ninaherenorthere.com

We were in one of my favorite neighborhood bars, a mixed-crowd gay bar, late on Saturday night. Heated in conversation, gossip actually, my friend, a woman, followed me into the men’s room. We were standing in front of the door to the stall, leaving both the trough and urinal open and available, when a dude entered. He literally tried to push his way through us while telling us not so kindly to get out of his way.

My friend started to argue, yelling at him to calm down as she took a step to the side, forced out of the way. I did the opposite, shut my mouth and stepped directly in front of him, prompted by I don’t know what, the confidence that comes from having a new tree-trunk neck or an extra few inches of thickness around my chest.

I stood my ground, until he turned, then I used the stall. When I returned to the bar, my friend was still fuming, prattling on about the asshole. I had nothing to say. I was a jumble of emotions, at the axis of so much conflict, angry at the boy for his bullying and frustrated with the girl for following me in, stripping me of everything I fought for daily.

I’d made a territorial move. I was protecting my right to be in the men’s room, and especially my right to the stall. I was protecting my right to be transgender, my hard-earned identity. Had my friend not been there talking to me, I knew the altercation wouldn’t have happened. But had she not been physically present, her body sort of in the way, I also knew something that scared me, that is still scaring me, that I hadn’t ever thought myself capable of until that moment. I would’ve punched him, of that I’m sure, and I would’ve done it before I’d even had the chance to stop myself.

James Earl Jones

My voice is deep. Like super deep. It’s all anyone can say despite knowing that this is exactly what was supposed to happen. Last week, a trans guy asked me if the men in my family had especially deep voices, like I might be genetically predisposed to a bass. If I call my bank, or my cable company, they’ll start the conversation using my legal (account-holding) name, only to fall into Mr. Krieger within seconds. Unlike muscles and the tiny weeny, a deep voice wasn’t one of the things that I was especially looking forward to, so I’m surprised by how much pleasure I’m taking in it. I call people I could easily email, and I sing aloud to songs, privately of course. But the best is hearing myself “Om” in yoga. The vibration is finally primordial, eternal, resonant.

Cry Baby

I can still cry. The first time I cried, a month or so ago, I wondered if it was a fluke. But these past couple weeks, I’ve been getting it out, a few trickles and one big bawl. About ninety percent of the trans guys I know say they have a hard time crying, or can’t at all, even when they need to. Sure, I’m not crying nearly as much as I was before T, but I feel significantly more in touch with my emotions. I trust them. And I don’t necessarily think it’s a man/woman thing. It’s more like I feel solid now, whereas before I was fuzzy—my shadow kinda askew, my doppelganger trailing me by a millisecond, something slightly off. I’m not entirely sure how this ties into crying, but I think I’m trying to debunk the myth of the “no crying, unemotional, irritable, aggressive T-infused trans guy.” The reality is I’m peaceful and softer inside, a more emotional version of myself. I’m coalescing in such a way that when I cry, it’s not just something my body is doing. It’s an experience that I actually feel deeply connected to.

The Pleasures of Gay Porn for a Pansexual Who Still, Thankfully, Loves Women

I have to admit that my ability to cry sometimes makes me think I’m not taking enough testosterone. (Although there’s significant debate on the subject of dosing, I take three-quarters of what some consider a “full dose.”) But then I pull something out from my expanding gay porn collection, and I know there’s plenty of T in my system. It’s simple–I used to *like* dude-on-dude action, and now I watch more of it than I ever thought was humanly possible. This is somewhat standard for trans guys, so I won’t go too much into my obsession. It’s also somewhat standard, or at least a possibility, that trans dudes on T go full-on gay. When I started T, there was a lot of speculation from those close to me, and a certain level of concern on my part, that I might no longer be attracted to women. At this point, I think I’m in the clear on this one; I’m still very very much into women, even if I’d prefer not to see them in porn.

When I was in high school, I was a sex educator with this group called HITOPS and one day we had the GLBT council from the local Jersey universities come talk to us. I remember the “bi” girl talking about how cool her sexual orientation was because it meant she had twice the chance of getting a date. Straight at the time, I was jealous; I held onto her comment, kinda dreamed of being like her some day. Now I am. Going out is just so much more interesting when I know there’s the chance that I’ll find anyone and everyone attractive. That said, I know enough to keep my head down and avoid eye-contact when I walk home through the Castro.

