ninaherenorthere.com

I started taking testosterone on July 21, 2009. There are a lot of reasons why, and none of them have to do with weighing a pro and con list, questions like “Is it worth muscles if I’m going to get acne?” or “Is it worth a few centimeters of dick if I’m going to get ass hair?” There is no picking and choosing; it is all or nothing. Of course, I always have the option to stop, or to flip it into more positive terms, to make a conscious decision to continue every time I pick up the needle.

Sometimes I mull over this unrealistic scenario: If I were to approach a 14 year old boy and tell him he could remain as he is forever, never having to shave or smell raunchy or have zits, that girls would still swoon over him, and hot ones at that, that he would never have to worry about balding, what do you think he would do, freeze time? Am I the same? I don’t know. But I can tell you how I feel.

I feel stuck, not in the antsy, anxious, American fill-the-void kind of way that makes me take an extra handful of cereal when I’m full because I want something, anything more. And I don’t feel stuck like I do in a bad job or in a bad relationship where I just need out. It’s more like a brick wall is in front of me, maybe ten feet high, and I’m standing on my tippy toes, trying to see over, wondering not if “manhood” is on the other side, but adulthood, if there is a dog, or child, or family, something or someone to care for — a future.

Let’s scrap that one, just so there’s no confusion that this is about me trying to get somewhere — it isn’t. I want the feeling of transition, or puberty, or having testosterone, more specifically exogenous testosterone, inside my body to connect me to the experience of no one thing, but the totality of being a teenage boy, a mature man, and a transguy — a person who sticks himself every couple weeks and very slowly plunges a viscous fluid into his quad, a person who carries with that dull tingly sensation nearly thirty years of life in which he was recognized as a female.

I am a writer and so I find it ironic that the words I’ve arrived at seem empty to me — “instinct,” “the wisdom of the body,” “feeling like a man.” I cannot possibly tell you what it means to feel like a man, but occasionally you will hear me utter that phrase, then cringe because I am at a loss to explain or deepen. Maybe I am too logical for something that defies ration, and although I can let philosophy and theory wash over me, I can’t quite explore myself through those lenses.

I can always turn to narrative, even though the term is so dangerous and loaded in the transgender lexicon because of the historical pain it has caused so many people, myself included. Narrative is a construction, a way of connecting dots, of linking elements whose truth is as fleeting as a millisecond tick on a stopwatch. But as Joan Didion writes, “We tell ourselves stories in order to live”; I know I do. And the thing about these stories, about my own narrative constructions is that I’ve earned my words.

It is hard to look back at my time with breasts and call myself miserable, mostly because I didn’t feel that way at the time, or wasn’t aware that I did — we do what we do to survive. But over the three or so years that I struggled to arrive at the decision to remove them, I heard from a plethora of people a countless number of times, “Do not cut off your breasts.” I was foolish and human to listen, to keep beating down instinct with reason. By now, I’ve earned my faith in myself, to listen to the wisdom of my body even if I can’t explain where it comes from or what exactly it is.

As for “feeling like a man,” I still don’t know what that means, but I know that when people call me “he” or I hold my breath from the stench in the men’s restroom that I feel as I imagine other men might feel, and that when people call me “she,” I have no idea whom they are talking about and when I go into the women’s restroom, I feel not like a woman, nor a man, but an outsider, an invisible person. Does this mean that my entire construct of myself is based on pronouns and toilets? Please forgive me if I’m enforcing a binary that I don’t believe in, but I spend a large portion of every day using words and bathrooms.

When I first started exploring testosterone, it was for writing research almost three years ago. T was not something I was actively or even passively considering and I watched an acquaintance receive one of his first shots. I didn’t sleep for a couple weeks. It would be melodramatic or crying wolf to say I contemplated suicide, especially since people do actually kill themselves, more than are counted, for being transgender. I did, however, contemplate what my life would be like should I *have* to take the route of T. It was that fear, envisioning the insurmountable challenges, that had me wishing myself dead.

I’m rambling now, getting off a track I never saw in the first place, spinning around an infinite number of ways to explain how I got from there to here, even when I know it doesn’t really matter at all. I’ll probably come back to these ideas again, revising and refining or changing my story entirely. Until then, it’s the following words that I keep coming back to. They come from a teacher, and although I cannot make complete sense of them, I find them comforting…

The asana is in the transition.

I just turned 31 years old and received my first birthday cards addressed to Nick, as well as my first “Happy Birthday, Dear Nick”s (including one “Happy Birthday, Dear Nick? Nick? Nicky?” My friends think my mom wasn’t confused or giving me a nickname as much as she needed two syllables.) I also received my first check made out to Nick.

I know I shouldn’t make fun of this check-writing relative. Changing one’s name legally is not only possible but done by many people who are not transgender, like women who embrace patriarchal “tradition” by taking a husband’s name, which they’ll keep long after the divorce having discovered the first time around what a huge pain it is to change a name.

