MY COMING OUT STORY | LGBTQ+ Talks

Okay, this is going to be a dense subject post; I'm just going to start off by saying that. 

TRIGGER WARNING!! 

I do discuss suicide, eating disorder, and several other subjects that you may not be comfortable reading. I want to provide a safe space to you all, but I don't want to leave anything unsaid or sugarcoat anything because this is my reality as a transgender woman and my story as a human being. But first, in order to establish a well-grounded safe space, I need you to trust me, know who I am, what I've gone through, what I am all about and hopefully you can relate, but hopefully you may never have to see anyone go through anything like I have or experience any of this yourself. I will acknowledge that I have faired in better conditions than most trans-women and trans people in general and I am fortunate for not only that but also the fact that I have survived and that I pass, while many of my trans fellows may not. 

Additionally, I have never come out, but I also come out almost on a daily basis to strangers that I meet around campus. Though I did not feel that it was necessary to reveal to my family about my transgender identity and hopefully the future generations will follow. I mean, most people don't have to come out as cisgender or straight, so I feel I didn't have to reveal that I'm transgender.

Well, here we go. 

What I thought I was going to be like as an adult at the tender age of three has drastically changed over the years.

Toddlerhood

At three, four, and five, I thought that when I would become an adult, I could just grow out my hair to be long and voluminous and that would be the answer to all of my prayers. I thought. I thought I could be a woman that way. I thought. I thought wrong. At age five, I thought I wanted to be a basketball player because some part of me was becoming aware of gender norms and I thought becoming a basketball player would become some acceptable way of fitting in in the meanwhile.

Elementary School

At age seven, I still falsely believed that the difference between girl and boy was the length of one's hair. Then, I wanted to be something of which I'm not sure. Maybe a writer, maybe an inventor. The possibilities were still out there, up in the air, out in the universe, up in Pluto. But then again, at age seven, egocentrism is still a thing that you're not aware of and thus you still think that everyone thinks what you think and wants what you want. The relics of this linger, even until today, as they may in everyone in some capacity. Therefore, you still think that everyone wants to live in New York City and walk out of their apartments every day with a smile, as Jenna Rink does in 13 Going on 30. But then again, at age seven, you not only didn't realize this, but you also didn't know that tragedy is a reality and many die having not fulfilled their dreams. You just didn't know that even when you live your dream life, the smile fleets and you're back to facing reality. Little did you know that reality is a bitch we all come to face with. Little did you know that reality is not always fair, that it's difficult for all of us. You haven't yet face the difficulties you're dealt with, so bless your soul for this. You just thought that at 30 years old you'd still enjoy playing with toys.

Me two years ago, trying to experiement with photography.
I don't think it worked well, but that's experimenting for you.

At age twelve, I realized in an obligatory, traumatic video introducing the changes forced upon me that the difference between male and female is not the length of one's hair, but instead of anatomy, biology, and physiology. I would later avoid taking any anatomy and physiology course just so that I would not be reminded of this, even if anatomy and physiology is much more than the anatomy of physiology of both sexes. During this period of my life, I decided to avoid anything and everything that was inherently "male" or male by society's standards. My inquisitive nature made me more self-conscious of most of the activities that could have been apparent by anyone nearby. This was a time when I gradually began to withdraw into my shell and the rate at which my revolution around the Sun became a long, dark, icy period that is 248 years. My friends started their puberty and it seemed that they were in sync.

Junior High

By junior high, it seemed that they all at one point wanted nothing to do with me in some way. I had missed all of the sleepovers, gossip, and get-togethers. Somehow, I wanted to be a designer amidst the impending forces leaning in toward me in an already crowded room. My views of adulthood shifted as well. I couldn't just grow out my hair, as I had initially thought. I cried many nights at this very thought. My adulthood dating life wouldn't be so simple anymore. I finally realized that the guys I would hypothetically date would find out that I am "not a girl" because my long hair would be a rouse, concealing my inherent masculinity. Distraught and dauntless, I became aware. I wanted to know if I could still be pregnant. No. I wanted to know if I could be the same height as my friends. No. Could I talk or sign the same way? Not a chance. I wanted to know if I there was still a chance that a guy could like me ever. More and more uncertainty.

