ninaherenorthere.com

My Final Hurrah 

Last Monday, I went into the women’s locker-room at my gym. I did my typical head down, hair in my face, wrap my towel around my neck for extra coverage thing, and perhaps this finally made me look suspicious because everyone stared at me. Everyone.

I had tried to prepare myself for this moment, or rather I’d come up with a response to the “What are you doing in here?” question. I even practiced my answer. In my sweetest voice I’d say,”I’m transgender and I feel more comfortable in here.” But that was months ago, before my sweet voice had gone baritone, before the hard angles had settled into my jaw. Never did I think I would last so long in there. I lasted so long, I may have convinced myself I could stay forever.

There was one woman in particular who must have stared at me for a full five minutes. She was quiet a bit older, and as I waited for her to question my presence, I knew I would never utter my practiced line. In my head, it had actually mutated into a whine, complete with some fist banging on my thighs, an “I don’t wanna use the men’s locker-room, goddamnit! I just don’t wanna.” I almost stopped going to the gym entirely, but the only thing worse than acting like a victim of my situation is acting like a big old baby.

Have I mentioned this thing I have at work I like to call “tranny privilege”?

You see, I have my own private bathroom with shower. Well, it’s two private bathrooms actually, ever since I asked HR to replace the “men’s” and “women’s” shower signs with “unisex” since both rooms are the same. When I changed my name and pronouns at work, to save everyone some discomfort, I’d requested use of these bathrooms, even though they’re only supposed to be used when showering. Recently, a co-worker asked me if she could use them, because no one wants to take a dump in the stall next to their boss, and I said, “Nope. There’s a sign inside that says ‘no exceptions.’ Unless you’re me. Sucker.” So yeah, I can shit, jerk off and shower in privacy at work–tranny privilege.

Back to the big baby thing. With the shower at work, I didn’t even actually need to shower at the gym. It’s just that I didn’t want to be there all sweaty, have to change into street clothes, walk back to work, then shower there, especially since I liked to pretend nobody knows I disappear from my cube to run at lunch, even though my co-workers often ask how my run was? Yeah, I know, woe is me. I didn’t want to change my routine. I was scared of the uncertainty. Who knew what I’d find behind the men’s locker-room door.

A New Beginning

Last Thursday, I decided to check it the men’s side, starting slow with a simple investigation in the late afternoon, an uncrowded time. It turned out the “gang” showers that intimidated me weren’t of the “drop your soap and get nailed by an offensive lineman (WR or RB if it’s a fantasy) kind. They were just shower stalls without doors; one even appeared to be in a corner. And though I kept my head down inside, it wasn’t for my previous reasons–fear of being caught–it was more like don’t invite what you can’t deliver (though I’m told this gym location isn’t known for “activity.”)

Overall, it was a bit uneventful, though I will say there’s a huge difference between a men’s restroom and men’s lockerroom. One has urinals, the other has naked men. Everywhere. It was the closest I’d ever been to such pervasive male nudity and although most of the guys needed some extra time on the treadmill, while I was washing my hands, I noticed the ridiculously ripped super sexy guy standing next to me in a towel. I’m pretty sure that switching to this locker-room immediately made me gay-ish-er.

I showered back at work that day, a rather pleasant experience, but the next time I went into the men’s lockerroom, I showered in one of the doorless stalls, just how I sometimes did on the other side when the lines for the private ones were too long. From the backside, I could be any gender with a hairy ass, and I figure if anyone catches a glance at my front, my dilemma is obvious—I only have two choices.

The locker-room I use doesn’t define my gender. It’s just a locker-room. And using the men’s side doesn’t make me a man. I could say I made the switch because it was time to accept a responsibility for what I look like, to respect the widespread system of binary categories even if don’t believe in it. And maybe that is what I’m saying, but I’d rather phrase it differently. I’d rather say it’s because I’m a person, and I just don’t want to be the kind of person who scares little old ladies in the locker-room.

I knew that once I made the switch, I wouldn’t be able to go back to the women’s side. I’d used every toilet, showered in every stall, had probably used half the lockers in there. I kinda wish I could’ve weighed myself one last time, or looked at my reflection in the mirror against a backdrop of female flesh. It may have only been a smelly, nasty locker-room, but I can’t help but think something inside deserved a proper goodbye.

