The Birds and the Trees

The day before the trees came down, I hauled a pile of wooden ladders out of the undergrowth and tried not to think about poison ivy.

I try not to think about a lot of my yard, my home, my self. There’s just too much mess, and try as I might, I can’t seem to keep it all swept up. Even when I do manage to hack back the junk trees and vacuum the living room and floss between my teeth, the weeds and dog hair and plaque always come back before my willpower does.

To some extent, that’s just the experience of being a human in this world. I really am giving it my best. I use a cute little app to remind me to mow the lawn, scoop the cat poop, take my meds. I meet regularly with a therapist who takes my insurance. I dragged the ladders away from the weeds so the tree removers could do their job.

A pair of robins eyed me warily as I shuffled back and forth on that task, wiping cobwebs and desiccated spider corpses off my hands and onto my shorts. One had a dark head and a bright red-orange chest, the other’s colors were grayer, muted. A male and a female. Parents overseeing a nest somewhere nearby?

My own parents have been the ones doing the heavy lifting (literally) at my house lately. The plan is to replace the ancient, leaning garage with a new one at the end of a new concrete driveway (no more mowing the gravel!). While I was comfortably air-conditioned at work, Mom and Dad were gutting the garage, gathering estimates, and even scrubbing the pans that I’d left “soaking” in the sink for lengths of time I won’t admit to here.

My parents have the relentless energy and capability of cartoon superheroes. Dad can master any machine and fix any maintenance mire. Mom can reverse a tornado of mess in minutes and paint a house in an afternoon (to reference The Producers: “Two coats!”).

And me? I can begrudgingly drag a stack of ladders a couple of feet across the yard.

When I finished, I tried to find the nest that the birds were potentially guarding, but the overgrown edges of my yard were too dense to parse. The robins chattered at me from the power lines (that’s them in this essay’s header image) as I strolled the length of my lawn, splitting my attention between the tangled knots of the junk tree canopy and the reaching trios of poison ivy leaves that threatened my bare ankles.

Nothing. If there was a nest, I couldn’t find it. I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or concerned. The entire jungle of my backyard was scheduled to be culled first thing in the morning, and if one of the dozens of vine-choked trees secretly housed a huddle of hatchlings, I wanted to mark it off to keep them safe.

So many critter homes were about to be demolished to improve my own home. Just one more thing to feel guilty about.

In the morning, before I could dare snooze my alarm, a fleet of trucks arrived, lining the narrow neighborhood street and releasing a swarm of men in matching helmets and patriotically-themed UV-resistant uniforms.

Arriving alongside them was my mother in a rainbow of gem tones and a twirl of skirt.

“Not this one!” she joked to the men, pointing with both arms to the spruce I planted eight years ago as they laid out chainsaws and harnesses on the lawn. “That’s Spruce Springsteen!”

[Pictured above: Spruce now vs. Spruce when I planted him (and blogged about it) in 2018. Also, all 5’2 of me for scale.]

The men were not in a joking mood. As I scrambled to find places to park cars out of the way, the workers slung weighted lines over the high branches of the nearest doomed walnut. They moved with the swift conviction of a platoon of ants en route to a picnic.

Unfortunately, I had my own work to attend to, so I didn’t witness just how quickly my yard was stripped of its decade or more of overgrowth. My mom and an ever-vigilant neighbor friend reported that the job was completed by the early afternoon. By the time I returned from work, everyone and every tree was gone.

Every tree except for two narrow trunks that twisted around and climbed up each other into a shabby spray of leaves and dying vines. There, nestled in the crux of the bonded trees, sat a nest.

The nest had shreds of plastic dangling from it like sickly-white jellyfish tendrils. There was that guilt again, that the wild animals who share my home are suffering because of my presence, or the general presence of humanity. It’s been a little tough to feel warmly towards mankind lately, after all. But it was a solid nest regardless, and I stood still and quiet to watch as the boldly-painted father robin arrived to feed the brood. A cluster of excited triangles bobbled up to meet him, hungry beaks that had survived the surrounding apocalypse.

The tree-cutters had spared them.

