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Miss Pa Po Ako: A Transexual Expatriation, Part 1
By Miss Ramsey
[picture_524][i]I am a woman, yes very much! And I am saying it with candor. If you deem my testicles more credible measure for my gender identity, censure me through your opinion but doesn’t make me a man, my heart and my brain doesn’t belong to my balls.[/i] [B]Expatriation can be tough for transsexuals,[/B] but we wouldn’t be part of the diversity, had we been made out of feebler stuff. For transsexuals, even applying for a visa, means swallowing what has been spitted right before your face. Some Filipinos working in foreign embassies in the Philippines can be really tougher than their own foreign colleagues. So queuing beautifully in an embassy is no use when they will call your name out or address you in the crispiest MISTER they can ever utter. What can their idea of political correctness do, when political impoliteness hurts us too? Here in Europe, no matter how boldly your name and gender are spelled out in your documents, you will be addressed in accordance to how you present yourself. [i]Mister Ramsey, your visa has been approved!!![/i] The man announced. Hearing this excellent news, my heart jumped but I had, at that moment, direly wished my first name were Elizabeth. I wouldn’t have minded the famed and profound ethnicity of the name and I would have gotten away with the unintentional malediction. To spitefully say “Thank You Madam”, to a good-looking Pinoy who holds my visa, wouldn’t help anyways, so I will forgive his being non European. I have my visa, what do I need to be so malevolent for? The night I packed my luggage, my mind was running in circles of numerous recollections. My parents were permissive of my condition. They knew since I was five, that their little soft spoken, kind and compassionate little boy is a she-devil in the making. As a youngster, I was so outrageous about my ways and ideas about being a girl. While they tried to raise the boy to be a man, they also nurtured and cared for the girl inside it. They were never attuned to the ideals of transsexualism. They were ignorant as any catholic bred couple, but they never imposed on me their religion. To them I was a special case that no religion would ever embrace. So my upbringing was geared up on becoming a balanced individual “no matter which state the child ends up to be” as my father would put it. In my 20´s, when my crisis was overwhelming, they started to talk me into having a sex change operation so I can move on with my life. They knew that I was feeling so stuck. This didn’t materialize of course. I was too dependent on them in making big decisions. I was too young and too scared of the negative hearsay about sex reassignment surgery. I had no basics of transgender 101. I just knew that I am a girl, period. I begged off it. My father knew I wasn’t happy about my decisions. He assured me one thing though, which had kept me fighting all these years. [i]If I could create a country for you, I would make one in which you can be happy and free to be yourself. You don’t belong here[/i] (referring to Philippines)! I struggled the next growing years of my hellish life as a man, at least legally, with the outward appearances of a woman. Sometimes it’s a cross-over between two genders. Conformity is always our nemesis. Since Philippines and its culture is an alien territory to our individuality, we have learned to juggle around compromises especially at work or especially when legal documents are concerned. We always have our joie de vivre intact, to keep us sane. But to expect myself waking up one day and realized I was a Man, was and always will be a complete Farce. I wouldn’t embarrass myself by admitting that that will ever happen. Let me spare you the drama of detailing this further, my father died in 2001. Two years after, all of which he had supposed were started to materialize. My mom, who has, in all sense, the [i]bading[/i] sensibilities, facilitated most of my final packing. Had she not have 3 kids, people would also mistake her as a transsexual. All of the “femininity” she can think of that I can bring, she shoved inside my bag: fake silicon boobs, all sorts of push up bras, bikinis, corsets. She may have looked poignant that afternoon [i]Manong[/i] (our driver) loaded all my stuff in the car. Somehow, there was this shade of triumph carved all over her face – but a toss up between letting go and short of saying I will terribly miss your blithe fullness(?). We were never a mother-and-daughter team who would engage too much in tear jerking styles so we went on with our regular bading gags. [i]O wag na iiyak, uuwian kita ng European, pramis!!![/i] I said. [i]Anong pramis, baka yung iuuwi mo, eh ikaw pa unang kumagat!!![/i] She retaliated in her typical Cebuano accent. My mom deduced that I might wail and lie on the pavement kicking like a kid, at the idea of bidding goodbye so I was sent off to Ninoy Aquino International Airport alone with Manong. Truth is, I was never even close to tears that day. It felt just as if I were going to my first day of University. I cringed in shame at every airport counter where I had to show my legal documents as male and grimaced at every single referral as a MISTER. At every body inspection checkpoints, I insisted on queuing at the women’s line. I told the female security personnel, I am a transsexual. She was kind enough to ask me to if it’s ok that she does a body check on me otherwise I could take the option to change lines. Even before I could qualify my affirmation, the male security noticed my identity in the passport and came forward and persevered on doing the body check himself. Buti sana kung guapo. Not only that, he inhospitably announced, which