Chapter 2:

Mimi; Fashion Columnist

My journey of self-searching began at the age of eight with the profound discovery that I preferred boys to girls. I suppose most eight-year-old boys prefer the company of other boys, but I wasn’t one of them. I was drawn to them as like is drawn to unlike.

Sitting on a bench next to the football field, I couldn’t help but gaze at the other boys in timid wonder. My fondness was still innocent of sexual urges, but I basked in their close proximity. I didn’t play football or run around with them, and the boys always teased me about how tungting (effeminate) I was. My face and mannerisms already betrayed too much sweetness for a ‘regular’ male.

This distinction increased as I grew older, and when I was 12, a classmate called me a ‘ kathoey ’. It was the first time I’d heard the word and I had no clue what it meant, but his tone made it clear that there was a stigma attached, and I immediately felt alienated. Adolescence is a confusing time for most people, but I think it was particularly bewildering for me. I was only being myself, and yet people seemed to view me as some kind of anomaly at a time when I most wanted to belong. Thank goodness I could return home to a supportive environment.

Like overseas Chinese families everywhere, mine keeps its values intact even now that we live outside Greater China. The unity of the clan is to be upheld, thus my relatives live in houses near ours on the same street in central Bangkok. My grandparents’ house sits directly across the street from where I still live with my parents. We have good relationships within our clan, and the children grow up under the watchful eyes of the parents and other relatives.

I’m the oldest son of my family, which, in Chinese culture, means I’m supposed to be the example for my siblings, the one who brings my parents their first grandchild and the one on whom they place their highest hopes. I must be quite a disappointment to them. However, I’m tremendously fortunate to have such understanding parents. They are not particularly avant-garde, nor are they highly educated—my mother only finished grade school, and my father graduated from a commercial college—so given their conservative background, their acceptance of my choices has been all the more remarkable.

My parents didn’t force me to play with other boys, join sports clubs at school or participate in manly activities. Not only did they not punish me for my effeminate tendencies, but they also allowed me to express myself freely—well, to an extent. For instance, as long as I was in the privacy of our home, I could dance and sing with my three siblings and friends, employing a towel to serve as my beehive hair, and a bandana as a tube top. I’m so grateful for my parents’ lenience, which not only clashes with Chinese values but also strongly contrasts with the culture of ‘keeping face’ in Thailand. The importance of earning and keeping face is such that many parents end up stifling their children in an effort to force them to be something they’re not.

Instead of wasting their time discouraging my effeminate tendencies, my parents always emphasised how crucial education was for my future. I heeded their advice and turned making good grades into my highest priority. I became very familiar with the smell of textbooks, as my nose was always to be found between their pages. My efforts were rewarded with high marks, and I easily passed an entrance exam for a prestigious, all-boys secondary school. I wanted to make my parents proud.

I think my parents secretly hoped that being surrounded by boys would banish my femininity, so it came as an unpleasant surprise when they saw me wearing make-up at 14 years of age. They saw it as a disgrace, but for me, it was a big step towards self-expression.

Rather than toughen me into masculinity, the all-boys school provided a way to belong without giving up my identity. I was delighted to find so many other kathoeys at school, and I eagerly joined the ‘fairy gang’, a group of effeminate boys whose only rebellion was to dress and behave contrary to the expectations of the institution.

The rules required students to wear closely cropped military-style hair and uniforms of light-brown shorts and white short-sleeve shirts with our full name, student ID and the school’s abbreviation sewn on the front with blue thread. We did all we could to buck these restrictions without endangering our prospects at the school. We were required to cut our hair once every six weeks, and we always asked the barber to leave the hair just a little bit longer on top. When inspection day came, we would line up in the school’s football field, and the teachers would tut-tut as they determined who required an additional cut or shave. We kathoeys anxiously stared straight ahead as we awaited the verdict. Even with the extra bit on top, our hair was too damn short for us. We would have worn it down to our waists if we could have, so if they decided to cut those few millimetres of excess, we would be devastated.

