Have you heard the term “egg” applied to trans people?
It’s a metaphor to describe those who don’t yet realize–or haven’t come to grips with–being trans. If they embrace their transness and come out or start to transition medically, it’s said that they have “cracked their egg.”
Seems like that metaphor can only apply to young people, though. Before the 1990s, we didn’t even have a name for being transgender. Before the 90s, all we had to choose from was transsexual or transvestite, two terms that don’t begin to describe many transgender people. The fact that they’re both considered slurs or insults by some of us now should give you an idea of why we were unable to embrace them in the past.
I knew something was up for most of my life, even if I felt that the available words and concepts didn’t adequately define me. For me, there wasn’t a particularly sharp moment of sudden realization.
For that reason, the egg metaphor feels a little alien to me. I mean, are there really people who, growing up in a world where an endless supply of information about being trans is at their fingertips, suddenly realize they’re trans?
Even without the words, without the idea or concept of transgender, without any context at all in which to frame my existence, I still knew that what the world saw as my gender wasn’t going to work for me. I felt that as far back as I have memories. The idea that the realization can just sweep over you one day, with no foreshadowing, feels absurd.
But don’t get it twisted, fam (did I use those right?). I’m not here to wipe my dusty shoes on anyone’s experience doormat. If it just occurred to you one day that you were trans, that’s wonderful. It must have been quite a moment! I’m happy for you. It’s sure better than any of the alternatives, isn’t it. So, as the kids say, you go!
For me, though, and most older trans folks, there has to be a better metaphor. Maybe something to do with that deep-water octopus that holds onto her eggs for four and a half years. Seriously. Google it; it’s wild.
But nah, that’s still an egg.
How about I finally climbed fucking Mount Everest, bitches!
That’s a far better reflection of my experience.
Of course, in that metaphor, you’ll never really reach the top of Mount Everest. That would mean you’re somehow finished transitioning. I’m sure that happens to some fortunate souls. “Whew, that took a long time, but now I’m done!” I don’t know. Has any trans person ever said that? I have to take hormones for the rest of my life, so when will I be finished?
If there was a (fossilized) egg-cracking moment for us elderly transgenderistas, it was probably when we first encountered the transgender concept in the 1990s. I mean, that did it for me. I knew I didn’t fit those dusty old Cold War-era descriptions, terms, or concepts. But transgender? Oh, yeah, baby, that was some farm-fresh thinking. That was it. That fit. Wrapping my head around the idea was my eureka moment. My revelation. The metaphorical lightbulb over my head.
Or I guess I could say my egg cracked.
But it wasn’t the crack of realization. It was the crack of acknowledgment. Of finally being seen. Of finally knowing why I was who I was.
It took me another 25 years to hatch, I guess. But I blame that on the ugly habits a lifetime of hiding can instill in a person. A lifetime of not knowing how to work with who you really are.
I don’t think that crack of acknowledgment is something that only happens to queer people, either. I’ll bet it’s a similar feeling when a lifelong, unknown medical or emotional issue is finally diagnosed. Finally given a name. It’s a life-altering moment, for sure.
Not knowing why you are who you are is a messed up way to live.
Queer kids coming up now are lucky to have the internet and millions of peers who aren’t as hung up on gender identity as the crusty, uptight generations before them. I hope they’re grateful for that, the skinny, hairless little bitches!
Just kidding. I love you skinny, hairless little bitches. I’m proud of you. Your fearlessness was an inspiration to me to come out and start to transition.
I mean, I hate you, but I love you.
My older sisters understand.
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Well said, my almost hairless, beautiful no-matter, amazingly brave woman-love of my life.