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.

You don't know what you've got 'til its gone

I've been incredibly lax about writing lately. I don't have any excuse other than laziness, but I do think the lack of compulsion to write has been somewhat telling of where I am in my life.

I got a new license a few months ago. I didn't realize how much legally changing my name and gender would affect me. It was something I had put off for a long time. I didn't want to deal with it, I didn't want to spend the money on it and I found it incredibly unfair that I had to do it at all. My legal name didn't come up much, it only caused the occasional inconvenience, it wasn't a big deal, it was important to recognize my female past--I came up with any number of excuses to put it off as long as possible.

The saying you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone applies to negative as well as positive. I didn't realize how much fear and anxiety I was carrying around in my back pocket until it was no longer there. I could show my license in a small Midwestern airport and not fear the questions, not wear bulky clothes to try to look female-ish, not be scared to speak. I could rent a car without fearing an awkward confrontation. I could buy beer in a small town and not fear for my physical safety.

I didn't realize the stress and fear i was carrying in my body and self, how my ID affected my self confidence and personal sense of safety. Now that its legal, my transition is completely on my terms. I can tell only who I want. Those that do not need to know can also be told, but I retain the power. My identity is truly my own.

I still had to go through and change my name with the credit cards and phone company but now I had the law on my side. I was legitimate in my request. I am still angry that the law has this much power over my gender, but I can't deny the strength and confidence this has given me.

I still get the occasional junk mail addressed to Elizabeth. I didn't realize until now that I used to actually feel embarrassed. Now I feel indignant. Indignant and a little embarrassed that I ever felt embarrassed. Transitioning will always be an incredibly emotional process but you don't know what emotional baggage you're carrying until you suddenly leave it behind. For a moment I stopped transitioning and started living. It felt really good to be boring.

On the bus

When I moved outside of walking distance from my job I decided it was time to invest in public transportation. I was immediately surprised when my Transpass was assigned a "F" sticker. The irony of the name was not lost on me, but I was more confused about why this was necessary in the first place. Someone told me it was to prevent people from sharing passes. In true Septa fashion they had managed to deal with what could be a significant problem approximately half of the time.

At this time I was pretty butch, but my chest made me look fairly female. Additionally I realized that all you needed to do was put your finger over the sticker and it would hardly be visible. I never had a problem. Still, the stickers very presence grated on my nerves. During the height of my transition I was living in New York where the Metrocards are decidedly gender neutral. I moved back to Philly and bought tokens so I wouldn't have to deal with a gender specific pass. At the time self-preservation was most important.

Finally, someone is challenging this most backwards and useless of systems. An article in the Philly Weekly brought to light some of the very real instances of discrimination experienced by trans and gendervariant riders. A small grassroots group called Riders Against Gender Exclusion (RAGE) is working with the Citizens Advisory Committee. Additionally, Equality Advocates Pennsylvania have challenged the policy on the grounds that it violates the Equal Protection Clauses in the federal and state constitutions.


I fully agree that stickers are annoying and in some cases dangerous. Still, for me it is just a bus and tokens are still an option. Then, when i think, "Does a bus pass really matter?" I remember that indeed, it was one woman's bus ride in 1955 that truly changed the world.


Below is a press release sent out by RAGE. For more information or to get involved visit their website or facebook page.

Gendered Pass Policy is “Irrational” SEPTA Committee Says;
First Victory for Riders Opposing Discrimination

SEPTA should eliminate the use of gender stickers in its fare system, decided the Citizens Advisory Committee at its Tuesday night meeting. The Committee unanimously agreed to draft a recommendation to the General Manager Joe Casey for a gender-neutral fare policy.

Several members of the committee voiced their disagreement with the current system that requires the use of M/F stickers on Trans and Trail commuter passes, as well as reduced fare cards for seniors and people with disabilities. The committee chair Bob Clearfield stated that “gender[profiling] has no place in the 21st century,” while others commented that using a gendered system to prevent pass sharing is “irrational” and that there is “no empirical data” to support its use.

Members of the grassroots campaign Riders Against Gender Exclusion (R.A.G.E.) also gave a statement about the implications of this policy on transgender and gender non-conforming people.

R.A.G.E. member Nico Amador cited one incident in which a rider with an androgynous gender presentation was questioned repeatedly by a SEPTA conductor in front of a crowded rush-hour train. “Not only are these incidents embarrassing and degrading for the people who experience them,” said Amador, “they also alert other riders to that person’s difference, exposing them to the risk of further harassment or violence.”

