Late Bloomer

I'm a late-blooming flower, a last flourish of color before the frost.

I'm haunted by the other life that passed me by, the one I wished for but never lived.  The dreams many girls have, of a beautiful prom dress, a fairytale wedding, of beautiful children.  Learning how to fix my hair, how to sew, or the names of all the myriad colors.  My girlhood, my young womanhood, these are chimeras. Never a bridesmaid, never a bride.

The darker side, too--the realities of a woman's life beyond stereotypes and storybook fantasies, are absent from my past.  My second-class citizenship was not inculcated in me from an early age, nor the societal expectations that value beauty over intelligence or character.  No monthly visitor, no high school mean girls, no labor pains.  I was not taught to fear being alone at night, or how to fend off unwanted advances.  No glass ceiling. Not #metoo.  I don't really want those things, of course--who would?--but they set me apart.

In my youth I was a woman in my heart, but that was very infrequently manifested in my lived experience.  Can I really be in the sisterhood, having spent most of my life as a nominal part of the brotherhood?  Can I really say "we women"?  I feel strangely presumptuous when I say it.

I know--the reality is that the individual things I listed above are not universal among women.  Every woman has a unique set of experiences that shape her life and outlook.  And I long ago found that despite my male socialization, I absorbed the expectations society places on women; whenever I, however briefly, took on the outward trappings of womanhood, I felt the pressure of those expectations. For years, I have been welcomed into women's spaces.  But I feel so different sometimes, like I don't truly belong, because my past was so unlike those of the cisgender women I know.


Transition is not a one-time event, or something that can truly be completed; it is a becoming.  It's not even two years since I began truly and fully living as myself.  I believe that I will progressively feel more confident in my womanhood. In a strange way, I take comfort in my imagined future as an old woman, that all my future days will be lived, and that I will die, a woman.

I'm grateful that I finally did bloom, even in autumn.

The (Abridged) Journey

1983. “The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man; neither shall a man put on a woman’s garment, for all that do so are abomination unto the Lord thy God”.  As I read these words from Deuteronomy 22:5 in an old family Bible, I feel as if I have been punched in the stomach. Ever since the age of 3, when my mother caught me playing dress-up, I had known that dressing like a girl was not acceptable.  That didn’t stop me, I just became more careful.  Yes, I did tell my mother I wanted to be a girl, but I learned to keep thoughts like that to myself.  Once I prayed to God that President Carter would decree that it would be OK for boys to dress like girls if they wanted to.  I drew a comic book in which my friends and I were turned into female superheroes.  I knew I was different, but I didn’t feel bad about that.  Until now.  The Bible says I am an abomination, “a thing that causes disgust or hatred”.  Now, at the age of 13, I feel for the first time like damaged goods.  Inferior.  I will spend much of the next decade fantasizing about living as a woman and dressing the part when I can, and at the same time hating myself for having these desires.  I will pray on my knees with tears streaming down my face for God to help me be a normal person.  But my prayers are never answered.

1995. With trembling hands, I place a letter in the mailbox.  Thanks to a Dear Abby column in the Kingsport Times-News, I have learned for the first time that there are support organizations for people like me, and now I am sending an inquiry to an address printed in the same column.  I have been through a lot of changes.  College relieved me of some of my illusions, and my faith has fallen away.  Now I’m an agnostic yearning for a spiritual presence.  I have spent much time in libraries searching for answers to why I am the way I am.  Most of what I find, in old psychiatric texts, tells me that I am a transvestite, that I am mentally ill or perverted.  The Dear Abby column is really the first time I have read something affirming.  The letter I am mailing will change my life.  I will learn that there are many people like me, gathered in support groups across the country.  I will join a national one, called the Society for the Second Self, or Tri-Ess, by mail.  And I will learn a new word—transgender.

1998.  I walk down a dark hallway toward a door outlined in light, literally shaking with fear.  I hesitate, then open the door to find a small group of people sitting in chairs, talking quietly.  A woman with red hair rises to welcome me and asks me my name.  I hoarsely answer, “Wendy”.  It is the first time anyone has seen me as a woman.  I found this group in Knoxville, called Swans, via the Internet.  In the last couple of years I have learned a lot.  For the first time, I allowed myself to embrace and explore my desire to be feminine.  I have assembled a small wardrobe of women’s clothing, shoes, makeup, and a wig, and have even chosen a woman’s name.  Now, I am in a room with a group of transgender women for the first time.  It is another life-changing moment.  My life will blossom in new and unexpected ways.  I will find love, and heartache, for the first time.  And when Swans moves to a new meeting place, I will learn for the first time about a church called Unitarian Universalist.  Though staunchly against organized religion, I will be intrigued.

