There are no CDs on my xmas list this year. I love music, but I’m done with major record labels. I just read that the RIAA is trying to remove financial aid from college students who file share. Enough is enough. If they want to prevent fans from going to school, I’m going to prevent my money from going to their companies.
There are enough (real) indies and podcasts and the like to keep me in great music for years. Indeed, there is also Pandora, which requires no capital investment at all and keeps me in good music by analyzing what I say I like. It actually works and they have classical music now too.
Alas, Pandora is not a real break from the RIAA because they track music based on CD barcodes. Everything they play is therefore at least somewhat corporate. So I guess I’m giving their money to the RIAA (and indies) instead of mine. (And, alas, as I have no barcodes, I’ll never turn up in a playlist.)
Frankly, I’m highly displeased with the state of media distribution in America. I purchased Battlestar Galactica from the iTunes store – because I liked the show. It has great writing and acting, etc. And then I learned from the writer’s strike that none of the creative people are seeing any money form my purchases. I have not yet decided how to proceed. If I buy DVDs, the creative people get some revenue, but too little and I’m stuck with a bunch of media when I probably only want to watch an episode once. And I’m left without instant gratification. In fact, if nobody who does anything productive is getting money from my buying it online, why shouldn’t I just pirate it? The writers are getting the same amount whether I get it from bittorrent or iTunes.
So yeah, in solidarity with the writer’s strike, I’m doing a consumer strike. Screw the media companies.
Tag: celesteh
Amtrak
The Capitol Corridor Rocks
There exists a really great Amtrak train that goes from Sacramento to San Jose – right by my house. It is the fastest way to get from my home to downtown San Jose – way faster than driving in most traffic conditions. (Only a little faster than driving when traffic is really, really, light.)
I love national rail trains. This one is a good example because it has a cafe car that sells coffee, tea and beer and snacks and discount BART tickets (20% off). All of the trains have a bunch of electrical plugs so you can use your laptop. Most have wifi. I dig sitting in a train car, sipping tea and checking my email while speeding towards my destination. Or I can stare out the window (at a real ghost town in the south bay (see picture)). It’s really low stress.
And once I get to Diridon in San Jose (or Great America in Santa Clara, I usually get on my bike. The trains have a couple of bike cars, each of which can fit at least 4 bikes. I’ve never seen these filled up. It stops at a couple of BART stations, one of which is the Coliseum in Oakland (the other is north of Berkeley). And the final stop in San Jose is a light rail station as well as a Caltrain station, so you can continue on to Gilroy, head back up the Peninsula towards SF, get on a bus to Santa Cruz or to Santa Barbara – Diridon is a major transit hub, as is the Emeryville station and a few others on the route. When I was a kid, the public transit in the South Bay sucked, but it has gotten a whole lot better. I could live down there without a car now.
You can buy Capitol Corridor tickets with credit or ATM at any station and get a substantial discount if you buy a 10 ride pass. Or, if you want to pay cash, you have to go to a station with an office, like San Jose or Emeryville.
I want to tell everybody I know about this train. You can get to San Jose in an hour! with your bike! And lunch! And beer! It’s so civilized! I started a facebook group for the route (shut up, you’re a geek too).
Of course, nothing is perfect. The train should come more often. There are only around 7 trains a day between the East Bay and South Bay. Increased ridership would help with this. And, of course, more trains would increase ridership. The board is rumored to be responsive to rider concerns, so asking for more trains may well cause there to be more trains. So give it a ride and ask for more!
The route is a joint project between Amtrak, the state of California and the counties which it passes through, so it has it’s own governing board made up of representatives from all these groups. Ok, every other (foreign) rail that I’ve ever ridden allows people to take dogs – sometimes making them buy expensive dog tickets. Dog owners shouldn’t be trapped in cars any more than anybody else. They should start selling dog tickets for this train too. Since it’s run by a representative government and whatnot, they will allow dogs if enough people ask for it.
In summary, the Capitol corridor is awesome and I only wish I could use it more. You should ride it too.
Reality Check
So the other morning, while I blearily stumbled into the shower, I got just a glimpse of myself in the mirror, looking the same as always. All this stuff I’ve been talking about happening are, um, not really all that evident. Or, rather, they’re present, but in very small quantities.
I replaced my razor blade with a new one, and my miami vice-like roughness went away. So I dug the old one out of the trash. I am such a n00b.