Over the next few days, I occasionally checked on the family, despite being swooped at by the parents. I just wanted to make sure they were still there, still OK. At one point, I worried that one of the parents had become sick. I saw the outline of an adult-sized bird, but it was very still, and its red chest was flecked with black. A quick check online reassured me that this was a healthy juvenile, just about ready to leave the nest.

Check out this big blotchy baby.

Which must have happened on a day I didn’t check on them, because the next thing I knew, my dad had returned to cut down the last two trees. He confirmed to me that the nest was empty; the kids had made it, and they’d all moved on.

I was sort of sad to have missed their departure. So much has changed so rapidly. My house looks bald without its cowl of unkempt greenery, and my heart aches for the massive walnut tree that must have been living here since before my great grandparents built the house I now own. When I left for work, that tree towered over my backyard, but when I came home, it was like there was a hole in the sky where its branches were meant to grow.

It’s for the best. This will make my life easier. Happier. I even feel guilty about that. I know the guilt doesn’t help anything, but it adheres to my brain like candle wax on carpet, seeping into every crevice and fiber, hardening by the second. My parents may be superheroes, but I have a superpower too: finding ways to be ashamed about absolutely any- and everything.

For now, the best I can do is meet the guilt with gratitude. I am lucky to have my own pair of robin parents protecting me and my home, even if that home is held together with literal and metaphorical garbage sometimes. I have been spared the overwhelm of navigating all these changes alone. What does it matter if I feel unworthy? The love and support are given freely, generously. I would be rude to reject such a gift.

It will take some time to adjust, but my new view is of a wide and limitless sky, and somewhere in it, young robins are soaring.

Nine Fine Years

Cellphones are not permitted at the U.S. Citizenship & Immigration Services office waiting room, so I started writing this long-overdue blog update in pen on the back of the 100 naturalization test questions I’d printed out to help my partner, Alé, study for her exam.

Not that she needed to cram on the day of her test. The weekend before her exam, our best friends (and ooey gooey newlyweds) came over to play Mario Party and quiz her on the questions, and she nailed them all. Between digital dice rolls, we DnD dorks rolled a physical pair of 10-sided dice to randomly select test questions, which range from “Who is our current president?” to “What is Benjamin Franklin famous for?” (possible answers for which are: U.S. diplomat, oldest member of the Constitutional Convention, first Postmaster General of the United States, writer of “Poor Richard’s Almanac”, and “started the first free libraries”… I would have said something foolish about kites and bifocals and flunked).

A week before Alé’s test, the citizens of America voted on our new president, and, well… the world saw how that went. I’ve become largely numb to political shock and outrage, despite the constant rawness of my heart. It still feels impossible that we’re reinstalling a man who has been unable to construct a complete, cohesive sentence in the past 20 years, and that’s without even touching on the racism, misogyny, and all-around bigotry of the failed-businessman-turned-fascist-figurehead. And how could I forget those 34 felonies? I suppose those only count if you can’t pay yourself free of your own misdoings.

It felt so strange and funny, then, when Alé returned to the lobby with a great big grin of victory. Alé, an immigrant who has lived here for almost her entire life. Alé, a queer brown woman in Indiana, a state that has made famously nauseating decisions regarding the treatment of each of those labels. Alé, whose friends are planning the most ridiculously over-the-top patriotic celebration in honor of her expensive, stressful, long-battled-for citizenship in a country that wishes to strip her of her bodily autonomy, identity, and community.

In December, Alé’s family and mine and a handful of our closest friends crowded on the stage for photos with her at the Indianapolis War Memorial, where her naturalization ceremony was held. There, under the marble columns and bronze eagles, she became an official citizen.

“She made it just in time,” we joked, inspecting the paperwork approved by President Biden. “A month later, and we could have gotten a different signature.”

It’s not much of a joke. The humor comes from the relief and sense of security that we’re very, very fortunate to have now that the long journey of citizenship has reached its red, white, and blue conclusion.

During the months I’ve spent drafting this, we’ve sworn in a convicted criminal on Martin Luther King Jr. Day (hasn’t this nation brutalized Dr. King enough already?) who immediately set to work signing a slew of executive orders designed to make citizenship an even more arduous process.

