Category: Me and My Identity


I changed my name by deed poll in December 2010, and was uncharacteristically efficient telling everyone (well, sort of everyone…well, ok, most people…some) that needed to know. One of the first things I did was get my driving licence changed, as it’s very useful to have photo ID with the correct name on when you’re changing other things (another Trans Top Tip!). The bank presented no problem, my GP surgery was fine, and so on. Mind you, all this time later, there are still a few things lurking in the woodwork in my old name. Partly because I was a wuss about changing some, and partly because I just didn’t get round to it.

The biggest change that I really must make is my passport. At the moment, I’m not able to leave the country, but until I can get my sh*t together and get a letter from a doctor confirming that my “change of gender” (their words)  is expected to be permanent (well, duh) and £77.50, I am destined to holiday in the UK.

I’m much better at dealing with things like this at a distance, eg: via email, or by post, if I can at all get away with it. In the case of my driving licence, all I had to do was send a copy of my deed poll, fill in a form, send them a cheque, and voilà – all sorted. However, sometimes it’s necessary to speak to someone in person. Despite my notable lack of modesty regarding my transition, I still feel uncomfortable telling complete strangers – “coming out” really, just for the sake of getting the right details on someone’s computer system. It took me ages to sort out my mobile account, because I knew I would have to take proof of my new name to the shop. I ended up doing it in London, because I figured that the staff on Oxford Street would probably be more cosmopolitan than here. Nope. You probably can imagine the sort of young guy who works in a mobile phone shop – times that by five, and imagine me explaining at the counter, then twice more, that I needed to change my name…and then watch their face when I handed over my paperwork. #bloodyembarrassing

My situation isn’t helped by the fact that I changed my name twice within 6 months. I went from being (let’s say) Spottyknickers Smith to Spottyknickers Smith-Jones when my partner and I got hitched, to Mark Smith-Jones. Of course, it would have made much more sense to get it done all at once, but life doesn’t always turn out that easy to organise. So I have two lots of name change paperwork. For a short while, my partner and I were both Mrs Smith-Jones, which was complicated enough even before my transition became official.

Just occasionally, this makes my life awkward, such as when I get a ‘phone call from someone asking for Spottyknickers Smith. Or Mrs Smith-Jones (do you mean the ACTUAL Mrs Smith-Jones, or the person who is now MR Smith-Jones??) Or just Miss Smith. At this point, I have a dilemma. I don’t want to say “yes, I’m Spottyknickers” as, well, I’m not. But I don’t know if the person calling is someone Dead Important, or just some poor soul in a call centre using an old contact list. So it can go a little like this:

“Hello, can I speak to Spottyknickers, please?”
“Aaaaaahhhhhhhm………….can I ask who’s calling?”
“It’s Curlylocks Hair Stylists. We’ve got a great new offer on at the moment”
(Audibly relieved) “Ooohhh, I’m afraid Spottyknickers hasn’t lived here for a while. Sorry!”
“Er, thanks…..goodbye”

At which point I realise I’m speaking to them on my mobile.

I haven’t yet had the guts to say “Spottyknickers? No, I’m sorry, there’s no-one of that name here”, just in case it’s information I might need, or the news that a Great-Aunt I’d never heard of has left me a squillion pounds. But really, as time goes on, the name Spottyknickers is increasingly redundant, and I guess the time will come when it can be quietly but respectfully consigned to my personal history book.

Throughout my life I have spent a lot of time trying to see both sides of arguments. Even in situations where I feel very strongly, it’s always been possible to see why the other argument has been made. In many ways this has been a blessing, in others, a curse. It is hard to be really rabid about something whilst simultaneously appreciating the opposite perspective. Not agreeing with, mind, just appreciating. Perhaps it is this that means that whilst I hold very strong political views, it is rare that I choose to bang my political drum. And all the more upsetting that when I do poke my head above the parapet over an issue, it has been seen by some as ‘unnecessary’. Trust me, if people were aware of the strength of my feelings on a lot of issues, they’d realise how much I choose to hide, out of consideration for ‘the other side of the argument’.

From the perspective of a trans person, it can be helpful to recognise and appreciate that not everyone agrees with or applauds the right of a person to determine their own gender identity. Unfortunately, if I do happen to get into a conversation about the politics of gender, some people can be quick to level the accusation of some sort of ‘gender evangelism’, or to be more crude ‘shoving it down their throats’. To bring up a side-issue, this also happens because I am a vegan. I can be happily chowing down on my chosen meal and a fellow diner will then ask ‘Well, WHY don’t you eat X?; so does that mean you are JUDGING me for eating X?; what about X ludicrous scenario involving a desert island and a tub of Philadelphia?’ Funnily enough, I’m not crazy about discussing food-production techniques at the dinner table, and am happy to say so, but you can bet that if I actually answered the questions, I’d be seen as trying to thrust my views on others. This also seems to be the case regarding my transition – people ask lots of questions (which is fine) but not always in the most appropriate setting, and not always without seeing the answers as an attack on or affront to their own gender identity. No, honestly, I’m not recruiting.

I have come across the idea on more than one occasion that choosing to hide your beliefs, feelings, etc. can be seen as a favourable attribute in a man. ‘Stiff upper lip’, ‘sucking it up’, ‘manning up’ and so on, tend to refer to putting aside what you feel and ‘getting on with it’. There have been plenty of times recently where I have had to swallow my pride and refrain from saying what I actually think or believe, because I don’t want to be seen as someone who constantly flies the flag for the Kingdom of Transgender.

