Self Portrait #1

self-portrait-1-final

Drawing this self portrait was a fascinating experience.

Before I ever start a drawing, I spend a lot of time analyzing the face in the reference photo, observing the technical aspects of facial proportions and composition and contrast, and figuring out how to capture the emotion in their expression. It’s an intellectual and artistic analysis done from a detached, non-judgmental, keenly observant, and empathetic perspective. This process has completely changed the way I see my own face in the mirror. Now I see my face with so much more interest – what’s unique about her face? how would I capture her expression there? – now I see my face with so much more compassion.

Drawing my self portrait (titled #1 because I think there will be more!) was very strange at first, like an out-of-body experience, similar to my mirror experiments but more prolonged and more precise. I deliberately drew all the facial imperfections that have long been a source of self-consciousness for me: acne scars on my left cheek, the vein that so prominently traverses my left temple, right iris heterochromia.

After I finished the sketch, I realized that I actually like my eyes – they are very big, very expressive, and asymmetrically colourful. I also like my collarbones and the upper pectoral definition on my chest, the hard-earned result of thousands of pushups. And I’ve always loved my short, messy hair.

I never thought I would be capable of drawing my own face. My self portrait took six hours to complete… six hours staring at my face, after six years of showering in the dark and avoiding mirrors with pathological self-loathing.

self-portrait-1-laptop

Materials: ballpoint pen (black) + black fine-point Sharpie marker + Staedtler colored pencils

Time: 6  hours

Reference: photo of myself taken July 16, 2016 on the stairs at a city train station. I chose that photo because the lighting provided good contrast and the cautious, wary facial expression is characteristic of my chronic skepticism.

Comments: I sign most of my drawings as TM. But I have as many names as I do clothes, so when I started drawing again, I was initially unsure what my signature should be. Most commonly I go by Thomas or by my given name (which starts with J), so I decided to sign with a provisional TM. I can turn the T into a capital J with a single curved stroke of the pen if I want. I signed this self portrait with JM because my given name and the face I drew have been mine my whole life. Thomas is a newer addition.

self-portrait-1-wip

Irene Adler: Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes? However hard you try, it’s always a self-portrait.
Sherlock Holmes: You think I’m a vicar with a bleeding face?
Irene Adler: No, I think you’re damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it’s yourself. And somebody loves you.
– BBC Sherlock (S02, E01 – A Scandal in Belgravia)

Gender Dysphoria Diagnosis (Part 1): GIDYQ-AA Personal Reflection

————
~ Part 1 in the Gender Dysphoria Diagnosis series ~
Part 2: Psychological Benefits of Diagnostic Confirmation
Part 3: Childhood Gender Non-Conformity
Part 4: DSM and ICD Diagnostic Criteria
Part 5: GIDYQ-AA Full Text
————

GIDYQ-AA Panorama

————
Full text of the GIDYQ-AA (male and female versions) available in Part 5.
————

For several months I have been seeing a psychiatrist who specializes in working with transgender people. The initial assessment was a comprehensive three hour interview which began with me filling out the Gender Identity/Gender Dysphoria Questionnaire for Adolescents and Adults (GIDYQ-AA). The GIDYQ-AA was developed in 2007 as a dimensional measure of gender dysphoria (dimensional referring to a concept of gender as a spectrum rather than two opposite poles) (Deogracias 2007). Among populations of heterosexual and nonheterosexual university students and clinic-referred patients with a diagnosis of gender identity disorder (the old term for what is now called gender dysphoria), the questionnaire showed “strong evidence for discriminant validity in that the gender identity patients had significantly more gender dysphoria than both the heterosexual and nonheterosexual university students.” (Deogracias 2007) Further experimental evaluation of the GIDYQ-AA showed similar results and reinforced the utility of the questionnaire in the assessment of patients with gender identity concerns (Singh 2010).

The GIDYQ-AA (female version) is displayed in its entirety above.

I had no knowledge of the GIDYQ-AA prior to my first appointment with the psychiatrist. My attempt to fill out the questionnaire at the beginning of the session left me more anxious, more confused, and more frustrated than ever, intensifying my pre-existing doubt that I had gender dysphoria or that I deserved to consider myself “transgender.”