In the past week, R.A.G.E., whose Facebook membership is now over 600 people, has collected almost 400 petition signatures asking the SEPTA General Manager Joe Casey to stop using the gender stickers.

R.A.G.E. member David Conners, who also spoke at Tuesday night’s meeting, said afterwards, “Though we are extremely pleased by the support of the Citizen Advisory Committee, we realize that the final decision is in the hands of the General Manager Joe Casey and we intend to continue to apply pressure to see that this discriminatory policy is stopped.”

Old lesbians who look like men who look like old lesbians...

I was walking behind this couple today. The person on the left looked like a pretty normal straight woman. On the right was someone with short but thick wavy hair, white sneakers, Dad jeans pulled up a little too high and a navy polo shirt. I immediately thought of one of my favorite websites, Men Who Look Like Old Lesbians. Thinking for sure this man walking in front of me was going to bear a striking resemblance to Billy Jean King, I passed this couple, turned and realized that this man in front of me actually was an old lesbian. An old lesbian that had no doubt been mistaken for a man at some point in her life. An old lesbian that was probably made fun of as a child for being a tom-boy. An old lesbian who, well, looked like an old lesbian. Here I am preparing myself to have a chuckle about the fact that this woman looks exactly like what she is. The irony is fantastic.

Every day gender blurs a little more. Girls look like boys who look like girls. I don't and never have advocated for a gender free society. I think the distinctions between the genders are important and wonderful. However, I'm all for the freedom to take on all those traits at once. Now that I am a man I feel much more comfortable taking on more womanly traits, traits that would have made me ashamed and uncomfortable in a world that saw me as a woman. Sometimes taking our genders full circle is what we need for everything to make sense.

The meaning of our stories

I've been really struggling with meaning lately. It started on a personal level--what's the point of my work? It snowballed out of control from there. What's the point of any artwork? Is it a commodity? Is it entertainment? It's tough to be an advocate for the art when you're in the throws of an existential crisis where you're not sure you believe in art at all.

The downward spiral continued with wondering what the point of anything was? Why write if no one reads it? Who cares if someone does read it? It got even more ridiculous when I starting thinking things like what's the point of going to the gym? To get healthy, eh? Well, what's the point in getting healthy if we're all going to die eventually anyway? Why spend time with friends? Why drink a beer? Why laugh? Why talk? Why bother? I was close to believing there was little point to anything. My new philosophizing was leading me to a life where one would go through the motions and spent the rest of their time in a dark room staring at a blank wall. I knew something was wrong.

Last time I felt this way I saw an amazing presentation on artists in exile--women in the middle east telling their stories. It pulled me out of my funk and made me realize that art had the roll of communicator, telling a story that isn't otherwise told. I'm trying to remind myself of this now. I'm also trying to remind myself that it is darkest before the dawn. When I had my show in January I could see that the works had meaning for people. This was both energizing and perplexing.

Coming out as gay is community building, I think transitioning is an inherently isolating experience. We may find other transpeople to share the experience with, but for some reason these friendships have always felt oddly competitive. His voice sounds deeper, his arms are more muscular, his facial hair is growing faster. Maybe that's just me. Instead of coming out we are trying to fit in--fit in to our bodies, selves and a community of men. This is something we do alone. The more I "succeed" as a man, the more lonely it begins to feel.

Still, our stories are important--all of our stories. Instead of acting like a three year old and continually asking why I am learning to accept and believe this. The memories that connect us and the stories we tell keep time moving and turn our interactions into something bigger than ourselves. Rather than trying to figure out what that something is (which I think is pretty much impossible), I should just give in and contribute to the story.

Whoa, Baby

The appearance of Thomas Beatie on the cover of the Philadelphia Weekly's "Queer Issue" a couple weeks ago sparked a whole new wave of feelings, many of which I've been struggling for the past couple weeks to explain. As far as pregnant trans men go, I don't feel so black and white about it as many people I know do. In general I say do what you want to do. Live and let Live. Unfortunately it's so much more complicated than that.

I would personally love to have a baby, but there are concerns beyond just simply wanting to have a child. For one thing, I'm concerned about what the effects of incubating a baby in eggs that have been pickling in testosterone would be. Medical issues aside, however, I don't think that wanting to have a child is an intrinsically female thing. I think more men would choose to have babies if it were genetically possible. In many cases it has been women that have had the strongest reaction to the Pregnant Man story. For some it is a mental misunderstanding of the difference between Gender Identity and Sex making some wonder why he would transition if he wanted to have a baby. I can explain this away with some clarity, but I can't explain away the feelings and resentments that seem to linger.

