Minimum Standards

I was talking to Hugbot recently about the girls who would sometimes come to practice karate at my dojo. Sometimes they stayed for months, but inevitably they all left without explanation, probably tiring of being the only girl in the class. I was thinking of three in particular, who I’d like to talk about here.

Girl #1 was a bit strange and didn’t seem to understand social norms. She usually came late with a coffee in her hand, didn’t seem to learn any of the rituals of etiquette, never remembered anyone’s names (including mine, though I’d known her for years), and she stared really hard at people which I think was her attempt to figure out the right facial expressions for various situations… She drifted through the classes for a few months, never really seeming to learn anything, waving her arms and legs around lightly, copying the approximate form of the people around her but never putting much force or precision into any of the techniques. She just smiled kinda vacantly, apparently happy to be there.

But she did say that she wanted to get better, that she wanted to pass gradings, and I worried that she didn’t understand that she would need to be tougher and stronger to continue the journey. I decided I would stop treating her like a delicate child and I would treat her like I would the other white belts. So when we were partnered for the warm-up kicks and she held the shield for me, I kicked it with 80% of my strength (instead of the usual 40-50% I used with her). Before the second count could even be called, she dropped the shield on the ground, said “I’m not doing this tonight”, and walked out without another word. I just stared after her horrified, feeling intensely guilty. Sensei K just picked the shield up and slid into line with me and we continued the drill while I explained what happened. He chastised me for going too hard on a beginner, but I think my reasoning was justified, I just didn’t do a good job of getting her consent before I started kicking harder. When I saw her next I apologised, and she later explained that she either was PMS’ing or had some kind of health issue with her reproductive organs (she was really ambiguous when she explained it). Either way I’m really proud of her boundary setting and knowing when she’d had enough, and she stopped attending classes a little while later.

Girl #2 was a warrior. She’d been in the Middle East, training in the military fighting art of Krav Maga (which is fundamentally different from civilian self-defence arts because the goal isn’t “Escape without getting hurt”, it’s “Put the enemy down so they can’t fight back”). I was assigned to teach her the three fundamental blocks of karate, same thing we teach every new beginner. As we were practicing a basic partner drill, she had a spike of irritation in her voice as she told me I was using too much strength to deflect her punches, and that real martial arts don’t require strength. I tried to explain to her that my strength came from my structure – that yes I needed a little strength to maintain my form, but mostly it was through optimal angles of interception. She scoffed and told me that if I weren’t stronger than her she could beat me. She never returned for a second class.

Girl #3 was the sweetest little bean that ever crossed the threshold of our dojo. She was a teenager and wanted to learn how to protect herself, and trained with us for a few months learning the basics of self-defence. And then one night none of the other seniors were available, so I took the class. There was a gashuku (training camp) coming up, so I thought I’d give everyone a chance to practice some running and sprinting. We jogged down to a local park and I instructed everyone to partner up for some piggyback runs up a steep hill, drills that my seniors had taught me when I had first joined. Girl #3 was horrified. She looked at me with fear in her eyes and told me she couldn’t do it. I said that was fine, she didn’t need to carry anyone, she could just climb on their backs to help others with their training. She shook her head desperately, the words trapped in her throat.
“Come on,” I told her, “I’ll go with you.”
She tried desperately to resist me one more time, but something inside of her gave way and she climbed reluctantly up onto my back. I sprinted up and down the hill a few times with her, could practically feel her trying not to cry, and I never saw her again after that night. I still feel so, so terrible for overruling her autonomy with my authority, putting her into a position where the fear of disobeying me outweighed the fear of climbing up onto my back. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for that.

In all three cases, my reasoning was the same: our school required a minimum level of toughness and strength, and none of the girls had it. I tried to introduce them to it slowly, but eventually I reached a point with each of them where I needed them to push harder if they wanted to continue, and they all chose to withdraw rather than persist. And ultimately, I think my teachers would have thought “Well, it’s good they left when they did, our kind of training probably wasn’t suited for them anyway.” Not unkindly, but I think that’s what it would have come down to. To be clear, we make lots of accommodations for beginners and give them lots of chances to become stronger and fitter over time. But our minimum standards for each rank are pretty high (and increase proportionately), and so students are pushed at every step of their journey if they want to continue training with us.

And I remember a few years ago, tearfully telling my psychologist that I just wasn’t sure if I wanted to continue. I didn’t want to push myself that hard (or more correctly, to be pushed that hard).
I remember gathering all my courage and talking to Sensei K one night about this “self-compassion” thing I was trying, how I wasn’t going to push myself to the point of illness any more, I was just going to go 80% and see how that felt, and if he could support me in that I’d appreciate it. He flat out shut it down, and responded by giving me a lecture about always doing our best, trying our hardest. There was no room for softness in his world.

So I left. It took me many years, but I did. I just wasn’t willing to be that hard any more. My body is soft and squishy now instead of all sharp angles and rippling muscles. I still have the callouses on my knuckles from all those pushups and punches I did, faded reminders of another life, but for the most part I have undone most of the toughness they made me grow in order to survive that hostile place.

These past few years I have come to cherish softness very much. I am glad I learned to fight. I am grateful to know how tough I can be when people twice my size are knocking me down and Sensei is yelling at me to get back up. But I hope never to need that strength again.

Not A Good Man

My father has some pretty wild ideas about what it means to be a man. I realised pretty quickly that most of his beliefs are rooted in his own personal insecurities about needing to feel powerful or loved, with a generous dollop of misogyny. Suffice it to say that I grew up without a role model for how to be a good man.