As I have mentioned previously, I am very honest, and find it hard to lie. I was at a birthday ‘do’ recently – very few of the people there actually knew me, and those that did were, let’s face it, not sending out an addendum to the invitation reading “Attention, there will be a transgender man at the party. He is short, wears glasses and looks kinda masculine, but not quite. Please do not refer to him as a lesbian” Because it wasn’t all about me, nor did I want to stick out.  We were sat with some really nice people, and chatted on and off throughout the evening. At no point did I make any reference to myself, my business, my gender ‘stuff’ or anything like that. Later on, one lady asked ‘so, how long have you and your wife been together?’ I replied we’d been together 7 years, and married 18 months. At which point she looked me in the eye and said ‘Ah, is that because it’s only recently been made legal for couples like you to marry?’ Did I put on my poker face and ask ‘what sort of couple do you mean?’ Did I give her a brief but thorough run down of my transition, and how it has affected the status of my civil partnership? Did I hell. I smiled sweetly and said ‘that’s right’. On reflection, I’m pretty sure that the majority of people there saw us as a lesbian couple (but MY wasn’t the short one with glasses BUTCH?!) and it would not have done me any favours at all to pitch my Kingdom of Transgender flag in the middle of the birthday cake.

So maybe I am ‘man enough’ to take this kind of situation on the chin, but what are the immediate psychological consequences? Hard, actually. However much I realise that these things are just going to happen, that people don’t mean it, and will have gone home completely oblivious to any identity crises on my part, it hurts. Of course it hurts to be misgendered (and yes, I KNOW how easily that happens/that it’s early days yet/etc. Please see first paragraph re: The Other Side Of The Argument) but it hurts more to have to hide how much that hurts, for fear of being seen as a freak, or even worse, an attention-seeking freak.

 

Happy Birthday to meee, happy birthday tooo meee!!! Well, if the Queen can have two birthdays, so can I. Today is the Ides of March (as in “Bewaaaarrrre the…” for the classicists amongst you) and it was this time last year that I first slapped on a handful of testosterone gel.

Those of you who’ve been following this blog for the full year may recall that my period started the same day, hung around for a few days, then NEVER CAME BACK! So that’s definitely also something to celebrate. Yeah, f*ck you, Madame Oestrogen…I won!

So what has testosterone done for me lately? I am happier, more relaxed, more in control, more confident, feel sexier, want to smile far more often for no good reason, am more logical, more able to cope with stress….and many more. And for anybody who says these are down to some sort of placebo effect…it doesn’t matter. All I know is that despite a year that has been challenging, heart-breaking in some areas and full to the brim with new experiences, I have come out feeling better than I have ever felt before. That’s not an exaggeration, just the plain truth.

And the other stuff? Well, I’m more muscular, my bum is smaller, my hips and thighs are trimmer, my tummy is podgier. I have hair growing in all sorts of untoward places. Instead of the manly stubble I anticipated, I sport a fuzzy halo of babyhair on the lower half of my face. I’m sexy and I know it…

My neck has broadened, along with my jaw, my face looks…well, different. My shoulders are broader, my hair line is changing, but not receding, despite having lost lots of hair over the year from my whole head.

I routinely use gents’ toilets and changing rooms, where I’m learning just to ‘do my thing’ and not worry about other men, because they Won’t Be Looking. I get called ‘Sir’ about as often as I get called ‘Madam’ and I’m trying my best not to mind when people slip up. I get called ‘Sirmadam’ a lot, as well as ‘Sirmadamsirohsorry’. Strangers frequently call me ‘mate’ and the men who call me ‘darling’ are either trying to chat me up, or have the grace to look a bit bashful when they look at me more closely.

Am I selling this stuff to you yet? Testosterone has saved me from the life I had before, in a way that I never thought it would. After all, you cannot expect a hormone to make your life better, or solve problems that were already issues in your life. But…I am now able to see just how many problems in my life were due to the chronic difference between my body, how I related to it, and how other people treated me whilst I was inhabiting that body, and my mind and heart. Life is not perfect, nor do I expect it to be. My problems have not suddenly evaporated, but believe me, my life is a hell of a lot better than it was.

And that is why today, to celebrate my 1st birthday as ME, I got a new tattoo – four stars on my arm. Why? Because the best analogy I have ever found for what testosterone has meant for me is this: Imagine you were a car, and ran on unleaded fuel your whole life, not knowing there was anything else out there, feeling that something was missing. Then someone filled up your tank with Four Star…

You mention ‘masculinity’ in your blog on a number of occasions (being comfortable with it, not wanting to be on one side of a binary, embracing the masculinity you feel, masculinise my body, true masculinity, masculinity I am claiming etc.). I’m interested in how you see/construct masculinity and, in particular, the masculinity you claim.

Some time ago I asked people if they had any questions for me about transitioning. Whilst I’m happy talking about myself at length, I am interested in finding out what, if anything, people would like to know about what I’m doing. My cousin sent me a question (above) that I’ll admit completely stumped me. It’s true that I talk about masculinity a lot – more so than talking about being a man, for reasons I’ll elaborate on later. Thinking about this made me realise I’ve probably been using the word as shorthand for something else entirely. I decided to enlist the help of others on this one – people from a variety of backgrounds, some transgender, others cisgender, some genderqueer, some who do not necessarily identify with any of those labels. This post is intended as a way for me to explore the issue of masculinity through both my own thoughts, and those of others.