Growing Up

I recently saw a trans friend who left San Francisco about a year ago, around the time he started T. I’d bumped into him six months ago, and he definitely looked different, but when I saw him a couple weeks ago, I didn’t recognize him at first. It was partially the complete beard, the button down shirt and vest, the chic glasses. It was also his calmness, a confidence and ease I’d never before seen in him. And it was all wrapped up in his maturity, the movement from child to adult, from boy to man.

When I saw him, I saw the reason I started taking T, or the instinct I had the awareness to follow, a desire to grow up. It  used to frustrate me that I couldn’t see my future. Now I realize it was that, from where I was before, I didn’t have a future. I was aging in a holding pattern. I think there are a million ways to mature, a plethora of experiences that can shape and inform us, teach us how to take care of ourselves, take care of others, but until recently, I’d never had the opportunity to witness my own physical maturity in my reflection, to be proud of the little boy who’s finally growing up.

Confession

I’m still occasionally, absentmindedly, doodling my old name.

I almost never talk to my yoga teachers, especially the ones I like. Because there’s no talking to a yoga teacher without hugging them. And it’s not even like a post-conversation hug. You make one move to open your mouth and their arms open wide, like they couldn’t possibly concentrate on an introduction or anything really until they’ve felt your bare sweaty skin. So part of my avoidance is the intimacy, and part of it is that my favorite yoga teachers have offered me so much spiritual guidance, I think of them like gods. Just imagining a heartfelt hug with a god makes me want to crap my pants.

I always told myself that my only goal of yoga was to show up and be nice to myself. If I was afraid or just didn’t want to approach my teachers, so be it; it wasn’t on the to do list. I’ve been going to yoga semi-regularly for almost two years, and that’s still my only goal. In that time, I’ve only spoken to one of my favorite teachers.

It was a Sunday night, Mother’s Day. Janet had turned the whole class into a beautiful homage to mothers, and at the end, she demanded that everyone whom she’d never met before say hello. It’s the only demand she’d ever made and it sounded more like an invitation like a demand. So, I obliged, even waited uncomfortably in the short hugging line for my turn to rub sweat on Janet and wish her a happy Mother’s Day.

I hadn’t spoken to a teacher since Mother’s Day, and certainly not Rusty, even though I still have a “get well” card on my refrigerator from him–a friend brought it to class for him to sign last year when I had top surgery. A couple months ago, he started paying more attention to me in class, making it a point to help me in a couple poses each time. And by help, I mean entwine his body around mine and open me up in ways that allowed breathe into places that I’m absolutely sure had never received breathe before. His adjustments were more intimate than most of my one-night stands; there’s no way I could talk to him.

Last Friday, I went to his class, and despite having a pretty rough week, I was feeling rather comfortable, stable, strong in my body. That is until the the end of the class, backbend time. I love backbends. I’ll half-ass it on crunches, and go to the bathroom during chair pose, and take a long time to rise into plank, but I always give it my all on backbends.

I like backbends because they feel awesome, and because they are the ultimate heart openers, the foundation of heart opening in all poses really. Plus, a teacher once said you always give the benefits of your last backbend away to someone else. Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know, but since my favorite part of yoga is dedicating my practice to someone else at the beginning of class, it’s not that surprising that my favorite pose involves giving it away; I think of it as selfish selflessness.

In Rusty’s class, I inhaled to my crown and exhaled all the way up and nothing felt right. My body quite simply did not want to do a backbend, so I went back down. Rusty came over, stood by my head and nodded. I knew what it meant, since he’d assisted me once before, having me hold his ankles. I grabbed his ankles and popped up and he supported me, did half the work for me. It felt good, maybe even great. I was very relieved when it was time to come down.

As everyone prepared for the final backbend, I didn’t even think of dedicating mine away. I didn’t even think of going up. I was tired. Rusty saw me on the ground and he came over again. He stood by my head and smiled, so I had to go up, holding his ankles again. This time he instructed me to do push-ups, something I’d done in this position with him once before.

