Foxglove
10-29-2012, 11:12 AM
Hello, Annabelle!
Admit it: at first you really weren’t quite sure what you were doing. That’s why you were that bit nervous. Doing yourself up in the disabled loo, in preference to the ladies’—because if some woman walked in while you were mid-transformation, it might have caused an embarrassing scene. As it was, you had a nice, big mirror to work with, but the lighting was very poor. So your makeup job wasn’t the best, but it was acceptable.
How many times over the next two days did you just want to shout out, “Hey, people! What are you seeing?”
At first, of course, you knew what the people were seeing. After all, they were at a TG workshop, a group of transpeople and GG and LGB friends and allies—so if they saw you sitting there in your skirt and cute little boots, etc., well, you knew what they were seeing because you were seeing the same thing as them.
No, it was all the others. If ever there was a time when you wished you could climb inside someone’s head, plant yourself behind their eyeballs, sit astride their optic nerves so that you could see what they were seeing, this was it.
When, e.g., you walked through the building and out the front door to have a smoke. When you passed by the guy on his mobile, engrossed in his conversation, what did he see? Did you even make a blip on his screen? Or those hundreds of people out front for the motor show: did any of them ever glance your way and wonder what they were seeing?
Or the woman that night, the one who came out of the pub, opening her umbrella, with whom you momentarily locked eyes. Or the guy who passed by you and briefly glanced your way. Or all the people packed into the restaurant, intent on their meals and their conversation: as you walked serenely through their midst, did a one of them even notice you?
You know, Annabelle, you are bloody difficult at times. There you were enjoying the inestimable benefits of invisibility. Just one small, middle-aged woman that nobody was the least bit interested in. And yet you were tempted to stand up in the middle of that crowded restaurant and shout out, “Hey!!! Don’t you see who I am? Don’t you see what I’m doing? How can you possibly ignore this?”
You are difficult. You know what was bothering you: more keenly than ever before in your life you were feeling the divide between trans and cis. Because what they were doing was perfectly normal. What you were doing was against all the rules of polite, decent society (at least the way Daddy always described it to you). Why more keenly than before? Because you were in the game. A game of poker is just a game of poker until you’re actually in it yourself. You’d anted up, and now you had something at stake.
Yet at the same time you were perfectly at ease. And you know the reason for that, too. It’s that streak of exhibitionism in you. Remember that Bible Summer Camp way back when, back in your youth when you still went to church? Somebody decided that there should be a drag show, and what fell to your lot to wear was a two-piece swim suit, one of those jobs where the bottom was a cute, little skirt. And it was OK to CD in this case because the pastor had approved it, which meant that God had approved it, which meant that just like a little child feels free and natural prancing around in the buff, you felt free and natural prancing around in your little swimsuit. And now on this night you felt free and natural prancing around in your skirt and little boots, etc., and you were feeling glorious. Yet you still let the question nag you: what were they all seeing?
The waitress in the restaurant that took your order—did she read you? Probably. But she didn’t bat an eye. What about the doorman at the pub the next night who smiled and welcomed you in? What about the bartender who sold you a round of drinks?
And above all what about them? The one time you were truly scared that weekend: those three or four or five girls in the loo, you don’t even know how many of them there were because you were too scared to even look at them. Yes, they were young and big and loud with probably a fair bit of drink in them and you were trespassing on their turf and what would have happened if they’d read you? But it didn’t appear that they did. What did they see? From their lack of reaction you might guess they saw a small, middle-aged woman who wasn’t one of them and so was of no interest to them. Did you even make a blip on their screen?
But that last guy, you can make a fair guess what he saw. You were approaching the door he’d just come through himself, and he stepped back and held the door open wide for you, the way a guy holds a door for a woman—and this after he’d had a pretty good look at you. Maybe what he saw was a small, middle-aged woman, the type he believed in showing courtesy to. That’s what he did in any case—and finished your weekend for you in a way to send you home with fond memories. Bless him!
It’s just a game of poker, Annabelle. You won that first hand. Want to play again? Want to up the ante? Want to play for keeps? Think about it.
