The Little Prince and the Fox

I guess I’m an optimist who cannot avoid seeing — or trying to find — the silver lining in everything… 

The silver lining of the abusive situation with my former housemate/landlady escalating and exploding three weeks ago is that it led to a much deeper connection with people within my choir/queer community in a way that is very important and healing, and even somewhat eye-opening, to me. It has brought me to really feel as part of a family and to realize how much I need that. 

I’ve always known that I wouldn’t want a biological family, i.e. biological children of my own. But I enjoy and actually thrive in healthy, nurturing family-like settings. I love being actively part of them, giving and taking, in the ways and amounts that each of us can. Like with my climbing buddies, spread over several different counties here in Colorado and yet still meeting up regularly, taking turns to visit each other and to drive, sharing food and gear. The ease and spontaneity with which it happens, flows, is lovely, and has been very nurturing for me.

And now I’m getting this also at a different social level, in a different kind of family: in my living situation. This week/weekend I’m finally able to give back a little to the two families who have helped me the most in these difficult three weeks. Yesterday, I gave a ride to the elder child of the family of friends who hosted me in the first week of fleeing my old place (& who also gave me lovely support while I was recovering from my gender-affirming surgery). The older child & I both sing in the same community trans choir — that’s how I met them all — and yesterday evening I was able to give them a ride to the Night of Noise event where our choir was singing, helping out in a situation where the parents couldn’t logistically be there. Being able to be a sort of older sibling or uncle/friend felt really good: I felt that I was giving back a tiny little bit of all the help they gave me over the past three months and I also felt like I belonged, that I was part of something, part of a lovely little tribe. 

Or like the little tribe where I’m living now, with whom we so easily share food and chores, and to whom I can give back tomorrow, when I’ll be picking up the friend/mother from a medicine training. 

Or the tribe constituted by the community trans choir in which I sing, in which we look out for each other, share rides — like the totally spontaneous, last-minute carpooling to rehearsal with another friend from choir on Wednesday evening — and generally act like a nurturing family to one another. 

I love being part of all these groups, these tribes — the climbers, the community trans choir, these families. And being able to give and take in all of these communities is extremely healing for me: it warms my heart, it relaxes me, it gives me an additional sense of purpose, and it deepens my sense of belonging.

Belonging here and now.

“… 

If you want to see the world, you have to say goodbye

Cause a map does no good hanging on a wall

If you want to see the world, you have to say goodbye

Cause a map does no good hanging on a wall ”

[from the song “Map on a wall” by Lucy Dacus] 

A week later, I’ve changed, and let go of, another California plate: the one on my motorcycle. Now, my motorcycle proudly exhibits the temporary version of its new, Colorado, plate. 

I’m realizing that part of the reason — and possibly the major part of the reason — why I sometimes still miss certain aspects and specific people from the years I spent in California, despite knowing that it was good for me to leave those situations and some people behind there, is that I hadn’t fully settled down in Colorado. I was still living here in some temporary limbo — and maybe to a certain extent I still am — like a visitor. 

Colorado has always been warmer, more welcoming to me than California: from the start, even when I was here only on vacation. In many ways, I’ve always felt more comfortable here in Colorado and quite instinctively at home. And yet, I have been hanging onto, almost clinging to, certain aspects/situations/persons from the years I spent in California, even if only half-heartedly and despite myself. 

There’s so much to let go of there, and so much novelty to embrace here. 

My move from Europe to California in January 2016 was a huge change, a leap of faith, and a great liberation. But somehow, while maybe less “impressive” geographically, my move from California to Colorado has been just as life-changing and liberating. I changed my name and my gender, finally embracing and also showing to the world my whole, authentic self. I have a new name. I have a different gender-marker. I’m living and presenting myself as a full-out non-binary trans-masculine person, rather than the “socially more acceptable” “badass, somewhat masculine, but pretty/attractive girl/woman”. These are huge changes that I haven’t even wholly processed or integrated myself. 

Another great part of having felt, or lived, in a temporary limbo here in Colorado was my practical living situation. For practical reasons my move from California happened piecemeal, in different stages and with several steps in various locations here in Colorado, with the last one being in the house of an abusive (probably TERF) woman — an awful experience that took a huge toll on me emotionally and psychologically — something that I probably already sensed when moving in with her last autumn, though, since I never fully unpacked. And never fully unpacking leaves someone in a limbo, with the feeling of being only a visitor, not really settled down. 

