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