Espresso or drip trans?

Some random ramblings from a thirty-something trans woman Photo blog: @transpresso-photos

[transpresso]

What's God got to do with it?

Last night, I dreamt of being back in Church. I went to the confessional, and said "Forgive me father, for I have sinned". The priest then listened to me, as I talked about my transition, which I knew he wouldn't approve of. But I didn't ask forgiveness for that. As far as I know, I didn't do anything wrong. I just took care of my own safety and well-being. I asked forgiveness for having entrusted myself to such an organization. For having endangered myself, doubted my own feelings, because of a group of old men who still lived in the past, and hid their own sins away from those who trusted them. I was asking the Church to repent.

When I was a child, I was very religious. Growing up in France in the 1990s-2000s, this wasn't unusual, if not for the fact that my family decidedly wasn't very Catholic. I wanted to go to Church, learn about Jesus and all of these wonderful things. My parents, who weren't religious at all, but who valued personal experience and religious freedom above all, obliged me.

Yet, here I am, a 30 year old transsexual, a complete non-believer. Not just an atheist, but anti-religious. I have not met a religion that, beyond the beliefs of a few noteworthy individuals, hasn't been used to oppress and control.

So what changed?

I think that when I found myself listening to sermons, at the age of six or seven, and heard about Jesus, his sacrifice, and the unconditional love he had for humanity, I couldn't help but be moved. I wanted to belong to something, because I always felt out of place. I felt this need to be a girl unnatural, and my non-acceptance of self chilling. In Jesus, I found somebody who loved me, more than I loved myself. In Church, I found people who shared this feeling, who saw love in each other, even when times got tough.

But most of all, I saw approval. From my grandmother, who still believed ; from authority figures, who saw a youth walking down a path they approved ; from priests, who saw their message coming across.

But as time went on, there were signs I couldn't ignore. I could see that the community could feel accepting towards their own, and yet utterly reject Christian love towards those who didn't belong. That "love" was conditional, on fitting certain arbitrary standards. You should love, but homosexual love was not acceptable. Love thy neighbor, but if you don't love foreigners, who cares. And you should confess your sins, but those committed by the Church are none of your business.

Then, around the age of 15, I had to face the fact. I didn't believe in God, or any supernatural being. I probably never had, despite having tried very hard. And while the Catholic Church was sometimes making sense in its interpretation of the life of Jesus, but it was committed to accumulating power and hiding the harm it has caused.

Ever since, I've danced around the Catholic Church and its teachings. I found sense and relief in its social teachings, and liberation theology. But I couldn't help but see an organization that talked in one way, and acted in another. Then came my transition. The simple fact that I became myself, and began to live an honest life meant that I had become an enemy of the Church. My existence itself is Sin.

Today, the Church stands alone. It is bleeding members, as older generations disappear to age, and newer ones shun it. It is isolated from the very World it was designed to save. I mourn what it could have been, but I would be relieved to see it finally disappear.

Job 27:2-6

[transpresso]

So, I was pretty sick this weekend, and I apparently wrote this during a bout of feverish delirium. It's weirdly well written, considering. Also, I stand by everything here, it's just way more angry than I usually write. Huh.

[transpresso]

What's God got to do with it?

Last night, I dreamt of being back in Church. I went to the confessional, and said "Forgive me father, for I have sinned". The priest then listened to me, as I talked about my transition, which I knew he wouldn't approve of. But I didn't ask forgiveness for that. As far as I know, I didn't do anything wrong. I just took care of my own safety and well-being. I asked forgiveness for having entrusted myself to such an organization. For having endangered myself, doubted my own feelings, because of a group of old men who still lived in the past, and hid their own sins away from those who trusted them. I was asking the Church to repent.

When I was a child, I was very religious. Growing up in France in the 1990s-2000s, this wasn't unusual, if not for the fact that my family decidedly wasn't very Catholic. I wanted to go to Church, learn about Jesus and all of these wonderful things. My parents, who weren't religious at all, but who valued personal experience and religious freedom above all, obliged me.

Yet, here I am, a 30 year old transsexual, a complete non-believer. Not just an atheist, but anti-religious. I have not met a religion that, beyond the beliefs of a few noteworthy individuals, hasn't been used to oppress and control.

So what changed?

