We trans women take a lot of selfies. We like to blur the bumps on the skin and smooth the sharp edges. But this isn’t vanity. We aren’t saying “look at me I am beautiful.” No, beauty is not the issue. Not for this woman. I am forty years old, too old to care about other people’s oppinions. If I look odd to you, I will not argue. If you can’t reconcile the manish face with the femenine dress and hip-swinging walk, I will not tell you how to see me. Because I’ve lived forty years as a stranger, the image in the mirror a foreign creature, and I would look out those eyes as if through basement windows from a house that wasn’t mine.
Forty years. Four decades, and now can I look at myself, I can take my own portrait, and grin and say “Hello you. Hello. Me.”