Wow, That's Me, Part 1 (of 3)

The first time I posed for a photographer as my authentic self was a disaster.

I was, at the time, thinking I might try online dating. A friend at work had met a wonderful guy online, and later married him. We talked about which dating sites were queer-friendly, and I started thinking maybe I'd stretch out of my comfort zone, create a profile and see what would happen. Worst case scenario? Delete the profile.

To do this, I'd need pictures. Understand that I'd rather clean maggots out of trash cans on an August afternoon than take a selfie. Every time I see myself on that iPhone screen, I hear that line from Tootsie:
Director: I'd like to make her look a little more attractive. How far can you  pull back?
Camerman: How do you feel about Cleveland?

I found a couple who ran a photography studio out of their barn. It was a little pricey, but I figured, "You get what you pay for." And before I describe what happened next, let me say that these were decent, well-intentioned people. 

I explained up front that I was trans, and was looking for casual pics to use online. They cheerfully disregarded the request and instead went with their area of expertise: the formal portrait. 

Stand on the line. Move your right foot backward. Lean forward. A little more; almost to the point where you're off balance. Tilt your head. Now smile. Oh, not like that! 

He repeatedly misgendered me. At first I ignored it. As it continued, I tried politely correcting him. It didn't help. At a certain point he arranged me so that my hands wouldn't be in the frame, saying that they were too large. He was oblivious to how hurtful that was to a trans woman.

As the hour crawled by, I grew more and more tense, i.e., less and less likely to produce a good photo. The wife took me outside and positioned me in a flowering shrub. Not adjacent to, not in front of. In! When she announced, "Last one," I, for the first time that day, smiled genuinely.

On the drive home, I stopped at Cumby's, but I was so distraught that I couldn't get out of the car. I sat shaking with rage, breathing in ragged gasps. After about ten minutes I calmed myself enough to get my large black decaf.

When the pictures were ready, I couldn't look at them. The experience had triggered my every insecurity and brought on a wave of self-loathing that lasted weeks. I called my dearest friend Karen and asked her to look for me. She selected the five photos for which I'd paid. I like the two that are in this post; the other fifty or so were cringe-inducing.

I realized that if I couldn't handle a simple unpleasant morning's photography session, online dating was right out. So I use the first as my professional head shot and the second as my author book jacket photo.

Keep all this in mind when I say, I recently accepted the opportunity to do a session of art photography with photographer Sam Avery.

To be continued. . .