One Girl Revolution

So I'm back. I published a note ("My Coming out Story") awhile back about coming out of the closet, a story that I hoped to publish but never did. Well, after much reflection and heartache, I am now living as a mtf transgender and this is my story, and it will be made public tomorrow...

One Girl Revolution:
A Story of Perseverance
The Biography of Taylore Nguyen
Dedicated to my mom, my hero, my best friend

Once upon a time, two decades ago, a very special girl was born unto the world. Early by nearly three months and dangerously underweight, it was a miracle that she survived her mother’s pregnancy. She, however, was also tenacious and resilient, determined to overcome her difficult circumstances and the obstacles which continue to plague her life. At five, she faced the harsh reality of her premature birth, held back in kindergarten for delayed mental development. At fourteen, she nearly drowned, the would-be-victim of a water ride gone bad. These events, though, were of no comparison to her most significant hindrance—she was born in the wrong body. Biologically male, her parents and teachers were concerned with her gravitation towards dolls and dresses, typical facets of the opposite gender. Unfortunately, as she grew older, as she endured teasing from her peers and religious condemnation from her superiors, she was forced to hide in the recesses of a pink-painted room and a mountain of Barbies. Life, however, would become exponentially worse, as she struggled to suppress her misconstrued gender identity, but steadfast and hopeful, she wanted to bear her burden and find an absolution to her misery. Prevailing over most of her initial impediments, she eventually rose to the top of her class, was accepted into a gifted and talented program, and became an excellent swimmer. Sadly, however, her transgender tendencies would not cease. Alone, ashamed, and hurt, she lapsed into depression, developing a profound self-hated, behind the façade of a forced smile. Now, at twenty, she has made a choice; she has chosen to make a complete transition to the opposite sex. I am that girl, and I want to share my story and do what I can to educate an uninformed society.


In this world, there are two types of people: people that love you and people that hate you. I have been living a lie for nearly twenty years, eager for an answer that could only be found within myself. In making this decision, I realize that losing family and friends is inevitable; hurtful things will be said and my life, from this point on, will test my patience as well as my physical and mental strength. I have stayed unhappy for too long, but I am willing to take the necessary risks to make the change; despising my existence has produced unbearable torment. I have cried the last of my tears over this issue, and I am ready to take the next step forward, with or without my family and friends. Personally, it is not about becoming a woman; it is about being a woman, the girl that has always been fighting for life within the confines of my body. Moreover, I am not, as a transsexual, any less of a human being; I am still passionate about my Christian faith, and I have the same interests as I had before. I am still Isaac Nguyen on the inside, but I am now living a life that is more fulfilling and meaningful. More importantly, if not most important, I do not think I was a mistake. I believe that this will not only be my attempt at changing my family and friends’ perceptions of the transgender community, but it will give me the opportunity to revolutionize the world. I will promote peace, unity, and, above all, tolerance for my fellow man and woman.


Psychologically, I suffer from Gender Dysphoria—an extreme dissatisfaction with one’s original sex. Yes, that means that transgenderism, also known as gender identity disorder, is considered to be a mental impairment. From the moment I tried to walk to my first day of school in my mother’s high heeled shoes, to the time, in third grade, when I begged my teacher to let me change my costume from “Billy” to “Betty” in our production of “The Billy Goat’s Gruff,” I had been the victim of a documented medical condition. Furthermore, as I tell my story, as I open wounds, I hope that my readers will be able to understand that my disorder is not a mental fabrication that I invented spontaneously—I did not wake up one day and decide that I wanted to become a woman; I have always been one.


As a child, before I was able to distinguish (sexually) between a boy and a girl, I was ignorant to the gender norms constituted by society. At the initial stages of my education, I considered myself to be an “outie” while the girls I identified with were “innies,” and I was convinced, at that time, that my physiological dilemma would eventually work itself out. One day, I believed, I would transform into the girl that I was supposed to be, but, to my dismay, that day never arrived. What is more, as my education progressed, I was becoming more consumed with my fantasies, daydreams in which I would be whisked away by the handsome prince I had seen on the Disney movies I had grown to adore. I longed for a fairy tale ending, to be a princess and to frolic in a field of daisies without a care in the world. The more, I openly expressed my desire to trade my breeches for a blouse, however, the more concerned those around me, especially my parents, became. In fourth grade, to my surprise, I saw my Barbies sold to the brat next door, and, with that, at least to my mom and dad, the end of my days as the little boy standing in the living room with a fairy suit on and curlers in his hair. This was far form the end though.


By the time I was in middle school, I learned that "gay" was no longer just a reference to that one song on “West Side Story” and that it had nothing to do with being "happy." Transgender people, I was told, were “freaks of nature,” rebels to implicit gender roles. People criticized the way I talked, behaved, and dressed, and for first time, I really felt that my life was a mistake. “Isaac, your favorite color can't be pink; Isaac, you can't wear that shirt; Isaac, you write too neat.” It seemed like all that defined who I was, all that made me unique, was wrong. Bullying was enough to make me lie, and when confronted with the "Are you gay or straight?" question, I would reply that I was straight, that I liked girls, and that I was not the raging homosexual they made me out to be. Besides that, I could not betray my religion or my parents. Mom and Dad had sacrificed too much for me to end up disappointing them, and the thought of deceiving my faith was devastating.