At age fourteen, I didn't want to be anything. This period of nothingness, no dreams or goals welcomed suicidal thoughts and suicide attempts involving a string from my sweatpants, pills I found in my bathroom medicine cabinet, as well as Lysol and air freshener. My being self-conscious about my growing height became an eating disorder. Again, I wanted to be as female as possible and I didn't know a lot (if any) females that were tall. The gate was easy to permeate and the heart of the core of my surface sank in on my planet.

High School

The first picture I took after growing out
my hair.

Beanies. If you were to see me at any moment of my freshman year of high school, you would have nine times out of 10 seen me with a beanie placed firmly on my head. Yes, even in the "perfect" California weather and temperatures over 100 degrees Fahrenheit would I still engulf my head with some type of beanie. 

Why exactly would I wear a beanie?

Well, I had always valued my hair. See how the idea of hair connects? I remember the last time I got a short haircut. It was November of my freshman year, a time during which, right before Thanksgiving, I would usually get a haircut provided by none other than my father (or the occasional hair barber) in my grandmother's bathroom. This time was different. I did not want him to shave the top. Somehow, I felt the top feminized my appearance because it made my face look like I had bangs. If I had worn women's clothes, I could pass as a female with a cute bob style.

Anyway, that was my only request. Against my wishes, my father went for the top, shaving a bit of it. Luckily he used the bigger razor cover thing because hardly anything came off. I retracted, pulling myself aside and standing up, protesting his decision to rebel against my only request. He insisted that doing so would be okay if he shaved the top a little. It wasn't an all-or-nothing for me; it was a PLEASE DON'T FUCKING SHAVE THE TOP OF MY HEAD, PLEASE thing for me. You understand?

I stomped out of the bathroom, crossing my arms, I'm sure. Little did I expect my dad to apologize; clearly, I had frustrated him with my rebellion as he clearly had one purpose but to shave his son's hair in the same style, but with his youngest son "acting up". He didn't have to do this, and yet I had tested his patience by not sticking around for the full "appointment". I understand his frustration. I kind of bailed and I understood this at the time too, as I returned, sitting back down on the chair, wherein he immediately went for the top and this time, I got up and left, exchanging no words. My face said it all. 

Me after growing out my hair for 6 months.

Thereon, I grew out my hair. And several times, I took off my beanie to straighten my hair. I would feel self-conscious during these times because it was my first year of high school and most of the people who had seen me had only seen me with something not short of a small, patterned sack placed snugly over my head.

This was the year I actually learned what "transgender" was and that it actually applied to me, thanks to my friend Karly, who explained to me that her brother, whom I shared a class with, is indeed transgender. This changed my world and I learned something very important about myself; however, I was not yet aware of the implications of being transgender--the struggle, dysphoria, stigma, and calamity behind it all.

This was just my first year of high school, though. *Sigh* 

Me putting on a dress on the
day my sister was supposed to
be proposed to in. This dress was
returned and I no one was home,
so it was the perfect opportunity to
wear it.

The summer before sophomore year, I had continued to grow out my hair and somehow decided to make my own bras out of the t-shirts I knew I wasn't going to use anymore. Again, I had wanted to feminize anything masculine I owned or carried shamefully around in my invaluable Prade tote bag or what is otherwise known as my mind and body, both which are invaluable yet not materialistic as a bag you carry around with you (Did you think I actually had a Prada bag?). You can't carry shame in a bag; you can actually carry the price of shame in a bag. Similarly, I carried the product of my surroundings around internally and posed it as shame and carried that shit around like, well, it was a Prada bag containing shit in it (what else would I be talking about?). My sister did actually catch me wearing that bra one time and it was humiliating; she saw that my chest looked augmented checked down the back of my shirt. Yup, a bra I was in the process of finishing, a bra stuffed with shoulder pads I had appropriated from my mother's old coats.

I returned to school my sophomore year in a ponytail. My math teacher, who, may I remind you I had for ALL FOUR FUCKING YEARS, even commented on my change of appearance during one acca-awkward encounter the morning of a quiz when I had arrived early. I told him that I grew out my hair for religious purposes, which was a perfectly acceptable answer to him, until November of my junior year. 

That November, I planned on attending a Friends-giving with none other than my friends (did I really need to include that redundancy?). However, my father would not let me leave the house in a dress that my sister gave me in secret. I was adamant on going in this floral dress (that I still have, by the way) because I wanted to and it looked pretty and I looked pretty in it and it was the first dress I had and IT'S NOT FAIR! I feel like that was my thought process, but I'm sure I was more articulate than that, so I'm probably exaggerating my thought processes. My mother actually told me to take off the dress and wear other clothes so I wouldn't set my father off and that the issue would easily be defused if I just changed my clothes. 