So when I was twenty and I met Sensei K and Sensei S, I was awed by them. They were strong, and capable, and still so gentle, and so good. They were deep thinkers and had strong moral compasses, based on the Chinese philosophies of “wu wei” and the Tao Te Ching. If there was a problem, they took charge and fixed it, and always did so with the view of making the world a better place in accordance with their values. They were the best men I knew, and it took me several years to realise I looked up to them as fathers as well as teachers. They taught me that developing combat skills was worthless without also developing character. They taught me how to fight, yes, but more importantly they taught me how to live.

For the better part of a decade I was hungry for their approval. I threw myself into training, striving to be good enough to earn a rare compliment or to see the gleam of pride in their eyes as I exceeded their expectations. I read the same philosophical texts, and discussed them at length to show them that I too thought about how to be a good person in the world. I volunteered for every task, tried my best to be reliable, drove myself to live up to the legacy they were creating. To put it simply, I wanted to follow in their footsteps. To be a good man, like they were.

But frankly I sucked at it. I mean, I gave it my best shot, but I realised recently that I have never been a good man, and never will be. For most of my life, I took my best guess at what I thought a man was supposed to look like and act like based on what others had told me, or what I’d gleaned through observation. I played a role I did not understand or relate to, but I did my best because I didn’t think I had any other choice.

And I think maybe to others I played the role convincingly – I got washboard abs and rippling muscles, and used my strength softly and kindly. People often called me “a true gentleman”, and the only part of that sentence I liked was the “gentle” bit. But despite the privilege of passing as a man, there was a hollowness inside me that I didn’t have the language for. And I didn’t know I could be happier, so I never dreamed of more.

It is so, so good to have the knowledge now that for me the alternative to “good man” is not “bad man”, but “good woman”. I am so relieved to have abandoned a role that never fitted me, and to finally feel comfortable in my own skin. To wear clothes I love, and find euphoria in how I look, and just live my best life in all the ordinary ways. And although it’s been sad moving away from the martial arts that have meant so much to me, I think maybe I have outgrown my need for my teachers’ approval, and am feeling something like the freedom of walking my own path. I’ve taken a break from taiji while the panini rages, but if I go back when things calm down I hope it will be because I want to, not because I fear disappointing others.

Impossible Dreams

Since that day in August 2020 when I resolved never to be scared of wearing skirts in public again, I have almost entirely banished pants from my wardrobe. There are three exceptions to this: one is the sparkly-ass pair of jeans which made me cry from dysphoria the last time I wore them, so I’ve tucked them away never to be worn again. The second is a pair of desperation pajamas pants for when the weather gets too cold for the nighties I love so much. The third is a pair of black kung fu pants that I’ve been wearing to taiji, and this is the one that’s riled me the most because it’s been in public. But it was the uniform of our school, so I didn’t have a choice… Or did I? I’d already largely shirked our school t-shirt in favour of cute singlets, so would it be so bad to eschew the pants as well?

I started wearing leggings and shorts to training, but in truth my heart lurched with longing to wear a skirt instead. How I dreamed of seeing it twirl as I jumped and spun through the air with a sword in my hand, or dived under someone’s guard for an elegant takedown! And if someone caught a flash of my underwear? Well, it would be the last thing they saw, right before I kicked them in the head. But because it wasn’t especially practical, and more importantly it wasn’t socially unacceptable, I never dared, not even when I was alone. In my mind, it screamed “Celeste thinks that girls wear skirts 24/7, and she’s so committed to convincing everyone that she’s a girl she won’t even take it off to train.” So I locked that one away in my box of Impossible Dreams.

A few months ago, I was browsing in a boutique athletic store with Wren, just wondering how much people on the other side paid for their sportswear, when I broke off mid-sentence to gasp in delight. I made straight for the display of skirts – or skorts as they turned out to be – and my heart did that funny little tumble of wanting the impossible so much it ached. As I reverently ran my hands across the sweat-wicking fabric, the pleated back and the discreet pockets, I couldn’t resist. I tried them on, fell in love, and paid the exorbitant price for the designer brand.

Despite loving it with all my heart, I waited for ages before I put it on again. I had this idea that I wanted the first time to be special – that I would take it to my favourite waterfall, just like in the vignettes I wrote. I spent several months waiting for my friend to agree to a time to go hiking with me, until I eventually realised that I was I was no longer willing to wait for her and I went by myself. It was perfect. The pockets sewn into the shorts were surprisingly roomy, and comfortably held my phone, earbuds, and keys. The skirt was an extra layer of thick cloth as I perched on my favourite rock in the cold light of a breaking dawn. Although I had picked up some of the red dust of the earth as I panted down the trail, it brushed off lightly from the water-resistant material before I got back in the car.
Not to mention that I looked fucking great.

But was a skort appropriate apparel for martial arts? Not really. I mean, sure it was as functional as short-shorts, but the extra flare of cloth was really just for show, no added utility. In fact it obscured slightly, making it harder to see whether my hips were in the correct position.
And yet despite every opposition, I couldn’t resist wearing it when I taught my private student a little while ago. I was the teacher, who was going to stop me? He was delighted and surprised to see me in it, and I found it so strange that there was someone in the world who had never seen me in a skirt before. I rejoiced in the occasional glimpses I caught of my reflection, unbothered by the flashes of shorts beneath the skirt because I was too busy kicking his ass around the dojo for three hours.

And then, one forty-degree day, I decided to wear it to taiji. I was fully prepared for resistance, but to my surprise I received none – just a quiet comment from Sensei S at the end of class saying he liked my combat skirt. I grabbed the hem and lifted it proudly to show the shorts underneath, and bless him he actually looked away in embarrassment.

As the days go by, I care less about what people think and more about what makes me happy. And this skort is the perfect combination of adorable and badass, and some days that’s exactly the look I want.

