In which nothing special happens

Kyle approached me to write something for the lead-in to Transgender Day of Remembrance this year, and I agreed right away, but then I struggled to find something to say. It's harder to write about my life, these days. I feel like everything is pretty much normal and I'm pretty much happy, if maybe a little busy. There's nothing that requires deep self-analysis. Even when I reach some kind of important milestone-- October 28 marked one year on testosterone-- I don't feel like it's anything to write home about. I didn't celebrate; I'm not sure I even remembered to make a Facebook post. But, I'm coming to realize that the incredible thing about my life right now is that sense of normality.

All of these delightful things are now totally normal for me:

When I'm thinking about something, I'll often end up with my hands on my face-- and now there's hair there. So I'll absentmindedly brush at my tiny mustache, or the beginnings of my tragic neckbeard, and it's a satisfying feeling. It's all peach fuzz still, but I've gotten used to it.

I wear ties. I'm working in an office several days a week, so I've tied a tie often enough now that I can do it without looking in the mirror, and it no longer feels like a special occasion. It also no longer feels like any kind of sartorial transgression; what else would I wear to the office? I actually have a genuine need for a tie clip, and I can't wait until I can afford one and it, too, becomes normal.

My testosterone injections are no big deal. I switched from a daily gel to a twice-weekly injection a while ago; I don't really remember when, because... it's no big deal. I do have to make a point of scheduling the injections, because I have a friend actually give me the shot, but it's changed a lot since the first time. The first time, we had to dither over how to attach the needle to the syringe, and how to fill it with liquid, and how to find the proper injection site-- and we actually rendered that first needle useless before having the chance to use it, through sheer hilarious incompetence. (Luckily, we had a second.) This time, though, I just brought over my little cosmetics bag of supplies, and we carried on a normal conversation throughout the whole process.

My legal ID says Lawrence on it. It even says 'male'. Every time I get a paycheck or use my DukeCard to swipe into the Green Zone, I see my actual name. At first, it was a huge relief, every time I had to show legal ID for something. Now, it's just normal.

I even pass as cis. Not all the time, but often enough that it's no longer worth remembering each instance-- when I go out to eat waiters will sometimes call me sir, and so will the folks at the grocery store when I can't find something. Twice now, working at ABP, a customer has called me ma'am and I have replied by simply asking, "Did you just call me ma'am?"-- and they just apologized right away, and seemed genuinely confused at their own mistake. (This doesn't always work, but when it does, it's a beautiful feeling.) I tend to pass more in contexts where I speak less, so when I'm just wandering around town minding my own business, it's easy to just feel… normal.

Being trans is definitely still a major part of my identity. I love the fact that my top surgery left such obvious scars, because I like having evidence of my journey. I'm even glad that I wasn't born cisgendered, because I feel like I would be a completely different person if I hadn't had to go through this transition, and I'm so completely happy as the person that I am. But I enjoy it even more because, on a day to day basis, my life no longer feels like a fight.

In which I get my boobs removed

The title of this post comes from a hilarious exchange I had with one of my coworkers at Au Bon Pain. Someone I'd never spoken to before came up to me while I was standing at the cash register and, during a lull in customers, said, "So, maybe this is weird to ask, but I heard you got your boobs removed?"

She asked if it hurt (I guess, but I had lots of vicodin) and how I felt about it (really relieved) and then we had to go back to work. Afterwards, I realised that she had put together "buzz cut" plus "mastectomy" and come up with "breast cancer", but because she never asked why I had surgery, there wasn't a graceful way to correct her assumption. I've been having a lot of these kinds of conversations lately, where people ask the wrong questions so I don't know how to tell them the right answer. Mostly I'm just not that invested in other people's dumb assumptions, but the experience of being home again has really highlighted my favourite part of getting surgery: everybody I met already knew their shit.

I do mean everybody.The women at the front office of the plastic surgery institute: incredibly invested in a traditional presentation of femininity, to the point of getting plastic surgery themselves-- and yet, they were genuinely excited on behalf of the trans men getting the reverse surgery. The woman who took my money at the clinic: a professional bureaucrat-- and yet, she apologized for having to ask for my legal name and write down my sex as female. The parade of nurses who took my vitals and gave me my IV and administered my anesthesia: not in any way specialised in trans care-- and yet, a brief glance at my chart and they knew exactly which name and pronouns to use.

