Archive: Author: Holden Madagame

7 Ways To Practice Pronouns

Posted on by Holden Madagame

New pronouns can be hard to wrap your head around if you’re experiencing them for the first time, or are trying to use something new with an old friend. And if they use an uncommon pronoun (xe/ze/they/etc.), it might seem overwhelming.

It’s OK to be insecure, but don’t let it get in the way of using the correct pronoun for your friend. A trans* person probably isn’t going to expect you to get the right pronouns immediately, but they’ll expect you to try.

“But I keep messing up, and now I’m scared I’ll never get it right!” you might say. Don’t be scared, it’s just about practice. Pronouns are learned, and can be unlearned.

Here are some ways to practice your friend’s new pronoun:

1. Write about your friend and then read it aloud

This might feel weird to do at first, but it will really help you to practice not only writing and reading their pronoun, but to speak it. Your tongue has an amazing memory, and when spoken aloud your ears will also latch onto the pronoun. Writing things by hand is also known to boost your memory. Utilize all of your senses.

2. Talk to friends

Chat about your friend whose pronouns you’re trying to learn. Even a simple, “Hey I met this really cool person, they have brown hair and blue eyes,” or whatever will put your mouth into practice. It’s also a safe space for you a make a mistake, if you’re afraid of that. Your friends won’t know the difference. But also…

3. If you make a mistake, verbalize and correct.

Instead of trying to ignore your mistake, correct it immediately. Even if the friends you’re talking to don’t know the difference, verbalizing the correction will help you get it right the next time. Don’t feel guilty or ashamed about making a mistake, simply move on and try again.

4. Don’t be afraid.

You might be afraid to hang out with your friend for fear of misgendering them. This is a relatively natural feeling because of the way we’re socialized. We don’t want to appear insensitive about gender or sexuality, so we avoid it all together. This is similar to not wanting to appear racist. Instead, gird your loins and jump in. If you mess up, correct yourself, and move on. Ask questions, and listen to the answers.

5. Don’t be overly apologetic.

This isn’t an obvious thing to remember, but it’s important. If you mess up someone’s pronoun, and you realize it immediately, your gut instinct might be to apologize until you feel better, or until they tell you that it’s OK that you misgendered them. This makes your trans* friend feel bad. They start to feel guilty for making you feel guilty, and this is a vicious cycle. It’s not about you, it’s about them, so don’t apologize to make yourself feel better, apologize to make them feel better.

5. Educate yourself.

Don’t wait for other people to tell you what’s right or wrong. Google things for yourself. Google things that seem embarrassing like, “How to use xe/xem pronouns” or “How to be a good ally“. Read, ask questions, listen, read some more. It will pay off, I promise.

6. Study this quick and dirty guide.

7. Play this game.

Height Dysphoria

Posted on by Holden Madagame

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I’m a small guy. I’m 5’2″ (157cm), and 135lbs (61kg).

The average size for a white cisgender man is about 5’10”, and that of a woman is 5’5″. I’m small for a woman, let alone for a guy. 

When I identified as female, I didn’t mind as much. Society likes short women more than it does tall women, and it likes tall men more than it likes short men. Occasionally I would get short jokes, or pats on the head, but I could tolerate it.

Identifying as trans-masculine and being read as male more often, there are different cultural connotations. Being a short guy doesn’t command much respect, and in fact most people like to comment on it. You’re an easy butt to a joke, there’s also the stereotype of the Napoleon Complex that makes being a short man harder to operate. If you try to assert yourself, you’re accused of having short man syndrome. I generally am very good at negotiating conversations, and don’t feel the need to over compensate for my height, but this stereotype comes up nevertheless. So to operate the most effectively, a short man doesn’t assert themselves too much, and laughs when people make fun of them.

Although I prefer to be patient and charming, as a short man I have little other option.

I’ve mentioned before that part of my philosophy on trans/queer activism is the slowly slowly, catchy monkey technique. To me, this means that I am my normal, charming, Midwest-friendly self, and I am endlessly patient and answer questions again and again to keep informing the people around me about trans and queer issues. I try to be aware of my privilege as an out trans-masculine person, and use it to further the cause as best as I can. My height affects this as well though. Although I prefer to be patient and charming, as a short man I have little other option. If I’m any other way, I’m easily accused of the stereotypes I mentioned before.

Then there’s the idea that a woman can’t date a man shorter than her. I’ve heard the rules a million times from female friends, and most of them completely rule out the idea of dating someone an inch shorter, let alone 6 inches or more. It’s one of society’s strongest gendered ideas, is that men have to be tall (or at least taller than women).

There is an extra layer of being a short trans-masculine person though. Height is associated with gender. If you are a tall woman, you’re more often mistaken as a guy. If you’re a short guy, you might be mistaken for a women more often, because both are uncommon.

As someone who was born female, this creates a lot of dysphoria. It makes it harder to shop for clothes that are small enough for me. I still sometimes have to shop in the women’s section for shoes, because my feet are too small for almost any men’s shoes. It makes partner dancing very difficult to lead (not because it is more difficult, but because women don’t feel they can follow a short man), makes someone’s view of me sway more easily to female if they catch a certain glimpse of my silhouette. It makes garnering respect that much more difficult, because not only am I a short man, but I’m a short trans man.

As someone who was born female, this creates a lot of dysphoria. It makes it harder to shop for clothes that are small enough for me.

