Outside Looking In

This is where I am most of the time, on the outside of life, watching it go past and wondering what it's all about. I have always been an observer, and a recorder of observations. It's not really something I chose; it's a part of my nature.

Have you ever had the most intense realization about the most mundane things? Thinks like: I'm eating pizza that I made myself. I have been overwhelmed by such realizations. On some level, of course I understood not only that there was pizza, but that I'd made it and that I was now eating it. It's not as though I'd somehow failed to grasp this concept entirely. It's just that for a split second I was somehow aware of how incredible it is that a universe where pizza is possible even exists, and I was in awe. I somehow switched from 'participant' to 'observer' in my own life.

Or perhaps it was the other way around, or both at once. Perhaps I went from going through the motions to being acutely aware of my own participation in life. Whatever it was, I found myself looking at that pizza as though it held all the answers to life, the universe and everything (which is ridiculous since it didn't look a thing like 42.)

The pizza isn't the point. The point is that there is something in my nature that allows me to shift perspective at the drop of a hat. Life is constantly a case of looking at a vase and suddenly seeing two faces, and I think this is why I write. Scratch that. I don't 'think', I know. I write because no matter how much I find myself on the outside of life looking in, what I see is so fascinating that I must find some way of capturing it, recording it in such a way that I might be able to share at least a fraction of it. I write because the only other option is to sit here watching the world go by.

Do you ever have moments like this? Do you find yourself on the outside looking in? Alternately, why do you write?

What's In A Name? Part IV

Guess what arrived in the mail the other day? A shiny new name change certificate! (Or, Certificate of Change of Name, because of course we can't do it the easy way, can we?)

This happened both faster and slightly cheaper than I expected. Remember that $200+ fee I was quoted at the beginning? It was more like $175.00(plus the $25.00 fingerprint processing fee, but we'd already figured that one in.) I was also told, I believe, 4-6 weeks before I could expect it to arrive. Less than two weeks later, there it is!

The registry agent told me it would be all pink and purple, and "pretty enough to frame." And you know what? It really is. It's not something that most people have hanging on their walls, at least. So now I have a certificate, with just slightly less security features than your typical $5 bill, proclaiming me to be me, rather than that other person who was running around with my life.

Of course,(and isn't that always the way?) this was actually the easy part. I still need to go through all the steps to get my name changed on my photo ID, with my phone, with my bank, on my passport... What fun, yes? Oh, and with Alberta Heathcare, at my doctor's, on my prescriptions...

What's In A Name? Part III

or Our Hero's Epic Quest to Win His Name

The only thing that can explain my day today is the fact that not only am I a masochist, but I'm a stubborn one at that. And before you accuse me of hyperbole or of misrepresenting masochism, let me assure you that I do know what it is to be a masochist. Intimately.

It started with my deciding to take transit to the notary's office, even though they offered mobile service. I could have chosen to have them come to me. Instead, I thought it would be a good idea to take the bus into the suburbs. This also could have been avoided if I'd gone to a notary downtown. The reason I didn't actually has more to do with my particular brand of anxiety than anything else. It's easier for me to make an appointment by actually talking to someone rather than leaving a message or e-mail, and the one in the boonies had a 'talk to an actual person' option. So.

Between Google Maps telling me this place was impossible to get to and me only really knowing one bus route in the area, this meant a bloody lot of walking, and just to be clear, there is definitely not a Chinook going on right now. Once I actually got there, things went pretty smoothly. It was warm, the notary was nice and helpful, and the idea was brought up of getting to a registry right away. And guess what! There's one close-ish that's open late! Sounds like a good idea, right?

…

Right.

So maybe if I hadn't stopped at that Starbucks to warm up with a hot drink I'd have made it on time, but I'm a masochist not an idiot. When I say I was freezing I mean it literally, and quite frankly frostbite is not something I'm eager to experience. But I left there in plenty of time, right? Well, plenty of time if I hadn't ignored the route Google Maps suggested and gotten myself just a little bit lost along the way. After wandering around the wrong side of the shopping complex for a while, I finally get there twenty minutes to closing only to have the guy tell me they can't do it tonight because it will take half an hour to process.

Brick wall, head smash, gnashing of teeth.

I'd like to tell you there was some epic, climactic scene here, that I told him I didn't care how long it would take, he was going to do this for me now. I'd like to tell you that I didn't just gather up my things and walk quietly back out the door, but the truth is that I'm no good at conflict. Oh, I can write it well enough. Everything I wish I'd said or thought about doing goes into my characters, but in real life I try to avoid it at all costs. I'll battle my way through ice and snow, navigate inadequate transit coverage and keep at it when most sane people would say “You know what? I'm just gonna go home now,” but bending a registry agent to my will is just not one of my skill sets. I can wait for my name just a little while longer.  Tomorrow will be soon enough.

What's In A Name? Part I

So I am finally going through the process of legally changing my name and I thought, what the hell.  Let's blog about it.  Because even with all of its bureaucracy, or perhaps because of it, it can be a pretty interesting process.  This is of course how it happens in Alberta.  I don't know how much is different elsewhere.

It all starts with the Application for Name Change forms that I picked up at a local Registration agency.  They come bound in this book which is pretty neat, but also a little weird.  Not only do I now have the forms to change my own name, but also the forms to change my children's or my spouse's names, if I had any and thought this was something I wanted to do.  Now, I understand situations where one would want to change a child's name, adoption and what-not, but a spouse?  I don't know about you, but even if my hypothetical spouse and I decided together that we would change eir name, I'd be a hell of a lot more comfortable if e did it emself.  But I digress.

In case I didn't already know this, the front of the application tells me this isn't going to be free.  It's not even going to be cheap, really, which is part of why I've had to wait so long.

