Being Human
Breaking Free: Navigating Cancer and Gender Identity
Art and words by Heather McFarland aka Heat
I’ve been at the door for twenty years, a “nice young man” who welcomes all home. Nightclubs, street front stoops, lit by the glow of marquees, sound booths, and stairs/stares, all familiar to me. Basking in the sun’s glow, in the smallest square mile footage LGBTQ peninsula where all come to play, watching. Keeping folks safe and mentally keeping myself autonomous from the apparent confusion my presence brings. Drag queens are more identifiable. Labeled daily by strangers and friends alike, I fit in as a part of this community's misfit woven cloth, shamelessly flaunting my freak flag for all to see. I had a friend share with me recently that they had described me in conversation as being an “80’s styled BMX/skater boy, but a lesbian.” Co-workers have dubbed me “BDE,” big dick energy, the Badge Bish, while I crack a little inside at the thought of how I even got here, how little people know.
Labels are for suckers, I tell myself, as my amusement from what people think and actually know stirs within my overactive mind. A pink robe and health insurance reassured me of my born lady status. A fearless attitude and drive added more fuel to my tomboy arsenal of just being me. I stand outside the dispensary, hat tilted and half-cocked smile, overseeing Commercial Street’s charms, my 5’5” frame, holds 135 pounds of built-up emotion, pride, ego, and self-worth. “ ID please,” I request, matched with yet another “sir,” another “brother”, another “hey man.” 365 days a year, I am stickered with “sir,” and I have had to just let it go… because labels are for suckers.
Curls recently replace the shaved head I’ve known since my twenties, where I hid behind a microphone, lust-filled nights, and bad choices, solidifying my lesbian stamp on myself. I reminisce on the club nights, raging bass-filled time warps wrapped in cocktails, drugs, and reckless abandonment of consequence. I wonder how I got here. Forty-three years young, Spring 2021, and I drop my board down, ready to take on Bradford hill, my zen from the day’s peopling. Trucks are tight, wheels in check, no traffic in front or behind me, except a bus roaring uphill filled with seasonal staffers, tourists, and seasoned locals watching my fearless dyke ass in my stained Vans make the concrete hill mine. I push off, my heart is racing, wheels go round and the roar of the friction on pavement churns a beat so familiar and welcomed. I cruise down, flying by the backside of Town Hall, rounding the corner onto Ryder, back into the seasonal roar of Summer. “Did you see that guy go down the hill?!” That “guy” is me, the Berkshire breed tomboy, lady-loving queer.
It’s been two years since my beacons of femininity went (like where did they put my boobs? hmm…) and my flat-chested life remained. Three more years until remission is mine to claim, three. A solo act, a lone wolf navigating the new me and my town, Commercial St., 02657, Provincetown. A tiny beachside oasis with a lion’s heart and more “hello my name is” than I can even dissect here. Well hello Summer of 2021, game on. In April 2020 I walked into my last infusion, at Covid’s start, betraying my body for the final time, and my body betrayed me again when I walked out after ringing the bell, solo. My relationship with myself and my ex-partner had simultaneously died. I was unrecognizable to myself, I had neuropathy and I just wanted to skate, live and be the old version of myself, the familiar version. The new scarred version of me was driving the hour-plus timeline home to the outermost reaches of the Cape giving way to new perspectives and a skewed sense of self. Am I trans by way of breast cancer? Will I be valued as a sexual partner ever again? Who will love my cats? Will I survive? Yes, yes I will. Will I survive the constant misgendering? Yes, yes, I will.
I claim every fucking syllable that rolls off the public’s tongue. “Sir, young man, him, he,” I roll with it, like a joint made with premium hash and a touch of sass. Letting it sink into my skin like an essential oil, leaving me amused at my own ability to disguise, and my own ability to reflect on the ignorance of it all. I sip slowly off the j that’s just floated my way, by a human who identifies as a female, straight, and currently my lover. We joke about how many times a day I am “sirred,” and I joke in return about how “straight’ she is, labels are everywhere. They stick to us like name tags: Hello my name is:_______.
The laughter shared fuels my zest to examine the human mind’s visceral reaction to doling out pronouns. As I undress to shower for dinner with said lady, I catch a glimpse of the scar running from armpit to armpit across my chest. No nipples, just a flat land of geography that used to have a valley and peaks, now a sweaty plain, a reminder of where I have been. I drift back in my head to all the infusions, the bald body that housed my deteriorating mind, stamina, and will at moments to keep going. The physical agony, the knock on death's door and me kicking it shut refusing to give up. I snap out of it, I have a moment of guilt that I’m one of the lucky ones. I wonder what my current lover sees now, as I move with what I presume to be the grace of a wild boar, raptured by human physical response and sheer terror that I’m going to blow it. BDE, really? This new form of body is still introducing itself daily to me and others, it’s a mindfuck at best. I survived, I remind myself, I keep saying out loud: I AM HERE.
A human being. My career as a Sir on the stoop has my bank account allowing for life’s simple pleasures, like health insurance. The card tucked neatly in my wallet, a reminder of privilege, a reminder of resilience. I am grateful to live in an accessible healthcare state while recognizing the need to ensure equal compassionate care to all humans regardless of how they identify. Some of us are two-spirited souls, but that’s a different piece. So ‘Sir’ it is, trans by cancer, apparently it will require more teachable moments to sway folks. Meanwhile, I will continue to extend warm welcomes, skate, draw and love in this tiny seaside oasis, wrapped up in this boyish body kicking cancer's ass. I’m still here. You get one dash in this life to carpe diem the ish out of, savor each moment, and shake off labels. Stick to your guts and bear your soul, because in this town, soul is what we’ve got. Labels are the hill, and I shred them daily. I encourage you to do the same.“Sir, it’s on the bottom left,” their date of birth, I stand silent as I am overjoyed: I AM STILL HERE. I am still fucking here.