Being sent these contributions has been quite scary, and I’ve worried endlessly over how to do them justice. As I said to my partner recently in the wee small hours “but they say these things so much better than I do. How do I write anything that won’t seem like a waste of their effort?” I didn’t want to trivialise the issue, but there have been times when this looked like it was going to turn into an academic tome. You don’t want to read my academic writing – it’s dull and pretentious. I have proof in the shape of 15,642 words comparing literary treatments of the Faust legend from the 16th Century to the Present. Yuk. So being reluctant to turn this into a school essay, please forgive me for what may have ended up as a twisty wander through my thoughts.

One thing to which I refer occasionally is ‘masculinisation’, as in ‘masculinise my body’. This is a word commonly used to describe the physical changes that the body goes through when transitioning from female to male. Testosterone leads to masculinisation, eg: lower voice, greater muscle mass, clitoral growth, increased body hair, and so on. Chest surgery is also often put under the heading of masculinisation.

I think that over time I have come to associate the word masculinisation in the context set out above with ‘the experience of becoming more masculine’ in general, and this may be where my use of masculine starts to get a bit rocky. I am often reluctant to say “I am a man”. Partly as I don’t see gender as a binary situation (see earlier posts), partly because whilst I know I don’t identify as ‘a woman’, I’m not sure I identify as ‘a man’, and lastly, and this is me being very honest here, because I am not yet (will I ever be?) comfortable with having been born female-bodied and being able to say categorically ‘I am a man’. That’s me, not many others. A lot of transguys have no problem self-identifying as a man from very early on, because that is absolutely, categorically how they feel. Whilst I “know myself” and, as mentioned earlier, know I am absolutely not a woman, I have a lot of issues that prevent me from slipping easily into being a man.

But I digress, the short version is that discomfort with saying ‘I am a man’ has led me to adopt the word masculine to describe how I feel, as it’s a more general term, and I guess has more room for gender manoeuvre. I have always felt comfortable with masculinity as, I suppose, a general area of behaviour, social context and expectation. But it doesn’t take a lot of deconstruction to know that the word masculinity is just as contentious as ‘man’ is for me.

My own masculinity is something I’m hardly ever aware of. I never look at myself and think “I feel masculine”. However, when I think about it, I have some very obvious and immediate ideas about what constitutes masculinity in others (Leighton Williams)

One of the first questions people tend to ask me when they hear I’m transitioning is “how do you know?” How do any of us know what gender we are? From an early age, of course, we are neatly divided into girls and boys by the way we are treated and spoken to, the toys we are given, the expectations placed on us, and this continues long into adulthood:

From cradle to grave, our culture stamps its definition of what makes a man or a woman upon us. When you’re a boy it’s all blue clothes and Action Man and not crying and later, when you’re presumably a man, prodigious beer consumption, football and lighting your own farts. It’s owning a flash car, having a lucrative (or exciting, or dangerous) job and shagging a sexy woman. (Leighton Williams)

We learn very early on, from parents, TV, shops, peers, everyone and everywhere, the things that are considered acceptable for men and women to do, say, wear, and so on. With the best will in the world, these things become so ingrained that we don’t see them as socially constructed, but as ‘true’ characteristics of men and women. We are then left to define ourselves based on a set of rules rigidly set along gender lines.

I don’t like football or fighting but I love guns. I like subtitled films, flowers and long walks, I bake my own bread and like driving fast, I really don’t know if masculinity can be defined unless it is in context with stereotypical views on what it is to be male as thrust at us in the majority of medias (AW)

Any child that is different either has to face the social music, or learn to hide their differences. I don’t think anybody would want our children to grow up as homogeneous Stepford-style children, but I believe that in any society there is a limit to how much ‘rule-breaking’ you can get away with before alienation, bullying and discrimination start, at whatever age.

The fear of not meeting the expectations of being a man, a ‘man’ or A MAN ran through my childhood, particularly amongst my peers (rather than family). I was never interested in sport – well, not ‘manly’ sport, anyway – and anything oily, greasy or muddy held no interest for me. The thought of being pigeon-holed as ‘effeminate’ or ‘gay’ in the changing rooms at high school scared me (despite the fact that, by that age I knew perfectly well which team I batted for) (Richard Cooper-Knight)

I’m not suggesting that somewhere in the world there is a secret society of rule-makers dictating gender stereotypes as a means of social control, but there doesn’t need to be – we have become self regulating, penalising those who step outside of what is considered normal and acceptable. It is important to us, in order to avoid dissent, that certain people behave in a certain way.

Masculinity to me is a concept that society has a great deal of investment in defining-what it IS and what it IS NOT, who is allowed to embody values that are signified as masculine and who is not. When I was perceived as a woman I was constantly told that I was too masculine-meaning I took up space and behaved in ways that only men were permitted. Now that I am perceived as a man I have to watch myself so that I don’t take up space that belongs to people who are not granted the same amount of license as I am, someone perceived to be a white, middle aged man. I perceive myself as a ‘herm’ and someone who has zero investment in propping up patriarchal dominant masculinity (Del LaGrace Volcano)

So society has a stake in reinforcing particular behaviours.

But what of physical characteristics? Whilst socially constructed differences can be seen as such if you pick them apart enough, men and women are certainly physically different, though even these things can come into question to a degree.

