Becoming Alice… My way

Entry #5 (the final one) of an occasional journal of thoughts, experiences and perceptions during a trip from New York, through Doha to Dubai and then on to Australia.

In a way I suppose it was inevitable that Pricilla would follow me around in Alice Springs; not that I ever imagined she would. But having embraced some of the unlikely comparisons (along with the non-existent ones) that I had with the classic movie The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, she actually accompanied me to the airport to see me off.

Happenstance is a remarkable thing. When I booked my AirBnB accommodation in Alice a few weeks earlier, I had a good feeling about the place, but thought no more of it than that. In the subsequent email dialogue with the host, she noticed the default footer on my email promoting ‘Tea and Transition’ and we chatted a little more about that, and who I am.

“You should definitely meet up with Georgie when you are here,” she said. “I’m sure you’d have a lot to talk about.”

So that’s what I did, hoping that we would. We chose coffee at the Olive Pink Botanical Gardens. That’s an amazing place in itself, as it is completely removed from the lush, green botanical gardens that you imagine such a place should be. This is a very special gardens in the middle of the dessert; one that specializes in indigenous plants of the region—which are many and surprisingly varied. The gardens were set up by one Olive Pink; a remarkable pioneering woman who came to Alice Springs in the 1930s after the railway from Adelaide arrived. Renowned as a feisty old lady (always armed with some seriously dangerous sherry), her position of working with Aboriginal culture and not against it was far ahead of her time.

I waited for Georgie at a table outside. A cappuccino in front of me and a small tree lizard a few feet away eying up the latest visitor to his patch. A kangaroo even hopped close by, looking for water on a day that had already reached 35C (95F) at 11.00am.

Georgie arrived, and I was struck by her gorgeous flowing hair and warm smile; both of which fitted well on her tall, lanky frame. Her particular circumstance is that she was born intersex—one of the lesser understood initials within the ever-expanding LGBTIQ acronym. I also had a lot to learn about this far less well known sector of the spectrum. She told me about her own childhood and the misplaced perceptions that those around her had of someone who identified female and yet had the physical attributes of neither binary gender.

We must have talked for over three hours (though I did consume a tasty toastie in that time), and I felt honored to be let into the life of someone different to me and yet with threads of similarity. I could have talked for longer more about where we stood with and outside the LGBT equation, but we both had other places to go. However, wanting to continue our conversation, she offered to take me to the airport the following morning, maybe stopping off for a bite or a cuppa en route.

So the next day she picked me up from the AirBnB and took me out to her car—only it wasn’t a car off course; it was a beaten up van filled with a bunch of possessions in the back. It reminded me of the Mystery Machine that Scooby Doo and his clan used to travel around in, but this one was without the graffiti on the side.

“I wouldn’t mind having that paintwork,” Georgie volunteered, “but I’d be more likely to get pulled over by the cops, and I don’t want that extra hassle—as of course all vans with unconventional paint-jobs just must be filled with dope.” She rolled her eyes at me.

As we had coffee in the center of town (not that there is much more than the center of town in Alice) someone else who knew Georgie came up for a chat. Eddie is a trans-man and just talking to him reinforced the simple fact that even though we were hundreds of miles away from any other town with a population spanning four digits, gender and the perception of self have no geography. Georgie had already told me of many Sister Girls and Brother Boys (that is transgender or gender variant) within the indigenous population and how she and others had tried to reach out to them over the years. Sometimes this had been a success; with some individuals appreciating that even in the remotest parts of the outback they really were not alone. She also told me of one horrific time: a Sister Girl had grown up within indigenous culture and had been accepted as gender variant by her immediate family, and as such, had escaped the male initiation rites that local culture put males through around the age of puberty. But one day a bunch of men took her away, shaved her head, and performed some sort of brutal circumcision on her. As my heart sank hearing such a story, I knew that this event was not unique. I did wonder about the outcome though.

“I really don’t know what happened to her,” Georgie sighed, “she just disappeared.”

