Tag Archive for: transition

Transgender Rights PSA

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Yesterday I received an email from a high school student working on a final project for her English class: a public service announcement. She chose transgender rights and public restrooms as her subject, and she wrote to me to ask if I could answer some questions for her. I was glad to help — and since I thought those same answers might be useful to others, I’ve copied my letter to her below.

Hi [Name],

I’m glad to hear that you’re interested in transgender rights. I think it’s a great topic for your PSA project! I am happy to answer your questions, but I would like you to do something for me in return. When you finish your project, would you send me a copy, or a link to an online version? I’d like to see the results! If you are willing to do that for me, then please feel free to use my answers in your project.

You asked me three questions:

My questions are:

What was going through your mind when you made the change?

Do you have any thing to say to other transgenders?

What do you want people to understand?

In order to answer your questions, I first have to explain a couple of things. In your first question, you asked me about when I “made the change.” I think that what you mean is my medical transition, but this wording is problematic for a few reasons.

First of all, saying “the change” makes it sound like there is just one change, and it is something that all transgender people do. That’s not the case. Being transgender doesn’t always mean having surgery or taking hormones; it’s an identity, not an action.

Many transgender people do want to make changes in their lives — changes that feel right to them, or changes that signal to other people that the trans person wants to be addressed a certain way (for example, with male pronouns instead of female pronouns). We call this process “transition.” There are three basic types of transition: social transition, legal transition, and medical transition.

Social transition is when trans people change the way they interact with other people (society), usually to express a different gender than the sex they were assigned at birth. This could include changing one’s name and/or pronouns, wearing different clothes, walking or talking differently, or taking part in different activities or social spaces.

Legal transition is when trans people get new documents to reflect their gender identity (remember, gender identity is one’s own internal sense of one’s own gender; it’s not necessarily the same as the sex that one was assigned at birth). This could include legally changing one’s name and gender marker on documents like a driver’s license, social security card, passport, birth certificate, or bank accounts. In the US, these processes vary by state, and sometimes it’s difficult or even impossible for trans people to change their documentation.

Medical transition is when trans people change their bodies to bring them more in line with the trans person’s gender identity and sense of self. Medical transition could include hormone treatment or a number of different surgical options. Trans people may do all of these things, some, or none.

The most important thing to remember about medical transition is that it is not the only way to be trans. Many transgender people either don’t have access to this kind of medical treatment, or don’t want it at all — and even for those who do have medical treatment, it’s not a single event. There’s no such thing as “the change.”

It’s very invasive to ask transgender people about their hormones, surgery, or other medical procedures. That’s no one’s business except the trans person and their doctor, and many trans people will be offended if you ask. In my case, though, I’m very open about my medical history, because I’m a transgender educator. You probably learned from my website that I visit schools, hospitals, and organizations to talk about transgender identities and to answer questions. So let me tell you about my medical transition.

I started taking injections of testosterone about five years ago, in January of 2011. That is the extent of my medical transition. I haven’t had any surgeries or other procedures; the way I look and sound has only been affected by hormone therapy. I plan to have chest surgery in the future, but I currently have no plans for genital surgery. That is because the current medical procedures can’t achieve the results that I want.

What this means is that there was no moment in my trans life that can be described as “the change.” There have been important milestones, like the summer when I first realized I was trans, or the time I cut off my long hair, or the day I took my first hormone injection, but my process of transition is ongoing. And if you think about it, isn’t that the same for cisgender (non-transgender) people, too? We all change over the course of our lives. My aspiration is that the changes I make in my life, whether they’re related to my gender transition or not, will all help me to explore and express my authentic self.

In fact, this is also my answer to your third question, where you asked me what I want people to understand. I want people to understand that transgender people are not defined by their transition process, or lack thereof. No transgender person is “more” or “less” trans than another. Just as every artist has a unique form of creative expression, every transgender person (and indeed, every cisgender person!) has a unique form of gender expression. Although medical transition is an integral part of many trans people’s journeys, it is never the whole story.

Your second question — which I am answering last — also contains some problematic wording. You asked me if I have anything to say to other “transgenders.” This is grammatically incorrect, and using this word to describe transgender people is offensive. The root of this mistake — and it’s a mistake that many people make, believe me! — is a misunderstanding of the word “transgender.” Transgender is an adjective, not a noun. This is why “transgendered” is not a word — we tend to add the -ed suffix onto words that we want to turn into adjectives, but transgender is already an adjective, so it doesn’t need any help. Of course, you can’t call a person, place, or thing an adjective without adding a noun. It would be like saying “a smooth” instead of “a smooth plate.” Transgender is an adjective used to describe people, so you must say “transgender people,” not “transgenders.”