I can’t emphasise enough how important the length of our hair was to us. Long hair is the first sign of femininity and an obvious feature that distinguishes women from men. I’m sure some of the teachers sensed our anxiety and chose to turn a blind eye rather than hurt our feelings. If we were lucky enough to pass inspection, our hair would be long enough by the fourth week to style it with hairspray and gel, creating a short fringe, or making it stand out in spikes.

There was no way on earth the teachers would let us wear a blouse and skirt to school, so the only way we could defy the uniforms was to wear girly accessories with it. A pink watch, an embroidered handkerchief, Hello Kitty school supplies, cute stickers on our bags ... there were dozens of ways to assert ourselves without technically breaking the rules. We didn’t walk. We strutted. We turned the streets into runways as we wiggled our hips and chatted and giggled in high-pitched voices. We were showy in everything we did, and the public could only watch in baffled disapproval as the troop of kathoeys pranced by.

Our androgynous look attracted some of the boys at school. I’m sure they found us delicate and pretty compared to their usual stinky friends with whom they played sports. They teased us, sent us love letters, addressed us by ‘ tua-eng ’ and other feminine endearments, and howled and whistled when we passed. They hugged us from behind, and we played our part well, squealing in mock protest and ostentatiously flouncing away. Some of us did pair up with the boys for fun, but there was probably more curiosity than real desire on both sides. It was a time of sexual experimentation. We also provided a way for the boys to practice flirting before they had to approach real girls. I hope they learned more subtlety than they ever showed with us. Who would have thought that ladyboys could contribute to the shaping of a man?

The fairy gang provided us with visibility and protection. I was never bullied throughout my six years of secondary school, and my sense of isolation was dispelled. I enjoyed being rebellious, as did my peers. While the straight boys showed their defiance by taking up drugs, smoking or drinking, we kathoeys armed ourselves with make-up and contraceptive pills. To me, being a kathoey meant being outrageous and flamboyant. I thought that was the only way people would recognise my identity. I suppose I was simply trying to define myself.

My parents grew concerned about my behaviour, and for the first time in my life they expressed stern disapproval of my actions. What they were most afraid of was that I would bring shame on our clan, and they would become the subject of ridicule in the neighbourhood. They told me it was time to quit this nonsense, that continuing as a kathoey would drastically limit my future prospects. I replied quite honestly that it was impossible for me to be anything other than a kathoey.

But their words did have an effect on me. I began to realise that although the fairy gang had allowed me to celebrate my femininity, I had sacrificed part of my individuality in order to conform to the group. I wasn’t naturally a flamboyant person, and as the new self-reflection took hold of me, I began to distance myself from the gang. I still found my friends’ outrageous actions amusing, but the amusement was now coupled with embarrassment as I realised how inappropriate they sometimes were.

I also took my future very seriously and was determined to study in a reputable university, so at 16 years of age, I formed a group with three other friends from the gang to prepare for the national entrance exam. We still hung out with the other fairies from time to time, but we stopped wearing make-up and toned down our behaviour. We decided to take a step back from the gang to invest more time in our education.

Thai students can take a national entrance examination for the faculties of their choice after they complete secondary level. Everyone hopes to get into prestigious universities like Chulalongkorn, Thammasat, Mahidol or Kasetsart. Graduation from these renowned universities increases your chances of getting a good job because of their long-standing reputations and the social prestige attached to them. Of course, this also earns face for you and your family. In my desire to succeed and make my family proud, I showed unflagging commitment.

After two years of what seemed like non-stop studying, I took the entrance exam and succeeded in getting a seat in the Faculty of Arts at one of the best-known universities in Thailand. I was overjoyed, and my family was pleased too. Not only had I earned them face with my accomplishment, but since I had toned down my appearance, I now looked like a mild-mannered man.