Admit it: at first you really weren’t quite sure what you were doing. That’s why you were that bit nervous. Doing yourself up in the disabled loo, in preference to the ladies’—because if some woman walked in while you were mid-transformation, it might have caused an embarrassing scene. As it was, you had a nice, big mirror to work with, but the lighting was very poor. So your makeup job wasn’t the best, but it was acceptable.
How many times over the next two days did you just want to shout out, “Hey, people! What are you seeing?”
At first, of course, you knew what the people were seeing. After all, they were at a TG workshop, a group of transpeople and GG and LGB friends and allies—so if they saw you sitting there in your skirt and cute little boots, etc., well, you knew what they were seeing because you were seeing the same thing as them.
No, it was all the others. If ever there was a time when you wished you could climb inside someone’s head, plant yourself behind their eyeballs, sit astride their optic nerves so that you could see what they were seeing, this was it.
When, e.g., you walked through the building and out the front door to have a smoke. When you passed by the guy on his mobile, engrossed in his conversation, what did he see? Did you even make a blip on his screen? Or those hundreds of people out front for the motor show: did any of them ever glance your way and wonder what they were seeing?
Or the woman that night, the one who came out of the pub, opening her umbrella, with whom you momentarily locked eyes. Or the guy who passed by you and briefly glanced your way. Or all the people packed into the restaurant, intent on their meals and their conversation: as you walked serenely through their midst, did a one of them even notice you?
You know, Annabelle, you are bloody difficult at times. There you were enjoying the inestimable benefits of invisibility. Just one small, middle-aged woman that nobody was the least bit interested in. And yet you were tempted to stand up in the middle of that crowded restaurant and shout out, “Hey!!! Don’t you see who I am? Don’t you see what I’m doing? How can you possibly ignore this?”
You are difficult. You know what was bothering you: more keenly than ever before in your life you were feeling the divide between trans and cis. Because what they were doing was perfectly normal. What you were doing was against all the rules of polite, decent society (at least the way Daddy always described it to you). Why more keenly than before? Because you were in the game. A game of poker is just a game of poker until you’re actually in it yourself. You’d anted up, and now you had something at stake.
Yet at the same time you were perfectly at ease. And you know the reason for that, too. It’s that streak of exhibitionism in you. Remember that Bible Summer Camp way back when, back in your youth when you still went to church? Somebody decided that there should be a drag show, and what fell to your lot to wear was a two-piece swim suit, one of those jobs where the bottom was a cute, little skirt. And it was OK to CD in this case because the pastor had approved it, which meant that God had approved it, which meant that just like a little child feels free and natural prancing around in the buff, you felt free and natural prancing around in your little swimsuit. And now on this night you felt free and natural prancing around in your skirt and little boots, etc., and you were feeling glorious. Yet you still let the question nag you: what were they all seeing?
The waitress in the restaurant that took your order—did she read you? Probably. But she didn’t bat an eye. What about the doorman at the pub the next night who smiled and welcomed you in? What about the bartender who sold you a round of drinks?
And above all what about them? The one time you were truly scared that weekend: those three or four or five girls in the loo, you don’t even know how many of them there were because you were too scared to even look at them. Yes, they were young and big and loud with probably a fair bit of drink in them and you were trespassing on their turf and what would have happened if they’d read you? But it didn’t appear that they did. What did they see? From their lack of reaction you might guess they saw a small, middle-aged woman who wasn’t one of them and so was of no interest to them. Did you even make a blip on their screen?
But that last guy, you can make a fair guess what he saw. You were approaching the door he’d just come through himself, and he stepped back and held the door open wide for you, the way a guy holds a door for a woman—and this after he’d had a pretty good look at you. Maybe what he saw was a small, middle-aged woman, the type he believed in showing courtesy to. That’s what he did in any case—and finished your weekend for you in a way to send you home with fond memories. Bless him!
It’s just a game of poker, Annabelle. You won that first hand. Want to play again? Want to up the ante? Want to play for keeps? Think about it.