Some Girls

Just my luck I had four older brothers growing up. It wasn’t all bad, I learned a lot about being a teenager from them, like how to be competitive, throw parties, buy booze, fight acne, and date girls, plus I also had access to their porn stash. At summer camp during junior high, I was known for my ability to draw incredibly realistic nude woman, which I had copied from issues of Penthouse and Playboy magazine. I also had two sisters, and would cut out photos from their cherished Cosmo and Seventeen magazines, as well as ads for lingerie from The New York Times Magazine, the one with the crossword puzzle my dad completed every Sunday.

As a young trans girl I was fixated and enthralled by pictures of women and pasted their images in a notebook that I kept under my mattress, next to few porn magazines, a copy of Are There you God, it’s me Margaret, stolen from the school library, and items of women’s clothes, hiding them and my desires from my family, living in fear of being found out.

The stowed away garments usually included bras and panties

borrowed from my mother and two sisters and the colorful catalogs and glossy magazines provided me an abundant amount of examples to admire. I learned about style, shape, and size. I also noticed how lingerie fit and looked on different body types. Unfortunately, none of the women look like me, or I didn’t look them. Either way, puberty was inevitable, and when it finally happened, the fury of testosterone coursing through my blood felt like a runaway train going in the wrong direction. My body betrayed me, and confusion and anxiety about my identity firmly took hold for the next 30 years.

High School Reunion

WARNING: This essay contains information about a suicide attempt which may be triggering to some.
Out-of-blue a few weeks ago I received a message on Facebook from a high school classmate from thirty years ago.  She was on the reunion committee and had a question about nametags for our upcoming 30^th reunion. She asked if it would be okay if they used my high school graduation picture from the yearbook, like they do for most reunion attendees, or would I prefer something more recent that reflects who I am now. I was touched by her kindness and sensitivity.  It may not seem like a big deal to many, but to me, a transgender person, it meant the world.  I thanked her for inquiring, and asked, “Can I think about it?”

So last Friday I went to my 30th high school reunion. This wasn’t the first reunion I had been to; in fact I think I’ve attended all the others leading up to last week’s, but it was the first time attending openly as a woman. 

Football Captains Then

Thirty-one years ago, during the fall of my senior year, I played my last football game.  It was the Thanksgiving Day meeting between Brookline and Newton North, a tradition that dates back to 1894, one of the oldest rivalries in Massachusetts.  I was the starting running back and captain of the home team, the Newton North Tigers. I finished the game with more than a hundred yards rushing, receiving, and returning kicks and punts. In the end, we won 14-7; it was only our third victory of the season.

Seven months later I made a short speech as Senior Class President at our gradation before a downpour forced the ceremony to be cut short. I was tossed my diploma by my headmaster in the auditorium and ran home through the rain to my waiting family. The celebration included family friends, our large extended family, and my maternal grandparents who had traveled from Canada for the occasion.  Two months later I started college in upstate New York. 

I found returning home after my first year away at school to be difficult.  At college, I began to find myself.  Secretly, I continued to be the girl I knew I was on the inside, and continued to dress like a woman alone in my room and on occasion walk around neighborhood late at night, like I had been doing for years back home. I also began to experiment romantically and sexually with men for the first time, and while that was liberating, it was also confusing, because I did so under the guise of being a man. Home for the summer, I got a job at Filene’s in Downtown Boston. It helped to be in a more urban setting, with a few gay co-workers and the ability to shop at stores where I could buy women’s clothes without being hassled, but it wasn’t enough.

I Could Never Love you Back

A close friend’s aunt just passed away. I could tell by the way she talked about her, that she was someone very special. The funeral was this weekend.

Today, I went for a walk in the woods. Along the way I crossed a few fields, sat next to a salt marsh, crossed a small waterfall, and observed in amazement a large tree recently felled by a beaver, now leading into a river.  My walk, which started under a cloudy and misty fall sky, followed a path of rectangular blazes, recently screwed into the trunks of

pines, oaks, and aspens; first yellow, then red, a short loop of blue, white, and back to yellow again. The trails are new, just a few years old, and you can get lost pretty quick if you loose sight of the markings, like I did a year ago. After an hour into my walk, and becoming totally immersed in my surroundings, I think to myself, this is where, when that time comes, I’d like to rest for eternity, on a soft bed of yellow pine needles, with the sound of a brook cascading over glacial stones and chickadees singing and dancing from tree to tree.

