Mikelina: Special Episode

NASA photograph of Earth

This next special segment comes to us from our latest edition to the stealth team Mikelina Born to Ethiopian, Eritrean immigrants. Mikelina grew up in Arlington, Texas as part of a tight-knit haha diaspora community. They became active in community organizing while attending Texas a and m University before moving on to Harvard Law School where they became steeped in abolitionist theory and subsequently turned their focus to the issue of mass incarceration.

They have dedicated their life to advocating for non carceral restorative solutions to public safety, and have worked on a diverse range of issue areas, including street and gang violence, jail, decarceration, cannabis reform, and women's incarceration. They're also a lifelong athlete, artist, dancer, musician, and general, all around badass, and I am extremely proud to be able to call them one of my very best friends.

They identify as trans, masculine, non-binary, and have been living proudly in their gender for over 10 years. So without further ado, let's hand the mic over to Mikelina.

Special - Mikelina_ Ethiopia (1)

Jackal: [00:00:00] Hello everyone. Welcome to our new season of Stealth a Transmasculine podcast. I'm Jackal.

Kai: I'm Kai. We're your hosts for the Trans Masculine Podcast. The new season means new questions, and this season focuses on staying connected during these difficult times.

Jackal: Our show focuses on the stories of people who identify as transmasculine and who transitioned either socially or medically before or around the year 2005.

The name of our show highlights two important facts that one, for our generation. We were often told to hide our past and live in underground existence. And due to that, our stories are often overlooked.

Kai: We want our audience to know that we ourselves are part of this generation of trans masculine identified people, and that we value the [00:01:00] experiences inside our trans masculine community.

We want people to know that throughout our lives, each of us has had to navigate issues of disclosure, which have impacted us In many ways,

Jackal: the bond we share as persons of trans experience is precious and lifesaving. These are trying times. Throughout the world, there are groups removing protections in place for our trans and non-binary communities, safety is a real concern for us, particularly our trans and non-binary bipoc siblings.

Kai: We offer links to health and safety resources on our website, trans masculine podcast.com. We also have an incredible mentor mentee buddy program that has connected 88 trans men. If you're interested in becoming a mentor, please reach out to our awesome volunteer Clark. Via the mentoring tab on our website.

Please hold each other dear and stay in touch with us. If you're new to our show, welcome and if you're a follower from a previous season, thank you for your continued support. [00:02:00]

Jackal: As humans, we are always changing and transitioning. As elder trans men, we assume many roles. We get married and divorced. We are caretakers, we are parents.

We are professionals, academics, and advocates. We push for human rights and systemic change.

Kai: We invite our listeners to remember that we are a living community. We are healthy, we are contributing, we have experienced loss and success. We are loved, and we welcome you to our stories.

Hey Kai here, Jackal and I wanna remind our listeners that we have a member section. And thanks to everyone who has subscribed, our member section offers bonus questions and personal stories by our volunteers, Adam and our newest edition Mikelina a BIPOC transmasc sibling exploring adventures in transition.

Go to our website and sign up to become a member today.

Adam: Hey everyone. Welcome back. This next [00:03:00] segment comes to us from our latest edition to the stealth team Mikelina Born to Ethiopian, Eritrean immigrants. Mikelina grew up in Arlington, Texas as part of a tight-knit haha diaspora community. They became active in community organizing while attending Texas a and m University before moving on to Harvard Law School where they became steeped in abolitionist theory and subsequently turned their focus to the issue of mass incarceration.

They have dedicated their life to advocating for non carceral restorative solutions to public safety, and have worked on a diverse range of issue areas, including street and gang violence, jail, decarceration, cannabis reform, and women's incarceration. They're also a lifelong athlete, artist, dancer, musician, and general, all around badass, and I am extremely proud to be able to call them one of my very best friends.

They identify as trans, masculine, non-binary, and have been living proudly in their gender for over 10 years. So without further ado, let's hand the mic over to Mikelina [00:04:00]

Mikelina: I'm quickly approaching my one year tea anniversary. I'll be celebrating on June 2nd. And though I've always been a bit shy about my birthday, I feel surprisingly eager about commemorating this life thing.

As someone who loves to understand and articulate things, trying to put words to the magic of this first year has been beyond humbling. I have begrudgingly come to accept that there are some truths that words simply cannot carry when my friends ask, so how's it going with the tea? Are you noticing anything?

It's hard to get them to understand what's happening beneath the surface. Sure, I hold a bit more muscle than before, and my voice has a new resonance. But to be real, the physical stuff feels ancillary. Just window dressing for this whole new world opening up inside me. The most profound changes can't be seen.

They're nuanced and complex. The real transformation is in how I perceive and relate to myself. It feels like every day [00:05:00] there is more depth and texture to how I'm experiencing my life and the world around me. Because I'm really here now in my body. I feel exponentially more brave, more confident, secure.

It leaves me wondering, is this how cis people have always felt what I was missing? Even though everything in my life feels more uncertain than ever, I had this overwhelming sense of, yo, we got this this past holiday season. I chose to leave my kooky comfy Brooklyn bubble and spent 52 days, almost two months with my family.

When I told people I was doing this, I got more than a few raised eyebrows. The idea of being away from my queer and trans chosen family for so long at such a tender vulnerable time was terrifying. The current political climate made it all feel that much heavier. There was this anxious buzz in the [00:06:00] background of my life, my brain, trying to anticipate what it would be like, feel like I hadn't spent this much uninterrupted time with my family since adolescence, and there are still so many conversations I need to have with them about my transition.

In spite of all this, I knew that it was something I needed to do. My gut had been urging me to go home. It told me that I had healing to do and I couldn't do it without them. This trip home was gonna be different than any other. My first three weeks would be spent in my hometown, Arlington, Texas, and while it is certainly a triggering place for me, she's familiar.

I've gotten my rounds in. So I know how to strategize and navigate.

The real source of my anxiety was that on December 16th, we would all be taking the almost 24 hour journey to Sababa Ethiopia. This great homecoming had been in the works for years. [00:07:00] It was about 20 of us cousins and almost all of the parents, a critical mass of our tight-knit Arlington diaspora, all returning to our ancestral home to spend a month together.

