Citation de MegGomar
We sat together on an oversize chair, the splashes and music blending
together in the background. We spoke about gender, I shared the degree of
my discomfort, how even when I was playing a role, I couldn’t wear
feminine clothes anymore. How I always struggled in the summer when
layers were not an option and the presence of my breasts under my T-shirt
forced me to incessantly crane my neck, sneaking quick peeks down. I
would pull on my shirt, my posture folded. Walking down the sidewalk, I’d
glance at a store window to check my profile, my brain consumed. I had to
avoid my reflection. I couldn’t look at pictures, because I was never there. It
was making me sick. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be lifted out—the
gender dysphoria slowly crushing me.
“It’s a role, you’re an actor. Why are you complaining about such a
thing?” people would say.
“I would wear a skirt,” a straight, cis man had said to me, playing
devil’s advocate. I kept trying to explain the difficulty I was having. But he
kept spitting out his unwanted opinions while then berating me for getting
“too emotional.” “Hysterical” I believe was the word he used.
These words triggered a deep shame I’d held since I could remember. I
was puzzled, too—invalidating my own experience. How was I in so much
pain? Why did even slightly feminine clothing make me want to die? I’m an
actor, there shouldn’t be a problem. How could I be such an ungrateful
prick?
Imagine the most uncomfortable, mortifying thing you could wear. You
squirm in your skin. It’s tight, you want to peel it from your body, tear it off,
but you can’t. Day in and day out. And if people are to learn what is
underneath, who you are without that pain, the shame would come flooding
out, too much to hold. The voice was right, you deserve the humiliation.
You are an abomination. You are too emotional. You’re not real.
“Do you think you’re trans?” Star asked me, locking eyes.
“Yes, well, maybe. I think so. Yeah.” We exchanged a soft smile.
I was so near. Almost touching it, but I panicked. And it burned away
like the joint I was smoking, becoming an old roach left to rot in a forgotten
ashtray. It all felt too big—the thought of going through this publicly, in a
culture that is so rife with transphobia and people with enormous power and
platforms actively attacking the community.
together in the background. We spoke about gender, I shared the degree of
my discomfort, how even when I was playing a role, I couldn’t wear
feminine clothes anymore. How I always struggled in the summer when
layers were not an option and the presence of my breasts under my T-shirt
forced me to incessantly crane my neck, sneaking quick peeks down. I
would pull on my shirt, my posture folded. Walking down the sidewalk, I’d
glance at a store window to check my profile, my brain consumed. I had to
avoid my reflection. I couldn’t look at pictures, because I was never there. It
was making me sick. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be lifted out—the
gender dysphoria slowly crushing me.
“It’s a role, you’re an actor. Why are you complaining about such a
thing?” people would say.
“I would wear a skirt,” a straight, cis man had said to me, playing
devil’s advocate. I kept trying to explain the difficulty I was having. But he
kept spitting out his unwanted opinions while then berating me for getting
“too emotional.” “Hysterical” I believe was the word he used.
These words triggered a deep shame I’d held since I could remember. I
was puzzled, too—invalidating my own experience. How was I in so much
pain? Why did even slightly feminine clothing make me want to die? I’m an
actor, there shouldn’t be a problem. How could I be such an ungrateful
prick?
Imagine the most uncomfortable, mortifying thing you could wear. You
squirm in your skin. It’s tight, you want to peel it from your body, tear it off,
but you can’t. Day in and day out. And if people are to learn what is
underneath, who you are without that pain, the shame would come flooding
out, too much to hold. The voice was right, you deserve the humiliation.
You are an abomination. You are too emotional. You’re not real.
“Do you think you’re trans?” Star asked me, locking eyes.
“Yes, well, maybe. I think so. Yeah.” We exchanged a soft smile.
I was so near. Almost touching it, but I panicked. And it burned away
like the joint I was smoking, becoming an old roach left to rot in a forgotten
ashtray. It all felt too big—the thought of going through this publicly, in a
culture that is so rife with transphobia and people with enormous power and
platforms actively attacking the community.