Cheyenne’s Mountain

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I looked at myself in the mirror for the thousandth time. I could see every flaw, like they were highlighted with neon paint. The slightest bulge of an Adam’s apple. The jaw that was just a bit too strong, the shoulders that were a little too broad, the nose that was wider than it should be. The hands, that always looked so big to me. The waist that wouldn’t waste enough to give me a decent shape.

Won’t they all see what I see, when I look in the mirror?

I’d done a good job on my makeup and hair. I had, I told myself firmly. The three-quarter length sleeves of my dress left only my forearms showing, and they weren’t bad. My legs looked good. They DO, dammit!

But however much I talked to myself, tried to buck myself up, part of me wanted to crawl under my bed and just hide. Get food from DoorDash, and just stay in my new apartment. Stay forever.

Won’t they just see what Annie saw?

The thought of my ex-wife always brought tears to my eyes, even after two years, but I fought them. I’d spent too long getting the mascara and eye shadow right. No-one in this whole state knows who you are, I told myself. No-one cares.

“Come on, ‘Cheyenne,’” I finally said out loud. “Get over yourself!” Summoning all the willpower I had, I picked up my purse and headed for the door. But still I paused, my hand caught on the knob, feeling the coldness of the metal penetrate my consciousness. Just opening the door was a struggle.

Mercifully, no-one was in the hallway. I walked to the elevator and pushed the button, praying that no one showed up. Ready to flee into the stairwell if they did, and take the four flights down. It was no big deal; I wasn’t wearing serious heels or anything. Just modest, comfortable pumps with no more than a two-inch rise, and a solid platform at that. But I was so nervous I didn’t feel altogether steady.

The elevator door opened and to my dismay a man got out – a neighbor, I had to assume. But he didn’t give me more than a glance, muttering “’scuse me,” as he scooted around and down the hall.

My heart was still racing, like it was trying to make up for skipping a beat or three. But I managed to step into the elevator and push “L.” It was an old elevator, which wasn’t too surprising. An old elevator for an old building. Tired. Slow. But the rent was cheap, and my new job – call center work – wasn’t going to pay for anything better.

Eventually, the car came to a stuttering stop and the doors opened, grudgingly. I walked through the lobby, my low heels sounding loud on the linoleum floor that needed a good scrubbing. Past the mail boxes stuffed with junk mail that no one reads. Out the door.

It was a warm evening at the end of August so I hadn’t needed a sweater or jacket. Still, I found myself wishing it were cooler, so I could cover myself up more. Maybe hide a bit better. Stop it!!!

I had memorized the route. Not far to walk into town. All well-lit, so it would be alright, even if I stayed out after dark. And all the streets were busy enough. Plenty of cars. I would be safe. I told myself that a hundred times.

I had, after all, done a lot of research before picking this place. Where could I go, as a transwoman, and be safe? If – when – I got clocked, how likely was it that I would get hurt? I’d picked a college town, though I was long past college age, just because it was more likely that people would be more accepting. More open. But the state itself was marginal. I couldn’t afford to live on the coasts.

I wanted to be thrilled, walking to the center of town in a dress. I’d always dreamed of this, hadn’t I? From the time I was very small, holding my mom’s hand as we walked through the wonders of Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, my small and awe-struck eyes taking in all of the beautiful women. But all I felt was terror in the pit of my stomach. Worry that everyone would look at me. They would see me. See what I saw, when I looked in the mirror. What Annie had seen, that horrible day two years ago.

Just a guy in a dress.

I forced myself to keep walking. This is why you moved away, I told myself. Cut all ties, every one, so that I could start over somewhere new. Truth is, I should have done it right away. I’d tried to stick it out, after Annie and I split, so I could be there for the girls. But they were ashamed of me, and my attempts to stay connected had just been painful. Work had proven to be unbearable. All of their pious nonsense about nondiscrimination had been a lot of horse manure. In the end, they’d been delighted to pay me two month’s severance to see the last of me.

