The discussion was particularly interesting to me because I’ve had such a complex and conflicted relationship with privacy in my own life. For many years, I was closeted. My trans identity, my identity as a woman, was a private, secret, thing. Cause for feelings of shame and embarrassment. Forays into femininity were clandestine and brief. Coming out to people was an event something which required forethought and planning as I chose to make a private aspect of myself slightly more accessible.

Now, much of what was private in my life is public: this blog highlights my experiences with gender, sex, sexuality, and more. My artist website, http://www.rebeccakling.com/. My upcoming show (obligatory plug – buy tickets now!). So (as I did once before) I called in to share my views.

Specifically, I was curious about Professor Nippert-Eng’s view of disclosure as an act of power. She discussed how privacy and secrets are often viewed as a way to control our lives: by making decisions about who knows what, we can regulate relationships and how emotionally close people are able to get to us (or not). I said that, as a minority, I feel there’s a certain power in disclosure that might not be obvious to people whose experiences are more generally understood. Disclosure can act as a way of staking a claim in a larger culture, a prominent reminder that I, as a (whatever), am here and won’t be going away.

This has been a big part of me choice to perform and blog and speak so publicly. It’s partially an act of activism, but it’s also an act of power for myself. A way of saying, “I’m going to share my identity so strongly, any objections will be rendered irrelivent.”

Dr Nippert-Eng readily agreed, while pausing to note the important part is voluntary disclosure. She highlighted the Rutgers’ student suicide as an example of non-voluntary disclosure was anything but empowering.

She took things a step further, though, saying that the gay marriage debate as a whole is in some ways a debate about disclosure and what should or shouldn’t be secret. Marriage is a public declaration of a relationship, and one which operates most successfully with community and government sanction. I hadn’t thought of if that way before, but I can see Dr. Nippert-Eng’s point that gay marriage wouldn’t be an issue if gay couples didn’t feel the ‘need’ to disclose their relationships. The old argument of “I don’t hate gay people, I just don’t want them to flaunt their gayness.” But rather than come from a perspective of why homosexuality “should” be secret or shameful, she was acknowledging the power that comes from a community saying “This isn’t something that we view as negative. It’s OK to be open about XYZ.”

Viewing the personal as political in this way, and identity politics as an issue of privacy and secrets, won’t drastically reshape how these issues are dealt with. But it was a nice feeling of validation to have my on-air comment about the power of disclosure, in opposition to the power of secrets, shape a conversation heard by others. And it reinforced my own sense of purpose in the conscious disclosure I’m choosing to partake in, in many areas of my life.

(The segment from 848 can be downloaded from their website, here.)

Coming out of the closet isn't always easy...

There’s a post, Out Open, Closed, and In, at The Spectrum Cafe, that caught my attention. It’s about the spectrum of ‘outness’ trans people can choose to have: Out, Open, Blended, Closed, In, and Stealth. Dyssonance’s full definitions in her post, but briefly:

• Out – someone who makes a point to have ‘trans’ as part of their identity
• Open – someone who is willing to discuss their trans status, but not go out of their way to highlight it
• Blended – “[being trans] is a non issue — something that isn’t a topic for discussion unless the discussion is specifically relating to something important for themselves”
• Closed – “They don’t want people to know they are trans, and usually being closed is more a matter of simply not having had control and being put into a position that prevents them from being In”
• In – “In folks are what we have long called “stealth” — but stealth carries with it connotations of hiding, of deception, of intrigue…”

It’s an interesting scale, and I’d agree more useful than simply saying someone is Out or Stealth.

I’m pretty obviously Out. If you’re in doubt, just Google me or look at my website. My trans identity is part of my political and artistic identity as well, and I’ve found value in living my life that way.

But I’m privileged enough to be able to do so. Financially privileged. Socially and familialy. Educationally. Racially. And, to be frank, in my ability to present myself as and be perceived by others as a woman. As one of the commenters on Dyssonance’s post says…

It’s nice for a trans person to say, “I’m closed” or “I only tell a few close friends or community people” but the reality is, if other people know you’re trans (or have extreme suspicions) then what does that personal status mean? Yes, I this is verboten to say, but I’ve known trans people who looked believably like their gender, claimed they were in stealth, and appeared as women yet spoke like a baritone/bass. So now it becomes, not just how one personally experiences their private information, but how it interacts with what others know about you and might not ask you about, might ask you about in supportive way, might be curious about

That’s a tough issue, and part of what makes being trans so difficult: there’s a direct correlation between how others perceive you and how In or Out the world will let you be. It sucks, and I’m certainly pushing for a world where that isn’t the case, but perception is on equal footing with presentation for how others will interact with you.

