I had a wonderful encounter at work recently, which I think I should share. It was with a man who has recently been re-elected Business Agent of my Union. He’s a big man, works as a rigger and other hard, skilled jobs operating stage equipment. Getting older, and a little soured by life, I think, though not as bad as some of the other stage hands I know, he sometimes looks bad tempered. We have known each other for almost 30 years. When I first met him he was slimmer, attending University, and would often pass the time waiting for cues on the fly floor above the stage reading books in Greek and Latin. I was a scenic designer, frustrated at my difficulties living as a man in a world of men, and I would sometimes have tantrums of scorn and anger in order to get my way with stage crews, on a few occasions directed at this man. So we were not the best of friends. When I first returned to working as a stage hand, while recovering from my breakdown and early in my gender transition, he was very uncomfortable, and even made it clear that he wasn’t going to accept me as female for gendered jobs such as female dresser for the Wardrobe Department when touring shows came to town.

Any life transition can make some friends and family uncomfortable, but changing your gender triggers strong reactions in most people. In our society visibly trans* individuals are subject to the kinds of behaviour and comments that most people have learned are no longer tolerated for other social groups. Disrespectful behaviour is unfortunately very common in respect to transitioning people, and it does hurt, sometimes profoundly. Some of it is intentional, but much of it is not. In our strongly gender binary society, we learn from an early age to classify every person we meet into one of the two genders. We exaggerate gender differences, and establish stereotypes in order to make it easier to distinguish. There is some evidence from anthropology that seems to suggest this tendency is stronger in patriarchal societies, and is linked to the imbalance of power between the genders. People’s identities are strongly invested in the system, trying to maintain their position in the hierarchy. An admission of change, or of the arbitrariness of gender categories could cause some men to lose dominance, or to experience guilt, and women to be painfully aware of their subjugation.

The most common is mis-gendering in the use of pronouns and honourifics. A shop clerk for example, ringing up my purchases and seeing me dressed in a skirt and wearing makeup, will say “Is that all, Sir?” At work, the crew of a touring show would begin seeing and treating me as a woman and referring to me as she. Then a conversation would take place, such as one of the road crew asking, “Where‚’s Miki, I thought she was ironing those shirts?” and one of my co-workers who has known me for a long time would answer without thinking,”He’s gone to get some water for his iron.” Then, the local crew would begin to see me in a new way and soon everyone would be referring to me as he. You would think that people are so good at assessing all the myriad characteristics; physical, behavioural and self-presentational, that they would be able to tell whether a person wants to be perceived as male or female. However, because of this deep-seated need to maintain the gender system, almost all of us unconsciously gender people according to their birth, or biological sex if we have detected, of had brought to our attention some slight indication that it may not coincide with their perceived, preferred gender. I’ve experience it in my own thinking. If I find out that someone I have only known as female was identified as male at birth, suddenly previously unnoticed male characteristics in that person will become obvious, and I may even have trouble for a while as some unconscious part of my brain begins insisting on supplying male pronouns for that person. This takes a real effort to overcome, especially when someone is beginning their transition, or has strikingly gendered physical attributes, or habitual gendered behaviours that they are unable to change.

It’s even harder when you have known someone for a long time as one gender to begin to see them as another. In addition to our socially conditioned discomfort about gender change, we usually have a strong emotional investment in our view of those we know, their gender, and how it relates to us. Reading my previous post (which is to be continued), you may have been struck by the incidents of people, some very close to me, reacting badly to my gender transition. These reactions can really hurt, but those of us who are trying to change how our gender is perceived have to learn how to be understanding, and to have patience. It takes time. Sometimes a long time, or never, if a person is unwilling to admit the reality that perceived gender can be different than physical sex, perhaps feeling it is a mental illness that could have been prevented or can be cured. Perhaps they feel it is impossible because of their religious beliefs, or because it goes ‘against nature’, ignoring the fact that nature is full of examples of the spectrum of sexual characteristics and gender behaviour found in all species. Sometimes it just takes time for them to accept that the change in behaviour and presentation is permanent. It can be very hard to accept especially at first, when we who are transitioning often show behaviour that is exaggeratedly different from our previous gendered behaviour in order to compensate, before finding a balance. The difference between the new persona and preconceptions of how we used to be can make friends perceive us transitioning individuals as insincere, or unauthentic. If, perhaps as a reaction to these perceptions, our friends and family shun contact with us, they become stuck and invested in a particular version of their memory of us, and can’t get past the unfamiliar changes to see that we are the same person they knew, often more authentic and open than ever before in our lives.

It was hard for my sisters and brothers in my Union. For years I had been working with them only occasionally, when the very big touring musicals came to town, as I was working during the 90s as a theatre consultant in Barcelona, and then full time at my job at the museum, the one from which I was fired in 2011 because of the discomfort of those co-workers at my gender expression. While I was recovering from my nervous breakdown I worked very little for the Union, and selectively, only accepting jobs that wouldn’t cause me stress, such as working on the wardrobe crew for musicals and dance groups, which I love. This was during the previous tenure of the Business Agent I began this post describing, when he was resistant to accepting me as female. He was replaced as BA by another, who, as I began seeking more work, proved to be an ally. The Union was asked by an employer to provide a camera operator for a conference, and though my experience was limited, and from long ago, he recommended me for the position. I turned out to have a talent for the job, but the employer was uncomfortable, and began criticizing my hairstyle, and clothing, and asking the BA to supply another camera operator. The new BA was very supportive, and told the employer he could talk to human rights. Over time the employer became accustomed to me, and now I am his preferred camera operator, and have gained further experience working for other employers as part of multi-camera live broadcast teams, work I really enjoy.

Despite the camera work, and my radically reduced expenses after being asked to leave my family home, I still wasn’t earning quite enough to cover my expenses, and once my termination ‘gag money’ and Employment Insurance sickness benefits ran out in early 2013, I had to become less selective in the jobs I accepted. I began taking regular stage work calls, beginning with a two day stage maintenance call at the Auditorium. It was a small crew of some of the senior members of the Union, 5 men and myself, plus the 3 full time stage technicians. Men who had known me for more than 20 years before my transition. They treated me badly, putting me to the ‘test’ by assigning me the most difficult, dirtiest tasks. Particularly two of them, the roughest, most misogynist guy in the local, and the man I mentioned at the beginning of this post. They told macho jokes and used lewd innuendos. I plugged in all the lamps on a lighting batten, and one came along and re-did them because I had done them ‘wrong’. (The head lighting technician later confirmed I had done them right). I tied a clove hitch in a lifting rope, and the other man re-tied it with the same knot. And so on. I kept a cheerful front, but was in tears by the time I got home.

The morning after the second day, emotionally and physically exhausted, I reflected on the experience. I had survived, and my elbow which I had injured, and made chronic because of a severe dance routine a couple of years previously was alright. I could do it again, if it weren’t too many days. I realized something important. Our Union had in fact been comparatively supportive, ‘allowing’ women to operate projection equipment and work at traditionally male stage jobs already in the 1980s, not only in the wardrobe department, and far earlier than many other stage locals and other professions. I had always been aware of the way female stage workers were treated. As I reflected on my experience, I realized I had been treated by my male co-workers as a woman. They weren’t treating me badly because I was queer, sexual diversity is accepted in theatre. Unpleasant as their treatment of me had been, and despite the illogic of them behaving as though I had somehow lost my ‘male’ work skills on coming out as female, it slowly dawned on me that I had finally been accepted by them, not as trans, but as female.