I want to talk about trans guys who don’t pass. This is a topic laden with all sorts of baggage. But, it is true that there is some population of people who go on T, who get various surgeries, who do all kinds of things and yet do not pass. This could happen to me – it’s something I have no control over and, indeed, might not even notice happening. This used to give me pause, but now, really, I can’t complain about looking like a dyke, so if it happens, it happens.
I was reading some crit theory about how body transformations are perceived through the lens of gender. Specifically, it was talking about a reality TV show called the Swan and also about a documentary series about trans youth. These depictions subscribed to a cultural myth that femininity is artifice and masculinity is internal. The women on the the Swan, who underwent extreme plastic surgery, get to look in a mirror only after it’s all over and all exclaim that they’re not themselves. The trans women in the documentary are coached on how to move and act in a more feminine manner. By contrast, the ftms look in the mirror and see what they felt was always lurking there. I AM myself, rather than I am NOT myself. The ftms get no classes in how to move and act like men.
There’s some truth to femininity being artifice – I mean, look at all the props! But masculinity also has that element. Boys are rigorously drilled on how to move and act like men. You run like a girl, you throw like a girl. They undergo training as well. Training that ftms don’t usually get.
And so part of the reason that some ftms don’t pass is because they move and act like dykes. I want to hold on to my dyke roots, but I don’t know how much or in what way. Do I want to try to adopt a more manly affect? Do I move like a dyke now? Do I want to change that?
Same Language, Different Culture
I’m feeling extremely frustrated about my immigration status. I haven’t written anything about this for a while because absolutely nothing has changed. I still need proof of lodging and I still don’t have it. My letting agent agreed to send it about three weeks ago. I just assumed that he would. I feel like I’m sitting around with my thumb up my ass, waiting on people who couldn’t care less whether I can come back or not.
I called last night, leaving a polite message, asking them to ship me (another) letter via express mail. Well, I assume it was polite. Due to the time difference, I’m never going to get to speak to a live human. I don’t know how to leave a message which will communicate my urgency. Should I yell and be angry? Should I throw myself at their mercy? Should I just wait a few more days and avoid calling?
They didn’t email me back, which has left me extremely frustrated. I think I will go to my academic supervisor for help. He’s (anglophone) Canadian, though, so if yelling and abuse is called for, he’s not a good go-to guy.
I don’t want to drop out of school because my letting agent can’t be bothered to send me a vital document. But my school can’t be bothered either. If the two entities which derive an income from my presence don’t give a fuck, why should I? Put me in detention, be all transphobic, send me home, don’t give me any documents I need – I’m starting to feel somewhat unwelcome.
Hitting the one week mark
A single shot lasts two weeks, so I’m halfway through the very first one. It’s been a week of moving quickly. Much more quickly than I expected. Note that I’m still in the normal female range for everything, but I’m moving towards the edge of that range, and with alarming speed. In the last week, my face has changed shape, my neck looks different, I’ve gotten some peach fuzz, my voice has lowered (maybe a fourth), my junk has changed and I’ve got some mild acne. And my hormones continue to rage.
Again, it’s possible that some stuff is imagined or less obvious to others than it is to me. My gf noticed the fuzz. And my friend failed to recognize me on the phone due to the voice thing, so it’s not all in my mind. Nobody else, however, has commented on my somewhat squarer face or thicker neck.
[Skip this paragraph if you’re a blood relative, have the power to evaluate my academic output or don’t want to know about my junk.] Ok, there are parts of the female anatomy that are analogous to the male anatomy. And T causes this part to grow. Normally, to two or three centimeters long, but sometimes twice that much and sometimes less. And while I’m no where near that, I just didn’t expect anything to be noticeable after one week. And yet, whoop, there it is.
The prescribing doctor said the standard dose was a little high given my weight. I wonder if perhaps it’s too high? I don’t know. I can’t do anything about it for the time being, but I can ask when I go in next week to learn to self-inject.
I asked a cismale friend about the raging hormones thing and he said it gets worse with lower body exercise like biking. Oh no, my favorite sport! I spent the weekend at Sarah’s house and the heater was broken and that was actually helpful for things like getting work done.
On the way home from Sarah’s there were a couple of stoned guys in Berkeley standing on the sidewalk along the bike route. “Excuse me, sir” one of them said and I turned around, “Oh, I mean ma’am. Or sir – actually I can’t tell.”
“Actually, I’m in transition.” I replied.
“Good for you! Do you know the way to Sacramento – or, no, Dwight? Do you know the way to Dwight?”
