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