But now I’m finding families here, friends who have adopted me into their own family, families that are taking the place of the people/families who had adopted me in California. There’s my climbing buddies who show up for me frequently and regularly; my non-binary friends and members from the trans choir in which I sing with whom I hang out and who offered wonderful support both while I was recovering from my surgery and now in the crisis with my abusive housemate; there’s two families, both made up of mostly queer individuals, who have adopted me as a friend & teenage son, and who are wrapping me up in their warm, safe, supportive love. And most recently, there’s the Acroyoga community. 

Over the past two or three weeks, in particular, I have received wonderful support, both emotionally and on the practical level, from some people in the trans choir, helping out with my abusive living situation — invaluable help. 

This past weekend, both of my adoptive families included me in their Easter celebrations together with their own biological kids and family members, making me an Ester basket, too, and letting me dye Easter eggs and share meals with them all — such a lovely, warm & fuzzy, feeling! 

And on Monday, at my second Acroyoga class, something wonderful happened — a confirmation of something that seemed to be happening already at the first Acroyoga class on the previous Monday: nobody, not one person, misgendered me!!! In Acroyoga, one works in pairs or, more often, in groups of three, with a lot of communication among the persons involved; this entails plenty of references to people, often using pronouns, such as “take her hand” or “lean into him”, etc. In all the groups and with all the people with whom I practiced Acroyoga these two times, despite not having told anyone that I use “they” pronouns, nobody, not one person used “she/her” pronouns for me: everyone, every single person, automatically, instinctively referred to me with my first name all the time, avoiding pronouns for me altogether! This felt great, truly wonderful for me for two reasons: on the one hand, it is proof that I am coming across very clearly and explicitly as gender-non-conforming (and maybe confusing?!?) just by my looks, without needing to say anything about myself or my pronouns; on the other, it shows that many of the people in this community don’t jump to conclusions or make binary assumptions about one’s gender or pronouns — if they don’t know or cannot guess, they simply avoid making an arbitrary choice and make the safer, more respectful, and inclusive decision of just using the person’s first name. If only everyone behaved that way, how much better this world would be for EVERYONE!!! It’s hard to put into words how seen, and elated, I felt after my Acroyoga class on Monday!  

All of these positive interactions and situations that I just reported here are those I need to absorb deeply, to let sink into my heart: it is these people, these situations that need to be soaked in, in order for me to truly, deeply feel at home, settled, here in Colorado, letting go of those parts/situations/persons from California that are no longer good for me or not really part of my life anymore.

I feel the need to write, to desperately write, letting it all out in some creative way. Or draw, do a big, a huge painting, to draw out my feelings. 

I wish I were more of an artist, a better artist. I wish I could let things out in a creative way that could be more deeply satisfying to me and also appealing to others, to help them see me, understand me, especially this current pain and the recent ongoing changes. 

Today I let go of another piece of my California life: my car. 

It was the first car I had ever owned, not really needing a car for myself alone before the summer of 2020. 

It was old, from 2005, and had nearly 180,000 miles on it, of which about 30,000 were mine. 

In January, a couple days before my gender-affirming surgery, I had a small accident with it. As soon as I was well enough after my surgery, I took the car to the mechanic to get it inspected: the damage from the accident was minor but the car itself would have needed so much other work done on it just because of its age that it wasn’t really worth getting it fixed. So I decided to buy a newer car, purchasing the same, more recent model from one of my dearest climbing buddies who’ll be returning to Europe in a couple months, and giving up my old car. The mechanic will take care of getting rid of my old car. 

Today, at last, I went to the shop to empty my old car of the stuff I had left in it — stuff I always left in it — and turned in my title to the mechanic. I’m officially not its owner anymore. 

I don’t love cars per se and I really wished I didn’t need one at all. But I had gotten attached to this particular vehicle because of the adventures on which it took me (& probably also because it was my first car ever). This car brought me to Colorado from California, safely, several times. The last time to stay, in January 2022. So maybe it has just served its purpose and can go in peace now. 

It was a really tough decision for me. Not only on the financial level but also, and maybe mostly, from the emotional and symbolical viewpoint. When I was brainstorming with friends about what to do with my vehicle situation, one of my friends here said something helpful and lovely. She referred to a belief held in other cultures that objects have a “soul” connected to their purpose and she reminded me that the purpose of a car — or any vehicle, really — is mainly to bring us from point A to point B. And then she suggested that maybe, in my case with my car, point A was California and point B was Colorado: in which case, my car would have served its soulful purpose and could be let go of peacefully. 

