Redefining Realness (18 page)

—GLORIA ANZALDÚA, “LETTING GO”

G
ood morning, Class of 2001!” I shouted from center stage in our school’s cafeteria. “I’m Janet, your class treasurer, and I just want to thank you for your votes and your support!”

More than three hundred sophomores applauded as I unwrapped my blue-polished nails from the microphone. The riotous reception signaled my successful reintroduction, and the sight of my fellow elected leaders standing with me at our back-to-school assembly emboldened me. The majority of the people in that cafeteria were aware that they had elected Charles to office the previous semester, but I had known Janet would reign.

I was obsessed with
The Velvet Rope
for a year straight, letting Janet Jackson’s confessional lyrics lull me to sleep and comfort me when I felt lost. I felt that the album was the vehicle onto which Janet finally expressed her full self, her anger and pain, her fluid sexuality and passion. I loved her fiery red curls and her equally vibrant smile, features that the older girls said I had in common with the singer. I was deeply flattered when they nicknamed me Baby Janet, a name
that stuck and that I took as my own. There’s power in naming yourself, in proclaiming to the world that this is who you are. Wielding this power is often a difficult step for many trans people, because it’s also a very visible one.

To announce your gender in name, dress, and pronouns in your school, place of work, neighborhood, and state is a public process, one in which trans people must literally petition authorities to approve name and gender marker changes on identification cards and public records. Becoming comfortable with your identity is step one; the next step is revealing that identity to those around you. As with medically transitioning, there are economic and legislative barriers that make it difficult for low-income trans people to make the public changes that align their lived and documented gender.

To legally change my name at fifteen would have required me to appeal to my mother to petition for my name change, pay the three-hundred-dollar-plus filing fees, and plead with my father in Dallas to cosign on something he had absolutely no knowledge of. So I postponed the legal process until I was eighteen and wielded the power of self-determination, announcing to my peers and my family that I would only answer to Janet and
she
and
her
pronouns.

Though I kept the fact that I was taking hormones a secret over the summer before my sophomore year, I was not hiding my dress, makeup, and longer hair from my family. Mom allowed me to spend my back-to-school clothing allowance on skirts, dresses, tight denim jeans, and tops. As long as I brought home good grades, I was in the clear. This was our informal, unspoken agreement. The only conversation we had was about my name and pronouns during that summer.

It had been nearly three years since I had sat down with my mother in our house in Kalihi and discussed my sexuality. I was now asking my family to embrace me as Janet. I realized even then that
it would take them time to adapt. They slipped from time to time when it came to my name and pronouns, and I forgave those early slips because they were part of our collective growing pains. What mattered to me was that they loved me enough to go on the journey with me and willingly adapt their lives to mine. Though the changes were about me, I couldn’t deny they were also about my family, who reacted positively and grew accustomed at their own pace.

Jeff, who was nine at the time, adapted the easiest, accepting my gender identity as something natural with little concern, the way children do when we present change as positive. Cheraine and Cori, who were busy with their growing families, shrugged at my announcement, claiming that they’d always known. Cori was the proudest of all my siblings to have another sister, lovingly calling me
tita
(pidgin for “sister”). Chad was the only one I felt a bit self-conscious discussing the gender stuff with. I avoided him, opting to seek refuge in my relationship with Wendi rather than open up to him about what I was going through. I felt accountable to him and our siblinghood because we had spent our entire lives together. Our diverging paths sent us into our respective womanhood and manhood. Though Chad embraced me without rebuttal (he was the most careful with my name and pronouns), I knew he needed time to figure out who he was, come to grips with who I was, and mourn the loss of the big brother he thought he’d always wanted.