(screenshots from a video I recorded of myself doing tiger-crane kung fu)

Close Calls

“Who are you?” asked Sensei K with a confused smile as we pulled back from our hug.
“Oh Celeste!” he exclaimed a moment later with a bolt of recognition. “I thought you were Mike’s cousin Ling-Ling!”
I had no idea who Mike or Ling-Ling were, but I laughed and thanked him for the compliment. It made more sense to him that I was Ling-Ling coming to try a taiji class than for me to be training as I did most weekends.
“You look… different,” he told me with a meaningful pause. I think it was his attempt at complimenting me on my transition.

His wife recognised me immediately and burst into an excited little hop as she hugged me.
“You look gorgeous!” she said as I squeezed her affectionately.
That was more like it. Wren later pointed out that cis men generally aren’t allowed to compliment women without it coming across as romantic/sexual interest, and I thought that was a reasonable point, but it was still disappointing. “Different” was not quite a compliment, not the kind of warm-hearted enthusiastic support I needed from my loved ones. And it affirmed for me the knowledge that I had made the right decision.

It had been just over a year since I’d seen him. I’d actually assumed we must have run into each other a bunch in the past twelve months, but his astonishment got me to scan my memory and realise that somehow we hadn’t crossed paths at all, despite me attending the dojo regularly for taiji and cleaning. I mean, I guess it made sense – he never came to the weekend taiji class, and I never attended yoga or karate during the week, so our schedules just never aligned.

For the past few months, I’d really missed karate. It’s hard to describe just how much of my identity had been wrapped up in being a martial artist for the first thirty years of my life. If I knew one thing about myself, it was that (in the words of my cousin), “[I] just love kung fu.” Sometimes when I felt lost about who I was in this big ol’ world, I’d unsheath one of my katana and suddenly everything would feel right again – I knew who I was and where I belonged, and I felt okay again. It was the closest thing I felt to being comfortable in my own skin: powerful. And honestly, it wasn’t a bad substitute.

This is going to sound terrible, but I’ve really missed fighting. I’ve missed challenging people, and testing my blade against theirs, and overpowering them through superior skill and strength. To know that every attack they throw at me is doomed before they launch it because my defence is so overwhelming, and to know that I hold their health and even their life in my hands as I counter (and then hold back a strike that could break bones). There is such a rush that comes from manouvering a man into a vulnerable position and feeling like I could punch a hole right through them.

When I left karate, it was because I needed to move away from the masculine. Partially because karate was the most masculine thing that I did in my life, but mainly because I hated everyone treating me like I was male. My sense of self was still fragile, and when they acted all macho towards me I couldn’t help but toughen up and be super macho back. And I know it’s what I needed to become to survive in that environment, but I hated doing it and I’d had enough.

But after a year away, I started missing it enough to consider going back. Honestly I love the art so much, but I have a… complex relationship with my teacher. I thought back on all the ways he’d been less than what I needed while I was going through the hardest parts of my transition.

He’d promised me that I could be excused from contact exercises while my boobs were growing and in so much pain, and then the very next lesson coerced me into holding a bag for him while he kicked it. When I screwed up the courage to ask him to apologise, he didn’t say sorry so much as he explained his reasoning for why he went back on his word, and that was pretty shitty. He was so bad with pronouns for so long, insisting that there was no need to use pronouns at all in class, and we could all just refer to each other by name from that point on. On camp he teased some boys for being pretty, and teased a girl for brushing her hair. It was clear to me that he thought of femininity as inferior, but he considered himself too politically correct to openly say so.

And after reflecting on all of the above, I decided not to return. I told myself it was an act of self-worth not to go back, to not settle for vague disrespect and mean jokes in order to be able to practice an art I love. And seeing him yesterday made me realise I was right – he’s just not good at being supportive in the ways I value. And I don’t want to be around someone who thinks they’re such a good ally while regularly slamming me with microaggressions.

But… I keep seeing ads for martial arts schools on facebook, and I do miss it very much. Maybe I’ll join a new school some day, maybe one with less of a focus on combat and more of a focus on form? Aw heck I kinda miss the combat though. Honestly my current school would be perfect if the teachers and seniors weren’t so weird about gender stuff.

I’m still kinda hoping the school will close down due to reduced numbers and I’ll have a good excuse to find somewhere new. It’s shitty that I’ve become so embedded in this particular school that leaving it would be a political act whose repercussions could affect any traditional school I join in the future, so… for now I’ll just wait and see what happens.

It’s Not About the Pitch!!

I’ve had a bit of a breakthrough with voice stuff. And these aren’t even new ideas to me, Garnet, speechies, and the internet at large has told me the same thing over and over again, but I understand for the first time that it’s not about the pitch. Let me explain how I got there.

A few days ago I was thinking up D&D characters as I was driving (as I often do), and I was messing around practicing the voice for one of them. It was a really young voice, high-pitched and shy and girlish, and I laughed because it was obviously a character and not me.

Then I dropped it by a few semitones, and suddenly it was within my natural range. And I was astonished, because I hadn’t realised that my range had expanded to include those higher registers. At some point in the last few months, I guess my vocal muscles had become used to a certain position and I just hadn’t really noticed it. But my highs are higher, and my average in general is higher, and my lows aren’t too low (though I still have to be careful and I still slip from time to time), and it’s freaking awesome.

“But wait,” I hear you say. “I thought the whole point was that it’s not about the pitch?” Yes, yes dear reader, I’m getting to that.

So this morning I was doing my new exercises where I have to “phonate” through a straw. Yes I know it sounds like a euphemism, but in this context it just means humming in a way I can feel my lips vibrate. And I was humming a song I like from Steven Universe (“Giant Woman”), and when I finished the exercise I starting singing just for the joy of it. And that’s when I had my revelation.

