The Skirt: A #HoldOntoTheLight Story

This is a story about a skirt. Well, kind of. The skirt plays a big role, but it’s really about a girl trying to exist in a world not built for her. It’s a story about accepting who you are and not being afraid to let others see you as well. It’s a story about being transgender.

You’ll hear a lot of transgender people say they “knew since they were little” that they’d been assigned the wrong gender at birth. I’m not one of them. My story doesn’t fit the Hallmark movie aesthetic, but that doesn’t make it any less valid. I can remember as far back as Kindergarten wishing I could be a girl, but I didn’t grow up wanting to change my gender (mostly because I didn’t even know that was an option in the late 80’s to early 90’s). I knew I was more comfortable around girls. I knew I liked “girl stuff” as much as I liked “boy stuff”, but I wasn’t allowed to. I knew being in groups of men always made me feel uneasy.

It wasn’t until my early twenties that body dysphoria (feeling that your body doesn’t match who you are inside) hit me like a truck. This was when I first started hearing about transgender even being a thing. This is where the skirt comes in. I was walking alone down the streets of downtown Boone, North Carolina (was going to Appalachian State at the time; GO MOUNTAINEERS!). There was this cute little hippie clothing store with stuff in the window that caught my eye. Stuff I could never wear, of course. But I still liked to look at it and imagine getting to wear it.

Finding a surge of bravery, I went into the shop and started browsing. There was no one in there save for the the lady behind the counter. But she greeted me with a smile. I perused the clothes on the racks, liking a lot of what I saw. I came to a skirt that caught my attention. It was an ankle-length and flowy with a bohemian-chic vibe that just clicked with me. The girl at the counter wasn’t giving me weird looks for browsing the skirts, so I pushed my luck and asked to try it on. She let me in the changing room and I tried on the skirt. I loved the look of it. I loved the feel of it. I loved seeing it on my body (even though I hated my body).

I bought it. She rang me up and I went back home with my new skirt. I was so proud of myself; I’d done something girls were allowed to do. Something as mundane as buying a skirt is like climbing a mountain when society tells you you’re not allowed to do it. Any time I was just hanging around the house, I wore my skirt. I never left the house with it on. After all, that would be just asking for trouble. It made me want more feminine experiences. I bought some more clothes; a blouse here, a pair of jeans there. A few things of makeup found their way into my collection too. I opened up new online accounts with a female name. The anonymity of the web allowed me to be me without the shackles of my body hiding my true identity. With each step I grew more brazen. Each new milestone brought a sense of accomplishment, but also a hunger for more. I knew I wanted to transition, to live as the woman I actually was.

But a journey can only be easy for so long, and before long I hit a wall. Up until now, authentic gender expression was an occasional fling. Any further down the path would mean crossing the threshold into permanency. I wanted it…Christ how I wanted it, but beyond that wall was an uncaring world ready to push back. I could never come out at work or to my parents. In my time online with other trans people I’d heard horror stories of unemployment and homelessness. Post after post told of family who’d cast them out or spouses who’d abandoned them. I knew my parents would never accept me and that coming out would be an undue hardship on my then girlfriend (now wife) whom I deeply loved. It just wasn’t possible, wasn’t meant to be.

All at once I declared that it was over. I deleted my online accounts and committed myself to living as a man. I let my facial hair grow out and got my hair cut short again. My circle of friends became people who represented what I thought a man should be. More and more I tried to take on the persona of a “manly man”. I became the person society wanted me to be, or at least I pretended to. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t me. I didn’t want to be that person, and the constant pretending left me horribly depressed. I went through a purge. Everything feminine I’d acquired either went in the trash or was donated to charity. Everything except that skirt. I couldn’t bring myself to part with it. I held it balled up in my fist over the give-away box on the floor. I’d stare at it, contemplating the decision, but ultimately conceded to bury it in the back of my closet (a fitting metaphor).

Friends and family could always tell. “What’s wrong, Joe?” they’d ask. “Are you okay?” I’d lie and say I was tired, or had work stuff on my mind. But it was a constant thing. I didn’t want to see friends, or if I did go out with people I spent the whole time just wanting to go home and be alone. A shower became my favorite part of the day. It was the only place I was guaranteed to be alone. It was where I didn’t have to hold my face a certain way, where no one would know I was crying.

