They see me...

Waking up in the morning
I take a look in the mirror
Stroking these sparse yet visible
Hairs on my chin
I smile... at the progress
When I look into my own eyes
In the mirror
I see me... I see he...

Walking down the street
Head held high
Exuding confidence in my stride
Remembering my manners
Along the way
Opening doors
Letting ladies go first
They smile and say "thank you, sir"
I smile back
Elated that when they look at me
They see me... they see he

Retiring to my sleep
She lays next to me
On my chest
Which no longer has the deformities
I hated
The genetic misfortunes
I loathed
Gently running her fingers along my scars
Scars that tell my story
Of rebirth and rebuilding
She tells me they're beautiful
She sees me... she sees he.

No longer having to hide who I am
fFor the sake of others
I will forever live this life
As I see fit
Exposing the world to the new me
Introducing the world to my new life
Living the end of my days
As he.



Amir

Being A Singer

I don’t know what it is at the moment but I feel like I’m being torn apart. By the transsexual nature of my bodily awareness, and the glory of being a musician. Maybe it’s worse at the moment because so many of my friends are in the early stages of taking T. I suspect it has more to do with allowing myself, finally, to grieve the path I can’t take – that of transitioning fully, and finally having the right kind of body. The body that would allow me to express my non-binary gender to the fullest – because, despite what some idiots believe, it’s totally possible to be both transsexual and genderqueer/androgynous. Because I would rock the whole facial hair/lipstick look.

Also, perhaps, the question. People who love classical music know better than to ask. But I’ve had a lot of this, recently: “surely you could take T and just have a lower voice?”

It’s not that it can’t happen. Trans guys can keep a singing voice, though, depending on age and level of vocal expertise before hormones, there seems to be an astonishing level of risk. Too many men lose their ability to vocalise altogether. I haven’t heard of a single incident of a classical singer going through this process, and I have yet to read of a trans guy keeping a vocal range and quality after T that would leave him capable of singing in the classical style as a professional.

I wish people who ask that question would think: “If it were that simple, wouldn’t they have done it already?” Because it’s not that simple. I started vocal training at 13, and serious serious serious vocal training at 24. I can’t smoke, drink too much (or at all before gigs – sometimes for weeks in advance), eat the wrong foods, sleep too little, talk too loudly. Every part of your body becomes a beautiful and lovingly cared for machine – changing the way you exercise, hold yourself, move yourself through the world. You end up knowing far more than you ever wanted to know about mucus. Hormonal fluctuation, at the smallest level, has a tremendous impact. And with a three octave range that takes up 3 hours a day in rehearsal and practice (more at peak times) - you can’t afford the tiniest change to throw you off balance. A cold is a catastrophe. To take the time out to have your voice break, knowing that it would never have the same range, beauty or security? Unthinkable. And then, if it had survived to a level where it could still be at a viable professional level? I wouldn’t have the right range to sing the right music anymore. Because this is the deal with early music: a mezzo is where you want to be to play the hero, the poet, the king, the god. Drop down to tenor and your repertoire dries up.

Imagine the best sex of your life. The best you’ve ever had – where you and your partner have reached a level of understanding so beyond language that language itself seems like a broken, misshapen, abortive mistake. Where your senses are stretched out so far, and for so long that you’re in agony, and it’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever felt. Where you step outside of time, and outside of your body, and everything is sure, and beautiful, and you can’t help but cry. That is what singing feels like. Consistently. All of the jouissance, none of the heartbreak. When that happens, my dysphoria disappears.

And then, when the music stops, it rushes back.

I don’t even know what I’m trying to achieve, by writing this. Except, maybe, it will serve as an example to those who think that being trans is the foremost concern in trans people’s lives. Who think we don’t make hard choices. That we don’t serve different and opposing masters. And to share with anyone else who may have made a similar trade-off.

Please don’t ask me again why I can’t take T.

CN Lester

Staking My Claim

I hold my dick in my hand.

I pick it up & turn it around.

It looks strange away from my body.

It's the right size & shape & looks fairly realistic.

It's just a piece of silicone, though:

A beautifully crafted soft dildo

that I put in my underwear.

And yet

It is my dick.

My prosthesis that makes me feel whole.

It reminds me

of what I'll never have

no matter how bad I want it.

