I said, pretty firmly, that I’m done going to frat bars, dance clubs, whatever. One of my roommates, who was in a frat in college, was sort of annoyed with my terminology. He made sure to emphasize that he was in the least ‘frat-like’ frat on campus, that they had gay members, all implying that they wouldn’t have had a problem with me. And, to be honest, I mostly believe him. My issue with frat-like bars isn’t the potential for bigotry or harassment (although I’m conscious of those things) its the emphasis on masculinity and pressured drinking. I don’t like the strict gender divides I feel at those types of bars, ranging from the mode of dress for the patrons to the way they interact. Likewise, I really don’t like what feels like a pressure to drink, Drink, DRINK! If one person is drinking, everyone must be! Drink! Shots! Beer! Booze! I don’t like it.

But that’s honestly a secondary issue to the growing gap between how and why I socialize with my high school friends and my queer/theatre friends.

This post’s title comes from something my roommate said last night. I was talking about how part of my discomfort at frat bars (not my only issue, but a big one) is feeling so noticeably in the minority, both as a trans woman and as a lesbian. As I posted yesterday, I usually don’t feel that way when just socializing with my high school friends at someone’s apartment, but frat bars, clubs, and so on bring it out. And simply transporting the dozen friends at the bar on Saturday to a gay or lesbian bar would still make me feel I was outnumbered by my straight friends, albeit more on my own turf.

He said he wished we could find a place where we both felt comfortable, where neither of us felt like the minority or in a position of less power. I didn’t respond with my gut reaction (maybe I should have) which was “Yes, but you are in the minority. I am the minority. I didn’t used to present as the minority, I used to present as a straight, white, male. Undeniably the majority. And y’know what? Being in the minority sucks! Social rules, entertainment, the whole culture is set up on the assumption that noe one is like you. Or no one worth catering to. So while your ideal of no one being in the majority is delightful in a naive, Disney sort of way, it’s also really easy for you to say that from a position in the majority. And, on an ideological plane, I agree with you – it’d be awesome if no one had to be in a minority. But from a practical standpoint, sometimes I want to surround myself with people who are all like me.”

So why, then, am I more interested in going to a quiet bar with two of my theatre friends than two of my high school friends? The issue clearly isn’t just sexuality, gender identity, or queer-ness.

What I’m scared of is the possibility I might be outgrowing my high school friends. Or that, whether or not they see me as a ‘real’ woman, I’ll never see myself as a real woman with them. As I said to one of my roommates, its hard for me to feel comfortable dancing in a dress with friends who saw me go to prom in a suit. I don’t think it inherently has to be hard, but it brings up a lot of baggage.

Baggage I don’t like carrying around.

I also keep getting reminded of how hard a mental and emotional hit I took getting fired for being trans this past fall. (Still no updates on that, unfortunately.) It’s still close to the surface, as evidenced by my starting to cry when I brought it up with my roommates yesterday and today. I don’t feel as safe – physically and emotionally – in super-straight places as I might have six months ago, even though I probably am able to present myself as more confident.

But I keep coming back to that idea of not being able to feel ‘really’ female with my high school friends. I have other friends, theatre friends from college, who knew me before I transitioned. But somehow that feels less important. The balance of boy/girl me they knew is tipped more toward Rebecca, whereas my high school friends have another 4 (or, in some cases, 10 or 20) years of knowing me while presenting as a boy.

I don’t want to spend my life feeling like I’m that chick who used to be a guy.

Then came the dancing. Well, ‘dancing,’ because when we got to the bar (around 12:30AM) the dance floor was still pretty empty. The bar was in Lincoln Park (not, as I tweeted at 1AM, in Wrigleyville) and full of guys in sports-coats and ties, and their lady friends. I don’t like this kind of bar – it makes me uncomfortable from a social/gender/sexuality standpoint (something I’ll get into more below), I can’t hear friends or carry on a conversation, drinks are inevitably more expensive than I want to pay…the whole experience makes me unhappy.

Those last points seem to be the easiest to remedy (or, at least, the easiest to get over). My friends last night were being super-sweet, trying to get me to have a good time and buying me drinks. I felt bad because they obviously wanted me there, wanted me to be having a good time, and were willing to spend money on me toward that end. And I just didn’t want to be there.