It would eventually become too much to bear and I’d try again. When you deprive yourself completely, previous progress can feel new again. The skirt was the first thing to come back out. Wearing it around the house again was a great release. Putting on makeup when no one else was home felt validating. Of course, like before, it was never enough, and I’d crave a fuller feminine experience. When I’d come again to the same wall, the purge would begin again. The cycle always came to the same point of me trying to get rid of the skirt. I tried to make myself. I’d toss it in the giveaway box only to pull it out again before taking it to the donation center. I was absolutely certain I’d never transition, never live as myself. Still, giving up that skirt was letting go of the last shred of hope, and I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Even when I was at my lowest, even when I was trying so hard to be a man because that’s what was expected of me, I took solace in knowing that skirt was tucked away at the back of the closet. It was my tiny little hope that maybe, just maybe, someday I’d get to live as myself. It was my tiny little light in an endless darkness, and I couldn’t bring myself to let it go.

This cycle went on for nearly a decade. Each time my depression got worse. I’d contemplated suicide before, but it reached a point of taking over my thoughts. Every waking moment, my mind was filled with scenarios. How would I do it? Where would I do it? What note would I leave? What would my family do without me (we had a child by this point)? When you catch yourself on your insurance company’s website researching whether or not they will pay out for a suicide, you know you’ve hit the bottom.

I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t start the cycle again because by now I knew exactly where it would lead. There were only two options left to me: live authentically or finally give into the dark voices and check out. My wife and I had a long talk about it and she gave me her support to finally transition. It was time to stop the cycle and break free.

The journey began again, but this time I smashed through the walls. I took steps there was no coming back from. Coming out at work was terrifying, but I was thankfully allowed to transition and keep my job (very lucky). Telling my parents was the hardest part. Nothing upends a seemingly functional family quite like a gender dysphoria admission. Truthfully, we’re still picking up the pieces. Still, I got through it. It was one of the hardest walls for me to punch through, and now it’s behind me.

Before long I was waking up and going to bed every day as Faith. There was no more pretending, no more assuming the role of the man everyone thought I was. It was liberating. My depression and anxiety lessened. My suicidal thoughts evaporated. I enjoyed time with friends again, going from a somber recluce to a social butterfly in a matter of months. And even though our relationship remains a little shaky, my dad told me I was smiling more authentically than he’d seen me do in years.

There were many milestones along the way. I started hormones. I had my facial hair removed with laser treatments. I gave away all of my boy clothes to make room for my new wardrobe that slowly took over my closet. Back in March of 2017, I took my last trip to the courthouse where the Clerk of Court handed me a piece of paper declaring that Faith was now my legal name. On that final leg of the journey, I wore my old green skirt. For years I’d wandered in darkness, absolutely certain that there was no hope for me out there. There was no better, no happiness, no fulfillment. Still, I’d held onto that skirt for so many years, letting it represent the tiniest little bit of ‘maybe’ I could cling to. Maybe one day it will happen. Maybe one day I’ll get to live as myself. Maybe one day I won’t have to hurt anymore. Well, maybe had finally come to pass, and it was only fitting that I wear that skirt as I achieved what I’d been so sure was impossible.

So I say to you, find something that keeps your hope alive. It can be something small: a picture, a piece of clothing, a note, anything. As long as it represents to you the notion that the darkness doesn’t have to last forever. Keep that hope close, never let it go. Never allow yourself to abandon it. My skirt always reminded me of how I felt when I bought it. I wanted to feel like that every day. That skirt kept the memory alive, the memory kept the dream alive, and the dream finally changed my life.

Hold onto your hope. Hold onto that one thing that reminds you it’s not forever, that you can get through it as long as you don’t give up. When you hold onto the light, it will eventually drive out the darkness.

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Transgender: The Eternal Cycle of Pretending

How good of an impression can you do of yourself?

