Boy Toys: Virtual Reality

Several days ago I woke up with the vivid remnants of a dream that I immediately knew would be ingrained in my memory for the rest of my life. I have only had a handful of these dreams in my young life. The strongest two so far are from my young childhood: the re-occurring dream where my parents were killed by mobsters and the heroic tale of me fighting crime with my cape and make-up clad superhero dog, Cheyenne. Last week’s dream joined the growing body of dreams that have reinforced of the peace my subconscious has established concerning my transition.

Scene: Potentially one of the music camps I attended in my classical heyday. I was seventeen again, long hair, feminine appearance and all.

My old boyfriend, Alan, and I were catching up and in the midst of it I sat him down, looked him in the eye and told him that I am transgender. He was confused, and who wouldn’t be when those words break from the glossy lips of femme incarnate. In true dream time lapse, confusion turned into anger turned into acceptance. We chatted the whole way through it and left the site of our conversation to go play paint ball. Great success. Some time after this I found myself back at what I knew in the dream to be my parents’ house. I walked into the living room that was an American west style of huge, every inch paneled in dark woods and brown granite. A fire roared in a fire place in front of which my mother sat on the couch. As I moved towards her, I noticed a suitcase full of what society tells us to be boys’ toys. They had such an intimate sense of familiarity and I rooted through them in nostalgic ecstasy. One toy looked like the handset of the backpack model of super soaker that I had as a kid. In the dream though, it was understated video game that projected a full screen display when aimed at a blank surface. Standing next to my mother I held the gun and aimed it above the fireplace, beaming as it rendered a more advanced version of Galaga. I played for what seemed like hours. My mother looked over “I don’t understand why you’re like this. I don’t know what happened.” Without missing a beat I replied, “Mom, we’re just really different and you need to accept that.” “Okay,” she said. “You’re right.”

And how! This is why we call them dreams! I sent the last letter I posted to my parents a few days ago but I can guarantee that our subsequent conversations will not be as those in my dreams. In the past few weeks I have had more dreams than I can count about being transgender. Sometimes I tell people about what it means to me, sometimes I just stick up for myself, and sometimes I remind myself that I am the exact same person I was five years ago, just with shorter hair, a flatter chest, and a greater sense of self-confidence (oh and in a few months, a bachelor’s degree). My subconscious is doing a fabulous job of digesting and affirming my identity and it is dreams like this that really inspire me.

My parents will be coming to visit next weekend and it is probable that I will share this dream with them. I have the next five days to determine how I will package my life to present to them. A sparkley bow will be added appropriately. It will be interesting to have them in tow when running into friends who respect and embrace my identity. They plan on being here for about two days which is their norm. They once came in for exactly twenty-four hours; it’s nice to know they find their visits as enjoyable as I do. Hopefully we will be able to spend some quality time together and verbalize our conversations about my transition that have only been expressed on paper so far. Hopefully we won’t spend the two days yelling and crying at each other. Hopefully my friends will be available for hugs upon their departure.

In this respect, l remind myself of the credo under which I have been shaping my life; cultivate your own garden. Some things will always be out of my control but I will do my darndest to encourage them to bear the sweetest fruits.


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