I have long noted a tendency among the politically correct in the various trans-communities to engage in a form of social terrorism against other members of various trans-communities for using words or phrases to describe their life experiences that are not on some list of PC terms for proper transgender warriors to use.
The tizzy in a tea cup over the word “Trannie”, a term that was in common usage among transsexuals and queens some 50 years ago when I was coming out is but one example. All the politically correct terms for what we used to call a sex change operation or sex reassignment surgery is yet another. Hell even using the word transsexual as a self descriptor rather than the politically correct word transgender causes all sorts of PC folks to get their panties all twisted in a knot.
Last week we saw where the whole PC thing goes when taken to insane extremes. Me? I’d rather live in a world where we have freedom of speech and thought.
Sex-change surgery gave me my life. I would not be who I am without it.
Nevertheless, public discourse around the subject is governed by media guidelines that operate to suppress discussion, such as this one from GLAAD: “Journalists should avoid overemphasizing the role of surgeries in the [gender] transition process.”
For me, you could not overemphasize the importance of sex-change surgery if you tried.
Consider one risk of the politically correct script of deflection: It undermines the medical necessity of sex-change surgery for many of us.
People have questions: Do you have a vagina? Can you have sexual intercourse? Is there sensation down there? Are you able to have orgasms?
So I decided to start being open about my operation, beginning by mentioning it in a talk at Chicago Ideas Week.
You may say that I’m a contrarian, but I’m not the only one.
My story is that in fourth grade I learned a word that describes me: transsexual. It was during recess, and I was in a field of grass, talking with a couple of friends, including the deaf play buddy I was paired up with to practice sign language.
Years later I would date a deaf guy for like five minutes. I thought that he, of all people, would understand the challenges of being judged based on how I was born, but no. He grimaced, stood up, and walked out of my apartment within minutes of learning about my past.
The horror of locker rooms and swimming pools began in high school, during puberty. I changed in a corner, or maybe in a bathroom stall or under a towel, to avoid the light of day in the presence of others.
Then there was the period of being in-between as an adult, after I had transitioned but before the surgery. Oh, how I loved to swim! And how I hated what my bathing suit revealed.
And then there was dating. I met a number of men who identified as straight while professing attraction to pre-operative or non-operative transgender women; two men who blinked at me in confusion during a series of questions, until they said that I was pretty and then kissed me; and a gorgeous young Italian man who made out with me in Amsterdam, then yelled and slammed the door behind him after I interrupted his caresses to explain.