I like that idea and I hope my friend is right. 

This is another little piece of my life, and of my California life, that I’m letting go of. Having a soulful reason and finding a meaningful ritual to let go of it will help relieve my pain. 

Or maybe this concrete, practical act of letting go of my California car can be seen as one other meaningful ritual to help me let go of some pieces of my California life that don’t serve me anymore…?

This past week I attended several events for the Transgender Awareness Week, including two festive events this weekend. 

Last year, only two months after my move from California to Colorado, I attended some similar events for the Transgender Awareness Week. 

A year later now, in many ways I’ve come so far… Even just from the medical viewpoint, I’ve now been taking HRT testosterone for over seven months and had my masculinizing mastectomy over two months ago. So there have definitely been some physical changes which are an important, outward testimony of my internal changes as well. 

I’ve come very far in understanding myself better and, especially, in being/expressing myself more and more authentically. I feel empowered by my legally-approved name change and non-binary ‘X’ gender-marker on my IDs. I love the way my more masculine body looks & feels. Many of my closest friends here in Colorado (& elsewhere) are queer people and I had been looking forward to attending most of the events for Transgender Awareness Week. And yet, at the two festive events this weekend, I realized I still feel somewhat uncomfortable in queer spaces. 

I’m not sure why this is so. I’m guessing it’s due mostly to my upbringing and conditioning. Although inside myself since being a young child I always felt naturally a strong sense of fairness and equality among all human beings (& even all living beings), a spontaneous rejection for racist/homophobic/snobbish concepts that were often voiced in the environments around me, and a strong draw toward queerness especially along the lines of gender-non-conformity & gender-bending, I grew up and for many years lived in spaces filled with homophobic and transphobic talk. My head and heart and soul and body — my whole being — rejected and was disgusted by such talk, but I did hear it, over and over again. How much damage did it do? Have I internalized some transphobia/queerphobia despite myself? Is this the reason why I still feel somewhat uncomfortable in queer spaces, especially those in which there’s a festive, celebratory, exhibitionist vibe? 

Or is it some sort of impostor syndrome I’m experiencing in celebratory/exhibitionist queer spaces, as if I didn’t feel “queer enough”? 

Or is it that I don’t wholly know, yet, who I am, what I really am?

What am I? A boy born in a female body? A non-binary person in between, or beyond, the male & female genders? A gay boy with female genitalia? A pansexual person? An athlete, a scientist, a sailor? 

And why do I even feel the need to give myself a label in the first place?

And why am I still unable to connect intimately (with physical intimacy and romantic love) with people? How is it that so many people I know seem to meet other people with whom they’re able to connect intimately (with physical intimacy and romantic love), whether in person at events or coffee shops or online, while I’m not? How is it that other people get picked up and/or pick up persons they like, while I got picked up only once in my entire life (& it didn’t even work out)? What’s wrong with me? Am I giving out some sort of wrong vibe? 

I feel comfortable and confident as an athlete: both physically in/with my body as an athlete and in spaces & doing activities with other athletes, especially if the other persons are on the more masculine side of the gender spectrum. Most of my confidence and self-esteem, even sense of identity and/or self-worth, come from being an athlete, performing well as an athlete, and having a fit body. In a sense it’s ironic: I spent my entire life since childhood rejecting the images of beauty & vanity that my family of origin tried to shove down my throat and fit me into for years, only to substitute with my own version of it, I guess… 

I feel comfortable as a sailor, in sailing spaces, because it’s an activity or skill in which I feel confident, having developed and honed it for a quarter of a century. 

I feel comfortable and quite confident as an “adventurer”, traveling, exploring, roaming, especially on my motorcycle or out in nature.

Sometimes I feel comfortable and confident in scientific spaces, especially in the academic setting when I’m the instructor. 

And in all of these spaces, I feel more comfortable around men or persons on the non-binary, gender-fluid, or male side of the spectrum. Is that also due to conditioning, to years of getting used to being in male-dominated spaces (sciences, sailing, motorcycle riding, climbing, etc.)? I’m sure that my feeling comfortable in male-dominated spaces is partly due to my own gender identity being more towards the male side of the spectrum: I was similar to the people around me in these spaces so it wasn’t too hard for me to fit in despite having a somewhat different body. But is there some other reason, too? Did I develop a “survival mode” to be, and possibly thrive, in these spaces? Is my getting used to or surviving and trying to succeed in these spaces part of the reason why I developed such a strong attachment to my athletic identity & strong, androgynous/masculine body? 

