By my own admission, I'm one of them now. Ah, Delia and her photographs. Portraits are the peanut butter to my jelly, Sonny to my Cher. Chicago to my winter.
I've 100 Facebook albums and nearly all of them were posted after transition. Since June 21, 2011 when first coming out to The World my friends and family have been subjected to a LOT of me. Each photograph is a confirmation of who I've become and, even more so, who I'm becoming as I riff along on seemingly endless permutations of my female-ness. Even now, 10 years later, still I play with variations of clothing, hairstyles, makeup, and more subtle characteristics ... as I observe other women doing throughout their lives.
I get that, and I appreciate that you also get that and don't seem to mind too much. Photos are my bread crumbs, marking not only where I stand ... but the long, winding and incredible path where I've trod.
But it was not always so. And thereby hangs a tale.
Genesis
In the beginning, as with other creations, there was a time of darkness. What I jokingly refer to as "my awkward years". The long period when Delia was still very much in utero, residing in rather uncharted territory. Where the old was bulldozed daily and the new built quickly over its foundations, my entire gridwork constantly re-charted and re-worked. Un-becoming one person while becoming another.
And along the way, very few photographs of any sort. None shared with the outside world.
Not because my exterior was unchanged, or unremarkable. Far from it. Earliest experiments in gender were entirely of the flesh, very physical indeed. Shaving some body parts, letting others grow. Padding here, slimming there. And female garments. Shoes. Wigs. Then the mysterious world of street (not stage) makeup. New sensations and textures. Aromas. Novel ways of moving inside my own body. Even tentative explorations into how this newly female person might sound. Wave after wave of sensory and sensual experiences.
Part of me is definitely saddened, having no photographs of all this. I'm as curious any of you, wondering exactly what I looked like at each signpost. Did my legs look OK in hose even before being shaved? (Yes, I was told at the time ... the trick being to wear 2 or 3 layers of hose, masking the hair). How did my face appear, being shaved super-close twice daily? (Not so good, I vaguely recall. Very raw and prone to acne). And how successful were those first attempts at my biggest gender game-changer ... that wig?
No photos. But I definitely remember my reasons for that, and why the lens was banned from my life.
First, I was entirely obsessed with the sensations. How great my newly-smoothed legs felt; how lighter, and freer I felt in skirts than in trousers. How differently I moved in all women's clothing. The wobbly challenges of high heels, which I loved. Best of all, how much I began to actually inhabit my body, to fully live within my entire physical self and not just be peering out from behind my eyes, ensconced in thought. This wasn't just turning into "something else". Transition became a whole new way to experience myself -- from the inside out. Photos could show only the exterior, not where the real story was happening.
That was a real positive, that is with me still. But there were also down-sides.
Chiefly, the shame factor. I mean after all -- a guy, wearing a dress? Negative self-perception dogs many persons transitioning from male to female. Especially those of us raised in "Ozzie and Harriet" TV land, in less tolerant and more gender-rigid times. One never forgets the hurtful childhood words associated with feminine men -- sissy, queer, faggot. Girly. Swishy. Wimpy. Word-weapons that still do their damage today. There seemed nothing noble and everything comical about a man presenting as a woman. Since Milton Berle (and probably long before) every comedian has scored big laughs throwing on that dress.
The exceptions even seemed to reinforce the rule. Our few "successful" transsexuals were ridiculously beautiful, fashion-model types, freaks of nature you'd never guess were ever plain, much less male. Most still are -- I mean, is Laverne Cox a typical trans woman? You've got to be kidding me. Mainstream America only accepts those who are icons of female beauty. The other 99%, the people like me? Just "cross-dressers". "Drag queens".
Silly at best. Certainly nothing to brag about. Pathetic. Even disgraceful.
No souvenirs. No photos, please.
Setbacks
So no matter how wonderful it felt to become female, these negative images and voices also came along for the ride. And I was still in a relationship, a marriage, so there were two lives at play here. After a certain point you realize this isn't just some hobby, recreation, or vacation from the everyday. This is your everyday. The stakes were getting high.