I’m sure was audible enough for the women behind my line to hear, [i]LALAKI YAN![/i] Array ko nag looting na, nag skit pa!!! Phrases like these make me wish that I don’t exist. If there were strings to pull just to flush myself out into oblivion that would have been a better escape. Isn’t life really merciless at times? If my genitals had brains, it could have slapped his face left and right until he turns blue and learns to observe appropriate decorum towards diversities. People like these are always a nightmare for us but I have to get past a few more invectives with guts, otherwise I will not get to Europe very sane. At the end of the NAIA obstacle course, I had wilted. But the long haul from Philippines to Europe was just a fitting reprieve to recover from the emotional and mental trauma I had just encountered. Fifteen long hours of stress free pause made me conclude: I am never ever going back to my life of conformity. In no time, I was awakened by the wild jolt of the plane. Pati piloto parang galit. The plane has landed. The crew announced the gates, exits instructions, and guess what else? Immigration checkpoints. Oh yeah Immigration checkpoints – my stomach churned with the mere idea and my soul started to get jittery again. Airport queues make me edgy. And I did not know how many more of these I will have to put up with. The blue-eyed immigration officer, to whom I surrendered my passport, opened and checked it, held it up at a stance where he could see my face at the same time. His mechanical glances from my passport to my face and vice versa made the few minutes seem as if they were eternity. I began to make body languages to conceal my escalating disorientation. He seemed to be ciphering and matching the constellation of moles and pecks on my face from my photo. What if there was indeed one mole missing on my face picture? What if my toned down appearance was not convincing enough to jive with my legal gender? Prior to traveling, I have heard many stories of Transgender undergoing “strip searches” at the immigration checkpoints. Not only that, the offshoot of the bombings in Bali months before triggered stricter rules and tighter security… and more random strip searches. What if I’d be strip-searched? What if? What if? What if? I know with an approved visa as a guarantee, it was exceedingly juvenile to entertain these thoughts, but for somebody who does not travel a lot, who is a Filipina and a transgender for that matter, my apprehensions were very understandable. [i]This is YOU?[/i] he asked. His looks might be sympathetic but his expression was bewildered. It was not certain whether he was asking about the name or the fugitive looking person in the photo. Assuming it was the latter, his suspicion over the matter was not surprising. I wouldn’t go through the exhaustive measures analyzing how and why since there are a few coherent given that I can enumerate, which described my DFA approved passport picture: 1) I looked like a hoodlum, if not a criminal. 2) If I didn’t look like a police, I should have looked like a G.I. 3) My male name plus Ramsey sounded like a Lieutenant in the 24th infantry battalion of a military corps. 4) Either I look like a fireman or a security guard. [i]Do you have another identification, Ms. Ramsey?[/i] The officer added. Did he just address me as [i]Ms. Ramsey[/i]? I wanted to clarify what I just heard but decided otherwise. Baka tawagin niya ulit ako ng MISTER no. I did not want to toss out this SMALL VICTORY into wasteland. When you are at the mercy of authorities, compliance and keeping one’s mouth shut is a way to swiftly end the occurring dilemma. I presented my Social Security identification, my company ID and an expired photo credit card. ALL GLAM PHOTOS. I heard the loud thud of approval to my entry, placed my hands together in a gesture of praying and looked above, napa Thank you lord ako kahit di kami close. I had almost lactated in euphoria had my boobs not been hormone pills induced. Despite the officer’s stringent conduct, he still managed a very cordial reception; Enjoy your stay in Europe, with a naughty smirk to boot. Oh man, mahal ko na siya talaga and allelujah nasa Europe na nga ako. Defeating the purpose of my transition is the last thing I have ever anticipated. I wasted no time stripping off all traces of conformity I was wearing that day. I dragged my hand carried items to the restroom, changed my shoes, pepped up my stressful face, mascara and shadows for the weary eyes, colored my lips with an amazing red pout, substituted the [i]lonely planet[/i] cup A bra with the inflatable ones and fixed a nice expletive cleavage. Well, I wouldn’t take pride on telling you that my boobs are still asymmetrical; the left facing west and the right facing east. Nag iisnaban silang dalawa. They don’t like each other talaga. They need a little [i]reunification[/i], beso beso with each other so to speak. And whoever invented the inflatable life jackets must be an ephemeral genius. Perhaps one might think, that being a transsexual is all about mascaras, lipstick, and cleavage. Those are just minuscule fraction of the package. It takes brains, heart, and guts to come clear with one ’s self. If I tell you exactly what I am exactly doing here in Europe, aside from catching this elusive dream to having a normal life, you might accuse me of being a boastful slut. So let’s just say, we make this business my own business, after all, whatever I have, and can, achieve is nothing compared to my struggles and hardships I hurdled in life being transgender. [B]Related Article : [a href=php-article.php?index=282]Illegally Femme: The Clandestine Living, A Transexual Expatriation Part 2 [/A][/B]
 
 
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