Silly, awkward trans moments in second puberty

Meeting my favourite pop star in person and feeling like a teen girl…

Just before my transition began I started to listen to music again.  For so many years I had stopped.  My wife and I didn’t like the same music, and that neither of us listened to anything together, and since I hate headphones and she hated my music, that was pretty true of music altogether.  But I have always loved music.  Old vinyl.

The music I began to listen to a few years ago was a kind of modern pop.  Almost all women artists, singing about being a woman, about hardship, oppression, desire, men, angst.  This music was speaking to me on so many levels: spiritually, politically, even physically.

One of the artists I really, really love is a singer-songwriter, feminist pop princess, named Morgan Saint Jean.  Her songs about body love, boys and men, being queer, female power move me like no other singer’s do.  And her voice shakes mountains.  When I hear her, no matter my mood, where I am, what I’m doing, I end up crying, sometimes sobbing.  Music is beautiful that way.

Silly me, I thought she was British, but she’s from L.A. I do this all the time. Thinking that someone comes from where I hear them first.

Anyway, I saw that she was coming to Milan on tour, and so I talked about it to my fellow students at Ballet and at Modern Dance, at Yoga, and invited one of my friends along to see her.  We arranged to meet for dinner before not far from the venue and had a lovely meal together of dishes ordered and shared—one starter between us, one main between us.  Even though we are friends and not lovers, she knows me well enough and herself well enough to order for us.  I think it’s hot.  She knows I do.

Not wanting to be late I paid and we hurried off to the concert.  We were there early, 15 minutes before the scheduled start time, but there was nobody around.  So I asked the bouncer, “where is everybody?”

“Already inside,” he said, arms crossed.

“Really?  When does it start?”

“It already started.”

“What?  It says on the ticket that it doesn’t start until 9:15.”

“That’s the main act.  The opening band has already finished.”

“What?!  Oh no,” I cried, “you have to be kidding,” for this was Morgan St. Jean.  This sparked a lively but friendly conversation about putting the wrong start time on the ticket.  But as we were bantering back and forth, he said, “there she is,” and pointed to a woman with another woman and a man.  Her bandmates.  I leaned over the hedges which separated us from where they were walking (ahh, the advantages of being a ballerina giraffe) and called out to her…and it all came out in a flood of teenaged girl emotion—that I had flown to see her, that I loved her so much, that her voice makes my cry, and that I brought a friend, and that it was already over.  And the next thing you know she was on my side of the bushes giving me a big hug and telling me about her tour and saying nice things to me.

Me: “Oh my God, I can’t believe its you!” And she looks at me and sees this tall giraffe peering over the bushes and smiles. “I flew all the way from London to see you and I missed the whole thing.”

Morgan: “Oh no, that’s so sweet,” she said coming around the bushes. “Come and see us on the tour.”

Me: “Oh my God, I’d love to. I love your music so much. It always makes me cry.”

Morgan: “Do you have a t-shirt, let me get you a t-shirt. What size?”

Me: “Really? That’s so sweet. As small as possible.” She disappeared briefly and then came back.

Morgan: “Here you go,” she said, “what’s your name?” and she took my hand.

Me. “X. What’s your’s?” and as soon as I said it I blushed all over every inch of me! How ridiculous!

Morgan: “Morgan,” she said with a smile. “Morgan is my real name.”

Me: “Of course, oh gosh,” and I giggled and blushed and my friend walked up. I introduced and Morgan encouraged us to see the headline act, We Three, which was really quite good. The bass player stirred my lesbian heart. I posed for selfies with Morgan.

Morgan: “You make me feel so short. You look like a super-model.”

Me: “That’s so sweet,” I gushed, “let’s take it again then. And I have a beautiful photo of this gorgeous idol of mine nestled up against me, and both of us have the hugest smiles on our faces. I can’t wait to see her again.

And I don’t know what would have happened had I seen her on stage.  I’m a bit shy.  I might have never approached her.  But it was such a beautiful experience in the end, and now I want to see her really badly, and will make point of doing it.  I suggest you check her out before she gets so big that you have to go to a stadium to see her.  She reminds me a bit of Lady Gaga in the warm and deep relationship she has with her fans.

Even though I blew it, my friend forgave me.  Though I suspect I will be in for many years of teasing now.  That’s kind of the way my life is.  I think everybody knows that I am a baby, so they aren’t really ever mean to me.  But playful is good.  We like playful.

Is this an example of letting the universe just flow?