The URL is www.xtranormal.com/watch/6838727. My plans to embed the video directly were foiled by the powers that be. My apologies.

I struggled for years with my relationship to “community”, including a two or so year period I now refer to as our “break”, during which I went out of my way to avoid the village at nearly all cost. Having sorted out through some past bitterness and re-engaged with it in a controlled fashion (to this day), I mostly feel comfortable at queer events.

I was inspired to post this video since I still occasionally find myself in the above scenario because of my advocacy work. A peer disclosed some other guy’s medical history to me and she does not understand why I was upset. He didn’t tell me, I should not know. I don’t need to know. And now I know that if she hasn’ t already told him about me, it is a matter of time because my repeated requests not to are filibustered by her assertion that I am partially closeted and she knows what’s best for the trans community. She dates trans men but insists she’s a lesbian. Anyone smell hypocrisy? Call it a “justifiable” double standard if it makes it an easier pill to swallow.

NB: I have no qualms about someone who IDs as gay, lesbian or some other term that implies that they only date people of the same sex while their sexual behaviour does not reflect that. I am opposed to their judgements on how I identify and go about my life.

It was brought to my attention that one of my recent posts left some of you scratching your heads, for which I apologise. The Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH) has a long and very thorny history with the trans community. That’s putting it mildly.

Between the oral history and what I’ve gathered from Viviane Namaste’s work, I’ll construct a portrait for you. I am sure that it is romanticized and sensationalized but the key points ring true to this day: the trans community had to be very resourceful, self-reliant against an apathetic on the best of days, typically demoralizing medical industry and displayed its incredible resilience through the ongoing adversity.

At the onset there were determined and clever trans people, most of them women. They approached what was then known as The Clark in hopes of getting medical assistance in Canada, rather than trekking across borders. They met clueless and largely unsympathetic doctors. Some of them, realizing that at the time the few books by the likes of Harry Benjamin, were hard to come by for laypeople, got involved with a few doctors to gain access to the precious (albeit not always as progressive as they would have liked) medical information. Armed with knowledge and access to medical jargon that impress the powers that be, they returned to The Clark and things began to change. Unfortunately, the changes came with new beasts for the community to tackle.

Insert here countless, heart wrenching accounts of trans people forced through inhuman “tests” that left many psychologically scarred for life. Some had to watch pornographic images, some of which involved children, while machines were hooked up to their penises to read blood flow. Some doctors believed there could be a correlation between pedophilia and crossdressing; try as I may, the logic behind this one continues to elude me. Some had electroshocks to “correct” “deviant gender behaviour”. Scores of kids underwent disturbing “therapies” to reacquaint them with their “proper” gender.

For a long time The Clark maintained that there was no such thing as trans men. They were lesbians, to be pitied because however butch they might be, they were definitively women. There was also no such thing as trans lesbians. Instead they were considered fetishists with sexual deviances.

In order to improve their chances of making it through, trans women from the Clarke’s support group would get together outside of group to trade stories and information about what the doctors wanted to hear in therapy so that they wouldn’t be dropped.

A trans woman wishing to legally and medically transition had to have her choice of name approved by The Clark who was “ensuring” it was “feminine enough”. Evan, Blair, Jordan many others raised eyebrows. This still happens to a lesser degree at CAMH today both for trans women and trans men.
Trans women were not allowed to get electrolysis or laser hair removal done until they were well into their real life experience. Electro and other types of permanent hair removal remain uncovered under the current coverage offered by OHIP. Cost depends on type and amount of hair. It frequently runs people up into the thousands.

A trans woman who wore pants even once, lost her job or was not busy developing “good” relationships with straight men and women while distancing herself from the LGBT community was not truly “committed” to the process and frequently dropped from the program.
Even after completing the real life experience and being recommended for surgery, funding for SRS could be pulled at any time for any reason, up until and including the night before surgery.

