Transitioning...Worse Than Murder?

It would seem so, at least in the eyes of too many parents with transgendered offspring. This came to mind as I was commenting on a post by Jerica Truax (on her blog, also called The Girl Inside). She posted a video in which she spoke about, among other things, missing her father. I could relate, because I know that my father would disown me if he knew what I'm doing. What and who I am.

It made me think, in general, about the all-too-common occurrence of parents turning their backs on their transgendered children. It's a changing trend, it would seem, and thank god for those parents who embrace and continue to love their children regardless of their gender identity.

To be fair, parents who reject their transgendered children likely feel somewhat like spouses whose partners need to transition. They feel like the person they love is disappearing, being replaced by this stranger. On the other hand, unfortunately, there are parents who react from an anti-gay and transphobic point of view. "No son of mine's goin' to be a girl! Paradin' aroun' in a dress and god knows what all! Embarrasin' the family! Goin' against god's word!" Or they just miss the boy they used to play ball with, and go fishing with, and watch football with, forgetting that many women like to do those things, too, and that changing gender doesn't mean changing interests. Whatever the case, the parent can't accept their son or daughter as the opposite gender, and it's heartbreaking for all concerned.

However -- I can better empathize with the spouse than I can with the parent. Our children are a part of us, no matter what. A spouse is somewhat different, in terms of how they come to fall in love with their partner, and who they perceive them to be. Part of what I wrote in comment to Jerica's blog included the statement that "Even if I wasn't trans, I would accept and love my son if he were to find himself in our situation, feeling as we do. It's bizarre to think that Scott Peterson's parents continue to love him and remain by his side, seeking donations for his appeals, et cetera, yet parents like your father and surely mine would turn us away, as though being transgendered is worse than being a murderer. It makes no sense, and it makes you wonder what love truly means."

I mean, really -- isn't it bizarre and doesn't it make you wonder? Scott Peterson. One of the most vilified killers in recent history. Convicted of killing his pregnant wife on Christmas Eve. Condemned to death. And his parents stand behind him. With a website -- (http://scottpetersonappeal.org/). They paid for his defense and appellate attorneys for the past 6 years, and after exhausting their resources, began asking for donations in July 2009. Donations. How many parents foot the bill when their son or daughter undergoes hormone replacement therapy or gender reassignment surgery?

To be clear, I have no qualms with Scott Peterson having a family that continues to love him despite what he's been convicted of. To be honest, that's what parents do. It's in their wiring. Their programming. But my question is this: if a parent's love can survive a murder conviction and condemnation to death row, why aren't more parents able to accept and embrace a child who is merely transgendered?

Am I comparing apples and oranges, as they say, or is this a valid question? I personally think it's a valid question.

Love always,

Dana

Deliverance to Empathy

Chrissie and I had a very interesting chat day before yesterday.

I had been reading a comment she'd left on another girl's blog, in which she said, "In today's society, being TG or TS is pretty much a tragedy for all concerned, and if one can stay positive about it and keep things working, the whole family benefits." The comment was in response to a blog concerning a wife who didn't want to meet her transgendered husband's TG friends.

I hadn't heard her say this before, or use the word "tragedy" in connection with being transgendered, but I well understood the tragedy it represented for the spouse dealing with a husband or wife who wanted to transition. Understanding something like this, however, isn't necessarily the same as truly empathizing with it.

I asked Chrissie if she truly thinks being transgendered is a tragedy, and she said yes. It's important to note that Chrissie is in a different position that I am. We both have children, but my son is 15 and her daughter is 6. I've been divorced for 10 years and Chrissie is just now in the process. Having no spouse to worry about, my primary concern is what all this might mean to my son, which is no small matter. If he were to reject me upon learning that I'm transgendered, that would indeed be a tragedy. How he might react is not as much of an impediment to my proceeding with transitioning as it once was, but it would be crushing, nonethless. Tragic is a proper word. It's just that my personal epiphany has been such a freeing and positive experience, such a life renewing revelation, that it never occurred to me to view any of it as tragic.

Aside from the effect it has upon a family, Chrissie feels that it's tragic that a transgendered person should need to take dangerous drugs and undergo risky surgery in order to become whole. She feels that there's a huge price to pay in terms of not only the medical procedures, but employment, ones place in society, the ripple effect of emotion, et cetera, and she's right. No question.