I'm not really a sensitive person, any more. Not when it comes to being trans, anyway. I understand that people aren't going to 'get it' right away, and I understand that they are going to be curious. When someone calls me "ma'am", they are probably just trying to be polite, and I have cultivated the habit of accepting their politeness in the spirit in which it is meant. When someone asks a personal question, they are probably just trying to learn, and I answer in good faith every question that is asked in good faith. At this point, these exchanges just don't have any sting to them.

And yet, when I got surgery, it was such a profound relief to be in a space where I wasn't constantly choosing between explaining myself or becoming invisible. It was like a fish suddenly discovering that it lived in water… by leaving the water… and breathing the air better than the water? Perhaps I am a lungfish. Perhaps this was a terrible analogy. It was like suddenly realising that I lived in a cisnormative world. Which isn't exactly a widely-shared experience, but probably more so than the lungfish thing.

To get this blog post back on track: I feel like I have a lot of friends who have the basics under control, but want to know how to be a better trans ally after all the 101 stuff. And I think the answer starts with combating cisnormativity-- which mostly means remembering, at all times, that you may not actually know the genders of the people you see around you. And you probably do not need to know. Today I actually asked for someone's number while having no clue whether they were cis male, trans male, or cis female; their gender would have eventually become relevant, but at that point I just wanted a way to contact them to talk about Doctor Who somewhere other than the crowded Amanda Palmer concert.

If you have to ask, think about what information you actually need and why you need it. If you're a doctor and you want to know if I need a pap smear, ask if I have a uterus. If you're putting together a form, think about whether you really need a legal name. (DMV: yes. Blackboard discussion forum: no.) If you're just making friends… ask my name, and where I'm from, and what kinds of books I like to read.

This, I realized, is what I most want from the people in my life: I want them to ask what they actually need to know, and then carry on with what they were doing. Or, in other words, know your shit.

In which I am not brave, I am a pathetic kitten

Okay, it's top surgery story time!

I've actually started to kind of dislike telling these stories because they tend to make people coo at me over how brave I was. This is mostly annoying for the same reason it's always annoying when people tell me I'm brave: transitioning is seriously the path of least resistance for me. But it is also annoying because these stories are meant to be funny; my woes are not pitiful, they are hilarious!

Therefore, please refrain from reading the following anecdotes unless you are prepared to find them amusing. Ready? Let's go.

I spent a week in Florida recovering from surgery. A good friend came with me, and then let me continue recuperating at her house in Georgia for an additional week. You are about to learn just how good a friend she was.

So, post-tits, I couldn't raise my arms. I thought I was prepared for the implications of this, but I was not. I could only drink through a straw (expected), from a glass lifted to my mouth (unexpected). I could brush my own teeth, but only if my friend handed me a prepared toothbrush-- and then took the toothbrush from my hand and cleaned it for me. I could sometimes get out of my chair by myself, but never out of bed-- so several times a night I would mewl my friend's name into the darkness until she woke up and lifted me upright, to let me toddle to the bathroom. Then she'd tuck me back into bed.

I couldn't get the bandage wet, so when I wanted to look presentable for an outing with a friend, she washed my hair by using all the cushions and pillows in the room to construct the perfect support for me to lie on the floor of the bathroom with my head over the tub. (Pictured: the deeply ridiculous ice cream which was my reward for flopping about on the tile.)

I repaid her by being truly terrible company. Mostly I slept and marathonned Mad Men while she… kept track of my medication schedules, I'm not really sure. (I told you I was terrible!) Never before has the phrase 'weak as a kitten' been more accurate. My first meal, I got tired halfway through and had to be spoon-fed the rest. My friend tied a piece of string around me so I wouldn't forget myself and reach too far, but it was a moot point.

I did get better, but the healing process was equally a process of adjusting expectations. It felt like genuine independence, the first day that I was able to finish putting on my own underwear after my friend had held them out for me and lifted them up to my knees. And once we'd returned to her house, I could even get out of bed all by myself! (Mostly by letting my lower body fall onto the floor, so I could get into a sitting position and then stand up from there, but it still counts.)