Fast forward to the first period during which OHIP covers SRS. I don’t know that a single factor could be singled out as the defining one but somewhere between:
- systemic transphobia and homophobia rooted in a ton of sexism
- fear of a burden on tax payers
- fear of legal repercussions
- a huge side of abilism
there came a need to limit the possible number of people who could get publicly funded surgery. Draconian requirements including the euphemistically named “real life experience” (most trans people refer to is by the more honest descriptor “test”) are drafted. A trans person is hired to “help” develop the guidelines, undergoes her own medical transition and THEN implements the guidelines for everyone else to endure.
I’m suppose to believe that a trans person cannot be transphobic, or at least, it’s harder to call someone from our own community out when we’re being screwed over in every unpleasant way possible. Adding insult to injury? There is a cap on the number of people that can be approved a year, in the neighbourhood of 7 to 8. That’s for trans men and trans women. Genderqueers need not apply. (Still true today!)

In 1998, the Conservatives delist SRS, forcing the tax payer to foot a bill larger for axing the whole affair than it costs to have it run for a few years. This is part of what many call the “common sense revolution.” I’m fiscally conservative but I can’t find the logic in this one. The same year Jurassic Clark, merging with a few other institutions became CAMH.
Over the next decade, not to be outdone, the Grits get their fair shame of the blame as they continuously appealed Human Right rulings in favour of relisting the coverage. I’ve been explained many times that this was done out of support. That only if the courts forced the government hands in every way possible would coverage then be reinstated in a way that it could never again be removed.
And not cost a politician a riding.
Abraham Lincoln continues to be herald as a hero for ending slavery but in the 21st Century, politicians that care demand you go through the courts to face them and their publicly funded team of lawyers.
George Smitherman, who couldn’t get e-Health off the ground, ran out of ways of appealing. For this, I failed to consider applauding him when SRS was relisted in 2008. I’m unreasonable like that.

Meanwhile, I saw 6 mental health professionals as well as legally changed my name and sex on all of my ID. Every single local and international psychiatrist and psychologist I saw prior to CAMH considered me fit for bottom surgery and gave me carte blanche to get it, so long as I was willing to foot the entire bill. These professionals observe the World Professional Association for Transgender Health standards of care. I can’t say that I’ve enjoyed retelling the same stories as I answered redundant but vaguely relevant questions all those times. But at least there was a recognition that I did not need to be a cookie cutter guy without a co-existent mental dis/order to my dysphoria. It was tedious but there was some logic, coherence and an end point within reason.

CAMH still runs a program for children to impose narrow ender roles along with lifelong mental scars. One of its best known doctors succeeded in cementing the riff between my parents and me; a division that can never be bridged thanks to him.

It is to this institution I was told to return if I wanted OHIP coverage for phalloplasty. I would have to recount parts of my story for the Nth time. But this time, over the course of a year. Carefully cheery picking to fit the denied yet imposed mold trans people must fit to get a financial break. All the while being insulted and generally dehumanized. Suddenly it matters if, when and how I masturbate. It is regrettable if society’s transphobia or my family’s rejection took a toll on my mental health. Undesirable only begins to describe our sorry fate if one’s bi-polar, has AD(H)D or OCD. I don’t envy past/present cutters, those with documented suicide attempts or histories of in-patient psychiatric care. Forget it if there’s documentation of past psychotic episodes. For all the claims that there’s no “script” we must follow, most of us know that we must show ourselves to have enough dysphoria to warrant surgical intervention, but not too much so as to be considered “dysfunctional.” It’s a finer line than I can draw. I have yet to meet someone receiving dis/ability or their pension that was able to get through. Heck, they are able to discredit someone who works and studies full time. For now, my socioeconomic, lingual and singular gender privilege prevails. Like many, I have been granted conditional approval. But this has not come without near-constant taunts that I could lose it; even as I do all that I can to comply with all of their Machiavellian methods.
I know a handful of trans guys who have been approved but none of them know how to access the spare information to decide on a surgeon or in some cases, even on a technique. CAMH does not provide that though it claims that it could. That doesn’t fall within its responsibilities and from what I can tell, it isn’t within its best interest to do so, as it seems increasingly clear to me that it would result in a greater number of people seeking surgery.