I usually try my best not to mock trans ignorance, but sometimes I’m ready to explode. Like last week, an English teacher referred to my past as a time when I was a “she” whereas now I am a “he.” I wanted to shout in this grammarian’s face that a person cannot be a part of speech. “He” and “she” are simply pronouns, words used as replacements or substitutes for nouns.

But I shouldn’t make fun of my check-writing relative because she was probably being kind and supportive or thought I’d gone through the legal channels, but part of me just knows she’s one of those people who believes in transitional magic, that if I say “sex change operation” three times while rubbing my genitals before bed, I’ll wake up in the morning with dick. Man, I wish. The reality is that me and my friends sit around (when nobody else is listening) discussing the various T-gels, pumps, and mediocre surgeries to grow an extra 2 or whopping 4, not inches, but centimeters.

Instead of making fun of this relative, I’m going to share why I haven’t changed my name. To start with, the petition for a change of name costs $335 (there are fee waivers I wouldn’t qualify for) and this is just the first in a long bureaucratic path that includes a newspaper announcement (to notify the public in case I’m trying to escape my bookie), court appearance, trip to the DMV and the social security office, not to mention contacting passport agencies, banks, credit card issuers and other financial institutions. All of that I could do, but haven’t because this is the exact same path to change gender, except with more paperwork and higher hurdles to clear.

The various agencies have different criteria to change gender; phrases like “surgery to alter sexual characteristics” or “completion of sex reassignment surgery” help, as does luck, the mood of the paper pusher drawn. Once again, I’m in a huge position of privilege here because I was able to afford top surgery, and since there’s no dick fairy, top surgery can sometimes qualify as SRS completion (at least in California if the doctor says so). Taking testosterone (more affordable than surgery) doesn’t do the trick. This means that there’s a ton of dudes walking around this city with the official designation of female, whereas I, simply boobless for now, could legally change my gender.

I haven’t changed my name because I don’t know what to do about my gender, and I want to avoid the process twice (as well as shelling out an extra $335.)

Perhaps I’ll change my mind, hence the wait, but now, I just don’t give a shit about having an “M” on my license, my passport, anything. I do care about my safety and my health. And this is where my main concern lies. If all of my official paperwork recognizes me as male (and it’s recommended that documents match up), I worry about my health insurance. I am a dude and my gynecological care matters to me. At the same time, as I move towards starting testosterone, I worry about looking like a man with an “F” on my license and passport and the harassment, abuse, physical and sexual violence this could inspire.

There are ways to work through these things, loopholes to uncover, employers and insurers that can, maybe, be reasoned with. I don’t have all of the information and knowledge yet. Most of what I learned came from a presentation by the awesome Transgender Law Center and from talking to friends. The most interesting and scariest part is that nobody has all of the information. It doesn’t exist. The law, as well as the semantics, are still being argued and fought over. The system doesn’t know what to do with us any more than society knows what to do with us.

What’s that old cliche about laughing instead of crying? Maybe it has something to do with my desire to mock the check addressed to Nick. Which, as I’m sure you could guess, was still very easy to cash.

I can’t roam the park, beach, run, or even relax on my back deck with my shirt off. For several more months, while my chest heals, I need to keep my scars completely out of the sun. And because I live in San Francisco, when there’s no sun it’s freezing. And when it’s freezing outside, it’s even colder inside my house. So, basically, due to environmental circumstances and temporary physical limitations, outside of topless activities — shower, sex, dressing, swimming — I haven’t had much topless leisure time.

Shortly after my surgery, I wanted to sleep topless so badly that at night, I’d get into bed and huddle underneath three blankets before taking off my sweatshirt, long-sleeve shirt, beanie, and t-shirt. First thing in the morning, without lifting even one blanket, I’d put the t-shirt, sweatshirt, and hat back on. This got old after a few weeks.

But the recent heat wave in San Francisco has given me the long awaited opportunity to walk around my house in just my underwear. It takes me a few seconds when I get home, about as long as it takes to think, “Fuck it’s hot,” before I realize I can actually take my shirt off, that I want to take my shirt off. I lift my arms, grab the back of my shirt, pull it over my head, and fall back onto my bed. I feel devious, as if I’ve found a suitcase full of unmarked bills, enough to start anew. Freedom. I don’t care where it came from or how I got it. I’m gonna take it and run, run, run…

Last weekend, I coerced my roommate Derek into taking many pictures of me. My favorites are below, including some long awaited chest photos (from only six weeks after my surgery).

“Really? A whole photo shoot of me?”