No work, no laptops, no distractions. It was a momentous event for our community and a dream come true for our elders. As exciting and beautiful as this is, there were a lot of complicated feelings around this trip. For me, I've been dreaming and fantasizing about going back my whole life. In a parallel universe, a sababa is where my life would've happened.

My parents never really intended to come to the United States. They came here as asylum seekers. All of the grownups in our community did the red Terror of the 1970s. A violent military revolution in Ethiopia disrupted our family's story in a dramatic and unprecedented way. Before this moment in history, people in our family would [00:08:00] maybe leave Ethiopia for schooling or for travel, but they'd always return.

It was home. They never thought that they would live out their lives or raise their families anywhere else. Growing up, we were told so many stories about life before fantasy, like fairytales, where the parents would reminisce about their childhood adventures and adolescent shenanigans in this magical place where the sun was always shining, families were always gathering, and all was well.

When it came to the revolution, they would shut down. And skip ahead to their life as young immigrants in the us, all we got was a lot of really bad things happened to a lot of our people, but that's in the past. We move on and we thank God for the lives we've built here. The stories of what happened and what they experienced are still slowly surfacing.

It's only recently that they started to share more details about what they went through. It [00:09:00] wasn't until my twenties that I learned about aunts, uncles, community members. That would've been, I think that as we've all gotten older and they have been relieved of the responsibilities of child rearing, they've been able to soften into a place reflection and healing.

And I think that more than logistics, it was this healing that needed to happen before we could really all go back together. They needed to feel ready.

The last time I was in Ethiopia, I was only two years old. My whole life, I've carried this baggage filled with shame and confusion about being of a land that I have no direct relationship to. Growing up in the diaspora is like being stuck with between worlds, not quite fitting here or there. This is further complicated by my gender and sexual identities.

I was raised to be so proud of [00:10:00] my Ethiopian and Eritrean heritage, to ground myself in our community, our lineage, to know that I have a culture and a country where I belong. The parents even created a school for us growing up where we would go twice a week for lessons on language, culture, and history.

All the grownups participated either as teachers or facilitators of different programs. We took field trips, we had food and activities after classes. It was their way of helping us to repair a connection that had been severed. But the thing is, because I've chosen to live my queer and trans life very openly and refuse to hide or suppress who I am, my relationship to Ethiopia is frustrated in a way that is distinct from my cousins and siblings.

Queerness and gender fluidity are still very taboo and heavily criminalized in Ethiopia. There are no protections. And while we certainly have plenty of stigma and violence right here in the [00:11:00] United States, it's just a very different kind of struggle in the us There is language. There have been movements.

There are organized allies and advocates. There are codified legal rights, even if they are inadequate and inconsistent despite how fraught our protections are. There are footholds in openings for queer and trans life here. My mom loves to remind me when I'm going off on some tangent, critiquing the us.

Be grateful you're here. Lina. These words have haunted me over the years feeding fantasies of what my life might have been. Would I have still ended up where I am as I am? Would I have been brave or would I have been forced to hide? I'll never know. Now I want to be clear, even though I can't get fully on board with the religiosity or conservatism, I love my culture and my people with all my heart.

This is what makes it all feel so hurtful. It would be so much easier if I could just [00:12:00] say, fuck it. You guys don't want me. I don't want you. But the truth is, as deeply as I feel the need to live a life that honors my queer and trans truth, I also more than anything feel the need to honor my heritage and my lineage to reclaim my right to be a queer trans haha person to do this.

I need to develop a relationship with the land to experience what it feels like to exist over there. This trip felt big. About a week before our departure. My anxiety was peak. I felt fatigued, my chest was tight, and I was having trouble breathing. I'd been meditating, running nature, bathing, doing all of the things, but none of my go-to support strategies were holding me the way they normally do.

Deep down, I knew what I needed to do. I found myself sitting in the kitchen with my mom and dad and I said, Hey, are you guys busy right now? I wanna talk to you about something. They [00:13:00] both paused and turned to give me their attention. I said, you know, I'm feeling a lot of anxiety about this trip. I know it's not like here and that I need to lay low, but I wanted to talk a bit about expectations.

I don't know how to not be me anymore. I don't know how to pretend. For me to be okay on this trip. I need to be able to show up as myself. I'm gonna dress the way I dress. I'm gonna look the way that I look, and I want you guys to be prepared. People are gonna think I'm a boy. They're gonna give me trouble in the bathrooms and who knows what else.

I know how to navigate these kind of interactions, but I need you guys to be prepared because it's harder for me if I'm having to worry about you guys getting upset or being weird about it. This is probably the most honest, direct and vulnerable that I've ever been with my parents about anything. I held my breath waiting for their reaction.

They shocked me. Even though there's so much we need to talk about [00:14:00] and they don't know I'm taking tea. They still gave me exactly what I needed. Both of them scoffed at the idea of me changing myself for anyone my mom exclaimed. Absolutely not. We would never ask you to be anything but yourself. We never want you to pretend that's not healthy.

My dad nodding and vocalizing for emphasis in the background. There was a but coming. I could feel it. But Lina, what you cannot do is say what you are. There are plenty of people like you all throughout Ethiopia. Everyone knows it, but they just don't, you know, want it in their face. They don't wanna know about it.

Even though this may not sound comforting and is still filled with a lot of shit to unpack this affirmation for my parents was huge. I had already talked to my siblings and cousins about my fears and anxieties. Told them what kind of support would be most helpful to me. [00:15:00] With my parents prepared and my family allies briefed, I felt ready to take on the great unknown.

Living in a don't ask, don't tell kind of vibe was gonna be a whole new test for this brave new soul.

Shawn Aaron: Hey, this is Sean Aaron. He, him, he is. And I'm here to tell you about them. Boys podcast. I'm the host of them boys podcast, and as a black queer trans man, the podcast amplifies the voices of other trans men of color As we share our transition stories, the podcast not only amplifies the voices of trans men of color, but it raises awareness and conversations around our lived experiences.

You can listen to the podcast by going to them boys.org/podcast. That's D-E-M-B-O-I s.org/podcast. I hope to have you join us on the next episode.[00:16:00]

Mikelina: The day had finally come. My siblings, cousins, and I were on our way to Adi Sababa. It was a long journey, close to 24 hours of total fly time. I felt grateful that I didn't have any issues when it came to my passport. I'm pretty androgynous, but people generally assumed me to be a young 20 something year old guy and my passport reads female.