One reason I didn’t transition earlier (besides the whole being a classical singer thing), was because I was short. It’s a huge obstacle depending on your self-image, and for me, it meant that performing would be more difficult, and casting would be more difficult. It effects whether you can even have a chance at your Fach, and affects how you are staged. literally. every time. If there is a short character tenor, there will inevitably be short jokes to follow: someone leaning on you like a shelf, jumping on someone’s shoulders, being picked up and carried/repositioned…the list goes on.

As a performer, this doesn’t actually bother me, just as kissing someone, being naked, hitting someone on stage wouldn’t bother me. It’s part of the job. What I find distasteful is when people think that they can make fun of my height outside of this context. For example, I was once in a staging rehearsal, and a director told me to grab a chair and stand on it. I took their direction in earnest, and grabbed a chair and stood on it. To everyone’s embarrassment, it turns out they were making fun of my height, and didn’t actually want that as part of the staging. I didn’t make a fuss, but ultimately it made me dysphoric for the rest of the day.

The interesting thing about this is that I’ve talked to a number of good friends, and no one has ever said that I actually look short on stage.

Check out these pictures for example:

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My mom took this of me in a recent rehearsal for ‘Le nozze di Figaro‘ for The Berlin Opera Group, and I was incredibly surprised with how not short I looked. I finally got some insight into what other people might actually see, and it relieved a bit of my dysphoria, despite my mathematical height dimension.

Here are a few things that help me deal with my height dysphoria:

  • Correct Posture: It’s very common for trans guys to slouch to make their breasts seem smaller. Binding also can cause shoulder and back problems which round your shoulders, and make you feel and look smaller. Maintaining proper posture has helped me relieve some of this dysphoria.
  • Wear Clothes That Fit: Baggy or unfitted clothes make me feel not only sloppy, but reminds me of the fact that I often can’t find male clothes in my size. Getting second-hand clothes tailored (not very expensive by the way), or finding brands that fit is the biggest relief for my dysphoria.
  • Heeled Shoes/Raised Insoles: Trans-masculine people might not like the idea of wearing heels (as they probably have worn female heels before), but a bit of lift in shoes can not only give you a few inches, but make you walk straighter.
  • Confidence: This sounds stupid and I can hear you rolling your eyes from my apartment, but it’s true. If you carry yourself with confidence, people will mentally add inches. For example, did you know that Prince was my height? Yep, he was 5’2″ mother fuckers.

I’d love to hear your experiences about height, whether you’re cisgender or trans. I think everyone has feelings about this subject one way or another, so let’s talk about it!

Gidon Saks on Gender in Opera

Posted on by Holden Madagame

I’ve recently become involved with Opera on Tap Berlin‘s production of ‘Les Contes d’Hoffmann‘, which is going up on February 20/21 at the Stummfilmkino Delphi in Berlin (get tickets here). In singing the character tenor parts in the show, I’ve been able to experience a completely different kind of singing acting than I’ve experienced before. Sure, I’ve had comedic or light roles before, but nothing that was so heavily movement and acting dependent.

I’m honored to share an interview I conducted with Gidon regarding gender in our production of ‘Les Contes d’Hoffmann’, and on his views about gender in opera.

Working with Gidon Saks has been incredibly fulfilling both on an artistic and personal level. His visions for the production are very clear, and the way that staging rehearsals work are very specific, but also malleable, fluid. He’ll have a specific idea, but then see one of the singers use their natural movements, and he’ll be inspired to change his idea, morphing it into something even more colorful.

Gender has a lot to do with this.

Throughout the production, Gidon has made it clear that almost every character is playing with gender, whether it’s obvious or not. Nicklausse is decidedly gender fluid, Giulietta controls every man on stage, Schlemil walks confidently on stage in a silvery skirt, male corset, and leather bolero, etc. None of the characters are apologizing or capitalizing on their gender variance, and it’s not for shock effect. The opera seems to celebrate gender in all its subtle and complex forms.

As you can imagine, this makes me a bit giddy.

Not only am I allowed to express my gender naturally, but I’m encouraged to.

This is something rare, and invaluable. It creates a safe space for me (and everyone around me) to truly be themselves. For some people in the production, it might be the first time they’ve critically assessed their gender. That in itself is irreplaceable, and I hope that we’ll be able to impart the same experience to the audience during our performances.

If you’re interested, here’s a breakdown of my own characters, and how I’ve been able to use my own gender experience to inform their actions and personalities.

Nathanaël has few lines, but is on stage for almost the entire prologue. He and the other character role seem to have an intimate, albeit absurdist relationship. Through I’m able to express an inherent queerness in movements that feel more like a cis-gender gay man than any of the other characters, but without the specificity. His absurdist nature makes him ambiguous in many ways.

Spalanzani is the creator/father of Olympia (an automaton), and most of the time is running around on stage like a mad scientist. He also has a latent sexuality that reveals itself in snippets, such as humping another character’s leg like an unamused dog, or flexing his muscles for the crowd. He’s probably the most emotionally present of my characters as well, since he cares deeply for his creations, and seems to have some sense of morality. Something that impressed me about developing this character was that Gidon wasn’t afraid to make him sexual. It’s easy to write off Spalanzani as the crazy uncle sort of character, but instead he’s just as complex as the other characters on stage.

