In recent months, a number of venerable media organizations including New York Magazine, The Los Angeles Times, The Washington Post, The Boston Globe, CNN, and Dateline NBC have run sympathetic feature stories about transgender kids, their parents, and the challenges they face. The US Department of Health and Human Services has declared that discrimination against transgender individuals is illegal under the Affordable Care Act, and the case that led to that clarification of the rules made the national news. There have even been a spate of transgender beauty queens in the news (the inherent misogyny of beauty pageants notwithstanding, and not the subject of this particular article). Just this month the first publicly funded campaign against anti-transgender discrimination was launched in Washington DC.
What gives? Are we really, as a people, coming to our collective senses about gender identity? I’d love to think so.
As the idea that gender doesn’t start and end with the genitals becomes more culturally pervasive, it’s not just the newstainment flavor-of-the-week. Real change is happening. The FAA has made it easier for trans* pilots to be licensed, and the EEOC ruled that transgender people were covered under Title VII’s employment discrimination protections. In some countries, including Australia and Argentina, a transgender individual can specify the correct gender for their passports without needing an official stamp of approval from a medical professional; in the UK the options include not indicating gender on one’s passport at all; and even in the unenlightened US one can, with a doctor’s letter, have a correctly gendered passport issued.
I really couldn’t tell you why trans* people have become so much more interesting to the media and acceptable to governments than they once were, but I welcome the change, since I’m one of them.
But as the cultural narrative expands to include ‘transgender person’ as a stock character, it does so in a way that’s, well, just a stock character. The trans* person in the public eye is almost always some variant on the woman who was born with a penis and just “always knew” she was female, or the boy born with a vagina who refused to wear a single dress and never touched a Barbie Doll.
It’s a nice, easily packaged, easily understood story, and sometimes it’s even true. Some of us do know (and as those recent news articles reported, some are even lucky enough to begin transition) before puberty. But others live entire lifetimes as one sex, and then at the age of seventy or eighty or ninety, make the change. Many, like me, transition in early-to-mid adulthood after months or years of soul-searching and introspection. And there are people who identify as something other than male or female, who don’t jump across the line from boy to girl or girl to boy, but take up residence in the broad middle plain known as genderqueer.
Before we transitioned, some of us were butch lesbians or femmy drag queens whose transitions were unsurprising to our friends and families, but others of us looked nothing like a Lifetime TV protagonist. I know a transwoman who is captain of a marine rescue company. Until she was in her late thirties anyone would have taken her for a typical manly sailor; now she’s an atypical, manicured sailor. I know a transman who describes himself in childhood as “a classic girly-girl.”
Even though I never felt particularly successful at femininity, I spent years wearing my hair long and dressing in dangly earrings and flowy fabrics before I decided to transition to male. I played with stuffed toys and dolls as a kid, even Barbie (although I did cut her hair short and send her rappelling down the stairwell tied to a jump rope.)
Now in truth, I did sort of “always know,” but what I always knew was that I wasn’t like other girls. I didn’t feel like a girl. When I cast myself in stories it was always as a boy, but that wasn’t the same as believing I was a boy. I didn’t know; I suspected.
When I decided to transition, I knew it wasn’t the traditional American ideal of masculinity I was aiming for, and in some ways the fact that I knew I wasn’t going to be a “man’s man” was part of what prevented me from transitioning sooner. Since I didn’t fit the common archetype of ultra-tomboy who always knew he was born in the wrong body, I didn’t think of transition as an option.
After all, the trans* person in the public story almost always turns heterosexual once they’ve transitioned: “I thought I was a lesbian, but I was really a man trapped in a woman’s body.” “I thought I was a gay man, but it turns out I was a straight woman.”
There’s nothing wrong with those stories, but they’re not my story. I’m queer—I used to call myself bisexual, but the more I’ve opened up my definition of gender, the less the two-flavors-only term “bi” appeals—I was queer before transition, and I’m still queer after it.
Actually a lot of trans* people aren’t heterosexual. Some of us are, but not all of us. Some transwomen who identified as heterosexual before transition identify as lesbian afterward. Some transmen are gay. Some of us find ourselves inexplicably attracted to the gender we used to find unappealing; the story of the transman who used to be a lesbian and now only sleeps with other men is not uncommon. But in a culture where homosexual is a second-class status, a narrative in which the transgender person redeems hirself by becoming straight through the magic of transition is the only story we hear.
