A Man In A Dress… Deep In The Heart Of Redneck Territory

I mentioned in my profile that I am extremely gender non-conforming, but all my personally identifiable information here — face, name, etc. — is fictitious.

Why? Why not just say fuck what other people think, and be myself? It’s complicated.

I grew up in a world (late 50’s, early 60’s) where men were men and women were women — by which I mean rigid gender stereotypes enforced by literally thousands of years of cultural expectations — and anyone who failed to meet those expectations faced a number of unpleasant consequences. That could include social expulsion, imprisonment, physical assault, or even murder. (Not possible? Google “Matthew Shepard” and get back to me on that).

Add to that some small cultural assimilation difficulties: We came from the UK when I was four years old, so I talked odd, acted odd, and didn’t know any of the cultural touchstones of my peers.

But it only got worse when I figured out I was “not like other boys”. Nowadays, if a boy (or a man) discovers that he’s attracted to feminine things, that makes him an influencer and likely a celebrity. For a child in the world where I grew up, it was hell. Why did I have an overwhelming urge to wear my mother’s girdle, or my older sister’s soft fur coat? Why did I hate all physical activities and fear confrontation? Why did I watch things like “Little House on the Prairie” only to wish I could have the dresses the girls wore?

It took me the better part of three decades to understand myself a little better, and in my seventh decade I’m still trying to get it sorted. An active sex life at university taught me that I very much enjoy being a man and I very much enjoy being with women. So… what’s up with the dresses? The DSM II only told me that “transvestic fetishism” was a severe mental aberration best treated by electroshock therapy. Thanks, DSM.

So, back to the present. In other parts of the world, queer culture is celebrated and encouraged. Here… not so much. In my world, there’s probably not much likelihood of extreme physical harm but these are the people I have to live with. I buy milk, eggs, chicken, and beef from them. I go to church with them. I do business with them. I honestly love them. They have saved me from hurricane damage and vehicle problems more often than I can count.

And — they’re not so different than I am. As I said, it took me three decades to accept myself. I would be the world’s worst hypocrite if I condemed them for not being quicker to accept me for what I am. So I dress the way that makes me comfortable in the privacy of my home. I wear more-or-less socially acceptable “man clothes” when I go to church or shopping. I joke about how little I understand of sports, and keep my mouth shut when trending news brings queer culture into the headlines and they get into angry rebuttals or mockery (note to RuPaul: You’re not helping, trust me).

If I were younger and had less to lose, maybe I would join the fight. But as it is… I get enough of the “real me” at home that I don’t mind wearing a mask in public just to keep the peace.

You know what’s the worst part? People like me aren’t even welcomed into queer spaces. They tell me I’m “an egg”, trans in denial. They tell me I’m undermining their efforts to make trans issues mainstream because I have no interest in passing for female. I wear a beard, I use masculine pronouns, I don’t change my name when I’m dressed “femme”, and — as more than one critic has commented — I dress like somebody’s grandmother. News flash, children: I’m old enough to be your grandmother. I dress in modest, full-length calico because that’s the world that I grew up in, and it’s the headspace where I feel genuine. But more on that in another post.