People often say growing up transsexual sounds difficult. And it probably was; it's just hard to compare without some sort of common vantage point with non-trans people.
I was a happy enough kid, provided I had some sort of distraction.
Distractions let me forget I was really a girl for a while. Toys, video games, arcade games, computers (wayyy back to the early 80's TV ones), books, cartoons, even psychedelics a couple years ago. Actually, I kinda buried my head in the sands of Distraction Desert, and that continued until they just ceased to work. That wasn't very long ago.
A somewhat more effective method of coping was release. Release was more problematic (and scary for me), and not always even intentional.
Until the age of 6 or 7, I wasn't afraid. My earliest memory of trans-evident behavior was when I was about 4. At the YWCA daycare I was in, there were gendered bathrooms for us kids. I insisted for a short while on going with the other girls to the girls' room but was made to go to the other one. Not long after, I knew it was something to hide dearly.
Besides wanting to be the mommy when playing house, I also have memories of having red toenails in sandals (my aunt painted them for me at my request) at that center later on. ("That's for girls!" "No it's not!" Yesss.) And still later, my father and others telling me "Don't walk on your toes!" "Don't talk through your nose!" "Don't hold that hammer like that!"
For the longest time, I borrowed mom's bras and stuffed them with water balloons or folded up socks in private. My dad would find them just under my bed skirt and take them. On separate occasions, I accidentally left out a slip and a dress in my early teens. Oops.
In my late teens, I tried to grow my hair out several times. It's very, very thick and wavy. I dressed as androgynously as I could "get away with." I shaved my arms once with the excuse of running out of spots to put a nicotine patch. I often shaved my legs completely in winter and down to shorts level in summer. I got into the whole "goth" thing partly as an alibi to wear skirts, makeup, and nail polish. I shaped my eyebrows with a safety razor once. I "neglected" to trim my fingernails until Mom complained. Then I'd trim them and let them grow again.
The ballsiest thing I did was buying a nice pair of black leather high heels at a retail store as a "Christmas present for my girlfriend." Yes, I could bring them back after Christmas if they didn't fit her. Luckily, they fit just fine. The sales lady saw straight through me I'm sure, as I was shaky and stammering, but it was totally worth it.
My brother M, then about 18, found my shoes, worn, in a shoebox in my closet with hose and a slip (both worn). He asked me about it. Horrified and angry, I lied gruffly, "It's a present for my girlfriend," shooting a look that added, "and don't bring that box up again if you want to live to 20, motherfucker." I "purged" my shoebox and makeup months later, and hid from myself.
So, hmm, yeah. Growing up trans probably was a little bit rough. How it compares to being non-trans, I really can't say, but I imagine it's even less fun.
Don't Walk On Your Toes - 05/27/06 11:26 AM
People often say growing up transsexual sounds difficult. And it probably was; it's just hard to compare without some sort of common vantage point with non-trans people.
I was a happy enough kid, provided I had some sort of distraction.
Distractions let me forget I was really a girl for a while. Toys, video games, arcade games, computers (wayyy back to the early 80's TV ones), books, cartoons, even psychedelics a couple years ago. Actually, I kinda buried my head in the sands of Distraction Desert, and that continued until they just ceased to work. That wasn't very long ago.
A somewhat more effective method of coping was release. Release was more problematic (and scary for me), and not always even intentional.
Until the age of 6 or 7, I wasn't afraid. My earliest memory of trans-evident behavior was when I was about 4. At the YWCA daycare I was in, there were gendered bathrooms for us kids. I insisted for a short while on going with the other girls to the girls' room but was made to go to the other one. Not long after, I knew it was something to hide dearly.
Besides wanting to be the mommy when playing house, I also have memories of having red toenails in sandals (my aunt painted them for me at my request) at that center later on. ("That's for girls!" "No it's not!" Yesss.) And still later, my father and others telling me "Don't walk on your toes!" "Don't talk through your nose!" "Don't hold that hammer like that!"
For the longest time, I borrowed mom's bras and stuffed them with water balloons or folded up socks in private. My dad would find them just under my bed skirt and take them. On separate occasions, I accidentally left out a slip and a dress in my early teens. Oops.
In my late teens, I tried to grow my hair out several times. It's very, very thick and wavy. I dressed as androgynously as I could "get away with." I shaved my arms once with the excuse of running out of spots to put a nicotine patch. I often shaved my legs completely in winter and down to shorts level in summer. I got into the whole "goth" thing partly as an alibi to wear skirts, makeup, and nail polish. I shaped my eyebrows with a safety razor once. I "neglected" to trim my fingernails until Mom complained. Then I'd trim them and let them grow again.
The ballsiest thing I did was buying a nice pair of black leather high heels at a retail store as a "Christmas present for my girlfriend." Yes, I could bring them back after Christmas if they didn't fit her. Luckily, they fit just fine. The sales lady saw straight through me I'm sure, as I was shaky and stammering, but it was totally worth it.
My brother M, then about 18, found my shoes, worn, in a shoebox in my closet with hose and a slip (both worn). He asked me about it. Horrified and angry, I lied gruffly, "It's a present for my girlfriend," shooting a look that added, "and don't bring that box up again if you want to live to 20, motherfucker." I "purged" my shoebox and makeup months later, and hid from myself.
So, hmm, yeah. Growing up trans probably was a little bit rough. How it compares to being non-trans, I really can't say, but I imagine it's even less fun.
Posted in hindsight by Milla | Post a Comment?