A year later, when our tolerant and supportive Business Agent was replaced by the previous one, the one I mentioned at the beginning of this post, who had treated me badly and who I had treated badly when I was a scenic designer many years ago, I was worried that he wouldn’t be as supportive if employers were uncomfortable with me being transsexual, and that he would be reluctant to recommend me for jobs such as female dresser in the Wardrobe Department. So while we were waiting for the band to finish their encores, before load-out, I asked if I could have a word with him. We stepped into the hall, and I reminded him how in the past he had wanted official confirmation of my female status. I dug through my purse, and pulled out my driver’s license, and showed it to him, pointing out the ‘F’ for female. He told me it was alright, he didn’t need that. I insisted, it wasn’t for him, it was so he would know I had it in case any employers complained about me. He said, “If anyone gives me any shit, I’ll tell them they can go to hell.” He then went on to explain. After he had told me that he felt I needed official proof of being female a couple of years before, he had begun to think about it. He had gone on the internet, and researched the subject during a couple of days, maybe a week. And everything pointed to one conclusion. I was a girl. End of story.

Wow, was that previous post about my bureaucratic hobby only about my first year? And do I really plan to go ahead and detail my adventures in year two? And three? Will any readers follow me that far? Like me, had you known just how much bureaucratic tedium, how many hurdles, and dead ends, and detours were involved, you might have decided to forego the experience. Let’s continue the tale, but leave out the bureaucratic part for now, and I’ll tell you about my festive holidays.

Late in 2012, despite having begun early and working steadily at sorting my files and personal possessions in preparation for leaving my home of 20 years, I did find that I needed to apply extra effort if I was going to be ready in time. As dance studios closed for the holidays, I began to have less commitments which gave me more time, though as I mentioned I did buy a bus ticket to go and consult with Dr. Allegretto in Edmonton on December 20. I also mentioned how in the summer I had asked to be put on the year and a half waiting list for the orchiectomy operation. Well, there was a cancellation, and I was asked if I could be ready for surgery on December 21. The solstice! Unlike the Adam's apple surgery, which as it became a definite possibility, I decided I didn't want it, after having put myself on the waiting list for the orchiectomy, I realized I definitely did want that operation. I had been reading about pre-Roman and early Roman transsexual priestesses, and imagining how castration for them was the culmination of their desire to serve the Goddess, and this surprise date was just too cosmic. I realized that my bus back from Edmonton arrived in Saskatoon at 7:30am on the 21st, and I had to report to the hospital at 9:30am, so I accepted the surgery date.

Despite all my efforts to avoid it, I have to admit I did suffer some stress. The midnight bus from Edmonton was late and we didn't leave until 2:30 am. I decided to relax, and put my fate in the hands of the Goddess. On arrival in Saskatoon I took a taxi to the hospital where I was admitted, undressed, and prepared by the nicest receptionists, nurses, doctor and anesthesiologist you could imagine, rolled into the operating room, took a few breaths in a mask, and the next thing I knew it was over and I was trying to wake up from the weirdest dream at the insistence of a solicitous nurse. My son came and I was discharged into his hands, and he took me to my new home which, though I had not finished moving in, is very close to the hospital.

I spent a few days recuperating, and though I felt very happy about the operation, several events made things difficult for me. My room, still in disarray, with piles of boxes, seemed very plain and small, as did the house, after my comfortable family home in a respectable historic neighbourhood. At my old home, I hosted my, until then, annual evening with old friends of my mother, to celebrate her life on the anniversary of her death, which was December 23, 2006. This event was marred by three of the old friends declining to come. One wrote a letter, detailing the reasons why she felt my mother would have disapproved of my gender transition, and as she put it, my "excessive makeup", "outrageous clothes" and my betrayal of my mother's feminist beliefs by being "a parody of a woman". Another was sick, and another didn't come I think because his wife, as I knew, didn't approve of my transition. I was spared family festive engagements, as my father had become outraged on hearing I was planning the operation, and cancelled our Christmas dinner. My siblings, who live in opposite ends of Canada, were also disturbed, especially my brother, who, in anger, said some very hard things to me over the phone. I shed some tears, but had a very peaceful and enjoyable Christmas, mostly in bed.

After Christmas, I got back to work at sorting and packing, trying not to exert or tire myself, as per doctor's instructions. I had planned to begin loading my van, which I did not normally use because of its excessive gas consumption, a little at a time. It was parked a short distance from the house, and when I went to have a look at it, I was dismayed to find that it had a flat tire. Warmer weather, only 10 below zero, was forecast for the days before New Year's, so I changed my plan and decided to deal with the tire, and loading, at the last minute. Foolishly, I decided to change the tire myself, to save money, but I had forgotten how heavy the tires, and the van were, and I hadn't anticipated how difficult the access would be, the flat being right against a huge, icy snowdrift. When I went to fill the tire with air, after struggling to install the spare, I found the tire had been slashed by vandals. That morning I was feeling as though I had a cold, but by the afternoon I realized I had an infection at the site of my operation. By the next day I was feverish, and phoned my surgeon, who prescribed antibiotics. On the morning of New Year's Eve I labelled my boxes, and phoned some friends, one of whom persuaded her boyfriend to come with her and help my son load the van, and unload everything into my new home. New Year's morning, still feverish, I was trying to clean my old family home. To my delight, two dance friends, two party angels who had been up all night, came over to help. Putting on loud music, they continued their festivities, sweeping and mopping and cleaning appliances and soon it was done. I left my family home and crossed the city to collapse in my tiny room in an unfamiliar house in a disreputable neighbourhood.

Though many of my readers will be anxiously awaiting my next instalment in the fascinating saga of my adventures with bureaucracy, I think it’s time to take a break, and try to address a theme that looms insistently. It’s a theme that is at the heart of what I want to write about, a question to which it can be very hard to formulate answers, and one to which many of the people I know would dearly like to have an answer.

"Why?" It’s a good question. In all its aspects, from why do we go on with life, day to day, despite its apparent futility, to why do I feel I am a woman. Way too much for one journal entry. Eventually I hope to share my thoughts on many of these themes, and to return to them as I revise my ideas and reach new understandings. For now, I would like to begin by touching on a theme of great relevance at this point in my life, prompted by a question from a dear friend whose opinions, and evident concern for me, I respect. She asks:

“What made you decide to go ahead with the surgery - you were ambivalent about it in the summer?”

In other words, why have surgery? I’ve been ambivalent for a couple of years, or to be more precise, I keep trying to convince myself that it's not necessary, but the idea keeps coming back. I've talked it over extensively with my psychiatrist, and she agrees that I've given the con side a very thorough run.

I hesitate. Is this going to be ‘Too Much Information’? Do I really need to share all this? Do you need to read it? I think most people will be satisfied to know that I feel I need this operation, that I want it, and that I’m convinced that, like the other transwomen I have consulted, I will be happy afterwards that I have had it. I think, ultimately, it is impossible for me to really explain why, even to myself. Like other decisions I've made, part of the proof is the lasting sense of fulfillment they have given me. But I, and I know some of my friends feel the need to delve deeper, to understand better, to be as sure as I can. And if the purpose of this journal is to try and explain and understand the transitions in my life, I think I should try to be as clear and honest as I can. If, however, you would prefer not to hear graphic and personal details, please, dear reader, STOP HERE!