A Daughter's Journey, part two

“It’s time”

I smiled and replied, “okay, great” I don’t think there are words to describe what my uncertain smile really meant. 

“This is going to help you relax” 

A syringe was inserted into the IV that had been started in right hand almost an hour earlier and the clear liquid quickly entered my bloodstream. I don’t remember, but I hope I said something to my sister. She had had arrived the day before after a full day of work at Hartford Hospital and joined my mom and my niece for pleasant summer dinner outside on a sidewalk in Boston. She spent the night with me in my hotel room.  And after reading a little, she fast asleep on the guest bed the hotel staff had brought in while we were out. I didn’t sleep at all. At one point I was pleasantly distracted by the sounds of people in the neighboring room having sex.  The next morning my sister escorted me to the hospital in a thrilling, and thankfully short cab ride.  Then sat by my side before surgery, reassuring me, as a parade of nurses, doctors, and medical students asked me question after question. 

“Looks like we’re all set.” 

A Daughter’s Journey, part one

At the last minute I decided to take the bus to Boston instead of the train.  The DownEaster, which runs between North Station in Boston and Brunswick, Maine, had become unreliable this spring and summer, prone to long delays as the old weathered tracks are in desperate need of repair and upgrade.  My ex had offered to drive me to the station so I wouldn’t have to leave my car in the parking lot for the week while I was away.  The night before, we had diner and drinks together at her place, which is just down the street, to say farewell to my face. As we sat on her front steps bathing in the warmth of July’s setting sun we of course took the now obligatory selfie, forgetting the frigid temperatures and more than eight feet of snow that had piled up against her front door just a few months earlier.  She made a funny surprised expression and I just smirked in disbelief.  I added the words “best friends” before posting the photo on Instagram.

The bus to Logan Airport and South Station in Boston leaves Portsmouth, New Hampshire on the hour.  As promised, my ex picked me and my over stuffed purple suitcase up promptly at 9:45am the next day and delivered me to the bus station in plenty of time to catch the 11 o’clock bus which would shuttle me to Boston and my waiting surgery the following morning. We hugged goodbye and of course I cried.

Before letting go, she said, “it’s going to be okay kitty”.  It’s a phrase she’s used for years to reassure me when I’m scared.

“I know, thanks” I replied.

I turned away and found a bench to sit on with my back to the other waiting travelers hiding my tears.  I had been planning this trip and surgery for months, and thinking about for years. 

The bus was nearly full, but I found an empty seat next a window about half way back. I slid my bag slightly under the seat in front of me, which was occupied by two young children, probably two and four years old, as well as, I presume, their mom.  Across the aisle from them was another child, who looked to be more like six or seven.  Unlike the other two, he seemed very content, quietly reading a book. The seat next me remained empty only briefly.  At the first stop in Newburyport, a middle age man, dressed in a navy blue uniform sat down.  Pilot. We politely smiled at each other and then I returned to my ipad, trying to follow up with some last minute work that needed my attention.  The boy in the seat in front of me, who had been squirming like a worm since we left the station annoying his mom and many others, turned his attention from, kicking, licking and looking out the window, back to me. His small dirty face squeezed between the glass and polyester seat cushion.

“What ya doin ?” he asked with his tongue slightly dangling out of his mouth touching the fabric.

I smiled, amused he was curious and happy I wasn’t in the seat he’d been kicking. “I’m working”, I whispered and looked back to my screen.

The bus arrived at Logan Airport right on time, depositing travelers and the pilot, one terminal after the other.  Next stop, South Station. The few of us that remained, including the family in front of me, grabbed our waiting luggage and dispersed into the crowd of others at the station. I called my mom to let her know I had arrived.  She was still home,  “it should take a only ten to fifteen minutes”, she informed in a slightly surprised tone, like she had lost track of time.  I let her know, I’d be sitting outside, waiting for her on Atlantic Avenue.  To many people I meet for the first time, I tell them I’m from Boston.  And while I was actually born there and worked in the city during and after college, I really grew up in a neighboring town.  But walking out into the daylight and buzz of the city, I felt like I was home.