It was only through my deep friendships with a few very important gay men, and being part of a larger queer community at Peninsula Metropolitan Community Church, that I realized that it was in fact perfectly acceptable for me to be a fabulous guy who wears lavender, coos over babies, cries at sad movies, talks with his hands, and owns more pairs of shoes than his sister. That I could be the kind of man I wanted to be. When I understood that, I finally gave myself permission to say I am male.
But it’s true that, before I said it, I carefully mined my personal history for examples of how I was never really a girl. And when I presented my decision to transition to my friends and family, it was with the “always knew” narrative well rehearsed. In that, I’m like almost every other trans* person I’ve ever talked to about the coming out process.
Why is “I always knew” the common narrative? Why do so many of us tell some version of that story even if it isn’t true?
There are several reasons that come to mind, and I think they all play a part.
For one thing, as I said above, it’s a simple, easy-to-understand story. It’s palatable, especially for people who haven’t spent much time considering gender. If you feel male, you’ve always felt male, and you were lucky enough to be born with a penis and testes and a Y chromosome—or you feel female, have always felt female, and were born with a vagina and ovaries and two X chromosomes—then you’ve probably never really questioned your own gender identity. If the transman you’re talking to says “I’ve always felt male,” or the transwoman tells you she’s always felt female, it makes sense, since to the average person gender seems obvious and intrinsic.
Another reason is that, in order to obtain medical treatment for transition, we usually need a psychologist’s sworn statement that we are suffering from a mental condition known as Gender Identity Disorder. We’re put in the tricky position of having to prove that we are both sane and rational in our pursuit of medical transition, and mentally distressed enough by the feeling that we are in a wrongly-gendered body that the only reasonable course of treatment is a medical one.
(There are a lot of transgender people, myself included, who have a real problem with that, by the way. In order to have surgery to remove my breasts and sculpt my chest into a more masculine shape, I had to spend thousands of dollars and many hours talking to a licensed psychologist first. If I’d wanted my breasts made larger—even ridiculously larger—all I would have had to do was walk into a plastic surgeon’s office, pick out my new cup size, and fork over the cash.)
Add to that the fact that in order to get new legal documents with our names and gender markers correct, we have to submit a medical doctor’s statement that we have “completed transition,” and you can see why we get so good at the “I’ve always known” story. It’s a lot easier to convince a psychologist, a physician, and a judge if your story is locked up tight, with no ambiguity or ambivalence.
To be fair, changing gender is a big deal. Gender is, after all, the very first thing we use to categorize someone. Is the new baby a boy or a girl? Snips and snails and puppydog tails, or sugar and spice and everything nice? It defines and constrains almost everything about how we behave, what’s expected of us, and in many ways, who we are.
Long before we ever came out to anyone else, we had to come out to ourselves. We’ve agonized over it. Should we? Dare we? What if we lose the love of the people closest to us? What if we’re mocked? What if we’re shunned? What if we get fired? What about hate-crimes? What if we’re killed? And we ask ourselves the questions we imagine our friends and family will ask, too: What if we’re wrong? Are we just fooling ourselves? Should we just try a little harder to conform to the gender we were assigned at birth?
The “I always knew” story is comforting; it’s a story we tell ourselves to quiet those fears. It makes it easier for us to trust our own reality if we can look at our pasts and see the evidence piled up: Having pink and purple as favorite colors. Loving baking and playing house and dress-up. Hating team sports. Just wanting to be Mommy’s Little Helper. For me: I wanted to wear my cowboy boots every day. When we played make-believe I was always the prince, never the princess. I loved catching frogs and toads and snakes. A child psychologist once told my parents there was something wrong with me because I didn’t understand that I was a girl. After years of being ashamed of those things, because they marked us as failures at our assigned genders, it’s a relief to be able to point to them and say, “See? That’s what was wrong with me. I wasn’t a failure of a girl, I was just a boy all along.”