The goal is, I guess, to make sure your presentation matches what you think it should be, and let everything else wash over you. Easier said than done, no doubt, but something I’m striving to achieve every day.

That’s been my general coming out tactic lately, and I think I’ve mentioned it once or twice before on this blog. Today, K paused (awkwardly, I felt) and said, “Oh, yeah.”

I like “You know I’m trans, right?” because it gives me – the one coming out – some amount of power. It’s absolutely a leading question, which means there’s a social impetus on whoever I’m speaking with not to say, “No! Oh my god! You’re trans!?” The pressure is there for them to agree, say they knew I was trans, and move on.

At the same time, I’m coming to dislike using this as a way to come out (or verify that I don’t need to) because of that same pressure. I always want the response to be, “Oh, wow. No, I didn’t know that,” because it’ll make me feel better about my presentation as a woman. (It’s happened on occasion, but not frequently.)

I’m curious how (or if) other people handle similar issues? I consider my work environment (at this job, specifically) to be somewhere I’m comfortable enough to joke about my trans identity. At the same time, I needed to make explicit that aspect of my identity to K. Or did I? I obviously could have either kept my mouth shut, or told the joke and not explain it. But I’m not thrilled with either of those options.

What would you have done?

Then, I met up with a friend for her trolley party.

Not a great picture, but undeniable proof of trolley-hood

I’m not totally sure why she was having a trolley party – I think a friend of hers was in from out of town, which is as good an excuse as any – but a bunch of people I knew from Northwestern were also there. One of whom hadn’t seen me since I’d transitioned, and clearly didn’t remember who I was.

She introduced herself as Becca, I thought initially because she remembered me but wasn’t sure how to ask about my new name. We agreed that our spelled – Rebecca – is obviously right, and every other variation is wrong. We continued chatting while at one of the bars along the way (we alternated between trolley cruising and stopping at bars) and she mentioned that she knew the hostess from Northwestern. I said I did, too, and kind of awkwardly mentioned that she and I knew each other from Northwestern, too.

“Wait, what’s your last name?” she asked.

“Kling,” I replied, “Rebecca Kling.” She paused, trying to remember. I finally offered, “Did you know [male name] Kling?”

“Oh yeah, I remember him! Did you two get married?” This honestly wasn’t the reaction I was expecting, and made me laugh.

“No,” I continued. “I used to be him.”

A look of confusion spread across her face for a quick second, and then she broke out into a huge grin. “Oh, there you are!” She reached out her hand to cup the side of my face. “You’re so beautiful! There’s your face!”

It was sort of a surreal experience, but a really delightful one. The number of people I need to come out to has gone down over time (obviously) but I still get tired at the thought of coming out to someone I haven’t seen in a few years. In this case, I had a moment of worrying over what her reaction would be, only to be utterly surprised and buoyed by the reality.

It was, my roommate later commented, like the moment in Hook where the Lost Boys accept Peter back:

The rest of the evening was also a blast. How could it not be, with a kick-off like that? Don’t have tons of pictures, but these are from going back to one of the hostesses’ apartments post-trolley:

Intriguing...

Dun dun duuuuuuuuh!

Hey friends!

This is kind of an uncomfortable email for me to write, but it’s something that I’ve been thinking about and need to address:

Please don’t out me. That is, please don’t tell people I’m trans.

I love you all. I’ve said this over and over again: I’m privileged, blessed, and really fucking lucky to be surrounded by friends like you. In a world that isn’t too kind to people outside the norm, you all pretty much shrugged your shoulders when I came out. Not because it wasn’t important to me, but because it didn’t change our friendships.  I really value that. I love being able to have conversations and debates, to share joy and sorrow, with people who I’ve known for years, and who have known me.

But staying in Chicago after high school and college has also made transitioning occasionally more work than I’d like. To pick a really easy example, I went to the bank yesterday and the teller was the mom of someone I went to elementary school with (and not someone I particularly cared for, at that). She knew she sort of recognized me, but totally didn’t know how to respond to my presentation as Rebecca. It wasn’t a problem, and she was respectful, but it kind of threw me out of my stride to have to say, “Yeah, I’m going by Rebecca now…”  Even though I love Chicago, and am glad I’ve stuck around, having to be reminded of that pre- and post-transition disconnect takes its toll.

