The Little Prince and the Fox

The first performance I did with the gay men’s chorus on Thursday evening ended up being such a difficult, overwhelming experience for me that I skipped the one on the next day. 

Last Thursday, I just couldn’t get myself in the mood to perform with them. My social battery was drained, my introvert self was the only one in charge, and my autistic brain was misfiring. All I could feel was a desire to run away and hide in my little cave — and the sensorial overload was unbearable, even with the noise-canceling headphones that I donned at every break. When I got home Thursday night I was a wreck: having both a sensorial and an emotional meltdown, feeling overstimulated and lonely and not belonging — or, rather, unable to get my needs met in a way that would help me feel like I belonged in this group of people.

So I took Friday off. I did my job interview and went on a hike. 

I reached out to a couple of the chorus members with whom I’m most comfortable to let them know I was struggling, and I got loving, supportive responses, which helped. And I also reached out to the other chorus member who lives in my neck of the woods to carpool: he’s a lovely (socially awkward) person and I knew that would help — and in fact, it did. 

Saturday, I gave it another try, while also giving myself permission to skip the Sunday performance, if I felt it necessary. 

But it wasn’t necessary: at the show on Saturday I had the time of my life and I even had fun socializing with a small group of people afterwards. And Sunday was magical. 

I love these people. And I know they love me. We all love one another. What I was unable to see, or receive, at the performance on Thursday night I saw and felt clearly, intensely during the weekend shows, like I had at the retreat: these people love and care for each other so deeply, so sincerely. There is just so, so much love and care among them all, among us all. This is a family, a beautiful chosen family. 

Before the show on Sunday we did more shares, and I did mine, too. Without mincing words, I told them personal things that are often hard for me to share even with my closest friends: I told them how I dread the holidays, how I’ve dreaded them almost my entire life because to me they mean a time of year when I’m either with people who do not see the true me or alone; I told them my father died a year & a half ago and that the last time I saw him was at Christmas nine years ago; I told them how he’ll never know the “real me” but also how he would have been horrified by, or not understood, the trans gay boy that I am; I told them about my autistic brain and sensorial overloads; and that for all these reasons this holiday show is very difficult for me and that I was a wreck when I got home on Thursday night; but I also told them how I had had the time of my life on Saturday and how thankful I am to be part of this family; and how I hope to make new memories, associated with positive feelings, around the holidays with/thanks to this chorus. 

It was very difficult for me to say all that but I also knew I needed to say it and would regret it if I didn’t. And I found the courage to share all that with them greatly thanks to what other folks had shared before me (gosh, the amount of pain and trauma that so many of them have endured…) and to the expressions on their faces while I was sharing: the empathy on their faces while I was talking… I felt so held… And later, throughout the evening, folks came to me to thank me for sharing and offered me love, support, empathy. And hugs. So many hugs of so many different kinds… 

In so many moments I have the feeling of not belonging, of still not being integrated enough into this group of people, of not knowing how to interact or get closer to them. I often still feel like I’m yearning for something that I cannot quite get, and it’s partly that I don’t even know exactly what it is that I want from them… But to say that I’m not connecting or getting closer to people is a lie. I am connecting. I am connecting with many of them and with some of them in ways that are quite deep. There’s my Big Brother who’s super sweet and clasps me in big, warm, tight, brotherly hugs. There’s my section leader who checks in with me and offers me fatherly support and big dad hugs. There’s the vice president who is super responsive and supportive with me via text and even in person whenever I need it. There’s the older guy with whom I danced Swing who is also one of the people who gave me support when I was struggling at the beginning, who introduced me to his daughter last week and with whom I feel there’s a special connection. There’s one of the guys in the dance troupe who happens to face me for some of their dance numbers in the show and he & I just smile to each other throughout the number — and we finally talked about it and said how special it feels to us both. There’s the guy I hooked up with and with whom there’s still some “special vibe” even if it might just be rubbing cheeks when we embrace at choir. There are several singers in my own section who check in on me almost every time, often offering hugs. There’s all the people that until yesterday I had only said “Hi” to, or maybe not even that, and with whom now there’s been some dialogue, hugs, a new connection. 

I’m still confused and a little overwhelmed by all this — so much of it is still so new and unclear to me, I still feel like I have so many questions and doubts around how to navigate all this and so much fear around losing it. And so much impatience about “getting closer” already. 

The truth is, I’m still figuring it all out, and often the process feels too slow and uncertain to me. But the truth also is that these people care for each other and love one another and are chosen family for each other: and that includes me, too. 