The shift from merely understanding to truly empathizing came when Chrissie said, "If there was a pill that would make me content with the gender I was born with, I would take it."

I said, "Really, you would?" And she said, "Yes."

I said, "You know what? I wouldn't. I've just now arrived at a place where I'm going to become the person I've always felt myself to be, that to go back to just being a guy is unthinkable."

I likened it to the red pill and the blue pill in The Matrix. Take the blue pill, and you wake up in your bed, ignorant that the world as you know it is a facade. Take the red pill, you stay in wonderland and see how deep the rabbit hole goes. Give me the red pill, already, and make me a woman!

I told Chrissie that I was looking forward to beginning HRT, and that I would be crestfallen if something stood the way of that. Chrissie said, "BUT..... if you have any imagination, honey, and I think you do.... you will pause and think a LOT, just before you put that first hormone patch on your belly....Because suddenly it gets REAL."

What I'm imagining, I told her, is having it in my hand and thinking, "Oh shit, here we go." And just putting it on. Enough thinking already. Chrissie said, "It took me 20 or 30 minutes to find the certainty...the courage. Because I KNEW it would change my life. I had to think...I had to be sure."

We both agreed that while turning back was always an option, it wasn't a choice that was going to work for either of us. But I thought again about what she'd originally said, about the pill, and said, "the thought of taking your magic pill, turning back, staying male...it made me really feel what it must be like for the spouse who sees her partner changing. If you were to go back to being male, I would lose you."

"The empathy has been triggered," Chrissie said, reminding me that such a pill doesn't exist, which I knew, but which felt reassuring to hear.

I'd always felt sympathy for the spouses and children of anyone who was transitioning, but at this moment, even though it wasn't happening to me, I knew that if such a pill existed -- a pill that dispelled gender dysphoria -- Chrissie would take it, and I would be alone again. It would be like an old fashioned telephone operator pulling all the plugs and breaking all the connections Chrissie has already made with my heart. I felt genuinely saddened and tears welled up in my heart and in my eyes. I did not let it get the best of me, but I had been placed in the shoes of the wives and husbands and family members of the transgendered, in a way that I never had been before. And it was a scary place to be standing.

The image of the telephone operator also represents communication. I love our chats, and they always end on a supremely bright note, and each one builds upon our relationship, but on this particular occasion, another layer had been revealed. Another door had been opened, and in walking through it, I became better equipped to understand and empathize with family and friends who prepare to say goodbye to Mark and hello to Dana.

Love always,

Dana

Getting the Show on the Road

The year is about to end, and as the clock puts 2009 to rest and kick starts 2010, I can't help but reflect upon the amazing amount of progress I've made since beginning this blog in December 2008. Like many who find themselves dealing with gender issues, a year can bring a great deal of change and development, and 2009 marks a year of the most profound personal growth I've experienced since my son was born in 1994.

The birth of my son was the catalyst for what I can honestly describe as my one and only spiritual experience. I've written about this before, but upon first sight of my boy, instantaneously, my body began to fill, literally and physically, from my feet to the very top of my head -- with love -- like liquid filling a vessel. Fifteen years later, I am still filled head to toe with love for my son.

My next personal paradigm shift came in November or December of 2008 with the help of L., who helped me understand who I am, inside. She helped me focus my increasingly feminine feelings and desire to look like a woman. Inexplicably, all the Googling in the world failed to direct me toward the meaning of being transgendered. Once L. said, "you're either transgendered or gender queer," the puzzle rapidly put itself together. What I subsequently read about what it meant to be "gender queer" didn't really feel like it applied to me. Learning about being transgendered, however -- seeing the word, understanding what it means -- was akin to seeing my son in those first moments, and I finally felt like I understood myself and why I'd felt as I did since I was a small child. My ex-wife would later say that she thinks I'm just confused, when in truth, all the confusion evaporated upon learning who and what I am.

2009 was a year of allowing the woman inside to feel comfortable in her new awareness. I immediately changed my wardrobe. No more guy clothes except for my black denim Levi jacket and the occasional shirt, which a woman would certainly wear. It was a year of coming out to friends and several co-workers. There were some who I knew would accept it with completely open minds, and others I feared might not. To my amazement, everyone, except for my ex-wife, took the news not only with an open mind, but with open arms.

