Gender-blind?

I have had, over the past year, more than one person ask me why I make such a point of my gender identity. After all, since coming out, I’ve experienced acceptance from most people. So why make an issue of it, when they aren’t?

An article I read today, which you can find here, helped explain my answer. For a long time I would have described myself as “color-blind.” I liked to think that when I looked at people I didn’t see their skin color. I’ve come to recognize that that is not true. I do see it. What’s more, I see it through the specific lens of being a white person, with all that entails in American culture. I don’t have to pay attention to skin color because I happen to have the preferred color within my society, the one that has held power and influence throughout the history of my country. Of course I don’t have to think about it. But by saying I don’t see it in others, I invalidate the reality of their identity in their own skin. I’ve learned a lot in this area, but have so much more to learn.

When it comes to gender identity, the issue is the same, though here I find myself in the minority, marginalized group. My gender identity may not matter to you, but it’s central to who I am. You may believe that choosing to not see my gender-identity is a positive thing, but by doing so you invalidate me. If you don’t see me as a transgender woman, you don’t see me, because that’s who I am.

There are different opinions within the transgender community about whether the label transgender is useful. Some strive to leave it behind, to “pass” in society such that the label transgender doesn’t really describe them. That is their choice. To be honest, part of me would also be glad to cast off the transgender label, to just be accepted as a woman among other women. But, to modify the words of the author of the article referenced earlier, “To say that you don’t ‘see people as transgender’ is to deny us the struggle and the beauty of a significant part of our identity.” When people overlook my transgender identity, they miss all the beauty and complexity of what that means for me. They are less likely to recognize and acknowledge the very real challenges that face transgender people, challenges that they do not experience as cisgender individuals. Transgender women are women. Absolutely. But they have experiences that are unique to them as transgender women as well.

Therefore, I own the label transgender as a part of who I am. It does not define all of me, but it certainly forms a significant, core part of my identity. While it may seem like I make a big deal out of it, I simply want to openly acknowledge that aspect of myself so that others can do so as well and, having done so, begin to learn how that is different from their cisgender experience of the world. 

Divorced

Divorce

In the world I grew up in, it’s a four-letter word. It represents a failure to fulfill your holy vows before god and the world. Although the churches I attended sort of accepted the reality of it, it certainly represented breaking the divine plan. Marriage is for life. That’s certainly how I understood it.

But what if it’s not always? 

What if divorce is the best, most natural option for a couple that has grown apart, or changed such that they are no longer able to make a life together? Or for someone in an abusive situation? Should people be bound together for life regardless of the circumstances?

I’ve sat through many a sermon and heard many messages exhorting spouses to take this or that action in order to maintain the intimacy and vitality of their marriage. The underlying idea is always that with enough effort, you can always find a way to stay together. I thought so myself.

Until we couldn’t anymore.

I didn’t ever expect to find myself divorced. Yet here I am. Did I fail? Am I a failure?

I’m not going to say that I could not have done things better in my marriage. I made plenty of mistakes and was far from the “perfect” spouse. But did I fail at marriage? That’s the message I get from those christians who insist that marriage is for life, regardless of circumstances. Intentionally or not there’s a good amount of self-righteousness concerning divorcees. After all, if we’d just done MORE to maintain our relationship, we’d still be together, like the other couples around us in the church. Our failure is our fault.

Except it’s not. I don’t blame my ex for our divorce. I don’t blame myself either, though I do still wrestle with guilt because of this ridiculous baggage that was loaded on me all these years. The reality is that as I came to accept myself, my ex recognized that she could not be true to herself and remain with me, and I could not stifle myself to remain with her.  Some would say we should have just stuck it out, found a way to compromise and make it work. One person very close to both of us blamed my ex for not doing so, even before they knew the reasons why we were getting divorced. By saying this, this person caused even deeper hurt than we were already dealing with. Sticking it out would have meant one or both of us forcing ourselves to be what we are not, and that’s not healthy.