And once we have convinced ourselves, we need to convince everyone else. We want there to be no question in anyone’s mind that this is the right thing. That we’re making the right choice. That there is no other path. So we gloss over the times when maybe we didn’t feel like we were born in the wrong body, we omit the part where sometimes we liked dressing up in high heels and makeup, or working on cars and watching football, or any of the hundreds of other gender-stereotyped things about us that didn’t conform to our newly stated gender identity. We want to assure everyone that whatever gender they may have once thought was ours, this one, the one we say we are now, is the right one.
Which brings me to a question I want to leave with you: Why are we, as transgender people, challenged by others to prove that we really are who we say we are? Why do we feel this reflexive need to prove our genders beyond a shadow of a doubt? Because when we find ourselves backed into the “I always knew” corner, we end up doing the same thing we did all those years we were trying to fit the gender we were assigned at birth: repressing an essential part of ourselves for fear it will betray us.
Ironically, as I become more comfortable thinking of myself as male, I am less threatened by the fact I was once identified as a girl. I can look at the whole picture and say yes, this is who I am. It’s one of the reasons I don’t want to get a reissued birth certificate. Though I want my passport and driver’s license and the deed to my house and title to my car in my current name, with my current gender, I don’t mind if the government still records the birth of a baby girl named Florence Andrea. I just want the people in my life now to agree that she grew up to be a good man.
——
Trans*—a term that stands for transgender, transsexual, transmasculine, transfeminine, and gender-transgressive. I use it in order to be as inclusive as possible when talking about people outside of the gender binary.
Well written, and well said. I transitioned in the late 40′s of my life, after much thought and prayer. Looking back, I can see some indicators of trans-something… but the incredible incongruity did not set in (or ‘onset’) until age 45. Until then, I managed quite well. I am so glad you found comfort within your current church family – it is good to find people that walk in life focusing on God’s love, mercy, and celebration rather than on only His restrictions and need for ‘more sacrifice’. Much love in Christ always and unconditionally; Caryn
Thank you so much, Caryn. I’m so glad my piece resonated with you. I hope you, too, have a spiritual home that nurtures you for who you are. Congratulations on your own journey of transformation, and may blessings come your way.
I think this is such a hugely valid point! as a parent of a young trans kid (mtf). My daughter loved to run around with her shirt off and still to this day would choose hotwheels over barbies but even at her tender age. she was seven when she transitioned, if any one asked pink was her favorite color and she only talked about uber girly things and her crushes on teen boy celebrities. It is true that my daughter when I thought she was my son was always slightly more feminine and love to paint her nails. She transitioned over two years ago now and is a lot more comfortable with herself. However for the first year the exagerated girly-ness was tiresome. She is still careful to edit herself when talking to mamaw (someone who she knows doesn’t really accept it) verses her teacher (female MMA fighter) who assured her that there are many ways to be a girl. Also, even though her crushes have generally been towards males, she recently asked me if she could be a lesbian and trans. I of course told her that all I care about is that she is happy and well loved!
You sound like a wonderful parent; your daughter is so very blessed! I hope her grandparents will come to understand and love her for who she is. I know having your love and support, and great role-models like her teacher, will take her far. Please giver her a hug and a fist bump from me, a stranger sharing her journey and cheering her on. Your note put a huge grin on my face. I wish there were more parents like you in the world.
Thank you for a wonderfully well written article. When I watch people move through transition, the more I realize how fluid gender is. Why does our culture challenge trans* people to prove their gender? To make you fit into the cultural concept. Otherwise that cultural concept of only two genders would have to change, wouldn’t it? Which is why you need to keep writing articles like this one. Change happens when you turn the dial all the way over to one end of our range of experience and just keep pushing.
Thanks so much! Some days it’s tiring to always be pushing at the edges of convention. It’s really great to have your support and encouragement, and to remember that all the little changes eventually will lead to big ones.
[...] This is a really fascinating article written by a trans person and sent to me by one too, and it echoes a lot of the thought and sentiment of the MHB Boards over the years. But it’s true that, before I said it, I carefully mined my personal history for examples of how I was never really a girl. And when I presented my decision to transition to my friends and family, it was with the “always knew” narrative well rehearsed. In that, I’m like almost every other trans* person I’ve ever talked to about the coming out process. [...]
