Forgetting You're Trans

On Fear, Trans Attraction, & Navigating Public Space

Happy Transiversary to me! I can’t believe it’s been two years, and what an eventful two years it’s been. Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about ideas on passing, going stealth, and what the future holds for trans people in the United States. Despite all the chaos, I remain vigilant and hopeful of a better path forward for all of us suffering under the boot of rising fascism.

I bring these thoughts here to you, raw and unfiltered. Hopefully, you can find some solace and reflection in my words.

To anyone trans reading this, be kind to yourself and never feel like you have to hide ever again.

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“Well, this is amazing! Your levels are above average!” My doctor practically squealed over the video call as she looked at my latest blood work.

I smiled, still getting used to the specific sequence of numbers that followed the estrogen and testosterone levels of the math equation that was the result of my recent visit to the lab.

It all started eight months into my first year of (medically) transitioning. My doctor wouldn’t show it on her face, but she was pleasantly surprised; hell, I was too. My breasts had grown to almost a B cup; the added weight was filling out my curves. My body hair was thinning, and my face was smoothing out. By March, I was passing. After what felt like years of needing to advocate my gender identity, or being looked at with suspicion or disgust, I no longer had to to prove my womanhood to anybody but myself.

While “passing” is not something I strive for, it still fascinates me. I remember those first few weeks in March where I would bundle up as much as possible to battle the frigid Richmond winter air and still be taken aback at the occasional “hello miss,” and “yes ma’am,” and “mama, let me get your numbers” I’d get while walking down the street. Men’s attention is seldom appreciated, but I couldn’t help but feel just a smidge of pride at their attraction. To see others viewing my body as desirable felt nice, when I had felt so much shame prior.

By May, I felt confident to wear a bikini to the beach without feeling hideous or “clocky.” By July, I began to see my mother’s face when I looked in the mirror. By September, my curls began to fall and frame my face beautifully, growing, and growing, and still growing with no stop. And by December, my entire family was referring to me as a young woman, rarely a male pronoun uttered or spoken.

With the ability to move more freely as my authentic self came the shedding of various practices I had relied on early in my transition. I started to go out without makeup, I stopped wearing wigs, and I rarely wore heels outside a trip to the club. I felt like I didn’t have to try as hard, that I didn’t have to put on “my stuff” or “my face,” as I’d put it, to leave the house. It felt like taking my first breath after trying to catch it for so long. As the months progressed, this feeling never went away, and now two years later, I sometimes forget I’m even trans.

Or should I say, forget that I am a social pariah. It’s refreshing. Like you can just get up and go without needing to grab all the baggage of society’s transmisogyny before you walk out the door.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I smile rather than stare. Instead of picking apart my body into a crumbling mess of self-doubt and pity, I appreciate my ethnic features and love how my body feels when it’s handled warmly (thank you Ntozake Shange!) I seldom feel the pull of dysphoria on a day-to-day basis. I wake up, maybe put on a little makeup if I’m feeling nasty, put on some jeans and a cute top, and feel like that is enough. That I am enough. Not having my gender identity at the forefront of my mind 24/7 has given me mental clarity where I can worry less about how I look and focus more on how I feel.

At the start of my transition, I was so perceptive of every little thing I did: how I walked, talked, sat, or so much as looked, or rather, how I refused to look. I had a persistent fear of making eye contact with others, of letting anyone SEE me. Naturally, I wanted to protect myself, so I internalized a lot of concerning behavior: keep your head down, talk quietly, and don’t take up too much space. I stifled myself. Again, I was refusing the air that was my self-confidence and power for an illusion of safety, which only meant to suffocate me.

With time, I began to shed these insecurities and take hold of my power as a Black trans woman. To live my life for myself and my loved ones, rather than society’s respect or approval. I feel free and happy and joyful, yet something still nags at the back of my mind. A nagging thought that festers in those moments when someone flirts with me at the bar, or in the new work environment where people get my pronouns right without me having to tell them myself.

Questions such as “Let me buy you a drink” makes me nervous and “Why do you have such a masculine name for a girl?” sends me into a spiral. In these moments, the nagging voice in the back of my head whispers, “Do they know?” Naturally, I feel like the average person in America is not as preoccupied with being a transvestigator as Fox News would like us to think. And yet, this fear is persistent, creeping up with its vice grip on my throat, that I’m hiding something or being dishonest. Like I'm a fraud or I’m not as out and proud as I’d like to believe.

For trans women, there’s this danger of being perceived as a danger. Like a predator on the prowl, with nary a good intention, our detractors believe we are out to get them. “Them” in this instance changes depending on who you're asking; it could be kids, men, or other women. Who the supposed “victim” is to the wiles of trans women doesn’t matter. Instead, the point must always be that trans women are a danger to everyone they come in contact with.

Unfortunately, I’d internalize this belief in many of my interactions with others. Dating wasn’t so much of a struggle as it was a nuisance. Even if I put “trans” in my bio, guys would often ignore it when swiping. Because of this, it felt embarrassing and humiliating to even ask them questions like “I’m trans, are you ok with that?” as if my being trans and their attraction to me were a burden I had to assuage.

It was gross, I don’t do that shit anymore. However, a new anxiety has made its way into my life, and that is whether or not to disclose at work. I’m at a stage in my life where people are meeting me for the first time as my true and whole self, without all the knowledge of what had to come before reaching this point. From the countless peers, career advisors, and trusted managers, I’d been told to make sure I’m working in an environment that is accepting of all parts of me. But in a crumbling economy where jobs are few and far between, no matter your credentials, I have to take the risk in order to maintain some semblance of job security.

Still, I’m scared. Not of being hate-crimed or out-ted, but of feeling like I’m repressing myself for stability and comfort. I’m scared I’m not visible. I’m terrified that I will be put into a situation where having to disclose puts me in more danger than if I kept quiet.

In the search for my truest self, I wonder what has been lost along the way. But now and then I meet a girl while out and about. Maybe we’re in the same aisle at the store or we’re crossing opposite ends of the street, but we give each other THAT look when we find each other. A look that says “hey girl, I see you,” followed by a smile or a nod, and I know I’m still me.

With each passing day, I discover something new about myself and heal the old parts that I thought were gone. Transition is an ever-present process of reflections, realizations, and revelations (yay alliteration!) Soon, a year will turn into two, which turns into three, four, then five, and then a decade, two decades, and then the rest of your life! I can’t wait for what the future has in store. Life is exciting, if not a little bit scary. But at the end of the day, at least I can say I looked good while living it.