Afternoon Nap, Ink on Paper by Maty Dio

Afternoon Nap, Ink on Paper by Maty Dio

Shy, Ink on Paper by Maty Dio

Shy, Ink on Paper by Maty Dio

Upstairs, Ink on Paper by Maty Dio

Upstairs, Ink on Paper

Governess, Ink on Paper by Maty Dio

Governess, Ink on Paper by Maty Dio

Football Player, Ink on Paper by Maty Dio

Football Player, Ink on Paper by Maty Dio

Dusk to Dawn, Oil on Canvas by Maty Dio

Dusk to Dawn, Oil on Canvas by Maty Dio

Sitting Pretty, Ink on Paper by Maty Dio

Sitting Pretty, Ink on Paper by Maty Dio

no man’s land

in the earsplitting silence of the hospital night I pondered my top surgery whilst waiting for the drug to kick in
the mid-March draft from the badly insulated wall-sized modern windows blew cold air inside of the bedroom
I wore my black pants and a black T shirt and they just about managed to keep me warm under the hospital duvet
the silence did not last long
my two roommates started snoring within minutes after they laid themselves down and the night air punched in with the emergency lights and ambulance headlights coming and leaving the hospital area resembled a combo of a faulty starters motocross race with a diesel-fed chain saw woodchucks competition
and I couldn’t comprehend how could two 70+ grandmother types make so much noise

an hour earlier the nurse brought me a white pill
*what is it?*
*sleeping pill* she seemed surprised I asked
*I have no problem with insomnia, I sleep well, I don’t need it* I tried to resist
*you must take it*
*but I don’t need it*
*it will calm you down before your morning surgery, you’ll sleep better*
*I am calm and I would like to be able to fall asleep naturally whilst I hear my own thoughts, I don’t want my thoughts drugged*
*I am sorry, you’ll have to take it* she handed me the pill
she wasn’t sorry
she wasn’t interested either
she seemed busy and she started sounding annoyed
ahh, I sighed and disliking myself for not having found enough reasons to want to fight her, I swallowed my first ever sleeping pill

what a grand name
subcutaneous bilateral mastectomy
I pondered and I wondered why on earth was I falling asleep in the strange antiseptic sterile hospital room at my own request whilst all of those staying in the rooms around and occupying the near by beds.. wished not to have to undergo their own surgeries
there was a tumor on the forehead
giant leg to be normalized to thinner
one case of gigantic breasts needing assistance and downgrading
accidentally amputated finger requiring to be reattached
and me
the only person on the plastic surgery ward who was there voluntarily
I gathered I might get another half an hour before the drug kicked in and so I sunk back into my thoughts before they were blended to nothingness

until the last moment before I fell asleep in the hands of the anesthesiologist, there was no certainty
my boobs were destined to be vanquished and the night prior to the surgery I lay in the bed with a single thought on a long string
*what am I doing?*
*why?*
*what for?*
*I am a stupid?*

political correctness aside, Pilsen hospital has no special ward for third sex and as a biological female I was allocated a bed in the room with two old ladies, both with tumors on their faces
there was no way of resting or sleeping
and so I pondered my idiocy and my top surgery decision and although I felt within inside of me that my need to affirm myself as male was unshakable I came to understand that the only way to know for certain was to wake up after the surgery

I was wrong
with my surgery over, I was too groggy to think or to dissect
wheeled to the intensive care room with the nurses watching me across the  glass window connected to their station I slowly regained the sense of being alive
and dissecting my dinner became my only concern

as a gluten incompatible vegetarian I had not many choices when it came to my hospital meals and a few hours post surgery I received my dinner
a slab of smoked cheese vacuum wrapped in plastic, white bread and a pear and on the side plate lay my plastic knife and fork
casting the bread aside as I did every time it was served to me, I fought with the cheese
my chest was bandaged and I was told not to raise my arms
knocked out as I was, not wanting to bother the nurse with helping me, I put the knife and the fork away and broke the plastic wrap with my teeth not thinking as far as to grasp that the yellow salty liquid inside of the wrapper was to leak out all over my crisp white hospital bedding
I am an animal
I chewed a piece of my cheese, bit my pear and dropped to sleep

but the day after, with a clear mind and back with my elderly roommates all felt as it should have
just right
and I could breathe a sigh of relief