I do have major issues that go much deeper and are much more complicated than simple medical concerns. Thomas Beatie was all over the news. GLBT groups, many at a loss for how to respond, issued statements criticising the sensationalization in the media, but it can't be ignored that Beatie was the one that put his story out there. Although seemingly mild mannered and "shy," this level of attention can be very addictive. He doesn't seem to have considered the needs of the greater community nor is he conscious of the effect his actions have with regards to social and legal matters. I struggle because I don't want to say that if you don't fit the mainstream queer you should shut up. The mainstream becomes a bigger and bigger stream everyday and a stream I didn't fit in not too long ago.

However, I think it is every queer persons responsibility to manage their visibility responsibly and be conscious of the greater community. I personally got really nervous when he showed up on the cover of the Philly Weekly as I'm waiting for my court date for my legal name and gender change. The Advocate--the first to break the Beatie story--also offered an article on it's potential aftermath for trans advocates. Here's an excerpt, but check out the rest of the article here.

"Some trans activists also note that this story has a high “ick” factor for the general population. The first reactions [author Jamison] Green read online were discouraging. “They wrote ‘disgusting’ or asked, ‘How can someone do that to themselves and think he is a man?’ and worse,” he recalls. “I worry that for the uneducated and less accepting, this brings back the whole ‘freak’ label to transgender people.” When she saw the teaser for the Oprah show, alarm bells went off for Cathy Renna, managing partner of Renna Communications, a New York City–based firm that develops communications strategies for LGBT organizations. “My sense is that this story has all the hallmarks of one that could be easily sensationalized—one that could easily set back some of the improvements that have been made by transgender people,” she says. “Beatie’s article opened the Pandora’s box.”

Think about what happened in 2003 after the Massachusetts supreme judicial court ruled that the state had to allow marriage as an option for gay couples. Other state governments panicked. Twenty-three states amended their constitutions to limit marriage to one man and one woman, joining three that had done so earlier. Some states, such as Michigan, even went further—using their amendment to justify denying health benefits to the gay partners of state employees.

“Generally, with the public and mainstream media we’re still doing Trans 101,” says Renna. “I worry this kind of story will create a whole new level of regulation. Anti-trans groups will use this as ammunition to influence politics to make laws that won’t let trans people make decisions about their own body. I so hope I’m wrong.”

That’s not just negative thinking. In Japan it’s illegal to transition if you’ve already given birth or fathered a child. So far no such law exists in this country, although three states—Idaho, Ohio, and Tennessee—will not allow their transgender citizens to legally change their gender on birth certificates."

It was his appearance on Oprah that partially got me jammed up in Michigan with the Department of Vital Records pointing to his story as a reason I could not change my birth certificate. Still, my court date is probably a couple months away and if Oprah couldn't keep him in the spotlight I doubt PW will. The story already seems to have waned.

But even in its waning, the existence of more and more pregnant men can't be ignored and I know it's an issue many transmen struggle with. I asked one friend about his issues. "I don't know. I guess because it's sooo not something I would want to do and I consider being pregnant very female, in fact. [Also,}] I guess because I've struggled so long to be "accepted" as a "real live boy" that [FTM's getting pregnant] just make it harder for me with the rest of society because automatically people then assume I'm the same as so and so....I don't know. It's not a feeling/thought process I'm particularly proud of but...there it is."

I think most everyone considers being pregnant to be a very female thing, but would we if it didn't have to be that way? I don't know?

I understand why he feels that way and I don't think it's something he needs to be ashamed of. Beatie and others are making it difficult for other trans guys if not simply giving us one more thing in an already long list of things that we, as FTMs, need to explain. For a while I was bombarded with questions about Beatie simply because I am FTM. In many ways, these pregnant men are putting the quotation marks back around the "man" in transman.

However, I can't help but recall butch dykes not being asked to participate in early gay rights marches because they would make the "just like you" approach that lady-like lesbians were going for less effective. It's true that butches upset the mainstream appeal of white collar gays, but the "just like you" approach also doesn't really work in the long run.

