Girl Afraid is a blog about living my life openly as a transgender woman. I hope to discover more about who I am by writing and sharing my story. The thoughts and opinions are my own, experienced from a unique point of view. All I'm offering is my version of the truth, nothing more. Thanks for reading. ♥Gia
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.
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 30th
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
In recent years, I’ve noticed schools, high schools to be
specific, elect a few femme boys, trans girls, and trans boys to be their prom
or homecoming queens and kings. At the same time I’ve encountered countless
school districts fight against the inclusion of policies that would affirm these
same students as people. In a
strange twist of fate, I was just voted honorary parade marshal for Pride
Portland 2015. It’s true. I even saw
a poster Friday night, with a larger-than-life sized photo of me, with my name next
to the title, Honorary Pride Parade Marshal, at the launch party for Pride
Portland. The large piece of foam
core, most commonly used for science projects, was displayed for the attendees
to see on an easel between the lobby of the theater and the performance space.
Well, maybe no one will notice I thought to myself as I headed directly to the
bar and my waiting Stoli and soda.
It’s been one of those weeks, you know, some really good
things happened, in addition to the Pride thing, I talked to 500 teenagers
about gender diversity and sexuality, scheduled one of my gender affirming
surgeries for this summer, I was interviewed by a local television station
about transgender issues in Maine, and I had lunch with mom. In fact she took the photo of me that
was on the poster. But there were also some not so great moments too, like
finding out a job you were interested in wasn’t interested in you, and learning
that nagging hip pain that’s been waking me up at night and keeping me from
running like I’m so used to is actually arthritis. As my orthopedic doctor said on Tuesday, “you’ve probably
run your last marathon, that is unless you get a new hip.” Arthritis, are you kidding me? I feel old.
Earlier in the week I received a voice mail message from a
member of the Pride steering committee. It was from someone I knew, and it was
nice to hear his voice. He said he was calling on official Pride business. That wasn’t out of ordinary, as the three
organizations I work with will all participating in Pride. When I returned his call, he
started talking about parade marshals and I thought he was calling to ask for
suggestions, not to let me know I had been voted to be one of the
marshals. He was really sweet and
complimented me on the work I do in the community and how much he had learned.
In my stunned silence I began to cry and muttered, thank you.
It’s hard to be recognized. I know that may sound strange
from someone who is constantly putting herself out there in the public eye and
seemingly involved with everything related to equality, but it’s true. To me there seems to be so much work
left to do that I feel embarrassed to be singled out as people in my community
are still treated like outcasts and freaks. About an hour into the Pride party
the other night, I realized, like I had the year before, I didn’t belong there.
Or least, I felt really out of place. While I knew folks, and talked to many, I
still felt alone, like I usually do in large crowds. I poured out the rest of my second drink, and I left. On the drive home I blasted classic
rock from my radio and played both air guitar and keyboards on my steering
wheel, it felt good.
Perhaps part of the reason I do so much is to avoid other
things, like relationships, rejection, and intimacy. Being busy and being alone both give me comfort. It’s predictable to be isolated from
the reality of interacting with people, but I also know the depression that’s
grown inside me is the jealous type and doesn’t like company. It’s ironic that as the protective layers I’ve created over
the years fall away and I finally find the
strength and courage to be myself, I’m more vulnerable than ever. I’m beginning to see the
real me, and it’s not the dark I’m afraid of, it’s the light.
It was sometime after midnight when his young scruffy face
and eager lips moved towards my mouth as our bodies ground together to the industrial
Goth music on the dark dance floor.I had caught his attention as I arrived to the Boston club with girl
friends a few hours earlier. I had
met one of the girls at a trans conference a few months ago and after realizing
we had some similar interests, like dark music and dancing, we made it a point
to stay in touch. She eventually invited me to join her and a friend at Machine
to dance and celebrate her friend’s upcoming surgery. Yes, we’re all trans and
we’re fabulous. Ask anyone; I never go out. So, I was of course extremely nervous,
yet excited about the possibilities of this adventure.After confirming with my friend, I
needed to find something to wear. This is usually the most stressful decision I
make every day, and because of the circumstances, this was far worse. Since
starting my transition and separating from my partner almost five years ago,
I’ve consciously and unconsciously avoided going out, and have completely
steered clear of hooking up.In
fact, I’ve only been close or intimate with two people that entire time. The start of the evening was slightly surreal. I drove to my
parents’ house just outside of Boston, the same place I grew up in, to park my
car and get ready for going out. My friend was going to pick me up on the
way.She said she’d be there
around 10.My wise parents spend
late winter and early spring in warmer climates, so I had the house to myself.
I had a few drinks and got changed into an outfit I hoped would be appropriate
for the club; sleek and black are always a safe bet. Thirty five years earlier,
as a lost trans teen in hiding, I would dress up in sexy outfits in my basement
and walk around the neighborhood, and later when I had a license, drive through
the streets around Boston listening to Madonna till dawn. I guess things
haven’t changed much. My friend arrived by 10:45 and after settling in her silent
Prius, she let me know my look was perfect. I felt relieved.
