Moniker Business

Don't fall out of your seats, because when you read what comes next the revelation might make you a bit dizzy with disbelief:

Holli isn't my real name.

It's not even my first not-real name.

Uhh... good job handling the news?

As I'm confident that your fannies are still comfortably secure in your chairs, I'm also probably right in thinking that most people who stumble across this blog have toyed with the idea of fantasy cross-gendered names in their lifetime.  We're all at least a little curious, what our parents might have named us if the "gender reveal" dial was flipped.  For me, it's kind of a burning question... and for lack of a satisfying answer, I took it upon myself to christen my unidentified feminine side.  A handful of times.

This entry doesn't move forward without me admitting information that's a bit more revealing than anonymous bloggers ought to, but I'm intent on getting this down.  So here it goes:

My given name is Kris.  It's a name about three inches away from the gender border, but no one who mentions it regards me as female.  It would be super easy to leap from Kris to Krissie, or use it mistakenly in that regard, but surprisingly it has occurred to very few people.  Even grade school bullies must have thought it was too easy.

I used to write out ways to change my name, the way other girls would write out the last name of their classroom crushes as if they planned to marry them someday.

"Kris.  Krissie.  Krissy.  Krissa.  Kristy.  Kristen. (Oooh, how about a y?) Krys.  Kryssa!  Krystina!  Krysallinnia!?? ... oh, WOW... no..."

And then I would rip the paper into a million pieces, throw it away, and deny everything, whether I was asked or not.

Which was really hard, having one of these in our living room.

In college, (keyword: Halloween), my girlfriends dubbed me Krystal the first time they saw me dressed as a girl.  (Oh, how warm was my inner glow!)  The name became legend in our social circle, but fell into obscurity. 

Elsewhere online, I've gone by Alyssa Cooper.  Under this name, I've said and done a bit of roleplaying - mostly good, clean fun, but I've certainly fueled a few fantasies contrived by hapless chat room gawkers (nothing exceedingly licentious, but it was nice to pretend I was desirable for awhile).

What seems ages ago, I thought very hard about who I am as a woman, and arrived finally at Holli Cherise.  There's a bit more to it than just inventing a name, but part of the process is a bit telling, and shall remain private.  I will say, though, that while partly my own doing, this designation was also inspired by circumstance and opportunity.  The important thing to know: this is now who I feel I am.

Tragically, for me it still comes down to authenticity.  Names are traditionally bestowed.  We may request them, of course, for a variety of reasons that suit us later in life, but most people grow into identities partly (not exclusively, I know) rooted in the bed of their given names.  For most of my life, I have been Kris - pointedly NOT Krissie, NOT Krystal, NOT Alyssa, as far as anyone else is concerned.  These identities are false.

In a way, it's like if no one knows I'm Holli, then no one can tell me I'm NOT.  I recognize that I'm giving certain people way too much power over me, but there's a positive catch as well.  You see, I feel it works both ways.  Someday, someone precious to me, someone close, will call me Holli (I really don't care what the circumstance, but I'll know when it happens), and I will answer.  And then I'll know.

The naming of a person is to channel life, to lend spark from one's own flame so that another may blaze into being.  Names are powerful.  We share them with those whom we love and trust, and we hide them from strangers, malcontents, and those who would betray us.  There's a lore in names and naming that's very important to each of us in our own worlds.  Dare I say?  Names are magical.  They hold a truth that can set us free or bind us where we stand.  Like a sword or pen, how significant they are depends on how they're used.

Take it from an Austrian literary giant who knows.

What's in a name?  More than anyone bargains for.

Call me Holli.  One of these days, I might just be the woman you were looking for.

-- HCP

Tingling Teeth

I used to hate the term “coming out.”  The meaning of this phrase, of course, is derived from “coming out of the closet” which was almost exclusively a gay metaphor which basically everyone else appropriated.  Even straight people can “come out” about their guilty pleasures.  (i.e. “I’m a closet wrestling fan” or “I don’t tell many people this, but I have sexual fantasies about Daisy Duck.”)

"It gets really in-depth after the third
volume of my unauthorized fanfic."

Call it “confession” or “disclosure” …I don’t care anymore.  These days, letting people in on my closet-sized secret is all I want to do. I’d go so far as to say it’s a bit of a discreet mania.

I haven’t shared my gender identity situation with anyone in years, which is down to basic consideration for my wife, who would prefer to never know what it feels like for our friends & family to learn that she married a bi-gendered person.  I get that, I really do… but from the perspective of a trans-person trying to get some basic identity acquiescence, it’s a frustrating arrangement.

