The Middle of the Road

I don’t particularly like playing favourites, but I have to say my fav (famous) trans man is Lucas Silveira of The Cliks. I dare say that I love him; however, I could always be conflating my love of his music with my love for the man—but how could anyone really divorce the two? Lucas puts his soul behind every note that passes his lips, wears his life on his beautifully tattooed sleeves. But it’s not the intensely passionate music of The Cliks that has me writing today; rather I direct your attention to a 2007 interview with Lucas, in which he said:

But because of the choice that I had to make, I started looking at trans in a very different way. I feel really invisible as a trans man because I’m not able to take Testosterone. I don’t have the visual aspects that a man has, I’m not hairy, my body is different.
I had this really interesting conversation with a friend of mine, a trans guy. He made the decision not to go on T. He said, “I feel if I did Testosterone, it would make me invisible as a trans man.” I’ve been hanging onto that because it just made me think so intensely about walking in this world having everybody treat me as male and having achieved this male privilege that a lot of guys who are trans feel like they’ve attained.
I started thinking about that because I feel like, not only am I a voice for the trans community going out into mainstream, but there are guys like me. We’re they guys who are truly in the middle. I’ve had top surgery, but I’m not doing T. And to tell you the truth, I don’t know if I ever will. I feel very comfortable being where I am right now.

Lucas has a very interesting attitude here, where so much focus is placed on the so-called full transition he shaped his own dynamic: because music is so essential in his life, hormones were simply not an option. In general, I’m fascinated with the dynamics of others’ transitions: where they start, where they stop, and—most important—what, specific expressions and metamorphoses are necessary (as well as which are not) in order for any given person to feel comfortable in their skins. What I like is that in a broader, more fluid sense people are starting to realize they may not need surgeries or hormone treatments in order to be men, women, etc. Instead of the classic models of transsexuality wherein a trans person is expected to go on hormones and have surgeries to completely remodel their bodies to the ideals of their self-identified sex, now we’re seeing people selectively taking steps of transition, stopping in places that the traditional model would deem “middle of the road”—and what’s more, trans people today are doing this and confidently feeling comfortable as men, women, etc. in that so-called “middle” state.

Granted, this isn’t really anything too new (at least, it’s not to people in the trans community. The psych/medical community, on the other hand...): people have been self-manufacturing their transitions for a long time now, with many of them outside of the influence of medical professionals. It makes me think. At what point was/is my transition finished? Why do I see different transition dynamics being more common in the FTM spectrum than I do on the MTF side of the aisle? I’m sure most people in the trans community have different answers to these questions—many of them probably have some different observations than I as well. But because this is my blog, and because I’m largely just writing what’s first coming to my mind right now, I’m going to relate these observations and these attitudes right back on myself.

Last week I went down to the beach at Glenelg, and while there I was approached by a man selling pony rides (I kid you not). This fellow (God help him, he was trying to be crafty) proceeded to beat around the gender bush (no, not that gender bush), calling me a “handsome woman,” and insinuated that I had made some unique gender choices (in contrast to my Venezuelan friend, whom he described as a “beautiful woman”). In his attempts to clarify that he meant no offense, he simply stated that I “stand out in a crowd.” Thanks, chief: you just said I don’t pass. But, what may have been obvious to pony-boy here wasn’t obvious to several people I’ve met since transitioning, and I ultimately have to contrast this man’s assessment of me with that of my friends, who having known me in all my shapes/forms see me as a girl. Juxtapose that with Lucas, who said, “I don’t have the visual aspects that a man has, I’m not hairy, my body is different.” I always thought Lucas passed perfectly—one look at that damn sexy man and I’m thinking my sexuality is more fluid than I thought—but when I showed the video for “Dirty King” to one of my cisgender friends, she pegged Lucas right away, saying, “She’s really hot.”