When hanging out with this group of friends (primarily friends from high school, including my two roommates) there’s sometimes a background noise of “You’re trans, we’re not.” Never intentionally, and more something I think I put on myself than they actually put on me. But just an occasional niggling reminder that we share different life experiences. (I know, who doesn’t?) For example, before we went to dinner last night the boys were chatting about facial hair. I chimed in that it was a shame I never wanted the copious facial hair I was able to grow before my hair removal. Everyone chuckled, as they’d all known me then, but I was still reminded how different our backgrounds were in that regard. But not enough to detract from my enjoyment of hanging out with them.

Going to bars like that, though, cranks that discomfort way, way up.

Again, I’m not sure how much it’s them (or the situation) actually putting on me, and how much I’m putting on myself. But I become horribly anxious in those environments. Will guys perceive me as ‘female’ enough to hit on? Oh god, what if guys do hit on me? What if they want to dance with me? Obviously, being hit on or danced with isn’t exactly a fate worse than death. But I don’t know how to handle it, and it makes me feel incredibly anxious. I also feel like a total outsider, even among my friends. When we were standing around the bar, I wasn’t really interested in engaging because I couldn’t hear anyone, and had to yell to be heard. When people were dancing (less last night because I left before dancing really got started) I have two issues: first, I’m convinced (rightly or wrongly) that I simply can’t dance. That I look as awkward and ridiculous as I feel. Second, there’s no one I want to be dancing with. I’m not really comfortable dancing with any of my straight friends. I mean, its one thing during parties at our or someone else’s apartment, but on a big dance floor? No thank you!

I had a chat with one of my roommates about all this this morning, and she brought up something that honestly hadn’t occurred to me: the friends I’m out with know I’m having a shitty time, and don’t like it any more than I do. Their frustration (one or two friends in particular) isn’t because they’re actually mad at me, but because they want my enjoyment to be up at the same level that theirs is. Likewise, my roommate said it kind of bums her out when I’ve gone out with other friends and obviously stayed out late having a blast, because I don’t seem to be able to do that with her and our high school friends. Not because she doesn’t want to see me having a good time, but because she feels left out of the good time I’m having.

My high school friends and I have talked about the idea of going out to a lesbian bar (there’s a great one, T’s, right down the street) but that also doesn’t sit quite right. It feels like it would simply be moving the situation – of me being the only queer one in the group – to a different (albiet queer-er) venue. Honestly? It feels like they’d somehow be impinging on ‘my’ space.

I don’t like feeling so territorial, and I don’t think of myself as someone who does get territorial. I usually love merging groups of friends, introducing people from different aspects of my life. So why does this feel different?

A large part of the difference has to do with how new this is, and how unstable I feel within my queer identity. Introducing friends from high school to friends from a show (for example) brings two stable and confident parts of my life together. In this situation, I’m still figuring out what it means for me to be an out, trans, lesbian, woman. I think I worry about self-censorship, and having to keep in mind the history I have with these friends, rather than simply figuring things out as they come. (Again, I think this is something I’m imposing on myself, not something any of them is doing.)

I don’t want to tell friends who are obviously trying to stay a part of my life that, no, I don’t want them coming with me to gay bars. And my roommate and I talked this morning about how it doesn’t need to be all of my friends; it could be one or two high school friends with this other group I’m starting to hang out with, so I feel less out numbered. And yet, I worry that I don’t want these friends in that part of my life, at least not yet. It feels very mine, in a way that much of my social life with my high school friends feels ours. ‘Ours’ isn’t a bad thing, mind you. I love the history I share with these friends, the support they’ve provided me through relationships, transitioning hardships, job woes, and (though sometimes they seem few and far between) celebrations and victories. But it’s also something that requires negotiation and give and take, things I don’t know I’m strong enough to deal with yet in my queer identity. I worry that, just as I’m discovering this new part of myself, introducing the ‘old’ me will crush or hinder the growth I’m feeling.

I don’t want to feel this way, but I’m not sure how to find balance between discovering a new part of my identity and not excluding the old.

Talk radio host Barry Champlain is a relic of an analog age, on the verge of a deal for national syndication. Tonight, not only is he under assault from many callers-in, but he also has digital communication thrust upon him.  Bogosian meets Orwell in this commentary on the media.