And that was just the beginning. The Trump administration has been relentlessly gutting the federal government and the critical services that were meant to support the people who live in our nation. Every day, I learn about a new atrocity. Off the top of my head, I think of the decimation of public health programs, the mindless mass firings of federal workers, the fear-fueled attacks on my transgender siblings, the hobbling of an already sickly education system, the stripping of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion measures, the erasure and censorship of Black history, and so, so much more.

As Trump and his “grotesquely unqualified” cronies turn their sights on eliminating public broadcasting, I suppose I should be grateful I’m still learning about those atrocities in the first place. We cannot, after all, resist that which we do not know is happening, and in a nation where children go to school fearing ever-rising rates of gun violence and now the potential for ICE raids, all while risking dangerous illnesses because of vaccine misinformation campaigns, resistance is crucial.

It’s been nearly two years since my last blog entry, and it’s been nine years since my first one. In many ways, I am literally a different person than the wounded young 20-something I was when I bought this domain. I’m a queer, transmasculine, divorced weirdo in his 30s now. I’ve gone from working at a (generously progressive and community-supporting) wealth management firm to a transitional housing nonprofit. I don’t write as publicly as I used to. I feel less bitter about myself, but more bitter about the world, despite my attempts to keep turning my face lightward like a heavy-headed sunflower.

However, the bitterness does not make this country a better or safer place for me, or Alé, or any of the many, many people whose lives and livelihoods are threatened by this administration. There are practical things I can do, like calling my representatives and speaking up in the face of injustice. I can continue working to unlearn my own biases. I can keep my eye on the news.

And I can take care of my own well-being. I’d like to do that by getting back into writing again, even if I’m typing into the void (or worse: directly into AI’s all-consuming mouth). I’m not sure what that will look like, but maybe if I publish the intention, I’ll hold myself to its follow-through.

I hope that in another nine years, I can look back on this strange and terrifying moment with relief.

It's 2023 and You're Going to Pride

The parking is always a nightmare, even when you think you’ve safely parked in the vendor area. A couple hours into the day, a festival volunteer asks you to leave your booth to move your car and find other parking. They suggest a neighboring garage, which you queue up for while your car’s AC blasts warm air at your face. By the time you’ve made two loops inside the garage, you realize that the entry gate doesn’t calculate the garage’s capacity, and so you are now trapped in a continuous train of anxious gays looking for parking spots that don’t exist. At some point, you take a wrong turn and wind up in a dead-end near the entrance, where cars are still filtering in, obliviously entering this queer crab trap and watching you scoot your bright yellow Honda Fit back and forth to make a 17-point turn.

You do eventually escape and make your way to the parking lot next to the Indiana Historical Society. After you pay your $20 to the gate attendant, you hear her coworker shout to her to let in Marriott employees for free. You briefly consider telling the attendant that you work there, but then you remember that you’re wearing a glittery mesh shirt, a dog collar, and shiny gold shorts.

That shirt, as it turns out, is rapidly deteriorating in the heat. The insides of your elbows are plastered in sparkles and when you look down your shirt at your chest, you look like you’ve been bodied by a fairy, which may yet happen, if you’re lucky.

But for that dream to come true, you must pass the Good Ol’ Gauntlet. The first encampment of Bible-thumpers is waiting on the lawn of the Historical Society. You slow your pace and keep yourself between the megaphones and the group of queer teenagers wearing trans and non-binary flags as capes. You’re good bait in your shiny booty-shorts: small, unassuming, smiling pleasantly, inherently approachable despite the rainbow attire. The thumpers focus on you, pushing pamphlets your way while the caped crew passes mostly unharrassed. The evangelists say something directly to you, about you. You smile and absorb nothing.

A Historical Society employee is stationed next to them and he apologizes to you on their behalf and makes sure you know these people have nothing to do with the Society.

“I didn’t figure the Historical Society would support these guys,” you say. “Y’all are good folks.”

Suddenly, you are receiving an impromptu lecture from the employee about the Society’s NRA funding and its affection for Mike Pence.