These people really feel for each other — for me included — those messages that we’re spreading in our holiday show: love, joy, and acceptance. 

Tonight I have the first full, official concert with the gay men’s chorus. And I’m not really in the mood for it. 

Since last Wednesday, in just over one week, I’ve sung & hung out with people from the choir already four times, and will have to do so for four more days in a row from tonight through this Sunday. 

Tech rehearsal on Tuesday night was extremely long (4 hours) and simply exhausting.  

I guess I’m feeling a bit how one feels when one’s had too much cake: it tastes good in the moment, and we may even binge on it, but then it feels like too much, and sometimes we might wish we hadn’t had so much of it. 

The small, reduced performances in which I took part last week on Wednesday & Saturday felt wonderful to me and I’m really happy I sang then. The additional events of special socializing and bonding with some individuals on those two days were also meaningful to me and I’m glad I had those experiences. But now it almost feels like that was the apex for me, the culmination of this holiday concert cycle for me and now I would rather just take a break from it all and move on, going back to my other activities and dedicating more time & energy to “my other identities”. 

I’ve started climbing again now that my wrist has healed enough and yesterday evening I had a great session with my best buddy and also a very meaningful time at the social climbing event I organized for expansive/inclusive masculinity. Both of those events put me in touch again with parts of my identity and of my (social) world that mean a lot to me and that I had missed in the past few weeks/months. Both events were important to me also because my presence there really mattered, they couldn’t have taken place without me. 

Tomorrow I have a job interview that is quite important to me. And in less than two weeks I’m scheduled to have a surgery that means the world to me. 

These are the things that are on my mind and in my heart now, the things I want to focus on now. 

At the small volunteer singing events last week, I felt my presence and my voice really mattered. And I know they did. But for the whole big show I feel they don’t. At those small volunteer singing events, there were about thirty of us singers in total; at the show there are about thirty of us per section. It makes no difference whether I sing at the full show or not. And anyway so much of the show depends on small groups of people (the a cappella ensemble; the dance troupe; the singers who are also acting characters) doing their visible parts well, while we in the chorus just feel, to me, like an almost unnecessary “backdrop”. 

Additionally, the artistic director said something during tech rehearsal on Tuesday night that upset me and is still nagging at me… He commented on the fact that he could hear some individual voices from the chorus sticking out and that we needed to fix that, i.e. (quoting him) that we need to “sound like one voice, we need to match the other voices around us in pitch, timbre, and volume”. While I understand and agree with that, and I also noticed some individual voices sticking out too loudly from the chorus (like one of my neighbors), the requirement that we match timbre hurt me. I might be confused about the technical terms here, but I’m pretty sure that the timbre of my voice is different and there’s no way around that. I can match pitch and I’m definitely keeping the volume of my voice low (also because I wear an N-95 face-mask while singing) but my trans voice is in some way different from the cis-male voices (& even different from some of the other trans voices, probably of trans folks who are on higher doses of testosterone). Even if I sing the same note — as I do — and avoid singing too loudly — which I wouldn’t do anyway — my voice sounds different, it cannot match the others fully… 

So why should I go and make the effort of singing in these concerts at all?

I thought I hated shopping. I actually used to hate shopping — shopping for clothes or shoes or accessories always felt like a nightmare to me and I used to avoid it like the plague.

I still avoid shopping: I tend to do it only when I really, really have to (e.g. today, I finally went to buy the dress shoes I need for tomorrow’s concert with the chorus!). But now I actually tend to enjoy it — and sometimes I’ve even gone shop-browsing just for fun with a (queer) friend. 

I’ve actually started to love shopping in men’s departments, especially these past couple times when I’ve had to buy formal attire. Going to buy the dress shoes for the concerts was really affirming for me today. Now, I walk into these men’s stores and I can see how much I just look like a guy. And I’m treated like a guy. It’s very affirming. But I also honestly like how the formal clothes and shoes look (on me): I like to see myself in the mirror dressed up formally like a “man” — as much as I like wearing more fun/flashy “girly” or “feminine” clothes when I go out dancing. 

I guess what I really love is that now I can choose: I’m no longer forced into “women’s clothes”, I can wear them whenever I want to; and when I wear “men’s clothes” on this flat chest, I “really look like a guy”.

In the men’s stores, I particularly love the ties. My dad used to love ties, too. We’d give him a tie for almost every single occasion (birthday, Christmas, etc.). And I’ve started telling my friends, “if you want to give me a present and don’t know what to give me, just get me a tie”! 

