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.
Showing posts with label size. Show all posts
Showing posts with label size. Show all posts
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Saturday, May 31, 2008
EXECUTIVE CUT
The story below was written as a part of my graduate thesis. The thesis was completed in May of 2005. These actual events occured in February of 2005.
This wasn’t the first time I would be trying on suits. Rather, it would be the first time I felt like I was legitimately trying on suits. With a weddings and job interviews coming up and now that my breasts were gone it was time to own a suit that fit. Instead of running off to the thrift store and making do with the cast offs of others, I was going to be buying a suit that had never been worn by anyone else before. The fabric wouldn’t give me a rash, the pockets wouldn’t pucker at the hips, and the jacket wouldn’t pull over breasts that were no longer there. As Anna and I walked up Chestnut street I looked forward to finally being a man buying a suit and not a boy playing dress-up. I opened the door to Men’s Warehouse and with a deliberate gait walked directly towards the nearest rack of clothing. Navy blue and gray wool enveloped me to near claustrophobia. It was then that I realized I had no idea where to start, or even what size to look for. My sense of purpose waned considerably. I flagged down the first salesman I noticed and looking down at my shoes said, “I need a suit.” I then raised my head to see a very tall, lean redhead with a barely detectable smirk. I fought back the urge to point out every part of my body that was less than perfectly masculine. I wanted to tell him about my wide hips and big ass. I wanted to mention that I had short arms and really short legs. I wanted to let him know that I was really “curvy” for a man and when I saw him pull out a tape measure and kneel before me to measure my inseam I cursed myself for not packing that day and wanted to tell him why I didn’t have a penis. Instead I merely said, “I don’t know what size I am other than short.”
“Alrighty,” he said, looking me up and down. He measured me and said, “Well, you’re definitely short, and probably a 46.” He led me over to the seven suits that constituted the 46” Short section of the store. “You’ll probably want more of an executive cut.” I looked over at Anna, and we uncomfortably chuckled at the euphemism. “It’s a nice way of saying portly,” he went on to explain. The clarification was neither necessary or desired. He pulled a few suits off the rack and held the first jacket out for me to try on. I slipped into it and looked in the mirror. Unlike the thrilling experience I thought this first look would be, it amounted to nothing more than a hurried glance. I was terrified to look any longer. I don’t know if I felt like I wouldn’t look at myself “correctly,“ or if I simply wouldn’t like the reflection I saw in the mirror. I knew I should have taken a good look, but with both Anna and my tall, non-executive fitter expectantly staring, all I could think of was escape. I didn’t even know what to look for. Anna felt the fabric, and the fitter tugged and smoothed and tugged some more before ultimately informing me that this fit was no good. He then pulled out another jacket with the flourish of a man working on commission and had me slip it on. After repeating this same routine four more times he stated that this was the best fit I was going to find. It had “A generous cut in the front and a vent in the back for extra comfort,” which in laymen’s terms meant, “generous room for your hips, stomach, and ass.” Anna did her customary touch of the fabric while I looked around the thousands of suits and digested the fact that this was my best chance, this boring gray suit. I looked at Anna, ready to pull out my credit card and have the whole ordeal over with, but saw the hesitance in her face. I asked him if he could hold the suit so we could look around a little bit more.
He agreed but now with his less than positive pitch, a last ditch effort to make the sale. “Well, you’re always going to have trouble.” I nodded, knowing I probably was a difficult size. “You’re never going to find something right off the rack,” he continued. “Maybe you could try a children’s store and see if they have a ‘husky boy’s department.” I kept nodding, hoping he’d realize that what I was really saying was your help is gradually becoming the biggest slap to my self-esteem that I’ve experienced since elementary school. He didn’t stop. “I mean you could try a big and tall shop, but you’re not tall, just big.” My face began turning a deep shade of red when it finally hit me. I was no longer experiencing the soft pat on the shoulder that a woman gets while shopping. He saw a man before him and he was giving me the honest truth. Instead of trying to ignore every salesperson in the room thinking they’d direct me to the women’s department, I was asking advice and getting it. I was short, I was big, and I was going to have trouble finding a suit that fit. Although you’d never hear a salesperson telling a woman, “I’m sorry but you’re just too short and fat for all the clothing in this store,” to tell a man essentially the same thing was perfectly acceptable. Before transitioning, while not identifying as a woman I was still aware of what expected of me as one. The size and shape of my body was supposed to directly relate to my self worth. Today, while preparing to buy a $300 article of clothing that I was trying to believe I was enough of a man to wear, I was told that being fat was just a fact. It didn’t mean I was any less respected or any less of a man. It took changing my gender to hear the truth about my body that I had longed to hear my entire life. My body, whether it be fat or thin or something in between, was a vessel that housed who I was. It wasn’t what I was. I looked up at him as he handed me his card and thanked him for his time and honesty, man to man.