And is it also survival mode, albeit maybe in some other form, that is keeping me from connecting intimately (with physical intimacy and romantic love) with people? Have I just put on an armor to fight all my battles, to make it through all the storms I had to weather and this armor has simply become too thick and ugly and evident to those around me, keeping them away from me? 

Some friends tell me to “just be” me and do what feels comfortable to me. But how can I be me, if I don’t know what I am? And what if what feels comfortable to me is precisely what is keeping me from being happy?

Today, exactly two months and one day after my masculinizing mastectomy, I finally went back to the swimming pool and trained bare-chested, wearing a man’s Speedo for the first time in my adult life! 

It felt great! 

It also felt weird — it’s still so unfamiliar to me… And I still feel vulnerable and exposed, or maybe a little uncomfortable, with a bare-chest around most people… That says a lot for social conditioning… 

But the overall feeling today was of joy, liberation, and empowerment — and bubbling love for this (partly new) body of mine. 

People looked a little but it wasn’t too bad, especially once I got into the rhythm of my swim workout and my athletic ego was feeling confident again. 

Today, another of my deepest dreams has come true: the boy’s swimming — heck, YEAH!

I’m very tired. Fortunately, a relaxed type of tired now, but tired nonetheless. The past two or three days have been particularly intense. 

For the first time in months, I am feeling really comfortable and safe and at home in the place where I am staying. 

After the climax of domestic abuse from my housemate on Thursday, I found refuge in the home of friends: a lovely family who has adopted me as both an adult friend and a teenage boy. I feel safe and welcome and seen here — such a huge difference, the opposite, from how I was feeling with my housemate. 

I am soaking in all these feelings of safety and love and validation. 

To have this kind of support during and after traumatic events is invaluable, life-saving. And I feel extremely fortunate to be able to get it from so many friends here, in so many different ways and forms and aspects. 

On top of finding refuge in this warm and loving and safe home environment, I’ve also been able to nurture my soul & heart and bring some solace to my hyperactivated nervous system by doing fun and relaxing things with some of my best buddies. 

For over 24 hours between yesterday & today I was immersed in that buddy/bro atmosphere that feels so comfortable and validating to me with a few of my closest cis-male friends here. One of my dearest climbing buddies came to visit me from out of town and I was able to let him actually stay at my friends’ place while they’re away for the Spring Break weekend — such a wonderful and welcome change from my ex-housemate’s controlling, territorial, and ungenerous behavior towards me (not allowing me to have guests). This climbing buddy had already visited me a few times when he could stay over at the previous house where I was living, and his visits are always lovely. When I’m with him, it feels like I’m in a different time or in a different dimension. Partly because he’s originally from the region of Europe where I went to grad school, very close to where I grew up, so there’s a cultural component that draws us instinctively close, that drew us immediately, spontaneously close from the beginning: when I interact with him, in many ways parts of me that are usually dormant come alive again, culturally, linguistically, and in body language. Partly it’s also his character or the dynamics between us that lead me to relax and go with the flow more than usual when we hang out together. We click, we resonate. And it’s beautiful and very affirming for me to see, to feel, how comfortable and encouraging and fascinated he is both by my non-binary gender-identity and by my gradual but steady masculinization. His spontaneous admiration for my flat chest or for my strong shoulders & back, his explicitly comparing my torso to his own, or his genuine enthusiasm to see my new men’s clothes and his sincere, well-meaning comments like, “I’m curious to see what men’s style you’ll have”, are some of the most heart-warming and validating reactions and messages I can receive. I revel in them. 

As I reveled in the company of the three guys with whom I went out for beers last night. One of them was this climbing buddy visiting me from out of town; the other was one of my closest climbing buddies with whom I go climbing very often here; and the third was one of the latter’s oldest friends, whom I hadn’t met, yet, but of whom I had already heard a lot. For me, it felt like when I was back in school, particularly in grad school, when my friends were almost entirely cis-males and with whom I felt totally comfortable and at ease in ways that I can hardly explain but that feel profoundly spontaneous and “natural” to me. All four of us are climbers so climbing and other risky activities were an easy topic of conversation. But beyond that, the conversation flowed easily all evening, for hours: climbing, risk-taking, religion, politics, work, sex — we spanned topics with an ease that I remember having with my guy friends in grad school and have often found hard to find afterwards (when in a group, or more-than-two-persons, setting). 