That’s a big part of the reason I’m asking you not to out me: while I’m working on being proud of my identity as a trans woman, I don’t always want to have to deal with it. It’s part of who I am – a big part of who I am – but it’s not the only part that’s important.  And I’m 100% confident that all of you feel the same way. But (as I said) you’ve known me for a bazillion years, and see who I am as one continual person. For a lot of people, though, when they’re told someone is trans, that part ‘wins’ against all the other parts of their identity.  People have this tendency to totally shift their mental perception of a person when they learn that person is trans. I’ve seen it happen: pronouns immediately switch, awkward and rude questions start to get asked, and (in extreme cases) the trans person gets beaten, raped, or killed.

I want to emphasize that those less violent reactions – incorrect pronouns, rude questions – don’t come from bigotry. I’m not accusing everyone who uses the wrong names or pronouns with me of intolerance. They can learn – like I’ve had to, like you all have done brilliantly and in a way that really makes me proud – that being trans doesn’t have to be that big of a deal. But while they’re learning that, they may call me by the wrong pronoun. They may ask awkward questions. They may end up treating me differently. And all of those things hurt, even though I wish they didn’t and even though I’m working on not letting them get to me. I don’t like how easy it is for me to go from happy to miserable by being referred to as ‘he,’ but that’s where I am right now.

I’m also asking this of you for more than my emotional comfort. I’m asking you for my safety. I am absolutely confident that none of you would ever out me to anyone who would give me any reason to feel unsafe. But I don’t know who their friends are. Or the friends of their friends. I’ve led something of a charmed life when compared to the rest of the trans community, and ask your help in keeping me safe from potential violence and harassment.

I also want to make it really clear that I am not mad at any of you. I’ve never given this issue much thought, and haven’t really talked about it with anyone before this week. I’m open to talking about it more, and would love to chat over drinks or a game of Mario Kart. Thank you all so much for respecting this decision.

Much love,
-Rebecca

The first draft was much snarkier and less diplomatic, but a friend (hi Jess) convinced me that leading with a carrot (reminding my friends that I love them and enlisting their help) would be better than a stick (letting my friends know I’d be angry with them if they ignored this request).

This email also glosses over the more ideological issue that they don’t have the right to out me; it focuses entirely on the safety and comfort of not outing me. That was a conscious choice, even if it’s one that was difficult for me to make. Ultimately, I thought this version of the email had more of a chance of working with less of a chance of annoying any of my friends. That doesn’t sit well with me – I always prefer diving into the nitty-gritty of a discussion or argument, particularly when it’s about something so close to me – but I sort of decided to take one for the team.

If any of my friends bring this topic up with me, I’ll definitely explain my more nuanced position, but I don’t think I needed to get into it for the purposes of this email, even if I did really want to.

Bob, chuckling, gestured to me and said, “Right. He’s going to hell because he doesn’t acknowledge the big JC…” And continued talking, using the incorrect pronoun, to the point where I started to wonder if he maybe wasn’t referring to me; most people catch themselves earlier than Bob did.

But no, I finally had to correct him, “She. Not he.”

He apologized, corrected himself, and the conversation moved on. Shortly thereafter I left and went to bed.

And realized I’d never actually told Bob I was trans.

I asked Alice about it today, and she verified that she had told him at some point. I’ve never given my friends any sort of policy on this, because it’s never really occurred to me that I should. I’m so surrounded by people who knew me before I transitioned that I sort of assume people know I’m trans. (Perhaps to the detriment of my confidence in being perceived as a woman.) Alice also said she was 100% fine if I said she shouldn’t tell people I’m trans – she hadn’t really thought about it before either, but she’d definitely respect my decision if that’s what I tell her to do.

The conversation made me remember that my other roommate, Carl, (stick with the naming convention, people!) has also outed me to at least one friend of his. Carl’s friend never had the pronoun issues Bob did, so I never really gave the matter much thought, but now I’m rethinking it.

I don’t like that I care, but I do care. For someone who does performance art about her trans identity, who hands out postcards proclaiming in the show description that she’s trains, I still want that information and that part of my identity to feel like it’s under my control.

So how do I handle this? The cat’s out of the bag, so to speak, but I can definitely tell my roommates how I feel. Should I go so far as to send out an email to all my friends? That seems kind of extreme. Should I give some sort of guidelines? I feel silly emailing…

“If it’s relevant to the conversation, you’re allowed to out me.

Good: Oh, you do performance art about your abusive father? My roommate does performance art about her identity as a trans woman!

Bad: I live with Carl, who likes watching sports on TV, and Becca, who’s a transsexual.

How have other people handled this situation, when you’re out but still want some control over how others are allowed to out you?

That’s a tough one to answer. How did you know you wanted to be a girl, anonymous questioner? (Or wanted to be a boy?)