So, let me return to your question: do I have anything to say to other transgender people?

This is a very difficult question, because trans people are living in a difficult time. In the wake of the US Supreme Court’s marriage equality decision, it seems like opponents of LGBT civil rights have turned their attention to transgender people, a population that is already vulnerable (as studies have shown — you can read more here). Across the nation, states have proposed or have actually passed laws specifically written to discriminate against trans folks.

The so-called bathroom bills are sexist, discriminatory, and dangerous. They start out as image policing. In the time of the Stonewall Riots, men and women could be arrested if they were not wearing at least three pieces of “gender-specific” clothing. Now people — transgender and cisgender people alike — are being harassed in public bathrooms if they don’t fit the arbitrary image of masculinity or femininity that onlookers might have. Lawmakers are using scare tactics to demonize transgender people, and the media coverage they are afforded gives their views an air of legitimacy, even when they don’t have a shred of evidence to back up their claims. This leads members of the public — some motivated by bias, and some simply by ignorance — to dislike and distrust transgender people, and then the publicity emboldens them to air these views. Transgender people have already been targets for harassment and violence, and the current political climate is only making things worse.

As a trans person myself, sometimes, I feel despair. It seems unbelievable that the United States, a nation that is supposed to stand for freedom, justice, and equality, could be so backward when it comes to transgender rights — especially with other countries providing a progressive model. Didn’t we learn anything from the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s? Haven’t we come farther than this?

Yet when I travel and give presentations about transgender identities, I am heartened and inspired by the people I meet. There are good people out there, lots of them, who want to be allies — who want to learn about transgender people, and learn how best to support us in our struggle. Allies are out there. They might not be as loud as our enemies, but their ranks are growing. Meeting these allies gives me hope, and hope gives me the strength to keep fighting. What I want to say to other trans people is: don’t give up hope. We’ll need it.

I hope these answers help you to learn a little more about transgender people — and of course, I hope they help you with your project! Please don’t forget to send me a copy when you finish. I’m really looking forward to seeing your work.

Very truly yours,

Aiden K.

Health Care Or Home Purchase? The Transgender Dilemma

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Today I completed the US Trans Survey, a comprehensive study gathering information that will be used to inform public policy towards transgender people in the United States. Trans, genderqueer, and non-binary folks: if you haven’t taken the survey yet, please do so now! Our data is urgently needed.

On paper, my answers to the survey questions are encouraging. I have never been assaulted or harassed due to my gender identity. I have never been fired from a job or made to feel uncomfortable at work as a result of my trans status. I have had positive personal relationships, and I have not experienced homelessness. My answers, of course, are only a tiny fraction of the trans experience, but they are mostly good news. Unfortunately, they don’t quite tell the whole story. At the conclusion of the survey, participants are asked to share a personal story of either acceptance or discrimination to help round out the picture of their experiences. I’d like to share here a selection from what I wrote:

In many ways, I have been very fortunate as a trans man in the United States. I have a supportive immediate family, a wonderful fiancee, and a full-time job. However, although my salary is enough to support me, I am struck by the difficult choices I’ve had to make because of my trans status and my inability to get comprehensive transgender health care.

I began my medical transition four years ago with hormone therapy, but my health insurance has never paid for any of my trans-related treatment. Because I am fortunate enough to be employed, I have been able to pay for my hormones out of pocket, and I felt secure in the idea that I would be able to continue doing this indefinitely. However, I was recently shocked to learn that my usual, trans-friendly pharmacy has been barred from issuing my normal hormone prescription, and that the only replacement available would be twice the cost. Because of this capricious regulatory setback, I’ve been unable to get my regular medication, and this puts my health in a precarious and unexpected place, at least for the short term.

This short-term situation is frustrating and difficult, but it doesn’t even compare to the long-term anguish of having to choose between chest surgery and the normal life expenses of a young professional. Although I do have health insurance through my employer, all of the plans available to me specifically exclude coverage for any type of transgender care; thus, I would have to pay out of pocket for gender-affirming chest surgery, even though my doctor would affirm that such surgery is medically necessary for my health and well-being.

The practical upshot of these policies is that I must continually choose between my own health and well-being and my ability to afford the purchases and milestones that will contribute to my long-term livelihood and stability, and that will help me to contribute to my family and community. I am getting married next year, but I can’t possibly afford a wedding alongside a surgical procedure, so I’ve delayed my surgery. After the wedding, I’ll need a down payment for a house — there’s another delay. Once my housing is settled, perhaps I’ll want to raise children with my partner. Will I have to choose between top surgery and infant expenses? I’m sure that I’m not the only transgender millennial being held back by tough choices between medical care and participation in the so-called “American Dream.”