Divorce has made me a bit(?) cynical. I have a hard time not rolling my eyes when I hear people speak about finding the love of their lives, the one they will spend forever with. I used to think that too. It’s not that I don’t wish them well, it’s just hard for me to not think that this idea of a single, lifelong love isn’t hopelessly naïve. How much heartache is caused by perpetuating the idea that there’s ONE person out there for us and, when we find them, we’ll remain together for life? I apologize to all who are still in that blissful stage of love, or anticipation of love. I do hope it works for you. Really I do.

It’s not that I’ve given up on love. I do still hope that I too, will again find love. I’m not necessarily looking for or expecting someone with whom I’ll spend the rest of my life. I wouldn’t be opposed to that, but I don’t think I want it to be a precondition going in. I want there to be the complete freedom to choose day by day that we want to be together and, if we realize that our time together has come to an end, to be able to release one another freely. Maybe that’s naïve too… I am still a romantic. I’m just a bit more jaded than I used to be.

Divorced is not a label I love wearing. It still has such negative connotations in our society and even in my own mind because of how I was taught all my life. But it does describe an aspect of who I am. I loved deeply, but that love came to an end and it was time for both of us to move on. I can wallow in feelings of guilt and failure, or I can find healing and wholeness and open myself up to new relationships and new possibilities. I’m striving to do the latter, because I am not a failure.

Transition is messy

Facebook, as it is prone to do, likes to resurrect old posts and suggest I reshare them with the world. Many of these suggestions are hardly relevant 5, 7 or however many years later. Some leave me wondering why I shared them in the first place. A rare gem might be worth resharing. But many of them leave me with a most awkward feeling, as they revive memories of a past life that I have difficulty connecting with.

Recently I read this article on the grieving process that often accompanies transition. While the author focuses more on the attachment to a physical body that is simultaneously alien yet intimately familiar, I resonate with the article more in terms of my holistic connection to the person I once was. The author writes:

“But I live in the real world, too, where the pretending had to be so emphatic, it flirted with the truth. I had to be something I wasn’t long enough to reasonably convince myself, and the feelings there are residual, even now.”

When a person transitions later in life, as I did, one faces the challenge of what to make of that former life. As the citation above says, I lived as someone I wasn’t for so long and had myself and others largely convinced that that person was the real me. It wasn’t, but transitioning to my true self doesn’t erase all the memories of the person I once thought I was and tried so hard to be. For some transgender adults this struggle may be still more acute than it is for me. I don’t desire to forget the past. I readily acknowledge that it happened and fondly hold many memories from childhood and the years I was married. At the same time, it feels like it all happened to someone else, or in an alternate universe. I feel this particularly when I see old pictures. I look at this person in the picture and feel like I am looking at a stranger. I don’t want to be seen that way. That’s not who I am.

I’m a fairly active Facebook user, which probably means I’m an addict and don’t want to admit it. But I’ve been on it for about 8 years now, so I have a lot of memories and pictures shared from life before my transition. It’s a running chronicle of my life. However, I don’t want to keep a significant portion of that life visible. So I have begun removing some old images. I feel a bit strange about doing this, because it seems I’m trying to erase the past. I’m not. I still have copies of all the pictures I remove, should I ever want to go back and look at them. But they are not part of my public record anymore. I show old pictures of myself only to my closest friends now. Of course, those who knew me before and are still willing to speak with me may have old pictures, and that’s fine. I’m not asking others to purge their memories of how they knew me. I just don’t want that former self to be the way people who know me now see me.

One of the most awkward reminders of my past is my former name, my dead name as many in the transgender community refer to it. That’s an accurate description in a way, because the name is certainly dead. Is the person dead as well? Or what is the connection between the person with that former name and me, Andrea? It pains me when someone uses that name. Recently I received an invitation in the mail to an event, addressed to that old name (and worse, to my former spouse as well – talk about rubbing the wound) and I was offended, because those who had sent it know Andrea well and should have had the sensitivity to adjust their mailing list. But they aren’t the only ones. My parents still slip up and use my old name. I try to give them grace. They did know me for years by that name. However, that name has no meaning for me now. It’s an artifact of the past. As difficult as it is, I appreciate when others train themselves to see me as I am, not as I was.