I went to today’s 3PM closing, and after 30 minutes of sexism, transphobia, victim blaming, and general obnoxiousness, I walked out. So what’s the protocol for walking out on friends?

The concept of the play  – a talk radio show, with behind the scenes glimpses at studio drama – was interesting. Likewise, I’m a sucker for projections on stage, and the idea of using video chat to portray callers was interesting. (Even if, as one reviewer notes, it makes Vietnam War references weird.) At the same time, there’s a reason I don’t listen to mainstream talk radio, and stick exclusively to NPR: I don’t want to listen to that on the radio, and I don’t want to watch it on stage.

Within the first few callers shown in the play, one was a “transvestite saving for surgery,” one prompted the host into a “I’m not Jewish but look how I’m also not antisemitic” rant, two were caricatures of leftist liberals, and one – the one that finally prompted me to leave – was a pregnant fifteen year old.

I’d been tempted to leave earlier, but figured I should give the show more of a chance than the first scene. But this pregnant caller… the host first talked about how being pregnant “wasn’t the worst thing in the world” (true, I suppose) but then went on about how pregnancy was a gift, bringing new life into the world. And, the final straw for me, how she should think about what she’s done to her boyfriend, and the situation she’s gotten him into.

It wasn’t clear if her boyfriend was actually of age, but she certainly wasn’t. And I realize that this was a play, not a representation of real people. But there are people like that, and (as I said earlier) I have no interest in listening to their vitriol, on or off stage.

So how do I handle this, seeing as my friend was in the show? We just talked briefly on the phone, between his scenes, and he didn’t seem to phased. I apologized, saying I felt like it was a bogus friendship move, but I wasn’t able to dissociate myself enough from the material to be able to watch any more.

Has anyone else had a similar experience? I’m not really upset with my friend, since they weren’t his words. But, more broadly, how do you handle telling someone that you care about that you don’t support something they’ve done?

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.

I was doing pretty well through the show, and even managed to go out to mingle with counselors, staff, campers, and parents post-show. I ran into one of the counselors and joked with her about my goal, knowing from another counselor that she’d already failed toward that end. She laughed and explained how one of her campers saying goodbye had prompted her to cry earlier. I said I would try to stay strong, and turned away.

I was confronted by another counselor with a bouquet of flowers and a hand-made card signed by all of the counselors, assistant counselors, and staff.

That’s when I started crying.

I tried to go hide in the theatre, where I ran into the assistant camp director and kind of broke down. I didn’t want to completely lose my shit, so I held back my tears as best I could. Not fun, and not conducive to good breathing. She reminded me that I’d still see everyone in the future, and helped me calm down. I went to put the flowers in the office and go out to help my intern clean up the box office supplies.

The drive to the staff dinner was also tough, as I made the mistake of taking a moment to read the card before I started my car. Which (inevitably) started me crying again.

Dinner was fun. I’ve been stuck in the office most of the summer, so it was really nice to socialize both with my bosses and with the counselors and camp staff, without feeling like we should be working or preparing for the next part of camp. I was invited by the (high school and college aged) counselors to come hang out with them, and my inclination was to decline. However, one of the camp teachers was going, too, so I figured it wouldn’t be too weird. (I’m not that old!)

I’m really glad I went, even though it was hard in some unexpected ways. Simply hanging out with them was lovely, both because I enjoy seeing them interact and because I’ve enjoyed seeing them grow up and at least begin to move from students to peers. I wouldn’t say they’re 100% of the way there yet, but they’re getting closer and closer.

When I finally left (about 1:30AM, so maybe an hour ago) I immediately started crying in my car again, and cried the whole drive home. Lets be honest: I sobbed. I haven’t cried that hard in a while, and I’m not convinced I have all the tears out of my system. I was really tempted to not drive home, get back out, and go back to where the socializing was taking place.

Why was I crying so hard? And why did I want to go back inside, to hang out with people 6-8 years younger than me?

I was crying because I already missed seeing these people who I’d been working with every day for the past two months, and intermittently for the past three years. I was crying because many of them were going away (or back) to college, and wouldn’t be back for months or years. I was crying because I’ve loved the community where I work, and I’m worried that losing that will take a bigger toll on me than I’ve been expecting. I was crying because I’m scared I’m going to fail as an artist (at least, fail financially) and end up back at my mom’s, wishing I hadn’t quit my steady job. I was crying because change is hard and scary, and this is a huge change, something I’d never expected or planned for myself.