As Arts students, we were taught to be open-minded and have tolerance for human diversity. Although a good chunk of male students in our faculty were gay or kathoey , there were straight males as well, who probably suffered from the assumption that all Arts students were fairies. We all got along. Whereas the straight guys played guitar or hit the basketball courts together, the gays and kathoeys behaved more like sisters. On special occasions, we put on fashion shows or impersonated the likes of Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston. Our rendition of ‘When You Believe’ was always a hit. Sometimes we mimicked scenes from Stree Lek (The Iron Ladies) , a Thai film about a volleyball team of all gay and kathoey players who compete in the national competition. We yelled in high-pitched voices and made a big show of slapping the ball over the net.

Although I identified myself with the other kathoeys , I still appeared to be just a tidy and delicate young man during my first year. I didn’t want to disappoint my parents, but the more I saw kathoey seniors with long hair, the more I wanted to become one of them. There was Rita, from the south of Thailand, who always wore her hair in dreadlocks with a colourful headband, and bright make-up that looked almost garish against her brown skin. Coming from an Islamic background, she must have found it especially difficult to express herself as a ladyboy.

Noon was another source of inspiration. She underwent genital reassignment during the summer break between her second and third years. Most kathoeys get breast implants first before submitting themselves to more complicated surgery, but Noon knew what she wanted and went for it. She already had small breasts from taking hormones over the years, and she looked very womanly. Her mother, who had long known that her son wanted to become a daughter, paid for the operation, but her father still doesn’t have a clue! Noon is their only child, so rather than let her father down, she pretends to be a sort of hippie when she’s home. She wears her hair in a low ponytail, which she slips under a loose shirt that hides her breasts, and swears loudly to maintain the straight male charade.

With examples like these before me, I decided to begin my own transformation. I started with the most important, most visible mark of a woman and let my hair grow. Meanwhile, I began taking hormones occasionally, and by my second year, I was ready to don women’s clothing. We weren’t allowed to wear female uniforms, but I wore a blouse and women’s trousers while complying with the dress code. My hair was just above my shoulders. I also wore a bra under my blouse, although I wasn’t taking enough hormones to need it just yet. One day someone complimented me on my new look, and I was in heaven. I knew I wanted to live my life as a woman.

Around this time I reconnected with my old school friends of the fairy gang. By now, most of the former fairies had become gay men, and they were eager to introduce me to Bangkok’s gay scene. They decided to take me to a bathhouse in Silom, so one evening I found myself in the dark, climbing a narrow set of steps up to the entrance. My friends paid the 200-baht entrance fee for me, and we stepped into a tastefully decorated room, clean and well lit. I was 20, and I had no idea what I was about to experience.

We appeared to be in some sort of health centre or spa, so I obediently undressed in the locker room, and emerged wearing only a towel. I tied it around my chest like women do and draped my long hair over my left shoulder. My presence attracted plenty of odd looks from the gay patrons who, wearing towels around their waists to show off their toned bodies, were hoping to attract a one-night stand. They clearly wondered what a kathoey was doing there. I was kind of wondering that too, but I stuck around out of curiosity.

My friends took me through a sauna and past a weight room. I noticed that many of the men were going off in pairs to smaller rooms along the corridor. I peeked into one of the unoccupied rooms and saw that it was furnished very simply with a single bed about the same size as a masseur’s table. My friends giggled behind me, making lewd jokes about the good times they’d had on those little beds. I laughed uncomfortably and rolled my eyes as we moved on to the next part of the tour. This was another sauna, but it was completely dark, and all around us were the sounds of groaning and panting. My friends explained that this sauna was for the ugly and the insecure. They could grope each other and engage in orgies without having to see each other’s faces. I was mortified.

The memory of the bathhouse disturbed me long after I left, and not just because of my disgust at the goings-on. The stares I had received from the patrons bothered me more than I would have expected. Before, when I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw increasing femininity and the distant goal of being a full woman. Now the reflection looking back at me was neither man nor woman, but an ugly nonentity. My distress and confusion increased as I faced this creature every morning until I finally came to a drastic decision—I stopped taking hormones, and I cut off my hair. I cut off my hair, and I cried. It’s difficult to articulate why I took it so hard, but I think other women who have had their long hair suddenly cut short or who have lost it through chemotherapy could probably relate.