2009 was also the year in which I met Chrissie Rourke, for whom I've fallen so hard and who means so much to me. It's my first long distance relationship, something in which I've never held much stock, but since having my transgender epiphany, I've felt that my next partner would likely be another transgendered woman, and in Chrissie I've found someone who seems well-grounded and loving and patient and funny and caring, and we seem well-suited to each other. That we've found each other has turned what was a somewhat lonely journey into a shared transformation, and having her hand in mine as we move into 2010 makes all the difference.

I've given this blog entry a fairly cliched title, which I normally try to avoid, but it seems perfect for the matter at hand. For awhile now, I've felt that I've come as far as I can without taking further steps. Larger steps. I've made a few stuttering steps toward beginning removal of my facial hair, but I'm a little put off by the pain and the expense. I'm anxious to do it and know that I will when the time is right, but there's a much larger step I've felt ready to take first: hormones.

Beginning hormones typically requires three-months of weekly visits with a licensed therapist, psychologist, whatever, who will then access your appropriateness as a gender dysphoric candidate for HRT under the care of an endocrinologist. I'd had three visits with an unlicensed therapist at The Pacific Center, but stopped due to the cost and the fact that he wouldn't be able to approve me for hormones at the end. Some months ago, I began to feel my readiness to begin hormones and felt that it would be within my budget to go the full 3-months with a licensed therapist, provided their per visit fee didn't exceed $50. A bit unrealistic on my part, but some therapists do offer a certain number of openings priced on a sliding scale, and that's what I was hoping for.

The Pacific Center referred me to a therapist who offered a sliding scale, but she didn't have any openings for new patients. She did, however, offer to find someone else who might be able to see me and promised to call me back in couple of days with a few names and numbers. She stayed true to her promise and gave me the name of another therapist. I forget exactly what transpired when I spoke with the second therapist, except that he was just as friendly and helpful as the first. I think he didn't have rates I could fully afford either, but he told me about the Lyon-Martin Clinic where, he added, patients aren't necessarily required to go through the entire 3-month process before being prescribed hormones.

This all happened about two months ago, and I soon after made an appointment at the Lyon-Martin Clinic in San Francisco. The Lyon-Martin Clinic "provides personalized healthcare and support services to women and transgender people who lack access to quality care because of their sexual or gender identity, regardless of their ability to pay."

My appointment was set for 5:30pm, December 23rd. I had to arrive at 4:40pm in order to fill out a variety of papers, including a double-sided sheet that asked for specifics regarding my transgender needs and expectations. One line asked me what I hoped to achieve from hormone therapy. I wrote that "I want to become physically and chemically female." Well, that is the idea, right?

Soon, I was called to come into one of the the examination rooms, where my weight and blood pressure were taken. I was then left to wait for the woman with whom I would be speaking. Her name was Sarah, and she's a registered nurse. When she came into the room, she greeted me with a warm smile and an openness that made me feel that she would be easy to talk with. She sat down and asked me to tell her a little bit about who I am and why I was there. I told her that my primary goal was to begin taking hormones, as I felt ready for that. She asked me to tell her some things about what had brought me to this point. I told her about L. helping me find myself, and the question that cemented it for both us -- L. asked me, "If you could snap your fingers..." and I didn't even need for her to finish saying it. The answer was, "Yes!"

I told Sarah about volunteering to "be the girl" in pretend games as a child, and trying to fit in with the guys but never really succeeding in a masculine way, in terms of playing sports and the like. (I wasn't a bad tennis playing, though, now that I think of it.) I told her about the last two women I dated, and how after both of those attempts flamed out, I looked upon women with envy instead of desire. I told her a bit about my son, and my concern for how he'll respond to all of this. She was a sensitive and attentive listener, and I guess what I said convinced her that I was ready for hormones. She started writing some things down, and said they first needed to take blood to get baseline estrogen and testosterone levels. She was also going to make a date for my next appointment. It was then that I asked her when I might finally be prescribed hormones, and she said that if everything looked good, she would prescribe them at my next appointment. (!!!!!!!!!!) I could barely believe that, almost exactly one year after my epiphany, I would soon be taking my journey to the next level. Or at least, hopefully so.

