Hopes & Understanding at the Pride Festival

I’ve been trying to get there in two different cities for years now. I’m crossing my fingers and toes this year, but it seems that something always works against me, and things come up.

Something is different this year though. I have a stronger reason to go. In previous years, attending the event appealed to me because I am Trans and it would be an opportunity to meet other members of the butterfly club.

Did you catch that? I just coined a new phrase. At least it’s new to me. I’ve talked about butterflies before and how they are the perfect representation of the feelings of transgender people. By virtue of gender dysphoria, we are all members of the same club. I just called us the butterfly club.

Anyway, back to pride . . .

As a boy, I built my life with blinders on. I didn’t allow for any other possibilities, because I was squelching my feminine self. So, when gay rights began, I mostly ignored the battle cry of inclusion.

When I finally got my head on straight and accepted transition, I didn’t subscribe to the whole LGBTQ thing. I wasn’t gay and my activism was confined to other political issues. I accepted the umbrella thing, I never heard much about the ‘T’ in the acronym. I was part of the community, but I’m not sure I felt welcomed, and I never made it to pride either.

One of the problems of being transgender, is the loneliness. Many of us spent our lives convinced there was something wrong with us, therefore, solitary expression was the only way. I need transgender friends, people who understand my feelings. Going to pride holds the promise of making those acquaintances. I have to go this year, but that’s still, not, the stronger reason.

Isn’t it interesting how focused our lives can be? Those blinders, I wore, helped me ignore much. I’m no better or worse than anyone, just self absorbed. Recently, I listened to associates talk about religious freedom. When I mentioned the Jim Crow laws of the past, they actually told me that they feel persecuted. To put it my words, they feel threatened by those who they would put in chains.

Ignoring history to repeat it, was nothing new. I’ve been fighting right wing politicians for years. Then, thanks to the recent atrocities committed in the name of religion, my activist mind has reawakened. Oh how I wish the bigots could see they are NOT doing God’s work.

In another conversation that I chose to delete on Facebook, those zealots reposted a link to an article about a lesbian couple who chose to put their son on testosterone blockers, because he is transgender and they wanted him to wait until he got older to make the decision.

As you might’ve guessed, the zealots felt it was child abuse. One of them actually said that boy has no chance. My God, are they that blind? I wondered how they would feel about it, if like me, that boy had been born in a religious family with two heterosexual parents (Male and Female).

I see a wonderful kid with the same gender dysphoria I have. What a blessing that her parents are aware. She will have all the blessings I never could’ve had. Those same zealots haven’t accounted for the boy’s ability to choose for herself.  

So this year, I have a stronger reason to attend. Whether I feel included under the umbrella or not, I cannot remain on the sidelines. I still believe, as I once did that people have no right to push their beliefs and lifestyles onto others. That includes the religious right.

For me, the gates are open. I’m a neophyte, but I am part of LGBTQ. I am a woman—I am trans. I’m going to wear my white capris so it better be warm. I’m going to volunteer to help educate the public. I’m going to have fun and maybe, just maybe, I will meet my tribe.      

Under Siege

Recently, I went out of town and took my friend’s trailer. I was invited to attend a conference of people who know me as a man. It was to be held in a small town, so I got reservations in a campground and stayed the whole weekend. Remember I said it was a small town? Not much happens after five pm.

Still, I got out. See the picture? It’s my Sunday, go to meeting outfit, without makeup. That reminds me, I need a makeover, and some serious training. While on my trip, though, I wrote. Did I tell you that I write fiction? I’m currently writing a murder mystery with a transgender character. I’ll tell you more about that later, anyway, while writing, I was flooded with memories from my own life.

Since my resolution to transition, those memories have increasingly bombarded me. Dealing with those memories has become an emotional thing, though.

You see on one hand, they provide confirmation that yes, I was born with gender dysphoria and I should’ve transitioned years ago. On the other hand, controlling the tears is sometimes hard. So much of my life was wasted and if I had only seen things the way they were . . . there is just too much (if only).

I’m under siege, not sure when the memories will attach. It’s like PMS and I didn’t get the right plumbing. Oh that I could’ve been given the right plumbing. Anyway, during the bombarding, I remember events, that if only they had played out the right way, I would be a woman today. Isn’t it funny how we can generally pinpoint the moment in our life when things went to hell?

