Hannah McKnight: Your Reflection is Yours Alone

When you go to any kind of performance, whether it’s a Broadway musical, a concert, or your niece’s dance competition, you are watching (hopefully) talented people do their very best. What you see is a result of weeks, months, maybe years or preparation. Practice, rehearsals, mistakes, frustration, heartbreak, joy, quitting, restarting, trying again, and WORK.

We as the audience will likely never know everything a performer went through before their show. We will probably never know how deeply they felt frustration or how they pushed themselves, mentally, emotionally, and physically, to achieve what they did.

This isn’t much different than what everyone goes through in their everyday lives. We only see what we are shown. Of course, it works the other way too. You only see what I choose to show you.

I put a lot of work into my presentation. I don’t wake up looking like how I look, if you catch my meeting. My presentation is not isolated to putting on makeup and entwining the straps of my stiletto around my ankle or holding my breath as I cinch my corset as tight as I can safely handle. How I look is a result of how I take care of myself. I have clear skin, but that is a result of exfoliating every morning and every evening for years and years. I avoid sugar and I don’t drink alcohol and I exercise. My diet keeps me in shape. I invest in my clothes and my wig so there’s some financial planning involved.

When I am going to present en femme for the day, I wake up early and one of the first things I see is my reflection. Some people look amazing when they wake up but I am not one of them. I have a few days of facial hair, bags under my barely-opened eyes… the list goes on. Any thought of trying to turn *THIS* into someone that is even a LITTLE cute seems like an impossible task. It’s not unlike the “before” pictures of a home renovation project.

I step away from the mirror, have some coffee, and wake up. Coffee makes it better in the sense that I get deliriously optimistic after I finish two giant mugs. I step back in front of the mirror and Get To Work. I put on some Taylor Swift and once I shave I start to see a teeny tiny glimmer of potential. Over the next thirty minutes I have tucked, fastened my bra, cinched my corset, slipped into my stockings, zipped up my dress, and stepped into whatever stilettos are going to help me take over the world that day. I put my wig on, choose my accessories, and I am out the door.

Over the next thirty minutes I have tucked, fastened my bra, cinched my corset, slipped into my stocking, zipped up my dress, and stepped into whatever stilettos are going to help me take over the world that day.

The potential is growing, like a faint heartbeat.

I arrive at the salon to see my friend and regular makeup artist. One more quick look in the mirror at “his” face but “her” body (if you will) and over the next 45 minutes my friend is doing the hard work.

Some people ask why I have someone else to my makeup and the answer is simple. Because a professional makeup artist is better than I could ever hope to be. I am happy to invest in a makeover because I believe that one’s look requires time, patience, and money, whether it is an $80 makeover or a four dollar tube of lipstick. Besides, I have gotten to know my artist over the years and she has become a good friend. It’s nice to see her.

After she applies my lipstick, which is the final step, she passes a mirror for a final look. She has done an amazing job as always. I mean, no one will mistake me for someone who was assigned female at birth, but I believe she has done the best she can with what she has to work with (that being my face lol).

I am always in love with my makeover and one reason is that I remembered what I looked like before my coffee and before I sat down in the salon chair. A renovated bedroom may not look that impressive, but if you saw the “before” pictures you’d likely be amazed at the difference. Hard work can do that, whether the work is done with power tools or is done with makeup brushes.

When people do SOMETHING, whether it’s a basement renovation, or writing a book, or creating a meal, no one really knows how much work went into it. Even if you watched someone every step of the way, you’ll probably never know the emotional or mental work that went along with the physical component of it. When the project is done, the person who did it remembers everything that they invested, felt, or thought while they did it. They should be proud of their work even if no one else REALLY knows how much went into it.

Our presentation is not that different. If someone says I have nice skin I think about all the water I drink and how I take care of my skin on a consistent basis. If someone says a dress looks nice on me I think about all the times I resisted stopping for ice cream as I ran errands. No one else really knows everything that went into how I look, but I do. I like how I look and it’s a reminder that skipping ice cream and doing my skin routine, even when I was tired or needed a sugar fix, paid off.

My new reflection is my own. Yes, I see my smokey eye makeup, I see the cute cupid’s bow that my makeup artist drew with lip liner, I see how the contouring gave my face softer features, I see how the corset gives me a little more shape. I see the wig I saved up for. I see the results of my work (and the work my makeup artist did) and since I remember how I looked when I woke up that day, I feel beautiful and proud.

I see the results of my work (and the work my makeup artist did) and since I remember how I looked when I woke up that day, I feel beautiful and proud.

Of course, when you show your face to the rest of the world, whether it’s a selfie shared online or when you interact with the salesclerk at the lingerie boutique, the world will potentially react and respond in countless ways and there’s a good chance it’ll be in a way that’s different than you’d like. Others see YOU, but they don’t see the work that went into your presentation. They didn’t see the “before”, they only see the “after”.

And that’s fine.

I don’t do what I do for anyone but myself. If I like how I look, then who cares what someone else thinks? After all, I will likely never know what someone else thinks so why worry about it?

Not caring what others think, and not worrying about what others MIGHT be thinking took years. I feel that not speculating on what others think about you is part of your presentation. If you walk through the mall constantly worrying about what others think, eventually your mind is going to start to become your worst enemy and your fears and insecurity (based on societal gender expectations and impossible beauty standards) will get the best of you. These fears, these insecurities will take you over. You have strutted into the mall like you own the place, but before you realize it, you are walking a little slower, head down, and wishing you were invisible.

