It may sound sort of odd, but there are actually two Maggie Morgans. (After some of my previous columns [in enFemme, Ed.], I'm sure a few of you think that one Maggie Morgan is more than enough, but we'll let that go.)
What I'm trying to say is that there are two varieties of Maggie that live within me. One is Fantasy Maggie. She's the product of thousands of hours spent in front of the mirror, primping and preening, getting every red hair to lie just so, making her eyelashes just the right seductive length, mixing lip colors for maximum kissability. She's practiced every fashion model's movement to show off her generous curves, and a few other movements as well. She's extremely self absorbed and terribly flirtatious; a dream machine built for pleasure.
Then there's Reality Maggie. She staggers out of bed at 9:00 a.m., spends an hour and a half trying to get her body and her brain on the same page, bolts down breakfast before doing a fast makeup job, and wonders why her bangs won't lie flat this morning. She stands on the subway far more than she likes, puts in a full day's work, and usually eats at her desk. She does the laundry once a week, sees that the rent bills are paid, lives and dies with the New York Yankees, and, when she can lash herself to the word processor, writes these columns.
Fantasy Maggie is a lovely luxury. Reality Maggie is an absolute necessity.
In my conversations and correspondence with other trans, I'm frequently staggered by their conceptions of how women live. Life is a perpetual party, to be lived dressed to the nines at all times, a Senior Prom that never ends. I even get this impression from married trans, who have an object example of how reality works staring them in the face every day.
I suppose this attitude is perfectly safe, taken as directed, for someone who only crosses the gender line occasionally, or whose total experience in femininity never gets beyond parties or the occasional shopping spree. But if you harbor any notions about crossing the line completely, about living/working as a female on a full-time basis, you'd better know that it's a different world out there.
Having lived as a full-time female myself for more than a year now, I've become all too aware of how the real world works for women. I suppose that's why I'm less than tolerant of some of the most time worn tran clinches. For example, I don't mean to sound like an Andrea Rooney (now there's a horrifying concept), but I can't handle the prototypical classified ad from a tran who "loves all things feminine." All things feminine? What does that mean, really? PMS? Cramps? Being paid 75 cents on the dollar for the same work that a man does? Rape? You can't get much more feminine than that. I know trans who insert tampons into their rectal orifices to "feel more like a woman." Yeah, toxic shock syndrome is very feminine.
There's a definite point to all my ranting. Once you step through the looking glass into the real world, all the rules that govern your tran-life change. The fantasy figure that has served you so long and so well will not, cannot, function in everyday life. You're going to have to create an entirely different character for yourself, one capable of handling the most mundane tasks of daily living.
I hear you grumbling now. "Okay, Morgan, Ms. High-and-Mighty, get down off that pedestal. You're not perfect. Didn't you have to do a reality check on yourself before you came out?" I plead guilty as charged.
When I first began living as a female on a part-time basis (evenings and weekends), I was still thoroughly rooted in the world of Fantasy Maggie. Of course, I didn't see things that way at the time. As far as I was concerned, I had created my feminine self divorced from my no longer adequate masculine persona. I had all I needed to start living a female life, so look out world, here I come!
It even worked for a little while. I was so clearly comfortable with myself, and the people I knew properly respectful of the big step I was taking, that I had no trouble gaining acceptance at first.
It took a few months to discover that all was not well in Paradise. The people who had initially been so supportive began to cool toward me, and after a while tried to avoid me altogether. Even my closest friends were becoming rather testy with me. I was obviously doing something desperately wrong, and I needed to find out what it was.
The answer was that, in spite of all the preparation I'd done, there was no Reality Maggie but Fantasy Maggie -s exy and superficial, instinct without intellect. In my zeal to create and perfect my female self, I was throwing away nearly four decades of accumulated life experience as if it didn't matter.
By this time, I'd made my mind up that I would eventually live as a female full-time, and I realized that this problem would have to be corrected if I were to have any chance of surviving, much less thriving. I gave myself six months to make the transition and then set to work analyzing myself.
I questioned my motivations and goals. I critiqued myself relentlessly. Then I created a self that would integrate my past and my personality into my new female form. The end result was the Reality Maggie, a synthesis of all my aspects that affirmed my life as a continuum rather than as an abrupt, violent shifting of gears.
I'm not going to pretend that making yourself over is an easy thing. It's not. It's even harder when you think you've completed the job already. But the demands of the everyday world are harsh. They test the strength and patience of biological women day in and day out. In order to be acceptable within the real world, you're going to have to adopt a tougher set of standards than might apply in your support circle or at the annual ball. You're going to have to create a real human being, what I often call the "same great person in a bright new package." And, it really isn't that difficult to do, provided you're prepared to put in some serious time doing the necessary head work.
One of the most common fallacies among transsexuals contemplating reassignment surgery, even those who pass the psychological screening, is the notion that the hormones will do most of the work, and then the operation will finish the job. They've forgotten one critical point: adjusting the head. I know pre-ops, and at least one post-op, who have been living as females for years and they still have not settled into a comfortable everyday persona. They just didn't think they had to do the work, and now they're tremendously unsettled, wondering why they just don't quite fit in.
There are support groups that tell their members that it's not important to physically pass, just be content with yourself. That thought is admirable, but it's like putting a Band-Aid on a hemorrhage. What good is feeling content with yourself if you're not equipped to deal with the world in which you live?
Many years ago, Lenny Bruce asked the question, "Is reality what is, or what should be?" If you're planning to step out into the real world, it's essential that you prepare yourself for success. You have my best wishes, and crossed fingers.
Oh, by the way, I mentioned at the beginning of this piece that Fantasy Maggie still exists. She's sweet and sexy; I like her and wouldn't ever think of letting her go. But there's a proper time and place for her, one where her special qualities and turn of mind can best be appreciated... between the sheets.
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