Franz is one of my more interesting characters, and definitely the scariest. Although he pretends to be deaf, he seems to be acutely aware of his position within the company he keeps. He is also a sadist. There is a horrifying aspect to his sexuality that seems to change like a chameleon from scene to scene, abusing and manipulating every character he comes into contact with (regardless of gender).

Pitichinaccio is the final character I play, and one that I’m still trying to grasp. He has a wolfish quality about him, and I’m playing him almost as if he is slowly transforming into a werewolf by the end of the opera. He moves in an instinctive, animal way, literally barking at other characters at times. Although he’s not on stage for very long, he has a dramatic death caused by his werewolfism that feels very real to me. His character becomes more and more deranged, more detached, less gendered to me.

I’m so excited and proud to be part of a production that fucks with gender, because gender needs to be fucked with, especially in opera.

See you at the show!

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Interview with Gidon Saks on ‘Les Contes d’Hoffmann’

Posted on by Holden Madagame

I’m very honored to be sharing this interview I conducted with Gidon Saks for Opera on Tap Berlin‘s ‘Les Contes d’Hoffmann’.

I don’t exaggerate when I say that it was nothing short of inspiring to talk about his artistic process, and I’m excited to be sharing our performance on February 20/21 at Ehemaliges Stummfilmkino Delphi Berlin.

https://www.facebook.com/operaontapberlin/videos/1676775352569499/?fref=nf

Post-Op Depression: The Unexpected Bits of Recovery

Posted on by Holden Madagame
Depression with a tailored shirt.
Depression with a tailored shirt.

It’s been roughly 5 months since my top-surgery, and I’m recovering incredibly well. I had read a lot of articles beforehand on how to deal with recovery, so I thought I was prepared, but in some ways I don’t think I ever would have been.

There was about a month where I could barely move, and had to have my girlfriend and friends dress me, wash me, cook me food, take out my trash, open doors for me, etc. This took a huge toll on me emotionally and psychologically, more than I thought. I mean, who doesn’t want someone to do all their chores for them?

Turns out, me.

Being trans already makes a person feel unwanted in society, so for me at least, I feel like I need to make myself as small and unobtrusive as possible most of the time, to make the world want me. It sounds very sad, but it’s true, and I would argue that a lot of trans people feel the same way. So when I was immobilized, this feeling multiplied. I was not only a burden to my friends emotionally for being trans, but a burden physically by being immobilized.

I know that none of my friends thought this, but it was impossible for me to feel any other way. Eventually depression creeped around the corner and sat on my beautiful new chest so that I couldn’t get out of bed. My depression got quite bad, even after I was mostly physically recovered. I had to arrange shifts for people to simply sit by me, or make me food. Not because I wasn’t physically able, but because I wasn’t emotionally or psychologically capable of taking care of myself, or seeing the worth in meeting basic needs, like food, or sleep.

Almost every day, I would try to think to myself, “It will get better once you can work out.” But this started to make me anxious. “What if working out doesn’t solve it? Working out probably won’t solve it. If working out doesn’t solve it, what are the other options?” This set in motion long-harbored feelings of body-image discomfort that I hadn’t felt in years, and that didn’t actually have to do with my dysphoria. This made it impossible for me to enjoy my beautiful new chest.

I want to explain all of these not so that you’ll take pity on me, but because this is more common than you think. Post top-surgery is a very vulnerable time for a trans person, and a person is physically more likely to be depressed because of the amount of time spent under general anesthesia, on top of the physical trauma the body undergoes, but that the brain isn’t cognisant for. Since I’m already prone to depression, this hit me even harder. It’s hard to explain to acquaintances this phenomenon, because you’re supposed to be happy.

Them: Oh, you must be so much happier now that the surgery is done!

Me: …yeah. I’m super happy.

You’re supposed to have a happily ever after story to show the rest of the world, but that’s not the reality. You know that it’ll get better, but you just don’t feel happy right now. Then you feel ungrateful or broken. You’re not though. You’re still a person, you’re just depressed. You just need someone to crawl under the covers with you and wallow.

Fast forward another month. I’m finally feeling better, and am starting to get back into life. Starting to do more voice overs, singing more and trying to start a small opera company, trying to still be vocal about trans and queer issues. Depression isn’t gone, but it’s taking a back seat while I get on with things.

Do you have any experiences with post-op depression?

Supplementary materials:

I Left My Breasts in Bangkok

Posted on by Holden Madagame

I’ve had an interesting experience with my top-surgery through every step, and as a help to both other trans* people, and their friends/family, I want to recount as much as I can remember.

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The week before surgery was a breeze, as literally my own plans consisted of getting clothes tailored, and eating food. For me, getting a tailored suit was very important to me, since I’m very small, and having clothes that fit relieve a lot of dysphoria for me. At one point when I was stressing about money I said something like, “Eh, I guess I don’t really need a suit,” to my girlfriend, and she very nearly slapped me. Even if other people don’t understand, getting clothes made was a really important step in my journey not only as a trans* person, but as an adult.

That was the easy part though. Then came the herd of drama-llamas.

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The day before the surgery was a nightmare. I thought that I could send the money entirely from my online American checking account, but sadly that wasn’t the case. So the race was on to find an alternative. I tried to transfer funds to my German account, but the estimated time of arrival was the Monday after surgery. I thought about what friends I could call, but all my friends are broke/devoured by student debt, so I eventually broke down and called my mom to ask if I could use her credit card. We got the info, we thought everything was fine, and went to the consultation the next day.

