Gender Grief at the Tailor
Adjusting to a new way of being seen post-transition.
Every time I go to the tailor I get sucker-punched by gender grief. I love my tailor. He’s a short Armenian man named Hamlet who talks fast and always knows the exact amount to hem. When I first started going to him, he would call me both “ma’am” and “sir,” and visits to the store would give me whiplash and gender confusion. I agonized over whether or not he would notice if I had “the bulge” in my pants, but thanks to my facial hair and muscles, after seeing him for a year he calls me “boss” and fist bumps me when I walk in.
A few weeks ago, as I waited my turn to have yet another set of T-shirts hemmed to accommodate my torso, which is an average size for a woman but short for a man, I saw a woman trying on a dress she wanted altered. It was a strapless purple gown that I recognized immediately as a bridesmaids dress — pretty but not too pretty, an impractical color, something that would measure up to the quality of a wedding dress and look good in pictures but wouldn’t overpower the bride, a reminder of their inferior status as bridesmaids. The dress flowed past her ankles, and she described her vision to the tailor of cutting off a strip of excess fabric at the bottom to make a “scarf” she could drape around her neck that would fall down her back. It was a genius idea, a creative way to use the extra fabric, and something I knew from my social media was in style right now. I watched as the tailor got excited, pinning and describing exactly how he would cut it, and how much, spreading the accordion fabric of the dress to confirm the measurements.
The woman in the dress seemed calm, her hair slicked back in a neat bun. I could imagine her standing next to the bride on the wedding day, happy to be one of the chosen to support her, feeling beautiful and maybe a little smug that her dress had such a unique accessory of her own creation. She wouldn’t have picked this dress out for herself but she wasn’t going to let that stop her from feeling beautiful, superior even. But as the tailor stepped behind the counter, the woman eyed herself in the mirror, with a look I recognized as “taking stock,” maybe noticing the features of her body that made her insecure. I was overcome by a desire to tell her she looked beautiful, that I loved her idea of the fabric scarf. I imagined her smiling after I said it, happy to have a little extra validation for her unique idea. Maybe I could make her feel a little less vulnerable while standing alone in a bridesmaids dress in a tailor’s shop in the middle of the day.
But just as the words were about to fall from my lips, I snapped back to reality. I had been imagining her reaction to my compliment as if I was another woman saying it to her, a feminist who supported other women, who wasn’t threatened by her beauty, who saw there was room for both of us. But she wouldn’t see me that way. I looked like a man now, and I suddenly felt aware that she might perceive me as hitting on her, or creepy, or both. That she might give me a obligatory smile, maybe even say “thank you,” but would be rushing to change back into her clothes and get out of here. My words had the potential to be a low point of her day, something she vented about to her friend or mom later, “this guy in the tailor shop.” Or, if she didn’t think it was creepy, if she liked the attention, what then? I was engaged and was definitely was not hitting on her, so I would have to make that clear, and then she might feel rejected? That possibility felt even scarier in some ways — I didn’t know if I could handle that kind of power. And as I stood there silently spiraling, she went behind the curtain to change, oblivious to my internal conflict.
A few years ago, while on vacation in Hawaii, I was post-top surgery but was still early enough in my transition for me to get both “ma’am” and “sir,” depending on the day. Alana and I were on a walk along the boardwalk, sun-dazed, taking in the hordes of tourists who were perched awkwardly on surfboards in the water, attempting to catch the little waves that were rolling in. We were absorbed in conversation when I noticed a woman jogging towards us, going in the opposite direction. I could tell she was an experienced runner by her stride and pace — and she was beautiful. Golden hair pulled back into a ponytail, she wore only a sports bra and shorts, and her abs were faintly visible through her tanned, slim stomach. She might have had a belly button piercing, but I could have imagined that. I was momentarily distracted by her boobs, which were bouncing as she ran, slightly hypnotizing, and my eyes must have lingered on them for a moment too long because when I looked back up at her face, she was hitting me with a look reserved for creepy men — one that said, “I see you staring, fuck off.” I recognized it immediately, because I had been giving it to creepy men since I was a little girl. My stomach turned when I realized I was on the other side of it, and I felt pommeled by a wave of grief.