Go on and try. See how good of a you, you can do. Think you can make it convincing? You probably think I’m talking crazy, right? You think there’s no such thing as doing an impression of yourself. After all, if you’re doing anything, it’s as yourself, right? Well, I can do one, and after years of practice I’d say I’m getting pretty good at it. As a transgender woman, I do an impression of myself every time I interact with someone. It’s an exhausting and mentally taxing thing to maintain, but for transgender women it can be a necessity.

This probably sound counter-intuitive to the pro-trans arguments you’ve heard before. But Faith, I thought the whole point of coming out as transgender is to not be pretending to be someone else? Well, that’s not what I said. I spent years pretending to be some guy named Joe. What no one wants to talk about is how coming out of the closet doesn’t mean you stop pretending, just that the way you have to pretend changes.

Let me explain. If I’ve ever talked to you on the street or on the phone, you heard me doing an impression of my own voice. See, unless I’m home alone or it’s just me and my partner, I don’t talk without first tightening my throat and putting extra air behind the words to raise the pitch of my voice. I’ve gotten really good at it over the years, to the point where it doesn’t take nearly as much physical and mental effort as it used to. But it’s still a conscious step I have to take between thought and speech. Here’s the point I’m trying to make with that: the voice I’m producing when I take those steps is my voice (or at least as close to it as I’m capable of). The much deeper, baritone-range voice that naturally comes out of my throat isn’t my voice. I don’t identify with it. It sounds foreign to me. That’s what dysphoria is all about: what you see in the mirror or hear when you speak doesn’t match your identity.

What’s the point I’m making in all this? Well, just imagine going through your entire day every day consciously doing a voice that doesn’t naturally come out of your throat. That can seriously mess you up, and it’s something I always think about when some troll on the internet posts juvenile, anti-trans statements like “you can’t change biology”, or “you’ll always physically be a man.” Their 4th grade understanding of biology and psychology aside, they’re somewhat right. Nothing is ever going to change my chromosomes. If I want to keep producing a voice that matches my identity I’ll have to consciously make the effort each time.

The entirety of the transgender experience is about pretending; you’re either pretending to be something you’re not on the inside or trying to look like something you are on the outside. Take makeup for example. Ask just about any trans woman and she’ll tell you that makeup is more than just a fun accent to your look, its a camouflage necessary for survival. This can be especially true if you’ve not been able to get your facial hair removed. I still remember how freeing it was to reach a point where I felt comfortable going out without makeup again. When I first transitioned, I did full-face makeup no matter where I was going or what I was doing (and let me tell you, that gets expensive!). It took a lot of time and energy, but I didn’t have a choice. Makeup is something our society codes as feminine, so having it all over your face gives you one more layer of protection between you and some transphobe being able to tell you’re not cisgender.

It’s not just makeup either. I know a lot of cis women who like to wear jeans and a hoodie when they run errands or are just hanging out with friends. Sounds simple, right? Not when you’re transgender. Androgyny can be terrifying when you’re trans (unless you don’t identify as a binary gender in which case it’s awesome). It means pulling back from the extremes of gender expression and making yourself more susceptible to being misgendered. Even if I just wear jeans and a t-shirt when going out, I make sure the shirt is tight enough to show what little breast growth I’ve managed thanks to the hormones I take. Boobies mean female. Boobies mean I get called ma’am by strangers and can safely use the bathroom. Boobies mean no one thinks I’m a man.

These are all just aesthetic choices made before I leave the house, but they all mean something much deeper when you’re transgender. I love girls clothes and makeup, but it takes some of the fun away when they move from indulged interest to survival necessity. What about days I would just like to wear a hoodie and no makeup? If I’m getting dressed up when I don’t feel like it, aren’t I still, in some way, living as someone I’m not? And remember, this is just talking about how other people see me; we haven’t scratched how it affects me personally. I still have some of my old boys clothes buried deep in my closet (which makes for an apt metaphor: i.e. it’s HIS turn to hide back there). The very thought of ever putting them on terrifies me. It’s not that I think it will take my identity away, but that it will keep me from seeing myself as a woman in the mirror. Androgynous clothing messes with my dysphoria enough, so putting on on actual “boy” clothes would be almost catastrophic for my mental state. I’ve worked very hard on my appearance, and each time I look in the mirror I see more of Faith and less of Joe. Between hormones, laser hair removal, diet, and exercise, I’ve spent months crafting my body to as close a representation of my inner self as I can. But the confidence I’ve built as a result is fragile, and I worry that wearing or doing anything masculine will destroy it.

