That’s so funny, she doesn’t usually like men

A fun story for Trans Day of Visibility

International Transgender Day of Visibility is this coming Sunday, March 31. It’s one of many such dates within the queer community and perhaps a favorite of mine as it feels more celebratory and joyful. And we could all use more joy in the world. In honor of this Trans Day of Visibility for 2024, I’m sharing a story of something recent that actually happened, that actually features me (your super cool trans friend), that is also joyful, a little funny, and maybe a touch heart-warming.

I always extend the offer to share these posts with others who may find them fun/ny, but now feels like a moment to call that out even more loudly. Please share this!!

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• Share it with someone you might think won’t be interested at all.

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• By all means, please also read it to your dog or cat. They need a chuckle, too.

For real, though, you’re part of the tide that changes how our world looks at and thinks about transgender people. When you choose to share stories about transguys like me who are happy and free and loving life, we all reset the narrative about what it means to be trans. That opens doors for those who might feel scared about coming out or facing all of the hatred and cruelty the world usually slings as transfolx. Together we can show everyone that the whole story is far more nuanced and beautiful.

That’s so funny, she doesn’t usually like men

I recently flew from Seattle, Washington (home), to Fort Lauderdale, Florida (nowhere near home), to start a super long road trip with a friend. It’s a long flight, like over six hours, and I came prepared with movies to watch and books to read. I enjoy flying for the most part, especially once the anxiety of getting to the airport and through security is over.¹

My seat was the window, which is also my preference. When you fly in or out of Seattle, there’s a chance you’ll get to see incredible views of Mt Rainier or the Cascade Mountain range, and those views never get old for me. I once flew to Seattle on a tiny, tiny plane (like 8 seats) because of a connection snafu, and the pilot got permission to circle around Rainier while we waited for runway space to land. He flew us so close I thought the tip of the plane wing would touch the glaciers. I was twelve. I kid you not when I say that those memories are as sharp today as when they happened.

Photo by Colin Lloyd on Unsplash

This recent flight was going to be full, and as I settled into my window seat my row neighbors approached – a smiling father with his just-about-to-turn-one daughter in arms, his tired-and-over-traveling-with-an-almost-one-year-old wife trailing behind him. I could relate to each with a glance.

I don’t know the kid’s name, so we’ll just call her Bebe. Let me help you build a mental picture of this child, because that sort of context really helps with a personal tale. At nearly one year old, Bebe was bright, alert, and curious about everything around her. Her springy curls of black-brown hair bobbed in and out of her face as she lunged to grab Dad’s phone, the emergency exit instructions for the plane, the tray table, my phone, my earbuds, Dad’s backpack, Mom’s hair, and definitely not the toy or bottle they had brought for her. When Bebe looked up at me, her wide, brown eyes charmed me right down to my core. Kids are all different, but some of them simply have captivating eyes, and Bebe knew how to work that charm on me. I was sold.

That’s so funny, she doesn’t usually like men.

And that’s what her father said to me within moments of settling in for our departure. “That’s so funny, she doesn’t usually like men.” I had a mask on. It’s pre-flight, the air wasn’t on, can’t be too cautious. And yeah, it’s rewarding in many ways to be seen as the man I am even with a mask on, with it hiding my scruffy little beard and too-blonde mustache. When your gender presentation rests on little cues like facial hair, donning a mask can feel threatening and scary, and his words put me at ease. He had no idea.

I made polite conversation. We talked about flying with babies. I offered him hope that flying with my now 8 and 11-year-old sons had gotten so much more enjoyable. He explained that they had taken Bebe to visit family in India six months previous, and it was so much simpler flying with a baby who would sleep and not wiggle. Here she was now, full of energy and movement, likely days away from figuring out walking on her own, and he knew this flight would be difficult.

It is worth noting, Bebe’s father was a magical human. He is exactly the kind of person you think of when you imagine a kind and loving parent who will be patient with a child even when that child is at their worst. He is the kind of father I aspire to be.