But I’d never been good at meeting people, much less making friends, and it hadn’t gotten any easier as the years went by. I couldn’t imagine how I would manage it now, all alone in a town I didn’t know, trying to live as a woman full-time for the first time ever, at age 38.

I told myself that I’d just keep doing what I was doing that very moment: Putting one foot in front of the other. I no longer had friends or family, but at least I could live my life as the woman I’d always known myself to be. To turn the old lyric on its head, another word for “nothing left to lose” is “freedom.” I had that.

For whatever it was worth.

My building was on a busy street – two lanes each way – and cars whizzed by, drivers eager to be somewhere else in a hurry. I wasn’t in any kind of hurry myself. I didn’t need to be back in front of my computer terminal for another twelve hours, and until then, there was nothing I needed to be doing.

The rapidly passing cars stirred leaves and empty plastic water bottles, left carelessly in the road. This part of the city always seemed to smell a bit moldy; I wasn’t sure why. But it was pleasant enough, I suppose. Mostly because it was inexpensive and probably safe.

Probably.

I took a left on a slightly less busy street. Only two lanes here. Trees coming up through grates in the sidewalk. I counted the intervals by pacing them out as I walked. Thirty-six steps between each tree. I thought they looked like Bradford Pears, but I wasn’t sure. I would know for sure in the Spring, I suppose.

There were plenty of street lights. They weren’t on yet, but it would matter later. Here, the streets seemed to hold small shops, mostly. A shoe store. Hardware. A delivery operation. A barber shop. There were people on the street, walking.

I avoided making eye contact with anyone. Somehow, I felt like I’d give myself away, if I was caught looking at someone, when they were looking at me. When they were seeing the man in the dress. One foot in front of the other.

No-one seemed to notice me. Or if they did, no-one said anything. That would do, as far as I was concerned. They were sure to notice, but so long as they didn’t say anything – so long as they didn’t appear to take any notice of me – I could pretend I was able to pass. That I was just another not-quite-young-enough-to-be-interesting woman on an errand of her own.

Another block, and my destination was on the right. An indie bookstore that I’d noticed when I drove the U-Haul into town with my few remaining belongings.

Lots of cars parked on the street. My eyes were drawn to a big pickup truck, up on ridiculously high tires, its back window plastered with stickers. One was for a local concealed carry group. Another said, “I identify as a Prius.” I shivered, fighting the urge to turn around and run. You’re safe, I told myself. Safe!

Somehow, I managed to keep moving. But as I approached the bookstore my panic only increased. It was so brightly lit . . . so full of people! I could imagine them all turning around as I entered, stopping what they were doing, to gawk and point at the freaky guy in the dress.

I’d done some rock-climbing when I was in my twenties. The one athletic thing I’d been genuinely good at. Not good enough to try El Capitan, but pretty damned good. My personal best, at 25, was the Sirocco Pitch at The Needles. Stunning, and almost surely the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life, bar none.

Up ’til now.

But I would be more likely to draw attention standing outside the bookstore, looking like a frightened rabbit, so I took the plunge. I’d like to say that I marched up to the door and flung it open, but the reality is that I almost scurried. And fortunately it was an automatic door, so all I had to do was slip inside.

No-one paid me the slightest attention. Everyone was doing their own thing. Checking out books to buy, wandering the tall stacks, or sitting in the small area where they served espresso drinks. The checkout clerk seemed to be doing a brisk business.

The lack of attention drew me in. I have always loved book stores – especially independent shops like this one, that might have a dozen copies of the strangest things and absolutely no copies of whatever was currently passing for a best-seller. I walked down the central aisle, looking at the hand-written labels taped to the stuffed shelves. Psychology . . . Self-Help . . . Spirituality . . . Religion . . . Philosophy . . . Politics . . . History.

History drew me in, as it always did. My undergraduate degree was in history, and I’d always loved it. Not that I’d been able to use my degree to get a job in a related field, of course. America has even less use for historians than it has for history itself. But I still read history books, just for the sheer pleasure of it.