As promised my mom pulled up fifteen minutes later. She maneuvered her silver Nissan through the traffic like a pro.  I opened the back door and slid my heavy suitcase in, slamming the door shut before jumping in the front passenger seat.

My mom and I spent the rest of the afternoon together. I had asked her a week earlier, when I was discussing my travel plans for coming to Boston for my plastic surgery, if she wanted to go to the museum with me. It had popped into my head as a peaceful and meaningful experience that my mom and I could share as well as distract me from the next day’s procedures. There were also a few exhibitions featuring artists I appreciated, Hokusai, Gordon Parks, and Herb Ritts. But before that could happen, I needed food. I asked if she likes burritos.

“I’ve never had one” she replied. 

“Really?”  I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised.  “wanna try one? 

She agreed and after finding a meter spot in view of the museum we walked back a few blocks to the campus of Northeastern University and found a place to eat. Of course my mom confessed to the cashier that this was a new experience for her. I don’t think the girl was impressed.  We sat in a both facing each eating our small wraps. She didn’t even get a traditional burrito; instead she ordered the chicken teriyaki.  

We made our way back through the ally and walked to our car on Hemengway Street to deposit a few more quarters in the meter. We had two hours for the museum. As we headed to the original entrance, my mom started talking about the famous statue, Appeal to the Great Spirit, which has been welcoming Museum visitors since it’s acquisition in 1913.  Apparently, the well-known sculptor, Cyrus Dallin lived in my mom’s hometown and when she was a girl she met the local celebrity before he passed away in 1944. The large bronze statue features a Sioux chief on horseback with his arms spread wide appearing to be welcoming spiritual assistance.  The artist was born to white settlers and was raised among the Ute tribe in Utah before moving east to Boston and studying art in Paris.

After an attempt at a selfie with my mom and the twelve-foot tall sculpture in the background, we entered the museum.  I’ve been visiting the Boston Museum of Fine Arts since I was a child, often accompanied by my parents and six siblings. Later with my high school art class with my mom as chaperone, and eventually as an aspiring artist and high school art teacher myself with my own students in tow. While I hadn’t visited since the Edward Hopper exhibition in the summer of 2007, the large granite building, which exists surrounded by the rush of life, but resembles stillness, pulls me in every few years like a comet circling the sun, reminding me of the danger and beauty of the visual world and bravery of artists.  

To be continued -

Redifining Happiness

I'm scheduled to have surgery on Tuesday and I’ll be away from work for a while.  I’ve said this to many of the people I work with over the past few weeks, and their response has been something like, “are you okay, is it serious”.  Those questions are difficult to answer, especially in polite conversation. So, here’s a go at it.  As part of my transition and in consultation with my team of doctors and my therapist, I've to decided to have plastic surgery to change areas of my face (eyebrows, nose, lips, cheeks, and jaw) and my neck (an Adam's apple reduction).  In the trans community the procedure is known as FFS (facial feminization surgery).  It is major surgery, and I'll be out of commission for several weeks as I recover and the bruising and swelling dissipate. 

To some, it may seem extreme, but it is my hope that these procedures will help me feel more whole and more confident in the body I inhabit. Since embracing my trans identity and beginning my transition four years ago, I’ve become the woman I've always been, and reconciled with much of my previous identity. I do feel more at home in my own skin and in many social situations, especially when I'm with friends and family, or working on behalf of the trans community.  

Unfortunately, there still remains a large gap between how I feel on the inside and what I see in the mirror, as well the persistent anxiety being out in a world that is still learning to accept people like me.  There isn't a day that goes by where I'm not worrying about what someone might say when they see me or feel like a freak. It’s especially traumatic when families hurd their children in the opposite direction.  Don't get me wrong, I kinda like being trans, it's fascinating seeing the world through my eyes, but it has taken a toll. Most days, I’d rather hide from the world and work in the garden, walk in the woods, swim under the waves, or ride my bike on a long country road, than face people.  I know some out there will say, "you're beautiful the way you are, don't change, fuck society” and while that's lovely to hear, it doesn't erase the dysphoria I live with everyday. So, those are some of the reasons I’m having this surgery. And while I’m excited and impatient to see my new and improved face, that doesn’t mean I’m not completely terrified, anxious, and nervous. But for me, it's what I need to do.