“Oh. I didn’t know that,” you say.

“Spread the word,” he tells you.

You nod and continue on.

There are more proselytizers this year than you’ve seen since you first attended a Pride festival. They are stationed around the ticket line to the festival grounds, waving black signs with scripture in a stark white font.

“Love is patient! Love is kind!” a sunburned man on a crate yells at passersby. “It does not envy! It does not boast! It is not proud! Do you hear that? Love is not proud? Does that sound familiar to you?”

You are familiar with 1 Corinthians. You wonder if this finger-jabbing man is proud of what he’s doing. You wonder if perhaps he’s even a little bit envious as you position yourself between him and the line of festival-goers.

The festival grounds team with flags and people of a thousand different colors. You return to your booth and you watch beautiful drag queens sweep effortlessly by on heels that somehow don’t sink into the soil. One of your leather pup friends hugs you and takes a selfie with you in the shade of the canopy. You see young folks wearing pronoun pins and you remember being their age and not even knowing trans people existed. You only knew that you were an alien back then. There just weren’t other words for what you were, so you were an alien, and gosh, that explained a lot. You were so lonely, so clumsy, so far from home.

As the afternoon wears on, your voice grows hoarse from greeting your friends and complimenting strangers’ makeup. You buy a drink that’s mostly tequila and the bartender - who for some reason assures you that she’s straight - accidentally makes a second drink, tells you you’re cute, and hands it to you. You’ve played this game with your straight cis female friends before and know this isn’t flirting but it’s nice to be called cute and even nicer to double the drink on such a long, hot, dusty day.

You’re there for several hot hours, the rainbow foil stars melting into your sweat and pasting themselves over your body. You feel like a very slowly transforming were-disco-ball.

Eventually, you’re maxed out. Your girlfriend is recovering from a nasty cold but she came with you today despite it and you’re so grateful but if she stays here any longer she’s going to collapse. You haul your cooler a few blocks to the parking garage. The street preachers have dispersed. Love apparently wasn’t all that patient in the end.

You go to dinner with your friends at a pub you and your girlfriend have been meaning to check out for a few months. The antique interior briefly unsettles you until you see the Progress Pride pin on the server’s lapel. It will be OK to use the bathroom here.

After you pay the tab, one of your friends gives you a drawing he’s made of you as a Pokemon trainer and you are so surprised and delighted and tired that you tear up. How incredibly thoughtful. How kind, how generous, how full of love.

You get home and want so badly to just topple into a nest of pillows but your girlfriend won’t let you so much as sit on the edge of the bed. The sparkles spackled across your torso would breach containment and permanently glitter your sheets. You MUST take a shower, but at least your girlfriend has offered to help.

You scrub the grime and sunscreen off of each other and trade time under the shower head. There’s another party you could attend tonight but you’d rather stay here, together.

Later, as you snuggle on the couch with your love, you search “indiana historical society pence” and discover the Society did indeed host an event and book-promotion for Mike Pence last November. Unfortunate. You wonder what your uncle would say in the Society’s defense. You have an imaginary argument with your uncle even though you know you’re both on the same side, even through he was the one that introduced you to the local queer scene. You give up on the argument because you’ve already rehashed it too many times. You are frustrated with his optimistic expectations but you can’t bring yourself to argue against hope.

Just before bed, you double-check 1 Corinthians 13:4-7 and wonder if the red-faced men screaming hate at children ever got to the end of that famous passage:

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

And so will you.

Artificial

When I clicked to add a post (my first of 2023, a desperate bid to inspire myself to return to writing), I discovered a new button twitching in the upper left corner of my drafter. Yes, actually twitching, jiggling back and forth every few seconds to catch my attention. It succeeded, and upon hovering my mouse over the lightning bolt icon, I was not surprised by the floating text announcing Squarespace AI.

AI is already selling itself to me in so many places. It offers to write emails on my behalf. It conjures descriptions of parties I want to throw with my friends. It wants to banter with me on SnapChat.