For me, it wasn’t so much that I wanted to be a girl that I knew I wasn’t a boy. I imagined being a girl was better, I hoped it was right for me, and I wished I were a girl. But I wasn’t positive that it would be until I did it. Maybe a good analogy would be the question, “How do you know you’re hungry?” Well, because you’re hungry! It’s a state of being, something you know you are or you aren’t. I didn’t know I wanted to be a girl because I liked dresses or makeup or dolls. I knew it because it was true.

• What do your family and friends think?  Did anyone give you moral support in making your decision?

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I am spoiled, blessed, privileged, and thankful that my friends, family, and coworkers have been so supportive during my transition. I’ve had people (family, mostly) react in a confused way, but I’ve never had anyone who was important to me act in a negative or intentionally hurtful way.

My experience, however, is the exception. It’s (unfortunately) not the rule. But I’d like to work toward a world where my experience – of the people important to me being supportive and enthusiastic of my transition – is the norm.

• Did you lose friends or family relationships?

As I said above, no one important. Some relatives, who I already wasn’t close to, I’m now even less close. Likewise, some people I was casually friend/friendly with drifted apart. But – thankfully and knock-on-wood – I haven’t had any really, openly negative reactions to my transition, or my coming out to someone.

• How long have you felt you were transgender?

This is sort of related to the first question in this post. Rather than expand on that, I’ll quote myself. From “I think I want to be a girl”:

…as early as I can remember having a concept of gender, I knew I would gladly switch bodies with any of my girl friends. There was not a doubt in my mind I’d be happier with the prospect of growing up into a woman rather than a man. I fantasized about magical gender-swapping spells, sci-fi mind-transfer rays, alternate timelines, and even more outlandish possibilities (and I still do…see any of my posts on trans fiction for more on that subject). I had no problem asking, “Why am I not a girl?” or saying “If only I was a girl” or “I wish I was a girl.”

That’s it for tonight. Not even half way through the questions! I’m speaking to the Loyola (college and above) class on Thursday, and the high school class that submitted these questions on Friday. I’ll definitely try to post more answers on this blog, though. It’s been a good writing exercise.

Inadvertently, the party made me think more broadly about the idea of wearing costumes in our every-day life. First, because apparently queer people are really rare in Minnesota.

I had been socializing fine with everyone at the party, which was nice since it was the first time I was meeting most of them. And, other than half an hour or so where I took a quick nap in the basement, I stayed social the entire night. I worried briefly about passing (and about whether my costume would look good) but quickly forgot about both issues as people started getting there, and wasn’t given an odd look by anyone. As the party was winding down, though, I was sitting in the living room chatting with some of the people I’d met that evening. We were joking about my roommate, who was in the kitchen playing beer pong, clearly hitting on someone who was amused, and taking the attention in good humor, but also uninterested.

I said something along the lines of, “I’m a supportive roommate! I definitely want him to be successful in flirting with women. Not with me, but with other women.”

One of the other women at the party said, laughingly, “Why not with you?”

I thought quickly, and figured honesty was the best policy. “I’m not so much into men.” Pause. “I’m gay.”

I was expecting the reaction to be an amused, “Oh, OK,” and that the conversation would go on. Instead, what happened felt like in a movie where someone says something during a lull in the conversation that is so outlandish that everyone else stops what they’re doing to listen, the piano in the background slowly trails off, and immediate and intense focus is given to the speaker. The other jaws in the room dropped, so to speak.

Then there was the expected, “Oh, OK,” and the conversation moved on to something else. But it was very much a foreign experience to me. I’ve certainly been in groups where I wasn’t out and chose to out myself (either as a lesbian or as trans) but this was the most shock I’ve received. (Perhaps everyone in the past has just been better at hiding it )

The experience did reassure me that, yes, I was probably passing. But it also reinforced my feeling of being something of an outsider in some of my social circles. Not so much because no one else at the party was queer,  but because the response to me coming out was so awkward.

Likewise, it made me think about the ‘costume’ of passing – as straight, as a cis woman, as “normal.” And I’m not sure if I enjoyed the experience because it was unique – I was traveling among the natives and they assumes I was one of them, and I don’t have a lot of places right now where I’m not out – or disliked it because I don’t want to have to be in situations where I need to think about whether or not I’m passing, where I need to think about how (or if) to explain myself.

It’s a costume that, once off, I can’t put back on. Once I outed myself, even though I wasn’t treated negatively or (so far as I could tell) at all differently, there was no possibility of again being viewed as “normal.”

