Thoughts on a Trans Teen Suicide

Just before the end of 2014, a teenager in Ohio stepped in front of truck. As many people know from her suicide post on Tumblr, she did this because she was transgender and given her family situation she saw no other way out. Her name would have been Leelah.

For whatever reason, perhaps the suicide note being on Tumblr, perhaps the very impassioned eloquence of it, maybe just the luck of who saw it and when, her suicide note went viral. It's actually sort of surprising that her death became national news - trans kids killing themselves because their families don't accept them is something that happens all the time. It clearly touched a nerve in the trans community, prompting a burst of activity, including multiple twitter hashtags, petitions to abolish reparative therapy on trans kids, and endless articles and commentary.

In my case, it took me a while to realize why Leelah's suicide touched me as it did. It even took a while to realize that had affected me so deeply. As I say, trans suicides are not uncommon, so why should this one affect me more than others, the ones that I hear about literally every week?

Yes, her youth makes the loss more tragic, as does the isolation she endured, and the impassioned plea in her suicide note for trans kids to be treated with simple humanity. Having taught teenagers for over 25 years, having listened to their problems, and having seen them grow and ultimately overcome almost every hurdle as they grew to adulthood, it's heart wrenching to think of the lost potential and the sheer desolation of a lonely kid with no friends and no one to listen.

But I think the real reason that Leelah's death affected me so strongly was even more direct. Like many, I suspect, in the trans community, the reason her story racked me to my very core was that in Leelah I saw myself.

Beyond what she put in her suicide note I can't speak to what Leelah was feeling. But I can recall what I was feeling as a trans teenager decades ago.

I grew up in a small Nebraska town, in a time and place where everyone was deeply trans- and homophobic, not to mention misogynistic. People delighted in stories of rednecks beating up hippies and cutting their hair, and racist jokes were the norm, even on TV.

I'm amazed when I think back to the sort of nasty homophobic jokes that were made even by my teachers, my scout leaders, really almost everyone almost all the time. Women were also routinely disparaged and disrespected, not so severely as gay men, but more frequently, indeed constantly. Trans people were so bizarre and outlandish to us then that the jokes were fewer, but usually managed to add a healthy pinch of misogyny to the transphobia.

I grew up in a family that preached family before everything. Some might have this interpreted this as "unconditional love," but I don't believe it was. I knew that love and acceptance were very conditional in my family. Judgements flowed freely at home - "good" Indians and "hard working" Latinos were the exception, while women who were too extravagant, too lazy, too ugly, or too loose were all too common. And there were no "good" gay or trans folk at all.

In my little town religious diversity meant deciding whether you were Catholic, Protestant, or Fundamentalist. There were no Jews, no Muslims, no Buddhists, no Hindus, all of which would have been tolerated somewhat more than atheists.

My family were staunch Lutherans, my dad a board member for many years, my mom a stalwart of the ladies groups. They cared what the people at church thought, and I think they deeply and unquestioningly believed in what the church taught.

For a trans kid in this environment self hatred was inevitable. There was literally no one I knew who was like me, no one I could dare talk to, for fear of exposure and humiliation and worse.

When I learned the word for what I was, I was enthralled to learn that others like me existed, that people who had been assigned male at birth could end up being women. I also knew that none of this could apply to me. It involved significant expense, doctors in faraway places, and most of all doing something that my entire world told me was not only impossible, but perverted to even wish for. I knew what my family and community would think of me if they knew - that I was crazy, that I was sick, that I was unclean.

What if?

I have thought about what might have happened if in my teens I would have had the courage to face my truth and declare it to the world. Suppose I had sat down with my parents and pointed to that article in Look magazine on transsexuals and said, "this is me." What would have happened?

When I told my family I would have been flatly denied. I would have been shouted down by my father, who used to swear under his breath every time he saw Milton Berle do drag, "dressed like a goddam woman." My mother would have tearfully refused to believe me, or to even discuss it, which was her tactic when I told her of my atheism a few years later. My brothers each would have taken me aside and through clenched teeth told me to stop causing my parents pain.

I would have had freedoms revoked, and I certainly would have been required to attend church as much as possible. Reparative therapy (or any therapy) didn't exist, but I would have been intimidated into a retraction, and if I would have resisted, things would have escalated.

Once word got out in town I would have been without friends. I say this with pretty much absolute certainty, intending no disrespect towards some very dear friends from that time who have unfailingly supported me as an adult. As teenagers in Nebraska in that era I can't think of a single kid who would have been able to stay my friend. I doubt most would have wanted to.

School would not have been supportive, and I would have become the prime target for the town bullies. I think it's probably fair to say that in a matter of weeks my situation would have become untenable.

I might have run away, but where would I have gone? I had no clue where to find any place less hostile, let alone trans friendly. I didn't know how to get by on my own, with nowhere to go, no money, nothing.

The other option would have been the more final one. I never came very close using it, but in those days I had already worked out an exit strategy, just in case. I would have tied my deer rifle to the top of a chair, used a string to pull the trigger, and shot myself in the heart.

I never got to that point. Instead I chose to hide, to suppress what I knew was true, to hate myself, and to keep my secret. I chose to survive. It was a choice based on the certainty that if my secret became known I would not be accepted. Not by my friends, not by my community, not by my family.

So when I think of Leelah Alcorn, I think of how in similar circumstances we made different choices. She trusted in parental "unconditional" love and told her secret. I did not. And that has made all the difference.

What your joke means to me

[Note: a slightly modified version of this post is also available here]

Well, my friend, you got me again. Oh, was it the first time for you? I hope so. Sadly, it's far from the first time for me.

I'm talking about the bit of "humor" you posted on Facebook the other day, the one you captioned, "too true, but funny!" or something like that. I imagine you didn't even think much about it, you just chuckled and hit 'share'.

Since it came from you, someone I like and trust, (I thought you felt the same way about me) I checked it out.

To be honest the mean-spirited use of sexist stereotypes was a bit off putting. I didn't think you were someone who would accept jokes based on the notion that women are crazy, greedy, manipulating, and only to be valued for "hotness," and men are stupid, horny, and governed mainly by their crotches.

I suppose that should have stopped me, but I was curious as to why you thought it was funny - there had to be a twist coming up.

And that's how you got me - there was indeed a twist. Well played, my friend, well played. Just as I was thinking the piece wasn't very funny, as if reading my mind, the author deployed the comedic big guns.

Yes, if men and women treating each other like objects isn't funny enough, we all know what's really funny, right? Yes! A dude in a dress! Funnier still is a guy who's attracted that! OHMYGOD! A guy finds a f**king tr*nny attractive! Gross! Hahaha... that's too funny! Amirite?

I stopped reading at that point, stunned, with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I considered the messages in your post.

One message is that the very notion that someone might be attracted to me is absurd, hilarious, and improbable. Another message is that I am a fraud. The overall message: my life is a joke. The post you find “too true but funny” gleefully asserts all that hurts trans people most.

This message isn't new to me, far from it - as a trans person I see messages like this every single day of my life. But those messages come from strangers, from haters, from trolls, and I have my armor up. I know the kinds of posts to avoid, I never read the comments, and I'm steeled for the hate.

You caught me with my guard down, because I thought you were a friend.

I am at a loss as to how to respond to your message. I know that while I might hope for you to realize what you did and apologize, that is not likely to happen since apparently you thought it was funny.

Can I even tell you how much this hurts? Do I have to say that this is one of the worst things you can tell a trans person?

If I do, will you sincerely apologize? Or will you make excuses and imply that I'm "too sensitive?" Will it become a back and forth where you don't believe I'm hurt, and I don't believe you're sorry?

Or should I tell someone else? Will that help?

I remember that on a similar occasion I vented to you, and together we bemoaned cruelty and ignorance of "some people," unaware of the future irony.

Most likely I'll do what I most often do - say nothing. I won't risk making things worse, and I won't spend the emotional energy a confrontation always takes. Instead, it will stay unspoken between us, something that will always come to mind when I think of you.

Some might say that my silence is cowardice, a lack of love, or a failure of forgiveness.

Perhaps it is.

But I've been here before, and I know that I will be here many times again, and I've learned to pick my battles.

So that's what your joke meant to me - another cut at who I am, another friendship diminished, another loss of a port in a storm. In other words, just another day in the life of a trans person.

NOTE: The situation described above is based on several different occurrences, and is not intended to identify any single, specific person. 

The unappreciated power of being unremarkable

Too busy to write... and why that's a good thing

 

It's been a while since I've posted here. It's not been because I've run out of ideas, on the contrary, over the past few months I've had several ideas for posts I'd like to write.

 

But each time I get one of those ideas and make a mental note to write a post  here, I've hit the same wall. I find that I don't have the time. Between work, travel and other projects, it's been just about impossible to find the two or three hours it takes me to write a blog post. 

 

Why being unremarkable is an important story

 

I know this will sound boastful and self-centered, but I'm going to argue that my being so busy is important to the trans* community. In a huge fit of self-importance I'm going to suggest that even though the reasons I have no time are unrelated to trans* issues, the fact that I am that busy is as important to the trans community as someone like Janet Mock making a book appearance, Monica Roberts writing a blog post, or Mara Keisling making a speech. 