Question 04: Have you felt, unlike most women, that you have to work at being a woman?
Answer: No, I don’t work at being a woman whatsoever. But almost every adult female does have to work at being a woman in our society. It takes my mother 90 minutes every morning to get dressed and put her makeup on before work, so I’d say she is working a lot harder at “being a woman” than I am and yet she has no gender identity confusion.

Question 05: Have you felt that you were not a real woman?
Answer: What does “real woman” even mean? How can I possibly capture my uncertainty within the check-box options of “Always, Often, Sometimes, Rarely, or Never”?

Question 06: Have you felt, given who you really are (e.g. what you like to do, how you act with other people), that it would be better for you to live as a man rather than as a woman?
Answer: How are behavioral preferences that overlap with opposite-gender stereotypes even remotely relevant to deciding whether to physically transition?

Question 10: Have you felt more like a man than a woman?
Answer: No, I never feel like a man or a woman, I just feel like a person with a brain that refuses to accept my existing female body.

Question 15: Have friends or relatives treated you as a man?
Answer: What does it mean to be “treated as a man”? Like what, if someone has difficulty opening a new jar of pickles, they’ll call me over to help? Or if someone’s car breaks down, they’ll expect me to know how to fix it?

Question 17: Have you dressed and acted as a man?
Answer: What does “dressing as a man” mean? Men wear clothes. Some of those clothes are traditional suit-and-tie business attire. Some of those clothes are drag queen costumes. But the clothes don’t make the body underneath any more or any less masculine. And what does ”acting as a man” mean? See response to question 15.

Question 26: Have you thought of yourself as a man?
Answer: What does “man” mean? Beyond the physical differences between men and women, I cannot come up with a consistently accurate and consistently differentiating definition of “man” versus “woman”.

Question 27: Have you thought of yourself as a woman?
Answer: What does “woman” mean? I’m so frustrated and confused that I’m about to cry and I am DONE answering these ridiculous questions.

The only questions I could answer with any confidence were:

Question 02: Have you felt uncertain about your gender, that is, feeling somewhere in between a woman and a man?
Answer: Yes, I definitely feel uncertain about my gender. But I don’t feel “in between” a woman and a man. I feel like gender identity is simply not applicable to me.

Question 20: In the past 12 months, have you disliked your body because it is female (eg. having breasts or having a vagina)?
Answer: Always, every minute of every day, since I was 12 years old.

So after ten minutes of wrestling with the questionnaire, I gave up and handed it back to the psychiatrist. He seemed surprised that I left so many questions blank. I tried to explain my confusion but he didn’t seem to understand how I could possibly have difficulty answering any of those questions. He told me that other trans patients typically complete the survey in a few minutes with no trouble.

The authors who originally developed the GIDYQ-AA established a cut-off score of 3.00, which was reliable in differentiating people with gender dysphoria from cisgender controls (Deogracias 2007). Months after that first appointment, I read a copy of my psychiatrist’s initial assessment report, which stated, “Tom’s GIDYQ-AA scaled score was 3.19 which is slightly above what one would expect for a transgender individual. Of note however, Tom had a great deal of difficulty answering these questions, leaving half of the rating scale blank and seemed to be rigidly stuck on the concepts of “male and female” so much that he could not answer the questions. As a result, I am not confident in the reliability of Tom’s score.”

I was glad that the psychiatrist acknowledged the unreliability of my score. But I was frustrated by his statement that I was rigidly stuck on the concepts of male and female. From my perspective, it was the questionnaire itself that was rigidly stuck on concepts of “man” and “woman”. The questionnaire seemed to assume participants’ alignment with stereotypical and binary concepts of gender. The authors who developed the GIDYQ-AA stated, “Gender identity often is conceptualized in a bipolar, dichotomous manner with a male gender identity at one pole and a female gender identity at the other pole. Individuals who have an uncertain or confused gender identity or who are transitioning from one gender to the other, however, do not fit into this dichotomous scheme… We developed a new measure which was designed to assess gender identity (gender dysphoria) dimensionally. In developing this measure, we conceptualized gender identity/gender dysphoria as a bipolar continuum with a male pole and a female pole and varying degrees of gender dysphoria, gender uncertainty, or gender identity transitions between the poles.” (Deogracias 2007) However, as I’ve described above in my answers to some of the GIDYQ-AA questions, I found that the questionnaire offered very little acknowledgment or inclusion of “varying degrees of gender dysphoria, gender uncertainty, or gender identity transitions.”

