I quite like the queer moment that sometimes happen when I have to show my new ID, even when I don’t really pass as a guy. The name on my ID is coded male, but if you look closely you can see that it is also marked with “female”, and the picture is very androgynous. I like to think that every time I show it, it is both an every day ritual but also an act of defiance right in the face of the cis-gender norm. Possibly or hopefully, it is also an educational moment for whoever asks to see it, if they notice anything out of the ordinary and the importance of it.
Okay, I admit that sometimes I don’t really care. But at other times, it feels very important. Like today. I love having my REAL name, MY OWN name on a package that is delivered to me. I’m so proud that I can go and get my medication without explaining anything. And I laugh every time at Systembolaget, when I seem to pass as an under-aged male and get very suspicious looks before I speak up and show my ID.
I hated to have to go and make a new ID. I got angry when I thought about it. I had the most irrational (or maybe not?) angst before the task. I detest to be photographed by the authority, I loathe the signing of important papers while receiving questioning looks by bored policemen and all that. But it sure provides less friction in my every day life, to have an ID with the right names on. I consider it a privilege sadly not granted to all transgenderd people out there. It was not much more fuss for me to make one than for anyone else and I’m glad I did it, at last.
… And here is a picture of me and my dog, for no other reason than that I’ve got a pretty dawg!