It’s already old news that ChatGPT and its brethren are not reliable resources. At this stage, AI is a smooth liar, citing papers that don’t exist and inventing reasonable-sounding but ultimately inaccurate answers to the questions it begs us to ask (sometimes with costly consequences). Some say that the current shortcomings are nothing to worry about; just a nuanceless mirroring of linguistic patterns that can’t match the human voice.

That may be true right now, but how quickly will it advance? And even if the product is subpar, are the hollow paragraphs and overly-rendered art pieces of today already enough to take work away from living creators? Gotta say, it was deeply disheartening to rev myself up to work on some overdue creative writing only to discover the hungry phantom that is wide-spread AI text generation haunting my drafting screen with its annoying “LOOK AT ME!!!” wriggling.

Sure, “Squarespace AI (beta)”, go ahead. Write about my experience of top surgery, the original subject of this post:

“I underwent top surgery two years ago and it has been life-changing. As a transgender man, having a chest that aligns with my gender identity has brought immense relief and joy. The surgery itself was a major undertaking, but my surgeon and medical team were incredibly skilled and supportive throughout the process. The recovery period was challenging, but I had a great support system to ensure that I was taking proper care of myself. Overall, having top surgery has allowed me to feel more confident and comfortable in my own skin, and I am grateful for the opportunity to have had it.”

Oh sweetheart, I WISH it was two years ago. Anyway, what a detail to provide, surely not stolen from some other trans person’s writing.

Because that’s what AI is right now: a regurgitation machine. It’s a toy and a shortcut and a plagiarist and a hallucinating self-appointed professor. But it won’t be like that forever. In fact, there are concerns about the pace at which this technology is developing, the lack of constraints on it, and even the potentially apocalyptic consequences of its present trajectory.

A little paranoid? Maybe, but hey, I’m originally a science fiction writer, after all. With the rise of political deepfakes, AI chat “buddies” that feed and grow off our interaction with them, and art-thieving image generators, I feel my anxiety is at least a little justified.

I mean, that little AI blurb about top surgery was essentially accurate. Yes, I absolutely felt relief and joy, and recovery was uncomfortable at best, and I had a great support system. Like, a really, really great support system. I have very rarely felt the kind of communal love that I received in the weeks before and after my top surgery. Friends and family were so incredibly generous both financially and emotionally. Over and over, I was moved to tears by the kindness I experienced in those magic weeks.

Yes, that blurb summed the general feeling up, but it doesn’t know me, doesn’t know how nervous I was for days before my surgery because it felt like it might be yanked away from me, something I fretted about even as I donned the surgical gown in my little pre-surgery cubicle (backwards, because, you know, the nervousness). It doesn’t know the sudden desperation I felt when I realized anti-trans legislation was closing in around me, the fear that choked my heart like strangling vines at the thought that my long-delayed surgery would be delayed even further (or worse). AI couldn’t know, much less express, just how much of a struggle it was for me to give up on my original surgeon and seek out someone out-of-pocket, someone I couldn’t afford without the incredible, tear-inducing assistance of loved ones and strangers alike.

Only I can share the lived truth of my experience. There are so many details I could call upon, like how I tried to take a shower the day after my surgery, accidentally tugged my blood-filled drainage bulbs, and genuinely thought I was going to pass out on the pink and blue tiles of the bathroom floor. It was worth it to rinse off the hospital smell, and I had my partner’s supportive, experienced arms to keep me on my feet.

Oh man, I could go on and on about those damn bulbs, which dangled, gory and translucent, from both sides of my ribs like some sort of deep sea parasite. And when they came out? Somehow, I hadn’t realized just how deep they went, and when the nurse pulled them free, it felt like she was tugging flaming snakes out of my pecs by their tails.

It was all worth it. I am overjoyed! I am grateful! I am still in awe of my own reflection as I massage jojoba oil into my purple-pink scars every night, and last week, I went swimming with my top off (don’t tell my surgeon). At last, my shirts button evenly over my torso and I don’t have to worry about throwing on a binder to answer the door. To my absolute delight, I can cross my arms and wear tank-tops and hug my friends without feeling constantly aware of my chest!