To be fair, however, I had a good life, it just wasn’t the feminine one I wish I had. Well, there were aspects, but everybody has those. Then again, I would’ve made it through certain things easier if I didn’t have the masculine thing to deal with, too. See it’s like PMS?

Recently, I was hit by a few of those moments and the memories forced me to admit something to myself. Sound interesting? Maybe it is. Let me explain,

During puberty, I had a friend who was probably gay. And of course I was transgender, although that term wasn’t even invented yet. In my innocence, I didn’t understand. I’d also been indoctrinated from the beginning of my life. My masculine self was taught an attraction to females.

I loved girls. I still do, but as I said, there were small events that if they had been acted on, my life would’ve played out differently.

As we all know, most men think with their penis. Satisfaction in life is usually determined by how much attention that penis receives. As for me, I noticed a disconnect at an early age. Performance anxiety left me unhappy, but if only . . .

The friend I mentioned, and I, used to hang out together. He patiently listened to my suggestion that we pretend we were girls. Little did I know that fantasy was a solitary, and not a group thing. I wonder where that friend is now.

I stared at a billboard today and notice an attraction to a pretty girl. The attraction shocked me though, because it wasn’t about sex. I wanted to emulate her. I wanted to do my makeup like hers.

Okay, I’m sure you caught on by now. As my mind turns to unfulfilled wishes, in my old age, I’ve discovered something new. As I unlearn fifty-something years of programming, My mind has made room for other possibilities. No. I’m not gay. I’m a heterosexual female. And Damn, I never thought you would hear that from me, especially when you consider my post titled Great Minds Think Alike. I still hate those macho types, but . . .

Great Minds Think Alike?

I hope I can be great like them.

Being on the same wavelength with other bloggers can be enabling. It makes me feel like one of the girls. That’s what happened a while back, when I first started writing this post. Like others, I had been remembering my past, and thought about the days when sports put fear in my heart.

The fear came from gym sports like basketball, when teams were divided into shirts and skins. I was a boy with breasts, and yes, I took a lot of hazing for it. How could I master the art of the lay up, or the jump shot, with my shirt off? I hated the words, “Look at the boy with the boobs.”

No, as a kid, I developed a bad relationship to sports. I wasn’t any good at anything. I liked baseball. I even had a few heroes like Bench, Koufax, and Rose, but I threw like a girl. (Imagine that.)

I endured the (coach encouraged), hazing for a long time. I even learned the harsh reality that on church ball teams, it can be worse. Eventually I accepted my lot, and avoided the opportunities to play. I hated gym class and didn’t go.

Yeah, I know. You too, right?

Shortly after my recent trip down memory lane, I discovered the excellent posts of my fellow bloggers. It felt wonderful to know I was in good company, but recalling my own nightmares brought deeper thoughts.

Being the object of ridicule both on, and off the field, became common. I learned to avoid most of the activities other boys cherished. After enduring my share of bullying, I finally struck back. I didn’t act out of hate or vengeance, I just got tired.

As often happens in that masculine world, and probably out of being bullied himself, one of the boys went after what he considered to be the weakest link. He probably needed to establish himself in the pecking order and he picked a fight with me.

I had no animosity toward him, but enough was enough. I met him in the schoolyard and took out my rage. Later, when another boy thought it was time for him to grow up, I beat the hell out of him, too. After that, the boys left me alone.

After accepting my forced masculinity, I tried to fit in, and enjoy things I hated. About that time, a local service organization started a little league football program. Of course, family and friends expected me to try out. I couldn’t be a girl, so why did I care? Being overweight, and having a bad ass reputation, helped me realize I had a great advantage. Psychological warfare accompanied by a real death wish can have an effect.

I excelled. I pretended to really like the game. Because I wouldn’t back down, I gained respect. For the first time in my life, I belonged in the masculine club. Little did they know what I did after the game. I remember having a secret desire during that time. I wanted to wear my mother’s bra under the shoulder pads.