 

On the face of it, such a claim is absurd. Compared to the many stars and celebrities of the trans* world, I'm pretty much a nobody. The media doesn't want my opinion, I'm not sought after to deliver keynotes, I haven't lead advocacy initiatives, raised funding, been the notable "first transgender _____", or lead a high profile fight against injustice.

 

Instead, I'm pretty unremarkable - a late transitioning, middle aged white trans woman in tech. We're all over the place, almost a cliché. 

 

Add to that the fact that the things taking up all my time are unglamorous and not trans* related. I'm the originator and organizer of the PyCon Education Summit, where we bring together people who are teaching Python in a variety of venues. That takes some time, but I'm spending even more time, including overtime, on my day job, working to help my company spread their online business model to Europe. This involves frequent travel to Europe, meetings and phone calls at all hours, and more business dinners than I'd care to count. 

 

Yeah, I know, good for me and all, but where do I get off claiming that any of this is important for the trans* community? I'm not even working with the trans* community on this stuff. What's the big deal?

 

Well, I would argue that the big deal is precisely that I'm pretty ordinary and that I'm doing pretty conventional things in a non-trans context, among mostly non-trans people. Apart from the accident that I'm transgender, I'm not exceptional at all.

 

Indeed, I'm not the only, nor even the first, trans Pythonista, but the very fact that I openly transitioned while being involved in the community and helping organize its largest conference sent a message. Here was a person who turned out to be transgender, and that fact made absolutely no difference - my contribution to community continued unchanged. Several people even told me that I was the first trans* persion they were aware of in the Python community. I like to think that there are several Python programmers whose first view of a trans* person was positive, but also essentially unremarkable.

 

I also was open about my transition at work, as I became the first and only openly trans* person among 16,000 employees in the US. For many, probably most, of the people I've interacted with in the company, I am the first and only openly trans* person they've ever known. And what they've seen is a trans woman who from the very first day of her transition has interacted with people from across the company, as well as with vendors and suppliers from around the world.

 

These days, when I meet other people in the company, they often say that they've heard of me. I usually give a wry grin and say, "that always makes me nervous." Without missing a beat they look me in the eye and mention a successful project I've been a part of. While they almost certainly also know that I'm trans, it's clear that's not the only thing they see. They also see someone reasonably senior with a track record of success in the company.

 

We are not all "exceptional"

 

Okay, so I'm fairly uncomfortable with the tone of self-promotion of all of that, but it is a important story to tell. It's important because trans* people are almost always shown to the world as different and exceptional. We're portrayed as talk show freaks, psychotic killers, tragic victims, and comic parodies. At best, even the positive stories are portrayed as amazing exceptions - the brilliant actress, writer, athlete, or whatever else rising like a phoenix from the ashes of transition.

 

Or successful trans* people are shown as activists or advocates. Of course I believe that it's hard for a trans* person not to be an activist or advocate in this world to some degree, and that we need all the people heping with the work that we can get.  But I worry that, aside from the exceptional ones, people are getting the message that the only career for a trans* person is in effect, being a trans* person. 

 

While we are few in number, I don't think it does us any good to be seen as exceptions. That's just another way of othering us, of putting us outside ordinary humanity, and ultimately of erasing many of us. We can't all be those famous exceptions and full time activists. 

 

So that's why I think stories like mine are important, too. Stories of unremarkable people who are transgender and are doing some pretty ordinary things in the non-trans world - contributing to our communities, being successful at work, living our lives. I know that there are many others like me and we need get our message out more. We'll never be picked up by the media but with the people we interact and work with we can tell our own oddly surprising story, "Hey, I'm transgender and I'm really pretty ordinary."

To all my friends

To all my friends

As we come to the new year and I look back over the past year, what I see most, and what makes me happiest, are all of my friends. 

You, my friends, are amazing in so many ways. You are smarter, wiser, faster, stronger, prettier, funnier, kinder, gentler, and well... more than I am. You do totally awesome things in tech, in science, in scholarship, in art, in activism, in helping people, and so many other areas.

And there are so many of you, more friends than I've ever had. One of the hard things with hiding my identity for all of those years was that inside me was a little girl who wanted to be friends with everyone she met but she had to remain hidden.

I felt that friends were conditional, that they would only be around as long as I lived a lie. So I let old friends go too easily, believing they'd be gone anyway once they knew the truth. Making new friends was hard, too. Just being with people wore me out - I needed to play a role and keep my cover, so that meant I was continually watching what I said and how I acted. I was continually thinking, "if they only knew."

This year that friendly little girl who had always been inside the old me didn't have to hide any more. She was free to think the best of people, to give hugs and blow kisses, to go out of her way to reconnect with old friends, and to take the chance of making new ones. I know that people are not always what they seem, that some may let you down, that just wanting to be friends doesn't make it so. But this year I chose largely to ignore that wisdom and I set that little girl free to take the chance of making friends.

I know, I know - I'm still a long way from being in the running for Miss Congeniality, but for me the difference has been striking. I've reconnected with old friends from virtually every time in my life, and I believe I've made more new friends in this past year than in the previous 20 years combined. That makes this little girl very happy indeed.

One thing, however, gives me pause. Many people, it seems, tend to gather with those like themselves - people who look the same, think the same, believe the same. And I know that I was brought up in a small town where people were suspicious of anyone different - to be blunt, I was fed a steady diet of almost every kind of bigotry and prejudice.

In my prairie hometown people didn't always act on those prejudices, but they were in the air - racial prejudice, religious prejudice, sexism, homophobia and transphobia, prejudice against people from different countries and cultures, ableism in every form, the list goes on and on. And while I recognized (and objected to) some of those bigotries, so many of them seeped into me unnoticed and unopposed for too long. 

I wish I'd done more to stand up against those bigotries. I can make excuses - that I was young, that I didn't know better, that I didn't really have an opportunity, but the fact is that I did too little for too long. In my many years undercover in the role of a straight, white, cisgender male, I'm ashamed to say I let far too much prejudice go unanswered, simply because I was afraid objecting might call attention to myself, and that attention might reveal who I really was. 

So the other amazing thing about you, my friends, is how diverse you are. My friendships these days read like a roll of honor of all the labels I was brought up to scorn - different races, religions, cultures, countries, sexuality and gender identity, neurodiversity, to name just a few. In fact, some of those despised labels - transgender, lesbian, and atheist, for example - are ones that I claim for myself now, something not lost on the family that raised (and has now largely disowned) me. 

So I sometimes wonder how all of you amazing folks can be friends with me. I've tried and continue to try my best to see and neutralize that prejudice and bigotry, but the traces remain, like old scars. What can I bring to the table then? When I ponder that question, I realize that all I can offer is that little girl who  just wants to be friends.

For me being friends is not a trivial thing. It means doing my best to know you, the struggles you've faced, the triumphs you've had, how your past has shaped you and how you shape your present and future. It means acknowledging our differences in privilege, culture, belief, background, and more while embracing and celebrating our many connections. It also means having the trust and generosity to help each other improve those connections and to help each other in general. And finally, it means genuine respect for who we all are, without condescension or appropriation.  

So if I can be a good friend by that definition, if I can stand by, and stand up for, my friends, I think it will be good enough. I hope and believe such friendships can improve our lives and our little parts of the world, and for this little girl that's a darned good start.

All of this is very long and labored way for me to say how much I respect and value all of you, my friends, and hope to grow our friendships (and many more) in the future.

(and by the way, if you read this and thought, "she's not talking about me, she's talking about her other friends," you're wrong. I meant you, too.)

One year later

A milestone

One year ago my name change became official, and I became Naomi publicly, officially, professionally, and in every other way. Transitioning was probably the hardest decision I have ever made - I had to come to terms with both possibly losing everything and doing it with the whole world watching. 

It seemed like I was contemplating jumping off a cliff. I was terrified yet determined - I knew that I had to make that leap, whether I would end up soaring or crashing to the rocks below. So on October 22, 2012 I leapt off the cliff. 

At this point I am nowhere near done transitioning, and there are both physical and behavioral changes that are still in progress. But while I'm not finished, at this point I've hit many "firsts" as Naomi... the first time getting my hair done professionally, the first time going to work, the first time flying, the first time traveling internationally, the first time meeting old friends, the first time meeting former students, the first tech conference, the first time speaking in public, the first time networking professionally, the first time talking publicly about being trans, and so on. 

Strangely none of those situations was particularly uncomfortable. In fact, sometimes I would catch myself and wonder why I wasn't more uncomfortable and afraid, more ill at ease. But strangely, I almost never was.

Instead I found myself oddly at ease, acting as if it was completely natural, even when I had to explain being trans to rental car clerk in Nebraska or when I interacted with Japanese colleagues who had previously known me only as Vern. In fact, long transitioned trans people have been surprised with that comfort, thinking I seem more like someone who transitioned 10 years ago, rather than a noob of less than a year. 

