Shorts

Small tales of misfit moments

I usually write a single, long post. But today I’m giving you a collection of shorts, snippets of moments, funny and otherwise, definitely awkward. They are in no particular order.

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Some Kind of Wonderful (1987)

One of the Guys

I once stood in a small group of coworkers, laughing and joking about innocuous things. When the woman beside me implied that we were both female, I smiled and said (only a little jokingly), “No, I’m just one of the guys.” And without missing a beat, the man on my left frowned, looked me up and down, focused on my chest, and told me, “No. You’re definitely not one of the guys.”

I’ve been trying for so long just to be seen as the man that I am, whether I was doing it consciously or not, and his words cut me down to nothing. That was years ago, and it still haunts me.

You’re Just a Boy in a Dress

After just having finished a round of interviews, including one that was more of a practical (called a “role play” in my line of work), I happened to meet a manager, completely unscheduled. I hadn’t been selected for the job, and she offered to give me some feedback. She’d been on the interview panel, and she had always been warm and friendly to me. She was also one of the only other publicly out lesbians at work who I knew. “Listen,” she explained in her office, “you’re great at interviews. Your answers were clear and detailed, and the panel really liked you. But it would help if you would dress more feminine. You know, maybe a pantsuit, something that says ‘professional woman’ instead of…” looking me up and down. “You cannot walk into an interview trying to look like a woman in boy’s clothes and get a promotion this big. Nobody will ever hire you.”

I had gone into that interview feeling really good about my choice of clothes. I hadn’t pretended to be something I wasn’t, hadn’t worn makeup or some ridiculous blouse from the women’s department. And the real me wasn’t what they wanted for the job.

I wish this was an isolated incident, but it happened over four times in the course of six years.

It Ain’t Permanent!

Pregnant with my first kid, very clearly showing, and hating every minute of wearing girl clothes to get the benefits of stretchy waistbands, but still showing up to my job in person at a base where hundreds of employees saw me every day, I faced off with two women who wanted to know the sex of the baby-to-be. My wife and I were team green. We did not want to know. We only cared that our baby was healthy or that we could know in advance if we would need specific healthcare for them.

“I’m sure you know the sex. Just tell us,” one said.

“It’s a girl. Look how her belly is,” said the other.

“It doesn’t matter,” I replied.

“Of course it does! It’s the most important thing about any new baby. How else is anyone supposed to congratulate you or buy an outfit in the right color?”

In my anger, I yelled back, “You’re asking about sex when what you really want to know is gender, and nobody knows that when a baby is born. And even if you did, it isn’t always permanent.” And then I stormed off.

I Quit Breastfeeding for This Class

Not long after the birth of kid #2, I enrolled in a college class that met primarily online. We wrote essays, engaged in long conversations, and turned in all of our assignments by email or the classroom application.

We were required to travel for a full week of classes in another county toward the end of the quarter. It was a four-hour drive away from home. It would not be possible to participate without staying there, on a rustic farm, for the entirety of the week.

The baby was less than six months old, I was working full time, my wife was managing childcare for both kids. Taking a week in Eastern Washington sounded fun, but it wasn’t good timing, and I could not afford to be away from home that long. Most importantly, the baby was still breast feeding, and I could not figure out how to manage being gone for six days. I could pump milk, but where would I store it? How would I transport it back home? What would the baby eat while I was gone? My wife and I went over and over the timeline, but we were stuck.

I emailed the instructor and asked for options. Her response was stunning. She applauded me for wanting to be with my wife and kids, but there would be no exceptions. I had to be onsite. Now I hadn’t said in my emails to her that I was still breastfeeding since that wasn’t the sort of thing I was comfortable talking about. I worked really hard to hide it from everyone.

And my solution? I stopped breastfeeding for that class. I used the few weeks we had to taper off, to stop trying day in and out, to stop hiding my behaviors. I cried bitterly over that decision. It felt like having the choice taken from me.

And so when I showed up on the farm several weeks later, the instructor was utterly shocked that I was female. In fact, it created a big issue with housing since she had placed me in the men’s cabin. It was no wonder she didn’t understand my objections to leaving a newborn behind.

My name is androgynous.

I had mentioned my “wife” several times.

And even in my writing and arguments and conversations, I had never come across to her as a woman. She had made assumptions. She knew me as a man, and we were both thrown off by the impacts of it.

*I secretly loved the fact that I’d come across as a man. I told this to no one.

Come With Me If You Want to Earn a Living

When I was in first grade, I was asked to draw a picture of what I wanted to be when I grew up. I drew a ballerina (complete with a pink tutu), a motorcycle cop, and a painter (beret, palette of paints, easel). Why limit yourself when you can be everything?

Pleased as punch, I brought my drawing home and showed it to my mother. She zeroed in on the artist, looked at me over the paper edge, and said, “Have you ever heard the term ‘starving artist’? It means nobody makes money in art. You wanna be poor your whole life?”

That was the end of my career in art. I only ever drew or painted in secret after that. To this day I live with the core belief that I cannot make my way in this world as an artist and expect it to pay my bills. And here I am, still trying.

Thanks for skipping around with me today.

Your trans friend,

Robin