We were in Kenmore Square in minutes, and paid the ten
dollars for parking just a few blocks from the club. Walking down Boylston Street,
a car pulled over and the driver propositioned us through his rolled down
window.We ignored him and crossed
the busy street towards our destination. While it was early, the place was
slowing filling up. I guess it’s because it’s one of the only Goth/industrial/fetish
clubs in Boston.After getting
settled and enjoying a drink we made our way to the dance floor where we’d
spend most of the night. It was then that I first noticed that guy I mentioned
earlier, you know, the horny one, who wanted to stick his tongue down my throat
and … wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. Anyway, there was this cute guy dressed
in a leather outfit who looked much younger than me. He smiled in my direction as
we walked to the dance floor. At
first I pretended not to notice.
As the night evolved, our other friend arrived and we
continued to dance into the night. Every now and then, I noticed the boy in leather,
standing or dancing nearby, and at one pass, I smiled back in his
direction.After a few hours, my feet were giving
way to my five inch heels, so we sat for a while in back talking with each
other along with some of my friend’s acquaintances.As I nursed a drink I noticed another group of people in the
corner, reclining and getting intimate with each other. I was inspired and as
we headed back to the dance floor one final time, I met up with him, this time
I didn’t turn and run. The final hour we spent mostly on the dance floor,
inseparable like teenagers. It was like I been transported back to a summer
camp dance in the woods of New Hampshire and feeling like we’d never see each
other ever again after they played the final song, Rock Lobster, “down, down,
down…”
With the music heating up, and the night coming to a close,
I realized my need for contact. As he rubbed his body against mine,
I felt sexy, powerful, and playful. Before acquiescing to his passion
and my desire, I bit his lip as he leaned in to kiss, letting him know I was indeed hungry, but in control. We stepped
off the floor for a break and glass of water. In the quiet, away from the
crowd, we became more “acquainted”. I pulled the chain around his neck and
tickled his short beard as our lips and tongues met again. He reached between
my legs and I quickly redirected his hand and smiled.While that area is off limits for me, it wasn’t for him.
The dim lights of the club suddenly turned bright.Fumbling with what to say, we headed to
retrieve our coats. It was then I realized I didn’t have a clear plan of what
was going to happen next. This was new territory for me, but fortunately I had
the good sense to check in with my girl friends who were standing nearby; one
was continuing on to party, while the other wanted to grab a bite to eat and
talk more. I had an excuse not to continue, plus I wasn’t going anywhere on the
back of his Ducati at 2am, at least not that night. And while it was a
wonderful experience flirting with the boy dressed in leather, I realized there's a need for me to be cognizant of my own safety as a transgender woman in a
world that can turn violent and abusive without warning. As far as I know he
may have been a sweetie, but I didn’t need to take any more chances on my first
night out in a long time. My sex and gender may have changed over time, but my
passions and desires remain.
I was sitting at a table waiting to meet with a plastic
surgeon to discuss facial surgery as part of my gender transition and ate a stale turkey wrap sandwich I
had just purchased at the Starbucks in the hotel lobby. The day before, busy with attending
workshops and preoccupied by presenting that morning at First Event, a national
transgender conference, I missed breakfast and lunch. And in my haste to pack for the weekend I neglected to bring
an outfit for dinner. I checked my
“smart” phone and found a TJ Max about a mile from the hotel, the Westin in
Waltham, Massachusetts. If you’ve
driven around RT 128 just outside of Boston, it’s the large blue glass encased
building across the highway from COSTCO.
It wasn’t there when I lived in neighboring Newton as a youth many years
ago. I drove out of the hotel complex with Prospect Hill to my
right down Totten Pond Rd and waited to take a left onto Lexington St. I knew immediately where I was; this was
indeed familiar territory. It occurred to me after turning left and traveling
north that the plaza where the TJ Max was located was where we used to bowl and
roller skate as kids. A lot has happened since I laced up rental bowling shoes and roller skates as a teenager more than thirty years ago at theWal-lex: colleges,
degrees, fights, girlfriends, boyfriends, suicide attempts, love, marriage, trips
to Europe, teaching jobs, moves, art shows, coming out, marathons, divorce,
unemployment, and more, much more.
I was really hungry, so before I hit TJ’s, I did the unthinkable;
I ordered a Whopper Jr. and fries from the Burger King drive through and ate in
the parking lot listening to Kiss108 on the radio. For me it was a true guilty pleasure. With some nourishment, I did a little
shopping and found a few outfit options for the dinner and fashion show later
that night. With my presentation behind me, I spent the remainder of the
conference focused on learning more about resources and support for the trans
community, including for myself. I also reconnected with old friends from
previous conferences, but also tried more actively to meet new people. It’s something I’ve been struggling
with in my new life as single trans woman. This is a reoccurring theme with my therapist, and as I
tried to explain my goals for the conference to her, she said, so you’re going
to make yourself more “available”. I'll try, I replied, but made no promises.