It underlies the difference between how an individual can perceive their gender and how other may read them. If I only hear Lucas’ voice—untouched by testosterone—I hear a man’s voice. When I see him, I see a man—I have a hard time seeing him as anything else. My friend, on the other hand, completely unaware of the trans world around her, saw and heard a girl. And Lucas, well, he feels comfortable in his skin as a man, despite having a different body than cis-men...despite having never undergone hormone treatment.

I’m slow to hop on the queer train to candy mountain. I’ve been largely self-conscious and self-critical of my own body and face, thinking them to be overtly masculine, fearing that I’d never really be comfortable in my own gender/body until I could tear myself apart and rebuild my body atom by atom—but I think this is why I love the tans men so much. Not to say trans women don’t do the same, but the men have always seemed so much more embracing of the middle ground...and slowly, I’m coming over to that side, to find comfort in my own Amazon physique. This is (hopefully) my last word on passing: finding peace in the middle...and it only took a sexy trans man punk/alt. rocker to show me the way.

A new transition

I feel like I should address the reason why I haven’t been writing for this blog lately—take care of all the boring housekeeping announcements before I actually compose any interesting thoughts relating back to the theme of this blog. I just recently completed the core component of my PhD program—which, it turned out, was no insignificant task, as my final document ran for 31 pages and had a bibliography documenting over 200 references. Yet, at the end of this gruelling marathon-writing, I’ve found myself preparing for another transition in life: a transfer out of my current program to a master’s in the School of Social Sciences. I’m trying not to say too much about it, because nothing has actually been confirmed at this point; however, with a little bit of luck I will soon be hanging up my lab coat and moving on to work on a degree in gender studies.
This is a major shift, and unless you’ve been one of my closer friends, it’s a decision that probably seems to come out of thin air. I’m not the kind of person to sit around and regret past decisions; nonetheless, one of my major regrets from my time at WSU is that I never got a second major in either Women’s Studies or Anthropology. I remember at the time I decided to just graduate early—a decision that was applauded by my former supervisor, Pat Hunt, as a regaining of sanity (she actually said, “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses” when I told her I would not be pursuing the second major; she, and many others in the sciences, view the social sciences as a waste of time, energy, and money). I realize that this is a major departure from genetics and the “hard” sciences—my discipline of choice for the last eight years—and it’s true, I’ve been a major science geek for as long as I can remember (hell, I even used to give up lunch recess in 4th and 5th grades so I could go do science experiments). But honestly, I’m not as passionate about the sciences as I used to be. Sure, I still find them interesting, but they’re no longer fulfilling.
With that in mind, I scheduled a meeting with the postgraduate coordinator for the department of Gender, Work and Social Inquiry here at the University of Adelaide, and together we discussed my ideas for a master’s thesis. Generally, I want to look at the relationship between physicalized gender identity (e.g. gender is conflated with sex such that in order to transition, one generally has to alter their body) versus a performative gender identity (e.g. trading one set of gender roles for another effectively “changes” one’s sex). Specifically, I want to look at these two manifestations of gender identity in ancient cultures and see how they have evolved over time...heh, maybe this is a little bigger than just a master’s degree (I may have to scale it back a little bit to be a more modern analysis...although I completely intend to get both ancient and contemporary viewpoints at some time).

Real humor...and from an unexpected place

A little over a year ago I was interviewed by the Pullman-Moscow Daily News about both my gender identity and my sexual orientation. And while I was mildly misquoted and full context was not always provided in the resulting article, it was (for the most part) a good interview, and it gave a somewhat different perspective than the stereotypical trans story. (I would post the full article, but I don't have access to it in its electronic format).
Anyway, today as I googled my name (as I do when I'm feeling masochistic/narcissistic and bored) I came across something I never expected: I was mentioned in a right-wing conservative blog. Who knew? As seen on the blog, Right Mind:

As reported in today’s edition of the Moscow-Pullman Daily News.

Sonia Horan doesn't subscribe to the idea that she was born in the wrong body.

