Transitioning at the age of 59 has unexpected benefits. You have the chance to do everything all over again for the first time.
Washington, DC, 2024
One more check in the mirror. I can’t believe I cut myself shaving – halfway between the bottom of my nose and my upper lip. A tiny nick that sprouted a little bloody Charlie Chaplin moustache. Multiple layers of foundation and powder and I think I can still see it. That said, I can still see my beard shadow when everyone else insists that they can’t. One last check, make sure my skirt isn’t tucked into my underwear, that the wig is straight. Triple check the purse for my phone and the room key.
And … go.
I step into the hallway and head to the elevator. I am starting to feel that confidence. I step in and see the girl in the mirror, the one who has shadowed me since I was four years old. The doors open and I stride into the lobby. The girl passes through the looking glass, living in that world she only dreamt of for so long. Out of the lobby and into the street. I am in Chinatown, on H street (I didn’t even know Washington had a Chinatown). The heat has already started but I am lucky that my route is mostly in the shade. As I walk down 6th towards Pennsylvania Avenue
I repeat Olivier’s advice in my head. “Be confident. Own the space. Eye contact.” My posture is better in spite of or maybe because of the low heels I am wearing and I realize that I am confident, I am owning the space.
The simple reality that feminine me is self-assuredly walking downtown in a foreign city is a source of joy and wonder to me. Other pedestrians pass by and no one seems to “clock” me. I am early and feeling good, so I stop to pick up an Americano (when in America…). The barista asks my name for the order – “Holly” – and a smile spreads across my face because it’s still new saying this and because it still feels so good.
I continue and turn left on Pennsylvania Avenue and suddenly the iconic Dome of the Capitol appears in the distance. Just a block or two and then I am at the Embassy.
Rosemere, Quebec, 1968
A toddler and a four-year-old are watching cartoons on the black and white television in the walnut console that dominates the living room. Mom and Dad are trying to enjoy a quiet moment before the day’s activity begins. It is not to be. The door is being slowly pushed open and suddenly the four-year-old, their son, is standing beside the bed. He looks at them solemnly and says, “I’m a girl.”
Washington, DC, 2024
I have been to many embassies and consulates before, and high commissions and permanent missions too. But never this one, the biggest and arguably the most important one we have. And never, ever before as the person I have always known myself to be.
I climb the steps and go to the receptionist under the watchful eye of security and tell them I am with IRCC, that I am here to visit S.
Later that afternoon we are watching guests arrive for tonight’s reception. The DHOM (Deputy Head of Mission), who will be the first speaker, has let us know she will come down in about ten minutes. The room is filling up nicely. It’s World Refugee Day and it’s Pride Month and the reception marks the launch of the Annual Report of Rainbow Railroad, a non-governmental organization dedicated to protecting the rights of LGBTQI+ refugees around the world and a key partner for our refugee program.
This is why I am here in Washington. I was asked to emcee this event and, since I was coming, managed to add a few more meetings to round out the day. It’s been intense but good.
I check my phone and look over at the podium. Five more minutes. Earlier today we had scoped out the room and I had stood up there, imagining myself addressing
50 to 80 people, tonight’s estimated attendance.
Public speaking of any kind used to be a mas-sive anxiety trigger for me. Back in undergrad, a presentation to a seminar of a dozen classmates would paralyze me with fear. Sometimes I would take an Ativan which would take the jagged edge off but at the cost of leaving me feeling vaguely lobotomized and unsure of how it went after. Or during for that matter.
Somehow, I overcame that and gradually came to enjoy public speaking and storytelling and especially how the two were interwoven. I learned that I could speak to a large crowd and establish rapport. Even one that was initially hostile or suspicious. It’s 50% preparation, thinking through the script and the messaging and 50% reading the room. This is a friendly room.
Burlington, Ontario, 1978
Mrs. Wilson surveys the 9th grade English class and sighs, thinking about the many years that remain between her and retirement. This job does not seem to be getting any easier. Burlington has just been anointed as one of the wealthiest communities in Canada by annual income and also has the dubious honour of one of the highest vandalism rates. Bored rich suburban kids. “White Punks on Dope”. This class is no exception. Even the kid who transferred in from the gifted program is worse than useless. Often reeking of marijuana smoke with bloodshot eyes, or bleeding and bruised from another fight out at “smokers’ corner.” She is skeptical about his regular absences on Wednesday afternoons to see a “specialist.” One day, in exasperation she tells him “You’ll be in jail or dead before you’re twenty.” If she thought this would scare him straight, she is disappointed. Behind dead eyes, the once promising kid says nothing. But he is thinking, thinking that jail doesn’t sound fun, but death might not be so bad. Better than the ritualized sexual abuse of conversion therapy every Wednesday or the intolerable pressure of gender dysphoria. There was no question of telling her or any other grown-up about what was happening. What would he say with no vocabulary and who could he trust with these terrible, shameful secrets?