This wasn’t the first time I would be trying on suits. Rather, it would be the first time I felt like I was legitimately trying on suits. With a weddings and job interviews coming up and now that my breasts were gone it was time to own a suit that fit. Instead of running off to the thrift store and making do with the cast offs of others, I was going to be buying a suit that had never been worn by anyone else before. The fabric wouldn’t give me a rash, the pockets wouldn’t pucker at the hips, and the jacket wouldn’t pull over breasts that were no longer there. As Anna and I walked up Chestnut street I looked forward to finally being a man buying a suit and not a boy playing dress-up. I opened the door to Men’s Warehouse and with a deliberate gait walked directly towards the nearest rack of clothing. Navy blue and gray wool enveloped me to near claustrophobia. It was then that I realized I had no idea where to start, or even what size to look for. My sense of purpose waned considerably. I flagged down the first salesman I noticed and looking down at my shoes said, “I need a suit.” I then raised my head to see a very tall, lean redhead with a barely detectable smirk. I fought back the urge to point out every part of my body that was less than perfectly masculine. I wanted to tell him about my wide hips and big ass. I wanted to mention that I had short arms and really short legs. I wanted to let him know that I was really “curvy” for a man and when I saw him pull out a tape measure and kneel before me to measure my inseam I cursed myself for not packing that day and wanted to tell him why I didn’t have a penis. Instead I merely said, “I don’t know what size I am other than short.”
“Alrighty,” he said, looking me up and down. He measured me and said, “Well, you’re definitely short, and probably a 46.” He led me over to the seven suits that constituted the 46” Short section of the store. “You’ll probably want more of an executive cut.” I looked over at Anna, and we uncomfortably chuckled at the euphemism. “It’s a nice way of saying portly,” he went on to explain. The clarification was neither necessary or desired. He pulled a few suits off the rack and held the first jacket out for me to try on. I slipped into it and looked in the mirror. Unlike the thrilling experience I thought this first look would be, it amounted to nothing more than a hurried glance. I was terrified to look any longer. I don’t know if I felt like I wouldn’t look at myself “correctly,“ or if I simply wouldn’t like the reflection I saw in the mirror. I knew I should have taken a good look, but with both Anna and my tall, non-executive fitter expectantly staring, all I could think of was escape. I didn’t even know what to look for. Anna felt the fabric, and the fitter tugged and smoothed and tugged some more before ultimately informing me that this fit was no good. He then pulled out another jacket with the flourish of a man working on commission and had me slip it on. After repeating this same routine four more times he stated that this was the best fit I was going to find. It had “A generous cut in the front and a vent in the back for extra comfort,” which in laymen’s terms meant, “generous room for your hips, stomach, and ass.” Anna did her customary touch of the fabric while I looked around the thousands of suits and digested the fact that this was my best chance, this boring gray suit. I looked at Anna, ready to pull out my credit card and have the whole ordeal over with, but saw the hesitance in her face. I asked him if he could hold the suit so we could look around a little bit more.
He agreed but now with his less than positive pitch, a last ditch effort to make the sale. “Well, you’re always going to have trouble.” I nodded, knowing I probably was a difficult size. “You’re never going to find something right off the rack,” he continued. “Maybe you could try a children’s store and see if they have a ‘husky boy’s department.” I kept nodding, hoping he’d realize that what I was really saying was your help is gradually becoming the biggest slap to my self-esteem that I’ve experienced since elementary school. He didn’t stop. “I mean you could try a big and tall shop, but you’re not tall, just big.” My face began turning a deep shade of red when it finally hit me. I was no longer experiencing the soft pat on the shoulder that a woman gets while shopping. He saw a man before him and he was giving me the honest truth. Instead of trying to ignore every salesperson in the room thinking they’d direct me to the women’s department, I was asking advice and getting it. I was short, I was big, and I was going to have trouble finding a suit that fit. Although you’d never hear a salesperson telling a woman, “I’m sorry but you’re just too short and fat for all the clothing in this store,” to tell a man essentially the same thing was perfectly acceptable. Before transitioning, while not identifying as a woman I was still aware of what expected of me as one. The size and shape of my body was supposed to directly relate to my self worth. Today, while preparing to buy a $300 article of clothing that I was trying to believe I was enough of a man to wear, I was told that being fat was just a fact. It didn’t mean I was any less respected or any less of a man. It took changing my gender to hear the truth about my body that I had longed to hear my entire life. My body, whether it be fat or thin or something in between, was a vessel that housed who I was. It wasn’t what I was. I looked up at him as he handed me his card and thanked him for his time and honesty, man to man.
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