In my backbend, as I started bending and extending my elbows, the term “emotional calisthenics” popped into my head—something my pal says to me whenever I’m going through a rough patch. Emotional calisthenics, I thought as I gripped Rusty tighter for support, raising and lowering myself again and again in this heart opener.

At the very end of class, I started to cry, just a little, and I knew that today was the day. Afterward, I approached. “Hey Rusty, I don’t think we’ve met before,” I said. His arms were around me before I could even say my name.

He thanked me for being so open, for being an amazing presence in his classes. He told me to keep trusting him. I wanted to thank him for holding me up, strengthening me, helping me rise when I couldn’t alone. Instead I just thanked him from being my teacher. It was all too much; I hope we never talk again.

The other day I went over to a buddy’s house and used the bathroom. The toilet seat was up, as it probably had been, for the most part, since his wife and children left town. If it were a public toilet, I would’ve squatted, but being inside a person’s house, I decided to put the seat down and actually sit. Afterward, I wondered whether to put the seat back up. Generally speaking, I’m not entirely convinced that down should be the standard position. It’s certainly cleaner, nicer, and more respectable, but should a guy really have to do the work of raising and lowering the seat every time? However, that’s not my point. Down tends to be the default position, and having already spent way too much time in the bathroom thinking about toilet seats, I left it down, the way I used it.

Over dinner, my buddy, who hadn’t seen me in several months, said my voice is way deeper and my jawline has hardened. (I was wearing too many layers for him to see the thickening of my chest.) I was a tiny bit on edge since I don’t see him very often, and even though he was the very first person to call me Nick, based on a personal essay I wrote two years before I adopted it, he tends to get caught up in the moment and relapse on the name thing. But all was smooth on the gender front, until he referred to me as “she” to the waitress. Twice.

I felt myself crumble, my whole body collapsing under the slight he didn’t even notice. The pronoun thing didn’t used to bother me as much, and I think that maybe because I’m more certain of myself than ever before, it’s become even more deflating to see my sense of self go unacknowledged. I feel looked through, invisible, and I shrink. I’m not entirely sure why I don’t always correct people, either at the time or later. Maybe it happens too often, or maybe it’s too painful, exhausting, annoying, frustrating, confrontational, and endless. Maybe I’m too weak to bear it, or strong enough to handle it, or I tend to implode rather than explode. Maybe I’m just tired of explaining what I want to be recognized and am relying on a hormone to, eventually, do the work for me.

After dinner, we went back to my friend’s house. This time when I went into the bathroom, I made sure to leave the toilet seat up. As I raised it, I wondered which was more ridiculous: my actions or the lengths that I have to go to to make others see me.

On Thursday, I had my holiday party for the adult literacy organization where I volunteer as a tutor. The whole thing stressed me out, as most things do. I find socializing with respectable adults challenging, especially when sparkling apple cider is the most exciting beverage served and the event takes place in a painfully well-lit public library conference room. But I realized my concern over my potluck contribution, Safeway cookies, was for naught when I spied the buckets of KFC on the table, and had I known the raffle would take half hour (I won two movie tickets) I would’ve contributed some anxiety to having the patience for that. Had I known there was going to be an ice breaker, prescription pills would’ve been needed.

The icebreaker involved finding the few other people in the room who had the same symbol on their nametags and then sharing answers to a few questions. I hid in the corner, figuring that my learner, S., an incredibly gregarious person, would be too busy chatting up other folks to bother with me. But within minutes, I saw him in the center of the room, towering above everyone, waving his tree trunk arm at me. When I walked over, it turned out that not only did S. and I have the same symbol, but he’d found the one other person with our symbol. In even more of a statistical coincidence, both the other guy and S. had brought bean pies to the potluck.

After the three of us discussed navy beans and bean pie, a favorite subject of S.’s since he’s been bringing bean pies to the holiday potlucks for much of the last 8 years (long before he and I met) we turned to the questions on our ice breaker sheets.

S. read aloud slowly and I let him stumble a bit. “What is the best advice for other learners?” He slapped the line green paper down against his leg and without hesitating said, “Keep coming back.”

