Deviations

When I was in elementary school—probably 2nd or 3rd grade—my music teacher complimented my singing. She said my voice sounded "beautiful." Whether subconsciously or not, to me, "beautiful" was a word reserved for the feminine. Hearing her apply it to me gave me a deep, inner pride. The problem is, when I am passionate about something, I tend to protect it by hiding it. I started thinking too intently on how my voice sounded. I became nervous about doing poorly, so I tried harder. Before, I was just doing it—going through the motions naturally. Now, I was trying to perfect the craft. This resulted in a harsh sound, rather than the breathy melancholy the moment called for. My teacher mistakenly thought I was doing it on purpose to be difficult. First came the stern brow. Then the head-shake. Finally, an irritated, "Quit playing around." I went quickly from star pupil to dunce, followed by the quiet giggles of my classmates. For every recitation after that, I just mouthed the words—a silent mirror to the other kids, only adding volume when I feared being caught. For the longest time, except for moments with my sister, I only sang in private. I can’t say I was ever "good" again, especially after puberty hit. My voice deepened, high notes became impossible, and I hated it. But when I bought my first CD with my own money—Nine Inch Nails: Broken—I found a safe space. My first car was a giant boat from the mid-70s, fifteen years old by then. My shitty, blown-out speakers didn’t matter. As long as the music was louder than my voice, I would sing my heart out. Over time I felt like I got better, though there was no way to tell. Anytime I tried to sing in front of others, the nerves would hit—a distinct PTSD from that music teacher. I wasn’t a "great" kid. I was impulsive—probably the diagnosed ADHD—but I thought my heart was in the right place. Still, I didn’t always feel like a good person. That stage fright bled into everything. It became social anxiety. Anytime I was in a small room with people, I would get quiet. I’d start scanning conversations, examining facial expressions, looking for the people making fun of me. I worried about how I looked. I didn’t like my short hair. I didn’t like my hand-me-down clothes. I knew it was all Mom could afford, but I would have much preferred my sister's clothes. I learned long ago not to mention that, so instead, I stole them. I would see something on the floor or in the laundry, take it, hide it, and it would be mine when no one was looking. Around 17, I learned the term "Transgender" as opposed to "Transsexual." I did deep research—the DSM, the treatments, the effects of HRT. But it seemed impossible. I was tall, "big-boned," and overweight—starting at 280 lbs in middle school and tracking to 315 lbs by age 37. The world isn't concerned with comforting someone that size; I was a punching bag for jokes. But not when I was alone. In my early 20s, I found a trans woman online selling voice training DVDs. This was the late 90s/early 2000s; we were underground. Good resources were scarce. (A reminder: Support Trans Creators. They deserve your business.) I got pretty good at the voice training while alone in my room. But performing in front of strangers was different. My voice would crack, or I would sound like a sitcom imitation. A few laughs and disgusted looks in stores kept me quiet. Learning to be precise in enunciation—breathy versus staccato—took decades to perfect. But even then, being in front of someone is always a 50/50 chance, entirely dependent on my mood and my confidence. I feel I have made immense progress since everything that happened this year. I have a more centered and defined sense of self than ever before. I always knew I was trans, but finding the words to articulate it was required. Full understanding doesn’t come easy, but with time and hard work, that self-learned knowledge has become invaluable. Caring less about what others think was the key. It’s a lesson many tried to teach me, but one I had to learn on my own—something that never felt achievable before. Now, even when my voice cracks or sounds raspy, I feel much less affected. Being referred to as "Ma'am" enough times on the phone helped me reach this level as well. It was the validation I needed to realize that I’m not that scared kid in music class anymore. You could say the confidence was never really there before, but now, I am writing my own story. And only I can tell it. The voice is mine, and I’m done hiding it.