“It’s fucked up,” my therapist said when she handed me the letter. I read the first few lines, “I am writing in support of Nina in her pursuit of chest surgery. Born female, Nina meets the DSM IV criteria for Gender Identity Disorder.” The letter went on to say that I’ve been meeting with my therapist for over three years (which made me feel very well-balanced and dedicated to my personal development), that I understand the physical and psychological ramifications of top surgery, and that I have no “psychological disturbance” that would contraindicate my “pursuit of treatment.”

I had in my hands the infamous Therapist Letter, the permission, as recommended in the WPATH ethical guidelines (last updated in 2001), for those pursuing a cosmetic procedure that falls under the heading of gender reassignment surgery. I had already put up a half-assed fight against the letter, aware that my surgeon prefers these letters, but doesn’t require them. He assured me that the letter would sit in a folder in a drawer in the bottom of a cabinet never to be looked at again. I asked him if it was sufficient to say that I’m of sound mind to make a decision about my body. He said yes. I guess I’d hoped that the letter would say that and nothing else. When I expressed some disappointment at my offical letter, my therapist said she was filling out a template, but that I could re-write the letter if I wanted to, and she’d sign it. Although I cared about the issue on principle, being dianosed with something I don’t believe is a condition or a disorder that I need “treatment” for, I didn’t care about a piece of paper that is going to do nothing but yellow.

Rather than reiterate the problems of pathologizing trans people, or the problem of equated top surgery with a nose job or breast augmentation, I thought I’d just mess around with my own version of a somewhat typical transgender narrative therapist letter.

Dear Dr. Surgeon,

As a small child, N’s toys included My Little Ponies (with a stable) and a Barbie, the shower time version. She doesn’t remember actually playing with these toys, certainly not aggressively or in a rough-n-tumble fashion, but she remembers a picture of herself topless, washing a naked Barbie. It is the only picture she remembers in which she is without a shirt during that prepubescent phase when boys and girls chests look the same. She remembers that picture fondly.

During childhood, N occasionally tortured her brother. One of her favorite games involved sticking a broomstick between his legs. Her friend Alexis would grab the other side and the two older girls would jerk the stick up, launching N’s poor brother into the air. He would usually fly off one side with a burst of self-conscious, traumatized laughter. Because he laughed, N would then shout in his face that he had no balls. Once she asked me to hypnotize her. She was hoping to uncover a repressed memory, like maybe after her castration attempt, she’d said, “You can’t have one if I can’t have one.” But after the hypnosis, N only cried, hugged a pillow and apologized profusely to her brother.

N told me that she didn’t always urinate sitting down. She said she could go anywhere: trough, sink, in between two cars, potted plant, middle of a ski run, the side of the road, Snapple bottle. She told me that she didn’t care much for toilet paper. “Is that because men don’t wipe after peeing?” I asked. “No,” she screamed. “Urine is clean. Like water. Gandhi drank it.” She was very disappointed when I refused to label any of these behaviors as cross-gender practices.

I always got the sense N was looking for evidence or proof, some rational explanation for why she couldn’t stop fantasizing about a painful, expensive procedure that would push her even farther into the outskirts of society. She inquired into possible medical explanations, but doctors never could find any undescended testes in the obvious places below the waist. So, she had them check her ear canal and nasal pathway. One doctor refused to treat her after she chased him around with her mouth open and tongue out, positive that in the place of tonsils she had gonads. She thought everything would be okay if she could just have an oral gonadectomy.

N appeared to have a completely normal puberty. She responded to menstruation as if she’d sprung a leak, plugging it up like she was a plumber. She eagerly requested a training bra before she needed one, and in eight grade, she began showing off her breasts in skin tight shirts. There appears to be some sort of inner turmoil going on at this time, because she also bought a carving knife to school and ended up in some serious trouble. I’m not sure if it was a plea for help, but her actions seemed to say, “Look at my tits! Look at my tits, and I’ll knife you.”

While N displayed no obvious signs of gender identity disorder throughout childhood, she did begin to show late onset gender development. Around the age of twenty-six, she saw a toddler playing in a sandbox. He was wobbling about in a pair of corduroys. His Keds looked small enough to fit in her hand, and he was wearing a perfect red dress shirt. “I need that outfit,” N said to herself in what felt like a grand epiphany. Shortly thereafter, N began window shopping for herself on the boys’ side of the Baby Gap.

