knows me even a little probably knows that I firmly believe that words matter.
I’ve never been big on talking or saying what you think out loud; but am a huge
advocate of putting it in writing. But, every once in a while, a conversation
is had that truly matters regardless of what is or isn’t said. Last night I was
fortuned to share in such an exchange.
It was the first Friday of October. Surgery day! The wait
for my throat surgery was not nearly as long as the top surgery. It was also
nice to know I would be able to recover at home rather than a hotel like after
my top surgery. As with most procedures, the hospital required that someone
accompany me and be available to drive me home. I asked the friend who had previously offered
to go to Kansas City with me and she gladly said yes. I had a 6 am arrival
time, so I arrived at her house early that morning. I’d attended my pre-op
appointments at the hospital and followed all of the instructions I’d been
given for the night before surgery. I was thirsty and kind of cranky, but ready
to head to the hospital.
over with…or so I thought. As if it wasn’t enough for everyone to fight nearly
the entire month of June – in the name of community and togetherness, mind you;
it seems that waking to the re-hashing of recent events is the way many are
choosing to start off July.
Fine, I’m game.
Here goes. I have just a few thoughts I am going to share about our 2019 Pride
season. Take from them as is your will to do.
Shortly after the top surgery it was clear that there were
people still misgendering me. While I’d most often been addressed as “sir”
before surgery, I was finding that “ma’am” was creeping into the picture a
little more than I liked. Frankly, I didn’t like it one bit. I’d always had the
issue over the phone but in person it hadn’t been so common in the past. I
thought that if my voice pitch was lower – more masculine – this problem would
Some transgender persons choose to change their name to
something that they feel better suits them or is more in line with the gender
to which they identify. I was fortunate to have been given fairly unisex first
and middle names and I had no desire to change them – other than the spelling. I
was told that my maternal grandfather had named me thinking or hoping that I
would be a boy. When it was discovered at birth that I appeared to be a girl,
they put the female spelling of my name on my birth certificate. I have friends
who labor untold hours and weeks and even months over what name they want for
their self. My process was easy. I simply legally changed both my first and
middle names to the perceived masculine spelling.