My next appointment is scheduled for January 11th, 2010. I don't want to jinx anything (as stupid as that sounds) by making any premature announcements, but this is where things stand at the moment, at the precipice of the next chapter, and in some ways, at the point of no return. One can always stop taking hormones, but there are some irreversible changes that occur after only a brief time, and I've been apprised of the ramifications.

But this is what I want. This is what I think I've always wanted. To stop now would be like taking a cross-country road trip and letting the car run out of gas in middle of the desert. If I had been in a long-term marriage with the perfect woman who didn't object to my feminine nature -- and I've been involved with women who didn't find this to be a negative -- I likely wouldn't be doing this. But I'm not. The only person standing between me and transition is my son, and as the commencement of hormones grows (hopefully) imminent, my feeling is that my son will be able to accept it and adapt. I know this because of things he's said, and because I'll still fundamentally be the same person, and because the change will be gradual, and because I'm not a girl who is prone to wearing dresses (although I certainly have seen a lot of cute dresses lately). My manner of dress is pretty much what it has been for the past year, when I stopped wearing guy clothes.

I set a goal for myself awhile ago, at J.'s urging, a goal of being on hormones by June 2010. If all goes well, I'll soon be well ahead of schedule. I described this a fairly lonely journey a few paragraphs ago, but in truth, I feel so blessed to have so many supportive and encouraging and caring friends. And Chrissie.

I'd like to share a little video I made for Chrissie -- Melody with 18 Syllables. I've made her several so far, but I feel this one really says it best. (Feel free to watch Christine for Christine, though. That one was for her, too.)

Hope everyone has a great 2010!

Love always,

Dana

Melody with 18 Syllables from Dana Andra on Vimeo.

Remembering Victims of Transgender Prejudice (video)

This blog is generally reserved for my written journal documenting my transition from male to female, but this video is an extension of that journal, reflecting some of my thoughts and fears surrounding the repercussions of transitioning. I don't own a car, so I would take the bus to the transgender support group I attended in Berkeley, CA. After getting off the bus, I would walk another 10 blocks to the Pacific Center on Telegraph Avenue. The walk to the center was one of anticipation, looking forward to sharing the thoughts and feelings I'd had over the week, and hearing what others had to say, and hopefully engaging in mutually beneficial dialogue. Afterwards, however, as I walked back to the bus stop, I felt vulnerable in a way that I imagine women must feel vulnerable when walking alone at night on dark streets. As someone who is transgendered, the fear is doubled -- fear of being perceived as an easy target, and fear of being attacked out of hate. My general thought as I headed home was that part of my transitioning fund was going to need to include money to buy a car.

For several years, I was a video producer for television and the internet. I've never had a job that gave me so much pleasure. The collapse of the internet industry around 2001 put an end to my career as a video producer, but I still love making videos. I've made a few using Windows Movie Maker, but after buying a MacBook last year, I've been meaning to start using iMovie. My first video made with iMovie was a gift for Chrissie Rourke. An expression of my feelings for her. She posted it on her blog on November 28th, 2009, and it can also be seen on YouTube.

The video I'm posting here was inspired by a piece of music from the soundtrack for Becoming Jane by Adrian Johnston. The music made me think of the girls who have been murdered simply because they were transgendered. I cried as I made this video, sickened and saddened by such a senseless, tragic waste of life.

It's hard to say that I hope you "like" it, because the message is so sorrowful, but this video was created as a memorial. These women and all the others who have suffered similar fates must never be forgotten.

Love always,

Dana

Black Fingernails for my Birthday (and what they revealed)

For longer than I can remember, I've wanted to paint my fingernails black, for a combination of reasons, all of which can be summed up in a word of my own making: ArtyGothFemme. And beyond any reason of greater substance, I just think they look cool, especially on women. I've painted my nails a number of colors over the years, especially over this past year, but never black. Don't know why. Just never did. But despite the birthdate of December 24th posted on my Facebook page, I was actually born on December 12th. Yesterday was my birthday, so I decided to give myself a present. Black fingernails. They're black as I write this.

As I said, my initial impetus was simply my desire to do so. Secondarily, my 15-year-old son was coming over for the day, and I wanted to see how he would react to his father with painted nails. Black is a safe color for such a test, because black fingernails are a genderless color, generally seen on arty-goth types.