There’s a lot of prurient interest, as is human and natural, on this subject. The stereotypical, and very impolite question usually asked of transgender individuals is “have you had the surgery”. Official regulations reinforce the popular notion that a sex change is not ‘complete’ until the surgery has been performed. It  first received widespread public attention with the 1952 front-page story, "Ex-GI Becomes Blonde Beauty", about Christine Jorgensen’s surgery. Even then it wasn’t new. Sex change surgery was first performed in the late 1920s and early 1930s in Germany, though castration, penectomy and breast removal has been documented throughout history. Everyone seems to know which surgery is being referred to, but there are in fact many possible surgeries that may aid in gender transition, genital and otherwise. The ones most commonly accepted by officials involve sterilization. This fact prompted a human rights challenge in the Province of Ontario that has resulted in them removing the requirement for surgery before obtaining gender changes on official documents. The surgery I am planning to have on March 12 is sexual, or gender reassignment surgery (SRS, GRS), euphemistically specified as ‘bottom surgery’, or more accurately as vaginoplasty.

Some cultures have been accepting of gender variance without any change to the genitals, one of the most well documented examples being what are now called the Two Spirit people of most North American pre-contact aboriginal nations. Many modern transgender individuals challenge the prevailing notions, and demand the right to live in their true gender without changing their genitals, or losing their reproductive ability. What’s wrong with a woman with a penis? Why should there be a problem with a man who gives birth to a child, and nurses that child, as is the case of an acquaintance of mine from Winnipeg? Many transgender individuals reject the idea of a gender binary and choose to be identified as agender, gender fluid, or androgynous. Some radicals even scorn those of us who pander to societal norms by choosing to be women or men. If our society had different attitudes, would anyone need to alter their bodies? In such an hypothetical accepting society, would those of us who experience gender dysphoria, an often debilitating condition where our bodies don’t fit our gender perception, be able to be happy with our physical selves?

Before I first dressed as a woman in 2007, I had never really thought about transsexuals or transsexual surgery. For as long as I could remember, I knew I had a significant female side to my character, which my mother had assured me was normal. I had never really worried about it. My ideas were muddled. I was aware of sex change surgery, and I associated transvestites with fetishism. I remember having prostitutes pointed out to me on the streets of Barcelona in 1989 as being ‘men’ and being confused by them having real breasts. In Barcelona I met my first transwoman; a neighbour of a friend of mine. Being liberal minded, I accepted these people in a confused way as gender deviants and rather pitied them for being maladjusted.

I have a strong distrust of the medical profession and of the pharmaceutical industry, of the tendency to medicalize natural human conditions and even sometimes to invent them in order to create a dependancy on expensive medical interventions. From my mother, who was an early activist in the feminist movement, I inherited a disdain for the patriarchally imposed trappings of femininity. (Something I have gotten over!) And from society in general, though I would never have endorsed intolerant views, I absorbed some element of the attitudes expressed by many, as exemplified by recent comments collected from internet postings such as the following: “…This is not a ‘politically correct’ or popular opinion, but you have to be very screwed up in the head to … want to be surgically mutilated to playact a sex role.” “If you want to reduce the suicide rate, you need to stop pretending that being transgendered (sic) is not a mental disease.” “Is anyone surprised to learn that [people] who define themselves by their self-hatred and who devote their lives to poisoning and mutilating their own healthy bodies have a high rate of suicide attempts?” (Katherine Cross, http://rhrealitycheck.org/article/2014/02/04/panorama-toxicity-trans-woman-online/)

This conditioning and my attitude made it hard for me to accept sex surgery, which I think I saw as one of the most frivolous forms of cosmetic surgery, and to accept gender transition, as it was so closely associated in my mind with sexual surgery. As my own gender confusion grew, I began to research the subject. I was excited to discover the differences between drag performance, crossdressing, and transsexuality. As an artist, the ideas of Judith Butler on the performative aspect of gender resonated strongly, and I soon began experimenting in my own performance work. I was also intrigued by the political dimension of genderfuck, the presenting of contradictory gender signifiers, such as wearing a beard and a dress, in order to undermine the gender binary.

My boyfriend at the time began educating me about the queer community. He outed to me a woman I knew as a transwoman, disparagingly commenting on how he thought she had gone for cheap surgeries in Mexico that hadn’t turned out well. I hadn’t realized, but looking more closely at her I could see that she had started out with a man’s body. My friend’s veiled warning backfired, as I was moved by her evident dignity, grace and humanity. I began attending a local transgender support group and was surprised to meet a beautiful young lesbian transwoman, my first transman, and another young person who I was shy to ask whether they were a man transitioning to a woman, or a woman transitioning to a man. I learned the distinction between the terms transsexual; generally a person willing to seek medical assistance in living in the opposite gender from the one they were identified at birth, and transgender; an umbrella term for gender variance. I began to track down transgender individuals, who were quietly living in the community; a young woman raising her baby, born to her girlfriend, a woman whose passion was Viking reenactment and battling with broadswords, and a woman who was a construction contractor. My stereotypes were dissolving fast.

Some of the people I met were seeking surgeries. One had a mastectomy, and a couple of friends had orchiectomies; the removal of the testicles. I could see how happy these surgeries made them, and in the case of the man, what a big change not having large breasts made in people’s perception of him. These were difficult times for me. I had begun, so far unsuccessfully, to seek professional help, recognizing that my thoughts of suicide were a danger sign. In my blackest moments, thinking I would never get help, I even planned my own self-mutilation, how I could cut off my own testicles. I met a young trans friend one night as they were about to jump off the Broadway Bridge, and spent a few hours convincing them to at least give life a few more days. A friend, an ally and activist who is not herself transgender explained to me how she had been born with a harelip, and how surgery had made it possible for her to be accepted by other children. I began to realize that the line between ‘unnecessary’ cosmetic surgery, and life improving and sometimes lifesaving surgery was not as clear as I had imagined.

The orchiectomy operation interested me, and in researching I realized some things about hormone replacement therapy (HRT). For transwomen, in addition to taking estrogen, we have to take an androgen suppressor, a drug that prevents the take-up of testosterone by the body’s receptor cells. These anti-androgens elevate the risks of undesirable side-effects, and as the estrogen doses also have to be higher to overcome the effects of the testosterone, the risks of taking estrogen are also elevated. However, after an orchiectomy and the removal of those ‘little T factories’ as a friend described them, no anti-androgens are required, and doses of estrogen can be lower, and safer. I had become rather thoughtful about the effects of testosterone, having observed some young friends after their T shots. For years I had been considering the advice of family and friends that taking anti-depressants might be helpful, but I began to wonder whether an excess of testosterone might be part of my problem. I learned that the early effects of HRT on people transitioning from male to female were reversible, and realized that if it worked for me, I could later decide to have an orchiectomy and thus reduce the risk and expense of having to take estrogen for the rest of my life.

I still had misgivings about going under the knife, and about my ability to heal quickly at my age, but a freak accident gave me courage. In the spring of 2012, while rehearsing for an outdoor dance performance which required me to wear heels, we were trying out variations on an ending sequence, one of which required a running leap in the air, and a change of direction as I landed. One of my heels skidded out from under me. I came down so hard on the pavement, one of the dancers crouched under our rolling ladder said he could feel the impact. I lay in shock, sprawled on the pavement, feeling the bone of my forehead touching the asphalt. After a stunned silence, the whole crew mobilized to transport me to the hospital, while I worried about bleeding on my costume, a white crinoline. Accompanied by our director, choreographer and dancers, a very attractive and competent young doctor put in layers of stitches over my eye, while I joked that I should get him to shave the bone to reduce the eyebrow ridge, a common facial feminization surgery, while he was at it. The wound healed fast and my bride of Frankenstein flourescent blue stitches were removed in time for the performance, a week later.

Research, and conversations with trans individuals, both in person and on the internet, has reassured me that while there are risks, the procedures have improved so much over the years, and the care offered in the Brassard Clinic in Montreal is so excellent, that the risks are extremely low. My physical fitness, diet, body weight and the fact that I am not a smoker nor do I drink alcohol reduce those risks even further. I am taking all the steps I can to prepare myself, and to put in place support for my recovery afterward.