It reminds me

of what I should look like,

if it weren't for my biology.

It reminds me

of the manhood some people would deny me.

It reminds me

of the manhood I claim for myself.

This dick doesn't make me a man,

but by claiming it;

I stake my claim

in being a man.



Aran

Man

Standing in the mirror every morning and ask myself
What kind of man are you?
Not knowing if I want to be dangerously out
Or shamefully stealth
Scratching my injection site
A constant reminder that to them I'll never be quite
Right
Quite the man I should be
With the "right" parts or as big as it could be
Craving a "sir" or a "he"
Even if only from those who aim to please
And never really see
Me
What kind of man are you?
Hiding behind whats suppose to be
What ought to be
What every father's son has sought out
To be
Listening to the doubt you don't see
In an emotional drought
Wishing the release of female shackles
To be phree
Just be that dude
Phree
Same person called by any other name...
D...Sin...I.D.
Originally Sincerely Unconcerned
With what others said
Digitally realeased from responsibility
"It wasn't me"
I mean
It's true it wasn't
Being a fact doesn't
Release me
See those cans full of that shit
Tied to my bumper
Dangling from thin strings of yesterday
Keep me
They stuff me in a cage
Rarely feeding
Or letting me really breathe
Trapped
In what I use to say
Cramped by past actions
And lack of regret
What kind of man are you
An honest one
Haunted by my yesteryear
Sometimes ridden with fear
That someone will know
Still picking myself up
As if I'm untouched by
Past headaches
And future mistakes
A self made...
Creating my own existance
Accepting my flaws
And still standing strong
Yet I stare at myself
And ask
What kind of man am I?



Shaun J. Phree

There were no signs

I've heard it, my trans friends have heard it... Someone, somewhere in our families, will chime in with this statement in an argument or conversation that is supposed to shake your entire belief system. Like these four little words will suddenly make you realize you aren't transgender.

"There were no signs..."

Everyone has the right to their own opinion, and you could even say that I'm very open minded to those opinions. I would never purposely offend anyone, but I'm sorry people, the statement that "there were no signs" that we were transgender growing up is not only completely irrelevant when talking about someone's gender identity, it's extremely hurtful to the person you're saying it to. Do I really need to sit here and explain that you're placing wrongful gender stereotypes onto someone and thatpeople don't fit into little boxes with labels on them?

Hi my name is Jack, I'm a man trapped in a woman's body...and as a kid I played with Barbies. -cue exasperated gasps of shock from the audience-
So freakin' what people?! Okay, I admit it, I played with Barbies. But guess what? I played with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, too and I carried them in a yellow cloth handbag until the second grade. Do you know what that must prove?... That I liked toys as a kid! Not some profound gesture toward my gender.

ATTENTION SOCIETY! Colors, clothes, food, and toys DO NOT HAVE A GENDER! You, society, placed the gender stereotype onto these items and heaven forbid these children stray away from that! Then the only reasonable explanation must be that they are all little homosexuals and transsexuals.

NEWS FLASH! In the early 1920's, pink was a color for boys because it was a "stronger" color and blue was a color for girls because it was more delicate and dainty. In fact, people in Belgium still dress boys in pink and girls in blue.
If you haven't gotten the hint by now let me break it down for you... your gender identity is an emotion you feel inside of yourself. Mentally, transgendered people feel uncomfortable in their body. This is NOT defined by a hairstyle, clothes, attitude, religious views, sexual orientation, ethnicity, etc. freaking etc. These people that feel this way were in fact born this way, and even if they weren't, is it suddenly a crime to grow as an individual and discover new things about yourself that make you happy?

Happiness is the word of the day people... forget what gender you thought your son, daughter, sister, brother, whoever was as a child...because they aren't a child anymore! You doubting them is only hurting them in the end.

Let's recap, children will wear what you put them in, and they will play with what toys you buy them... it's flat out denial and ignorance to say these things played / play a part in your loved ones gender identity. end of story. Thanks for playing.