I don’t know what the future holds, but hey, even if we are plunging deeper into a cyberpunk dystopia, at least I’m entering it feeling more myself than ever.

And, you know, tit-free. That feels pretty damn good.

Enjoy this very flattering photo of me asleep on the couch after coming home from surgery. The fortress of pillows was a necessary line of defense between me and my incredibly clingy Chihuahuas.

Off My Chest

I arrived an hour ahead of schedule for my appointment, budgeting for a variety of obstacles. I’d only been to this medical center once before, and only to the ER section to visit a friend who’d been in an accident. I remembered the labyrinth of cold linoleum, the many identical passages branching from each sterile hall. Even after rereading the emailed directions a dozen times, I feared I’d wind up in the wrong building, resulting in me missing my appointment (and perhaps being trapped forever within an infinite sick-white sprawl of hospital walls).

I couldn’t afford to miss this consultation. I’d scheduled it almost a year prior after leaping through a series of hoops just to earn the right to be seen. I’d changed primary doctors in order to have a better shot at being referred and I had to see that doctor regularly over the course of several months before he felt equipped to write a strong enough letter of support for me. I collected letters from him and from my therapist, knowing that I’d have to collect new versions of those letters eventually anyway. I called my insurance and spent almost two hours on the phone confirming and documenting coverage with a young woman who, though kind and patient, was not at all familiar with what I was asking after. I’d even contacted a local health support group to get back-ups of the required letters and documentation in case my doctor or therapist accidentally misphrased anything in a way that my insurance would automatically reject.

If I missed my consultation, I wasn’t sure that my heart would be able to take it. That’s why I plopped myself in that waiting room an hour before I was scheduled to be seen, clutching a folder stuffed full of my medical history and extra copies of every document that had ever been requested of me.

“Last name Douglas?”

A tiny moment of relief as the nurse called me by my surname and led me past the reception desk. I’d heard great things about the surgeon I was seeing, but didn’t know how tactful his staff would be.

While I waited in the exam room, I mentally rehearsed my arguments.

Hello, Doctor. My name is Gordon and my pronouns are he/they. I am transmasculine and have socially transitioned. I am out at home, at work, and in public, and feel safe and supported enough to continue with my medical transition. By July, I’ll have been on testosterone for a year, and it has been the best year of my life. I have worn a binder off and on for ten years and have worn one almost every day for the past year. It is very important to me that my body more accurately matches my gender identity and expression, which is why, after years of consideration and discussions with doctors and therapists, I’ve decided to seek a double mastectomy.

As it turned out, I didn’t need to be prepared for an interrogation. The top surgeon walked in, greeted me warmly, and we got down to business. After a few minutes of conversation, questions, and physical inspections, he announced that I was an excellent candidate. He also noted that, thanks to the pandemic, surgery couldn’t be scheduled yet, even though operating rooms were opening back up. He told me to expect a call late in the summer for a surgery that could happen in late fall or at the start of the next year, at the latest. Disappointing, sure, but I’d waited 30 years to get this done. What was one more year?

At the end of the visit, after the surgeon assured me that he was experienced at working with picky insurance companies, he looked me square in the eyes. “We will get this done,” he said, and I almost cried.

That was in January of 2022. I’m writing this in December of 2022, and as of yet, no surgery date in sight. The updates I used to receive every two months have stopped arriving in my inbox. When I finally contacted the surgeon’s office to make sure I was still on the waitlist, I was assured that I was, but instead of the just-under-a-year wait they’d originally predicted, they were now estimating one and a half to two years between the consultation and the surgery.

I was gutted. I was supposed to swim topless next summer. I’ve been loading up my closet with cheap button-downs to wear during recovery. My mom was awaiting a date from me so that she could take time off work to care for me after the procedure. I had tried to keep myself somewhat pessimistic about the surgery time frame in the first place. “Definitely in 2023,” I’d repeated to myself. Now even that isn’t a guarantee.

2022 has been a rocky year, to put it mildly. I experienced new and interesting ways in which to get my heart broken. I finally caught Covid for the first time, and boy howdy, did that suck. I flew from Indiana to Oregon twice, and the second time, I returned via U-Haul with my girlfriend, two cats, and a sense that all of our lives were about to change dramatically.