The party also made me think about something else that may or may not be viewed as costuming, and about Bond’s post on binders vs padded bras and what constituted “real” when it comes to self-presentation (and especially gendered presentation) . One of the women at the party had undergone breast augmentation surgery, a very different type of changing one’s appearance and perception by others. I’m not going to pretend I’ve never seen anyone with breast implants, but I don’t know that I have – it’s possible, but I have no way to tell. And I’ve definitely never met anyone who was open about having received them.

It made me think about my own feelings of boobicular inadequacy, and whether I’d ever seriously consider something like augmentation. (In response to your question, dear reader, boobicular is totally a word. It means “of or pertaining to the breasts.”)

I like my breasts a lot. They’re a helluva lot nicer than not having any, and they’re significant enough to be useful in filling out tops. (At least, with a significant push-up they are.) At the same time, many of my friends are, shall we say, well-endowed. And gorgeous. I’m feeling better about my appearance, but it is sometimes difficult to feel like the ugly duckling, even though I know no one else is viewing me that way.

Likewise, I know that being on hormones can mimic real puberty, where breast development can take years to finalize. According to some quick-and-dirty Googling, transsexual women go through the same Tanner stages as cissexual women, and (supposedly) I should experience the same breast growth as “my closest female relatives.” But that isn’t very helpful in telling me whether I’m at Stage IV, and can hope for some additional growth, or Stage V and am all boobed out. This also plays a lot into the feelings of regret I’ve been having recently, since one thing that everyone does agree on is starting hormones before puberty ends (or, ideally, before it begins!) allows for the most cissexual-like body development.

Getting back to the woman at the party who had received augmentation, it brought the question more seriously to my mind. Before I’d consider anything, I would talk to my doctor about whether or not I can realistically expect any more growth on my own, but assuming he said no…would I want breast implants?

The short answer, right now, is yes. I would like larger breasts and, if a lot of caveats can be satisfied (that my doctor tells me I shouldn’t expect any more growth on my own, that I’m convinced the implants are safe, that I’m convinced I can pay for them, that I’m convinced I’ll retain sensation and the ability to receive pleasure, that I’m convinced they won’t feel or ridiculous or crazy fake) I think I’d be willing to get implants.

Getting back to the idea of costumes, though, I can’t help but feel this feeding into my own cultural training that breast implants (and, y’know, trans women in general) are fake, are trickery, are trying to ‘fool’ everyone with their artificial nature.

As anyone out there considered implants? Whether or not you have, what are your thoughts on all this?

I’m fourteen, sitting on the chair in my therapist’s office.

I started going to therapy by choice, because the year before, at thirteen, I still couldn’t get past the panic attacks and separation anxiety that had kept me from sleepovers and overnight school trips and sleep-away summer camp for as long as I could remember. The pattern was always the same: I would get excited about staying at a friends’ house, at an overnight event at the Museum of Science and Industry, at whatever. I would go, convincing myself that this time would be different, that this time I’d be able to make it all night.

But as we started to get ready for bed, the panic would creep up. For those of you who have had a panic attack before, you know how it feels. To everyone else, it was a very physical sensation, a creeping along my arms and legs to my core, to my center. My blood would start to rush, tears would inevitably spring to my eyes, and if I didn’t go home, if I didn’t get away from whatever mundane childhood experience was driving me to a panic, I’d go into fullblown hysterics.

Finally, the summer after seventh grade, when I’d missed most of the seventh grade weekend trip to Wisconsin because of a panic attack, I decided  I would go to the eighth grade trip to Washington DC. So I started seeing a therapist. We worked for months on controlled breathing, biofeedback techniques, ways to divert my focus from panicking.

But the trip to DC is in the past. (I made it, by the way, and haven’t had problems being away from home since.) Now, I’m fourteen, sitting in the chair at my therapist’s office, across from my parents, about to come out to them.

When I first came out to my therapist – although I didn’t call it “coming out” yet – he was supportive, accepting, and utterly clueless. He did the best he could, and he absolutely never made me feel like I should be ashamed of who I was, but he really just didn’t know how to handle this little trans girl sitting in his office.

I’m sitting across from my parents. “I think I want to be a girl.” I can see they’re not sure how to respond.

My mom says, “We love you no matter what.”

My dad, “We’ll love you whatever you are, as long as you’re not a republican.”

(The source of my sense of humor was never a big mystery.)

I sigh in relief, there isn’t any rejection, but my unvoiced hope goes unanswered: that one of them – my mom, my dad, my therapist – will say, “Alright then, here’s how we’re going to make that happen.” That my parents, who raised me with love and support, would continue as they always had: When I wanted to play the piano, they found me a teacher and took me to my lessons. When I started to read, with a voracious appetite, they took me to the library. When I wanted to be a girl, they didn’t know what to do.