When I was initially updating my passport for this trip, I had wanted to use the X marker since it was an option I hadn't had before. I was excited when my mom asked, um, so what should I put female or this X thing? I had a moment of ecstatic joy when I told her I wanted to use X, but that was quickly squashed when she circled back and said, you know, Kia, I don't know if it's such a good idea here in the us.

It may [00:17:00] be okay, but I don't want it to cause you problems when trying to get into Ethiopia. They may give you trouble and it's not the kind of trouble you wanna risk. My throat tightened, fighting to hold back tears. It hurt my heart. But as we made it through the security checkpoints, I realized that she was probably right, and I was grateful that she had named the reality plainly.

I got a few weird looks, you know, from passport back up to me back down at the passport, trying to make sense of what they were reading and saying, but ultimately I made it through. When we landed in Addis, it was morning time. We were exhausted, but we hit the ground running. Our first stop was to see family.

My mom had gotten there ahead of us and had been staying at my godmother's mom's place, along with some of our other aunties and cousins. It was comforting to be received by familiar energy. We ate sipped, traditional Ethiopian coffee from the Jeb [00:18:00] Lounged, and eventually made our way to the apartment.

That would be our home for the next month. That evening, we had our first full community moment meeting up at one of the parents' favorite new spots, Toro, an outdoor lounge with food, drinks, and great live music featuring local talent. We had all been trickling into Addis and twos and threes via different airlines landing on different days, and now there was a critical mass of our Arlington crew.

I don't think I had ever seen our parents so lit up. We crowded around two large tables, parents at one, kids at the other. Even though we were running on little to no sleep, the energy was high. People were dancing and talking, laughing. We were all just so happy to be together in our home country. It was surreal, but as much as I was enjoying myself, there was a quiet anxiety building in my chest.

I knew I was gonna have to use the bathroom at some point. This would be my first time navigating this [00:19:00] particular challenge in Addis. I anticipated that I'd encountered some issues, so I asked my little sister to come with me. She was happy to help. She's 10 years younger than me, but she's the real protector of the family.

She'll stand up to anyone for anything at any time when it comes to her. Own's helpful to have that kind of loving support, though sometimes I have to talk her down. Confrontation is not always the best strategy for me. I steeled myself and with as much confidence as I can muster, walked into the women's bathroom in Ethiopia.

There are usually older women working the facilities, cleaning, offering towels, et cetera. I walked in quickly to avoid giving them any opportunity to tell me I was in the wrong place. I felt their eyes widen as I rushed into the stall. I hear them ask my sister, what is he doing? This is the women's bathroom, and my sister politely saying, no, that's a girl.

She's my sister.[00:20:00]

They didn't buy it. They continued to question disbelief. That's a girl really.

Before exiting the stall, I take a deep breath and proceed to wash my hands and exit. Doing my best to just ignore the whole situation. I felt them staring at me the entire walk back to the table. I exhaled as I thought. This is gonna be a long trip. It was frustrating because on the one hand it was kind of cool to know that I was mostly passing as a guy.

If I was traveling alone, I would probably just let people assume me to be a man and move accordingly. I would've had a lot more freedom, but since I was traveling with family and they use female language with me, Amharic uses mostly gendered conjugations. There was no way for me to finesse. Fun fact, my family loves to party.

It didn't take long before we were out and about in Addis nightlife. [00:21:00] The thing is, we couldn't really move the same way we do when going out in the us. First off, we don't have our own cars, and we're not super familiar with the directions in the city. Uber hasn't made it over there yet. They have a ride share program, but you need a local phone to use it.

And even if you do get a driver, you'd need to be able to give them detailed directions to where you're staying. Addresses aren't really a thing. They technically exist, but Google Maps doesn't really register them to give directions to a place. Folks are more often like, it's the black and white house near this intersection across from the market, and you'll know you're close once you've passed the big tree to give us some independence.

The parents arranged for us to have a driver, one driver for all of us cousins. This meant that everything we do, we do as a unit. This was tough for me because I'm usually the one who likes to leave parties a bit early. I'm the oldest of the group, not much of a drinker, and I'm definitely the [00:22:00] most introverted of the kids.

In addition to the logistics of going out, there were a lot of cultural rules that we were gonna have to adapt to. Ethiopia is a very conservative religious country. The Ethiopian Orthodox Church is fundamental to almost all of our cultural norms, and there's almost equal representation of Muslim Ethiopians in the country.

This means that it's mostly considered inappropriate for women to expose skin. You're expected to cover your arms and legs. You don't even really see men wearing shorts or exposing their calves or ankles. Our first night out, I dressed as I normally would, cargo pants, a tank top and a short sleeve button-up shirt to put on top.

We bar hopped for a little while looking for a good place to land. It was a Friday night, and we had forgotten that Friday's a holy day when most people are fasting, which means that most of the nightlife spots were dead. It was kind of nice though for our first night out because it gave us a chance to explore and get familiar with the scene [00:23:00] without having to navigate the chaos of a crowd.

As we moved from bar to bar, I started to relax. The worst of it so far was a few stairs, some backward bathroom awkwardness, and one instance where a young bartender clearly representing the whole group of giggling staff, worked up the nerve to approach me and ask, excuse me. We were just wondering, are you male or female?

Of course, I hated the question, but I've become a master of regulating or compartmentalizing as needed to navigate these situations with grace. My goal was to end the conversation quickly without causing conflict. I forced a laugh and told him female, and quickly moved on to regroup with my cousins.

Eventually, we found a place we liked and would end up frequenting. Throughout our trip, Pandora. Pandora was the new hotspot in Addis, a nightclub that was popular amongst both locals and the diaspora scene. They had really great DJs playing [00:24:00] a mix of Afrobeats, hip hop, and Ethiopian music, both traditional and contemporary.

Because it was a bit emptier, my cousins and I felt really free to take up some space dance and let loose. After a little while, my sister and I were both getting overheated from all the dancing and the drinking, and decided to take off our outer layers. She took off her jacket and I took off the button up shirt.