And I realized, as I cried my way home, I was crying for some less expected reasons, too. I was crying because this was a group of high school and college girl friends who accepted me as one of their own in a way I never experienced in high school. Without a doubt, my friends (and girl friends) accepted me, but not as a girl friend. Not until much more recently, as I’ve transitioned, which has – by virtue of not being in high school or college – been a different kind of relationship. It’s been quite some time since I’ve felt so keenly a desire to have transitioned earlier, or to not have needed to transition at all. I was crying at what still feels like a missed youth, as much as I try not to indulge in such painful and ultimately fruitless thoughts. I was crying because I wanted to be one of them, want to be one of them.

I was crying because this job was where I transitioned, and the manner in which the teen students were simply unfazed was and is touching. Because campers of mine from before I transitioned, who so easily could have avoided me, came up to me today to say they would miss me and were sorry to see me go.

I was crying because I’m so scared of what comes next. I wanted to go back in because I wanted to share that fear, to have a group of people, people I know care about me, crowd around me and assure me things would be OK. They made me feel younger by their inclusion of me, like I needn’t have missed what they have, a simultaneously delightful and dismaying discovery.

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!

Last night, though, I took antacids and Pepto-Bismol, and the pain just kept getting worse. Finally, at 3AM, after having been pacing and panting and rolling on my bed since midnight, trying to find a comfortable spot, I asked my roommate to drive me to the ER.

This was really scary for me, first, because going to the ER is really scary. It’s stating, “This problem is big enough and important enough it can’t wait to be dealt with.” And, often, “This problem is painful enough that it can’t wait to be dealt with.” On top of that, though, I’ve heard all sorts of horror stories about trans men and women (usually women) being the targets of really bigoted and offensive attention by hospital staff. Of trans individuals having treatment delayed, delivered with scorn or derision, or denied all together. I felt somewhat protected by having my roommate come with me, and somewhat protected by the shield of white and middle/upper class privilege I know I wear, but I still wasn’t sure how things would go. (On top of that, I went to the ER deciding to make a conscious effort to try and be really nice and friendly with people, even when I was in pain. I think that’s always good advice, to start from a place of friendliness, but particularly if you’re the vulnerable or powerless one in a situation.)

We got there and I started answering the front desk’s questions about my contact info, my emergency contact info, and my insurance. While doing this, I asked my roommate to get me some water, but was told that you’re not allowed to eat or drink if you come in with abdominal pain. (Because they don’t know what’s causing it, or what could exacerbate it. And if they do need to operate, they want as little in there as possible.)

That caused me to start crying for the first time that night. (And I think the only time, though I’ll need to ask my roommate to confirm.) I just felt so helpless and frustrated with my body, scared about what was going to happen, and powerless to control this one tiny little thing that I wanted: a drink of water.

I did calm down before we were called back by the intake nurse, who was very nice, but was my first (of a few) encounters where I was asked something about my menstrual cycle or whether i was pregnant. Definitely better than not assuming those are issues for me, but did make me have to go through the quick-n-dirty “I’m transsexual, I don’t have the equipment for either of those things.” Fortunately, even though I did have to say that to three or four different nurses and doctors in the first hour I was there, none of them brought it up again or (as far as I could tell) treated me any differently than I would expect.

The kindness and professionalism of the staff really ended up meaning that the ER trip was no more unpleasant than an ER trip is supposed to be, rather than making it pleasant. I mean, it wasn’t fun but I’m really glad the staff at the hospital were so professional.

I was there from 3AM until about 10AM, but don’t really have that concept of time in my memory. First, I was feeling really shitty and drifting in and out of light sleep whenever the room wasn’t occupied by a doctor or nurse. Second, as the morning wore on, they gave me morphine to help with the pain, which also removed any dim concept of time I’d been able to hold on to. And third, it’s just kind of hard to track time when sitting in the same room, with occasional  breaks of being carted to the ultrasound room or for a cat scan.

After the ultrasound, at about 6AM, I finally called my mom. I’d been waiting until about 6, because I know that’s when she usually gets up and I didn’t want to wake her. She picked up the phone with an immediate, “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean? I can’t call at 6AM without something being wrong?”

