The Little Prince and the Fox

On Sunday I did my first multi-pitch trad climb with a friend, i.e not with a professional guide (& it had been nearly two years since I’d done a trad climbing multi-pitch route anyway). 

I went with one of my closest climbing buddies, someone with whom I climb almost every single weekend — we basically have a “standing date” to climb together on Sundays unless something comes up for one of us. 

We’ve been climbing together regularly since last summer so we know each other well now, both as climbers and as people, and I truly count him among my best friends. I’ve grown a lot as a climber while climbing with him, also because he’s a much better, and much more experienced, climber than I, but we have the same level of risk tolerance and the same type of “somewhat responsible” recklessness.  

This was our first multi-pitch trad climb together, and it’s a big deal. Multi-pitch is a big deal: it involves a lot of risk, a lot of effort, a lot of shared work and collaboration, clear communication, and a huge amount of trust — along with very powerful, wonderful, and joyful emotions that can linger for days. 

This multi-pitch trad climb we did on Sunday was hefty: five pitches of grade 5.9-5.10, several rated R (i.e. a “route where you could get seriously hurt if you fall”); and then to get back down, we had to scramble a 4th class descent (which basically means you’re down-climbing something quite steep and slippery and that would preferably require rope). We were exhausted but exhilarated and super happy at the end of the day — and then went out to get dinner together, also for the first time. 

At the end of the day, as we said Goodbye, my friend said, “I feel like today has been a turning point for you”. And he was right: I definitely did grow another increment, as a climber, on Sunday. But I also believe it was a turning point for us, for me & him as buddies & climbing partners. And knowing him, I believe that’s really what he meant to say — “I feel like today has been a turning point for us”! 

And a wonderful turning point it was!

I love this feeling of belonging. Of belonging here, here and now. 

I belonged in the Acroyoga class on Monday night where, although I’ve been there only a couple times, some people remembered me from the previous two times I had gone — and it’s just a warm, welcoming, respectful, and affectionate community anyway. 

I belonged at the climbing gym to which I returned on Tuesday afternoon after many months of absence. When I walked in, the gym manager happened to be there: she’s a lovely woman whom I had “bugged” a lot last summer and fall about getting gender-neutral changing-rooms/bathrooms in the building, as other gyms have. We talked a lot last summer and fall, she explained the reasons she couldn’t get such gender-neutral spaces in that specific gym in the short term, but she also listened to me and tried to find options and solutions that could help me (& other persons) feel more comfortable. Among other things, she got signs put up outside all the binary restrooms & changing-rooms, right under the signs that say “Men” or “Women”: signs that say explicitly that whoever can use those restrooms & changing-rooms, based on how they feel. She also got sanitary pads placed both in the men’s bathrooms, by the sink, upstairs and in the men’s changing-room downstairs: sanitary pads in a little basket with a note saying, “Please don’t remove. These items belong here and are important here for some members of our community”. I am one of those “members of our community”: a climber, but also a queer, non-binary, trans-masculine climber. On Tuesday, when I walked into this specific climbing gym and the manager was there, her delight in seeing me again after so long was very apparent and genuine. She welcomed me very warmly, gave me a tight bear hug (after having asked for permission), and encouraged me to please give her any feedback I wanted to share about how I felt using the spaces there. Which is probably one of the things that helped give me courage, together with the various signs and items in the changing-rooms, to actually venture into the men’s changing-room for the first time (at least, for the first time since doing it with my guy-friends as a teenager).

I belonged at the end-of-semester celebrations in my department on Tuesday evening, where I received a warm welcome when I showed up after a week or two of absence. 

I belonged in the transgender choir when I finally joined rehearsal again on Tuesday night, after having had to skip for several weeks in a row. 

I belonged last night: accepting my housemate’s invitation to join her & her transmasculine partner (who is the founder of the transgender choir in which we all sing) for dinner and then to go out dancing all three of us together. 

This isn’t the first time, or period of my life, that I’ve felt I belong. I felt a deep sense of belonging in several sailing groups, with my peers in grad school, partly even at the university where I taught for several years in California. The strongest sense of belonging that I have felt in recent years has been with the climbing community, which is one of the reasons I suffered so much during the pandemic and lockdown when that connection was severed for months. 

But the sense of belonging I’m feeling now, here and now, is stronger, deeper. And I think it is stronger and deeper here & now because I am finally embracing, embodying, and fully experiencing a more authentic sense of belonging with(in) myself. 

I belong in this body: in this non-binary, trans body. 

When I walk into a space now, I walk into it with a completely different self-awareness and even self-confidence. 

When I walk into a climbing gym or up to a climbing crag, I know — I feel — that I am a climber, a true climber with/in my heart, with/in my head, with/in my body.    

When I walk on campus now I am finally regaining my confidence as a scientist, as a professional. 

And in all of these spaces I also walk as a queer person — sometimes scared or shy or worried, other times confident and proud — anyhow, always authentic. 