Here’s the point I’m making in all of that: I don’t hate boy’s clothes. In fact, now that I’m not forced to wear them all the time, I’ve grown a new appreciation for some of them. There are times I think it would be fun to put on a shirt and tie again. Does that make me not transgender? No. Does that make me less of a woman? Hell no. There are plenty of cisgender women out there who like to wear boy clothes sometimes, be they formal or casual. It doesn’t take away from their identity and it doesn’t take away from mine. My problem is this: if I put on a suit and look in the mirror, will I see a woman wearing it or a man? That’s what scares me. That’s what keeps those clothes at the back of the closet. That’s what makes me keep “pretending”.

I don’t have a general poignant statement to make in all of this. Sometimes this blog is just a space for me to get my feelings out of my own head. If you’re trans and know what these feelings are like, it can be nice to hear someone else speak to the same experiences. If you’re cis, I hope this gives you at least a little insight into what it’s like to have dysphoria. Strictly speaking, pretending never goes away when you’re transgender, just the manner in which you pretend changes. I’d much rather change my outside to match my inside than go on acting like I’m really the boy the world always saw me as, but that doesn’t make it easy. That doesn’t take away the constant effort it takes to maintain that image.

So, if you open your mouth to speak and hear your own voice come out, congratulations. Cherish the synchronization between mind and body you’ve been blessed with. When you look in the mirror and see yourself, enjoy it. If you’ve never once had to wonder if the stranger you’re talking to is seeing you for you and not the person you’re trying to convince them you’re not, I envy you.

The Various Forms of Transgender Misogyny

Trigger warnings: Bullying, misogyny, transphobia

In case this is needed before we start:

Cisgender – having a gender identity that matches the one you were assigned at birth.

All good? Okay, moving on…

One of the hardest things about helping cisgender people understand the transgender experience is that there’s nothing to compare it to. There’s simply no analogue for the ways in which being transgender alters and shapes your experiences. Going to work, going out with friends, dressing, self-care, and even just looking in the mirror are all common experiences that are sometimes dramatically altered when when you don’t identify as the gender you were assigned at birth. If I were to list off every little detail of my life that is only there because of my transgender status this post would be longer that the whole damn Harry Potter series. But nowhere is that more apparent than in the various forms of discrimination we face.

Here’s one universal, undeniable fact: it’s really hard to be a woman. From broad cultural norms to tiny micro-aggressions, and even actual laws governing the use of one’s own body, the female experience is unfairly challenging. There are a lot of movements out there trying to alter this fact and they all generally fall under the umbrella term of feminism. Feminism is a great thing. I’ve considered myself a feminist even long before I came out as transgender. But like all large movements, feminism has its whack-jobs. Sections of the more militant among feminist groups have a deep-seeded hatred of transgender women. To them, since we have bodies that match those of cisgender men and were socialized and lived our lives as men prior to coming out, we aren’t really women and are holders of the same privileges awarded to men. The term TERF has become widely seen among progressive groups online, standing for Trans Exclusionary Radical Feminist.

If you don’t already know I’m strongly against this idea then you must be new here, but I really want to delve into why this way of thinking is so flawed. First off, trans women do not have male privilege, at least not in the same way cisgender men have it. The argument is made that we had it before we came out and while that is technically true, we held it at the cost of our emotional and psychological well-being. Yes, we’re enjoying the relative ease of life that being perceived as male grants you in our society, but that is coupled with all the other aspects of being a guy that we find torturous because we’re having to pretend to be something we’re not. All my life I’ve always felt uncomfortable in groups of men. I never felt like I fit in. I never felt like I was having fun. Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I did have male privilege and losing it once I come out was a sobering experience, it didn’t hold a candle to the immense relief I felt no longer having to pretend to be someone else everywhere I went.

