When I first met people who had changed their names part-way through their lives, they weren’t part of the transgender community but part of the leftist-environmentalist diaspora in the oil-fuelled, cattle-studded city of Calgary. My friends named themselves after their favourite animals and the qualities they most respected in people. I remember my initial response as surprise, curiosity and an odd kind of judgement.
The name one is given at birth has no guarantee of fitting the person who carries it. People often grow out of their nomenclature, and society has a curious way of projecting what it believes people should exude onto names. For example, Niles is dying out in England over the past 10 years. They even have a Niles club, it has faded so much, consisting mainly of baby-boomers who refuse to retire. Society no longer deems Niles a solid choice for children. Too reserved for these times, perhaps? It’s a fickle game, naming.
I find myself at a similar juncture: playing a fickle name-game with myself as I’ve been experimenting with new reference points for people to know me.
Jessica was the first name of two of my mother’s favourite actors: Jessica Lange and Jessica Tandy. Coincidentally, I fell in love with acting and theatre and all things musical when I was twelve and won a starring role as the villain in my elementary school’s Christmas pageant. It was an old-school biblical tale referencing Daniel and my character, King Nebuchadnezzar.
The irony is not lost on me that my first acting role was one playing a man dressed entirely in flamboyant-regal drag.
Drag-kings don’t get the kind of acclaim that drag queens often do. The beauty of men isn’t always as lauded or celebrated as the beauty of women can be. I disliked the term “tomboy” as it connoted a half-boy; a masquerading girl-wannabe-boy. There was nothing wannabe about me. I could simply be a girl one day, and a boy the next.
My idol at age 13? Prince.
Prince got it, he was my personal original gender fluid superstar. My mother only saw his sex appeal as a hetero-normative woman. But, I loved him because he was like me, as equally feminine as he was masculine, extremely creative and unafraid to express himself.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t blessed with a large natural network to work with. Prince had a brother, and an extended family network in the same general area where his own parents’ relationship broke down. He also moved around a lot less growing up, which meant he had consistent folks to learn from.
For me, changing my name is taking back my birthright to be happy with who I am. I felt like I lived up to my first name, became a great actress, and was rewarded handsomely for these performances. But, the real me was left wondering when it would be their turn. It’s only been over this past year that I’ve come to accept and rally behind myself that I can’t — and I won’t put myself through the wringer anymore to attempt to — please everyone, all the time. That sometimes, folx are going to be too disinterested, or ignorant or small-minded to care what I have to say, or deny my voice’s value. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a right to say it, it certainly doesn’t mean I’m wrong, and it doesn’t mean we have to back down from being the real person behind the curtain of a curated public persona.
I’ll still be going by my birth-name in my counselling business for ease of reference and to save time and money updating all of my ID’s (a truly trans experience), but have slowly begun to go by my new name with friends and family, and exclusively in my creative work.
For those parents who may be reading this, worried what the world may be like for someone like me, who vacillates between genders, or perhaps for their child who wishes to transition into a more static gender identity, it is largely fine. And when it isn’t (like when I worked at a school for a short stint, then quickly quit after experiencing transphobic harassment), I want to be very clear about what go me through.
Being myself.