I also think there's a definite pendulum swing to transitioning. It's necessary to overswing to really masculine and then you kind of swing back a bit. I don't know if i would have felt differently about Beatie's story in year one of my transition than I do now. I know I am different. I'm a different kind of guy. Lately I have been thinking a lot about reconciling all that makes me a man with everything that makes me different. Trying to be OK with that difference is really hard. It's hard not being in the same queer community, it's hard feeling different, and sometimes jealous, than other guys, it's hard figuring out how to have sex with my parts and not loose that masculinity. I feel like I'm in a back swing right now and it's really disorienting.

Ultimately, masculine is different for everyone--trans and biological guys alike. It doesn't have to be macho. A masculine swing could be whatever your version of masculinity is. If being a man for you always meant not having to wear a shirt in the summer than maybe you never wear your shirt in the summer. Then you eventually realize that all guys have to wear a shirt sometimes in the summer. Topless on the subway is not very classy as I was totally disappointed to learn.

I'm sure the Beatie stuff will all shake out in the wash and ultimately be good for the movement. I'm also sure that some people will be hurt in the process. I'm more interested in the internal dialogue that this could spark for the trans community. When so much of transitioning is about feeling "normal" for the first time in our lives, any threat to that can be really unsettling. Still, it's the freaks and outsiders that have changed the world. Personally I really wish Thomas Beatie would just shut up and go away, but publicly I'll defend his right to exist no matter how much I cringe while doing so.

A Boy Named Sue (or in this case Elizabeth)

The act of changing my name and identity documents is a giant pain in the ass. It's been something that I have been admittedly reluctant to do--not because I don't want it done, but because I am angry that I have to deal with it at all. Not only is it wildly expensive (and getting more expensive by the day thanks to a giant increase on court fees), but there are also seemingly hundreds of little steps that must be completed. These must all be completed in order, on time, and of course they generally cost money.

One of these steps is getting a set of fingerprints taken. The assumption is that if you're changing your name for any reason other than marriage than you must be doing it for fraudulent purposes. Attaching a fingerprint card to your name change papers allows your identity remains fluid even as your name changes.

Fingerprinting is one of the less expensive steps of changing your name--it costs about $25. I got mine taken at a strange little place on the corner of 2nd and Chestnut in Old City Philadelphia. Of course, you must bring ID such as a drivers license or passport--the very ID you are trying to change. I walked in, said I needed a set of fingerprints and placed both my drivers license and credit card on the counter. My license says the name Elizabeth, my credit card says Eli. "Getting your name changed?" the man behind the counter asks. I was surprised at how trans-savvy he was and said yes. "Eli is way better, man. I mean, what were your parents thinking naming you Elizabeth? Is that your mom's name or something?" Realizing he missed the glaring "Female" on my license, I simply stammer "It was my grandma's name."

"Aw man, that's awful. How could your parents do that? You definitely need to get that changed. Definitely." I agree that it was a cruel joke, but don't tell him that it wasn't my parents fault. They didn't know. It was more an unfortunate twist of fate.

Gay for Obama

I ordered an Obama sticker online. After much deliberation I went with "GLBT for Obama." I actually thought twice about ordering it. I felt almost disgusted with myself. I used to be such a proud and outspoken queer person. I had rainbow stickers on my car and although I gave up the rainbow jewelry and freedom rings when I hit my twenties, there was still no mistaking that i was a dyke. Then i transitioned. When you transition it almost feels like you're being shoved back in the closet, sometimes against your own will. If you look like a dyke you will not look like a man. If you present as queer you will not pass as straight. I struggled to reconcile these feelings, but still transitioned very much in the open. Then i returned to Philadelphia and although many knew me from before, so many people knew me only as Eli that I could slip so easily into just being a man.

Drawing attention to my transness brings up obvious base concerns. What will my neighbors thing? What will they think of me, what will they think of Anna? On one side they're very Catholic, on the otherside they're raging conservative christians (with McCain signs and stickers all over their house, which started this bumper sticker shopping in the first place). I hate that these concerns creep into my mind, but i have spent so long feeling uncomfortable in my own body. I do not want to feel uncomfortable in my own neighborhood or home. I hate being reminded of all the awkward fear and hyperawareness that i felt when i first came out over ten years ago. I want to be open and out, but even beyond these concerns there's something inherently different between being an out dyke and an out FTM.

