A tom boy's transition

and boy, do I have some stories to tell

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Welcome! If you couldn’t tell from that catchy domain name, this blog is dedicated to my four-decades-long journey on this earth as a non-gender conforming rebel. From being AFAB (assigned female at birth) and being raised as what our society labels a “girl” I have experienced many layers to my identity over the years to land where I am today. Now, I am finally creating a space to tell my story – not just as an individual in transition- but from a place of vulnerability in respects to all aspects of my life. I’ve always considered myself an open book, and now, I am excited to share my life story as a published blog.

  • And I’m just getting started!

    At the end of last year, I finally decided I was going to take the leap and start the blog I had talked about creating for the last several years. So I dug out my notes, got to writing, and even came up with the catchy name- The Dysfunctional Dyke– I even purchased the domain…oops. But I knew it was more than my attention deficit that was holding me back from documenting my truth – my absolute truth- and I knew I couldn’t continue with the selected title to carry my story. I began to finally sit with my uncomfortable realization that at 43 years of age, I needed to come out again. I figured I had so much fun the first time around, then why not, right?

    The first person I came out to was a counselor my sophomore year of college. I can vaguely recall sitting across from an unremarkable man in a clinical setting but couldn’t tell you why or how I got there that particular day. All I know is that it was my first audible declaration of being queer, and while it was profound, it was otherwise unremarkable. Maybe it’s because since that day, I have had more conversations about justifying my existence to people than I care to count, but it’s no less than in the thousands at this point, and I’m exhausted.

    For years, I have shrunk, lessened and quieted myself for the comfort of others and I’m finally breaking free from that prison. For the first time in 43 years, I am standing up for myself, loving myself, and accepting myself for who I’ve always known is the real me. In my older, more rigid years I’ve come to joke that I never actually came out of the proverbial closet. Instead, it was everyone else who was so afraid, and hiding away from the truth that was hiding in plain sight.

    This blog is a deeply personal journey that exposes me to my core, both good and bad. It provides me an outlet to discuss and highlight the very moments that shaped me throughout my life, and how I have overcome grueling challenges to be where I am today. My expertise is limited to my unique experiences, but I do hope that through sharing my story that others can find inspiration, clarity, or support for themselves too. Living the last 43 years as a woman, and over half of that as a lesbian, my life has incorporated a bountiful array of trauma, heartbreak, and struggles that not even the best Hollywood script writers could fathom.

    I am here to share my countless stories with truth, dignity, intimacy, humor and occasional vulgarity. From surviving an abusive childhood to leveling up after divorce and starting a new life, and to everywhere in between, my story is ready to be told. So no matter which era of my life you entered, you’re here for the best one yet. I cannot wait to revisit it all and share it with you here.

    Thanks for coming along for the ride…(that’s what she said)

  • Play Ball!

    One of the first entries I knew that I wanted to share was what it was like growing up queer. Being raised in a traditional, conservative, devoutly Catholic household, acting or presenting like anything other than those very things was not optional. Since childhood, my best friends in school had always been boys. I attended catholic grade school where, by the time I graduated, I was one of five students in my class, total, yes TOTAL. Our school was so small that both the fifth and sixth grades shared a classroom as well as the seventh and eighth grades. Even with combined classrooms, I always preferred befriending the boys, and they welcomed me with open arms.

    Everyday at lunch we would sit at the same end of the table in the cafeteria and talk about our beloved sports teams or the latest cheat codes available for our favorite video games. Afterwards, at recess, we would sit on the sidewalk and bond over an intense chess match, while the girls picked flowers and talked about their boyfriends (their boyfriends went to the public schools.) 

    I was considered one of the more athletic kids in school, which is not a braggadocios statement amongst a combined one-dozen students, but I was always the first one to be picked for a sport (that’s if I wasn’t already one of the designated team captains.) Not too shabby for a girl, right? Even for the two boys who were in my class, they knew I could kick their asses, so it was in their best interest to keep me close and likely why they preferred to play chess with me.

    When it came to our school dances (combined with other schools, for obvious reasons) I preferred to stand and talk to the guys rather than dance with my hands on their bodies with our faces merely inches apart (gross). I feel like my classmates treated me like I was just one of the boys, outside from using the pink colored bathrooms versus the blue ones (yes they really were those colors) Just outside of those very bathrooms, right next to the water fountain was where I heard my first homophobic slur: GAY!

    “You’re GAY!” I heard one of the prepubescent boys yell in another’s face. “NO, YOU’RE GAY!” the other one yelled back at him.

    Nothing like a quality, catholic education, amarite?

    That night I went home, like any sheltered middle school kid in the mid-nineties without Google did, and asked my parents what the word “gay” meant. They told me it was just another word for “happy” which really wasn’t a lie, but I called bullshit when I said those boys definitely had a tone that wasn’t accusing either one of happiness. It was chalked up to “boys will be boys” and it was left at that. Needless to say, the next time the word gay came out of my mouth in front of my parents, they knew I didn’t mean happy either, so I guess I got even? Alas, that fun story/blog post will be coming shortly…

    Ok, now back to me being a gay kid…

    When summertime rolled around, I would spend hours in our side yard, practicing my knuckleball and fastball deliveries, with a scoop of big league chew or a folded up fruit roll up in my mouth to mimic the big-leaguers’ use of chewing tobacco. (I remember the 90s baseball bros always had wads of chew in their cheeks, like good ole Lenny Dykstra.) So while I was trying to blow my arm out while on a sugar high, I felt no worries in my little boyish brain on those summer days.

    Meanwhile, my one and older sister was busy nearby on her lounge chair, sunbathing and reading the latest Stephen King novel. She would occasionally humor me and come catch my 25mph fastball instead of me launching it into the brick and mortar of our childhood home. I was convinced, even as a little girl, that I could pitch like Greg Maddux someday or hit homers out of Wrigley Field like Sammy Sosa. But those dreams eventually died in that side yard, when I was reminded that girls played softball, and that baseball was only for boys, which made me both mad and sad. Just like Tom Hanks famously said in “A League of Their Own” though “there’s no crying in baseball.” So I guess since boys aren’t allowed to cry, that actually all checks out.

    Tale as old as time – “boys do this” and “girls do that”

    Why?

    Well, because we said so, that’s why!

    OH, okay.

    So, I’ll fast forward like 35 years, and guess what, baseball is actually for everyone. And I’m convinced that while my old classmates can probably beat me in chess today, I can definitely still kick their asses.

    – J