Аннотация: Прекрасная и отважная Диана Перейра перевела "Я здесь" на английский язык. Бесконечное спасибо до Луны и до Солнца.
I am here.
Author: Ashe Garrido Translation: Diana Pereira
WHAT'S THIS BOOK ALL ABOUT
Hello there, my dear reader.
This is somewhat of an introduction, which I'm composing while almost done working on the book itself. This is where I tell you what to expect while turning these pages.
In this book I'm mainly talking about myself. I tell stories about myself, ask questions about myself and share my own personal views and opinions. I don't think I'm right about everything. I'm not trying to prove anything indubitable. But this is my opinion and there it is. And I would like to share it with you, along with the most precious and unique thing any of us could have: personal experience. It's precious, because we pay for it with our lives, at once or by installments. And it's unique, because it's personal and two people at a same event see and experience it differently.
So I'm talking about myself, and that means the subject of this book is a transgender person who looks like a woman but feels and perceives himself as a man. I will tell you my story as honestly and as openly as I possibly can. And that, by the way, does not imply any intimate revelations or stories regarding my sexual experiences. It is an important part of our lives, but I tend to only discuss it with people who are very close to me, and also with my doctor and my therapist, if needed. But as to the rest of it, like my thoughts and other people's thoughts about me, my quests and doubts, questions and answers, every hardship and joy of being me and what it's like to be "different" and to live with it every day - I will happily and candidly share all that with you on the following pages. Don't expect a sequential presentation of events or a consistent plot, nor any ready-to-use tips and advices. Just lots of questions and tragically little answers, and even those will not necessarily work for you even if they work for me. Bits and pieces of my life randomly pulled and mixed.
It took me two years to write this book, for two years I was living by its side. I was changing, the situations were changing, my views and opinions on different aspects of life were changing as well. That's why the thoughts expressed in the first chapters of this book might differ significantly from the conclusions I came to in the process of writing and living during these two years. I've decided to leave everything as it is so the reader does not get the ready-to-use recipes, but the creative process, the way another human being lives and reflects on life, on whatever is happening to them right now, as we speak. I think witnessing this sort of evolution could be very valuable.
In this book, I'm also quoting other people, transgender or not. I'm very grateful they agreed to share their very own experience and opinions, which is priceless. I ended up getting so many of these testimonies, that at some point it stopped being my book, and became ours. I did not expect to get such a big response, to hear so many stories in return for mine. At some point I felt that my voice is being lost in the crowd. And yet I want those voices to be heard. I'm overwhelmed with deepest gratitude towards my co-authors. You will find their testimonies in between the chapters. Each of them is signed according to contributor's will.
***
Why did I venture into telling you all that? Because I think that our collective knowledge about humans and humanity is far from being complete, and the process of discovering and acknowledging new sides of a human nature is taking place right now. Applied into the everyday life, this means that more and more people who used to be considered "abnormal" because of their gender and sexuality, now dare to declare that everything is fine with them, thank you very much. And this also means that every day more and more people discover that they friends, family, neighbors and lovers are "different": different from how we used to see them, different from the majority, different from our perception of the normal. But they still remain our near and dear ones, our friends, neighbors, co-workers. So how do we survive that, how do we cross this very shaky (for all parties involved) bridge with dignity and mutual support? How do we learn to understand those "different" ones and learn to treat them right?
In my opinion, it would be easier for everybody if we just started telling each other what we actually think and how we feel, and what difficulties we experience during these encounters. We would be able to better understand each other and possibly fear each other less. In any case, it's worth trying.
Well, I suppose that is all I wanted to say in the introduction.
And so I give the floor to me. To us.
I AM HERE.
When I was a kid, I saw this movie about Russian revolutionists
And there was this scene, were few of them come to the riverbank at night to meet the boat which brings the edition of an underground newspaper. One of them held a big lantern, just like the railroad workers used to have, and he began sending signals with it, covering it with the hem of his coat and flashing it again. And a voice in the dark repeats the same thing, only with words: I am here... I am here...
I'm not sure why, but I've been keeping in my heart for many years those light signals amongst the darkness. When I feel the current of life sweeping me away, into the dark and the unknown, I would like to see such a signal, someone's flickering light: I'm here. There's a shore nearby, and there are people on this shore, friends, comrades. And I would also like to have such a lantern and flash it for others: I'm here, I'm here. On this shore, there is life. This shore is within your reach.
There is only one way to light up this lantern that I know of . Well, there are many, of course. But I'm only familiar with one.
I'm going to tell you about myself.
So when have I began this speech?
Perhaps it was when a pretty girl told me in patronizing voice, "You see, you don't have to be a man to love a woman". And I froze - all of me, my thoughts, my emotions, my entire being - bumping into these words. I suddenly realized that she got me totally wrong. Who did she see when she looked at me? A woman from USSR, where sex didn't even exist, let alone love between two women? I can't tell you for sure, but it definitely seemed that way. But the thing was, it had nothing to do with me at all. I knew about a possibility of same-sex love. But for me, attraction towards women was of an absolutely heterosexual nature. I wasn't a woman. And it wasn't a question of who I love. It was a question of who I am. She was not the last woman who couldn't see me.