my breasts were dead, long live my chest
they never felt right in the first place although I did almost have them surgically enhanced – twice – due to my developing sense of body dysphoria
I wore my tops during sex, couldn’t fathom undressing in public to reveal my tiny perfect (British size 6) body and I couldn’t not digest the discontentment evolving into gender dysphoric undertone
I did not have body image issues
my body was perfect but it did not correspond to who I was
it did not belong to me
the situation digressed to my inability to wear bathing suits
I must have been the only person on Mediterranean beaches fully dressed in jeans and T shirts whilst the rest of my family enjoyed the sun and sea combination

on two occasions, when living as a normalized biological female looking her every part and unsure of how to accept my breasts, I visited plastic surgeons
hoping to somehow turn my breasts that have been a meal too many for my four children for 12 years into accepted body parts
accepted by me alone

the first one was weird
based on Malaga’s Paseo del Parque
he covered his eyes with his hands the very moment I uncovered my breasts
my breasts were small but normal and his reaction surprised me
he looked at them through his fingers and I deemed him unsuitable to perform my breast augmentation.. I couldn’t imagine him operating and not looking
the second surgeon, Dr Kydlicek was very matter of factly and extremely comfortable with handling and squeezing and advising and informing
he didn’t treat them as my body part but as a product to be bettered
he is the one I ultimately chose for modifying them and masculinizing of my chest

the photographer dude Judita sent to shoot me for her trans article asked *don’t you think that if you were born with a mind in the wrong body, you should not tinker with it and you should keep it that way as mother nature intended?*
not sure if I answered him right but what fell out of me, satisfied him *imagine you have a child born with three arms, because mother nature intended so as her random modifications joke or a play with variations.. and yet you know that the good doc can help  normalize your child’s situation, would you decline the possibility just because your child was born with that certain condition as mother nature intended and would you decline tinkering with it?*
he had no more questions

may the bridges I burn light my way

rights to lost rites

*when will you buy yourself a bra?* I embarrassed my father in the shop 30 something years ago
the queue behind us burst out laughing
it was not my first time to embarrass my parents
I once insisted on having seen a bull frog with a giant penis, whilst traveling in the overcrowded train.. but more on that story on another occasion
good old stores of the pre-revolution era offered no possibility to pick and touch and try out random clothing
instead in this particular little place, like in many others, we had to queue to ask for an item to be shown to us
mother was purchasing some lingerie and once we were at it I thought it to be a good idea to dress up father’s wobbly bits
he was in his thirties then and being the lover of ‘the strong men’s food’ he managed to graduate to a weight of 100 kilos
that meant dude boobs

his slabs of chest fat fascinated me and I always wondered why is my mother locking up her breasts in the lacy bras if they are not larger than those belonging to my father
they were fairly amused at my incapability to understand that only women wear bras
and dresses and skirts in that matter
I asked ‘why’ but the answers were never satisfactory enough
and so I searched to no avail for clues of what was it that was pertaining only to men as women seemed to have many domains they held onto

women seemed to have menstruation, babies, hairy legs and breasts
men seemed to have hairy everything, balding patches, pungent sweat  and penises
looking at that stereotypical binary list above, I am unsure whether it is more masochistic having tried to be a woman or affirming to be a man

I don’t recall acutely missing the teenage boy rites of passage during the actual puberty
I was too busy trying to assimilate to the picture painted by the society
I was a long haired girl who was busy dreaming
reality never meant much
my illusive world was by far richer and more satisfactory

aged 12, my mother opened the door to my bedroom and customary to all mothers of my friends.. she threw a book about growing up on my bed
*read this*
that was as close to one on one talk with my mother as we could get
not surprisingly I has no idea about the original female plumbing other than the clinical info from the booklet
a new study presented at the annual convention of the American Psychological Association reveals that men who had positive relationships with their fathers are better equipped to deal with the stress of everyday life than men who did not remember their dads fondly
as an affirmed male I wonder what cross analysis could be made between that study and the transgender men and their relationships with their fathers