And as I often felt with my guy friends in grad school, again last night I felt just like “them”: these straight, cis guys were neither hitting on me nor treating me any differently from each other (nor moderating their language around sex nor was I mine). I felt like a boy among other boys — and even better, like with most of my close friends from grad school, a boy among boys who haven’t been ruined by the toxic masculinity that is often drilled into males. Which is probably why they accept me just as I am and why I can feel so comfortable with them. With these cis-men who are profoundly sensitive and not ashamed of showing their sensitivity, their fears, their pain; these white cis-men who go to Black Lives Matter protests, march in favor of abortion rights, and ask me for information about the Transforming Gender Conference so they “can learn more” and join me there next time; these straight cis-men who admire my flat boy’s chest and encourage me to become who I really am and want to be, probably seeing their own teenage selves in my reflection.  These guys who feel like brothers to me and whose “bro” feelings, whose homoeroticity, I believe to truly and profoundly understand: because somehow, somewhere deep down inside me, I am like them, I am one of them.

I know I keep writing about the importance, the incredibly profound importance, the life-changing importance my cis-male friends have had throughout my life and are having now. But these feelings are precisely the proof of my being trans(masculine) and I need to revel in the lovely, warm beauty of them as well as record them over and over. As I need to record every time any of my friends says to me sincerely, “I see the (teenage) boy that is you”, and revel in the lovely, warm beauty of such a validation.

I want to state this for the record. 

Two days ago, on Thursday, for the first (& hopefully last) time in my life I called the “domestic violence/abuse hotline”. 

After months of verbal, emotional, and psychological abuse, on Thursday morning my housemate actually became physically threatening and her transphobia mixed with general disrespect towards me went totally overboard. 

As soon as she had left for work and I had been able to calm down enough after yet another traumatic episode with her, albeit still shaken, I was able to pull myself together enough to get advice from the “domestic violence/abuse hotline” and help from friends. I packed up my most necessary/valuable/pressing belongings and left as soon as one of my friends could come pick me up — and I won’t go back to my place again except to pack up my stuff for good, during the weekdays, when my housemate is away. 

[Spoiler alert: details, including the ending, of the film “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society” are mentioned quite explicitly.]

In the past week, I have been binge-watching the film “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society”. 

I sometimes do this, with songs as well as with movies: I go through phases of days, weeks, sometimes even months, when I play the song or movie over and over because it somehow appeals to, reaches, and touches something profound and/or particularly sensitive in me at that particular moment. 

I discovered the film The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society during the height of the pandemic and back then it appealed to me, spoke to me, mainly because of the topics of isolation, threat, and human connection (with the happy ending after hardships). 

This morning I’ve been wondering why this movie is appealing to me and speaking to me so much now and I think it’s for several reasons. Probably I’m still — or again — resonating with the topics of isolation and human connection and happy ending after hardships as I finally come back to life after a hard, and quite isolated, winter (first with my second round of COVID in November 2022 and then with all the pre/post-op preparations & recovery). But there’s also other levels or elements speaking to my heart even more strongly now. 

There’s the element of living — and surviving — with the enemy, in a hostile environment: the Guernsey islanders with the German occupants during WWII; me with my hostile, controlling, passive-aggressive housemate (who’s recently been acting up). 

There’s the theme of personal liberation even going against expectations as the leading female character makes her own path, finds her own way, following her heart, breaking a stifling engagement, stating her independence. And also, the related theme of the importance of getting support from the right people in finding our path or in finding the courage to actually walk our way. 

Another important element is also that of the “chosen family” or “village”: so much of the story in this movie is about not being able to have or connect to or be loved by one’s biological family but finding support and connection and love within a group of people who are a chosen family, a tribe in which persons support and love one another profoundly and without stifling each other. A theme that is extremely dear to me and similar to what I have experienced in most of my life. 

And finally, there’s the topic of the “impossible love”, of the profound, instinctive, almost immediate but also unexpected connection and understanding and attraction between two people who seem so different and yet share so much deep inside them. Something I’ve experienced, too, more than once: for me those connections, those moments, were lovely and beautiful and wonderful, even joyful, but also painful sometimes because many of them didn’t last as much as I would have liked them to or didn’t develop as fully as I would have hoped. In the film The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, instead, the seemingly “impossible love” — the profound, instinctive, almost immediate but also unexpected connection and attraction between the writer and the pig-farmer — ends happily, somehow giving me some vicarious catharsis, I guess.