She was the first one, sure. But not the last.
*Lenal:
"Many people confuse sexual orientation with gender identity. It goes beyond their everyday life, so they don't have the need to try and wrap their brains around it. Well, it's just like not having to know the difference between credit and collection, unless you work in a bank or in a foreign trade".
*Ethan:
"I have discovered different types of queerness, the definitions and classifications well after I've started feeling that I myself was changing. Between the beginning of the changes and running across any information at all there have been three or four years of pain and suffering."
*Dean:
"Once upon a time, the world I'm living in insisted that there are only two genders - and I've accepted that. And I've defined people either as male or female according to the conventional identification marks, based on how they looked and spoke. Then I came upon new facts, new information: beside the biologic sex, there's also gender, and there are more than two possibilities - and I accept that too. And I refer to people the way they refer to themselves. Just because it is the way it is. What person says and does is more important than how this person looks."
THE PHONE BOOTH
At that time I found out there was a need for me to explain something very important about myself in order to be correctly perceived. It means a lot to me. When people misperceive me, when they mistake me for someone else, I feel weird. Hey, who were you talking to just now?
That's why I have to explain, time after time, that I'm not this and not that, and not that either. And after a while, I begin loosing myself: if I'm not this and not that, who am I?
This one time, during a big pilgrimage, I had a conversation with a priest.
Can you imagine? I'm also a catholic, on top of everything. Everything about me is upside down, it's just like my mom used to say: all the other kids are normal, and you...
And me...
And what about me? Here I am, all of me, I'm honest, just brave enough, just timid enough. Don't like to lie, but not always have the guts to tell the truth and thus keep quiet. But at that pilgrimage it was important to me to be heard, to be understood. I wanted to be there as a whole, and not just polite and socially acceptable parts of me. That's why this conversation occurred.
"And while you shower, do you feel repulsion towards your own body?" - "No..."
This body has nothing to do with me; it's like a Halloween costume that won't come off. I find it hard peeping out of it to tell the world about myself. But repulsion is too strong of a word, and then again, this body was given to me by the God, isn't it right, father?..
"And could you go topless on the beach?"
"Ah... uhmm... No."
"But I do understand, father, I do, that this is... That I look this way. The wrong way. This is not how I'd like to look on the beach. This is something else, somebody else; this has nothing to do with me. This would make me even more invisible!"
"You see, and if you really were transsexual you would be disgusted by your own body, and wouldn't be shy to go topless on the beach."
A year later we met again, on the same route Lida-Budslav.
Between our first and second conversations, I called a helpline, but I'll tell you about that later.
So we met again, walking in the same direction, same asphalt under our feet, and I told him that surviving this year was really tough.
"I didn't think you were that serious" - he replied. - "I was sure it's because of the media, nowadays they write a lot about it".
The asphalt dissolved under my feet, I was suspended in a void.
I have barely made it through the night one day, about a week after returning from the first pilgrimage. It was still dark when I came out and reached the junction - it was prior to all the cell phones, at least none of my friends had them yet. Neither did I. Back then, there wasn't even a landline phone where I lived. But on the junction, where two little streets covered with old linden trees intersected, there was a phone booth. It was an old neighborhood, right next to a wasteland and a big ravine filled with overgrown weeds. Wandering there at night wasn't safe. But for me, it was safer than staying home alone. I wasn't sure I could hang in till the morning. No, I wasn't planning a suicide - not yet, anyway. But the pain was so severe, a real pain in my chest, right in the middle, a burning pain, so sharp and intense I could no longer take it. I was almost ready to do anything in order to stop it. It felt like I was dying anyway. Just from the pain alone. So I found a note with a phone number of a helpline which I had written down just in case, and went out to the junction, to use the phone. Not the best spot for talking to a therapist, of course. But there was no other spot. Well after midnight, in my hometown it was nowhere else I could turn for help... This is where I pause and ask myself: what kind of help was I looking for? Was it comfort? Support? Or maybe I just needed to complain about the pain? To be heard? To be noticed? To acknowledge my very existence?
A woman answered the phone. I don't know what was her name, how old she was, what did she look like and how she ended up on the other end of that line.
I told her that I could not use female pronouns. Couldn't think about myself as a woman. That I have tried. That I've just returned from a pilgrimage and that right now, I'm wearing a blouse and a skirt, and - yes, it looks good, I realize it looks pretty, I have a beautiful feminine body and if you're looking from the outside, this type of clothes suits me. But it's not who I am. This is not me.
I told her it was very hard for me, I could no longer bare it and didn't know what to do. That I didn't want to become a "normal woman", but I didn't know what else I could do, and it hurt so much...
I was still talking when the line got disconnected, but only on my end. And she started calling "Miss, hey, miss! Hello! Miss, I cannot hear you!"
There was true concern in her voice. But it seemed to me that she wasn't hearing me even before the line got disconnected. I hung up and went home - through the junction under the linden trees, wearing a long pleated skirt and a white blouse, alone in the dark.
I cannot remember what I was doing afterwards. Guess I was just sitting there. And then I fell asleep.