I had more heart to heart talks with my father anyway
not being into scuffle games, playing chess with him was pretty apt for me I might not have had that father to son growing pains talk..
but thinking back, father has always been open with me and I guess he made no difference in bringing me up whatever gender I was or should have could have been
I was simply his child from the moment I was born for he never made me feel like a girl nor a boy
I was an introverted child
bookworm and a library moth

separation, transition and re-incorporation
three phases of a rite of passage
transition as in upgrade in life in a regular rite of passage meaning maturing…
appears to resemble the FtM journey

you withdraw in the first phase from your current status and prepare to move from one place or status to another
whilst experiencing detachment effect or ‘cutting away’ from the former self signified in symbolic actions and rituals
similarly like the army boys’ rite of passage.. hair cutting is often involved in FtMs
my female to male transition was marked by shaving off my waist length hair and giving away the entire contents of my female wardrobe

the second phase being the transition itself is the period between states, during which one has left one place or state
but hasn’t yet joined the next and the person adjusts to the new status
for female to male transsexuals this is the trial and error state of living as a male, working around the way to transition..
whether it is a natural transitioning by way of combining herbal supplements and bodybuilding or testosterone based hormonal replacement therapy

the third phase, having completed the rite and assumed the ‘new’ identity, one re-enters society with one’s new status
in the world of FtM this means having assumed his new name, possibly having received the new legal identity

the main difference arrives at this third phase

for some the journey is longer than for others
like water, gender is fluid and transition never ends
it flows sideways, left to right
then right to left again
it bounces up and drops down only to skip higher to fall to drip away
and I have no subscription for the contemporary normality of cis-gender paradise

my rites of passage were delayed
and I devour my time more than I would have
perhaps I am pathetic in the childish eagerness enjoying my moment that has arrived at last

but I don’t intend to compromise to belong
I will always be me

and talking about that paradise.. I am putting a deposit on a cottage in the one where dudes wear bras to satisfy my unanswered childhood question

the moustache maketh the man

einstein
handlebar
hitler
dali
chaplin
hulk hogan
johnny depp
horseshoe
goatee
pencil
fu manchu
walrus
imperial
english
chevron
lampshade
toothbrush
pyramidal
painter’s brush
the works
the wonder
the panache
the style
the elegance
the distinction

I measure my freshly arising physical maleness by the patchiness of my facial hair
the moustache maketh the man
my outwardly masculine qualities count on a few fingers and every thickening hair follicle makes my day

Maupassant knew when he wrote
Oh, my dear Lucy, never let yourself be kissed by a man without a mustache; their kisses have no flavor, none whatever! They no longer have the charm, the mellowness and the snap- yes, the snap–of a real kiss. The mustache is the spice.
Imagine placing to your lips a piece of dry–or moist–parchment. That is the kiss of the man without a mustache. It is not worth while.
Whence comes this charm of the mustache, will you tell me? Do I know myself? It tickles your face, you feel it approaching your mouth and it sends a little shiver through you down to the tips of your toes.
And on your neck! Have you ever felt a mustache on your neck? It intoxicates you, makes you feel creepy, goes to the tips of your fingers. You wriggle, shake your shoulders, toss back your head. You wish to get away and at the same time to remain there; it is delightful, but irritating. But how good it is!
A lip without a mustache is like a body without clothing; and one must wear clothes, very few, if you like, but still some clothing.

one adopts personality according to the stache sprouting on the strip in between the nose and the mouth
the focus point for recognition of the boyishness or the machismo identification of its owner
wild
sweet
romantic
merge them
extend them
full beard
mutton chops
goatee
chin curtain
balbo
stubble
soul patch
chinstrap
van dyck
verdi
garibaldi
donigal
shave them off to regrow them
you can be a thousand and one man having one single face
kind
cuddly
strong
and more can be read single-handedly from the moustache type

‘you have to be kidding me’ a metrosexual friend stares and shakes his head with disapproval, ‘I do everything possible to rid myself of all of my body hair and you voluntarily ingest testosterone to grow it’
‘you’ll regret, you’ll have to shave daily, you’ll hate it’

‘nah’ I smile under the dark shadow that’s slowly occupying the land above my upper lip, ‘I’m loving it, I shave daily anyway, it’s more than a hobby, it’s what I missed doing for 25 years, since puberty hit me left instead of right’

I design the curves
imagine the shapes
I envisage it
I massage it
I exfoliate
I read how to speed up the growth and strengthen the hair follicles
I study how to shave
I see it
I taste the prickly sensation above my upper lip
I test it with my tongue
I shave
and shave again
I wait for it to emerge like the germinating greens
the presence of my bristles is the newly visible trace of my diasporic masculinity
I am a man in the making

the instant happiness is my sprouting moustache