I grew up to be a woman, but first I grew up to be a man. An unapologetically feminine man. A man who was often mistaken for a woman. A man who bought clothes in women’s sections of department stores. But a man. Discovering I was a boy so late in life, I saw nothing wrong in being a man who shopped in the women’s section, who wore lipstick when the mood struck, who imagined himself a woman in his fantasies. But I was also a man who could not wear a dress without being stared at, who could not grow my hair long without being seen as a drag queen, and who constantly had to hear himself referred to as himself, he with his hair and his clothes.

So one day, in February of 2001, I told my boss at work on Friday that I wanted to experiment with wearing women’s clothes all the time. I came back on Monday in a fuchsia print top and green velvet skirt, and on Tuesday in a black dress, and so on. And in August, I legally changed my name and gender on my state ID. And in November, I went to a therapist who was part of the team that made the rules that said I needed to go to a therapist, and told him that to assume I was mentally ill for wanting to be a woman is to treat me like gay people were treated in the 1970's. He prescribed me hormones on the spot. In March of 2002, on my second visit, he agreed to write a letter recommending me for a sex change operation. I got one in June of 2002.

These days my siblings refer to me as Ateh, eldest sister. They switched instantly when I asked them to, and the only remnants of my transition for my family is that Tonton is still called Diko, second-eldest brother, when he is now the eldest brother and should be called Kuya. This confuses other Tagalog speakers but no one else would know the difference.

Now that I’m a woman, I can wear a skirt or pants. I can wear my hair long or short. I am perceived as inferior, but I can cry in public. I can be strong or weak. And I am called she, but I don’t mind being called he sometimes. To my ear, they are close though not quite the same.