"I don't like the idea that this body isn't where I belong. That terminology sounds kind of defective," she said. "I was born male, and while I wasn't happy with my sex anatomy, it's the body I've been given and I can work with it."

The 21-year-old Horan is a transsexual, meaning she was born male but has chosen to live as a woman. It's a choice she's never regretted. It's also a choice that has made her more vulnerable to harm, as a rash of attacks have occurred in the last month against people within the gay and transsexual community on the Palouse.

"It is scary, but I've realized I don't want to be scared to death. I don't want to have to hide. My sexual identity shouldn't impact my safety. It does, but it shouldn't," said Horan, a project associate in the Washington State University School of Molecular Science who sexually prefers women.

Gives a whole new meaning to the cliché “a lesbian trapped inside a man’s body”.

The blog as a whole is disgustingly homophobic and transphobic and loves to pander in the "Christian persecution" BS--but all that is par for the course given their religious political ideologies. The funny thing is, I know this particular blog post is trying to make a joke at my expense with that, "Gives a whole new meaning to the cliché 'a lesbian trapped inside a man's body,'" and I know they have completely missed the point I was making in the interview, but their joke doesn't actually offend me. Frankly, I think they were inadvertently being funny while simultaneously not being the total douchebags they normally are (like when they say transition is mutilation and oppose drugs to prevent the onset of puberty in trans kids, or when suggest that the identities of trans people are invalid)...I mean, don't get me wrong, this blog is produced by a total asshole, but even jerks can sometimes fail at being offensive and instead make a lame, albeit mildly funny joke, right?
Maybe it's my ironic sense of humor--something I doubt The Right Mind utilizes--but that joke--"new meaning to a lesbian trapped in a man's body," is a joke I would ironically and flippantly make.
I'm now officially worried that in a random chance event I would make the same joke about myself as some bigot in Idaho. Huh.
Maybe I just have a sense of humor, and maybe even bigots can make happy mistakes (a la Bob Ross). And maybe David Letterman could learn something from this. I mean, the "lesbian trapped in a man's body" joke is played, and stupid, but it at least doesn't negate my identity, nor does it (unintentionally) condone the trans panic defense. It's true, the LGBT community often takes things a little too seriously, but I don't think that was the case with Letterman. I just never thought I'd see the day when a conservative blog made me laugh (in a good way?) at the same time late night comedy made me want to scream (although, given the state of late night comedy, I guess only the republican humor is surprising).

Sometimes I think that I'm bigger than the sound

Warning: This may be triggering to anyone who does or has self harmed or is or has struggled with suicidal ideation. Read with care.
Author’s note: I don’t like coming off this pathetic and depressing—I don’t. I know that’s been the tone of many of my recent posts, and I’m sorry. I also want to just let everyone know I’m fine. I’m ok. I’m okay.


Yesterday I got the results of one of my many non-degree-related “experiments”: the genderfuck. I was called into a photo studio to review some of the images taken of me following my pseudo-make-over, and as the studio sales girl flipped through the portfolio I was overcome with discomfort and anxiety. The images were hideous; they failed to capture the same Sonia who was mischievously marauding Adelaide days prior. Instead I found a monstrosity looking back at me through the film, a misshapen mass disfigured from years of testosterone poisoning and unfortunate genetics—neither female nor male, not human. Monster.

