Update: The coming out process, hair, work, recovery, two new poems
Recap: I’m an educator, in a small rural town in Trump country. I started coming out to staff and students this year, in bursts. I’m a brick/visibly trans/visibly queer. I pass in moments, flashes, mostly online. No one mistakes me for a woman. My partner is supportive but hesitant and still growing. We communicate about our relationship, but we don’t talk about my transition (which has been helpful for her, I think, we think). My kids are supportive. I have a wonderful online queer community that I am in close contact with. My school community is affirming and supportive (my peers/friends — not the wider community — who is just baffled — several cis peeps outed me to their friends — which bothered me but I gave it up and am like…of course they did — cis people don’t know anything), I’m around queer/trans students all day. My BFF at work is a transman in stealth mode. Queer kids often share their stories with me. It’s a gift to hear about their relationships, how they navigate parents, coming out, biases, etc, or just shooting the shit about pop culture). My BFF at work tells me I make kids feel safe. I hope so. I’m not out to my parents, my partner’s family and friends, and my wider extended family — whom I may never lay eyes on again. I feel more or less out because, in my day-to-day routine, I am out to everyone.
Yesterday I attended a state-level school competition that my district hosted. I have not changed my legal name. My dead name was on the judges' material. There were so many stimuli crowding my POV (I have astigmatism that gives me narrowed vision — which in big crowded places sets me on edge — that reptilian brain) that when I was deadnamed twice, I didn’t correct them, my brain kind of froze and by the time I recovered, the person had moved on to talking to someone else, in a noisy crowded room. In my journey, I’ve learned that I get overstimulated in big social settings in loud echo filled rooms. Ugh.
But I didn’t let it bother me (much) — my addictive personality took it and ran with it for a while — regretting not correcting these people and more or less feeling I let transpeople and myself down. Luckily, a work friend, who is affirming, found me and I felt safe.
As a recovering person, it's important for me to process and frame this as growth for this would have sent me spiraling into self-hatred and destruction. I have to remind myself that I’m good enough. I have to remind myself that it's okay to not constantly be on the offensive — so to speak with my identity. It's exhausting being the only queer person in the room.
I had a great day despite it and saw a student from another school who attended the first county-wide GSA conference our county held, at our school (it was a smash, a few kids cried, there was lots of laughter, new friends were made, lots of diversity w/r/t to identities and queerness. A big success and we hope to have an end-of-the-year social at our school in June, with a lip sync contest that will be barely masked as a drag event — we avoid politicized terms — it helps, actually, to do so. A culture war is about language.
I started using Mx as a formal honorific at school. No one uses it, everyone calls me Whit anyway. Remember I’m a brick, I’ve been wearing clothing sold in the women’s and juniors section for two and a half years, most people do not notice it, a few folks in the community are amused by my choices but nobody says anything. I’m treated fairly, for the most part. The religious nuts are visibly uncomfortable around me. I like that.
A book of weird fiction I wrote and is under my dead name is about to drop. It was supposed to come out in 2018. After the pandemic, this publisher lost some of its street cred. It's the last thing that will ever be published under my dead name. I dread marketing it. But I will. It will suck, but it will serve as a final monument, for him. He carried me far. He got me sober, and this will retire him. The first half is very white-centered. The second half is not. There’s a queer character and queer themes, and it is certainly nothing I could write today. I’m still dreading hearing my fucking dead name, but what’s a person to do? I couldn’t hold myself back just cause some book, that no one will buy anyway, is coming out. For the record, it's print on demand, they moved to this model during the pandemic because it's cheaper. This means, if you are an Amazon Prime member it will be free for you to read — your family and friends' sales take a hit. So, this year really will be the last year for my old self, which is great!
My father, whom I am emotionally estranged from (mom too — we see each other often and we maintain polite boundaries — I’m sure they’re like wtf?) is dying of cancer. Stage four. It’s in his liver. Other than that, we don’t know anything. I am kind of meh about it, because he doesn’t see me as a person anyway. Neither does mom. I don’t share my joy with them. I keep high walls around them. Therapy has shown me that what was normal in my house wasn’t normal/healthy.
I so need to go back to electrolysis — which is two hours away — my stubble is so dysphoric. Y
This is a new poem — about transitioning — from a queer southern zine. You can see, in the pic, I’m not doing wigs anymore. Yay finasteride and Dr Powers Hair Growth — my hairline is still filling in, it's slow going. Also, when one stops wearing a wig to present female, it’s like starting all over again, in terms of confidence levels. I don’t overdo concealer, either, and some days, depending on which layers of hair are growing out that week, my shadow is darker (the way hair grows is very interesting).
This is a poem about listening to Beyonce. Written for a friend who is a queer musician, “For Tamari Who Listens to Beyonce’s Renaissance Like I Do”
https://www.sierranevadareview.com/cassandra-whitaker-2023
It’s cold and blustery here. Spring has already started. Summer, I can hear you rustling through the forest.
Fight the fascists. Think globally, act locally. Queerness is infinite.