To me masculinity is not much to do with gender. As you can get masculine women and feminine men (later category I fall under). For me, when I think of masculinity I tend to think of the below although obviously not everyone who possesses any of these traits is necessarily masculine – it’s more having lots of the traits combined which gives that impression I think:

Deep voice, confidence, assertive manner, little interest in clothes, make-up, etc. Interest in stereotypically ‘male’ things, like maybe sport, work, out-doorsy things. Being one of the lads or enjoying the company of other masculine men, being direct. Physically, I would say having masculine features rather than pretty or delicate features, having a muscular physique possibly, facial hair, large prominent features like brow and nose and chin (Anon)

It’s certainly possible to put men and women into loose physical groups, based on perceived differences, and as someone using testosterone therapy in order to achieve a more stereotypically male body, I’m as guilty as the next person. The thing is, a lot of statements about men/women start along the lines of “All X have this…”, then graduate to “All X except those have this…”, then “Many X have this, but a lot have that”, “X can have this or that…” and so it goes. And let’s not forget how much physical appearance and perceived appropriateness of behaviour are used to categorise and judge, and pull rank.

I think that there can be a tendency generally…to construct a ‘true’ masculinity as physically strong, self-assured, often more aggressive with higher sexual drive – those that possess these features seen as being more masculine (and biological determinism / testosterone claims almost let them off the hook when they behave like utter wankers in the name of maledom). Indeed, for some, such behaviour becomes a rite of passage. All too often the primarily social construct of masculinity is conflated with sex and physical appearance (Anon)

But what about genitalia? Reproductive paraphernalia? Ask a lot of people how they know if they’re a man or a woman and they’ll probably refer to their bits. The thing is that as with my “All X have this…” point above, you really cannot say “All men have a penis” any more than you can suggest “Women are women because they have wombs”. Many men do not have a penis, and I’m not just referring to the John Bobbitts of the world. And even if I were, he didn’t suddenly become ‘not a man’ any more than a woman ceases to be a woman after a hysterectomy. Many people have different biological characteristics from the gender with which they identify, but that doesn’t make them ‘less of…’ or ‘not a…’ so whilst genitalia in particular may be some indication of gender, that’s not the whole story. As Stephen Whittle explained to his oldest child.

When the twins were about three months old, we were both feeding them at the living-room table, and Eleanor turned round and said, “Mum, Dad, how do you know Lizzie and Pippa are girls?” And Sarah and I just looked at each other and went, “Mm”, and I answered, “Well, we don’t actually know whether they are girls. What we do, just like every other family does, we make an approximate guess. We know that most people born with fannies will grow up to be girls, and most people born with willies will grow up to be boys. So we start off somewhere.(p90)

Self, W. and Gamble, D. Perfidious Man Viking, 2000 

We all have to start off somewhere as children, and whilst I’m no psychologist, it’s fair to say that our experiences of our parents go a long way to help us understand ourselves, and choose (whether consciously or subconsciously) the traits we wish to emulate.

Seriously, I would have to say that masculinity to me is working hard to provide for the people you love, putting your own feelings and reactions aside for the sake of consoling those around you in a time of crisis (not to reject your own feelings but to deal with them at a later time when the situation has been handled), providing a feeling of security and protection to those close to you and being a source of reliable practical knowledge and good humour to those around you. I hasten to add that my attributing those things to masculinity does not suggest they are absent in femininity. Also, I recognise that those are all things I have come to consider masculine purely because they offer a very accurate description of my father and my father has always been the biggest influence on my idea of masculinity (EH)

We learn young. Watching kids TV a couple of days ago (yes, for pleasure, not research!) it was interesting to see how behaviours are perpetuated and somehow made desirable to the point where absence of these behaviours is seen as strange or unusual. To summarise, group of female characters are in tree house having tea party, won’t let in boy characters because ‘they will be noisy’. Boy characters build castle, fight and shout abuse at girls. One girl wants to go play with the boys, but is shouted down and shunned by the other girls until she goes back into the tree-house. Boys have skull and cross bones flag, so girls make themselves a flag…pink and flowery. The girls eventually get bored and want to go into the castle. Why? Because then they can be fairy princesses in the castle. None of this stuff is wrong, but it is drawn very much along the lines of what constitutes acceptable behaviour for a girl/boy.

When it is implied that masculine behaviour ‘must be’ a certain way, the pressure to conform for those who don’t toe the stereotype (and really, who does?) is huge.

Welcome to the world of different body dysmorphia and body fascism, lower life expectancy, reduced likelihood of health-seeking behaviour, pretending to like football in order to fit in, higher suicide rates and, oh yes, the eternal elbow-scramble at bars while calling one another ‘mate’ (Anon)

As a transman, do I have any advantage in *not* having been expected from an early age to ‘man up’? Arguably, yes, in some ways. Any urge to ‘fit in’ largely amounts to the desire/need for social acceptance from the point of view of a grown-up. However, 39 years of socialisation as a woman leads to some very odd juxtaposition of needs and behaviours. That said, I feel I am in an interesting position with regards to being able to analyse my own reactions to the expectations and acceptance of others.

So much of my contemplations on masculinity have been focused around how to divide out what is innate to being male and what is socially learned. I think that trans people have a unique experience to be able to speak to this divide since we were not socialized as the gender we identify with. There is a lot of my own feelings of being masculine that have been with me my whole life, but now that I am finally being socially accepted and socialized as a man, there are other aspects of my masculinity that have been influenced or shaped by that social recognition (abeardedgnome)

So this masculinity of mine, the more I consider it, is a house of cards. If you try and base any definition of masculinity on physical characteristics, genitalia or behaviour, there will almost always be a hefty ‘yes, but…’ involved. The more tentative these ‘traditional’ assertions become, the more it becomes clear that what is considered to be masculinity is largely a social construct. Which poses problems for my next argument. Masculinity as an absence of femininity.