When i was open about being a dyke i was allowing, sometimes forcing people to see who i really was. When i come out as trans there is a fear that people will see what i am not. I fear that they will look closer at me trying to find the woman in my past, that that they will look at me and say "I never would have guessed you're woman," forcing me to remind them that i am not. There is so much emphasis put on passing and when you come out as trans you in some ways cease to succeed in what could be considered the most important part of transitioning--presenting as your chosen gender.

I still bought the sticker. I still put it on my bike. Nothing has happened, no one has said anything and i doubt that anyone will. Sometimes it's just as important to remind yourself as it is to remind others of who you are and where you came from.

The power of truth

I have to rent a car. What should be a completely mundane task is wrought with anxiety for me. I haven't changed my ID yet. I know I should have taken care of this a long time ago, but I didn't. It's a lot of time, a lot of money and a whole lot of hassle. In my every day life I am honestly not that affected. I do still look like my ID picture for the most part. It's the name Elizabeth and the glaring "F" that cause the problems.


I try to get myself psyched up for the confrontation, but avoid it at all costs. I carefully shave in the morning and put on baggy clothing. I even honestly consider trying to make it look like I have breasts. These parts of me that I spent a lifetime trying to pretend weren't there I am now trying to hint at. Imply breasts to prevent an even more awkward situation.

One time a few years ago, I presented my ID. The woman at the counter examined me and the license carefully. I was then asked to sit down. A few moments later I hear them call "ELIZABETH?" I turn and walk deliberately back to the counter. A second woman turns to the first and says, "See, that's Elizabeth. She answered."

A second time I made it into the car fine, but had to show ID again to get out of the parking lot. The attendant had apparently just gotten yelled at for not checking ID's well enough. She wasn't taking any chances with me. She looked at the ID, looked at me and said "This isn't you." I stammered that it was. "No. It's not. This is a woman's ID."

I choked on the words. "I know. I am Elizabeth." I wondered why on earth anyone would believe that if I wanted to steal an ID I wouldn't just take a man's. Finally, after considerable back and forth, after trying to ignore that my identification didn't match who I was anymore, I decided to take a chance on the truth. "I was Elizabeth. I was a woman. Now I am a man. I haven't changed my Driver's License yet." She looked at me. Looked closer at my picture. Saw hints of the man now was in the face on that picture.

"I am so sorry." She began gushing. "I am really really sorry. I just got yelled at by my boss and I just..." she went on an on, apologizing for something which I could not blame her for. I would have questioned me too.

Memories, cornered in my mind...

I spent the evening last night remembering my transition. I told all the great stories that had become lodged in my psyche, moments of awkward humor or brilliant awakening. In some ways I had meticulously recorded my transition, but, like all records, it was a record of things I wanted to remember. As the evening wore on, however, I began to recall moments that has just slipped away. I began to wonder about those moments that I simply didn’t want to recall. Moments that were so defeating and heartbreaking at the time that I didn’t think I would ever want to go back to them. We all remember those times when we begin to pass, but what about all the times we don’t.

Here I am years later being asked questions by two people that, together, provide my perfect combination of feigned confidence and total anxiety. I see myself in both of them so clearly that anxieties and fears I totally forgotten come rushing back. Some stories I’m learning are somewhat universal, moments that many if not all transmen share. Others are stories I keep hearing, stories that seem to be universal to everyone but me. Seemingly more common are the feelings--feelings of guilt, shame, awkwardness, annoyance, anger, fear, pride and bravado.

So, in the interest of full disclosure, here are some memories that at the time I probably preferred to forget…

I had decided to transition, I had decided to make art about it and that seemed to be the end of it. Nothing was happening. I didn’t know what to make work on, I didn’t look any different, but I went from a confident dyke to a terrified and nervous nothing. Maybe I wasn’t trying hard enough. Maybe if I only put a little effort into it something would begin to happen. If you knew me then you knew I had D breasts. I didn’t bind. It wasn’t because it was uncomfortable or hot or suffocating, though it certainly was all those things, it was that it didn’t work. I would have gladly turned my breasts into deflated pancakes if I though it would make me look like a man. It turns out that I passed more often when I didn’t bind. The minute I put on a binder my stomach turned into knots and any eye contact I made with the world took on a dear in headlights terror. This fear took away any masculinity I may have gained by a flat chest. Still, I kept going back to it. I wasn’t trying hard enough. I woke up that morning and decided to bind. Anna and I were going into Manhattan and I was going to be a man. I got out of the shower and with Anna’s help, began wrapping more and more fabric around my chest. A sports bra, ace bandages, another sports bra, an undershirt and then a sweater. It was the tightest I’d ever gotten things and I thought I looked good. I couldn’t breath, sit normally, walk normally or really talk, but surely I must look like a man. The entire subway ride into the city I was feeling alright. My eyes darted from face to face looking for any acknowledgement of my masculinity. The next stop was lunch—my first interaction with another human. The first words out of his mouth—“can I help you, ma’am?” I wanted to cry. I didn’t say anything trying to decide in that split second if I should correct him, trying to force myself to say “actually, it’s sir.” Instead all I could choke out through my constricted chest was “one slice of plain.”