Me trying to look sexy while doing my homework in
the backyard two years ago.

So I pulled a trick up my sleeve and decided to please my father by leaving the house wearing my male clothes. Except, I would wear the dress under those clothes and leave the house that way. I stripped those clothes as we approached the park my friends agreed to meet at because God forbid I strip right after we left the house; he would have reversed the car and returned home. I exited the car, giving no fucks about my father's thoughts, went over to my friends, who kindly complimented my outfit. And you know what? We had a fucking blast! My dad refused to talk to me for the remainder of the day.

That November, I had also joined my school's Mock Trial team, which had a lot of enthusiasm surrounding it despite not many people actually having the time for it and the program lasting only that one year (as the teacher in charge of it got fired?). I joined and surprised myself and my peers with my acting performance, which was cool. I didn't need to add that, but if there was one thing I did in high school, it was acting in a Mock Trial and win an award because of my performance, proving that I could act.

Me congratulating my best
friend in May 2017.

Anyway, our competitions required us to wear formal business attire and I was not going to wear a suit, though one time I actually did (damn, I actually forgot about this instance) since my father refused to take me unless I wore a white-collared, button-down shirt and slacks and such. I complied. Whatever.

The next competition I had to actively speak in, I decided to wear my sister's dress after she gave me permission to wear it. Again, my father set off on his tantrum (anything he would do to save gas and not drive). So I did the same thing as I had on my Friends-giving affair. And, girl, you best believe I be stripping as I approached the Santa Ana Courthouse. I exited his car wearing the slim, black dress and my father couldn't stand seeing or even acknowledging me, so he returned to his car as my sister and brother escorted me to my trial. I was surprised to find my father in the audience. When it ended and I received my award for being Mock Trial MVP of that competition, my father was proud of me and acknowledged my wearing a dress as essential for my part but nothing more. 

My dad still thinks that transgender is a formation of being gay, or at least I'm under that impression considering how whenever we talk about transgenderism, he always associates it with his gay and lesbian cousins, but whatever.

Early College

Well, there's not much I can say about college, except for the fact that I have hardly started it, well, university, that is.

As soon as I found out who my roommates are, we instantly emailed each other regarding room preferences, interests, etc. It was in our exchange of emails that I revealed that I am transgender. So, they know and they couldn't be any more supportive. In fact, there's nothing awkward between us. We could change in front of each other and talk about certain topics without the idea of my being transgender interfering with our conversations.

In other news, with immense appreciation to my university (UCLA), I have been on hormone blockers (Spironolactone) and estradiol (estrogen). YaY!! I'll keep you update on my journey at the monthly marks.

As of now, no visible or emotional effects have arisen, though I do pee more frequently.

Me before starting at UCLA.

My family, with the exception of my sisters, doesn't know that I'm taking hormones. My father misgenders me and calls me by my dead name (super fun), even in public. When I had my family visit me at university and they met my roommates, it got super awkward and embarrassing when my dad said my dead name and past pronouns multiple times.

Unlike high school, when all my teachers and peers called me by my dead name and/or were too unsure (or just didn't care) as to what to call me or how to refer, at UCLA, everyone calls me by the name I had assigned myself: Joss. Luckily, UCLA, the progressive school it is, has an option to go by our preferred name, so that our professors call us by that name. With constant introductions to strangers on a daily basis, I'm constantly telling people that I'm Joss, so that's how I'm referred to as.

I am a woman. Yes, I am. Because I’m just starting my transition, I don’t have curvy hips, enlarged breasts, or any other secondary sex characteristics we, as a society, associate with being a woman. I don’t like makeup or even draw myself to expensive and materialistic clothes and high heels. But I still feel like a woman, emotionally and mentally.

With that said, I’m not where I would like to be in terms of appearances. Doing so will be expensive. I’m convinced that being transgender is expensive.

I'm just starting adulthood now. I'm only steps away from achieving the adulthood I've only imagined my entire life. The studio apartment, the urban adventure, everything requires this moment in my life--struggle, college, failure, success.

For some strange reason, I've only imagined myself as a 30-something, though I couldn't, nor could I imagine how I will look or feel like in the era of my life. I never imagined myself as I am now--never as a 19-year-old or even as a 20-something. My daydreams have always been with me at the center of my careers, already happy and successful.

I'm not there yet, not even close.