For more information on the Key of T performance, visit www.keyoft.com!

For more details about the research-creation project check out the website: www.keyoft.com!
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​​I'm a working professional who uses they/them pronouns. I created this poster to explain why sharing pronouns is important for everyone, not just trans folks, and to make people aware of some of the ways they can normalize the practice, like putting your pronouns on your business cards. Because this was a very first introduction to pronouns for a lot of folks, I did not include options, like 'ze' or 'xe' and focused on 'she' 'he' and 'they.' I'm a researcher so I couldn't resist including some additional resources on the second page! Some of those are specific to Calgary, where I live, and others are more general. 
 
I got a lot of positive responses to this when I shared it at a work event, so I thought I'd make it available more widely. Please feel free to share.

I was assigned-female-at-birth (AFAB) and began hormone replacement therapy (HRT) with testosterone when I was 39 years old, about 15 months ago. Every other week I’d draw the viscous liquid into a 3 cc syringe, wipe my thigh with an alcohol swab, insert the needle, and slowly push the plunger down. I started with only half of what is considered a “normal” dose and took about ten months to work my way up to a dose that brought the levels of testosterone (T) in my blood to within the typical range for cisgender men. This gradual approach was intentional, to allow the changes in my body to happen slowly, especially the changes in my vocal folds. I love singing, and while I don’t do it to pay the bills, preserving my ability to sing is very important to me. (For more on my decision to take T, see this post.) I started noticing some shifts in my singing voice about five months after I began taking T. Since then my voice has continued to evolve, often in unexpected ways. Before I get into details, please note that the effects of testosterone and the timing of changes can vary a lot from person to person. What follow are my experiences singing through the first 15 months of testosterone therapy. While I don’t think my voice is done changing, this is what’s happened so far.

 Changes in Vocal Range 
 
I’ve been taking voice lessons with Laura Hynes for a few years now, beginning well before I started taking testosterone. The piano in her studio is situated below a tall window through which the late afternoon sun illuminates two large mirrors hanging on opposite walls. Mirrors are useful tools for singers, because they allow us to literally see how our bodies make the sounds we’re hearing. While singing is, ultimately, about sound, that visual input can be quite helpful. Unfurling a furrowed brow, relaxing a curved tongue, or releasing tense shoulders can make big differences in the quality of sound a singer makes. Having a mirror lets you check in on yourself; seeing your reflection provides important information as you learn to coordinate your body to produce the most efficient and beautiful sound you can. Before I started T, I could sing from C3 (an octave below middle C) to C6 (two octaves above middle C), the purple and red sections on the diagram below. Since then I’ve gained five half-steps at the bottom (blue section) and lost five half-steps at the top (red section). In addition to the top and bottom of my range changing, the transitions between my registers (or breaks) also shifted down.

Singing Range Pre-T and After 15 Months of Testosterone

It was a regular Thursday afternoon. Laura had guided me through some lip trills and humming to begin the warm-up, then asked me to switch to “oo”. We were making our way down the scale and I was focusing on maintaining vertical space and relaxing my throat as we got to the bottom of my range. Laura looked up from the piano and said, “P.S. …you just sang an A”. I wasn’t used to keeping track of my range, so it took me a moment to understand what she was saying.
 
“An A?” I asked, not quite registering.
 
She nodded. “An A, before the lowest you could sing was a C or maybe a B.”
 
Once it did sink in, I remember catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The person looking back at me didn’t look any different than they had at last week’s lesson. But something about me had changed. Up until that point I hadn’t noticed any differences in how I looked, felt, or sounded, whether speaking or singing, since beginning testosterone. People close to me also hadn’t noticed any differences. I knew starting on a lower dose of testosterone meant that the changes would occur more gradually, but without any outward signs of transition, I could only have faith that the hormones were impacting my body in ways that I couldn’t quite see yet.  Under my skin, absorbed through my thigh muscle, and transported through my body in my blood, the testosterone I had been injecting had been sending messages to other cells, directing their development and activity. One of the changes it caused was to add to the bulk, to the thickness of my vocal cords. And then that one day, in just a split second, I learned my cords had gotten thick enough, that when I brought them together and passed air through them, I could produce vibrations that moved a bit more slowly than they did the week before, I sang an A. 
 
But the person in the mirror was the same. I still had the same dark brown, almost black, hair, close cropped on the sides and back, longer and thick on top with just a few strands of gray at the temples. My face was still soft and round, boyish. Even before I started T, I was sometimes taken for a teenage boy, though I was close to forty years old. The smile in the mirror was still broad and warm. Thick, dark eyebrows framed sensitive, almost sad, brown eyes. There it was, something in my eyes had changed. Even though I still looked the same, I knew, now, that I was different. That knowing, that revelation, showed itself in my eyes. A brightness, a depth, an awareness. Something had shifted. Maybe it was just knowing that my body had begun to change that gave me a new perspective on myself. I felt profound, almost miraculous joy at discovering this change in my voice. My body was slowly responding to the testosterone I was taking, but the only thing that showed was a twinkle in my eye and an A2 sung in 330 Brooks Hall on the University of Calgary campus. Realizing that my voice change had begun was about much more than just being able to sing a step lower than I had before: it meant this change I had been anticipating for so long was finally, really happening. In the weeks and months that followed, I continued to lose notes at the top of my range and gain them at the bottom, but nothing was as exciting, or as reassuring, as that first time.
 
Changes in Timbre
 
While that first shift was an important marker, I came to realize that the changes at the very top and bottom of my range really didn’t make much of a difference in my daily singing life, because I spend very little time singing in the very high or very low parts of my range. There’s actually a great deal of overlap in the notes I could sing pre-T and what I can sing now (the purple section on the diagram). While I’ve always been able to sing in that middle part of my range, the changes in how my voice sounds when I’m singing there have made a far bigger difference than the low notes I’ve gained or the high ones I’ve lost.
 
Before starting T, I almost always sang in my head voice which was bright and resonant. In adult AMABs (people assigned-male-at-birth) the head voice, sometimes referred to as falsetto, tends to be lighter and more breathy-sounding. Once I started taking testosterone I worried that my head voice would change and sound more like a falsetto. But so far that hasn’t happened. Compared to before, my head voice sounds darker, richer, more complex, and, to my delight, I haven’t lost the clarity that I love so much. I’m incredibly grateful to still have access to this kind of sound. Also, I am absolutely loving the power and vibrancy I’ve gained in my chest voice. Singing there now feels broad and expansive in a way it never did before. It’s not just that I can sing those notes with more volume and more resonance, but it actually feels different in my body. Unlike AMABs going through puberty, the size and shape of my chest cavity have not changed because of testosterone, but it feels like I have more space there. The subtle vibrations I feel in my chest when I sing in that register, along with the fuller and more dynamic sounds I’m producing, are thrilling!

