We’re getting married!

We're getting married!

After 2.5 miles of hiking we laid out a blanket so that we could have lunch.

“I feel like everything I know about myself… You also know.” He said.

I smiled, and agreed.

“But… I do still have some secrets.”

“Suuure. Like what?”

“Like this…” He got up onto one knee and pulled the ring out of his pocket.

I can’t remember if I said yes and then shrieked or if I shrieked first. He slid the perfect ring onto my hand. I haven’t stopped smiling.

We enjoyed each another half hour or so, soaking up the perfect weather to match our perfect moment.

He’d told me he wanted to stop and get a drink at a pub he really likes downtown (all under the guise of his birthday…) so we stopped at Target, changed clothes (and checked for ticks…) and headed into the city.

I think I asked two or three times if I could call my mom and share the news. He smiled and said we should just take a little more time to ourselves.

At the pub, I stopped quick to go to the bathroom before we went up to find seats on the balcony. I was shocked to find that Cam had corralled our 10 favorite people for a surprise lunch.

And now we begin planning a party – to celebrate our love and the beginning of a most wonderful marriage.

marriage musings

I don’t think a week goes by in our household where one of us doesn’t bring up something related to our wedding or marriage. There is such an openness about the idea, the plans, and the inevitable, that it shouldn’t be surprising that we get congratulated for our engagement.

But this openness also leads to more questions which is how it should be, because questions lead to answers and finding answers together is the kind of stuff that marriages are built on. So, in one of these long, because the conversations are always long when they’re about this sort of thing, we talked about how what we want out of a wedding and what we want out of our marriage and completely different things. It is an ongoing conversation, but while we figure it out here are some of Jo’s thoughts to me about the whole thing…


Cam,

I understand that weddings are an industrial complex.
I also understand that a wedding is not a marriage.
I’m working to untangle ‘marriage’ and ‘wedding’ and to figure out which one I actually want.

I think, at the most basic level, it comes down to this:
Wedding = $
Marriage = ❤

And here’s the reality:
We have the love for a marriage.
We do not have the money for a wedding.

At the point that we do get married, it will cost at least a small amount of money. I’d like a ring; as a symbol of our feelings and we’ll need a certificate from the courthouse. And we’ll probably buy our family dinner because they’ll come watch us tie the knot.

But I don’t think either of us wants the industrial complex wedding.
I figure, in a few years’ time, when we’re better off financially, we’ll have a celebration.
Less of a ‘kick start’ and more of a ‘great job- keep going’ party.

But that marriage? I want it to be on our time. Whether we can feed our 150 closest friends and family out of our own pocket or not.
So, at the point that you’re ready to get into specifics and logistics, you let me know.

Until then?
I’m going to let it go.
I’m going to share with Pinterest and my best friends in the whole world, but I want to let you get there on your own.
I won’t want to be married to you any less, but I’m ready to stop worrying that the way we do it, whatever way that ends up being, is “okay”.
I love you, and I look forward to many more slumber parties. :)

Always yours,
Jo

 

 

Q & A | why I made the decision to transition

We got this question in our inbox:

I don’t know how to ask this question as people get really touchy about it no matter what way I phrase it but I’d really like an answer from someone who has gone through or wants to go through the “transformation”. I guess all I want to know is why did you decide to do it? I’m a bit confused about the end result mostly, cause I can understand you don’t feel comfortable with the role you were given and you feel in your heart that you were supposed to come out another way, but with science at the position it is where it can’t truly turn one gender into another (working reproductive organ wise) then why did you decide to do it? I feel like at this point in time it’s just giving up your ability to reproduce for a more pleasing physical form and I guess I really don’t understand. Please help me understand.

So, here is my answer…

First, and this is really important so try your best to understand this part, there is no possible way for you to fully understand what it’s like to be transgender unless you actually are transgender; and even so, as a transgender man I have absolutely no idea what it’s like to be a transgender man and even have a hard time understanding what it would be like to be a transman from a volatile household or a gay transman or something other than the experience I have already lived. In trying to understand WHY people transition, you have to accept that you might never fully understand it.

Many trans people, myself included, get REALLY frustrated and angry when asked these kinds of questions only to hear the curious person tell us how they could “totally imagine what that would be like” or can “totally relate” because one time they thought they were gay or something equally as unrelated. I love educating people, but sometimes the first step in understanding what it’s like to be transgender and to start transitioning is that you need to accept that you can only ever scratch the surface of understanding; because so much of transitioning and living as a transgender person is internal and personal.

Now, every person’s story and reasons for transitioning are different. This is only one person’s story, specifically mine, and can’t really be used to generalize the overall experience.

When I was a kid, before puberty was on anyone’s radar, I was very happy. Unless, of course, my mom was insisting that I wear a dress in which case I was throwing a fit and decidedly NOT wearing a dress. I would go to school in my white sneakers and holey jeans and t-shirts and play on the playground and skin my knees and try to catch bees (unsuccessfully) and wrestle with the other boys in my class. It was a good little life.