Berkeley is cool.
Anyway, I have more stamina, but that might be from my semi-regular sprinting. Always running late and trying to catch trains has health benefits! I’m less risk adverse, which means I need to use my head more when crossing busy streets. My anxiety is pretty much non-existent, although I’ve been a bit moody when hungry and sleep-deprived, which is pretty normal. Also – puberty redux.
Humans rely a lot on emotions for the decision making process, so in places where my emotions are changing, I need to tweak my process accordingly, like the crossing the street thing. Note that I don’t think that T causes stamina or bravery in general. I think that I feel happier and more sane on it, which causes me to not be depressed and anxious and therefore braver and more energetic. However, I know that hormones raging is caused by the T and so, when I’m being flirty, I need a new metric by which to judge what’s appropriate. To confound that further, my social context is changing. An ass-grabbing dyke is different than an ass-grabbing guy. Some of my formerly amusing actions become problematic when gendered male. So at the same time that my emotions are pushing me to be more libertine, my feminist consciousness requires me to be more reserved. All of which is a lot to navigate. I’m relying on my friends and loved ones to be patient, but also to speak up. If they see me being overly friendly or taking a dangerous risk, I hope they would say something and not bite their tongues. I don’t want to permanently place myself in a subordinate position, but pubescence does require some guidance – in this case, “watch out!” or “please remove your hand this instant!”
Rawr, I am transzilla!!
Testosterone is the most commonly found hormone in both men’s and women’s bodies. Indeed, sometimes women have below-normal amounts and this can have health implications. Relatively recently, the FDA declined to approve a T patch for women – the purpose was to boost sex drive. I don’t know why they didn’t approve it, as it was found to work very well. I think there are certainly issues with medicalizing being bored by your boyfriend. Also, T is sometimes abused by athletes and is therefore under tighter control than other prescription medications.
The women in the FDA test were getting a whole lot less T than I am. I’m getting enough that it’s going to overwhelm all the other ones in my system and turn them (mostly) off. So the phenomenon for which it did not gain approval is driving me to distraction. I’m hoping that this effect decreases with time or peaks in the injection cycle and goes away or I get used to it, because man, I am getting absolutely no work done. Is this what cisgender guys experience? How do they ever leave the house?
But that’s not the only thing I’ve noticed. I am, like, super-hungry. I’m usually pretty hungry and can eat a whole lot (and still stay scrawny), but now I seem to want to eat even more. So the mood of me now are: tired, hungry, driven to distraction. I am a simple creature.
Fun fact for drag kings and crossdressers: that faint moustache on your upper lip makes you look more girly, not more manly. If people are looking at you, looking for the clues that tell them what you are, a faint moustache will place you firmly in the girl category. Ergo, I’ve been shaving my face once every few days for the last few years. And did so yesterday morning. And good lord, by yesterday evening, my skin felt rough and, dare I say, stubbly! Ok, not really stubbly. I probably have the kind of peach fuzz commonly sighted on highschool freshman boys (which I will not let grow out. ewww). But my goodness! yay!
T Report – Day 1 & 2
Warning: The 4th paragraph of this post contains TMI and reader discretion is advised. Specifically, if I’m a blood relative of yours or if you have the power to evaluate my academic output, you should skip paragraph number 4, but the rest of the post is ok.
I woke up yesterday morning feeling really good. Surprisingly really good because by posterior had been sore all night, but whether from injection or clenching in response to said injection, I didn’t know. When I woke in the morning I felt happy and just good. I was really aware of my skin – how it felt against the bed sheets and how it was just nice.
Normally, I spend a lot of time in my head, but didn’t feel that way at all. I tried describing it to Nicole and she teased me, saying I sounded high. I did have the sort of grounded feeling I got once in a great while from pot, but I was as smart as normal, as far as I know.
[The warning up top was about this paragraph, which, alas, is not really all that graphic.] Then my cursed Aunt Flo arrived. I’ve been been fretting about being disowned by relatives, but this is one I expect and hope to lose. But she was due and not going to be deterred so quickly. So I went from feeling really good to feeling really weird. I mean I guess it was all perfectly normal. Except that my circumstances now are rather odd and it seemed weird for being so normal.
[We now return to normal content.] I spent time peering into the mirror, but off course, it’s much too soon. Still, I think my face might be slightly more square? It’s normal for face shape to change with hormone shifts and it’s one of the very subtle ways that women advertise fertility. So it’s not impossible, just extremely subtle and possibly imagined. This morning, Nicole said that my chin felt stubbly, but that’s entirely unlikely.