​I worked with a visiting voice teacher, Emily Greenleaf, a few months ago. She’s one of Laura’s best friends and that shines through in their rapport while working together. Earlier in our lesson Laura was at the piano while Emily and I used a wide plastic band to create a huge model of the vocal folds, her holding the middle of the “V” shape and me holding one end in each hand and bringing them together, to better understand the process of my vocal folds coming together. Emily’s laugh is sonorous, and the three of us had been doing a lot of laughing that afternoon, despite, and sometimes because of my unstable voice. This instability can be incredibly unnerving, though. The uncertainty of not being able to count on my voice, being so unsure about what kind of sound I’m going to produce, is distressing. While we all go through voice changes throughout our lives, the repercussions of experiencing this particular sort of transition as an adult and a singer in selective choral ensembles are different than they might be for adolescents, even those who are serious singers. We have millennia of human experience and decades of research to help us understand how AMAB adolescent voice changes work and to reassure us that while the process may be harrowing, a functional voice is the usual end-product. That is not the case for trans folks on HRT. Young people going through this change are also usually part of a cohort of peers going through a similar process at around the same time. Again, this is not the case for me. ​
 
Even with this uncertainty, I try to remember that negotiating register changes is a skill that can be learned, and one in which I’ve already made progress through practice and work in my lessons. It’s also encouraging to remember that those squeaks, breaks, and cracks don’t necessarily mean that I’m doing anything wrong. They are a normal part of the process and are, in fact, signs that my voice is changing. During my lesson with Emily that day I was using my hands to model the movement of my larynx while singing easy glides from five to one to five, when, as we approached my register change, my voice started breaking and cracking. Feeling self-conscious, I said, “It’s landing right in the fuzzy spot for me.”
 
Emily responded, “That’s good. Fuzzy stuff is great!”  Then, after a long pause, continued, “If you try and push away the awkwardness it just gets bigger. So instead, you just revel... You know, you can only be who you are.”
 
I nodded.
 
Emily continued, “And that means all the cracks and fissures. I, personally, think they’re the most fascinating part of any voice.”
 
Vocal Fatigue
 
Another big change that poses a lot of challenges is that my voice gets tired much more quickly now than it did before. A few things have helped with this. I no longer rely solely on group warm-ups and always warm up on my own prior to rehearsal. During rehearsal if there is a repeated line, or a line that feels too high or too low, I take a vocal break. Using healthy technique, singing with good breath support, and avoiding tension and strain are always important, but these things seem to make even more of a difference now. Most importantly, I try never to push my voice beyond what is comfortable. This is much easier said than done, though, because I love to sing. I want to sing. In rehearsal I’m surrounded by singing voices, and it’s frustrating to have to stop for a while, or hold back.
 
Even with these strategies, my voice is often tired after a full choir rehearsal. I’ve also found it takes more rest for my voice to get back to normal after a lot of singing. Like most musicians, the Christmas season is an especially busy time of year for me. This year I paid special attention to not over-singing and resting my voice as much as possible between performances, but in the last performance of that season, and for the first time in my life, I just wasn’t able to sing up to my usual standards. It was heartbreaking and sobering.
 
What makes the difficult parts of this voice change much more challenging is that I don’t know how long they will last and cannot be totally sure that they will ever resolve. There’s growing interest in voice changes among trans singers taking testosterone, but there is not yet much research. There are more and more stories of singers who have successfully transitioned along with continuing stories of singers with persistent vocal problems. I try to be optimistic and stay present-focused, but it’s hard to totally let go of that uncertainty.
 
Section Assignments
 
With all of these changes, when it comes to ensemble singing my voice is somewhere between alto and tenor. Singing alto all of the time is too high and singing tenor all of the time is too low. My voice does not fit well into any of the existing categories, and that feels isolating. The in-between position of my voice is often mirrored by my physical location in the choir. When we sit in sections ordered from high to low I am on the low-end of the alto section and the high-end of the tenors. I’m literally right in the middle, perched on an invisible line, with the altos and sopranos lined up on my right and the tenors and basses on my left. On some songs I sing alto and on others I sing tenor, but I don’t really belong in either section. I teeter on the border between the two, not really comfortable or fitting in to either.
 
Singing and Living Outside of the Binary  
 
The parallels between my voice not fitting in the existing structure and my gender not fitting the binary are striking. I am genderqueer. For me, this means that I am neither a man nor a woman. I am not part-man and part-woman. I do not lie somewhere between the man- and woman- ends of a gender spectrum. I do not move between man and woman. I am not androgynous, and I’m not gender-neutral or gender-free. I exist outside of the binary gender structure, and now, so does my voice.
 
Singing outside of the existing structure is difficult. Living outside of the gender binary also has painful consequences. I am misgendered and referred to as ‘she’ or ‘her’ or ‘miss’ or ‘ma’am’ every day of my life. I cannot expect that there will be a safe place for me to use the washroom. The washroom issue is magnified by a thousand when it comes to change rooms at the gym. When filling out forms at doctor’s offices, do I check “M” or “F”? When signing up to play softball, will I fill a slot allotted for a “man” or a “woman?” There’s no room for anything else. After top surgery, what will happen if I take my shirt off at the beach and reveal the long, pink scars on my chest?
 
Despite the risks and trials associated with living outside of the gender binary, the identity itself, being genderqueer, feels good and right. It fits. Discovering and embracing this identity has been revolutionary for me. I feel serene and strong and powerful and sexy and beautiful and handsome. I feel safe and vulnerable and open and real. It just feels right.
 
Singing outside of the boxes, though, that feels alienating and lonely. I want to be comfortable singing a voice part. I don’t want my voice to get tired part way through rehearsal. I don’t want to feel like the notes I’m supposed to sing are an uncomfortable stretch or reach. I want to have control over my voice. I’m tired of these challenges getting in the way of singing. There are only so many jokes I can make about being “trans-sectional” or “section-queer.” Poking fun at myself can alleviate some stress, but not being able to comfortably sing in any section and having limited stability and stamina are wearing on me. 
 
