It was early May in 1983 and I was in downtown Northampton with my mom. The city had just hosted what would grow into our annual Pride Parade that morning, tiny compared to what the event has grown into. My mom and I were headed to Cahill and Hodges Men’s Shop to pick up a rented tux for my high school prom. When the pants were originally altered, the obviously inexperienced tailor put the inseam measurement on the outer seam; the bottom of the pants coming just below my knee! Luckily, there was just enough material in the pant legs to do a quick alteration to make everything passable so I wouldn’t look like a pilgrim at my prom. My former mother-in-law would always cackle with laughter when I mentioned that story.
Now, I hate tuxes, I’m not crazy about business suits either. Today, I can say I was obviously destined to wear a prom dress instead of a tux. Kids nowadays can do this for fun or to try out a different gender identity. I didn’t really have that option in 1983 — well I guess I did, but I was not out as trans and certainly not very brave.
This is not to say that I would have preferred to wear a prom dress even back then. I had spent a good deal of time wondering about my gender from a pretty young age but mostly shrugged it off. I knew that a lot of the most blatantly girly of things repelled me — that was my self-evaluation that I was indeed supposed to be a boy. That said, I used to like to role play favorite female characters from TV shows. By the time puberty rolled around, I was envious of the changes my female peers were experiencing — the visible ones, that is. It would be years later that I would learn about the struggles these young women had experienced during puberty. Earlier in my transition, some female friends opened up about all the physical and emotional changes that were happening to them back then. And now they also share their struggles with peri-menopause and menopause.
I remember really pondering with the possibility that I could be transgender, starting around the age of 16 or so. As mentioned, this was not the first time I thought about “being a girl,” but it felt different, more like a real possibility. For all I knew, other boys thought about it, too, but didn’t dare mention it to their friends for fear of being called a “fag,” the most common insult from male peers of my generation. Hopefully, that tradition has died and society has moved on, but I sadly suspect it is alive and well. Today, now knowing a number of wonderful, caring, gay men, I would have to view it as a compliment.
Personally, I lead a rather calm life (perhaps sometimes boring might be a better word), and live very much within the gender binary as a female. Basically, I guess, I’m pretty conservative that way. But when you start talking about my politics or religion, “conservative” likely wouldn’t fit.
Now, I was married for 30 years to a woman, we had two sons together, and was separated for 9 years prior to my divorce. I started my transition to female in the third year of my separation. I have not been in a relationship since my separation, not that I wouldn’t consider it, but I would choose to be with a woman again as I just feel comfortable with women. That said, I could be labeled as both “L” and “T” within the LGBTQ+ community. To me, none of this seems like a big deal — they are just impersonal labels, important labels for sure, but labels nonetheless. No labels capture the uniqueness of the individuals for who those labels apply or, frankly, their personal stories. Still, my description of myself using those labels would surely rattle some conservative people’s cages. They really shouldn’t. I’m a truly not a threat to society.
There was a time in my life, when these two labels, in all my insecurity, would have really hurt my head, mostly because I wasn’t sure if I was interpreting my feelings properly. Four and a half decades later, I ponder this earlier time and all the feelings that went along with it. I am older and wiser, sure, but really, the biggest thing about me that is significantly different is my outward appearance. I just look now like the person one could say I’ve been all along. Just for most of my life, nobody knew it but me. Now, they know — and shockingly, most of the people I encounter aren’t too worried about it. That’s a wonderful thing.