I began HRT early in 2012, and was soon convinced that hormone therapy was working for me. It felt right for me in a way I had never imagined possible, my depression had gone and I was experiencing an equanimity that has turned out to be enduring. It wasn’t long after that I asked to be put on the list for the orchiectomy, understanding that it would be a year and a half wait for surgery. I was feeling more and more certain that I would want it. I was convinced there was no going back for me. I had tried for a few years to be a gender ambiguous man, and it had become clear that was not making me happy. I was anguished at the thought of people such as my supervisor at my last job and the mediator I was forced to see while I was being fired going home and referring to me as ‘he’. Having began the process of gender transition, I found that the more aspects of my appearance and behaviour I could make fit my self image as a woman, the happier I was. My surgery date came much sooner that I anticipated, there was a cancellation, and late in 2012 I had the orchiectomy.

Cost is a consideration. Sask Health paid for the orchiectomy, and it was done in Saskatoon, but they only pay a small percentage of the cost of SRS, and the procedure for approval at the moment takes several years, as I will explain in a subsequent post. I’ve decided not to wait, and pay for it myself. I live a very frugal life, often justifying decisions by saying “I can’t afford it”. This is of course relative. I choose to spend little on things most people consider necessities, in order to have more freedom, more time, and the ability to spend what money I have on other things. As a result of my 9 years full time employment at my last job, I have modest pension savings, which I am now old enough to be eligible to access, and the plan allows withdrawals of any amount. The surgery will cost me $20,000. A third of my pension savings. The price of a decent car. Hardly anyone in our society would question my buying a car, but I don’t want one. It would make a difference to the debt my children will have to take on for their post-secondary educations, but I’m already putting aside half of my wages for them, which is not an insignificant gesture. It could be greatly appreciated were I to donate such a sum for good causes, but I already volunteer a lot of my time, and I do think there are individuals in our society in a much better position to give financial donations.

I haven’t suffered the extreme dysphoria that many transsexuals feel about some parts of their bodies. Partly because of the self confidence instilled in me by my mother, I had felt mostly OK about being different. I do remember at an early age wondering why men were so badly designed, with unsightly, inconvenient and delicate reproductive organs hanging outside their bodies, and was envious of women’s streamlined shape, with all the delicate bits safely contained in their abdomens. I disliked my scrotum, which was rather large and dangly. In later years, at the gay nude beach, instead of being happy to have gay men comment on it, and want to touch it, their admiration made me acutely uncomfortable. On the other hand, from adolescence I wanted the acceptance and privilege I imagined would come with being a man, and felt acutely the inadequacy of my hairless slender body, and my inability to grow sideburns or to develop any bulk in my arms and chest, no matter how many pushups and chin-ups I did. As I began to live as a woman, these defects became assets. Except for the bulge between my legs. Over time this has become smaller. My penis has shrunk as a result of the HRT, and after my orchiectomy in December of 2013, my scrotum has also shrunk to a fraction of its previous size, to my great satisfaction.

So why go to considerable expense and some risk to cut off what’s left? Am I so oppressed by my failure as a man, in love and career, that I want to mutilate myself and become a woman, a person without a phallus? Is it, as some radical feminists believe, a way for me to perform the ultimate violation by possessing a female body, and infiltrating women’s space? Have I fallen for the myth of infinite consumer choice, the ultimate self-improvement purchase? Have I fallen into the wrong social and medical circles, grasping at straws after my nervous breakdown? I have seriously considered these theories, not uncommon in our society, and despite seeing some grains of truth in some aspects of these views, they do not describe what has happened to me, nor any other trans people I know.

I feel it’s important to note that women are not just people who do not possess a phallus, and I’m aware that the removal of a penis does not make a man a woman. Likely the paternalistic surgeons who pioneered the sex change surgeries felt that way, and aspects of that kind of thinking are still current, in the medical profession and among some transsexuals. But attitudes are changing, and we know that gender is not uniquely centred in the genitals, and is much more nuanced. We also know that women’s sexual organs are every bit as orgasmic and powerful as men’s. The operation I am planning to have, the vaginoplasty, has progressed since the early days, and rather than a removal, is more of a conversion, reshaping the sensate tissues of the penis and scrotum to create a fully functioning clitoris, inner and outer labia, sensitive inner folds, and for most, a vaginal canal.

I have opted to not have the surgeons create a vaginal canal. This is a little known and seldom discussed option. Here, for me, I draw a line. It may seem arbitrary to some, but I think by trying to explain it may help in understanding why I want the rest of the operation. Some people may feel that a vagina is an essential part of a woman. But why is a vagina more important than the organ to which it gives access, the uterus? Some XX women are born without a vagina, and/or a uterus. Many women have their uterus removed. We are all still women. I think the importance of the vagina in our patriarchal culture, outside its reproductive functions, is as a place for male penetration and sexual pleasure. This is fine! I also love being penetrated by men. But I happen to love anal sex. I also love non penetrative sex with women. I don’t see the reason to have a new cavity made in my body, one without the glands and secretions that will keep it clean and healthy, one that never really heals, and that requires regular dilations with special tools because the body is forever trying to close it up on the inside and around the opening. The surgically created vulva on the other hand, once healed, is stable. It will not need special cleaning, apart from the occasional shower. I can smell that the glands of my genitals are already producing the appropriate secretions for external female genitalia, because of my new hormonal chemistry.

Now that I’ve opened up the subject, is my desire for female-like genitalia about sex? Yes, that is an important consideration for me. At the moment I have no sexual partner, and as a rather mannish looking older gal, my chances of finding one are reduced. Having no testosterone in my system, my sexual drive is almost non existent, a change that has surprised me by being a great relief. Yet, like everyone, I do hunger for physical intimacy, and I can, if I’m in the mood, have orgasms. Before I began HRT I did experiment with casual sex, something that I don’t really find satisfying, and I realized that the incongruence of a female identified person having a penis was a big obstacle for most people. I’ve read that many people get over their hangups, and in theory love conquers all. Gay men and heterosexual women aren’t interested in my female behaviour and presentation, with or without a penis. However, gay women and heterosexual men, and even most bisexuals, especially of my generation, do have a big problem with the presence of a penis. What about the lack of a vaginal canal? If I was after casual sex with men this might be a concern, especially if I was trying to hide the fact that I’m transsexual. In that case, I would need other surgeries; facial feminization, breast augmentation and Adam’s apple reduction, and even then I would always be in danger of being exposed. I’ve never liked casual sex, and especially now that I don’t feel the urgent need I would have to know and love someone, and would want them to know about me before becoming intimate. I feel that the kind of women and men who might be interested in sexual relations with me, and who I would be interested in loving, though they might likely find a penis a turnoff, would be able to accept a woman with a vulva, but without a vaginal canal.

I hate to admit, being an activist, that one of the reasons for surgery is that I wish to conform to deep seated and slow to change institutional attitudes. You may think I’m a pessimistic alarmist, but given the fascist tendencies in our society and my activism and poverty I’m aware that there’s a chance I may end up in prison. If not, there’s a good chance I’ll end up in a state supported care institution in my old age. Despite my documentation saying I’m female, I think the presence of a penis would ensure my being treated as a man. Gloomy as these prospects seem whatever gender I’m treated as, I know that it would be much easier for me to maintain my optimism if I’m accepted as a woman.

