Help! HRT Turned Me Into My Dad
“And while I love the feeling of calm control and get from self-administering testosterone injections, I must admit that I am not quite of my own creation. I am made up of the people around me, I am made up of my folks who raised me, of my chosen family, of my barber who knows how to cut my hair just right, of queer stories, of every Butch Is Not A Dirty Word writer, of the promise of futures modeled for me by butch elders and even butch 30-year-olds.“
Before going on T, I often heard folks say that you should look to your father to predict future hair growth and balding patterns. Certain I could somehow sidestep this law of genetics, I vehemently disregarded any implication that I would become my dad. It hit me all at once, then, the day our likeness became clear to me. I was sorting through digital archives of family photographs, and I came across one from the summer I was six years old. I wore an oversized beige t-shirt that hung so low, only an inch of my bright pink skirt underneath was visible. For me, this was the height of fashion, in all its color-clashing and ill-fitting glory. My dad sat next to me in the photo, sporting a muted blue crew neck with worn-out denim jeans of the same shade. It was a monochromatic mess.
In a moment of karmic reckoning, I looked down to find myself wearing the very same sweater. Only now, its collar was frayed and its cuffs riddled with holes from two generations of our anxious, twiddling thumbs. The rest of my outfit matched his, too, with a near-identical pair of Levi’s. It was then, I realized I had become my dad. How strange it was to confront the passage of time with such force. Where before this blue crewneck was just something I fished from the back of my dad’s closet that one day I couldn’t find my own sweater, it was now an undeniable sign of kinship.
Most queer folks I know can relate to feeling out of place among their family. It can feel like a claustrophobic site, full of tension and, in my experience, overwhelming silence. My family and I, we’re not great with words. I wonder, sometimes, which phone call it was when my parents noticed that my voice had deepened. I wonder if they wanted to ask about it. But without the collective will to invite discomfort into our lives, these are fruitless speculations.
In the meantime, I foster our relationship without so many words. Rifling through more photo albums, I study our similarities—the dip of our noses, the way our smiles hesitate so as not to reveal too many teeth—and his idiosyncrasies become my own. My dad and I share our book recommendations over email—I am not convinced he even knows how to text. He sends me a link. Asks, “Have you heard of this? It’s about [insert any variation of apocalyptic science fiction scenario here]. I think you might like it.” I poke my thumbs through the holes of our sweater. The torn fabric is a reminder that we are quite alike, at least in fashion sense and reading lists.
I am lucky to have chosen family. We cook meals together and celebrate our pets’ birthdays. I am lucky to care and be cared for, and to practice vulnerability with my entire being. With my queer kin, I am loved in abundance. And while I love the feeling of calm control and get from self-administering testosterone injections, I must admit that I am not quite of my own creation. I am made up of the people around me, I am made up of my folks who raised me, of my chosen family, of my barber who knows how to cut my hair just right, of queer stories, of every Butch Is Not A Dirty Word writer, of the promise of futures modeled for me by butch elders and even butch 30-year-olds.
We queers have always been natural scavengers, digging through rubble to find each other and to make sense of ourselves. Our experiences are not the same. But witnessing how others embody themselves and navigate the world as butch adds dimension and context to how I represent myself and with whom I share myself.
Before going on T, I often heard folks say that you should look to your father to predict future hair growth and balding patterns. Certain I could somehow sidestep this law of genetics, I vehemently disregarded any implication that I would become my dad. It hit me all at once, then, the day our likeness became clear to me. I was sorting through digital archives of family photographs, and I came across one from the summer I was six years old. I wore an oversized beige t-shirt that hung so low, only an inch of my bright pink skirt underneath was visible. For me, this was the height of fashion, in all its color-clashing and ill-fitting glory. My dad sat next to me in the photo, sporting a muted blue crew neck with worn-out denim jeans of the same shade. It was a monochromatic mess.
In a moment of karmic reckoning, I looked down to find myself wearing the very same sweater. Only now, its collar was frayed and its cuffs riddled with holes from two generations of our anxious, twiddling thumbs. The rest of my outfit matched his, too, with a near-identical pair of Levi’s. It was then, I realized I had become my dad. How strange it was to confront the passage of time with such force. Where before this blue crewneck was just something I fished from the back of my dad’s closet that one day I couldn’t find my own sweater, it was now an undeniable sign of kinship.
Most queer folks I know can relate to feeling out of place among their family. It can feel like a claustrophobic site, full of tension and, in my experience, overwhelming silence. My family and I, we’re not great with words. I wonder, sometimes, which phone call it was when my parents noticed that my voice had deepened. I wonder if they wanted to ask about it. But without the collective will to invite discomfort into our lives, these are fruitless speculations.
In the meantime, I foster our relationship without so many words. Rifling through more photo albums, I study our similarities—the dip of our noses, the way our smiles hesitate so as not to reveal too many teeth—and his idiosyncrasies become my own. My dad and I share our book recommendations over email—I am not convinced he even knows how to text. He sends me a link. Asks, “Have you heard of this? It’s about [insert any variation of apocalyptic science fiction scenario here]. I think you might like it.” I poke my thumbs through the holes of our sweater. The torn fabric is a reminder that we are quite alike, at least in fashion sense and reading lists.
I am lucky to have chosen family. We cook meals together and celebrate our pets’ birthdays. I am lucky to care and be cared for, and to practice vulnerability with my entire being. With my queer kin, I am loved in abundance. And while I love the feeling of calm control and get from self-administering testosterone injections, I must admit that I am not quite of my own creation. I am made up of the people around me, I am made up of my folks who raised me, of my chosen family, of my barber who knows how to cut my hair just right, of queer stories, of every Butch Is Not A Dirty Word writer, of the promise of futures modeled for me by butch elders and even butch 30-year-olds.
We queers have always been natural scavengers, digging through rubble to find each other and to make sense of ourselves. Our experiences are not the same. But witnessing how others embody themselves and navigate the world as butch adds dimension and context to how I represent myself and with whom I share myself.