About midway through the photo slide-show, the sales girl asked me, “I’m just curious, are you changing your sex?” A lead weigh smashed through my rib cage and pushed me down into my seat. As my mind began to fog, I replied, “I hate to be rude, but that’s none of your damn business.” I tried to quickly rebuild my defences, but that damning blow had already been dealt. I hastened my exit, breathing hard as I walked back home. Slamming my bedroom door behind me, I crashed into my bed, screaming the words “Fuck” and “Cunt” through clenched teeth and heaving sobs. I reached for my hand mirror and started beating it against my knee, determined to smash the glass and use the shards to carve a new map across my skin, write the confessions of my monstrous self, lay my sins bare in blood for the world to see.
I don’t know how people like Amanda Simpson are strong enough to even stand in the face of the cruelty of others; I can barely keep sane with the voices in my head, let alone any derision from the world. It’s been a year since I last harmed myself—one hour in that photo studio and I was ready to through that year away, ready to reach for that razor again and mutilate my body until the world couldn’t help be see the monster I am—until I looked as broken and malformed as I felt, and the suspicions of other were confirmed: I’m a freak show. It’d be alright then; I would scarred, but it would be ok. I’d be the one doing the hurting this time—my choice. The old justifications felt warm and comfortable. Over the subsequent 24 hours I’ve had suicidal thoughts colliding across my consciousness: how long would it take for the question of my absence to spark the search to uncover my body—questions of how my parents would handle an international suicide, wondering how long it would take the news to break on facebook...wondering if those people would ever find out what had happened.

I had bought tickets to see the Yeah Yeah Yeahs in concert and after weeks of patient waiting the show was upon me. Unsurprisingly, my suicidal ideation retarded my desire to go. I contemplated staying home, hiding under my covers, but was ultimately spurred on by past regrets. I walked the 2.3 km to the theatre, stood in line, and waited for one of my favourite bands to take the stage.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs in concert—Karen O in the flesh—is pure euphoria. Something happened to me, sitting in my seat in the balcony. I felt the vibrations of the guitar and drums pounding across my skin, penetrating down, rattling my bones. I felt Karen’s voice pierce my chest, pull apart my shattered rib cage and shock my heart into beating again. The lyrics and visual stimulants—Karen O’s legendary stage antics, the explosive lights, the neon and the glitter—swiftly diffused across my blood/brain barrier and took hold of my consciousness and ran. Something happens when the beat fills your flesh, the sights engross your vision, lyrics conquer your mind, and sound fills your ear canals—suddenly the waves of bodies between you and the stage, the atmosphere thick with sound canvassing the air between you and the band, the sea of electrons between your soul and the music—it all vanishes because you become one...one with the music...one with that blissful euphoria.

After the concert, I ran the 2.3 km back home, full of energy from the show, burning with passion and reanimated with the sound. The fears, anxieties, and depression, for the time, abolished, and in their stead was hope. Hope for reclamation.
Yeah Yeah Yeahs send out the message, “Don’t give a shit, and just be whatever you want.” I’m still wondering how I can be whatever I want despite the limits of my body (despite the seething self hatred that boils up every now and again), but I figure I’ll get there in time. And for your information, Mr. Mclean, music can save your mortal soul, even from its own tendencies to self-destruct. For this moment, I exist in the music, and I feel free. I feel: free.

Skeletons by Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

Love, my name
Love, left dry
Frost or flame
Skeleton me

Fall asleep
Spin the sky
Skeleton me
Wait, don't cry

Love, don't cry
Love, don't cry
Skeleton me
Skeleton me
Soon comes rain
Dry your eyes
Frost or flame
Skeleton me

Fall asleep
Spin the sky
Skeleton me
Love, don't cry
Love, don't cry
Love, don't cry
Skeleton me
Skeleton me

The Stranger

I’m having a lot of trouble articulating my thoughts, and I’m fairly certain this has nothing to do with my writing skills and everything to do with a swell of confusion clouding my thoughts. I started writing late last night...

Smile big. That blissful arcing mouth betrays nothing—a life finally beaming with rapturous felicity. Recently I’ve seen so many pictures of astoundingly beautifully trans women and girls, their faces filled with that radiant ecstasy that only accompanies a feeling of becoming. They take off the mask and, well, they don’t particularly blend into the rest of the world. Unlike much of the world, these amazing women stand out because they are unabashedly authentic. That smile betrays nothing because there are no dirty secrets to hide. Instead that smile conveys a palpable sense of self-belonging: a manifestation of the true self that transcends any physical realities or assumed limitations therein. That smile...it speaks volumes.
“Why don’t you smile?” We’re sitting on the couch, playing picture slide-show with photos from facebook—she’s every friend I’ve ever had, the Fin from orientation, the random faux-hawk- sporting dyke from GLBTA—she leans over my shoulder to get her face right up next to the picture and remarks, “You never smile in your pictures.” And it’s true: I don’t. The absence of facial expression betrays me. My face is a transparent facade, a mask my “transition” could not dislodge.