According to the YouTuber my previous speech path student recommended (Trans Voice Lessons), more important than pitch is weight. How heavy the sounds are. I don’t fully understand the biomechanics of it, but I’ve realised that just like Garnet predicted, for months now I’ve been subconsciously playing around with changing my voice in subtle ways, and one of the biggest changes has been taking the weight out of it. So just out of curiosity, I practiced turning the weight on and off consciously, like flipping a switch that shifted the muscles of my throat somehow. I said the same phrases, at the same pitch, with heaviness and then with lightness, and the difference was staggering! And I tried singing with that strong masculine baritone I trained so hard for in high school, and then I sang the same passage again without the heaviness that I’d worked so hard to cultivate, and it sounded totally different to me. I know text isn’t a great medium to communicate this, but you’ll have to take my word that the difference was phenomenal. When I got home I showed Wren the difference between heaviness and lightness and their jaw dropped open.

Like holy crap!! It was actually a little tricky adding weight back into my voice after I’d spent so long subconsciously removing it, but the contrast was between yin and yang. I wish I’d understood these concepts sooner, but I’m not sure if I would have been ready to comprehend them.

Oh, and I confronted another fear today while I was doing my elated practice in the car! You may recall that I have a long history of martial arts study, and I stopped attending karate classes almost a year ago. There were lots of reasons for this, but one of the big ones was that I didn’t know how to call out counts or techniques, or to kiai (spirit shout) in a feminine way. Hearing the sound of my masculine voice resounding through the hall as I yelled out a command was deeply dysphoric to me, and so I kinda just stopped going to avoid being in that position. But as I was driving home, I practiced light kiai for the first time. I counted to ten in Japanese. I practiced calling commands for blocks and punches and stances, raising the volume without raising the weight of my voice. And it sounded really good to me.

I’ve still got a ways to go before I reach a voice I’m comfortable with, but this has done such wonders for my confidence. Plus I noticed that seeing the speech path a few days ago and learning that my average is at a comfortable 131 was incredibly uplifting, and she thinks it’s very reasonable for me to reach 150 by the end of the year. Up until today I had put so much stock into making the number go higher, but now… now it’s kind of just a byproduct of finding a voice I love. Still something to work on yeah, but it’s not the only measure that matters to me any more.

Thrilling times ahead.

Really?

Today in taiji, a student returned after a three year break.
“Wrath!” I called out joyfully.
“Celeste, I believe? Nice to meet you!” he said meaningfully, staring at me for an extra second so I got the implication.
I didn’t want to burst his joy bubble, but I also didn’t want to let it stand, so I winked and said “I think you’ve met me before”. It was clumsy, but I was caught off guard.
“Yes, but this is my first time meeting… the real you,” he said seriously.
I didn’t know what to say so I just hugged him.

After class, he turned to me and said “To be honest, in all the time I’ve known you, I always felt like there was this internal conflict.”
I smiled patiently, thinking that it sounded an awful lot like what Sensei S had said to me shortly after coming out to him.
“When I heard the news, my two main thoughts were: One, that’s… awesome! Two, that must take so much courage.” And Student A who was also there nodded appreciatively.
I decided I didn’t want to let that stand either, so I told them the burning building metaphor, that it didn’t feel like courage, it felt like survival. With literal tears in his eyes, Wrath told me that it still took courage to jump, that I must have had so much strength. Student A added that some people would have rather stayed in the burning building. I couldn’t disagree with that because I could think of folx who have said they’d never transition, but I was still so annoyed. I just nodded and smiled, taking a lesson from Eat Pray Love and letting them tell me the correct way to pray, and then going home to do whatever the hell I wanted.

Honestly, most of the people in my life are patient and kind and wonderful to be around. But every now and then I encounter people who just want to tell me what they see in me, who or what I remind them of, the ideas that they’ve had when they’ve been exposed to my existence. And that’s getting real old.

When I came out, one of the questions on my FAQ was whether my personality was going to change. I answered that it was, and wasn’t: that I was the same person I’d always been, but I was giving myself permission to explore things that were more traditionally feminine, and wouldn’t be trying so hard to fit into traditionally masculine roles. The idea that this is “the real me” now means that everything I’d experienced before transition was “the fake me”, and that just invalidates a lifetime of experience.

I mean, yes I often feel like I’m a totally new person to who I used to be. But that’s me saying that. No one else has the right to judge who I am or am not, who I was or was not, who I’ve been or have not been.

And who knows, maybe there was something to it. Since two independent martial artists have described sensing “a conflict in me”, maybe that really did exist. Sure, there were times in class when I was angry and I didn’t understand why. But I’m pretty sure it was due to mental health stuff, low self-worth, lack of boundaries, toxic relationships… But maybe there was some gender stuff built in there too. Maybe I was a woman struggling to be comfortable in a masculine environment. But who can say? Certainly not them: it’s my story, and I get to be the one who chooses the language and draws the meaning.

At the end of the day, regardless of whatever “internal conflict” they think they saw, I didn’t appreciate them projecting onto me or directing the narrative of my life. I’m tired of the occasional well-meaning friend telling me what it is to be trans, or who I really am. I guess I’m just grateful that these conversations happen so rarely these days. Hopefully there aren’t too many more of them to have.

Deconstructing Apologies

I had some difficult conversations this week, leading several people to apologise to me. But they weren’t very good apologies, and I wanted to take some time to unpack them.

A couple of months ago, I came across this amazing formula from @sylviaduckworth. I think maybe one or two of the steps might be a little superfluous, but it’s so useful to my brain to have a formula to follow.

Apology #1

Back in November I messaged Sensei K asking if I could be excused from holding the kick shields during karate classes. He said that was fine, but then at the very next lesson he called on me to hold the shield for him while he demonstrated. When I hesitated, he insisted that I do it anyway, saying that I could just hold it out in front of me instead of bracing it against my body.