The refusal of American health insurance companies to cover transgender-related care — and the failure of our legislators to require them to do so — is a national embarrassment that could have far-reaching economic consequences.  Just as housing, employment, and other forms of discrimination have created a wealth gap between white and non-white households, I have no doubt that the denial of comprehensive medical care for trans folks will likewise affect our incomes, stability, and earning power.

To force transgender people to choose between medical care and major life purchases is to hamstring the economic potential of an entire class of people in the United States. These discriminatory policies are hurting us as a nation in both moral and practical terms. Allies, please urge your legislators to step up and ensure that all insurance policies provide comprehensive health care for transgender people!

Packing as Code-Switching: What’s In My Pants, and When, and Why

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A guy walked in on me today in the bathroom at work. It was entirely my own fault; I was sleepy, and I had forgotten to click the lock on the single-stall men’s room. He retreated at once, but I had to wonder what he saw.

At a glance, I’m sure I looked no different from any cisgender guy using a toilet. There’s nothing unusual (as I often remind myself) about a man sitting down in the loo — we all have to do it sometimes, right? I could have been any man at that moment, my shirttails rumpled from being tucked into my slacks, my boxers down around my knees, and my tie dangling as I hunched over my phone. My coworker surely didn’t look long enough to register any details. Yet in the sheepish aftermath, I kept wondering: Did he notice the sock?

Yes, there was a sock between my legs.

Let me explain. When I go to work or to certain more formal events, I wear a packer, which is basically a silicone penis. Some packers are functional and may be used as an STP (Stand To Pee) device, or sometimes for sex. My packer is entirely cosmetic. Its sole purpose is to provide a realistic bulge in my slacks.

(Here’s a bit of irony: after going to the trouble of finding and purchasing a realistic packer, one that even matches my skin tone, I wear my packer inside of a sock. This is for purely practical reasons. It’s a lot easier to throw a sock through the wash than it is to scrub silicone, and while I only own one packer, I have plenty of socks to switch out while one is being washed.)

My decision about whether or not to pack for a particular day is usually a question of wardrobe. Wearing a tie and khakis? Put on the packer. T-shirt and jeans? Packer stays home. This means that in general, I am packing 100% of the time at work, and close to nil in my personal life.

When I first started packing, it was because I had just started work as a college professor. I was in the early stages of my medical transition, and though my voice had dropped and my binder kept my chest reasonably flat, I couldn’t yet grow a beard or even male-signifying stubble. I was nervous about standing in front of a class as my not-quite-complete self. My job is to be watched; I have to capture and hold the attention of a group of late teens and early twenty-somethings, and when they’re seated at desks while I stand by the board, their eyes are naturally at crotch height. I didn’t want to risk questions — or worse, whispers — about what was not in my pants.

Yet in my everyday life, I never think about packing. Even when wearing relatively tight jeans, I never consider what people might think of my decidedly not-bulging anatomy. I know that some trans* men use packers to counteract dysphoria, that simply feeling the weight of it helps to ease the profound distress that many transgender people feel when they’re stuck in a body that doesn’t align with their gender identity. That’s not the case for me. I don’t feel any more or less like myself just by wearing a packer; I would never, for example, bother to wear it when I’m at home alone. So why do I feel the need to do it in public, and specifically on the job?

As I transition, my masculine gender expression is challenged much less frequently, and then I start to question the steps I take to reinforce my presentation as male. Some things, like wearing a beard or a tie, I do because I like them. I like the way that facial hair and men’s clothing make me look and feel, and the fact that they are such strong signifiers of masculine identity certainly doesn’t hurt. Other things, though, like wearing a packer and a chest binder, have no intrinsic value to me. These extra bits of wardrobe are uncomfortable and inconvenient; I wear them not because I want to, but because I feel like I have to.

As I thought more about my trans* wardrobe this year, I realized that switching back and forth — wearing a packer to work, then taking it off when I go home and go out with friends — represents a kind of physical code-switching. I alter the dialect of my gender expression depending on the “listeners” around me and how comfortable I feel with them. This is especially evident with my chest binder. I wear it whenever I leave the house for any significant period of time, no matter who I’m with, but if friends come over to visit, they’ll know we’re close if I excuse myself to go change out of my binder and into a baggy shirt.

When I realized how much I was allowing other people’s perceptions to dictate what I wore and how comfortable I was, I felt immediately rebellious. After all, I told myself, what does it matter what students think of my crotch? They probably don’t notice anything. And aren’t there plenty of cisgender men with bigger chests than mine who walk around every day, unchallenged and unperturbed?