Luckily for me, despite the grief and chaos, I’m a professional silver linings finder. I spent what could have been a very lonely summer pushing myself out of my comfort zone and making new friends. I finally proceeded with my legal name and gender marker change, since it no longer seemed like I’d have to time that around my surgery (else risk further insurance hurdles). Despite feeling pretty gross and miserable during my Covid experience, it also gave me the chance to slow down and rest a little without feeling as guilty about not being productive. I attended two weddings, got two(!) tattoos, started running a D&D campaign with my buddies, and even performed a very silly cowboy-themed burlesque act, complete with a fake mustache, tear-away pants, and a lasso trick that I practiced for hours using my stationary bike as a bull.

You know what they say: Save a horse…

When it comes to putting a positive spin on my indefinitely delayed surgery, however, I tend to struggle. Still, I’m looking for the bright side! To start with, between rising inflation, car trouble, and several cross-country journeys, finances are a bit tighter than usual. Even with insurance, my top surgery will be a larger expense than I’m accustomed to swallowing. I need time to fill my savings back in, and while I’m emotionally devastated by the distance between me and a flat chest, I’m financially relieved.

Another unexpected benefit of waiting is that I am immediately readable as trans to fellow trans folks. Would I like to pass as a man better than I currently do? Certainly I would, but from the jump, I figured a short, flamboyant, baby-faced fairy like me would always have some sort of tell. That aside, passing isn’t the be-all end-all of transition for some people. I like being perceived as queer, and if my bound chest tips other queer people off, then that’s great! I’m fortunate to be surrounded by friends who use my correct name and pronouns, and when trans and/or non-binary strangers see me being loud and happy and respected as transmasc regardless of the shape of my body, it conveys that this is a safe place to be oneself, even if your looks don’t line up with your identity.

On that note, I’d like to remind folks that presentation and appearance are not the same as identity. We live in a culture that has trained us to make quick and “accurate” gender assessments with everyone we encounter. That culture is shifting, albeit slowly. For most folks, their gender and their presentation are likely in sync. But for plenty of other folks, whether or not they’re transgender, that’s not the case. There are straight, cisgendered men who have lived their whole lives as men with he/him pronouns but who happen to wear more traditionally feminine clothes. The “gender reverse” of that is true as well (though perhaps less visible, considering how masculine clothes have become the “neutral” standard). I try to use neutral language until I know someone’s pronouns, and when I introduce myself, I try to include my pronouns as well.

These are behaviors and attitudes I had to learn and which I’m still learning. Despite everything I just said about avoiding assumptions, I still hope people look at me and see a man. A quirky little muppet of a man, sure, but still a man. That’s difficult when one of the major ways people make gender assessments is through body shape. I’ve managed to grow a goofy little goatee that helps guide people toward masculine assumptions, but what good is that under a mask? Even when I’m not masked, there are times when I get the quick, awkward up-down glance from strangers who are usually trying to be polite and don’t want to “sir” me in case I’m just a butchy, hirsute lady.

The best I can do for now is to continue being my boldest and kindest self. I’ve had to fight quite a lot just to get where I am now (I’ll have to write about the ridiculous experience I had just trying to get my pharmacy to fill my first testosterone prescription sometime soon, because wow, I really wish I’d been braver back then). The surgeon who spoke with me is skilled and sympathetic and surely overworked, as so many in the medical field are, especially in midst of ongoing pandemics. Currently, he’s the only top surgeon in my state who takes my insurance, and while I’m tempted to find a way to pay out of pocket for another plastic surgeon, that feels like such a financial waste.

So I’ll wait. I’ve made it this long; I can certainly make it a bit longer. My body isn’t who I am. I know this, but the more I pass, the lighter my heart feels. It’s hard knowing that there’s nothing more I can do but be patient and keep enjoying the things I do have control over.

Maybe it won’t be next summer, but some sunny July, I’ll run down a dock and dive into a lake looking more myself than ever, and I know it will feel just like flying.