Wonderful post! I fall into the category of yes, I always knew. And yes, I was always too terrified to tell anyone! Until a couple of years ago when it all got too much.
I played with boys toys though as a child, I also wanted girls toys, but was never allowed to have them, and told that boys don’t behave in that way! (It was the 70′s and 80′s, I don’t blame my parents!)
I transitioned nearly 12 months ago – and they have been wonderful months. I’ve been extremely lucky in that I have had almost no negative responses – from family, friends or colleagues.
But you touched a point that resonates… When I told people I could guarantee two questions would come back:
1) What about your job in IT, you love computers!
2) Are you going to sell your motorbike then?
The third one that also came back did kind of surprise me:
Oh, we just assumed you were hay and hadn’t come to terms with it
I still work on the car, in fact my dad just gave me a quick welding lesson so my classic car he is restoring has some work done by me!
And yet… People do judge you on the fact that your are still a petrol head, or if you wear skirts too often. I like skirts, but people do take that to be that your are “trying too hard”. I like skinny jeans too, and when I wear them I sometimes get comments, meant nicely, along the lines of ‘See, you can look feminine in trousers!’ I just smile, it’s easier than pointing out that I don’t wear the skirts to look feminine. I wear them because I like them!
Thank you so much! I totally get you, and I fully support you wearing a skirt while you work on your car if you want to. (Also, oooh, classic car!) I’m really happy for you that your transition has brought you such joy. I hope the rest of the world catches up and ditches the neanderthal attitude soon.
Thank you for this ~ as a very recently-discovered genderqueer, it’s reassuring to be reminded that it’s not necessary to have known it my whole life, that my feelings of dysphoria are just as valid as if I’d felt them from childhood. I’d be interested in your take on how genderqueer persons fit into this, though, because inevitably we cannot and in fact do not want to “pass”…how do you think that complicates the picture?
Thanks, Emily, great question. I’m not sure I have a good answer, at least not from personal experience. I think living genderqueer means living with a lot more risk of people being ugly, refusing to support your choices, and just not getting it. It also puts you in a position of having to come out over and over, every time you use a public restroom, or get stared at on a bus, or go to buy clothes, or any of a number of other situations.
Rather than “passing” I like to think of it as “being read”. As genderqueer, how do you want to be read? I know it’s probably different for every genderqueer person.
Still, I think it comes down to the same issue at the end: we all want to be able to make a statement about our own gender and not have it questioned.
There are surgeons who require letters for breast augmentation for trans* women. The SoC still covers this, too, but few surgeons actually require it – I’m only aware of McGinn doing so.
I learned to claim the Standard Trans* Narrative (a.k.a. STN, as I have called it for a few years) because it was the way to navigate the opposition I faced from my own transition professionals. After I made it through the gate of therapy and had the referral to an endocrinologist, I faced far more.
Many parts of that narrative describe my life: I always knew, and a diary my mother kept when I was two years old records this. However, what I experienced was that even though I overwhelmingly met the narrative, only the points where I didn’t counted. That I rode motorcycles, identified as lesbian (and intended to remain in my relationship with another woman,) and never wore overtly feminine clothing were major issues in the eyes of that physician. The first two of those are still true of my life; my clothing now includes skirts and heels, but it’s far from the only sort I’ll wear. That I failed in an attempt to transition in my late teens, yielding because I knew being involuntarily committed for that would mean torture treatments like ECT (it was still around for us in the mid-1990s) was held against me when I tried again.
Today I have both of my surgery letters and a date for GCS. And I know that the first letter I only have because I claimed the Standard Trans* Narrative; that no matter how much this is the path that is right for me, I had to say those things to that therapist to get the permission slip for surgery. It matters not that I’ve had a happy and successful life, and having a far better personal and professional life than I ever did before my transition; what matters to them is that years ago I failed to meet the STN. I also know that I only have that letter because I lied to that therapist about taking control of my own treatment. She required that I still be in the care of the endocrinologist to whom she had originally referred me – one whom I left because I was receiving refusal to give me appropriate treatment – and had I admitted I changed physicians (twice, in fact) she would have refused to write my surgery letter.
Fortunately, my second letter therapist was better, even appreciating my characterization of the letters as “permission slips.”