I can think of only a couple of reasons why I that might be so. First of all, when I decided to move forward, I decided that I could only transition if I came to terms with the world knowing I was trans at a glance. I felt that if I had a problem with that, I would never be able find peace. I made my way to that acceptance before I took my first hormone pill.

The second reason is the one that I would think is the greater one. I think the reason being Naomi has seemed so natural for me is that it is natural. I've never been more at home in my own skin, a phrase that I could never even fathom before. I sleep better, I feel more comfortable around people, I can even be comfortable and at peace with myself, at least sometimes. I'm sure that the correct hormone balance is a huge part of it, but just as important I can now be who I am, rather than who I was supposed to be. And that is huge.

I know at least some people who think that I am now a happier, warmer, and more friendly person than Vern was. (Someone even went so far as to call me "bubbly." I think that's pushing it... but I was not offended.) I do know that it just seems natural to put more of myself into relationships. And I definitely get more out of them.  

So you could call this Naomi's first birthday. Yes, it was a very long time coming, but I think it was worth the wait. 

 

 

 

 

Feminism and Me

Am I a feminist?

[Disclaimer: I chose this title deliberately, and I write this with some trepidation. This is not meant to be "Feminism and the Transgender Woman", nor "Feminism and the Older, White Transgender Woman", nor even "Why Feminism (and Feminists) Sometimes Scare Trans Women". This is about me and my experiences with, and perceptions of, feminism. I freely admit that my knowledge and understanding of feminism may be flawed or at the very least incomplete, but my experiences with something people call "feminism" are real. ]

Now that I've transitioned and now that I'm occasionally speaking about what I've observed in the FOSS and Python communities as both male and female, I sometimes get comments or questions involving "feminism". Sometimes I'm be asked if I'm a feminist, but more often what I say is addressed with the assumption that I am a feminist.

I do understand that assumption - a lot of what I'm saying sounds feminist. There is a good reason for that - I'm one of the few who have experienced what being both male and being female in our world is like, and I've seen the differences in reactions from the same people in similar situations. To be blunt, I've seen that sexism, male privilege, and misogyny are very real. 

And I naturally have a real interest in the position of women in our society in particular and in the world in general. As I go about my life now I'm seen as a woman, if I'm lucky - that's certainly my hope and the way I see myself. If I'm not quite so lucky I'm perceived as a man who is trying to be a woman, which is problematic in a bunch of ways no non trans person is likely to ever fully understand. In either case my life is much better if being a woman is not a bad thing. So I definitely share a lot with feminists in terms of what I see as problems and what I see as solutions.

It's complicated

And yet, whenever that word has been cast in my general direction - whether it's during the Q and A following a talk, or in an online discussion, or wherever else - whenever the word "feminism" comes my way, I duck. I do my best to back away and deflect it. I say, "it's complicated."

Why do I back off? What on earth could cause me duck? What makes it "complicated"?

It's a trans thing

A big part of it is the precariousness of a trans woman's situation. No one, or at least very, very few of us, has the strength to fight battles all of the time. No matter how we feel about being trans, life is definitely easier if we're not making a point and not being gender expression warriors every waking moment. I've done my best to be completely open about who I am as I've transitioned. I've gotten the hang of charmingly explaining my situation to doctors, dentists, lawyers, insurance agents, bankers, even car rental clerks, simply because that's easier than insisting on privacy. But coming out all of the time is tiring.

Sometimes it's easier, and many times it's safer, and almost always it's more comfortable to just blend in. But there's the rub.

Many women, even not particularly feminist women, roll their eyes at the efforts trans women make to "fit in" as feminine. They will tell me that they don't worry about hairstyles, that they rarely bother with make up, that they throw on just any old thing to go out, and so on. And of course the implication is that my concern with all of those things - with hair, makeup, clothes, accessories, etc. is a case of trying too hard. I think in most cases they mean well, that they're trying to tell me to relax, that women don't really need to worry about such things to be women. 

This always strikes me as bit of cheat - the salon I frequent seems to be awfully full of women who don't appear to be transgender, the places where I buy accessories seem to pretty well visited by cisgender women, and the cosmetics sellers are clearly not primarily serving the trans community. So it would seem that many, (but not all) women do pay attention to such things, even more than I do. And I would bet that some for some of them it's because they feel they must, for others it's because they want to, and for still others, as for me, it's a combination of the two.

And yet, it is true that women don't have to worry about such things - if one is born a woman, that is. Yes, there is some social pressure to conform to society's expectations, but many women do just fine without worrying about many of them.

But if you happen to be trans (and especially if you have a body and face that has been through many years of testosterone masculinization) the rules are different. If you dress too girly and frilly you're over the top, a parody. On the other hand if you're not overtly feminine enough, if you don't make a pretty darned good attempt to look the part, you must not be "serious" about being a woman and people will fault you for not being "convincing". In some cases, people's access to hormones and other medical treatment (not to mention restrooms) can depend on making the grade in terms of feminine presentation. I actually ran across a voice therapist who made it clear that she would only see me if I was dressed in a properly feminine manner, even if we were having a session via Skype. And of course, "properly feminine" was her call to make, not mine. (I found a different voice therapist.)

In other words, I simply don't have the same range in many areas as natal women - I'm left with a somewhat narrow and fairly conventional range of clothing and behavior if I want to be accepted. Most of the time I'm actually okay with that range - I spent a lifetime wanting to be able to express who I was in a way that society might understand. But like it or not, this exact advice is given to trans women all the time - to carefully observe the cisgender women around you, throw out the extremes, and model yourself on those in middle, blend in with the social norms, do what is expected. Extremes and calling attention to yourself are to be avoided. 

Feminism, on the other hand, has historically been justifiably suspicious of attempts to make all women match that kind of standard. So the trans reality doesn't always mesh with the feminist one. (I'll leave out discussion of "trans feminism" for this post, since it seems mostly to be of interest to and acknowledged by trans women.)

It's a feminist thing

When cisgender women, usually more or less feminist women, tell me that they wear less make up than I do, that they have fewer accessories than I do, that they do less with their hair, that they worry less about body hair, etc. than I do, I do get the message that I'm somehow too obsessed with appearances and not what's really important. In other words, I'm made to feel that I'm not doing it right, that the very way I'm being a woman is letting down the cause, and is invalidating any claim I might have to be a woman. It's a classic double bind - damned if you do, damned if you don't.

And in fact there is a small, vociferous, and agressive segment of radical feminism that takes that point even a bit further. Trans women are, they argue, stooges of the patriarchy, tools used to prop up and reinforce inherently repressive gender constructs. Our very efforts to be female both give support to artificial (and harmful) notions of gender and at the same time violate and mock something innate in natal females. They suggest that we are not women, will never be anything but mutilated men, and are not to be trusted nor allowed in women's spaces. In fact, they would very much prefer it if we were in some way or another just made to go away. 

Maybe it's just me

I won't claim to be well read in feminist theory. Nor will I pretend to have any idea of the true intent of feminism, and I doubt that there is complete agreement among feminists on such a thing. 

But all of this leaves me feeling feminism is a game where I can't win. The way that I feel I need to be a woman seems almost to make me ineligble for that particular club. And in fact some of it's most strident members seem to agree and then some. I do realize that there are many feminists who would strongly disagree with both of those beliefs, but I'm certainly not the only trans woman I know who has felt the same thing.

I've experienced misogyny, sexism, and (straight male cisgender) privilege from both sides. I totally believe in the notion that all people should have the same ability to act, the same safety, the same respect for who and what they are. I also feel the need to share what I've seen in the hope that somehow it helps people understand, that it contributes. 

And yet, when I'm asked in public if I'm a feminist? That's when I have to say, "it's complicated."

Reconnecting

Stories and Metaphors

It's funny how sometimes, even in total ignorance, you can manage to get a metaphor for something totally right. This is probably not something to be too proud of, since that one nugget of truth is usually surrounded by many others that are so much less right. In this case I'm talking about metaphors for transition. Right before I publicly started that process I thought of it in terms of leaping off cliffs and of taking flight. And while those images did capture both the terror and exhilaration of that process, in a more fundamental way they fell short of the truth, they were incomplete and inadequate metaphors for the process. 

Why do metaphors matter? I'm convinced that humans are creatures that need metaphors and stories to make sense of life. We need metaphors and stories to shape how we understand the world, how we see ourselves and how we respond.

So the nature of those metaphors matters. If we choose to tell ourselves a story of victimhood and oppression, our view of the world and our futures will be colored  by that view. And if we choose a story of triumph and challenges overcome, that too, will shape our worlds. At least in choosing the image of leaping off the cliff I was acting rather than suffering, choosing my own path in spite of the obvious danger, and that was good.

The Grand Canyon

However, as I think about it now, it's an older metaphor that reflects the experience more accurately. When I was first contemplating transition it seemed like a daunting task. A personality built over decades had to be dismantled, roles and behaviors learned over the years had to be unlearned, and connections forged over a lifetime had to be broken. Only then, I thought, could I start to build the new personality, roles, and behaviors that express who I really was and wanted to be. 