White Hanes T-shirt (5 pack, $8)

Levis 514 Jeans ($29)

Make no mistake — This is all about the hair

Hair by Christina at Spunk Salon ($65)

“Hey… Hey… Hey…”

Blue Lacoste Polo ($4)

Levis 511 Skinny Jeans ($59)

Professor Nick

Outfit designed by Derek and JP

And now for the moment you (or maybe only I) have been waiting for…

Chest by Dr. Brownstein ($$$$ and worth every damn penny)

But don’t let the chest distract you from the hair

And one more because…

I waited a long time to be this happy.

I am happier and happier each and every day. With not having breasts, that is. Surgery was not some big panacea; it didn’t fix my relationships, job, writing, or eating issues. I’m still not talking to my father. I still can’t focus at work. I still stress about my book. I still eat two bowls of cereal in the morning and two before bed. However, sometimes when I’m walking down the street, I want to leap into the air and click my heels together. Sometimes I break out into a spontaneous smile–For. No. Reason. My baseline quality of life level moved from “Getting By” to “Glad To Be Here.” It is truly a bizarre experience to have nothing and everything change. It’s kind of like playing the same note in a different octave.

A friend once told me that after his surgery, his comfort with himself increased exponentially. I don’t think I understood the power, or the true meaning, of that word, “exponential.” I rarely understand words. It helps when I do math. I started with a very small number in the single-digits, 9, and did some simple calculations: 9 + 9 = 18 and 9 * 9 = 81. Then I took out a calculator to deal with exponents. 9 to the 9th power = 387,420,489 (feel free to check my math). So, basically, if I was a 9 on the comfortable scale before and said that has increased exponentially, which it has, I’d be 387 million times more comfortable.

I cannot stop shopping. It doesn’t matter whether it’s my lunch break during work, or I’m on my way to meet friends for dinner, or I’m late for an appointment, a store will kidnap me. And that’s on a good day. On bad days, I drop what I’m doing, go to American Apparel, and buy tight shirts. Sometimes, I send out text confessions when I feel particularly guilty about my purchases, like the time I bought a charcoal brown V-neck wool sweater from Brooks Brothers. (My friend eased my concerns by texting back: I just bought Diesel jeans). Once I texted, ”I loooooove to shop.” My friend replied, “…like every other American.” That one made me pause, and not because of a distaste for our culture of consumption. This is it, I thought to myself, I’m finally like everyone else. I’m human. It’s moments like those that make me realize how much I was missing out on before.

I also have to shop because none of my tops fit me anymore. They look like muumuus. All of a sudden, I’m really puny and scrawny. I had been going for the teenage boy look, but now that I have the chest of an eleven year old, it’s harder. I hope the pedophiles stay away. The other day I showed someone my chest (I cannot stop showing my chest, either) and I said, “Don’t I look like an eight year old?” (The age drops every time). “No, no,” he said. “You have the chest of a Mission hipster.” I’m not sure which is better.

I’ve also recently fallen in love with the white undershirt: Hanes t-shirts and Jockey wifebeaters. When I had breasts, there was nothing worse than wearing a transparent shirt through which I could see the round curvature of saggy flesh. Now that I don’t have them, there is nothing better than the soft white cotton clinging to my flat chest. I have all my undershirts neatly stacked in the same spot in my drawer where my bras used to be. It’s so cool.

Pictures soon.

The first time I had to deal with my new chest, I almost passed out. One of the best parts of those seven post-surgical days was that I was wrapped with a chest binder, much like a large Ace bandage, and forbidden to open it. The doctor unwrapped me twice, once to remove the drains and then to take out the nipple sutures. He told me everything looked good; I smiled. I had no responsibility. On day seven I was finally rewarded with a shower. With it came the daily maintenance–the gauze and tape and ointment and scabs–associated with a site of intense healing.

I am squeamish. I quit pre-med my sophomore year of college in large part because I find the human body, especially the wounded human body, kind of disgusting. When I first looked at my chest alone, I noticed the skin ballooned on the left side where fluid had pooled underneath. I pushed the skin and it rippled like a water bed. My head went light and I needed to lie down.

At least I understood the situation. Brownstein had noticed some excess fluid a couple days before. He drained me with a needle that I refused to look at. Then, when I stood up, my head went pins and needles, a thickness filled my ears, and I felt like I was on fire. Being that close to passing out is scary. I was not pleased when Brownstein said the fluid might come back. I was less pleased when I noticed it by myself, again, alone, and my head went fuzzy.

I’ve had fluid drained three times now, and each time it’s less and less of a big deal, and I’m getting much, much better at dealing with my healing chest. But I wanted to share that first horrible experience of unwrapping my binder to make it clear that having surgery doesn’t mean I’m going to love my chest all the time. During my whole trans discovery process, I mistakenly believed that if the changes I was entertaining were meant to be then they’d feel perfect while they were happening. This just isn’t true. There are moments of awkwardness and doubt and nearly passing out at the sight of the chest that you’ve wanted for so long. I wonder if it’s because we spend so much time proving ourselves, forcing our therapists to write us permission slips and telling everyone time and time again that we are absolutely positive we are doing the right thing that there is no room for us to be less than 100% happy or sure. Or maybe months and years later we forget about the hard parts. It’s taken me a long time to realize that most trans people experience uncertainty. Some of us may even pass out looking at our near-dreams in the mirror.