Unlike many transsexuals, I can’t claim that genital surgery is necessary for my well being, especially under my present circumstances. I’m accepted as female by some of my family, most of my friends and in the workplace. I’ve managed to get government identification recognizing me as female. My penis is an inconvenience, and sometimes an embarrassment, but I’ve learned to deal with it. I have to be careful when wearing light skirts, leggings or a bathing suit, to tuck and compress it with tight elastic garments in order to reduce the bulge. As someone who loves skirts, and who dances regularly and swims whenever I get a chance, this is a nearly constant preoccupation and discomfort, though not as bad as before my orchiectomy. Bathrooms have private stalls, and I sit to pee, but dressing rooms and public showers can be stressful and I no longer feel as free as I used to on a nude beach. These inconveniences are not life threatening. Taken individually they seem minor, but cumulatively, every day, they do add up to an important consideration.

For me, the weightiest reason for having SRS is the one that is hardest to express, the least concrete, and the hardest to justify. I want it, very much. I’ve wanted it, I suspect, since before I can remember, certainly from the time I was deciding to try HRT. I’ve tried to reason myself out of it, but the idea keeps coming back. I know that altering that constant, annoying reminder into the sleek, streamlined organs I dreamed of as a child will give me a deep sense of cohesion. I’m convinced it will add immeasurably to the happiness I already feel at being able to live as a woman. It feels like a compulsion, like an adventure I can’t resist. I feel it is my destiny.

As I mentioned in my first journal entry, I have been quite busy with the bureaucracy involved in arranging for my sexual reassignment surgery (SRS) in Montreal. Since I decided to get off the fence and go ahead with my gender transition, late in 2011, attending to bureaucratic details has become a regular activity in my life. Sometimes frustrating and anxiety producing, in many ways the activity has been a soothing pastime, rather like having a hobby, and has given continuity to what otherwise might have felt like a rather aimless phase of my life. Most of my life I have felt a great sense of purpose, driven by a sense of the need to right the wrongs of society, by my artistic career, and by the needs of family. After my nervous breakdown I found my path to recovery through a series of steps of letting go, letting go of most of what seemed important to me, until, with nothing left, I was able to rediscover the wonder in just being alive in the morning, and begin to learn how to love and take care of the female person that I found myself to be. One day I'll write more about letting go, but this entry is about moving along.

In taking care of myself, and in my weakened state, I realized that I must deal with the complications of the world, one thing at a time, and in a rational order so as not to be overwhelmed. So began my steady diet of bureaucratic dealings. First, I had to put in motion requests for appointments with health care professionals; look for a better psychiatrist than the one I had been first assigned, who did nothing but listen to me, and try to sell anti-anxiety and anti-depressant drugs. I had to get another GP than the one I had, who was a more than decent man, a crusader working the front lines of Saskatoon's deprived westside, but too gruff and no-nonsense for my delicate condition. I wanted a referral to an endocrinologist, to see if changing my hormone balance would help me. So, step by step, a little at a time, I began making enquiries, keeping notes, following up leads, until I obtained an appointment with Dr. Donna Hendrickson, Saskatchewan's leading psychologist specialized in gender issues, who eventually referred me to Dr. Wilson, the province's most experienced specialist in giving HRT to transsexuals, and Dr. Veronica McKinney, a GP who at our first meeting, looking at my file where it listed my old, male name, and then at me, had the consideration to ask what name I would prefer her to call me. Had I tried to do all this at once I might have failed, or encountered huge frustrations, but I found that a little at a time, maybe one phone call a day, or one visit a week, with lots of patience, bit by bit things were accomplished.

At the same time came the necessities of employment, and unemployment. I took sick leave because of the ongoing harassment and bullying at work, and a little at a time I dealt with unsuccessful appeals to Human Rights, to Occupational Health and Safety and to legal assistance. I dealt with formal workplace complaints processes. Little by little I compiled a binder full of documents. I went through six sessions with a professional mediator and my supervisor. Finally the director gave me my termination letter with terms for compensation, and I hired, then fired a lawyer, and finally signed, accepting their terms. Then came dealings with Employment Insurance, which continued, on and off for a year and a half. It began with applications and waiting rooms, and forms to fill out and obtain from employers and doctors. Then reports, and bi-weekly cheques soon interrupted by letters cutting me off on varying pretexts, followed by phone calls, letters, tears in waiting rooms, appeals, reinstatements, disallowances and demands for return of money, waiting rooms and appeals and phone calls and reductions and a waiting period while I was told to use up all the money from my compensation, and reapplication and reinstatement and cutting off and waiting rooms and phone calls and appeals and advocate agencies and reinstatement and cutting off and reinstatement until finally my claim was deemed to have really and truly run out. All this helped to give structure to my long slow recovery of my health and strength, dealing with one challenge at a time, trying never to do too much in one day, or one week, and taking lots of time for rest, to eat, for dance classes and rehearsals, for walks and time sitting in my studio, thinking and writing.

Still feeling unable to work, the anxiety I might have felt about my uncertain income was mitigated by the beneficial effects of the HRT, the blocking of testosterone and the changes being introduced by the estrogen giving me a beautiful feeling of equanimity. I reasoned that if I did run out of money, and still couldn't work, I could go on disability through Social Assistance. Instead of despairing at the bureaucratic mountain that might represent, I started methodically finding out what I would need, and began preparing by obtaining a doctor's letter and researching the application forms required, just in case. When I got tired, I would have a nap. I began to guage my returning strength by working at my health food co-op once a month, and volunteering to work at cultural events, in return for being able to see the show, or attend the dance. Finally, I began accepting offers of work. I have been a member of the stage hands' union since 1985. Though in latter years I had not worked with them much, I had continued paying my dues, and had lots of seniority, so I was able to choose some of the jobs I found more enjoyable, such as wardrobe assistant, or follow spot operator. Eventually, as my strength and endurance returned, I braved the misogyny of some of the regular stage work crews and I survived and began working enough to support myself.

Once I had put in place my medical support team, and I felt my transition was underway, I prepared myself to tackle the next set of bureaucratic hurdles. I thought long about what name to use, after unsuccessfully insisting for several months that 'Michael' was a good name for a woman. Despite my pointing out there were several women, even a couple of actresses, called Michael, I began to realize that I was going to have to feminize whatever I could about myself. If people were going to accept me as female I would have to compensate for those things I couldn't change, like my bone structure. At the beginning of 2012 I began using my new name, Miki Mappin, and getting feedback from friends and family. Gathering advice from other transitioning individuals, I then worked my way through the steps to get my legal name change. That done, I then changed my name on each piece of identification, once again not all at once, but one step at a time, a process that is till ongoing. I tried to see if I could get my gender changed at the same time. In most cases it was not possible, but I saved the information on what documents I would need for later. I soon realized that to change my gender on most of my identification, I would need to first get my birth certificate changed, or in my case, as I was born in South Africa, if I couldn't get a new birth certificate, I would need to change my Canadian Citizenship card. I sent letters to the South African Embassy, but never got a reply. Citizenship Canada was just as unpromising. Their website had no information on gender change requirements, and in order to get an appointment at the local office, you needed to phone a 1-800 number first. The same number for information, for all of Canada. Over the course of weeks, I tried that number. Often it wouldn't accept my call. Sometimes I would be put on call waiting, and eventually I would be given long lists of unintelligible options by a computer, which would lead to other lists of options, which would eventually place you on another call waiting cue, but after an hour or so I would find I had something else I needed to do. Finally, one day I put it on speakerphone, and after a couple of hours doing household tasks, my call was answered. Agent Wilder listened to my request, and asked bluntly if I had had "the surgery". I tried to argue with him that it was clear after the Human Rights case in Ontario that it was unconstitutional to demand compulsory sterilization in order to obtain documentation from the Canadian Government, but he would have none of it. 'Politely' calling me Sir and Mr. the whole time, he explained to me the doctors' letters and documents I would need to provide, and the forms I would need to fill out, and I duly noted down the information for future reference. I was, however, successful with my credit cards, and it gave me great satisfaction to begin receiving mail addressed to Ms. Bantjes-Mappin. One card and official entity at a time, I was surprised to find that after several months I no longer had any ID, except my Citizenship and passport, and seldom got mail, with my old name.

