James Earl Jones

My voice is deep. Like super deep. It’s all anyone can say despite knowing that this is exactly what was supposed to happen. Last week, a trans guy asked me if the men in my family had especially deep voices, like I might be genetically predisposed to a bass. If I call my bank, or my cable company, they’ll start the conversation using my legal (account-holding) name, only to fall into Mr. Krieger within seconds. Unlike muscles and the tiny weeny, a deep voice wasn’t one of the things that I was especially looking forward to, so I’m surprised by how much pleasure I’m taking in it. I call people I could easily email, and I sing aloud to songs, privately of course. But the best is hearing myself “Om” in yoga. The vibration is finally primordial, eternal, resonant.

Cry Baby

I can still cry. The first time I cried, a month or so ago, I wondered if it was a fluke. But these past couple weeks, I’ve been getting it out, a few trickles and one big bawl. About ninety percent of the trans guys I know say they have a hard time crying, or can’t at all, even when they need to. Sure, I’m not crying nearly as much as I was before T, but I feel significantly more in touch with my emotions. I trust them. And I don’t necessarily think it’s a man/woman thing. It’s more like I feel solid now, whereas before I was fuzzy—my shadow kinda askew, my doppelganger trailing me by a millisecond, something slightly off. I’m not entirely sure how this ties into crying, but I think I’m trying to debunk the myth of the “no crying, unemotional, irritable, aggressive T-infused trans guy.” The reality is I’m peaceful and softer inside, a more emotional version of myself. I’m coalescing in such a way that when I cry, it’s not just something my body is doing. It’s an experience that I actually feel deeply connected to.

The Pleasures of Gay Porn for a Pansexual Who Still, Thankfully, Loves Women

I have to admit that my ability to cry sometimes makes me think I’m not taking enough testosterone. (Although there’s significant debate on the subject of dosing, I take three-quarters of what some consider a “full dose.”) But then I pull something out from my expanding gay porn collection, and I know there’s plenty of T in my system. It’s simple–I used to *like* dude-on-dude action, and now I watch more of it than I ever thought was humanly possible. This is somewhat standard for trans guys, so I won’t go too much into my obsession. It’s also somewhat standard, or at least a possibility, that trans dudes on T go full-on gay. When I started T, there was a lot of speculation from those close to me, and a certain level of concern on my part, that I might no longer be attracted to women. At this point, I think I’m in the clear on this one; I’m still very very much into women, even if I’d prefer not to see them in porn.

When I was in high school, I was a sex educator with this group called HITOPS and one day we had the GLBT council from the local Jersey universities come talk to us. I remember the “bi” girl talking about how cool her sexual orientation was because it meant she had twice the chance of getting a date. Straight at the time, I was jealous; I held onto her comment, kinda dreamed of being like her some day. Now I am. Going out is just so much more interesting when I know there’s the chance that I’ll find anyone and everyone attractive. That said, I know enough to keep my head down and avoid eye-contact when I walk home through the Castro.

Growing Up

I recently saw a trans friend who left San Francisco about a year ago, around the time he started T. I’d bumped into him six months ago, and he definitely looked different, but when I saw him a couple weeks ago, I didn’t recognize him at first. It was partially the complete beard, the button down shirt and vest, the chic glasses. It was also his calmness, a confidence and ease I’d never before seen in him. And it was all wrapped up in his maturity, the movement from child to adult, from boy to man.

When I saw him, I saw the reason I started taking T, or the instinct I had the awareness to follow, a desire to grow up. It  used to frustrate me that I couldn’t see my future. Now I realize it was that, from where I was before, I didn’t have a future. I was aging in a holding pattern. I think there are a million ways to mature, a plethora of experiences that can shape and inform us, teach us how to take care of ourselves, take care of others, but until recently, I’d never had the opportunity to witness my own physical maturity in my reflection, to be proud of the little boy who’s finally growing up.

Confession

I’m still occasionally, absentmindedly, doodling my old name.

I almost never talk to my yoga teachers, especially the ones I like. Because there’s no talking to a yoga teacher without hugging them. And it’s not even like a post-conversation hug. You make one move to open your mouth and their arms open wide, like they couldn’t possibly concentrate on an introduction or anything really until they’ve felt your bare sweaty skin. So part of my avoidance is the intimacy, and part of it is that my favorite yoga teachers have offered me so much spiritual guidance, I think of them like gods. Just imagining a heartfelt hug with a god makes me want to crap my pants.

I always told myself that my only goal of yoga was to show up and be nice to myself. If I was afraid or just didn’t want to approach my teachers, so be it; it wasn’t on the to do list. I’ve been going to yoga semi-regularly for almost two years, and that’s still my only goal. In that time, I’ve only spoken to one of my favorite teachers.

It was a Sunday night, Mother’s Day. Janet had turned the whole class into a beautiful homage to mothers, and at the end, she demanded that everyone whom she’d never met before say hello. It’s the only demand she’d ever made and it sounded more like an invitation like a demand. So, I obliged, even waited uncomfortably in the short hugging line for my turn to rub sweat on Janet and wish her a happy Mother’s Day.

I hadn’t spoken to a teacher since Mother’s Day, and certainly not Rusty, even though I still have a “get well” card on my refrigerator from him–a friend brought it to class for him to sign last year when I had top surgery. A couple months ago, he started paying more attention to me in class, making it a point to help me in a couple poses each time. And by help, I mean entwine his body around mine and open me up in ways that allowed breathe into places that I’m absolutely sure had never received breathe before. His adjustments were more intimate than most of my one-night stands; there’s no way I could talk to him.

Last Friday, I went to his class, and despite having a pretty rough week, I was feeling rather comfortable, stable, strong in my body. That is until the the end of the class, backbend time. I love backbends. I’ll half-ass it on crunches, and go to the bathroom during chair pose, and take a long time to rise into plank, but I always give it my all on backbends.

I like backbends because they feel awesome, and because they are the ultimate heart openers, the foundation of heart opening in all poses really. Plus, a teacher once said you always give the benefits of your last backbend away to someone else. Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know, but since my favorite part of yoga is dedicating my practice to someone else at the beginning of class, it’s not that surprising that my favorite pose involves giving it away; I think of it as selfish selflessness.

In Rusty’s class, I inhaled to my crown and exhaled all the way up and nothing felt right. My body quite simply did not want to do a backbend, so I went back down. Rusty came over, stood by my head and nodded. I knew what it meant, since he’d assisted me once before, having me hold his ankles. I grabbed his ankles and popped up and he supported me, did half the work for me. It felt good, maybe even great. I was very relieved when it was time to come down.

As everyone prepared for the final backbend, I didn’t even think of dedicating mine away. I didn’t even think of going up. I was tired. Rusty saw me on the ground and he came over again. He stood by my head and smiled, so I had to go up, holding his ankles again. This time he instructed me to do push-ups, something I’d done in this position with him once before.

In my backbend, as I started bending and extending my elbows, the term “emotional calisthenics” popped into my head—something my pal says to me whenever I’m going through a rough patch. Emotional calisthenics, I thought as I gripped Rusty tighter for support, raising and lowering myself again and again in this heart opener.

At the very end of class, I started to cry, just a little, and I knew that today was the day. Afterward, I approached. “Hey Rusty, I don’t think we’ve met before,” I said. His arms were around me before I could even say my name.

He thanked me for being so open, for being an amazing presence in his classes. He told me to keep trusting him. I wanted to thank him for holding me up, strengthening me, helping me rise when I couldn’t alone. Instead I just thanked him from being my teacher. It was all too much; I hope we never talk again.