I was thinking about it yesterday, and I decided to message him. I had to edit my message so many times, taking out the softening qualifiers like “If you wouldn’t mind”, “just”, “if it’s not too much trouble” etc. In the end I stated what happened, how I felt about it, what I needed, and that I’d like an apology please. Marshall Rosenberg would have been proud.

His response was less than ideal. He did thank me for letting me know it was still on my mind, and said sorry right away. But then he went on to say “My endeavour to ensure that you felt included in the activity and to carefully build your confidence by partnering with you in the demonstration was clearly a mistake on my part.”
Which sounded an awful lot like “It was a mistake to include you because you couldn’t handle it, and I’m sorry I bothered. I was just being nice and I’m sorry you took it the wrong way.”

What I wish he’d said was:
“Celeste, I am sorry that I went back on my word with you. I told you that you were exempted from holding shields, and then at the very next class I made you hold one for me. It was wrong because we’d made an agreement, and when the moment came I didn’t honour my end of it. I recognise the fault in my actions, and I wish I hadn’t done that to you. From now on I promise that I will keep my word, especially when it comes to respecting your boundaries. Thank you for the trust you showed in me by bringing this to my attention, even though I’d hurt our relationship.”

God, now I feel like crying because that’s so far from reality.

Apology #2

I had a really shitty yoga class yesterday. The teacher Frank was not what I was looking for in an instructor. He relied on using so many props to do the poses, while also lecturing us about how we had to be careful these assistive tools didn’t become crutches. (Hey, some people need crutches, you ableist scumbag.) When I was doing a shoulder stand he came over to instruct me, and as he did so I felt his saliva landing on my face as I looked up at him. (That was gross but it was an accident.) He pushed everyone beyond their limits, berating them for not having the strength or flexibility to do the poses properly. As a result of this, I hurt myself pretty badly trying to live up to his expectations because it didn’t feel safe to ease off while he was criticising me. (After class I was so sore I could barely move my neck or arms without crying out in pain. I even messaged my pole teacher, saying I might have to miss my first class today because I was too injured. I was so mad!!)

But worst than the verbal, psychological, and social pressure, what annoyed me most is that he touched me physically without my consent. The first time it happened I was quite uncomfortable and almost flinched away from him as he pushed my knee down, or tapped my shoulder, on twisted my hips. It happened with almost every pose, and I started to dread when he would make his way across the studio towards me. At one point he slapped me on the back of my thigh, not to correct my posture but apparently as a way of saying “You’re doing great, keep it up”.

Every time he touched me I resolved to say something, but he kept up a constant stream of verbal instruction and I found it hard to cut him off. So I figured I’d just keep quiet, survive, and leave as soon as possible, because it felt unsafe upsetting this man in power who might publicly humiliate me for standing up to him. But then I thought about how this was actually a form of assault, legally defined as “unwanted physical contact”, and how often women are shamed or scared into silence. I decided I wasn’t going to let this one slide.

After class, we had the usual smiling chit chat, and I thanked Frank for the class. I asked if I could offer him some feedback (again with the stupid softening qualifiers – I wish I’d just said “I have some feedback for you”). I told him about spitting in my face (which he was morbidly apologetic about), and about not being comfortable with him touching me without consent (which he also apologised for). But I think this was automatic and he just didn’t want to get into trouble, because he went on to say that that’s just what Iyengar yoga is like. That he’s been teaching for 25 years, all around the world (so presumably he knows what he’s doing, and it’s not the place of his students to question it). That if people don’t like being touched, they shouldn’t come to his classes. I agreed, and said I probably wouldn’t come back.

Then he grinned at me and told me the world has gone mad with political correctness.
“You can’t even hold a door open for a woman now without it being offensive” he said. “You can’t even have sex with someone without their consent, even if you’re married to them!”
Oh I insisted that you definitely need consent if you’re going to touch someone or have sex with them.
“But you’re married! Man, woman, it doesn’t matter who you’re married to. You still have to have consent!” he said, appalled.
I was annoyed that he’d (possibly) tried to show me how accepting he was of same-sex relationships as a way of winning me over. I excused myself, going to the bathroom to wash his saliva off my face.

In taiji, we were talking about how numbers were so low and they were thinking of changing the time for the yoga/martial arts classes to see if it would help.
“I think it’s the teacher, not the time,” said Student S, who had heard our conversation and also dropped out of Frank’s classes a little while ago. I thought about it, and in the end I decided to message Sensei K about what happened. Not to complain and get Frank fired or anything, just to let him know what had happened. I told him about the lack of consent before being touched, and how I that was okay I just didn’t plan on going to any more of his classes. More importantly, I told him that Frank seemed to think it was okay to sexually assault someone if you’re married to them, and I found that to be quite disturbing.

Sensei K once again did not live up to my hopes. He told me he’d called Frank who was very contrite, and that next time I should use the consent cards that we have in the studio, because it’s easier than verbally communicating with instructors about boundaries.
Oh, this victim blaming bullshit huh? These consent cards, by the way, I think they’re shelved under the reception desk somewhere because they weren’t being used. And Sensei K was saying it was my responsibility to dig around and find them so that I could avoid being assaulted. I’m still figuring out if I want to reply to that message, but maybe calling him on his bullshit three days in a row might be a bit much for him.

That aside, here’s is what I wish Frank had said:
“Celeste, I’m so sorry for touching you without checking whether it would be okay first. I understand that your boundaries are important, and I want to get better at respecting them. More than that, I understand that everybody’s boundaries are important, and all people have the right to their own space and their own bodies, and I need to respect that. I accept full responsibility for my disrespect, and I’m sorry that it didn’t even occur to me to ask you first. From now on, I promise to ask all of my students whether it’s okay before I touch them, and to honour what they say. I appreciate you sharing this with me, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to grow as a teacher.”

It’s not that much to ask for, is it?