I am a stranger. To this culture and to myself, I am an outsider. I feel invisible in a crowd, like no one can see me. They see the tattoos. They see the height. They see the awkward body, hidden under the baggy clothes. But they don’t see me. Maybe I cannot blame them, though. Looking in the mirror, I don’t see me either.

I want to be the girl I am in my head—in my imagination—but that seems like an impossible task. What kind of girl are you? How do you relate to yourself as a girl? How do you relate to yourself as a girl in your head—a character constantly pitted against a physical and social manifestation that, seemingly, can never be merged? How do you take off the mask and become this other person?

These questions, for me, first manifested as a feeling of disconnection with femininity. I’m feminine, even though I nothing about my appearance seem to coincide with that. I’m tattooed, I’m tall, and my body has few curves (well, few curves that I’m proud of)—I’m awkward and I’m tough, punky and queer. I remember when I was in high school I used to subscribe to a trans youth email listserve and one day I asked, “How can I begin to feel like a girl when I’m so lodged into a male reality?” The replies came back: shave your legs. So many sources tell us that femininity is something to be bought or manufactured. Feeling too masculine? Well, pluck those eyebrows, shave those legs, and put on a dress from Meyers. Peep-toe pumps, I hear, will really do the trick. Have you tried makeup?

Since when is femininity a commercial commodity? Since when did gender come packaged and mass-produced for consumer consumption?

But it’s more than just commercialized gender. Talking to a telephone counsellor tonight we discussed how many non-transgender women, like me, feel awkward in their bodies compared to other women—how many of them, like me, look out of place in traditional feminine attire and therefore gravitate towards more masculine or androgynous gender expressions. At the end of the conversation, I asked my counsellor, “How do you relate to yourself as a woman?” She paused for a while and said, “I don’t know. I think it’s a bit like an attitude. It’s how I go about in the world, it’s a part of my identity. It’s always been a given.” I think that’s part of it. It’s not a given for me, and so in finding ways of relating to the girl in my imagination, I have nothing to build on. It seems like all the givens—all the assumptions—work against me; I feel like everyone—even I—fails to “read” me—to see me—for who/what I really am.

And that’s it. I feel alienated from my own gender because of an inability to perceive my true self in any clear fashion. I feel further alienated when, in an attempt to find some superficial facet of femininity, I am met with an unattainable commercialized standard of what femininity is—a commercial definition that does not become me. How do you relate to yourself—to your true self—when it becomes progressively difficult to find a clear expression of that self? When you become a stranger to yourself and to others?

Dream

I had a pretty awesome dream last night—or, at least I think it was (generally speaking) awesome. I don’t really remember most of it, but I awoke with a real happy feeling, so I assume it was a good dream. I was a punky, androgynous boy (approximately high school age). An unnamed childhood friend and I were hanging out in my bedroom, which in this dream was in the attic of an old Victorian house. Together we sat on the large, soft ultramarine comforter of my bed as thin, blurry slivers of light came through the partially-drawn blinds. Drawings from my art classes cluttered the walls, juxtaposed with various album art from my favourite bands. The room had an early-morning feel to it—a golden ambiance, like the Robert Frost Poem (Nothing Gold Can Stay). I told my friend I had something to show her as I turned away from her. I slipped out an amber tube of pills, shaking two glossy red capsules into my hand. Covering my mouth with my hand, I tossed the pills down my throat, forcing a dry swallow. I could feel the pills grating down my throat, hard and smooth like stones, feeling as though they would easily become stuck somewhere between my guts and my mouth. My friend gasped, not sure what the hell I was trying to show her. Then, out of nowhere, it happened: I had suddenly transformed into a shy-looking girl with a mischievous smile and shaggy, dirty blonde hair. I don’t even remember what clothes the boy me had been wearing, but they had likewise been transformed into a lacy white dress. It was like a cartoon version of the Jekyll-Hyde transformation; like the hazy daydreams of a closet trans girl.