I guess masculinity to me means un-feminine. It’s unfortunate, but most of the time I define things as what they are not (HK)

This ‘absence of’ has been a useful mental position for me going into and experiencing transition. Having experienced years of dysphoria in a female body, despising the sexual characteristics that oestrogen had gifted me, my main aim in embarking on this course was to free myself from the femininity I had grown up with and been socialised into. But then, if we’re unable to pin masculinity down as a solid concept, the same must be true of femininity. Dammit.

Traditionally and historically treatment of trans people has been based very much on the understanding that they identify very strongly as ‘the opposite sex’ (sic) and this is certainly what many of us have had to tell doctors in order to access appropriate treatment. Whilst ‘we as a society’ often have very fixed ideas about gender, ingrained practically from birth, I believe that as individuals it is rare to see anyone that actually embodies the stereotypical view of ‘femininity’ or ‘masculinity’, regardless of gender identity or sexuality. It seems all the more ludicrous, therefore, that we should ever have to define ourselves so rigidly to others.

What does masculinity mean to me? It’s my animal side, my hunter, my dispassionate observer. It lives side by side with my femininity of course. A cross dresser I spoke to recently told me his ‘girl’ side allowed him to be a better man, and I think that’s the trick, so keep both sides in balance, though that balance is different for us all. (Vince Laws)

I see the masculine/feminine qualities as extremes that no one should aspire to embody as much as strike a balance between…The trick is to transcend the stereotypes and find the worth in containing an equal balance of both. (Leighton Williams)

I’ve had it suggested to me that if we could raise all children completely without gender, no social expectations based on perceived gender, no associations of behaviour, emotional response etc., that there would be no transgender people. I guess the argument is that what “we” are seeking is to get away from the gendered role we have been handed at birth. A small part of me can see the logic there, but speaking personally, despite everything I’ve said here, there is more to gender identity than we can define.

I don’t think I can understand masculinity in isolation, but only as compared to femininity. It’s a bit like temperature – you can’t really say what is “hot”, without comparing it to what is “cold”. I think these clichés apply: masculinity is hard where femininity is soft; it’s penetrating where femininity is embracing; it can be analytical compared to emotional etc. But these are just terms that describe the opposite ends of a sliding scale of characteristics, of which most people seem to have a fascinating, ever-changing combination. And I think an individual’s behaviour fluctuates around a unique point on the scale, more often gravitating towards one end, which feels like “home”. I feel out of place when people try and pin me to the feminine side. I instinctively “know” my home is toward the masculine. I use the word “instinctively” because this “knowing” can’t easily be intellectualised. My sense of my own masculinity originates at some deeper, more basic level of my being, It’s not a creation of my conscious intellect (jmj)

I like this idea that we ‘instinctively know’ where we are at in terms of gender. Looking at this issue of how I define ‘masculinity’ serves to make me realise that it is a word I have chosen to describe a set of quite personal, and probably very ill-defined feelings. Unfortunately it comes with a number of connotations that reflect society’s obsession with pinning everybody down. However, whilst I can be a bit of a doom-monger when it comes to the woes of this world in which we live, I do believe that increasingly there are a lot of people who are willing to see the individual, rather than the category.

I am a gay man, though it is never something I consider any more important a part of my identity than that I’m an artist and have a dog…it’s never the first thing I’d ever mention or consider primarily important when introducing myself. As such, I generally view others in similar ways (RK)

A lot of time and mental and emotional space is spent as a transgender person trying to work out ‘who you are’, when actually I’d say that most of us KNOW who we are already, but in stepping out of an accepted social role, there is a lot of pressure (and incentive, in terms of acceptance) in stepping back into another one.

Any attempt to define what [male and female] ’means’ seems more and more to me like a clichéd construct, burdened with what society apparently expects of those ‘roles’. We’re all human beings, that’s the key thing and we are what we are. There’s a lot of unnecessary misery in the trans community caused by the perceived pressure to ‘conform to the (gender) norm’ (ZG)

In all honesty, I think I have done more of a job of deconstructing what I mean by masculinity, rather than explaining how I construct it as a concept. And I’ve not even mentioned hegemony once. I think the main issue that I’ve had here is that whilst fully aware of the connotations of using the word masculinity, and the flimsy nature of the assumptions on which it is most often based, it has been the easiest word to use, and consequently I have been doing a bit of connotational cherry-picking to justify my choice.

I have spent a long time trying to write a pithy ending to this, neatly summing up my feelings without resorting to using language laden with a meaning and context that instantly negates what I am trying to say. I guess if I saw things in black and white, it would be easier to justify using particular language or ideas to describe my feelings, but all I really have to go on are a gut-feeling and a generalised sense that being and becoming different from what I was is right for me. To finish with a final quote:

I am always very troubled by these types of questions. I’m forced to express my deep, un-examined beliefs, whilst also knowing full well that they are the product of my experiences rather than being any kind of objective account of things (EH)

Thank you to everyone who contributed to this post.

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For further reflections on this subject by a friend, please take the time to look at Homebase and Handcream.

I’ll start with an apology – those of you expecting a post about masculinity today, which I did promise, will be disappointed. That post is on the way – it is, as artistes might say, a ‘work in progress’. However, it’s been a lousy emotional week, so I’d rather delay a little longer, and write it properly over a longer period, than dash it off when my heart and head aren’t in it.

So yes, it’s been a hard week, emotionally, but I’ve coped, in ways I’d never have dreamed of a year or two ago. If nothing else, a few days of feeling wretched have served to remind me how much I have changed, in terms of my emotional response.