The interaction with the clerk in the men’s store where I got the dress shoes today was so pleasant and so affirming for me that I finally got the courage to do something that has been nagging at me for months now: I texted my mother and asked if she could send me a couple of my father’s ties, adding that it would mean the world to me. 

Having at least one of my dad’s ties — one of those objects that somehow would bond us even if he’s dead and will never know I’m wearing it, never even know he had a son — would be a beautiful, healing tie for me… 

And fortunately, my mother said “yes”, and even added that it would mean a lot to her, too, and that she’d be happy to send me anything I’d like of my father’s (e.g. shirts, sweaters)… 

Sometimes I tend to ruminate and/or hold onto things more than is necessary, or even good, for me. 

OK, so this gay men’s chorus means a lot to me. Fine. Six months ago, I made the decision to reach out to them and prepare for the audition, which I eventually passed in August. I accepted their offer to join and have been singing with them for nearly three months now. 

When I made the decision six months ago to try and join this chorus, I made it because I wanted it (& needed it). Every time I decided to push through the difficulties in the past three months singing (& socializing) with them, it was a conscious, intentional choice.  

But the decisions weren’t only rational: they were also spontaneous, emotional choices led by an inner “gut feeling” of “this is what I want or need now”. As were the choices I made last week. I didn’t really know what I was in for when I signed up for the additional volunteer singing at the community events. I wasn’t expecting the hookup or partner-dancing. Sure, I am partly responsible for choices and actions that led to all those outcomes, and there were several moments when I could have pulled back, said “No”, left. But I didn’t. I chose to stay, I chose to do what I did, I chose to live those experiences in those moments. And I lived them fully, then and there. As one of my dearest friends pointed out to me yesterday, what counts is that I lived those experiences 100% in the moment. And I did. So it doesn’t really matter if they were fleeting. It doesn’t even matter if they never happen again. They happened then and I enjoyed them fully, and the joy and confidence I gained from them (& hopefully also gave to other persons involved) will last for a while. 

I made my choices and lived those moments fully, eventually stopping and/or leaving when I was ready to do so.

So now I can own those choices and let go: move on, lightened up by the joy and enriched by the experiences rather than entrapped in them.

I’m feeling a sense of sadness that is similar to what I experience sometimes after the super-high of a race: it’s like some sort of “post-high low”. 

I’m probably also trying to come to terms with the fact that this gay men’s chorus means so much more to me that I do to them. 

If I left the chorus after this concert cycle, people would probably hardly notice and it definitely wouldn’t affect the chorus in any significant (musical, logistical) way. But maybe more poignant to me in this moment is coming to terms with the fact that the magic of the experiences I had with a few people from the chorus in the past few days isn’t mutual or fully shared. We all shared the fun of singing for the big event of the lights on the city hall building as we all shared the embarrassment of messing up the lyrics for one of the songs. We all shared the joy of brining joy to other people by caroling and we all shared the embarrassment or frustration of the artistic director going overboard at our show at the gay club. The older guy who danced Swing with me on Saturday night shared in my fun — he specifically came to look for me at rehearsal last night to tell me how much fun he had had. And the younger guy definitely enjoyed the hookup with me and there was a level of “shared experience” there, too. 

But each one of these experiences is not just “fun” or “pleasurable” or “exciting” for me: each one of these experiences has been an important “first time” for me, something that for me marks a step in my own journey, in my “personal history”. Singing for the holiday events, and thus bringing back joy to the holidays for me after two decades of them being the worst, most dreaded time of year for me; singing with my “new” voice together with other “male” voices in front of an audience; stripping to my underwear and allowing/seeking out sexual intimacy; partner-dancing in a follower role as a gay boy — all these are “big deals” for me. 

They’re all big steps in letting go. For all of these experiences, I had to let go — which isn’t easy for me to do. And I’m glad I did. But now I have to take the letting go one step further: letting go of the “attachment” to the experiences themselves or of the attachment to some unconscious wish that the magic of those experiences be shared/mutual when it cannot be.

In the past four days I’ve had half a dozen “firsts”, so many wonderful first times that I’m still reeling from it. 

My first performance (albeit small & partial) with the gay men’s chorus. 

My first concert singing with my “new” — low or “male” — voice. 

My first gay-boy hookup. 

My first queer Friends-/Thanksgiving with so much queer joy and warmth, including snuggles and music and dancing. 

My first time going caroling and bringing holiday cheer to strangers. 