I finished my coffee, Georgie finished her roll-up, and we headed back to the van. As the door creaked open and I climbed aboard, I suddenly realized that Priscilla was there too. The beaten-up bus from the movie was equally ramshackle (if not a van), and the three drag queens were replaced in real life by one intersex and one transgender person. Still, unmistakably, we were in Alice Springs. I laughed out loud at how, just a few weeks earlier, I had been afraid to watch that movie; now it was following me around.

“If you like, we can strap you to the top of the van, put you in a cocktail gown, and attach a huge expanse of gold lame to your back as you express yourself on the way to the airport!” Georgie joked. But there was still an element of transparency in what she suggested.

Along the way to the airport, we discussed many more conceptions and mis-perceptions; one of those being how some people assume that trans people are friends with other trans people because they are trans, or intersex folk with other intersex people and so on. We agreed that—for us anyway—any connection was due to simply liking that other person, and not because of any shared history or association with any particular initial within the LGBTIQ spectrum.

We parted at the airport with a big hug, and over the next 24 hours before I left to return home to New York, I contemplated how I had changed during this long trip that started in the Middle East, then took me to Melbourne, and finally Alice Springs. Like many experiences, you don’t always know the implications until much later. But I knew that I had changed, and my own appreciation of others had become even more varied and valid. From human and women’s rights in the Middle East—where even the word transgender does not have an Arabic translation, to the freedoms and wide open spaces of Australia where acceptance is greater but still the ignorance and bigotry of misunderstanding remain. Above all, the biggest influence was the one the least expected: A battered old bus that I never saw but that followed me around Alice Springs, before leaving its own indelible tire tracks in my psyche of perceptions.


Chasing Priscilla

Entry #4 of an occasional journal of thoughts, experiences and perceptions during a trip from New York, through Doha to Dubai and then on to Australia.

Melbourne, Australia.

It’s a long flight from Dubai to Melbourne. But that was to be my next stop on my trek around the world. After the relative restrictions of a week in the Middle East, I was looking forward to letting my hair down a little more; not worry about the length of my skirt or whether I could easily discuss being transgender with the media or the public at large. I whiled away the more than 12 hours catching some sleep (not that I ever find that easy on a flight) and watching movies. One that caught my eye was a documentary from 2015: “Between a Frock and a Hard Place”—the story behind the 1994 classic movie, “The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert”.

The movie, however, is one that I have always steered clear of. Yes, I knew the reviews were great, the critical acclaim widespread, and the soundtrack catchy as hell, but I have always avoided it. More poignantly, I wanted to avoid it. I can’t remember where I was when it came out, but even after it came out on video (long before the days of DVD and video downloads) I still avoided watching it. After I confronted—and accepted—my transgender status, I wanted to watch it even less.

“But it’s a great movie!” my friends told me. Perhaps, but even though I only knew a rough outline of the story, I felt it was unnervingly close to something I had experienced. No, I’d never been a drag queen, nor traveled through the Australian Outback, but still, I didn’t want to be amused by these frocks and outlandish make-up. However, watching the documentary (at around 35,000 feet, somewhere over the Indian Ocean), I felt strangely drawn to it.

Priscilla is the story of three drag queens who travel from the relative comfort of Sydney, through the Outback, to Alice Springs, on a bus they nickname “Priscilla”. Yet even the bright lights of Sydney in the early 1990s were hardly gay-, drag-, or trans-friendly. As they continue through the Australian heartland towards the center of the country and Alice Springs, they experience the predictable discrimination and bigotry that anyone within LGBT circles knows only too well. All this was clear from the documentary, but the narration from Terrence Stamp (one off the three main characters) along with insights and memories from everyone else, made for a fascinating and touching retrospective. “Maybe it’s time I did watch the movie,” I mused as one of the cabin crew took my food tray away.

On arrival in Melbourne, I was met by my dear friend James. I first met James four years ago—on my last trip here—when I stayed in the B&B he ran with his then partner. We never lost touch, and reconnected again twice on his subsequent visits to New York; the first one being therapy after his partner of almost 30 years walked off with a younger guy. We’ve since become firm friends and I knew it was going to be wonderful to spend a couple of weeks with him again; not least as we both enjoy a good whine over wine.

