Stepping Out

Being yourself, a trans woman in a small city, is a courageous act and should not be a calculated risk but it is what it is. Or should I say: I am what I am. That is how I convinced myself, bargaining with my heart against my head, emotion against logic as I stepped outside my comfort zone, one wedge sandal stride after another. Self conscious and awkward feelings were rapidly replaced by a joyous calm and a blissful sense of self, mindfully focused on the simple sensation of such a pedestrian pleasure as walking in heels.

Keep in mind, dear reader, I am more matronly than vixen, more crone than maiden and my feminine wardrobe reflects my station in life. That’s not to say I am not fashionable. I know what works for me and it isn’t short skirts, stilettos and cleavage so my en femme debut to the world was classy yet understated – beige tunic length blouse over matching lace edged camisole and the most genderless garment on the planet – plain yet sassy, feminine denim jeans as advertised. And to be downtown on a fine spring evening would require all the sassiness I could muster. Encountering people on the sidewalk created concerns of being read and called out but it was all for naught as I was never given a second glance by any passerby. Perhaps they were preoccupied or maybe I have become inconsequential and adept at blending into society, the only real differences in my appearance this day were the shoes and purse.  

I am not naïve enough to believe future steps on this journey will be as easy as this confidence building experience proved to be. I know at some point I will be ridiculed and called out, reduced to tears with mascara streaming down my cheeks so I will savour this warm feeling of acceptance.

Going Out

A while ago I promised myself and you, dear reader, that I would post regularly and I have not kept up my end of the deal. Life happens and comes at us full force whether we want it to or not, gender or sexuality be damned. Experiencing a roller coaster of emotions, facades and roles lately has been yet another burden to bear in the various facets of my life and I know facing them as the man I once was, it wouldn't have turned out well. My life lately has given me clearer insight - the Goddess doesn't give you more than you can handle, right? -and being viewed in public as an accessorized androgynous feminine man and privately a closeted cross dresser, well, it isn't enough anymore. It is not about the clothes and it is about the clothes. It is about me and allowing the woman I am the freedom to blossom.

I am excited and frightened. I am nervous and determined.

Who I Resemble

This space has been dark for too long . Time to continue exercising my words and spirit.

For reasons you may or may not understand, I have never and never will post a photo.But here is an image of the woman I most resemble. Same features, same hair length and colour, same eyes...it is uncanny.

Of course the woman who I most resemble is Christine Lagarde, Chair of the IMF 

…But for the Grace of Goddess

While at the neighbourhood supermarket the other day after fulfilling my role as a wage slave, I arrived at the cashier just as another trans woman was bagging her groceries. How did I know she was on a transformation journey?  It’s who we are…

As I waited, I glanced around and noticed everyone in the general vicinity was gawking at this woman. To her credit, I could imagine the struggles she endures and being a woman is not a choice even though her feminine nature was burdened with a line-backer body and her skinny jeans and pink tank top beneath a zip up hoody and sunglasses shielding her eyes with a baseball cap pulled down over her shoulder length bottle blond permed hair and pink fingernail polish didn’t help her blend in to the world as a woman. 

But who am I to judge? 

She seemed nervous so I nodded to acknowledge her presence on the planet and said hi. I was dressed in jeans, blouse and tweed jacket and the only visible sign of my femininity was my ear rings (not that pierced ears makes one feminine) barely visible beneath my hair and the slight shape of my breasts beneath the jacket.

She studied me for a moment, nodded and went on her way. I have thought about her a lot since then. I have also thought a lot about me since then. Being a trans woman is not playing dress up with silk gowns, big hair and stilettos, stumbling home like Cinderella before the ball ends and your secret is revealed. If only it was that simple.

Once Upon A Time

Looking back, I remember wearing my sister’s dresses as we played gender bending games with her dolls. I was the mommy and she was the daddy because she was older and they were her clothes and her dolls so she got to make the rules. I truly enjoyed being a girl and when the game ended I could not understand why wearing dresses and mary-janes was wrong so I stumbled through childhood as a boy, wanting to be a girl and when I hit puberty, my fantasies were populated with handsome, buff men making love to me – a woman.