And he talks to me about the media.
*Nastya Majere:
"When my husband was 10 or 11 years old, he read in a newspaper about gender reassignment surgeries. First he was surprised and excited to find out that he wasn't the only one in the world, and that there was a chance to make it all ok...and then he reached the paragraph in the article that said you have to be at least 25 to have the surgery...
I often think about how at the same age that I was still playing with my toys, the love of my life was trying to hang himself in the bathroom. And that he could have succeeded... And I feel completely helpless when I think about the great abyss between transgender people and their true selves because of our rules and laws, and our indifference.
"You only have to suffer just a little longer: just this much and then some, and..." and then "You'll have your new ID all right, just cut off all the unnecessary parts first - because if a man gives birth, how are we supposed to register that? And why would people like you want kids, anyway?" "What gender reassignment, if you like men anyway? The last thing we need is more faggots!" (Apologies for the language - I'm quoting a certain psychiatrist)."
*Sasha Kniazev:
"I'm a catholic and a post-op transgender man. For the church, I'm invisible.
I can be open with people about who I am, and I'm normally striving for that, but not with the clergy. In their vast majority, they don't even understand what is it all about, and they see homosexuality as a reason for transsexuality.
Long ago, I've decided that having faith and being transgender was obviously a conflict, and I had to choose. First I chose faith, and afterwards - being transgender. But it's not one or the other, really, if they are both parts of the same person. Quiet recently, I was able to combine both, but not completely. I know that that the church has its rules regarding non-op Trans people, but there's nothing about the post-ops, other than general phrases about how gender reassignment is a sin and against God's will. Then again, the Pope has addressed the subject, with about the same statement. I hope one day it would be possible to discuss this matter in different churches, catholic and protestant. But I think this issue is being neglected".
*N.U:
"Trauma is known to isolate people, to cut them off of the society. That's the only possible explanation I've got to the fact that I knew nothing about Trans people and transsexuality as a phenomenon, till I was approximately 28 years old. (And that's despite the fact that I was interested in physiology of the brain, and in physiology of a human body in general, and there were some Trans people among my acquaintances). I didn't know it could be treated, didn't know that I needed to be acknowledged. In fact, I didn't really need that, as I don't need that now. I follow the route I chose; for me, gender reassignment was a medical necessity (if it wasn't for a hormonal turmoil, I think I could keep living just the way I was); undoubtedly, many things have changed after the gender reassignment- but generally, nothing has really changed. Right now, I'm surrounded by so many different people - transgender, bigender, queer-gender, androgens, men, women... this concerns me very little, mainly when it comes to my job (I'm a manual therapist)."
HAT OR NO HAT
There's another story I'd like to share with you.
But first - an old Soviet army joke:
"A private walks past a couple of sergeants. One of them comes up to the private and knocks his hat right off his head.
"Why are you wearing a hat?" (The private holds the hat in his hand).
"Why aren't you wearing a hat?" - And he slaps the private again.
The other sergeant interferes and says he can't abuse the private just like that. You have to be smart about it. "Tell him to bring you coffee. If he brings you a black coffee, slap him. If he puts cream in it, slap him anyway".
So the private walks away to fetch the coffee, but turns around and asks, "Would you like some cream in it?"
And now I'm going to tell you a story about how I was such a sergeant to myself. Friends of mine, Orthodox Christians, invited me to their church for an Easter mass. And maybe the Easter came early that year, or maybe the winter just lingered on - it sometimes happens in our town, but anyway, a snow blizzard hit all of a sudden in the middle of spring. I can't really remember what was up with the weather, but I was wearing a thick winter coat and a hat. It was a blue woolen hat with grey stripes and a pom-pom.
The church was full of people. I was standing next to my friends, everybody around me were Orthodox and I was Catholic, but I didn't mind, I felt good, I was in my Father's holly house. I was surrounded by people, and everybody's' faces were glowing with heavenly light, and the candle lights were swaying with their breath, and angel-like voices were flowing from above. And only one question was eating me from inside, it just wouldn't let me be.
As a Catholic man in a house of God I was supposed to take my hat off, right?
But as a woman in an Orthodox church - I was supposed to cover my head!
But I'm a man, okay? I have already admitted to that during a confession, acknowledged myself before God, as is! That means the hat has to come off. So I take it off and relax, I listen to the beautiful singing voices; look at the people, the candles... But everybody around me are Orthodox, and here I am - looking like a woman, with my head uncovered, upsetting all those nice people during the holly prayer. I should probably put the hat back on, to show respect. Whose region -theirs religion! It's just rude of me. And so I put my hat on, not to cause any distress during such a great holiday.
So once again, I find myself in front of the Lord with my hat on, which is also inappropriate...
So I yank the hat off.
And so my appearance keeps disturbing people- God, he sees me just the way I am, but all those people are his, so don't I just hurt Him by hurting their feelings?..
I've been suffering throughout the mass, putting my hat on and taking it off. Taking it off and putting it back on. If you think I ended up making up my mind, you are wrong.
Hat on?
Hat off?
Oh, shut up, it's not even funny.