During the initial assessment, my conversation with the psychiatrist quickly moved away from the GIDYQ-AA. At the end of the initial interview, he told me that most of the trans patients he sees come in for their first appointment knowing that they want to transition and requesting referrals to start hormones and be placed on the waiting list for surgery. He asked me what I would like from him moving forward. I explained that my biggest difficulty so far was believing whether I actually have gender dysphoria, given how different my experience seems to be compared everything I’ve read from trans people and compared to his descriptions of other trans patients. I said I thought it would be helpful to have someone with extensive experience in this area tell me whether or not they think I truly have gender dysphoria, and if not, then what other possibilities might explain this extreme discomfort with my body. I told him that my differential diagnoses included:
1) a gender-centered variation of the body image disturbances that accompany an eating disorder
2) a generalized form of body dysmorphic disorder (such as muscle dysmorphia)
3) an extremely intense and unusual form of vanity
4) gender dysphoria with purely physical distress and absent gender identity

The psychiatrist seemed surprised by my request and told me that most of his other trans patients would consider it very stigmatizing to be told by an “expert” what diagnosis they do or do not have. He said that his other trans patients say they know themselves better than anyone, they are sure of how they feel regarding gender, and they just need help accessing resources to transition. I had no idea what to say in response to that, so I just repeated my explanation that I don’t feel like I have any sense of gender identity, all I know is that I am excruciatingly uncomfortable in this female body and that I’m very uncertain and confused about all of this. He remained hesitant to deliver any diagnosis following the first appointment.

During my second appointment, I repeated my request for a diagnosis or at least an exploration of other possibilities. He reluctantly shared his opinion that I do indeed have gender dysphoria. In his initial assessment report (which I read several months later), he wrote, “Although I did not share with Tom yet my diagnostic impressions with regards to his gender as this would interfere with therapeutic exploration of the topic, from my perspective he certainly would meet criteria for gender dysphoria given his strong desire to rid himself of the primary and secondary feminine sexual characteristics as well as stated desire for more masculine ones. There was no evidence to suggest Tom’s symptomology being due to body dysmorphia disorder nor by an eating disorder alone. From my perspective, Tom appears to also struggle with major depressive disorder, social anxiety disorder, and anorexia nervosa (in partial remission)… At this time, Tom is still questioning with respect to his gender identity and I suspect more exploration of this will be needed prior to him making decisions regarding transitioning either medically or socially.” Any lingering doubts I had following his verbal confirmation of gender dysphoria were dispelled by reading his report, which was incredibly thorough, accurate, and well-justified. I also appreciated his recognition that more exploration would be needed prior to transitioning medically or socially. Since then, I have continued to explore these issues during my discussions with him as well as through conversations with friends, ongoing self-reflection, and my commentary on this blog.

When the psychiatrist confirmed his impression that I truly do have gender dysphoria, I felt immediate and astonishingly intense relief. It felt like I had finally accumulated enough objective evidence that I could start to believe it myself. In the days afterwards, I often found myself thinking, “Gender dysphoria IS part of my story! And I’m okay with that!” It felt like a brand new realization every time.

Following that second appointment, basking in the glow of that relief, I stepped out of the office into a chill November evening, streetlights pricking the silent darkness, snow falling gently all around. It was a breathtakingly beautiful night. I was the only person out and I felt entirely alone. And for the first time I could remember, I was content to be alone with myself. I also felt completely and profoundly… peaceful… that’s the best word I can think of to describe it. Just utterly at peace with everything. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything quite like that.

“And now, who am I?”
– Alice (Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1871)

————

References

Deogracias JJ, Johnson LL, Meyer-Bahlburg HFL, et al. The Gender Identity/Gender Dysphoria Questionnaire for Adolescents and Adults. 2007. The Journal of Sex Research 44(4):370-79. 