I’ve shared my female identity with seven people in my life (not counting the pre-marriage counsellor, who was, in retrospect, wholly unprepared to deal with that specific sort of speedbump in a burgeoning matrimonial relationship; but she did try, bless her heart, even though “wrapping myself up tightly in a sheet from the arms down” is not valid replacement therapy for actually wearing a dress… but I digress).  The hope was always to have people I trust and care about, and who cared about me, be comfortable at any given time to freely address my transgenderism, so that I didn’t feel so alone and helpless in my distress.  I assumed part of the process would involve some acceptance that I, on occasion, would dress the part (in their absence, of course… unless otherwise indicated… in which case I would just be thrilled).

Instead, what happened was the establishment of two camps of interaction:

Camp Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell - this is inhabited by friends who don’t know how to integrate transgender topics into natural conversation.  Their inhibitions seem derived from a fear of saying the wrong thing and offending me, or - in the case of those opposed to my practical application of a wardrobe - unintentionally implying that they approve of my preferred modes of expression.  Broaching the subject in this camp is generally a complete waste of time.

"Could one of you at least give me a push?"

(To be fair, I’m the only one of my kind whom these good people have ever met. Everything about addressing transgenderism has been new territory for them since the 1990s, thanks to me, exclusively.)

Camp Practical Listening & Shared Wisdom - this camp has an enrollment of one.  Even when she admits she might have no idea what she’s talking about, she still has something to say.  It helps that we’re both wired with the same belief, in that there’s no such thing as analyzing something too much. Unfortunately, this angel belongs to a popular club - “Life Obligations” - that prevents her (and potentially everyone else in the world) from getting too involved in my problems.  (Currently, we are on friend hiatus while she strengthens bonds with her husband, cares for her children with special needs, and celebrates an endless parade of birthdays in her ever-expanding family, all while enduring a weight loss battle.  I have no grounds for protest.)

In the absence of old confidantes, my natural tendency is to seek out new ones.  The obstacles here are multifold.

• The older my peers get, the more set in their ways they become.  They become more guarded of the stability of their own lifestyles, and thus fear any changes that threaten the idyllic worlds their lives have become.  (This point is valid on the condition that everyone has a personal definition of “normal” that my revelation would endanger, which I believe most people do, on the whole.)  This makes me hesitate to bring newer friends closer.

• Telling more people makes the circle wider.  The bigger the circle, the harder it becomes to keep a secret.

• My spouse just loves keeping this secret.  She can live with it, but knowing that other people know is a wound - one which my convictions prevent me from exacerbating any more than I have.

Therefore, being able to out myself to certain people whom I believe could be intellectual and/or spiritual allies in my crusade for trans-recognition has become a crossdream fantasy in and of itself.

As I write this, I’m compelled to add an important fourth drawback, which suddenly seems very crucial to the matter:

• The point of telling someone a secret is to violate its status as a “secret.”  The point of letting someone know that you’re suffering from quiet desperation is with the hope that you might find an escape from it.  Sure, at least you’re not being quiet any more, but if you want things to change, shouldn’t you expect them to change?  Why, then, would I tell someone if I didn’t?

In that regard, my friend Angel once asked me point blank, “What are you prepared to do?”

Lorelai's been there.

It’s a wake-up slap, that question.  It basically means, “Make a decision right now, and see if you can live with it.”  Well… the hard truth is that I’m not about to make any decisions that benefit myself at the expense of my other.  I can’t be Holli and keep Erica.

Nor can I cease to be Holli.  That’s not even a decision I get to make.

Given any kind of chance to live the rest of my life as Holli without consequence of those I love suffering, I know I’d take it.  I don’t even know if that life is better than this one.  I would push that button, because I need to know.

Therefore, me not finding someone else to trust and telling them who I am is like refusing to walk in the room containing the button.  This is basically me admitting that I fear someone supporting me and telling me to go for it.  I fear someone telling me it’s okay to get what I want though it destroys someone else.  I fear that I could be convinced to be that person.

And I don’t think I’m that person.

At least it’s still my decision, even if making the right one isn’t as satisfying as making the one that feels good.

c. Charles Schulz

-- HCP

Platform: Shoes - A Declaration of Advocacy

I have 99 transgender problems, and shoes make up about a dozen of them.

For every (rare) day I decide to wear an outfit, I begin with shoe selection and build around them. Every ensemble I lovingly critique, I start with choice of heels. I perk up at the sound of clicks on tile or sidewalk, then swivel around to see if the shoes (and the person filling them) are as attractive to me as they sound. My Pinterest board “Well Heeled” overflows with a seemingly redundant conveyance of every shoe I could ever dream to wear.