*F. :
Peace and love to all. A friend of mine is transgender. A great guy who was, unfortunately, born in a female body. For more than a year after making his acquaintance I've known nothing about him being a transgender (all of our communication was online back then). But I was amazed by this person's inner light, and the same time - by how down-to-earth he was, without even a hint of conceit.
When some people hear the word "transgender", or "homosexual", for that matter, they imagine some sort of a "freak", with a skewed logic, alien culture and a distorted perception of reality; someone who stands apart from the "normal" human beings.
Meeting my friend in RL was kind of unexpected for both of us, and he was worried that him being a transgender may scare me away. My picture of reality was slightly shaken, but withstood. His female body is a solid fact, but so is him being a man, and after a year of friendship (which wasn't very close back then, but still) it was beyond a shade of a doubt for me, and that means it's possible, these things happen.
And if it happens, it's normal, there's nothing freakish about it. And through this single experience an image of a transgender person in my head (and generally, of someone who is "different") has changed drastically. Yes, my friend is very noticeable, and not only because of his gender, but he is normal. I'm not talking about statistics here, but about living up to your destiny. Living your human experience to the fullest. And I can see that being a transgender doesn't get on the way of that at all.
I believe in God. Or, to be more precise, I believe God. I know from my own experience that even the worse of problems and the most terrible troubles He somehow manages to use as His instrument. Nowadays, so many Christians are against transgenders and homosexuals (it's not that they are evil or anything, it's lots of things mixed together, and we should start fixing it by getting to know "the other side" a little better), but there's also considerate amount of the latter (LGBTQ+ community) who don't fancy the believers so much (and the simplest recipe of making it better is the same). But I know that all this hatred is in vain: my eyes and my heart have seen that those whom many of us consider as "the others" - are God's own, and He does great miracles through them. And if it wasn't for my friend, a great and true person all the way through, I would have never received these extremely important messages from the very top of existence, and my life would never be the same".
FLOWER SKIRT
I should probably begin by explaining how it even got into my house, this long skirt with little flowers pattern, I think it was a Laura Ashley, actually.
I had a girlfriend. I was in love. Her too! However, not with me but rather with this woman she saw instead of me. To tell the truth, it was quiet awful - but hey, she loved me. She loved me. Or at least she loved somebody who took the same spot in time and space as me. At the very least, her loving eyes were set on that spot. They were almost set on me. It was quiet a something, in comparison to complete nothing from before.
And that constant feeling of being unloved so common in my generation, that enduring chill of a neglected child. How arrogant are the words we use to conceal it, how tough are the faces we hide it behind! But none the less, there's always this bottomless pit inside: nobody loves me.
And all of a sudden - somebody does! Somebody loves me. Looks in my direction, speaks in my direction! What can I do for you, my dear? How can I repay you for your generosity? How can I make you stick around? Is it this woman you want?
You can have her!
And since I was really broke back then, I went to a thrift shop. But even there, I couldn't afford to dress the entire woman at once. Especially the shoes, you know. I've had these Bundeswehr boots which I've been wearing for two years, rain or shine, and I was completely happy with them. But I couldn't leave this beautiful woman for my love just like that, could I?.. Unfortunately, I failed to find a pair of suitable and affordable ladies shoes, so I just had to put up with the fact that this beautiful woman will be wearing boots.
Step two - the top. I owned a nice grunge sweater from the very same thrift shop and a couple of blouses from that last time - well, you know, that last pilgrimage. It should have been enough, for the time being.
Step three - the bottom. I couldn't just stay in jeans. Wearing jeans, I could never turn myself into a beautiful woman for my love. There should have been a solid reason, a certain marker by which I could identify myself as a woman. The skirt became this marker. A long skirt expanding downward made of thick black cotton with rosy white little flowers all over it. Apple blossom or whatever. People say it was quite stylish, along with my boots and the grungy sweater. But I was very upset because it was some sort of an underwoman, and those boots, on top of everything!.. It wasn't working anyway, the underwoman was acting weird, she would suddenly ignore the offered hand while getting off the bus, she was nervous and distracted and laughing for no reason, and simply insane. My love realized it was a navigation mistake and she was looking and talking in a wrong direction. She was looking at me less and less, and stopped talking to me completely, and eventually she just left. And the skirt remained. Some time passed by, and one day, around Easter, I had this idea that I must reform. It wasn't a new idea - I have been trying to reform from time to time, well, you remember the story with the pilgrimage. But that wasn't enough. I decided to reform once more. And for starters, I resolved to wear the skirt for the whole week. The very same skirt, of course, I didn't have anything else - and the very same boots, which I've been wearing for seven years straight at that point.
I went to our chapel, had a conversation with God and promised him that I will be wearing the skirt for the entire week, from Easter till the Divine Mercy Sunday, and then I'll see how it goes. What if "this" will go away for good? So I talked to God - and got to it.
What can I tell you, it surely wasn't easy on my friends! Try to imagine that you have managed to accept me as I am and socialize with me, and maybe even believe in me - and there I am, all of a sudden, wearing this skirt with rosy little flowers.