Singh D, Deogracias J, Johnson LL, et al. The Gender Identity/Gender Dysphoria Questionnaire for Adolescents and Adults: further validity evidence. 2010. The Journal of Sex Research 47(1): 49-58. 

The Boy with the Crooked Smile

Crooked Smile

My fellow patients on the psychiatric unit are certainly an interesting cast of characters. Of course I wonder about their stories, I wonder what combinations of pain and circumstance and bad luck (and maybe good luck too?) have brought them here. And for all of them, I harbor a detached empathy, an impersonal hope that they can find their way back to their lives. Even so, I try as much as possible to avoid interacting with the other patients. Most of the time I lack the energy for superficial conversations. And I lack the imagination required to use small talk as a shield from the reality of our situation, the fact that we’re all here on the psych ward, that the locked unit doors are under video surveillance, that we’re all under the influence of the many multicolored pills we swallow every morning. My personal rainbow is red, white, and yellow.

I avoid the other patients too because many of them seem to have lost appropriate social inhibitions along the way, often spewing rude and abusive comments that I get so tired of deflecting and increasingly less willing to tolerate. I also get so tired of other patients asking my name, mispronouncing it, mispronouncing it again when I correct them, and eventually just inventing their own bastardized version of my three easy syllables because my name is too much effort for them. And finally, I avoid the other patients out of a desperate instinct of self-preservation – it takes all my strength to remain focused on my own therapeutic goals, and I just can’t afford to be distracted by caring too much about anyone else on the unit. They are here for their problems, I am here for mine – I can’t forget that.

Though I intentionally maintain this safe detachment from the other patients, I cannot help but watch them all with involuntary interest. There’s The Watchman, always lurking at the end of the hall where the lights are dimmest, his dark restless eyes seeming always to be fixed on me, the hood of his black sweater drawn up around his face like the cowl of a vigilant monk. And old Abraham Lincoln – the resemblance really is uncanny – who never seems to leave the spindly chair by the courtyard windows, his lanky body folded up like an oversized praying mantis. Sleeping Beauty, who emerges from her room only rarely and wears her hospital gown like an elegant cascading dress, floating through the hallways with a radiant self-absorption and a distended pregnant belly preceding her quiet footsteps. Eyebrows, whose bushy black brows dominate his placid face and create an expression of perpetual confusion, his eyebrows dancing up and down to punctuate each spoken word, each sideways glance, each bite of food. Santa Claws, with his leering eyes and scraggly food-littered beard, his leather Harley Davidson jacket and fingers decked out with silver skulls, hands so grotesquely swollen that the rings are nearly buried by the bulging flesh, his long and fungally discolored toenails scraping the floor like ugly claws. Serene, with coiffed gray hair and deep grooves running down from the corners of her mouth like a ventriloquist’s dummy, who complains endlessly about the smell of dust, who marches back and forth across the same few feet of floor holding her diaper in place with both hands, often shouting at nobody in particular, “I just want peace of mind! You have peace of mind! Why can’t I have peace of mind? I used to be a spiritualist, you know. I used to be able to enter the spirt world but I can’t anymore. I just want peace of mind!” (We all ignore her outbursts, no-one here has peace of mind). And there’s The Howler, heard but never seen beyond one brief glimpse of a bare torso twisted across a mattress on the floor of the high-obs room, his chillingly inhuman screams filtering through the corridors at all hours of the day and night.

All of these patients I regard with a carefully cultivated detachment. Except for Cody.* I am drawn to him with a startling and shattering compassion that slices through my cautious distance and makes my heart ache. I don’t know why. Perhaps it is his physical resemblance to my brother – same endearingly disheveled hair, same ice-blue eyes, same roguish youthful handsomeness, same lingering hint of unwashed masculine musk. Perhaps it is my own selfish desire to inhabit such an effortlessly narrow-hipped, broad-chested body, the masculine alignment of his bones and muscles so achingly appealing to my girl-trapped brain.