And too often my thoughts seemed to be -- what the heck was wrong with me? Was this all a true need -- or a wrong turn, a sign something was wrong? Was I merely "acting out"? Was this "just a phase"? My whole life seemed framed in air quotes because the concepts, the terms that would root and represent my reality did not exist yet. So in a sense, neither did I. Only a series of endless questions.
Eventually my wife and I agreed it would be useful to see a therapist. Something easier said than done. Qualified gender therapists were not easy to find back in 2005. (They still aren't, even ten years later.) A few counselors would mention having gay clients. Well, I did not consider myself gay, but that term did seem to share the same pool of negative stereotypes I waded in, so ... I went with one of those.
What transpired deserves an entire blog post of its own. The short version is, he really helped me with one specific issue, which I'll mention in a future post. But in my gender work, I was actually shamed by my therapist. And that did not feel right. So I left after a few months, when it seemed like this "professional" was doing me more harm than good.
About this time, my work in the theatre had become a consolation and very useful distraction. Over the summer of 2005 I got involved with a reputable storefront company. Served as assistant director on a wonderful Arthur Miller play, and was slated to direct a new work in the coming season. Along with my two day jobs, this kept me busy, busy, busy.
During the run of the Miller play I even stepped in to cover for a cast member, playing one of those "wise doctor, friend of the family" parts perfected by Chekhov. Wore my grandfather's suit which, once perfectly tailored to my form, now seemed to hang on me like a foreign object. Slicked back and trimmed my every-growing hair. Even wore wing-tipped shoes ... ugh.
The total effect left me feeling as if I were wearing a gorilla suit. But it was instructive. This male thing was not going to work. Not even as a fiction, not even on stage. Indeed, this role would prove to be my last one as a male actor. But in the summer of 2005 with so much changing inside me, it also felt familiar. Portraying a guy onstage was kind of safe. Almost normal.
And to keep me on that path of Normal, I did what nearly all cross-dressing men do, especially if still in a relationship. Periodically cleared out every vestige of my female self. Clothes, makeup, wigs. Fashion magazines. And other more personal paraphernalia. Into the trash, all of it.
Its called purging. And believe me, its just as unpleasant as the kind associated with teenage girls.
We do this to deny the woman inside, sweep away the evidence. For others and for ourselves. Its a temporary antidote to all the guilt. The burden of inflicting this shameful oddity on another human being, my mate and best friend, was pretty heavy for me. So let's lighten the load, get back on track, and keep peace in the family.
I ended up purging more than once. The very last time, I experienced a severe reversal of spirit and scurried down to the alley to retrieve what I could. I peered anxiously into the dumpster. Sadly, the skip had been emptied overnight, and my heart sank.
But way down in the bottom, mired in the thick grease and who-knows-what sticky, smelly stuff, lay one of my tops. A favorite little number, black and lacy. So I leaned over, way over, and ... got it. Victory. What a huge relief. A triumph.
And also, simultaneously, what a disgrace.
It was an experience I never forgot.
Back to the Mirror
Things at home reached a critical point. I was now on a path that could not be shared with my wife. So we agreed very mutually to separate. I was grateful that we remained a part of each other's lives, and have continued to be close friends. We loved each other and still do. But in the autumn of 2005 it was clear that this relationship just wasn't a marriage any longer.
Things seemed to turn a corner when my wife left. I spent more time with my cross-dressing friends. Felt freer to explore men socially. And all of it revolved around that woman in the mirror.
I took almost no photographs but believe me, I did a lot of looking. I was encouraged, fascinated, even a little shocked. My particular physique lent itself well to transformation. What had been deficits as a male became great assets. The small hands and feet. Being skinny, with thin arms and underdeveloped chest. My face was soft-featured, anything but masculine. All good advantages straight out of the gene pool.
