https://www.nytimes.com/2024/02/03/book ... =url-share Alles englisch, sorry.Lucy Sante (Wiki), geboren 1954, ist Schriftstellerin, Kritikerin , Künstlerin. In ihrem Buch (Februar 2024) beschreibt sie, wie sie 2021 schliesslich alle verdrängten Ängste (seit ihrem 11ten Lebensjahr) über Bord warf und mit 67 ihre Transition begann.
Ich habe ins Buch kurz reingelesen. Anna's Archive hat es glücklicherweise als pdf und epub, aber ich werde die Links hier nicht öffentlich posten
Da ist schon sehr viel vertrautes bei, auch wenn ich eine Dekade jünger bin.The dam burst on February 16, when I uploaded FaceApp, for a laugh. I had tried the application a few years earlier, but something had gone wrong and it had returned a badly botched image. But I had a new phone, and I was curious. The gender-swapping feature was the whole point for me, and the first picture I passed through it was the one I had tried before, taken for that occasion. This time it gave me a full-face portrait of a Hudson Valley woman in midlife: strong, healthy, clean-living. She also had lovely flowing chestnut hair and a very subtle makeup job. And her face was mine. No question about it"”nose, mouth, eyes, brow, chin, barring a hint of enhancement here or there. She was me. When I saw her I felt something liquefy in the core of my body. I trembled from my shoulders to my crotch. I guessed that I had at last met my reckoning.
Very soon I was feeding every portrait and snapshot and ID-card picture I possessed of myself into the magic gender portal. The first archival picture I tried, contemporaneous with my first memory of staring into a mirror and arranging my hair and expression to look like a girl, was an anxious, awkward studio portrait of a tween, all cowlicks and baby fat. The transformed result
was a revelation: a happy little girl. Apart from her long black hair, very little had been done to transform Luc into Lucy; the biggest difference was how much more relaxed she looked. And so it generally went"”I was having a much better time as a girl in that parallel life. I passed every era through the machine, experiencing one shock of recognition after another: That"™s exactly who I would have been. The app sometimes returned blandly misjudged or grotesquely distorted images, but more often than not it weirdly seemed to guess what my hairstyle and fashion choices would have been in those years. The less altered the resulting images were, the deeper they plunged a dagger into my heart. That could have been me! Fifty years were under water, and I"™d never get them back. My high-school graduation portrait, a haughty near- profile, hair waving off the brow and into a curl, became an impossibly delicate almond-eyed fawn (age 17 was indeed the summit of my beauty, which is probably why my male incubus immediately grew a beard). Ten or twelve years later (there are regrettably few photos of me in my 20s; I"™ve always been camera-shy), I am a Lower East Side postpunk radical lesbian anarcha-feminist with a Dutch-boy bob and a pout. Here I am at a Sports Illustrated junket in Arizona, age 33, looking demure in a white sweater over a red polka-dot dress, talking to a boy.