The next day I told James about the documentary.

“I’ve got the original film on DVD if you want to watch it this evening,” he said. “You’ll love some of the scenery as it was shot near Broken Hill, not far away from here.” (This ‘not far’ being about an eight-hour drive.) “And besides, you are going to Alice Springs too.”

I’d almost forgotten that comparison. I was indeed heading to Alice a week or so later—not on a beaten-up bus, but on a rather more luxurious train with free-flowing wine and gourmet food. For sure I would also be experiencing some of the sights that were seen on the movie; a heartland with stunning yet barren landscapes and non-existent rainfall. I knew the timeless heritage would also be there; an inner soul that many visitors find solace in, and most other countries simply don’t have. Visitors often do a day / night trip to Uluru (the former Ayer’s Rock); either seeking spiritual enlightenment that the history there bestows, or just appreciating the beauty of a big red rock plonked dead-center within the enormity of nothing. Sitting on the sofa in James’ cottage in Melbourne, maybe the time was now right to exorcise a few transcendent demons of my own. He put the disc in the machine and pressed play.

What I saw wasn’t me, but I knew that already. Still it affected me.

By the end credits I was sniffling, then when D asked me what I thought of it, I started bawling. I cried like a baby; cried like I haven’t done for years.

“What’s wrong?” D asked, giving me a hug, “tell me.”

“It’s too close…” I spluttered, “just too close.” But the crying didn’t stop.

In the days that followed, I tried to analyze my feelings more. Why did this movie hit so hard to home, when in fact were more differences than similarities? Weren’t there? I’ve never quite understood the connection between gay culture and drag queens but it wasn’t that. I’d never aligned myself within either of those camps, and regardless off me having more gay friends now than in my earlier years, I don’t put that down to being trans. Yes, I could understand much of the ignorance and bigotry that the girls on the bus were put through, yet their own modus operandi was far more in your face than I ever pursued or advocated within my own transition. The only empathic streak I found was at the end of the film, when Bernadette (perhaps) found love in the bus repair guy. This wasn’t a head-over-heels finding of a soulmate, more the appreciation that finding love as a transgender person is often one of compromise. Was this a man she actually loved, or was she just accepting the rare love that someone else had for her? Maybe this thread at the end of the film was the one that resonated the most.

Still I don’t have answers to all those questions I asked myself, and why I had put off watching this movie for so long, but maybe the fact that I accepted the questions themselves is more important than finding any resolutions. As I continue my own Australian journey on to Alice Springs in a few days’ time, perhaps the scorched earth of the Red Center will ground me still further. Regardless, my own inner acceptance seems to have broadened in ways that I hadn’t expected from watching 90 minutes of celluloid, 20 years on.

A Question of Belief

I suppose we all have different ways of accepting who we are. For me, it took many years to accept that I am transgender, and even longer to say it to anyone else. When I moved into my current apartment, in Queens, I was still portraying myself as a man. How deeply I was male I really don’t know, but outwardly to the landlords and the neighbors I was a man. In the first few months that I presented as female, it undoubtedly confused the same landlords and neighbors. I think it amused others on the same block too as I was then subject to the sort of verbal abuse that every trans person gets.

I live in a quite traditional area of Queens — as much as anything is traditional in this city of immigrants, of which I am unashamedly one. So it’s quite normal that on one side of my apartment there is a family from South America (though I’ve never quite established which country it is. It never mattered as we don’t talk much to each other though always exchange a friendly greeting) where as on the other side is a family of Italian Americans spanning three generations. One door further down the block an older couple, also Italian Americans, who I guess must be in their 80s now.

