A man and his stuffed hippo

When my mother was in her 40s, she had her gall bladder out. My dad, my sister, and I all showed up in her hospital room as she was coming out of anesthesia, and my sister and I presented her with a stuffed goat.

When my dad had his gall bladder out a few years later, we all just showed up.

When my mom got her stuffed goat, she hugged it to her chest and said, "Oh, it's just what I wanted." Then she snuggled up to it and went back to sleep. If we would have brought a goat--or any other stuffed animal--to my dad, he would have smiled at it, put it on the bedside table, and gone back to sleep. As he improved, it probably would have found its way into a drawer.

A stuffed animal to snuggle up to when you're feeling lousy is really very comforting. But while it's perfectly acceptable for women to need and accept that comfort, no matter what their age, any male over the age of four who clutches a stuffed animal is setting himself up for misery far greater than having his gut sliced open and his gall bladder yanked out.

Which brings me to my hippo.

When I had my gall bladder out at 40 (this is a family tradition), I was still female, and my sister came to the hospital with a stuffed hippo that she gave me just as I was waking up. Like my mother before me, I took the hippo and held on. It was the perfect size and shape for snuggling, and I felt no shame at all in having it with me, even when the nurses came in to check on me or when they finally brought me a really sick roommate.

When I recovered, the hippo came home with me and found some kind of perch in the bedroom, where he stayed until I started transition a couple years later. About a month into my transition, I gave away all my women's clothes, a case full of expensive makeup and nail polish, a box full of jewelry--pretty much everything that had been useful to me in my role as a woman. And then I came to the hippo.

More than once that hippo went into the donation box, and more than once he came out again. That hippo had seen me through what had been, at that point, the worst and most painful medical procedure of my life. He was soft, snuggly, and still very cute. I simply could not part with him. So he moved with me to my new apartment and immediately became the overseer of my new closet.

My hippo has spent the last 13 years in the closet (much like me in my early life). But in that time, he's had three respites--because in that time, I've had three hideous fevers.

The first time I got sick, I was lying in bed in a sweatshirt, sweat pants, and socks, with every blanket I owned piled on top of me, and I was still shivering and shaking with unbearable chills. I didn't know how I was ever going to get warm. And then I remembered my hippo.

I thought about getting up and fetching him, but I couldn't bring myself to do it--not because I was too sick to get up, but because I was a guy. No guy, no matter how sick, would bring a stuffed animal into his bed to keep him warm. But I was freezing. But I was a guy. But I was shivering violently. But I was a guy. But I was miserable. But I was a guy. But my hippo was my only hope.

I fought with myself for an hour before I got up, went to the closet, and got that hippo. Even in my fever-induced delirium, I pulled him out, rushed back to bed, and stuck him under the covers in case my neighbors could see through the walls. But then I wrapped my arms around him and instantly started to warm up. It was sort of like having the body heat of another person there. That hippo was keeping me warm.

When my fever subsided, he went back into the closet, but the next time it happened, and the third time, I pulled him out immediately, knowing that he would be the remedy. Believe me, I'd rather have a dog, but the landlord doesn't allow it. And as long as I don't have a real human being to keep me warm when I'm really sick (and no human being wants to be near me when I'm that sick, anyway), I've got my hippo.

The moral is that sometimes a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do--and sometimes, he's gotta admit it. I'm just glad that he's a hippo and not a teddy bear or a Raggedy Ann doll.

(Photo: my hippo in his usual home)
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Headlines I'd rather not see: 'transsexual performer vomits'

I may not be the hippest beatnik at the coffee house, daddy-o, but I try to at least stay partially informed on what's cool in modern times, and I try to keep a very open mind.

I don't have a problem with pregnant men, multiple genders, and an infinite number of sexual practices between consenting adults (although, unfortunately, I haven't tried most of them). I have enough oddities of my own that it's difficult for me to pass negative judgment on almost anything or anyone (except Sarah Palin).

But forgive me if I get a little squeamish when I read the words "transsexual," "vomit," and "Susan Sarandon" in the same headline.