I think that when I found myself listening to sermons, at the age of six or seven, and heard about Jesus, his sacrifice, and the unconditional love he had for humanity, I couldn't help but be moved. I wanted to belong to something, because I always felt out of place. I felt this need to be a girl unnatural, and my non-acceptance of self chilling. In Jesus, I found somebody who loved me, more than I loved myself. In Church, I found people who shared this feeling, who saw love in each other, even when times got tough.

But most of all, I saw approval. From my grandmother, who still believed ; from authority figures, who saw a youth walking down a path they approved ; from priests, who saw their message coming across.

But as time went on, there were signs I couldn't ignore. I could see that the community could feel accepting towards their own, and yet utterly reject Christian love towards those who didn't belong. That "love" was conditional, on fitting certain arbitrary standards. You should love, but homosexual love was not acceptable. Love thy neighbor, but if you don't love foreigners, who cares. And you should confess your sins, but those committed by the Church are none of your business.

Then, around the age of 15, I had to face the fact. I didn't believe in God, or any supernatural being. I probably never had, despite having tried very hard. And while the Catholic Church was sometimes making sense in its interpretation of the life of Jesus, but it was committed to accumulating power and hiding the harm it has caused.

Ever since, I've danced around the Catholic Church and its teachings. I found sense and relief in its social teachings, and liberation theology. But I couldn't help but see an organization that talked in one way, and acted in another. Then came my transition. The simple fact that I became myself, and began to live an honest life meant that I had become an enemy of the Church. My existence itself is Sin.

Today, the Church stands alone. It is bleeding members, as older generations disappear to age, and newer ones shun it. It is isolated from the very World it was designed to save. I mourn what it could have been, but I would be relieved to see it finally disappear.

Job 27:2-6

[transpresso]

I Don't Know

The world moves around me, but I don't understand it. It would comforting to know, that at least I know me, but I can't say that I do. When I peek inside myself, I don't know what I see.

I transitioned because everything felt wrong, and I needed to feel right. It felt like jumping in a big dark hole, because there was no other choice. Now I've emerged, in a better place, more assured, more at ease. But what is this place? I don't know.

It's hard to put words on myself. Sometimes, I feel like a woman, sharing the experience of my mother, my sister, and all of the women who had the chance to be considered as such since birth. Sometimes, I feel alienated from them, and find more kinship with the non-binary experience.

I know I don't have to be girly to be feminine. And I don't have to be ashamed of being girly when I feel like it. Sometimes, I want to wear short skirts and heavy makeup, feel attractive and sexy. Some cold days, I want to wear jeans and a loose t-shirt while fixing my bicycle. Are these two different identities? Are they both women? Or both removed from that societal expectation? I don't know.

So long, I felt like I couldn't transition, because I didn't know who I was. After all, you don't buy a plane ticket without knowing where you're going. But can you ever really know, intimately, who you are as a person? Put words on it, and declare it confidently and definitely?

I don't know.

[transpresso]

In a change of topic, I think I should tell you all about this prank I pulled on my grandparents, because I nearly made a friend hyperventilate in laughter last night.

So this is when I'm about 9 or 10 during my summer vacation at my grandparents. It's 2000-something, in a small village in the French mountains. There's no Internet, no cable television, and after reading Le Journal de Mickey for the 50th time, I'm bored, so I start faffing about with things around the house.

I get ahold of the house phone, and I notice there's an alarm function on it, and out of boredom, I set it up at 2 in the morning. Why? Because I was bored and I wanted to.

Night comes, and predictably, at 2am, the alarm goes off, but it goes off with the same ring as a normal call coming in (ring-ring-ring). My grandpa tries to answer, and in doing so he turns it off. He's pissed that someone would call at this hour, but we all go back to sleep.

In the morning, I wake up to see him with his address book, angrily calling everyone he knows, asking who could possibly have called him at 2 in the morning. And he was the mayor of the village some years before, so he knows a lot of people.

I just have a memory of hearing some old lady on the other side, yelling back to him "I'M NOT CRAZY, I DIDN'T CALL YOU AT 2 IN THE MORNING".

My grandparents are long gone now, and I never told them, or anyone else about this until a few weeks ago when I told the story to my girlfriend. Hope you all enjoyed

[transpresso]

Can you ever understand?

When you try to understand trans people, it can be difficult if you don't have anything in common with them. We keep talking about "gender dysphoria", and that sounds complicated. Maybe they'll throw some other words out, words like hormones, puberty blockers, passing, non binary, or *gasp*, patriarchy. That sounds very complicated, and maybe a bit too political.

