DOI: 10.3726/9781915734822.003.0024

23: Somewhere in between

As I think back to a few years ago, I remember what tipped me off.

I was sitting at my desk in my small, west-facing eighth floor bachelor apartment in Kitsilano, a neighbourhood in Vancouver. Sunlight sparkled on the ocean water of English Bay and in the distance, the dark outline of Vancouver Island merged into the light blue sky. It was 2014 and I was working on my master’s thesis.

My cell phone jingled, notifying me of an incoming text message. I picked it up and read a message from a young trans friend in Calgary.

Chase announced to me that he had just undergone top surgery—the gender-affirming surgical removal of breast tissue coupled with the contouring of the remaining chest tissue to build a masculine chest. No sooner did I read his text message than a photo of his naked, newly flat, scarred, sculpted chest popped up in front of me, followed by a string of exclamation marks.

Anger jolted through me like an electric current, evaporating a split second later.

Of course, I didn’t share that startling response with him—I knew better than that. Chase was in his early twenties back then and so proud of his new chest. He was ecstatic and I felt honoured that he shared that exciting part of his transition with me. I whooped and hollered in text-speak. I send him a flurry of emojis. Then, I called him to congratulate him.

Once we were done talking, and I put my phone down, question after question bubbled up inside of me.

I remember my stomach churning and my heart pounding. I couldn’t focus on my thesis. I needed some fresh air. I got up from my desk, pulled on my shoes, and walked out the door of my apartment.

Two blocks from my apartment, I picked my way through the barnacle-covered rocks scattered along the beach. The sun warmed my face as I breathed in the salty air. The mountains of West and North Vancouver stood like silent guardians off in the distance. An eagle circled above, keeping an eye on me. Eagles always seemed to show up when I needed them to.

It didn’t take me long to realize that the jolt of anger I felt when I saw Chase’s naked chest was disguised jealousy.

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath.

I wanted a chest like that. I craved the kind of bodily freedom my young trans friend now gets to experience. I yearned for a say in how I felt inside my body and how people read me on the outside.

The problem is, I didn’t identify as transgender. I stopped walking and sat down on a large boulder on the beach.

When I began to learn about feminism and encountered feminist women in my early twenties, I aligned with the label, “woman,” and for many years, I identified that way. Using the word “woman” rather than “lady” or “girl” gave me a sense of strength, a sense of pride. “Woman” felt powerful and allowed me to rise above the sexist, misogynistic language, stories, and jokes that engulfed me as a young person. “Woman” became a badge of resistance and a symbol of survival.

Then, over the years, I became exposed to other ways of understanding and defining gender. I began to think more expansively about all the discursive constraints and norms that society imposes on people’s bodies. I began to question my own gender identity and how I feel about my body. I encountered the term “cisgender.” But, like the term, “trans,” I didn’t use “cisgender” to describe myself either. It didn’t feel accurate, and I feltl irritated that there seemed to be a new expectation to use the word in certain circles if one didn’t identify as trans.

I remember thinking, But, if I don’t identify as cis or trans, then what labels do I use? What if I want top surgery? Where do I fit?

At the time, I didn’t know anyone else like me—in my mid-forties, who identified—reluctantly—as a woman but didn’t want breasts. All the people I knew who were having top surgery identified as trans men. Like Chase, they were young, decades younger than I am. They took testosterone, used he/him or they/them pronouns, and changed their names to reflect their masculinity.

I was doing none of those things. Sure, I was gender non-conforming, but, back then, I still used she/her pronouns. I bore the name my parents gifted me at birth, the name of my great maternal grandmother: Katharine (Kate, as everyone knew me). Aside from my breasts, I felt mostly fine with the rest of my anatomically female body.

I arrived back at my apartment building and rode the elevator back up to the eighth floor. Sitting back down at my desk, I returned to my master’s thesis.

A couple of weeks later, I rode my bike over to East Vancouver to see my doctor for my annual physical check-up. At the end of the appointment, I decided to take a chance. I told her I had a question.

“Go ahead,” she smiled, expenctantly.

I swallowed. My palms felt clammy.

“I am starting to realize that I don’t like having breasts,” I murmured, looking at my hands in my lap. “I’m wondering about top surgery.”

My doctor stiffened. The air in the room changed.

“I don’t know anything about that, sorry,” she replied.