But for those first two weeks, I was so distracted by the unexpected absurdity of my situation-- and so removed from any of the social contexts which might reasonably have been affected by the change in my appearance-- that it was actually a bit difficult to remember that I wasn't just binding too hard. It didn't start to sink in until the day before I wanted to drive home to NC, when I grabbed a bra to put my tits on for a trip to the mechanic and… had no tits. I still get a little cheerful surprise every now and then, when I wake up and realize they're still gone. I'm not sure I'll ever stop being chuffed that I can leave the house without any ridiculous torso undergarments-- it's just so much easier!

And I guess that's the moral of the story: I am incredibly lazy, but I have folks looking out for me and that makes my life pretty good. Also: 'cosmetic' surgery, my ass.

In Which I Wax Poetic

Lately I've been telling a lot of people about my favourite poem. Lucky you, I'm gonna tell you too! My favourite poem is by Williams Carlos Williams:

This Is Just To Say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

For me, this is a poem about not having regrets. He says "Forgive me," but he doesn't say "I'm sorry"-- he says, "they were delicious." For me, this poem is about not apologizing when I'm not sorry. It's about being able to acknowledge the collateral damage of my choices without ever forgetting why I made those choices. It's about choosing the things that I actually want, instead of the things that will result in the least resistance from others. So it's a very soothing poem for me; I've had this poem memorized for years, and I like to turn it over in my mind, like a worrystone, reminding myself of its shape.

Regret has played a huge role in my life thus far. I have regretted pretty much every life decision I've ever made, ever. I regret both of my serious girlfriends, each in their own way. I regret coming to Duke. I regret leaving Duke to go on medical leave. I really regret coming back. I have regretted every purchase and every joke I have ever made. I regret 90% of my social interactions-- and I definitely regret every time I've gotten drunk.

I don't always regret these things-- in fact, most of the time, I'm okay with the decisions I make, or at least I'm able to move on. It's just the awful social anxiety that makes me replay everything in my head, late at night when I'm trying to sleep, and everything I do seems so much stupider-- it's only in those moments that I regret. Well, and then in the morning I regret spending so much time focusing on my regrets.

But this is changing. More and more, I'm able to remember why I made the choices I did-- and more importantly, I'm able to remember the positive outcomes of those choices, and not just the negative ones. My regrets are more fleeting and less heartfelt, and they never keep me awake any more.

And, I now have two major life decisions under my belt which I have never regretted, not even for a moment. The first is my decision to write a thesis. For the first time, I allowed myself no excuses. I turned in a project that was the very best I can do. This is honestly pretty scary, because it means that if my advisor says it isn't any good, I can't blame something else-- it'll mean that I'm not very good at what I do. But that would be better than failing because I'd never even tried. Even then, I wouldn't regret.

The second thing I never regret: starting testosterone. It's been a little over five months; people have been commenting that they can see changes-- a little fuzz on my cheeks, a different shape to my face, a deeper voice. I don't see any of it, but I do feel... different. More solid. More okay.

I don't think I could have written my thesis, without testosterone. For one thing, T cured my writer's block! I hadn't even realised how hard writing had gotten until it was suddenly easy again. But more than that, being on hormones, and therefore making progress on the path I want to live-- it allows me to just not think about all my personal shit all the goddamn time, so I can think about Romantic-era novels instead.

I still waffle a little about some parts of transitioning-- I really love the middle name Isaac, for example, because I like the name and I like the homage to Isaac Asimov, but it makes my initials LIE, and LIE is even worse than LEG. But testosterone-- every single day I feel more at home in my body, more content with the direction of my life. I've been having a hard time, lately, explaining How I Know that I'm trans, since I don't fit a "typical" trans narrative, and I didn't Know until pretty recently. But the answer is-- I never regret a single step that I take toward transition. On testosterone, I feel more like myself. And for the first time, I also feel happy about being myself. I can actually imagine a future in which I don't regret anything. It's a remarkable new outlook.

So these days, when people ask me how I'm doing, I say I'm fine, or I even say I'm great-- but inside, I'm always thinking, delicious.