Since the club was pretty empty, we figured it wouldn't be an issue. Soon after, I could feel the bouncers glaring in our direction. Eventually, a bouncer nearby walks up and tells me that I need to put my shirt back on, but he doesn't say anything to my sister. I was confused at first, wondering why he wasn't addressing both of us, and then I understood what was happening.

It wasn't about dress code or cultural norms, it was about gender expression. My sister was a desirable [00:25:00] woman, so it was okay for her to show skin, but they didn't know what to make of me and they didn't like it. The drinks had given us a bit of courage, so instead of quietly complying, we pushed back a bit.

Why do I need to cover up? But she doesn't. I asked pointing to my sister who was wearing essentially the same thing, and of course there's a bit of a language barrier, but we're going back and forth and he's like, please, please just, just put your shirt back on. And I'm like, I will, but tell me why I need to, but she doesn't have to.

At that point, he turns to my sister and he says, you know, y'all are different. It's just different. This sets my sister off. She starts turning up, getting louder, and the situation starts to escalate. The bouncer starts getting aggressive, and I quickly realized that this could go very, very left very, very quickly.[00:26:00]

We were not in America anymore. I grabbed my sister and signaled to the boys that it was time to go. It sucked because everyone was having a really great time. It was our first night out, and we had finally found a place where the group felt like they could let loose. I could tell that my brother and cousins were frustrated.

The situation with the bouncer had gone from zero to a hundred in a matter of seconds. They went from dancing and laughing to abruptly having to leave. I knew the situation was incredibly unfair, but I couldn't help but feeling like it was all my fault. I was triggered somewhere deep in the shadowy corners of my psyche.

I could hear remnants of a shame story where I will forever be the problem. Child of our community, the one who just can't seem to get it together. Who has to be different [00:27:00] from everyone else? I'm the complicated one. Intrusive thoughts screamed, you're a burden to your family because you're trans. You make situations uncomfortable and ruin the fun.

They'd have an easier time if you weren't here. What made things worse was my brother's reaction. I love him dearly, and I know he loves and supports me unconditionally, but in that moment when I needed affirmation and understanding, he just seemed annoyed and embarrassed. He didn't say the words, but being in my shame spiral, I believed that he blamed me for ruining his good time with the boys.

I know that part of his reaction came from fear, but it still hurt. I wanted him to be on my side to stand up for me like my sister had. Instead, he was trying to be the voice of reason, the calm one. [00:28:00] As we crowded around the elevators trying to leave the building, he was like, guys, just please, please, like, just calm down.

Calm down. Don't make a situation. Don't make it worse. I realized in that moment there was a gap in understanding. The boys in our group couldn't possibly grasp what it felt like to have their bodies policed, not like my sister could. While I'm grateful I had my family with me while navigating Addis for the first time, as I am certain, it increased my level of safety and security.

It also made these kind of situations far more complicated and activating. You have to understand all of us were on edge, navigating feelings of not belonging. Locals could tell that we are from the diaspora. It's obvious we were all dealing with the discomfort of being stared at and examined, feeling exposed.[00:29:00]

My experience just had an added layer with the gender stuff, and this is why I felt so bad. I know that my younger siblings and cousins desperately wanted to blend in to have a good time and feel like they belonged in Ethiopia, and I felt that I made it harder for them. It was a bitter pill to swallow as the eldest of the group.

All I wanted to do is protect them to take care of them. After Pandora, we went somewhere else trying to salvage the night, but I was having a really hard time regulating and kind of just ended up disassociating until we made it back to our apartment. As soon as I got back to my room and the door closed behind me, hot tears started streaming down my face and I fell apart.

I worked hard to quiet the sobs. The walls in the apartment were thin. It was clear that the night's events had poked at an old wound. [00:30:00] The pain reverberating throughout my body, carried echoes of childhood. All of a sudden, I was my younger self terrified of being abandoned, envious of my normal brother and sister feeling trapped in a body that set me apart from those I love.

It had been a long time since I had navigated these kinds of feelings around self-worth. I had built a life for myself in Brooklyn where I could thrive, take up space, and be comfortable in my confidence Here though I was a kid again, terrified of disappointing my family. Feeling alienated from them because of who I am.

Just as I began to slip into a spiral, I heard a knock at the door. I really didn't want anybody to see me like this, but I couldn't hide the tears in my voice when I said, who is it? My little sister [00:31:00] opened the door. She saw me crying and immediately knew what to do. She gently closed the door behind her, approached me and held me in tight.

Embrace. I resisted at first. The shame made it hard to be held. I was the older one. I'm supposed to be the strong protector, the one that's always okay, but she was unrelenting and her love was just too much. For my shame to endure. My armor broke and I melted into her crying, into her chest. And in that moment, that gnarly festering wound that I thought I would forever carry, started to heal.

It's amazing what a good cry and some sleep can do. I woke up feeling lighter. Something had been released. In the chaos of that night. My sister showed me that I could [00:32:00] indeed trust and rely on my family. Even if they can't understand what I'm going through. They want to be there to hold me through it.

The angry, resentful thoughts towards my brother quieted and transformed into words that I wanted to share with him. I didn't want to just walk around being upset with him. I wanted him to know what was going on for me, how and why I felt hurt. My brother and I had a moment alone sipping our macchiatos at the cafe downstairs and with butterflies in my stomach and a knot in my chest.

I said my peace. I apologized for how I had become cold with him the night before. I had shut him down and froze him out. I explained what had been going on for me. He listened, apologized, [00:33:00] and affirmed what I knew to be true. He said, I'm really sorry, Kia. I really didn't care at all about leaving. Like that's just not important to me.

I was scared. I feel like I'm responsible for protecting you guys. I'm your brother. We're out here. We're not in our element. I was panicked, scared of what might happen. I'm sorry if I made you feel like I wasn't on your side. I didn't know how badly I needed to hear these words. This trip was proving to be transformative in ways that I could never have imagined.

Yes, navigating trans to in Ethiopia was challenging and forcing me to confront some really hard things. But more than anything, I realized that it was going through these hard things and allowing my family to witness me and my [00:34:00] experience to share with them what it felt like to be trans and to navigate these things.

This connection and bonding and vulnerability was transmuting a story of pain and victimization into something different, something good and beautiful where. I was getting closer to my family because I was being real with them and allowing them to love me through it.