Or perhaps it is that Cody’s demons are more outwardly obvious than most other patients on the ward. He cannot hide his battles with monsters I can’t even imagine. His blue eyes rarely register the real world around him, focused instead on high invisible shelves that he stretches up to reach, invisible barriers on the floor that he probes carefully with dirty bare feet, invisible companions sitting in the empty chairs beside him. All of his movements are slow and tense and deliberate, coherent only in a separate world the rest of us can’t see. And all these movements are narrated by his ceaseless whispering, too quiet to hear the words themselves, just a soft susurration like butterfly wingbeats. Occasionally he is interrupted from these explorations of his invisible world – quite suddenly his entire body stiffens, his head snaps to the side, his mouth stretches in a soundless scream, and a series of tremors rattle through his rigid slender body until – just as suddenly – his body stills, he blinks, looks around dazedly, and resumes whispering.

Perhaps I am drawn to Cody by a powerful but unfamiliar protective instinct – a parental sort of protectiveness, perhaps, although in my case neither maternal nor paternal – an irrational hope that if I could just fold him in my arms and shield him from the world (real and invisible) then I could somehow absorb his pain and leave him whole. Even if it killed me. I wonder if this is how my parents feel when they watch my struggle with depression. I wonder if I underestimate how hard this might be for them, how strong the instinct to protect and shelter, if this boy I barely know can draw such fierce protectiveness from my cautious heart.

But I think, more than anything, I am drawn by Cody’s smile. I have seen it only once, walking past him in the hallway. He was engaged in a repetitive pulling motion, as though he were dragging something heavy up towards his chest, his whispers seemingly directed at the evidently irksome object. As I walked closer, his hands stilled and his whispers faded and his bright blue eyes met mine – and I could see the crystal clarity suddenly alive behind the blue. The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth – a tiny crooked smile climbing up and crinkling the corners of his eyes as his head dipped in a respectful nod of recognition. A thready filament of connection hovered between us for a moment – the flash of recognition in his eyes heartbreaking and unmistakable – until suddenly the thread snapped, his eyes dropped downwards, his whispering resumed, and just like that – with all the finality of a guillotine blade – his moment of awareness was abruptly severed.

So now whenever his path crosses mine, I find myself searching his face for that crooked smile, that awareness, that flash of recognition, searching with a desperate selfish reckless caring that takes my breath away. I see you, Cody. I’m here. I know you’re there too. But he remains lost in his world of whispered things.

But he left me one more smile. After breakfast one morning, he shuffled into the dining room two hours late but I’d asked the nurse to save his tray. He attempted to eat at first but quickly lost track of his fork, his gaze drifting off, his whispering more fervent, and began lifting invisible items up off the floor. As he leaned down, the bunching of the muscles in his back was visible through the gap of his hospital gown – hard knobs of vertebrae protruding between the trailing strings he didn’t finish tying – that gap in his gown a green-rimmed sliver of heart-wrenching vulnerability. Then his attention shifted to his paper menu and, slowing picking up a nearby pencil, he began writing. Eventually he abandoned his writing and drifted away – whispering and shuffling – and I could see the scrap of paper he’d left behind. It was a list of names, I’m not sure who they are, scrawled in the overlarge and messy handwriting of a child. Near the bottom, the “r” in Tyler – with unexpected whimsy – was drawn as a stick figure with arms outstretched. Below the names, he wrote two statements: “walking sucks run” and “40 like steves as you say” – not quite nonsense, not quite sense – followed by a pencilled crooked smile. I see you, Cody. I know you’re there too.

*Not his real name.

A perfect smile is more appealing but it’s funny how
My shit is crooked, look at how far I done got without it
I keep my twisted grill, just to show them kids it’s real
We ain’t picture perfect but we worth the picture still
– J Cole (Crooked Smile, 2013)

The Madam and the Gentleman

The Madam and the Gentleman (1)

I was inspired to write a Genderland version of The Walrus and the Carpenter (Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There, 1871). 

The madam and the gentleman
Were walking through the trees.
Or were there two gentlemen?
Two madams, possibly?
So matched were they in character
And wit and empathy.

It was only where the leaves
Grew sparse that you could see
His breadth, her breasts, such superficial
Difference in anatomy.
But still their voices rose and fell
In lovely harmony.