As N grew closer and closer to age thirty, she began to look younger and younger. It didn’t matter if she was wine tasting with her parents or at a private catered briss, a bartender or guest would inevitably crack a joke about underage drinking. At bars, the quizzing over the validity of her driver’s license began: What color are your eyes? How tall are you? What’s your zip code? On two occasions, N had to provide backup identification. At one corner store, a cashier looked at her license and said, “Holy Shit.”

While I have no concerns over N’s late onset gender development, I am slightly concerned with her workout regimen. For awhile N thought she could exercise off her hips and breasts. Last week, she confided in me that she knows this is a lost cause, that the only way to lose her chest is surgery. And thank god. Her face was starting to disappear.

So, Doctor, there you have it. I am writing in support of N in her pursuit of chest surgery. Born female, resembling a girl and then a woman and then a boy, and on her way to looking like a pear-shaped skeleton with the face of a Jewish monkey, Nina meets the DSM IV criteria for workout manorexia. I recommend surgery as the best treatment option for her.

Sincerely,

Therapist

25. Hot yoga at dusk, covered in sweat, and wearing only a pair of shorts.

24. The strap of a messenger bag making a perfect diagonal line across my upper body.

23. Doing it on top without the flappity-flap of my flesh. 

22. Plaid boxers.

21. Barefoot, shirtless, and free ballin’ it in jeans while cooking breakfast on a Sunday morning.

20. Pick up bball with nine dudes and taking a charge into the brick wall of my chest.

19. An expensive tailored dress shirt.

18. Skin tight white t-shirts.

17. Long-underwear style shirts.

16. Gripping the back of a t-shirt with both hands, pulling it over my head, and throwing it to the ground.

15. Transgender visibility.

14. Running on the beach in swim trunks and splashing into the shallow waves.

13. Enjoying a hot tub.

12. Small nipples.

11. Making-out with a gay guy, our hard bodies pressed together.

10. Making-out with a queer girl, our physical differences magnified.

9. Embracing my faggy effeminate side.

8. Knowing, even when others can’t tell.

7. No more San Francisco Indian summer days with a sweaty, chaffing, suffocating plate of armor underneath my shirt.

6. Long runs without a sports bra.

5. No more shoulder straps. Ever.

4. Being topless and happy at the same time.

3. More space in my drawer for underwear and socks.

2. A closet and bureau that consists entirely of men’s clothing.

1. A sleeping lover, her head resting on my flat chest.

Sometimes when my brother and I are hanging out, his phone rings. This is how his side of the conversation goes:

“Hey man, how’s it going?

“No way, man, I had no idea.”

“Really, man, that’s cool.”

“I’m just hanging with my sister, man. We’re eating dinner and relaxing. We might get some beers.”

“Yeah, man. I’m around tomorrow. Let’s do it”

“Later, man.”

I’m not exaggerating. For some reason, my mature, intelligent, educated, well-spoken brother develops a tourettic “man” tic when he talks to his friends. It’s not even special friends, although it should be more than clear that it is only when talking to male friends.

A couple weeks ago, I bumped into a co-worker at a restaurant. He greeted me with an excited, “Hey man, how’s it going?” I rode high for the rest of the night, convinced that he saw something in me that I see in myself, and outside the workplace, fueled by a dinner buzz, the words just naturally spilled out. This probably isn’t that case. He probably meant it the way some people think “dude” and “guys” is a gender-neutral form of address, which is way too big of a discussion to get into here, but suffice to say, there is a part of me (not the only part of me) that hears the gender-neutrality of those words, or connotations that transcend gender, like two friends (neither of whom were me) ripping bong hits in a tapestry-decorated college dorm room while listening to Cypress Hill’s “I Wanna Get High” and referring to each other as “dude.”

For me, at least, it’s a bit harder to hear anything other than the man in “man.” It’s the beginning of it all, Adam and Eve, mankind, the Founding Fathers and ”all men are created equal.” It’s biblical, heteronormative, the binary of man and woman and a union defined with the words, ”Do you take this man.” It’s the evil we fight against, the Man. It’s the burden to “Be a Man.” It’s the silent destroyer in the word that should unite us all: “human.” It’s a greedy bastard, taking up space and infiltrating the one place it isn’t welcome: “woman.”