In which I am still coming out, forever

Coming out never ends. Not exactly news; the only surprise is that I haven't written a blog post about it yet. But, well, it's a new semester and that means a new batch of professors and classmates to explain myself to. And I realised today that I haven't bothered to Explain Myself to any of them. In fact, it's been a long time since I've properly come out to anybody.

Now, to a certain extent, I don't need to come out because the bureaucracy loves to out me. On the official class roster given to all of my professors, for example, my name is "Lavinia Bandersnatch (Lawrence)"* -- an arrangement borne of a deep failure to understand the meaning of a preferred name. But when one of my instructors called me Lavinia, I just told him that he'd gotten my name wrong. He cheerfully crossed out the Lavinia and circled the Lawrence and hasn't made a mistake yet. And I cheerfully did not volunteer any explanation whatsoever.

But most of the time, I'm not even doing the reduced coming-out of telling someone my name has changed. Most of the time I'm just introducing myself as Lawrence and carrying on with my life. A lot of people probably just I'm a girl named Lawrence and carry on with their lives. But if you get to know me, you'll... get to know me. It's a tautology but it's what happens. I talk about being the only guy in a Jane Austen class, or being in a fraternity, or whatever, and people figure it out. (Or maybe they know me from the blog, or noticed the disappearing-reappearing tits, or ohmigod maybe they think my moustache is growing in!) It doesn't matter; I end up with acquaintances who know I'm a transman without ever having to have The Conversation with them.

I'm growing to really like this way of being out, because I feel like I'm starting to really enjoy my transition as something focused on myself. The 'trans 101' version of my life story is not the same as my actual life. My actual life is a lot of things; it is my moustache and my thesis; Sherlock and approximately seven chest hairs; walks in the gardens and Shakespeare and having a lot of blood drawn; my life is on my own terms. And I love it.

But there's still that part of me that's almost annoyed that coming out is different for me again, and yet still always there. I started the post with this because I think it might be the most relatable aspect of my life right now; I've had a lot of different 'strategies' for coming out, and I've gone through phases of aggressive announcements and phases of quiet hints, and the only unchanging element was the fact that there are always more people to tell. Or to not tell. The decisions of who, how, and when-- they never stop coming back.

When I first came to Duke, I thought I had perfected the process of coming out. The first time I met somebody, I didn't mention anything queer. If I saw them again, I'd look for chances to make some kind of gay joke at my own expense, or to reference my ex-girlfriend; I would drop exactly two of these hints to determine if I was going to tell them. (It was soothing to Have A System; if anything went wrong, it wasn't my fault.) If I decided to tell them, I'd drop a third hint, and then say, "Oh, did you know that I'm a lesbian? Ha, ha! Turns out I am a lesbian!" -- and then usually they would ask questions and we would have The Conversation and I would be another one-sixtrillionth closer to informing the entire planet that I was Definitely A Lesbian.

Then I started kissing boys and binding and it all got very confusing for a time, and I had to change everything. And then I had to change it all again, and again. And probably, six months from now, I'll write a completely different blog post about how I thought I had finally gotten used to coming out, and finally finished telling everyone who needed to know -- and it'll all change again. And I don't know if folks who aren't queer feel the same way about their own identities, in different respects, or if this one is Just For Us. But at this point, it feels like it's just how things go.

*Ok, that's a lie, it didn't really say Lavinia Bandersnatch, it had my legal girl name on it. But I don't give that out any more so you get a fake name. It's even more aggressively, pretentiously British than my real name, so of course I adore it. I should never reproduce, I'd name my children terrible things.

In which I begin testosterone

On October 28 -- a month ago tomorrow -- I took my first dose of testosterone.

Since everybody always asks: it's a gel, that I apply to my shoulders. It comes in little packets. I take it every day.

Since nobody asks: it reeks of alcohol in a way that makes the whole process feel clinical and maybe a little alienating. I have to wash my hands afterwards and be careful not to touch my female friends.

Maybe I'm unusual in feeling this way, but I don't feel like I've crossed a milestone. I don't think transitioning has any milestones, not really. Well, there are milestones -- markers that show you where you are on your path -- but there are no thresholds. It's not a journey with a grand arrival, where you walk through a door and declare, "Today I am a man, whereas yesterday I was not."