It seems that Sarandon (who I like a lot) was attending a performance by Miss Rose Wood (who I know nothing about) and ended up the unfortunate recipient of part of Miss Wood's dinner during the projectile vomiting part of the act--which is a little hard for me to stomach.

Sarandon apparently took it better than I would have--but she can afford dry cleaning. But it's not the projectile vomiting that's so tough for me to swallow. It's the headline that's all over the Internet. There are a few variations, but they all boil down to the same thing: A transsexual person vomited on Susan Sarandon.

We can't control the message. I know that. I accept that. But could we really look much worse? I thought "Wife-killing tranny denied electrolysis" was one of the worst headlines I had ever seen. But "Transsexual performer vomits on Susan Sarandon" is right up there.

It turns out that Rose Wood identifies as "partially transgendered, neither male nor female" as per her Web site, which also says that "Rose is the ultimate gender bender--a male impersonator as well as a female impersonator." That I can handle. I might even be tempted to see her act (from the back row). And if vomit is part of the excitement, well, so be it.

But I don't know if Miss Wood has changed her identification since she put up her Web site--maybe she bills herself as a transsexual performer--or if the first person to write about this unfortunate incident decided that she was a transsexual and so used that term, and it just caught on as the story was hurled around the Internet.

Regardless, I would have felt a lot better if the various headlines were reading "Cabaret performer vomits on Susan Sarandon" or "Nightclub performer vomits on Susan Sarandon." I don't particularly understand how "transsexual performer" serves much of a purpose.

I guess, like the name "Susan Sarandon," it turns a non-story into a story, because that's what keeps the Internet up and running. And everyone out there wants to know just exactly what crazy thing we're going to do next.

I have nothing against Miss Rose Wood. Like I said, I don't even know her. And I guess it takes guts (unsettled ones) to turn vomiting into part of your act. All performers share a little piece of themselves with audience, after all.

But I will be happy when, someday, trans people can just be "performers," whether we're doing Shakespeare or spilling our guts onstage. To heave or not to heave--that is the question.

Thoughts?

(Photo: me in a '60s psychedelic poster taken at the Denver Art Museum at a '60s retrospective.)
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News I'm already tired of: Thomas Beatie's third pregnancy

Like his children, stories about Thomas Beatie's third pregnancy are popping out all over the place.

Although, regardless of what the press said, Beatie was not the first trans man to become pregnant or give birth, when his first pregnancy hit the media machine, I found myself mildly interested.

When he became pregnant a second time, it was old news.

Now he's pregnant again, and the media people, for some reason, continue to act as if they'd never seen a pregnant trans man before. But they have--Thomas Beatie.

This is nothing against Beatie. It's the media that wants to make something out of nothing. Give it a rest, people. Let the Beaties live their lives in peace. I'm sure Jessica Simpson is doing something that somebody cares about right now. Check that out instead.

While I know that there are some trans people--and some trans men in particular--who cringe every time a trans guy gets pregnant, it really doesn't bother me that much (other than the fact that I truly believe that, in order to salvage this planet, parents need to replace themselves only and then stop--Beatie's on number three, but so are a lot of people, so I can't single him out as the poster boy for my overpopulation angst).

I know that some people worry that pregnant trans men make it difficult for the non-trans world to take us seriously, and that a baby-toting Beatie undermines the progress of our movement.

But as I've said before, it's impossible to control the message. There are too many of us, with too many different messages and too many different experiences, to be managed. And the Internet, while being an incredible boon to trans people everywhere, has a tendency to spread sensationalism along with the newest social networking sites.

If we truly want the right to make decisions about our own body, then shouldn't that right extend to everyone? To every body? It seems to me that it should.

And it also seems to me that, after three pregnancies, the media should move on. If the Beaties want to go another year without sleep (my sister was a sleep-deprived zombie for months after she had my nephew), I say that's their business.

I'm yawning already.

What do you think?

(Photo: Thomas Beatie)
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Being a non-private person

Is privacy a thing of the past? The Internet has certainly made it seem so. Everything you post, from your Facebook status to a blog to a tweet, will probably be up and available for eternity, long after anyone--including you--knows or cares.

