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

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

Two Minds of the Same Whole Part of the Half

Altogether now: belly laugh!  That's right, I'm a slacker.  But what's most important is that I was right about being a slacker.  I called it!  "Won't last until February," I said.  However, I was going to give myself a little more credit than "Won't even make it to 2012."

Ever the optimist... ever the renegotiator...

I'm coming atcha tonight in the seclusion of my comfy basement.  The ever-loving spouse is spending the night an hour and a half away from here and will return again tomorrow.  And so despite the dozens of other way more important things I have to do, I'm going to type up a little bit of news out of Holli World.  Even though, honestly, I really don't want to.  I'm tired, sleepy even, a bit distracted, and I seem to be having trouble putting everything I actually have to say in cohesive order.  But if not now, when?

Sooooo... Sunday night.  Yes.  Erica and I had, officially, the most horrible conversation about my gender issues ever.  It wasn't loud, nor did it in any way resemble an argument.  There was a bit of a return to the subject of my long hair and how it was "driving a wedge" into our marriage, and "What do you hope to gain?" or "What do you think is going to happen if you wait around long enough, some sign from heaven, or whatever?"  And what I wanted to say was all of the stuff I wrote down in my last segment.  Well, some of it sort of got said.  A few main ideas.  Not in so many words.

To tell the truth, it could have gone better.  We talked about how each of us is dealing with some pretty severe emotional needs issues right now, prompting me to mutter, "I'm having a hard time deciding which one of us needs therapy the most."  Soon after, I made an attempt to sum up my feelings about what I believe I need.  The effect was diminished by the subtle undertones of "crazy" that I'd let creep in...

I told Erica that I believed I had two genders - one physical body, but two genders (important distinction there) - and that a part of me is emotionally starved - my feminine ego - because it receives no love.  I then made mention of such phenomena as genetic chimeras, made a bit of a philosophical pass on the topic of souls ("Would it be possible for two souls to reside in a single body?") and concluded that sometimes I wonder if part of me was really supposed to be someone else entirely.

After all of this was said, after a bit of silence, she replied, "I think you win. You definitely need the therapy more than me."

"By that, do you mean 'That's a lot more that he's going through than I ever would have expected,'" I asked, "or do you mean, "He's absolutely insane and needs professional help'?"

"Yes," she said.

It was meant to be a joke... she later told me.  Unfortunately, friends, Erica's jokes don't always hit home.  For those close moments that followed, it looked like she'd lost all faith in me, or the possibility of seeing this through to a rational conclusion.  I could have sworn I actually heard a string snap, like something big suspended overhead had just lost an important element of support.  It's as close as I've ever been to being stunned silent.

Maybe I'll get to the rest of that well-worded epiphany of mine some other time.  Sooner would be better than later, but I've been all about nailing the timing.  I trust that it will work out in the end. Like my sister-in-law loves to say, "It'll be alright in the end; it's not alright, so it's not the end."

Ever the optimist... ever the sucker...

~HCP