When transgender women come out and start living authentically, our world changes dramatically. Being perceived as male does give you a lot of keys to let you pass by certain barriers, and having those keys taken away is quite sobering. I still remember having to get used to male colleagues not taking me as seriously, being talked over by men when I wasn’t finished speaking, and unwanted advances. I still remember the first time a man touched me without permission. I swear my heart stopped beating for a moment. These are all examples of transgender women experiencing the same sexism and misogyny that cisgender women do, so I have come to label it cis-passing misogyny.

I was lucky enough to start passing for cisgender after about eight months on hormones. I know a lot of other transgender women aren’t as fortunate (assuming cis-passing is their goal). When a transgender woman doesn’t pass for cis, she experiences a different kind of misogyny. Her’s is a misogyny of purposeful dead names, articulated misgendering (“how are you doing, SIR?!”), threats of violence, and just general mocking for being “a guy pretending to be a girl”. Make no mistake, this is misogyny; it’s just of a certain type that is specific to the transgender, not cis-passing experience. It’s still being treated harshly because of one’s gender with the actual form of said treatment being specific to the circumstance. It’s no different than misogyny against heavy women (“put down the fork”; “what man would ever want you?”) being different from misogyny against thin women (“stop trying so hard”; “she’s clearly asking for it”). Sadly, the way I was able to tell I passed for cisgender was noticing I was getting the same kind of harassment as my cisgender female friends.

So I passed for cis. I was able to largely go through my day without anyone knowing I’m transgender. Trips to the bathroom regained that glorious banality they had before transition (mostly, anyway). I still remember how good it felt to feel like I didn’t need to wear makeup just to go run a few errands. I could throw on jeans and a t-shirt and still not be misgendered. “Finally,” I thought “life can get back to the normal I experienced before transition: just minus the dark depression and constant suicidal thoughts. Oh no; now my normal was periodically interrupted by cat calls and unwanted touches. My Facebook notifications were full of requests from random men I didn’t know. My new normal was very different from what I was used to before transition.

I’ve never been a transgender man, but I’d have to imagine it’s an easier experience (yes, there’s a lot to unpack there so please don’t take my quick statement as some sort of dismissal of the hardships of transgender men; this is in broad-strokes). Passing for male and also identifying as male is, culturally, the best position you can be in (all other factors excluded). When transgender women start living authentically, we begin an uphill battle towards trying to be cis-passing (some of us, anyway) and if we manage to finally claw our way to that finish line, now we get to run the gauntlet of being a cis-passing woman in a man’s world. We run a race for the chance to run a different race.

“But!”, I hear the TERF’s shouting, “this is why transgender women aren’t really women! They had male privilege and chose to give it up!” I disagree. Do transgender women experience what male privilege is like; yes. However, as stated before, it comes at a great internal cost. Remember, transgender people don’t become someone else when they come out; they reveal who they always were. The only reason transgender women are perceived as male before coming out is that they’re acting like someone who fits their assigned gender. We compensate and sometimes overcompensate for the fact our appearance doesn’t match our identity. I’ve known transgender women who used to be full-bearded biker dudes. I myself used to wear camo, collect guns, and grow a goatee. We try to fit the mold we’re placed in and it just doesn’t work. That pretending to be a man so other people will treat us with respect is another form of misogyny. What kinds of discrimination do effeminate men face? Do I really need to name them off? That’s being treated as a lesser based on the aspects of your person that are culturally coded female; in another word: misogyny.

I said at the beginning that the transgender experience is wholly unique, and that’s very true. Not only is it unlike anyone else’s, it changes as we do. So, the next time you hear a TERF shouting about transgender women having male privilege or not being real women, have the courage to correct them. Stand up for your transgender sisters out there. After all, we’re out there fighting alongside you for the same things. Respect our struggles and see how we can help in the larger fight for equality.

