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

Say Nothing, Act Casual ... pt. 1

By now, if you've read everything prior to this entry, you may have gleaned that I'm not exactly a public figure.  You don't know my given birth name, the kinds of pets I keep, the specific nature of my work or the name of the town I live in.  I even provided a pseudonym with which we may refer to my wife, and will do the same for any close acquaintances who'll be mentioned in this very post.  My blog is deeper undercover than a Brazilian CIA sleeper agent!

Security matters to the closet TG.  A "free country" it may be, but there are too many circumstances where common knowledge of one's gender experiments will attract unfortunate consequences.  Even if most of us keep low profiles in real life, there's a very good chance that if there's a tear in the veil of secrecy then someone will lose something useful, vital or precious - even all three.

And I acknowledge that I've got a little of something from all three categories hanging on the line, should my bi-gendered activities go live.  Therefore, I exercise caution.  Not only for myself but for the main reason I keep the curtains drawn when I'm girling it up - Erica.  She cannot even describe the specter of dread that haunts her, that someday her parents, extended family, all of our friends, her co-workers, our future children, the Pope & the President will find out that she's married to a cross-dresser.  To clarify, I'm mostly in agreement with her.  My needs are complicated, but not the center of our marriage.  And with the economy shaping up to be what it is, I can't go losing my job because I'm deemed incompatible working with the staff or clientele.  (Or whatever excuse they'd make up.)

It's a lot easier to keep the ol' skeleton under wraps these days.  I have my own house, I get time to myself, and I can shop online (not that I'm sitting on that much extra cash; did I mention the lousy economy?).  But in days past, the life of this secret sister was a real pain in the ass...

CHILDHOOD marks the first moments of my discovery that I wanted to be more like the girls.  But even a 1st grader knows there are some things you just don't tell other people.  Especially your peers.  Don't ask me how I knew, but somehow I got the memo that letting all your classmates learn that you'd rather play house than kickball would follow you around nipping at your ass like an angry shih tzu.

Parents were another subset of associates whom it was wise to keep these things from.  In my case especially, Dad, who rocked with Harley-Davidson, hung out with Jack Daniels, and liked to travel with Smith & Wesson.  Mom was exactly the opposite - fun, warm, funny, caring and yet something made me withhold my questions from her.  Even when she caught me two different times wearing her pantyhose, and even offered to talk to me about whatever I was going through, I dummied up.  Probably the tenets of shame and inappropriateness that most kids like us felt when examining our genders.

ADOLESCENCE wasn't so bad, inasmuch as there was one excellent perk for a teenage CD - self-gratification.  This, at least, was what adults anticipated youngsters to be doing in the privacy of their bedroom.  Whether they approved or not, nobody wanted to walk into the middle of that.  And it's not like they could read my mind and learn which fantasies I was mining from.  They sure weren't gonna ask.

My hormonal spike from grades 7-12 added another demographic to the "Do Not Tell" list: attractive girls.  This was agonizing, since they were exactly whom I would have chosen to open up to.  My fantasies expanded, but the closest I ever got to confessing my desires to anyone back then was my first girlfriend - we'll call her Mallory - who decided that she wanted to dress me as a girl for Halloween as a special exercise in dominance over an all-too-willing amour.  I went on letting her think I hated it, which seemed to inspire her all the more as she divulged details of the sweetly feminine things she'd make me wear.  I'd already lost my virginity to her; I wondered if it were likely I'd be the one wearing the lingerie at some point.

Three months into the relationship, Mallory dumped me.  October was three months away.  Not even close.  C'est la vie, as the heartbroken say.

Curiously, my next girlfriend (and one of my best friends to this day) - let's call her Juliet - had the unprecedented effect of distracting me almost entirely from my pocket obsession with cross-dressing.  I have no theories on this, but I can observe the differences: we were rarely a physical couple, her Christian faith gave me new ideas to think about other than sex and gender, and above all she had so much more to offer as a friend and companion than most girls I knew.  I decided to preserve our relationship's beneficial qualities, even after Juliet broke up with me, by never involving her in that part of my world.  (Currently renegotiating this policy.)

COLLEGE availed a brand new concept that was as frightening as it was exciting - independence!  Not only could I pursue examination of my gender on a potentially social level, but I could majorly screw up my reputation in the process! (Wheee!)  I learned a lot about "give and take" during these years, but not much about accepting status quo.  Never have I revealed my secret to more people than I would over the next seven years, nor would I.  And the beautifully ironic thing is that it barely seems to have mattered.

Some time after I met Erica and we started dating, I gave in to the impulse to raid her closet.  I'd steal the occasional scrunchie or pair of underwear, but later I would convince her to go off to class and let me sleep in her dorm room until she got back.  Halfway dressed, I had no idea she'd forgotten her text book.  I barely got back into bed before she came in - forgetting that I had a hair clip stuck on my head.  She saw it immediately but - bless her sweet heart - believed my story when I said I was going to dress in her clothes to surprise her for a laugh when she got back.  This story worked so well, she actually took pictures when she got back, and her friend down the hall, Penny, who was so amused when she saw the prints, made wardrobe suggestions for the "next time."  The following year, both of them made me over for the proceeding Halloween.  (Score!!)

After all of this transpired, I eventually decided to tell Erica the truth.  I was growing rather fond of her and couldn't bear to spring my big surprise on her years down the road.  She took it well, though I feared her head would explode from bottling up this information without someone to vent with, so I also told Penny, who'd become her roommate and best friend.  They immediately formed a consensus that I should never, ever give in to the desire to dress as a woman again.  (Un-score.)

Next: "Holli goes in-freaking-sane"

~HCP