So I forge on, weary of what I share for fear it will make it back to them and could somehow be used against me or at a minimum result in a lengthier process. It’s been recently announced that the Ministry Of Health and Long Term Care (MOHLTC) has intentions of extending trans access to health care by providing some resources to add three assessors operating outside of CAMH to recommend people for surgery. This sort of thing does not happen over night. Few psychiatrists have the necessary background, even fewer have the capacity to expand their services in the required ways and the qualified people become scarcer the further away from the GTA one gets. Trans people outside of Toronto rightfully need an assessor closer to their home, besides one that will follow more reasonable standards of care than CAMH. But it will be a good year if not more before that happens. So I am sticking it out with CAMH in hopes that I get definitely recommended for surgical coverage ahead of my surgery. Wish me luck!

Photo: Shaun Proulx Media

I hope many of you are planning to catch the season two special one-hour opening episode of The Shaun Proulx show tonight (7:30 pm ET – OUTtv). I got a sneak peak and without giving spoilers, I’ll tell you why you’re in for a treat.

First and foremost, it’s the most intimate and revealing interview I have ever seen of Buck Angel, the person behind the devilishly handsome trans man porn star. I have seen and read many interviews of Angel’s over the years. Prior to seeing Shaun’s show yesterday, I found an interview Buck did for a Dutch show,  a good one because it went into topics and depths that are not permitted within mainstream US media. But Shaun dug even deeper in his interview, both into Buck’s past and current life.

The real treat for me was that Shaun did it without sensationalizing it à la Jerry Springer, as so many others have. Surgeries are discussed without Buck needing to lift his shirt and become like a specimen on display at a museum. Buck’s transition is well framed as part of the story, rather than the sole defining factor, and the medical transition itself made into the central climatic part of his warm and frank exchange with Shaun.

Shaun’s questions were a welcome change, refreshing, poignant, and revealed the day-to-day person Buck is outside of his job. I know many of Bucks’ fans will enjoy getting to know him as a person, not just a celebrity. Buck’s is as always charismatic and candid, offering a trip down memory lanes both good and bad that reveal when and how he became the wonderful coy sexy porn producer and star he is today.

I definitely encourage anyone wanting to know more about Buck – whether you’re a fan of his work or not, and especially those who are not familiar with him – to check out tonight’s The Shaun Proulx Show on OUTtv at 7:30. It’s not to be missed. (Click here for a clip.)

I’m very excited about the upcoming Building a Fuller Future: A Trans Conference happening June 12th from 3 to 10pm at the 519!

I’m particularly looking forward to the stealth speed networking and I hope it’s not at the same time as the session on facial hair styling. I don’t do a bad job with the latter, I’ve come a l-o-n-g way since the first time I trimmed sideburns, but I’d like to know some variety. The handful of times I strayed from my usual, I came to learn there was more to it than a razor, shaving cream and warm water. I hope electrical shavers will be touched on because I’ve had two, and they were not created equal. I still miss my 1st one (it died a most inconsiderate death) and the 2nd one simply isn’t working out.

CAMH is jerking me around. No wait, that’s not new. But never under estimate its ability to come up with new and increasingly creative ways to drive people bonkers. In their defense, that’s job security.

Queer season is clearly in full effect with Inside Out and May 17th celebrations. It shows no sign of slowing down before Pride; I’m beginning to wonder when I will sleep certain weeks. I’ve been invited to volunteer at countless Pride regatta, fundraisers and the likes. I typically volunteer my butt off as my way of working around my shyness but I’ve decided this year to cut back some. I would like to march in the trans march this year and to attend a few other events as a participant rather than an organizer for a change.