About halfway through our trip, my mom approached my sister and me with an idea. She wanted us to experience this thing called waba, a traditional healing ceremony exclusively for women. She explained that it was historically reserved for new brides or women who had just given birth, but now was increasingly offered as a spa treatment.

Fun [00:35:00] fact about Haha, living Leisure is a big part of our culture for those with means. In many ways, it's the direct opposite of Western capitalist vibes, massages, spa treatments, long lunches, coffee dates, and relaxation. Are not rare self-care indulgences. They're a part of normal everyday life. This waba treatment felt like a special opportunity.

I was excited but conflicted. Obviously, I don't identify as a woman and generally avoid spaces designated as women only. On the other hand, this felt like an important and meaningful experience to have with my mom and sister. To connect to ritual and our roots. I decided that the positives outweighed the [00:36:00] negatives of discomfort and perhaps dysphoria.

When we arrived at the spa, my mom checked in at the desk telling the staff that she had scheduled appointments for us all. They looked at us and said, two women and three men. She smiled and replied, no, three women and two men. The young man working the desk looked at us puzzled, but did not question it.

He took us to the elevators. The boys got off on the men's floor, and then we were escorted to the women's quarters. The man knocked on the door and told the women working that new people had arrived for treatment. As we started to walk in, they quickly stopped me apologizing and firmly stating this areas for women only.

Eth Bates. No. My mom jumped in before I could respond saying This is my daughter. [00:37:00] They looked at me skeptically and then bust into laughter when they realized their mistake. Oh, we are so sorry. They said giggling. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, but I pushed through it. I told myself I want and deserve to have this experience.

I don't care what they think. The ceremony began with the women lathering us head to toe with medicinal oils, herbs, and coffee grinds. They then guided us to these handmade wooden chairs with giant holes in the middle of the seat. Underneath was a smoking fire with incense. As we sat, they draped heavy blankets over us, creating a personal sauna tent to trap in the smoke and the heat.

The women explained that the treatment was good for womb healing and for cleansing the female reproductive system along [00:38:00] with a number of other bodily ailments. As I sat there enveloped in smoke, wrapped in blankets, sweating in the company of my mom and sister, I had this profound moment of gratitude.

Sure, it sucks to be forced into categories of gender that don't fit the truth of who I am, and it's hella uncomfortable to pretend that I'm a woman, but it's also pretty amazing that I have this opportunity to experience. It's a gift to be fluid, to be a shape shifter of sorts. It gave me a new perspective on my time in Ethiopia.

I know who I am and I am blessed to have so many communities and spaces that see me clearly and allow me to be the fullest version of myself. [00:39:00] And I'm secure enough with myself to do and say what I need to in order to live the life that I want to have, the experiences that I want. I decided that I could reclaim the story of my time in Ethiopia.

I didn't have to be a victim. Instead, I figured that this time in Ethiopia would be a giant social experiment, a gender fuckery of a drag performance. The women there were incredibly kind. Once we got past the initial awkwardness at the door, they showered me with care and tenderness treating me like kin.

It was funny to hear them talk so casually about how they perceived me. They told my mom, your daughter is so pretty, but I'm con, but she looks like a boy, Wendy. There was this element of awe and wonder. [00:40:00] This experience felt emblematic of my entire time in Ethiopia. The confusion about my gender was rarely malicious.

People were just confused, and more often than not curious. The way I was existing was so far outside of their framework of reality, outside of the language they had available to them. I realized that this trip was not just transformative for me, but perhaps transformative for everybody that I was connecting with.

And engaging with after the Waba experience, something shifted in me. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. It makes sense that participating in a centuries old womb healing ceremony with my mom and sister would have some kind of an effect. [00:41:00] Plus, I had weathered the storm of being very naked in this sacred women's space, allowing my body to be seen, touched, and tended to in ways that only my people could.

It was beautiful and awkward as fuck. There were so many moments where it all just felt so wrong. Like I was an intruder, trespassing where I didn't belong. I felt like a creep. But then there were also these moments where it all felt very right. I know how it sounds, and no, it's not like I suddenly realized, oh, hey, I'm actually okay with being a woman.

There's just way too much boy in me, but there was a revelation of sorts. This test of comfort reaffirmed the truth that my gender is really just mine. It's something that resides deep within me and it's far more fluid than I sometimes want to admit. [00:42:00] Sure I take actions to express my gender, aspiring to materialize and externalize all that, which cannot be confined to words.

But does gender really need to be so precious? I don't think so. In many ways it feels no different from the ways in which I express myself through art or music, or how I move my body when I'm lost in dance. I've always had this deep desire to share myself with the world. It's often been hidden behind shyness and self-consciousness.

But as I've grown, matured, expanded, it feels really good to have my truth recognized and mirrored back to me by others folks who can resonate with my frequency, who want to hear and see and receive all that I am. But even then. Regardless of environment or circumstance, my gender is something that can never truly be [00:43:00] seen.

It's my own internal experience of self and reality. It's one thing to know this or to think this, but in this moment I found that it's something entirely different when a belief becomes embodied, I suppose I went over an edge of some sort, exceeded my comfort of reality and normality in a way that tipped me over into a new way of being and witnessing myself sitting over those hot coals, lightheaded, dripping in sweat oils, coffee grinds, and prayers.

I found a new freedom in the days that followed. I was reflecting on the sneaky ways that the threads of gender binary ideology are still all knotted up within me. I thought to myself. I know I'm not a woman because I am me, but these people are questioning my womanhood, not based on what I've shared or [00:44:00] what they know about me, but based on what they see with their eyes.

There's so many women out there who might look like me, more muscular, more angular, shorter hair, women who might prefer to express themselves in ways that have been coated as masculine or boyish, and after a lifetime in the world of sports strength and conditioning, bodybuilding, power lifting. I know for a fact that there are plenty of women whose testosterone levels are much higher than mine, whose muscles are much bigger than mine.

Identity is an inside out thing. We choose to communicate our identity through various signals, utilizing socially agreed upon symbols, rituals, and performance cues. But even then, those of us on the outside, the audience, we're just interpreting at best. We're making an educated guess as to what flavor of spirit might reside [00:45:00] inside anybody.

I quickly became upset at the absurdity and insidious nature of gender policing, not just for trans bodies like mine, but for everyone. The anger was helpful. I thought, fuck it. If I'm gonna have to play by these wild rules of circumstance, play the part of a woman who happens to look exactly like a boy, I'm gonna have fun with it.