At the consultation, the surgeon discusses my options, and he says double-incision would be best, and I said GREAT because that’s what I wanted anyway, and please don’t try to hide the scars (because apparently he’s very good and could put the scars on the side of my body if I wanted). Emma and I ask all of our questions, and the doctor answered them all very well and happily, although it was clear that he was more interested in cutting my body, as surgeons tend to be. We sat down with Jessie (our main contact at the clinic), and he started to detail more of the process to us, and then asked for the money before we went over to the hospital to get my lab tests done. I handed him my mom’s credit card information, and he immediately said, “I’m sorry, we can only use physical cards.”

SO, the race was on again. The clinic needed the money by 16:00 to clear me for surgery, and it was about 11:30. We needed to find a very quick solution.

For the next several hours the day before surgery, Emma and I were in close contact with my sister, who very generously gave her time considering she had a grant proposal due the next day. We tried Western Union, but they don’t send to Thailand from America, and apparently neither does ALMOST ANY ONLINE TRANSFER SITE. It was actually something from a nightmare. Eventually we decided to send the cash and pick it up. There were no pick up points close, so Jessie had to call the banks and find a solution, which he did. We ended up being able to pick it up from a different location through the same bank that was closer. Although the money wasn’t there, they said that I could go do my lab tests, pay for half of it with my credit card, and have Emma wait at the bank for the money.

After the tests were done, the money still wasn’t there, but the bank was closing. They said we could get the money and bring it to the hospital in the morning. Emma and I found another bank that was close by that was open later, and waited there. It happened to be inside of a Japanese themed mall, which was amazing because I’ve soaked in enough Japanese culture through doing karate, kendo, watching anime, playing video games, eating food, and reading Murakami novels, that I was a happy clam. We got some gyudon, some mochi, and a coffee, and waited. In the mean time, as Plan K, I contacted my mother again to ask if it was possible to go directly to a bank and wire money straight to the clinic. Eventually we got ahold of her, and grandma turned out to be a superstar and wired the money within the next two hours. We had a restless night without having a formal receipt to show them, but woke up to the e-mail from the bank with the receipt we needed.

The night before surgery I also had to stop eating at midnight, so at about 23:45 I scarfed a boiled egg that was accidentally frozen and a tiny banana. The next morning we woke up early (6:00) to leave at 7:30.

Once we got to the hospital, they took me and the other guy upstairs, took our temperature, blood pressure, gave us name tags, had us sign forms, and sent us to our individual rooms, where Emma and I still had about 4 hours of time to kill before my surgery. Pretty quickly they put me in a robe and put an IV in me, intermittently checking my temperature and blood pressure. They were very efficient, and very thorough, but because of the IV I couldn’t move much. We ended up watching ‘The Wind Rises’ by Miyazaki, which was beautiful visually, but also quite sexist and poorly written. Then around 15:00 they came in and efficiently took me away to the anaesthetist, and we had a small, important conversation:

Him: Hello, H_____, how are you today, may I call you that?
Me: Uh…good! Thanks! Actually, could you call me Holden?
Him: Holden? Holden. Ok, so Holden! do you have any questions?
Me: Will you use anti-nausea in the drip?
Him: Yep, that’s standard procedure for us.
Me: Good, then I have no more questions.
Him: Great. This will burn quite a bit, but don’t be scared. I’m going to put an oxygen mask on you right now, and then you’ll be out.

It was hard to breathe in the oxygen through the mask, and I found I was trying to take in deeper breaths than normal. Then I felt the burning sensation in my arm, and I thought I was going to die. It hurt so much, and I ended up heaving my chest and breath into the limited space of the oxygen mask, trying to get enough air, and then I was out.

While I was asleep, I was out, I had a dream. You can call it a morphine dream, you can call it a pain dream, but in the dream I was standing in a small room, it was mostly white, but not all white. There was a button on the wall that was loose, and I had a stack of papers in my hand or something, and tried to adjust it by smacking it against the wall. At that moment the entire room seemed to have an undercurrent of electricity, and I was vibrating with pain. I fell to the floor and curled into the fetal position. Eventually I woke up in the recovery room.

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It was hard to move anything, or to even focus my eyes, but eventually I did, and they saw that I was awake and moved me back into my private room where Emma was. All in all the surgery took 3 hours with an hour of recovery. They set me up in bed, gave me food and drugs, and I passed out. Honestly, I don’t remember much.

During the night I woke up with horrible pain in my left arm. Nobody told me this would happen, but the pain wasn’t in my chest at all, it was in the arm with the IV. It was burning, and I could barely move it half an inch with horrible, shooting pain. My right arm was fine, but the left was practically immobilized. I pressed the red button for the nurse, and she gave me pain medication, and removed the IV. I still couldn’t move my arm, so Emma helped me mobilize it a bit, and I went back to sleep. The next day it still hurt, but I was able to move it gently.

While chatting with Emma, I found out that she had stumbled across something interesting in the night while she was looking for her iPad charger. As she squeezed various plastic bags, she felt something squishy that felt very much like a breast. Because it was. My breasts were in plastic bags in my hospital room. Luckily, Emma and I have a dark sense of humour, and we thought it was hilaaaaarious, and decided to take pictures to remember it for the rest of our lives. It should be noted that I was high out of my mind on painkillers.