I used to be a crier. Oh, how I cried. Though once or twice in my life I have been accused of crying deliberately to make people feel guilty, that actually couldn’t have been further from the truth. It was just that in the days when oestrogen was my primary fuel, tears really were my natural response to…well, just about everything. I used to joke that I had a reservoir sat behind each eye, ready to burst forth at the slightest provocation.

I hated reacting like that – I felt it made me seem weak, unable to cope, manipulative. An ex partner once said “how can I ever argue with you, and put my point across, when you just end up crying?” And it’s true – by the time someone is awash with tears and snot, you can’t really bring whatever issue was being raised to a satisfactory, mutually agreeable conclusion. Well, I never could: there’s no joy in knowing a partner has given way on an issue simply because they couldn’t bear knowing they’d upset you to the point of crying. Not to mention your face looking like a swamp.

My lachrymose ways followed me into social situations, work situations, watching films, reading the newspaper…just about everywhere. Arguably this is because I spent a lot of years quite unhappy, stressed, and emotionally raw. However, even as I was experiencing the warm tweaking at the eyes that heralded another bout of tears, I wanted desperately to be able to react differently. After all, I was intelligent, articulate and more than capable of holding my own; why have all of that hidden under a bright pink nose and eyes like mini-doughnuts? That’s the other thing – I was never a dignified crier. Oh no. The shame I felt at crying was compounded by knowing that for a good couple of hours afterwards, the world would KNOW I’d been crying. And how.

Taking testosterone has lots of effects – many physical, more than you’d think emotional. It’s hard to describe how the way I perceive things, react to them and deal with them has changed, but I know I feel very differently from how I did before, and that is reflected in the way I react to things.

I think some people perceive that testosterone somehow stunts or removes someone’s emotional response, but that’s certainly not true in my experience. It’s still there, but different. Overall, I feel a lot calmer, less inclined to react to things that would have bothered me before. I find it a lot easier to view a problem or situation objectively, and rather than get upset, try to work out solutions. My anger brews much faster than before, but goes away as quickly as it came. That’s something I’m learning how to manage, but I’ll take it over the crying, any day.

I last cried on 17th July 2011.

For me, this is liberation. I’ve heard other transmen who have experienced this say they miss their tears, but I really don’t, not at this stage. It has to be said that not everyone taking T stops crying, but I consider I am one of the lucky ones. I love that my emotions aren’t written across my face in wet tracks. I feel that I am able to process what’s upsetting me much more easily if I can do it privately, within me, and react appropriately at the time so that I can go sort any emotional mess out after the event.

But, and there’s a big but, lack of tears does not mean lack of emotion. Don’t think that because I’m not crying over something upsetting that I am not upset. All the feeling is still there – it just doesn’t translate into tears. Some might consider being able to cry as a release I am missing out on, but I honestly prefer dealing with things differently. Feeling stronger and in control helps me a lot in processing emotional stuff, and my past relationship with crying has meant that I see that as a very negative thing in myself.

And before I have rotten tomatoes thrown at me, yes I know that Real Men Cry. This is not about a quest to be a stereotype, a super manly man or anything like that. I’m not saying men shouldn’t cry – anything but, as it can and should be a positive release. But for me, the tears were a burden, and I am revelling in how it feels NOT to cry.

Ironically, the only time I get a touch of wetness in my eyes is watching things like DIY SOS Big Build. But the wet eyeball is as far as it ever goes, and I am grateful for a new way of dealing with things.

 

 

 

 

 

Conversation with doctor:
“So, is your partner bisexual?”
“No, she’s a lesbian”
“Oh, not even a little bit attracted to men?”
“No, definitely not”
*long pause*
“That’s going to present big problems for your relationship as you transition.”

Well, that doctor wasn’t the first to suggest that me transitioning would signal the end of my loving relationship of (at that point) six years, and certainly won’t be the last. I’m not so naive that I don’t realise that historically not that many relationships make it after one half of the couple goes through transition. I do realise that as we change emotionally and physically, our relationships change too, sometimes just moving too much away from the core that held the couple together in the first place for the relationship to stay viable.

I know this. But as it’s nearly Valentine’s Day, I want to make a plea…don’t write us off. Don’t assume the worst. Don’t sit by the phone waiting for the bad news. Because it doesn’t happen to everybody.

I’m not going to go into the ins and outs (fnar) of my sexuality, and that of my partner. I think we covered that in my earlier post So, does that make you both straight now? Suffice it to say that I identify as queer, and my partner identifies as a queer lesbian. For a definition of what the word ‘queer’ means to us (and won’t necessarily for everybody), please see the Glossary I posted a while back. Sexually, yes, we’ve had a steep hill to climb in terms of my physical changes, and also the changes in the way I relate to my own body. But that hill hasn’t necessarily been a bad one to climb, and we’ve quite enjoyed some of the views to be had along the way, if I can stretch that metaphor a little further!

Emotionally, I have changed, and that has led to a lot of renegotiating (and me being b*tchslapped by Willemina pretty regularly). But all in all, I am still the same person I have always been, only happier, more relaxed, more comfortable, more confident than ever. I am finally feeling like the person I always wanted to be, and that’s actually done our relationship a whole lot of good. Let’s face it, would you rather your partner was uptight, depressed, stressed and uncomfortable, or the opposite? Some of the changes we have faced really have been a good thing for both of us.

We’re an odd couple, I know, a transman and a lesbian. But for us, it works. We don’t do anything special, we’re just very, very lucky. Relationships either work or they don’t. Some do break down because of transition, some because of other stuff. If you have friends in a relationship, and one is just starting out on their transition journey, please don’t assume the relationship will crash and burn. Of course, it might, but my point is that it’s horrible to assume, and unfair to say to anyone that’s embarking on their transition that what they are doing will lose them their partner. Just support them if that does happen, and please, avoid “I told you so’s”, because these things are NOT inevitable.