She was less amused by my wit than I was. “Becca, what’s wrong?”

I explained where I was and what had happened, and she hopped in her car and was at the hospital by about 7AM, finally relieving my roommate from duty and letting her go home and back to bed.

I always feel torn when my mom is around for medical situations of mine. On the one hand, I was exhausted and morphined-up, and in no position to make any informed decisions about my medical needs. And I do love that she so quickly jumps into “protecting my baby” mode. At the same time, it does make me feel like less of an adult. Like I can’t handle things myself. (Even though, being totally honest, I couldn’t handle things myself. Had I driven myself there, like I’d considered, I would have needed to stay for hours longer to get in a position where I could consider driving a car. Not to mention being scared and alone at the ER sounds that much worse than being scared with someone.)

Shortly after my mom got there, I was taken for a cat scan, which was kind of cool. Being able to see all the pieces spin as it got a cross section imagine of my abdomen was quite nifty, even discounting the effects the morphine had on my perception of ‘nifty.’ The cat scan confirmed what the ultrasound had indicated, that all of my organs – and particularly my gallbladder and appendix – where fine. That was very good news, but also meant the doctors weren’t 100% sure where the pain was coming from. Their best guess was – anticlimactically – constipation. This was a big surprise to me, as I thought I was pretty “regular,” but I guess not… They gave me some over-the-counter meds, and my mom drove me home so I could go to bed.

So that was my night at the ER. I learned:

• Hospital staff aren’t automatically transphobic, even if they may be uneducated about trans issues
• My gallbladder, appendix, and other organs are fine (thank goodness!)
• I’m not as “regular” as I thought I was
• Morphine is amazing

And knowing is half the battle.

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?

We were talking about bowling names, because we’ve both used the same ones for years. But I haven’t gone bowling since changing my name, and my old bowling name was based on my (male) name.

My roommate said, “Well, you can use the same bowling name. But I guess it was based on your old name. And now that your name isn’t…that that isn’t your name, we could try to come up with something new, based on Rebecca.”

I said, laughingly, “It’s not Voldemort – you can say my old name!”

I’ve been thinking about that idea since then, though, because there is an aspect of “He who shall not be named”-ness about it. I’ve entirely avoided using my old name on this blog. I only rarely use it when talking about my past, even with friends or coworkers. And it definitely bugs the hell out of me when I get mail addressed to…my old name.

I just hope that getting rid of my old name won’t require five hundred in-need-of-editing pages containing meandering, lost-in-the-forest whining and in-fighting…

At least, people saw me that way: I had a boy’s name, boy’s clothing, wore swimming trunks to the pool or the beach, had a Bar Mitzvah (however grudgingly), changed in the boys’ locker room before gym, wore a suit and tie to important family occasions, participated in Indian Guides (however briefly), had my hair in a buzz cut every summer for years,  played on the boys’ teams after school, lived in the boys’ section of the dorm at college, was never taught how to put on makeup…

Looking through old photo albums, or at the pictures on the walls at my parents’ houses, it’s clear – boy, boy, boy.

I wanted a girl’s name, girl’s clothing, a girl’s swimming suit, a Bat Mitzvah (well, maybe not), to change in the girls’ locker room before gym, to wear skirts and dresses to important family occasions, participate in Indian Princesses, wear my hair long and flowing, play on the girls’ teams after school, live in the girls’ section of the dorm at college, know how to put on makeup from a lifetime of experience …

I’m not sure how to reconcile these lists. To own up to my history outs me as trans and brings up a long stretch – the first twenty or so years of my life – that’s at odds with how I see myself now. When I talk with people about Judaism, about my struggling relationship with it, do I acknowledge my Bar Mitzvah and out myself as trans, or do I say I had a Bat Mitzvah and rewrite part of life? When a coworker talks about buying suits or ties, do I chime in with memories of my experiences, or do I stay silent?

Do I ask my parents to take down pictures of the first two decades of my life? To wipe clean my life before 22 or 23? To cover the mirrors which reflect the parts of myself I don’t want to remember, don’t want to see?

I want to catch up to the friends around me who can effortlessly apply eyeliner while rushing to get ready for a night out. Who can dress themselves with confidence that they won’t look like a fool.

I want to stop receiving mail (male) addressed to someone who no longer exists.