One of the things I love most about singing in a choir is the intensely personal way it allows me to connect with other singers and listeners. It is so intimate because we use our bodies to produce sound and every voice impacts an ensemble’s sound. In Western music, the role of each section is prescribed by (usually) written parts. Because of this, not fitting in to any of the sections is especially painful. What is my place in the choir? What is my role? Getting too wrapped up in an identity can be problematic, and it would be easy for me to ask to be assigned to the tenor section full-time, but that wouldn’t really make a difference if my voice is still somewhere in-between. This kind of not-fitting-in is especially painful because it is connected to my voice, something that has always brought me great joy and pride, and also because I already experience so much alienation and exclusion because I’m genderqueer.
 
I knew that there would be a lot of uncertainty in my voice change when I decided to begin taking T. I knew that I’d have no way of predicting how low my voice would get. I expected that the transition would include vocal fragility and fatigue. I knew that I could not know for sure, what that would be like, how long the transition would last, or what I might sound like afterwards.
 
Knowing that the future holds uncertainty did not prepare me to live with it, inside of it, slipping and sliding around it and through it. The doubt feels like a low, rumbling drone. Sometimes it’s louder and sometimes it’s softer. Sometimes, when my life is full, I don’t hear it at all. Sometimes it’s so quiet that I’m not even sure it’s there, but then, before I even hear it, I feel the vibrations in my bones and in my chest, and I know it’s back. Or maybe it never really left? It’s hard to know. Other times it’s so loud that it drowns out everything, it occupies every part of my consciousness, squeezing out other thoughts and ideas and reassurances. My eardrums pound in time with the beat and my ears hurt. My biggest worry is that I’ll forever be stuck in this middle space, between sections, with a fragile voice full of breaks and unable to endure a full rehearsal.
 
But then I pause, breathe, and look around from my spot right in the middle of the choir. From this vantage point, I can see and hear everyone; to my right are all of the sopranos and altos and to my left are all of the tenors and basses. The conductor is right in front of me. While my voice doesn’t fit neatly with the singers on either my right or my left, it allows me to float between them. Maybe I’m both, maybe I’m neither, maybe it depends on the moment. I pull up some recordings and listen to myself pre-T and today. (Check out this post to listen.)  Hearing the two so close together brings out both the contrast and the underlying continuity. At this moment in my transition it feels like I have access to the best of many different worlds. I’m just as happy singing the alto line in Palestrina’s Sicut Cervus (ca 1525 – 1594) with glorious resonance and ping as I am learning to blend my head and chest voice in Sorry-Grateful from Steven Sondheim’s Company (1970). I’ve maintained a three octave range. Despite the chaos of different hormones, thickening cords, additional warm-ups, and unstable breaks shifting and rupturing below me, I’m reassured to still feel connected with my voice as I sing through the cracks and try to embrace the fuzzy stuff.

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​Curious about what my voice sounds like?
Click here to go to a brief presentation that includes examples of my singing voice from different points in the first 15 months of my transition.

Dear Altos and Sopranos,
 
After singing with and among you for thirty-plus years of choral music making, the time has come for me to say “goodbye” to you. It’s also time for me to bid a final adieu to the idea of being physically able to sing the notes that you can sing so beautifully and with such ease. While I’ve sung alto for most of my adult life, when I was younger I moved between alto and soprano, and in the last few years have returned to the soprano section, on occasion. So this letter is for all of you, for all of us.

​I need to say “goodbye” now because my voice is changing. I was assigned female at birth and started taking testosterone in order to physically transition in September of 2016. My singing voice first began to shift in February of 2017, five months after starting testosterone therapy, when I gained a half step at the bottom of my range. It’s now May and I’ve gained a few more notes at the bottom of my range, lost a few at the top, and my breaks have shifted down. More importantly, though, the quality of my voice is changing. In addition to some new-found power and resonance in my chest voice, my head voice is sounding a bit richer and more full, but at the same time it’s getting less and less comfortable to sing in that part of my range. I have to work harder to find that clear, shimmering head voice that I’ve come to love so much. These days, when I try to sing there, I get fatigued more quickly than before, especially if I try to sing with much volume. My voice is cracking and breaking much more often than it did even a few months ago. It looks like my time singing treble is coming to a close.
 
While a lower voice has always been one of the changes to which I was most looking forward, it’s also one that causes me a lot of worry (see this post for more about my decision to start T). I worry because there is very little systematic information about how T affects trans people’s singing voices and we know that some people do experience problems with their voices as a result of taking T. Aside from being unsure of whether the changes will happen in a way that allows me to continue singing, I’m also uncertain about what it will actually be like to have a lower voice. What will this voice sound like? What will it feel like to hear a totally different sound coming from my body? Will it come to be familiar and feel like mine, or will I be a stranger to myself? And then, of course, I have to contend with the fact that I will, eventually, lose my head voice, a notion that is totally alien to me. I just can’t imagine what singing will be if it’s not singing in my head voice. Yes, I’ll likely gain a falsetto range and my chest voice will expand and get more powerful, but I’m still losing something, and that uncertainty is frightening. I started to wonder about what it would be like to lose my head voice and how much longer I’d be singing alto before I even began testosterone therapy. I questioned whether every performance and every recording would be my last as an alto.
 
I spent the first several months of testosterone therapy mourning in anticipation of a loss I hadn’t even experienced yet. It’s not a practice I’d recommend. More recently I’ve been trying to focus, instead, on the beautiful musical moments that are happening all the time, to notice them, instead of agonizing about what my future voice might be like. To savor singing in that glorious, resonant space, feeling my mask buzzing and the sound pouring out of me. To wrap myself up in the sensations and sounds of singing with other treble voices, hearing my own voice reflected in theirs and singing with them to create harmonies. While I still do find myself sometimes getting caught up in fears about what it will be like when I no longer have my head voice, centering on the present has reduced that anxiety.
 
In the midst of re-focusing my attention on the present, though, and as I said at the start of this letter, it is getting more difficult for me to sing in the higher part of my range. I don’t expect to wake up tomorrow having forever lost the ability to sing anything above G4 or to immediately shift sections in all of my ensembles. It seems important, though, to acknowledge that my voice transition is beginning. I’m not anticipating a future loss, but am fully acknowledging and experiencing my present. That includes embracing the sadness that comes with a radical change in the voice I have known for decades.
 
For me, mourning this loss also means expressing my gratitude to my fellow treble singers. I’m grateful for all of the time I’ve spent making music as one of you. I’m grateful for having understood and experienced the power and strength of singing high. I’m grateful to have learned that singing high is not a sign of weakness or frailty or being “less-than”. I’m grateful to have worked with you to show choral directors that it’s not just the boys who can move risers. I’m grateful for the things that I learned how to do while singing with you. I learned a little bit of Latin, French, German, Spanish, Italian, Swedish, Hebrew, Middle English, Swahili and Zulu. I learned to breathe deeply, stand tall, and always be grounded. I learned to enunciate. I learned to open my mouth and make my voice heard. I learned that dozens of girls and women opening our mouths and making people listen to our voices can be revolutionary. I learned how to listen, really listen. For all this and so much more, sopranos and altos, I thank you.
 
