In, Out, Shake It All About

Saturday 18th July 2015 was the first anniversary of the day I changed my name to Blake.

rainbow cake

Happy Blakeday! I also found out that 18th July is Hunter S. Thompson’s birthday, which is cool.

That day, I was repeatedly misnamed by someone who, it turned out, did know my new name, but was drunk and had forgotten. She apologised, and I let it go. As I get further on in my transition, I am increasingly aware that changes take time. I also re-met an acquaintance who was not aware of my transition, so I had to come out to her and her boyfriend. 73 days on T, and explaining why I changed my name: wasn’t it OBVIOUS? No, it wasn’t. So I explained. Read More

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Pegasus Boy

So I got on the T-train.

Screen shot 2015-06-10 at 21.33.03

Here we go…

That’s how I’m trying to think of it – a long, slow, but continuous journey. Even when I’m asleep, the train’s still moving. I’m getting there.

It’s hard to be patient. I keep comparing pictures of my face, trying to spot the difference.

After needing to talk to friends about my experiences in other parts of my transition, I’ve found it surprisingly hard to talk about testosterone. Maybe it’s because lots of other things – names, pronouns, titles, identities – are social concepts that need to be spoken in order to work. In a way, it’s a relief not to feel pressure to somehow ‘make’ this work. The T’s going to do its thing whether I talk about it or not.

On the other hand, starting T meant giving up on the fantasy that I’d wake up one day and everything would just be right. That I could do this on my own. That if only I tried hard enough, I’d be a cis guy. The bad news is, that isn’t going to happen. The good news is, there are other ways to go about things, which do work. Not perfectly, but they do work.

I’ve heard people describe trans people as unicorns, but I think I’d rather be a pegasus. Biology was not on my side, but I’m a pegasus boy – here I go, growing my wings.

CAM00302

Queer library, testosterone and pegasus.

I remember

[CN: transphobic slur]

I remember, when I was five, being the only afab kid who didn’t cover their chest when we changed for PE.

I remember knowing that boys and girls were exactly the same, because I was exactly the same as a boy.

I remember my £1 plastic football that popped on a thistle, and my dad buying me a real football.

I remember watching Terry Jones’ The Wind in the Willows, and reserving my admiration for Nicol Williamson (Badger)’s widow’s peak.

I remember being disappointed that my new birthday bike had flowers painted on it when my friend Ben’s bike had jaguar paw-prints.

I remember climbing trees, and building Airfix planes.

Spitfire

Mmm, the smell of Airfix glue. And being too impatient to wait for the glue to dry before adding more parts, and ending up with a wonky plane. Which flew from my bedroom ceiling anyway.

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Does Your Social Construct Make Me Look Female?

Another wonderful post from Jamie at ‘A Boy and Her Dog’.

A Boy and Her Dog

A boy and his dog, circa 1900. The dog does look a little like Gracie. A boy and his dog, circa 1890. The dog does look a little like Gracie.

When I look at my body, I do not see a female body or a male body. I see my body. In my own little world I am myself. I am Jamieish, boyish, butch, transgender, and quite comfortable.

I have made myself in my own image. I wish more people could see me this way. Strangers, even those who initially “Sir” me, eventually read me as a masculine woman or a butch lesbian. How they see me is their truth, not mine.

Nobody knows what a non-binary person looks like. My face, voice, and body shape contradict my clothes, haircut, and demeanor. I don’t easily pass as either female or male. In a binary game of rock-paper-scissors, the social construct of sex crushes the social construct of gender. I am pigeonholed into female.

When I’m out…

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Say my name

I remember being ill when I was a kid, maybe five or six years old. I had a fever, and to see if I was delirious my mum asked me, “What’s your name?”

I thought about it. I started to panic. “What is my name?” I cried. She told me all three of my names, my first name, my middle name, and my surname. I still remember the relief as I heard them, as I recognised them, and realised that I had known them all along. “Oh,” I said. “I knew that.”

Tonight my phone rang, and someone I didn’t know called me by those same three names, but this time it was the opposite of a relief. I froze. I was aware of myself sitting there doing nothing, my mouth open, not responding. I didn’t know what to say.

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