The doubts and gross-outs and painful drainage moments are there. They just pale in comparison to the first time I put on a t-shirt without the binding. That feeling, without a binder, sports bra, regular bra, or flesh hanging off my chest, is one of the best I’ve ever experienced. I feel naked, not vulnerable naked, but shout-from-the-rooftop glorious and free naked. Because I’m still supposed to wear the binding, I’ve only been that free for a few pre- and post-shower minutes. But after ONE MORE DAY, I will throw away that soiled binding. I will give away my binders and sports bras. And I will be free for the rest of my life.

I didn’t know if I wanted to look. I am aware that the body takes time to recover, that I was literally cut open last week and that this would show. I was afraid that when Dr. Brownstein unwrapped me and threw away all of the gauze and padding, there would be Frankenstein’s monster below my neck. But I was curious, too curious. Thousands of dollars and three years of waiting curious.

I was lying on the table when he handed me the hand mirror. What I saw was similar to the images in post-surgical pictures, YouTube videos, on the chests of friends. Small nickel-sized nipples, two long incisions covered with clear tape. The neck and collarbone and trunk, all parallel and perpendicular lines, hard lines drawn with a ruler. Without the distraction of the curves, the extra heaping of flesh, the sternum appeared so close to the surface, as if it was trying to breach the skin.

My chest looked exactly like any other post-surgical chest until I angled the mirror ever so slightly. Then I saw it. My face. It was attached, part of the same body with this perfectly flat torso, the male chest I’ve been admiring, revering, glorifying. Even when Brownstein pointed out the yellow color of my skin, the indentations that would go away, my eyes couldn’t focus on them. I couldn’t even will myself to see that my nipples probably looked like “sausages,” as often described post-op. But then again, I never could see my breasts as attractive either, no matter how many friends and lovers told me, no matter how many times society told me I should.

I only had a chance to hold the mirror for a few seconds. But in that moment, I saw beauty. I wonder how I knew, how I could’ve been so sure that I was there, invisible underneath this breast suit, hidden inside this female casing. But in that moment, the flicker of an image in a small mirror, I saw something I’d never seen before: Me.

I’m not sure if blogging qualifies as “operating dangerous machinery,” but be forewarned, I’m on Percocet.

My surgery went well yesterday. Or so the doctor told me. I slept through it.

I do remember arriving at the surgery center, which also happens to be in the same building as my dentist, signing a bunch of liability forms, and changing into my gown, compression stockings, booties, and whatever you call that head covering that looks like a shower cap. I looked into the mirror and said, “You can do this, buddy.”

The nurse sat me in a reclining chair, took my vitals, and put in an IV. My mom, whom all the nurses called “The Boss,” looked like she had eaten some bad sushi. This made me feel like I had eaten bad sushi. I wished my two friends who were originally going to accompany me to surgery were there in the room. They would’ve petted me and told me that everything was going to be fine. Maybe my mom read my mind. “Excuse me,” she said to the nurse and pushed her out of the way like a New Yorker hailing a taxi. “I just want to give her a kiss.” My mom planted a big wet one on my lips and told me she loved me.

I started to cry, just a little. The nurse handed me a box of tissues and said, “Don’t worry, all of Dr. Brownstein’s patients do well. They are healthy. This is elective surgery.” My first surgery, I thought. Elective. Why would anyone chose to do this? But I knew.

So, Brownstein, a man who is not known for his bedside manner, but whom I sincerely like and trust, walks in and sees the box of tissues. “Tears, already,” he says. “I hope those are tears of joy.”

When he was about to do the markings on my chest, he asked if my mom wanted to leave. But she stood her ground, protecting her taxi. As Brownstein drew lines on my breasts, my armpits started to rain. “You sure are sweating a lot,” he said. “I am about to have surgery,” I replied. My mom just sat that there, library book open on her lap, pretending to read David Baldacci’s The Whole Truth.

A nurse walked me into the freezing surgery room. I hopped up onto the heated bed, and a few minutes later, the anesthesiologist talked me to sleep. When I woke up, I looked at the clock. It was 12:15. I had arrived at the center only a few hours ago, at 9. “Hiiiiii,” I said to my mom.

The nurse asked me to rate my pain on a scale of 1-10 with 10 being the highest. I said 2 or 3. Then I asked for more pain meds. She asked me to rate it again. 1 or 2. Then I asked for more pain meds. And she gave them to me. I was floating, breastless and painfree. It was heaven.