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A Conceit |
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Imagine you’re a race car driver.
It’s more than just what you do. It's even more than a passion. It’s who you are. It defines you in the very fiber of your being. You feel born to it -- a sense of Self as innate as your gender.
You ARE a race car driver. Now, with that race car driver identity unshakably imprinted, imagine coming to slow consciousness skimming along the stratosphere in the cockpit of a modern fighter jet.
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(The ejection handle doesn't work.) With slow-dawning awareness you realize that you're going to have to fly this contraption, so you start fiddling with the unfamiliar controls and trying to figure out how things operate. Meanwhile, the control tower -- representing virtually everyone you know or come in contact with -- is telling you to grab that stick and fly that plane, insisting with impervious assurance (and occasional menace) that you're a pilot.
Fly or die. |
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Of course you’ll manage to gain some semblance of control of the aircraft -- nearly all of us do to one extent or another -- but how well you fly and how long you stay aloft depends on how you adjust to your predicament. |
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If you're like some of us race car drivers, you'll get fed up with the endless awkwardness and discomfort, so you'll taxi your jet to a good chop shop and have it modified. |
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If you're lucky enough to get an early start, have good materials to work with, and find a masterful craftsman, you might wind up with a pretty decent machine. |
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But even if the transformation isn't all you might have hoped for, statistics, anecdotal evidence, and my own personal experience offer the hope that you're still going to be a lot happier behind a wheel than with a stick. 
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| ... Okay, nix that. Transsexualism's nothing like that... Try this: |
 Imagine you're Cinderella with two heads... |
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