I must have browsed the shelves for forty-five minutes, spending a few minutes with a variety of interesting titles. The history shelves weren’t drawing a lot of attention – surprise, surprise – so it was a quiet and safe space. I got lost enough in my browsing that I even stopped worrying about someone discovering me. When I came to the realization that I had spent an hour in public en femme and no-one had bothered me, I was astonished and gratified.

I selected an interesting book on Vichy France, a subject with which I had some familiarity, though I hadn’t read anything about it in well over a decade. Since college, probably. Choosing a moment when no-one was in line, I brought it to the register and paid with a credit card.

The clerk at the register was a few years younger than me, though his premature balding made him look older. “‘Cheyenne?’ That’s a pretty name.” He gave me an impersonal smile and told me to have a nice evening.

Somehow, I think I managed to say “thank you,” and walked away in a bit of a daze. But I felt emboldened, and decided to go to the cafe and spend a few minutes reading my book with a cup of good coffee. If I could manage that, I would definitely count the expedition as a huge success.

I asked the barista for a vanilla latte, speaking deliberately softly. My voice has never been particularly masculine, but I need to concentrate when I want it to sound affirmatively feminine.

The barista was a pretty girl, probably a college student. Big, round glasses that made her look both studious and cute. She rang me up without much of a glance. Whatever I was – either a middle-aged woman or a guy in a dress – I had no interest to her. Which was completely okay with me.

“Vichy? I don’t know that I’ve ever run across anyone who would read that for fun. Are you a new graduate student?”

I looked up very slowly, afraid I was going to give myself away. The man who had spoken – to me, clearly; no-one else was carrying a book on Vichy France – was probably a couple years older than me. Light brown hair – almost blond – and a neatly trimmed beard. Bright, inquisitive eyes. I was afraid to meet them. Afraid he would suddenly see right through me.

“N-n-no,” I stuttered, before righting myself. “No. Just interested in it.”

He had a nice smile. “Really? That’s extraordinary. I don’t know anyone who’s really studied it, and I teach history. What about the period speaks to you?”

I managed to raise my eyes to meet his, if only to look for some sign of mockery. I couldn’t see any. Maybe you just don’t WANT to see it, my panicked mind gibbered. “I . . . it . . . ah. Well. There’s a lot of similarities to what’s happening today, in our own country.”

“Here’s your latte, Ma’am,” the barista said, interrupting me. I thanked her and reached to take it, trying to keep my hand from shaking.

The guy who said he taught history said, “Feel free to tell me to buzz off, but I’d like to hear the rest of that thought. Can I join you for a minute?”

Terror!

But . . . what could I say? “Of course. Are you getting something?”

“Yeah – just give me a second and I’ll join you.” He turned and ordered a black coffee, no sugar.

I sank down in a chair by a small table with only two seats, feeling like my legs wouldn’t support my weight. The book felt like a barbell. Even the coffee felt heavy. What am I DOING here?!!!

He came and took the other chair, blowing on his coffee. “So . . . Vichy?”

“Really?” I asked, incredulous. “You really want to hear my thoughts about Vichy France?”

He chuckled. “I don’t know anyone else who’s actually had thoughts about Vichy France – including me – so, yes. Very much. I get paid to teach history, but I’d spend all my time thinking about it even if they didn’t.”

“Okay . . . Well. It’s a complicated subject, but . . .” And, believe it or not, I launched into a discussion of the parallels between the American Right in the 2020s and the French Right in the 1930s, touching on subjects as unfamiliar to most Americans as Ultramontanism and the Dreyfus Affair. And this guy who seemed to know something about history was nodding and asking smart questions and generally taking my ramblings seriously. All without pointing a stern finger at me and shouting “J’Accuse!” at the sight of the guy in a dress.

It was disconcerting, really. Like a dream.

In fact, it’s the sort of thing that actually happens to me in dreams. Seriously. In dreams, I find myself having animated discussions with people about the great Tulip Bubble of the early 17th Century, or the remarkable life of Eleanor of Aquitaine and Poitou. Like it’s perfectly normal. And realizing, in the middle of the dream discussion, that I forgot to wear any pants.