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The next morning, I was brought more food (more than I could possibly eat), and eventually was visited by the doctor. He looked very pleased, and said that the surgery went very well, no complications. He said to keep the binding on for a week, and that we would have a final consultation the next Saturday before I flew out. They sent me home pretty quickly, and I spent the rest of the day either sleeping or eating.

The week after surgery had major ups and downs.

The first night I slept OK, and was trying to eat more than I felt like because I knew it would help my recovery. Second night I was a crying, insomniatic mess, unable to breathe because my binder was too tight, and also unable to breathe because I was crying. I had also taken mellatonin pills, which are a natural sort of sleeping pill that signals your brain that the sun has gone down so it’s time to sleep. This might have also made the night worse, because I was in too much pain to sleep, but EXTRA tired. A very bad, yet retrospectively hilarious combination. We eventually called the clinic and asked if it was possible to release the binder a bit so I could sleep, and they said that was OK. Even half an inch made a huge difference for my sleep schedule.

Something I wasn’t prepared for was for my stomach to feel queasy. I think this was a combination of foreign food, too tight of a binder, and antibiotics. I didn’t know this beforehand, but apparently antibiotics can really mess with your stomach, which it apparently did. I had trouble the rest of the week eating without my stomach getting upset or having diarrhea. At first I was eating foods as complex as I always had, but eventually was mostly eating rice, eggs, and vegetables, almost without any spices. We went out for coffee most days (mostly for my own mood), which probably didn’t help in retrospect, but I think ultimately did lift my spirits.

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During the days we would watch TV, movies, read books, and occasionally go for walks. Walks didn’t happen the first few days, since it’s honestly hard to move at all. I needed Emma to help sit me up from a lying down position. I needed her help to open doors, shower, do my hair, prepare food, tie my shoes, put on socks, put on pants, etc. Almost anything you think you can comfortable do for yourself, she probably had to do it for me. Luckily I could go to the bathroom by myself.

In the middle of the recovery week, there was an explosion in central Bangkok, near the Siam Skyway station, which was where we had gone to the mall to shop for clothes. We were safe at home during the commotion, but I got frantic texts and Facebook messages from friends asking if I was alive, because there were 20 people dead from a possible terrorist attack. This effectively killed any possible tourism that we wanted to embark on in our last week. We ended up taking taxis everywhere and staying indoors and away from the danger areas. we were a bit sad to miss the temples and night markets, but reminded ourselves frequently that we were there on a mission, and it wasn’t–despite the evidence in our wallets–shopping.

During all of this, most of my thoughts were centered around my theoretically masculine chest. I hadn’t actually seen it yet, and couldn’t until the day before we left.

Exactly a week after the surgery on the next Saturday, we were picked up by the transport to head back to the clinic for my final check-up. The nurses took my binding off for the first time, and very carefully took off the medical tape and gauze that covered the stitch-work. I was terrified, if I’m being honest. It felt like my chest was going to fall out, and I was afraid to move my head in case it disrupted my chest.

Let me give a little run-down of exactly what happens during the procedure for those who might not know. Basically, the surgeon makes two incisions (one under each breast), and takes the breast tissue out from those points. He also cuts any saggy skin so that it is completely flat and has a masculine shape. He then stitches up the incisions. The nipples are then cut out, resized to those of a masculine chest, and reattached with stitches. After a week of recovery you can take some of the nipple stitches out, and leave the rest to dissolve. A week after that you can take the rest of the stitches out from the main incisions. The entire time you have to bind (with either a medical binder or your own compression vest), and change the dressing underneath. You can shower, but you cannot put any water pressure on the stitches, and in general should only sponge bath the front. My surgeon actually warned, “Be careful, or you could accidentally wipe off your nipple in the shower, so don’t do that.” And then laughed. Yes I’ve already had nightmares about it.

This is the main difference between a top-surgery and a mastectomy. A normal mastectomy (such as when taking out malignant breast cancer tissue), has no male aesthetic reconstruction. Oftentimes the nipples are not replaced, and the placement of the incisions aren’t as important for aesthetics reasons. The main objective there is to get the cancerous tissue out.

After several minutes, the surgeon came in, said that everything look like it was healing well, and that he was going to take the stitching from the nipples out. This felt incredibly weird, because I didn’t actually have much sensation in my chest (besides pain), and it felt similar to when you have local anaesthetic at the dentist. I could feel that SOMETHING was happening, but I couldn’t really tell WHAT. They then cleaned the area around the stitching, and Emma took some pictures for posterity.

It was a bit of a shock to be without the binder. At first it didn’t feel real. It wasn’t my chest, but it was a chest that I liked more than the one before I went under anaesthetic. I’m still gently fascinated, weeks after the surgery. I think I’ll feel like this for awhile.

The next journey was getting on a plane and coming back to Berlin. This required getting disability assistance at the airport, which I’m very, very grateful for. It would have been just impossible without it. Not only could I not carry ANY of our luggage, but even walking was very tiresome for me. So they brought a wheelchair, and very slowly and elegantly rolled me through the Bangkok airport straight to my gate, where I finished ‘The New York Trilogy’ by Paul Auster and started ‘Spring Snow’ by Yukio Mishima. The actual plane ride wasn’t as bad as it could have been. I slept about 5 hours. Taking off and gaining altitude felt a little strange on my chest, but didn’t hurt too much.

