Those of you who’ve read my other posts on DDP know that I’m trans–my heart warms when old men call me “young man” or my girlfriend affectionately teases me about being “such a dude.” But I’m not trans in a predictable, linear way. The problem is that really, I straddle the fence between queer butch woman and straight man.
The decision about whether to take testosterone or not is one I’ve been pondering for years, but I’ve been thinking a lot more seriously about it recently. I look at men around me and I covet their hard bodies, their wiry legs and their stony jaws. I want to be made of sinew and rock. I want to look in the mirror and see cowboys and gladiators and hard-boiled businessmen staring back at me, depending on the day. I want to be recognized instantly as my future children’s father, without a lesson in gender non-conformity. I never want to be called “ma’am” again.
But I don’t want women to be afraid of me when I walk behind them at night. I don’t want men to assume I’ll understand them when they talk about how crazy women are. I don’t want to forget what it feels like to feel vulnerable and preyed-upon and taken advantage of and under-valued. My femininity has been my best teacher.