But maybe you should go back to what it actually means. I, myself, can have trouble truly understanding trans men, I'll confess. I spent years wishing I was a woman, and I see people seeking the exact opposite. But I can identify with what they have to say: the pain of seeing yourself grow up into somebody you don't want to be, the rejection by others and finally the joy at being who you need to be.

So if you're having trouble identifying with trans people, ask yourself this. Have you ever looked in a mirror, and found the image distorted? You thought the reflection looked like you, but wasn't, couldn't possibly be you.

Have you ever tried to pretend you were someone else? Whether it be to protect yourself, or for some other motivation? And then, once you went back to your true self, sighed in relief, as finally you could be yourself again?

Have you ever looked at a body part, dissatisfied, wishing it could look different? Maybe as a child, you thought that magically, it would change. Maybe if you prayed to God hard enough, he'd be so kind to change it without you actually doing anything.

Have you ever had a pain, in the depth of your body, that was just so hard to explain? Maybe your lungs felt wrong, or maybe you felt a pinching in your kidneys for no reason. And yet, when you tried to explain it to a parent, a doctor, or a loved one, they dismissed it. It'll pass, don't worry.

Now imagine all those things at once. Every day. Since your earliest memories. As you wonder every day, why this is happening, what is wrong with you, and how you can solve it. Maybe you even started believing everyone else, that nothing was actually happening and that all you had to do was keep going, and leave no place for the pain to emerge.

And then one day, the dam broke, and you had to face the pain. It could only mean one thing, and then, you knew what you had to do.

That is what it's like to be trans, and why trans people are joyful. Because that pain is gone, because it feels like finally, after a lifetime, they can exist without pain, and without fear.

[transpresso]

Those special ingredients

You are walking down a small street. It's early afternoon, on a hot summer day, and it's relatively quiet. Maybe the neighbors are on holiday, or maybe they are just having a nap. The only thing guiding you is this scent. The scent of something frying, delicately, tenderly, yet assuredly. You follow it, one step after another on a hot pavement. You find the right door, and as you put your hand on the handle, the sudden and deafeningly moderate sizzling explodes. As you open the door, you smell the tomatoes that were just thrown on the pan.

"Hi Grandma", you say.

As she embraces you, you see the ingredients lined up on the kitchen table. There's a bottle of olive oil, some fresh basil she must have gotten from the garden, and a small plastic container full of coarse salt. Everyone you know, including you, buys those shakers from the supermarket, but she keeps on using this little yellowed container from god knows when. Where did this salt even come from? Its shape is so irregular, and you've never seen a box anywhere in her house.

She balances her sauce with the herbs and spices laying about. She tastes it and adds a big pinch of salt. Those cooks on television look like scientist on a lab, she's decidedly more like a witch concocting a potion.

"Can you cut the potatoes? They're already peeled."

You fish them from the bowl of water where they had been bathing, take a knife, and estimate how thick they had been last time. The knife is old, and in dire need of a sharpening. It leaves the edges of the slices blunt and dented. And again, the same music takes place, the poking of the pan on the stove, the smell of butane being lit up, the olive oil getting warmer, the delicate frying of the garlic, and then the abrupt eruption of oil when it touches the wet potatoes. She moves them about with a wooden spoon, and covers them.

The roast comes out of the oven, and the big knife, with its sharp teeth lays into it. Each plate gets a few slices, only to be covered by the sauce that guided you here in the first place. Lastly, the potatoes lay next to them, as you sit down next to her.

It's so simple, but hides so much. Under the chemistry, and the heat, so many feelings are laying. Her love for you, which you feel and appreciate, but also her whole life. Her long years, doing and redoing this, finding the perfect timing and measures, till she got it just right. Maybe it started on a piece of paper, but nothing about this is written anymore.

You've tried your hand at it, but got fed up. It didn't taste as nice. It was too bitter, too sweet, too dry, too moist. But you keep on trying every day, thinking of how she did.

And one day, you'll manage it. Because it doesn't matter when it's just for you. Good food is only good when it's shared.

Sorry to everyone who follows me for LGBT and transgender writing. I'm pretty obsessed with food and I'm just using this page to write my feelings out 😅

[transpresso]

How To Pass As A Woman

It's the main question for all trans-femmes. You want to pass, and not get misgendered. So, before you work on your makeup, your outfits or your attitude, think about a few things.

Who is that woman you want to pass as? Imagine her, not as a real person you have met or seen, but as that woman you want to be. Is she butch, is she femme? Is a tomboy look what you were gunning for all along? Or is a refined bimbo look more what your soul calls for?

