They're Real and They're Spectacular

They’re Real and They’re Spectacular
by Raven Usher

Every transgendered person who ventures out into public tries as hard as possible to keep from being read. Being “read“, according to the North American dictionary of transgender slang, is being recognized as being of a gender other than what is being displayed. For a male to female transgender, if someone reads her when she is out en femme they recognize her as male. None of us like being read. It is the single terror that makes going out into public for the first time so scary.

As we progress and gain experience we become more passable. “Passable” means we are able to portray the gender role of our choice without being read. Being passable takes time, effort and practice and it comes easier for some people than for others. Being passable is not a concern or a goal for all transgendered people. There are many who are content to never venture out before the scrutiny of the public eye. But for those of us who have made the commitment to ourselves to live the gender of our choice publicly, being passable is a high priority.

There are plenty of ways to tell that you are passing effectively, way too many to list here. But I will give you a few examples. You stop getting double takes from strangers. Men you do not know make sexual innuendos. Store clerks call you “Ma’am.” Mechanics and car salesmen try to lie to you. It is a wonderful day when all that happens.

I had originally intended to write about being transgendered on the job search for this issue. But an over-heard conversation in the fitting room at a local retail store changed my mind. Just the subject of the conversation was a wonderful affirmation that I do indeed fit securely into the gender role of my choice. Just as a little plot exposition, on the day in question I was wearing a rather low-cut top I had received as a birthday present.

The two women in the adjacent fitting room had apparently taken notice of me. But not because they had read me. I had indeed passed and they thought me to be female by birth. They had taken notice not of my low-cut birthday present, but what was inside it. In the impenetrable privacy of the retail store fitting room, they were having a heated discussion about my breasts. More specifically, they were in a debate about whether or not i have had implants.

Before rumor festers into fact... No, I do not have breast implants. These spectacular C-cup beauties are entirely home grown. My body’s response to the hormones has been well above normal. Of course, it helps that a number of the women in my genetic line are taller on their backs. And I was never a very good specimen of masculinity even before I started taking hormones. So be assured, these perky little bobbles that I sport around town are not surgically enhanced.

The two debaters, however, came to the incorrect conclusion and decided between themselves that I had had a “boob job.” They then made a few less than complimentary remarks towards my feminine vanity. I, myself, felt particularly flattered by the debate that had taken place on behalf of my breasts. I viewed it as an indication that I have transcended a boundary of the societal acceptance of feminism. It showed me that I am no longer being judged as a man who wants to be a woman. I am instead being judged as a woman who is suspect to all the vanities and scrutiny that besiege all women in American society. That is a big step. And it makes me happy. Not a bad birthday present, huh?
Blessed Be.