I hope everyone’s well and surviving/enjoying queer season.

A classmate does a presentation on the gendering of math and science education in elementary schools. She gives two spatial problem solving exercises and times the class. “Do we put our hand up when we’re done?” I ask. In shock she replies “A clear example of a man who benefitted from the male-centric methods of teaching in his education.”
She goes on to say a bunch of bollocks about physiological differences with the way male and female brains compute but that wasn’t a reason to have women fall back in tests, blah blah blah. I shoot my hand up to challenge the load of crap but quickly realise what this requires… Damn it. I keep hoping a woman will finish the exercises but the 4 men in the room finish first. For the love of…
Every time she adds to the bunch of bull, my hand shoots up briefly before I bring it down. The woman who knows my medical history is struggling not to laugh on the outside but she is just about on the floor (literally, she nearly falls off her chair!) The presenter does not inquire about the badly muffled chuckles.
At break I try to bounce ideas off her (the one I met pre-T) to refute my finishing time. We come up with nothing so I call my best friend to make heads and tails of it but I am in such a state of confusion, I can’t shake it off. Back to class nothing resolved.
The next presenter starts by picking me to sit in the middle of the circle for everyone to observe another exercise. I am given the following instructions:

“You are about to go on a gender journey. Close your eyes, think back to high school. Who were your friends, teachers, role models? Now think back to grade 8. Same thing, who are your friends, teachers, role models, etc? Now go even further back to grade school. How are friendships formed? Between who? Now go all the way back to the moment of your birth. Pretend you’d been born the opposite sex.”
I try to “stay in the moment” as I’m told all the ways my life would be different had I been born a girl. The woman who knew me pre-T is now in stitches. It helps me to keep composure to see her express the laughter I can not.

Next there’s a presentation on toys. No one believes me when I explain that gender specific toys were a no-no in my childhood homes. (true story: no toy guns, dolls or equivalents) Five people demand I confess that I had boy toys and those taught me how to be aggressive, take risks, yadi yadi yada while the girls were taught how to be cute, adorn dolls in pink, so on so forth. My head is frazzled. It doesn’t know which way is up anymore. They interchange gender with sex while informing me of my life. I am expected to respond from an experience I don’t own. I want to join the muffled laughing to my right. I opt for silence instead of arguing further. Thank goodness there’s another break.

Time for my presentation. I pass around a teen queer anthology which features a piece of mine. Everyone flips through a few stories; they note the title down. One stops on my story. It makes such an impression on her; she nudges the two people next to her to show them. I witness utter shock on their faces before the book is passed along. Soon, all read part of it and replicate the same effect. None, of course, realise they are catching a tidbit of my past.

I can’t describe how it feels to watch others take in my former pains as they wonder what came of that individual. The future of the words on those pages is next to my peers, hidden in full sight. I am disconnected from my former self even though we are one. I keep watching their reaction. It’s all I can do; observe from the cloak of passing. Unreal.

My presentation ends. I sit back down and debate whether I’m betraying my history or honouring it. My head’s spinning as I simultaneously wonder: Who am I? How does anyone know? What’s my history?

All in all, it’s not ideal but I am pleasantly relieved by the direction things seem to be going. I’ve been immensely invested in this ongoing affair for too long that I appreciate the baby steps in the right direction and allow myself sighs of relief even though the road ahead remains long. Anyone interested can submit their two cents on the matter until April 20^th at www.dsm5.org. Once there click on Sexual and Gender Identity Disorders and you’ll see:

302.6 Gender Identity Disorder in Children

302.6 Gender Identity Disorder Not Otherwise Specified

302.85 Gender Identity Disorder in Adolescents or Adults

Otherwise, it’s fiscal year end. Like many of you I suspect, I am knee deep in report writing as well as review and planning meetings. I have been writing, editing and should have some regular entries with more substance ready soon.

