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By Rebecca, August 7, 2010 2:49 am

Today was the last day of camp where I work. It wasn’t my last day, but it was sort of a “conclusion of summer at work” event, with a post-show dinner for the staff and lots of goodbyes to campers (some of whom had been my campers a million years ago).

There were two shows today, at 3PM and 6PM, and it wasn’t until after the second show that I realized it was going to be a difficult evening. I turned to my intern, who was helping me run the box office, and said, “My goal for tonight is to not cry in front of campers.”

I…did not so much succeed.

Continue reading 'Departures and goodbyes'»

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By Rebecca, June 24, 2010 3:01 pm

Another writing exercise from my director.

1. What do you love?

I love getting out of my head. The feeling of doing something purely physical: playing a song on the piano that I know really well and flowing into the music; biking along the lakefront; holding a really good handstand or whipping around on a Spanish Web; a mind-blowing and body-cleansing orgasm.

I love solving a problem that has been itching at me. Of making technology bend to my will, and deliver satisfying and consistent results. I love the relief that comes when a solution is Right and True.

I love my body when I’m able to feel feminine. I love looking down and seeing my breasts, feeling their weight. I love the wonder of skin and and bone and muscle.

I love a strong sense of community: artistic, social, familial. Of understanding, and being understood. Knowing, and being known.

Continue reading 'Three Questions'»

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By Rebecca, June 21, 2010 5:03 pm

Late last week, I had a session with the doctor who is prescribing my citalopram. It’s only the second time I’ve seen him, and he’s a nice guy. However, he’s (self-admittedly) ignorant of trans issues, so I’ve had to do more explaining and defining in sessions with him than with Laura, my primary therapist.

I was telling him about my frustrations with my dad, and explaining how his use of the wrong names and pronouns really hurts me. The doctor’s response was, basically, “So?”

Continue reading 'Therapissed off'»

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By Rebecca, June 8, 2010 8:18 pm

While driving to work this morning, someone pulled up along side me at a stoplight and motioned for me to roll down my window. He was gesturing to the back of my car and saying something, and I worried that I had a light out, my trunk was open, or (worst of all) I hadn’t noticed a flat tire.

I rolled down my window and he started talking across the gap between our cars. I couldn’t really hear him over the rain, complicated by his soft voice and foreign accent. I finally understood that he was complimenting me on my bumper stickers. This happens every so often, and I always get a kick out of it. I have a couple dozen bumper stickers on the back of my car, ranging from the political – about Obama or women’s rights – to the silly (“No, I will not fix your computer”). I thanked him, and started to roll my window back up, when he yelled something I heard very clearly:

“Wanna meet up some place?

I rolled up my window, turned back to the light (green, by this time), and sped away.

Continue reading 'The male gaze can jump in a lake'»

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By Rebecca, June 3, 2010 11:15 am

Just sent this email to my dad.

Dad,

I owe you an apology. I’m sorry I hung up on you last week – it was immature and unfair to you. It’s impossible to have a conversation when one party is no longer on the line.

That said, I’m not sorry I brought up how I’ve been feeling, even though I expressed myself really poorly. I need you to know that it hurts to be called “kid” and “child,” when I know you’re doing so to avoid gendered pronouns. It’s hurts, a lot, to hear you slip up and refer to me as “he” or my old name. I have no doubt that you love me. But like I said, I think you love me as your child and I want – desperately, painfully – for you to love me as your daughter.

But my frustration over how we communicate goes deeper than names and pronouns, and I need you to know that, too. I love you. I see so much of you in myself: my humor, my attentiveness to detail, my love of knowledge and education (and gadgets). So it’s all the more painful when I feel like we’re talking past each other, something that seems to be happening more and more.

When we talk, I feel like we’re having different conversations. You’ll ask a question, and before I’m half-finished answering it you’ll have asked another. It makes me feel like a client (or, worse, an opposing witness) rather than someone you love and care about. Or I’ll ask about how you perceived Billy Elliot’s father – whether he resonated with you – and be absolutely baffled when you say, “No, that wasn’t my experience.”

Than what was your experience? What is your experience? Because, from where I’m sitting, I feel like you’re ashamed of me. Or embarrassed. Awkward and unsure how to interact, torn between loving me and wanting to be done with whatever conversation or interaction we’re in.

So that’s why I hung up on you. I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry I did, but I become so flustered and so hurt when we talk, that I lashed out.

I love you, even when you frustrate the hell out of me
-Rebecca

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By Rebecca, May 29, 2010 9:04 pm

I'm not convinced my father could carry me on his shoulders these days...