(If you’re curious, please feel free to drop by: https://www.pinterest.com/hollicherise/ ...y'know, if you want.)

Shameless cry for attention. So, so shameless.

I suppose, then, it would be no surprise to anyone that high heels were the first definitive form of feminine apparel I tried on as a child. How old was I? 6 or 7, perhaps? Crazy, how the culmination of three events led to that moment: my mother leaving me in the car so she could run into the grocery store to cash a check; a pair of red, strappy heels left in the backseat; my mounting curiosity about what it would feel like to wear such beautiful things. Seizing the moment, I put them on my feet, one at a time. I was shorter than my mother, but - a bit startling - they fit very well. And then… I buckled the straps around my ankles, hands trembling ever so slightly… sitting in place, feet together, feeling the spikes press up, forcing the arch, commanding my sitting posture, redefining my very character….

And then I opened the car door. And then I stepped out. I touched the pavement, gingerly. The sensation of solid ground under my newly-shod sole communicated to me a novelty, how different things were now, as I took that first step. Two feet on the ground now. I stood up. Perhaps I wobbled, but just a little. I looked around to assure myself just how alone I was, unobtrusive between all the parked cars. I took a few steps.

Electrifying. Exulting. Transformative.

Addicted!

It would only escalate from that point on.

It’s always been as though I was born to wear heels. I don’t get women who complain about them, their discomfort, how they exist to merely objectify the body, their suspicion that this is all part of the male agenda to subjugate women (forgetting that men were wearing heels before women appropriated them). On the contrary, I find they make me feel sexier, more capable, and somewhat special whenever I wear them.

In my opinion, if heels are worn strictly for the pleasure of admirers, then you’re doing it wrong. Like lipstick, clothes, jewelry or perfume, it’s down to choice, which is an expression of self, no matter how you dress it up. High heels are the essence of dramatic interpretation, or costume theater if you will, as much a part of feminine exotica as an alluring smokey eye or elaborate gown.

No, heels aren’t the end-all/be-all of forward footwear fashion.

Yes, they make you less likely to escape from a charging tyrannosaur.

No, you aren’t less of a woman if you don’t wear heels.

Yes, I'm a little partial in my appeal for high heel celebration. Then again, I don't get to wear them very often, so I'm not the one destroying my knees in them every single day. (Then again, nobody should be that cruel to themselves. "All things in moderation," as the old adage goes.)

"Stop trying so hard to stand out, Susan!"
is probably a less-popular axiom.
(But no less valid.)

In conclusion: Life is short. Go climb that mountain. Eat the chocolate mousse pie. Wear the heels. (Just, not all at the same time.)

-- HCP

The Fault In My Stars

I wonder how many people remember their childhood. More so, how much do they remember? How far back? I think about this because even at 43 years of age I have deep, distinct memories from before my first birthday, which run like crisp celluloid through a projector when I take them out to examine them. I've been told it's impossible to retain memories from such a pre-developmental age, and yet there they are...

My parents fighting. A small animal, possibly a squirrel or chipmunk, running straight at me. Birthday balloons tied up around the house. Not many moments, but enough to prove to myself how I gleaned more from my surroundings than the adults believed I would, or could.

Funny, how most of the photographs we have of my first few years come with zero recall. I know it's me, where I was, who was on the other side of the viewfinder, but there's no live feed. In a picture of me on a swing, I go back and forth, smiling widely. Only there's no wind, no forceful hand pushing from behind or in front, no sound of joy, or the crunch of autumn leaves. It's just a picture of me, gripping my bottle, laughing my head off. I can guess what that sounds & feels like, but it's not a memory. It's only an image, a testimony that I was there.

I remember the first time I whispered that I wanted to be a girl. I was perhaps 5 years old (no more than 6 or less than 4). The night was crisp, clear skies dotted with scattered stars. On my back, in the rear seat of my mother's blue Volkswagen Beetle - no seatbelt fastened; this was the 70s, you see - I stared upside down out the window as we drove homeward. I watched the stars as the car meandered over twisty roads. Dark branches swept across the view, but the stars didn't move. They seemed to follow us, watching me back for all I knew. I picked out a bright one, the brightest one, and became fixated. My mother had told me about wishing stars, how you only wished on the brightest ones. I might have wished for anything, being so young and full of wonder. But...