Polar Opposites

As I was getting ready to teach my private student a few days ago, I realised that I hated the uniform – it was so baggy and ugly and boyish. Technically everyone’s supposed to wear it, but I’ve noticed over the years that we don’t enforce that particular rule with any of our female students. I was always so envious whenever I trained with them, of the sporty singlets and flowing pants they wore, of the fancy sports bras and stylish tops. And when I’d had enough of “unisex” (read: boy) shirts a few weeks ago, I casually but cautiously came to taiji class wearing a cute singlet instead. I got a bunch of compliments, and everyone seemed to accept that now I was one of the exceptions too.

After letting my thoughts mature for a while, I sent a message to Sensei K and Sensei S. I told them that although I was allowed to resume training, I found that martial arts didn’t really call to me, especially not karate at the moment, and that I was going to extend my break from those classes (though I would continue with taiji and my private student).
It felt really shitty to abandon my teacher during a membership crisis (it’s possible the dojo will close down if things keep going the way they are), but I just… I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I was repulsed by the masculinity, and I wasn’t willing to put myself back in that environment.
To my surprise, it wasn’t a big deal – both of my teachers thanked me for letting them know, and told me I’d always be welcome. Huh. Guess I blew that one out of proportion again.

Over these past three months I’ve been enjoying having my evenings back, and going to the gym to keep some semblance of fitness up. I wasn’t exactly looking for a new hobby to fill the time, but I did stumble upon something that caught my interest. Someone in a facebook group shared the art of yingzong_xin drawing Disney characters poledancing, and it took my breath away. I remember commenting on how I seriously wanted to try it. And then facebook, being the creepy pervert stalker that it is, immediately started hitting me up with poledancing ads.

Unfortunately it bloody worked. The more ads I saw, the more interested I became. It was spellbinding watching incredibly beautiful people move with such strength and skill and grace, and I yearned to experience that movement myself. But it also brought up lots of uncomfortable feelings, about sexiness, and femininity, and belonging, and I wasn’t sure I could handle that. But it did seem like a good counterpoint to that masculinity I had so recently decided to move away from…

I mentioned it to Duck, my pretty-much-sister-in-law, and we shared videos and talked about attending a class. Now I had a friend for support I didn’t want to keep her waiting, so I thought I’d just have a quick look on google to see what studios were in my neck of the woods… I found plenty, and what’s more is that I learned that pole studios seemed to operate on 8-week terms, and the next term was starting in a couple of days. My casual google turned into a three-hour research session running late into the night as I looked at dozens of websites, taking notes about their schedules, how organised their syllabus seemed to be, and most importantly whether I got any vibes that they might be trans-exclusionary. Once I’d compiled as much info as I could (a desperate attempt to control the uncontrollable and increase my sense of safety), I messaged my favourite studio about an upcoming trial class they were holding. I felt nervous and awkward, but I also asked them about their FAQ – whether they meant it when they said all people were welcome, and what their policy was on trans folx. They assured me that they were a safe and inclusive space, and with those magic words I booked us in.

When Duck and I arrived there were two other women there. I was immediately intimidated by them because they were wearing professional-level outfits – incredibly short shorts and crop tops that were both stylish and practical. It turns out they were both talented dance teachers and wanted to add pole to their repertoire. I can’t speak for Duck, but standing next to them I suddenly felt utterly inadequate and wanted to leave.

But then the class started, and my nerves began to dissipate as I worked into familiar stretches. Our teacher, Steel, was a delightful young femme who was bright and funny, as well as ridiculously fit and talented. My main hope for the class would be to do some kind of spin, ideally with the feet off the floor, and I was thrilled when that turned out to be the first move. We learned the fireman’s spin (with a leg extension), the backwards spin (with a leg extension), the carousel (with a graceful dismount!), a sit (with a one-armed hang), and a headstand (my favourite)!

Backwards spin with leg extension

The moves were all considered beginner-level, but I found myself challenged by them. I frequently found myself slipping because I didn’t have the grip strength to stay up, and some of the holds hurt because they required the friction of my skin to keep me there. When we complained about the pain, Steel laughed sympathetically and showed us her callouses, saying that all the nerve endings in her thighs were dead now so she didn’t even notice. It was both impressive and intimidating.

I was also a little worried about moves that might crush my genitals against the pole, and the sit required exactly that. But to my surprise, it wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as my burning thighs and aching arms, so… maybe it won’t be extra hard for me as a trans girl. That was good to know early.

To be honest, after a lifetime of moving and playing (often acrobatically) I was hoping I’d have an innate talent for pole. I’ve leapt from balconies and flipped upside down on rings, and it was disappointing and humbling to find myself struggling compared to the other students. But then again, I’m not really in the business of comparison. I know that when I glanced at my reflection, I saw beauty and grace shining through. It was a little unrefined, that’s true, but I know that if I keep practicing I’ll get there. If I keep working at it, I know I’ll become stronger, and more flexible, and maybe take on a hint of that effortlessness that Steel exuded.

It’s early days yet, but… I think I’ve found something captivating that I want to pursue. At least for now.

Rumbly Rambles #6

Content warning: Mentions of abuse, discussions of distress, suicidal thoughts, body image, and dysphoria.

Things have been pretty wild lately. Buying those bras last week have been so utterly euphoric for me. I’m still distracted by the reduction in my peripheral vision, and I bump them against something almost every day, but they’ve done wonders for my confidence and self-esteem. Somehow ticking that “second box” has made me feel so at ease in my skin, so utterly sure of my knowledge of self, and it feels like no one can take that away from me.