I hoped the old wives tale was actually true—that when you shaved a hair a darker one grew back in its place. Before I took a drop of testosterone I was going to try to coax a beard out of my fair skin with shaving cream and a disposable razor. I went to the dollar store by my house in Brooklyn. I picked out some shaving cream from the shelf, but the razors were behind the counter. I gathered all my courage and asked for a bag of razors. The Dominican man behind the counter looked closely at me and then said “for your face?” Yes, I told him, thinking I had finally passed. “You don’t look Puerto Rican,” he tells me as he turns and grabbed a pink bag from the wall. I wrinkled my brow, not following. As he tossed the razors on the counter he explained that these were the best for ladies faces. Easy on the skin. All his customers prefer them. He didn’t think I was a man but a Puerto Rican lady trying to get rid of my feminine mustache. “I’m not Puerto Rican,” I said, affecting the lowest voice I could muster. I left before he could recommend a woman’s shaving cream.


And finally (for today)…
You know how annoying 13 year old boys can be? I Was That Annoying. The great thing for these kids is that they have no idea just how obnoxious they are, but when you have the mind of an adult and the hormone levels of a child you unfortunately know better. Even worse, there is nothing you can do to stop it. I was passing most of the time so I no longer had this look of terror frozen on my face. I was no longer spending all my energy trying to be a man, but belong. It was non-stop over compensation. This need to be a man, need for the approval of my peers, approval of girls, approval of adult men and although I saw myself as a train wreck in slow motion, there was nothing I could do to stop my hormonal wrangling not for king of the hill, but for a spot somewhere along the side of it. I would push a bit too hard, talk a bit too loud, and my jokes were a bit too inappropriate. I totally wanted to pee on things. I got drunk and spray-painted something (I have no idea what) on the side of a bodega. If I thought I could get away with body checking everyone on the subway I would have. I wanted to be a man, but as annoying as I was, I had to be a boy first.

LIVING MY LEGACY

Summer is all about the reality show and realizing your dreams. I see these talent shows and hear people tell their gut wrenching stories about how they've given up everything to follow their dream of being a musician, dancer or fire eater. How they've sacrificed and toiled because this is the only thing they want. Then I think about my own life--what do I want more than anything? For a while I was really feeling down because I couldn't come up with anything. I started to feel passionless. Then I realized that it wasn't that I didn't have a dream, but rather that my dreams had been realized. Ever since I can remember I've wanted to have a partner that I love and care about, own a home of my own and, most importantly, to become a man. Over the past few years I've attained all these things. It's not that I have no dreams, it's that I simply have to dream up some new ones.

Below is a story chronicling the ups, downs and ultimate wonder that my dreams of transitioning could become a reality.

When I move to New York I will become a man. This is what I kept telling myself. Passing had been on my mind for over a year, but the thought of transitioning in Philadelphia where I had spent the last five years was simply too daunting. I though Harry Benjamin‘s Care Guidelines were hard and fast rules. The thought of living as my “chosen gender” for at least a year before I could even be considered for top surgery and hormones terrified me. I tried to learn ways of passing by joining a drag king troupe, but the only thing I liked about being on stage in drag was that I looked like a man while doing it. Inserting this masculine look into the rest of my life without the dim lights of the bar achieved only a few odd stares and a friend asking me why my boobs looked “kinda smushed.” How would I tell my friends and co-workers I was now a boy when I couldn’t even convince a stranger? Unassisted manhood would have to wait until I left.

