� Gender Journeys, December 1998
From the outside looking in, every group is homogeneous.
Oh, I'm sorry, that's not Politically Correct? Welcome to the 90s, when it's no longer cool to play fill-in-the-blank with "Blacks are _____" or "Jews are _____." Such statements are anachonistic and inappropriate. And thanks to the historical and ongoing efforts of the GLBT community, America is now struggling to reject "Gays (Lesbians) are ______" as well. We've come so far.
At least, some of us have. For TGs (transgenders), the take is the same as always. We're either the comedic relief of a vampy drag queen, who -- ladies and gentlemen, let's all be perfectly clear on this -- is playing it strictly for laughs. Or we're poignantly portrayed as a woman-trapped-in-a-man's-body. Ironic, how our rejection of gender bipolarity has spawned its own bipolar replacement
But from the inside, the TG community is as varied in motivation and intent as ... well, as African-Americans or Jews or Gays. Some of us wish to "man the ramparts" (woman the ramparts?) and valiantly fight for political equality. Others prefer to transition into a calmer woman/manhood in comparative obscurity. In between lie the rest of us, who wish to promote our political equality but also hope to live rich, full personal lives. Often, our political fervor is in direct proportion to our ability to "pass" as the opposite sex.
Passing means the checkout clerk at the grocery story perceives you as a person and not a Buffoon / Personal Tragedy (pick one bipolar choice). Passing means you get a job in Ventura County. Passing means you may actually find one or two friends who want to talk about something other than GLBT issues, and may even invite you to lunch or shopping without thinking they're walking through a crowded mall next to a sideshow freak.
(An aside: rent the movie "Gattaca," set in the not-too-distant future when discrimination is based on genetics, and getting hired has nothing to do with ability and everything to do with social acceptability. Just like Ventura County, 1999. At 6'0", Gattaca's star Uma Thurman can also serve as a good role model for many TG ladies {grin}).
If you're Riki Anne Wilchins, founder of Transexual Menace, you actively advertise your gender heritage to encourage an expanding awareness and acceptance. But what if you're Kelli McAllister?
I recently advertised for a roommate. Of the four who responded to my ad, I'm pretty sure one "read" me (like a book, TGs are "read" when we don't pass). It was a young-ish woman, among the toughest analysts of we inchoate females -- they root us out like a pig on a truffle. She looked at me a little too carefully, and even though she was dying to move in with me when we spoke on the phone, in person she decided she still needed to "look around" and left in a disguised fluster.
Candidates #2 and #3 may also have read me -- then again, maybe not -- but the results were the same. The fourth, and my current roomies, were an elderly couple who perceived me as I presented: female.
Conservative Republicans, my new roommates are unaware of my unique gender heritage. Do I tell them? Of course not -- nothing good would come of it. But I realize, the moment they find out is also the moment they move out.
I'm far enough along in my own evolution to enjoy the growing opportunities to be perceived as female, period. I'm getting better at it. But I haven't been a woman long. I was male for almost four decades -- I've been a woman but a few years. I'm still new to the game.
What if I stumble with my roommates? How do I explain the junk mail that still arrives daily, after all this time, addressed to that "other person?" Is it marked for my brother? My ex-husband? What if my voice slips? I must laugh, I must cough, I must clear my throat as a female. Do I look female in the morning, in the kitchen, without makeup and in ratty house clothes?
The saying goes, "Be careful what you wish for -- you may get it." I wished to be a woman, and now I'm living with a couple who takes me as just that. I'm discovering there's a lot of pressure.
But is it pressure to be something I'm not, or something I am? Am I dishonest to disavow my past in favor of my present? Similar to Gays in the closet, is a full admission of who I am -- or at least, who I was -- relevant to every single person I meet in the course of any day? Must I mention to the gas station attendant that I'm a transsexual?
It's never come up at work. I don't think they know. But I'd like to know if they know. Do I ask my boss? Posing the question means, at the very least, if they didn't know they do now. So to ask the question is to defeat the purpose. To not ask the question is to reject 40 years of my personal history.
Earlier today, I went to the dentist. In his chair, I wondered: Does he know? At the appliance repair shop afterward: Does she know? In the grocery, in the restaurant: Do they know? Should it matter?
Once one gets beyond the embarrassment of being out in public in a dress (an embarrassment that disappears, if for no other reason than tedium, sometime during the first year of transition), gender issues don't matter at the retail level. Unless the merchant is a total idiot, dead presidents are just as green from a TG wallet. Other than the psychic toll wrought by a storeful of snickering customers, even the worst of us are still sold a loaf of bread.
Who you are, and where you come from, isn't about where you shop. It's about your identity. Who I am, is not who I was. And though everyone on earth can legitimately make that same statement, most of us can build on our yesterdays to interpret our present. I have a history barely two years old. The ephemeral identity generated by such a brief legacy is gratifying, but perilous.
Who am I? I'm not sure yet. I'll get back to you in another forty years.