Other people's curiosity, discomfort, and confusion don't need to be my problem. If I'm gonna be a spectacle, so be it. We were quickly approaching the final days of our trip and things were. Feeling good. I had made it through an incredible series of big, scary, vulnerable things, the kinds of things that I had both fantasized and panicked about.

I had spent more hours and days with my family than I had since childhood. There was so much fear, anticipation, and anxiety surrounding this trip, not just in the [00:46:00] months leading up, but for my entire life, and now it was almost over. Yes, I was very excited to get back to Brooklyn, back to my comfy queer and trans diaspora that I've become so very attached to.

But at the same time, there was a surprising sadness washing over me as I realized that I'd have to leave Ethiopia soon. Amidst all this hard stuff, there was a deep healing experience happening. Something about being on ancestral land, engaging in all these different levels of gender fuckery. I felt fed and held in a warm embrace by this feeling of a long lost love that I didn't know I had been so anxiously grasping for.

I was walking a bit taller, feeling more confident, like, Hey, I'm getting the hang of this thing. This sense of power was amplified when we visited the AWA [00:47:00] Museum built by and for Ethiopians. The museum showcases incredible artifacts from the Battle of Ottawa where Ethiopians fought back against the Italians sparking the global Pan-African movement and inspiring black African leaders all over the world to fight back against colonial powers.

Going through this museum recounting the long history of Ethiopia being a leader in Champion for Black liberation. It didn't just make me proud to be Ethiopian, but made me realize that. I come from a radical lineage descended from chiefs and warriors who chose to fight back against the status quo.

They chose to be creative with their resources of body and land. Our tradition stands on values of faith and human dignity and inherent human divinity. Although contemporary culture may have issues with who I am, there's no denying that I am the [00:48:00] direct result of the will and dreams of my ancestors. As we entered our final week, I was pretty done with the whole nightlife scene, but there was one more big party on our itinerary.

Everyday People is an African diaspora focused party that was founded in 2012 in New York City. It started off as a small brunch series and has grown into a global party platform. They were hosting a party in the city as part of their Africa tour, and it was the talk of the town. Both locals and folks from the diaspora were very hype about it.

My friends back in Brooklyn were envious that we'd be in attendance. It was all very exciting. After a proper pregame, we pulled up to find the venue. In absolute chaos, they oversold the event and were clearly not staffed for safe crowd control. People were [00:49:00] spilling out into the streets, down the block, and as we fought our way through, we found ourselves stuck in a sea of people pushing from both the front and behind.

There was nowhere to go. The aggressive energy was escalating rapidly. I started to panic. My cousins and I had gotten quickly separated, and so I looked around and grabbed the few of them who were still close enough. As we got closer to the front, I quickly realized that the security personnel were becoming increasingly violent.

They had stopped checking tickets and just started pushing and grabbing and throwing people. Everybody was yelling. Security was clearly overwhelmed. They were in fight mode. I realized that I needed to find a way to show these security guards that I was not a threat. I did everything I could to suppress my righteous indignation [00:50:00] energy, my natural impulse to fight, and channeled every ounce of sub energy I could muster.

I wanted everything about my body to say and communicate. I come in peace. I'm not a threat. I put my hands up with my phone, displaying my ticket, hoping to avoid violence and demonstrate that I was ready to comply with whatever they asked of me. Unfortunately this didn't matter. I hadn't anticipated how gender dynamics would shape the situation.

The guard assumed me to be a young man, and in that moment I felt, oh shit. Passing isn't always such a great thing. With the force of the mob pushing me forward, I couldn't keep myself from being slammed into the guard who was easily two or three times my size. As he looked down at me, I [00:51:00] saw emptiness and blind rage.

He did not see me, just the imaginary threat of another masculine body. He grabs me by my shirt, with both hands lifting me off the ground. Intuitively, my body went limp. I knew not to resist. He shakes me like a ragdoll. Screaming in Amharic, Anta, you, boy. What do you think you're doing? Get outta my face and throws me across the room quickly.

Turning his attention back to the sea of people rushing the entryway. I flew ever so slightly airborne. It happened so fast, but everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. It was like a scene from the action movies I love so much, except I was on the wrong side of the action. As I landed on the ground, my cousins who were already inside rushed to help me up asking if I was okay.

I was in shock, disoriented [00:52:00] as I jumped to my feet, a wave of embarrassment and shame washed over me. Never in my life had I been manhandled like that, I immediately went into, I'm fine. It's all good, but my mind screamed, oh my God, is this what it means to be a man in the world? I knew I had done the right thing, choosing to be submissive.

If I had resisted or given any indication that I could fight back, I have no doubt things would've escalated in a really bad way. His body exuded the desire to fight. If I had given him a reason, he would've happily taken the opportunity to cause some serious harm. Violence craves violence. It was a complicated feeling, weirdly validating and painfully heartbreaking.

I suddenly felt great empathy for my brother and my other boy cousins. I now understood my brother's reactivity from the other night with the bouncer in [00:53:00] a new embodied kind of way, I felt ashamed of how shaken I was. I thought maybe I'm not tough enough to be one of the guys. This cascade of intrusive thoughts said, if you want to be a boy, you need to accept that you are gonna be expected to experience violence and not feel heard about it.

It's the first time I've really felt what kind of privileges I had. Being socialized as a girl, living in a world that more often prioritizes and rewards the language of emotions and communication. I tried to shake it off once inside the party. I wanted to be strong. Cool. I didn't wanna alarm my cousins as the oldest, I felt responsible for being a source of calm in the chaos we were all navigating.

Once we were inside, it turned out to be a pretty great time. We were all really shaken up, but doing our best to have [00:54:00] fun. It all felt kind of fuzzy, like I was existing, just a few feet outside of my body. I did my best to be present. The venue was beautiful, and what was most exciting was the sheer number of quietly queer people in the mix, which I had expected since it was an everyday people party.

As we navigated through the crowd, I was pulled aside by different folks. They said things like, Hey, you don't know me, but I've been following you on Instagram for over eight years. You're the first queer Ethiopian I saw being out and proud, living happily and joyfully. They said, Hey, I know you. I've heard stories about your family.

