The art of non-passing.

Passing, Stealth, Deep-stealth, Blending.

These words have one meaning for most other folks, for Trans-folk like myself, they can sometimes mean the difference between life and death (figuratively and literally) . Now don’t get me wrong. I am a BIG girl, 6 ft 220 I am losing weight, gimmie a BREAK) somebody wishes to make a smart-ass comment about my looks or shout out, totally inappropriately “THAT’S A DUDE” I can handle it pretty easily. Not always so with people who are with me at the time. And not true for me 100% of the time.

I don’t try too hard to pass. My HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy) hasn’t kicked in yet, I haven’t had any FFS (feminization Facial Surgery) And at my size, its evident. But I don’t dress like a teenage hooker with an addiction to Victoria’s Secret cast offs. Simply because I am an old woman. I am 52, I dress like such. Yes I have jeans, designer, of course, yes I have animal prints (Umm, looking to replace some of those with hounds tooth cause animal print is SO 2008) and I do have a few heels that are, essentially, non-essential but CUTE ! Ergo, they become essential by their very non-essential-ness. Like walking to mass today, down two very steep roads in the snow, in boots with very sharp 4 inch heels, not terribly bright but CUTE. Nope, didn’t fall down, didn’t even slip – two years ballet HA ! There are a lot of GGs (Genetic Girls or Genuine Girls)that cannot claim the same thing.

I simply dress in whatever makes me feel pretty, feminine, beautiful or just plain happy. It is NOT a fashion show out there, but its always nice to look your best. Doesn’t mean it is always easy. Like today.

I get to church just a few moments before mass starts (I made it, but the good father didn’t, he got stuck at home by the snow, he is a wonderful priest and has made every effort to assure me I am welcome in God’s house regardless of the Pope’s crappy attitude towards T-folk) and I get TOTALLY self-conscious. I was wearing makeup (something I rarely if ever do at church. I typically under dress, hair, jeans, nice blouse nothing too outre’) But today I am wearing breast appliances, a nice animal print blouse with satin underblouse and high heels (see above, 4 inch heels walking in snow etc) In other words, I am not camouflaged as usual. I am OUT there. My clothing would be considered suitably muted if worm by a GG but worn by a tranny it is almost screaming “Look at me”.

Well, really it isn’t, but, this is what I am feeling, so I sit down in the LAST pew in the corner, away from everyone else. I bury my shaggy lil head into the missal and read the service (first Sunday of lent) and feel the eyes of the entire congregation upon me. Burning their disbelief that a tranny would dare to show its ugly face in church of all places.

Okay, here is the facts. No one started at me, no one cared, most everyone there is used to seeing me in one form of dress or another and could care less. I am usually warmly greeted, welcomed and asked after. I felt out of place because FEAR – the opposing force of Faith – drove me to self-doubt. Forced me to hide and not really enjoy what should have been an uplifting and life-affirming sermon. It was on the temptations of Satan to Christ (He fasted for forty days in the desert and Satan tried to get him to turn rocks into bread where Jesus replied “It is written, man does not live by bread alone” etc basically a  HUGE FAIL by Satan and getting his horned lil head  PWNED by JC.) so I paid attention yet did not get the full effect of the sermon or the readings. And, when all is said and done, it is MY fault for allowing it.

Cause I couldn’t pass to my eyes suitably, I blamed everyone else by assuming THEY saw me as out of place even when they didn’t. Not very fair, was I ? And it boils down to a simple lesson I learned a LONG time ago. If I have not faith in myself, why should anyone else ? Buck up the confidence baby. I am no Miss America, but I am me, the only person capable of being me is me. And if I can be confident that when I go out that I am faith-worthy of myself, others will have faith in me too.

If not, then the only thing that can replace faith would be fear.

And I really wish to fear no man, or woman, not even myself.