Said he to her, “My dear, it’s grand
To have a friend at last.
I hate to let myself remember
Such a lonely past.”
Joining hands, they walked along,
Barefoot on the grass.

Said she to him, “It cost your rib
To make me as I am.
So to you, I give a name – I think
It should be Adam.”
They shared a smile, hand in hand,
The gentleman and madam.

The sun began a slow descent
A wind blew through the trees
Said he to her, and pulled her close,
“I shall call you Eve.”
Their arms around each other dulled
The coolness of the breeze.

Side by side they passed the night
And woke to beads of dew
Shining softly on their skin.
He said, “I dreamed of you.”
They stood and shook the dewdrops off.
She said to him, “Me too.”

“We are together when we dream
And also when we switch
To consciousness,” said she to him.
“I can’t tell which is which.
Both are paradise, it seems
I am pleasantly bewitched.”

Awake and warming in the sun
They wandered hungrily
Along a narrow winding path
And found an apple tree
With burdened branches stretching out
As far as they could see.

They marvelled at their fortune.
“What good luck,” he said.
He reached and plucked an apple
From just above her head.
It hung there, heavy in his hand,
Shiny, ripe, and red.

She reached too but pulled back, startled
By a toothy emerald grin.
Along the bough, a serpent slithered
Small and green and thin.
It said, “Go on and take a bite
One bite is not a sin.”

“But,” it hissed, “if you do bite
This is what I’ll do…”
Its restless tail twitched back and forth.
“I’ll make a list of rules
That will divide your perfect pair
Into a separate two.”

Said she to him, “I shall not bite
For us, I really daren’t.”
But he pressed the apple to his lips
His appetite inherent.
The serpent hissed in satisfaction,
Its victory apparent.

Hunger sated, horror dawned, he said
“What have I done, my dear?
I’ve consigned us to convention
For all the coming years.”
She sadly sighed and shook her head
And shed a bitter tear.

To him, the snake said, “You must always:
Defend your fragile pride.
All your affection and compassion
You will be forced to hide
Behind anger and aggression and
Your bulging muscle size.”

To her, the snake said, “Your rules are:
You cannot upstage him.
Be meek and mild and obliging
So you do not enrage him.
And above all, mark my words,
Your beauty must engage him.”

The serpent, sly and treacherous,
Alive for centuries,
Hissed and blinked its beady eyes
The better for to see
These two friends lose each other
In archaic binary.

Said she to him, “How can we now
Ever stand a chance?”
They felt the weight of expectation
Pushing them askance.
Resigned and rueful, their eyes met
In a final silent glance.

Now the madam and the gentleman
No longer hand in hand,
A sneaky snake that whispers lies
To a woman and a man,
And a poisoned apple tree are all
That’s left of Genderland.

Twin

Twin

My parents have a small herd of Black Angus cows, small enough that they still name every calf born in the spring. Choosing names for the calves was always so much fun when we were children… until the year my younger sister named her steer calf Isabelle. I was shocked and horrified by her callous disregard for the unspoken but unquestioned rule that boys get boys’ names and girls get girls’ names, no matter what species of creature they are. I cried for a while, then tried to talk her out of such a ridiculous decision. But when she refused to change her mind, I promptly named my heifer calf John out of spite. So there, little sister.

It wasn’t until much later that I really started to question why our world divides first names into male and female, why we insist on saddling such innocent syllables with a gendered connotation. It began to feel so strange to hear expectant parents proudly recite two separate lists of possible names for their unborn baby, names for a girl and names for a boy, those two prenatal lists already hinting at a more sinister set of stereotypes settling into place while the fetal cells diligently divide and differentiate.

Had I been born with a tiny infant penis, a urethral ticket to a world of privilege, my name would have been Benjamin. Instead I was given the female name my parents found in a quiet grassy cemetery, my pregnant mother strolling with my father, visiting the graves of relatives, falling in love with my name on a headstone one row over. It is a beautiful lyrical name, it means “purple flower”, and it is so rare in North America that most online baby name databases do not even recognize its existence. It is a name that has garnered many compliments when I first introduce myself, a name that has been mispronounced a dozen different ways in a dozen different accents, a name that is more deeply and more permanently a part of me than a tattoo or a scar. I am neither proud of this name nor ashamed of it, I regard it with the neutral allegiance of 24 years of involuntary companionship. I withhold my name here only out of concern for privacy.