“It’s okay,” I said quickly, jumping off the examination table. As red flush crept up my neck, I thank her and left, scurrying out of her office, down the steps, and onto Commercial Drive towards my locked-up bike.

Maybe it’s just not possible. Maybe I’m just being absurd, I thought as I cycled home.

******************

A few years later during the spring of 2018, I am walking down the hallway at the University of Toronto with a classmate of mine during a graduate student conference.

Rae and I are doctoral students, both interested in research about gender and sexuality. As we walk, we talk about bodies and identity and gender, when suddenly, I blurt out, “I don’t identify as trans, but I wish I could have top surgery.”

Rae stops me, puts their hand on my shoulder, and looks me in the eyes.

“You can have top surgery. It’s your body,” they declare. “The gender train makes all the stops into the station.”

Rae didn’t ask intrusive questions or suggest that I should learn how to be comfortable with the body I was born into. They explain that, in Ontario, people no longer have to identify as transgender or be working towards a medical or legal gender transition to qualify for healthcare coverage for gender-affirming surgeries. They tell me that gender non-conforming, non-binary, and genderqueer people can access this surgery and that top surgery is covered by our provincially funded medical plan. They suggest that I talk with my doctor about it and see about getting a referral to a surgeon.

Rae’s message is, simply, “you can do this.”

A lightning bolt of joy shoots through me.

I feel like I have been given a gift. To change my body so that it lines up with how I feel inside—even though I am struggling to define a gender I still can’t name? Rae just opened a door for me and welcomed me into a new world, into a spacious dwelling of possibility.

Tears prickle in my eyes and spill down my cheeks. I can’t find words to speak. I excuse myself, slipping into a nearby washroom to compose myself.

The next day, I call the University of Toronto Health and Wellness Centre and make an appointment with my doctor.

At my appointment, I talk with my doctor about what I’ve been going through. That I have been struggling with my body for a long time. That I cannot live with my breasts any longer.

“Okay! Tell me more.” she responds.

I explain how I’ve been feeling about my body for several years. How my understanding of my gender has been shifting. How my feelings towards my body have also been shifting. I announce that I would like to get top surgery, and I ask for her help.

Asking me a few more questions, she is kind and supportive when I respond. She tells me what steps we need to take so that I can get top surgery. The process is straightforward. The conversation with her is easy. We do some paperwork.

This time, I have the words. This time, my doctor listens.

Thanking her, I leave her office and go outside. Awash in gratitude and disbelief, I sit down on the curb of St. George Street, sobbing.

****************

In the months, weeks, and days leading up to my surgery date, questions and fears plague me, punctuating my mind with increasingly rapid fire:

What if after my breasts are gone, I decide I want to take testosterone and identify as a man?

What if my cis-women friends think of this as an act of betrayal of all things feminine?

What if my partner thinks my scarred, flat chest is ugly and I have to keep my shirt on when we are being intimate?

What if, one day, while I’m walking down Bloor Street in Toronto, my body suddenly splits open at the incision site and my insides spill out all over the sidewalk in front of people?

What if I accidentally die on the operating table?

A few months later, on November 8, 2018, at the age of 47, I undergo top surgery.

After surgery, all my questions and fears evaporate. Top surgery makes me feel at home in my skin. It gives me the sense of being at ease in my clothes. My body finally feels like it belongs to me and is made up of the parts I want. I relish being in-between.

I begin using the label “genderqueer” to describe myself. Some people use the label, “non-binary” to describe their gender, but that word doesn’t fit for me. I have worked so hard in my life to become someone, I don’t want to be “non” anything. To me, genderqueer is not connected to the binary in any way. To me, “genderqueer” feels expansive, disruptive, and open to possibility. Genderqueer feels queer.

Four years later, I change my name to Kael. I begin using they/them pronouns.

Several years after having top surgery, I am still astonished every time I look in the mirror. I am grateful that I listened to the wisdom—others’ and my own—that led me to this decision. I am thankful for the people in my life who cheered me on and supported me through the process of top surgery, and for those who congratulated me after it was done.

Sometimes, when I’m in public, I put my hand to my chest and marvel at its flat, streamlined shape.

Finally, I am grounded and thriving somewhere in between.

* This chapter is dedicated to Dr. Sue Harrison and Dr. Melinda Musgrave.