I finished my turkey wrap and chips and tried hard not to
notice the couple sitting in front of me. They sat across from each other with
the large hotel window behind them and cars crawling along Rt 128 below. It was
tense and I felt like an intruder sitting so close. If I were to guess, they were married and the trans partner
had encouraged her wife to attend the conference. It was clear she wasn’t having a good time and let her trans
partner know. I tried to distract
myself my filling out the surgeon’s information sheet, but couldn’t stop
listening. It was like there was accident
on the other side of the highway, where you slow and have to look. It reminded
me of a recent piece on NPR about a study on ants, and why they don’t have
traffic jams like us humans; they just keep marching. The couple talked and argued for what seemed like an
eternity. In my notebook, I had written, “I don’t care!” These words came from the wife’s mouth
before she stormed off across the hotel lobby and out into the cold January
air. It was crushing. The exchange triggered my own feelings of guilt and
unrest, bringing me back to conversations my partner and I had before I decided
to transition and as we separated. With my eyes red and swollen, from both crying and staying up too late, I walked over to meet
with the plastic surgeon.
I’ve only been out as a trans woman for about four years, and
this was my third First Event. I
know that sounds confusing, sorry.
Over the four days I met so many wonderful and beautiful people. I don’t
know how many aren’t out and may never be out. There was a young hopeful athlete struggling with whether to
come out and transition versus not to and getting the opportunity to compete in
the Rio Summer Olympics in 2016.
There was a very articulate 22 year-old trans man from Framingham, who
looked like he was 16. I first noticed
him in one of the workshops on law, he asked some great questions. I saw him
later that night sitting alone in the bar drawing a lotus in his sketchbook. Apparently it was a sketch for a tattoo. I struck up
conversations with Amy and Nicole first separately, then together; they were
about my age, I surmised, and easy to talk with. This was their first conference and they seemed so thrilled
to finally be girls in public, even if it was just for a few days. Amy shared with me that she didn’t want
to ever leave. I understood what she meant. I tried to get them to join me on
the dance floor, but they both declined. I could tell they were happy just
being there.
The dance floor on the last night of the conference is a
joyous celebration of freedom removed from the prejudice and hate beyond the
glass windows of the hotel. Old and young, and those of us in the middle, mix
with first timers, part-timers, and other full-timers like myself. We embrace,
hug, sweat, and dance to into the morning. I had changed out of my long gown and high heels after
dinner into something more comfortable, a punk-goth-rockish look, very
different than the rest of the crowd. At one point near the end of the night I found myself with a
woman I had encountered that morning in the hotel fitness center. We had
introduced ourselves over cocktails before dinner and shared a laughed as she hadn't recognized me from the gym now all dolled up. We held each other’s hands
as we danced together and for a brief moment the world and our pasts melted
away into the night.
Below is a welcome letter I wrote as the newly elected President of the board of directors of Maine Transgender Network, AKA MaineTransNet, a statewide nonprofit dedicated to providing support, education, and resources to and for the the trans community in Maine.
Dear MaineTransNet Community, I starting writing a welcome 2015 newsletter just before learning of the tragic suicide of Leelah, a trans teenager from Ohio, and couldn’t bring myself to finishing it for a while because I was more than just sad,I felt defeated. I know that might sound arrogant, given I’d never met her or spent any time in Ohio, but I took the news very personally, not just as the new president of MaineTranNet, but because I know, like many of you know, what it’s like to feel alone, rejected, and unloved.
Thirty years ago, I was like Leelah. Seventeen, embarrassed, ashamed and confused about my identity, and I tried to end my own life. Twenty-five years later, after half a lifetime living in turmoil, self hate, and reoccurring dances with death, I made the decision to embrace my trans identity and find help. Thanks to the encouragement of my ex partner, I found my way to a MaineTransNet support group. I remember feeling both excited and extremely nervous about meeting other trans folk. I walked into the small office on Brighton Ave a little late and found three guys just hanging out, shooting the shit and eating Doritos. At first I thought I was in the wrong place, and stammered, is this MaineTransNet? They all smiled and reassured me I was indeed in the right place. I was invited to sit down, introduce myself, and join the group. It was at that moment I realized I wasn’t a freak or alone in the world, and I might live to see the second half of my life.
So it is my privilege to be welcomed as the new president of the board of directors of MaineTransNet. I'd first like to thank our outgoing president Branden Parker for his years of thankless service. With a heart of gold, Branden provided consistent and conscientious leadership that kept our engine running and I am forever indebted to his commitment to our community.
With your approval and encouragement, I will work collaboratively to uphold our mission by providing necessary support and resources for the trans community, family members, and significant others, while raising awareness about the varied forms of gender identity and expression by being a visible and active member of society and to continue to providing training and consultation, especially for mental/medical health and social service professionals.
As we welcome 2015, let’s put aside the differences that divide us, and embrace the wondrous things that unite us as a community and not lose sight of what’s really important in our lives. I will be thinking often of Leelah and will be guided by her youthful bravery, but am horribly sad to know she is dead. We are committed to challenge people’s understanding of gender by being ourselves and supporting each other with no excuses. Our lives Matter! To a peaceful New Year!
Gia Drew President, Board of Directors
If you're sad and thinking about taking your own life or know someone who might be, please call for help.
The Trevor Project for LGBTQ youth 1-866-488-7386
The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1-800-273-8255
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. 
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. 