She didn’t know that she caught my eye initially because of a habit from my teenage eating disorder days, of looking at women in sports bras with abs as a way to criticize myself for not having their body. She didn’t know that I still felt a pang of jealousy that she had a flat stomach, and could run fast on a boardwalk in sunny Hawaii. That I still had the unconscious habit of looking for the brand of a sports bra, because I used to have boobs bigger than hers, and even though I didn’t anymore, finding a sports bra to contain them used to be a torturous process that always resulted in a lot of tears in a fluorescent, humid dressing room. I always wondered if there was some magical sports bra brand I didn’t know about that would solve all my problems. She didn’t know that only a small part of me was sexualizing her, and that I still assumed that I would be seen as a lesbian, if anyone noticed my queerness at all. I thought I was being covert. That before I identified as a “queer woman,” I was a mature girl with the body of a teenager at 11 years old, and that walking around New York City I was cat-called every single day, multiple times a day. That the men’s sense of entitlement to me and vocalizing of it filled me with rage, that I only started feeling safe walking around at night after I took up boxing, and felt confident that I could do serious damage to any creep who tried to fuck with me. Sometimes I hoped they would try, so they could experience consequences for once in their life. The cat calling stopped overnight when I got my first short haircut. There was a part of me now that applauded her for telling me off with her face — she shouldn’t tolerate creepy behavior from men, even new men like me.
What no one tells you about transitioning is that every moment of gender affirmation is coupled with gender grief. Now I “get” to use the men’s bathroom — something that still fills me with anxiety — but I miss being able to use the same bathroom as Alana, a place for us to debrief in peace while out in public. I miss the feeling of safety I got when I saw moms help their kids into the cramped stalls, the volume of their little voices always making me chuckle. I’m getting married soon, and nothing has made me feel more gender grief than being a groom. For as long as I can remember, I fantasized about that moment when I would stand at the top of the aisle, while everyone stood and looked at me in my beautiful white dress, their faces beaming as they took me in. I always thought I would be a bride. That I would finally be seen — there would be no more questions about the validity of me as a “girl.” As far as gender performances go, becoming a bride is the pinnacle moment — achieving both visual and material success in being chosen (by a man, specifically), being adorned in something so special that you can only wear it once. I coveted that moment, when I would get to step into that role. I never imagined who would be at the end of the aisle — only the feeling of satisfaction, that maybe this is finally when external validation would make me feel whole.
I dragged my feet about picking what I would wear to get married. I couldn’t accept that I wasn’t getting to wear a dress — I was convinced that suits are not as special, that I wouldn’t feel beautiful, that I would just be a boring groom and no one would care how I looked. I was explaining my conundrum to Alana’s sister Raquel and her partner Gabe, and they listened with compassion and then Gabe said, “okay, first of all, all wedding dresses look the same, and second: have you ever been proper suit shopping?” On a visit to Chicago, Gabe and I braved the bitter February cold and headed to a Suit Supply downtown. We hadn’t made an appointment, so I looked around at the wall of different colored suits while we waited, intimidated by the handsome cis-looking men trying on their suits in the wall of mirrors. Surely I couldn’t look as good as them. Surely this wasn’t meant for me. As I was starting to talk myself out of it, a salesman came over to us, and asked me what I was looking for. I had a vague idea of colors and zero idea of my sizing, but he looked me up and down and told me he’d be right back with some options. I stepped into the dressing room and prepared myself for the usual feelings of overstimulation and self-loathing, but I was taken aback when I tried on the first suit and it fit. Like. A. Glove. My jaw dropped when I buttoned the pants — how did he guess my size? What was this sorcery? Are men’s clothes actually meant to fit your body? There was no mirror in the dressing room, so I was only going based on feel, but the second I walked out of the dressing room and saw Gabe’s face, I knew my instincts were right. As I confirmed for myself in the mirror, I beamed — this was the suit I was going to get married in. I tried on a few different options, but nothing compared to the first one (Gabe’s faces were a dead giveaway). I made an appointment at the Suit Supply in LA to get the suit custom-made for me, and a few months later, it’s hanging in a garment bag in our closet. To honor my “bride dreams,” I told Alana I want it to be a surprise for the day we get married. She’s happy to let me be the bride. And she identifies more with the role of “groom” — less attention on her, less stress about the details. She just gets to show up. It’s perfect.
When I was visiting my parents, I asked my mom to help me complete my outfit — with a piece of her wedding dress. She had saved it all these years, in case she had a daughter who wanted to wear it, and while that ship sailed a long time ago, I did want part of it. We took it out of the box, laughing as we tried to zip my mom into it, and as I watched her twirl around on the deck in the faded silk, the flowers on the veil falling to the ground, the fantasy fell away for me, too. I could feel how sentimental the dress was, but I could also see how silly it was. It was just a dress. With my mom’s approval, I took scissors to the skirt, and brought the fabric to the tailor to ask him to make me a pocket square that I could put in the pocket of my wedding suit. While I was there, a couple behind me overheard that I was getting married in a few weeks, and the woman asked me the date. She was getting married a few days before me, and as we exchanged congratulations she said, “that’s such a good idea, to turn the dress into the pocket square.” I smiled and said thank you, and then without thinking, added, “I wanted to find a way to honor the dress without wearing it.” I saw a brief moment of confusion cross her face and she sort of laughed, and I realized she thought I was joking. Why would this man wear his mom’s wedding dress? I chuckled to myself as I left the store, feeling not grief, but joy.
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