What does a transgender adult do with her old life? Does it simply fade away? No, not really. It maintains an awkward presence somewhere in our minds, occasionally bringing a smile, at other times tears of grief.

I envy one thing in particular about today’s transgender youth. Without taking anything away from the very real challenges they face, they have the opportunity to live their entire lives in harmony with who they are. They won’t have to work through this weird relationship with the person they once were. Despite this I definitely wouldn’t go back. I wouldn’t choose differently if confronted again with that choice to be true to myself or to keep living under the false identity I had assumed for so long. The bittersweet memories are one of the prices I must pay for being who I am.

"The truth of transition, they will tell you, is that it is pure and unadulterated joy and discovery. It makes for a touching story, to be sure. But quietly, I hold the space for something more—the messy reality that mingling with that joy is also raw and relentless grief, a letting go that too many of us struggle to make sense of."

I won’t deny the messiness of transition. I’m not going to pretend it's all joy and bliss. It’s raw and real. It’s painful, and wonderful, amazing and hard, all at the same time. I appreciate my friends and family who continue to walk this journey with me, allowing me space to grieve as well as to rejoice, joining me in both. What matters most is that I’m still here, and you’re here with me.

Courage

I nervously paced back and forth in the green room, half-listening to Molly tell her story on stage. Mostly, my thoughts absorbed me as I tried to calm my racing heart. In a few moments it would be my turn to go out on that stage and share my story. Noel, the host, had led off the evening with a moving story, followed by several others leading up to Molly. I would close out the night’s show. My journey had been all about taking courageous steps. Sharing the story of that journey in the Female Storytellers show was the next one. I could do this...or could I?

Torey had shared her story before Molly, a powerful tale that spoke to my heart. I felt such a connection with her as she shared about finding her own worth and overcoming fear to make life-transforming choices. Her context is much different, yet we have so much in common. Her courage and vitality inspire me. Each of the women sharing their stories had been powerful in a way uniquely her own. This group was amazing, every one a bad-ass nasty woman. I was honored to share a stage with them.

As Molly continued her story I continued to wrestle with my doubts. My mind tried to play all the old tapes, lies about my lack of worth, my insignificance, my presumption in believing that I could go out there before that audience. Fear raised its ugly head as well. What would the audience think? How would they respond? What was I thinking? This is nuts. Sometimes, as Torey had said, you just have to tell your mind to “Shut the fuck up.” I pushed away the lies, the fear, and the gremlins, sat down on a chair and focused on deep breathing, reaching for that inner place of calm. I am worthy. I am not afraid. I am bold, courageous and I CAN do this.

Vulnerability. It had played a key role in my journey. Now I was going to display it on a public stage. I thought about Brene Brown’s famous TED talk on the topic, and how she had boldly overcome her own fear of vulnerability to give it. She had hoped no one would pay attention, only to have her talk go viral. Fortunately, tonight’s show was not being recorded for online distribution. I only had to be vulnerable before this audience in this moment. Vulnerability opens the door to connection. I CAN DO THIS.

I thought of my friends sitting in the audience: Ana Sofia, Chelsea, Melissa, Sylvia, Miki, Chandra, Christine, Abbie. I thought of the numerous other friends who were not able to be at the show, but who I knew were 100% behind me, cheering for me, sending their positive energy my way. I had feared that after coming out, I would find myself completely rejected, alone and friendless in the world. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Those friends out there testified to that. Their love had sustained and supported me on this journey. They believed in me. I believe in myself. I have confidence in me. I’ve made it this far. I’ve overcome so much, made so much progress. I CAN DO THIS. Fear will not conquer me. My story is worth telling.