Back in Berlin, I’m now staying at my girlfriend’s apartment to recover for the first week. It’s easier for her to take care of me here since I live on the other side of town, and plus her roommate’s a nurse and can change my dressing and take out my bottom stitches this weekend. It’ll be nice to go back to my apartment, but for now I’m really enjoying being in her space, and that me lounging around her space is actually MORE convenient for her, rather than a burden. There’s a nice satisfaction in that that helps me relax.

That said, there are a lot of limitations to my recovery:

  • I can barely open doors by myself
  • Sometimes I need help sitting up
  • I can’t shower by myself
  • I can’t cook or clean
  • I can’t turn off the fairy lights on the headboard
  • I can’t carry the water pitcher
  • I can’t make coffee
  • I can’t put a shirt on by myself
  • I get tired quickly, no matter how little energy is required

My birthday was on August 26th, and I had a beautiful dapper tea party that Emma helped host with me. Lots of my friends came, and we ate a lot of cake and drank a lot of tea and coffee. Despite the very relaxed and low-key nature of the event, at the end of the evening, I couldn’t move off my back.

There’s the story up to now. Lots of surprises, a few dramas, but ultimately everything has worked out, and I’m recovering healthfully at the moment. If you’re interested in more regular updates to my recovery, check out my YouTube channel. 🙂

Duvet Dysphoria

Posted on by Holden Madagame

Hello world.

If you’re not a friend of mine on Facebook, or don’t personally stalk me, then you might think that I have already gotten my top-surgery, because I was planning it quite awhile ago. The truth is, I had to embarrassingly and painfully postpone the surgery a week before flying out, because of a major disagreement with my mother. I won’t go into the details, but as a result, I fell into about a month-long depression that crippled me with dysphoria.

Over the past few months since I postponed the surgery though, I learned a lot about myself and the way I deal with my dysphoria. I thought that I had it under control, but the truth was that I was completely suspending any dysphoria I was feeling until top-surgery. In some ways, this allowed me to have a lot of peace of mind. It allowed me to think about other things, and to let my dysphoria go.

I don’t regret doing this. Because of it though, all of the dysphoria that had been building up completely steamrolled me all at once when I decided to postpone the trip.

Things that didn’t normally bother me became impossible. I could barely leave my bed, let alone my apartment. I had to have friends buy groceries for me because I couldn’t leave the house without panic and dysphoria settling in. There were times I had to call friends to come over for my own safety. Waking up, drinking coffee, staring at my ceiling, sitting on my balcony, putting on a shirt, taking a shower, cleaning my dishes, not cleaning my dishes…all of it hurt. I had to take my mirror off of the wall because it made me dysphoric even to catch a passing glance at myself while I threw myself back under my duvet to try and feel both nothing and everything at the same time. I felt guilty for not working, but couldn’t imagine facing humans. I was stressed about money, and bad luck kept hitting me at all angles. Every time I pretended I was OK, I could feel a small chunk of my heart dissolving in acid.

One thing I’m truly grateful for is that my girlfriend basically told me at every opportunity, “No, stop trying to pretend you’re OK. We know you’re not OK. Go lie under your duvet and don’t move.” So I did, and it was exactly what I needed.

It made me rethink how I dealt with my dysphoria. I’m generally very good at talking about my feelings, and processing my feelings, but this was different. It required me to trust my friends, and to be forward about my discomfort.

I was talking to my girlfriend, and she hadn’t realized that my dysphoria was relatively constant. Apparently I hid it well on a day-to-day basis, to the extent that even she didn’t know I was feeling anything at all. Well done me, but also it made me realize that simply sharing my honest, negative feelings helps her and my friends better understand and help me.

This was hard to swallow, because I’m a big fan of pretending everything is OK. Part of my transness is seeing discomfort in other people because of my identity, and making them feel better about it to avoid uncomfortable situations. For me, this is also a subtle kind of activism for me, because I prefer to relate to people as a human, allow them to feel comfortable with me, and then start conversations about transness if they want. It’s rarely about whether I feel comfortable, it’s about whether I can avoid uncomfortable and/or aggressive situations.

In the end, what brought me out of my depression and dysphoria cocktail was lying under my duvet, and singing. I wasn’t able to sing for awhile, but then two of my best friends brought a choir gig to my attention to sing the Mozart Requiem and Schubert Mass in C. It’s always been a dream to sing the Mozart Requiem. It’s a masterpiece. Period. Even whilst singing it for a week straight, 4-5 hours a day, I didn’t get sick of it. I was able to take my mind off of my body, and focus on music. Deeply, profoundly sad music. I would go home and cry and listen to the ‘Lacrimosa’ movement sometimes (everyone did though).

Fast-forward a few months, and my surgery is now finally in the works. I’m leaving next week for Thailand with my amazing girlfriend to take care of me, and have the financial security to buy some tailored clothes as well.

In a way, I was lucky that I had a month of depression, because it showed me that I really can rely on my friends for help, and that I’m never really alone. It showed me that my dysphoria probably will never go away, and that I should deal with it moment by moment, and confront it head on instead of suppressing it for a later date.

Whose voice is that?

Posted on by Holden Madagame

I’ve been on testosterone for about 8 months now. There have been a whole host of changes that have happened to me physically, emotionally, and vocally. I won’t go into a lot of details about the first two, but here’s a breakdown of the vocal changes:

  • Lower pitch
  • Timbre of singing different quality
  • Low overtones present
  • “Head voice” sounds more like a countertenor, has no mezzo-quality richness to it
  • Able to produce low growls with no vocal pressure
  • Lower and deeper support necessary for high notes

The changes that my voice has been making have been by far the most interesting. The gradual timbre and range changes have given me a lot of answers, and even more questions.