It’s been about 7 years since Willemina and I first met, nearly 18 months since we had our Civil Partnership ceremony (more of that, and the legal issues around it, at a later date. Not now – I’m feeling romantic). We are still together, and strongly so. I can’t guarantee we’ll be together, forever, until the end of our days. Who can? But we have pledged to be together until the point where we stop being happy with one another.

So Willemina Velvetina Pelicina, I love you with all my heart. You are my strength and the arms that hold me when I worry. You are warmth and giggles and craziness. Your smile makes my brain explode, and your farts are the stuff of legend. I’m yours.
***stop press***
New video up on YouTube – interview, romance, and me failing the latest manliness test in spectacular fashion! Just click on MrHerbertTurtle up on the right hand side of this post.

Those of you who have read my earlier posts about my breasts will know that for most of my life I have had a rocky relationship with my body. Remember ‘Men in Black’? The bit where the alien ‘borrows’ the body of a hapless human? He can’t get the body to fit right, and spends half the film trying to hitch it round into a comfortable position. That’s a pretty good metaphor for how I have always felt about my body. Discomfort, and that nagging feeling that something ‘wasn’t quite right’. Clothes never felt good, and I was never happy with how I felt or looked. In short, I was uncomfortable in my own skin.

It’s been 5 months since I had chest contouring surgery. Over the course of a few hours on September 12th 2011, my D-cup was transformed into a chest suitable for a man. I’m not flat as a pancake – as my surgeon pointed out with a wry smile, what man my age and weight has a flat chest? Instead, I have a chest that feels and looks right for me.

I have been left with long welts of scars, stretching from my armpits to nearly the centre of my torso on both sides. They’re not pretty, but I don’t care, and I know they’ll fade. What’s far more important than a couple of scars is that the stress, discomfort and horror I used to feel looking at my own body is also beginning to fade. It’s not an overnight process – you can’t just miraculously disappear issues years old – but it’s happening.

I can run now. Not fast, or with any diginity, but without automatically folding my arms across my chest to a) stop people seeing my flying boobs b) avoid doing myself a damage and causing pain. I still occasionally catch myself clutching my chest, to run up the stairs, then realise half way up that it’s no longer necessary. The feeling I get at those moments is enough to make me want to cry. Happily, in relief, and huge gratitude to myself that I’ve made the decisions I have.

Before my surgery, I knew how desperately I wanted to rid myself of my breasts, and anticipated I’d feel better for doing so. I could have had no idea what a dramatic longer-term effect my surgery would have on my self-esteem and body-image. It’s mind-blowing. My posture still isn’t all it should be (I’m a huncher) but it’s improving, and damn…I look and feel good! (Ironically, as I type this, the radio is playing ‘Sexy and I Know It’…well, I’m working on that)

With my surgery 5 months behind me, and nearly a year into testosterone therapy, I am starting to feel comfortable in my own skin for the first time in my life. The feeling is beyond compare.

I don’t make a secret of being bipolar – hell, when did I ever make a secret of anything in my life? To be honest, these days it is so much a part of me, and yet so little part of my life, that I forget about it most of the time. Until it bites me in the bum once in a while, or it is brought up as part of a medical review.

Let’s give you a bit of history. I was diagnosed 12 years ago, long before it was trendy, after years of crippling depression and occasional bouts of frankly weird behaviour. Finally, the doctors realised that anti-depressants were making very little difference (and now, with the benefit of hindsight, it has been acknowledged that they made my behaviour a lot more erratic) and I was handed a new label: “Type 2 affective bipolar disorder”. Actually, I was pleased to get a label, though I’m not keen on the practice of shoeboxing people. I figured that maybe I wasn’t crazy after all, and things could get better.

I took a medication called Sodium Valproate for a very long time – it’s not altogether bad stuff, though the list of side-effects is scary. I mean, weight gain, loss of libido AND lack of energy? Come on, Doctor! Sadly, as well as all of this, the pills weren’t really stopping me from either getting depressed, or having very unpleasant weird times. Quite a few years ago now I found myself going into hospital (voluntarily, I might add!) as my desires to remove myself from the world I found I couldn’t deal with became less of a pipe-dream, and more of a game-plan.

Being in hospital for a few weeks enabled me to start again, from the bottom up, with the aid of a new medication: Lithium. I still take the stuff every day, and whilst it also has had side-effects, it has helped me manage things very well. Unfortunately, the Lithium has caused me to have hypothyroidism, which isn’t great, but honestly, the chance to live a life where I feel in control and mostly happy is worth a few thyroxine tablets.

So how does this connect with my transition? In many ways, not at all. However, one of the biggest fears I had when approaching my doctor about being trans was that I would be turned down flat due to my medical history. After all, people with bipolar often come up with some pretty flighty and impressive schemes, and at that time, are convinced that the way they feel is right and valid. So imagine a registered female bipolar patient walking through the door and saying (in many more words, of course) “I’m a man”! I was terrified I wouldn’t be taken seriously. Thankfully, I needn’t have worried.

More than one doctor specialising in transition has reassured me that bipolar disorder and gender dysphoria are not mutually exclusive conditions, but I believe that there will always be, in the background, the thought that my bipolar has led me to somehow believe I’m transgender. And that I’m really really good at convincing doctors…

Except…except that I am so much happier, mellow and balanced these days. That I am starting to like my own body and self for the first time ever. That I haven’t had an episode of mania for around 3 years. That I haven’t had an episode of serious depression for over a year (and that was very much related to my job at the time). That I no longer classify myself as “ill” or “surviving”.