As I continue moving forward and trying to stay rooted in the present during a time of change, I imagine my feelings of loss and concern and fear will continue to surface. I expect that they will be mixed with curiosity and wonder as I begin to experience singing in the lower part of my range, and also quite a bit of uncertainty as this process unfolds. The trick will be learning not to get stuck in this uncertainty and all of the feelings that accompany it.
 
I’m reminded of a poem called “Guest House” that I’ve heard countless times in my mindfulness communities. It was written by the 13th century Persian poet, Rumi.
                       
Guest House
 
This being human is a guest house
every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
 
I’ve sung with you, my treble-voiced friends, and it’s truly been an honor. But I have to say goodbye now. When next we meet I won’t be singing quite as high, but rest assured that I will always carry with me the time we spent together.
 
Love,
Ari

How do you know if you’re a woman or a man? No, really, how do you know? This may seem like a ridiculous question. I mean, its one of those things you just know, right? You know it so well you’ve never stopped to think about how you know. Do you look down at your genitals or breasts? Do you check how long your hair is or whether there are any neck ties in your closet? Do you have some blood drawn to learn about your genetic make-up? Of course not! You. Just. Know. Well, that is not the case for everyone.

​I’d like to take a trip with you, a journey in, around, and through my gender. I’ll highlight some important moments and describe how I’ve made sense of them. This is a journey I’ve been on for the last four decades, and I want to share my story for those who’d like to know more about what it means to be trans or nonbinary. I also hope that someone who reads it might feel less lonely, less invisible, or more seen.

Gender is everywhere and shapes everything. It’s so much part of our world that we rarely, if ever, stop to look at it. This joke is a useful illustration:

       There are these two young fish swimming along, and they happen to meet an older fish
       swimming the other way who nods at them and says, “Morning, how’s the water?” The two young
       fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, “What
       the hell is water?” (Wallace, 2008)

We are (un)aware of gender in the same way that fish are (un)aware of water. Gender is everywhere, it touches everything, it surrounds us and we live in it, but so many of us are oblivious to it. Trans people are kind of like the older fish in the joke: We live in the water, just like all the other fish, but unlike most, we recognize the ways water shapes our existence, how we breathe it, live in it, and move through it.

Understanding Sex and Gender
When I was born a doctor looked at my genitals and decided I was a girl, I was assigned female at birth (AFAB). While my sex assigned at birth was “female” my gender was “girl.” A simple way to describe this difference is that sex is between your legs while gender is between your ears. Sex categories are based on biological differences like genitals, chromosomes, and reproductive organs. While many think there are only two sex categories, female and male, it is not quite that simple. Intersex folks are “born with reproductive or sexual anatomy that doesn’t seem to fit the typical definitions of male or female”(Intersex Society of North America). Some believe sex is ultimately defined by chromosomes and that everyone either has XX or XY chromosomes. But reality is far more complicated than that. Just a few other chromosomal arrangements are: X, Y, XXX, XYY, XXY and variation in parts of the Y or X chromosome.

When I say that gender is “between your ears,” I mean that a person’s gender is not dependent on their physical characteristics. Rather, a person’s gender is based on whether they feel like or identify as a woman, a man, some combination of the two, or perhaps something else entirely. Gender includes things like the roles, expectations, and characteristics we think of as “masculine” and “feminine”, the clothes, hairstyles, emotions, hobbies, and interests that are expected for men and women.

Many treat sex and gender as if they are interchangeable, that they mean the same thing, but this is most definitely not the case! If sex and gender were the same, then everyone assigned female at birth would be a woman and everyone assigned male at birth (AMAB) would be a man, but there are millions of people for whom this is not true. There are people who were assigned male at birth and know that they are women, and there are folks who were assigned female at birth who know that they are men. I use the word transgender as an umbrella term for people whose sex assigned at birth and gender do not line up.

Fortunately, there’s been increasing visibility for trans people recently. Well, at least for some trans people. Which brings us back to my gender journey…

“It’s a Girl!”
As I mentioned above, when I was born, a doctor looked at my genitals and said, “Congratulations, it’s a girl!” I was assigned female at birth (AFAB), and throughout childhood I learned that I was a girl. I learned by family and friends telling me I was a girl and by people using the pronouns “she” and “her” to refer to me. I definitely knew I was a girl, I have no memories of ever feeling like I was not one. I don’t really remember thinking about my own gender much at that point.

What I do remember is being very upset at injustice from a young age. I don’t mean getting mad when my brother got to ride in the front seat of the car, but noticing when people were treated differently for what seemed to me like no good reason. In elementary school I recall a teacher asking for some strong boys to move a few desks in our classroom. At the tender age of eight, I was very bothered by this. Why did she need boys to move the desks? Why couldn’t the girls do it too? At around the same age I remember my dad referring to me as his “little feminist” with tremendous love and admiration. I’m not sure what lead to the comment, but I remember wearing that label with pride.

Another early experience with inequality came in my friendship with two boys who lived next door. I was around ten years old when they moved in. They were about the same age as my sister and me, and the four of us spent hours playing together and having a great time — that is until any of their ​friends, all of whom were boys, visited. Whenever that happened they totally excluded my sister and me and would throw in some sexist insults for good measure. After their friends would go home, everything would go back to normal. I seethed. I was hurt and angry and righteous. It felt so unjust, so unfair to be left out because I was a girl. I understand now that this treatment was part of the fragile construction of masculinity in which they were already ensconced, but at the time I could not make sense of it.

The one way I do remember being aware of gender as a kid was knowing that I was a tomboy. I liked playing outside and sports, didn’t care about getting dirty, and loved my skateboard and dirt bike. I hated wearing dresses and remember desperately wanting short hair, although I was never allowed to get it cut as short as I wanted. At the same time, though, I loved my Cabbage Patch Kids and Pound Puppies. I enjoyed gymnastics and was very nurturing to our countless family pets and when playing with my sister and friends. Aside from my neighbors, all of my friends were girls. My older brother and I got along as well as can be expected for siblings who are three years apart. I do remember harboring a deep seated jealousy of the clothes he got to wear, though, especially his Members Only jacket!

