EDITORIAL
Labels -
Gloria Sue Fenton
Recently, Diane Frank had an article in our newsletter about
one of the discussion lists that she participated in, breaking up. It would seem
that there was heated discussion of the term "transgendered" in
particular that caused dissent. Diane pointed out several facets of how this one
word is used so broadly to cover such a wide range of behavior and identities,
and how some people take great dissatisfaction with that. I can understand that.
"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will
never hurt me" is an old saying I remember from when I was a child, but it
is wrong in point. Names and labels can be hurtful even if there is no intent to
hurt because how I understand something may be far different than how another
understands the very same thing. I am not going to try and get into a
philosophical discussion of labels here. Labels are, and always have been a part
of the human condition, and probably always will be.
I have had my run in with labels all my life, and right now I
would like to tell you about a few. The first label that I can recall that
bothered me was being called a "boy". I was three years old, and for
whatever reason had tried on my mother’s lipstick. I was scolded and told I
was a "boy", and boys did not wear lipstick. I took the scolding, and
felt bad for having done something wrong, but even at three-years-old I had lots
of questions. Why did I put on the lipstick? Why did I enjoy having put the
lipstick on? Why was it so wrong for ME to wear lipstick, if Ma could? What did
being a "boy" mean?
A whole lot of things just didn’t make sense. I had liked
seeing that lipstick on me. If my being a "boy" meant that what I did
was wrong, then already I was staring to think that I didn’t like being a boy.
Right then, I knew was not a time for a lot of questions. A year later I tried
on one of Ma’s dresses. Again, I was caught and scolded. Once more, being a
"boy" was a problem for me. All I knew was that dress was pretty, and
I like the way it felt on me.
There was something wrong about being a "boy", and
I didn’t like it. But at four-years-old I didn’t have a whole lot of say in
the matter. I got caught wearing one of Ma’s rings to school when I was five.
Again, being a "boy" was the problem. And being a "boy"
really was being a problem for me. I did not fit in with the other
"boys" I knew, and in school I quickly learned that because I was a
"boy" that I couldn’t fit in with the "girls" either.
My desire or need to wear "girl’s" things would
not go away no matter how hard I tried. I learned, however, not to get caught
wearing girl’s things. That was when I knew there were other labels that were
coming into play. I was "different". I wasn’t "normal".
And being "different" or "abnormal" was bad. I was in a
world of hurt, and couldn’t tell anybody.
Another label I felt the sting of was being called too
"sensitive" for my own good, as one teacher remarked to my parents.
Why was it wrong to be "sensitive"? Of course, the answer was that
"boys" weren’t supposed to be so "sensitive". In my own
mind, I couldn’t do anything right, and it hurt, and it angered me. Other
labels also hit me in those early years in school. Apparently, some kids didn’t
like the way I looked, so I got labeled as being "goofy looking". I
was smart. Learning came easy to me, and I was labeled "the smart
kid", and it was not meant nicely by the boys who called me that.
If I wore shorts to school, the boys taunted me as having
"girl’s legs", and even some of the girls teased me, as well. None
of those kids knew about my already starting to secretly wear Ma’s stockings,
but it felt like they did. Again, no "normal boy" would wear
stockings, and I bottled that up inside myself.
When Dad got hurt at work, and was out of work for two years,
I was "the poor kid" because I didn’t have many different clothes to
wear to school. I was not athletic, and of course for the "boys" I ran
like a girl. I threw a ball like a girl, and I was almost always picked dead
last when it came to choosing teams for sports in gym class. Ironically, years
later when I graduated high school, I was chosen as the "Most Outstanding
Athlete of the Senior Class", and my name is on a trophy to prove that.
Through sixth grade I was one of the tallest boys in my
class, but by the time I started seventh grade I was one of the shortest kids in
the entire class. Everybody seemed to grow but me. The label "shorty"
then came into play. I had, from the time I had been labeled as having
"girl’s legs" when I was five-years-old refused to wear shorts at
all. In seventh grade, however, for gym class, you had to wear a tee shirt and
gym shorts. The old taunt of my "girl’s legs" started up again.