It may begin to sound as though my life was a never ending battle with government agencies, computerized phone defence mechanisms and antagonistic officials. In fact, my days were quite peaceful. I would linger in bed with a thermos of tea, then get up and have breakfast in the sun if possible. I took time for friends, and to walk and ride my bike everywhere. If I had to go to an office to meet with someone, I would make it my main activity of the day, leave lots of time, bring a lunch, and a book or my journal if I would have to wait in a lineup, or just people watch. Then I would try to get home in time to have an afternoon nap, and make a good supper. Between dance classes and rehearsals, volunteer activities, occasionally working,  and household tasks, I sometimes felt that I wasn't left much time for creative pursuits, but I managed to continue my artwork on the same basis as my bureaucratic hobby. I am lucky to have my studio, a small room on the third floor stairwell of a hundred year old building, with a large window that looks over downtown, at very low rent. There I am able to leave my projects, and days later find them ready to pick up where I left of, and continue for whatever time I can. Sometimes I felt I wasn't getting anywhere, but when I look back I see that I did accomplish something. I didn't set unreasonable goals for myself, and concentrated on enjoying the moment, and by the end of the year I found I had written a poem and performed it in several venues, collaborated with my dance partner on a couple of new choreographies and produced a 20 minute video that was later shown in a film festival and and art gallery.

By the summer of 2012 I was convinced that I never wanted to experience the effects of  testosterone again, and I was uneasy about the idea of continuing on the testosterone blocking drug, Spironolactone, for the rest of my life. So despite not being totally sure if I was ready, on finding out there would likely be a year and a half wait, I decided to get myself on the waiting list for the operation to remove my testicles, the bilateral orchiectomy. Then, though I was even less sure about my desire for further surgical interventions, I began the process of applying for approval for sexual reassignment surgery, the first step of which was to persuade my psychiatrist to refer me to the Centre for Addictions and Mental Health in Toronto (CAMH). Their evaluation is required in order to obtain partial funding through Sask Health. I also contacted the Brassard Clinic in Montreal, the location approved in Canada for such surgeries, for detailed information and costs. I asked also for costs for facial feminization surgery, for which I had to send photos, and for Adam's apple reduction as well. Following up on these purely speculative consultations, I also researched and contacted a surgeon in Edmonton, a Dr. Allegretto, who it turned out offered the Adam's apple surgery for a lower cost than the Brassard Clinic. I took all these steps, a little at a time, because even though I wasn't sure, I realized that finding out more could help me decide what was really important to me, and I could get a head start on the long wait times once I did make a decision. In the end I decided that I didn't want the risk and expense of facial feminization surgery, partly at the urging of friends who like my face (lots of 'character'), and partly because I realized that with time the estrogen had been slowly altering my features, adding a little more fat and giving a softer skin texture. These subtle changes along with a happier facial expression and the gradual transformation of my narrow, stiff upper lip into a nice little cupid's bow as a result of hair removal were already making my face appear more feminine.

The hair removal has been another project requiring lots of patience and expense spread out over a long period of time. I began, on the suggestion of friends, with a Groupon offer for a package of 6 laser treatments on my face, but soon realized that the laser was not going to have much effect on my many grey hairs. So after trying two different laser studios, and much consultation with friends, support groups and websites, I decided to begin electrolysis on the most visibly stubbly part, my upper lip. I'm lucky in that I have never had much body hair below the neck, and since being on HRT even less. In fact I have less body hair than many women I have known, and on my face I had only a thin beard and no sideburns. But what a lot of hairs there are, even in a thin beard! After almost two years, after about 14 laser sessions and weekly or bi-weekly electrolysis sessions, I now have no moustache to speak of, but I'm still working on my chin. My cheeks I just pluck, a few minutes most days takes care of the few that grow there.

I came very close to having the tracheal shave surgery to reduce my Adam's apple, even going so far as to take a bus trip to Edmonton to consult with Dr. Allegretto, who did approve me for surgery, at a projected cost of $2,750. Here's another case where I'm glad I took the time to do lots of research, and consult with lots of people. The risks appeared to be very low in my case, though they increased considerably if you took the surgery a little further and had the vocal chords altered, to raise the voice pitch. This I was not interested in. Apart from the risk of ending up without a voice, I had indicated my interest when some other transwomen in the province were organizing to do voice training, and had eventually been accepted for 10 group sessions with the speech pathologist Dr. Christie Ife. I learned there was far more to voice feminization than just raising the pitch, and decided to alter my voice through application and exercise, which I think has been moderately successful. It's now seldom I get called 'sir' on the telephone. Apart from the pleasure of Christie's delightful personality and my enjoyment of our weekly gathering of transwomen, it turned out that she had studied with Dr. Allegretto and assured me he was one of the best in the field. I also got a testimony from an Alberta trans* person who had a friend who had been operated on by Dr. Allegretto, and said the scar was almost invisible. However, another friend referred me to an 'ask the doctor' website where there was an extensive thread of women writing in, concerned about their Adam's apples! I had always accepted it as gospel that only people with xy chromosones had this feature. 'Tranny chasers', and transmysoginists use it as 'proof' to identify transwomen in the bar, and I had no idea that there was a significant proportion of biological women with a slight to moderate protrusion. I began examining women's necks, and sure enough, mine, being not terribly pronounced, was not outside of the range of natural variation! Therefore, I decided to forego the risk and expense.

Early in 2012 my now ex-wife revealed to me, in stages, that she had decided we must separate. Until that moment, she had been insisting that we could continue sharing the house and raising our kids together despite not sleeping together, much as we had been doing for the previous several years. I had not begun transitioning until after she had made it clear to me that our relationship would be one of convenience, of just friends. I had been unsure if I could manage the lack of privacy in our small home, with my strong sexual desire, but she had assured me that for her it was not a problem. A mutual friend has since explained that she was thinking about separation around when I was being fired from my job. A half year later, as a result of my hormonal changes, no longer horny every morning, I was feeling confident that it could work out. Until she told me one day that she had decided that I could have the house. I was flabbergasted, and after digesting this, and commenting that it meant I would have to buy her share, I asked if she was talking about a separation. After some thought, she agreed that she was. So, to my other bureaucratic tasks was added the one of doing research on separation and divorce.  I made arrangements for free consultation with a separation and divorce agency, which helped throw into focus the legal issues involved. I finally persuaded her to see my psychiatrist with me, in order to make a last plea for her to reconsider. I had asked her some years before to go to counselling with me, when we were first trying to sort out our marital problems, at which she had told me that she had no problems, it was I who needed help. She remained adamant. So, despite her insistence that we could write our own separation agreement, I had begun to realize that for many reasons, mostly financial and to do with the kids, the house, pension etc., it was not possible, so I asked friends for advice and arranged for a lawyer to draw up an agreement for us to sign, got her comments and had it revised, and finally it was done.