Growing Up — and Out!
Then, somewhere around 13, puberty hit. While some trans folks have a really hard time with the changes that happen during puberty I don’t remember feeling very strongly about my body changing. I remember being excited about the vague idea of growing up and eager to experience what I saw my friends going through, but I didn’t really connect with the idea of “becoming a woman” either. I didn’t hate getting my period or resist having to wear a bra, it didn’t feel wrong or like I was supposed be going through some other process. It just happened.

When I was a teenager I started to become aware of the strong and smart women in my life, especially my mom. She was 12 years old when she came to the U.S. as a refugee speaking no English. But by the time she was in her twenties she was one of only four women in her medical school graduating class. She’s had a thriving practice for decades as well as an impressive record of teaching and mentoring while also being an avid amateur ballroom dancer! She has been the model of a resilient, wise, competent woman. Both she and my dad worked for wages outside of our home. My father is traditionally masculine in many ways, but he is also nurturing and affectionate.

In adolescence, my awareness of injustice and inequality, as well as my curiosity about how to understand these things, continued to grow. In another early brush with fragile masculinity, I recall a conversation with a classmate in our first year of high school. He was sure that feminism meant that “girls want to take over the world.” Not only was I baffled by where this inaccurate understanding could have come from, but I was angry that he was mischaracterizing feminism as a desire to subjugate boys and men.

Around the same time I first started to get to know out, gay people. The AIDS crisis was rampant and gay rights conversations were happening in mainstream media. Just as when I was younger, while I was well aware of the stigma of being gay I could not understand how anyone could justify treating people differently because of their sexual orientation.

As far as my gender identity goes, in adolescence I continued to be tomboyish. My uniform was jeans and t-shirts with very few traditionally feminine garments, with a few notable exceptions for dressy occasions. I wore the cocktail dresses, jewelry, and heels, because that’s what I was supposed to do. Looking back I never took pleasure at getting dressed up in this way, I really avoided putting much effort or attention into it at all, but I did what was expected.

In college I started to learn about the social construction of gender and the problems with attributing differences between men and women to biology. I was thrilled to finally have the tools to start to make sense of the injustice and inequality that had been on my radar for so long. Not coincidentally, I came out as a lesbian in my senior year of college. Acknowledging to myself and to others that I was attracted to women was a huge relief and very liberating. While sexual orientation, who you are attracted to, is different from gender, who you are, coming out as a lesbian was an important step in my evolving gender identity. The expectations for women to fit into traditional beauty standards and notions of femininity are more relaxed when it comes to lesbians, in some contexts, at least.

Around this time I remember clearly the first pair of jeans sold in the men’s department that I wore. A friend of mine had bought them for herself, but they didn’t fit her and she offered them to me. They fit much differently than any jeans I had worn before. They were baggier and more boxy. They did not accentuate my hips, waist, or thighs. I loved them!

My physical presentation continued to evolve and within a few years of coming out as a lesbian, I had cut my waist length hair into a buzz cut and began regularly shopping for clothes in the men’s department. Up until that point I paid little attention to clothes, but once I started shopping in the men’s department, I discovered that I actually enjoyed style and fashion! Gradually I became more comfortable in my own skin. For example, while my body size did not change dramatically, I was far more at ease going to the beach in swim trunks and a sports bra (a.k.a. the “lesbian bikini”) than I had ever been in the “women’s” swimsuits that I used to wear, even though they provided more coverage.

It was at this time that I first started to be perceived as a man in casual interactions. It did not happen often, but from time to time someone would call me “sir” (or “dude” or “bro”). Every time this happened there was a part of me that smiled, at first it was only on the inside. This was not about my true self being recognized, I did not long to always been seen as a guy. Instead, it felt good to have someone recognize that I was something other than a woman.

What I hated in these interactions was the flustered, awkward apologies that would happen when whoever assumed I was a man realized that they had made a mistake. I always said it was “fine” and tried to move on, but that was easier said than done. On these occasions the women I was dating at the time would be very upset about people thinking I was a man; it seemed that they were far more invested in me being seen as a woman than I was.

Over my young adult years while my physical presentation evolved I was not consciously questioning my identity as a woman. If someone had asked me about my gender identity (I don’t recall this happening), I would have reflexively said that I was a woman. 

During this time, though, I was intensely curious about people who were transgender. I did a lot of reading and watched lots of documentaries. This was the late 1990s/early 2000s, so while trans communities were not receiving as much attention then as they are now, it wasn’t hard find to information.

The stories I heard, over and over again, were of people who knew from a young age that they were the “opposite” gender from what they were labeled at birth, who felt like they were born in the wrong body: AFAB folks who played with toys normally meant for boys, whose friends were all boys, and/or who knew that they were boys from very early on and AMAB people who loved playing with dolls and wearing dresses and the colors pink and purple. Parents in these narratives described their trans kids as “rough and tumble” or “sensitive and caring,” as if these should have been clues that the person who they thought was their daughter was really their son, or vice versa. I heard about the intense emotional pain and anxiety they experienced living with bodies that felt so wrong. I learned about the extraordinary ways in which hormones and surgeries could change their physical appearance bringing them such peace and happiness, and I felt tremendous empathy for these folks.

Something Else Entirely
Over time I continued to grow more and more at ease presenting myself in what others described as a masculine way. A big step for me was shifting from wearing suits sold in the women’s department to those sold in men’s department for formal work occasions. It’s one thing to wear a tuxedo to a queer fundraiser but a very different thing to wear a suit and tie to work. There were a few ruffled feathers the first couple of times I donned my tie, but overall the world just kept on spinning.

I had been going to drag queen shows for decades, but I was in my early 30s before I attended my first drag king show and saw people assigned female at birth performing as men. After the show one of the kings said I had “a good look” and encouraged me to audition for the troupe. While I didn’t really consider auditioning, I did imagine what it would be like to present myself as a man on stage, to play with gender in that way. That comment touched something in me. It felt like a recognition of something about me that was not “woman.” Looking back on things, that sentiment, that idea, that feeling, that I was not a woman, had been rolling round in my consciousness for quite a while.
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While by outward appearances I didn’t perform my gender in a way most people assume a woman should, I had a lot of qualities typically associated with women. I love babies and kids, and for a long time I was sure that I would be a parent and looked forward to the experience of being pregnant and giving birth to a child. I am nurturing, gentle, caring, and empathetic. I am a caretaker for kids and pets and friends. Let me be clear, though, being born with a uterus did not lead me to have these qualities. I share this description of myself to demonstrate that having a “masculine” appearance does not mean that I only express qualities traditionally associated with masculinity.