My mother, who was preoccupied with bills and Rick, defaulted to her signature hands-off approach with my social transition, which I took into my own hands. She was and has always been the kind of mother who recognized her children as their own beings rather than an extension of her. Her outlook benefited me because it allowed me to set the tone for who I would become with minimal consultation. I purposefully remained silent with Mom about taking hormones. I was immature enough to believe that I could do it all on my own; I
didn’t give her the opportunity to be an advocate for me at school and beyond. It wasn’t that I was afraid of my mother freaking out; I just didn’t have the skills to communicate my growing needs, and there was a part of me that was unsure she would be able to meet those needs. Expecting things from other people always led to heartache, I believed at the time, and I didn’t want to be disappointed, so I chose to go it alone for a while longer.

After that class assembly, I continued to improvise, creating the space I needed for myself in school within a cocoon of supportive friends, teachers, and teammates. Instead of embarking on a series of conversations with Moanalua’s staff, I let my denim capris, my brown tribal-pattern choker, my crown of curls, and my growing bust do the talking. It hasn’t been until recently that I have been able to appreciate the brave girl standing on that stage, walking in those hallways, sitting in class, who made herself seen, heard, and known.

My presence as a fifteen-year-old trans girl must’ve been radical to many, but to me it was truth, and my truth led me to form a womanhood all my own. What I failed to realize was that the people outside my home, specifically the school’s staff, weren’t equipped with the resources and experience to help a student like me. Some of them were unwilling to seek that knowledge and chose to view my presence as problematic. I admit that my approach may have appeared abrasive to some, but I was unapologetic about who I was and never felt the need to plead for belonging in school. Though my entitlement aided my survival, it also created problems.

Social transition is the process by which a trans person begins openly living as their true gender. Trans youth who openly express their gender identity at home are usually aided by parents, who speak with teachers, administrators, and other parents about their identity, pronouns, and name. Open, clear communication helps detail
the student’s and the family’s journey, educate people about what it means to be trans, and set a precedent of support for the young person. GLSEN (Gay, Lesbian & Straight Education Network), a national organization that advocates for all students regardless of gender identity and sexual orientation, offers a model policy resource for schools to help foster safe, affirmative environments that will meet the needs of trans students.

Ideally, administrators clearly communicate to teachers the importance of assisting the student by using the preferred name and pronouns and ensuring that other students do so as well. A teacher sets the tone in the classroom by ensuring that misuse of names and pronouns is not tolerated and that harassment and name-calling will be grounds for discipline. Though most of my teachers were on board with role modeling in the classroom, I can still feel the sting of my chemistry teacher purposefully calling out “Charles” every morning during role call, to the giggles of my peers. To add insult to injury, she repeatedly misgendered me, deliberately referring to me as “he” and “him” and refusing to reprimand bullies who interrupted class by shouting, “I can see your balls!” or “How big are your tits now?” Instead of taking a leadership role and proclaiming that intolerance would not be tolerated, she chose to turn a blind eye to insults, going as far as blaming me for putting a target on my own back for dressing the way I did. She viewed my femininity as extra, as something that was forced and unnatural.

Femininity in general is seen as frivolous. People often say feminine people are doing “the most,” meaning that to don a dress, heels, lipstick, and big hair is artifice, fake, and a distraction. But I knew even as a teenager that my femininity was more than just adornments; they were extensions of
me
, enabling me to express myself and my identity. My body, my clothes, and my makeup are on purpose, just as I am on purpose.

My teacher’s judgments fostered an environment that became increasingly uncomfortable for me daily. If I hadn’t valued my education and hadn’t been accepted at home, skipping class or dropping out of school to avoid the harassment would have been an appealing choice. It’s no wonder nearly one-third of LGBTQ students are driven out of school—a dropout rate nearly three times the national average, according to Lambda Legal.