In the early days of being Nicky, I used to hope that I wouldn’t see any of my neighbors when leaving the house to avoid any awkward eye contact. It didn’t always work. The male half of the old couple used to turn away when he saw me; presumably so he wouldn’t have to see the weird person who used to be a man. The three-generational didn’t seem much more accommodating either; but how is one supposed to greet someone who is now presenting completely differently? Perhaps the best way is to do nothing at all. Maybe that’s what I would have done too.

The biggest surprise in breaking the ice (the ice that I felt was there anyway) came from the most unlikely source: the elder grandmother of the three-generational family. I was out tending the small patch of garden outside the house when she came over for a chat.

“The flowers are looking good! I’m Kathy by the way — what’s your name?”

“Nicky,” I replied. “People call me Nicky”.

“It’s nice to meet you, Nicky” she said. And I honestly felt the same.

In the following years the rapprochement became easier, though still glacial at times. I would hardly talk with the youngest of the three generations (three testosterone-filled boys) and I felt they were probably sniggering at the ‘guy in a dress’ behind my back. And still the older guy turned away when I was walking by. Then, the grandmother of the generational family died. I was truly saddened, not only because she had been the one who had reached out with her own olive branch, but also because she had since become a friend. So I was very much honored when the family asked me if I’d like to come to the funeral. At that point, I could not have imagined a bigger level of acceptance. Although I couldn’t make it to the service, I did go to the wake at the funeral home afterwards. I chatted with the other two generations with warmth and respect, in fact one of the younger kids even started shedding a tear when I asked him about fond memories of his grandma.

The next big step happened around the time of the launch of my book, Tea and Transition. My mother had come over for the launch event, and when we were waiting on the stoop for the taxi to arrive, she started chatting with the neighbors, who were also on their stoop. She got on with them like a house on fire, which again amazed me — though maybe it shouldn’t have, as my mother will talk to anyone at any time. Often she can rub people up the wrong way, but here she was among new found friends. I don’t think it was intentional as such, but I feel that her being here, by my side, for the book launch further legitimized me as a woman in the eyes of my neighbors. Since then, things have gone full circle from the early days. Now I actually hope to see any of that family on their stoop so I can see how they are doing and exchange a few words. I saw the father popping into a bar round the corner last week, and he even asked me in for a drink. I didn’t go, but I will do one day.

However the latest, and maybe the biggest step happened this afternoon. The older Italian couple have started talking to me again, and he doesn’t turn away when I walk by, but this time he stopped me for a chat. I was admiring his flowers and he asked me about my book.

“I remember talking with you when you moved in,” he said. “You were a man.”

“Yes, that’s right” I replied, ignoring the specifics of when I actually might have been a man or ‘become’ a woman.

“Now you are a woman,” he continued. “So much work you have done… operations and so on.”

“Yes,” I said, “but I am happy. Very much at peace. The sense of calm I have is wonderful.”

“I am a very Roman Catholic person,” he added. I had assumed this, as he had always been a key and visible part of events at the local church, but it also made me have some concerns about what he was about to add.

“This is a miracle.”

I didn’t see that coming.

“God wanted you this way. You were born another way, but God wanted you this way. It’s a miracle.”

I felt incredibly humbled as I am not in any way a miracle, but in his mind — in his belief and in his faith — this was his particular way of dealing with something that he had never expected from the neighbor two doors down. For me, I just felt hugely gratified that another gap of misunderstanding had been broached. Perhaps now I could get more gardening tips from him again too — he had given me one or two ideas back in the ‘old days’ but those dried up with my womanhood. Now I feel the ground might be fertile enough for us to continue.

Faith is many things to many people, religion likewise. Our beliefs drive us forward in many and diverse ways. They can also cause friction, wars, and distrust that may linger for countless generations. But not on my block. New York is known to be a melting pot of countless cultures and religions but it still has many divisions. Not on my block. The obstacles to acceptance that I felt in my early transitional days when I left my apartment have gone. Those around me may never fully understand what being transgender is all about — that often confuses me too — but it doesn’t matter to them anymore. Nor me, either.

That is my block.

Who Plays the Transgender Role?