“Oh, yeah!” said the other man. “I skipped a week once and it took two years to come back.”

The two of them bonded over that one as if it were the only answer, and I thought about all the times I needed to tell myself, “Keep coming back” to tutoring, writing, yoga, anything for which my first response is flight. When I got to my half of the question, “What is the best advice for other tutors?” the answer came to me instantaneously: listen to your learner.

And that’s what I did for the next five minutes, listened to the two of them talk about their accomplishments with such pride that I thought they might burst from their own expanding self-esteem. At one point, S. told a story about driving and understanding the words on a sign. Alone in his car, he shot his arms into the air and screamed, “I can read!”

Seeing this childlike glee over something I learned to do in elementary school from a sixty-year old man so big he could probably do biceps curls while holding me by my neck and knees never ceases to inspire me, and break my heart a little.

At the end of the party, I reached my hand out for his, ready to shake as we do to conclude most of our sessions. But he hugged me instead, as he had done once in the past, more NBA chest bump than embrace with a final tap of his fist against his chest. “Thanks Nick,” he said. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

I pretend it’s the no-booze, awkward socializing, and environment so outside my element that makes me anxious or stressed out about these types of events. But really it’s that look in S.’s eyes when I see how much I mean to him that terrifies me most.

Last week I had one of those total and complete writing breakdowns. I’d share the trigger, but I really don’t think it matters. Every rejection, criticism, negative word and thought about my writing banged against my skull. I lacked powers of description, I couldn’t find my voice, would I ever learn to use a metaphor, my dialogue was flat filler. I couldn’t come up with anything I could do well other than develop synonyms for failure, inadequacy and shortcoming.

This was about 8 on a weekday morning. I’d been at my computer since 6:30, staring at the screen and trying to convince myself I didn’t suck. Convincing myself required way more strength than I had, so I got in my bed and cried. It was the first time I cried since starting testosterone, and I felt relieved, both because I could still and for the release.

In my torrent of despair, everything swirled. I would never finish my book, which meant I wouldn’t have anything. Like money. This thought almost made me laugh because I hold no hope of making money on writing–not now, not ever. I started thinking about how I wouldn’t be able talk about my writing in public and feel accomplished and proud and important, but it’s been a long time since I cared about those things, since I tried to earn love through my writing.

I was in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering what it was that I was really so afraid of losing. The sun streamed through my windows and it was really bright in my room, as it always is around that time. I get up early, so for me, eight feels like noon. Then, I realized what I was afraid of: having nothing to do before going to my job, of getting up and going to my job first thing in the morning, of having my job be the focus of my life. If I didn’t write or didn’t have a reason to write or became too scared to face my writing demons, I would lose my mornings, my time for me, my meditation, my peace, my will to fucking survive, and my consolation for doing so.

I can’t say I picked myself up right away. I basically spent the next two days begging every friend and mentor to tell me what I needed to hear, “Nick, you are a good writer. You can do this.” And although I have boosted myself upon their words in the past week, it is mostly an awareness of why I write that has kept me going, a feeling and place I refuse to give up, a time before I’ve spoken a word aloud. My space heater is on high, the remnants of night still linger outside my window, my desk is bathed in the glow of only a small lamp; I am a dot of light in the dark world, reaching out in calm desperation.

Carded Anew

I’m carded almost anytime I get near alcohol. Once I pass over my driver’s license–the photo is over a decade old–the bartender, bouncer, whoever will inevitably quiz me on my zip code or date of birth, or will say, “There’s really no way you’re 5′7″.” Explaining that I used to play basketball, thus padding a few inches, doesn’t always help and backup ID is required. But the other day I got a new test. The bartender held up my ID and said, “Let me see you smile.” I laughed, knew exactly what he wanted, and busted out a smile that nearly revealed my wisdom teeth. “You can’t fake that,” he said, before pouring my drink. I’ve always held onto my eyes as the one physical trait that won’t change on T, and I point this out to those fearful that I may stop being familiar to them. Until I was carded at the bar, I hadn’t thought of the smile, how little that changes. I carry a picture of my brother from around age 4 in my wallet. He has a blond bowl cut; now he has a brown Jewfro. He looks nothing like that childhood picture, except for that crooked lady-killer smirk, and I’m pretty sure that’s why I carry it around. Because some things never change.