By the way, not all trans people have any surgery at all, but some of us do. Each person’s needs and conditions are different.  Plus, I now have the benefit of health insurance that is helping to cover some of the costs.  The remainder is mostly coming out of a retirement account my dad help set up years ago when I first started teaching. When I called him to talk to him about removing funds from those accounts to help pay for this surgery, I was nervous. We had briefly talked earlier this spring about the procedure and I could tell he was alarmed. I think he was mostly concerned for my safety. Well, he did help close a few of my accounts to get me closer to what I needed, but I was still short by a considerable amount. It was then he said something like, “your mother and I will take care of the rest.”  

Wait, what? That’s not possible, is it?  My eighty one and eighty two year-old, conservative, very Catholic, Fox News watching parents were on board. That's right, as are the rest of my family, well, I think they are. In fact, one of my sisters has bravely volunteered to be with me before, during, and after my surgery. I'm scheduled to spend the night in the hospital after surgery and should be discharged the next day to begin the long healing process, first at a hotel in Boston, then with friends just few blocks from my parents' house in Newton, imagine that. I am fortunate to have so much support during this emotional part of my journey and it is greatly appreciated. So, cross your fingers, rub a crystal, send positive thoughts, and pray if you pray, everything's gonna be alright.  

Ms Marshal

Ready for Pride! 

Yesterday was the Pride Portland parade and I had the unique privilege and honor serve as co-parade marshal. I was also invited to make a some remarks from the festival stage to a crowd of a few thousand folks. Here are my planned remarks. I probably went off script a few times :)
Hello Pride Portland!

My name’s Gia, What’s yours?

It’s great to meet you! Don't you all look fabulous today!

It is a certainly an honor to be one of this year’s parade marshals, especially alongside such a luminary as Doug Kimmel.  To be honest, I was very surprised when Micheal Snell from the Pride Portland committee called to ask If I’d be a marshal, as I’m very new to this work and know so many people who are far more worthy than myself.

You see, it was just five years ago that I attended and marched in my very first pride, and yes, it was right here in Portland.  At the time, I wasn’t really out. I wasn’t out to my friends, colleagues, students, or my family, but I marched anyway; it was time. And while I was scared and hesitant about being seen as a transgender woman by the public, I felt safe with my new friends from MaineTransNet.

MaineTransNet prepares for Pride!

As we walked down Congress St. and the cheers grew louder and louder, my smile and confidence did too. I had never felt so affirmed in my entire life. I was free. Six months later, I began my transition, doing so in full public view, as a high school teacher in southern Maine, in the very town I live in. Over a matter of a few months, I went from Mr. Drew to Ms Drew. Imagine that!

Unfortunately, a year later my position was eliminated, and my life’s dream of teaching openly and authentically came to an abrupt end.  I tried to move forward, but was unable to find work and became unemployed for nearly two years. An all too common side affect of being OUT as a transgender person. To stay sane and active, I started volunteering with GLSEN, MaineTransNet, and EqualityMaine.  There, I found a new

That's me! Pride Portland Parade Marshal 2015

family, a community, and a sense of purpose. It saved my life.  And guess what? Just last year, I was hired as program coordinator at EqualityMaine and named president of the board of directors of MaineTransNet.  And while I’m back on my feet, I wouldn’t be here today without the incredible support from the people I work with, my friends, a supportive family, my former partner, and of course, all the courageous people who paved the way, the true heroes of our movement.

Trans Youth speak the truth!

Before I go, I want to recognize that as I stand here, transgender people around the world and right here in Maine, experience harassment, violence, and discrimination on a daily basis. Far too many of us feel alone and think about ending our lives because we see no hope or future. That needs to change.  And most urgently, the violence against Trans women of color needs to stop! 

So I’m calling on you Portland to make a difference. I need you to standup to injustice, transphobia, racism, sexism, ablism, and any other form of discrimination you witness. You have the power to make a difference, and together we can create the change that is so desperately needed.

And if anyone asks why… tell them Gia sent you.

Thank you everyone and Happy Pride Portland!!!!!