So there I was, going around in this skirt, and a little event comes by: a poetry reading within our small and humble group of friends. How could I refuse? But it was just that last Sunday which I promised to spend in a skirt. No choice, I'm going to read poetry wearing a skirt. And boots - please, don't forget the boots, for without them, my image would be incomplete.
And the order of performances was such that the host presented the first poet, and after they finished reading they presented the next one, and so on. And so my favorite poet Michaillov, after reading some of his wonderful poems, stared innocently into the crowd and said that he was happy to present his friend, an amazing poet Alex Garrido, and he is... so great and all, and now he will read you his great poems. I don't remember the exact words, but the whole greatness of this great presentation revolved around him persistently using male pronouns while talking about me - while I looked so silly in this skirt with pink flowers on it.
I was angry, but not too much. Essentially, this whole stupid situation was my fault, not his. Now, looking back, I'm still a little angry, but I don't know if there's a point to it.
Extremely patient folks they were, those friends of mine, and seems like they really loved me.
And then Monday came, thanks God.
*Inna I. :
"Even for a normal thinking person it's not easy to accept such radical changes. And it's most difficult for the transgender person who feels that they belong to a different gender but still adapted to an extant to the fact that people around them perceive them accordingly to their biological gender, and got used to playing the part. And now, the reconstruction process is full-on inside their head: their habits, norms of behavior, the way they interact with people etc. - everything crumbles and reassembles.
Some people just heard something but didn't really dwell into it, and they tend to think that gender reassignment is just about the surgery: cut off all the extras, and voila - a man turned into a woman. But the surgery is only the final step. The full transition may take years, and the way I see it, the most complicated part is not at all the surgery, but the social adaptation to another gender. "
*Nadia:
"I met this girl, Nastya. She seemed really weird. Till this very day I can't put my finger on what exactly was wrong with her: she spoke kind of funny and acted kind of funny and generally looked like she might have had some mental health issues. We met few more times after that, and then I haven't seen her for months, maybe even a year (I don't really remember). And then, after, let's say, a year, I met him again - that's right, because it was already a he. In the midst of transitioning process. And the more no-longer-Nastya, but - let's call him Sergei - the more Sergei looked and lived like a man, the more "normal" he became. I don't like this word - "normal", but anyway, Sergei seems like a sane, intelligent young man, who is easy to talk to. And now I totally understand what was wrong with Nastya - it's like I would try unsuccessfully to act like a man, and hate every moment of it".
*V., a therapist, an adoptive parent, bisexual, lives happily in a same-sex domestic partnership:
"For several nights in a row, I can't sleep. I'm lying awake for hours, and a text, a story, sort of writes itself inside my head. And it looks like it's coming out right, I already know what do I want to write and how do I want to write it, but still it's hard to transition from "it's so obvious" and from the words in my head to something the others can read, to a story I can actually tell. Okay, I'm going to try anyway. If I fail, so be it. I am just going to try. I open the Microsoft Word window and start typing.
King
That's what they called him. King - and his first name. Or just King. And everybody knew who you were talking about. I must have been sixteen, when I met him ("was introduced to him"). I have no idea why everything was the way it was, but in this particular group of friends, in one of the towns of South Ural during the late 90's, it was a given - King was someone who has changed his gender. It was just being told, and never became a subject of a gossip - and what was there to gossip about, really? We weren't close friends, he was much older than me, and I respected him too much. I've been to his house a couple of times. King lived in a small two-story house, far at the outskirts, where it always gets so cold in the winter. He was bringing in firewood, lighting the furnace. He had a wife, back then I thought she was cranky and didn't really like his friends. Now, years later, I have a much better understanding of her.
We used to spend the nights sitting by the furnace, he and my friends were chatting, making up universes and magic maps, cracking open the doors into some other dimensions and losing interest right away , drinking wine and tea, and I was just keeping quiet, listening. I used to sleep with my sweaters on, covered by and old woolen coat, snuggling with my brother, and in the morning we were all running to the bus stop in the crisp cold, under the slowly rising sun - I had to get to school, my brother - to the university, King was going to work at the other end of the town - he was a designer.
Baby
For me, he came from the same place as King. Everybody loved him. It's hard to explain. Almost as hard as imagining a person you just couldn't dislike once you got to know him. He was a great singer and guitar player, rode horses and had an acting talent. He was working at the stables. He had a really sweet girlfriend. They were walking the streets with their arms around each other.
And just like another life fact, it was told - he used to be of another gender.
And here also I can't remember a single time it was discussed. Well, it would be only fair to emphasize that I don't remember, because I wasn't so close to them. Maybe someone did discuss it. For me, it was just enough they existed. And it's a shame I left my hometown many years ago and now I have no idea what's going on in their lives right now, I just hope nothing bad has happened to them...
Friend
I've known him longer and closer than the others, but maybe writing about him will be harder, like writing about anybody close to you. We've known each other for ten years, but I don't remember ever discussing gender identity issues and who is who even with him. We live in different cities and don't see each other too often, so there's always something more important to talk about.
Once I heard him talking to someone else about his gender, answering the question why everything is the way it is, and he said, "I like hanging somewhere in between".