Jack

Another Human Being

I run into him and his wife in a store.
He calls me by my former name on purpose.
When I correct him and show him my new driver’s license,
he looks at me with disgust,
like I am lower than low.
We chat for a few minutes
(they are family friends after all.)
He literally continues to look down on me
the whole time.
(He is at least 6 inches taller than me after all.)
I remain the gentleman that I am
and don’t make any snarky comments,
even though I desperately want to say something,
like, “Hey, did you hear that my brother and his boyfriend recently got married in a Christian church?”
But I don’t.
We soon part,
but his gaze stays with me.
I know he doesn’t approve of my transformation.
He has made that painfully clear.
He once told me that being trans
is my cross to bear,
and religion can save me
like it saved him.

He’s right in that regard.
God did save me,
but not his manifestation of a fundamentalist Christian God.
My God doesn’t allow me the privilege
To judge who I think is worthy.
My God demands that I treat everyone equally,
regardless of what I think of them.
My God would not allow me
To look at another human being with disgust and contempt
simply for being themselves.
I try so hard not to judge people other people,
but there’s the guy who used to be a big brother to me
looking at me like I’m dirt
simply because I’m transsexual.
It hurts.
I try to remind myself
that I’m a better person this way
that I’ve gained far more friends than I’ve lost
that God made me this way for a reason.
But his gaze continues to haunt me.

May I never look at another human being that way
ever again.


Aran

Dear Stranger,

In my opinion, "You're female, right?" is not an acceptable ice-breaker. "Hello, how are you?" is a much better way to start a conversation, and will probably actually get a response from me.

Please forgive me if I don't answer you when you compliment my backpack. I know it's quite rude of me not to acknowledge your compliment, but please keep in mind that there are 7 of you, and 1 of me. I could see you pointing at me and giggling before you spoke, and in my experience, questions asked, or compliments given under these circumstances have generally had the sole purpose of getting me to speak so that you could decide my gender is, so forgive me if I just don't feel like humouring you. And if I did say "thank you", and you think that it is necessary to discuss my gender (without my input), I would kindly thank you to wait until I am out of earshot. It's just common courtesy.

"Are you gay?" is also not a great way to start a conversation. I fail to see how my hypothetical partner's junk is any of your business. When I refuse to answer your question, and I retain the right to not answer personal questions, please don't tell me that you can smell it on me. That is impolite. I know how I identify and you do not, unless I have informed you, which I hadn't. Also, this question is more difficult for me to answer than you may think. I cannot give you an answer that is clear without first knowing what assumptions you are making about my gender.

I don't care what you say, sexual orientation cannot be determined by hair length. My hair is short because I cut it recently, and has nothing to do with my hypothetical partner's junk, so please stop telling me that it does.

Please don't be offended when I refuse to tell you where I am staying. I have no obligation to tell you anything, and I am just trying to keep myself safe. You may be a kind person who means me no harm, but please remember that I am alone, in a country that I do not live in, in a small town where I do not know anyone, and no one knows where I am currently. Not to mention that when I leave this coffee shop, I have to walk 3 miles down a tiny, deserted road to get back to my hostel, and I don't know you, so I don't really want you to be able to follow me there, especially not after you just kept telling me that I "stink of gay".

I will have to politely decline your offer of accommodation, and while your offer of a room and breakfast for £5 is very generous, I do have a personal policy not to accept accommodation from people who accost me in public spaces. On that note, telling me that you "take it in the front, and in the back" and informing me that if I was any good, you would give me my £5 back is unsavory. I was unaware that sexual favours were part of the price of accommodation at your establishment. If that is the case, I will once again (because I have already declined your offer once) have to vehemently decline your offer, as I prefer to pay for my accommodation in cash.

Please do not touch me without my permission. I have personal boundaries, and I don't appreciate being touched without my consent.

Do not tell me that you are going to touch my breasts. I am the only person who gets to decide if anyone gets to touch my body. I don't appreciate my body being objectified as though I am not a person, and I don't like your sense of entitlement to my body. Also, if you'd bothered to look at me more closely, you may have noticed that I don't actually have breasts, but if I did, I wouldn't let you touch them.

Yes, I do have a boy's name. This may have something to do with the fact that I don't identify at all as a woman, so I would appreciate it if you didn't assume that I was one. Please keep in mind that not everyone who happens to have a gendered name identifies with the gender of their name either.
I do realise now that during our entire conversation that you held the (false) assumption that I am a woman. Please forgive me for not correcting your assumption, but I did not think that correcting you was a particularly safe course of action. Also, I would like you to note that I did not tell you I was a woman, you merely assumed that I was, and I cannot be held responsible for other people's assumptions about my identity.