But how much information do people really want to know about the average person--or even a celebrity? Do I care that New York graphic designer Nicholas Felton (I don't even know who he is) eats various kinds of nuts? Or that Facebook co-founder Mark Zuckerberg still hugs a teddy bear? (Someday I'll tell you about my stuffed hippo.)

That's what Ryan Bigge of TheStar.com writes about in its article "Openness is becoming the default social norm." What drew me to the article was the quote by trans activist Andrea James about being a "non-private person." James' quote came from a post she wrote on boingboing.net called "The ascendancy of the non-private person." James says that non-private people have nothing to hide, so nothing that becomes public knowledge can hurt them.

That's kind of my philosophy with regard to being out as trans. If I'm out, I don't have to keep looking over my shoulder. I don't have to keep worrying about what will catch up with me, what will be discussed about me, when I might be outed, or who might find out.

Regular readers here know that I peed my pants in sixth grade and that I often discuss personal experiences that I have had, even if they are sometimes unpleasant. It's not like I'm worried that this stuff might get out, so I better tell it first (no one in my sixth grade class has attempted to blackmail me yet). I just generally write about things that have happened to me in the context of a larger issue.

Regardless, I guess that definitely makes me a non-private person (although I can't imagine that anyone cares what kind of nuts I eat).

But there are some things, no matter how non-private I am, that I won't write about. I was recently asked why my book doesn't deal with what was going on with me before I started transition. And while I have a book in the works about my childhood and adolescence, I will never write about--or talk about--my life situation directly before transition.

The reason for that is because I was married, and my husband and I split up because of my transition. I have a great deal of respect for him, and by not writing about him, I was attempting to protect him.

The oddest thing about the whole mess was that, after my book came out, he was hurt that I didn't write about him. He felt dismissed. He felt that he was unimportant in my life and that I chose to ignore him and act like those years never happened. I explained to him that I was trying to protect him--that I wasn't going to use him to sensationalize or add drama to my situation.

Certainly, it would have done that had I written about it. It would have provided the misery and agony that a lot of publishers said they wanted when they rejected my manuscript. Sorry. I wasn't going to make up misery and agony that wasn't there in order to get a book published, and I wasn't going to exploit my ex-husband in order to add legitimate misery and agony to my book.

So I'm a non-private person with one exception--and it's going to stay that way. But I will tell you what kind of nuts I like: walnuts in brownies and fudge, and peanuts at a baseball game. Now I have (almost) nothing to hide.

(Photo: me about four months before transition--work ID photo)
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Transgender kids and sports: what's fair for everyone?

When I was in sixth grade, both my nemesis and my idol were the same person--Mary Louise.

Mary Louise was small, compact, and cute--a blonde Sally Field. I was hulking and chubby, with hair like a Brillo pad.

Mary Louise could run faster and throw a ball farther than anyone in the class, including the boys. I was always the last one to straggle in, panting and puffing, at the end of a forced lap around the playground at gym.

Mary Louise came to school with a cool cast on her wrist because she sprained it playing softball. I peed my pants in the school hallway because I was afraid to go into the girls' bathroom (don't ask).

Mary Louise was the best athlete in the school. I was the worst. We were both girls.

I bring up Mary Louise not to relive one of my worst childhood memories (which was peeing in the hallway), but because the Maine Human Rights Commission recently issued a draft of guidelines intended to protect Maine school children, from grade school through college, from discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation and gender identity.

The guidelines, which are scheduled to be voted on March 1, would permit transgender students to use school restrooms and participate in sports teams in accordance with their gender identity. Of course, there is raging controversy about all this, partly due to the bathroom issue (at least the kids are using them instead of the hallway), and partly due to the possible unfair advantage that students born male (or assigned male at birth) who identify as female would have when playing competitive sports against other girls.

In fact, the college students interviewed by the Maine Public Broadcasting Network for an article about the guidelines were virtually unconcerned about the bathroom thing (younger students might feel differently, but only if they take their cues from their parents, who will no doubt be hysterical about the whole situation). It was the sports thing that some of them mentioned as a concern.

