female. I've talked to other women who identify more as men then butch and never transitioned or idenify as trans...but later in the conversation they tell me they're proud of being butch. I've always felt inherently male and never butch. It's never been about sexual orientation. And there's times when I feel like I owe it to my parents. Maybe I can skip hormones and surgery...but then I'll still have to come out to every potential partner as trans. It's true that whoever I'm with will have to love me as a transman. But that it's self is a form of pretend. One that's been rapidly eating away at me...I feel so selfish about this half the time. Do I owe it to my parents to not transition? Or wait? Does "we want you to be yourself" have the connotation "as long as we think it won't hurt you"? Will coming out be a joyful experience one day? A rebirth, painful yet exciting...a place in which questions, unknowingness and fear is part of the equation; not so full of sadness for everyone involved.
I am looking forward to the holidays at home; but not in a naive sense.
Really? I wonder if the mom in this story ever thought about her child being trans (or anything outside of their own expectations)...Why is it assumed that it's a good thing for mothers to always think of their children as babies? What happens once that baby voices somthing the mother never suspected...is the child any less deserving of her love and respect? Where is the other parent/partner in this story? Just about every girl in my 5th grade class memorized this book for Speech meet (I did some poem by Edgar A. Guest) and everyone seemed to agree that it was somehow emblematic of what the mother-child relationship should be...I always felt kind of unnerved by it.
And some of the correspondences I've had this week make me wonder about this more. I feel like I've been erased (or at least that my parents feel as though they have to erase some of the happy parts of my childhood in order to meet this new stranger into their family) even while I've been in the center of my parents' thoughts. I want to tell them that I'm still here with all of my past (the happiness, pain, laughter etc.). And I don't intend on leaving. But I know this isn't true to their experience. It's shown me how tough it is to hear your child say they are now identifying with a part of a community you know next to nothing about personally. I read what they've written and get the picture of drowing...being thrown in the midst of something without an anchor. A lot of what I've realized is that my parents don't really know me...they've latched onto the most visible characteristics that they delt with four years ago...or they know the Jean that plays into the familial roles that we all fall into even if we've outgrown them. The one time they've seen me consistently is in that role which is something I've spent less and less time in since leaving for college.
In high school my parents used to say I wasn't "myself" and since coming to college they say they've seen more of "me" then they have in a long time. It's tough to say but have they considered the fact that this is because I've recieved the chance to find out and express "myself" without having to pretend? The relm of pretend was always the most deeply personal (and taboo) in my childhood. I had my boyhood there. I loved girls there. My twin and I established our unspoken truths about who we loved and were in essence. I've realized that in so many ways my twin has been my secret keeper (well really the family's secret keeper) in a really unfair way. I wish she could be free of our family somehow...as harsh as that sounds. I've taken her love and listening ear for granted too many times, so I've made a pact to consciously listen to her more and draw conscious bondaries. I think bringing pretend into reality is hard for a lot of people especially if it's associated with otherness or something that might make loving you harder to do openly without rejection from people you love or society at large. Realizing that claiming my transness and deciding to transition involved a lot of painful soul searching...but I feel like the final pretend is out in the open and like a newly born being I'm blinded by the world around me...seeing the world anew. Not a lot of it is what I'd call "pretty." I'm guessing this is what it's like for my whole family.
In the most painful moments of these last bunch of months I've told myself that I should keep my transmale identity in the place of pretend. I see my life staying female. I've talked to other women who identify more as men then butch and never transitioned or idenify as trans...but later in the conversation they tell me they're proud of being butch. I've always felt inherently male and never butch. It's never been about sexual orientation. And there's times when I feel like I owe it to my parents. Maybe I can skip hormones and surgery...but then I'll still have to come out to every potential partner as trans. It's true that whoever I'm with will have to love me as a transman. But that it's self is a form of pretend. One that's been rapidly eating away at me...I feel so selfish about this half the time. Do I owe it to my parents to not transition? Or wait? Does "we want you to be yourself" have the connotation "as long as we think it won't hurt you"? Will coming out be a joyful experience one day? A rebirth, painful yet exciting...a place in which questions, unknowingness and fear is part of the equation; not so full of sadness for everyone involved.
I am looking forward to the holidays at home; but not in a naive sense.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
For the Want of a Nail
I've been wrong
I had plans so big
But the devil's in the details
I left out one thing...
No one to love me,
and no one to love.
Loneliness is perhaps an eternal thing...especially when your identity is in transition...and mine is never out of it.
I had plans so big
But the devil's in the details
I left out one thing...
No one to love me,
and no one to love.
Loneliness is perhaps an eternal thing...especially when your identity is in transition...and mine is never out of it.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
In Beantown
So I finally made up my mind and now I'm in Brighton, MA crashing on a couch with two very awesome friends of Sam Kendall (family friend). My housing fell through and now I'm running between Cambridge and Beacon Hill looking for a studio or bedroom in a house close to Harvard/the Redline T.
Provincetown was basically Disneyland for queers. Tod and I talked about it afterwards (when he saved me from a rather tramatic day), and we both agreed that there is an element of non-reality to the folks we met there. I mean being GL (there was a severe lacking in the B and T department) was THE focus of Ptown and people didn't seem to have other lives outside of queerdom which was kind of unsettling. But I had a fabulous time chilling, talking and clubbing with James and Tod. I also got to meet Linda, James's former roommate who is now a lecturer at Harvard. She offered me a tutor job which is wonderful. She's going to add my name to the Women and Gender Studies grad student list....yay!
