One Person's Journey to Womanhood – Part 9

By Monica M

On a vacation to London in 2005, I finally plucked up courage to go and have a professional makeover. My desire to be Monica (I had the name by then; how I decided on this name has, however, been lost in the mists of time) had increased steadily since the turn of the century. As my testosterone started to run out, I more and more wanted to spend time as the woman I knew I should have been.

I chose two salons for my photoshoot: The Boudoir and Pandora de Pledge. Pandora is no longer with us unfortunately.

By this time, I had a small female wardrobe, but I still had not really tried makeup, I did not have a wig and I had never been out!

To the right is the first picture ever of me dressed.

I was the only customer at The Boudoir that day there and a very nice chap spent about an hour putting on the makeup and explaining it all to me. Even as he was doing it, I thought there is no way I am going to remember all this and sure enough, I was correct.

He chose a number of other outfits for me and photographed me in various poses. Looking back now, I definitely look more of a “guy in a dress” than a woman. However, it was another step on way. Success is built in small steps.

The following are some of the other photos from that day.

My next stop, a few days later, was the famous Pandora de Pledge.

 

One of her assistants did the makeover. He had me sit facing away from the mirror and then when he had finished the makeup and put the wig on me, he turned me around to see myself in the mirror. I nearly cried. It was the first time I really did see the woman in me.

However, there was one embarrassing incident. They had in a second client while I was there. I was so nervous in those days that I was really angry, though I did not say anything. What if that person was somebody who knew me! I did not think about the fact that it was probably equally embarrassing for him!

 

And just to round it off, here is the last photoshoot image of me taken in Denver in April 2014 nearly 10 years later!

(Part 8 of One Person’s Journey to Womanhood appeared here yesterday.)

 

 

 

Fellows femulating in a minstrel show in Halifax, Nova Scotia, 1931.

 

 

 

Wearing Shoshanna.

One Person's Journey to Womanhood – Part 8

By Monica M

For me, being trapped in a male body was never something I thought about. It was foreign to me when I first heard of it in the ‘90s. I knew I was female or that I should be female. I remember from my childhood various schemes and dreams of how I did or might become a woman. Needless to say, none of them worked.

With the wisdom of maturity, I now realize why I rejected the idea of being trapped in a man's body. I realized that if I am trapped, then like some princess in a tower, I needed somebody to come and rescue me. That did not really gel with me. That gave the power to other people and took the solution out of my hands.

After musing on this topic for some time, I realized that really I am a woman with a man's body. Some women have green eyes, some women have red hair, some women have birthmarks… I am a woman who happens to have a male body. Given that this is the situation, I had to find ways to accommodate this and live within the expectations that have grown up around it.

To be morbid for a moment, I see from the suicide figures that women who had been through SRS do not necessarily have a happier and more fulfilled life than those who did not. So this got me thinking... sure, every woman has a vagina, but not all those with vaginas are women or at least, not accepted as women. Maybe for some the “vag is not the badge.” Maybe there is more!

Thinking about it from a mechanical perspective, you can boil a women (and men) down (sorry that is a bad choice of words) into two components: the hardware and the software. The hardware is obvious, but the software has four components: voice, movement, presentation and internal operating system.

I am guessing that what drives a lot of people to drugs, drink, despair, and suicide is the lack of connection and support from other people especially other women. Thinking along these lines helped me realize that maybe for some people SRS is seen as a quick an easy option to achieving womanhood. You pay some money (a lot of money in many cases!), do some time in hospital, and you are a woman.

In truth, nobody but yourself and your intimate partner cares about your hardware. How you interact with the outside world and make loving and supportive friends is through the software,

There are no guardians of the holy flame of femininity (sorry Elizabeth!) who grade us on how close we are to being woman. Femininity is bigger than any one person. No person encompasses the whole of the feminine. It is like the blind people and the elephant. One says an elephant is like a tree because he feels its leg. Another says it is like a rope because he feels the tail. The life experience of the black celibate Catholic nun, the white butch lesbian, and the physically abused Chinese mother of 10 are totally different with little in common. To claim that the common denominator is the vagina and that that is the ultimate mark of a woman is misogynistic to the extreme. As we know, only too well from our feminist history, a woman is far more than her genitals.

Who is or who is not a woman is determined in a very democratic way. The people you meet while you are out and about en femme are the people who determine if you are a woman or not. If you get read a lot, then you are not measuring up. If you make a number of close supportive and loving women friends who treat you like one of their own, then, for all that matters, you are a woman. You may not be in the main species of womanhood (however you define that), but you are certainly in one of the sub species and that for many of us, that is very acceptable.