2002.  I am in Pen’s bathroom, putting on makeup.  She and I only met a few months ago, but she is already a close friend.  We met through the choir at Holston Valley Unitarian Universalist Church, where we have both been attending for nearly a year.  We’re considering becoming members.  Though there is a large difference in ages, we seem to have a lot in common, and enjoy each other’s’ company.  A couple of months back, I told her that I was a crossdresser.  She has been amazingly accepting, and though she has seen pictures, she wants to see Wendy in real life.  I finish my makeup, fix my wig, and open the door.  She stands, with a big smile on her face, and embraces me.  “Nice to meet you, Wendy”, she whispers.  In the coming years, we will become best friends, then lovers.  She will encourage me to overcome my fears and experience more as Wendy; we will attend shows, take Samba lessons, and go on vacations as two women.

2005. I am sitting in Sandy’s living room with Pen and the other members of the Music Covenant Group.  I have requested a little more time to share something with the rest of the group.  I take a deep breath, and begin to share my secret: that I am a transgender person, a crossdresser.  The group is very supportive, asking questions and sharing their appreciation for my trust.  It’s a very special night.  I reveal that I have been working on a rock opera with transgender and spiritual themes.  The group encourages me to finish it, and my musically talented friend John offers to help when I’m ready to record it. In a little over two years, the CDs of the opera, now called Transposition, will arrive on my doorstep.

2010. It has been a tough few years for Pen and I.  She got the preliminary cancer diagnosis the day before our wedding.  Now she is cancer-free, but we both know something is wrong; her brain doesn’t seem to work as well as it should.  I am sitting in the church sanctuary in front of a small group of friends as part of an LGBT panel for a question and answer session.  The congregation is going through the process of becoming an officially Welcoming Congregation.  Except for the members of the music covenant group, the revelation that I am transgender seems to come as a surprise.  There are lots of questions, and at the end, almost everyone comes up to give me a hug.  I’m even invited to the monthly women’s group gatherings.  In a couple of months, the congregation will vote to become a Welcoming Congregation.

2013.  Pen’s health is getting worse and worse.  She has dementia, and can no longer walk or do much of anything without help.  Her decline weighs heavy on my heart, and the responsibility of being her caregiver sits heavily on my shoulders.  I have found that I can no longer identify myself as a crossdresser, but simply as transgender, and that it makes me increasingly uncomfortable to be referred to as a man.  I have removed much of my beard through ongoing laser hair removal.  For the past few years, the thought of transitioning to full-time womanhood has been increasingly on my mind.  I have been attending church women’s nights semi-regularly, and I have become consumed with the desire to come to church as Wendy.  I have already done it once, but rather surreptitiously.  Now I plan to attend three services in a row in December, and even sing in the choir, as a woman.  I have come a long way in the 30 years since I read that passage in Deuteronomy.

2015.  I am standing in front of the HVUUC congregation, telling my story.  It has been a year of seismic changes.  Pen has passed on from this world, but is never far from my thoughts.  Her memorial service is the only time I’ve appeared as a man in the church for more than a year.  I am now in the midst of a slow transition to a new life as a woman.  Unfortunately, my family does not seem to be able to make the transition with me.  It is a time of longing and loss, fear and excitement.  As if by magic, I have found a transgender community here in the Tri-Cities, right when I needed it.  And my church family is here with me, holding me in love as it has so many times before. 

2016.  I am walking into my building at work, presenting as a woman for the first time.  I am simultaneously nervous and confident.  It’s been another crazy year.  I started hormone replacement therapy at the beginning of the year, bringing many physical, mental, and emotional changes.  In the past two months I have been laying the groundwork for legal transition to female.  At the same time, I have been meeting with senior management to plan a smooth transition at work.  For the past week, I have been busy legally changing my name and gender on many documents, and with utilities, doctors, and state agencies.  My new life, living completely as myself, has begun.  To my great surprise and happiness, my coworkers hardly miss a beat adjusting to the new me.

2018. I am writing a blog entry for the Transgender Day of Visibility, well into the second year of my new life.  I feel more comfortable and at ease with myself than I ever imagined possible.  My depression, a constant for decades, seems to have receded into nothingness.  I have made new friends and reconnected with old ones.  I’m friendlier.  I smile more often.  Life is, of course, not perfect; I have my share of problems and obstacles, like anyone.  I miss my family.  But I can’t conceive of going back, of putting that male mask back on; transitioning was definitely the right thing for me.  I look forward to new experiences, new knowledge, and maybe even new love.  I feel so blessed.