Glossary of terms:

WPATH – World Professional Association for Transgender Health www.wpath.org/

APA – American Psychological Association www.apa.org/

DSM – Diagnostic and Statistical Manual www.dsmivtr.org/

NOS – Not Otherwise Specified – appears through out the DSM not just GID. It is for people who meet the criteria but none of the other subcategories. It’s a catch all umbrella expression in mental illness lingo.

A year later I went to visit my parents. My parents braced me for how much older my perrito had gotten since I left, from virtually all of his fur becoming white to the reality that his legs and hips could no longer manage stairs. I worried he would not recognize me and my heart would be crushed. Pre-emptively to lessen the blow, I reminded myself that my voice had dropped and my testosterone fuelled BO bares no resemblance to the person that carried him home and trained him all those years ago.
If he was thrown off when he first saw/smelled me, he didn’t let on. I made a point to sing the little jingle I used to containing all his nicknames and he did his little dance. Come night time, I gave him a treat and headed up stairs to sleep. No one could believe it as he insisted despite obvious struggle to climb them to sleep by my bedside. That dog has always known how to make my heart melt. He was the constant presence of kindness amidst a household struggling with my sexuality.

Back in Toronto, my princess was the unconditional love, acceptance and joy as my social world collapsed around me. I lost many friends during the first two years of medical transition. But my dog wagged her tail every day when I came home defeated by the world’s cruelty. At the worse of my depression she ensured I left my condo a few times a day to walk her. She gave me constant reminders that I could make someone happy despite the angry chorus that I was ruining everything.
I know it’s cliché but I must brag a little. She is both cute and quite the charmer. People that would have otherwise never acknowledged my existence found themselves asking her owner if he knew how adorable she is. (He does!) They did not care about my gender; they were focusing on learning about her or congratulating me on raising a well behaved cutie. She gave me good reasons daily to face the world. Whenever I forgot the interactions she unwittingly facilitated showed me that other things matter more than gender to many people. That dog provided me with more support than most human beings in my life and I’ve never had to explain a thing, put words to it for her or wait while she got used to the changes. She can never screw up on pronouns or names.

Yes, a pet (or more) can be rays of sunshine during the more difficult period of transition. The best part is that love, treats and petting are all they ask in return for being the best friends in the world.

A transguy recently complained that it was absurd how much easier it was for him to get a prescription for a medication he needs at most once every six month than to start testosterone, which would improve his health every day. He is frustrated that he must twirl his thumbs during a waiting list over 2 years long. It does not add up but he does not know the full extent of the ridicule likely ahead of him when he finally does have a prescription.

Here is a small selection of my growing collection of horror stories. In the days prior to learning how to self-inject, one of my shots fell on a week my GP was away. The substitute doctor denied my shot on the account that I was balding too fast. All of the blood work I have had to date puts my testosterone count within the medically preferred range, my red hemoglobin count has always been fine ditto with my blood pressure, cholesterol and liver functions. Based solely on the speed of hair loss, which in my case is due to genetic predisposition, I could not access my previously doctor sanctioned dose from a vial already prescribed. This incident coupled with bad experiences with trans-ignorant nurses motivated me to learn how to self-inject. That way I could avoid future dilemmas. Or so I thought.

Long waiting lists and trans-ignorant staff were the tip of the iceberg.  Pharmacies are the true beasts I wrestle. I’m assured they are well meaning and “just doing their jobs.” They make it hard to appreciate the “good will” or believe they’re “following protocol.”