Still, disgusted with my sloppy mid-life male body, I was determined to do even better. At the age of 48 I found myself energized and super-motivated to at the prospect of re-making of my body. Over the last year I'd begun a fitness routine specifically designed to tighten, firm-up and hopefully de-masculinize my appearance. Daily speed-walking, for cardio health and to tighten up the gut. Complementing this, an exercise program known as Callanetics, very popular with women back in the 1980s, a series of small, repetitive and precise movements to tone without adding bulk.
And it all worked. Within a few months I not only clocked in at under 130 pounds -- more than slender on a 5' 10" frame -- but also looked and felt so better. I'd even started to eat healthier foods, more protein and less carbs, and especially at breakfast, cutting out O.J. entirely in favor of grapefruit or cranberry juice. Many small steps to better self-care, reinforced by appreciable improvements in my appearance.
Today in 2015 I'd be chronicling all this on Facebook, the ups and downs, victories and disappointments, with LOTS of photographs. Sharing everything with you, my friends. In 2005, forging out alone with almost no support network and only the vaguest idea where this might lead ... no. This journey was just for me. It had to be.
Suspension of my Career
Another turning point was my last theatre production as a male, the storefront directing gig. Not in front of the lights but with many challenges, and lots of responsibility. A good sized cast with more than its usual share of drama. A brand new play by my favorite writer, an award-winning novelist. Certain production problems. On opening night the entire house, both stage and seats, was entirely covered with sawdust -- our set was still under construction, even as audience members mingled in the lobby. Once we did get the show opened, it just kept on giving with a number of further production problems and little mutinies among the cast to resolve.
Meanwhile, I held down two other part-time day jobs, situated over 30 miles apart. And was setting up life on my own. But nobody suspected what was going on, behind the scenes as it were. Inside me.
The show finished its run in February 2006. When it did, something happened for the first time in 30 years. I stopped thinking of myself as a theatre person, as an artist. Instead, I thought of myself as ... just me. My identity no longer tethered to a creative profession. I was just a person, a civilian like everyone else.
Whatever that was, it nearly as scarey as being female. Yet like my "other" transition, it still felt right. In fact the sensation was absolutely exhilarating. Liberating.
Why? Why should an actor and storyteller, dealing in imagination and fiction, feel so constrained by that profession when changing genders? Wouldn't this be the most perfect millieu to transition within? I mean, all those gay and lesbian actors, directors, designers. A totally safe space. Right?
Nope. Not for me at least. For one thing, I'd never identified as gay. Also, it became clear to me that the theater world is not about the free expression of one's personal quirks. It's about pretending for the wonderment and betterment of the Outside World, the Mr. and Mrs. Normals who fill our seats, pay our salaries. They want entertainment -- not to know that the leading man and lady both liked guys. Or that the prince was really a princess, inside. As for my fellow artists, the whole concept of gender transitioning was just as strange and novel for them as for anyone else.
But even more to the point, the role of Theatre Person was a huge aspect of who I'd been, in the past. Which was male. Aside from one brush with a drag role in drama school, I'd only portrayed men on stage. When assuming the helm of a play as its director, every male instinct came to the fore. Acting and directing with this little storefront company, I sensed it wouldn't work. There would be no room to grow into this other person, if that was my destiny, while wearing the same old hats.
So, no more auditions. No more directing.
The necessity of this self-exile was validated the one time I accidentally ventured back. My first close transgender friend wanted to be an actress. And she was gorgeous, which is what I wanted to be. So things worked out great for us both. I happily helped her land a role, assisted with writing much of her material and with negotiating the tricky improvisation-based rehearsals. She opened to very good reviews. By this point, in late 2006, I felt somehow obliged to appear in the theatre en femme, attending performances as my female self. But all the while, constantly looking over my shoulder. Concerned that someone from my "old life" would recognize me and, as people cannot help but do, start asking a lot of questions. Questions I had no answers for yet.