John Gause of the Maine Human Rights Commission, as quoted in the article, said, "On an individual basis, however, it's nearly impossible to determine whether a student is better at sports because they are a boy or a girl. So it's not appropriate to exclude students who are transgendered from sports altogether."

The first part, I would generally agree with--at least in theory. Mary Louise is proof enough of that. The second part, I would most certainly agree with. Transgender students should not be excluded from sports (I, however, wish I would have been--not because I was transgender, but because I stunk).

The bathroom issue could become a problem under certain circumstances, but those individual circumstances would need to be dealt with as they come up. My concern would be for the safety of the trans student, rather than any other students in the bathroom. I definitely think trans students should have the option of a private unisex restroom--but I think all students should have this option (it keeps the hallways dry).

I understand the sports issue, but as someone who detested gym class every day of my life from grade school on, I can't relate in the same way as a person who takes his or her sports very seriously. I know it's hard to believe, but I simply don't have an opinion--yet.

It will be interesting to see what the human rights commissioners decide on March 1, and what kind of response (or backlash) will follow. And it would be interesting to know what ol' Mary Louise would think. She's probably teaching her granddaughter how to sack a quarterback right now.

What do you think?

(Photo: me in 6th grade--hardly the athletic type)

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My life in six words: a six-word memoir

It All Changed in an Instant: More Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous & Obscure, the new six-word memoir book, is out from Smith Magazine, and I'm in it--which sounds special, but there are almost 1,000 six-word memoirs in this very compact paperback, including by Jennifer Finney Boylan and Quince Mountain. There may be some other trans people in there as well, but I haven't had time to read all the entries.

It All Changed in an Instant is a follow-up to Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous & Obscure, which made the New York Times bestseller list when it came out. There are several other six-word memoir books with various themes, plus some in the works, and the Web site is always taking entries--so check it out.

It seems impossible, but you really can pack a lot of meaning into six words. Some of us (like me) who are ultra-prolific might do well to remember that.

The idea of the six-word memoir started, according to Smith Magazine, from a short story by Ernest Hemingway. Apparently, the writer was challenged to write a short story in exactly six words. The result--"For sale: baby shoes, never worn."

This little story will mean different things to different people, as all short stories do. But what it says to me is this: Someone had a baby who died before he or she was able to wear the shoes. The person or couple was anticipating the baby with love because they bought the shoes before the baby was born. Now they're selling them--not just because the baby died, but because they need the money. Otherwise, they would throw them out or give them away.

Basically, a poor person or couple bought shoes they couldn't afford for a baby they loved very much who died. That's a lot for six words.

Many trans people want and need to write their life story. It's necessary--not just for us, but for future generations of trans people who will read these things and take solace in the fact that they are not alone and haven't been for some time.

But there are a lot of reasons why we don't write these stories--I don't have time, I can't write, it's too emotional, it's too painful, I don't want to relive it. But with a six-word memoir, a lot of these excuses disappear.

Try reading some at the Smith Magazine Web site linked to above. Try writing your own. If you like it, publish it on their Web site--they might use it in a future book. Or if that's a little overwhelming, start here. Publish it in the comments section and share it with Tranifesto readers.

So what's my six-word memoir in It All Changed in an Instant? "Born female, now male: strange trip."

What's yours?

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Sex and the insurance company

My insurance company doesn't know what I am. It seems to decide my sex based on what it doesn't want to pay for.

If I make a claim for something male-related, like testosterone or Finasteride (okay, it's for prostate cancer, but it's supposed to prevent male-pattern baldness), my insurance company says I'm female and denies the claim. If I make a claim for something female-related, like a PAP test or pelvic exam, the company says I'm male and denies the claim.

I'm usually able to get a reversal (except on the Finasteride--they don't think male-pattern baldness is medical, not realizing the number of people who would be sickened if they saw what I looked like with no hair). But I'm hoping that the new U.S. Tax Court decision on transition surgery as a medical necessity will eventually affect insurance-company attitudes toward all medical care for trans people.