That woman, is she vintage, is she modern? Do you want to be a thrift store connaisseuse? Did you get inspired by the kids in Stranger Things? Or are you completely enthralled by the latest runway shows? Maybe this is all completely irrelevant to you.

When you finally see that woman, how do you find her? How does she do her hair? Do you rock that natural color, or do you find an artificial color that brings it all together?

Mix and match all of those. Are you a twenty year old grandmother, or a Hello Kitty skater chick? Did you find the perfect mix of Ginger and Sporty Spice? Or maybe you found a style so incredibly you, that people will just compare everyone else to you.

And lastly, once you have all that, what do you need to get there? If you're just starting out, do you have enough clothes to be her?

Do you need to pass as a woman, or do you need to find her inside of you?

When you look in the mirror, and look deep inside your eyes, make sure she looks back at you.

[transpresso]

Home

Is it time to go home?

Home can be where the bad memories are, where the past feels like it's not completely gone. Where you smell the bad feelings in the wind, but can never touch them. The place is forever tainted, you've painted it grey with your feelings. Once there was a time when you loved this place, but now the colors are gone, and the joy is blunted. 

Your ghosts visit you in the day. You swear you saw someone turning past the corner. You remember them, you feel and hear them, even though you don't see them. They didn't like your true self, but have they come around? 

I've run away from the ghosts for so long, maybe I should ask them what they want.

[transpresso]

The Cold Hand

They want to hang out, and that cold hand holds you back. They can't find out how disgusting you are, it whispers. They can't know how terrible it feels inside your head. They are all so normal, and you are just so weird. They won't like you, or you'll drive them away anyway.

So you stayed on your own, with no one to judge you but you. The cold hand won, and people stopped asking.

But one day you put it all out and showed you true self for all to see. Once and for all, stopped hiding and displayed your innards.

All of a sudden, it wasn't so terrible. You've exposed the cold hand to sunlight, it has melted, and become slippery. It tries again, but can't get a grip.

That real you is worth showing, and they're happy to see it. Go out and prove the cold hand wrong.

[transpresso]

When you're finally there

When the mirror isn't your enemy anymore, and the inner voice stops finding your reflection grotesque. Because the music of your looks always sounded discordant, but finally you can hear the harmony.

When your curves are finally worth a peek, through that wavy dress. How the wind can show your hips, your breasts, your legs. And someone notices it.

When sleeping on your stomach becomes a puzzle, because your new body hurts in places you've never imagined. But that one way doesn't, and feels just right.

When your face softens up, and becomes the best canvas you've encountered. Because emotions can paint a clearer picture than you've ever felt.

Then you've discovered your new self, and learned the beauty of being trans-femme.

[transpresso]

Trans-femme on a beach

It's hot, the sun is harsh, and there is not a lick of wind.

We've taken the bus, and arrived at the seaside. We are near a campsite, and walk to a beach that is not so crowded, and where we can put our towels. As we walk, each shadow cast by a pine tree feels like a little oasis.

We find one, not too rocky. I am wearing my swimsuit under my clothes. I've not even underdressed yet, and I'm already uncomfortable.

Women of all ages are around. Mothers with their children, teenagers, older women, grandmothers. They are thin, plump, curvy, straight, pale, tan, tall short. All the body types are represented. Except mine. I look like a brick in a turquoise one piece.

I head for the water, and convince myself that my bulge looks like a prominent vulva. My feet get wet, then my legs. Finally, when the water is deep enough, I plunge.

I let myself float for a while, as I contemplate how beautiful everything is. The sun doesn't feel so hot anymore, and I don't see anyone else around me. I swim out, heading for the buoys. I feel the currents pushing me to-and-fro, and feel my eyes stinging with salt and sunscreen. I swim, on my belly, on my back, splashing my feet, dipping my head. I used to love swimming, I could go to my local pool once or twice a week. These days I'm too intimidated.

After a while, my arms tire. My legs ache. I have to turn back. I make sure my vague attempt at a tuck is secure. Then I get back on the shore. My girlfriend waves at me.

I dry myself, and reapply sunscreen. A man is staring at me. Is he going to say something? Am I in danger? Or does he just stare at a woman in a swimsuit at the beach?

As we head back towards the bus stop I ponder this. We pass by a table of men having beers. After we passed, they burst out laughing.

The world can be scary, and people can be worse. But it was all worth it, for those minutes of freedom in the water.