Thinking Out Loud: My Trans Body
By: Anonymous Transmasc. (he/him)
Edited by: Serena Monteiro and Izzy Sangaline
I am writing this article from my own experiences both from quidditch and from other areas of my life. I acknowledge that my trans experience is not every trans experience. We all come from our own backgrounds and no two journeys will be the same, but we share some commonalities. I am not writing this article to define an experience. Rather, I am writing to share my experience and thoughts and to ask for more diverse voices and stories in this sport. I also acknowledge my own privilege in having a team which has supported my transition and never asked me to be anything other than myself.
The walk to morning practice is quiet. It is perfectly lonely and enough time to be before being perceived. This is when the performance begins— the trying to prove myself to people I probably do not need to prove anything to. My body, my voice, my movements. Pre-transition is a hard place to walk. Socially I am me, physically I am not. Even so, there’s a joke about recognizing other transmasc. people by the way they tug at their shirts— grabbing at the collar, pulling out, dropping the fabric so that it falls outward just enough to hide the chest. I catch myself doing this now, adjusting and readjusting. What do they see? Is it me? Or is it my body? Are those supposed to be the same thing? When I bought my first jersey, I bought a men’s large. It was at least two sizes too big. It is awkward and bulky against my frame. I think I wear a women’s medium and, probably, a men’s small; but it has been a while since I’ve owned a shirt that actually fits my body right. It’s an attempt to hide and to cover up. Passing on the field is harder than it looks. I didn’t own a binder before covid and, technically, you shouldn’t play sports in a binder because of how it restricts your breathing. Even in sports bras and bulky clothes, shoulders slouching trying to make a fabric shield, it’s hard to hide the form. That’s not what I need to be thinking about either. Chest dysphoria sucks in-game. Just focus on the quaffle (that shouldn’t be asking too much).
There’s something about being awake before the world starts moving around you. It’s a sort of solitude, peaceful. No expectations. When you get to the field, it’s hard to judge who will be there. Sometimes you’re the first, sitting in the parking lot until you see your teammates’ cars. Stand and wave. Grab equipment. Set up the pitch. Get your cleats on and get ready to run. Up and down. Meanwhile, all I can think of is my chest, my hips, am I dressed too feminine. I’m already comparing my athleticism to my teammates, and now I’m also comparing my body to them (I know I shouldn’t, but it’s hard not to). We’re running drills, defending the hoops, one-arm tackles. Most of the other chasers can basically pick me up, pushing me outside the boundaries of the drill. Is my body betraying me again? Or do I just need to get stronger? Either way, I’m working on it, I’m working out. Not to mention, I’ve just been prescribed testosterone. I haven’t told many people yet. It’s personal, maybe. No one else had to announce they were starting puberty, so why should I? Maybe I just want to see what happens when people finally notice my voice dropping. Having not seen some of my teammates in almost a year, I almost wonder if they’ll be able to recognize me. I’m not sure how that makes me feel. In some ways good, in others extremely dysphoric with my current and past self.
What really bothers me is that there will probably come a day when I do not want to look back at now. I love this team. I am beyond lucky to have a team that has not made me feel the need to pretend to be cis. Even so, there will inevitably be a day when I do not recognize myself in the pictures. His slouched shoulders and too-high voice, awkwardly wrapping his arms around his teammates and too aware of the other arms wrapping around him (insert hip dysphoria). I promise to try to be nice to him; but, even now, looking back at film and photos can be difficult. There’s footage of the first time I caught a snitch in-game, before the team, or I, knew my real name. Someone shouts my now-deadname in the background. I cringe. I’m too aware of how my chest bulges in the too-big jersey and I know I’m not communicating with my beaters. I wonder if that was a vocal dysphoria day. I do know that I was on my period, which didn’t help. Everything seems to scream “girl.” Treat him nice, he’s doing his best. Looking forward is easier than looking back, even if I don’t know what I’ll look like then.
There’s so much more I could talk about. The way most tournaments I’ve been to have multi-stall male/female bathrooms and the way my body doesn’t seem to fit into either yet. The way I was never sure which locker room to use, always worried that I would be intruding in either and, in pre-transition, defaulting to my assigned-sex. The way I was outed before games, being asked to raise my hand so the refs would notice me and know I wasn’t counted as a “female chaser” (a problematic term in and of itself I recognize). But there are good things too. The first team party I went to after coming out, presenting masculine and the positive response from teammates. Hearing teammates use my name for the first time. The euphoria of coming out as I learned to trust my team. Not to mention, this is one of the only sports I think I’ve felt comfortable playing in with my body— queer bodies are still looking for space in team sports after all.
This isn’t an argumentative paper. I’m not trying to prove anything. I just want to hear more trans-voices in quidditch. I want our opinions on how the sport can support us. I want there to be more of us. I want to see us. So, I guess I’m sharing, maybe oversharing, what I’ve felt since starting quidditch. The way my body seems to betray me. The way I hope to one day love my body. And the consistent desire that the cisgender players keep educating themselves to be aware of what we’re dealing with playing sports and living our individual lives.