As I’m becoming more vocal about myself, expressing that which is unspoken by my chromosomes, my hormones, my flesh, people are responding. The other day, I did a nice thing for a friend. “Thanks, man,” he said. A few days later, I made a new friend and he offered me a nod of understanding, “I’ll see you later, man.”

The word sounds funny on me. New. I equate it with hoary white guys, eighteen year old boys, and those with dick-size insecurity. ”Man” doesn’t sting my ears the way an address of “lady” or “girl” or “woman” does, but like a pair of unworn snowboard boots, it hasn’t been broken in yet.

Last night, I had dinner with a good friend, the queerest person I know, and someone who sees me so clearly that I sometimes wonder if she’d be as shocked as I am upon sight of my unclothed female body. “Does it bother you when I talk about my man-hatred?” she asked. “Like how I was offended that you didn’t consider yourself a woman?”

She was referring to a discussion we’d had months before, after my outrage post at being referred to as a “woman” in Curve magazine. At the time, she’d told me that a small part of her took my response personally, that she was slighlty offended because deep down, she was a “big old lesbian,” and I was rejecting that. I thought about wearing my rugby jacket to the Indigo Girls concert it ‘98, the older woman with feathered bangs and a softball player’s phsyique who kissed me and then cracked a joke about her toaster collection. Deep down there is a place in my heart where I hold the big old lesbian in me.

“No, I’m not offended,” I said. “I hate men, too.” There was this guy sucking face with this girl on the sidewalk in front of her apartment building. I admired his stubble.

“Well, I don’t hate men,” she said. I rolled my eyes a little, internally. She has a live-in boyfriend. Of course, she doesn’t. 

Today, I got an email with the double “man,” a greeting of “hey man” and a closing of “take care, man.” I don’t want to ever hear someone talk to me like my brother talks to his friends, dropping the word constantly the way I did with “like” in high school. I know that there is some calcluation gone into this form of address, especially with me. When I hear it, the man-hater in me wants to try on a frilly yellow dress one more time. But the man in me is appreciative for the recognition, for the invitation into the brotherhood; I just hope it doesn’t mean giving up the key I already have. I may not use it regularly, but I always sleep with it under my pillow. 

I recently became obsessed with Details magazine. As a teenager and young adult, I never looked at it, knowing that the women’s counterparts, like Vogue and Cosmo, were meant for me. I ignored those as well and lived my life in jeans and t-shirts, bereft of style and clueless to fashion. When I started to identify as more of a man than a woman, I was able to find at least a small portion of mass-market media that appealed to me, most of it targeted to males. And, to my shock, Details is not a trashy, low-brow, guilty pleasure; it’s actually a good magazine.

The covers of Details rule (Zac Efron pictured here). There is always a ridiculously attractive man piercing you with a glare, his eyes coy, solemn, and earnest. A Rod Steward song picks up in my head: If you want my body and you think I’m sexy, come on, sugar, buy this magazine.

Michael Chabon, Pulitzer Prize winning author of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (as well as the books, The Mysteries of Pittsburgh and Wonder Boys), writes a monthly column. Augusten Burroughs writes a monthly column. Unlike other mainstream mags, Details acknowledges and includes its gay audience (Gay or Straight?), which I think of as a no-brainer, considering the cover and the contents.

Details also acts as an instructional manual on men’s fashion. Sadly, due my ill-fitting female body, articles about choosing the right suit or vest don’t work for me, as I’m often relegated to any suit or vest that fits. But those on choosing a cologne or working with neckware–scarves, bow ties, and ties–help immensely. Everyone has secrets, great embarrassing shames, like being unable to read or drive a stick shift. Mine (other than the stick shift one), is that I cannot tie a tie. A few weeks ago, on the BART platform, a comedy performer in costume asked  if anyone could tie her tie for her. She turned directly to me and said, “I’m sure you can.” I looked down at my running shoes and nodded my head no. I watched on as someone else did it, deflated and feeling sorry for myself and my pathetic masculinity. But perusing Details’ online content, I came across this godsend of a video, amongst many others. If this is too simple for you, check out the bow tie instructional.

Gay or Straight? Gay, for sure.

Unable to stop procrastinating, I came across the following Details video, a Craigslist personal ad turned into a music video. Seriously. The lyrics are taken from a real post. This is for everyone who has lost days of their lives obsessed with finding the most bizarre Craigslist personals.