The plan was to eat somewhere and do a little shopping with my son and my ex-wife. After I got into the car, my son was the first to notice my nails. "Did you paint your nails black?" he said, with the same intonation as if he were asking, "Are you chewing that gum you just found on the ground?"

"Yes, I did," I said. "It's my birthday and I painted my nails black. So what?"

He said, "Because they're disgusting. Whenever I see a person with black fingernails, I can't hear anything they're saying," which was kind of funny actually, and would have been more so, if he hadn't actually meant it.

My ex's reaction was predictable. "Oh my god" with accompanying eye roll.

Beyond that, however, little mention was made of it, and my son was, indeed, able to hear what I was saying.

I have a Facebook page for my male persona, and my sister was made aware of my black fingernails when she read my status comment referring to them. She asked me if they were still black, and I said yes, and she said that my brother-in-law's comment was, "Why didn't he paint them pink like he used to?" The "like he used to" remark makes no sense, because I never painted my nails in a context where he would have seen them, and only recently have I painted them pink. No, he thought was making a "funny," akin his usual caliber of unfunny anti-gay comments.

My son's reaction and my brother-in-law's idiotic, peanut gallery spewings confirmed what I feared would be my son's reaction to the great revelation of my transgendered identity, and what I knew would be my brother-in-law's ridicule. My brother-in-law is of zero consequence, but my sister isn't very far behind in terms of her opinion of things. It's my feeling that she would eventually come around to accepting me as Dana, but not before filtering through her own prejudice that would certainly be reinforced by her husband's unyeilding disdain. Still, as I've written before, I'm not telling them anything for a long time, if ever.

My son is who I am most concerned about, but I've read positive accounts about teenagers who have accepted a parent's transitioning from one gender to another. He's a young man with a solid notion of what is fair and right in the world, and he's said things that display an empathy for human rights and respect for the individual. He's never shown any degree of racial or ethnic prejudice, and he's said that people should just be allowed to be who and what they are. How much this will apply to his own father remains to be seen.

This blog was originally going to be about having to "transproof" my apartment before he came over, because I've long stopped stashing my nail polish and high-heeled boots and body shapers and leggings and jewelry out of sight. And I did that, not quite to the extent that Calpernia Addams had to in her short film titledTransproofed, but nothing that might have created confused curiosity was left in sight.

I think the black fingernails were a benign way of introducing him to the notion of painting my nails, and he's already seen me wearing leggings. When we were out shopping, I bought a hat in the women's department in plain view of both my son and my ex, and I was surprised they didn't saying anything about that. Another interesting and slightly humorous moment came when my ex was looking at rings and called me over to ask my opinion. I said, "Am I like your new surrogate shopping girlfriend?" I'm not going to delude myself into think a great stride has been made into gaining her acceptance of me as Dana, but perhaps, as time goes on, this kind of chipping away will lead to a final recognition of who I truly am.

Love always,

Dana

PS: I got a wonderful birthday present from my girlfriend so many miles away, when she got up at 3am to wish me a happy birthday and chat with me. My sweet Kitten is such a dear... ♥ ♥ ♥ !

Fears for Tears

For me, tears are always very close to the surface. It's not that I'm ceaselessly sad, but rather, I simply feel things on a very emotional level. Moving scenes in films and television programs are a big trigger of tears for me. I saw The Pursuit of Happyness with my son, and cried from almost start to finish. Another film that makes me cry is Frequency, starring Dennis Quaid and Jim Caviezel. Both are largely father/son stories, which, I think, is the reason I'm so affected by them.

There were scenes in 2012 that made me cry. I've been watching DVDs of NYPD Blue recently, and this exceedingly well-written show was made especially effective by its many small moments that made the characters more than just cops. The growing relationship between Detective Andy Sipowicz (Dennis Franz) and Assistant District Attorney Sylvia Costas (Sharon Lawrence) was especially touching. I used to cry when I watched The Waltons in the '70s, because by the end of almost every episode, one character had done something heartbreakingly touching for another character. I seem to recall an episode in which one of John-boy's siblings spent money they were saving for something else to buy him a new typewriter.