Passing vs. Being Seen

I was explaining to a new queer friend that I was “passing” more often lately, using the word “passing” out of laziness, knowing that in our shared lexicon she’d understand this to mean I was being recognized as a guy. “But do you feel like you’re being seen?” she asked. I often tire of identity discussions, of queer polemics that have become their own thoughtless cliches, like “nobody passes.” But my response to her question felt new.

When I’m amongst my friends and my community, those who have known me for years, or those who recognize the infinite possibilities within genders or perhaps recognize the transgender in all of us, I feel fully seen. When strangers or acquaintances or new hires at work recognize me as a man, I don’t feel seen in my entirety; I am actually “passing,” occasionally feeling like an impostor or a fraud, words that although partially accurate hit too close to the transphobic vitriol of the past fifty years. A tourist passing as a local is more appropriate, and the point that I’m attempting to make is that while “being seen” is liberating and allows me to connect with people in a way that had never been possible before, “passing” has its place too.

Passing is new and scary, dangerously exciting; it allows for an exploration from the inside, a cultural education, seamless learning, an induction. I don’t feel fully seen but therein lies the beauty, being in a position where I can shed my history, my baggage of womanhood, absorb all that I’m only now able to because men may look at me and think, You’re one of us–as wrong and right and complicated as that may be.

Mother and Child Reunion

I saw my mother this past weekend for the first time since she was out in San Francisco for my surgery almost a year ago. I was nervous–my chest is flatter than it ever was with a binder; I’ve gained about five pounds, almost all in the muscles in my pecs, shoulders, and arms; my face is more angular; my neck is thicker; I have zits that my friends say I cannot call acne yet; I smell different; I shave my face; my voice is definitely deeper. But then again, it’s me, so I notice everything. My mom, although conceding that my voice sounds “hoarse,” and that maybe my face is bigger, says I don’t appear different to her.

I am torn between feeling a great sense of relief that my mom finds me familiar and frustrated that she cannot see the physical changes that mean so much to me. At one point at the end of the trip, she said, “I just don’t see you as a man. I’m sorry, I don’t.” I wasn’t angry with her, because even if she couldn’t see it, she spent two days acting as if she could (barring her complete inability to remember to call me Nick), referring to me as “mister” instead of “lady,” or pointing me to the men’s room instead of the women’s room. But part of me did want to shout in my mom’s face, HOW CAN YOU NOT SEE ME AS A DUDE? What part of my body, chest, face, anything is reminiscent of female to you?

Her comment made me see that maybe she hasn’t thought of me as having a gender for years. Sure, she placed me on the woman side as a matter of procedure–my birth certificate, biology, and recognition by society said so. But my mom, much like me, sees women as being able to do all the same things men can. And maybe the physical attributes, the change in my chest and face and body don’t signify anything about gender to her. Maybe to her I am genderless. And in that respect, I will never change.

Paul Auster has written fifteen novels and claims he doesn’t know why he writes. But he knows why I do…

“I don’t know why I write. If I knew the answer, I probably wouldn’t have to. But it is a compulsion. You don’t choose it, it chooses you. And I wouldn’t recommend it to anybody. When young people say I want to be a novelist, I’d say, think very carefully about it. There will be very few rewards, you probably won’t make any money, you probably won’t become famous, and you will spend your whole life locked up in a room by yourself worrying about how to survive. You have to have a tremendous taste for solitude. I think all writers are a bit crazy; Damaged souls, incapable of doing anything else. On the other hand, when I am writing, even though it’s hard and I do struggle often, I am happier than when I’m not writing. I feel alive. Whereas when I’m not writing, I feel like your common every-day neurotic. I feel that the act of writing, in and of itself, is a tool towards probing that which you wouldn’t without that pen in your hand. It’s a strange, almost neurological phenomenon, and the words seem to generate more words—but only when you’re writing. You can’t do it in your head. There are certain phrases in books of mine, and I don’t know where they came from, or how I was capable of thinking up these formulations. It’s only in the heat of composition that these things occur to you.”