If this sounds contradictory to you, you’re right. It’s also a good description of gender dysphoria. Many people would read that story and wonder why, if I found success in the masculine world, why did I feel a needed to be a girl? All I can say is exactly. Like so many people who came before, and will come after, me, feeling wrong, somehow, was inborn.

Don’t get me wrong, As I’ve said before, I believe I came out to the box with this dysphoria, but I don’t believe God made me this way. Even with all the success in a masculine game, I couldn’t shake my secret.

Also, denial has a way of coming back on you. The floodgates open, and all your secrets spill over. After several years of faking it, and playing the role, my soul rebelled. When I grew up I couldn’t solve my problems with aggression. I lost a career job, and was forced to re-evaluate my life. Football got me through the teenage years. I suppose the military and fighting a war might’ve helped, but then again, look at Kristen Beck.

Now, I look at my life through the lens of transition. I wonder about sex after GRS. Will I date those men who made my life so miserable? I think about sex with a manly man. I admit to certain fantasies but those men, who ooze masculinity, turn my stomach. I think it’s because of the way I was treated in my youth. Something inside of me wants to beat the hell out of them.

Going all the Way

Lately, being trans is causing consternation. Oh, not in the way you might think. Trepidation seems to be the constant companion of ever transgender person from the beginning of time. No, I’m talking about something new.

Recently, I posted a blog entitled, Damn the Torpedos Full Steam ahead. I went on to say that I was going forward no matter what happens with the right wing zealots in the world. Perhaps the title would better serve this post, because I want so badly to see the Emerald City.

Have you noticed the title picture for this blog? Dorothy is about to launch her journey on the yellow brick road. I called it “Babysteps” because of my desire to have my cake and eat it too. Ok before you shoot me for all the clichés and platitudes, I will explain.

We all have the fear of coming to the end of the brick road, with no job, no friends, and no family. I know it doesn’t have to happen that way, and if the truth were told, many transgender people live full and valuable lives after transition. Fear of the nightmare, however, force many of us to proceed with caution.

What will and won’t be accepted at work keeps many of us in the closet. We tend to postpone the inevitable coming out conversation until some nebulous day in the future. We unconsciously hold on to masculinity and our other identity because the future is scary.

I’m almost sixty and I’m running out of time. The forces trying to push me back into my gender role are getting stronger. Even my body is rebelling. I need to do this and I need to do this right, now. To relieve my consternation, I daydream about leaving everything, moving away and starting a new life. Yes, I would likely be alone, but I would be . . .

Backpeddling

A few weeks ago, I posted a blog titled, It Ain’t About the Clothes. In that post, I wrote that the gender for which clothes were made doesn’t really matter to me. I went on to insinuate my feminine expression allows for frumpy. I tried to say my clothes aren’t that important. Lately, however, I discovered something.

Yes, foundation garments, shoes, and accessories are important for me to feel like a girl, but the other clothes are not. Androgynous is my style sometimes, but I prefer to say, I’m old and I’m frumpy and that’s what you get. Anyway . . .  

I caught myself planning what I will wear to a personal coming out event. The success of that milestone in my life will depend on how I am perceived as a woman. Whatever outfit I wear has everything to do with that.

While lying in bed, running my wardrobe through my head, I realized, like all genetic women, I’ve always done that. If I have someplace to be, I plan which clothes to wear to match the occasion.

While playing the part of a man, I took pleasure in watching genetics drive themselves crazy. They couldn’t make up their minds what to wear. Now, in transition, I find I’m in the same fix. For everyday outfits, I wear what’s convenient. When it’s important, I want to look fabulous.

For my coming out, I need to go shopping. No, maybe I can wear . . . Oh crap! It’s going to be bad weather. That changes the whole game.

I’m not really back-peddling my post from before. I admit that clothes sometimes DO matter. But the gender my clothes were made for doesn’t always. For some crossdessers, the thrill of presentation is the whole point. For me, though, being the woman I always wanted to be, is what I’m striving for. Dressing with feminine expression is one thing, but healing my soul is vital.

After GRS, I might think differently, but everyday clothes and makeup, aren’t that important to me right now. Still, I wish I were the kind of girl who looked pretty in a summer dress. I do indulge in shorts and tee shirts, but the tank top I want to wear, accentuates my male shoulders, so I will forbear.