I made appointments with the bank to discuss the possibility of me borrowing money to buy her share of the property, but it had increased in value over the years. I had no permanent full time job, and as a 56 year old woman with no University degree, I had no prospects of getting anything suitable. I consulted with the bank and a lawyer and tried to persuade my brother and sister to act as guarantors for a loan, but they never responded, perhaps embarrassed to admit that they thought I was mentally ill and not dependable. I'm making it sound like I was dispassionate and efficient but no, I took as much time to cry as I needed, which was lots. However, I did not get depressed. Since I had made the decision to transition and become accepted as female, and begun taking HRT, my depression and suicidal ideation had not returned. I woke up every morning feeling grateful to be alive, with a strong desire to to see what life would bring next. The same as my other bureaucratic tasks, I did one thing at a time. As it was summer, I spent a lot of time in my garden. At first, in the spring, I wasn't sure if I was up for it, not only the work, but also the emotions that it would generate. This would likely be the last summer in the little urban orchard I had been working on and developing for the previous 20 years. But in the end, I managed to let go of any self imposed pressure of what I might feel ought to get done, and planted, and weeded, and watered, and harvested as much as felt enjoyable. Only occasionally was I overwhelmed by waves of nostalgia, thinking 'this is the last time I do this', or remembering all my plans and dreams. I told myself, who knows? Perhaps things would change, and I would be back in this garden some other year. As it turned out, I did return the following year, to harvest Saskatoon berries, and apples, and cherries, at the invitation of my ex-wife, as she and my children couldn't find time to do it.

In the fall, my ex-wife went to Spain with my daughter, and as per our separation agreement, I stayed in the house with my grown up son until the end of the year. He is the only one in my family who has unreservedly supported me in my transition. Not to suggest my daughter has been unsupportive, but she is younger, and very close to her mother, and has some reservations, I think. It must have been hard for her, coming into puberty and discovering her womanhood, just as I was finding mine. I had a lovely few months sharing the house with my son, who was taking classes at the University, working, and playing music. I began to deal with another huge task, my 'bureau' at home, going through more than 20 years of professional and personal files, and deciding what small percentage I needed to keep, and what to dispose of as recycled paper. What an exercise in nostalgia and letting go that was. Once again I tried not to hurry, and not to let myself be daunted by the mountainous task it was. I worked at it a little bit day by day. It was interesting to review my history, and that of my family. I took time to look at the photos, to read the letters, and to cry. Gradually the filing cabinets began to empty, boxes of papers left the house, and my three plastic filing boxes I had decided were all I could keep began to fill up with the distilled essence of my life history.

Working this past weekend, some of my fellow stagehands were complaining about the tedium, waiting for our cues through the long first act of our fifth and last performance of West Side Story. I felt mystified. What’s wrong with sitting here, listening to the music, watching the lights and dancing shadows projected onto to the side walls of the stage, watching the beautiful young performers hurry past on their way to their next scene? Waiting for what? To get home, and get to bed? For tomorrow? What if, by some awful accident, we don’t make it home? These may be our last moments. Our lives are these moments that we live, and they will never return. Why is that which may come next more desirable?

How my life has changed! I no longer feel the hurry to accelerate my passage through the moments, though I can remember having felt that way. It’s not just age, my companions in the wardrobe crew are also in their late middle age. Is it hormones? They were men expressing those feelings, but the women also agreed with the sentiment. The change in my attitude does date from around the time I began hormone replacement therapy (HRT) two years ago, though I think it really began a little before, during the recovery from my breakdown. Perhaps it was having to let go of the obligations and expectations that I felt defined me, that I felt so necessary for my survival, to achieve the goals I had set my heart on. Letting go of my dreams of providing what my parents weren’t able to provide for me; a stable family home, and economic support for my children’s post-secondary education. Or was it my acceptance of the reality of my jobless state? Accepting the unlikelihood of my finding suitably satisfying and remunerative employment considering my age, lack of University degree and my gender, and my subsequent determination to make the best of it, to learn to reduce expenses and make do with very little. Or learning to accept that caring for my then fragile state of health was more important than my illusions of an artistic career. Probably it had a lot to do with my decision to get off the fence on where I stood about my gender, and accept that I couldn’t be happy as a gender ambiguous person, wearing a skirt while people were referring to me as he.

However, it was when the effects of the HRT began to be felt, particularly my relief at the release from the effects of testosterone, that I finally stopped thinking about suicide, and began to anticipate the future with curiosity. Not that I had been pessimistic all my life. I had many periods of exaltation; first loves, travel, and new artistic projects. Periods of contentment, however, were usually soon tarnished by self criticism, worries about social and professional inadequacy and economic uncertainty. I was egotistical and anxious about what I felt to be my responsibility to make real my understanding of how things should be and to create a suitable future for myself, my loved ones, and all of humanity. Career successes were usually times of complication, depression, feelings of being unworthy and unappreciated. I would try desperately to hold on to love, anguished about my partners' misunderstandings and defensiveness, and feeling disillusioned and suicidal. All of this is gone. The past two years have been ones of equanimity. Despite what in the past I would have seen as negative. The little paid work I get is humble and undependable. I have good friends, but no love affairs. My professional successes are occasional, with limited recognition. I have fallen from the esteem of some of my family and friends. I have wrinkles and aches and suffer from minor dance injuries. Yet, even this minor suffering is felt as evidence of life.

How wonderful to feel the miracle of each new day, to feel thankful for being alive, and to be able to take a little time to appreciate it. Waiting is not tedious, it can be full of awareness and wonder. I look forward to what comes next with curiosity, anticipation, but not impatience. How fast time passes, in retrospect. I never thought I would be 58 so soon, that I would have children, that they would become adults. One day I will die. I am not afraid of it, but I have no desire to hasten that day.

This is a journal about transition, about the changes that I have made and am making in my life. These changes began with a sparkle in my parents' eyes, before I was conceived. They will end after I am dead, as the memories and marks I leave fade from the world. My own individual story includes many transitions of location, in relationships, in career, and transition from one gender to another. In this journal I will begin adding histories and essays that document my evolution, and meditate on my transitions. I will also be making entries to share my current developments, and perhaps speculate on future changes. 

I begin writing this online journal at a time in my life when the most absorbing transition I am engaged in is the one of gender. When I was born, it seemed clear to the doctor and my parents that I was a boy. I did, after all, have a penis. As I grew up, I think my father soon realized I was not as masculine as he would have liked. My mother excused me; I was sensitive, and artistic. I was not girly, though I hated competitive sports and rough behavior. I loved the outdoors, and adventure, and making things. I was a tomboy. At nine, for the second and final time, my parents separated, and I was told I had to become the man of the family, and help my mother with my younger brother and sister and our old house in a small prairie town, while she went to work.

So I did try to be a man. When I was 17 I left home and went to work in a factory in a town in Alberta where my father was the machinist. I rented a basement suite and tried to fit in with my dad's macho workmates, unconcerned that singing while I loaded steel into the bodymaker machine, and drawing scenes of the town when I was off shift were not considered to be the most suitable activities for a young man.

I had known I was bi-sexual from my early teens, but my mother had assured me that having a feminine side, and being attracted to boys was not unusual, so I didn't worry about it. I met my first wife in a local bar, and though I grew increasingly uncomfortable in the male role, it was not until I was in my 50s that I began to realize my feminine side was the predominant one. Toward the end of my second marriage, at the urging of my wife, I had an affair with an old boyfriend from University days. It reminded me how much I needed to be made love to by a man, and showed me that I had never known how to give that kind of masculine love to any of the women I had ever lived with. My partners would fall in love with my gentle ways, and enjoy my ability at giving pleasure, but they needed someone who behaved like a man and would soon become uninterested in me as a sexual partner. My frustration and my inability to deal with testosterone made me embittered, depressed, and sometimes mean. I began to cross-dress, indulging my love for tights and skirts, colours and fabric, that I had seldom dared to express even in my hippie days. In the confusion that followed, rejected by my wife and my lover, I had a nervous breakdown, was fired from my steady job, and my wife asked for a separation.