Responding to Pre-transition Pictures Without Being a Colossal Asshole: A Guide

I take a lot of selfies. Like, a lot of selfies. I may be 33, but I have the heart of a young Millennial, posting a picture of my face on my way to or during all kinds of things. I love them. Is it vain: maybe. It helps me though. First off, it’s a confidence booster to put up a picture of yourself and get back a bunch of positive responses (good medicine for a day when dysphoria is particularly weighing on you). Beyond that though, I’m planning to do a transition video in the future and having that many images cataloged by date posted will give me a handy pool of pictures to show the timeline of little changes.

Occasionally, under certain circumstances, I’ll also post an old picture of myself pre-transition. Why? Well, because it’s fun to see people’s eyes get big as they shout “that was you?!“. I’m proud of how far I’ve come. I’m proud of how different I look now from when I presented male. I also know that before transition I used to look up other people’s before and after pictures to get an idea of what kinds of results I could expect from hormones over time and I want to give that same opportunity to others. Now, I don’t show those pictures to just anyone. Seeing an old picture can be a trigger for some trans people and for me it depends on the people I’m with. If I’m surrounded by people who know me as Faith and respect my identity, I have no problem showing them. If I’m around people that still want to refer to me by my old name and pronouns, looking at those pictures is depressing.

Earlier today I was on a makeup group on Facebook. I’m not the only trans woman in the group and occasionally one will post a before and after. It’s a really good group for the most part and most of the responses were pretty positive. Still, when you put that kind of information out there to such a big group of people, you’re going to get an array of responses. One that I kept noticing (and finally said something about) amounted to various forms of being hurtful without realizing you’re saying something negative. Comments like “you were so hot as a guy!”, “I would have totally dated you before”, “you look good as a woman but looked better as a man”, etc.

It baffles me that people think these are okay responses. The whole point of posting a before and after is to let people marvel at the transformation. When you uphold the past as being more desirable, you send a message that the trans person made a mistake. You also show that you see their transition as being something for you, not them. Transition is not something done for the benefit of others. It’s a selfish act and I mean that as a good thing. For transgender people, actually transition and living authentically is the ultimate act of self-care. It’s often done at the expense of friends, family, jobs, and even homes. That kind of sacrifice isn’t made for the benefit of others. In fact, living for others is what keeps a lot of transgender people in the closet in the first place.

Another thing to note is that these kinds of responses are a desire for a person that never actually existed. Remember, physical appearance never ever dictates gender identity. I don’t care if the trans woman you’re talking to looks like Jason Momoa; if they say they’re a woman, they’re a woman. Showing preference for the past photograph is to pine over a fictional character. That person never actually existed. They just pretended to be what they looked like to please an uncaring world. Saying you miss someone’s former identity is to tell them you want them to go back to pretending, go back to being miserable so you’re life can be improved on an immeasurably small level. It’s an asshole thing to do.

Finally, show some damn respect. Sharing a before picture, especially on social media, is a tremendous act of bravery. They didn’t owe you that. So often transgender people get asked for before pictures and it’s incredibly rude. You have no right to see how someone used to look, no claim to that information. When someone shows it to you, it’s as an act of pride. They want you to be amazed at how far they’ve come. It’s no different than sharing before and after pictures of weight loss. Would you tell someone “I liked you better fat?” Actually, scratch that. I actually have seen people say that and it’s just as creepy. If someone’s happy being heavy, awesome; more power to them. But if they want to make a change you should compliment the results of the journey, not lament that it was ever taken in the first place.

This is my before and after. It’s something I’m proud to show because I’ve come a long way. I like knowing it can serve as a source of hope for other transgender people not as far along as I am. I’ve been told before that Joe was a good looking guy and I’m inclined to agree. It doesn’t matter though; he didn’t exist. He was a masculine shell I was trapped in so I played the part and tried to make it normal. The picture on the bottom is real. The picture on the bottom is what should get the attention. Before shots are just a marker to show how long the journey has been. If you’re looking at them with any kind of longing or disapproval of the change, you’re doing it wrong and insulting the transgender person opening up to you.

So please, I beg you, don’t be an asshole if a transgender person chooses to show you their before picture. Take it as the tremendous honor bestowed upon you that it is. Be humbled by the act of bravery you’re witnessing. And, for goodness sake, don’t ruin the moment by implying the transition was in any way a mistake.