I read your articles. I never thought I'd see you here in Addis. It was life changing, world bending. I had all of these fears and anxieties about [00:55:00] being Ethiopian enough in my queer trans life, but in this moment I realized that. Living True was worth it. There was purpose in the pain and alienation I had felt throughout my life.

I was making space, giving hope and possibility to my queer and trans hahah siblings, those who still needed permission to accept and love themselves. I guess we all kind of need that. I don't know that it ever goes away all of a sudden. I was feeling myself, no alcohol, no drugs, just pure bliss of this newfound kind of love for who I am and where I come from.

And those two things not being separate. There was this new world that we were creating in this moment. All of a sudden, I noticed the sheer [00:56:00] amount of queerness in the space. It was paradoxical, it was loud, yet discreet, and to be honest, it was pretty hot. I noticed a number of women making eyes at me, and for the first time, this whole trip, I felt comfortable enough to flirt back to let them see me moving my hips.

I put on a little show knowing that they were watching. And knowing that there would be no direct engagement, there was something invigorating about being criminally queer. It's like, I know, and you know, but because we're here in this place that denies our queerness, we hide in plain sight. Now, I'm not saying that I enjoy being criminalized.

It's more that I felt this sense of power that even in the most oppressive of situations, we still find a way to be who we are to navigate, to experience joy and sensuality. [00:57:00] There was this intuitive kind of code, a way of communicating that only those of us in the know could understand. I felt connected to my people in a whole new way.

It showed me that. I can exist here, I can come back and know that I'll be okay and I'll be amongst friends. My cousins and I made it through the rest of the night without any serious issues. I mean, I guess we did have trouble leaving. Folks were still trying to rush the doors, so they were saying that no one could leave.

But my younger sister talked her talk and finessed the way out for us. Thank God for her. In a weird way, we had a good time. Sure, I'd rather not live through something like that again. But if nothing else, we gained this crazy story to bond over a memory we will surely never forget. It's funny how bad things can happen, but when you go [00:58:00] through it with people you love, those become the stories we end up sharing and laughing about.

And yes, I do realize that this is low key. Some trauma bonding, but I also think there's something really beautiful about how we all weathered the storm and came together to ensure that we were all kept safe. Even when we were split into smaller groups, we all made it through intact, largely because we stepped up for one another.

We came together and processed everything that had happened in the days and weeks that followed community care makes all the difference. When I got home that night, not surprisingly, I had a little meltdown. Even though I was okay, there were just tears and emotions that needed to be processed. It wasn't until I was all alone in bed that I really felt just how scary the whole experience had been.

I felt this deep sadness in coming to terms with the [00:59:00] idea that violence is maybe just part of what it means to be a man. Or at least to be someone that society perceives as a man. Although I never really identified as a girl, I was raised to be one, and that meant violence and aggression. Were not part of the protocol.

That's not how girls are supposed to handle things. That's what boys do, and what's fucked up is that I envied that I wanted to be someone that was allowed to be rough and tough. This definitely contributes to my big interest in fight sports like boxing and juujitsu. I just want to be like the action heroes and the GI Joes I projected myself onto as a young kid, the guys that I studied and worked so hard to emulate.

Some of this is still true. I get a lot of healing and joy out of combat sports, out of being a meathead jock type, but now I know [01:00:00] the difference between being aggressive in the confines of fight sports versus non-consensual random violence. The whole experience gave me a lot to think about and honestly really deepened my compassion for the cis men in my life.

We were in the final days of our time in Ethiopia. I couldn't believe the month was over. It felt like a lifetime and like no time at all. We had found a rhythm in Addis. It was as if this was the only life I'd ever known. Waking up to the church bells and the sounds of adae in the mornings, our call to prayer and liturgy, the smells of our spices.

The feeling of being surrounded by our native tongue, rarely ever hearing English. By the end of the trip, there were eight of us all staying in my aunt's apartment, nestled in Magia, which is like the times [01:01:00] square of Addis. At the beginning, it was a challenge living in such close quarters as full grown adults.

We were used to having our space, our individualism, our radical independence, but somehow we found our way back to an old way of being. A way of being that I thought had been completely lost to nostalgia. A comfort with being so intimately entangled, a throwback to the days of my childhood where there was no separation.

No I, no, you just us. It was like renewing our vows to each other as a family, reestablishing that we genuinely, deeply fuck with each other, not just back then, but now as the humans we are today. A, I got to know my youngers in a brand new way. I got to see the [01:02:00] nuances of how they've evolved with time and how they're still at their core.

Those babies that I used to be responsible for, what was perhaps most shocking was getting to see the change in our parents. I had never seen them so relaxed, so at ease, they were glowing. It was as if they had shed 10 or 20 years of burden of stress. One of the finales of the trip was getting to see Ethio jazz legend mulatto live at the Gideon Hotel.

Mulatto is the father of Ethiopian Jazz. He created this new sound in the 1970s and gave birth to a genre that would forever change jazz music. The moms had plans that night, so it was just the dads and us kids. My uncle seems to know everyone in Addis, and so he was able to get us some VIP seats right up front.

It was funny. [01:03:00] They kept emphasizing how we really needed to get there early to ensure we got our seats, and so us kids showed up and the dads were nowhere in sight. Of course, they rolled in just before the set began. I guess they knew that we would do the work for them. When my dad walked in with my uncles, I was in awe.

He looked like a completely different man. He walked with a relaxed confidence and swagger that I had never seen. I had heard stories about my dad, people telling me how he was really that dude back in the day, he was the life of the party, the guy that everyone loved and could count on. Everybody had a story about my dad.

He sounded like one of those guys in the movies that every girl has eyes for and every guy wants to be friends with. I had never met that guy. I only knew the dad version. The quiet man who is [01:04:00] stoic, reserved, silly, only in the confines of our home. He gardens works on house things, takes things apart and puts them back together.

Doesn't go out much. I guess I didn't realize just how much he changed when he had us kids. He doesn't talk about it like he gave anything up. He says things like, once you guys came into the picture, nothing else really seemed as important. You became my everything. And he says it with a joy and a satisfaction that I can't possibly understand.

