Happy V-Day

Tonight was our last performance of the Vagina Monologues for the V-Day activities at UC-Berkeley. The cast, all college women except for the three transgender people, were incredible. I saw three professional actresses perform the Vagina Monologues last year in Napa, and although they did a wonderful job, these college women simply blew them away. They were much more passionate and full of energy...something the paid actresses didn't have. I was simply amazed with the quality of performances...even though some of them didn't even have any stage experience.

They all conveyed such emotion in each of their spots...from the Russian woman who was violated by soldiers, to the teacher who instructed us on how to say the word 'cunt', to the dominatrix who showed us the variety of moans (the Berkeley and Stanford moans were great), to the Angry Vagina, to the child who'd have her vagina wear a Met's cap...backwards, to finding out what our vaginas smell like, what they would wear, and how they have children...as well as the other numerous monologues I'm leaving out.

The three transgender monologues, written and performed by Lynnee Breedlove, Sherilyn Connelly, and myself covered a variety of items. Lynnee talked about being a non-op, non-hormone man with a vagina...living outside the box. He definitely had a lot of funny moments which, tonight, included a joke about the Penis Monologues. Sherilyn talked about wanting a flat stomach and dealing with life as a woman with a penis. I wrapped up the T monologues with my piece entitled 11/10/8 Days...depending on what night it was. Basically, it was my own little countdown to Happy New Vagina Day. Today, though, I celebrated Valentine's Day...one year full time. So, Happy V-Day on two fronts.

PS...here's my monologue from tonight:

"8 Days"

I have eight days to go. Eight days. Most women don't have to wait, they just have one.

When I was a child, I was confused. I was just a kid but, yet, what I saw wasn't supposed to be there. I thought, "Nothing's supposed to be there," but it wasn't nothing, it was something.

When I was naked in the locker room, I felt different. Secluded. Alone. Why was I different? Why was I like this? Why was I the only one that had this…"problem"? Did anyone else feel like me?

I hid my pain. Behind corners, I'd cry. Only showing forth what others wanted to see, wanted to hear…wanted. I gave them what they wanted.

Sometimes I pushed the boundary, though. I'd apply my sister's makeup. I'd play house with her on occasion. In 6th grade, I jumped rope with the girls. Double-dutch.

Growing up, I learned to be a man. Sometimes it was easy, sometimes it wasn't, and sometimes it was just utterly chaotic. Guys like girls, and I went along with that plan...without resistance. Girls are nice...but things just didn't quite seem right.

8 days. A week from tomorrow.

I was in an Irish pub in Texas with friends last year. Yes, Texas. An old Irishman was at his piano talking to the audience, singing dirty songs, and telling bad jokes. He asked a pair of women where they were from.

"Pasadena."

"Texas or California?"

"Texas."

But he talked about California…then San Francisco. "The women wear their skirts so short in San Francisco you can see their balls." He continued to sing his dirty songs and tell his bad jokes. He saw me standing with my friends a few feet from his piano, and asked, "Where ya from?"

I grinned, took a step closer, leaned in and said, "S a n F r a n c i s c o."

I caught him off guard.

"San Francisco…uh oh, I'm in trouble now. It's OK though, she's a girl," he told the audience. I feared telling them my past, my path, my journey.

He called me a girl. Am I a girl? When I was 10, I was asked, "Are you a boy or a girl." I responded, "What do you think?" He looked at me and said, "Boy," but he seemed disappointed. So was I. Am I a girl?

Eight days. Most women don't have to wait….they just have one. Their chromosomes said to make one. Mine didn't. Something happened up here….or didn't happen….disparity, discomfort, discontentment, disgrace, dysphoria, discovery, dismemberment.

My chromosomes had instructions to make a penis…independently, though, my mind developed female. Can you imagine the conflict?

So, now I stand here, 8 days from having all of that fixed. They'll cut, remove a bit here and a little there, move things around, cut a little more, pull a little here and there, invert it, sew it all back together and wrap it all up like a great big shiny birthday present. My own special birthday present.

Eight days to go. But then I have to wait another 6 days to open my present. Whew, and initially that baby is going to look ugly. Damn ugly. You've never seen one as ugly as mine is going to be. And the smell? OMG…during recovery, you'll never believe how bad it's going to smell. Bad! Oh, and then in order to maintain its shape and prevent it from collapsing in on itself, I have to shove a plastic rod up my vagina in order to dilate - and dilate - and dilate - and dilate - and dilate - and dilate…and, oh, you probably get the point.

And, then…well, I guess I don't have to wait anymore. After I heal, I'll just be…me. I won't have to hid behind corners. I won't have to hold back my tears. I won't have to feel different. I won't have to be someone I'm not. No more Irishman. No more dysphoria. No more penis. And my vagina will look pretty. Very pretty. And it will smell....well, let's just say that it will smell a whole lot better than it did during recovery.

8 days. It's already been a lifetime of waiting. 8 days more. I still have a lifetime to live. 8 days.

8 days too long.