When I was born, my parents thought I
was a girl.
It’s a simple sentence, and one I
sometimes use when explaining my history to
others. “Oh,” they nod, not
understanding at all, “That must have been
difficult.”
They look at my neat beard and listen to my
gentle baritone and make up their own minds. He.
Him. His. Sometimes they ask more questions, and
I explain that my body doesn’t make enough
testosterone so I need to supplement it with
regular injections. Most people are too polite
to inquire any further.
Sometimes it is that simple for me. I
don’t know why, but it seems my body is
designed to run best with testosterone levels at
about the usual male range. This gives rise to a
range of physical features which mean I am
habitually perceived as male. And, like most
people who have been through a male puberty, I
have become something of a man. But it’s
not always that simple and it’s not always
that neat. Go past my fondness for facial hair
and my gender starts to get messy.
I used to think I was a girl as well. Oh
there were signs, if you know what to remember,
there were always signs that I wasn’t quite
like other young female people, but it was never
as clear as the stories I hear from transsexual
men. They knew they were boys, right from when
they were little. I just thought I’d become
a man when I grew up. And when I realised that
wasn’t going to happen, I tried to forget
about it. Forget gender and my body and the
whole inexplicable mess of puberty that was just
about to hit. It didn’t work. I felt sick
and disconnected until I realized it might have
something to do with looking so strange.
After many years of trying to work it out,
and one or two of almost doing so, I spend my
life in a variety of genders. Or rather, being
seen as a variety of genders. At work, on the
bus, in those half-glances as I walk down the
street, I’m simply a man. I enjoy the
unconventional knowledge being raised as a girl
has given me, and feel slightly awkward when
it’s evident I’m missing some of the
experience I would have gained as a boy. I play
with assumptions but leave some questions
unanswered. You’re unlikely to give me a
second glance.
Most of my time, I’m a transperson. My
friends make the right assumptions from my
jumble of gender cues because they roughly know
what my body looks like under my clothes and
they’re aware of my past. Strangers
don’t know what to assume. They try to look
when I’m not looking at them and I see by
their expression that they don’t know how
to add me up. I’m not ashamed of being
confusing. I’m not embarrassed by my body
or the way I speak or what it is that I say.
My masculinity is transgendered, built on my
experiences as a female person, and a male
person. It is based on observation and a little
bit of envy. It is based on a dislike of what
makes me feel stiff and uncomfortable, it is a
celebration of what makes me feel whole.
I’ve ignored it and doubted it, but my
masculinity is solid. It is my way of being a
good person.
There are guys with ts who are surprised that
I would keep my female first name, not be
interested in surgery, not hide some of the
female characteristics of my body.
There are genderqueer folk who are surprised
that I live so much of my life as a man.
I’m trying to explain my experiences and my
identity here to show that although there is
much that is different from those of other
peoples, there is also much in common.
Whatever we may have been or may become,
there was a moment when people thought we were
something else.
When I was born, my parents thought I was a
girl.