A major change is obviously the pitch. It’s lower. Like, a lot lower. Probably an entire octave lower. My range is more limited in the sense that anything I would sing in full voice is limited, but I can also sing in head voice, which extends my range quite a bit. For awhile the range was even smaller, but I think simply through practicing and doing exercises, I have been able to add more fullness to my bottom, middle, and top.

I recently sang in the Mozart Requiem and the Schubert Mass in G for an international conducting masterclass, which was essentially my choral tenor debut. It was the first time I’ve been asked to wear a suit as required dress, which is utterly fabulous. I learned a lot from singing in a choral setting, as I’ve always loved to sing in choirs. I had time to wrap my head about sight-reading in a different register, and about the common problems I was having. It gave me a change to fuck up and learn in a relatively non-threatening setting, which I’m very grateful for. I also recently sing in an Opera on Tap night where we switch voice types. So, of course, I sang mezzo roles. I sang the Carmen/José finale, and Dorabella’s aria. They were camp as all get out, and exactly what I needed.

There is a richness to the voice that is very unlike my mezzo-soprano voice, but not unpleasant at all. This has continued to surprise me, because I thought that perhaps vestiges of my mezzo-soprano timbre would exist in my current voice, but that’s just not the case. My musicianship and artistry are still the same, and in those qualities someone who might have known my old voice intimately might be able to pick out the “Holdenness” of it, but that’s about it. For example, I used to sing Rossini, Handel, and Mozart very easily. Runs are not a big deal for me, even now, but I’ve realized that although I was the type of mezzo to sing Rossini while rolling out of bed, I’m not that kind of tenor. A lot of friends have lovingly nudged me towards Puccini instead. I have literally never paid attention to a Puccini opera for a role in my life. The only mezzo role is Suzuki in ‘Madama Butterfly‘. That’s it. Now I have buckets.

This fact has left me feeling both excited, and a bit strange. I never felt out of place in my mezzo-soprano voice, to be honest. That was never something I was dysphoric about, which I think has something to do with my genderqueerness. If I could have the rest of the physical changes, I would have been fine having a mezzo-soprano voice and playing both male and female characters. Coming into a tenor voice is pretty frightening.

I don’t know anything about tenor repertoire.

I don’t know how tenors sing high notes.

I don’t know how physical casting decisions effect me now.

I still have love affairs with mezzo-soprano idols, and honestly have never really paid attention to any tenor on stage, unless they’re BANGIN’. Now that I have a tenor voice though, I have been looking into the repertoire, and am coming into a deeper awareness of myself in a completely different context. Being a singer means that you’re always being judged on a variety of factors: voice, height, weight, skin color, hair color, handshake, contacts, acting, dancing, etc. Those are all just given when you work in music, but when you flip the gender, there are more obvious differences.

Something I’ve currently trying to understand is that tenors are rare. I knew that already by the fact that I’ve had to sing tenor in choirs many a time as a female-voice, but BEING a tenor and knowing this is just crazy. People are constantly looking for tenors, but also constantly making fun of them. The number of tenor jokes in the opera and choral world are just infinite. This shift has been strange as well, as almost no one makes fun of altos or mezzo-sopranos. They’re usually the ones who have their shit together, are pretty chill, and easy to work with. They’re generally not divas, and sometimes like to smoke cigars on the weekends with a whisky. Tenors though? They’re known for being loud, flakey, off-pitch, short, spoiled, and nowhere to be found.

Learning new repertoire is something most singers have to go through at some point though, and now is that point for me. I have to toss most of my old repertoire (except for a few lovely Handel roles), and start fresh. This has finally hit me, and I recently have been making lists of music to just bash out and learn. Some of it I have no clue, but then there are some arias I’ve been wanting to sing for all of my musical life, like Lensky’s arias from ‘Eugene Onegin‘:

That’s all for now! If you have any questions about my voice, or are also a trans* classical singer, I’d love to hear from you!

Gender Is Faching Confusing

Posted on by Holden Madagame
Photo by Maša Zia Lenárdič
Photo by Maša Zia Lenárdič

Recently I sang at a wonderful event called Opera on Tap here in Neukölln at Prachtwerk. It was the first time I had sung publicly since my recital in October, and I was terrified. I walked up to the front door of Prachtwerk, and stared from the outside in at the lighting and bar, and then after a few moments noticed my friends scarfing döner kebabs next to me.

“Holden, are you OK?” they asked.

“Um, yeah, I just gotta, um, chill out,” I replied with the acute awareness that my voice was shaking as much as my body was from the cold.

After drinking a gallon of water and taking off my jacket which I realized was too formal for the event, I looked around for someone (a friend, not just anyone) to hug my feelings out.

As I was on stage singing “Svegliatevi nel core” (a fast, vengeful baroque aria), I felt alive, but hollow at the same time. The warm, golden, chocolatey colors that was so prevalent in my voice as a mezzo-soprano were now vacant and substituted with the cold, chilling sounds of a young counter-tenor. No matter how hard I tried to reintroduce this warmth, there was a physiological wall that I couldn’t climb.

I felt my body get hot from embarrassment. Only a few people had ever heard me sing seriously, but it was enough to feel intense shame. I had worked so hard for my voice, and I also had a natural talent.

