Lost for words?
A wordsmith’s writer’s block struggling to pen the opening lines of their next triumphant trilogy is nothing compared to the jihad of gender identity struggle. Both the bigger picture of society’s defines and the microcosm of personal confines penalise the freedom of identity exploration and expression.
In 18 months being out/ed as first a crossdresser, then transgendered and now transsexual, I have struggled to find appropriate labels. As fast as I accept one that I hitherto feared then it loses its power.
Perhaps that is why I use transgendering, the verb defines my undefinition, charts my journeyed course, and fathoms my fluidity – as all gender and sexuality should be – fluid.
We are, I am, human first, gendered second and sexually orientated third. Perhaps I am human, first, second and third. I am humansexual, have fallen in love with a person, their gender is secondary, our sexuality irrelevant. To say I feel part of a third gender is to simply turn a false binary divide into a three way split when androgenous Adam before the Fall was hermaphrodite and bodily united with his unborn Eve, made male and female.
A term I floated for myself was freemale, accepting my birth sex/gender – though that was debated for the first 2 hours of my existence – and giving myself the freedom to express that maleness in a more free and female way.
The gender fuck was in being fluid, not trying to pass and wearing my exploration on the sleeve of my blouse.
On March 26 the London Times published the anguished article of a young 20 something crossdresser caught in the turmoil of whether to tell his girlfriend. The posted comments suggested therapy, he come out as gay, and the usual trite ignorant assumptions.