Gender Fluidity: Life Under the Trans Umbrella
It was on my twenty-second birthday that I first explored gender therapy. In a private office in Washington Square, I confessed my gender fantasies as well as my long-time struggle with gender dysphoria. I revealed that the discomfort with my genitals started as a child, where I used socks, rolled up rags and tissues to fill the empty space between my legs.
“What would you look like in a perfect world?” She asked.
“I’d want a happy trail, a small Adam’s apple, and some bottom growth,” I said. “I do not want a beard though, that would make me feel really dysphoric. I think I want to go on testosterone.”
“But I also want children,” I added. “Especially with how fragile my family dynamics are I’ve always wanted a strong family.”
“That’s a conflict, but you can freeze your eggs,” she said.
“I’ll start T after I have children,” I replied.
This was the third therapist I’ve seen in a two-week span. Usually, psychologists aren’t sure how to handle a patient like me, because of a lack of training on transgender/gender-non-conforming issues. But this time, my terminology wasn’t dismissed as “trendy” it was understood. While I do not identify as a woman nor a man, I believe that being gendered at birth as a woman has forced me to uphold many patriarchal expectations. I do not shave and I like wearing my hair short. I’ve accepted that the world treats me differently when I’m masculine presenting. When I present more feminine with long curly weaves, highlight that accentuates my cheekbones and short revealing dresses, my interactions with the public are far safer. Under the frilly clothes, however, I’m still a masculine person. Since I started coming out about my gender identity, I am forced to deal with another patriarchal consequence — transphobia.
When I revealed my gender fluidity to a partner last weekend, I asked them to relabel my genitals with words that are affirming to my identity. In a text, the person declared that they “didn’t want to give me the wrong impression” because they are a “lesbian, who likes females, who are femmes.” This is not the first time I’ve gotten this reaction. In a Facebook messenger conversation, another partner also dismissed my identity, stating “Lmaoo I’m sorry I’m not doing that 😂😂😂😂 Are you serious right now? Nah I’m not doing none of that that’s homo.” Over the last week, one person requested that “We keep things how they are,” I let them know, however, that it doesn’t have to be awkward they are just words. I am the same person.
The irrational fear, that I, somehow threaten a person’s sexuality because I’m not comfortable with my sexual organs is an ugly product of transphobia. I do not interact with my body in a way that is expected for my biological sex. Many of my ex-partners’s comments about relabeling my genitals or my various gender expressions are deeply rooted in sexism or a discomfort with trans people. For my partners my desire to reclaim my genitals with different names is ground shattering — for me, it’s just a way of coping with dysphoria. I received mixed reactions after posting that I started seeing a gender therapist. A former classmate asked: “Do you have a penis?” When I asked why they felt comfortable asking such an intrusive question they said, “I thought you were a girl in high school.”
As a 22-year-old, bisexual person I’ve learned that transphobia is a rule of cis-normative culture. For example, femmes are with studs and in cis-straight relationships, women can’t be too manly or else you threaten male dominance. It wasn’t until recently that I’ve called out my partners on how they interact with my body because my discomfort during intercourse had nearly become unbearable. Unfortunately, many people I’ve encountered aren’t open-minded and their insecurities about gender are exposed through ignorant comments.
Transphobia is not only detrimental to binary trans people but those who fall outside the gender lines. I believe this forces gender-non-conforming people, like myself to choose a side or operate our true identities in secret. The gender fluid community often does not fit the stereotyped narratives of trans people because we are not (always) transitioning to a binary gender. I’m black, gender-fluid and bisexual — identities that are seldom introduced on predominantly African-American or mainstream networks. As a native of the suburbs, I am often a person’s first experience with a gender-non-conforming person. I use the interaction as an opportunity to educate others about my community. As I continue trudging through space as a gender fluid person, I want our identities to be normalized even in the discomfort of a trans-hating world.