When musing over what could happen next for Tea and Transition, one of the questions that friends ask is: “who would you like to play you in the movie?” It’s with a little surprise from me when asked, and incredulity from them when I reply: “well, me, of course!” I’m not offended that they are not aware of my thespian tendencies, as it has been several decades since I trod the boards last, and they probably didn’t know of that event anyway. I certainly thought my playing of attendant #1 in a school play production of The Merchant Of Venice was Oscar-worthy. Or it might have been tree #2 in a background scene, after all the better roles had been taken. Yet the question that those friends ask is a valid one as it does raise one of the other trans topics du jour: should transgender roles only be played by transgender actors?

There was news from British media this week that the long-running soap-series EastEnders would have a transgender character in it (the first in its 30 year run) and that the role would be played by a transgender actor. Firstly, congrats to Riley Carter Millington for landing the job — and to the writers and producers for including such a part. It is always welcome that trans stories are included within mainstream media, if only to broaden the cultural conversation. I’m sure that Riley will do a terrific job, but would it have been appropriate to have a non-transgender actor playing this role? This is a subject that can get the panties of many trans-activists in a wad (knickers in a twist if I am resorting to British colloquialism) as it is often felt that the best way to support the trans community is to give trans jobs to trans characters. I disagree.

I remember watching Felicity Huffman give an excellent performance in the 2005 movie Transamerica and I didn’t consider the part less authentic just because the actor wasn’t transgender herself. Though, relevant or not, that was also the time when I had yet to identify that I myself was trans. The performance that Jeffrey Tambor gave in Transparent was first rate even though I still think that series was marred by a gamut of other gender and sexuality issues that detracted from the transgender issue itself. There were other ‘real life’ transgender characters in that series, and I believe Jill Solloway actively encourages and promotes transgender talent within the production process. Great, that’s definitely to be valued, though it doesn’t mean that all trans characters have to be played by trans actors.

The point is, that to get the message across about being transgender and for the audience to empathize with that character is more important than filling the role with that gender-specific person. Sure, the part should be considered for a trans actor first, but let’s not get bogged down in political correctness if there might be an actor who could portray the role better and get that message across to a wider audience. I hope a subsequent step will be to create a trans role that the viewing public will actually NOT like. Huh?

It took Hollywood a while to create black villains, and I can’t think of many gay baddies within the industry either (time for the next Bond megalomaniac baddy to be gay?), so I trust there will be a time when we can have a transgender character in a key role that will meet a gloriously untimely end — not because they are trans but because their character was the villain. This is a long way off, and society needs to get to the point of comfort where we don’t actually think of transgender people as transgender people anymore, just as people people. One day, one day…

So yes, if I can, and if my skills are up to scratch, I’d still like to play myself if and when Tea and Transition makes it to the big screen. Oh, and for the role of my mum? Dame Judi Dench. Call me, that part is yours.

The Courage in Being Transgender

One of the biggest surprises to me when I saw Caitlyn Jenner accept the Arthur Ashe Courage Award was how eloquently she spoke. A few more “we” references as opposed to “they” ones when talking about transgender people would have been wiser, but she was still standing up for the trans community. These are baby steps for the 65 year old after all.

As cynics continue to question Jenner’s motives and muse over how self-serving they are, others in America wonder whether a celebrity outing herself as trans is the pinnacle of being brave. With an army of stylists at her coattails (or Versace dress in this case), an upcoming TV show to promote, and Hollywood feeding on anything transgender as the latest media trend, the concept of Caitlyn’s bravery is cushioned beyond reality.

Rightly, Jenner raised the huge problem of kids being bullied as they come to terms with their own genders, though her comments come from advisors, not through experience in meeting those people. By her own admission, she had not met anyone else trans until earlier this year. The transgender person you meet at school, work, or on the street is unlikely to have the same glamour quotient as Caitlyn, didn’t arrive to work in a black-windowed SUV, and didn’t have the services of her plastic surgeon—although that could be an arguable blessing.

