Fare la bella figura and other thoughts on being out, trans and accepted in Italy

I am making some great friends all over the place these days.  This is fun for me as I have never been much of a people collector.  People would have said I was aloof.  But female me wants friends, and everyone who already knew me seems to like me better this way.

My wife used to make fun of how little I talked to people or engage.  So much so, that after a decade of living in Italy, I could be said to count acquaintances on less than one hand.  Well, that has changed everywhere, and they are good people.  Even my kids like them.  But they have warned me to not let their mother know.  My dating and blossoming life will fuel her rage.

After a week of lying around in a string bikini in the crowded tavernas and beach clubs of island Greece, my comfort in my own skin has gone off the charts.  I don’t know if my body really looks different or if it is my brain, or simply my comfort with what I look like, or all of the above.  I was scared to go out in public with a bikini top (I’ve been wearing bikini bottoms for a. very, very long time, switching to the skimpiest string ones a few years ago).  I love the look.

But a male torso with a top looked off to me.  But now that I have my little babies growing on my chest, I had a bit of a conundrum.  I mean, I know the Germans and Scandinavians all go topless to the beach, and that they even look like my folk, but I am either too prude or not ready for that.  Plus, I am not sure I wanted my kids to have their first introduction to my changing form to also include toplessness.

In the end, I was only topless for one swim, and that after a run at the crack of dawn.

Onje of my kids asked me politely to start them off slowly and to wear something more conservative on the first day.  I was happy to oblige.  I was just as nervous as they were.  But as I looked in the mirror for the thousandth time, having already done the same before packing, I actually knew I looked good.

Even though I have gained 20 pounds since going on to progesterone, I know (all you need to do is put something good to eat near me and I gain weight), I look slimmer.  My face is thinner, my waist is thinner—fat deposits move from the male belly to the female butt and thighs.  And since I’ve always had a boy butt and thighs, this is not a bad thing…only that some of my new clothes don’t fit.  

A separate subject, and one which I will dedicate myself to once I have cracked it, but it is about finding body equilibrium: what foods and in what quantities, what sleep patterns, what exercise (type and quantity), fasting, etc are the right mix for the changes.  I’ve lived this with aging, of shifting away from being an athlete to an office worker, of being a poor student to a smug employee…each of these life changes necessitates new equilibrium mindset.  This is the biggest one though, and boy does it hit home how much harder a woman has to work to lose weight and to control weight.  Boys, cut the ladies some slack…its harder for girls, period.

I have often remarked about the transgender experience as I live it depending on where I am, and since I spend so much time travelling, I am getting a pretty good sense of the tolerance of different cultures.  Italy has never struck me as intolerant, and while “less racist” is hardly a claim to fame, a number of non-white immigrants have noted to me in comparing Spain and France to Italy that Italy is “much less racist”.  As far as being trans in Spain v Italy, thus far Spain wins by a wide margin.  I haven’t been much in France of late, but will let you know when I do, though I suspect no resistance in Paris.

Italy is a capital of a style.  And while this is sadly declining in so many quarters, the truth is that Italians care more about aesthetics than just about any other Western nation.  Italians are also conformist in their dress, particular styles sweep the nation each season, and this is not just for women.  Not many trans people are out and about.

And in Italy, when they are, it is all about passing.  The ones who pass, who really, really pass, become national heroes.  Of sorts.  But more so than elsewhere.  They go too far even.  They are fetishized.  But film stars like Eva Robbins seem largely inconceivable elsewhere, particularly sincec she was in her prime in the 1980’s and 1990’s.  Gorgeous though.

Out and about today, though, I was reminded that Italians love la bella figura…to look good, to be elegant, to have poise, to be graceful.  I wasn’t overly dressed up, but was particularly well put together.  I knew it.  I felt it.  And that translates into body confidence.  Plus the Greek experience gave me a body comfort that has stayed with me.  As I walked across the main piazza in my town a waiter looked up from the table he was serving and did a double-take.  At first he was frowning, trying to figure me out, and then he just erupted with the biggest smile and gave me two giant thumbs up and said, “bella”.

People have started to auto-correct themselves on my pronouns.  I don’t need to say a word.  It just happens.  And just like that, it just happens.

A few nights ago I was invited over to dinner on an estate. You would never know it was there. Apart from the gate, which was already tucked away up a meandering lane. It is/was the home of an extended family of aristocrats. I say this in part because wealth of a certain kind is always hidden. But more importantly, Grace can be lived no matter who you are, how you dress. It is something worth aspiring to.

Margaret Visser, a great social commentator and food writer, author of Much Depends on Dinner among other choice morsels, opined that manners were the rule book of the middle class. Used as a tool to emulate the upper class, and to exclude the lower class. Interesting thought. [My wife was utterly obsessed with manners…and “what will they think”]. I say this because the aristocrat can be anyone. We don’t need titles to be and to embody Grace.

I have written and spent a lot of time thinking of what it means to be stared at. It is heavy. Grace is the opposite of heavy. I really don’t know if my hosts were titled. They were certainly fancy, and quirky as only the really rich can be. Silly, downright weird but not pathological, and okay with it. With themselves. In their skin. Being rich is not just money. It is a state of mind. A way of being. Of being ourselves.

Middle class envy is the same as what it is like to be stared at. They look at my freedom. And the more I feel my freedom, the less they look. The more they feel it too. I am sure of it. I don’t look back. Why don’t I wear makeup? At least not much? Because I am not hiding myself.

What provoked this sidebar? Well, I passed the most extraordinarily fun and relaxed evening. Not once was I asked about being trans. Not once did someone ask me if I was going to have surgery (or indeed, if I had already done so). Not once did anyone ask my pronouns, they simply followed the cue of the host: she/they. We laughed. We spoke of everything, and when the evening was over, nobody wanted to leave, so we lingered, every last one of us, into the wee hours.

What is “class”? It isn’t trappings, money, furniture. It is how we behave. A nicer way of saying it is Grace. It begins with self-respect. And what does that really mean? Self-respect is freedom. You do not have self-respect if you have shame. If you are worried about “what they might think.” Not caring is a part of that. But more importantly, recognising that our differences is what makes us interesting. At the heart of all discrimination lies resentment and fear. We demonise the ‘other’ to make it easier to hate, to dehumanise. Self-respect is not about having a thick skin, or even not caring. Self-respect is self-acceptance, self-embrace, in all our kinky, weird beauty.

Young people seem to get this. My children seem to get it. Their mates get it. Don’t be afraid.