For the first time since undergrad I would be entering an entirely new world where I didn‘t know anyone. I wanted the transition to be immediate. I wanted to bind my breasts and answer to a boy’s name. I hoped everyone could just assume that I had always been the man I now claimed to be. Unfortunately it was not that easy. I went to bed ready to bind my breasts the next morning. I woke up unable to do just that. I told myself it was because of the temperature. “It’s August. You can’t begin regular breast binding in August.“ Really, it was that I thought I could never pull it off. No one would believe I was a man. I‘d just be the sweaty dyke with “kinda smushed“ boobs that couldn‘t breath. I’d also enrolled under the name Elizabeth, not knowing I could do anything else. With every building I went to and every form I filled out, I had to say this name. By the third time of repeating a name I couldn’t identify with, all the bravado I had taken with me to New York had drained from my body. I was standing on the steps of South Hall when one of my new classmates asked me my name. “B-“ slipped from my mouth before I could stop myself. I choked on “-etsy” and went home feeling defeated.

This defeat was really self-prescribed. At every necessity to passing I had placed a road block in my path. I hadn’t chosen a name, much less used it on enrollment records, I wouldn’t bind for fear of looking stupid, and most importantly I had a hard time believing I really was a man. If I couldn’t believe in my manhood I could not expect it from anyone else. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t physically ready to safely walk through life as a man who may not always look so “manly.“ I wasn’t mentally ready to defend my chosen gender which was questioned at every pass. I wasn’t emotionally ready to deal with those who didn’t believe in my manhood, and most importantly I wasn’t spiritually ready to stop feeling apologetic for who I was. I still though it was my problem that I didn’t look like a man, that it was my fault I was challenging others to stretch their minds around gender past what they understood it to be.

I began to realize the every day, unexpected practical challenges of becoming a man—moments where I was forced to make split second decisions as if I’ve lived them my whole life. Saying my name when I wasn‘t even sure what it should be, that moment’s hesitation before I chose what public restroom to use, filling out paperwork and feeling like I was required to check male or female when neither of these was really accurate; all of these mundane things became high stakes decisions. Every time I checked “Female” on a form I felt that much further away from becoming a man. Every time I wrote my name I lost a little bit of myself.

I finally gathered the courage to change my name. As much as I wanted it to, changing the name and pronouns people used to refer to me was not something I could subtly accomplish. I didn’t want to choose a name, my parents were supposed to do that for me. I didn’t want to tell people to use male pronouns, that was supposed to happen naturally. I didn’t want to be aware of my transition. I just wanted to have always been a man. I felt bad for asking something of people that I was certain they had never encountered before in their lives. Even the most sensitive of people needed to hear from my own mouth, “I am becoming a boy and changing my name to Eli. Please refer to me with male pronouns.” Most people needed to hear this more than once. A name isn’t just a name. It is the sound that is immediately connected with your person and knowing this made it hard to ask someone to change and even harder to correct them. Thankfully I was surrounded by people that wouldn’t listen to my apologies, they simply kept trying. Some asked what name I wanted them to call me, some needed to be told. Some waited for me to tell them to use male pronouns, some just started on their own. Everyone respected my decision.
Still, I was struggling. After six months of thinking about transitioning, the pressure to actually do something finally became too much. I showed up in the nurse’s office in January crying and shaking, begging for refills on my anti-depressants. She asked if I’d ever considered therapy. I nodded, glad she had asked, and was ushered into a serene, light blue room across the hall. While the noise machine hummed outside the door my new therapist Jennifer kindly asked me my name. I told her I didn’t know.

“People have started calling me Eli,” I said quietly.

“Is that what you’d like me to call you,” she asked?

“I guess,” she waited expectantly. “Yes,” I concluded, “Call me Eli.” She nodded and wrote my name on my chart. I had done it. I had finally made a decision and was beginning to take control of my life.

Together we worked on how to live with the most honesty possible. I knew I always wanted top surgery, but I was concerned about hormones. The health risks were a part of this concern but I was more worried about becoming just another straight, white male. I was scared of loosing the community that had made me the person I was. I didn’t want to loose the feeling of pride in walking down the street as a open queer person. My politics as a feminist and my personal identity seemed to be in conflict until Jennifer finally asked me, “What do you expect to see when you look in the mirror?“

“A flat chest and facial hair,“ I said without hesitation. That was when I knew that I needed to start hormones.

I had my first shot in June of 2004. After leaving the doctor I went to get sushi at a small takeout stand in a hallway between a laundry-mat at an apartment building on west 17th street. As I ate my avocado roll I waited for my first surge of manhood. The photos of the smiling Japanese owners on their trip to the Vatican stared back at me while the radio in the back room whined grainy hymns accompanied by a thumping bass beat from the dryers no more than twenty feet away. While I chewed, I waited for my whiskers to grow and my womanly body to fade away. When I opened my front door two hours later I went straight to the bathroom and inspected my face. Nothing. Not a glimmer of a hair, much less a five o’clock shadow. Nothing had changed. There would be plenty of time to become the man I wanted to be.