So, yeah, I was kind of pinching myself, but near as I could tell from the pain shooting from my complaining flesh, I was absolutely still awake. And the conversation really was fascinating, even if I wasn’t wearing any pants.

We probably talked for twenty minutes, though I wasn’t exactly checking the clock. But he finally drained the last of his coffee, grimaced, and said, “I’m going to have to stop having fun, and get back to grading papers. I’ve really enjoyed talking to you.” He shook his head, smiling, and said, “And I’ve forgotten my manners, as usual. I’m Dave Stull.”

“Cheyenne Walker.” On a whim, I extended my hand.

He took it, and gave it more of a press than a shake. “A pleasure. I hope I see you here again.”

“Likewise,” I managed. He got up, but I didn’t follow. I figured I’d leave after a few minutes, just to be safe. The encounter had been incredibly pleasant, but the paranoid part of me feared that he was really the stupid monster truck guy. He might have seen through me right away, and was even now waiting outside with a lead pipe, like a demented Professor Plum.

Girl, I said to myself, you have GOT to get a grip!

When I’d calculated that enough time had passed, I finished my coffee, stopped pretending to read my book, and left. Outside of the coffee house, I went back the way I came, taking note that the lighting was just as bright as I’d thought it would be. I’m safe. Really. I’m safe.

Just before I turned off the street where the bookstore was located, I saw Dave ahead, getting into his car.

It was a Prius.

I laughed quietly as I retraced my steps, leaving the downtown and taking the main road, the safe road, the road with all the lights and the busy traffic. As I neared my tired little apartment complex, I began to truly relax for the first time all night. Maybe for the first time in two years. I felt like I’d just completed a difficult ascent. A near impossible pitch.

A slight gust of wind made my skirt flutter against my bare legs, a sweet and subtle caress. I was suddenly aware of the musical sound of my low heels on the pavement, of the delicate scent of the perfume I had placed with great care on my wrists, and at the base of my throat.

Maybe, just maybe, I could do this.

The end.

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

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Comments

Life is Complicated

BarbieLee's picture

For GG they began life as female. It is easy because they are learning and accepted as such. For too many transwomen who took the first step in being open about being a female they aren't babies learning while still innocent about life. Sadly, too many have read and heard the horror stories of those who dared to cross the gender boundaries. Usually embellished with lots of gory detail which may not have really happened.
Hugs Emma, you're a great writer. This one was dry as if you pushed it to prove a point. Transgender is a political debate only if one makes it such or one perceives it that way. Otherwise transgender is a story of class discrimination, successes, and the individual to be themselves
Barb
For some the hardest part of life is accepting themselves rather than letting others tell them who they should be, applies to more than trans.

Oklahoma born and raised cowgirl

Complicated. Ayup.

Emma Anne Tate's picture

Sometimes life is more complicated than it needs to be; other times, the complications can’t be avoided. Thanks for commenting, Barb!

Emma

You have a way of getting inside people's heads

Patricia Marie Allen's picture

You've done a marvelous job of capturing the internal struggles of going out for the first time.

I was stupid enough as a teenager to venture out in a dress, first at night then in broad daylight. The stupid part was I had short hair and had to wear a scarf. Really what teenage girl wears a scarf over her head tied under her chin? But that's not the stupidest part. My one and only dress was a refugee from the Goodwill bag of a neighbor that was in her fifties. If you've ever seen Carol Burnett's charwoman character, you'll have an idea just how stylish I looked. Oh and no makeup.

Later in life, I experienced some of Cheyenne's angst. I needed to go out and be me. Though I looked a lot better than that teenage idiot that threw caution to the wind and brazened it out, I didn't feel like I did. I confined myself to going out in the evening. Driving to upscale neighborhoods, (we all know the bad guys and bigots never hang out in upscale neighborhoods) parking the car and walking around a couple of blocks.

