“I hope she knows she is a girl”

I hope she knows she is a girl

When a laser treatment turned into a wave of anti-TGD ignorance, silence was safer than truth.

“I saw this beautiful young girl in Bunnings on the weekend. She was just stunning. Her dad was black, so black he was almost blue, and her mum was the whitest white. This young girl was the most beautiful caramel colour. I couldn’t help but think to myself, I hope she knows she is a girl. You know, her parents are so different, and she is nothing; not black but not white. With all this Mardi Gras stuff, I have been reading and Instagram telling kids they can choose whether they want to be a boy or a girl or nothing. Imagine if this poor girl had all of that to deal with as well, on top of being so different in the first place. It’s just ridiculous, all this stuff about choosing to be a boy or a girl. I was good at sports when I was at school, and my nickname was ‘Nuggets’. It was so hard for people to imagine a girl could be good at sports. I was tough, but I knew I was a girl. I hope this girl knows she is a girl.” – The Skin Consultant

After giving birth to my daughter, I slowly began to grow an accumulation of tiny blood vessels on the very tip of my nose. Initially, I wasn’t too bothered by it, but as they continued to grow and change, I thought I would err on the side of caution and get it checked out by a dermatologist. Their recommendation was to have Vascular Laser Treatment, which breaks down the capillaries, causing the vessels to disappear. Fast forward a few years to when I finally got around to organising the treatment…

I lay on the procedure bed with my eyes covered by tiny opaque goggles, staring into the darkness, and the consultant began the treatment. It stings a little bit around my nose, a bit like the irritation of bra straps the day after sunburn. We begin chatting about the usual pleasantries, the visible improvements since the first treatment, the weather and other topics I can’t even remember. The consultant then begins to laser the tip of my nose. Whoa! I remember it was stingy last time, but it still didn’t help prepare me for this session. The discomfort doesn’t last long, a bit like eating a spoonful of wasabi, but focused all on the tip of my nose. I didn’t know it at the time, but the physical pain was about to pale into insignificance. I held my breath, and the consultant simultaneously destroyed my blood vessels with tiny bursts of heat and filled the silence with one giant, prolonged expression of thinly veiled racism and transphobia.

I couldn’t feel my nose anymore. I could feel my heart thumping in my chest. I could feel my hands become sweaty and my entire body heating up. I could feel my chest tightening and my breathing starting to wheeze as my airways narrowed. I lay on the bed so overwhelmed by the room filling with ignorant and offensive diatribe, so thick I became physically unwell. I am ashamed I couldn’t say anything at that moment. I couldn’t defend anyone. I couldn’t plant any seeds or shock her into even a moment of thoughtful reflection. I froze. I left. I sat in my car, inhaled Ventolin and cried…

This is not the end, however. Not the end of this story, not the end of this conversation, not the end of this blog post. This is yet another opportunity for me to try and educate, be vulnerable, be vocal, be active, and be me.