When masculinity goes down the toilet.

It was the Philadelphia Eagles stadium--a shrine to masculinity. I was there to hang artwork for The Print Center. In addition to the on field pursuits, the owners of the Eagles also donate money to the arts and have local galleries and schools hang artwork in their club lounges. It was my first year on the job the first time the union workers had had a seemingly straight guy come in to hang art. Not only was I "straight," but I love football. I was excited to be there and the carpenters could tell. I got a tour of the field, got to walk through the visiting team's tunnel. I felt like one of the guys.

After a couple hours of "supervising" I had to pee. It was the off season so the stadium was pretty empty. One of the carpenters unlocked the men's room. I walked into a stall and sat down hoping no one else walks in. I still believe that men can hear that I am sitting down to pee. I quickly did my business and went to stand and pull my pants up when I hear a loud splash. I freeze, look down between my legs into the bowl and see my dick floating in the yellow water of the toilet.

My first thought was to sacrifice the dick. Just flush and run. Or just leave it? I spend what feels like forever just staring at the silicone soft pack bobbing just below the surface. I have to do something. I man up, fish my dripping penis out of the toilet and wrap it in cheap, single ply toilet paper. Then what? I knew I couldn't stuff a urine soaked soft pack in my pocket. I'd have to wash it off. I begin to panic. The stadium was empty except for the crew, but what would happen if someone walked in and saw me soaping up a soft pink penis, detached from my body, in the bathroom sink? I knew that if someone were to need the restroom, now would be the time.

I scurry to the sink. Rushing while trying to look like everything is normal. I run my dick under the painfully loud stream of water, picking off bits of toilet paper. Once I make it back to the stall I stuff it in my pants. After a few deep breaths I walk back out to the club lounge. So much for manhood.

A Clear Conscious

I have always lived my life with a great degree of self-consciousness. I don't mean the "OMG, I'm so fat" shallow kind of self consciousness. I mean the deep down, every moment consciousness of my self. I think about things every moment of every day. I am hyper aware of things most people take for granted.

I am conscious of my body: it's masculinity, its female parts. I'm conscious in the locker room at the gym of the scars on my chest and the lack of a bulge in my shorts. I'm conscious of the hair on my stomach and how it helps me pass.

I'm conscious of my bodies size, it's shape. I am conscious of not fitting places. Of not wanting to sit in a booth at a diner or go to a small, crowded restaurant because I will not be able to get between the tables without disrupting other patrons.

I am self conscious about the sound my piss makes when I use the bathroom. Do other guys notice that I don't use the urinals. Do they hear that I'm sitting down to pee?

I'm self conscious about sex. I don't have a dick. My body can't have the kind of sex my mind wants to have.

I am self conscious about my artwork. Every time I finish a major project, I think I will never have another good idea. I am self conscious of what I am working on now, about whether or not is important enough, whether or not it is meaningful. I am self conscious about the work other artists are doing. Am I conceptual enough? Am I smart enough? Do I care enough? Is this really important?

Lately I've been experiencing the constant feeling of identity consciousness. I don't mean the grandiose concept of identity. I mean literal identity documents. Last week I had to get a new social security card. I haven't legally changed my name yet. I have a New York License which says "Elizabeth." My birth certificate says the same. This doesn't bother me so much. When I got the license I was Elizabeth. Same when I was born. But filling out the forms now, writing the name Elizabeth and checking the female box made my heart hurt. I was conscious of what I was and what I wasn't. I was once again aware of my body. I pulled my sleeves down so my arm hair wasn't visible. I limited my speaking so my low voice wasn't so obvious. I kept my jacket on so my flat chest wouldn't be noticed. I went backwards.

The woman behind the counter looked at my documents, said "Elizabeth?", did a slight double take, shook her head and stamped my forms. I received my Social Security card ten days later in the mail. Today I went to the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation to get a PA drivers license. I woke up this morning and almost backed out, but forced myself to brave the scrutiny for the second time in as many weeks. I got there and realized that transgenderism aside, I was perhaps the most normal person in the building. I could fill out a form, I could write a check, I didn't talk to myself, I didn't seem crazy, I could get a license. Self-consciously, I responded to Elizabeth, checked the box marked Female, and walked out with a valid ID. My identity may not have been validated, but at least I learned that every so often I can let go of my self consciousness. Maybe it was like coming out, maybe I was simply ignored. Either way, sometimes people simply don't care.

WELCOME TO THE MEN’S ROOM

It was December of 2004 that I began consistently using the men’s room. There wasn’t a deliberate decision that caused me to change my bathroom of choice. Instead of waiting until I felt certain of passing I just instinctually gravitated towards the men’s room one day, and I went with it. I don’t quite know what I expected to find behind that door. Men’s bathrooms were not completely unknown to me. As a defiant butch dyke I would enter when the line for the ladies room was too long, but during those visits I always felt like I was subversively crossing over into foreign territory. Now I was expected to suddenly feel comfortable enough to relieve myself.


My hand gently nudged the door open so I could peer around it to see if there was anyone behind it. Finding no one, I lowered my head, gathered my resolve, awkwardly folded my arms to hide my chest and pushed the door fully open. I crossed the threshold and, without looking right or left, rushed to the nearest stall. Once the door was locked behind me I realized I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Should I life the seat? The sound seemed important then how would I go to the bathroom? Peeing down my leg was no way to end my first visit here. I stared at the toilet for a long time, weighing my options when I finally decided it would be better to sit, but take a shit as well in order to save face. The toilet flushed and I waited. When I was sure there was no one else in the bathroom I slowly opened the door. Immediately fearing someone would enter, I bolted out of the stall, hurriedly ran my hands under the faucet and slid into the booth across from my parents.


Without having said a word about this groundbreaking ordeal my mom told me the waitress had come. “I told her our daughter will be joining us before it dawned on me that you were probably in the men’s room.“
The stress didn‘t end with this initial success, but it gradually became less intense. Eventually I could use a busy bathroom and at least act like I belonged even if I didn’t feel like it. I could managed to walk past someone using a urinal and not step away in fear of invading their personal space. This singular bodily function challenged me to reinforce my gender every time I had to go. People would realize the rumors were true when they passed me coming out of the men’s room. As I became more comfortable, they became more comfortable or at least stopped looking so confused. Gradually I was able just walk in, take care of business, and leave. Most days it even felt natural, routine. Still, some days it felt like the biggest, scariest decision ever. These were the days that I was sure someone would stare, ask me to leave, treat me like I didn’t belong like I couldn‘t possibly be a man.


On those days I just couldn’t handle the added stress of my bladder forcing me to face everything that was going on in my life. One day I didn’t want to make this major decision, I just wanted to pee. Mentally I knew no one would say anything. I had been using the same men’s bathroom for weeks without so much as an odd look, much less an incident, but I longed for the safety of being back in familiar territory, to once again feel like a butch dyke in the lady’s room. The minute I opened the door I knew it was a mistake. The old woman at the sink looked at me in shock. A little girl pointed and whispered to her mother. I could have turned around, apologized, said I got the wrong bathroom, but it wasn‘t wrong. It just wasn‘t right. I forged ahead to the stall in front of me and performed the same act I had when I first used the men’s room. I waited for the coast to clear, ran my hands under cold water and walked out the door as quickly as possible. It was then that I realized how foreign the lady’s room had become, that I had crossed that point of no return. Women chatted while they went to the bathroom. They waited around for their friends and fixed their hair. They performed rituals and routines that I had never been a part of. I suddenly had a longing for the silent peeing and flushing of the men’s room. That was, after all, what I was used to.