If you run into me again, and wish to not offend me, please follow the simple guidelines that follow:

Please don't ask me what my former name may have been. That is none of your business. If you do ask, you will be politely be informed that I do not give out that information. Please don't press the matter further. I will not be bullied into divulging that information, and the only result of pestering me about my former name will be my irritation.

Please do not ask me what my genitals look like. For the record, when you ask me if I'm a "man or a woman" what you are actually interested in knowing is whether or not I have a penis. That is none of your business, and there is no reason for you to need to have this information. If you fancy me, but are worried about whether or not you will fancy my genitals, strike up a casual conversation with me, so that I may have a chance to decide whether I fancy you, do not just assume that I will fancy you. Also, I guarantee that if you start that casual conversation by asking about my genitals, I will not fancy you any longer (even if I had fancied you).
Groping my chest to feel for breasts that you cannot see is not an acceptable way to act in polite society. Not even if you try to (unsuccessfully) disguise it as a dance move.
If you are not sure which pronouns I use, and you think that you may need to discuss me with your friend while I am not present, you could politely inquire, "Do you have a pronoun preference?" If you had asked me that, I would have respectfully informed you of mine.

Please refrain from asking about my hypothetical partner's genitals. For reasons as to why this is uncouth, please see the above section about inquiring after my genitals. The reasons are the same. You may politely ask me how I identify, but this does not guarantee you an answer, as I reserve the right not to answer any question of a personal nature without any explanation.

If I do happen to inform you of my gender or sexual orientation, please do not argue with me. This is not up for discussion. Once I have informed you of my identity, the discussion is over. That being said, I will answer any sincere question asked in the spirit of educating oneself about the world one lives in (eg. What did you mean by "queer"?), however, I reserve the right not to answer any question without giving you an explanation as to why. Also, please do not look to my friend for confirmation of my identity. I am the authority on my identity, not my friend.

Please do not inform me of my identity, with or without reasons as to how you deduced it. I am not interested in what you think my identity is, as I already know how I identify. Also, I can guarantee that I have spent more time with myself than you have, and know myself better than you do, so I believe myself to be the greater authority on my own identity.

It is my hope that you may find this letter informative, and the guidelines useful as a way to keep from offending myself and others in the future.

Respectfully,


James

Looking

I used to spend what seemed like hours,
gazing in the mirror,
Looking
for my true self,
wondering if I was a “she” or a “he.”
Looking
for the boy I had found recently & knew was there,
hidden,
but just under the surface,
waiting to emerge.
Looking
for my male soul
and wondering how he would embody himself
in my female body.
Looking
for any signs I might be intersex,
so desperate I was for a biological explanation.
Looking
at each individual facial hair,
willing it to grow longer & darker,
getting frustrated with the mustache I knew was there,
but was clearly uncooperative & not growing in on schedule.
Looking
for any signs of femininity that would give me away.
(In hindsight, though, it was always my soprano voice
that always revealed my biological sex.)
Looking
for the man I was slowly becoming.

Now that I have a full beard
(thanks to the wonders of testosterone),
and I finally look like the man I was always meant to be,
I don’t spend hours pondering those things anymore.
Now when I look in the mirror,
I grin
and wonder who that handsome man with the gorgeous beard is,
and then I realize that it’s me.


Aran

Mr. Owl, what is dysphoria?

What is dysphoria you ask?
Dysphoria is getting dressed in the morning
Wearing five layers of shirts
To hide the tumors on your chest
Walking towards the mirror
The judge
Jury
Prosecutor
You stand staring at your reflection
Surrounded by the maximum occupancy of persons
All yelling and arguing about whether or not
Your chest looks male enough to even walk out-fucking-side today
Dysphoria is the piece of my heart that cowers in fear
That spreads paranoia to the rest of it
Causing confusion complication a cacophony in my soul
Dysphoria is the name of another person inside me
Lying dormant from time to time
And jumping to consciousness when I need it to sleep
The most
It is a set of weeds popping up in every transguy
In every transgrrrl
It causes pain, tears, suicide, and agoraphobia,
But connects each and every one of us
No matter who we are
We have this in common.
Dysphoria is the blessing in disguise
The teacher that is hard on you
So that you will grow


Ira

Inside The Gender Vortex

Carson