Wow, what a journey for you. There are a few US surgeons who will do FTM chest surgery without a letter, too, but most ask for one. Congratulations on getting your letters, even if you had to twist the truth to get them. It sounds like your second therapist is more of the sort of ally we all need. I hope you find more that one on your path. I wish you all the best with your surgery, and much joy in life!
Good stuff, I can relate to this a lot. I’ve had a struggle to accept that I was trans, because my “story” didn’t fit the Standard Revised Transwoman Version. And I still get more discrimination from trans women than from anyone else whatsoever, because I’m a trans tomboy – female, but not feminine (but no, I’m not “butch”, thanks).
I think there’s a lot of fear behind people’s need for a Good Story. It reminds me of the less-cool kids in the playground, who are very careful not to be seen with the even-less-cool ones. So trans women who are (mostly) inclined towards being very femme treat me as if I’m androgyne, gender-neutral – anything but accept I’m one of those millions of women out there who just aren’t femme. and they look at me condescendingly, and say (to a woman – it’s uncanny how strict the script is) “Don’t worry – when you feminise more, you’ll want to be like us…” – seriously, how matronising is that? I’ve heard this speech so many times, it makes me laugh now, I feel like a teen telling her parents she’s a dyke, and being told “It’s just a phase.”
The Story is so pervasive that I couldn’t let myself begin to transition until I saw the film She’s A Boy I Knew, about a trans woman who ended up arriving as a cute dyke – then I knew I wasn’t a mutant
. I’m very lucky to be attending one of the most go-ahead gender clinics in the UK – I’ve heard horror stories about clinics that don’t take trans women seriously if they don’t show up in a dress. So The Story is coming at us from all sides.
And when it comes down to it, we all create our sense of identity in relation to others, so anyone who’s (apparently) ambiguous unsettles everyone else. They want us in b&w, so we want to be that too, unless we’re strong enough to do it in colour. I got most of my support from people online who are more like me – and from the local bi/gay women, who just accepted me immediately in a way that the local trans women seem incapable of. Which is in itself an interesting story, which amongst other things challenges The Story that “lesbians don’t like trans women.”
Thanks for sharing your story. You’d think, with all the ways feminism has advanced the idea that there is more than one way to be a woman, that you’d be less policed, but I, too, have encountered people with the attitude that a transwoman who isn’t aspiring to high femme isn’t trying hard enough (and if she is, then she’s trying too hard.) Honestly the whole thing smacks of misogyny to me.
You say you’re in the UK— I noticed on a trip I took to Yorkshire in early 2011 how very much more the women I encountered seemed to dress to traditional gender standards than the women in the San Francisco area. My friend, who is also FTM but had not yet started medical transition, was almost always correctly gendered as male in the UK, but when he moved to San Francisco, got mis-gendered as a butch lesbian much more often. I suspect this is because there just weren’t that many gender-variant female-identified people around in the public eye in the UK, so when people saw his short hair and masculine dress, they assumed he was male. In San Francisco where there are many women with masculine haircuts wearing jeans and button-downs, I wonder if you might not find yourself correctly gendered more often.
Interesting! I’d feel a lot lest secure becoming me up north in England (I’m in Devon in the south west, where people are pretty cool about diversity, on the whole). My brother’s moving up there next year, so I guess I’ll find out how it is…
What I’ve been noticing lately is that women in general seem to have no problem accepting me as me, and are very comfortable around me, even if they’re not sure what I am
. It’s trans women (by which I mean “most of them that I meet” – I’m sure there are many who are not like this) who seem most anxious not to see me as simply female – and it’s straight cis men too.
Also, I think the general public have it so fixed in their minds now that a trans woman will be überheterofemme, that they have no category at all to fit people like me into. I’m very curious to see what happens as I start to look even more physically female, and then dress even more dykey!
I wonder if some of the opposition you’re encountering from other transwomen stems from their own sense that their gender identities are under threat by a public that doesn’t accept them as women. Perhaps they are projecting their own fears that they are in danger of being told they are not really women onto you.
I know for myself, in my early days on testosterone and before my chest surgery, I didn’t feel safe wearing pink, but now that an ill-fitting binder can no longer give me unwanted feminine curves, and my face is bearded, I’m perfectly comfortable wearing pink and salmon.
