Bon Voyage Boobies — Lazarus Letcher

Drains carrying blood, lymphatic fluids, and the specters of my breasts dangle from the sides of my body like useless tentacles. Incisions run the width of my torso. My chest is a kaleidoscope of bruises, shades and hues that I didn’t know my body could produce. My nipples are sutured, covered in surgical packing, and sutured again. A tight compression vest holds my new chest together, making it hard to draw a full breath. Phantom pain sweeps across my chest at intervals as the nerves that were severed misfire in confusion over the new terrain.

I am free. Finally.

More interested in getting that next pacifier than my gender

Folks always ask when I knew I was genderfluid. The answer is different for every trans and gender nonconforming person, as is the path we take to feel comfortable in our bodies and society. Medical transition does not make you *really* trans, or changing your name or gender markers, or following any of society’s extreme gender performative expectations. Stepping into my identity and my body is a decision I made on my own. Many trans and gender nonconforming folks cannot take the steps, nor want to take the steps I have taken to reclaim my body, and that’s an important point to make. Folks may not be in situations where it is feasible for their health or safety to transition, and there is a real financial and societal cost that comes with every step. Name changes, court fees, hormones, syringes, updating identification, surgeries - these add up. I have class privilege and parents with insurance policies that I had to fight like hell with, but got to cover my top surgery. I live in a place with a solid community of queer, trans, and gender nonconforming folks and allies who have my back. I realize I am lucky to be able to make my body a home.

That being said, I’ve always known I was genderfluid. As soon as I could dress myself I went for boys clothes. At recess I would join the boys teams. I even tried to join the Boy Scouts, I was tired of slinging cookies and making bracelets gosh darnit. I’m extremely blessed with parents who let me express myself without much hassle. I was already a racial conundrum for our small Indiana community, might as well throw in some gender confusion. I was always a shepherd or wise man in our church’s Nativity plays, shootout to the ELCA for fostering my love of drag. Everyday my Coolio braids bounced on my head as I sprinted across the playground with the boys team, my Elway Jersey and FUBU sneakers giving me super powers only I could understand.

I remember around fifth grade staring at my reflection in the mirror. Tiny mosquito bites were forming in the center of my chest. I pulled my chest back and lifted my chin, trying any and every trick to make them invisible. As soon as I started wearing bras it was always sports bras, usually layered. When I got to Junior High I caved in and started loosening my allegiance to the Tomboy Forever club. I remember the first time I wore a skirt to school, it was hell, but I did it for every basketball game. I chemically relaxed my hair to the point that I looked like a tall Katt Williams, sitting in a chair every six weeks to fry my way into Eurocentric femininity.

I got my period on my sisters sixteenth birthday. I remember staring in horror in the bathroom of the restaurant. I was a late bloomer, and I was still holding out hope that it would never happen to me. That night was also my first ever symphony rehearsal. I sat in the back of the second violin section schlepping my way through a Dvorak piece while the brick in my belly grew. I didn't tell my mom, ever. I fashioned makeshift pads out of paper towels and duct tape. I would collect my waste and throw it out desperately. I was ashamed, confused, and above all angered. I didn't' want to be a woman.

queer. as. fuck.photo cred Shriya — queer. as. fuck.
photo cred Shriya

It was around this time I realized I'm queer. Girls would pile on couches to cuddle to watch movies while I would make gay jokes off to the side, desperate for closeness and touch but not enough to expose who I was. I would go to Church around three times a week, positive that the Holy Spirit would work some miracles and help me be normal. I prayed everyday to make the gay go away.

senior year of high school, much closer to fine. also probably listened to the Indigo Girls "Closer to Fine" right after this was taken

In High School things got better. For the first two years I was still going to church regularly, even though I was starting to date girls. I was positive it was a phase, plus I had a fat crush on the girl who would pick me up in her Thunderbird for worship. The irony of this has not escaped me. I started to slip back into being comfortable, sliding back into my tomboy couture look. I wore my letter man’s jacket, witty t-shirts, skate hoodies, and my trusty sneakers everyday. I let my hair go natural. I stopped caring so much if people knew I was gay. I had a girlfriend, got my heartbroken, and would spend every Sunday night with my gay best friend Thomas cuddled together in my basement watching the L Word - our only queer portal outside of our cornfield. Their trans dude story line is trash, but I was enamored and obsessed. I pushed it to the corners of my mind, assuming that my intrigue was just because I was so enlightened and dedicated to being a trans ally.