Molly finished her story to resounding applause. I gave her a big hug as she came off the stage. It takes a lot of courage to get on a stage before an audience and tell your personal story, no matter what that story is. Molly, like me, was a first-timer, and she’d been fantastic. Noel stepped onto the stage and introduced the next and final speaker – me. My moment had come. I glanced once again at my notes, took a deep breath, turned and confidently stepped onto the stage…

Every Single Day

Every day I am reminded that I am transgender. Every.single.day. It’s not always an overt reminder, nor necessarily a hostile one. But I never have opportunity to forget it. I know I don’t “blend in.” I choose, as much as I am able, to not let that concern me. But it’s in the back of my mind. Every.single.day.

When I’m among friends, this awareness fades more into the background, but anytime I enter a large social setting, go to a shop (whether familiar or not), seek out help for a need from someone I haven’t worked with before, or undertake any number of other activities that we all do regularly, I have to think about what type of response I might receive. Because I know I’m different. Society doesn’t really want to let me forget it. Every time I speak on the phone, announcing myself as Andrea but being addressed as “sir,” I’m reminded that I don’t fit someone’s image of who Andrea should be. I am fortunate enough to live in a relatively tolerant, accepting city (which is not to say it is without problems). When I think of traveling anywhere else, the first thought that comes to mind is “How I will be received as the person I am. Will I be safe?”

If you are cisgender, you probably don’t face this challenge. You probably don’t think about your cisgender identity at all. (You may think of other aspects that intersect with it, but your gender identity probably isn’t something that occupies your thoughts.) There’s a word for this:  privilege. Being cisgender is a privilege because it brings the advantage of acceptance and recognition in society, without the cisgender individual needing to do anything to bring that about. (We’re focusing solely on gender identity here. I’m well aware that there are a whole host of issues that arise depending on what gender one is, as well as how one chooses to present one’s gender.) Our society accepts cisgender people for who they are without questioning the basic validity of that identity.

In American culture, the minute someone accepts that she/he/they are transgender, they become immediately aware that they are in a minority. We’d love to go about our lives just as our cisgender friends do. Sometimes we’re fortunate enough to be able to do so relatively freely. Far too often we’re not. But even if we are that fortunate, we will still be reminded that we are different, that a significant percentage of our society does not accept who we are, does not recognize our identity, does not want to make space for us to live alongside them fully and freely, that our very government seeks to exclude us and discriminate against us. Affirming one’s transgender identity requires an act of courage…repeatedly.

Few of us have the ability to pass in society as cisgender. Many don’t want to. Others would like to but lack the resources to make the adjustments necessary for society to accept us as if we were cisgender. “Passing” shouldn’t be the bar we have to meet in order to gain acceptance in society. Most of us will probably always be different enough to be noticeable in some manner. Can you accept us regardless of that?

At the end of March we celebrated the International Transgender Day of Visibility. On this day in particular, we call attention to the transgender community in order to help the cisgender community recognize that we are people just like them, that we ask only to live with the same human and civil rights that they have, that we are not a threat to their well-being and safety. We are your neighbors, your co-workers, your fellow worshippers, your children, your parents, cousins, the person who serves your morning coffee, the person teaching your children, or processing your loan application. We’re not an alien race. We also celebrate the day so that, in time, more and more of those in the transgender community who remain hidden will be able to live their lives openly, freely and proudly.

I am so thankful that my life is filled with wonderful cisgender friends who consistently affirm and accept me for who I am. I am a very fortunate woman, and having you in my life encourages me to continue living boldly and confidently in this world. I’ll always be transgender, but I dream of the day when I won’t have to constantly remember this.  I dream of a society in which one’s gender identity is recognized and accepted without question, without discrimination, without doubt. Given how far we still have to go in so many other areas of difference, like race, I fear that this may be a long journey. That’s okay (sort of) – I’m in this for the long haul.