I got a glimpse of myself this afternoon and really saw a squarer jaw and felt a bit unnerved. It’s all so very early, though, that I could just stop if I realized I was on the wrong track and any changes would slip back or be entirely unnoticeable to others. Nicole said she couldn’t see any changes, aside from the stubble she insists is sprouting. Aside from that one disconcerting moment, I’ve been feeling really happy. I feel comfortable in my skin.
I hung out with a friend from my undergrad days and she said I was like my old self – like myself 10 years ago. Indeed, I feel better than I’ve felt since before I started taking zoloft, since before I started needing zoloft, since before my life became a series of mixed blessings and working through things. Sophie, my friend, said “it’s ironic that taking T would make you more like yourself.” But it’s not ironic at all. It’s the dominant narrative: “This is who I’ve always been, but now visible.”
My murdered-by-zoloft mojo is back in working order. I’m a happy camper. Also, a sleepy camper. I’ve been sleeping a lot, but it could just be the rain.
Shot in the butt
The closer the date got, the more my nervousness dropped away. Some kind email helped, as did supportive friends and forming a sort of game plan for disclosure.
Still, I was nervous when I got to the doctor office. I had a sort of a mini-physical. Apparently, I haven’t been eating enough vegetables and it’s caused my body Ph to change in undesirable, bacteria-friendly ways. Or it could be stress. I declined anti-fungal meds (don’t ask), vowing to eat more brussel sprouts. It’s pathetic, though, that when I lived in England, I ate more vegetables than I’ve been eating in California.
Everything checked out alright, so I got a scrip. I asked for androgel, but apparently it’s expensive and requires very large quantities. The doctor recommended a once-every-two-week shot. I didn’t argue much or insist. I’m concerned about how long I’m going to want to continue having to inject myself. I hate taking a zoloft pill every night and that’s just a pill. But on the other hand, this is only once every two weeks and gel would have been at least once a day and in large quantities and danger of accidentally giving it to others when snuggling with them.
I felt happy and freaked out at the same time, as I went to a pharmacy to fill my new scrip. They told me to come back in half an hour, so I went to a restaurant and got a plate of steamed vegetables. Because I’m supposed to eat more of them. And I went back to find a snafu at the pharmacy because the doctor wrote tomorrow’s date. I recalled fondly all the insane things one can get over-the-counter in France and here they have to page rather than fill something 4 hours in advance of the written date.
Stuff in hand, I went back to the doc, where they were about to close, so I didn’t learn how to self-inject, but instead, got a shot in the ass administered by a nurse.
I feel kind of giddy. Also my ass hurts. Maybe. Or I could be imagining it. Also, I think my voice is kind of scratchy. Except I know I’m imagining that. On the BART train back to Bezerkeley, I suggested going on a run around the Aquatic Park tomorrow morning and Nicole looked at me like I’d lost my mind. It’s impossible to separate expectations from reality so early on. I’ve had folks (ok, one person) ask me to keep a regular update of whatever tiny thing might be going on related to this. I might do it for a while, at least until some novelty wears off.
My Mother’s Last Pie
When I arrived, it was sitting on the counter. I hadn’t fully expected to see it, a part of me thinking that it couldn’t be real. But there it was, looking more or less like I remembered. Maybe the color of the crust had changed, but it just looked so typical. Like any other of my mother’s pies.
I looked at the knife holes in the crust, searching for special meanings, but there were none. They looked hasty, as if the pie had been assembled as part of a larger process and not prepared specifically for this occasion. Indeed, it had been one of many pies that she’d made that day and frozen unbaked.
Like all her best pies, it was apricot. The baked syrup had bubbled out the slits in the top and around the sides, as normal. It was a little bit browner than usual. My sister-in-law apologized for leaving it in the oven too long.
I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe we were going to eat it. I couldn’t believe the general lightness of mood. I tried, gently, to broach the topic with my brother who seemed puzzled by my point of view. I tried a different track, “This pie should be enrolled in the first grade.”
He laughed, “It’s not that old!”
“Actually it is. We found a label on it that said ‘2001’” said his wife.
“It would have to be.” I concurred. “Mom died in 2002 and didn’t have a chance to make any pies that year.”