Administrators can also navigate gender-segregated activities, sports, restrooms, and locker rooms based on the circumstances of the student and the school facilities, with the intent of maximizing safety, comfort, and social integration. Some students may be comfortable using restrooms, locker rooms, and changing facilities that correspond with gender identity (for example, I freely used the girls’ restroom), while others may prefer a single-user and/or gender-neutral restroom or changing room (for example, I used my teacher’s locked classroom to change for physical education). While some students and parents may express discomfort with sharing such gender-separated facilities with a trans student, school staff must work diligently to address concerns through education that fosters understanding and empathy and creates a safe campus for all students, regardless of bodily differences.

It’s important to note confidentiality and discretion, as some students (with the guidance of their parents) may choose to attend a school where no one knows that they’re trans. Others may not be open at home for reasons such as safety concerns, lack of acceptance, or potential rejection. For these students, school may be a safer environment to express themselves truly, and school staff should remain open and supportive as they help navigate social transition. Disclosing to a parent that a child is trans carries risks for the student, such as being forced to leave home. Let the student lead the way, be willing and open to educate yourself and others,
and set the tone in the classroom about how a trans student should be treated.

Unfortunately, I was going at it all alone, with little guidance from my mother and a lack of leadership and sensitivity from school administrators who chose to view me as a nuisance. I remember Vice Principal Johnson, a forty-something white woman from the South, tapping me on the shoulder during lunch to follow her to her office. She was a regular sight at lunchtime, hard to miss, standing five-ten, her bright blond pixie cut reflecting the high-noon sun.

“Do you know why I called you in here today?” she asked as I sat in the metal chair near her desk. I shook my head, having never been summoned to the administrators’ building, a place I associated with delinquents and truant students. “We have a ‘standard rules of conduct and dress code’ policy,” she said. “Have you read it?”

“I haven’t, miss,” I said, cradling my right hand nervously in my left palm.

“If you did read it, you’d see that your dress is inappropriate,” she said. “Young men don’t wear skirts,” she said, narrowing her green eyes on my denim skirt with rhinestones lining the pockets.

I had to exert everything in my limited power from reacting to the shade she was throwing at me. “I’m going through some changes,” I said, aiming to explain myself to her. “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding, because I’m not a boy.”

“Really?” she said quizzically.

“I see myself as a girl, and I know the way I dress isn’t bothering anyone,” I said. “I’m an honor student, class treasurer, and captain of the volleyball team.”

“I’m glad you’re doing well,” she said, cutting me off. “We need more good students. But I’ve spoken with your teachers, and from my understanding, the way you’re dressing has caused disruptions in class.”

“Yes, I’m teased frequently,” I argued, “with some teachers choosing not to defend me.”

“Consider this a warning,” she said after a short pause during which she took in the hint of cleavage from my white V-neck sweater. “We have dress codes to avoid the disruptions you’ve encountered in class. Do you understand?”

After a few weeks of wearing bell-bottoms and denim shorts, I chose to wear a skirt, but this time self-consciousness crept in. I was no longer as carefree. To wear a skirt, to be proud and unapologetically feminine, was a badge of honor for me initially, but it had transformed into another thing I was forced to hide. I should have been allowed to wear whatever I wanted as long as it was within the dress code for all girls. I often successfully dodged VP Johnson in the halls, but there were a number of times when she sent me home to change.

Home was no refuge, as I incredulously watched Mom picking up lint, on all fours, from our carpet. She was totally zoned out on the floor, holding her findings in her palm while using her free hand as the picker. I was suspicious that Mom was smoking meth with Rick. When I brought it up with Chad, he adamantly denied it, helping to assuage my anxieties. “She wouldn’t do that,” he said. I could see he was offended by my accusations that Mom could be like Rick.

Putting aside Mom’s alleged drug use, her volatile relationship set the tone in our house. Rick was normally calm and quiet, unengaged, but out of nowhere he’d explode. He and Mom usually yelled from behind their bedroom walls, something we adapted and grew accustomed to. We’d turn up the television when they fought, trying our best to ignore Rick’s roars and Mom’s whimpers. We grew accustomed to their screaming matches, which usually ended with the two of them leaving the house together, giving us money for dinner.