But I’ve had some hard moments too these past few weeks. There’s been so much going on for me, and the many challenges that I normally carry with ease weighed heavily on me. The dysphoria with my voice. Thinking about my abuser, and the many kinds of complex, long-term abuse I experienced as a kid. Being rounder and heavier than ever before, and feeling uncomfortable about how tight my clothes were becoming and how ugly and boyish I looked. Digging deep to unlearn my own racism, and then being scolded for not doing better at it by people in a group I trusted. Feeling like a failure for not being able to provide Wren with the life they deserve. Numerous people reaching out to me for help while they were in distress, and putting my stuff aside so I could support them. The (fortunately declining) threat of vomiting every day and feeling sick for hours. Not trusting food even when my body said it was hungry, because it so often lied to me and threw up whatever it asked for. Feeling overwhelmed by the newness of the job, and struggling to be seen as “good enough” when I don’t know what I’m doing, and there’s not much to do. That heightened sense of danger I had after being leered at by a stranger. The ongoing sense of emergency from smelling smoke in the air, friends evacuating, and threat of community transmission of COVID in this state for the first time in nearly a year.

I teetered pretty close to self-destruction more than once. I don’t think I would have actually killed myself without first trying other protective measures, but it was on my mind a lot. All of my problems seemed equally overwhelming, and I really struggled to find anything that brought me joy or comfort. But I used my crisis plan (recognising that I was definitely in the yellow, and had some parts of the red creeping in), I contacted my people, and I survived. (To be honest I didn’t really feel like reaching out, but I figured it was worth trying. And then I found that I didn’t actually want to change how I was feeling, I just wanted to tell others what I was going through and then be left alone. My friends were perfect in their support, securing promises of safety, and then checking back in with me later when I was feeling more myself again.) It was rough, but the storm passed as it always does.

Honestly, one of the things that helped most was painting my nails again. Last year when I broke two nails in two days, I decided to cut all my nails short because I was done with long nails.
About a week later I got my ears pierced and I stopped going to karate, and I had the sudden joyful thought that it was a good time to grow my nails out again.
Well we’re back baby. Inspired by Mei’s Lunar New Year skin, I decided to paint my nails red this time. And I was surprised to find that this bold colour that once overwhelmed me is now my favourite shade by far. How I’ve changed.

Honestly, in many ways Mei helps me feel seen.

The other big thing that helped me was talking to Hylia, my psychologist. Well, kind of.
The first appointment that we had, I got so upset that I had to put down the phone to vomit halfway through it. I didn’t feel like talking after that.
The second appointment that we had was great. I was feeling grounded again. I looked cute, I didn’t mind my voice, I felt happy and stable. So I was in a place where I could unpack my beliefs and put some of them down (especially those pressures to be a perfect employee, and to be an unfailing provider to Wren). That’s freed up a lot of resources for other things, and I’m reminded to tune in, not out. I’m trying to avoid gaming as a distraction, and instead be very deliberate about choosing it as a soothing method.

It’s been really, really nice taking a break from karate. Now that I’ve had a little time and distance, I realise that I hated being pushed so hard. I hated having to be so tough just to get through a lesson. I’m still teaching my private student though, and I’ve learned that I still enjoy pushing myself, but it has to be exactly as much as I want to be pushed and no more. Being the teacher gives me that luxury where I set the pace, but I don’t plan on opening my own school so I’m not really sure what to do about it. Brill gave me the all-clear to return to training last week, but I haven’t wanted to, and I’m still not sure what I’ll do about it. I guess eventually I’ll message Sensei K, and maybe that will help me understand my choices better.

I had a realisation recently when talking to my friend Mama. I mentioned how wearing certain clothes highlighted how much weight I’d gained and how unattractive it made me feel (still unlearning that internalised fatphobia), and she casually said:
“So the problem is your clothes.”
It blew my fucking mind. And then I thought back to a recent time when I’d been trying on new work outfits, and how cute I looked in everything. And the fact that it was possible for me to look good suddenly made me realise she was right: I look fucking fantastic, and I’m much happier when I wear clothes that fit me. I’m not the problem, it’s the clothes that no longer serve me. Juvenile thoughts, but exciting ones.

It’s strange though, I’m starting to lose my sense of my own aesthetic. It’s hard to explain what I mean, but maybe this example will help. I was recently saw some cute cat-ear headphones posted by someone in a trans gaming group I’m in, and my initial thought was that I wanted them too. But upon closer inspection, what I liked about them was not necessarily their colour or design, but the fact they were valued by that particular community. And if I bought that same headset, I’d be valued too. And that was very tempting.

I was talking to my colleague Ursus about it today, how I was willing to sacrifice some needs of personal expression in order to meet some needs of community and belonging. To identify with a particular community with shared ideals, and to align my sense of self with them… Was that so bad? So many people define themselves by their fandoms, their sport teams, their occupations, whatever. Did I want to lean into being “the Trans Gamer Girl”?

I hear a lot that it’s good to be true to onesself, to not diminish myself for anyone else’s comfort. And I think there’s a lot of merit to that, but I’m not sure if that’s true in all circumstances at all times. Maybe there’s room for some yin as well as yang.

Speaking of yin and yang, as I’ve mentioned previously I have lots of feelings about my voice. But recently I had a new client at my private practice, which was special because I was introduced to her as Celeste (she/her). She had never known me under any other name, or with any other pronouns, and I think it’s quite possible that she thought I was cis. And I found that thought tremendously encouraging. I became increasingly comfortably with my voice in the week following.

And then today I called a new client, and it went terribly. They asked for my name, and I gave it to them, and they asked for it again and again until I spelled it out.
“Oh Celeste!” they said. “That’s a girl’s name!”
“Yup, sure is! I am a girl!” I said, maybe a little too cheerfully. Then I reconsidered: this person was literally so old school they refused to have a mobile, an email address, or a car: they probably weren’t well versed in modern gender theory. So I made an effort to help them understand.
“Actually I’m transgender,” I told them. “I was assigned male at birth, and-“
“Oh that makes sense, because you sound like a man!” they said excitedly.
“It’s most unfortunate,” I said without hesitation. I was astonished at myself for the calm delight I was taking in the face of these insults.
“Well that’s fine with me!” they told me proudly.
“I’m glad you think so,” I answered, wondering if they heard the subtext that I didn’t particularly need their approval.

