This poem came out of the May 3, 2011 Poetry Fishbowl. It was selected in the
generally sponsored poetry poll. It was inspired by a prompt from
haikujaguar who related an anecdote about a transgender person using the changeling myth to retell their own story. This is the heart of all storytelling, the power inherent in myths and folk tales -- it lets us
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I know several (now) male transfolk, and often my reaction is more than a little envy. They didn't have the monster boobs to try to make disappear before they could become themselves.
At almost 50, now, there becomes less point to any of it.
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Alas! Indeed, not everyone's shape is conducive to change.
>> (A G cup bust just doesn't vanish, even if you're fat. I tried making a binder once, and it didn't quite work. To try to buy this stuff costs a fortune, too.) ... )
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I can wear a bra, just not one of those underwire torture devices. I mostly have to, otherwise I nearly smack myself in the face with them if I move quickly and sweat like a pig beneath them.
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It's still surgery, though.
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I guess the problem is: Why the hell can't I just have the damn things cut off, period?
I could get them "reduced" to a C, if I get the insurance company to admit they cause physical problems, then go through the psych foo foo to get them to graciously "allow" me to have them removed completely.
Even if I had the money, I could not get a surgeon to just plain remove them. I've hated the damned things for over 35 years. They make me a "thing" to most people, a milk cow, a sexual object, a freak on display. It's less noticeable the more I weigh. If I had breast cancer, I'd just opt for a bilateral radical mastectomy, and be thrilled.
Sorry, rant off now.
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Because that would mean giving people agency over their own bodies, something American culture often aims to thwart. The power is placed in the hands of (mostly male, white, wealthy) surgeons and psychiatrists. And that's not an accident.
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Some days the medical (insurance and legal) establishment makes me see red. I've mostly had good luck with individual doctors, but then again I won't stay with bad ones, but the establishment and the legal shit just makes me crazy.
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Agreed. As if any cissexual person could fully understand what it is really like to be stuck in the wrong body.
>>Some days the medical (insurance and legal) establishment makes me see red. I've mostly had good luck with individual doctors, but then again I won't stay with bad ones, but the establishment and the legal shit just makes me crazy.<<
You're lucky. My body and personality are sufficiently far from standard that there are plenty of things that would help a normal person but are either ineffective or destructive for me. And a handful of things that work dandy for me that are marginal or ineffective for others. It is all but impossible to find a provider in any branch of health care who will frigging LISTEN to me. They usually insist on treating the body from a textbook instead of the body in the office. So I only go as a last resort. Anything less than unbearable or life-threatening is better left to wear off on ( ... )
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