Fees for Name Changes:

Registry Agents will collect:

• a government fee of $120.00.
• a service fee, which may vary (I was quoted anywhere from $190.00 to something upwards of $200.)
• a fingerprint processing fee of $25.00, on behalf of the RCMP in Ottawa as payment for the criminal record check.

Local Law Enforcement Agencies:

• may charge a fee for fingerprinting ($30.00 in this case.)  Payment is made directly to the local law enforcement agency.

So that's... $375.00, or thereabouts.  And that's not including whatever the Notary Public may charge for affirming the affidavit at the end.  Way to make it easy on us, yeah?  Still.  Hoops.  Sometimes you have to jump through them, and sometimes they'll make you pay out the nose for the privilege.

And that's step one: getting the application.  Tomorrow I'll tell you all about the fingerprinting.

Also, just a quick FYI.  No, I will not tell you my original/old/"real" name.  I'm pretty open about the process of transitioning, more so than most people in my situation, but this is one of the few questions I won't answer.  The last thing I want to do is give more people the opportunity to call me by the wrong name.  Thank you.

Opinions and Consequences

This is just a short post to expand upon a thought that occured to me today: Everyone is entitled to their own opinions. They're also entitled to the consequences of voicing them.  


What prompted this was reading the comments here in which someone pointed out, very politly I might add, the author's transphobic/cis privilaged language.  While it's true that she used this language out of sheer ignorance, instead of apologizing and learning when being called on it, she got defensive and essentially refused to be held accountable.


This seems to me to be symptomatic of a pervasive attitude in our society, particularily on the internet.  Starting from the idea that everyone is entitled to their own opinions most people seem to go on to assume this means and therefore you can't tell me I'm wrong.  I however posit that not all opinions are well informed, and that there are consequences to voicing uninformed opinions.  The best thing any of us can do when being called on an uninformed or poorly thought out opinion is to learn, to take other points of view into account, and apologize when necessary.

Too Tired to Party, But Not Apparently Too Tired to Blog

So it's St. Pat's and instead of drinking the night away, I'm sitting in bed with my computer on my lap.

Part of the reason I started this blog was to address the hypersensitivity I've seen on so many other trans blogs and discussion groups.  I couldn't really understand why they were so ready to jump down people's throats any time someone uttered anything that could be even remotely construed as being offensive.  I could guess at the roots of this anger, but mostly I felt sorry for them that they'd gone through something bad enough to make them so bitter.  That wasn't going to happen to me, right?  After all, I'm stronger than that, and transitionning under better circumstances, right?  Well, as I get further along in my own transition, I'm beginning to realize that while they may still be somewhat hypersensitive, it's not without cause.

My first inkling that perhaps not all was right with my world was reading my letter of recommendation to
start hormone therapy.  While I could understand that much of it was lifted from the Standards of Care which is currently about 9 years out of date, I was still surprised and not a little irritated to find it riddled with 'she's and 'her's in reference to me.  I have a certain amount of patience for friends and family who might not understand, after all it takes time to educate.  But to have someone who works with trans people on a regular basis commit such blatant disrespect?  That I could not fathom.  If it got me what I needed, however, I could grin and bear it.  Irritated but undeterred, I shrugged it off.

What really drove it home for me though, was listenning to this same psychologist explain to my mom how trans man and women aren't real man and women; they're trans.  They are and will always be in between.  I sat there listenning to him talk about how he'd felt 'uncomfortable' at a house party full of trans men and how you could always tell that there was something 'off' about a trans person... It dawned on me then that he didn't take this, or me, seriously.  Worse, he was being transphobic.  Here was someone who was supposed to be on my side, and all the while it seems that he's just playing along and humouring this poor, gender-confused little girl.  Because over the course of the session, he as good as said 'I don't see you as male.'

Between this and other social opposition I've encountered, it's becoming more and more clear to me that in the eyes of most of the rest of the world, I'm either a fraud, or else not a person.  And coming from the privilaged possition of being white and middle-class, I'll admit it's more of a shock than I expected.

A Question of Charity

Something interesting happened today.  A boy came to my door, essentially selling newspapers as part of a programme that would help him pay for university.  After a little thought I agreed that for ten dollars, this was something I could feel good about supporting.

It got me to wondering.  Why this cause?  Why should I be more willing to help one kid go to school while I find the idea of disaster and poverty relief charities questionable?  I tried once to work as a canvaser for a public outreach service, but quickly left because I could not bring myself to promote an organization that I did not support 110%.  Opting to promote the branch I found least objectionable didn't help.  It simply went against my values.

When I think about it, I believe my attitude comes down to my ideas about the role of more developed countries when dealing with less developed ones.  It may be cynical of me, but I see a trend wherein anytime a more 'advaced' society gets involved with a more 'primitive' one, regardless of the intentions someone, usually the conquered/colonized/aided population ends up worse off than when they started.  Although I've seen methods that seem more sound to me, for example providing the building blocks for sustainable resources rather than handing over finished products, I'm still not totally convinced that it will pan out.

There is also the question of whether it's right for one people to impose their values on other peoples.  Who gets to decide who's morality is better?  Every society has abhorent as well as redeeming qualities in different proportions, and what is abhorent to you may be natural to me, and vice versa.  Is help even wanted?  Most of the time with large, overseas causes, I don't know if they want our help, or if 'help' is being imposed upon them. 

This brings me back to the boy at my door.  He was out doing this work on his own behalf.  The programme was there to help him help himself, and from the looks of things he was willing to make the most of the opportunity.  As a college student myself, I recognize that you get out of it what you put into it.  If this kid is willing to work to get there, then it seems to me that he'll put the same kind of effort into the post secondary experience.