The image I saw was an immense canyon - a deep wide chasm that I wanted to cross. And the only way to get across was first to slowly, painfully, and patiently make the journey to the bottom. Then, I thought, the actual moment of transition would be a tiny hop across a narrow stream, really not much at all. That would be followed, of course, but the long slow climb back out the other side. 

That image resonates with me these days. In fact, I spent years making that descent, so slowly that people didn't realize - my  hair grew longer, I changed my job, my city, and so many other things. Old connections were left behind, often sadly. It was a long trek down, but eventually I did get down to that critical point. And in fact, when I got to that point at the bottom, I was right - it wasn't so much a leap off a cliff as a hop over a tiny stream.

Now, I'm on the climb back up the other side. The climb was exhausting at first. I am creating the woman I need and want to be as I go, deciding how she likes to dress, what things she likes, and who she is. Not all of the old person has gone, but almost everything is up for consideration, almost everything has to be learned, in almost every aspect I feel like I'm a novice, being judged by a more experienced world.

And probably more importantly, I'm considering how that woman will walk through the world. Again, not everything has changed, and probably some things never will. I still can't resist some jokes, and on the flip side, the reserve I got from my taciturn Scandinavian upbringing and a lifetime of concealing who I was will never go entirely away. But there is room for important change. The woman I am becoming is perhaps no kinder and gentler than the man was, but she is definitely more free to express and even celebrate kindness and gentleness. Free from the man's implicit self-loathing she is more able to embrace the good times and to cherish her friends.

And that has lead to a joyous surprise. On the way down I thought that most connections were truly broken, that each person I had left behind was gone for good. I am now learning to my joy that I was wrong - the way up has increasingly been populated by old friends, each one of them as invigorating as a cool drink. And each one of those old friends I meet along the way, each one who manages to see the new me, remember the old me, and then pull the two together, makes the journey that much easer. 

It's hard to be whole without a past, and it turns out that this has been one the key lessons of the climb back up out of the canyon - not only must a new personality be forged from the shards of the old, for it to be truly whole it must embrace all of the old one's past, the pleasant and the painful, the sadness and the joy. 

This was the part that I didn't understand when I first contemplated the process years ago. I saw the journey to the bottom, I saw the trek back up. I even guessed at the insignificance of the stream. But I didn't understand the true work of the climb back up, and I didn't see all of the friends who would be there to make the journey such a pleasure. 

All of which is really a riff on my earlier post. There I said that I would be unlikely to reach out to old friends because I didn't know if they would want to see me. To put it another way, I was afraid of being rejected. I've now come to see that staying away from old friends out of the fear they might not accept me is not the way to continue my climb.

Many old friends have found me and reached out first, and I treasure them. But I have also started making the contacts on my own, and that is just as important. Offering myself, the real me this time, to old friends and acquaintances is a sign that I value who I am, something that wasn't so true before. It's a move forward in hope and trust, which are hugely important to the woman I am.

What this means is that I'm going to hesitate less and worry less about getting in touch with people. Of course I'll still treasure those who find me. But if it strikes me, if I am reminded of or some how run across someone I used to know, I probably won't let fear of rejection stop me from reconnecting. And I think that's a good thing.

Farewell and Welcome Home

It's time for a change

I've come to think it's probably time to change the name of this blog. The original title was meant to be a bit droll, a pop culture reference, with a comic soap opera feel to it. It seemed right as I started into transition, echoing the questions I knew so many people would have.

But at some point, that drollness wears thin, and at some point the focus changes. One hopes there less place for questions, and less need for soap opera angst.

A new name

So I've been thinking of changing the name to a phrase that has echoed in my head since I first heard it. It came from an old friend wishing me luck and congratulating me on the eve of my transition. He said, "farewell and welcome home." 

It captures in four words what's struck me most about this whole experience, the need for loss in order to gain myself, the need to leave home in order to find a truer home.

It struck me as almost premature back then - then there was just a hope that I would be home, not a certainty. Now, months later, no matter how far it seems I still have to go, it's increasingly certain. Yes, finally I am home. 

So thank you, Mr. Park. "Farewell and welcome home" it is.

When you don't know what to say...

This is for anyone I haven't been in touch with since my transition. Well actually, to be more precise it's for anyone who hasn't been in touch with me since my transition, but still has some kind feelings towards me. It's for those who have somehow learned about what I've done and now feel in an awkward spot. 

If you're disgusted or outraged at who I am and what I've done, or if you really just have never felt any connection with me, we don't have much to talk about. We can just ignore each other and be happy. And if you're a really close friend and comfortable with transgender people like me, we've probably already been in touch, and either we have plunged on in spite of the strangeness or we have gone silent. So it goes.

Stuck in the middle

But perhaps you're stuck in the middle. I'm using that phrase deliberately, since it's a feeling that many of us trans folk know all too well. In your case, you're stuck in a grey area - you don't know what to say and probably you're not even that certain that I'd want to hear it if you did. Perhaps it took you a while to process the news and by the time you did, you felt the opportunity had passed. Maybe you're waiting to hear from me, or for an "important" reason to contact me. But you sometimes think about me and the thought of getting in touch crosses your mind.

The first few months after my transition this situation honestly never occurred to me. I was so wrapped up in the business of transitioning, which is one of the most self-centered processes in the world, that I assumed that all of those silent people, all of those people who probably would have reached out with a word in many other situations, were lost to me. I assumed that they must hate me because they were silent when I could have really used a word. I can tell you that I got many, many more messages of support at the death of Molly, the smartest dog in school and my best friend, than I did when word got out that Vern had been retired in favor of Naomi. Even putting aside the obvious truth that Molly was orders of magnitude more likable than Vern ever was, it was a striking contrast. 

In a way it was just a confirmation of what I'd always feared and expected - that coming out as trans means losing people, giving up friends and old connections. In short, it means that you are less loved. Like so many trans folk of my generation I had always feared this and now it seemed to be coming true. 

But, as has often happened in my transtion, I was wrong. Over time something surprising happened - I started hearing from people. And it's continued, a slow but steady cadence over time. Sometimes it's old friends who I thought had drifted away. Other times it's been former students I had assumed wouldn't be interested in the bizarre case of a former teacher going from man to woman. Still other times it's been former colleagues I haven't seen in years.

There was a hand written card that showed up at work one day from a former colleague I hadn't seen for a decade. There were thoughtful emails that showed up out of the blue, Facebook conversations, LinkedIn connection requests, and so on. But all of them were really the same - messages from people who really had no reason to get in touch other than they wanted me to know that the connections we had shared were still there. And those messages are treasures to me.

The more I read those messages, the more I was struck by an underlying theme. Former colleagues made vague excuses about why they hadn't gotten in touch sooner. More than one student suggested that I certainly wouldn't remember them, or maybe I wouldn't care much to hear from someone I'd known years ago when they were just a kid. But in every case there was the theme of "I wanted to contact you sooner, but..."

I think there are really just a couple of reasons that people hesitate. First, the assumption that perhaps I somehow don't want to hear from people from my past. This is an interesting spin on the trans narrative that had scared me as child - the idea that the only way to transition is to sever all ties with the old identity and those who knew it. If those are the rules you're playing by, then contact from the past would be the ultimate embarrassment, and anyone insisting on that contact would be insensitive at best. That's the path called "being stealth" and I've rejected it, but it's still a part of how people think about trans people and transition.

For my part, I never left a one of you behind because of my transition. I had to physically move away and leave much of my old life behind in order to transition, and that made me sad. But I love too much of my life before to ever renounce it. Particularly now that the dust has cleared I find talking about old times is just sweet nostalgia. Vern is gone, because he was just a persona I had to use to survive, but the same person is still here. So no one need be afraid that a connection out of my past will be embarrasing or painful.

The other reason is simpler - people just don't know what to say. Maybe you don't even know how you feel about transgender issues. Maybe you thought you had a neat solution in your head, but now that you find out you know a trans person, you're not so sure. Do you offer condolences? But clearly the person changing is happy. Congratulations? How can that be sincere when you've just lost the person you thought you knew? Suppose you say the wrong thing and offend? Wouldn't that be worse than saying nothing at all? What do trans people want to hear anyway? In the face of such uncertainty, the natural human response is to hesitate. And after a while it's hard to act.

So let me tell you how things are my side

I have to confess that I'm in a similar position. I'm not likely to contact you first, either. I'm pretty cautious about contacting people who knew me before. I'll see you get recommended to me on LinkedIN or Facebook, and decide not to add you. I'll see a personal announcement and start to respond, but then hesitate. I just don't know how you feel about trans people, whether you'd be embarassed or angry or just wonder why the hell someone like me thinks you'd want to be in touch. I hear a voice in my head saying that you probably don't want an obvious connection with me on your wall. And let's be honest - if you connect with me on the social networks it will be pretty clear you're connected with a trans woman. You'll see trans related items in my streams, you might even get suggestions that you connect with other trans people. It comes with me, and I keep thinking that most people don't want that. 

