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| Photo from The Umbrella Academy: Season 3, Episode 2 (2019) |
“You know, I always hated mirrors, thought everybody felt so strange in their skin. I guess that’s not true, right?” - Viktor Hargreeves
Big hips, curved waist, ample bosom, everything screams woman, girl, female.
As I stare at my reflection, I start to imagine myself in a different body—a flatter chest, straighter legs, and a deeper voice—everything that makes up a man. “That is not me, the one in the mirror.” I restlessly chant to myself as a form of comfort and maybe, denial. Because no matter how much the baggy clothes conceal my unwanted figure, people will seem to always view me as a woman. Ate! Miss! Madam! Ganda! These names seem too trivial for everyone, but deep inside it makes my stomach churn. “That’s not me. I’m not a woman.” I say again under my breath as a reminder. It is not their fault, at some point they just know. I think so.
Maybe it is my fault? Am I not masculine enough? Should I buff myself up? Should I add more bandages to my binder so my chest would look deflated? Should I force my voice to be in a lower register? What should I do to just be called Sir! Kuya! Pogi! even once? That even if I remove my mask or speak normally they wouldn’t change their whole attitude and think ‘Ay babae pala.'
If you tell me in my younger years that I am who I am today, I would have laughed right in front of your face. I’ve always kind of gaslit myself for years that my fixation on good-looking men more than beautiful women is just me being attracted towards them, not knowing there’s something much deeper than that. I was envious. I want to wear their gender as a bodysuit, strutting my way through every corner of the city with my chin up and brooding confidence that people will seem to absorb as something masculine. I wouldn’t have to pull the front of my shirt just to make it loose and create an illusion that nothing is there to see, or stress over choosing pants that wouldn’t make my hips stand out or cutting my hair shorter just to appear as maybe a boy in puberty.
In times of desperation (which is almost every day), I daydream and picture myself as someone born male, and everyone treats me as one indubitably. No hesitations, no doubts from other people and from myself; no you’re-too-young-to figure-out or maybe-you-lack-in-affection-from-a-man kind of sayings. I wouldn’t have to utter a word or argue with someone about my identity, they would just know. But in reality, no one truly knows, not until I correct them. Not until I explain the whole shenanigan of my life. Not until I say something. Not until I come out.
Being transgender, be it pre-op, post-op or no-op is an exhausting, draining, and painful ride. No one in their right mind would have chosen this lifestyle if they had a choice, trust me, looking at the number of tears I shed almost every day could speak volumes already. The anxiety that I have just in explaining my pronouns and my preferred name to every single person that I meet is a bit of a burden. Sometimes I try to word it simply or sometimes I lie, just not to strike up an argument because I’m not built for that. I am a coward, I do admit. I curl up in fear just to get covered by the blanket of normalcy, not brave enough to let my feet out to feel the feeling of genuineness. That is why I’ll never truly be a man because I don’t act like one nor look like one and I am terrified of just staying true to myself.
Am I not ready for this? The risks I have to take, the questions I have to answer, the identity I have to build for myself, and somehow prove to the people around me that I am worth calling a man. No one told me about this, and no one taught me what it would feel like because I guess out of everyone in the group, I’m the astray sheep from the flock. I am aware of the type of man I am, I know I don’t aspire to be muscular or too arrogant, rather I just want to have a lean figure and maybe, be a bit effeminate.
“Oh no! Now your masculinity is invalid! You’re effeminate, you are either just a woman in confusion or a man fetishizer!” My reflection in the mirror blurted out of the blue. He… She...? Views me under extreme scrutiny, snarling as I try to avoid his... her… judging gaze. “You don’t deserve to have your true self, what you see in the mirror is what you get. A humanoid mess. You don’t deserve to be a man or a woman.” She...? He… scoffs mockingly, seeing through me and seeing nothing at all. Then I realize, as much as being transgender is hard, it is just as difficult to be a man. I am not a normal man in the sense of biological sex, I see that, but I’m also not a normal man in the sense of societal standards. Double kill, aye? An effeminate transgender man? That sounds like a recipe for chaos! “But it sure does work right?” I say with my fingers crossed, hoping for the best, asking an empty auditorium because no one would want a show from someone like me. Would it work out ten years from now? Would I be genuinely sated? Am I forcing myself too much?
Do not twist my words. Transgender people, as well as the whole LGBTQ+ community, are just pure wonder and deserve nothing but the best. They’ve been fighting for equal rights, fighting authorities who won’t hear us, and fighting prejudices that come our way. It is a magical experience once we unite, and I’ll be forever glad to be a part of it. But it doesn’t stop me and my severe impostor syndrome that lies under every mirror I pass by and stare at, with its horrifying expression, who thinks that I don’t deserve to be here right now. But I know well, I am happy. Though the voices may seem to be making me restless, they won’t hinder me or other trans men from relishing in our identity and being the men that we are. Here is why I am already a man from the moment I tell you so.