It wasn't until I read the account in the newspaper of a cross-dresser who went to a local mall and apparently determined that it was time to confront his fears about being clocked. Having steeled himself for a confrontation, our hapless cross-dresser parked his car in the underground parking of a local mall and walked the entire length of the mall and back without anyone taking notice. Disappointed, went back to the car and stripped down to heels and hat, carrying an oversize purse in front at the waist, there was another trip toward the other end of the mall. Needless to say, our hero(ine) got noticed, arrested and charged with indecent exposure.

I decided that if you had to get naked to have anyone notice that I might just as well put on a nice dress and go for a walk in the mall. To my surprise no one even looked twice. That was the beginning of my out and about.

Hugs
Patricia

Happiness is being all dressed up and HAVING some place to go.
Semper in femineo gerunt
Ich bin eine Mann

Carol Burnett

Emma Anne Tate's picture

Oh, you got me there! I can just picture it! Lord — it’s amazing you survived your crazy youth, Patricia. :)

I know that I’ve seen transwomen in public and clocked them, but I didn’t say anything, and hopefully they were as fine with that response as Cheyenne. I mean, not everyone is blind or unobservant, but a lot of people just mind their own business. Which . . . could be a lot worse.

Thanks, as always, for your thoughtful comment.

Emma

Indeed not everyone is blind or unobservant

Patricia Marie Allen's picture

I had an experience that proved that. It was a good lesson; no matter how good you pass, someone is likely to be observant enough to see through the facade.

I had been visiting that same mall pretty regularly and was certain that everyone was or that they were too wrapped up in their own business to really look. I had reached the point that I would go into stores and browse. I spotted something in J C Penney's that I wanted. I spent a good amount of time looking at it trying to make up my mind to just take it up to the register and buy it. But I couldn't make myself do it, so I left, metaphorically kicking myself for being a big chicken.

About halfway back to my car, I decide that I'd go back and do it. If they raised a fuss, I'd just put it down and walk out. As I neared the store I saw a woman who had been nearby when I'd been vacillating earlier. Still being in that zone where I checked out what everyone else was doing, I looked at her too long. She looked up, made eye contact and smiled. Not a friendly smile that might have been a "good morning" between strangers, but an amused smile; like she knew a secret. I'm sure she did; she knew I was a man in a dress. We passed each other with nothing else happening. I knew she knew and she knew that I knew she knew. (Gotta do it: No gnus is good news. PM me if you've not heard the joke and want to.)

BTW, I bought the item and the cashier acted as if I was just another customer.

Being accepted is far better than passing.

Hugs
Patricia

Happiness is being all dressed up and HAVING some place to go.
Semper in femineo gerunt
Ich bin eine Mann

Thanks, Dot

Emma Anne Tate's picture

Hugs!

Emma

Love it!

Kit's picture

Great bit of writing here. Really appreciated the inner monologue, the doubt, the frustration and poor self image that's so common... when we don't see what others do.

Really enjoyed it :)

I like Turtles.

I can't get out of my own head . . .

Emma Anne Tate's picture

So, occasionally, I need to show characters who engage with the world the way that I do! I'm very glad you enjoyed it, Kit.

I like turtles, too. Among their many fine qualities: they don't care what I'm wearing. Like, at all! :)

Emma

ELOHHHHH

Andrea Lena's picture

I saw this reply and all I could think of was,

Oh I can't get me outta my head!

I'm not going to claim any titles, but I might just be royalty when it comes to self-doubt; as you like have discovered. Thank you!

  

To be alive is to be vulnerable. Madeleine L'Engle
Love, Andrea Lena

I've Climbed That Mountain Too

joannebarbarella's picture

Except that I was 15 when I first dared to set foot outside. I still remember the terror I felt, but the determination to push the envelope, to prove to myself that I could do it.

Luckily I didn't have any confrontations or conversations to deal with. If I had I would have fled. Those encounters came later and under reasonably fortunate circumstances.

But, Emma, you capture the total trepidation of those early expeditions.

And the next ten peaks, too!

Emma Anne Tate's picture

I'm guessing, Joanne, that was just the first of many mountains you've climbed. And you're stronger after every single one!

