Fork

The transitioners often see those who limit transformation to be less womanly than they are, but it’s my experience that many transition with bull stubbornness, and those of us who are more sensitive, nuanced, aware and connected see the limits of demanding that others accept who we claim to be. It’s always been my sense about you kiddo, not that you are not trans and femme, but that you are more vulnerable at deep levels, probably something your lovely GF finds irresistible about you.
(My note to a friend)

I wasn’t the most happy at SCC07 in the conference hall. I was most happy popping up to the mini-mart to get one of those Cokes that are killing me, walking in the world as if it was made for me.

My sister’s solution for me is that I spend days away from my parents in my own expression. It’s what TBB suggests too, because from her kinesthetic viewpoint, unless you express who you are physically, it doesn’t exist; you are not woman, you are man.

That feels like the wrong expression for me. I shaved and have my jacket, dress, tights and boots on and I am thinking about going to the service at the church that includes transgender welcoming on their website. But I know that as long as I have to feel closeted, sneaking out of here and wondering how I get back, unable to be in my center and connect, well, I’m just going to be another stranger on the edge.

“You have no more work to do emotionally,” said TBB, “but you do need four or five trips to Electrology 3000, facial liposuction, weight loss, cute new glasses and a long course of hormones.”

I know that it is only when I lift my head up that I can be open enough to walk in both power and vulnerability. The rules about dressing down to blend in are all well and good, but dressing up to stand out also has its power, and that is power you need to be centered in, power I need to be centered in.

Stick a fork in me, I’m done, and that means there is a fork to be taken.

But dang, the one thing I don’t want is to clank around in transsexual armor.

Fork that.

One thought on “Fork”

  1. i’ll take the armor. it is infinitely preferable to the madness of an iron mask.

    and the stuff breathes, you know. you keep it polished, you wear the joints just so, and it becomes skin… just as as permeable, just as sensitive, as what you were born with. and in some places maybe even a bit more so.

    i’ll take the armor. i’ll take the pride that i never had. i’ll take the quills and learn to be more delicate here, completely brazen there.

    it’s hard-won and well-worn. i wouldn’t trade this steel for the world.

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