I spent my last two years in university playing the part of the mild-mannered man once again. I was extremely unhappy and continued to lament the loss of my hair, which was ever-so-slowly growing back. I had let the opinions of others divert me from my goal, and now I was further away than ever from reaching it. I made it through those painful two years by promising myself that after I graduated and secured a job, I would become a woman, and this time I would take as long as I needed to adjust, and learn to be a woman on my own terms.

After graduation, I got my first job as a translator at a woman’s magazine through the recommendation of a ladyboy senior who knew the editor-in-chief. As a new graduate with little work experience, I was in no position to be choosey, so I decided to give it a try.

Four months into this job, when I felt my hair was long enough to take the next step, I started wearing a skirt in public for the first time. Surprisingly, my father didn’t seem to mind; it was my mother who said wearing women’s trousers and long hair should be enough. I argued that I had waited long enough, and I didn’t want to wait any longer. Seeing my insistence, she finally gave her consent under one condition: ‘You can’t let your grandparents see you in that thing.’

To this day, my mother and I perform an elaborate routine each time I want to leave or enter the house in a skirt. First she pokes her head out the door and peeks left and right. If no one is walking around and she’s certain that my grandparents across the street are sleeping, she gives me a signal, and I skulk my way to or from the house. On the days that she is busy, I change clothes at a beauty salon ten minutes away from my house. I’m a regular customer there, so they don’t mind.

I resented this arrangement at first, feeling that my parents were ashamed of me. I don’t dress as a woman to be flamboyant or in-your-face; it’s just who I am. I didn’t think it was a big deal at all, and I sometimes thought of walking down my soi in a skirt when I knew everyone could see me, just so they could get over it and see my true self. Every time, I managed to catch myself before giving in to the impulse, and I’m glad I did. Thoughtfulness comes with age and experience, and you begin to know what’s proper and what is not. I’ve been abiding by this arrangement for almost four years now, and I have come to appreciate my parents’ acceptance. Especially my mother, who compromises so much that she not only tolerates her son wearing a skirt, but even aids him as an accomplice.

The first day I wore a skirt to work, I felt self-conscious and very conspicuous, but I was delighted that I didn’t hear a word of negative feedback. Some colleagues even said I should have dressed this way a long time ago, which was very flattering.

But while I was more certain than ever of my feminine identity, I was confused about my career. Even my new apparel couldn’t make my translating job more interesting. I had been bored by my job for several months when I finally quit and acquired a new position as secretary at a high-class restaurant on Sathon Road. I went to the interview as a woman, complete with long hair, blouse, skirt and heels. They didn’t mind that I was a transgender, but I spent only two months there before I realised that secretarial work definitely wasn’t for me. I regretted quitting my former job at the women’s magazine, with a feeling similar to when I’d cut my hair at university. I hadn’t appreciated it until it was gone. I now realised that words were my strength, and I would take any position at a magazine in the hope of eventually getting to write.

I sent job applications to seven women’s magazines, but with no luck. I didn’t know that publishers in Thailand tend to hire through personal recommendation or networking. You rarely see publishing vacancies advertised, and a newcomer with no experience and no connections has very little chance of starting out in the industry.

Defeated but not entirely dismayed, I applied for the position of assistant buyer at a book shop. I walked in, filled out the application form and waited patiently in the room they directed me to. Ten minutes later, a few staff members poked their heads in to see me. I sighed, knowing why they were so curious. I was fully dressed as a woman, but I had ticked ‘Mr’ on the application form. I knew by their behaviour that there must be some hassle, but when the interviewer came in, she was nice to me. Our conversation in a mixture of English and Thai went really well. She asked me to talk about myself, my work experience and why I thought I was the best candidate for the job. I could tell that I impressed her. At the end of the interview, she asked if I knew that this position required me to wear a uniform.