I don't think it's even a journey at all, not really. I don't feel like I'm going anywhere. I've been here the whole time. I'm just putting my affairs in order. I can see alteration within myself, but no change from one clear category to another; it all just blends together into the process of growing up, the inevitable effect of time on a person's character. Starting testosterone is like declaring my major - a formalization of a longstanding internal shift.

And yet, it seems like testosterone has become a symbol for my entire transition in others' minds. There's a clear before and after in people's reactions. People comment on perceived changes all the time; to a certain extent, it's painful to have to say "no, you're imagining it, I don't have facial hair yet," or "no, my voice hasn't started changing," or "no, I haven't put on muscle" -- I really want to say yes to all of these things, and it's frustrating to be put in the position of denying them. Or, in some cases, I feel like I have somehow changed categories in the other person's mind, and they now think of me as being a transman 'for real'; people have started taking my transition seriously in a way that only reveals that they weren't taking it seriously before.

I don't want the tone of this post to be misleading -- in their own way, these are both positive things. It's great to hear that my friends perceive me as more masculine, even if their perception is based more on my changing attitude than a physical alteration. And it's great for people to realise that I am serious about my transition.

Moreover, I'm thrilled to be on testosterone. When I applied my first dose, I was so happy I literally cried. I was euphoric for a solid day. And now I can think about the future and feel excited about it. My 'dysphoria fits' do still happen, but they are always bearable, in a way they never used to be before. Even the decision itself helped me, independent of the testosterone; since I decided not to wait for my parents' approval for this choice, I've become a lot more independent in general. My relationship with my parents is more of a relationship between adults.

I just don't think that starting testosterone changed me.

This Thanksgiving, I went home to my family. Everyone knew I was trans, but no one knew I was taking testosterone. We didn't talk about it. And I had a blast, because I still love my family, and I still love spending time with my brothers. I was really nervous about my brothers in particular, because I was worried things would become awkward between us; the most valuable part of my relationship with them has always been how comfortable things always are between us. But we made each other laugh just as much as ever.

I hope my parents noticed how much fun this weekend was. If they do, I hope it helps them understand that my goal isn't to completely destroy my former life and to become a stranger -- my goal is just to grow up and become myself. Just like anyone else.

In which I don't want to talk about my feelings any more

[In addition to all of our awesome visible and identifying columnists, we also have some awesome anonymous columnists that for one reason or another must use a pseudonym not their full name (and pseudopic?). Details on anonymous columnists here.]

Hey there. So, last week I came out to one of my professors. I also got called ma'am approximately eighty-four thousand times. And I confirmed with my mom that next weekend we're gonna go to DC for several days of solid "girl time." So, last week, I was exhausted; this week, I just have nothing more to give.

So, rather than rely on my utterly-depleted emotional resources for a post, I'm just gonna fact-dump on you and talk about binding. I assume somebody will be interested, anyway; I feel like a lot of people want to know The Details but very few ask. Caveat: this is very much about my experiences. I'm pretty sure things are a little different for everyone.

The first time I bound my breasts, it for Hallowe'en. My senior year, my gay ex-boyfriend was Belle, my best friend (female) was the Beast, and I was Gaston. My girlfriend helped my best friend and I bind in the morning before school, with duct tape. The critical thing with duct tape is not to put it directly on your skin! We took control-top pantyhose and cut off the legs and crotch, and used the waist part as a sort of tube-top. Then, starting at the top, we wrapped the tape around and around over top of the hose. I actually just stood there with my arms up and let my girlfriend do all the work, because I wasn't exactly shy about having her touch my breasts; I think I got much better results that way, because I didn't have to worry about twisting around and potentially dislodging things.