"I wish I was a girl." This was the only request I even considered. At so young an age, did I feel every other need had been granted? Did I sense that having two parents who loved each other was a fool's hope at this point, or that my toy box had reached capacity? Or did I know even then, deeply, simply, that something was intrinsically... amiss? [Insert pun appreciation here.]

"Thank you for your call. Please hold. All stars are busy fulfilling the destinies
of thousands of customers ahead of you. Your wish is important to us. Thank
you for choosing the Milky Way. Please stand by... Thank you for your call..."

I'm not incredibly quick on the uptake, as the saying goes. Sometimes the most obvious concepts take me ages to grasp. I'm often the last to realize changes or receive epiphanies, in whichever society I roll with. Sometimes it's charming (and occasionally a burden, depending on who you ask). So when I say that as a child I knew without question that what would make me happier than anything would be to change my gender, it's not to impress upon you that I was confused. It's to insist that I've always known there was more to my identity than boyhood.

I couldn't call it a mistake. I didn't know how to petition for an appeal to my assignment. I just knew I was... different than other boys. I wanted an alternative to everything I'd been led to believe I was, and what I was allowed to become.

And so, forty years later, I'm still wondering what I'm supposed to do with these feelings. The only difference is, I know it's okay to ask the question out loud... under the right circumstances, inasmuch as my instincts tell me.

Still no real answers, though. Just a calling to keep asking questions, and to keep the mission grounded in love. On both counts, I think I'm holding up. (No thanks to the STARS, I might add!)

--HCP

A Bite Out of Reality

One summer, six years ago, I told myself that I needed to face reality for a little while. So I left blogging. I abandoned chat rooms, message boards, and emailing strangers from far off places who shared my frustrating passion for self-discovery as an unconventional woman. I left a vague indication that I was alright, that this sort of thing happens all the time to online dreamers, and for the most part I didn't feel I was missing much anyway.

"Funny, I don't FEEL more like myself. Hello? Is this thing on??"

Reality was marriage. Reality was my job, my church, my friends, the yard animals that keep digging under my shed. Also, there's been my other passion for self-expression, through ink, paint, and other artistic mediums. I chose to make time for this kind of actualization, admitting that my female identity had no place in the real world. No regrets; I've been doing well, on my feet, getting things done with the energy I used to reserve for lengthy declarations regarding the finer points of my personal femininity.

But I'm not right, either. I haven't been right in forever. The kind of right that's not about being correct, but feeling well-adjusted, or in place. I do have a life, sure, and it will always need my attention, but the part of me who is woman (and it doesn't have to be a physical part, not really) is wholly unsatisfied with her role in all of this. Feeling denied, perhaps. Feeling less than actualized. Wanting to do something about it, even if I'm reluctant.

Well, that sort of conflict can get out of hand, especially since, more and more, I don't feel the need to consult with outsiders like I've felt was necessary in the past. I want to be woman in the presence of loved ones, to be loved in return as Holli. I've always wanted acknowledgement, to be the "she" when someone points to indicate they're talking about me, to be the "girl!" in their friendly greetings without the slightest twang of irony. I don't get to experience these things, and may never, but suddenly I've decided to clear out a bit of room and let my girlside just exist.

Fine, I've said, with the heart of St. Compromise, the Practical. I won't drag my loved ones into the places they're uncomfortable. But I will be, for the sake of my soul, in one form or another.

I'm the sort who can eventually accept compromise, given enough time, but I'm also blessed with imagination. Those who tell me "you can't" soon realize that I've discovered fine print at the bottom of their airtight reasoning. Reality insists that we must abide by its wishes; it often neglects to point out the escape clauses.

It's really so simple: I never said I can't come back to this.

And so, I am. Just like that.

I plan to write. I plan to answer questions, even if I have to ask them myself. This is the new plan, see, where I don’t rely on people to help patronize me (even though sometimes that’s all I desperately wish for). I refuse to be the helpless maiden in the tower, as it were, awaiting rescue. So, chat with me, if you like. Invite me to enjoy something. Show me your own world. Let’s become acquainted in that limited yet indulgent way the internet affords us.

I’ll be honest. I promise.

I won’t be punctual, but I’ll be frequent.

Maybe I’ll write stories, and let you get involved with the telling.

I don’t really know what I’ll write next. But I need this. Voice. Presence. A sort-of reality in its own right, a peculiar sort. A universe where I am me, you are you, and we are (somewhat) together.

Hopefully yours,

-- HCP

"Rapunzel doesn't know how good she had it!
... God, grant me a long enough ladder."