Out on the town with a dear friend and our kids and feeling utterly alive and welcome

Today, while I was trudging up the steps of the gondola at an alpine ski resort, dressed like a yeti, snow boots, big woolly hat, leather gloves, beige cargo pants (they were women’s, but like, with so many layers, who would know), and a ski jacket, a beautiful and wonderful man said to his son, ‘let her pass.”  I couldn’t believe it.  How on earth could he know?

The shape of my face?  That I was wearing big sunglasses?  That I was carrying a large leather satchel in both arms which might have been a handbag.  I gushed this mini-event to my kids and they were flabbergasted and delighted in equal measure.

It is hard to explain why such small things mean quite so much.  And it isn’t just to me, I think it is true for all trans people.  This is a plea.  Do please go out of your way to smile at us, to speak up for us, to ask our pronouns, to gender us as we are demonstrating through our clothes how we wish to be gendered…the solidarity is so important in a world where there is very little.

This man couldn’t have been pandering to me.  And I know that if he had taken a closer look, he would have seen that I was not the ‘Signora’ that he had thought when he said, “lascia passare la Signora.’  Bless him all the more.  This is ‘passing’ in a very literal sense!  I can still feel the echo.

In another lovely incident as I was crossing the border, the police officer looked at my passport, looked at me, and said, ‘there’s something wrong.  The AI says you’re female, but here it says male.’  I just had the biggest smile erupt across my face.  What can a girl say?  Soon enough the AI will be satisfied as the cascade of documents falls into place.

We went together to a jamming bar which was overwhelmed with a crush of mostly young and beautiful people, very chic, all in animated conversation, spilling and milling in every direction, all seemingly waiting for tables.  I spoke to one of the many waitresses and she asked, “how many are you?” and when I told her she said it would be while, “quindi sará un bel pó.’  I went aside and ordered and figured we would stand…got some food—if you ever come to Italy, one of the great traditions is ‘aperitivo’, which is going out for a snack and a cocktail before dinner.  To whet the appetite.  Apart from being inexpensive and good, it is a cultural phenomenon, a part of ‘la dolce vita’ (the good life) and ‘fare la bella figura’ (presenting/being on display/ oneself well).  To see and be seen.

After we had ordered and were milling about, I saw some bar stools off to the side freeing up.  I spoke to the waitress, and she confirmed that I could take those seats, and so did.  One drink later and the proprietor, a middle-aged man sidled up to me and caressed my arm in a very familiar way…I think that any woman would know what I meant.  “Would you like a table?” he asked, the place still heaving with more worthy and needful people.  He then indicated the most prime table in the entire place—the corner in the front window.  It helps that my friend is gorgeous, that our children are gorgeous, perhaps, but it was his hand on my arm whot did it.  “Yes,” I said, “thank you,” and a small curtsy.  He parted the crowd and led us to the table and promptly returned with a plate of sliced meats and other yummies “on the house”.  

“How did that happen?” the kids asked, surveying the scene.

“He caressed my arm,” I said.

My friend laughed, “welcome to womanhood.”

“I know,” I said, “how strange and oddly powerful and objectifying at the same time.  Yes Daddy you can touch my arm anytime.”  They all laughed.

Life is very strange.  Will it always be men who give?  Is this really just a social construct, or is there more at play?

And as for me, my experience of the ultra macho cultures in South America and in Southern Italy and throughout Spain has made me feel that men in these places simply accept me more readily as a woman, and relate to me as such, no matter how I look…It is as if they say, “you present that way, so that is how you will be treated.”

I spend a lot of time these days thinking where I will live for the rest of my life.  This decision is severely impacted by the divorce process, as I am increasingly likely to be left with insufficient capital to start a new business.  That means almost definitely going back to England or to the US, places I love in parts, not least for the economic opportunities, but not like I love Italy, my adopted home.  Same for my children, who regard Italy as home.

Being trans in Italy is definitely challenging.  ‘Passing’ is something which attracts admiration in Italy but is not something I am likely to ever do.  Still, it is enough for people to perceive me as if, to treat me as such.  And as hormones work their slow and steady magic on my body, and a surgery cycle which will dominate 2024 kicks in, I am aware that patience is the most important thing.

What else, the rewiring of my body into a female pattern is really and truly underway.  I cannot touch myself down there and not notice how different everything is.  Sensation is much more intense.  My breasts are real and growing and extremely sensitive.  I used to think that they would never get big and I am not sure that I want them to be much bigger than they are now, as they are already teetering on the edge of being too big for the ittty bitty little titty club of which I am a proud member.  But my cousin, my trans sister, has enormous breasts, and I guess that my mother’s breasts are not going to be my indicator as mine are already bigger than hers were…no, it looks like the cue is coming from my father’s family.  They were all large-chested.

I am okay with that now, as I see how everyone, especially women, notice them, and that this is the first thing that makes them gender me female.

Thanks for listening.