The results were quite good, and not too uncomfortable-- while they lasted. Duct tape, it turns out, doesn't exactly breathe! I started to sweat underneath the binder, and the whole tube started to work its way lower and lower on my torso. Suddenly, in the middle of Scripture class (really!), my boobs popped free over the top of it, and I had to sit through the rest of the class with a duct tape tube hanging loosely around my waist and bare breasts jiggling under a flimsy shirt. Luckily, I had lent my ex-boyfriend one of my bras to hold his fake breasts, so I didn't have to go the rest of the day bra-less, but I did still have to get the binder off. Which meant... cutting it off. I had to borrow some heavy-duty scissors to have a hope of cutting through the multiple layers of duct tape, and it was still a slow and sticky process. A slow, sticky, process happening immediately next to my skin. And my boobs. For that reason alone I could never recommend binding with duct tape regularly: when the scissors get stuck in the tape, and you're trying to force them out, there is no safe course of action. You just have to be lucky.

I tried Ace bandages next, the three-inch-wide ones that I already owned due to my weak ankles. This was years later, and I was binding in order to explore my own gender identity. I was never satisfied enough with the results to leave the room with them on, though, so I ordered a binding shirt from Underworks. The first one I got was basically just a long tank top made of nylon and spandex, and I really liked it. To put it on, I have to step into it like it was a skirt and then work it up my body (it's really right!). It's an awkward process but eventually I'm able to put my arms through the straps and then reach into the shirt to arrange my boobs. The compression is really powerful and the shirt smooths everything out and doesn't show under clothes, so I really love it.

At least, until it starts to roll up... the bottom of the shirt is supposed to be near my hips, tucked into my pants, but dude pants aren't exactly tight around the hips so the bottom often rolls up to my natural waist. The thick roll of bunched-up shirt is quite tight and uncomfortable, and I always feel like it emphasizes my natural hourglass shape. (If you've ever seen me fidget with my shirt a lot, or "go to the bathroom" several times for extremely short trips, I am probably trying to fix this. It hurts!)

Sometimes to pre-empt this problem, I put the shirt on and then immediately pull the bottom of the shirt up to my chest (as if I were going to turn the shirt inside out and take it off) and wear it with two layers over my chest. I feel like it's hard to describe-- I roll the bottom up over the main shirt, so the hem is at my collarbone. Of course, from this position it can slide down, bringing me back to the same situation as before, but I find it easier to tug it back into place before catastrophe strikes when it's doubled up.

The best solution to the rolling problem, though, is the version of this shirt with little shorts attached to the bottom. I step into it and pull it on the same way, but because the bottom is actually attached to something that can't move, there's no rolling. There's no need to fidget with it, so it's so comfortable I forget I'm wearing it at all... until I have to pee. To go to the bathroom, I have to undress completely. This is extra-annoying if I am wearing a suit. So many layers! It gets in the way of enjoying myself because I'm always worrying about whether or not I'm going to need to pee.

I've been getting more frustrated with my Underworks shirts lately, and less willing to put up with their drawbacks. So one night, when I'd left both binding shirts at my girlfriend's by mistake and needed to wear a suit, I tried binding with the Ace bandages again. Unexpectedly, I was really happy with the results.

I used two three-inch-wide, several-yard-long bandages of quite nice quality. (Most transmen online recommend six-inch-wide bandages but I'm using ones that I already had for my ankles.) Starting as high as possible, and pulling tight, I wrap them around my torso. I don't wrap too far past the end of my boobs (which about where my ribs end, thanks to the squish factor) and when the second bandage runs out, I tuck the end up underneath the bottom of the binding. I've never had a problem with the bandages slipping down like the duct tape or rolling up like the binding shirts, but I trade those for the problem of... potentially causing myself serious harm. I'm pretty sure men have actually fractured their ribs, binding too hard with Ace bandages. To reduce the risk, I breathe in deeply before I start wrapping and try to keep my chest expanded the whole way through. I also make sure not to pull the bandages to the very tightest they can go. It can sometimes be uncomfortable, and look lumpy under a thin shirt (especially if I'm sloppy), but with the multiple layers of a suit it doesn't show very much and I've grown to like it, because it's not fidgety and it doesn't make me feel like my entire body is encased in a cocoon.

I'm gonna go ahead and open the comments section up to all your questions, especially any you might have about the practical aspects of transition. If you're curious about transwomen, my girlfriend has agreed to answer questions as well. And if you're embarrassed, you can always comment anonymously! I love to hear from you.