A trans man's confession: The pain, the pride, and the politics.
“What is THAT?” wrote a disgusted commenter on a recent TikTok video of mine.
“Rosie?” Another asked.
“What the hell even is that?” A third posted a meme of a confused man’s face.
While sure, my beard was untrimmed and dancing at crazy angles from my face, and yes, at certain angles I’m quite a doppelganger for Rosie O’Donnell, I was taken aback at the images of squinting eyes and the clear message that I was not human — and, therefore, not worthy of respect.
Disgust
Honestly? I’ve been disgusted by me and my body for 47 years. Their bully-ish comments weren’t anything I hadn’t heard before, from my own brain, my own mouth, my own internal cynic.
Being a transgender person is awe-ful. As in, full of awe. It’s horrible, and it’s inspiring. It feels like something within me is broken beyond repair, and it also feels divine.
Coming out at transgender has been a journey, and one I haven’t posted about publicly much at all, mostly because it is full of private and personal anguish and questions — and nuance, so much nuance.
Do I want to be transgender?
No way, dude.
Do I want to be girl? Nope, because I’m not one.
I tried that, for 40 years. I tried to fit myself into the box. I tried to care about all the things I was supposed to care about, but I only ever wanted to be “normal.”
What does being transgender even mean?!
I can’t talk about being transgender without talking about uncomfortable and personal subjects, like the phantom genitals I’ve felt my entire life, a frustrating sensation of something that should exist on the outside of my body. Like the fact that I taught myself to use the toilet standing up anyway, or how I studied my father and, later, my significant others as they shaved, carefully watching how to move the razor over my face without nicking any bumps — or the Adam’s apple I was crushed to learn that only boys would develop. I still reach for my throat in confusion that I don’t actually have one, pushing against the hollow as I swallow, my fingers seeking purchase for something to prove what I know inside: That I’m a boy.
I doubted my brain’s map of my body. I thought perhaps I equated being a boy with being “normal” because of the patriarchy. Hear me out: When we see the majority of our stories, authors, famous people, and history with a focus on men, it stands to reason that someone would want to be a man, right? That’s who gets to have all the adventures. According to my mother as I grew up, wanting to be a man was simply because they held the power. So I focused on feminism and listening to bands that were female-fronted (all the better if the band was entirely composed of women or non-binary folks). I promoted female authors and stories, and championed women anywhere I could (and still do). I fought hard against gender as a construct, going so far as to ensure the child I birthed 23 years ago had a gender-neutral name, clothing, and toys.
I tried wearing the dresses and the earrings expected of me. I tried caring about the mammalian glands hanging like pancakes from my chest, but I hated bras and wished there was some sort of tank top that could just, I don’t know, bind and hold them in somehow. (There is — I love a good binder!) I tried being a wife — both to a man and to a woman. Neither was correct.
In time, I met a woman who saw right through me.
“Are you sure your pronouns are they/them?” She asked shortly after we started dating. I had come out as non-binary in 2020. While I knew I was a trans man, I wasn’t ready to assert that in public. And after a failed first try at hormone replacement therapy, I didn’t think I would ever be able to be seen as the man I knew myself to be.
With her support, a new doctor, and a restart of hormone therapy, I am finally being perceived as I see me (most of the time, anyway). Being a husband and a father makes Little Me shine with happiness.
Speaking Forward
And now the U.S. administration is coming for my rights. According to the Human Rights Watch, anti-transgender rhetoric is eroding the “visibility of transgender peoples’ lived experiences” in public discourse. In the 2024 election cycle, “right-wing politicians invested nearly $215 million in anti-trans network television advertisements” (not counting print, online, cable, or other broadcast media!). There are reports of passports being confiscated when a gender marker doesn’t match a birth certificate. Hate crimes related to gender identity have been on an “upward trend,” even as lawmakers attempt to cast us — the victims! — as “domestic terrorists.”
I still don’t want to talk about my transition, or my body, or the fact that using a public bathroom fills me with dread. But I need to speak up, speak out, speak forward. Even though I’d rather be “stealth” (that is, not outwardly declaring myself as transgender), the world needs people who are brave enough speak with honesty and nuance, something missing from our social media algorithms. This isn’t the path forward for everyone, but it is for me. (At least, for now?)
Maybe, the more people can see us, the more we will be understood to be human. And the safer we’ll be.
Or I’m putting a target on my back; either way, hi, I’m Hawth. It’s short for my middle name, Hawthorne. I’m a trans man. Nice to meet you, fellow human.
Body copy written without the use of AI. AI helped with the title and subheading.
Hawth Reiter is a trans husband, dad, artist, writer, and Tarot reader who talks to dead people (and spirits of all kinds). Learn more at hawthreiter.com.