-Paul Auster (from The Rumpus interview)

I am single. And when I caught myself saying yes instead of no to something, well more than one thing, so outside my comfort zone, I realized that I do occasionally exhibit my traveler mentality at home, that telling myself “at least you’ll be able to write about it” always helps, and that when I am single, I do things I wouldn’t ordinarily do.

Occasionally I come up with rules, like I won’t travel over 30 miles or won’t spend over $50 or won’t declare my love for someone I haven’t kissed, but then I do, or at least I have.

These are a few of the things I’ve done for a variety of girls–none of whom  I dated or slept with–over the past decade.

1. Attended “Gay Day” at Great America with her.
2. Bicycled to her office and read three legal pages of handwritten sentences that all started with, “I love your….” or “I love the way you…”
3. Wore skin tight hot pink Paul Frank pants to a bar to make her laugh.
4. Did splits at a party to impress her with my flexibility.
5. Went to the End Up every Fag Friday and chain-smoked Newports with meth-heads while she danced to house music until the sun came up.
6. Wrote her a ten page story in which she was the main character and gave it to her as a birthday present.
7. Drove over an hour to meet her at the beach even though I’d never met her and she’d sent me an e-card with a poodle on it.
8. To see if we were sexually compatible, I went to the book store after our first date to read erotica written about her.
9. Drugs.
10. Met her mother, and her brother, and paid for a Yonder Mountain String Band show.

*I’m not the biggest fan of the term “transition” in gender-speak; it implies starting somewhere and arriving somewhere else, of moving from female to male. I don’t see it that way. I have made decisions, and continue to make decisions, and they are, in a sense, separate.

*I am passing as a dude more lately. All of my feelings surrounding this are complex. Sometimes, when I’m in a group, I feel a new and unusual uncertainty about what to say and not say about my history, my age, my daily experiences because I have no idea how I’m being perceived. I also know that someday, perhaps, maybe, I might pass as a guy all the time, and for me the impending loss is so profound it makes me want to stop time. But mostly I feel a swell of pride when someone acknowledges me as dude; that shit is downright euphoric. My favorite passing moment (and some version of this happens surprisingly often) is when a bouncer or voting booth attendant says, “hey man,” then looks at my uber-girly picture ID or asks for my legal name, and then says, “thanks man.”

*I shaved my face for the first time, and it was AWEsome. It turns out that men’s shaving cream smells way better on my face than it ever did on my legs. My friend Derek *taught* me how while my other friend filmed us, and turning the experience into a big event that could be shared and captured was the best part. When I consider the things I’ve dealt with in my gender journey–knives, needles, pain, sadness, discomfort, fear, the constant phobia of public bathrooms–shaving was one of the only truly fun things. Plus, I love the way my fresh face looks, and now I get peach fuzz stubble, which is more exciting than peach fuzz.

*I am feeling some unease about publishing a book, and maintaining this blog, with my former name in the title. While it means my old name will be accessible to the general public forever, something I do think I’m okay with, it also means that when I meet new people, mention and eventually promote my book, my old name is one of the first things they will learn about me. This is not upsetting as much as it feels weird. I don’t have any interest in the given names of trans guys I meet, and prefer not to know, which makes me think that others might prefer not to know mine. I once thought that having my given name on a book cover would memorialize it, but now I’m wondering if it might instead transmute ”Nina” from my former name into a title, and perhaps I should just let it rest in peace.

*Confession: I still use the women’s locker room at the gym. I often workout during the day at lunch and need to shower before I return to the office. The women’s room has single stall showers. The men’s room has open gang showers. The situation makes me alternately frustrated and enraged. And although I keep my head down, eyes focused on the floor, and do not speak to anyone in the women’s locker room, I know it’s only a matter of time before someone asks me what I’m doing in there. I don’t want to be in there. But it is easier. More comfortable for me. At least for now. When provoked, I wonder if I’ll have the balls to say that I’m transgender and this side is safer. Or if I’ll start bringing a bathing suit to the other side to hide the fact that I don’t have balls.