I don’t usually write anything but comedy here. But this is important. This is a life-defining thing. I am officially a woman, now 1. According to me, according to my doctor, according to my therapist, and — now — according to the state.
Some of you know that over the past year I’ve been involved with Abby. She lives in New York, and I live in England. We had to travel, a lot. I won’t go on about that. I won’t go on about how hard long distance relationships are. I won’t go on about how much it hurts to not be able to go to bed every night with the person you know you’re meant to be with. I won’t go on about how even the smallest things, like watching an episode of Arrested Development together over Skype, feel like the grandest and most powerful gifts the universe can bestow on you — stolen moments that help you leapfrog oceans and laugh as one, forgetting separation. I won’t go on about any of that.2
But what I will tell you about is the nightmare that is air-travel when you’re a trans-person.
There is a period of time, during transition, when you are going out every day and presenting as your new gender but the medical establishment does not yet trust you.3 You cannot get treatment yet, and you certainly can’t get a doctor’s letter yet. The kind of doctor’s letter that would enable you to change your passport so you can fly as the new you, instead of the old one.
This meant that — for the past year — every time I flew to Abigail, I had to dress up as a boy. I had to fly as a boy.4 I had to land at the airport and greet her as a boy. Let me tell you right now — that. Fucking. Sucks. The first time Abby and I ever met in person she was meeting Kyle, not Avery. And she doesn’t mind, and I am so lucky to have a girlfriend so understanding, but still. I really wish that that first hello, that first hug, that first car ride together, could have been with both of us as we are. But hey — there are kids in Darfur getting shot in the face, so who am I to complain?
Last week I saw my doctor and got a note from him. He was even kind enough not to charge me. I traveled to London two days later, and stood shaking for half an hour while a very nice woman went over my paperwork, stamped “complex case” on my file, and took a hundred pounds from me. Another couple of days passed, and this passport — my passport — was delivered to my door.
Which means that Abby, fuck it — the world, never has to see Kyle again.
Cheerio, mate.
1 - Most of my followers know that I’m transgendered (I’m pretty open about it) but every once in a while we get to a stage where a bunch of people don’t know, and a post like this comes as a bit of a shock. Don’t worry, people-who’ve-just-found-out, it’s no big deal. Also, there’s punch and pie in the back. ↩
Especially since we’ve been very lucky with regard to the ease with which we’ve procured these trans-atlantic flights. Abby’s dad has a lot of miles. And is just about the most generous person on the planet.↩
This is understandable, and necessary, and I bear no ill-will towards the NHS, which is a fantastic entity.↩
No easy feat, considering that I’ve never really looked like a boy to begin with. Toss in the breasts, the hips and bum, the lack of facial hair and the style of my head-hair, and the conditioned difficulties responding to my old name, and things get a little trickier.↩
Love knows no bounds. True inspiration for those of us who do get to go home to our soul mates every night to never forget how lucky we are! Lots of good thoughts for the two of you to be together like that as soon as possible!
Thank you. That means a lot. (We also accept airline miles, monetary donations in both U.S. dollars and British pounds, and good chocolate-chip cookies, because mmmmm.)
Please accept this reblog in place of one thousand hearts.