When we became friends, it was also just something that was there. I never felt that using male pronouns with him was forced or somehow inappropriate. If this is the way he sees himself, why should it be different for me- after all, he's the one from inside, and I am from outside?
But there were other things that felt forced, that felt like violence.
When I was overhearing some mutual acquaintances talking about him behind his back, saying "But it's... A GIRL!" Or reading some conversation on the internet, where people emphasize the female pronouns on purpose while talking to him, and not in a nice way. It has always upset me terribly. And I could never understand these people - why are they like this? Why? Is it really so important for them that the others comply to a certain picture they have in their heads, where the boys are always just boys, and the girls - always just girls? What is it that makes them say these things - an attempt at asserting themselves on expense of someone else, like saying "I'm ok, I'm normal"? I never really knew what to say to those people. My friend in response would make jokes, get sarcastic, troll them, ignore them or threaten to whoop their asses, and the discussion would begin all over again. This one time we met at the wedding, our mutual friends were getting married. It was crowded, and it was a really good wedding, really joyous and fun, where there was a place for everybody, everybody had a good time and were happy to see each other. But there was this one person there who thought it would be appropriate to revisit the subject of my friend's gender identity. I guess my friend is used to it and doesn't really get hurt every time, but for me, it stung. And once again, I didn't know what to say and how to react.
So I said - come on, let's dance.
And we went dancing. We were dancing and laughing, I took off my high heels. We were dancing while holding hands and with our arms around each other, slow dances and just jumping around like crazy. And we didn't give a damn if it's okay with everybody or not. Suit yourselves, people.
I couldn't manage to put it all in just one or two paragraphs. And there are more people in my life I haven't told you about. But what really matters is that they exist. They live. Happily or not so much, alone or with someone. They believe - and sometimes teach me to believe, they write books and poems, translate, travel, and take part in my life, one way or another.
God, please keep them safe.
VASYA AND ALEX
I got lucky with my son, I know that. Not every parent gets so lucky in this kind of situation. First of all, he stopped calling me "mom" pretty fast. Generally, he's a smart fellow and noticed pretty quickly that when he's calling his mom, mom might be busy and not respond right away. And when the adults are calling to me, they are not calling to mom, they call me by my name - and I react immediately. So the kid started calling me by name pretty fast, even though there was a time when he gave it up for a while because of his grandparents. But by the age of four or five he was calling me by the name only, and that made the whole thing so much simpler.
Honestly, I don't know how I would get around it otherwise.
Because it's one thing to ask the kid to call you by a different name. But "dad" instead of "mom" - I don't know. I found being a "mom" difficult and unpleasant. Calling me "dad" would be difficult and unpleasant to him. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't go for it. Besides, he already has a dad.
I'm sure we would manage somehow. But we didn't have to, and for that I'm grateful. I got lucky. He was a little less lucky, I guess.
He still had to explain to his friends why his mother walks around with boots and a backpack.
Generally speaking, he wasn't in a good position to begin with: nobody asked for his opinion. He had a mother, who one not-so-lovely day decided that she could no longer call herself a woman, practically lost her mind. I don't know what would be better for him - this kind of mother or no mother at all, a dead one. I couldn't live in any other way. No, that's not true - I CAN'T live in any other way. And I got lucky for the second time when at one point he stopped liking his own name and wanted to change it to his best friend's name. And when I asked him to call me Alex, he asked me to call him Vasya. Was it hard for me to do? Not at all!
But he didn't stay Vasya forever, he tried some other names...For him, I'm still Lex, even though in his phone I'm listed as "Mom". I don't know what he calls me behind my back - but that's none of my business, I suppose.
I don't know what it was like for him - living with this kind of parent. I've been always trying my best, but maybe it wasn't enough. He is wonderful. I really got lucky with him. Probably this would be the place to say that I didn't deserve a son like him. But I'm not going to tell you something so obviously stupid. We don't deserve our children, we just bring them into this world and raise them the best we can, and you could say the same about our entire life. We are just trying our best, doing we can. There are no other options.
I got lucky.
Did I feel like a woman next to my son?
A mother - yes, certainly.
I'm still his mother, it's true. I'm definitely not his father, he has a father.
I've been able to be his mother, maybe even a good enough mother.
And that makes me very happy, I think it was important. But to be honest, the outside world hasn't really embraced that. There was this time when we were having beer after a poetry night. It was a spring or a fall, our tables were outside, and it was getting dark quickly. I started saying my goodbyes.
"Where are you going?" - Someone asked me.
"Home. My son is there, I have to help him with his homework tomorrow morning, I don't want to have a headache".
"That proves that you are a woman. A man would stay and have some more beers."
"Say what now?!"
"If you go now, you sure as hell aren't a man".
"Are you saying that being a man means not giving a damn about your own child?"
I left, of course. I said goodbye and left.
Now I can't even wrap my head around how I could be hurt so badly by the words of a drunken distant acquaintance known as someone who likes to provoke people. But this is now, and that was then. I was a person tormented by loss of my love, my mother's death, perestroika, unemployment, single parenthood, all that mess around. Oh, and I forgot to mention being a transgender - not a small challenge. That night, at those very tables, a young beautiful girl noted as I was saying good-bye, "He's so right! You are more of a woman than all the women combined!"