‘Which uniform do you prefer?’ she asked.

It never occurred to me that I would have to choose between the male and female uniforms. The company had appeared open-minded, and here I sat already fully dressed as a woman. I was hoping they would accept me as they saw me.

‘I would like to leave this decision to the management team,’ I finally replied.

‘We’ll be in touch,’ she said curtly. ‘Thank you for coming.’

I didn’t need a fortune-teller to predict the result. Her tone said it all.

To this day I honestly can’t figure out if being a transgender played a part in their rejecting me. If my being a kathoey didn’t matter, then why did she ask me that uniform question? I believe that had I dressed like a man or volunteered to wear the male uniform, they would have considered me for the job. That was the first time I felt like I had been discriminated against, and I decided to never again apply for a job that required a uniform.

I was stressed and unemployed for five months before a friend’s recommendation rescued me once again and I began working part-time as a translator at a foreign public relations agency. After a few months, I successfully applied for the position of copywriter at the same agency. I thought with this promotion I could at least practice my writing skills while I waited for my dream job at a magazine.

Meanwhile, I was becoming more womanly with every passing month. I learned how to dress and how to take care of myself as a woman, making sure my hands were manicured and my skin exfoliated. I also started taking hormones regularly, and the improvement showed. I developed small breasts, and my face became less greasy and acne-free. I was hoping the hormones would also widen my hips as they had for some of my friends, but it didn’t happen for me. I did, however, experience the headaches and mood swings that are the initial side effects. Once I was reading a book, and out of the blue I started tearing up the pages and throwing them in the air.

Despite the negative side effects and the fear of getting cancer, which my aunt warned me about, I now take the pill daily. I had to get over the fear because I knew that the end result would be worth it for me. It is the price I have to pay to become a woman. I remember a senior asking me, ‘Do you want to live your life as an uninspired half-man, half-woman, or live happily as a woman with a few years off of your life?’ I choose a happy life, and it’s fine if that also means a shorter one. I want to be a woman, and I know these pills can make my dream materialise, so why not?

A few years ago, a man approached me while I was window shopping with my kathoey friends outside a department store. He was a police officer from Samut Prakan, and he left his friends to come over and talk to me. Without wasting any time, he asked for my phone number. I was a little taken aback by his frankness, and he looked too rough to be my type, but I decided to give him a chance. I could determine later whether we had the potential to develop a real relationship or not.

For around two to three weeks, he was constantly in touch. We spent long hours talking on the phone and sending flirtatious messages by text. I grew fond of him.

Everything seemed fine until he suddenly stopped calling me. During the hiatus, I wanted so badly to call him and ask what was happening, but as a woman, I didn’t want to present myself as needy. On the fifth day of his absence, I gave in and decided to call him. When he answered, I could tell by his voice that he had already become aloof. He said he wanted to ask me something. I waited nervously, having no idea what he was going to ask. I was completely unprepared for the question that followed.

‘Are you a man or a woman?’

I was stunned. I thought he already knew I was a ladyboy. I didn’t know how to answer him, and I scrambled for words. I blurted out, ‘Does it matter?’ But as soon as I said it, I knew that it did matter because if it hadn’t, he wouldn’t have asked me that question in the first place.

I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I was born a man, but I realised I owed him an answer. I broke the awkward silence by asking him, ‘Well, what do you think I am?’

He said, ‘A man ...’

‘That’s right,’ I said, and sighed in equal amounts of relief and sorrow. I would never answer that I’m a man, so I needed him to spell it out for himself. I didn’t know how the conversation would continue, so I was a little relieved when he said he was busy and would call me back.

An hour later, he called me on my mobile phone. Instead of the endearments I had been used to, he began asking me questions, the kind that someone completely ignorant of kathoeys would ask. He wanted to know if my parents rebuked me for being a kathoey and how I managed to grow breasts, among other things. Obviously, he was a simple straight man baffled by the fact that he was attracted to a kathoey. After that, he slowly faded away. I kept thinking he could handle my identity because he was the one who started the relationship. I tried to reach him by calling him and sending text messages, but to no avail. There was no response, and we never had real closure. I’ve come to terms with what happened though, and sometimes, as clichéd as it sounds, I revel in the good moments we shared.