Over January break my first year of college, I came close to seeing myself and got too scared. I was day drinking the break away and reading books I borrowed from friends. I read She’s Not There , by Jennifer Finney Boylan, a reflection on her life as a trans woman. It terrified me. So many of her words and memories resonated with me. After drinking a substantial amount of Sunset Blush I went to my closet. I put on four sports bras and a tank top. I ran my hands over my smooth chest and smiled. I pulled out a white button up, slid into my concert black pants, and threw on one of Thomas’s old blazers. I walked to the mirror that hung on my dorm room door. What I saw in the mirror felt real for the first time since I stood in my bathroom contorting my chest to hide my budding tits. I quickly threw off all the clothes and crawled into bed. I was a Black dyke already, I didn’t need anymore on my plate. I pushed the day far off to the corners of my mind.

my first month in Albuquerquephoto cred Kara Sajeske — my first month in Albuquerque
photo cred Kara Sajeske

I’ve struggled with disordered eating most of my life. I think this struggle is intimately intertwined with my gender dysphoria. The parts of my body I tried to starve away were the bits that marked my femininity. My first semester of grad school my eating disorders took a gnarly turn. I moved across the country, chopped off all of my hair, and started an intense program. I think it was the catalyst I needed to revisit the fear that drove me under the covers in college. My skin felt like it was on fire all the time, I tugged at the edges of my body trying to strip it away and alleviate the pain. I donned double sports bras with baggy shirts to hide my shame.

I started dating someone who identified as genderqueer my second semester of grad school. Their bravery and love inspired me to open my Pandora's box of gender again and face it. I started to take steps to reclaim this body I had tried to wish away for so long. I got my first binder in March of that year. It was hell to put on the first time, but I turned and saw my profile in the mirror and gasped (as much as one can in a tight ass binder). I started using they/them pronouns with my friends shortly after that.

While watching a documentary on kids who transition with my boo i started to cry. They turned to me and said “you want to start T, don’t you?”. Our friend had started hormone replacement therapy and I had been watching with mixed compersion and envy. That began a month long quest to find a doctor to prescribe hormones to me, as as a genderfluid individual, not as someone trying to land on either end of the gender spectrum. It was a frustrating process. Lists of providers who supposedly handled trans issues were fraught with clueless clinics and transphobic front desk folks. I finally just went to my student health center on campus, and was surprised to find an amazing doctor well versed in trans and gender nonconforming care. I started hormones on the Winter Solstice. I dropped trou for a stranger. She sank the syringe deep into my muscle. We high fived, and my life got a whole lot better.

The last year of changes has been incredible and insightful. I’ve written, and will continue to write, at length about the strangeness of living a life in more than one gender. My facial hair came in, my muscles hardened, my voice dropped. The dysphroic fire on my skin subsided. Eileen and the In-Betweens hit the road for our national tour, and I started getting read as consistently male for the first time. I’m still genderfluid and use they/them pronouns, but getting “sirred” sends giddy waves of joy up and down my spine. We traveled all the way to the East Coast and up to New York. Our days were spent driving for hours in our questionably smelling van and our nights filled with playing on sweltering stages. Wearing my binder was beyond miserable. I could barely fill my lungs up enough to sing, my shoulders protested the long hours of inactivity followed by spastic viola playing, and the sweat that pooled in them was beyond disgusting. I made up my mind that it was time for the the tittes to say tata.