I remember telling my girlfriend (to whom I’m now married) that the label “woman” didn’t feel quite right, but that I also did not think of myself as a man. When she asked what that meant, I said I wasn’t really sure; at the time it was more of a feeling than anything else. On some level I felt that I couldn’t be transgender because, in my mind, being trans meant that I had to identify as a man, when I knew that was not how I felt.
I noticed thoughts about my gender bubbling into conversation more and more often. I remember hanging out with some friends at Baltimore Pride and saying that I would really prefer gender-neutral pronouns be used for me, but that it just seemed like too much trouble to ask for. I was almost surprised to hear myself say it. Later that summer I had a similar experience when I told two friends I was thinking of transitioning physically by taking testosterone. Part of me was like, “I am?” But then I realized, “Yes, in fact, I am.” By that point I had spent countless hours online reading about testosterone therapy, learning about what kinds of changes it leads to, and about the experiences of people who had transitioned in that way.

In the months and years since then I have continued to explore my gender and create an identity that fits. Kate Bornstein’s description of herself as “not-man, not woman” resonates very strongly with me. Some folks get frustrated when I describe my gender as what I’m not as opposed to what I am, but the lack of words to describe my gender is precisely the problem. I am not a man. I am not a woman. I am also not a mix or a blend of these two categories, or somewhere in between the two, and I don’t move between them. I do have a gender, but those words do not work to describe it. The label genderqueer fits nicely, as does the term nonbinary.

In the last few years I’ve changed my first and middle name to more gender-neutral options because my original names were almost exclusively used for women and gave the false impression that I was a women. I have changed my pronouns to they/them/their, began taking testosterone, and am making plans to have top surgery (removal of breast tissue and chest contouring). Even though its been a few years since I made the changes, hearing people call me “Ari” and use “they” to refer to me still brings me joy. It lets me know that I’m being seen, I’m visible. I’ve not yet had top surgery and have only been on testosterone for a few months, so I haven’t experienced many physical changes yet, but am very excited to have a flat chest, a lower voice (more on that here), different distribution of body fat, and all of the other changes that will come.

How’s the water?
My nonbinary gender identity may seem incongruous with my decision to make these changes to my body, because the physical changes will likely lead people to perceive me as a man. That’s not why I’m making the changes, but if that ends up happening, that will be fine. While I do not feel like I was born in the wrong body, my gender journey has led me to a place where the body with which I was born does not fit me anymore. It causes me intense distress and anxiety. Aside from personal discomfort, my body leads other people to continually and repeatedly misgender me as a woman. A double whammy. So I am making changes to reduce my own dysphoria and the frequency with which I’m incorrectly perceived as a woman.

I realize that my gender journey, my identity, my experiences, and my choices about my name, pronouns, and physical presentation may not make sense or seem logical, but guess what? It doesn’t need to be logical. In the end, not much about gender really is. And I’m okay if my gender doesn’t line up neatly in ways that other people can understand. It makes perfect sense to me.

References:
Wallace, D.F. (2008, September 19). “David Foster Wallace on Life and Work”. Wall Street Journal. I’m not sure what the original source for this joke is, but a version of it appears in this Wall Street Journal article. 

I came out as a lesbian when I was twenty-one years old, but this story is not about that time I came out, it’s about a different time. You see, I learned very quickly that you don’t just “come out of the closet” once. Living in a world where being heterosexual and cisgender are assumed, if you don’t fit this mold and you want people to know, you have to tell them. Sometimes people figure it out for themselves, sometimes they don’t make assumptions, but a lot of the time, it’s up to you to let them know. Over the years I’ve developed lots of ways of doing this, for instance: talking about my partner by name and with feminine pronouns, asking future employers whether their benefits cover same-sex domestic partners, or just flat out telling a doctor she was incorrect when she said “I assume you’re heterosexual.”

In this coming out experience, none of my typical approaches would work because the person I was coming out to didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak Arabic, her native language. It was also different because we did not share many cultural references or experiences: she was over thirty years older than me, a devout Shia Muslim, and had lived in Iraq for almost her entire life. I am talking about my Aunt Miriam, my father’s sister.

My father emigrated to the United States from Iraq as a young man in 1964, while the rest of his family, his parents and grandparents, eight siblings, and many aunts, uncles, and cousins, remained there. The only time I met that part of my family was when I was eleven years old and we visited them in Baghdad. At the time I was a quiet, sweet kid. Traveling to Iraq and meeting literally dozens of family members for the first time was an amazing experience that I cherish, but I didn’t really have the chance to get close to any of them.

Fast forward twenty-five years. It’s 2013, I’m thirty-six years old, and my sister is getting married. My family has decided to fly Aunt Miriam and a few other relatives to Miami for the wedding. The family will all be staying at my parents’ house, as will my girlfriend, Kim and I. Aunt Miriam and the family are devout Shia Muslims, the women wear hijabs and everyone eats Halal. We wanted to be sure that they felt welcome and comfortable in our home. We decided to devote one side of the house to them. They had a bedroom, two bathrooms, and the living room, with a pull out couch. When they first arrived we took them to the grocery store to buy what they would need to cook for the duration of their time with us.

I had, of course, changed a lot from the last time I saw Aunt Miriam. In addition to the changes everyone goes through when they grow up, though, I had changed in a different way. When I was young I dressed in a way that I thought I was supposed to. That meant I wore skirts and dresses for “dressy” occasions, I wore jewelry, carried a purse, and wore make-up once I was old enough. I never enjoyed having to do this, but I didn’t object either. I was a very well-behaved kid, and if I was supposed to wear a cocktail dress to prom, then that was what I did. I also had very long hair for most of that time. Haircuts where one area where I did push back against expectations some, but even when my hair was shorter, I always ended up with a very feminine style. Coming out as a lesbian gave me the freedom to explore my gender expression. Within about a year of coming out I went from hair that reached past the middle of my back to a brush cut. I discovered that I felt far more comfortable in my own skin when I wore clothes sold in the men’s department. I’m not just talking about wearing a tux for formal occasions, but “men’s” button downs, polos, jeans, and shorts. (Finding clothes in the men’s department that actually fit is a story for another time…)

By the time I was in my mid-thirties I had fully embraced this part of myself, and wasn’t bothered on the occasions when I was taken to be a man. My family and friends all knew this was who I was and they no longer gave it a second thought. But Aunt Miriam and the rest of my Iraqi family was not around to witness this transition. Over the years we had kept in touch, mostly over the phone and almost exclusively through my dad. Every few months we’d get a call with a crackly connection from Baghdad and my dad and our family would catch up. These conversations were entirely in Arabic so I never knew exactly what was said, but from what my dad told us there were a lot of “we miss yous” and a lot of love, but not a whole lot of detail. They’d know how we were doing in school, how our health was, and eventually about our careers, but there were certainly no updates about me dating women or my shifting gender expression and identity. So Aunt Miriam was going to be in for a surprise when she arrived in Miami.

