Can’t You Wait Until I’m Dead? ~ Chapter 15: Building My Female Identity
I gave my last exam of the term in the school gymnasium, and as I paced up and down the columns of students with my arms crossed, I realized my breasts would keep me from wearing tight shirts in public. My work clothes were button-down dress shirts, one or two sizes too large, so it wasn’t an issue yet, but I remember thinking, How much longer can I pull this off? Will I need to wear a binder soon?
After I finished the last department meeting of the term, I had a two-week holiday break and thought about changing my name. Websites and blogs recommended choosing a name that was easy to pronounce and spell because it would reduce the chance of being misgendered. Some women chose a name similar to their birth name, like James to Jamie, and kept their surname to make updating everything simpler, like correcting a minor mistake in their first name.
Since I was going through all the social and physical changes of transitioning, I wanted a clean break from all three birth names. I had already filled out the paperwork for a name change in 2009 (read my name’s origin story in Chapter 23), so in 2016, all I had to do was update my new first and middle names on the form and keep the family surname I had planned to take seven years earlier.
Contrary to advice, I chose a name, Allison Magdalene Kirschenmann, that was too long for a credit card, difficult to spell and pronounce, but was entirely my own. That was the most important part. I worried about how my family, and especially Sarah, would accept my transition, and noticed there were little reactions, possibly even frictions, that made me doubt my choices. A brief look from Sarah or a conversation with Mom made me question whether I should wear dark red lipstick, pull on tight pants, or raise the pitch of my voice. It was probably subconscious, but their subtle tells gave away their discomfort. A name change was something I could do in secret—it had to be right for me. I was okay asking them for advice on what to wear, but I couldn’t let anyone else choose my name again.
On December 22, with my Vital Statistics Agency Form 529A and a notarized copy of my citizenship certificate in hand, I bundled up in my aubergine jacket for the cold, grey morning. My local police station couldn’t fingerprint me for a criminal background check because their scanner was broken, but there was a private office located a few blocks from the Service BC office downtown, on Homer Street.
I’d been through fingerprinting for immigration thirteen years earlier, so I didn’t feel like a criminal, but still had to answer the question, “Why do you need your fingerprints taken?” It was harder than I thought to tell my secret to a man dressed like a police officer. Even the name of the company, Commissionaires, sounded like they’d toss me in a cell if I said the wrong thing. My paperwork had my new name and deadname at the top, and he needed to enter both into the system. It was apparent he’d done this before, taking both my names, charging my credit card, and scanning my fingers without making it seem like my new female name was unusual. After the self-induced stress, signing the statutory declaration at Service BC was anticlimactic.[i]
Sarah and I relaxed over the holiday break, eating at two restaurants as a same-sex couple and getting our first “Together or separate?” from the waitstaff when it came time for the bill. It took us by surprise and we almost took offence, having spent thirty years seen as a heterosexual couple. The assumption we’d never stopped to consider was that a heterosexual couple usually paid for both meals on one bill. Two women together usually paid separately. Since then, I don’t recall anyone coming to our table with one bill. Discussing which credit card to use for each meal is one of many “new normals.”
Three days before classes started, I realized I’d spent the entire winter break presenting as a woman, with my gender identity and expression aligned. The holiday parties and dinners with friends made me feel grounded. Come January 4, I would have to wear the clothes I dreaded. Could I endure the dysphoria until the end of May? Was I ready to come out to my students and colleagues? I’d only just submitted my name change request, and there was no way to know how long it would take, but I’d reached a tipping point and couldn’t go back. I wasn’t fully prepared, but I needed to do it for my mental health.
One memorable dinner over the holiday break highlighted my predicament. We’d known Leo and Anaya since Sarah was a seasonal gardener with the city ten years ago, and we’d been through a lot together. When I greeted them at the door with a hug, wearing a bra, makeup, tights and a black turtleneck, they either didn’t notice or felt uncomfortable saying anything. I couldn’t find a moment to interrupt and make a dramatic announcement, and honestly, I wasn’t confident enough to come out to close friends, much less students and colleagues at work.