How could I have done this to myself?

How could I have traded such a beautiful voice for something so weak and colorless?

How could I stand up on that stage and call myself a singer while knowing that I traded in my voice for testosterone?

The feelings I had the year before started to swarm back: loss, mourning, regret for my voice that was now hanging onto my vocal cords in futility. I felt vulnerable in a way I had never felt before. I wasn’t just presenting myself as a trans person, but as a singer who had lost his purest talent. Friends will disagree. They might be right in saying that my musicianship was still good, and that my coloratura was still good. But the true voice–the thing that makes you weep at the end of Tosca or during the Rosenkavalier trio–was gone.

After the show, I felt happy and relieved to have sung something–to have that physical release. The loss coupled with relief was a bit confusing.

Without time to think, a couple of other friends asked me to be involved in another project, and to sing in a friend’s wine bar. We’ve been coordinating singers, practicing music, doing the social media thang, etc. This has kept my mind off my voice, but has also made me come to the realization that I must work with what I have from day to day. There is absolutely no use fantasizing about what my voice used to be like, because what I have now is still my voice, it’s just different.

I also must be grateful for the voice I have. Just from talking with other transmasculine singers, not everyone is able to sing to this capacity the way I have been. I’m lucky to be able to sing not only my mezzo rep (albeit differently), but also to have a burgeoning tenor range to play with. It’s exciting, if I’m being honest with myself. I just can’t control it. That uncertainty is terrifying to me. I can play all I want, but this voice could turn into a different beast that I’m not ready for. I’m not ready to be a tenor, but I might be turning into a tenor. I might be a countertenor, but am I ready for that either?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Inl7-Fl77lA

I joke about being a transmezzual, but I think there’s something to it. Not only is my physical voice changing, but how I think about my own vocal identity is just as important as how I think about my gender identity; they just happen to coincide.

As I was practicing today I sang through some arias both in my mezzo voice and my tenor voice (for lack of better terms). As I was singing some coloratura in my chest voice, I went to sing a high note which in my head voice would be laughably easy. Instead, it cracked like a middle-school boy in mixed chorus. I surprised myself, and had to laugh. I was a tenor! Maybe not all the time, maybe not forever, but in that moment I recalled how all of my tenor friends would try to approach a high note, and finally understood what it must feel like. It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t harder than being a mezzo, but it sure was different. It made me realize that there’s no way I can control my voice at the moment, and I shouldn’t try.

As a wise aria once said, “Things Change, Jo.” We might not know how, but they will, and that’s one constant that we can rely on in life, for better or for worse. If I think about it in another way, my voice would be changing anyway. If I hadn’t taken testosterone, maybe my voice would have changed from lyric mezzo to coloratura soprano. Maybe I’d be a dramatic mezzo. Who knows? Are these changes any less traumatizing for a singer? Nope! Change is change and change is hard.

A side-effect of this change that I didn’t foresee happening, was that simply the strange circumstances of my transition (being a trained classical singer) have caused me to constantly out myself and/or talk about my trans identity. This isn’t something I mind talking about, but it should be noted that most trans people aren’t necessarily so keen to make it a topic of casual conversation. A sample everyday conversation with a stranger might be something like this:

Me: Hi I’m Holden!

Stranger: Hi, I’m [insert generic name of your culture here]! Nice to meet you!

Me: You too! So what do you do in Berlin?

Stranger: I’m a freelance [insert freelance profession here]! What do you do?

Me: Well, I’m a barista, and do freelance voice work, and sometimes do classical singing.

Stranger: Whoa! Classical singing?! Like opera?

Me: Yeah, sometimes!

Stranger: That’s far more interesting than your other professions/interests! I want to know everything about it! What’s your voice type? What kinds of operas do you sing? What are you singing right now? Are you with a voice teacher?

Me: Um, well it’s sort of complicated right now. I’m sort of in between voice types…

Stranger: I bet you’re a tenor!

Me: Um, well not exactly…I used to be a mezzo-soprano, but now I have a tenor voice, but also maybe a counter-tenor. *nervous laugh*

Stranger: I don’t think I understand?

Me: Well, I’m trans, and I’m taking testosterone, so my voice is changing, and so I’m literally in between Fachs right now. I have no idea what my voice type is.

And so it goes. Sometimes they’ll understand what trans, testosterone, and Fach mean, but most often I will have to give a more detailed explanation of my situation, then proceed to explain the intricacies of the physical affects of testosterone on the voice, what that may or may not mean for my musical career, and how there’s a buttload of uncertainty as to how my voice will change, and that it’s heavily based on genetics and exercise of the voice.

For me, this is a lot of personal information that I choose to divulge most days. Sometimes I choose not to talk about my background in classical singing. This makes conversations much easier, but also feels a bit dishonest for me personally, because for better or for worse, singing is still part of my life. I like to talk about the things I’m passionate about, and to give people information that will help them understand me more fully. This doesn’t mean it’s easy, and this doesn’t mean I always enjoy it. I’m allowed to feel weird about these conversations, even if I’m actively and voluntarily participating. That’s just how life is sometimes I guess.

As a reward for making it to the end of this post, here’s a little sample of my tenor voice that I’ve been playing with. Disclaimer: I have no idea how to be a tenor. I’m essentially a mezzo-soprano singing tenor drag. *shrugs* Enjoy anyway! 😀