(Part 7 of One Person’s Journey to Womanhood appeared here yesterday.)

 

 

 

Brian Molko, rocker and femulator.

 

 

 

Wearing Gregory Parkinson.

One Person's Journey to Womanhood – Part 7

By Monica M

In my thirties, I had a big purge. It was really the only purge that I did and the nylon wig went to its final resting place. I don't even remember why I purged; I think it was because I was moving.

Another thing that happened about that time was that I got into transcendental meditation. I meditated (I almost said religiously!) regularly and for a number of years, it worked for me. I don't think I crossdressed for about 5 years… what a waste! :)

Like most men, in my twenties and thirties, I was a keen watcher of women. But while most men wanted to get inside their panties, I wanted to get inside their panties in a totally different way! During the meditation days, even that stopped. So, maybe there is a cure! :)

In my late thirties, we moved to a new city and I dropped the meditation and, lo and behold, the old feelings gradually wound their way back into my psyche. As we did not have any kids, I was able to start indulging my hobby a bit more. Internet shopping was just about taking off and things started to change quickly in the wardrobe front. The “trashy tranny” phase was over and a more bohemian style took its place.

We both lived about 20 minutes away from our workplaces and one of the funnier incidents I remember from that time was when I was working from home one day. I decided to try on one of my wife's more formal dresses that she had not worn for a long time. We are similar in size, but not that similar. This was a dress that she had bought for a wedding and never really liked it afterwards. Being bored and wanting a break from my work, I decided to try it on. I was still in my pre makeup days, so all I needed was a shower and some underwear.

I got the dress on no problem, but, as I zipped it up, the zipper got stuck half way. It was right in the middle of my back and I could just barely reach it, so I could not get it up or get it down. I knew I had two choices: either break the zip and suffer the wrath of my dear wife or call her to come home during lunch time and zip me out of the dress and suffer the wrath of my dear wife. I chose to call her. She was not very amused, but saw the funny side of it. We laugh about it now!

In my mid-forties, we moved again. But this time, to a small community. As I was not out nor going out, this was not an issue. I just had to make sure that the neighbors could not see anything through the windows while I was dressed and make sure that I did not answer the door if anybody came.

The first couple of times that anybody did come to the door, I rushed around getting my guy clothes on and making some excuse for why it took me so long to get to the door. One incident I remember is getting to the door, asking them to come in for coffee and as I am closing the door – fortunately while they had their backs to me – noticing that I still had my rings on. I stuffed my hand in my pocket and mumbled something about having to go to the bathroom.

Now I am much wiser, I don't answer the door. However, it can be very nerve-racking listening to people outside your door and ringing your bell while you are inside en femme.

In my late forties, I learned about professional makeovers and was determined to get one. When we went on holiday in 2004, not only did I get a professional makeover… I got two! Each one was done by a different salon. But more about that along with some photos next time.

(Part 6 of One Person’s Journey to Womanhood appeared here yesterday.)

 

 

 

A femulator in her kitchen.

 

 

 

Wearing Madeleine.

One Person's Journey to Womanhood – Part 6

By Monica M

The whole subject of passing is a pretty fraught one and I don't pretend to have a consistent answer to the question. Emotionally I want to pass – I want to pass as well as I possibly can given the constraints. I realize that it is unrealistic to think that one will pass 100% of the time and yet, that is my goal emotionally.

Rationally, I can see the other side. I can see that focusing on passing well is only upholding society's artificial binary gender preference. If somebody does not stand up against the binary gender preference, then it will continue! Yes, but does it have to be me who stands up against it? If not me, then who?

To find a path through this philosophical swamp, I fall back on my definition of success and that is, to have a group of supportive female friends who accept me for the woman I am. Hence, I try to pass as best I can as because in my opinion, that is what will get me closest to my goal.

To find what one's definition of success is, one needs to be in touch with one's body. Those of us who have been socialised as men find it hard to get in touch with our bodies, but I have found a body of work which helped me greatly in this. It is called The Art of Feminine Presence; more about that later.

There is a fine line between passing and parody and the line is probably different for everybody who sees you. If you fall into the parody category, then you will not be taken seriously and may well become the butt of derision, sarcasm and even violence. Hence, it is better to be well on the other side of that line. In truth, you cannot pass too well.

It gives me comfort that even people like Jenny Boylan (who is post-op, on hormones, though she may have come off recently and has lived as a woman for many years) worries about passing. My take is that no matter how good you are (even if you are in stealth), worrying about passing is part and parcel of being us.