My brother shrugged it off and turned his attention to the thanksgiving turkey. I tried to ignore the pie, sitting there. Eventually, it got moved to the top of the refrigerator in order to clear up counter space. It almost slipped from my mind. Except that it didn’t slip from my mind at all.
I had plans to spend the night at a friend’s house. She arrived at my brother’s house in time for dessert and with an entourage. Encouraged by her presence, I again tried to cast doubt on the advisability of eating a six year old pie. “What if the power went out or something while it was frozen?”
My dad explained that he had given the last three pies to my brother over 2 years ago. My brother said, “the first thing I did was bake one of them and eat it. It was delicious.” He saved the second one for last thanksgiving and the third one for this year. It was the last pie made by mother that anyone would ever eat.
As to a power failure, he’d had one for three days. After the first 45 minutes, he’d rushed the pie over to his neighbor’s (still working) freezer for safe-keeping. The pie was still frozen solid at the time and, he argued, unharmed.
My friend was a biologist. Normally when I see her consume something, I feel like it’s risk levels are acceptably low. So when dessert was served and she took a bite of the pie, I felt like maybe I could too. Still, I spent a long time thinking about it, voicing my objections. My brother assured me that he was just as happy to eat my share and I didn’t need to.
This pie would surely kill us all.
How could they not see that eating this pie, made by mother those six years ago, before any of knew she had cancer, when she seemed well, how could it not kill us to eat it? But they ate and didn’t die immediately, so I asked for a slice.
I stared at the tiny sliver on my plate for a long time. It was a different color than I remembered her pies. The fruit had browned slightly with age. I took a tiny bite. I chewed slowly. And then another bite.
Did it’s age change it’s taste? The texture was different. It was more like a pie made with jam than with whole slices of fruit. But the taste, I don’t know. I can’t think of it now. I couldn’t think of it between swallowing one bite and putting the next in my mouth. Now, I don’t know if I could even remember the taste of her pies when they were new: fruit picked and baked on the same day.
Instead with every bite, the undeniable truth – that this pie would certainly kill us in horrible ways – got harder to ignore. This was a mausoleum pie. Not a pie for the living.
I took three or four bites in total and then looked sadly at my plate. It was my last ever chance to eat my mother’s pie. Her apricot pie. Her specialty. Something she excelled at. Made with love. I would never again have the opportunity to eat such a thing and I couldn’t do it. I felt like an important moment had come and I wasn’t up to the task. I felt like crying. I worried I would forever remember the terrible moment of having to choose between total panic and rejecting the pie. My sister in law informed me kindly that it wasn’t a big deal. Nobody thought it was a big deal. Not my dad who provided the pie. Not my brother who saved the pie. Not my sister in law who baked the pie. Not the friend of my mom who arrived in time for dessert. Nobody.
Except for me.
I knew my truth of death-dealing pie was irrational, but there was no visible middle ground between joyous object and horrifying object. No room to grieve for the pie or for myself.
I’d also brought a pie. In case we decided not to eat the other one. It was a sweet potato pie. I took it with me when I left. My brother hoped I would leave it, but his wife told me not to, fondly patting his stomach. One left over pie for him to eat was enough.
Moving Quickly
So I went in this morning to see the social worker and she wasn’t gate keeper-y at all. This clinic gives T to anybody who won’t be harmed by it and at a wide variety of doses. “We have lots of genderqueer patients,” she said.
She asked me for a lot of personal background, like where I went to school and if I took drugs and whatnot. She asked about a definition of a man and a definition of a woman. I complained about gender essentialism, and that was ok and, indeed, she agreed when I said the question was “inherently essentialist” and problematic. No “in the wrong body” or other dualist things. It was very low key.
Then, afterwards, she took me down to have about 500 (ok, like 5 – 10) vials of blood removed to be tested for lord knows what. The most critical one (unless I turn out to have somehow picked up an STD, which is supremely (nearly divinely) unlikely) is a cholesterol test. T is a type of cholesterol, so if mine is high, being on T could push it out of hand. Actually, this is probably more of a concern if I move back to France and start feasting on baguettes with butter and cheese again.
I don’t like getting blood drawn. It smarts. Also, I need that blood! I’m totally using it right now! They also took some pee, which I’m much less attached to, but anyway. I should have probably asked more questions, but instead I was marvelling that my appointment with a prescribing doctor is next Tuesday. Holy Smokes!
I’m pretty excited. I came home and went out for a celebratory cup of coffee (it was too early in the day for a drink, also, blood loss would probably make me more easily drunk than normal. (just kidding.)