I reached a point, in my life, where I believed that being gay or transgender was equivalent to being a Satanist. After all, it was “Adam and Eve” not “Adam and Steve,” and the idea of manipulating my body in anyway was unacceptable. In any case, I left middle school giving the impression of being the sensitive, not into girls yet guy; People liked me, and I was convinced that by the time I reached high school, I would become the next metro-sexual superstar. I have learned, though, that metro was me just trying to avoid who I really was— a woman. I envied my female friends, emulating their behavior, and daydreamed of a time in which I could wear headbands, sundresses, and earrings; I wanted my nightmare to end.


The first day of Freshmen English, I entered with a light blue jacket, a textbook in hand. It was there that I learned I made a crucial mistake. I had put one of those light blue covers over my book—the ones you can get at Wal-Mart for a dollar—and had been questioned by a classmate about it. Then, when asked about my "valley girl" accent, I realized that I had entered the ninth circle of hell. That day, I decided that suppression was the only way I could save myself from the cruelty and humiliation I would be subjected to by my peers. One day, my senior year, however, drenched in tears, feeling empty and painfully alone, I confessed everything to my mother, taking the first steps towards a new life.


College was and remains a journey of self-realization. Heading in as a Mathematics major, I completed my first semester convinced that English, instead, was where my passion lies. It was a man in a pony tail—with an office that could pass for a dungeon in the Harry Potter series—that convinced me otherwise. College Writing Two, which I thought was going to be dreadful—one of those classes where the students pretend to pay attention but, in reality, are texting their boyfriends and girlfriends—surprisingly, surpassed my expectations. Lectures evolved into engaging discussions, as we explored gruesome topics: death, depression, and all of the other aspects which characterize gothic literature and film. The morbidity of it all somehow attracted me. Perhaps it was seeing and reading about characters that faced equally, if not more, tragic obstacles than me. Perhaps it was escaping from the normalcy of the world and of my other classes; one did not have to be politically correct, expecting censorship and educational ethics to detract from the subject at hand. What caught my attention the most, however, was the central theme of class and of the gothic: one who does not recognize and prevail over a particular inner struggle will be consumed by it. Suddenly, the gothic literature that I had read, the movies that I had watched, all started relating to my life. Was I, eventually, going to be the victim of transgenderism (which at the time, I thought was homosexuality)? Was I going to let my own inner struggle lead me down a path of destruction, used as another statistic to the rates of depression and suicide to which so many of those like me contributed? With these questions constantly plaguing my mind, I decided to research transgenderism and homosexuality, hopefully finding a solution to my problem.


As I searched for a topic that I could use in writing my fifteen page research paper, I wondered if writing about something as difficult as homosexuality or transgenderism would be, at my level, realistic. After I encountered Gwen Araujo’s story, however, I decided to take the risk. In October of 2002, Gwen Araujo, a transgender teenager, was murdered by a group of men after they had discovered that she was male; she was perfect for a real life analysis. After several trips to the public library, I found fifteen sources that I planned to use in my paper. All associated with gender-related issues, I was certain that I had picked the books, magazines, and newspaper articles that would produce a decent paper. To my disappointment, however, my professor, the one who had praised my other written work, expressed his disapproval with my finished product. He said that I had erred—I was intertwining homosexual and transgender issues when, in reality, the two were fundamentally different. Gay men and women are dissatisfied with standard sexual orientation but accept their physical self. Transgender people are unhappy, in most cases, with both orientation and their physical bodies, seeking to change their appearance and adopt the roles of the opposite sex. Subsequently, after learning the difference between the two, I wondered whether or not I had made a mistake in thinking that I was gay.


Reflecting on my situation, after watching a documentary, I came to the conclusion that I was transgender. All of my life, I dreamed of the day I would be a woman. I put on dresses, painted my nails, and made an effort, since a young age, to escape from the world of blue in which I was born. I was not only interested in men; I was interested in being a woman. My childhood and teenage crushes only made life more difficult, as I watched boys my age, boys that I had become friends with and wanted to date, become involved in relationships with my girl friends, girls that, secretly, made me jealous. They could have what they wanted; I could not. In college, I faced one of the most difficult challenges of my life—I fell in love. He was everything that I imagined, everything that I wanted in man. He was smart, funny, passionate, bold, all of the things that any girl wants, but I could not have him. I forced myself to keep my feelings hidden, each day, longing for him to love me back but knowing that he never would. After dealing with the fact that he had found a girlfriend, with which I am not completely done dealing, I decided that it was time for me to turn my dreams into reality. I had suffered enough, and a broken heart pushed me to the next level.


I am now ready to make the transition to being a woman (getting mentally evaluated, receiving hormone therapy, and lastly, having sex reassignment surgery), and I am not doing this for anyone else but myself. I am done being concerned about other’s opinions. I am done feeling sorry for myself. For those of you who read this, who have actually made it this far in my paper, I ask that you open minds and hearts and try to understand that I am dealing with something with which I can no longer conceal. I have made every attempt to ignore and restrain my desires, but I can do it no more. If you cannot bring yourself to continue being my friend or family member, it is ok. I will do this with or without you. For those of you, that have decided to support me, I, first all, thank you; you are my backbone. Also, I am not asking for your complete acceptance; this is a big change, and as such, adjusting to it, for anyone, is a gradual process. For anyone going through this, or similar issues, I know that life, right now, seems hard, unbearable even, but together, if we stand strong, we can overcome our difficulties. Together, we can change the world. I ask for your love, for your patience as I begin my life as a one girl revolution.