In planning for the wedding and my time in Miami I was unsure of how things would go. I realized that I actually knew very little about my Aunt Miriam and my cousins who were coming to visit. From my dad I learned the basics, their names and ages and how they were related to me, but that was it. I certainly had no idea what they thought about being gay, let alone non-traditional gender expressions. I found myself relying on stories from my dad about growing up in Baghdad, media representations of culture in the Middle East, my own observations about how my dad and our friends from the area talked about being gay, and my own experiences being gay and presenting in a masculine way. With this as my background, I wasn’t feeling very hopeful.

At the same time, though, I was very much looking forward to spending time with my aunt and cousins. This was my dad’s favourite sister and I had warm, fond memories of her from our visit to Baghdad. I remember her in the kitchen preparing truly decadent meals. I remember sitting to share those meals with her and a houseful of other relatives. I remember lots of hugs and kisses and “habibis.” Habibi is an Arabic term of endearment. It is used to refer to someone you love and loosely translates to “my darling.” Even though I didn’t know her very well, Aunt Miriam was my family and I was glad to have the chance to be with her, even if we didn’t share a language, a culture, or much of a history.

I’m not sure if it was my method of coping, but in the weeks leading up to the wedding I didn’t actually spend much energy worrying about how my Iraqi family would receive me. I didn’t know what to expect when we first saw each other after decades of so little direct contact, I didn’t have a plan for how to talk to them about who I was or who Kim was, I didn’t know how they’d react when I wore a tux as a part of the wedding party, and that all felt ok. I guess my plan was really to not have a plan. To take things as they came, focus on this special day for my sister, and try to appreciate every moment I could spend with my family.

To be honest, the time I spent in Miami for my sister’s wedding went by in a bit of a blur. In addition to the amazing gift of my dad’s side of the family visiting we had a 150-guest wedding to throw! Scattered in with the running of errands, hosting out-of-town guests, trips to and from the airport, wedding ceremony, reception, and pre- and post-parties, though, there were many moments of clarity. I remember walking into the kitchen in my parents’ house, having just gotten into town, and seeing Aunt Miriam sitting at the table talking and laughing with my dad. Tears immediately came to my eyes as we embraced. I was not prepared for the waves of emotion I would feel when I saw her again. I remember meeting my aunt and cousins in the church before the wedding ceremony all decked out in my tux and them making a total fuss over me! There were tons of “oohs” and “ahhs,” lots of gestures, many compliments in Arabic and English, and even a thumbs up from my Aunt Miriam! In the week following the wedding I remember going out to dinner with my cousin, Raghad, Kim, and my mom. Raghad speaks English fluently and during dinner asked how Kim and I met and how long we had been together. It was clear she, and therefore the rest of the family, understood that Kim and I were a couple. When I told her our story she was smiling from ear to ear, she loved it!

​Probably the most poignant memory was when Kim and I were getting ready to leave Miami. Aunt Miriam and the family were staying for another week, so we said our goodbyes at the house. In fact, we said goodbye in the kitchen where I first set eyes on her just a week before, after such a long absence. There were lots of hugs and kisses, lots of affirmations of how wonderful it was to see each other and how much we loved and would miss each other. When I got to Aunt Miriam, though, it felt even more special and deep. We shared another long hug and both of us started to cry. She said “love, love, love” over and over again in English and Arabic, and I said “habibi” over and over again and told her I loved her. Then she hugged and kissed Kim and told her, with Raghad translating, “I love you and I will never forget you, because you are Ari’s friend.” It was her way of telling me that she saw me, she understood me, who I was, and who I loved, and that she loved me. What an incredible gift. My aunt, a woman in her sixties who was raised in a conservative Iraqi family, is a practicing Shia Muslim, and has lived almost all of her life in Iraq, fully embraced me, the genderqueer child of her brother who presents masculinely and is in a relationship with a woman. This was one of the hardest and easiest coming out experiences I’ve had, so far at least. It gives me hope. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to visit with Aunt Miriam again, but I know that we have connected, she will always love me and I will always think of her as my habibi.

Originally published in GUTS Canadian Feminist Magazine: http://gutsmagazine.ca/blog/aunt-miriam

​When you type “FTM transition” into an online search engine you will find pages upon pages of links, including information on testosterone therapy. One particular genre of online resource is the “transition video,” a mostly DIY undertaking in which people assigned female at birth (AFAB) talk about and document their varied experiences taking testosterone. Transition videos really are quite remarkable; in the time it takes to microwave a bag of popcorn, you are able to witness the physical changes that occur in a person taking testosterone over the course of days, weeks, months, and years.

One of the most noticeable changes that results from taking T is also often most sought after: the deepening of the voice. While the potential of a lower voice is incredibly appealing to me, it also makes me very anxious.

The possibility of a lower voice is exciting, because the pitch of my voice immediately indicates to the world that I am a woman, even though I am not one. I am genderqueer. This means that I am neither a woman or a man. At first glance people may not be totally sure what to make of me, but as soon as I speak they decide that I am a woman based on the pitch of my voice. Constantly being misgendered as a woman is extraordinarily painful and invalidating. I am thrilled at the possibility of having a lower voice, but my decision to start T is not a simple one.
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My choice is complicated because I am an avid amateur singer, and we do not yet have much systematic information about how T affects the voice. I’ve dabbled in doing solos, but my real passion is singing in ensembles. I’ve sung in choirs pretty consistently since I was about ten years old. Looking back over the last almost thirty years of my life I don’t think there was a period of more than a year when I was not singing in a choir. I’ve been a sucker for harmony for as long as I can remember!

While all creative expression requires risk taking and vulnerability, singing is intensely personal in a very concrete way. I am, quite literally, my own instrument. I use my body to produce the sounds I share with the world. And an ensemble’s sound depends on each and every voice. Singing well as an ensemble is not just about hitting the right notes at the right times and singing in tune, it requires intense listening to each other’s voices and your own, it is breathing together, forming and transitioning between vowels in sync, matching tone, agreeing on emphasis, dynamics, and articulation, it requires connecting with the spirit of a work, conveying it to your audience, and so much more.