All too often I find myself thinking I need to ask permission to connect with people or to join groups or even to say hi to old acquaintances, that I need to apologize for imposing myself on people. I'm trying to get myself out of that pattern, to tell myself that I need to move past that, that I need to just move ahead and let others worry about how they'll react to me. And with people I'm just meeting, I can do that - I plunge in and let them decide how to take me. But with the ones that knew me before I find that much harder to do. 

What to say when you don't know what to say

So what I really want to say is that you don't need to worry about what to say. It's okay that it took you a while to sort out your feelings about suddenly having a transgender person you know - after all, it took me decades to sort out how I felt about it. What do I, as a transgender person, want to hear? Well, you really don't need to call out my courage. I can tell you that no person who's transitioned feels they've done anything courageous. In fact, I'd say that the ones who transitioned in middle age like me feel cowardly for waiting so long. Or at best we feel like we had no choice - is it courage to jump off of a burning, sinking ship that's about to explode?

And you don't really need to reassure me that I'm still a human being, or that I'm still smart, or things like that. I'd like to think that those are true, but making a point to mention them seems to imply that they are remarkable, and somehow true in spite of who I am.

So if you've been thinking of me and wanting me to know that our connection, whatever it was, remains, then just say that. The best messages are the ones that say hey, I've been thinking about you. I know it must have been hard, but I'm glad you're happier. And just know that I'm still here and things haven't changed between us.

And then lets talk about what's been going on with you, how your family is, what you're working on, whatever we used to talk about.

I promise you I'll be happy to hear from you and I'll respond. With joy.

Flourishing through the Dark Patches

Dark Patches

My last post was written some time ago, on the day of my father's death. Since then there have been some bad times. I had to de-transition for his funeral. At least I de-transitioned as much as I was able - people had a hard time recognizing me, and to be honest I think Julie Andrews did a better job of passing as a man in Victor/Victoria. There was much about that experience that was profoundly painful - how I was (or wasn't) received by most of my family, the sheer awfulness of stepping back into a role that had tormented me for so long, the awful finality of saying good-bye and knowing that neither parent would ever know me or accept me for who I really am. 

Unsurprisingly (and yet I was surprised) those feelings have had their echoes since. I have had more than one day filled with dark despair - contemplating a life as a freak, doubting every friend and connection, even hating the world for putting me in this position, then, after so many years of hopelessness, showing me a better life, only to have that better life turn out to be a cruel joke.

I was bitchy and paranoid. Innocent questions became personal attacks, people just going about their business became part of an elaborate conspiracy to exclude me, and just thinking about some people's behavior, particularly at Dad's funeral, caused me to swear bitterly under my breath as tears welled in my eyes.

In short, there were dark patches. And those dark patches were very, very dark indeed. It had been a year since I had started on hormones and had begun the transition process and I was just now facing the outcome. In fact, I now have emotional responses that I never had before, and when they hit me, I didn't have a clue. I'm now convinced that testosterone helped me be detached from emotions over the years (for what it's worth, I gather that the experiences of trans men confirm this). A friend likens the difference in emotional response on testosterone and estrogen to the 8 crayon box vs. that wonderful 64 crayon box, and I think she has a good point. But I'd say that it's also the difference between chalk drawings on a sidewalk and bold markers on white paper - not only are there more possibilities, they're stronger and more vibrant.

In any case, by now the inhibiting effects of testosterone are pretty much gone and after a lifetime of being able to detach from emotions, of relying on that ability to help handle unpleasant situations, I am now much more exposed, vulnerable to emotions than ever before. And I'm still learning how to deal with that. For the child whose favorite Star Trek character was Spock, not Kirk, this is unfamiliar territory indeed. And it's frightening, particularly at first. 

It's frightening not to be able to lock down all those emotions, but it's liberating as well. I know I will never be as unflappable as my male self used to be, but that's okay - I'll also not be as detached and numb.

Those dark spots were very real and I now understand that there will be more of them in times to come. However, they aren't the real point of this post. This post is actually a positive one, as the title implies. The fact is that those dark spots were surrounded by light, light I was sometimes almost reluctant to admit.

Flourishing

A few weeks after my dad's death I got to give a couple of talks at Flourish!, an Open Source Software conference. This was the first time I'd really spoken at a public conference since my transition, and in fact, one of the talks, requested by the organizers, was on my experiences transitioning and my perspectives on the FOSS world as a male and as a female. It was well attended and well received with questions taking us well past the allotted time. People who know me know that I love to speak to an engaged audience and having that experience while speaking on this topic was particularly validating. 

I also navigated all of the hassles of closing on the house, renting a truck, setting up utilities, and so on, all without raising an eyebrow along the way. One of my strengths has always been making deals happen and I still have that. Clearly not bad for someone who was regarding herself as a freak.

About a month after Flourish!, I attended a fundraising luncheon for a women's organization, along with some women from work. It was a great feeling to be attending an event with so many women, and to be a part of it, rather than an outsider. But perhaps the most telling moment was when a woman who didn't work at our company joined our table. She introduced herself as "the odd one at the table". I thought, yet again, "if you only knew." But on the ride back afterwards one of the women I work with recalled the moment and said ruefully, "I think we were all odd ones at that table!" Amen. 

It was a good reminder that everyone has something they consider odd about themselves. We all feel that we don't fit in with the cool kids for some reason, and amazingly being trans is just one reason out of many. In fact, being trans doesn't even necessarily trump anyone else's reasons for feeling awkward, in spite of what I was telling myself during those dark patches.

I also became involved with the creation of an LGBT affinity/resource group within our parent company. When I was getting ready to transition, I desperately longed for such a group, to provide information, advice, and just moral support. Unfortunately, it didn't exist. As I lay awake nights before my transition it was a dream to help form such a group, and give those in the future that support I'd wanted. And now it's happening, and I'm there, a part of of it. 

In the these past two months I've also continued to reconnect with people I'd never expected to connect with again. Former students and colleagues have sent notes and reached out, and there have even been ever so tentative connections with the old school. I told myself that those connections were gone forever and that it was okay. I'd even convinced myself it was just as well, but for all that those reconnections made me feel good. No one likes losing a part of their past, and I've been getting bits of mine back. 

There have even been a few (very few) family members, ones that I'd lost touch with for ages, who've embraced me with love and respect. I knew that when I transitioned I'd very likely lose many, if not all, of my family. Again, I'd thought I'd come to terms with that - if that was the price I had to pay for finally being myself, I was willing to pay it. But again no one really wants to lose that part of their lives and getting each one of them back has been precious. 

The dark patches also helped show me some beautiful ongoing relationships. The night after my father died some friends at PyCon spontaneously appeared and just hung out with me, understanding that the one thing I needed was not to be left alone. The Python and PyCon communities are very special to me, and it was so important to have them around me. Then, the night after the funeral that pained me so much old friends took me in and held me safe in their friendship like a mother cradling a child. To have friends like that in a time of need is a great gift, one that outweighs much evil.

Shortly after transition, I called myself the the luckiest girl in the world. During these past dark patches it was hard to remember that, but in fact the light far outshone the darkness. I am indeed incredibly lucky.

A Deal with the Devil

A Deal with the Devil

Right before I transitioned, I made a deal with the devil. Like most deals with the devil I did it knowingly because I thought it was the best thing to do. Like most deals with the devil, it turned out to be more bitter than I expected. And like most deals with the devil it ultimately involved a loss of hope.

Last September I made a journey back home on a special mission. It was a difficult task, and I had my spouse along for support. It was potentially life changing, the hardest thing I'd ever do. At age 56 I was going to tell my parents that I was transgender... that the third member of what my mother always proudly referred to as "my boys" was really a girl, and always had been, always would be.

I expected this to be hard. My parents were getting so old and frail that I doubted their ability to grasp what I told them. But still, I hoped that they would try... I was their child, right?  I'd always done my best to be a good kid... I knew that if it were my child I'd want to know. I'd try to understand. And ultimately I'd do my best to to support them. My parents had raised me, they had helped me form those values, so they would do the same for me, right?

Unfortunately I never found out. Before I told them, I told my oldest brother. I think I was hoping for an ally, for someone to say that whatever I had to do, I should at least be honest. I was hoping for someone to stand by me, to accept me as I was.

Instead I was offered a deal with the devil. Why upset the old folks? Why force them to face a truth that would make them so unhappy? The unspoken message was that they wouldn't be able to deal with something as terrible and disgusting as the truth of who their child was. And in turn my other brother joined in. Knowing who I was would be an unbearable burden of guilt for my parents, something that would literally kill them.

Am I really such a monster? Apparently I am. And such is the power of family that coming from the older brothers I so looked up to as a child, that judgement immediately transported me back to the child who knew, absolutely, dreadfully knew, that the truth would mean I was no longer loved. Like most deals with the devil, it exploited my deepest fears and doubts about myself.

So I made that deal. I told myself it was for the best, that I was being unselfish, putting the comfort of my aged parents first. That was noble, right? To do otherwise would be unbearably selfish, right? And they were so frail, that if I told them, suppose the shock caused a death? Or what if they died before they accepted it and we came to peace?