Passing is part art and part science, as far as I am concerned. The science bit breaks down into four elements: voice, movement, presentation (clothes, makeup, etc.) and internal operating system (how you see things and talk to yourself). The art comes in blending these four components into a believable/acceptable female. Of these four elements, the most important one for me is my confidence and internal monologue. Passing is also one of these infinite recursive loops. The better you feel, the more confident you are, the better you pass, the better you feel, etc.

To pass well, in my experience, you have to know what kind of woman you are and really own that. My friends jokingly call me “Synagogue Mom!” You also have to accept that you are a trans person and be happy to own that. For many, that is harder than it might seem and takes practice and introspection.

If you get read, you need two strategies. One, for how you handle your own disappointment and two, for how you handle the person reading you. When I get read, I just give a big smile to the person reading me. There is nothing more feminine and tension relieving than a big smile and usually people just smile back at you. If you have the courage (I have not tried this), you could also wink at them!

Getting read is very bad for the ego. It reminds me of the old saying, “It is not reality that hurts: it is the difference between your perception of reality and reality that hurts.” This is so true for passing and being read can ruin your whole day.

On my first day out en femme, I just about got to the lobby of the hotel before I got read… and did I get read! It was probably the most embarrassing incident of my life. But more about that later.

The way I have learned to tackle being read is to keep telling myself that I cannot be responsible for the reader's reaction. I am doing nothing wrong. I am a transgender person and this is how transgender people dress, move, etc. We are 0.1% of the population and we are entitled to respect. If I do not ground myself quickly, I can just go into my head and lose the plot completely and that leads to panic and fear and more lack of confidence and being read even more.

A good exercise from The Art of Feminine Presence is to ground yourself in your lower belly and don't let the thoughts go into the head. Then imagine a light globe sitting in that place (we call it the “womb space” – I like that! – in martial arts and Tai Chi it is called the “Dan Tien”) radiating a protective light from there. You are bathed in that light out to an arm’s length from your body and nothing can come through this light to harm you. Then feel your body as it moves. Staying attentive to your body and enjoying your body movement helps you move even more like a woman! Then put on a big smile.

This sounds long-winded, but with practice, you can do it all in an instant. This stops the thoughts from going to the head and staring the long chains of “what ifs” that lead to fear, lack of confidence, embarrassment, and humiliation.

(Part 5 of One Person’s Journey to Womanhood appeared here yesterday.)

 

 

 

Helene Barclay

 

 

 

Wearing Cotton Addiction (sweater).

One Person's Journey to Womanhood – Part 5

By Monica M

In my twenties (this was before the Internet), I was gradually becoming aware (because I had read in magazines somewhere) that I was not alone. There were other 'weirdo’s' out there like me.

I had never mentioned anything about who I was to anybody. I remember once, while I was still living at home, my mother praising me for being an all-around nice and good person. I said to her that she had no idea who I really was and that if she really knew, she might not think so highly of me. Of course, I was thinking of my big secret: my transgender side.

She brushed it off with the comment that of course, as she was my mother, she knew what I was really like. She was right and she was wrong. The basic person was the same, but the operating software was radically different. She never saw the results of the software directly.

In my twenties after I had moved away from home and was earning my own money in the big city, things started to change. I still had no name for my female side. The name Monica did not come to me until my 40's.

My twenties was the era of catalogue-shopping. With the help of my wife and her clothes, I was able to gauge my size and order from the catalogues. My wife was very happy to help me buy underwear and other accessories in department stores. Of course, I would be standing beside her looking furtive as if everybody knew she was buying for me. It was so embarrassing and humiliating! So different now, when I was in Boston in October, I went for a bra-fitting; I did not even break sweat when the lady asked to feel the weight of my falsies!

Gradually I built up a wardrobe. My wife was fully aware that I dressed when she was out and she was happy with that. However, she did not want to see me dressed when she got home.

Unfortunately, I do not have any photos from that era. But, in hindsight, it really was a time of fetish and “trashy tranny.” It almost makes me blush to think of it now.

I lived near a wig store… one of those 80's stores that sold nylon wigs and various types of hippie clothes. After many weeks of walking past the shop, I finally screwed up my courage and walked in. I pretended I was buying a wig for my wife. Why my wife would want a long haired nylon wig never dawned on me! I picked one out that was nearly down to my waist (I found out later when I got home) and said to the shop assistant, “I think she will like that.” As usual, the only person I was fooling was I.

Picturing it now, I must have looked like something out of The Night of the Living Dead when dressed. No makeup (and no beard cover!), long hair to my waist and skirt and hair almost meeting at the same place! And underneath, a girdle with enough elastic to make a medieval catapult! No wonder my wife did not want to see me!

