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
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.