The passing scale I found through Laura’s Playground listed over twenty traits influenced by testosterone, but when I looked at myself in the mirror, only a few, like my eyes, triggered my dysphoria. Watching other women transition on YouTube and reading their advice taught me that the right eyeglasses could have a feminizing effect.
It was one more piece that could boost my confidence. When I darkened my lashes with mascara and applied some concealer from MAC under my eyes, my unease about my eyes decreased by about fifty percent. The last fifty percent eased when I slipped on a pair of prescription glasses with large, dark, round frames I bought on New Year’s Eve.
The last major issue was my hair. The only way I could go out in public was with a wide hairband hiding my hairline, and I didn’t see myself wearing one to work. My hair grew slowly, so a year and a half after shaving it to stubble, it was still only four inches long. My widow’s peak stretched back to my ears, leaving a vast expanse of forehead to cover. The thought of wearing hairbands every day triggered images of Keith Richards that made me shiver when I pictured myself, and I hadn’t yet taken the time to find a wig. The only option left was a creative hairstylist to tell it to me straight: Was there anything they could do with what I had left?
I called around town, scaring some off with questions about my thinning and receding hairline, but I found one just a few blocks away who was brave enough to take on the challenge. Two stylists, Lisa and Chie, made minor adjustments here and there to create the perfect bob. They taught me how to comb and spray what little there was over my forehead and sent me on my way. Wearing a short gold necklace with a green glass bead, I applied my eye makeup and lipstick, then set up a selfie and captured a natural smile with a hint of giddiness. I was almost ready to go.
To mentally prepare, I pored over a list of websites and videos I’d been collecting. Some were practical, such as training my voice, but most were encouraging words from those who had reached a point of peace I was still striving for. One YouTube user, OneDedEye, posted a video called “Transgender Beards, MtF” about self-acceptance after doing an experiment and letting her beard grow a little.[ii] “I’ve been on hormones for a little over a year now—a year and a few months. I’ve found that there’s definitely a difference between how I feel now and how I felt a year ago. As far as my comfort level, as far as my sense of self is a big one.” My list also included a quote from Conchita Wurst (Thomas Neuwirth), an Austrian singer and drag queen who won Eurovision in 2014 sporting a beard: “I’ve figured out over the years, you can only hurt me if I love you; if I don’t know you, I really don’t care. There are people who want to kill me, and I’m always like, ‘Well, get in line, darling.’”[iii]
The other inspirations on my list came from the It Gets Better Project video series, including Janet Mock, Candice Cayne, Laverne Cox, Portia De Rossi, Ian McKellen, Rosie O’Donnell, and Jane Lynch.[iv] In each, they described how they struggled to come out to friends and family, eventually publicly, and although it was tough, their lives were richer for living openly and erasing the constant fear that comes with being closeted. In a clip played during the credits, Portia laughed about how much harder it was coming out as a vegan than as a lesbian. “When you come out as vegan, you are directly saying something to someone who isn’t vegan.”[v] I’d been through that already, and it gave me hope I could do this too.
[i] “I understand that by making application for a name change, that the present and proposed names, date of birth and any other personal information included in this application deemed necessary will be forwarded to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police for the purpose of conducting a criminal record review. AND I have read the application and to the best of my knowledge, information and belief, the statements made are true in substance and in fact. AND I understand that any documentation submitted to support this application may be verified for validity and/or authenticity with the issuing authority and I provide my consent to the Vital Statistics Agency to complete this verification. I make this solemn declaration conscientiously believing it to be true, and knowing that it is of the same force and effect as if under oath.”
[ii] OneDedEye, “Transgender Beards, MtF,” May 7, 2014, YouTube video.
[iii] Kathryn Bromwich, "Conchita Wurst: 'Most artists are sensitive and insecure people. I am too,'" The Observer, July 6, 2014, https://www.theguardian.com/music/2014/jul/06/conchita-interview-sensitive-insecure-eurovision-gay-pin-up-austrian.
[iv] Lstudiopresents, “It Got Better,” YouTube video playlist, https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_iV8sMHrlfdbPiq5KQfFSORQSxUJPqiE
[v] Heather Ross, dir., “It Got Better Featuring Portia De Rossi,” YouTube video,