I am bound to hormone replacement therapy (HRT) for the rest of my life. Given my stellar blood work history, my GP writes scripts with many refills. Pharmacies do not approve of this.  I have tried a dozen pharmacies, including the one that probably deals the most with trans people in Toronto. That one has been the site of the worse headaches. Every pharmacist reminds me that testosterone is a controlled substance. As such, it is closely monitored when inspectors come to evaluate pharmacies. At least, that’s what I’m told. This is the excuse used to explain why they cannot dispense more than one vial at a time even though I have no history of abusing my medication. These claims started to reek the summer I was finally able to prove a pharmacy had filled three vials for me but withheld them on site, one of them for over a year! I don’t know how often pharmaceutical inspections occur but I went from being forced off T for months to having three vials in a week. The inspectors don’t care if pharmacies fill the script and keep them lined up ready for pick up? Even when pick ups are denied for months on end, sometimes over a year? I’m missing logic here.

I only got the vials, after many threats that I would no longer be served, because my doctor sent a fax of script granting records following numerous phone calls where he confirmed that I was legitimately requesting more testosterone.

I have faced humiliation as various pharmacists raised their voices to paint me to others around as a ’roid rage junkie. Not to be outdone, one doctor did the same based on her wrongly reading the dates on my electronic records. After enduring an hour of displaced reproached and accusations, she did a 180 lecturing me on the need to adhere to a regular dose schedule when she realised I was late in getting the refill. Sometimes I wonder if these people hear themself as they issue their condescending hypocritical and wholly displaced crap.

Getting the prescription written is the easy part. If I go in and a pharmacy’s records show I have more than 1 shot left, then I am ineligible for a refill. I explain calmly and politely that I travel a lot and I’m busy working multiple jobs so I’m not able to come back before I run out but to no avail. I’d chalk some of this to being relatively young and transphobia but…

For three years I took very strong medication for chronic pain management. This drug has significant (and well known) side effects on certain brain functions. None the less, every time I went in for testosterone and was denied, they would “consol” me by handing me an unrequested refill of the brain altering pain med. Mind boggling. Another med I had to take briefly has a documented history of potentially causing dependence was issued without anyone batting an eyelash and more than was approved by my doc! Pharmacists don’t mind that I become a junkie after all, as long as it’s with medication that scrambles my brain instead of the stuff that improves my mental health.

And I haven’t touched on inconsistencies in the product make-up (and more importantly, the futile attempts to bring this to pharmacists’ attention). Or the trials and tribulations of getting injection supplies. Or specialists and surgeons’ twisted take on trans people’s HRT. Or why I prefer injections to alternative forms of absorbing testosterone. But those are posts unto themselves. It is clear to me there needs to be more clinics with trans knowledgeable GPs so trans folks stop waiting years to improve their mental health. But just as much, we need pharmacies that don’t override GPs ‘scripts for no good reason.

My top priorities are size and ability to pee out of my dick. A close third is least visible scars as possible. Other priorities that can be more important for other guys include erotic sensation, number of procedures (their toll on body and mind), existing tattoos and scars placements (when deciding donor site, though this is not a concern to all) as well as cost. There are also with all donor sites potential complications (in terms of swelling, grafts not taking, and so on) and it is wise to factor in where one is more wiling or able to handle that. (e.g. I need maximum dexterity in my wrist but I’m not as concerned with my thigh given my lifestyle and hobbies) Also, each procedure (the forming of the phallus, glandplasty, u hook-up, testicular implants and stiffener) comes with potential complications, and not everyone has the same comfort level with those individual risks. In short, not everyone getting bottom surgery gets “the works” even if they can afford it and on some level want it.

There is no “best” procedure for all transmen. There is the better alternative according to your preferences, circumstances and resources. Very closely tied to this is: these are our dicks. They are parts of our bodies, for some the most important one. There are many good reasons not to undergo surgeries (besides it being financially free) just as there are for getting procedure X or Y. People need to be supported for their choices and when applicable, supported to have the ability to make a choice.

I began to see psychs in order to meet certain surgeons requirements and to get letters of support in 2006. I had to be evaluated by CAMH to qualify for OHIP coverage. I have seen all the shrinks I need and letters are signed. *phew* I have sorted out financing the portion I must pay. I will not be discussing those details here but I mention it as financing is a huge barrier for most people wanting bottom surgery even with the coverage possible under OHIP.