This is momentous, and (as always for me) I have some worries.
What if my friends stop talking to me or are transphobic / unsupportive? Also, what about my family? What if Nicole’s family gets all upset at her? I mean, I know that a lot of people are transphobic, but normally I think of them as neanderthals who somehow fell through a wormhole into modern times. But some people I care about might turn out to be secret neanderthals.
Also, this is going to change the way I smell. (I will soon reek like a teenage boy, alas. I’ll try to take showers much more often.) What if my dog doesn’t recognize me or dislikes me or something? I wish I could start this with her around so she would know it was still me with a different smell.
Anyway, despite worrying about my friends, family and dog, I was still up and I’m an American, so I decided to go shopping! Err, yeah, I went to REI (an adventure sports store) to look at socks . . . and biking stuff . . . and more biking stuff. I wanted gloves because last time I fell off my bike, my gloves saved my hands from road rash. I don’t have them here and anyway, they’re not warm enough for this time of year. So I was looking at gloves when a guy came up and asked me if I wanted help. I told him I wanted gloves.
“The women’s gloves are on the other side.”
“I don’t wear women’s clothes.”
“Women’s gloves will fit you better.”
“They have little flowers on them.” (Indeed, they do.)
“No, they’re exactly the same as the men’s gloves. Here are some without flowers. Try these on.”
“They fit exactly the same as the men’s gloves offset by one size.”
“See, I told you they were the same!” He seemed to think he had won. This went on for a long while, actually. He took me to another glove department, clearly hoping that I wouldn’t notice that he was handing me all women’s gloves and kept talking about the merits of each one. Then, after having run out of merits, he switched to stories about being in the airforce and how there are no vegans who are true athletes. Eventually, he realized that no matter how much he talked, I wasn’t going to commit to buying a pair of women’s gloves and so he wandered off.
Ok, yeah, so I have mixed feelings. On the one hand soon, I will never have to deal with that kind of crap again. On the other hand, I feel like I’m fleeing the fight against gender essentialism being fought by my brothers and sisters. Like, ‘so long suckers, have fun being kicked out of barber shops! I’m about to pass!’ Except that it’s not like I fought at all. No, I was a good little passive shopper and didn’t tell him to stick it up his ass, and just sort of waited for him to give up. So passive, I didn’t even get angry until later and instead just wondered why my anxiety was acting up. (‘Hm, it is as if my person has just come under attack. I wonder what caused that?’) Like, I’m just so used to it that it didn’t even really register.
Now, I want to go back and kick his ass. But I didn’t. I didn’t resort to violence. I didn’t use my words. I didn’t even absent myself. I bought men’s gloves when he wasn’t looking.
I don’t want to make this a bigger thing than it is. And, you know, I really don’t like to fight. I hate having to get into a fight to get my hair cut or whatever. I know that I should speak up, but sometimes, you know, I just want to buy some damn gloves from a store that hasn’t given me grief in the past. (I did ask him later if he had a men’s shirt in a smaller size, so I guess I made his lack of dissuasion clear. I dunno.) And, also, let’s be clear, the wrong doer in this situation was him, not me & my lack of self-defense.
I don’t know how strongly I’ll be able to conform to a male stereotype anyway, as I like art and dressing well and other suspect activities, so it’s not like I’ll stop being genderqueer or IDing thusly. And while I want to stand in solidarity with my gendervariant, metaphorical siblings, I don’t think that foregoing hormones is a way to do that. I mean, I would never ask that of anybody. If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your revolution.
My last main worry on the transition front has to do with me being a special snowflake. I’m rather unusual for a woman, but much more typical for a guy. I go from being tall to being average height. I go from having unexpected interests to encouraged ones. I go from cross dressing to not. I go from lesbian to guy-who-likes-women (I refuse to ID as straight. I just won’t). So yeah, I’m a special snowflake. Except that I don’t think my most interesting traits are tied in with my gender presentation. I’m a composer. I go on long bike trips. I blog. Certainly my experiences of gender inform and influence my entire life (and vice versa) but if I had nothing more going for me than being a tall, female cross dresser, well, that wouldn’t be so much to go on. (I’d still have my looks, but still.) I’m only a slightly less special snowflake. Also, I don’t plan to go stealth, so maybe I’m an even more special snowflake? Again, not so much to go on. My gender is really not the most exciting thing about me.