Afterwards I laughed about it until I was wiping tears from my eyes. I still don’t know why I found it so funny. It was something about the incongruity of being treated so bluntly by someone so well-meaning.

I guess I’m still experiencing some of those pubertal mood swings my doctors warned me about, but as long as I continue putting one foot in front of the other, I trust it’ll just keep getting better.

Love and light y’all ♥

Growing Thoughts

Content warning: Body image, discussions of weight and health

Over the past few months, my body has undergone a wonderful metamorphosis. My private karate student observed that I’m curvier, rounder, fatter. I was delighted with the changing shape of my body, away from the hard angles towards soft edges. There’s my modest boobs of course, but for the first time I think I’ve also started to like the way my butt looks too. That oshiri certainly has some puri puri to it, and I’m starting to believe the people who have complimented me on it.

But I feel complexly about my body shape, too. My fat hasn’t just been shifted around my body, I seem to have gained a bunch. And that brings up a whole lot of internalised fatphobia that I’ve never needed to confront before.

For most of my life I could hold my beliefs about weight with relative comfort, because I fit into a certain weight range myself so I didn’t feel bad about my body. During high school I obsessively measured and recorded my weight, and my BMI was almost always towards the “light, but just barely in the healthy range”, and I was very proud of that. But after doing this every day for three years, I realised it was just making me miserable when the number went up, and pleased (but not satisfied) when the number went down. So I quit cold turkey, recalling that the measurements were based on an average white man from decades ago, that Arnold Schwarzenegger would be considered obese if you looked at his BMI, and that weight was not a good indicator of health.

So what indicators of health did I want to use?
How far I could run.
How many times I could lift or lower my body.
Whether I could help someone move that heavy bit of furniture.
These were my metrics, and I found that I was much happier.

But then I went one step further. I realised that “being healthy” or “athletic” or “strong” were desirable, but not my ultimate goal. Now, I’m mostly interested in moving in whatever way feels good, pushing myself as much as I want to be pushed, and then stopping when I’ve had enough. This is radically different from most of my martial arts training over the past nine years, and I am here for it. (Incidentally, after an emotionally charged counselling session and several weeks of building up the courage, I messaged Sensei K and told him I would not be returning to karate until my ears had healed. I was so braced for guilt and manipulation, but he just thanked me for all my hard work and wished me a good 2021. Huh.)

And even though I’m often surrounded by super fit people at the gym, I rarely compare myself to them. They’re on their own journeys, with their own bodies, doing things I can’t do yet (and probably don’t want to). I’m just there for me, to do whatever feels good in the moment.

And I love the ways in which I’m healthy and strong. I love that I can do 10+ crunches against a 70kg weight, that I can climb 1000 steps in half an hour, that I can do at least 10 one-handed pushups with both hands. I mean, sure I still can’t do a single chin-up, and I wouldn’t dare bench-press anything above 30kg right now, but I don’t really mind.

I also feel that it’s important to say that we as a society tend to put a lot of stock in the idea that “health is what matters most”, but that’s bullshit. It’s nice to be healthy, to live long and well and free from pain, but not everyone has that option. This is a shoutout to all those spoonies out there who will never be healthy by those traditional measures. You do not need to be well to be valued, and your lives are important and make the world a brighter place.

But coming back to my own experience, I have to admit that the first time I stepped onto the scales at the gym, seeing the numbers 8-0 really shocked me. Honestly I thought it was broken the first few times I used it. I mean, I’d noticed some of my clothes had become uncomfortably tight, and my belly seemed to be bigger than it used to be… But it was tough realising it was the heaviest I’d ever been.

And yet… I didn’t hate the way I looked, which was kind of new and scary too? I had three decades of conditioning screaming at me that I should have hated myself, that I should have starved or sweated myself to change. But I just… didn’t want to?
(I’m talking about it in the past tense, but really it’s an ongoing conversation.)

I think there are a few reasons for this. Firstly, I’m very open to my body changing right now. I read that more body fat increases the likelihood of bigger boobs, and although my odds aren’t great, I don’t mind the extra fuel if some of it might end up on my chest. But more than that, I just like being curvier. Most of my clothes look great on me, and I’m really feel myself most days, enjoying my reflection whenever I see it.

Mostly though, I have Wren to thank. They started getting into Body Positivity (BoPo) a few years ago, and started saying things like “I love my little belly!” and meaning it. It was the first time I’d encountered such a view, and although I found it really uncomfortable at first, eventually it became normal to hear them talk about fiercely loving their body (and not having time for anyone who didn’t). And when my tummy started growing, I started hearing that they loved my little belly too, and eventually that sunk in. I am so, so lucky to have someone I live with who tells me I’m beautiful every day, who compliments my outfits, who constantly fills me up with love and appreciation for myself. Being immersed in that kind of message is just… so good for me, you know? I wish everyone had a Wren in their lives. I think the world would be a much better place.

I still really appreciate athletic body-types. But I think I’m coming to peace with the idea that I might not ever have one. Regardless of how I look, I’m so prepared to love myself. And I’m surprised at how loud this voice is within me after decades of hearing the opposite. I wouldn’t say my self-loathing is silenced, but maybe the ratio of self-love to self-criticism is 80:20 now, and that’s really new and wondrous.

I’m working hard on loving every part of my body and how it looks. It’s radical and beautiful work, and although it’s hard sometimes, I think it’s worth the effort.