I have always been a self-disclosing person, and that has always facilitated strong one to one relationships, both with colleagues and friends. It came naturally. I never really had to think deeply about vulnerability and what that means on a day to day, practical basis. Now, in the midst of my transition, vulnerability has taken on a new significance. Folks who don’t have to think twice about their gender identity may not be aware of the risk we transgender and gender non-conforming folks take every day, every time we venture out into the world, and every time we meet someone new. Until I came out as a trans woman, I didn’t understand the dictum that we never really stop coming out. As we enter new social situations, we are challenged in an ongoing way to state who we are, to put some definition around our identities in ways cis folks never have to.
As time goes by, and I move more deeply into my transition, I worry less and less about being clocked when I am out in public, but it wouldn’t be honest either to say I don’t think about how I am perceived when I go out. I do try and remember that when people give me a furtive or quizzical look, it probably has more to do with them than it has me. I also try and hold in my mind something a close friend and colleague once told me when I was first moving into my transition. At the time, I was living as a man, trying to find quiet, subtle ways to assuage the dysphoria; I was painfully self-conscious about others noticing that my socks were a bit thin and low, that my fingernails were a little too well-kempt, or that my hair was getting a little long. Of course, my fear at the time was salient and real. I feared being found out, ridiculed, ostracized, rejected. Yeah, rejected. My anxiety went well beyond the details of dress, however, and I harbored a deep fear that I wouldn’t be able to be an acceptable woman, that somehow, I would fail the test, whatever that was. I still remember my friend’s words so clearly: “People are generally too wrapped up in their own lives and dramas to pay much attention to you.” I think she’s right, and it helps to keep this in mind. For the most part, I move through the world under the radar, just another middle-aged woman no one pays attention to. And for me, that’s fine.
Still, when I am out and about, there is always a bit of uncertainty. I feel most vulnerable, most anxious, when I have to talk to strangers, like at the market. When I tell my friends about my “voice anxiety,” they look at me like, “What?” It doesn’t occur to them that my voice could be a source of anxiety, a vulnerability that I carry around with me all the time. Evolving my voice has been one of the trickiest aspects of my transition. My voice, that singular identifier of who I am, particularly for those who know me, is also that unavoidable marker of my past identity. Steeped in almost 60 years of testosterone, my vocal cords reflect the timbre of a life lived, and the resonance of those years is tough to shake.
There was a time when I just tried to avoid speaking to strangers, but as a verbal person, I decided this was untenable as a long-term strategy. I can see myself moving quietly but not silently. So, I’ve worked at my voice, and though I have made progress, I still am working at it. The vulnerability is still there, ever present. I buy wine at the grocery store, and the young checker, bless her heart, wants my date of birth, and as I recite this date, I watch for the moment of realization, when somehow my pitch has betrayed me, when my new voice fails me and I stand revealed—not the woman I am, the woman I feel inside, rather the imposter, the interloper, the pretender.
The risks are real, and even if the vulnerabilities vary from person to person, we trans-folk carry this danger. We work to “pass” not just because our frail egos demand it, but because our safety depends upon it. As I move closer to retirement and think about where I want to live, I must consider the safety of any particular place. I have to chart a plan that builds in protections against the inescapable reality that failing to pass, that a missed note in a simple transaction could have terrible consequences. I am not naturally pessimistic, but given the gravity of my vulnerability, I have to be realistic, and that means being self-protective.
And so, this vulnerability circumscribes my life, will always be there, an inevitable dividend paid on account of my transition. I must live with it, so how can I mitigate the psychological burden this brings? I don’t think I can answer that question yet. I focus on completing my transition, working sanely at things like my voice, surrounding myself with advocates and friends who care about me, allowing for time to work its charms in bringing out the woman inside. Oh, and faith. I feed, as my kid brother would say, the good dog. I stoke the positive belief that I am living truly, and in doing so cultivate the strength to shoulder the vulnerability that comes with leaning in to a trans life, and that this life, well-lived, will bring the wisdom necessary to not only live safely but also to alleviate the fear of otherness that so often drives harmful actions against people like me. Be safe.
Kay out.
Transgender Transcendentalism 