Heartsick
"And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight in a bud was greater than the risk it took to blossom." (Anais Nin)
The quote comes back to me as I put together a brochure commemorating those who we'll be honoring at the Transgender Day of Remembrance on November 20th. There's 19 more names to add to the list this year... a list that covers victims of anti-transgender violence from 1970 to present, and is so long that I had to shrink the text to an almost illegible size in order to fit it on the page.
One of the earliest transgender functions I attended was the TDoR in 2005. I can't think of a more sobering way to assess the risk of blossoming than to hear that list of names of those who lost their lives strictly because of the hatred there is toward transgendered people.
The risk touches everything. Right now, I'm trying to compose a response to my mother, who is telling me that if I have to transition, then I should prepare myself for the likelihood of not having a relationship with my family ever again. My heart feels sick, listening to the pain they're going through, trying to cope. I'm thinking at this point that I should just cut the ties myself, so that they can finally start to heal and move on. If it would be better for them in the long run, then I suppose I may have to. I don't think they'll ever understand that the person that they "love just the way you are" was never truly the person that I am -- that it was a carefully-constructed facade of what I knew they wanted to see, and that I faked being for over three decades. I don't think they'll ever understand why I can't go back to living that lie. I don't think they'll ever understand that I'm not doing this to hurt them -- that I'm doing this because it is the only way that I can stop hurting.
"And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight in a bud was greater than the risk it took to blossom." (Anais Nin)
When you think about the risks it takes to blossom, of losing your job, your family, your friends, your apartment, your significant other -- or of one day facing that feral hatred in the eyes of someone who wants to beat you to death simply because of who you are -- if it's greater, then the risk to remain in the bud seems unfathomable.
Not all of those killed from anti-transgendered violence are people who choose to transition. Mikey Vallejo-Seiber was a 3-year-old who died from internal injuries suffered after being kicked, punched and dropped on his head in an attempt to make the "sissy" boy "toughen up." Others might perhaps be casual crossdressers, who didn't expect that the risk of an evening out could be so great. But most are, and this speaks not only to how much hatred there is out there, but also how compelling the need to transition often really is.
As I sat in the congregation at my first Transgender Day of Remembrance memorial, I realized that my name could one day be on that list. I also realized that what I was aiming for would be worth that risk.
I often liken it to the difference between suffocation and breathing. In my best-known art piece (the torso of a cyborg, questioning her existence), I refer to it as the difference between consciousness and life. Even then, in those few days before, the freedom of being able to express outwardly the person I felt I was inside was liberating beyond belief. One year later, I have far more experiences which have only reaffimred what I've probably known all along.
This was fortified by my first real relationship as a woman. In every other relationship, I'd still had to maintain that automaton facade. Before, it was like stepping mostly into the relationship, but keeping that one foot still there anchored behind me, restricting how far I could go. I realize now, how vastly unfair this was to my ex-wife.
But this time, I was able to jump wholly in, no facades, no games, no cover-ups. Sure, there was a lot I was shy about sharing, but I could still jump in. And everything that had been missing before was there for me now, as a consequence.
The relationship ended. The hurt was far more than I could have expected. But still, it told me clearly that the direction I'm going is exactly what I need to breathe; to live -- which are exactly what I had not been doing, in the last 3+ decades.
Someday, I suppose, I or any one of us could be on that list. If that were to happen, I pray that it happens quickly, with not a lot of pain. But more than that, I pray that there will be several months or years in bloom.
The quote comes back to me as I put together a brochure commemorating those who we'll be honoring at the Transgender Day of Remembrance on November 20th. There's 19 more names to add to the list this year... a list that covers victims of anti-transgender violence from 1970 to present, and is so long that I had to shrink the text to an almost illegible size in order to fit it on the page.
One of the earliest transgender functions I attended was the TDoR in 2005. I can't think of a more sobering way to assess the risk of blossoming than to hear that list of names of those who lost their lives strictly because of the hatred there is toward transgendered people.
The risk touches everything. Right now, I'm trying to compose a response to my mother, who is telling me that if I have to transition, then I should prepare myself for the likelihood of not having a relationship with my family ever again. My heart feels sick, listening to the pain they're going through, trying to cope. I'm thinking at this point that I should just cut the ties myself, so that they can finally start to heal and move on. If it would be better for them in the long run, then I suppose I may have to. I don't think they'll ever understand that the person that they "love just the way you are" was never truly the person that I am -- that it was a carefully-constructed facade of what I knew they wanted to see, and that I faked being for over three decades. I don't think they'll ever understand why I can't go back to living that lie. I don't think they'll ever understand that I'm not doing this to hurt them -- that I'm doing this because it is the only way that I can stop hurting.
"And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight in a bud was greater than the risk it took to blossom." (Anais Nin)
When you think about the risks it takes to blossom, of losing your job, your family, your friends, your apartment, your significant other -- or of one day facing that feral hatred in the eyes of someone who wants to beat you to death simply because of who you are -- if it's greater, then the risk to remain in the bud seems unfathomable.
Not all of those killed from anti-transgendered violence are people who choose to transition. Mikey Vallejo-Seiber was a 3-year-old who died from internal injuries suffered after being kicked, punched and dropped on his head in an attempt to make the "sissy" boy "toughen up." Others might perhaps be casual crossdressers, who didn't expect that the risk of an evening out could be so great. But most are, and this speaks not only to how much hatred there is out there, but also how compelling the need to transition often really is.
As I sat in the congregation at my first Transgender Day of Remembrance memorial, I realized that my name could one day be on that list. I also realized that what I was aiming for would be worth that risk.
I often liken it to the difference between suffocation and breathing. In my best-known art piece (the torso of a cyborg, questioning her existence), I refer to it as the difference between consciousness and life. Even then, in those few days before, the freedom of being able to express outwardly the person I felt I was inside was liberating beyond belief. One year later, I have far more experiences which have only reaffimred what I've probably known all along.
This was fortified by my first real relationship as a woman. In every other relationship, I'd still had to maintain that automaton facade. Before, it was like stepping mostly into the relationship, but keeping that one foot still there anchored behind me, restricting how far I could go. I realize now, how vastly unfair this was to my ex-wife.
But this time, I was able to jump wholly in, no facades, no games, no cover-ups. Sure, there was a lot I was shy about sharing, but I could still jump in. And everything that had been missing before was there for me now, as a consequence.
The relationship ended. The hurt was far more than I could have expected. But still, it told me clearly that the direction I'm going is exactly what I need to breathe; to live -- which are exactly what I had not been doing, in the last 3+ decades.
Someday, I suppose, I or any one of us could be on that list. If that were to happen, I pray that it happens quickly, with not a lot of pain. But more than that, I pray that there will be several months or years in bloom.
posted by Mercedes Allen at 2:13 PM
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