In my thirties, we were into the Internet age and by then I knew I was part of a community. Through my exploration on the net, I knew about hormones, sex changes, meetings, special websites and clothes for transgender people. I even learned that there was a bar about half an hour away from me where people met in drag every Friday night. I am not sure if I was still in denial about who I was or if I was just too plain scared to dress and get on public transport to go there. Probably the latter! I had grown up with a lot of ridicule and it is often hard for me to handle that. I really wanted to go out dressed, but that was long way into the future.

(Part 4 of One Person’s Journey to Womanhood appeared here on Friday.)

 

 

 

Kristen Marie Rhea

 

 

 

Wearing Sharagano.

Tranny is Not a Four-Letter Word!

I have sat on the sidelines watching while the word “tranny” was hijacked by people who have little or no regard for our community and use the word as put-down and/or insult. 

Instead of reclaiming the word, some of our community have declared the word to be verboten. Trannies should stop using the word and anyone outside the community who uses the word should be called out for political incorrectness.

This did not sit well with me. 

I like the word “tranny” and have been using it forever. Although I have not used the word much here in the blog, I use it in conversations with trannies and non-trannies alike without giving it a thought. 

Since I am the biggest tranny around, the folks who hear me use the word know I am not putting myself down when I use the word. And most of the non-trannies I converse with are probably not even aware that anyone considers it a put-down.

So WTF — I am going to do my part to reclaim the word as our own by freely using it in writing as well as in conversation. 

Warning! Wilma Robinson — This blog is no longer a “tranny” free zone.

(For more on this topic, please read Zagria’s take on tranny, which inspired me to write this.)

Boris Aprel, model.

Wearing Our Dress.

Affection

Guys shake hands to signify affection between them. But lately, some guys also hug to signify affection. In my case, I was raised to shake hands --- hugging was not an option.

When I began socializing as a tranny, I discovered that trannies seldom shake hands.
Just as gals have more options when it comes to fashion, gals have more options when it comes to affection and trannies follow their lead. Gals shake hands, hug, air kiss, or kiss kiss to show affection and so do trannies.

En femme, I have been hugged, air-kissed, kiss-kissed and even French-kissed by one particular tranny who wanted her way with me. The French kiss was a little disconcerting, but I quickly got used to the other signs of affection and usually hug and occasionally air kiss when greeting gals and trannies. With guys is something different.

When I came out to my ham radio group, I did so by e-mail because the group was scattered across the globe. However, the group met face-to-face twice a year and my coming out email was sent a few weeks before one of our face-to-face meetings so as to prepare the group for my debut en femme.

When we show up at the face-to-face meetings, we greet each other (long time, no see!). Some shake hands, some do not. I was always a hand-shaker en homme, but not so much en femme.

When I showed up for that first face-to-face en femme, I was early and only one guy was present. I went up to him and without thinking about it, I gave him a hug as was my wont en femme when greeting people.

As I unhugged, he remarked, "So this is the way it's going to be."

Now he was a big supporter when I came out and has continued to be, but I did not know how to take his remark.

I'm probably reading more into it than there is in it (I always do), but after that remark, I abandoned  hugging and shook hands when greeting guys who knew me as a guy before they knew me as a girl.

There are exceptions, but that is another story.

By the way, I know that the “boys” in the image at the top of the page are not really boys. Rather, they are female models who look boyish enough, at least for the purposes of the message.

Femulator street style, circa 1925.

 

Wearing Bebe.

One Person's Journey to Womanhood – Part 4

By Monica M

A small detour before we get back to the history. One thing that one really needs when one embarks on the transgender journey is a good sense of humor. You really do need the ability to laugh at the situation and even sometimes at yourself.

I have recently come back from a trip to San Francisco and Denver.

Photo of me out and about in Denver!


I stayed in San Francisco for a couple of days to take in some culture and to do some shopping. This was the first time (and I have been many times) that I encountered rain in San Francisco and this required me to buy a mac, but more of that later.

During this shopping trip, I was occasionally asked for a photo ID if the cost of the purchase was over $50. As a part-time guy, my guy photo appears on my photo ID. I calmly handed it over when asked (my credit card only has my initials). Only a few years ago I would rather have rats eat out my eyes than give somebody a photo ID of me as a guy while I was dressed as a woman.

But I guess there is something in the air in San Francisco as nobody batted an eyelid. I don't think anybody even looked at my photo; they just compared names.

When I was in Boston in October, my wife and I hired a car. Again I handed over my photo ID and the lady behind the counter looked at it and said, “There must be some mistake. This is not the right ID.”
I assured her that it was. She looked again and was satisfied! Ah! We live for such moments of confirmation, but wait there is more!

