Some say that every breath a trans person takes is an act of rebellion. Personally, I believe that those expectations are way too high to ask of any individual.
That being said —
— To anyone out there who are questioning, who don’t think that they can be who they’re meant to be, and who are hurting right now —
— To myself from just a year ago.
This one’s for you.
All of this is for you.
Following my last update, I was playing in the Chicago Mixed Club scene as a male-matching player over the Summer — despite living full-time as a woman.
I’ve thought for a long time about whether or not I should open up about one particular experience. I’m worried that I’m doing it for malicious reasons or, worse, if I were doing it for attention. After talking with some friends, however, I snapped out of it and realized that, however uncomfortable sharing might be, if it ends up helping even a single player, then I’ll know that it’s all been worth it.
Over the summer I faced conflict with a player on my team (let’s call them “Bill”). The season had started off amazingly — my teammates all gendered me correctly and didn’t bat an eye when I asked to guard women at practices, the leadership was willing to work with me in order to overcome obstacles. It was all going according to plan. However, I soon began to find my playing time shrinking more and more as the season progressed.
Although I recognize that I have a long way to go before becoming a “good” player, I do have a firm understanding of my worth as a player. As a result, when Bill eventually released an Excel sheet at the midway point of the season detailing the strategies he hoped to play, I was shocked to learn that I was only on two of the eight lines listed.
After speaking with teammates who were equally confused, I was pretty convinced that this was an honest mistake. As a result, I decided to go on and speak with Bill regarding this clerical error — surely we could clear it up.
That phone conversation started… awkwardly. We both danced around the issue playing chicken — neither one of us fully addressing the elephant herd which was now outright stampeding in the metaphorical room. Finally, after sensing the tension escalate, I asked Bill outright:
“Why was my playing time reduced?”
He cleared his throat. Once. Twice. Uncomfortably sighing almost as if he was bracing himself to talk to me about the birds and bees. I waited, patiently, as he started to inform me about what a good player I was, and how I contributed to the team in my own “special” way, and yada yada yada. After I push him a bit further, however, he finally decides to reveal the “truth”:
“You told me since the start of the season that you’ll be taking hormones, right? And you admitted yourself that your physical ability will be declining and might be needing some help, correct? That’s why I decided to cut your playing time.”
He said this with the air of a really obnoxious Dad — as if he knew what was best for me. Irked, I then protested that the other leaders on the team didn’t seem to share this belief, to which Bill then retorted that they did, but they just didn’t want to hurt my beliefs. He then went on — for what I can only accurately recount as a true quixotic act of machismo — to tell me that he was the only one who’d be strong enough to tell me this truth.
“Oh,” I respond quietly. Then, I hang up.
On one hand, I could see his point: logically, if a player were to physically decline with an injury or something, you’d sit them out as a leader. That made sense to me.
On the other hand, I wasn’t injured. Not by a long shot. The hormones which were hitting my system left me freer and more in control than I have in a long long time, and kind of counter-intuitively, I was actually playing some of the best ultimate of my life.
The incidents which he were referring to were moments throughout the season when I was being beat deep by male cutters, and requested to defend handlers instead. It’s true my athletic strength was decreasing from the effects of estrogen, but even so, I realized, those drawbacks only took place in extremely specific conditions — that is to say, whenever the game became a straight up foot-race, I found myself facing more difficulty than before. Otherwise, through bodying and spacing, I was still a presence on the field and helped generate blocks.
As a result, to make the decision that Bill did thinking that he knew what was best for me was wrong. Play time of course is a contentious resource generally distributed through merit and athletic ability. But, in this case, I felt that Bill had passed judgement on me unfairly, without even considering other possible solutions to maximize my capabilities. Furthermore, it had seemed that he’d acted without the knowledge of the entire leadership core of the team, who’d later inform me privately that they were outraged by what Bill had said and did not agree with his assessment. I believe that there is a fine line between competition and being a jerk, and Bill had sprinted over long ago.
By the end of that week, I’d quit the team.
Am I bitter about this incident? Nah. Nope. Definitely not. Nuh uh.
Okay, so I might be a little bitter about how the incident went down. But, at the same time, I don’t think there was ever a true villain in this story. My teammates hadn’t a clue as to what was going on, the leaders on the team had been nothing but kind and wonderful ever since I started, and even Bill isn’t solely to blame.
I was fortunate. Northwestern by then had formed their own Mixed Club Team, and seeing as I was already a practice player for them, it’d been a logical and clean transition over once I asked the captains to switch teams. Since the Captains were also my friends, they were more willing to work with me. At tournaments, they invoked the Captains’ Clause and asked other teams to let me play as female-matching. They wanted me to match up against women at practice.
I was lucky — really really really lucky. That being said, gender transition is difficult no matter the division or level of play, and other gender non-conforming players may not be as fortunate as I am. As a result, I hope that players and teams can learn from my club experience. Going into the new decade, I’m excited to see future applications of the Captains’ Clause to settle gender-identity disputes, and furthermore I hope that the misunderstandings and problematic reasonings which I faced will, with the help of good policy and educated leaders, become obsolete.
Although I try not to be petty, the irony was not lost on me when my new team went on to beat Bill’s team at Sectionals therefore ending their season. I played my heart out as a male-matching player, and it felt good to prove Bill’s assessment wrong.
In the opening months to Fall 2019, I was nervous. I was mostly anxious over the incoming freshmen — after all, they’d be the first ones to know me as Rey and just Rey. What would they think of me? Would they misgender me 24/7? Are they gonna be super mean? Are they gonna be the Plastics to my Janis?
Well, funny story about that:
At a Fall Party, after drinking too much apply juice, I decided to sit on (collapse onto) the couch. One of the freshmen who I’d just started getting to know approached me and congratulated me on coming out. Evidently she just found out that I was queer, and although I was pretty confused, I thanked her for the brief but nice moment. Months later, that freshmen told me later that she had no idea that I was a trans woman — instead, she’d actually thought that I was assigned female at birth, and that I was planning on becoming a man instead.
That is to say, my fears turned out to be unfounded. For once, I’d joined a team where everyone saw me for who I am. Thanks to playing for the Mixed Team over the Summer, I’d made some new friends, and started to feel comfortable with being my weird self. In a short few months, Gung Ho’s started to feel like home. I wish there were some way to send some message to my past self from just a year ago, and let her know that I’d never been happier.
All is well.
It was the second-to-last game at Windy City Invite. I don’t remember the score, but it was tight. Suddenly realizing that I was poached from a handler position, I decided to sprint deep. Recognizing my cut, one of my teammates then hucked it deep.
Closing in, I sprinted as fast as I could. I saw the disc settle and slowly dip lower and lower…
Just when I think I can’t make it, I lunge forward instinctively. Suddenly, I was in the air, and everything stopped: I felt myself holding my breath, I felt my calves burning, and I felt my fingers gently tug on the cool rim of plastic.
More than anything, however —
— I finally felt free.
In a weird sense, this New Year’s Eve feels like the close of an Act (forgive me — I’m a film major).
It feels like I’m about to truly enter a new chapter of Ultimate: a chapter where I’m just seen as “one of the girls” of the team, and that’s that.
Of course, it’s far more complicated. Although I have passing privilege and others see me as a cis-woman, it most certainly does not feel like that — I’m still riddled with self-doubt and insecurity. More than that, as an upperclassman, it’s expected for me to step up on the team. Yet, tied to my inner conflict, this new position is proving to be difficult for me to get used to.
All the pieces are set, all the forces are in play, and the only thing that’s standing in my way is me. It’s a good story, but, I’ll save that one for the next installment.
Welcome to Act III.