Bebe’s mother had her eyes closed and ignored the cries and slaps and outbursts as best she could. I remember those days so clearly, the exhaustion, the fatigue, the frustration of having no escape from all of the hardest parts of parenting.

As the plane gained altitude and I sank into the mindlessness of a stupid movie, Bebe refused to take a nap. She cried and howled, and her father glanced apologetically my way. He didn’t need to. I understood. And so I began talking to her and letting her give me little high-fives with her chubby hands. We smiled (masks off then) and babbled, and he said it once more, a little shocked I think.

That’s so funny, she doesn’t usually like men.

I tried not to laugh, but I know that I smiled. Bebe saw my happiness and reflected it back with loud laughter. We played tug-o-war with the flyers from the seatback and stared out over clouds and mountain tops outside our shared window. Bebe moved freely from her father’s lap to mine, our combined space hers, and us just the vehicle for her explorations.

Is it possible that Bebe can see things that others cannot? Or is it that most of us are unwilling to look so deeply, to see vulnerability, to see the delicate natures of the people standing right next to us? When Bebe looked into my eyes, did she see a man? Did she see a father? Did she see a person who carried two babies in his belly and suffered through breastfeeding them at all hours of the day and night? Did she see the comforting shoulder where both of my children slept through teething and indigestion? Did she see the vigilance in my eyes that still checks on them in the night, even now when they are so much more grown than I could imagine from those early days? Did she see that I was a mother, that I have been so many things, and that I carry that with me now?

We settled into a comfortable routine over those long hours together, Bebe wandering freely, her parents dozing on and off, knowing somehow that I would catch her if she crept my way, me not minding if my film or book was interrupted by the curious hands and cooing voice of a tiny, warm child. As we neared Florida, her mother yawned and stretched and finally looked at me – really looked at me – and frowned a small “hmph” into the space between us. I wonder if you can guess what she said.

That’s so funny, she doesn’t usually like men.

At that point it felt like a script. I smiled and shrugged. After all, what’s a guy to say? Maybe I’m not like most men. Then again, maybe I am. Maybe there are many of us in the world who are soft and gentle, who nurture as our first instinct. Maybe that’s a rare thing in any gender.

And maybe, just maybe, Bebe knew that there was more to me than all of that. Maybe she saw something in me that resonated with safety and love and kindness. Maybe that’s what it means to be transgender, to be lucky enough to break free of a binary that holds us back from being who we truly are. Bebe is only just learning about that now, so in this tender moment when we could simply be free together, I think there is a chance that she saw in me the same beauty I saw in her.

I could have told her mother that I’m a transguy. It’s tough to know how that would have gone. Would it invalidate me as a man and affirm for her that Bebe saw me as a woman? Would it confuse her? Would it incite fear out of ignorance? I can’t answer any of that, and I’m happy enough to live with the memories of Bebe smiling and laughing with me on that flight while her parents slept.

I’ve had a while to consider how it felt to be seen like that and not to be outed as trans, and I have no sensation of being less for either action – coming out or not. Rather, I feel a sense of peace over being something that escapes categorization, someone who cannot be contained within a binary of gender, someone made up of yes/and instead of no/or. This complex path I’ve walked is beautiful and rich, and I glow and sparkle at the thought of others seeing it and finding something similar within themselves. To be trans is to be dimensional, poetic, diverse in stories, transgressive in boundaries, daring and bold, soft and sheltering.

I would not trade my transness for anything.

That’s so funny, she doesn’t usually like men.

Bebe, you are an excellent judge of character. I hope your first birthday on the sunny beaches of Florida was a dream come true. Maybe someday I will see you again, and I hope you still see me then, too.

Your trans friend,

Robin

1. And yes, I could tell you about security, about being searched three times, about the transphobic things that happened. But hey, not today when we’re focusing on the good parts.