I began cross dressing on a regular basis in my early teens. I do not recall the exact thought process that guided me to once again wear women’s clothing other than sexual and gender confusion and the usual teenage angst but at that moment when I first put on my sister’s stockings, platform heels and a skirt, I discovered the identity of my feminine self, my true self as it now turns out and I liked her. Of course I suppressed her, as required by society and my male brain. She resurfaced often over the past 40 or so years and like a good host, I entertained her wishes while I got to know her but as time went on I was missing her when she didn’t visit.

Suddenly she showed up one morning with all her baggage and informed me as a matter of fact that she was here to stay and I had better make room for her needs and desires. (It was a little more complicated than that but you get the idea, eh?) And at that moment, dear sisters, I became the happiest woman in the Commonwealth and now, two years in, I am not quite living happily ever after but my life is wonderful. Happily ever after only happens once upon a time…

Predisposed By Nature

In a locally televised political debate prior to the recent provincial election, the Conservative candidate in the riding where I live gave a cockamamie answer to a question from the audience about affordable childcare. His response was something along the lines of this: if most men are like him, there is no need for affordable childcare because he really didn’t pay much attention to his son until he was old enough to be taught things like sports. In his words, and I am paraphrasing, child rearing is done by women. This stirred the audience and someone asked him that if a Conservative government was elected, would they rescind gay marriages – notwithstanding that this a federal matter protected by the Canadian Charter of Rights. The candidate rambled on about how if people were predisposed to be that way, so be it.

Thank Goddess he was not elected, nor was his party called upon to form the government.

The “predisposed” comment from this Neanderthal has rattled around in my brain for a few weeks. Using his words and logic, I suppose I am predisposed to be a woman at this stage in my life considering I have practiced dressing and being a woman for as long as I have suppressed dressing and being a woman, least of which is being attracted to men.  I am also inclined, of a nature and of a mind, prone, tending to be, susceptible or given, known, willing, likely, prearranged to be a woman. In addition, I am feeling like, comfortable with, acceptable of and welcoming being a woman. I am charmed, delighted, overjoyed, thrilled, jubilant and excited to be a woman.

But mostly, I was born this way.

I desired, wanted, needed, required, decided, resolved and chose to develop, increase, augment, improve and enhance my breasts. That was the only choice I made regarding this matter. 

Nature made me.

Dancing At The Edge Of Twilight

One learns a lot about one’s being when stepping outside society’s boundaries. Living along the edges of society’s accepted gender codes of appearance and behavior, I have learned a lot about my strengths, my fears and desires with little concern of being classified as either male/female; feminine/masculine. I have also learned a lot about other people’s strengths and fears. Mainly fears of not fitting in a socially accepted compartment; fears of not being accepted and of not being different than others who are society’s gate keepers of masculine and feminine appearance and behavior. Everyday I witness people falling in line, adjusting their façade and civilly doing what is expected of them whether or not they enjoy or accept their behavior, acting in a role others have defined for them without question or expression.

It has been a very long time since I cared about fitting in with the rest of society and more recently, not caring about the politics of human gender roles and sexuality. I have been scoffed at by fat, balding men who try to ridicule me with insulting comments about the length of my hair. Now I’m pretty sure these slugs are not the gender gatekeepers although on second thought, fat, balding men do represent a very large portion of our society and their reaction to my appearance is a response mechanism to protect them from their own thoughts and fears. All they see is a feminine old man and none of the emotional struggles that have been fought and conquered to allow my spirit to be comfortable in my skin. All they see is a feminine old man and none of the feelings or the courage required to live my life.

What they don’t see is a crone dancing at the edge of twilight and none of the joyous feelings that have overwhelmed my being and filled my heart and soul with peace. The fat, balding men would also be furious if they knew my silent reaction to their example of masculinity and appearance once upon a time would equally disgust me. I have stepped outside their realm. I have become their biggest fear.