Yesterday I went to the picnic and gathering in Dolores Park before Trans March SF, part of Pride Week. I had chosen a simple and casual top and skirt for my day out at the picnic, and decided not to shave my legs. I was happy enough that, as usual, people politely ignored me as I took the subway into town.
I relish my freedom of expression, even if dampened by isolation. It is sort of the business end of gender politics, making a reasonable statement of individual truth to try to leaven the public discussion. But yesterday turned into something special.
I stepped out of the transit station into the warm and sunny Mission district. On my way to the park, I stopped into a secondhand store on a whim, and … found this dress. Once on, I didn’t want to take it off.
That’s an important sign for me. I’m 66, and found that after retirement I couldn’t restrain the resurgence of my natural gender expression. At my age, it is clear that every day counts and if not now, when? I am finally able to detect my own feelings, and to find unexpected pleasures in acknowledging and following them.
I backed out of the fitting room cubicle to get a longer view, and my heart leapt. I had found myself in the mirror, found the doorway to my story being told. I was experiencing the actuality that underlies the fairy tale meme where the hero/ine finds the special key — and opens the lock, freeing the imprisoned!
I kept it on. What you are seeing here gives you an idea, and now imagine me and my dress in motion. I’ll admit freely that what I felt is no more [and no less] than the feeling any little boy or girl finds when they play dressup and are transformed into their favorite character. Real life is a costume party, and yesterday convinced me that the more accurate the spectrum of characters in the stories we play out in our daily lives, the better for all of us.
I started getting compliments as soon as I walked out of the store. An older woman, pulling her laundry cart along the sidewalk, looked up at me, and her eyes brightened. She smiled and gestured to take in the vision, and said “Good!”, drawing out the word with satisfaction.
At the park, compliments were called out from all directions. The warmth and naturalness with which people came right up and connected was astonishing. Yes- this was the Trans March picnic, but the feeling was the same as from the woman with the laundry cart. A college student came over to say she had to tell me how nice I looked. I asked if she thought that just the visual composition — superfeminine meme of tight fitting bodice and flared short skirt with a dipping waist, pale yellow knit with red/orange rose floral print and lace trim, my tanned olive skin… was somehow so appealing that people just couldn’t help overlooking my facial and body hair, and shins populated with with scars, etc.
She thought for a moment, and then agreed. I said I thought I had found the perfect new word for myself — ‘mirl’, and asked if she could see its meaning without further explanation. She nodded, and said she liked the sound of it. I asked if she thought my androgynous look reflects the inner identity of a significant proportion of people, whether many of us cross gender lines at our core, and we appreciate it when someone begins to blaze a trail out of the confines of the binary gender roles so often laid out for us?
I asked if she saw merit in my message — ‘I don’t shave, and you don’t have to either!”. She agreed it was liberating for women on those days when grooming standards seem onerous. We speculated about the potential for societal growth if females were allowed to contribute fully, free of sexual exploitation, and boys were allowed to mature without brutal deprivation of their emotional intelligence and ‘feminine’ instincts.
After the party, I left for home, rich in new experiences with people, and light in my step, I felt a wonderful opening in my gait, and as if a new set of environmental and interpersonal receptors had been activated. I was more dancing than walking as I came down the station stairs, entered the subway car, and found a seat. I felt wonderfully at home in the world.
I was called out of my reverie by a gentle but firm hand on my shoulder, as the woman sitting in the seat behind me stood up to leave when we arrived at her stop.
“You look very beautiful in that dress”, she said, turning ever so slightly towards me for emphasis, and she strode on her way.