Much faith-based love

Kynthia

TSA and going through the gate en femme. A airport story

July 7th 2009

Okay, my little boy, aged ten years, traveled back home from Las Vegas to TN. This meant I had to escort him to the gate and have an agent take over custody of him until he arrives at his destination and his mother (upon presentation of proper state or federal issued ID) takes him home. I got to Las Vegas early, got a shower, fixed my hair and realized “I have no boy clothing” Oh CRUD ! I have to go through the gate, be searched (usually by x-ray, only my bag) etc like I was going to be flying but because I will be in the passenger area, I have to go through all that screening. All I have is girl clothes (pretty ones, but girl clothes none the less) so this means, quite like the character in To Wong Fu, My clothing says “Fabulous” my ID says “Drabulous” Yes, I look like a girl but my ID is all boy.

The horror stories I have heard about other TG/TS/CD in airport searches is going through my mind. I am starting to scare myself with the thoughts of an extensive search (please come with me, SIR, you know whats going to happen) outrageous rude questions, waiting to be asked what I am hiding in my bra and having to show them my very small developing breasts or trying to explain WHY I am wearing two pairs of panties, one fairly normal enough looking and the other resembling a gothic torture device and trying to explain why I am binding my testes and penis in a very tight pair of panties. By the time I drive up to McCarren Airport I am shaking. I am trying very hard to keep my prettiest smile and happiest demeanor about me (I am a wonderful actress, if I say so myself, BTW) and we go to the southwest baggage check in.

My son and I are immediatly escorted to the front of the line. We are then taken in side to the ticket counter, where again we pass probably 200 people standing in line for thier tickets and my son’s ticket is issued instantly. I then ask if I may speak to a TSA supervisor. I want to see if there is going to be a problem with my ID not matching my look. Well… Long story short. I go to the gate, I take off my boots, place my purse and boots in the bucket and send it downline through the Xray. The agent looks at my ID, looks at my face and I ask “Any problems sir” ? He smiles, says “none at all Mrs Rilea (wearing my wedding band) and waves me through. Every once in a while, Someone, somewhere, in great power smiles down and says “No problems for you today, it’s going to hurt bad enough when your boy flies off, I’m going to give you this one”. That may or may not be what happened, But for my part, I like to think of it that way.

No greater enemy than our own fears, huh ?

Love

Sindee.

Discovery Fears

When I started dressing up (3 years old, yep, before I went to school I figured out women’s clothes were for me) the fear of being discovered was always there. Why ?

Shhhhhhhhh...

I don’t know.

Maybe, when as a three year old, I dressed in a woman’s clothing, I got strange feelings. Most three year olds, if they dress in the other genders clothing, don’t even realize it, those are the normal ones. I was far from normal. I was wrong. My sister and mom dressed in these clothes. My dad didn’t, my brother didn’t but I did so something was wrong with me.

This started a life long obsession with a fear of beaing discovered. It carried into my teen years (fear of being discovered by Mom and Dad) my friends wouldn’t find out because there were a couple that already knew (Gay and/or bisexual, so me dressing up wasn’t a big deal to them and I felt if they were already broken like me, what did it matter ? Right ?).

My adult years, what if the women I was seeing discovered it ? Truth be told, in retrospect, I think most of them either suspected I was gay or something like that. Apparently, most of them didn’t care. maybe they were trying to cure me ? Whatever works. And my friends ? Oh, I had a great guys guy persona developed. Hell, it was developed so well I would help my guy friends make fun of “Drag Queens” and other “Queers”.

Yeah, so, I hated myself. Not just a little either, oh, maybe at first, but after a while, it developed into a quasi-suicidal journey to get payback on myself. Since I sucked so bad at hurting myself, I naturally gravitated towards hurting those closest to me ! Talk about sucks. So, you want people to love you and how do you reward them ? You make their lives miserable. Worked for me !

Okay, flash forward about 100 years, err, wait, 30 yrs and where am I ? Married, for the fourth time. Kids all over the US and still wearing dresses.

Okay, so concealing didn’t work, gotta figure out some way to make this work. I know, how about being honest about it and coming out ?

Let’s give this a try and see how it works.

Hey, folks, when you have a cross dresser who is nervous about coming out, jokes aren’t the right way to help them over it. Telling them they better have a great lawyer before they tell their wife is already a nightmare they have lost sleep over, how about trying to give them a little support and not help them to crawl back into their fears ?