Many times throughout my own transition people called me brave. I often felt confused and a shade embarrassed when I heard that. I never felt brave, not in any traditional sense, as I was just being myself. For others it requires incredible fortitude, perhaps in the process of self-determination, or in the ability to act upon that sense of identity. Some, sadly, will never be able to get to the stage they desire, whatever stage that is and however deeply they wish to change. Culture, religion and society all play parts in a person’s ability to transition, fear of being ostracized from friends or family is a very real concern too.

A further aspect of bravery is negotiating hardship in getting to where you know you belong, or where you need to be. Arthur Ashe was the standard bearer for that. Last year’s winner of Ashe’s award, Michael Sam, must have run through a gamut of abuse from a male-centric sport as he became the first publicly gay player to be drafted into the NFL. I’m sure he still does. Coming out winner over a dreadful bone marrow disease made Robin Roberts a worthy recipient of the award the previous year. Billie Jean King, Muhammad Ali, and some lesser known sporting stars have also received the accolade of the Arthur Ashe award. Caitlyn Jenner receiving that same award strikes a nerve of incredulity in many people—me included.

I welcome that her transition has broadened the dialogue and allowed America to talk about a subject that before was too often below the radar. However speaking as one of the countless other transgender people, we are not Caitlyns, and her celebrity support is harder to assimilate within the rank and file.

The concept of one person being braver than another—especially when in award ceremonies—is somewhat fatuous, though I hope that ESPN and its Disney parent company have not just highlighted Jenner’s journey as a way to attach their own train to the transgender bandwagon.

Call me woman

After Caitlyn Jenner unveiled herself in lingerie for Vanity Fair, reaction has predominantly fallen into two camps: visible support for her as you would earthquake victims in faraway lands (lest you appear heartless), or label her as sassy for showing too much leg. Cut through the media sensationalism and celebrities falling over themselves to support her, and I’m struggling to find the voice of reason.

Above and beyond my own transition, I have always tried to clarify one of the biggest misunderstandings about being transgender: that sexuality and gender definition are two distinctly different things. And so a provocative image of Jenner in a bustier for a magazine front cover has done nothing to enhance the public perception of those differences. We don’t need to come across as frumpy, but this was a few inches of skin too far. Caitlyn herself must be delighted with the images as she looks stunning, yet for the rest of us trying to explain that transgender women shouldn’t be perceived as vampish, it was a retrograde step.

There is also a growing presumption that we need to re-write history as a consequence of Jenner’s transition. I appreciate that pronouns are tricky (I still get friends and relations calling me “he” by mistake, even though I have been “she” for several years) but the things that I did as a man were done in that gender. That past I cannot change. Should the medals that Jenner won as Bruce now be revised as successes for Caitlyn? No, Bruce won those accolades, not Caitlyn. There are many things that I’d have preferred to have done with the benefit of hindsight as a woman in my 20s or 30s but I can’t—I was a man then.

This redefinition seems to be growing into other areas too. In Texas and Tennessee a debate has started regarding changing street names celebrating Bruce Jenner—should these be updated with her new name? This is slightly more acceptable as the renaming is supportive of her transition though doubtless there will be detractors to argue that the names should stay, or even changed to something else altogether. Thus, there needs to be a balance between supporting who Jenner is now and the desire to change the facts to fit with our revised sensibilities.

I also see an unnecessary backlash. I have read of the premise that transgender women are less female because we didn’t grow up with vaginas. (New York Times June 6th, 2015 “What Makes A Woman” by Elinor Burkett). There, the author claims that feminists and transgender activists are on some sort of collision course. I refute that.

To be clear, I wasn’t a suffragette in 1920s Britain fighting for equal voting rights, nor was I a part of the feminist movement in 1960s America. Does that negate my sense of self that I am a woman? Try telling a black activist that they are somehow ‘less black’ because they didn’t march from Selma to Montgomery and you’d get laughed out of town. And rightly so.