Against all odds, I still hope to meet a man who will overlook my birth gender and care more about mutual understanding. I want him to take me as an individual. He doesn’t have to accept me as a woman because I’m not one ... and never will be. We should gradually learn about each other and decide if we should live together. I prefer him to be gentle, polite, honest and educated. He should be able to overcome obstacles in life and still maintain a positive outlook. I hope to find him eventually, but have no idea when. Call me old-fashioned, but I think it’s in the hands of destiny.

I worked at the PR company for about a year before my old magazine contacted me, offering me a position as an in-house columnist. I instantly agreed, thankful that my prayers had been answered at last. By happy chance, my current job entails writing fashion and beauty tips, many of which I apply to my own upkeep. I like to dress simply and to blend in, not stand out, so writing about fashion initially required extensive research on my part. In addition to writing articles, I get to interview fashion designers, celebrities and businesspeople. I’ve learned so much since I started, and I’m very happy with what I do.

My co-workers are all female, save one male photographer. They all know that I’m a transgender and treat me like I’m one of the girls. I feel accepted and have a sense of belonging that’s even stronger than what I felt with my high-school fairy gang. On weekends, I teach high-school students French and English, as I’m saving up to undergo a sex-change operation one day. When the time is right, I will complete my transformation.

I never imagined I would go through years of confusion before becoming the person I am today, but in retrospect, I wasn’t the only one who was on a journey of self-searching. Like I’ve said, back in high school, we fairies came together and unanimously identified ourselves as kathoeys , even though most of the fairies became gay men rather than ladyboys. It was an era that defied categories. We didn’t classify, according to the Thai male gender-bender spectrum, which one of us was gay king (top), gay queen (bottom), gay kwing (versatile), sueabai (bisexual) or kathoey (transgender or transexual). We just used ‘ kathoey ’ as an all-encompassing term for effeminate males. Of course, now it’s sometimes unacceptable to use that word because we’ve developed more polite language for referring to male-to-female transgenders. Instead of saying ‘ kathoey ’, you might say ‘ sao / phuying praphet song ’ (‘second kind of woman’) or ‘ phet thi sam ’ (‘the third sex’).

Whatever the term, I’m proud to say that I’ve finally found myself. I see myself as a psychologically heterosexual female. I know physically what I am, but in my mind I am absolutely female and desire a romantic relationship with a straight man. That’s why I intend to fix this contradiction between my mind and body. To me, it seems only natural that men and women are made for each other. It takes one man and one woman to constitute romance. Thai society, among others, rejects alternative possibilities. When I was younger I always dreamt about romance. I thought there must be someone out there who was my perfect match, and I would happily be his. But as I grew up, I realised that the ladyboys who are able to find true love are few and far between.

It’s not easy to be who you really are, especially when society tries to force you into a category as stereotypical as ‘ kathoey ’, often portrayed as a caricature instead of a real human being. I consider myself a late bloomer in that respect. I spent years learning to be an individual rather than just conforming to a group. I’m still learning, but my mind is at ease now knowing that I’m heading in the right direction. My worst fear is that I’ll give up on my dream and turn back into a short-haired, mild-mannered man again. The very thought of it is suffocating.

I’m thankful for having understanding parents. I’m glad that they don’t reject me or disown me just because I’m different. You might say that I bribe their acceptance with my good behaviour, which is probably true, but I don’t see it in such a way. I think I just try to do the right thing for myself. I studied hard, not just to please them, but because I knew it would pay off in the long run. And it has. People respect me because I’m trustworthy and do my job well. I don’t mind having to work a little extra for that respect.

There’s another person I would like to thank, and that is my 14-year-old self. I learned from her that you sometimes need to go out of your way in order to be yourself.