I am REALLY grateful for family friends right now...I hope that folks know that if they are ever in a similar bind I will not hesitate to take them in.
The decision to pass up on PSR was seriously one of the hardest I've had to make. With Berkeley I definetly got the queer, intellectual vibes that I was seeking when I visited. But Seminary/Div school-wise I only got them at PSR. Starting all over again is exciting and daunting but it's the first time that I really feel ready.
I'm looking for a therapist to begin the transition process (one of the many) because I feel like the whole Summer my life was on hold and I'm ready to start facing the wind. It's been driving me nuts waiting.
It looks like I'm going to be on Beacon Hill in a studio or a 4BR with three MIT grad students. Option 2 which is also highly likely is being in the dorm at EDS with a meal plan and a ton of queer seminarian women. I think both are great options.
Anyway that's the update as of now...loving Boston. People have a bit of a harder edge....but it's cool.
Provincetown was basically Disneyland for queers. Tod and I talked about it afterwards (when he saved me from a rather tramatic day), and we both agreed that there is an element of non-reality to the folks we met there. I mean being GL (there was a severe lacking in the B and T department) was THE focus of Ptown and people didn't seem to have other lives outside of queerdom which was kind of unsettling. But I had a fabulous time chilling, talking and clubbing with James and Tod. I also got to meet Linda, James's former roommate who is now a lecturer at Harvard. She offered me a tutor job which is wonderful. She's going to add my name to the Women and Gender Studies grad student list....yay!
I am REALLY grateful for family friends right now...I hope that folks know that if they are ever in a similar bind I will not hesitate to take them in.
The decision to pass up on PSR was seriously one of the hardest I've had to make. With Berkeley I definetly got the queer, intellectual vibes that I was seeking when I visited. But Seminary/Div school-wise I only got them at PSR. Starting all over again is exciting and daunting but it's the first time that I really feel ready.
I'm looking for a therapist to begin the transition process (one of the many) because I feel like the whole Summer my life was on hold and I'm ready to start facing the wind. It's been driving me nuts waiting.
It looks like I'm going to be on Beacon Hill in a studio or a 4BR with three MIT grad students. Option 2 which is also highly likely is being in the dorm at EDS with a meal plan and a ton of queer seminarian women. I think both are great options.
Anyway that's the update as of now...loving Boston. People have a bit of a harder edge....but it's cool.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
First thoughts
Next year will be interesting...New faces (older ones), New city, far from home. I wonder how anyone can transition without the support network of close friends, a significant other or family members. Building a new community while simultaneously grappling with how far I want to take gender identity issues will be interesting.
That is the advantage of going to PSR. Amy will be there and even though I know she's apprehensive about my eagerness to transition, I know she's got my back. The problem is I know my mom is going to have major issues and she'll be an hour away. I agree that it'd be safer to transition in New York rather then Boston, but HDS has all of the classes I need/want for Ph.D. work so that's the city I'm going to land in...if I go.
The other thing is the Bay Area has a very visible trans community, but I feel weird approaching it having been out as a woman oriented woman (a.k.a. lesbian) to my trans friends. (Actually I never really have been officially out as a lesbian, simply because I've never been comfortable with the term since I don't really identify as female, but no one's ever asked) And everyone knows me by the name I want to leave behind next year.
Finding housing in Somerville/Cambridge is a pain in the butt. Balancing everything on my gender identity confusion and vocation makes a clear decision (although I know it'll never really be clear) far harder. People ask me where I want to be in three years and I all I want to tell them is more like me. Heading where I need to go to be the person I am, encompassing all aspects of who I am; intellectually, emotionally, spiritually, physically want to have a stronger sense of independence by the end of three years. And I want to come out to my parents (for the second time) when I am at a place where I feel sure and ok with what I shall become.
Having spent time on the internet learning about counseling, hormone treatments, surgeries, activism and support groups...I'm excited about the future...and completely terrified. Will anyone really love me once my body starts to represent who I've always felt I am?
That is the advantage of going to PSR. Amy will be there and even though I know she's apprehensive about my eagerness to transition, I know she's got my back. The problem is I know my mom is going to have major issues and she'll be an hour away. I agree that it'd be safer to transition in New York rather then Boston, but HDS has all of the classes I need/want for Ph.D. work so that's the city I'm going to land in...if I go.
The other thing is the Bay Area has a very visible trans community, but I feel weird approaching it having been out as a woman oriented woman (a.k.a. lesbian) to my trans friends. (Actually I never really have been officially out as a lesbian, simply because I've never been comfortable with the term since I don't really identify as female, but no one's ever asked) And everyone knows me by the name I want to leave behind next year.
Finding housing in Somerville/Cambridge is a pain in the butt. Balancing everything on my gender identity confusion and vocation makes a clear decision (although I know it'll never really be clear) far harder. People ask me where I want to be in three years and I all I want to tell them is more like me. Heading where I need to go to be the person I am, encompassing all aspects of who I am; intellectually, emotionally, spiritually, physically want to have a stronger sense of independence by the end of three years. And I want to come out to my parents (for the second time) when I am at a place where I feel sure and ok with what I shall become.
Having spent time on the internet learning about counseling, hormone treatments, surgeries, activism and support groups...I'm excited about the future...and completely terrified. Will anyone really love me once my body starts to represent who I've always felt I am?
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