And yet... As I thought of their character, the values they instilled in me, I kept thinking they'd want to know. I was their child and they loved me. They were proud of me and wanted me to be happy and whole. How could they not want to see me as I was? I kept hoping and telling myself they'd want to support me, that from the perspective of 90+ years, they'd rather have a real, if somewhat unexpected, child who was happy in her life and own skin than a miserable mockery.

But the deal was done. Less than 2 months after I made that deal my mother was dead. Less than 4 months after that, my father had passed. In less than 6 months the devil had taken his due.

While even one of them was alive there was hope. There was the hope that somehow they'd find out.... that they'd think about it and then let me know that it was okay, that they still loved me. In my wildest fantasies they'd even acknowledge that I was more 'right' now than before. Clearly these scenarios were unlikely, but while they were alive they were possible. At least there was hope.

Once they died, that hope was lost. I suppose it shouldn't matter. I suppose I should continue to tell myself that I chose correctly, that it was a good cause. And yet... it feels wrong. They never had the chance to give me that most important piece of love and support. They never had the chance to be there when I needed them most. Somehow I can't believe they would think that was the right choice.

I was sold that choice, urged to make that deal with the devil by those I trusted. When I was small I looked up to them so, and on some level I suppose that feeling never goes away. And yet, when I needed them, they let me down. They haven't been there for me at all, nor have they even tried to show understanding or acceptance. In short, they behaved exactly as my childhood self had feared... "if anyone ever knows, they won't love you anymore." It's hard to describe the absolute desolation that thought brings a child, even the child that still lives inside the adult.

Those old fears made me complicit in my own damnation. They conspired to steal my hope. Like most deals with the devil. And I had chosen to go along and trade hope away for nothing. Like most deals with the devil.

---

In memoriam: 

Howard Ceder, July 20, 1921 - March 17, 2013

Eunice Ceder, August 27, 1922 - November 22, 2012

I love you both and I hope you're at peace. 

But I wish I knew that you still  loved me. 

For who I really am.

From Transition to Traveller

I used to wonder

A long time ago, back in the day, I used to wonder. I used to wonder if it would feel weird to live as a woman. I used to wonder if I would even be able to adapt, if it would be too strange, if it was even possible to make that change. Now just four months after transition, I have the answer. 

That answer would surpise my old self, I think, but it also would have reassured him. The answer, of course, is that it doesn't feel weird or strange or unnatural all. It's different, to be sure, and it still takes thinking about sometimes, but it's not strange. In fact, it's like finally being home after so many years away - the reaction that the differences cause is more, "oh, yes, that's the way it should be... I don't have to worry about that anymore."

Trial by Travel

I think a good example, and maybe the most surprising, is travel. Only a month after I transitioned I found myself traveling by air, renting cars, staying in hotels, all things that not so long ago seemed impossible. The TSA does not have the most trans-friendly reputation, and the processes of air travel tend to put one's background and credentials under intense scrutiny. Indeed, I know of people who otherwise live as female who travel as males to avoid that experience. In my case, since my documentation had been changed, that wasn't an option.

So travelling as a woman should have made me feel uncomfortable. Except it didn't. Even when I had to explain my situation to the rental car clerk, it was no problem. (When I told him I'd changed genders, he asked, quite innocently, 'Wow, how long did that take?' and I answered, '9 months or 50 years, depending on how you look at it.')

Across borders

However, domestic travel is a piece of cake compared to international travel. Once you get through the first screening for a domestic flight, you're done. Crossing borders involves multiple passport checks just to get on the plane and then one has to pass through customs and immigration. In each direction. If a change of identity and gender was going to be problem, it should be on international travel.

So when the time came, just 4 months after transition, to fly to Japan on business, I was a little bit nervous. Yes, I was prepared. I had my documentation in order. I had a new passport, with the proper name and gender designation, and I had my surgeon's blessing to fly only two months after surgery. I had my nurse recommended support knee highs. I even had prescription strength anti-diarrhea meds, just in case. (I know, I know, Japan isn't a problem, but it was a recommendation from corporate, so I went along.)

Caught by the TSA

So when I hit my first check point at Chicago I whipped out my shiny new passport. The agent looked at it, looked at me, looked at it again... then he looked up and said, "Naomi? Have you ever traveled with this passport before?" My heart skipped a beat... Oh my god... a problem already?!?! 

I fought to keep my composure and said, "No, I haven't."

He started to grin and said, "Well, you need to sign it!" and handed over his pen.

As I was apologizing and thanking him, he assumed that sort of half-patronizing/half-flirty tone (women will know what I mean) and said, "no problem, ma'am, it just shows I'm doing my job."  Hmmmm. 

At home abroad

And to be honest, that was the last time I really worried about it. I just flashed my newly signed passport when needed, smiled, and carried on. I met Japanese colleagues who had known me as Vern and we picked up as if nothing had happened. I went to dinner (by myself and with others), I shopped, I had business meetings. And it was all fine. In fact, it was better than fine. I felt more relaxed and able to enjoy traveling than I ever had before. Even in Japan, I was home. 

Now, make no mistake, I'm not that confident in my appearance, nor in my voice, nor in my general ability to "pass". I'm not petit, I don't dress very girly, my accessory collection is primitive, I don't wear much makeup, and by the end of a long day, my hair is positively a fright. But none of that is that big a deal. The big deal is that I'm me, even half way around the world. 

I wish I could tell that to my old self. It would be nice to reassure him, to tell him not to worry, that it will be okay. Most of all, to assure him that even while traveling being who you really are is coming home.

 

Squinting into the rising sun at Kyoto.

Costs

Costs

I know that in these posts I have portrayed my progress as the successful, almost triumphant, struggle to embrace who I really am. That is deliberate - I'm using this story to make sense of my journey and I'm choosing to see myself as a heroine rather than a victim. I also happen to think the world needs more trangender heroines and fewer victims - the world makes us victims all too frequently as it is, and sometimes we trans folk get caught up in that.

However, it would be dishonest not to acknowledge that there are costs to the path I've taken. Many people have stood by me, by far more than I'd dared hope, and I treasure them all. But some have been lost - the friends that have stayed conspicuously silent or quietly unfriended me, the many former students I will never talk to again, and the events where I will no longer be welcome. 

Readers of my posts may also have noticed that I don't mention family much at all, other than a couple of references to my spouse, whose love and support are so central a part of my transition. That's partly to respect and protect their privacy, since they didn't choose to be involved in this. (Of course, neither did I, but I did choose to confront it.)

The other reason I don't mention family is because they, too, are among the "costs". With only one exception, they prefer not to speak of or acknowledge my "difficult situation" (as one put it). It's as if I've been put under a cone of silence - I have no idea which of them has been told, what they think, or anything. When I went in for surgery last month, I got no messages of support from them. I suspect that in general they are hoping if they ignore me and my situation persistently enough it will just go away.

And they're right. Many people like me don't get acceptance and support from family and are devastated. In my case, we've grown apart over the years (my fault probably more than theirs), so while it is a loss, it's one I can bear. I will continue to walk my path, and even to be happy, with or without them. And yes, I will eventually just go away, because I don't care to have contact with people who refuse to accept me as I am. I am okay with that.

I do find it ironic that I've received so much support and even love from friends, coworkers, and even casual acquaintances, only to have family be the ones who can't accept me. But to be honest, I had always expected as much. I've discovered over the past year that I'm pretty good at guessing people's reactions, particularly those I know well. And one reason I waited so long to embark on the path to transition is that I was convinced my family wouldn't accept it. And it turns out I was right. 

Perhaps over time some of those I've lost will come around. If that happens, I'll welcome them, but at the moment it seems unlikely.

Still, this post is most definitely not a plea for sympathy. I'm still the heroine and my story is an overwhelmingly happy one. I am more than okay with the costs - I feel that I've gotten off so much easier than many trans people I know. But I also don't want to pretend that it's possible to win them all. No one wins them all, and I'm no exception. 

 

Facial Surgery - Notes from the other side

As I mentioned a little over two weeks ago, I went in for facial femiinization surgery (FFS) on December 13. I promised a post from the other side, and here it is. 

Disclaimer - boring surgery stuff ahead

This post is for anyone who is interested in what FFS was actually like. As is my usual practice, I won't name names (not even of my surgeon) but if you want more specific information I'll be happy to talk about things like that privately. On the other hand, if you're not interested in what it takes to have your face redone, feel free to bail out at any time.

What is "the works"?

The first question is what exactly did I have done? While I didn't have the world's most masculine face, I did end up getting pretty much everything done, "the works" as you might put it. And I realize that for those who haven't been there "everything" isn't a good answer. NOTE: this is NOT an attempt to use technical terms. If you want the technical terms for all of these procedures consult with a more complete FFS reference or surgeon.