Secretly, this hurt deeply, because I had grown enough that a lot of Ma’s
things were fitting me now, and I was, when I could, wearing a girdle with
garter hooks, stockings, high heels, and even a bra. Dressing up had taken on
new aspects for me. That, in turn, reinforced that I was "different",
that I didn’t feel like a "boy", and that I was not
"normal". God, how I hated being a "boy" then.
At that time, I was hit with puberty. Of course, I had a lot
of problems with acne and suffered all the slam-type labels that were associated
with that. It was time to become a "young man", and that brought it’s
own pressures. I hadn’t been able to handle being a "boy", and now
here was a whole new set of rules I was to be judged by. Dressing up began to
take on sexual connotations I hadn’t even dreamt of before. Now there was a
constant tug of war inside me. A "young man" did not dress as a woman.
A "young man" had to be strong. A "young man" that was
"different" had a whole new set of meanings to it.
I really did hate myself because I did not have a clue as to
who I really was, or what I was. I remember being in a supermarket one day with
Ma and Dad as they were shopping and seeing one of the tabloid papers near the
registers. I don’t remember what paper it was, but the headline hit me hard.
There, in bold print, was "The Very Manly Art of Transvestism" along
with a split face picture with one side a man, and the other a woman. The label
" transvestite" became a part of my life. Somehow, Ma and Dad did buy
the paper, and it went home with us.
It was nearly two weeks later that there came a time I could
read the article about the headline. The story was amazing to me. There were
men, full grown men, who did dress as women. I saw the labels
" transvestite" and "female impersonator". There were
pictures of women who were really manly men, according to the story. They even
worked dressed as women, with women’s names. The story floored me. How could
Janet really be Roy, and get away with it. Everything I had ever experienced
told me what I did was all wrong, and now this story was saying something
different.
Life really got confusing. And no matter what the story said,
I knew full well that there was no way I could tell my parents or anyone that I
was a " transvestite", and get away with it. From birth to thirteen
years old, it seemed I was always being "labeled" for something, and
most times they weren’t good labels, at least to me as a boy. On the other
hand, having "girl’s legs" was a very nice label when I was wearing
stockings. And though I never tried to "run like a girl" in heels, I
most definitely did learn how to "walk like a girl" in heels. The
"goofy looking" boy could, with a change of clothes, and jewelry, and
lipstick, become a very attractive young woman. And when I was dressed up, I
didn’t feel "different" or "not normal". I felt good and
right, and being sensitive was not a problem then.
Though I may have become "shorty" as a boy, I was
average height as a girl, and that wasn’t bad at all. I was just starting to
really realize the differences between male and female, but I knew I didn’t
like that label "female impersonator". To me, I wasn’t trying to
impersonate anyone when I dressed up; I was just trying to be me, even if I didn’t
know who that was yet. But I did know that if others knew my secret, that they
would not see that I was only trying to be me. They would not want to think that
much about it, and would take the easy way out. And though the word
" transvestite" didn’t seem that bad in the tabloid article, that
term had a whole lot of meanings that I didn’t like when I referenced it in
the library. Most of the labels that had affected my life till then were just a
particular point of view, at a particular time, and in particular circumstances.
All labels did for my life was add more constant confusion as
to who I was, and what I was. It took a lot of years after I was thirteen for me
to find my own peace of mind, with labels that were put on me by others and by
myself. I am a "human being". All the other labels boil down to that
one truth, and nothing more. That may sound very simplistic, and it is. But I
spent years letting labels confuse me, and effect my life; and it never proved
anything worthwhile.
Oh, I still live with labels, because I have to. Labels are a
part of the human condition. And there will always be discussions and even
arguments as to how to define any label. I know the truth of the one label I
found for myself, and that is how I see myself and how I try to see others at
all times. Now, I wonder, how does that label me in your eyes? Gloria n
