“Mommy, is that a real girl?”
Some days, even an 8-year old girl notices that you don’t quite pass. At least that means they’re teaching kids about trans people. That wasn’t as bad as hearing some guy in a minivan beep so I’d notice him blowing kisses at me, only to see him pull over a few seconds later to say “Sorry sir, I didn’t know.” Yeah thanks, that makes me feel so much better.
In both of those cases, it was the same deal. I’m tall and my facial features and physique are at best androgynous (and at worst angular). It doesn’t help that I have to wear a wig until my hair grows to an acceptable length. Neither Minivan Don Juan nor Innocent Confused Child had any way of knowing whether I’d been through a sex change, had breast implants, or what my voice sounded like. All they had to go by was my figure, and there’s not much more I can do to help myself there. It’s frustrating, knowing that even if I did finish transitioning and get a sex change, there’d still be so many people out there that don’t consider me a “real girl.”
Many gender theorists consider the notion of “real women” or “real men” ridiculous and arbitrarily defined, but the average person on the street doesn’t. I just have to come to terms with not being a “real girl” in their eyes. I’m doing alright in that respect, but it still hurts when I get called a “man” or “sir.” If I’m not a real woman in their eyes, I’m sure as hell not a real man either. I’ll settle for gender limbo if it means not being reminded by strangers that I wasn’t born female.
There’s a bright side to my outing today. I picked up a few cute outfits at local thrift shops for a grand total of $40, and I walked by about 1000 people who either left me alone or treated me like a normal person. No one can blame a child for being confused, and I’m glad the guy hitting on me apologized for his “mistake” instead of harassing me. Plus, every time I don’t visually pass just reminds me that a sex change operation is certainly not the solution to my problems.