Washington, DC, 2024
The DHOM has arrived and S gives me a nod. It’s time.
I take a deep breath and remind myself that I have gotten good at this. I have done it a million times.
I have never done it in a dress.
At least this is my favourite dress. With brilliant blues (match my eyes I am told) and a good length and silhouette. I feel confident. I’ve felt confident all day.
I am also wearing a special talisman. A heavy silvery metal pendant on a fine silver chain. It’s a little cast sculpture in the form of an Inuk woman standing legs slightly apart. She is wearing a parka and peeking out of the hood of the parka, cheek to cheek with her, is an infant. My father had travelled to Baffin Island for business back in the mid-1970s and bought it as a gift for my Mom. Wearing it now, I feel like Mom – who passed eleven months ago – is with me. I feel her protection.
Ottawa, Ontario, 2023
After the pandemic, after losing people dear to me, I feel intense distress at the thought of letting any more time slip away. I am terrified at the thought of dying without having ever been me. I am also aware that the world has changed. Trans people exist and enjoy human rights protections. I return to work after two years Leave Without Pay and make a small addition to my email signature – “she/they”. Those two words became a conversation starter: ‘I’m trans, trans people exist, and I am a trans person. The bald guy you’ve known for 25 years as Oscar is actually a redhead named Holly.’ Hold my breath and wait to see how people will react. I have lived in terror of this moment my entire life and now I am orchestrating it myself. The reactions are beautiful and welcoming and this thing I have feared and hated forever, seen as a liability, has suddenly become a source of power. Dysphoria is displaced by euphoria.
Washington, DC, 2024
I take the podium and lean into the microphone “Good evening, everyone! Bon soir!” I say to the anglophone audience, Ottawa habits following me wherever I go. After a few more attempts and some helpful glass tapping from the floor the room finally goes quiet and all eyes are on me.
“Good evening. Bon soir.” I repeat now with everyone’s attention. “Welcome to the Embassy of Canada. We are very pleased to welcome you to tonight’s reception to celebrate the vital work of one of our important partners, Rainbow Railroad. My name is Holly Jacobs. I am a trans woman. I’ve waited fifty-five years to say this.”
I pause and savour the moment.
“Tonight, we will be hearing from distinguished speakers from the Embassy, from the United States Government, the United Nations High Commission for Refugees, and from Rainbow Railroad themselves.” Take a breath, quick room check. “Before we launch into the program, I would like to share something. My journey yesterday was quite stressful. I only received my passport at the very last minute the night before my flight. It was my first time flying post transition, as feminine me. Going through security. Crossing a border. First hotel check in. Feminine me is only seven months old. This felt scary.” Brief pause. “And then I thought to myself, Really? I am feeling stressed? I am travelling legally. I am documented. I have trusted friends at both my start and endpoint. I speak the local language throughout my journey. I have cash and cards and a hotel reservation. If I am feeling stressed with all of these privileges and advantages and predictability, what must an LGBTQI+ refugee feel? Undocumented, uncomprehending, destitute after paying their passage, forced to trust shady facilitators and destination unknown. How powerful must their motivation be and how awful their fear?” Audience scan. A sea of attentive faces, many nodding. That landed well.
I make some technical announcements including location of the washrooms (not inclusive) and that there is a themed cocktail available, the “Rainbow Rum Sidecar”, the product of the research and creative dedication of S. And then I introduce the DHOM and step down.
Ottawa, Ontario, 2024
Sometimes the stars align. Two months after coming out I am approved for a six-month micro mission with the Public Service Pride Network Secretariat. I learn that I am
one of only two trans executives (out of 9,000) we are aware of and, to the best of my knowledge, the only trans foreign service officer. If there are others out there, we do not seem to be numerous, we won’t need a big clubhouse. The work is absorbing and impactful and after the experience of addressing 75 Deputy Ministers on the issue of trans inclusion and acting as emcee on the first Canada–UK Pride Network Summit, I officially retract the letter of intent to retire I’d submitted just a few months ago. I have rediscovered inspiration. There is trail to break.
Washington, DC, 2024
The remaining introductions and interstitial bits between speakers go fine. The final speaker is a refugee resettled from Central America, a gay man, who brings down the house, communicating his joy and relief, at finding a place he can be himself, and his commitment to helping other newcomers. I call for another round of applause for him and then I am wrapping things up, thanking everyone for coming and urging them to stay and network and enjoy the hospitality.
I am on a cloud. My entire life I could not have imagined doing this, even eight months ago I was terrified of stepping out my front door and braving public spaces as authentic me. I feel invincible and euphoric. I reach back through the years to all of those versions of me, embrace them, and tell them it will all be ok.