The dream has had a significant influence on my thinking today—in large part it has affected me in ways I can’t quite discuss yet. I like it when my subconscious speaks to me in such a blatant way, though, and I figured I’d share it with you before it became a lost memory.

Doubt, privilege, and nagging questions

You should know by now that I don’t shy away from controversy, and this post may well be another example of that. For this reason you may want to be wary about reading this specific post (as a couple of controversial elements are briefly touched upon). Also, if this is redundant (and if redundancy offends you) I’m very sorry.

It’s been a while since I wrote my opinions on the use of the word “cissexual” or “cisgender” or (as a shortened/prefix version) “cis(-).” Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your point of view) you can no longer read this post; I took it down because I felt it was a tad divisive. Overall, though, I don’t care to rehash my opinions on the use of the term. I really don’t. My general opinions are pretty solid on this matter and the idea that any huge debate even exploded over this issue is, in my opinion, a little more than disconcerting. However, I recently read an argument against the use of the “cis” terminology (in all its forms) that made me stop for a second. Gwendolyn Ann Smith, a woman I high respect and admire, wrote:

But cisgender, used in the same way, shuts out our allies, our friends, our partners. Rather than levelling the field, it further sets transgender apart from the whole, and creates a dichotomy that honestly is not needed.
This is something that the transgender community, and frankly many other communities, does on a regular basis. At one time it was "crossdressers" versus "transsexuals", then it was "transsexuals" versus "transgender". There have been some who have adopted even more baroque terms such as "women born transsexual" or "Harry Benjamin Syndrome" to further distance ourselves from each other.

I somewhat disagree with the hypothesis that the use of the term “cisgender” sets transgender people further apart. Further, I think Gwendolyn is dead wrong in her argument that the cis/trans terminology creates a dichotomy—the dichotomy already existed. Gwendolyn is spot on, however, in her assessment that this dichotomy does not benefit us. The reality of the situation—if we can allow ourselves to be divorced from socio-political constraints—is that no person (at least no person I’ve ever met) can fit into a strictly “cisgender” mold at all times. Culturally-based gender restrictions tend to be so rigid and so extreme that none can really conform to them continuously in all aspects of their lives. In a sense, everyone is transgender. Really, this isn’t a new notion—this is the kind of chic idea I heard bantered around a lot of transgender forums back when I first started exploring my identity—it’s kind of in the same vein as the “everyone’s a little gay” idea (although, maybe not a good analogy seeing as the bell curve model of sexuality would suggest that a small number of people truly are 100% gay or 100% straight, and perhaps the better phrase would be “everyone’s a little bisexual/pansexual/queer”). The idea that everyone is a little transgender has also been repeated recently in talks of trans-inclusion in LGBT legislation as well as in efforts to unify the LGBTQ community. And theoretically and idealistically, I am completely behind this outlook. Only one
problem: there is still a hell of a lot that separates people classified as “transgender” from the rest of the world, not least of which is the pathologization of trans people within the mental health community. Gwendolyn also wrote:

Many years ago: I learned a proverb: It's not what you call me, it's what I answer to. Those who are transgender, myself included, are all too familiar with being labelled with identities we ourselves do not accept. Why should we, therefore, feel we can so easily label others?