Thanks, woman. Glad the story connected for you. :)

Emma

Very relevant to me now

I'm 68 and most of my life thought of myself as trans-adjacent or at minimum an ally. Just a few weeks ago my egg cracked after reading the Gender Dysphoria Bible which somehow managed to explain my life and put the pieces together.

Fast forward to today and I have outed myself to an online community, joined a support group in Dublin and got myself a therapist. I'm not sure how out I will eventually be (I have a close neighbour who is an out and out conspiracy nut - transphobe/anti-vax/anti-immigrant/homophobe - and is ex-army). Safety first but I'm on my way.

homophobe and ex-military?

Marie Caresse's picture

I have no military background but i have met a number of crossdressers often verging into mtf tg, who are ex-military. Often some of the most macho regiments too.
Admirers, at least those who come on to me, are quite often rugby players, well ex i guess in the age group i relate to. I do like it when they tackle me with their tackle...
To return to our muttons: I get such a buzz from Emma's writings. Honestly, the naughtiness of starting the possibility of an affair around a shared interest in the politics of Vichy France and the sly connection by the author to contemporary USA.

So glad you enjoyed it!

Emma Anne Tate's picture

An affair to remember, all sparked by reflections on the late and so-very-unlamented Marshal Petain! Maybe. But for this story, at least, just a pleasant encounter between two people, where the transwoman managed to keep her freak out inside her own cranium, while sustaining a conversation on a wholly unrelated matter. Cheyenne will 100 percent take that for the win!

Emma

Monster truck guy

Emma Anne Tate's picture

The monster truck guy in the story was real. Saw a big truck with exactly those two back window stickers just the other day. And the guy I saw getting into the truck was wearing the neon vest of a school crossing guard. Imagine being a trans kid having to pass by him every day on your way to school.

But put that aside for a moment -- what an amazing story, Bytebak! I'm not that much younger than you are, but it's tough for new insights to completely rock my world the way the GDB seems to have done for you. I hope that your journey is positive; I have no doubt it will be eventful. Good luck!!!

Emma

Ah the terror

of that first trip out to the post box at midnight, and the first daylight visit to a shop, and the first visit to a pub or restaurant, and and and...

It takes a long time and a lot of trips to really learn that the vast majority of people either don't pay attention or don't care.

I'd say happy days, but I'm just glad I survived them and got this far!

I'm glad you survived, too, Alison :)

Emma Anne Tate's picture

You should get a T-Shirt made up with an image of Talleyrand on it that says, "I survived the terror."

I know, I know.

I'm such a geek!

Emma

Vichy D'Arte

Marie Caresse's picture

A couple of works i remember finding riveting. First, Suite Francaise, written in hiding by Irene Nemirovsky, later captured by the French police, handed over to and killed by the Nazis. Second, Lucien Lacombe, a film by Louis Malle looking back at the war. Lucien, not the brightest of boys, is rejected by the Resistance and then joins the Vichy enforcers. It is 1944, not a good moment to choose that side.
The magical film Les Enfants du Paradis, was made under German occupation. Later, its female star, Arletty, was tagged as a collaborator, had her head shaved and was imprisoned, because of a secret affair she had with a German airforce officer.

Vichy D'Amour?

Emma Anne Tate's picture

I don't know, Vichy d'Arte, Vichy d'Amour sounds like a good working title for a movie based on Arletty's life, don't you think? Surey Puccini wouldn't mind. Being dead and all . . . .

I'm psyched. There is someone else who has thoughts about Vichy France! Well . . . the French do, I assume, and with your name . . . . eh bien! Perhaps I should stop talking now!

Emma

Amazing.

Sunflowerchan's picture

This is the fourth time I've read through this story, each time I read it, I walk away inspired. I think you managed to capture that magical feeling we all get when we first go out and show the world who we are inside. This was another wonderful story, another feather to your bonnet if you will. I think each one of us has been there were the main character was. And the experince of being accepted as who we are inside by others around us, and being welcomed into womanhood.