Not yet, at least. But here things were different. He wasn't dad. He was the biggest, most liberated version of himself. He was out late at night asking us to leave the key under the mat so he could let himself back in. I was. Confused. I don't think I realized how much the white dominant culture of the US impacted him.[01:05:00]

How perceived he must feel in Ethiopia. He wasn't a black man. He was just a man in Texas. He fell into a racialized world that knew nothing about him or where he comes from. America really didn't hold any space for who he is. As we all settled in waiting for the music to start. My dad quickly told me about the place we were sitting in.

He said, Micki, you know where we're sitting. This used to be the dance floor when we were teenagers. We would come to this very same club and listen to these very same musicians play, and we would dance. We would party. This is where we spent our time. We have so many memories here. It was surreal. I looked down at my feet, looked around the room, and just imagined all of our parents as young teens before the [01:06:00] war, dancing and sweating in this place, what stories these walls could tell, what energy surrounded me, a history that is mine and not mine.

The music started and it was incredible. I grew up listening to Mulatto Ethio. Jazz is the sound of home. It brings comfort. It inspired me to become a musician. It's the music I turn to when I need to feel close to spirit, close to ancestors. And now I was getting to absorb this magic straight from the source Mulatto's in his eighties now, and it wasn't lost on me that this might be the first and last time I get to see him live.

It was a blessing, and in this place with this music, my dad and I connected on a soul level. It's like we both got to see each other as people, not as a parent and child. I felt him watching me outta the corner of his [01:07:00] eyes. I got absorbed in the music. A look of satisfaction that said, yeah, you get it. The other cousins got bored of the jazz after a while and left early, but I stayed to the end.

My dad was proud. It's funny how these little things can inspire pride. I think he saw himself in me. He saw that we're not just connected by blood and DNA, but we're kindred spirits. We've always had that kind of a bond. We're a lot alike. He understands my inner emotional world in a way that often doesn't really make sense to me.

It's not like we talk a whole lot. He is not much of a talker, but or both artists, creatives, more internal types. We bond side by side, reading near each other. Drawing together. I'd help him in the garden or with manual labor around the house, but there was always a bit of a gap because to [01:08:00] him, I'm his daughter.

He never treated me like a son. Obviously. I could see the difference between how he engaged with me versus my younger brother. But this night I think he saw me for real. There was an opening of sorts on the last day of our trip. My heart was really heavy and I couldn't understand why, but I just felt sick all day.

I knew I was anxious about the flight, but it felt like there was something more than that. The parents were staying behind an additional few weeks. It was just us kids heading back to the states. As I was packing things up, we were getting ready to leave for the airport. I was in my room just really trying to manage my emotions.

You know, I've always been the sensitive one in the family and still have a chip on my shoulder about it. I have a habit of trying not to show too much. My mom cracked the door open as she does saying [01:09:00] Kia, we're about to head out. Are you ready? Yeah, mom, just a sec. I tried to mask the emotion in my voice, hoping to avoid deeper inquiry.

Of course, she walks in, I have my back to the door as I fiddle with my suitcase. My stomach is in knots. It's as if she could read my mind. She says, Kia, I'm just so, so happy that we were able to do this. You know, people were telling me I shouldn't bring you. They were saying all kinds of things, that it would be dangerous, that it'd be too hard.

And to be honest, I was scared. I didn't know if it was the right thing to do. I worried that maybe it would be too much, and I know it hasn't been easy, but I'm just so proud of you. I can see that you're at peace with who you are, and I've just been amazed by your strength. I know now that you can handle yourself here, and now that you've had this experience, the next time will be easier.

This is your home. [01:10:00] You belong here just as much as anyone else, and now you can begin to build your own relationship with this place. I started to cry. She embraced me from behind and continued. I know that I haven't given you the attention you normally need. I'm sorry. Things were just so busy, but it won't be like this next time.

I love you so much. She named the thing and all of a sudden I felt the knot in my stomach, release. My shoulders dropped down from my ears, and I felt this heaviness that I had been carrying for as long as I can remember slowly dissipate into emptiness. It was almost a 24 hour trip to get back to Texas, and while I'm not really a fan of long flights, I found myself grateful for the opportunity to be stuck in a liminal space with nowhere to go, nothing to do.

I began to process everything that I hadn't had the time or space to engage with. The trip was life changing. It was like [01:11:00] trying to drink from a fire hose. Every second and moment was filled with immense experience and emotion. I had been anxious about this trip for the better part of a lifetime, and now I can honestly say I'm excited to go back and I'm excited to start this new chapter with my family where I can be vulnerable, honest, unmasked.

I was starting to feel ready to have some real conversations about my transness with them, and after this Ethiopia experience, I felt like I was really ready.

Adam: Wow. Words cannot begin to express how grateful I am to have MIC in my life, and I am just so beyond excited that you now get to have mic in your life too. A huge thank you for being a member and for supporting this show. I hope you'll join us next [01:12:00] time with more tales of transition from our beloved Mikelina

Until then, stay safe, stay strong, stay centered, stay awesome. See you next time.

Kai: Good job today, jackal. Good job to you, Kai. We want to thank our listeners and especially our guests. This show would be nothing without our guests who share their insight, expertise, and heartfelt stories. We absolutely adore you and are forever grateful to you. Stealth captures the living history of men of trans experience.

We recognize that language has its limitations. The words we use to describe ourselves and our community evolve over time and will not represent everyone's experience. We also want you to know that the health and wellbeing [01:13:00] of our community is our number one priority. We want to give a shout out to parents who are supporting their gender non-conforming kids.

Jackal: We support you and love you for supporting your kids. We want to put our podcast in the spotlight. Thanks for not trolling us, but really is this just another form of trans mask and visibility? We offer links to health and safety resources on our website. We monitor our social media platforms. We respond to feedback from our audience, and we will be accountable when we screw up.

We want you to know that we are just two guys doing this in our spare time and two old farts to boot. The opinions expressed are our own and those of our guests. We do not represent any entity outside of this podcast. Remember, if you're interested in sharing your story, we would love to hear from you.

Kai: Also, if you're interested in volunteering, please let us know. Your feedback and support are essential to our show's success. Help us get the word out about our podcast. Tell your [01:14:00] friends, share on social media, and rate us on your favorite streaming platform. Be sure to check out our website, transmasculine podcast.com.

Jackal: Thank you for joining us Until next time.