©Eva Crouzet-Takizawa
[I use the adjectives “trans” and “transsexual” when referring to myself. However cis people should know that the term “transsexual” is rejected by many trans people. If you’re not sure what a person prefers, use “trans” or “transgender”.]
Stories are the best way to create meaning. We are told fairy tales, fables and myths from a very young age because we understand lessons better when they’re not about us: they don’t intertwine with our egos as much. As a transsexual man, I have spent an incredible amount of time reading and listening to other people’s stories – people who I ended up having a lot in common with. If I had not read their stories, I might have never learned what being trans means. In other words, I might have never had the tools to understand and describe myself without them. It’s been almost two years since my first coming-out, and I know that it is now my turn to tell my story. Only two years have passed since I have “known”, but it feels like a lifetime. So much has happened and so many things have changed that I never know where to start or which angle to choose. Am I allowed to speak for the trans community? Am I selfish if I decide not to? How can I give an account of what my journey has been like when I could write entire books about every single aspect of it? How do I describe the way beauty and violence have co-existed along the way? The point is that I need to make choices. The story can only be told bitt by bit.
"We are told fairy tales, fables and myths from a very young age because we understand lessons better when they’re not about us: they don’t intertwine with our egos as much."
My story is the story of a lucky guy. I have been blessed enough to be surrounded with people who cared, who supported me, who respected me ; I was able to start taking hormones almost as soon as I was ready to do so. This tends to be a privilege when living in such a transphobic world. The violence we experience is harmful, and some of us don’t get the support they deserve from their family and friends. The consequences are mental and physical health issues, and sometimes (too often) death. I’m not going to speak about numbers. Don’t get me wrong, figures matter. But they seem meaningless compared to the never-ending feeling that one of us is always dying. This morning, a trans woman was killed; tomorrow, another trans person will commit suicide. This morning, we feared for our lives; tomorrow, we’ll think that the lives this world can offer us are not even worth it. Even when I try to remain hopeful, every suicide within the community takes me back to all the times I considered ending my own life.
Pain was a part of the process, from the physical and psychological trauma created by dysphoria crisis to binders crushing my back and lungs; from a partner telling me that her family wouldn’t accept our relationship to a parent asking me if I’m being influenced. There has been pain caused by others and there were times I was hurting myself. As I’ve said before, there is also pain that comes from watching my community suffer. It took me a long time to understand that whatever ache I go through, I am not bringing it upon myself. The blame is on a society that still isn’t ready to let people be who they know they are – a society that needs to control if and how we can be trans in order to keep its domination structures stable.
I am not telling this part of my story to make people feel some sort of pity. I am writing it because it is a part of reality. I do not want to be called strong or resilient or brave. I don’t want people to feel sad for me, because there has been more happiness than hurting and more personal growth than pain. The day that I started questioning my gender identity is the day that I met the real me. Since then, I have been exploring my identity in such depth that I can now say that I know myself better than I ever imagined I would. I know who I am and who I aspire to be. Every step I’ve taken was a step towards fulfilment. I have conquered areas of my body and soul, and I have abandoned others; but from their ruins I built new parts of myself.
"I don’t want people to feel sad for me, because there has been more happiness than hurting and more personal growth than pain. The day that I started questioning my gender identity is the day that I met the real me."
I used to feel pressured by the idea of knowing. I made the questioning phase last longer than it needed to because I was afraid to say that I was sure I was transsexual. Every time I’d think of myself as a man, I would immediately hide behind those intrusive questions that I knew people would ask: how do you know you’re a man? What makes you a man? Don’t you need to be 100% sure? Why did you use a feminine adjective today when referring to yourself? Why would you want to be a man now that you know the role they have in patriarchy? Can’t you just be androgynous? I remember the first few times I spoke the words “I am a trans man”: I was terrified, as if saying it was like writing it on my forehead with permanent ink, or as if the statement was too strong compared to how new and uncertain it felt. Today, I still cannot answer that “how do I know?” question. I decided that it does not need to be explained, nor to be described. Letting go of those harmful thoughts which made me question my identity was what allowed me to embrace the peace that comes with knowing. Instead of something I should fear, it is now something that I seek in all aspects of my life. Knowing has been my best weapon because it allowed me to take care of myself.
My story is a drop in the ocean. When the water is calm and warm around me, there might be a storm a hundred kilometres away. Throughout this transition, I have stopped on the sand of many shores, but the waves will soon take me back into their flow to send me on a new continent, where I will lay even more blissfully in the sun.
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