I couldn't see over the edge, but the skyline peeked over the houses beside me. With all I could see, I wondered who could see me, and as if on cue, a lady stood up from behind a car where she'd been presumably collecting something from the ground. I saw her gaze in my direction as I passed, unsure of how to read her face in the brief moment I saw it before I was past her.
Today is Transgender Day of Visibility. In some sense, though, I live as though every day is. Through whatever combination of privilege, luck and effort, I am able to live my life in the open, without requiring effort to conceal who I am. If my style conveys my female-ness, the body I have surely telegraphs its origins. The diagnosis in my file with the therapist is gender dysphoria, and I certainly feel dysphoric about my body all too often. That's my burden to bear, but I feel I have nothing to gain by hiding myself, and so I don't.
I won't lie: being myself is a blessing, and exercising that is entirely a selfish thing. But if you think I am the first transgender person you know, the odds are pretty good you're wrong. I just happen to be the first to show you.