I know I was not born the way I am now, but just because I didn’t go through puberty as a 16 year old girl, or deal with monthly reminders from my updated body, or suffer gender-based discrimination in the workplace, doesn’t make me any less able to call myself a woman. I accept that I have fewer accrued experiences in my true gender but that doesn’t lessen their worth. So, please, let’s move away from the “I’m more of a woman than you are” claims—it makes us sound like men.

It is undoubtedly positive that Caitlyn Jenner has revitalized the transgender conversation, and to see a person at peace with themselves as a result of this change is empowering. She has found balance, the rest of us now need to do the same.

The Second Coming (Out)

In one week’s time, my book “Tea and Transition” will be hitting the shelves. Actually it will be slightly longer before I get physical books-on-shelves coverage in Barnes & Noble and the independent booksellers but it will be available on the virtual shelves of from that date, and in multiple formats too. Among the stress and worry of getting the logistics working in alignment, there is another strange additional emotion I’m experiencing too. I’m not quite what it is, but I think it’s about losing some of my anonymity. Of course I want the book to be a success, so why should I not feel the excitement that other people say they are feeling about the impending release? I put it down to The Second Coming (Out).

It was about 5 years ago that my day to day life started in female mode. I suppose my transition began some time before that and then continued long afterwards too, but in these last couple of years I have felt simply at one with myself. No other surgery to do, no further name changes to worry about, everything had been completed. I’d had all of the awkward (and not so awkward) conversations with friends and family, and everyone (with one or two exceptions) who I knew in my ‘past life’ accepted me as Nicky, and not the guy who came before me. I even stopped caring as much if people saw me as a transgender woman or a woman woman. People simply knew me as Nicky (or Nicola if I am being formal) whether or not they were aware of my previous incarnation. So my past was behind me. I was complete.

Writing the book almost happened by mistake. It started when I began experiencing emotions and feelings that I knew would never happen again. It began as a journal, something for my own benefit that I could use to remind me of the evolution that I was a part of. And yes, sometimes I didn’t quite know what was going on, it just seemed to happen. I got caught up in my own evolution as a natural part of who I seemed to be and what I appeared to be becoming. It was only after several months that I wondered if these scrawlings could become something larger, though I had no idea if anyone else would like to read them. I still don’t.

Completing the book made me think more about what I had been through, though as the time line stopped around 2 years ago, I was actually somewhat disassociated from what I had written. Now it was all about the editing process, how to polish what I had written, and of course, getting it out as a real, physical book. Although everything really did happen exactly as I described, I viewed it more dispassionately as a project I was seeing through to completion and not a baring of my soul to the media. I was still proud of the book – and I am, immensely – but I hadn’t appreciated that with the promotion and distribution of it, I would need to come out all over again.

Of course I am grateful that I am being asked to write pieces for the media to tie in with the book release, and now I am working with a wonderful publicist, I am hoping those requests will gain momentum so that I can bring my story to a bigger audience. However with that comes the need to explain myself again, to have to go through all the emotions that I felt several years ago, and to talk about a period of my life that is essentially over. I know, I get it, that’s what the whole dang book is about and I truly do want it to be a success! But with that comes the personal reminder that I am a transgender woman after all.

The working title for the book for much of its writing period was “The Woman I Was”. I liked the slight ambiguity of the wording and felt that it reflected the concept that I was probably a woman before I realized it myself. But book experts advised me that such a title would be too confusing and might even imply that I was a woman before and am now a man! Jeez, I didn’t want to have that association! Besides, the link with tea is far more appropriate.

One of the broader aims that I have is that, in time, we can do without labels and definitions. Society is getting there and these days we rarely say the (black) actor, the (lesbian) actress, the (gay) runner – because there is simply no need for those added words. Yet still we tend to say the transgender actress. Not always, but often there seems to be the need to qualify that the actress is a transgender actress. Having said that, how would I like to be introduced if I am giving an interview? The transgender author? I am that and so it does make sense – especially as that is what the book is about.

Still, I return to the flux of now having to come out again. I really hadn’t expected to do that a second time, but maybe this is beyond that. Perhaps this is the true finishing point as I lift the final veil of transparency.