But as I explore the world of gender, I wonder if perhaps I have outgrown this name. Considering a name change comes with a confusing mixture of emotions: sadness about leaving one name behind, excitement at the prospect of choosing another, guilt that I am erasing the name my parents put so much love and thought into, fear that by choosing a male name I am simply reinforcing the gender binary that has been so damaging and restrictive my whole life. I want to make it clear that for me, gender dysphoria is an almost purely physical distress, centered around my body and the problematic anatomy that my brain resists so emphatically. For me, names and pronouns are merely a matter of semantics, relevant only to the extent that a stranger’s “sir” or “he” validates the masculinity of my physical appearance. The main reason I have considered changing my name is that, depending on the extent of my transition (which at this point remains uncertain), a female name will become confusingly incongruent with a male body in most public circumstances. Adopting a unisex or male name will make it simpler for me and for other people. Of course, the simplest thing is not always the right thing, so I continue to reflect on my motivations for choosing a new name. For many of my friends, my first name is irrelevant anyway, as they refer to me by my last name (McMurray) or by nicknames derived from my last name (mcmurr, Mac).

The list of names that I considered was drawn mostly from my favorite fictional characters: Peter (Pan), Jeremy (Finch), Dirk (Pitt), Owen (Meany), Jack (Reacher), Max (Rockatansky). But I kept circling back towards the name I used online for years before I even acknowledged transition as a possibility: Tom Sparrow. As a child I was intrigued by a story my parents told me about their wedding. They had a guestbook for guests to sign their name and record where they were visiting from. After the wedding, my parents found a signature in the book from someone they hadn’t actually invited, a Tom Sparrow from New York, New York. My dad suspected that his best man had written the pseudonym as a joke, but I always liked imagining that this itinerant stranger, Tom Sparrow, had actually crashed their wedding. And this story resonated deeply with my younger self because, like Tom Sparrow the wedding ghost, I so often felt like an invisible guest at someone else’s party. Tom Sparrow… the name was a quick little bird flitting restlessly through the thread of my thoughts. (I only recently found out that the name in the wedding guestbook was actually Todd Sparrow, I must have misheard it the first time my parents told the story, but it’s too late now because Tom has solidified in my mind over so many years).

So I tried using the name Tom in the few circumstances where people knew about my gender journey and did not already have a nickname for me. With one friend I started signing off my emails as Tom (thereafter double checking the name at the bottom of all my emails to avoid any awkward mistakes). I asked my psychiatrist to call me Tom. I introduced myself as Tom in therapy groups. The name Tom felt so strange and foreign in writing and out loud, so I gave myself nearly a year to get used to it. But the foreignness never waned and Tom continued sounding silly and contrived. Eventually – frightened by the mounting feeling of detachment from my name, frustrated by my continued uncertainty regarding transition, and struggling with severe depression related to other life circumstances – I stopped signing my emails to my friend and requested that my psychiatrist not call me any name at all. This namelessness was comforting initially, like the reassuring anonymity of a dial tone.

But namelessness was not sustainable forever, so I tried Thomas instead of Tom. And very quickly Thomas felt right. I’m not exactly sure why… perhaps the single syllable of Tom was too abrupt and harsh and Thomas has a softer sibilance, perhaps the formal tone of Thomas commanded more of my respect, perhaps I reached a more authentic acceptance of gender dysphoria and could then commit more fully to this aspect of transition, perhaps it was simply the passage of time and a thousand self-reflections that softened the shape of a new name.

So for now, I am Thomas, to myself (sometimes), to my psychiatrists, and to friends who don’t already have their own name for me – those cheerful nicknames that carry all the shared history of an ongoing friendship.

Thomas means “twin”, which has an appealing symmetrical symbolism. You see, I am twins in one body. I am two sexes, male and female – separated by time and perception, biology and convention – inevitably intertwined until death do us part.

“I know my name now. That’s some comfort.”
– Alice (Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1871)