Unbelievable, but when I told this to a friend she reacted enthusiastically, saying "She is so right!"
Sometimes I felt like a haunted animal. Physically, nobody was threatening me, but it smelled like nonexistence. I was facing annihilation.
I have never asked my son to use male pronouns with me. But he heard my friends doing it and asked me about it. I answered, explained it to him. And he started talking to me the same way they did.
I told you I was lucky.
For several years I used to live with a friend of mine - the one who said "She's so right!" We had three children between the two of us: my son and her two daughters. They also had to put up with my "weirdness" somehow. And they championed it. They used to laugh - not at me, at the situation. They were laughing along with me. Maybe that was what me and my son lacked so much - we were both too damn serious. But you cannot avoid laughing along with the kid who has just made up the word "MomDad", much like the CatDog. They used to say it with lots of love and respect - and then burst out laughing. In a duo, too! Just imagine a pair of sweet cheerful twin sisters, who grew up before your very eyes, who used to cry in your arms and share their secrets with you, and get angry and quarrel with you - and laugh along with you. They were laughing, they were teasing: "Uncle Elena - Aunt Alex!"
This one time, during his teenage years, my son has expressed his astonishment of something by saying, "Sweet woman, mother of mine!"
"Not necessarily!" - One of the pretty sisters noted.
We all laughed.
It wasn't easy for them, I guess. It wasn't easy for any of us. But we managed.
*Elina Arsenieva:
"Long ago, when I was three years old, I was riding a train with my parents. Sitting in front of us, there was a jolly group of grown-ups, they were noisy and colorful and very kind. They started smiling at me, we became friends right away. We were playing together (I can't quite remember now which game it was) and singing songs. When they reached their destination, they bid me farewell with great warmth and affection, and left. My mom said in astonishment, "Oh, Lina, those black people played with you so nicely!" "Black people? Where?!"
The incident took place in 1978 on a train Leningrad - Detskoe Selo (now Pushkin town).
NOTES ON SEXUAL DIMORPHISM
My respected opponents have searched for those gender characteristics EVERYWHERE! On my bookshelves and in my kitchen, in my backpack and in my bathroom (twice), in my words and deeds (always).And thus I'm willing to share my personal observations.
LIKE I GIVE A BULB
A woman who stayed in my apartment for a week, due to a plea from my female acquaintance - a friend, actually. That woman came to visit, but it was impossible to comfortably host her and her kid in my friend's overcrowded apartment, and I was alone in two rooms - my son was visiting his grandfather in Nikolayev since it was a summer vacation. So my friend asked me to accommodate her guests, saying that she will be feeding and entertaining them during the day, showing them our city and such, and they will only be sleeping in my house. Let's call this woman Olga for simplicity and continue our story.
My acquaintance, my friend, gave her heads-up about my "peculiarity", and so Olga has arrived, with her son, her suitcase and willingness to respect the house owner. But on the very next day she found it hard to think of me as male since there were figurines and knick-knacks on the shelves, and tender little china cups and all such things in a cupboard behind the glass.
So they were, guilty as charged. They have always stood there, in that exact order, and survived moving houses quite a few times, up to the point when I gave up those cupboards for good. It's just that they have always stood there, this is how my mom arranged them, and they have remained at their exact spots even after she was gone, even after I moved, again and again. I have no idea why haven't I put them away. It's just that they have always stood there, you know?.. Always.
"Men don't keep such things!" - Olga insisted. "You have a typical female house".
But not everything about my apartment was so traditionally female. I was very poor back then (well, even now, I'm still not rich). Sometimes it was really tough. And when I had to make a choice between a light bulb, a loaf of bread and a pack of cigarettes, I usually choose bread. Or the cigarettes. But never the bulb. From time to time, my friends gave me bulbs. Most often, a bulb was missing from a shower. That's understandable: in the rooms we live, at the kitchen we cook and eat, walk to the toilet at night through the hallway, and in the toilet we read.
"How can you live without a light in your shower?!" - Olga wondered, as she was about to do her kid's laundry.
"What's the problem?" - I wondered in return.
"But how do you do your laundry?"
"By hands..."
"But you can't see the stains!" - She cried in despair.
"But that's a good thing!" - I nodded happily.
We couldn't agree on anything - not on the light bulb in a shower, and not on how your cupboard shelves reflect on your gender identity. In the end, she bought a bulb and replaced it herself, but there was nothing she could do about me.
FRIED FROZEN VEGGIES
And there was this one time when me and Ganja - that's her real actual last name - were having a drinking night. We were at my house, all comfy and cozy, with a bottle of vodka and plenty of snacks. And chatting away, of course!
Our big strategic mistake was that we weren't alone. With us, there was a... person, somewhat gender-confused, just like myself, only they were living with their parents and thus didn't have a chance to explore, despite having doubts. Or maybe they were non-binary, without even knowing it was possible. Back then, the information was scarce, especially outside of Moscow.
Me and this boy - well, that's how he referred to himself - had feelings for each other. We were at the very beginning of a sweet, but timid relationship, but we were getting closer, slowly and carefully. It was very romantic.
