“Are you trans?” In front of my companions last month, a transgender man I used to dwell with asked me. I remember thinking: “Yes, I am. So what?”
But faced with the invasive question, with this man outing me and forcing me to make a public decision about my identity, all I could do was stumble over my words and blurt out something along the lines of: “Maybe, not sure, I don’t know.”
It appeared to me as though sharing my identity was apparently too obscene. This was the last time I let someone else’s perspective prevent me from being glad to be trans.
It took me a while to take that I was trans. Not because I wasn’t, but because I never believed I would be allowed to be. I grew up in Switzerland, in a Christian Italian family, and my kids had been raised with archaic norms that influenced their ideas around LGBTQ+ issues – my family more than my father.
I, however, gravitated towards traditionally masculine clothes, sports, and toys, which didn’t fit with their expectations. Growing up, my household forced me to comply with Western concepts of womanhood. My mother would buy all of my clothing and forbid any deviation from a feminine sexism, which meant that I couldn’t wear what I wanted until I started earning my own money at the age of 21.
I made it my mission to represent this “feminine ideal,” perfecting my performance as a “woman” and adhering to the instructions given by the nuns at my school. I actually received praise for it. How I felt about my gender identity didn’t matter as long as I was able to please those around me, seeking, in particular, my mother’s approval.
I must admit that it did make me smile when people criticized me for being romantic or for displaying presumably feminine traits. Even though it was completely different from how I often behaved and who I was, the approval of others was a big factor in my self-worth.
I regularly felt distress, wishing I may appear more masculine. But from an early age, the message was clear: who I was, was no fine.
At college, faith was used against individuals like me. I was taught that only those who behaved well and adhered to the rules of heaven would be able to do so, including loving the body that “God gave you.”
I unintentionally came out as gay simply before moving to London to attend college, which I saw as an option for a new start. I can also recall how stress had numbed me to what I had only admitted.
My father and my sons were unquestionably remarkable and encouraging. My family, but, cried.
She cried for the future editions of me that she had lost and who she had anticipated. Due to how she grew away, I left her with a type of herself that she knew she would never be able to fully take.
These are not my beliefs, these are her strong words that pierced my brain and left me feeling estranged from her for years– everything that’s all very popular for LGBTQ+ people.
My family’s perspective on a particular time period differs, which is challenging. No remorse or unexpected revelations occurred. She didn’t wake up one day and apologize for her bigotry.
Yet now, whenever I talk about my companion, I may feel her pain. A common awkwardness fills the space and, each day, I hold my breath, hoping someone will shift. But, unfortunately, my mom avoids the topic and often acknowledges my gay identity.
But being actually off, in various locations, has given her time to understand who I am and has helped her take me more. Since my coming out, she has educated herself on LGBTQ+ concerns, openly discussing them with me.
But my own viewpoint change is what has helped our relationship the most, not any specific awakening. I have come to know who I am better, love myself more, and constantly reject the notion that receiving external approval equals having self-worth.
I can call my mother out when needed, establish healthier boundaries, and desire that she notices my otherness because I believe I deserve it. She is giving it her all, and I’m appreciative of that.
Even though we are in a much better position right now, I still experience the pain of my younger gay home who is only interested in being loved and accepted for who they are.
While living in London, I have immersed myself in a rich and comforting LGBTQ+ area. I’ve had the opportunity to meet some transgender and non-linear persons, with whom I share related activities. Decades of unlearning shame and guilt led me to realize that I was trans also.
I was often taught that having a male figure was wrong, but I avoided being even remotely self-conscious for a long time. My internalized biases, which echoed those of my peers when I was younger, were also present in my mind.
Nevertheless, through the help of supportive friends and my companion, I was shown the charm of transgender and masculine manhood. I wasn’t required to satisfy a cis-heteronormative male ideal to be true to who I am in my masculine personality.
Being muscular, changing my name and pronouns, and cutting my hair were all met with both enthusiasm and party. For the first time in my life, I realized I could get delighted and transgender.
After having enough money saved up, I set out to get major surgeries this year, which was the first step in the direction of realizing one of my biggest desires. In many ways, being my true soul seems to be possible.
When I consider the perspectives around which I was raised, I now feel more like I’m evolving into who I am and how my type of God wants me to get. It feels like returning to myself, in my opinion, is the best way to explain it. God really made a ridiculous mistake, and then I am correcting it.
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