Earlier this week, I asked my mom to call my dad. I hate having her act as an intermediary between the two of us, but I wanted to figure out what – if anything – he’d be doing about my hospital bills and insurance since my telling him off. He’s been speaking with the “risk management” department at the first ER I visited, because when I finally got my gallbladder out they strongly implied the first ER should have caught the gallstones.

So my mom called my dad. She said she’d thought things out beforehand, and opened by asking him, “Rebecca asked me to talk to you about the insurance situation, and if you need to return any of the paperwork to her.” (My mom knew he didn’t, as I’d provided him with copies, but wasn’t sure how to say “So are you continuing to help your daughter while refusing to speak to her, or not?” without sound like she was judging him. Which she was, but didn’t want to sound like it.) He replied, “Nope. She’s fine to speak to the hospital herself,” and said goodbye.

Continue reading 'Oh father of mine'»

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By Rebecca, May 28, 2010 3:47 pm

No, I'm not pretending I'm the cute blond in the middle.

A few months ago, I was having dinner with some friends after our circus class. We were chatting about relationships – I was bemoaning my lack thereof – and someone mentioned how her boyfriend was an awkward geek. I said, “Well, as an awkward geek myself, I feel obligated to stand up for my fellow geeks.” Both of my friends turned to me, and simultaneously said something along the lines of, “You’re not awkward. And you may be a geek, but you’re a hot geek.”

I don’t say this to toot my own horn, because I didn’t (and don’t) particularly believe them. But I do bring it up to talk about a perspective flip I’ve had over the course of my transition: I’m now seen as the cool, geeky, girl.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this as I’ve been watching The Big Bang Theory. I think the show is pretty funny, as I’m a sucker for a show that makes good, accurate jokes about comic books, general relativity, Lord of the Rings, particle physics, video games and more. It’s funny even if you don’t get all the references, but their jokes are obviously well researched and even funnier if you know what they’re talking about.

At the same time, the gender relationships of the show are kind of predictable: four smart-but-awkward boys befriend their pretty-but-uneducated female neighbor. And I find myself very torn over who to sympathize with when they butt heads.

Continue reading 'A perspective flip'»

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By Rebecca, May 27, 2010 2:57 am

I miss my daddy. I haven’t called him that in twenty years, but that’s who I miss: The man who lifted me on his shoulders, explored forests and streams with me, played shark in the lake. The man for whom I had no doubt of his love.

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By Rebecca, May 26, 2010 11:55 pm

Oh Daffy. He gets so close to understanding where he goes wrong. And then, inevitably, he ends up getting shot in the face.

Just about ten years ago, I came out to my parents. For a long time, that didn’t really mean anything: no changes, no transitioning, just them having the knowledge that I’m trans.

About three years ago, I started on hormones and mark that as the general beginning of my actual transition. While I spent about a year presenting as male some of the time and female some of the time, both of my parents knew I was transitioning and (at some point during that “in between” year)  I had a chat with both of them about wanting to be called Rebecca, and referred to with feminine pronouns.

Last night, my dad – who is attempting to help me with some insurance stuff from having my gallbladder removed – called to ask my about my social security number. “It’s still under [male name], right?”

I paused, surprised he would even ask such a question. “No, I went to the social security office and had it changed.”

“Oh. But do you have a new card?”

Frustrated, I told him, “Yes. A new card. With Rebecca on it. Sitting on my desk at home. Same social security number, different name.”

“Oh, OK.”

It wasn’t until reflecting on the conversation that I realized how upset it made me. After ten years of being out to him, does he not understand how important this is to me? It wasn’t that he wanted to double-check about the name associated social security number. I could understand if he said, “I just wanted to double check that your social security number is under Rebecca now.” Or even, “Hey, what name is on your social security card these days?” I might be a little annoyed, but not really upset or hurt. But the way he did phrase it, assuming it wasn’t important enough to have gotten changed, really made me feel like he still, after all these years, is just as clueless as he was when I came out to him.

Continue reading 'I think I just broke up with my dad'»

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By Rebecca, May 24, 2010 11:10 pm

Am I allowed to read this?

While I was in the hospital, my mom brought me a little care package. It had a stuffed bear, a silly coloring book, and a copy of Glamour.

The stuffed bear lived next to me on my bed. The coloring book was, well, colored in. And the Glamour was put into my bag of things, hidden away from sight.

It’s not because I didn’t want to know about “25 Times I’m Irresistible to Him (And Don’t Even Know It).” Or “My Top 10 Tricks for Sexy Hair!” Or even “59 Cute, Casual Outfits That Look Good On Everyone.” I mean, who wouldn’t want to know all those things?

It was because I wasn’t sure if I would be looked down upon for reading it.

Would the nurses think I was immature? Would my friends think I was silly? Would my visitors think I was….girlie?

Continue reading 'Glamour'»