Visibly Trans: Trans Joy
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Sometimes the greatest joy can be found in one small moment. Photo by Heather J [/caption]
A column by Heather J.
Amidst all of what’s going on with trans rights, why the hell would anyone choose to transition? Why not just stay in the closet and keep on enjoying cis privilege—especially the white male privilege bestowed upon me for most of my life?
Quite simply, trans joy.
My friend Holly and I were recently shopping for outfits at the thrift store in Silverdale. They found me a blue petticoat dress with layers of tulle, a sweetheart top covered in lace and held up with criss-cross straps. My eyes got huge and I tried desperately not to fall in love with this dress; the changing room is a dangerous place for dreams and body image.
I fished through the tulle to find an opening, rotated the dress to find the zippered back, then maneuvered my hands through and between all the cloth and straps, trying to avoid hanger loops until my arms emerged through what looked like the right openings. I made a mental image of how to slip it all over my head in a way that didn’t leave me stuck in a Chinese finger trap.
A little tight through the chest, but the dress slipped over my frame and my head emerged through the correct opening. I had only given myself a 25% chance of getting it right. The tulle was bunched up in spots, and it took a moment to flatten it all out before looking in the mirror. My brows furled at an “ok” silhouette. Narrow in the waist, loose and floppy in the chest. The zipper! A smirk ran across my lips as I reached back to perform the “zipping a dress” yoga maneuver, hoping my arms would bend and reach, that I would find enough leverage, and that the zipper wouldn’t get stuck.
My attention returned to the mirror, emotional attachment on pause, breath held, asking the woman in the mirror, “Do I look good in this? Do I look like a woman or woman-like? Is there beauty in my reflection or is there too much reminder of this masculine body?” Mirror, mirror, on the wall…
I saw a princess. She looked beautiful. With a growing smile, I reached up and tussled my hair to maximize the “pixie cut” stage of this awkward grow-out period. She was beautiful. My heart sang. Feeling this great about how I looked didn’t seem possible, definitely not a few months ago.
I used to think of “trans joy” as some mystical block party where we all dance and laugh and compliment each other’s outfits, giggle at inside jokes, and “live happily ever after.” For me, it has mostly been a lot of little moments of unadulterated happiness. It is the way my whole body vibrates when I can be my entire self and be welcomed and accepted. It is seeing my queer friends rage against everything through their art at a local punk show and the way we laugh through the pain and hold each other through the sorrow.
Last week, I spent a little too much time staring into the abyss. I wanted to cry, to scream, to punch something. But there were errands to run, and those emotions were covered up with a neutral mask of fatigue. I stopped by Imprint Books to pick up a copy of “Transgender History” by Susan Stryker. John, one of the new owners, greeted me by name and then immediately started complimenting me about the last column in The Beacon. He was “happy to be in community with me” and “really enjoyed reading [my] words.” The warmth and acceptance shocked me. I was free-falling into the darkness, but John yanked me by the collar and brought me back into our safe bubble of love and affirmation. It was jarring and uncomfortable and oh-so-needed in that moment.
Transitioning so publicly has felt like an exchange of external acceptance and internal conflict for internal acceptance and external conflict. Compliments finally land with me rather than some version of me carefully curated for public acceptance.
Trans joy is a thousand sweet moments of living the life I was meant to live rather than the life others had determined for me. This is why I chose to transition—I’d given myself a taste of this life in my early gender exploration and got a glimpse of what it was like to truly live. Those short, closeted moments were enough to part the years-long clouds of depression and I was willing to give up everything for a chance to see the sun more often.
Heather J. is a writer, photographer, and filmmaker. Her work is place-based and explores what it means to live with meaning, purpose, and community. She is a native of the Pacific Northwest and is most at home playing in the landscape where the mountains greet the sea.