My first time partner-dancing as a (gay) boy with a gay man. 

It’s hard to say which of these “first times” was the most important or beautiful: they’re all equally meaningful and magical to me, in different ways. But they somehow all contain and spread a liberating, joyful, warm queer energy, a queer sense of more “fluid love”. And they all talk to those parts of me that have been shut down for so long, in fear and/or solitude, to those playful, joyful, childlike, liberated, fun parts of me that want and need to run free like a river bursting from a dam.

To Andrew: 

“ 

I want to live where soul meets body

And let the sun wrap its arms around me

And bathe my skin in water cool and cleansing

And feel, feel what it’s like to be new

‘Cause in my head there’s a greyhound station

Where I send my thoughts to far off destinations

So they may have a chance of finding a place

Where they’re far more suited than here

I cannot guess what we’ll discover

When we turn the dirt with our palms cupped like shovels

But I know our filthy hands can wash one another’s

And not one speck will remain

I do believe it’s true

That there are roads left in both of our shoes

But if the silence takes you

Then I hope it takes me too

So brown eyes, I hold you near

‘Cause you’re the only song I want to hear

A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere

Where soul meets body

Where soul meets body

Where soul meets body

And I do believe it’s true

That there are roads left in both of our shoes

But if the silence takes you

Then I hope it takes me too

So brown eyes, I hold you near

‘Cause you’re the only song I want to hear

A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere

A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere

A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere

A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere 

“ 

[by Death Cab for Cutie]

I think the main reason — concrete, tangible — why it is affirming for me in such a unique and intense way to have sex with a gay man is because in that moment, like in no other, I am being seen and accepted — concretely, tangibly — as a boy regardless of what I have between my legs in an arena where genitalia usually play a substantial role and with a person who is assumed (at least in the clichés about gay men) to “want dick”. 

It’s there — in that concrete, tangible confirmation that my lack of a penis is not an obstacle to my being seen and liked as a guy (& a “hot guy”) — for me that’s “where soul meets body” (as Death Cab for Cutie sang)… 

Yesterday, I had another wonderful — joyful, fun, validating, affirming, liberating, empowering — experience, also connected to the gay men’s chorus in which I sing. 

We did a small performance for the “lighting of the lights” event on the façade of the City Hall building. We sang ten of the sixteen songs from our upcoming holiday show, outdoors in the wintry weather. It was a volunteer performance and of the singers who signed up only a few of us were actually selected to perform (only 6-8 singers per section), due to space/size restrictions of the stage outdoors.

When I signed up to sing for this event, I hadn’t realized that only a very small number of us would actually be singing so when it dawned upon me that I wouldn’t have the “usual cover” of thirty other voices in my baritone section but only half-a-dozen apart from my own, I panicked. I was a nervous wreck from Monday until the show yesterday afternoon… But then I eventually relaxed and I really enjoyed myself & the whole experience. 

The atmosphere was joyful and relaxed. The more experienced singers, when I said I was super nervous, reassured me and said, “Just have fun!” And then other singers began commenting on how they couldn’t remember many of the lyrics and were reviewing them together and I suddenly realized I knew most of the lyrics better than many of the other guys! During the show, we messed up the lyrics for a couple of the songs (although I’m pretty sure the audience didn’t notice) and for one of the songs that I feel very confident about I sang out assertively. 

It took a while for me to relax and get into my voice but not as long as I had feared. Once the pianist starting playing and our voices harmonizing, the nervousness was gone and what remained was the glow of the shared experience, of being part of this together, of doing something fun and joyful. And I could hear my voice, yes, due to the small number of us, I could really hear my voice and hear how it mattered and also hear how well it fit in. The joy and affirmation I felt from standing on a stage, outdoors, in the city, in front of strangers, as one of the guys/singers in a gay men’s chorus, and hearing my voice actually sing as low (& sometimes as high) as the voices of these men, of these other gay guys, was wonderful: one of the most magical experiences I’ve had. 

That and the gender-bending gay guy telling me that I’m a “hot guy” were showers of wonderful affirmations for me yesterday. But these experiences within the gay men’s chorus are something even deeper for me, somehow: interacting with these guys, these persons, who are able to be playful and let go and have fun, who embody (& model for me) different ways of “being a man” is healing and liberating for me. Now that I feel safe with them, because I feel accepted and liked by them as I am, I am able to slowly let go more, to be more playful, even more expansive with my own gender-expression, just leaning into joy and fun — something usually so hard for me to do…