And then he saw me with Ganja, drinking vodka and singing at the top of our lungs. And never mind that, but before we started belting away (however, after having a shot or three), I started nagging Ganja with the question that was bothering me 24/7 back then. I'm getting old, Ganja, so old! And I haven't found my happiness yet. What should I do?!
How could I not nag Ganja with this question if her mother was a cosmetologist? Obviously, there was no way to avoid that. I wasn't even trying. I was nagging her with this question pretty often, especially after a couple of drinks. Even though we had many different topics to discuss, other than oil paints and store-bought lotions' ingredients. We used to talk about literature and politics, philosophy and psychology - about anything at all, even fishing!
But none of the above could save my reputation.
And in the morning I made it even worse.
Generally, I am an early bird. And after drinking vodka I get up before anybody else. In the mornings I'm full of energy, even despite my difficult life. And even now, ten years later, I still wake up early and enjoy the beginning of a new day.
That day was no different. I got up early and went straight to the kitchen to fix a healthy breakfast for my fellow vodka victims. I was making something really simple, like eggs or stir-fried frozen veggies. But that couldn't save me.
After a while, the young man appeared in the kitchen, leaned against the doorway and gawked at me fussing about with thoughtful tenderness in his eyes. And after a short while, I heard the verdict, carried out languidly, in a heartfelt, profound voice: "Awww, honey... You are a woman!"
I nearly dropped the spatula. I was freaking out, to be honest. I turned towards him really slowly and asked cautiously, "Why?"
"You're cooking!" - He said, gleaming with a serene smile.
"Ugh... Best chefs in the world are men!" - I was grasping for straws.
"Yeah, but it's the way you do it... With so much love! Just like my mom!" - And while I was trying to process that comparison, he took the last shot, straight to my head: "And yesterday, you spent the entire evening talking about cosmetics. So enthusiastically! Men don't talk like that!"
Of course, our relationship didn't last long after that. For a while there, I was trying to figure out what did he mean by that, but failed. Ganja snorted and informed me confidentially that she knows this gay guy whose bathroom shelves are lined with so many cosmetics like she's never seen in her life, considering even her cosmetologist mother and her own studies of the trade.
Long story short, something was irreversibly ruined that morning, while we were eating eggs with fried frozen vegetables.
But at least I...
No, I cannot come up with anything.
But I still enjoy cooking from time to time.
*Ethan:
"I often live in a situation of `double jeopardy' - mainly concerning the `traditionally male jobs', or the ones the society sees as such (dirty, physically hard etc.). In those cases, it's very, very, very easy to dare me. If I don't do something - what, you can't do it, aren't you a man? If I do - you are just following stereotypes, like a fool! And if the first statement could really come from an outside world, the second one derives exclusively from the fears inside my head".
FOLLOWING GAUTAMA'S FOOTSTEPS
A certain man, a writer and philosopher P., who was well-known in our town, has once joined our group of friends for beers. And out of personal curiosity or maybe of sheer kindness, offered me a little test designed to determine once and for all whether I am a man or a woman. Vast implications of this test drew my attention and piqued my curiosity.
Let's do it, I said to him; bring forth your comprehensive exhaustive highly penetrative test. After all, I myself was interested in getting a comprehensive and decisive answer and putting an end to all the doubts and controversies of my restless soul. And so he asked me a question: Imagine that you know the ultimate truth and the absolute law of life. What are you going to do about it? Would you go and preach?
I gave it a thought. I recalled everything I knew about this from history and literature. I realized it was pointless. Best case scenario - just like Zoroaster, I'd return to my cave a complete failure. Worst case... And how could you even put your knowledge into somebody else's head?
"No" - I told the writer and philosopher P., - "No, I wouldn't. No".
"Uh-uh!" - He raised his index finger. "That's a female approach. A man would go. Because that's a male approach."
I thought of Laozi at the border post, I thought of Gautama, the renounced prince, for whom it took lots of convincing. But who knows, maybe those are the very exceptions that make the rule? Deep inside, I'm a slowpoke. While my inner dialog unraveled, everybody else moved on to other topics, and I decided to give it a rest. You snooze, you lose. P. got me good, he really did.
When I got home, I told my friend about this conversation. She laughed her head off!
"You?!" - She cried. "YOU wouldn't go preaching? And what is it you think you do seven days a week, twelve months a year?!"
And so I cast a look back at my life...
Maybe it was the same with Laozi, I thought. And who would have convinced Buddha to start preaching, if he hasn't had disciples already?
The question of who I really am remained unsolved at that time.
However, I realized that I have a very wrong perception of myself.
*Inna I. :
I remember how at the very beginning of my transition a friend has lectured me on how being a woman is so much more than wearing pretty dresses. It's like she was implying (or actually saying it directly to my face) that there was almost nothing feminine about me. Few years passed by, and from my new friends I started hearing the opposite: that they can't even imagine me as a man. I really can't say I've changed that much during this time, other than my physical appearance. I think this mostly shows that people often tend to see what they want to see. And that the difference between men and women often exists in people's heads rather than in real life.