Driving to Trinidad

Mary Jo and I drove to Trinidad, Colorado, today, leaving the house around noon after a harried morning of writing instructions to babysitters, packing, and cleaning. Regardless of what I’ve written about GRS and the trip to Trinidad to this point, it definitely felt like a serious journey, and my emotions were all over the place. One minute I was tight in my chest and feeling panicked or sad, and the next moment I was excited about what is to come.

We drove without talking for a long time, listening to the various Sirius satellite radio stations we enjoy. I think we both felt as if we were being propelled down this highway by an outside force, that this trip was always already destined once we figured out how to accept the new nature of our relationship.

The miles rolled away, and we didn’t stop for food or drink, preferring to have a big appetite when we arrived — after all, this would be the last day of “fun” for a while, and we felt like eating a big Mexican dinner and drinking when we arrived.

After climbing up the winding Raton Pass, we descended into Trinidad, the towering Fisher peak off to our right and the little city nestled between smaller peaks to the west. One of these peaks sports the word “Trinidad” in bright white letters (that light up after it gets dark). A rail line runs straight through town, and the streets downtown are paved with red bricks.

Thanks to our GPS unit in the car, we detoured around downtown construction and found the Morning After House, where we were met by a wonderful trans*man named Danny and the guest house’s owner, Carol. We got the full tour, which included the newly-opened second floor rooms and the soon-to-be downstairs massage and nail salon. Suffice to say that Carol is a planner and a do-er. Her floors are beautiful parquet patterns and the feel of the house is very communal, as bathrooms and common areas are to be shared.

Mary Jo and I ate a big Mexican dinner, just as we had anticipated, me with Chorizo y Huevos and beer and her with the Carne Asada and a rather large Margarita that mellowed us both pretty rapidly. Waiters sang Happy Birthday to two different patrons, who had to wear a garish green traditional sombrero while they got their song. I just hoped there wasn’t a tradition in Trinidad (the Sex Change Capital of America) for serenading transsexuals on the eve of surgery (there isn’t).

After stopping by the store for a few supplies (like good coffee and sparkling water, both of which appear to be essential food groups for Mary Jo), we settled in and had a very nice talk with Danny, a FTM from Alaska. There will be other patients and their family/helpers in a day or two, but tonight, it was just Danny, Mary Jo, and me, and we stayed up late talking about evolving bodies, about how spouses are forced into transitioning alongside their trans*partners, and about how we remain within (or must leave, in some cases) communities to which we belong.

Tomorrow I visit the doctor, fill out paperwork, and generally become a patient, but tonight, we were just travelers on a really interesting journey, meeting new people and reflecting on how we got here.

 

Joyce-ness and GRS

Just what do I seek from my upcoming trip to Trinidad? It’s a harder question than you’d think because I’m still grappling with just what this surgery is.

I know what it ISN’T, though. It’s not something critical for my survival (like so many TS’s report they feel). I’m transitioned already — psychologically, hormonally, legally, personally, and socially — and it’s hard to imagine being any more real and good than I feel right now. I’m going into this surgery kind of perplexed, but excited, and I have no idea what it’s going to be like.

I guess the main thing is that I don’t see it as a huge, life-changing thing. Maybe I’m wrong about that and I’ll find some incredible, new level of “Joyceness” after its all over, and if that’s what happens, then I figure it’s gravy on top of everything else. But if the surgery turns out to feel like some other layer of cosmetic surgery that makes me feel a bit more “unified,” and nothing more, I’m OK with that, too.

 

Power and Anticipation

Last night was one of those nights that, around here, are rare and magic. The sky was clear and dark, filled with celestial bodies free from light pollution. The wind wasn’t blowing, not even light breezing, and it was so still that I could hear, sleeping with only a screen door between me and the world, the tires on the distant highway, the dogs a mile away, the buzzing of insects. I woke up in this stillness and knew without looking at a clock that it was still hours before sunrise because no birds were singing.

I tossed off the light covers and lay there, feeling the cool air on my body. The world lay still and powerfully pregnant with possibility, and as the minutes passed, I also began to feel empowered and filled with possibilities, mind and body unified, past and future reconciled. I felt myself expand to fill not only my body or my room, but all that unseen natural space outside: the night air, the neighboring countryside, the dark and starry night.

Lying here, I do not fear this expansion, this metamorphosis, but instead anticipate it. In fact, I feel more and more that portals into alternative worlds have opened, and that I am empowered to explore and learn.

 

GRS a Necessity?

What’s it like one month before genital reassignment surgery (GRS)? As everyone points out, it’s a big deal. Oddly, I really don’t feel excited or nervous. I think I’m concerned about upsetting my health and our family’s summer plans.

When I tell people I could take it or leave it, they’re amazed, and I guess the general public equates transsexualism with body dysmorphia, so of course it’s perplexing for the to hear me say I could live without it.

For me (and everyone is different), my transsexual condition is/was about self-acceptance, feeling a part of things. As I took various steps to revise my identity, I felt more and more normal with each step (removing testosterone, adding estrogen/progesterone, removing body hair, removing beard, telling people, venturing out as Joyce, eventually being Joyce socially, psychologically, and physically. To my mind, I’ve finished the job, as I no longer feel any distress about sex or gender.

But what about genitals? Why do people (and other transsexuals) feel genital correction is so important? I can think of many reasons, and perhaps expressing them will help clarify. First, sex is a normal part of being human, and being a woman with a penis or a man with a vagina may not promote a healthy sex life (at least one that doesn’t involve being labeled a hermaphrodite or freak). However, there are also wonderful sexual relationships possible for all sorts of body-identity types, and there’s no inherent reason why genitals need to match psyche.

Second, general body-dysmorphic identity: some people strongly identify their sex/gender with their genitals, and thus could never feel legitimate without all body parts matching. And this is a fair argument, it seems to me.

Third, even without seeking “normal” sexual relationships or a “normal” genital match, one might want their parts to match for others in public and semi-public places like the emergency room and health clubs. A woman with a package may distress others in these places. Their distress is their problem, of course, but it’s the transsexual’s problem if their distress leads them to withhold medical care or call the police. And while I think it’s not my job to fix other people’s biases, I *do* want to live a healthy and relatively hassle-free life.

There must be many sorts of legitimate body-identity-types for different people, and the trick is to listen to your heart to see what you need to do (how you need to be). What is the transsexual community puts pressure on you to have genital surgery when you feel deep down that it’s not necessary? That’s almost like the pressure you used to feel from general society to be your birth sex, isn’t it?

I find myself wondering where body dysmorphia ends and cosmetic change begins — because I can certainly see my upcoming surgeries as entirely cosmetic: no more worries about packages, a whole range of pants and tops I can wear, cleavage, and so on, and there’s no doubt that I expect to feel more legitimate, more at ease in my shell. But is it necessary? No, I don’t think it is.