I've said it once before and I will say it again. Each one of your stories is a roller coaster and you send us on that roller coaster ride smiling. And sometimes I even think laughing with glee. So, thank you, thank you for sharing such a wonderful coming out of the egg story with us, and thank you most of all for being who you are, a very special person and writer.

As alway, my friend,

Emma Anne Tate's picture

You are far too kind. But thank you; I’m glad the story worked for you! I think Cheyenne got that magical feeling — but only at the very end. Only after the terror had receded enough for her to appreciate it. Patricia McKillip’s Riddlemaster would ask for the stricture, but in this case it’s clear: Be not afraid.

Emma

Uncanny

Dee Sylvan's picture

Emma, you probably have a lot of people saying this to you, especially since your characters are so relatable.. but it is seems to me that you have written these last two stories to/for me. Going out dressed and being scared that people will 'clock' you and start whispering about the man in the dress can be paralyzing but for me, like Cheyenne, it was much ado about nothing. You really get to the heart of the matter with your characters, Emma. I find myself talking to them, rooting them on, and almost wincing when they put themselves on the line. Thank you for sharing them with us/me. :DD

DeeDee

A piece of wisdom Jill Rasch gave me

Emma Anne Tate's picture

DeeDee, I write all my stories for you. Jill Rasch taught me that “writing involves having a known reader.” And you, my dear, have been mine for a long time. In part, I expect, it’s because I’m pretty confident that you actually will read my stories, but I think in part it’s because we share a certain perspective or sensibility. And finally, I admire you tremendously and wouldn’t want to write anything that you would find disappointing.

Of course, sometimes I miss. ;-)

Love ya!

Emma

Another Great Story

gillian1968's picture

I love how you get into the character’s thoughts and feelings. And it seems so believable.

I think that first time out for real is always nerve-racking. I picked Balboa Park in San Diego for myself. Different city, different state. But I had worked up to it with some short outings to shop for groceries and miscellaneous stuff. But it went well and I felt much more confident the next time.

Now I’m a year into transition and it feels more routine. But I still need to be cautious especially out of state. I’m lucky to live in a relatively safe state like New Mexico.

Gillian Cairns

I’ve heard this from so many!

Emma Anne Tate's picture

So many transwomen have written that they were really frightened, but when they took the leap it was no biggie. Which is not to say that women shouldn’t be careful. And transwomen need to be even more careful than GG’s.

Thanks for commenting, Gillian. I’m glad your transition seems to be going well. Lots of hugs!

Emma

Wish...

RachelMnM's picture

I could take such a simple scene, idea, feelings, and craft them into something like this. Brilliantly done Emma! I know I include a bunch of angst in my dribble, but only because it's REAL and you really made this character pop and feel real to me. Thank you for sharing!

XOXOXO

Rachel M. Moore...

One scene is easy . . .

Emma Anne Tate's picture

What you have done in your stories is show transwomen trying to navigate non-trivial things, like work and rescue operations, while simultaneously dealing with all of the angst Cheyenne is working through in this short solo. That’s a whole lot harder, because you have to show the internal side-show shitstorm without losing the external plot. Most stories, mine very much included, gloss over that part. But it’s absolutely real.

Hugs, woman!

Emma

That first step

Wendy Jean's picture

Every trans woman goes through can be a real challenge.

Absolutely

Emma Anne Tate's picture

I don’t do cover art for many of my short stories, but I almost always have a picture in my head. The cover art that I pictured for this story wasn’t anything to do with the action that occurs in it. Rather, I thought of seeing a woman dressed for climbing, at the base of a steep pitch, eying the possible foot-holds she might be able to use. Something that conveys the difficulty of the challenge. Mentally and emotionally, it’s just a lot.

P.S. (on 6/25/24) After a nine-month gestation period, ta da! I finally got around to doing the cover!

Emma

Presenting female in little steps

The closest thing I came to this sort of scary outing "dressed" actually came years before I even thought of myself as trans.