Like last night, on the dance floor, so evidently, obviously queer, so apparently non-binary. In fact, my two queer friends & I immediately attracted the attention of a group of lesbian women who were also at the dance venue for a celebration of their own. And it felt so good to be seen, to be recognized almost immediately as queer by other queer people. But it also felt good to be seen by all the other people there — so many of them staring but also so many of them genuinely appreciative. 

I am often getting overwhelmed by the attention I am receiving and even by all the warmth, the wonderful and yet new and often still unexpected welcomes. But it is lovely to feel that one belongs and, especially, to feel that one belongs just as one is, as one’s true, authentic self. To be seen, accepted, embraced, appreciated, even admired as one’s true self without having to hide or camouflage. 

I belong, here and now. I belong in this body, I belong in these communities, I belong in these spaces. I belong, just as I am.

One last moment of hesitation and then Arys did it. He walked into the men’s changing room at the climbing gym. 

It was a new space for him. He didn’t know where to expect the stalls and wash basins, didn’t know where the lockers and towels would be. And he didn’t want to look around — shy, scared, worried there might be other people in the changing room, people who “really belonged” and who might tell him he didn’t. 

Arys saw the stalls and went straight into one to pee. That felt safe, and a little more familiar at this point, since Arys has been using men’s restrooms more frequently in public spaces for a while now. 

Then it was time to change, to get out of the sweaty clothes from the strength & bouldering workout, to wash up a little and change into nice clothes for the department celebration to which Arys was going next. 

Was is cheating to change pants in the stall, hidden from everyone? 

In his loose pants and naked torso, with the pink scars still visible, Arys stepped out of the stall, went to find a towel and then headed for the wash basin to rinse off. Wash hands, rinse face, freshen up under the armpits. One step at a time, calmly — “You belong here”, Arys kept repeating to themself. 

Arys took his time to wash up and change as calmly as possible, hearing two other climbers in the restroom space, while Arys was in the locker space behind the wall, greet each other with the familiar “Hey man, what’s up?”, so typical between guys used to sharing the same spaces. 

Arys didn’t notice the few people coming and going while he was using the wash basin and then dressing. Someone probably saw the pink scars on Arys’s strong & lean torso. Someone probably only saw the back or the side — an athletic boy’s torso. But despite the lingering fear or anxiety, Arys did not hide (except for changing pants in the “safety” of the stall). Arys’s whole body was demanding to be there, to change in that space. 

And walking back out of the men’s changing room, his beautiful, strong, and delicate trans body still showing, almost bursting, under his street clothes, there was a boy who had grown a little more that day.

People stare at me. 

Adults at the swimming-pool on average look at me with a longer and/or slightly more puzzled look than they used to when I was female-presenting and wearing some type of standard woman’s swimsuit. 

Last Saturday, three teenage boys kept staring at me and talking amongst themselves as I stretched on the side of the pool after my swim workout, wearing a Speedo-like men’s swimsuit. 

A couple times after a run on a very warm day recently, as I cooled-down afterwards, removing my T-shirt and stretching just in my running-shorts as most male runners do, I also got some mixed looks from cis-men runners who happened to cross paths with me: at a first glance, they smiled as if in recognition and said “Hi” in a “bro-like” way; then, after a closer look, they almost looked away or looked uncomfortable and/or confused. 

These incidents leave me a little uncomfortable and confused myself. 

I’m loving my body like never before and want to do things bare-chested as much as other boys do, whenever appropriate. And I want to celebrate my body. But these glances, these mixed looks, these stares cannot go unnoticed and aren’t always easy to bear, especially when they start adding up. 

When I’ve shared these incidents with a few good friends here, my friends have given me very kind, sympathetic, and even empathic, replies around my feeling of discomfort, which has been very comforting. Friends have also added, more or less seriously, “People look because you’re gorgeous” or “Of course they stare, it’s because you’re hot!” 

I know it’s well-meant and I’m grateful for my friends’ comments or viewpoints, or simply for their trying to cheer me up. But I still feel confused and somewhat uncomfortable. And extremely self-conscious, probably more self-conscious than ever before. 

Why do people stare? 

Am I really that attractive?

Or should I simply be hiding my body? Am I not allowed to wear a Speedo-like men’s swimsuit at the swimming-pool or running shorts on a warm day on a trail like cis-men, or other boys, do? Am I not allowed to wear a tight T-shirt and jeans because such outfits give away that I have a “trans-body”? 

On the other hand, why do those stares, and sometimes even the well-meant comments like “You’re gorgeous” or “You’re hot”, upset me so much?

https://www.npr.org/2023/02/09/1155819217/young-florida-athletes-wont-have-to-share-their-menstrual-cycle-details-to-compe

https://www.npr.org/2023/04/05/1168219569/authors-of-banned-books-are-fed-up-and-fighting-back

https://www.npr.org/2023/04/19/1170553504/florida-abortion-life-of-the-mother-exception-mental-health-suicide-psychiatric

https://www.npr.org/2023/04/19/1170919494/fate-of-abortion-pills-remains-in-doubt-as-supreme-court-ponders-lower-court-ver

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?