I had my first consultation with one of the surgeons I considered in 2008. Two years later, through changes outside my life (i.e. insurance coverage changing, surgeon retirement, malpractice suit), my discussions with the surgeons and changes in my life, it’s come down to two potentials. One is in the US the other in Europe. I am on the lengthy waiting list for the European team for one technique and I meet with the US surgeon offering a different technique next month to (hopefully) make my final decision (and get on his much shorter waiting list).

Why must I travel outside Canada? There are no surgeons who do phallos in this province. There’s a surgical team in Quebec but it only offers the radial forearm phallo and metoidoiplasty (aka meta). Meta offers marginal additional size and the radial forearm technique comes with the more visible scar. There’s a surgeon in Vancouver but he has difficulty getting OR time.  OHIP’s coverage is not the same for all surgeons so besides having to fork over many thousand dollars for surgery, I will have to cover full travel and accommodation costs.

The first difference between the two surgeons/techniques I am considering is the donor site. Once I have decided definitely which surgeon/technique I want, I can start getting electrolysis on the appropriate donor site. I love my fur but I do not want any on my dick or growing inside my extended urethra. Given my hairiness, I will have to start this as soon as I have made a final decision.

With the different waiting lists at play, if I go to the US, I could have the first surgery as early as November and if I go with the European team that could be as early as December. Either way I will not be done the surgical process this year but I will end 2010 in a body noticeably different than present. Woohoo!

There are those worried that their packers will become suspect and result in strip searches. Others are concerned that the liquid in their erectile devices will get them similar fates if not worse unless they start carrying around the surgical letter explaining which device they have inside their bodies. All around, there is anxiety about these scans disclosing their medical history.

Interestingly, many are suggesting to pre-operative guys not pack as a solution. If these machines really are as detailed as I understand them to be, I can think of fewer things that would alert airport authorities to one’s pre-op medical history. I fly frequently and always pack. I have had full body scans and never encountered so much as a question about the content of my underwear. I have a few theories. One: they realize what it is, what it probably means about me and conclude that solid silicone isn’t bomb making material or otherwise illegal/dangerous. Two: They don’t realize what it is/that it’s not attached to the rest of me and let me on my merry little way. And varying shades of those two.

Post-surgery, presuming I get an erectile device that utilizes a liquid; I cannot foresee why I’d fret about it. I am sure that between now and then, I will hear if they start strip-searching women with breast implants. It isn’t just trans men who get erectile devices, and as with the packers, to the best of my non-bomb making knowledge, they would not be the preferred way to try and bring a flight down in a concealed fashion. I hope customs officers realize the absurdity of worrying about whether I’d slice myself open to remove a liquid in a bid to make a bomb.

I have had plenty of unpleasant moments at various borders, including one for a country (not Canada) where I hold citizenship. I was informed that I could not use my passport because I did not present as my legal standings were at the time. I explained that I could not yet change my legal standings because of the country’s requirements to do so (I have been able to since) but otherwise, there was no law stating that someone medically transitioning forfeited their citizenship/right to travel. They concurred. I’m not going to lie. It was embarrassing to have 6 rows of people find out via rude shouts of customs officers standing at opposite ends of a large room that there was “someone odder than Michael Jackson.” There were lots of things that occurred that should not have but I got in none the less.

Sure, traveling has disclosed my medical history to various people (more so those who check my luggage in than customs officers if verbalized concerns are any sign of this.) But even though I go through many entry ports more than once, I have yet to recognize a customs officer or airline associate and I suspect the same is true of them with respect to me.

And so here I am, after long flights and many security checks, half way across the world from Toronto. I packed the whole way and no one batted an eyelash. I could, however, have done without the lady sitting next to me who shared far too much, wholly unsolicited, information about her relationship and sex life. Pity there’s no scan to ensure better compatibility between folks forced to spend hours on end next to each other in cramped environments.