Puberty hit like a freight train and while my female peers were starting to look at the boys with glistening eye and hiding their faces with hands and giggles, I was stuck. Every feeling in my body was completely opposite from that I was “supposed to” be feeling. I was becoming aroused by girls, fantasizing about kissing them and getting nervous by the idea of talking to them, not to mention that I was completely horrified by what was happening to my body. While the girls around me started going home with mysterious ailments (aka getting their period), I was slinking into a pitch black chasm. I was finally taller than all my guy friends, but it was at a heavy cost.

I was embarrassed by the way my body was changing. I wore increasingly baggy clothes to hide my chest and began wearing hats and letting my hair fall over my face to hide it’s changing shape. I did everything I could to hide the changes my body was going through.

By the end of 8th grade, I was hiding behind my clothes at school and drowning my pain in alcohol the moment I was able to be home alone. I played soccer and became more aggressive; it was the only time that I was ever able to forget what my body looked like. But then other parents would approach the referee at half time to try to get me off the field as they assumed I was a biological boy masquerading (poorly) as a girl.

I realized that I couldn’t live with that kind of deep shame and discomfort anymore. I needed to find a different way of coping with the fact that my body was something other than what I needed it to be. So I tried to just embrace it. I tried to just “be a girl”.

Looking back on some of the pictures from them, it’s hilarious. I looked like an awkward teenager in drag. I was still sexually attracted to women, and had many girlfriends, but that didn’t stop me from getting attention from the guys that I used to skate and party with. I think it’s safe to say that everyone was pretty weirded out by the few months that I tried like hell to fit in.

Trying to fit in, trying to force my mind to match my body, it was a disaster. If I was suffering before, it was nothing compared to how miserable I became in those months that I tried. My grades plummeted, I almost left soccer behind me, but those are superficial compared to trying to take my life. In the pain of living in a body that didn’t feel like my own, the only way I could see an escape was by ending my life. I failed many, many times because a few selfless people interveined.

At one point, when I was a freshman and my older brother was a senior, I had collapsed in rage and pain in the hallway and he had to carry me to the school nurse. He called up our mom and managed to get me to my therapist. I literally could not continue moving in my body. I couldn’t bring myself to try anymore.

Another failed suicide attempt later, I found myself in psychiatric hospital getting real help for my gender dysphoria. I met a kid who would sit and read his bible day after day. Somehow he got it into my head that there was something I was meant to do in my life, and that I needed to find a better way to live in my body in order to actually get to the point of doing that important thing.

It was years after that before I started seeing a gender therapist who actually helped me devise a way to live in my body. The intention was never to have a body that I was 100% happy living in. All we set out to do was to find a way for me to be able to want to try to keep living, a way for me to be able to feel good enough to have a productive life. Anything beyond waking up and doing what I needed to do to stay alive was a stretch goal.

Luckily, after changing my name and taking hormones and having top surgery and dealing with and understanding my dysphoria, I’m able to have a productive life AND and a happy life. Some transgender people are only ever able to have a productive life, and some never make it that far.

So, why did I transition? It felt like my body disobeyed me and changed into something that made every part of my life incredibly painful. Laying down, going to the bathroom, hearing my name, walking, running, getting dressed, taking a shower, speaking, seeing my hands… everything reminded me that I had no control over what my body was turning into. I felt like I was living within a monster. I felt like I was living within a cancerous shell. I needed to escape, but there is no way to fully escape, so I did whatever it took to get as close to escaping as I could. And I am incredibly happy and healthy because of it.

Understanding Gender and Sex as a Cis Person

Gender≠ sex.

You won’t find a reputable gender and sexuality therapist, psychologist, or psychiatrist that will deny that difference.

Some of you may not know the specifics behind the differences, so just for clarity’s sake, here are one liners pulled from Wikipedia:

Gender refers to the socially constructed roles, behaviors, activities, and attributes that a given society considers appropriate for men and women.

Sex refers to the biological and physiological characteristics that define men and women.

Gender and sex are, simply put, not the same thing.

Except for the 98% of the population whose sex and gender are the same. For them, there is no difference between gender and sex. As someone who has never experienced a disconnect between the two, it’s hard to grasp.

On Earth, mass and weight are functionally the same. In my day-to-day life, I see no reason to recognize the difference.

Does my experience of a total match-up between mass and weight discredit the scientific finding that the two are different?

Absolutely not. My lack of expertise is irrelevant. A difference exists, whether I chose to acknowledge it on a daily basis or not.

The distinction between mass and weight may only matter if you are in the context of a technical or scientific sphere, but by that logic the distinction between gender and sex only matters if you are in the context of people who experience gender dysphoria. And when you talk to me, a girl with a trans boyfriend, it is an extremely relevant distinction.

Just because we haven’t experienced the difference between two things, doesn’t mean that a difference doesn’t exist.

My Beard Gave Me Dysphoria… and I’m a man.