The work may seem demanding, and the stakes high. It is and they are, but the reward is beyond compare. When singing in a choir we share of ourselves in a very fundamental way and we support the other singers around us as they do the same. The mutual vulnerability and support inherent in coming together to sing can cultivate connections among singers that elevate the music making experience. I’ve had these sorts of connections with folks I’ve been singing with for decades, those who I’ve been rehearsing and performing with for just a few months, and even in groups that I only sing with once. Singing has fostered some of the most important relationships in my life. Through singing I’ve met, to quote a mentor, Tony Leach, “some of the best people this side of heaven.”
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Singing in a choir is when I feel the most alive, the most connected with the core essence of myself, with my fellow musicians, and with the world around me. Singing makes my life complete and it is hard to imagine my life without it. If my ability to sing were compromised, it is also hard to imagine anything else that would allow me to connect with others, to give of myself, and to experience the sheer joy and power of music in quite the same way. This is why the decision to start T is so difficult for me.

and tilt forward (forming the Adam's Apple) and their voices get deeper. This voice change is accompanied by a period of cracking, squeaking, and instability before it settles. Lots is known about AMAB voice changes because there have been decades of data collection and research into how this process works. AFAB children’s vocal cords also grow and they experience a voice change, but the change tends to be more subtle.

When AFABs take testosterone, we experience similar physical changes to what happens when AMAB’s voices change during puberty. Our vocal cords also get thicker, which causes our voices to drop, but there are some important differences, too. Often AFABs who transition increase their levels of testosterone from the lower levels typical for us to higher levels typical of AMABs, fairly quickly, often in less than a year. Wanting to see changes quickly is completely understandable given the gender dysphoria that so many trans folks experience. The problem is, the fast growth can be difficult for the delicate structures of our vocal cords to adjust to. Another important difference has to do with age. Because AMABs typically experience these changes during adolescence, they have more flexibility in their larynxes, and their bodies grow in size along side their growing cords. AFABs typically begin testosterone therapy when we are older, so our larynxes are less flexible and do not usually grow substantially.

The rapid growth of vocal cords and lack of room for growing cords among trans singers can lead to a phenomenon that Alexandros Constantis calls “entrapped vocality” (Constantis 2008 and 2013), which is when the voice is persistently weak, hoarse, and lacking in control and power. This is not the same as the instability AMABs experience when their voices change, because, in most cases, AMABs voices eventually settle. But for trans singers who have this problem, these symptoms persist.
What makes this issue worrisome for me and other singers who are AFAB is there is no systematic research about how frequently these problems occur among AFAB people who take testosterone. Initially the belief was that AFABs who took testosterone would automatically have lower voices and successful vocal transitions. More recent work recognizes that this is not always the case, though. Commentary ranges from the fairly measured:

           The present study examined whether the voice change in female-to-male transsexuals is
            indeed as straightforward as it is assumed. Results suggest that the voice change is not always
            totally unproblematic.(Van Borsel et. al, 2000, p.1) 

To the far more disconcerting:

          Professional or amateur singers and speakers should be warned that frequently voice changes
           occur that may be significantly detrimental to vocal performance. These changes are both
           unpredictable and irreversible. (Gorton, et al., 2005,p.59) 

While formal research is very limited, it is certainly not the only source for information about how people’s voices change when they take T. I learned quite a lot searching the web, reading personal accounts of people who were taking T, and watching those transition videos I mentioned earlier. It was really those blogs, pictures, and videos, what they showed about the changes that happen when you take T, and people’s experiences going through those transformations that got me thinking seriously about my own journey. It was there that I saw and heard countless people change before my eyes. They got more hair, fewer curves, their faces became less round, and, of course, their voices got lower.

These online resources also contributed to my concern about how T would affect my singing voice. While there are lots of folks who have had incredible and empowering experiences with their physical transitions, many have also experienced lots of problems with their voices and ended up with little to no ability to sing. That outcome is almost unthinkable to me.

Where Does That Leave Me?
Drawing on the tiny body of research on singers who transition and what we know about AMAB’s vocal transitions in adolescence, a few recommendations have been suggested.

1. Transition slowly,
2. Get support from a professional speech therapist and voice coach, and
3. Sing throughout your transition.

​Despite these recommendations, there is still so much that is unknown. How frequently do people who transition with T experience problems with their voices and how often does it go smoothly? Are we talking 50–50 odds? Better? Worse? How much of a difference does following these recommendations make?

I’ve been singing for my whole life, I’ve spent years learning how to breathe correctly and use my voice in a healthy way, but how much difference will all that training really make? Can the sorts of problems people who transition face be overcome by working with teachers and making a gradual transition, or does it have more to do with anatomical issues over which I have no control? Will the process be similar to what AMABs go through? How will it be different?

Having a lower voice would make navigating the everyday world considerably better for me, but am I willing to risk my ability to sing being severely compromised or maybe even totally lost? On the other hand, am I willing to continue living in a body that consistently leads people to misgender me as a woman? Am I willing to continue to be made invisible, to have my identity erased on a daily basis?
When making any sort of big decision, I like to be as informed as possible. I’ve read pretty close to everything that has been published about this subject; I’ve watched films, documentaries and transition videos, I’ve read articles, blogs, and websites, I’ve consulted with professional singers and voice teachers, and I’ve talked to friends who have transitioned. The conclusion that I’ve come to is that we just don’t know very much about how these sorts of transitions work. There’s no systematic information about basics like what actually happens to the vocal cords and singing voices of people who transition. No one knows how often these transitions go smoothly, and how often they don’t. And there’s no conclusive information about how effective the recommended approaches to successful voice transitions actually are.

​It comes down to whether I’m willing to take that risk. Whether I’m willing to go down a path that could bring my voice more in line with my genderqueer self, thus engendering deep peace and comfort in my body, but that could also seriously injure my voice, thus severely limiting my ability to sing.

Since I will be taking these steps and there is so little research on vocal transitions in trans singers, I will be working with my voice teacher, Laura Hynes, to conduct a study documenting how my singing voice changes over the course of my transition. We expect to collect data for a year or two, so it will be a while before we have results available, but I’m eagerly anticipating the process.
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References:
Constansis, A. (2008). The Changing Female-To-Male (FTM) Voice. Radical Musicology, 3.
Constansis, A. (2013) The Female-to-Male (FTM) Singing Voice and its Interaction with Queer Theory: Roles and Interdependency. Transposition, 3,2 -22.
Gorton R., Buth J., and Spade, D., (2005) Medical Therapy and Health Maintenance for Transgender Men: A Guide For Health Care Providers. Lyon-Martin Women’s Health Services. San Francisco, CA.
Van Borsel, J., De Cuypere, G., Rubens, R., Destaerke, B. (2000). Voice Problems in female-to-male transsexuals. International Journal of Language and Communication Disorders, 35 (3), 427–442

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