Now don’t get me wrong – I don’t think that the decision to transition, and the process of doing so, have somehow miraculously sorted out my bipolar. I’m not daft, and I’m still taking the tablets. Many trans people live with bipolar, and I would never suggest they stop their medication. Don’t.

Two of my doctors have suggested that it may be possible to consider reducing my Lithium dose, in a couple of years, as they both believe that many of the issues I have experienced in the past that have been attributed to bipolar, may actually have been connected to my gender dysphoria. It makes sense if you think about it, but is also confusing, and unsettling, as when I was told back in January 2000 “You have bipolar”, I clung onto it, and have remained clinging ever since, only ever seeking solutions within the boundaries drawn by that diagnosis.

Now I am having to find ways to continue managing the bipolar symptoms on the rare occasions they come up, whilst also appreciating that those symptoms may simply be me. At the same time acknowledging that things may still change as I pass through my second puberty and into a new adulthood. Phew.

I was once told I have a lot of baggage – which is true – and a lot of that is to do with the mental health issues I have had over the years. There are many people who still choose to judge me based on those past issues. But then, as I’ve said before, our experiences make us who we are. Mine have made me pretty unshockable, able to empathise with the problems of others, and with the firm understanding that we all tread different paths through this life, some wigglier than others. That’s my mental wealth.

Hurrah! I’ve made it to 40! And I would like to take the opportunity first of all to say that I do not feel my age. I was chatting recently to a lady who I don’t think would mind me describing as “older” (I’d guess she’s in her 70s) and we got to talking about how perceptions of age have changed over the years. We agreed that whereas in the past, 40 was definitely seen as the age where one started to slow down, settle down and start the gentle roll down into old age, this is no longer the case.

Certainly when I was a child, I saw 40 as old, and as I grew up, still considered 40 as ‘middle-aged’ which can have very negative connotations. 40 has, to me, always implied sensible clothing (think M&S and Viyella), grown-up leisure pursuits (think golf rather than skateboarding), mid-life crises, and the onset of middle-aged spread. Also, it is drilled into women that if they get to 40 without having had a baby, Time Is Running Out. But for just about everyone these days, the negative messages about this age are increasingly out of sync with how people actually live.

For a start, we are *generally* in better physical shape in our 40s than our forebears, and overall the average age at which people die is creeping up and up. So 40 is becoming less a gateway to old age, and increasingly just another age, albeit at the upper end of young.

Statistically, a lot of people my age have had a number of partners, and are far more likely to be on a 2nd or 3rd major partnership by the time they hit 40. At which point most of the ‘middle-aged and married’ jokes do lose their point a little, and it is probably fair to say that most people of my generation have enjoyed a much more flexible approach to relationships.

The same goes for jobs. Very few people that I know are still doing the same job at 40 that they started out doing. The economy has become a place for temporary work, short-term prospects and flexibility. So again that image of the 40 yr old with a steady job-for-life and 2.4 children is waning.

And me? Well, apart from the ‘not feeling 40′ thing, on a personal level, and also when considering my life against the stereotypes I grew up believing, I am currently going through a 2nd puberty. Which at my age is a touch undignified, but can be quite fun. I have more spots than a Domino’s pizza, have the sex-drive of a crazed rhino, am inclined to slam doors, and spend endless time trying to express my thoughts. However, I also get hot flushes, whether due to the testosterone, or my ovaries giving up the good fight is hard to say. Believe me, combining puberty with menopause-like symptoms all makes for an interesting 40 yr old life, very different from my childhood expectations.

As for middle-aged spread, despite generally eating more now than I used to, I am still the same weight that I was before starting hormone therapy. My muscles are growing bigger by the day, despite my exercise regime being rather sporadic, my face changes practically every week and I am stronger and more energetic than I have ever been. When so much physical change is going on, and I’m in good physical shape as a result, I think I can postpone middle-aged spread to my 50s, or even 60s.

So, 40. The goalposts have definitely changed – firstly because despite still clinging to outdated stereotypes of what 40 year olds are like, society has changed. Secondly, because by changing my body, outlook and happiness, I have removed myself from the expected path through life. I rather like that I am no longer expected to conform, though as I mentioned in a recent post, I do still hold on to my own, ridiculous, expectations of success, and it is these, not anyone else’s, that I need to focus on kicking into touch.

Some jokes about being 40 that are about as far from the truth as you can get:

At 40, you get two invitations to go out on the same night, and you pick the one that gets you home the earliest.

At 40, every time you suck in your gut, your ankles swell.

At 40, I realize that I was built for comfort, not speed.

 

Yeah, right. Speak to me again when I’m 50.

Here’s a poem I wrote a while back, about labels. I am not fond of them, yet I can lay claim to every label below. This was designed to be performed rather than read, but I’ll let you read it however you like.

 

 

 

 

 

MOTHER

TRANS

TEACHER

BIPOLAR

LESBIAN

WIFE

CRETIN

PARANOID

LOVER

OCD

DAUGHTER

SON

BORDERLINE

BORDERLINE

BORDERLINE

DISORDERED

Some days

I like labels.

They define,

Give purpose,

Comfort,

Include.

Other days,

When my soul refuses to be squeezed into the space provided,

I want to smudge each letter,

Ruffle the boundaries,

Turn my labels into a blurred mess,

Like a charcoal drawing brought home by a school-child.

Ill-defined.

Harder to understand.

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