Let's just start at the top of my head: 

• hairline advancement - that means my scalp was partly detached, pulled/stretched forward, and stuck back down, advancing my hairline by about one inch. 
• forehead lift - my forehead was pulled up, tightening it and pulling out the wrinkles. This was really more for rejuvenation than feminization
• brow reduction - the ridges over my  eyebrows were ground down to remove the prominence that males have there
• eyebrow lift - my eyebrows were slightly lifted
• under eye skin peel - the skin right under my eyes was about 70% removed by a chemical peel, to make it grow back smoother. Again a rejuvenation thing.
• cheek implants - soft plastic implants were put in each cheek to make them project forward, as opposed to the more hollowed male look that I had
• nose work - my nose was reduced slightly, the "bump" was taken out, and my deviated septum was repaired. I can already breath better than I ever have in my life
• fat grafts - fat removed from around my navel was centrifuged and re-injected at my temples, and around my upper lip, for more youthful and feminine fullness.
• jaw muscle reduction - the muscles at my jaws which tend to give a squarer, more masculine appearance, were cut down
• jaw angle and projection reduction - basically my jaw was ground down to both project less and be less square
• tracheal shave - my "adam's apple" bump was reduced
• neck lift - my neck skin was pulled and tightened to get rid of the "turkey neck" effect that is both aging and a bit masculinizing.

So that's "everthing" pretty much. It means that almost every part of my face was disrupted in one way or another. A fair amount of this work was done from the inside, so the number of incisions you might see is not as great as you might think - I have an incision at my hairline, pretty much all the way around each ear, under my nose and under my chin.

So how does all of this come about?

The process starts with consultation with the surgeon and their suggestion of what shoud/might be done and how much it might cost. Not surprisingly, the surgeon will have his opinion and you'll have yours on both points. Coming together on what willl be done or not done and why is the biggest issue you have work out - feel free to get other opinions, ask questions, and even argue with the surgeon. I did a fair amount of soul searching in deciding whether I wanted to do everything or not. And some of it is more for youthful appearance than anything else - I was okay with that (as I've mentioned). I even paid for someone knowledgable to use photoshop to simulate what each procedure might do for me.

Once that's worked out, and you have reserved a date (I decided to save up my time off from work and do it during the slow time at the end of the year), there is a ton of administrivia to take care of - paying (let's just say my credit cards ended up with a truly amazing amount of reward points), getting medical clearance, laying in needed supplies (including a few gross of q-tips and gallons of hydrogen peroxide), signing what seems like a hundred pages of releases, arranging post-op care, etc. 

Day of Surgery

There were a few pre-surgery restrictions, like stopping vitamins, supplements and hormones, but nothing much else except for the final two - a head to foot shower with antibactierial soap (yep, good old yellow Dial) and NOTHING to eat or drink starting at midnight before surgery. And nothing means NOTHING, not even a sip of water.

I actually managed to get a little of sleep before we got up to get to the surgeon's at 6 am. People tend to assume, since this was surgery, that it would be in a hospital, but a lot of surgeons have their own facilities for surgery. Hospitals are expensive and full of sick people and bacteria, so they're not always the first choice for elective surgery. 

From that point things moved pretty quickly - I changed out of my jammies (yes, I wore jammies to surgery) and into a gown and associated paraphenalia. An IV drip was inserted, a few final pictures were taken after the surgeon used a marker to decorate my face, I got on the table, and... I woke up about 12 hours later in a tiny recovery area. (Clearly there must have been something in that IV.) And some stupid heartrate monitor was driving me mad with it's continual beeping... (I did not fully appreciate at the time what it would have meant if it hadn't been continually beeping!)

After a couple of hours I was "recovered" enough to be dressed, wheeled to the door, and to be helped into the caregiver's car for the drive home.

Here's where accounts diverge. What I recall is walking slowly but steadily and being coherent enough to give the caregiver turn by turn directions from the interstate (she did have written directions as well, but it was dark) to our house. What my wife remembers is that when we arrived, she looked out the door to see a heavily bandaged figure who couldn't figure out how to open a car door, mumbled unintelligibly, and who on standing immediately drooled on her own shoes. I'm sticking with my version, thank  you very much.

How long does it take to heal?

For the first three days, I was propped up in bed and fed pudding and vicodin, punctuated by occasionally getting up to walk a lap around the apartment. Then I got the main dressings removed and took a wonderful, but exhausting, shower. Painkillers continued to be my friends for most of the first 10 days, but things steadily progressed, and by two weeks after the surgery I was starting to feel more normal. Sure, I still got exhausted easily, but I was starting to sleep normally and had said good-bye to the nasty paranoid dreams vicodin gives me. 

So right now, that's about where I am. I have to massage the swollen areas and scars for an hour a day, and wear a supporting head "garment" for 18 hours a day, but I'm starting to feel better. Taking a shower no longer exhausts me. Sensation is returning to some areas, like my forehead, but others, like the top of my head and under my chin remain pretty numb. I'm told that things are going well, and I expect to be working in a few days and mostly of back to normal in a few more weeks. 

The swelling will take months to fully go away and it will also take that long to get sensation back everywhere, so full recovery will be an ongoing project in 2013, but one that I think will be worth it.

Are there pictures?

In case you're wondering, yes, I have been taking pictures. And no, I'm not sharing them now. I'll hold them until I can put together a more triumphal procession than I can now. Even my tolerance for being a work in progress has limits!

Are you happy? 

So am I happy? It's still a bit early for wild celebration. It's also surprisingly hard (and demoralizing) to see yourself so bruised and swollen. The fat grafts have left my upper lip way too thick, the swelling has given a bit of a snub nose, and so on. But all of those things are improving, as the surgeon promised. So things are getting better every day as I continue to heal.

For a while there I was looking in the mirror, searching in vain for some sign of someone I recognized. That has all been more than a bit scary... but today I looked in the mirror more closely and caught a glimpse of someone... it was the first time I'd seen her, but there could be no mistake...

It was me. 

Facial Surgery

A lot has happened over the past 10 months. I started seeing a therapist, started hormones, came out to friends and family, transitioned at work, and mostly traversed the legal hurdles of changing my name. I braved air travel and the TSA, hotels, car rentals, even Las Vegas, with my new identity and escaped unscathed. Some of those milestones were scary, some of them caused me to lie awake in bed worrying about how I would get through them, but in the end, none of them was as hard as I'd feared. Particularly transitioning at work, which absorbed hours of stewing and fretting, was so much more positive than I'd ever dreamed it might be.

So now I'm charging full speed towards a different milestone - facial feminization surgery. In just under 36 hours I'll be in surgery to have almost every aspect of my face remodeled. I'm excited, scared, doubtful, certain, eager and hesitant.

FFS, as it's called, is a controversial subject. Not having it says that you're confident and comforatble in the image you project amd that you don't care about society's judgments on feminine appearance. Or perhaps it says that you are naturally feminine in appearance or that you don't have or care to spend the astromomical  sums a thorough face remodeling requires.

On the other hand, having FFS may say that you are vain, that you are a slave to conventional views of feminity, or that you have delusions that changing your face will fix your life. Or it may say that you want to blend in, be invisible, or  just  have the luxury of not being read the first 30 seconds someone sees you.

I like to think in my case it means that after all of this time I will be able to look in the mirror and see someone who matches my internal view of myself just a bit more. It should make me appear younger, and I happen to like that. It seems to me that it will go a tiny way towards giving me back a few of those many years of seeing someone else in the mirror.

I'm aware that this will come at a fairly high price. It's costly, it's time consuming and a burden on those around me. It's major surgery - almost every part of my face and the underlying tissues, from the hairline to the base of the neck will be sliced, diced, ground down, built up, or otherwise disrupted. It will be painful and the recovery will be measured in weeks and months. I'm aware of all of this and in some ways I dread it. 

When it's done, I have no illusions that I'll be, in the words of my surgeon, "stunning". Nor will all my problems go away, nor will a lifetime on the wrong side of the gender tracks be erased. But if I can look in the mirror and sometimes see a bit more the person I've always been inside, if it makes me feel a bit more confident and a bit more relaxed out in the world, above all if I look a bit more like ME, then I think it will be worth it. 

So the bottom line is that I'm determined to go forward. From Thursday on I'll be out of touch for a little while... wish me luck - I'll see you on the other side.

Why I left the dog obedience world

I guess this is partly a tribute to Molly, partly a farewell, and partly a love letter to obedience teams. And if anyone happens to care, it's an explanation of why I left the sport of dog obedience. If none of those interest you, then you probably had better find something else to read.

Some of you know that I (or that guy named Vern, anyway) was privileged to have Molly, the smartest dog in school. With Molly I spent almost a decade involved in obedience competitions, learning how to train and show, writing a column in Front and Finish called "Sanity Check", and doing a bit of judging. 

And then I left.

I stopped showing when I lost Molly. She was one of the closest and wisest friends I've had, of any species, and when she died of cancer in 2011, I didn't really have much desire to train or show. Molly was the wellspring of my obedience carreer - it was part of our bond, a common language that we shared, the thing that made us, both as a team and even individually, somewhat special among many that knew us. Molly grew from that training into a poised, calm dog of the world, meeting a stream of students, teachers and visitors in my office at school every day. And she met them not only with dignity and poise, but she also made it clear the world that she was a trained dog, dammit, and she answered to me alone. I often wished that some of those top trainers who sneered at us when we were having a bad day in the ring (and I do mean sneered, literally) could have seen her in action during one of her days at work. 