So now, I live as a woman. Two years ago I changed my name, and began hormone replacement therapy (HRT). A year ago I moved out of my family home at the request of my now ex-wife and began renting a room from my best friend and dance partner. I also rent a small studio downtown, where I write for an internet audience, prepare music for dance performances, sew and occasionally edit video. I subsidize my income from part-time occasional work as a stagehand, costume assistant and camera operator with my pension from the job I was fired from three years ago. I save half of what I earn for the education of my two children, now young adults. I live very frugally. I don't drive or drink or smoke or eat meat. I walk and bike, shop at food co-ops, and get my bread from the Friendship Inn; the 'soup kitchen'. I make sauerkraut. I volunteer in exchange for admission to shows and dances. After my breakdown I learned that I need to care for myself. With the equanimity that HRT and the freedom from testosterone has given me, I live a mostly peaceful and happy life.

However I am now steadily occupied with the steps required for the next big event. I have recently been informed that I have a date for surgery at the Brassard Clinic. In the last week of February I fly to Toronto to visit my son, then I take the train to Montreal, where in less than two months, if all goes according to plan, my genitals will be altered to more closely resemble those of other women. Yesterday I saw my doctor, who was very happy for me. She's an aboriginal lady, and commented that the speed with which things were falling into place seemed to indicate the workings of fate. She arranged for several tests to be done without delay, so the results could be sent off as soon as possible. I wait for letters, with forms to be filled out for the clinic, and for the release of pension funds. Despite my growing excitement, I take care to rest, to eat and to dance. Out the window of my studio the downtown skyline is silhouetted against the dark blue sky, jewelled with lights. The sun has set. I must publish this post, and prepare for my walk home.

Presented at the Trans Monologues, Regina, April 6, 2013

A friend who was travelling in South America saw a beautiful card that reminded her of happy pictures she’d seen of me on a long ago holiday. Thinking about the difficult times I have been having in recent years, she thought receiving the card might cheer me up. I was pleased to get the card, but I wasn’t unhappy before I got it. I realized how important it is for me to share my present happiness. We tend to focus on the difficulties that transgender individuals face, but really, as we acknowledge and affirm our true nature we also become more and more contented with ourselves and with life. The unhappiest times are usually before we transition, when we are hiding or in denial.

At every tentative step I have taken, joy has been the reward that has served as my guide. Beginning with what felt like a shameful urge to go out in public dressed in a way not approved for the gender I was assigned, eventually the inexplicably irresistible compulsion overcame my terror, and I would go out, first wearing leggings, and later, a lovely new skirt. Every time I was rewarded by a feeling of lightness and freedom as my body and spirit explored a new avenue of expression. Of course, everyone’s story is different. I was mostly happy as a child. My mother had progressive beliefs, and made sure I had self esteem even though I was different. But I had to become the man of the family at nine years old, when my dad left us. I was kind of a tomboy, and didn’t really mind being a man. But when I grew up, it sure didn’t make me happy. I was skinny, couldn’t put on any muscle, could barely grow a beard. I sure noticed my male privilege when it was taken away, every time I dressed as a woman at first. But among men, the privilege is not divided up equally, and I was not one of the alphas. I had a lot of trouble trying to make my way as a professional artist. I suffered from depression. I self medicated with pot. I drank in order to unwind a little. When I shaved my beard and put on makeup, I cried with relief at the vision of the beautiful person in the mirror. I saw a tender, vulnerable, brave person who I could love, and I suspected she could love in a way that I thought I had lost.

My self discovery has not been achieved through theory. It’s a practical process, one of trial and error, with success measured by emotional rewards. I tried very hard to be a man. I felt like an impostor, and I was sure that people could sense that I was not authentic. I hated what I felt was my withdrawal into an emotionally repressed male shell. I felt I emerged only as a lover, blossoming in the intimacy of the bedroom, but my feminine ecstasies would eventually turn off my heterosexual female partners. Later in life, experiencing the elation of submitting to a masculine lover, I began to understand that I was more female than I had ever admitted. I began to dress as a woman all the time, and I took great pleasure in creating lovely combinations of skirts, blouses and scarves every morning despite being harassed by men at work. I enjoyed a new inner strength while feeling gentle and sensitive, much nicer than toughness and cynicism.

It’s not all joy, being trans. The hard men at work, uncomfortable at their mixed reactions to my new softness, ganged up, lashed out, cornered and threatened me. I was traumatized and I became ill and couldn’t work. My wife and old friends were repulsed by my agony, embarrassed by my inexpert attempts at female presentation. My employer decided that it was easier to fire me than try to clean up the rotten mess that had been uncovered. My first psychiatrist suggested my unease with life and the male role had to do with a chemical imbalance. His chemicals, however, caused an agony of trembling anxiety. I needed something positive to guide me. Walks, scented baths and soft beautiful clothes brought me joy. Expressing my joy through dance encouraged physical, mental and spiritual health. I turned my back on regret and recrimination and followed the joy.

The most profound and enduring improvement for me has come since beginning hormone replacement therapy. I think the hormones have made it easier for me to feel secure as a woman. I have found a lasting equanimity. Equanimity. It’s beautifully simple and apt as a description of what is different between my hormone adjusted female self and the male person I used to try to be. The New Oxford American Dictionary defines equanimity as; “Mental calmness, composure and evenness of temperament, especially in a difficult situation”, as in; “She accepted both the good and the bad with equanimity”.

Finding it easier to express empathy, being able to love myself, and my sensation of equanimity are some of the things I find different about myself living as a woman. I feel at peace, contented and optimistic most of the time. This is a dramatic change from my previous state of being, locked in a shell of obsessive cynical pessimism and subject to angry surges of testosterone induced adrenaline. Everyday life is now not so hard for me. Instead of dreading a new day, waking up and forcing myself to climb a forbidding mountain, I can now enjoy one step at a time and appreciate the changing views. I no longer feel I need to get to the top. I admit I need to rest when I’m tired, because I’ve learned the hard way that I’m not invincible. I can change my mind and let go of goals and expectations if they prove too much for me.

Friendships have taken on new meaning, and though it makes me sad to have lost some friends, other friendships have flourished with my newly found appreciation for each person’s special strengths. I’m more interested, and get pleasure from asking questions and listening. I have a greater tolerance for the inevitable differences and incompatibilities among people. I find I engage more openly and honestly with friends. My friends seem more interested in being with me. I have friends of many genders, but most are women. Their acceptance of me as a woman has given me joy. I enjoy the sensuality of dance and play. I don’t feel sexually interested in my friends, and I’m glad for the operation that has freed me from testosterone. Yet sex is still a pleasure. I’ve always been bisexual, but in recent years my fantasies have been of men, strong but gentle, solid, furry men. Free of the obsession with sex, I’m happy to know that it’s still possible.

My optimism has grown from a renewed faith in myself and joy in everyday life. I'm not always full of joy, but even in my frequent moments of tears I don’t lose hope, which is a huge improvement over previous years. Our society poses difficulties for transgender people, as it does for women, for the economically deprived and for the older job seeker. I find myself in the intersection of these oppressions. Sometimes it’s hard to get through the difficulties. I feel thankful for being alive, for being me. I like my new life, and I like myself. My new name, Miki, makes me happy. I feel sad about some of what I’ve lost, but it has become overshadowed by appreciation for what I’ve gained. I am sustained by the love of those in my family who have not rejected me. I am thankful for the joy of feminist sisterhood, and grateful for the kind acceptance of my male friends.

I wake up in the morning, and look forward to my life.