I had started going to Contra Dances again, after a long absence, and had noticed that some of the men wore skirts. There was no intention of presenting female; if anything, the opposite. They wore the usual T-shirt (with spares for when you sweat through one), but with a long, twirly skirt. So I tried it and found that nobody made a fuss. I ended up going many years as a "man in a skirt." The Contra Dance community is pretty progressive, or at least pretty accepting of "alternate lifestyles."

However I felt like I had to try going out with a skirt on someplace other than a contra dance. So I decided to walk to the local post office in a skirt. I get my mail in a post office box, and our post office doesn't lock the door to the boxes, so you can pick up your mail at any time of the day or night. Of course, I was convinced that someone would kill me, but I persuaded myself that that was unlikely and anyway, if you let fear rule your life, is that really much better than being dead? (Plus, I could get run over by a bus tomorrow. Carpe diem and all.) I made "if they kill me, they kill me" as my mantra. Being cautious/cowardly as I am, I first did this at 5:00 a.m., when it was dark and nobody was on the streets, and lived to tell the tale. Well, one day during one of those forays I ran into one of the post office workers, who noticed the skirt but didn't seem at all bothered by it.

I went on to walk some mornings to the local supermarket right as it opened. I even got to know some of the cashiers, and again, nobody seemed to care. One time, I heard people laughing, but it didn't look like it was at me, and even if they did, I decided I'd say, "I'm glad I brightened up someone's day."

I gradually wore skirts more and more, and felt more and more comfortable doing it, until the only place I didn't wear them was at work. (I was still presenting male then, including beard.) In the process, I was figuring out what looked good (to me) and what didn't. So when I finally read that blog article that convinced me that I might be trans, even though I'd never felt like "a girl trapped in a man's body," I already had had some experience going out in public in "women's clothes." I'd already blurred the line between presenting male and presenting female, so shifting to presenting as a woman wasn't such a big change.

I’d definitely say you came close enough

Emma Anne Tate's picture

Especially since you spent the whole trip telling yourself “if they kill me, they kill me!” That said, it does sound like you actually found a way into the pool without diving straight into the deep end. :)

Emma

Skirts, well..

Podracer's picture

I had to look up contra dancing, perhaps the name is derived straight from "country"? Whatever, the search images do show a certain amount of swirly skirting. Anyway, what I really must say is that I enjoyed the story, and walked nervously along with Cheyenne down those streets, glancing backward occasionally over the shoulder checking the movement of people, trying to look calm and ordinary. Thanks Emma.

Teri Ann
"Reach for the sun."

Thank you, Podracer.

Emma Anne Tate's picture

I’m delighted that the story felt real to you. I had to look up conta dancing, too. I was relieved to find out that it didn’t involve dancing with Daniel Ortega . . . .

Emma

Another Horizon

Lucy Perkins's picture

I remember a song from a decade back, with the lyrics
. Get high up on the mountain
Feel your lungs start burning as you rise
Sometimes when you get to this height
You will see another hill to climb
But sometimes all you can see
When you look down the other side
It's the road you didn't take

At the time that analogy reminded me of my first time "out" , and once again Emma, your wonderful writing has taken me back to that time and place. In an independent book shop, as it happens.
Wonderful wonderful writing. I do hope that Cheyenne made it.
Lucy xx

"Lately it occurs to me..
what a long strange trip its been."

Sorry I was I could not take both . . .

Emma Anne Tate's picture

. . . and remain one traveler! Thanks, Lucy. I hope your trip to the independent book store was as uneventful as Cheyenne's, and that you returned home and counted it as a success.

Lots of hugs,

Emma

Don't know much...

Erisian's picture

Don't know much about history
Don't know much biology
Don't know much about science book
Don't know much about the French I took

But I do know that I love this tale
And I know that if you love it too
What a wonderful world this would be...

Thanks Emma! :)

Playlist

Emma Anne Tate's picture

That song needs to be on my road-trip playlist. I don’t know why it isn’t; I’ve always loved it. Even if, truth to tell, I do know a bit about history. . . .

Thanks, Erisian — glad you enjoyed it!

Emma