In July I had my first consult with a plastic surgeon in town. I decided to stay local for the surgery, the extra cost and stress of travel and my desire to heal at home cinched the decision. They sent in a request to my insurance to cover it. I was denied. Thus began an 8 month battle that included appeals, numerous letters from folks with extra letters after their name, and good old American lawsuit threatening. The process was demoralizing and enraging. Having to have others prove that my gender identity was valid and real was one of the most hopeless and frustrating experiences of my life. Ten days before my surgery I found out my appeal had finally been approved. The relief of a $10,000 bill being managed was immense, but not as satisfying as knowing that fighting my ass off to demand recognition and care was successful.

The week before the surgery was stressful and exciting. I hadn’t had a countdown going for an event since Christmas of 1999. I nested hard, getting supplies to make life easier post op, stocking my home with vitamins and snacks. Finally it was the day of the surgery. The thought of me dying on the table was not far from my mind at any point. We drove up to the Northeast Whites (of course that’s where the plastic surgery center is). I stared up at the New Mexico sky, trying to take in every ounce of that blue just in case it was the last time I saw it. I played one of my favorite violin concertos. I said goodbye to people in my head. I wasn’t scared of dying, because I knew I would die fighting my biggest battle to make this body mine. Am I dramatic? Obviously.

The prep for the surgery was a blur of endless team members being sweet, kind, and informative. IVs were started, stats were taken, and blue marker divided my chest into neat pectoral projections. My boo Cal held my hand as they injected the muscle relaxant and wheeled me off. The operating room was cool, and I was surprised to hear 90s hip-hop playing. They strapped my arms off to the side, like a crucifix. The last thing I remember is making a resurrection joke.

I came to what seemed like seconds later. My first words were “is this fucking 'Pachelbel’s Canon?'” because no matter what state I’m in I will always be a bitter former classical musician. They let Cal in to see me and explained that everything went well. I ran my hands over my chest in disbelief. A compression vest and several layers of gauze protected me from myself, but from my quick survey I could tell, this chest is flat.

I slept most of that first day. I was lucky that they stuck an anti-nausea patch behind my ear so I didn't have the typical post anesthesia barfs. Right out of the gate my community stepped up to help me. Every time I woke up I was informed that another person had swung by to drop of goodies and well wishes. There is literally a corner of my apartment that is now called La Croix mountain because of all of the boxes folks have brought me this week. I have never felt so loved in my life. Everyone who has sent positive words throughout the process, mailed me care packages, come to visit, and brought me treats - I don't have words. Thank you for showing me what community looks and feels like. I'll take all this love and pay it forward.

I saw my chest for the first time the next day at my doctor’s. He ripped off the compression vest, checked my drains, and then took the bandages off. Shit was not pretty, obviously, but it was so much better than the last time I had seen my chest. Sutures shot off in myriad directions and there was blood and all sorts of other unpleasant things, but hotdog my chest was flat! I walked on shaky legs to the mirror and just stood there and laughed in disbelief. There I was, after all this time. Finally home.

five days post-op, took my drains out for a nice date

The waves of gender affirmation have been mostly good, but it hasn’t all been roses. The next day was the hardest. The pain was starting to set in and it was time for the incisions to be treated at home. I sat on the toilet crying while Cal comforted me and carefully applied the medicine to my incisions. I can’t feel most of my chest, so that wasn’t the pain. It was a much deeper fear. Fear that I would fuck something up and have complications, fear that taking this step had made my body vulnerable to disease, fear that maybe this surgery wasn’t the final fix. Healing is never a linear process, and I'm trying to accept the fears and know that it'll all be okay, and to remember that it's already so much better.

Six days out and I feel great. I can still barely look at my chest without getting woozy, but every time I pass the mirror I know I made the right choice. It’s been over a decade since I was that kid in the mirror, twisting and turning to trick myself into believing my chest was still flat. I’m done twisting and turning, I’m done doubling up on bras and caving in my chest at the gym so no one knows, I’m done with binders that squeeze my muscles and quiet my voice. I’m finally done, and I couldn't be happier.