Movie previews have made me cry. Even posters for movies have brought me to tears. Well,

I don't know about posters in the plural, but one poster certainly left me crying outside a movie theater, and I hadn't even seen the film. The tagline for the film Once is: How often do you find the right person? Regardless of how overly romanticized the question might be, it made me think of the woman who has laid the greatest claim to my heart for over 20 years, and weeping commenced, especially after having dated two very interesting women who ultimately didn't want to pursue a long-term relationship with me. I have since met someone who may well be more right for me than anyone I've ever known, but in 2006, the poster for Once was emotionally brutal.

My point? It's difficult for me to control these emotions. And who says they need to be controlled? Crying is as natural an emotional response as laughing, even if you don't necessarily want to burst into tears at work, or in front of a movie theater, or with people you're not especially close to. But it's a fact. I'm a crier. Ask any woman I've broken up with. Tears galore.

What scares me are repeated accounts by numerous trans women about how much more emotional they've become after starting hormone treatments. My fear is if I'm this emotional without the hormones, what kind of basket case will I be once I begin taking them? From the sound of it, there's no avoiding the proverbial and well-documented roller-coaster ride that accompanies hormone treatment, but when you think about it, who are the ones wiping tears from their eyes at a wedding, or a company meeting at which a long time employee is retiring or leaving for a new job? It's the women. And, oh yeah, me. But is it because society allows women the latitude to surrender to their emotions, or is it that women just can't help it? Or both?

I really don't know, but I'm kind of hoping to keep my gender status to myself at work (excepting from the few people I've trusted enough to tell) until it becomes too obvious to hide anymore, assuming I still have a job in the coming year. But that's another story for another blog.

Love always,

Dana

"This isn't me."

I didn't begin this blog until late December 2008, but it was late November when L. delivered me to my transgender epiphany. A lot has happened in the passed year, and I've taken many steps toward what I plan to be my eventual transition. Though there are areas of concern (namely how to tell my son and my employer, and what their respective reactions will be), transition seems the only road to take at this point. The road I've always been heading toward.

A common notion of those opposed to the concept of taking steps to align ones outer form with how they feel inside is that it is a selfish thing to do. It is considered selfish because it is determined to ignore the feelings of those affected by ones decision to transition. I suppose that's true, but who's being selfish, really? Me, for wanting to take steps toward becoming whole, or the people who feel awkward at the very thought of transsexuals and would have me remain somebody I'm really not?

I understand the dilemma of the transgendered person who is married with children. Transitioning affects the family dynamic in ways that no one signed on for. Sacrifices are expected once one has a family, but the decision to not transition is, for some, a sacrifice that only breeds resentment. It means remaining a person you are not. It means playing a role you can no longer play convincingly. It means stifling everything that is genuinely you.

I'm reminded of a movie from 1996 called For Hope. Produced and directed by Bob Saget, it told the tragic story of his sister, Gay, who died two years after being diagnosed with scleroderma, a condition that is "classically defined as symmetrical skin thickening." It can affect other organs, as well, but as the skin thickens, especially on the face, ones appearance changes. As is shown in the film, the stricken woman's face becomes increasingly disfigured, and one scene -- one line -- has always stayed with me. I may be mis-remembering it slightly, but essentially, she looks at herself in a mirror, and says, "This isn't me."

Being transgendered isn't a fatal condition unless it compels one to take his or her life, but the notion of looking in a mirror and seeing a person that isn't you is what distinguishes selfishness from the need to correct a physical sense of self.

I acknowledge that it's very difficult for non-trans people to relate to what we're feeling, but imagine being disfigured in one way or another, and knowing there are medical means to correct that. To be clear, I don't personally feel disfigured, but I know that what I see in the mirror isn't me. The closer I get to transitioning, the further I get from understanding why anyone feels they have the right to object or penalize me in any way because of it. They're effectively telling me that I can't be me.

Of those to whom I've come out, I've experienced universal acceptance and encouragement. My ex-wife is the sole exception. Of those I intend to tell, only my son and my work place remain. Their reactions concern me, but the possibility that they may react negatively grows increasingly tiresome. Most significant are additional concerns about how it may affect my son's development and how he'll be treated by friends who know that is father is a woman.

Ultimately, instead of maintaining the status quo in order that they not feel awkward about something they don't understand, I feel it's an opportunity for them to evolve and delve deeper within themselves for the capacity to accept and embrace something that brings happiness and contentment to someone they supposedly love as a person, or at least respect as a co-worker.

Or am I just being naive?

Love always,

Dana