Back to San Francisco where it is raining, I head off to Macy’s to buy a mac. I find a really nice London Fog mac at a sale price, just what I want and in my size. I take it to the cashier who asks me if I have a Macy’s card. I tell her I do not. She gives me 10% off anyway and asks for my photo ID. I hand it over quite calmly expecting the usual no comment.

“Oh!,” she says, “You are using your husband's card. That is no problem!”

If I was not already married, I would have married her on the spot!

Back to Boston in October --- I am walking around Lens Crafters looking for a rimless pair of glasses. The assistant comes up to me and asks, “Can I help you, sir?”

This is a picture of how I looked. I thought I did not look too bad. I took this photo in my hotel room immediately afterwards.   

I felt that the only sensible answer was to say, “Thank you” and I walked out.

I could get all bitter and twisted about being “sir’d,” but I always try and look at these things as a learning situation. Either there was something about my presentation or voice which was not helping her to make the connection or while she recognised that I was transgender (it is difficult to pass in very close proximity), her brain had not supplied her with the correct gender marker.

Being charitable, it was probably a mixture of both. I now realise how drab that outfit looked on me and maybe I was not being as confident as I should have been. In general, people will meet you half way as long as they can see that you are really making a reasonable effort.

There is a saying I learned at Esprit (more of that later) in 2009. It goes like this: “If you think you are passing 100% of the time, the only person you are fooling is yourself!”

A positive response to a setback is the only way forward. For us transgenders, I keep reminding myself, there is no goal to be reached… the journey is the goal.

(Part 3 of One Person’s Journey to Womanhood appeared here yesterday. Part 5 will appear here next week.)

Actor Marty Thomas femulating in the 2014 NYC stage production of Pageant: The Musical.

 

Wearing Do & Be (dress) and BCBG (bag and belt).

One Person's Journey to Womanhood – Part 3

By Monica M

Pre-teen, I must have been a worry to my parents. They told me stories of wanting a doll and pram for Christmas and also stories of not standing up for myself in the school playground.

Though such things were not talked about then, they must have worried that I might be gay. Certainly, when you look at photos of me from that era, I looked like a bit of a Mommy's boy! To toughen me up, they sent me off to martial arts training. That lasted about six weeks… until somebody hit me on the nose and made me cry. I never went back.

The early teenage years were a rush of hormones and guilt. My staunch religious background did not help. It was during those years that (under the powerful poison of testosterone) I changed from being a person who knew she was female to being a crossdresser. My mother's clothes bore the brunt of this. I was never caught… well, if anybody suspected, nothing was said. There were favorite 1960s dresses that I now pine for. In my early teenage years, my mother and I were a similar size… even the same shoe size. This is how I learned to walk so well in heels! (As the Jesuits say, “Start them young!”)

During those days, I even sometimes went to school wearing a full girdle. I can remember walking down the street and hearing the metal garter ends clinking and hoping that nobody would figure out the source of the sound.

I was exposed once when my mother decided to clean out my room. She found a pair of her panties and her slip in a rucksack hidden in my wardrobe. She tried to get me to come clean about it, but I lied because I had the sense to know what would happen if I came clean. I blamed it on one of the younger children playing in my room. It was never mentioned again. I guess she put it down to teenage experiment. She was wrong!

During those years, I did all the things that other transgenders do to try and hide the soft and female side. I played football, joined the scouting movement, joined the army reserves, went hunting, fishing, mountain climbing, and had crushes on girls. If my parents were worried before, they had no worries now. But I knew deep down that this was all a mask for who I really was. The problem was I could not see any way out of the groove I was in. There was no alternative for a male of my background. I had to grin and bear it… and I did. However, I still either crossdressed or fantasized about it.

In my early 20's I went to college and met the woman of my dreams. We got on very well together and I guess we both knew that we were right for each other. I knew deep down that I had to tell her my secret as we could not go ahead with a relationship based on a lie. It was a big risk for me. What if she broke it off after hearing my secret and then went and told her friends and it got back to my friends and family; not a good scenario!

When I told her, she responded with some questions about what I did, etc. I explained as truthfully and as in depth as I could. She took it in her stride. Of course, neither of us knew then what the future had in store, especially as the testosterone started to run out! Maybe she would not have been so sanguine had she known. But I like to think that even if she had known, she would have gone ahead --- for both of us, the ride has been worth it!

(Part 2 of One Person’s Journey to Womanhood appeared here yesterday. Part 4 will appear here tomorrow.)

 

 

 

Femulator in 1962 street style.

 

 

 

Wearing La Femme Image.