Nine years later.

This post is expanded from some musings that I put on Twitter earlier, some conversations I’ve been having on Facebook, and thoughts that have been bouncing around my head. Content warning for frank discussion of suicide and grief, and other things.

A list of suicide crisis lines better than any one I could put together can be found here on Wikipedia. Not only are there phone numbers, but there are internet based text chat support, and there are text lines. If you’re hurting, please reach out to someone, be it a help line, a therapist, a friend, or a family member.

(And by the way, if you’re my mother? Please do NOT read this post. I’ve included a read more tag to make it really easy to skip over.)

Continue reading “Nine years later.”

Nine years later.

The not so simple answer.

As stereotypical as it sounds, I have pretty much always known that I am not a girl. Or at least, as long as I can easily remember, and I really don’t have very many concrete memories before when I was around eight years old. From what I can remember, I was never as comfortable being a girl, or with most typically feminine things.

From middle through high school stumbling around the internet, I came across trans narratives in a lot of places, and reading these narratives made a lot of the jumble of feelings going around in my head start to make sense. According to my logic at the time, because I wasn’t a girl, I clearly had to be a boy. I identified very strongly as transgender and moreover as male. There were and still are a plethora of resources around for transgender men, and for a long time this seemed an answer to my question of gender, and a very simple answer at that.

I was in search of the magic ‘passing’ for a man, and that goal gave me a guideline on what clothing I should buy and wear, on how I should wear my hair, on how to walk and talk.

As time has gone on and for reasons that I am still working out, the simple answer has proven to be less and less absolute. Part of it probably stems from the multitude of ways that toxic masculinity pressures masculine-identifying people, and a desire that if that is what it means to be male, I don’t want that either. A gender role that is centred around violence and a lack of emotion isn’t what I was going for. Another part of that stems from the fact that while I have gotten to watch many of my friends go through the joy (and often pains) of self-discovery, and getting on hormone replacement therapy and figuring it out, hormones have always been just out of reach for me. I am admittedly a little bitter about the fact that it is quite likely that for health reasons (better discussed in some other post), hormone replacement therapy will never be a viable option for me.

However, the other thing that has happened is that nonbinary gender has become more prominent, and more discussed. This is the direction where my identity has been shifting, and this is the direction where my experience of gender has always been, perhaps.

I get asked a lot of the time, especially by strangers and children, “Are you a boy or a girl?” When I do respond, because sometimes I’m just too busy or not in a mood to engage, the answer flips between yes, and no, and both of those answers feel valid and relevant at the moment. I’m not a girl, but I’m not a boy either, and more importantly, I don’t have to be either one.

It is still difficult most days to figure out what being nonbinary means for me. Trying to figure out whether something makes me look too feminine for me to be comfortable, too masculine, or some Goldilocks balance of ‘just right’. Similarly, I haven’t figured out the sort of effortless confidence that I see from many nonbinary people on the internet, mixing items from clothing typically considered feminine and clothing typically considered masculine without so much as batting an eyelash. But I am slowly managing to be at a point where I feel comfortable wearing lipstick or eyeshadow, or wearing a dress and combat boots.

And being able to say that for at least that moment, I don’t care.

The not so simple answer.

Becoming myself.

The significance of names has been on my mind a lot recently, as I’m waiting for the last steps of my legal name change and for everything to be official. A week from this coming Monday I have the court hearing that will hopefully be confirming my name change. It’s coming up so much faster than I expected it to. And then I will have the last few pieces of paper with which I will finally become myself.

I never liked my given name (from hereon out referred to as my deadname*), growing up.

Besides the name being very heavily female gendered, it is in Hebrew, and difficult for most anglophones to pronounce properly. I spent my early years at school as a litany of mispronunciations and people wondering why I couldn’t just be okay with them mangling my name into whatever they thought was best. Yet as much as I disliked it, I disliked it even more when they mangled it. I think that is because by mangling my name they gave a sure sign that they didn’t actually care about my opinions, my wants, and my needs.

Online and in person, one of the clearest earlier memories I have is of the series of other names I tried on, in an attempt to find myself. I don’t remember what they were specifically, but I remember the process. This was both in physical space and as soon as I got online in late elementary school. The latter enabled more freedom. It enabled me to have a space where no one knew I was just trying on the name and no one knew anything about me. Or as the saying goes, on the Internet, nobody knows you’re a dog.

I first started going by Rowan online when I was fourteen— or possibly fifteen. It was a while ago and my mental timeline isn’t the clearest. At that point, it wasn’t much different than any other nickname I used online; unlike the others however, it stuck. I didn’t just keep cycling through other names after that, because the name Rowan became a part of my identity.

When I was eighteen, on a whim, I introduced myself as Rowan at a gathering where most of the people present had never met me before in person. It’s the first time that I remember introducing myself and not having to explain myself ten times over and wait while people tried to grasp the concept of my name. When I got home from the gathering, I continued going by Rowan. Unlike that first weekend, though, most of the time people in my daily life deadnamed me, whether on purpose or by accident. It was a slow process to get to the time where most people knew me by my chosen name rather than my deadname, to get to a point where my deadname only haunted me through the hassle of paperwork and my mother’s occasional mistake when she was angry at me.

Jobs, school, doctor’s offices, these were the places where my deadname haunted me and followed me. I’ve spent most of my adult life arguing that the words on the piece of paper do not make something my name. Most workplaces have told me that until it’s on my license and other forms of identification, they just can’t call me by my chosen name.

Even at my current job, I have ended up going by an initialised version of my deadname instead of trying to remind people day in and day out that my name is Rowan. Rowan isn’t the name that is in the computer, so the world tells me that I can’t expect other people to call me by it.

Without the piece of paper that I will be getting from the legal name change, work— and the world as it is right now— does not afford me the dignity of choosing the name I go by, the dignity of self-definition. The dignity to move past the person I was to the person that I am now. I am lucky in that for the most part, this deadnaming is in spaces where it does not put me at risk of harm or violence, but that does not make it hurt any less to be so obviously disrespected. So perhaps it is for that reason amongst the many others that the upcoming name change feels so momentous.

This is me asserting myself, that I am exactly who I say I am.

*deadnaming is the process of referring to a trans person by their birth name as opposed to their chosen name. It comes with the implication that the name given at birth is somehow the person’s “real name” and that the name gone by now is fake, or otherwise less valid.

Becoming myself.