Pronoun Trouble

Misgendering is the term for using the wrong pronouns to address someone.  As a transgender person, I unfortunately get misgendered a lot.  Recently I had an experience of misgendering that brought me to the point of tears.

Let me explain first that misgendering is a big deal to me, though I try not to show it.  In fact, it can be humiliating.  Every time someone refers to me as "he" or "him", it feels as if my very identity is called into question.  I feel judged as "inadequately female"; that despite my feminine name, clothing, hair, makeup, and all the other obvious cues, I am still seen as a man.  That's heartbreaking.

In my most recent experience, I was sitting at a table with a group of men.  Most knew of my past, but one or two did not.  One of the men, a friend for many years, consistently used the wrong pronouns.  Well, in situations like this I'm confronted with the choice of how to handle it.  Do I ignore the stabbing pains in my heart?  Do I correct the person, over and over again?  In this case, correcting him would have meant drawing attention to his mistake, and therefore drawing attention to the fact that, on some level, I am a man to him, in full view of people who may not know that I'm trans--an embarrassing situation for both of us.  In the end, I chose to try to ignore it, and just bottled up the feelings of anger and hurt.

I know what I should have done--I should have taken him aside, privately, and let him know what he's doing.  That's still what I need to do.  But it's very, very difficult for me to confront someone like that, and even more so when I'm dispirited by repeated blows to my confidence.

Let me stress that all of the misgendering I routinely experience is unintentional.  Additionally, there's a big difference between the occasional slip-up, quickly corrected, and repeated unconscious and uncorrected mistakes.  I truly do understand that mistakes happen.  And I do realize that misgendering is really more about the person doing it than about me.  Despite knowing all that, it still hurts, and the more it happens, the more it hurts. It's also potentially dangerous, in that it outs me to people who may not know I'm trans, and who could be in a position to harass me (or worse) when they find out.

As the situation stands now, I know what I have to do--figure out how to confront this person in a constructive way.  My gut instinct is to avoid any interaction with him from now on, but that's not really feasible or helpful.  I don't want people to avoid me, either, in the fear of making a mistake and offending me.  None of us are perfect beings.  Having consciousness, loving intent, and a desire for positive personal change will go a long way.

Days of Future Passed

It's a long-standing personal tradition to ruminate on the year gone by.  But this time around, I wasn't sure I was going to continue the tradition. I just didn't seem to have the desire to look back, and I think that's a positive sign that I'm beginning to live more in the present than the past.  However, the spirit moved me this morning, so here I am at the keyboard.

2017 was, in some ways, not a good year, especially if one considers the social backsliding that began last January and continued throughout the year.  On a personal level, I was sick for most of the last quarter of the year, which tended to blight my outlook quite a bit.  Work was very stressful.  My vacation with friends was derailed by hurricanes.

On the other hand, the year had much to recommend it.  It was my first living full-time as a woman, for instance. I began reconnecting with old friends and strengthening friendships with newer ones.  There was the Women's March and the life-changing leadership conference I attended.  And best of all, depression was nowhere in evidence for the first time in my post-pubescent life.  Still, at times I felt a little lost and lonely.  Maybe that's the human condition.  But I'm looking forward with hopes for the new year.

First of all, I hope that my overall health will improve.  My other hopes kind of depend on that one.  I hope that I can be more involved in some aspect of social justice work.  I hope that I can get more music back in my life.  I hope that my working life will improve, and that I have more time with friends, and perhaps even family.

Finally, I anticipate at least two significant journeys ahead.  One is a physical journey abroad, which I am greatly looking forward to.  The other is an emotional journey toward reopening my heart for new romance.  I still miss Pen and I will love her forever, but I feel ready to stick my toe back into the dating waters.  I know it won't be easy.  Considering my age, gender identity, sexual orientation, political and spiritual beliefs, and the predominant culture in this area, it seems highly unlikely that I will find anyone.  It seems even more so when my relationship with Pen has raised my standards so much--I will not settle for anything less than a respectful, loving partnership.  Still, I want to try, and I think the journey will be interesting in and of itself, especially given my changed social circumstances.

As at the beginning of every new year, I have many hopes and fears, and I know all of you have your own.  Best wishes to each of you on your journey.