About that same time I'd moved to a new job and was putting in 10 hour days, so in addition to lacking motivation to train and compete with Aeryn (the young dog in the house) it was harder to find the time. It may even have been that Aeryn promised to be so much better in the ring than Molly ever was - that wasn't so hard to take while Molly was alive, but once she was gone, in the back of my mind it felt almost disloyal to train Aeryn to surpass Molly's admittedly checkered obedience career. 

I continued to judge for a while, in spite of the heavier work schedule, because I honestly enjoyed judging, seeing the same sort of bond that Molly and I had being developed by other teams. 

Sure, judging had it's downsides - I had to get up early on weekend mornings and wear a tie. I had to be there, on my feet, basically working the entire time. But I loved to watch the teams and I had the best seat (well, "stand") in the house. I could see the good, the bad, and the ugly, from the little tricks of the experts to the shaking hands of a first timer.

I loved the less skilled teams most, and the first timers. The people who were clearly out of their comfort zone competing (in a dog show for heaven's sake!), with dogs that maybe had a few "issues". Those handlers who didn't quite know how to get the best out of their dogs and the dogs who didn't quite know how to please their suddenly nervous handlers. There they were, both sides trying their hardest, and many times it was out of love. I never was an easy scorer, but man, did I do whatever I could to help those teams legitimately qualify.

But last summer, I resigned my judging licenses. 

Of course, my decision to transition from male to female was behind that. The rest of this blog is devoted to that process, so I won't belabor it here. It was a huge decision, with joys and rewards, as well as risks and costs, and I'm glad I did it.

But the reason I left obedience was pretty simple - I didn't trust the sport to accept me. 

I didn't trust the sport of obedience to accept me as a transgender woman mainly because I didn't believe that the sport had really accepted me as a man. In my early years in obedience, outwardly a male in a sport predominately female, I was less than warmly received. In fact, I can remember many times when many of the people at a trial actively avoided speaking or even making eye-contact with me, although they would be quite willing to chat with my wife. She figured it must be because I didn't look "needy" enough for people to go out their way to talk to. Maybe I just wasn't outgoing and friendly enough.

But to me, as a transgender persion, it seemed like one more case of being on the outside looking in, caught again on the wrong side of the gender divide. Maybe that perception wasn't true. I do know that once I started writing for Front and Finish and particularly after I became a judge people became much, much friendlier, and I liked that. 

But I also never escaped the feeling that acceptance came not because of anything about me, but mainly because I was now useful. And as I started transition I didn't want to go back to being the ousider again. I didn't want to have people staring at me, not making eye contact, not being willing to talk to me, all the rest. 

Maybe that wasn't really a risk. Certainly it hasn't been a problem at the tech events I've participated in. Judges are in demand enough that presumably even a transgender judge might get an assignment here or there, right? And no one would be foolish enough to insult or ignore the judge, right? And maybe some of the people I'd met over the years would even be sort of nice about it, right? Probably. But I just didn't feel confident enough to risk it. 

It's kind of a conservative crowd, and while I can think of many exceptions, I can also think of too many I knew who wouldn't be able to accept me at all. Besides, my new voice isn't as powerful as Vern's was - I was afraid I'd just heel all of those ladies who warned me they were hard of hearing right into the wall. More to the point, my new self wasn't (isn't) self-confident enough yet to stand in the middle of the ring and be watched all day. Maybe someday she will be.

So that's the story. A few people I knew from the dog world have reached out to me on my transition, and they have been postiive and supportive (thanks!). They've even suggested I should come back to judging and showing, and I have to admit it I thought about it. But I don't think so, at least for now.

To all of those obedience teams out there (particularly you green, new, struggling ones) I wish you joy and success, and that you and your dog will cherish and grow that relationship for as long as you can.

Cheers,

Naomi

Naomi now lives with her spouse and two Aussies, Riker, who was Molly's dutiful flunky for many years, and Aeryn, who in spite of her relative youth and lack of embarrassing obedience performances still managed to make an occasional precocious appearance in "Sanity Check" back in the day.

The Luckiest Girl in the World

The eventful first week of transition has passed. After a morning of sitting on a very hard courtroom bench listening to people wrangle about rent disputes, my name change became legal. Everyone at my company was informed (and thank god, educated) about my being trans. I got my hair styled and my nails done professionally for the first time in my life. I walked back into work as Naomi with my head held high and it was fine. I braved a visit to the DMV and ended up with a new drivers licence with the desired new name and gender. I even went to my first Python meetup as Naomi.

So much was squeezed into this past week that it's starting to blur. This was the time that I had feared all of these years. This was to be a change so scary that I referred to it as "leaping off the cliff". I honestly didn't know how I was going to get through it all - standing before a judge to change my name, telling the people I cared most about at work, and even walking back into the building after everyone knew the truth. These were the things that I had struggled with for years... the kinds of fears that had held me back for ages. 

The reality turned out to be far different than I had imagined, in many ways. I went to my name change hearing with extra documentation, mentally preparing arguments to counter a conservative judge's reluctance. In fact, he sized me up, asked the formulaic questions, and then smiled and congratulated me as he signed the decree. I had thought that my fellow managers might be a tough audience, but they listened intently, politely, and sympathetically, and were instantly supportive. 

I had imagined that telling my team might be easier. Instead it was the hardest of all, taking just about all I had. This wasn't their fault, mind you - they also were supportive, sending me messages of support that very night.

And so it went. Where I had feared rejection, I received a welcome. There were hugs instead of scowls, sincere messages of support instead of haughty silence. In other words, they did what I had feared would never happen - they saw me as I was and welcomed me back. 

There were some negatives during this week of transition, some people being ominously silent or even openly unsupportive, but they were few and they didn't come from the people I work with every day.

Where it really counted, when I really needed them, the people around me came through magnificently, in a manner I had never dared hope for. I won't forget that. And no matter what else happens, thanks to them I count myself the luckiest girl in the world. 

The Public Coming Out Post

A Little Personal News

So if you're reading this, you've either heard this elsewhere and are looking for confirmation,  or I've pointed you here via some other message or post. Yes, I have some news to confirm... I'm transsexual. My full coming out post is here http://whataboutnaomi.blogspot.com/2012/06/coming-out-post.html and of course you are welcome to browse the rest of this blog if you want to see a bit of what I've been through on my journey. The good news is that my name change is now official and I'm transitioning to living full time as Naomi. To be honest I wish I'd done it sooner.

Part of the reason it took me so long to even begin the process of transition was my long time position at the school, and my enjoyment of teaching. For quite a time I thought that might be enough, that the satisfaction of teaching might carry me though my life without having to deal with the truth of who I was. But eventually time and the truth caught up with me.

To My Former Students

My enjoyment of my time with you may have delayed my transition, but I don't consider that a bad trade at all. I cared for all of you, and I enjoyed your various personalities, senses of humor, and learning styles. I got enormous satisfaction from helping you learn and watching you grow. I suppose you will have various reactions - some of you may be stunned, perhaps disgusted, maybe feel somehow betrayed... others may be (and have been) positive and accepting, supportive, even happy that someone they value has finally found a bit more peace for herself. Knowing all of you, I think that the latter group will far outnumber the former. I hope so, since I have fond and proud memories of you all.

To my old school and former colleagues

I suppose you, too, will have various reactions - probably also ranging from shock and disgust to being happy for me. Perhaps the latter group will even outnumber the former, I'm not sure.

I imagine that some of you may have now guessed that the reason I left teaching and the school (and the dog obedience world, for that matter) was to make this change. And I think it's pretty clear that it would have been orders of magnitude more difficult, if not impossible, to transition there. And I was extremely fortunate to land a cool job with a company and with people who are willing and able to support me as I make this change.

It's ungracious of me to admit it, but I didn't trust the school, neither as an institution nor as a community, to stand by me during such a risky and difficult time. That realization was very hard for me to take at the time. It felt like a betrayal as I realized that an institution I'd put so much of my life into, and a community I'd seen rally around so many others in tough times, would not be there for me. But it was probably a gift, now that I think of it, since it made it that much easier to seize opportunity when it arose. But please, for the sake of others there who are LGBT, don't stand on the wrong side of history too much longer.

To all of you

I've moved on quite a bit over the past couple years, and I have an even longer journey ahead of me, but I'm still pretty much the same person. I'm happier now, and a bit more at home in my own skin, a little more authentic and honest about who I am, but that's about it. (Don't get me wrong - that's HUGE!) That, and now I get to wear cuter shoes on occasion... ;)

I'm not trying to reject my past or deny who I am or where I've been at all, so if you have the inclination to make contact again, I'd be happy to hear from you. On the other hand, if you don't feel comfortable, interested, or otherwise motivated to get in contact, that's fine with me, too. Best wishes to all.

Kindest regards,
Naomi