Cute tranny? Cute tranny.

Transgender:

1. a person appearing or attempting to be a member of the opposite sex, as a transsexual or habitual cross-dresser.

2. having personal characteristics (as transexuality or transvestism) that transcend traditional gender boundaries and corresponding sexual norms


Since everyone with whom I try to discuss this either doesn't get it or doesn't care (or both),* I'm turning to the internetz for help. Ever since I (unknowingly) decided to change my gender via haircut, I have started to question my gender history and identity. It seems a little unbelievable that a slight change in physical appearance could cause someone to reevaluate her gender presentation and even her entire history as a gendered being. (Well, it seemed that way to me anyway.) I know now, however, that this is exactly what's up. After this realization I began doing lots of thinking.

I began rummaging through my mental armoire for clues about my gender history. I use the term armoire for two reasons: 1. The first relevant reminiscence I came upon was the way I chose to dress as a child. 2. The closet metaphor has run its queer course, agreed? As soon as I was allowed and able to dress myself, I chose to wear either completely gender-neutral clothing or clothes sold exclusively in the so-called boys section of stores. Indeed, if my mother even suggested shopping in the girls section of "Belk Hudson" she would receive little more than a scoff and a distasteful look in return. Some of my favorite items of clothing included:

1. A dark purple pocket t-shirt with "Tom & Jerry" embroidered on the pocket.
2. Red "Looney Toons" Chuck Taylors.
3. Denim shorts (Jordache, perhaps?) that went below my knees and had enough pockets to make another pair of shorts from their fabric.
4. A t-shirt with a graphic of the San Francisco skyline. (Seriously, people--nobody knew I was queer?)

I suppose one reason no one thought twice of my gender-queer sense of style was that it was very common to be a tomboy not only in my town, but also in my family. My mom and sister told me stories of climbing trees and childhood mischief (behavior often assigned to the 'boy' gender in Indian culture). I also only had male friends.** I played with the neighborhood boys everyday that I was allowed to do so. I was even at the top of the inevitable hierarchy of neighborhood kids--along with my best friend, Josh--far above a number of biological males. I was no different from them in dress or interests. And there was never any implied sexual attraction or tension between any of the boys and me, no matter how much gendered after-school television we watched together. People confused me for a boy all the time, and of course I, as well as whomever I happened to be with at the time, would quickly correct them. "I'm a girl. See? Look at this clip in my hair," we would say, not bothering to hide the judgment and annoyance in our voices.
This all continued right up until yep, you guessed it—middle school. It goes without saying that uniqueness in junior high is about as appealing as warm Gatorade after a run. Imagine my anger, then, upon realizing that God had made me extra special. Not only was I a non-white, non-Christian, non-male in rural south Georgia--I was a fuckin' homo. Instead of accepting the hand dealt me, however, I decided to rebel against myself, to fight the good fight of normativity (in hopes that one day norma would be my BFF). I knew I couldn't do anything about my skin color. I also knew that when I died I was going to hell for worshipping steak instead of throwing it on the grill. Queer was a new kind of different, though; it didn't greet me every morning at school, or cling to me at the 4-H dance. It wasn't a reality because goddamnit this was my life and I would be as normal as I wanted to be and you can't stop me! I started dressing like the girls around me. I grew out and straightened my hair, wore make-up, donned tank-tops. I even wore pink on occasion. I stopped playing with the neighborhood boys. This was a good thing in my parents' eyes, part of growing up. (I could have argued that those boys were growing up too, and they still played together and hung out, but that would have betrayed my burgeoning love affair with norma.) I had straight white boyfriends with blonde hair and blue eyes (seriously). I chatted about them with my straight white girlfriends. I needed to pass for whatever I knew I wasn't; and I did for a long time. It was a grand old show.
By the time I was in 11th grade--while still marveling at my own ability to fool everyone--I began to feel more and more disgust with myself. I never pretended to be homophobic to fit in--on the contrary, I was always the most outspokenly liberal person in any class--but I realized that I was still perpetuating an environment of hate for queer people by subscribing to some ridiculous "separate, but equal" mentality. I can't be gay, but I've got your back when they call you a fag. I went back to wearing t-shirts and baggy jeans, and a few times I came very close to coming out to various friends, teachers, cousins, but I decided to the get the hell out of Dodge first.
The reason I relate these particular scenes of my life is not to confess something I've been holding inside all this time, or because I think my coming out story is particularly interesting. It is because of my new haircut and the issues that have arisen because of it. That's right--you just read all of that because I got a haircut. If you think this is ridiculous, then good because it is. I've always felt comfortable dressing in a gender neutral. I went to Prom in high school and wore a pink dress, but the way I saw it, everyone else was wearing a costume too.
After coming out my style didn’t really change; I liked wearing clothes from the boys section of stores, with the occasional femme-tastic night. This past New Year's Eve I wore a fabulous dark blue dress with black sequins and knee-high boots; my hair was down and my make-up made my eyes pop. Getting ready for the night with all my girlfriends is always a pleasure and we all looked gorgeous; it was the first time, though, in a long while that I felt like I was in costume. I felt exactly like I did on Halloween actually (I was even wearing the same boots). I knew none of my friends dressed like that every day, but I wasn't sure they had the same feeling as me. (Yeah, Judith Butler-ites, I'm aware that gender is a performance and blah blah it's always something we do, but the point is I think I would have done just as well in the part of the handsome tuxedoed girl, and would probably have felt more comfortable.) After realizing this I got really confused. Am I trans? Is gay the new straight? Why do I want to look like a boy? I don't even like boys! Oh God do I have to do this all over again? Is this punishment for judging people who come out in their fifties???
In order to further explore these sentiments, I did what any reasonable twenty-something would do--change my look. (Technically, I only changed my hair, but apparently you're not really a lesbian until you cut your hair short--no matter how many ties and vests are hanging in your closet.) I guess I figured if I could no longer pass for straight I was taking my queerness to the next level. I realize how dumb that sounds now, but at the time it made sense. In Douglas I was forced to deal with racism because of my skin color. Now I would be forced to deal with queerphobia because of my even more non-conforming gender presentation. I knew I liked transgressing gender, but I didn't want to identify myself as transgender. The main reason for this is similar to my reason for staying in the closet the first time. What if I wasn't a lesbian? Did I really want to go through all that if there was any chance I could be normal? Obviously, my thinking has changed radically since then, but at its core there was still a desire to be accepted, this time by the gay community instead of the straight one.
Let me be clear in saying that I am not coming out as trans; but let me also be honest in admitting that I don't know if I'm trans or not. Finally, let me be totes straight up in saying that if you, the reader, see any difference in me being your trans friend, lesbian friend, friend in drag, etc., if you take me more or less seriously when I wear a button down instead of a dress, or if you think I’m being unreasonable in wanting to wear a sherwani rather than a sari to my sister's wedding than you probably don't get it or me.

1. www.dictionary.com
2. www.merriam-webster.com

*With the exception of Acree Graham--ironically the least queer person I know. (And I mean that in the most non-judgmental way possible.)

**There were two exceptions: 1. a fellow tomboy whose family babysat me, and 2. perhaps the only other Indian girl in rural south Georgia .