Seriously best of luck with your transition. I hope you find the perfect sassy scarf to wear as winter weather sets in. Be your fierce and fabulous dykey self, and the world will just have to fall in line or get out of the way.
Thanks for your wonderful post, it really resonates with me! The standard trans narrative has never felt exactly right to me, although I’d previously quoted bits of it in my early therapy experiences, particularly when it seemed necessary for dealing with the gatekeeper aspects of getting a letter, etc. As a kid I didn’t know the wording or terminology for how I felt, however there were definitely some signs of gender variance, I always felt different. Even in adulthood, it has taken considerable soul searching to find the place on the gender continuum that feels right for me. Still finding that place
Thanks, Zythyra. It sounds like you and I would have a lot in common. I wish you all the best as you continue your journey. Welcome to the opalescent part of the spectrum. *grin*
Very well said! I hope that, as our culture gets more comfortable with the idea that there are people other than Men and Women, this “I always knew” narrative will be less forced-on.
Thank you very much, and here, here! I couldn’t agree with you more.
Thank you so much for writing this. As someone who has only come to terms with the fact that I feel I am a man now, married and in my thirties, I couldn’t help but feel intimidated and confused by all the stories everyone tells about how they “always knew” – at some point in their childhoods they had a clear memory of having argued with their parents about their gender. I may have been a tomboy all my life and cast myself in male roles, related to male characters, and even dressed in boys’ clothes most of my life, but it never once occurred to me to question whether I was male or female. You had certain parts, that made you a certain gender, regardless of how you felt or what you liked. Right? I also didn’t grow up to be a “manly man”. Sure, again, I have masculine interests and characteristics – but I have feminine ones, too. I’ve spent the last several months in turmoil, telling myself if I believe I’m a man, I’m a man, never mind that others’ experiences seem more cut and dried, but not quite allowing myself to believe it. It is such a relief to know that I’m not alone!
Hey Chris, you’re definitely not alone. I can tell you for myself, with each step I’ve taken on the road to claiming my masculinity, I’ve felt more and more comfortable. I wasn’t expecting it, in fact I approached each step with caution, but once I’d taken it, I felt a tremendous weight lifted.
Believe in yourself. If you feel you are a man, then you most definitely are a man.
Your still working on your car reminds me that I actually started to repair my bicycle myself (and getting relatively comfortable doing so) *after* transition.
Clearly gender is not the defining characteristic of mechanical aptitude
Thank you for this post. I realize you’re addressing a painful and mult-layered topic for many people. I’ve been struggling with a short story where an important secondary character is ftm, I didn’t order him up, he just popped up in my head but as it’s a topic I know very little about, I’ve been fumbling with how to express his thoughts and feelings without sounding like a complete ass! I almost considered doing away with him but that felt even worse. Thank you for insights I didn’t know existed outside of my fiction.
I’m always delighted to hear from a fellow writer! It’s great that your FTM character is asserting his voice. You can find quite a few very good FTM bloggers on wordpress, and several excellent FTM v-logs on YouTube. I’d encourage you to listen to some of those guys as you work to bring your character into being. If you publish your story online, or felt comfortable sharing it with me via email, I’d love to read it. You can reach me at hiyazeke at gmail dot com.
[...] Transgender Narratives: Why We Lie The media myth is that all transgender people share a common story, but the truth is much more complex and rich. Some of us didn’t know from birth, but the pressure to pretend we did is immense. [...]
I am a t* woman. I dont think, that i “lie”, when i speak with others about my biografie and i find this word not helpfull when trans* people speak about themselves. As a christian woman it was and it is my intention to speak thruth. To lie means to say something intentionally against the truth that you know – but i did this with regard to my TS at no time. Dr. Horst Haupt – a psychiatrist and neuro-biologist is speaking about the latency-period, until TS are finding themselves and he is speaking about brain-gender. This brain gender does not chance his gender-identity, but in a transition we (TS) adapt the other biological meanings of gender: the hormones, the external genitalia-gender and some details more. I did not “lie” regarding my brain gender, but it took long time of latency, until i recognized, that i am a woman.
sorry: not “chance” but “change”