going home

Good News!

Turns out the TSA agents aren’t looking at our privates when they send us through the x-ray scanner machine. How do I know this? Because even after I was “randomly selected” (is it still random when it happens to you every time?) to stand with my hands up in the scanner machine for a little dose of unnecessary radiation, they still thought I was a man. How do I know this? Because they had the male TSA agent pat me down. Which, in and of itself, was not a cause for celebration, but hey, I’ll take it!

Before I cut my hair and started binding I was regularly “randomly selected” for an additional pat down whenever I made my way through airport security. Usually a portly older woman would check my arms, legs, and chest for who-knows-what, but on my most recent trip home I was addressed as “sir” and checked for explosives by a mustachioed man.

Progress!

Maybe the next time I fly I’ll try wearing my packer. I have avoided wearing it through airport security for fear of appearing as though I am trying to smuggle something on to the plane in my pants. Can you imagine? Now that would be awkward. “Excuse me sir but we’re going to need you to empty your pockets completely.”

don't touch me there

Anyway…

What I really want to talk about is going home. My trip back to New England was actually quite enjoyable, because I passed very easily the entire time; the flight attendants called me sir, someone on the plane called my “guy,” and someone else referred to me as a young man. So, needless to say, I was in quite a good mood. Actually being at home has been a bit more difficult than expected.

I have been out to my parents for a while, and I had asked them as well as my close friends from home to call me Miles and to use male pronouns when referring to me. I also called my sisters a few days before I flew home and came out to them. So I was hoping that everyone at home would just call me Miles and refer to me as a boy and that everything would be easy, but this was a bit unrealistic. #yeahyouthink??

Of course I understand that it is weird for my close friends and family to call me by a new name and that it will take some time for them to get used to it. And I know that they are trying. My mother and cousin even came up with the idea of the name-and-pronoun-jar, like a swear jar, but instead of owing money after cursing, they would owe five cents for every incorrect pronoun and ten cents for forgetting to use the name Miles. It seems to me, however, that this worked better when I wasn’t actually around (they started before I arrived.) Which actually makes sense when I think about it; it’s a bit easier to refer to me as Miles the boy when I’m miles (ha) away than it is to look me in the face and call me something other than what my family has associated my visage with for years and years. Several hours after telling me about the money jar idea, my family just resorted to calling me “M.”

The problem really lies with me, because I am SO IMPATIENT. I wanted everything to be different as soon as I stepped off that plane, I want facial hair and a low voice and a flat chest RIGHT NOW #morelikeyesterday

But I have to wait.

Because it’s a very long process. #waytoolong #thatswhatshesaid

What I REALLY can’t wait for is having a flat chest. Each time I go to the beach or walk down to the docks to go for a swim, I am so indescribably jealous of all my guy friends; walking around with the shirts off, swimming in shorts, getting a nice even tan, and then drying off and putting their shirts back on without having to wear anything underneath. It’s all that I’ve ever wanted.

I cannot even begin to describe how uncomfortable it is for me to live with breasts. Even though half the world lives happily as women, I feel as though I am carrying all this extra weight around, as if it is not a part of me but something merely attached to my front, pulling me down, getting in the way. To me, they’re just completely useless. It’s like when I had long hair; I didn’t own it, I didn’t want it, and I certainly didn’t know what to do with it. I just carried it around everyday even though it annoyed me to no end, because I thought that that was what girls were supposed to do.

I dream of how free I will feel after chest surgery, how light it will be and how I will finally feel like I am in control of my entire body. I’ve always been extremely jealous of flat chests, but now that I have a name for what I’m going through and know that’s it’s actually possible to reach my goal (now that I’m closer to being happy) it seems like I am even further away.

This transition is going to be quite the lesson in patience. But I’ve never wanted anything more, so it must be worth it. 

headed in the right direction