First, some trans terminology.

How I’d describe what “passing” means: looking not just like your gender but a “cis” version of that gender. To the average passerby, no one would know you’re trans, just a man/woman. It’s a fraught idea in the trans community, and I respect any trans person’s feelings about it — as long as they respect mine.

Which are: I wanted it, and needed it, desperately.

I have been obsessed with this to the point of brainworms. Some of my favorite floral button downs have been victims of my own toxic mindset: Is this too feminine?

Is this earring I used to wear every day too feminine?

I’ve let two out of three of my nose piercings close because every trans man on r/transpassing gets told to do so. I just can’t let go of the last one, done by a treasured friend in her bedroom when we were 16. I miss my other piercings sometimes. I miss my sharp eyeliner wings sometimes. I miss a lot of aspects of femininity, but until other people understand the context I’m wearing them in, every little thing that points to she/her has to be put on ice.

How I’d describe what “going stealth” means: once you pass, not telling anyone you’re trans. Choosing to present as cis.

Which is what I did (successfully, I think?) on my most recent trip home to Maryland, not once, not twice, but three times. The hope it fills me with is just as shocking to me as the fact that it’s happening at all. One of my more recently written jokes involves telling the audience I get misgendered by strangers 90% of the time. That was true as recently as two months ago. Now, I’m reevaluating that percentage.

I went to the dentist with my male ID, male insurance, and male name. When I listed my surgeries, I left out top surgery. When I listed my medication, I left out testosterone. Is this medically advisable? Probably not. But if you’re just cleaning my teeth, I do not think you need to know what my tits or dick are up to.

I braced for hygienists and dentists who hadn’t seen my ID and paperwork to misgender me upon seeing me. Having an “M” on my paperwork is one thing, but laying eyes on me and making a judgment call is another. To my absolute shock, everyone called me “he” the whole time, even people who didn’t see the paperwork. Even people who thought I was out of earshot.

The next danger zone was going suit shopping for my childhood best friend’s wedding, a joyful occasion but also a dysphoria minefield. It’s called MEN’S Wearhouse. In my nightmares, I would be bounced at the door, a thing I logically understood wouldn’t happen even if they clocked me. But part of me felt like getting a suit was pointless if they saw me as a woman buying it.

But when my friend’s fiancé, who kindly came to give his Boy Advice, told the guy helping us “this man needs a suit for our wedding,” boom, he/him the whole time. I nervously cracked jokes about being short, as if to say, “in case you think I’m a girl, I promise it’s just the height.” When the employee helping us measured my chest, I worried he could somehow see my top surgery scars through my black shirt. I walked out of Men’s Wearhouse with zero misgendering incidents, just plans to return the next day to get tailoring done. I felt like I’d pulled off a secret spy mission.

Could I do it again the next day?

This time, my dad took me back for the tailoring, insisting (correctly) that no one knew suits better than him. He told the two men assisting us and the tailor, “my son needs his suit jacket tailored.” I got called “sir.” We got called “gentlemen.” Even when the tailor made a verbal note of my hips, no one changed how they gendered me. They just all thought I was a tiny man with a fat ass.

I went in there thinking I just needed the sleeves shortened and left with four additional alterations at my dad’s suggestion, plus a shirt to wear underneath, also to be tailored. There was something heartwarming about how much he cared about it all fitting perfectly. I caught him taking a picture of me in the jacket. My dad has CALLED me his son before, but for the first time, it felt like he meant it. In a healthy mind, that would matter to me miles more than a random tailor gendering me correctly. But in MY mind, it was almost equal to strangers. This is something my therapist will be hearing about, mark my words.

Is passing good for me? Safety-wise, for sure. But the brainworms are bad. Being stealth in those moments gave me confidence and hope. Since other people informed these people I was a man first, I’m not sure if this traditionally “counts.” It’s possible they still saw me as a trans man but had the decency not to say anything about it. I don’t know. It just felt different. I didn’t feel the awkward strain of disapproval or disbelief when any of these people called me “he.” What matters is I didn’t have to come out to anyone as trans. I just got to say “I am a man” and be taken seriously from there. I wish it always worked this way. I need to take a win where I can, so I’m taking it.

Here’s where passing doesn’t matter, which is something I never thought I’d say and mean. I met a spiritual healer on the DC metro back to Union Station. We first connected over my tattoos, then over the fact that with our huge suitcases, we were clearly going to the same place.

She was on her way to Toronto to study under her teacher; I was on my way back to Brooklyn to…continue being underemployed. I was already missing my parents and dog. I was already missing the glow of getting to be a man for a few days, no qualifiers necessary.

For months prior, I had been avoiding human contact to elude the sting of misgendering. I let my fridge go empty instead of getting groceries in case a cashier might call me “ma’am.” I panicked about going to a baseball game with my favorite people in the world in case security misgendered me. I didn’t meet new people because I was terrified of how they’d see me.

So, meeting this new person who was interested in my tattoos felt like a risk, not because of her but because of me. But she was so incredibly kind. She told me there are only two kinds of pain: not accepting yourself and being concerned with others not accepting you. I’ve been living in both kinds of pain for so long. She told me she let go of the second kind since she can’t control it. She told me she finds God in everyone. She told me to make sure whoever tattoos me has good energy (he does).

I didn’t tell her I was trans until we’d almost gone our separate ways. Queer, yes, but not trans. I was too happy with my stealth that week. But I also felt if she were to accidentally misgender me, what would it matter? She saw God in me. She was kind to me. She considered meeting me, just having a nice conversation on the metro, to be a miracle. How could referring to me with the wrong pronoun negate that? Referring to me at all would just be an act of making connection. Unsurprisingly, she was accepting of the trans thing, excited by it even. She told me I should write articles about it. I grinned and said I already do. I hope she’d like this one.

I thought back to a subway ride a couple weeks earlier where everyone was soaked from the rain, but a friendly dog who greeted every single passenger perked us all up. People started showing strangers pictures of their own dogs. I chose silence over connection because of my fear. I thought of my visit to Riis Beach a few weeks earlier when my friends had run out far into the ocean before me, and I, afraid of the waves, wasn’t sure how to get out to where they were. A random older woman coached me through the breaks in the waves and helped me get out there, laughing and smiling the whole time. I don’t care if she saw me as a man or a woman. She saw someone who needed help, and she helped.

The healer I met saw someone who needed a good day, and she gave me that. If that’s not what matters, I am letting the wrong kind of pain rule my life. Thank you for the kindness, Linda. I hope you read this. I hope you enjoyed Toronto.

I don’t know what my feelings on passing are now. I still want it, I still hope for it. I also still don’t know what bathroom to use. I still don’t pass most of the time, but it’s not never anymore. I’ve put myself through a lot of pain over it, not all of it productive. I’ve spent months desperately wanting to be a man, something I already am to the people who matter.

After a sweaty journey from Union Station to Penn Station to Brooklyn, I finally arrive back home. I treat myself to delivery for dinner, and the Grubhub guy calls me “ma’am” when I open the door. I decide the tank top I’m wearing must be the culprit and renew my vow to only wear it as pajamas. I give the brainworms their inch of ground and let myself be sad for a moment. But I don’t throw the feelings of my last few days away.

This growth feels like a carefully constructed glass Jenga tower, but growth nonetheless. I hope I can hang onto this feeling. And if I need a boost in the future, we’ll always have Men’s Wearhouse.

This piece is part of UNDER COVER, an Autostraddle editorial series releasing in conjunction with For Them’s underwear drop.

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