When I had begun seeing Jennifer I told her that within the next year I wanted to have top surgery, and just short of a year later, January 11, 2005, I went to Baltimore for chest reconstructive surgery. Something that the year before was just a dream I never believed could be a reality had actually come true. I woke up in the recovery room and looked down at my body. For the first time I saw the body I had always seen in my mind.

The most remarkable thing about all the doctors and therapists I have seen is that I was never asked to explain myself. I never had to prove my manhood. I was in the midst of a dichotomy between a medical profession that had seen this all before and a community of people that were struggling to understand me. In retrospect I wouldn’t have even known how to explain myself. I wouldn’t have been able to prove anything to anyone. Everything felt uncertain. I finally realized I couldn’t know for sure until I took the leap to start transitioning. I thought critically of each and every decision I made along the way. My most difficult critic proved to be myself. Once I had accepted the decisions I was making and the person I was becoming, my community, both medical and social, supported me in living my reality.

At some point in my childhood I had seen something on TV about sex changes. I was young and naive and thought maybe things would just be ok. I could go to the doctor, get the penis I seemed to be missing and restart my life as a boy. When I told my parents I wanted to be a boy at nine years old I realized from the looks on their faces that it wasn’t that easy. Now, seventeen years later it still isn’t that easy, but it is possible. It hadn’t been since puberty that I could spend a summer without my shirt on. I’ll have to wait a while longer to pee standing up. Still, what was a dream at nine is becoming a reality at twenty-six. That thought still amazes me.

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.

directions...

I'm waiting at the bus stop in china town and this group of five teenage boys comes up to me. my teenage years were pretty traumatic so i fear teenage boys way more than i do adult men. so they walk up and ask where canal street is, "ma'am." while I'm giving the one directions the other one is yelling in the background, "that's a man, yo." i give my directions and the kid turns to me and says, "I'm sorry, really i am. you are a guy right?" i just say it's OK and not to worry about it. happens sometimes. he runs off yelling at his friends, "you guys, i told you it was a guy. you guys are such dorks." it made me smile. when i looked like a girl i got mistaken for a guy and now i get mistaken for a woman. i still enjoy watching people argue about it after they walk away.

passing

"excuse me, ladies."

huh? what's that about. not only am i packing, but I've paid a small fortune for this very flat chest. lady? i don't get it. i pass maybe 75% of the time so when i don't it catches me completely off guard. i have a very love/hate relationship with passing to begin with so i never know how to respond. usually when i open my mouth people look very uncomfortable and correct themselves which is attention i don't really want either. it would be nice to just not have to think about it but unfortunately that's just not possible...

on the other hand I'm glad that I've got knowledge that someone who has never seen both sides of gender will never have. being on both sides of "ladies" and "gentlemen" changes the way you see said ladies and gentlemen. thank god.

pre surgery post

There's been a lot going on since the last time I wrote. I suppose I got so overwhelmed with the general act of living life that I didn't quite have time to relay the information. So here in a nutshell is everything that's happening.

My parents have offered to loan me the money for my top surgery and I will be paying them back gradually through various fundraising events. Thanks to all who have contributed so far. I have raised over $400 dollars, which is enough to cover my stay in extended care. I scheduled my surgery sometime in September with Dr. Fisher and have the date set for January 11, 2005. My mom and girlfriend will be traveling down to Baltimore and staying for about a week. After that I will return to Brooklyn and continue my recovery there.

In other news, I've been on hormones for about six months. My voice has dropped to a point where I have no trouble passing on the phone. I've hit a point where I never know how people are reading me when I'm in public. Perhaps they aren't so sure either because I rarely get called ma'am or sir. I have a few whiskers but nothing substantial. I do have a bit of a furry belly. However, the most notable feature change right now is my unbelievable acne problem. I've been told that it just looks like my skin is looking a bit more ruddy and masculine and thank you Meg for trying to make me feel better, but fact is I really look like a pimply faced teenage boy. What can you do, though? Going through puberty the right way this time makes up for some of the bad side effects.

Anna is still as beautiful and amazing as ever. Her jewelry donation raised $100 for my surgery but more important is her support and presence through all of this. It's by no means easy, but were doing our best to keep talking about everything.