This proverb pretty much underscores my frustration. Someone may not identify a cisgender (or cis-whatever), and their identity ought to be respected. But, as a trans woman, I never really wanted to be identified as transsexual/transgender. It’s not my primary identity...or even my secondary identity. However, think back to when Gwen Araujo or Angie Zapata was murdered, and all the victim blaming that went on—how many people started asserting that it was a transsexual’s responsibility and obligation to disclose their transsexuality. Think about how transsexuals are described as deceitful when they don’t disclose, and how they are frequently then relegated to some third gender category when they do. It’s a catch22, no matter how I identify (or don’t) my identity is belied by my transsexuality; while it might not always be the case, I often find myself feeling as though my identity as a girl is undermined by my transsexuality—as though people treat me differently or view me as something “other” because of it. Furthermore, this message of othering has been internalized, such that I feel like I am something “other,” and it’s true: I do have a different background from the majority of girls my age. The question at play is simply does this different history negate my gender identity and am I defined by my gender history, forever marked as transsexual/transgender/other? There are two answers. Individually, from a queered perspective of the world, the answer is no. I am not marked, identity is fluid, and my identity as a girl—more importantly my identity as Sonia—trumps my now somewhat absent identity as trans-. However, socially speaking, yes, my transsexuality trumps all other identities and washes away other aspects of who I am. Socially, I’m still labeled as something other than how I, particularly, care to identify. Socially, it’s not what I answer to, it’s what you call me.

What I have just described covers much of what has come to be called “cisgender [or cissexual] privilege,” and it is one of the main causes of my anger around gender. It’s not to say that non-trans folk should be shunned for their ability to have their gender and (potentially) their identities recognized and respected—everyone deserves that—my problem is that trans identities, even “men/women of trans experience” who may not primarily identify as trans (or identify as trans at all anymore), frequently do not have their identities recognized or respected. And, if you’ve read my last post, you’ll know just how much this issue has been eating at me lately.

The reality of the situation is that trans people are different. We have different socializations, different biological histories, and we have different cultural issues. I often hear people compare, as Caroline did, transsexuality to any other living condition (where you were raised, childhood religious indoctrination, parental political affinity, etc.), and to a degree, Caroline is right. My transsexuality has profoundly affected me—beyond mere gender, my transition brought me into the queer community and opened my eyes to a lot of the privilege and power hierarchies at play along with a lot of the systemic oppression that exists in our world. Transitioning pushed me to a more progressive frame of mind and made me question things—without it, I’d probably be more conservative, more narrow-minded—more Christian (I know! Scary thought!). The point is, however, that while my transsexuality has served me well over the years, I don’t really want to identify as trans anymore. I don’t want to deny that history, and my desire for separation doesn’t really have anything to do with any conformation to the “self-hating tranny” stereotype. I didn’t transition to be queer or to be progressive, though; I transitioned so I could be a girl. So I could be Sonia. So I could look in the mirror and be happy in my skin—so I wouldn’t want to kill myself every time I was reminded that my body controls a fair amount of who and what I can be. Ever since my surgery with Dr. Bowers I’ve had a little slip of paper declaring me, Sonia, to be a female (which in our “sex = gender” world would mean I’m also a girl, right? Heheheheh). I may have gained a lot of things over the course of my transition, but one thing I’m still missing is that “cisgender [cissexual] privilege.”

What makes me angry the most? What still has the ability to make me cry with rage and sorrow? It’s the knowledge that because of this disparity, my identity may well never be realized. I hate saying that transsexuality negates any other valid gender identity (and supersedes all other identity)—academically, politically, intellectually, I don’t agree with this statement. However, at the root of a dark, emotional side of my brain, this idea has been internalized to some degree.

“It’s not what I answer to, it’s what you call me.”

Gwendolyn is right in many ways, but I’m not sure how her ideals (and my ideals) can universally extend in the real world. How do I balance a transsexual history, a drive to educate and advocate on trans issues, and simultaneously pioneer an identity separate from these things? Or, how do I accept that my (past?) transsexuality will continue to define me in ways I don’t necessarily desire—define me as something other than how I define myself?