I made up my mind: I was going to stop wearing a packer to work. It was silly, I told myself, and was evidence of nothing but my own insecurities. I wasn’t yet ready to give up on the chest binder, but the packer seemed like a good place to start.

On the same day that I steeled my resolve, I met up with a friend and colleague, a fellow transgender male college professor. We were discussing “teaching while trans,” and he told me the story of a time when he had disclosed his identity to a group of students. Most of the students had been respectful, he explained, but one was visibly shocked, so much that she fell out of her chair. She looked up at him and burst out,

“So that’s why there’s nothing in your pants!”

The story had a positive ending — the student kept taking courses with my colleague, and eventually told him how that disclosure had inspired her — but it also shattered my newly-formed resolution. How could I put aside my packer when I was now absolutely convinced that everyone was staring at my crotch?

That’s how it came to pass that this morning, at work, I was sitting on the can with a silicone penis, wrapped in a sock, dangling from an elastic strap around my waist.

The guy who walked in on me probably never saw the sock, and even if he had, it’s unlikely that he would connect the dots and realize that I am transgender. Yet the very fact that I was wearing a packer made me feel much less self-conscious about that embarrassing restroom moment.

I continue to wear a packer in my professional life because it acts as my armor of expectations. When I’m at home or with friends, I can feel very comfortable subverting expectations, especially gendered ones — but at work, I tend to save my fighting spirit for other things. I’d rather challenge students’ ideas about the materials they’re reading than upend their mental graphs correlating “manhood” with “observed penis.”

Sometimes I think that this makes me a coward. In a perfect world, maybe I would toss out my packer, and my chest binder too, and champion a fluid kind of masculinity. But then, in a perfect world, I’d be able to continue my medical transition to my preferred endpoint and render both packer and binder obsolete.

I often think of being transgender as living a compromise. My body doesn’t align with my gender identity; that’s a fact I have to live with. My transition is about making choices that let me express who I am, even imperfectly, and to do that I often switch the language of my gender expression according to who I’m with and what I’m trying to communicate. So for now, I’ll keep packing — it’s just another part of my gender code.

Transition and the Thirty-Year-Old Teenager

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As a transgender man, I am both older and younger than my age. I’m thirty-one years old, but I often feel like I’ve lived two lifetimes in the space of one. I don’t feel dissociated from my childhood in the way that some trans* people do, but when I look at photos from as little as five years ago I see a drastically different person. Go back ten years, and I hardly recognize myself.

I’ve been through puberty twice, which is 100% more puberty than most people have to deal with in their lifetimes. I have radically reinvented myself – not just in terms of gender expression, but in personality and ambitions. Before I figured out my gender identity, I felt like a bomb caught in a space-time fracture. I struggled on the edge of disaster, but even when I crossed the line, there was no relief. I swung back like a pendulum; the supernova shrank back in on itself, and there I was again, ready to explode. I was angry, desperate, and hopeless, mostly because I had no idea what I was angry about.

When I realized my gender identity and began transition, that anger vanished. It didn’t happen overnight, but the shift was profound. Now I’m a calm and rational person, which would have shocked my twenty-year-old self. I feel like an old man when I think about that time in my life. Was I really so volatile?

Yet in other ways, I feel much younger than thirty. Trans* men usually look younger than cisgender men, which doesn’t help – I’ve had students, for example, who thought I was a classmate until I stood up to call the roll. Growing a beard has allowed me to shrug off that visible aura of youth, but internally I often feel like a teenager. There are so many things that I skipped over during my adolescence in the wrong gender, things that are old hat to my peers, but that I’m experiencing for the first time. I never had acne before I turned thirty. I didn’t know how to buy or use a beard trimmer. I still haven’t learned my new vocal range, and when I try to sing along with my old college CDs, my voice cracks or gives out altogether. These are things that my friends have dealt with, yes, but they figured them out years ago. I, on the other hand, got ice crystals in my beard for the first time last winter, and took selfies with childish delight.

A lot of the time, I feel like I’m still catching up. I’ve lived only four years as my full, authentic self. I recall these recent years with a clarity and immediacy that my pre-transition life just can’t match. Sure, part of that is because memories fade with time, but not all. Transition has made me more courageous, more certain, and more free – when I made this choice, I realized quite suddenly that I could define myself, rather than trying to fit into the mold that had been handed to me. Now I’m trying to cram as much me as I can into every moment, to make up for the time I lost when I was trying to be something I’m not.

I don’t feel like I’m thirty, but like my gender, my age is complicated. And I’m proud of that.