Too far in to turn back, but not ready to be outed. It was way soon. Thankfully nobody ever did recognize me (at least that I know) and no uncomfortable questions came my way. Nonetheless I felt a renewed need for privacy, and secrecy. I needed a cocoon. A dark and safe place to unfold.
Neither Here nor There
By day I worked my two part-time jobs, as a man. Even though my appearance was increasingly androgynous, I still felt my secret was safe. I wore a pony tail to accommodate my growing locks. Got my ears pierced, and took more than a bit off the eyebrows. Deflecting any queries, I joked about not being able to afford a little red sports car, so did this instead. I cloaked everything in symptoms of a mid-life crisis, and from what people now tell me, it worked
By night of course, an entirely different person inhabited me. I'd wear women's clothing around the house. Going out, it was tight sparkly dresses, wigs (still), high heels, and lots of makeup. I'd hang with other trans girls at very disreputable clubs. And whenever possible, look for an interested gentlemen to buy me a few drinks.
So the daytime me was an odd, ungainly thing, no longer male nor female, and his counterpart was living a glamorous but strange life that few friends and family would understand, much less approve. The last object wanted in either world, at that time, was a camera.
But the digital age was upon us. Little point-and-shoot device were ubiquitous. And then the first iPhones with their remarkable built-in cameras. My trans friends loved taking photos, lots of photos, reveling in their female-ness and their girl-ish friends. So yours truly ended up in a few of those group shots. On my own, more advanced experiments with hair and makeup sometimes needed to be captured, for later study and to be reproduced later.
Which is why, here and there ... there are indeed a few pictures.
Glimmers in the Blackout
Now for the first time I'm sharing those photographs of the nearly-female me. Partly for your sake, to better appreciate what a long and uneven process transitioning was for me. And also for my own benefit, to remove some of the shame and shade covering those early years.
Which makes this blog post one of those uneasy turning points for me. Another instance of closing the eyes and taking a deep breath before the leap. As you look at these, remember the following:
- I still have all my beard. Under the makeup, you can see it.
- I'd not started hormones, so no breasts, just little foam-rubber fakes. No extra collagen for softening body and facial features.
- In some photos, that's my real hair, and in others, a wig. Its not hard to tell which is which.
But also remember ...
- I'd not yet made the choice to become female. I still needed a male life to counter-balance my female one.
- I was happier than I'd ever been in years.
- However good or bad I may look in a picture, it was probably the first time I'd done myself up in exactly that manner. So almost certainly I was excited, and pleased with myself beyond all deserving.
Also remember that I had a milestone 50th birthday fast approaching, with my mind and body hurtling towards the vaguest of destinations. I'm not a religious person and this transitioning thing, for better or worse, was the biggest Leap of Faith I'd ever made.
A leap into the abyss, yes, but somehow also into myself.
Breeze Before the Storm
While these first years were far from idyllic, they paled in comparison to what lay ahead. Looking at these photos now, I'm glad for my ignorance, that I had no idea of just how wide and deep the abyss would prove. Not until April 2007 would I begin my actual gender transition, body and soul, and commence my own journey into darkness.
For all the guilt, worry, chaos and concern this cross-dressing person carried along ... he/she was also a party girl at a never-ending soiree. And I'm so grateful she had those adventures. I think they helped get through some bad times, gain some confidence, establish a strong sense of who I might be. Not unlike the behaviors of a young adolescent.
These were my early teenage years, you might say. And therefore valuable. Even if seldom finding me feeling fit and ready for the camera.
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| Clubbing! Thankful for my wig and breast forms. |
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| Looking very elegant at a theatre fund-raiser. Hiding in plain sight. |
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| Summer of 2006. A close female friend showed me the ropes about makeup, clothing, and styling my own hair. |
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| At trans friend's birthday party. A rare appearance in my own hair. It would be another 2 years before feeling secure without the wig. |
1 comment:
Thanks for the great update on your journey. As much as I respected you since back-in-the-day, it's even moreso now.
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