Initially, the finding, which says that transition surgery is an allowable medical expense for tax purposes, will help some trans people at tax time. Hopefully, it will have implications for insurance companies, who will no longer be able to argue that transition surgery is cosmetic in nature and therefore not eligible for insurance coverage.

But what I'd eventually like to see is insurance companies forced to abandon male/female delineations when it comes to paying for various medications or treatments. I realize that they are trying to protect against fraud, but I question how serious or widespread any fraud involving male and female sex categories might be.

If a doctor diagnoses prostate cancer, it's likely that the person has a prostate. It doesn't really matter if the person is male or female. If a doctor diagnosis ovarian cysts, it's likely that the person has ovaries. It's like one of those logic problems you used to hate in school. My 10-year-old nephew could figure out as much.

With more trans people coming out and seeking care for medical transition, with the intersex movement arguing for the delay of medically unnecessary surgical interventions until a person is old enough to decide for him- or herself, and with the multitude of imperfections found in just about every human body in existence, it would seem to make sense to treat people on the basis of their need for a particular intervention rather than an "M" or "F" on an insurance application.

Stuff like this makes my hair fall out. Thank god for Finasteride.


(Note: Congratulations to GLAD and to Rhiannon O'Donnabhain on their victory with the U.S. Tax Court. O'Donnabhain put herself out there for years at great personal sacrifice to win this victory for the trans community. If you're not familiar with this case, go to the GLAD Web site linked to in the story and read about it.)
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Just call me ma'am

I give up. I have finally accepted reality. I will be ma'amed on the phone at least 60 percent of the time until I die. And if I keep getting angry and frustrated about it, that time will come sooner than I expect. So call me ma'am. It's okay with me.

I have been on testosterone for over 12 years, and my voice is as low as it's going to get. It's not as low as I originally hoped it would be (I wanted Barry White, not Betty White). But it's not high, either. It's not the pitch that's the problem--it's the expressiveness.

I-don't-talk-like-this. I ta-aalk like thiii-iss.

I enunciate my words. I sound my "esses" and my "tees." I draw out words and move my voice all over the place. It's habit. It's a lifetime of talking like I really mean it, like I take every word seriously, like every sound is fraught with emotion and deep, dark hidden meaning. And it reflects a "feminine" speech pattern.

I don't call and say, "I'd-like-to-make-a-reservation." I call and say, "I'd like to make a reservaaaationnn." And the person who answers the phone says, "For how many, ma'am?"

When I first started transition, I was livid every time it happened. And the poor person on the other end of the line, who was just trying to follow the "sir-or-ma'am" script that's mandatory for everyone in the service industry, would be the target of my wrath.

During one call, the man I was talking to asked me my name. I said, "Matt."

He said, "I've never heard of a woman named Matt before."

Neither have I, you idiot--doesn't that tell you something? I wanted to say it, but I didn't. Instead, I said, "It's Matt, short for Matthew--M-A-T-T-H-E-W!"

Then I hung up.

In another instance, I called an agency, identified myself at Matt Kailey, and asked who I needed to speak to about a particular issue. The woman said, "I don't know, ma'am. I'll have to check for you, ma'am."

I said, "My name is Matt."

She said, "Hold on a second, ma'am. I'm checking for you."

I said, "My name is Matt! Short for Matthew!"

She said, "The person you need to speak to isn't in, ma'am."

I said, "WOULD YOU PLEASE STOP CALLING ME MA'AM! MY NAME IS MATTHEW KAILEY! MATTHEW!"

She said, "I'm sorry, ma'am."

Then I hung up.

When I call to ask about one of my bills--a bill for Matthew Kailey--the person who answers sometimes says, "And is this Mrs. Kailey?"

Umm, no--that's my mom. And if she was still alive, I'd have her come over there and beat you up.

Even the guy at the Subway drive-thru called me ma'am over the speaker, then fell all over himself apologizing when I pulled up to the window.

Almost 13 years later, it still happens. It happened last week. And that's when I gave up. That's when I didn't get mad. That's when I finally decided that I was going to pick my battles and this wasn't going to be one of them.

I know who I am. That's all that matters. So go ahead--call me ma'am. Everyone else does.
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