When I started testosterone, actually before I started too, I used to shave when I was feeling dysphoric. Obviously I wasn’t growing the mountain man beard of my dreams, but going through the ritual of shaving was a welcoming relief to my dysphoria.

I even took it to the next level. I got into wet shaving and created a very personal experience out of the chore of shaving. Sometimes I would put on some 20’s jazz and enjoy the time to myself.

This went on for years… and then I grew a beard.

I couldn’t grow a decent beard until I was about 2 ½ years on T, and even then I don’t have the genetics to give me the kind of beard that I want. As a consolation, my beard is better than my brother’s, who is four years older and has an in-house testosterone supply.

I started with scruff, waited until that filled in, and once I was comfortable enough with how it looked I grew it out and kept it trimmed up. My hair doesn’t curl and is very fine and thin, but I still pulled it off and looked good.

After many months of fur, I started feeling the twangs of dysphoria creeping up. It was a different kind of dysphoria than I was used to and it was even more uncomfortable because of that reason. Like my other dysphoria, this too would ebb and flow. It slowly dawned on me that my beard was to blame. For some reason there was a serious disconnect between my bearded face and my internal face (the face I see when I close my eyes and imagine what I look like).

The only solution I could come up with was to shave. To bring back my ritual of wet shaving and give myself a bit of a jump start. Lather up and shave my way into feeling manly again. So, I did just that. I woke up from a Saturday afternoon nap and decided today was the day and went to town. I spent over an hour oiling, lathering, shaving, rinsing, and repeating until my face was smooth and clean.

As if my mind knew what was coming, I felt that same dull dysphoria resonate through my chest before I took my first full glance at myself post-shave. I knew I wasn’t going to like what mirror was going to show me, but hiding isn’t in my vocabulary so looking was my only option.

The dysphoria came on full force when I stared into my winter-pale face, still slightly red from the strokes of the razor. Of course I didn’t like what I saw: a younger, more feminine version of the face I had been getting used to for the last few months, and days later I still feel defeated and uncomfortable.

I’m still working on coming to terms with the fact that my clean face is no less my own than my bearded one and that both will never match my internal face. I’m also no closer to understanding why my bearded face was making my dysphoric or if there was another force at work.

What I do know is that because all of these faces are my own, they are all equally masculine, equally feminine, and equally awesome. I just need to remember it more often.

xoxo,

Cam

bathroom harassment and why I’m afraid of public restrooms as a trans man

I was reading this article the other day and it got me thinking…

One of the most common questions I got when I started my transition, one of the most infuriating struggles with my school administration in college and high school, and the most uncomfortable and dangerous part of being trans… all have to do with bathrooms.

Once, when I was in high school, I was having dinner with my parents at one of our favorite Mexican joints downtown. Both of my parents were there, despite being divorced. I can’t remember what for though, the following experience overshadows anything else that was important at the time.

I hadn’t even started seeing a gender therapist yet, nevertheless started transitioning, and yet I passed nearly half the time. I was also, therefore, still using the women’s restroom in public, and especially with my parents. Halfway through our meal nature calls and I leave to use the facilities.

I enter the restroom, do my business, and go to wash my hands and return to my (likely) hilariously awkward company when a woman stops dead as she walks into (? this feels clumsy)) the bathroom, stifles a whimper, and exits. I can hear her shouting around for a manager outside and make to steady my breathing since I can already feel myself teetering on the edge of an exploding of teenage angst and the kind of happy anger that only comes from being correctly gendered in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I made it out of the bathroom before I was bombarded by this lady, a clearly unhappy, middle aged woman who was too heavy handed with her perfume. She starts yelling to me and the manager about how she felt violated that a teenage boy would use the women’s toilet and how dare I and where the hell are my parents and she’s going to see that I’m kicked out of this place forever. I square up to her, cutting off the manager, and tell her, flatly, that I’m legally female and have every right to use whichever bathroom I want even if I wasn’t.

I don’t think she was expecting my retort. I only vaguely remember the manager apologizing to my parents when I got back to the table, though I never explained what it was for or what had happened. I do remember that we never went there again.

In college I was reprimanded for using the men’s showers and toilets on my own dorm floor after being asked to stop using the women’s showers and toilets, all before I had started testosterone.

I’ve been beaten up and bullied in concert hall bathrooms and gay bar bathrooms and dive bar bathrooms and roadside bathrooms.

I’ve been harassed for avoiding using a bathroom for fear of being harassed or bullied or assaulted.

So why is it, that whenever we talk about trans folk and the great bathroom debates, trans men never seem to be accounted for? I’ve known trans men who have been treated far worse than me, raped and assaulted for simply using the restroom and having whatever genitals they possess or lack.

Perhaps we, as trans men, feel that we need to weather our abuse. That somehow, this is just a part of our rite of passage as men.

I don’t have answers. I don’t have a plan to make bathrooms safer for trans men or to begin the kind of discussion needed to make them safer in the future. I just have more questions and the ever-present bathroom anxiety that seems to be a side effect of transgenderism.