I look better, and feel better about myself when I have my head up and I am standing tall (especially in four inch heels).

I feel bulletproof, honestly. I feel as if an unkind comment would bounce off me. I feel confident and hopefully I look it as well. Honestly? I hope I look a little intimidating, lol. Well, intimidating to the dudes who want to say something nasty to me. It helps that I am literally looking down at them (thank you four inch stilettos).

When you are out in the real world, you are in the same world as everyone else. The world is filled with wonderfully kind people. Unfortunately the world has its share of cruelty. When you do anything in life, whether being active on social media or running an errand, you are putting yourself in a situation where others can interact with you. These interactions are likely going to be mundane or can be emotionally crippling or affirming. A lot of interactions are unprompted.

When I started to go out en femme, a lot of my anxiety and apprehension came from not knowing how I would react in the scenarios my imagination created. Getting coffee in male mode is boring. It’s boring for me, boring for the barista, boring for the other customers. But Hannah getting coffee? Hannah is overdressed for the coffee shop, she’s taller than everyone else, she is clearly transgender. All of these factors can inspire others to think something, and potentially to say something.

Most of the time my adventures and interactions are mundane. Sure, the barista knows I am transgender but probably doesn’t care. They have probably seen countless transgender and nonbinary people. Other customers might be thinking their thoughts, but most people are not rude enough to say something cruel, even if they want to. At the end of the day, we are all just trying to live our lives and get through the day and we have enough to think about as it is.

But some people have no filter, and most of the time these interactions are hilarious or even affirming. I don’t believe that I pass. I don’t care that I don’t. I fully accept that everyone that sees me knows that I am transgender. Which is fine, I AM transgender. I don’t think that anyone in the real world would think I was assigned female at birth.

I look better, and feel better about myself when I have my head up and I am standing tall (especially in four inch heels).

But maybe, just maybe I “passed” one time. Last year I was walking through the mall (because of course I was) and this guy caught up to me.

“You’re very tall!” he said, clearly impressed.
“It’s the heels” I responded as I showed him my stilettos. This is my standard reply when people comment on my height.

He did a double take.

“Your voice…”

And walked away. The guy’s response was unfiltered. It was a genuine reaction.

I don’t have a deep voice at all, and I don’t worry about “feminizing” it but I think my voice, well, “gave me away”. I’ll never know (and I don’t care to) what he was thinking but I feel that he thought I was cisgender until I opened my mouth.

So, it was affirming and kind of hilarious. Again, I don’t care about passing but I like it when my presentation is as femme or as convincing as possible.

Kids, by and large, are unfiltered. They say whatever they think which is based on whatever they see. They tend to give little thought into what they say and sometimes it’s funny and sometimes, well, not so much.

A few months ago I was waiting for a friend at a theatre lobby and a kid and his mom were standing next to me. He was closer to the ground then I was and he saw my black stilettos. He looked up at me and asked how I walked in them. Practice, I told him. And that was that. I loved that moment. Just an unprompted question from a kid who saw really pointy, really shiny shoes.

But as I mentioned sometimes these unfiltered moments are not as fun. A few weeks ago I was back at the same theatre, funnily enough. I was at the box office picking up my tickets and in line with a mom and her kid. Mom complimented my dress and I thanked her. Her daughter, maybe four or five years old, looked at me and said “mommy, that’s a boy.” She wasn’t saying this to be mean or thinking it was funny (as many cartoons depict “boys wearing girl clothes”). She was just saying what she saw.

Her mom said something along the lines of being polite. I received my tickets and went back to the lobby. I suspect her mom is an ally of the LGBTQ+ community (or even part of it) because she was the one who initiated the conversation.

Did it sting? No. I know kids. I have nieces, after all. Kids are raised in a binary world when it comes to gender. I was. We are taught that THIS is for boys and THAT is for girls and girls wear PINK and boys wear BLUE. We watch movies where women have soft, heart shaped faces and boys have, well, faces shaped like mine.

I’ve heard that our brains are conditioned to label gender in a binary manner based initially on facial structure. Which made sense in this case. Everything I was wearing, whether it was lipstick or my dress or my heels said GIRL… but my jawline said boy. She saw everything I was wearing but it was my face that told her what gender I was identified as at birth.

As I waited for my sister to meet me, I thought a lot about my presentation. No matter how cute my dress is or how my makeup looks, my face shape (among other features) will always “give me away”. I am aging in a way that is typical of someone who was born with XY chromosomes and was fueled by testosterone. Looking more masculine (based on society thinking that gender is binary) is inevitable. Unless I started estrogen and had facial surgery I am going to look less feminine (again, based on society thinking that gender is binary) as the years progress.

The kid didn’t see me the way I see myself. My reflection is my own, it’s no one else’s. No one will see me the way I see myself. I see the work I put into my reflection.

My thoughts drifted to being reminded that everyone that sees me (well, except for maybe that voice guy) knows “that’s a boy”. It’s a good thing I don’t care about passing because I sure as hell don’t pass, lol.

But this post is not about passing. It’s not about wanting everyone to think I was assigned female at birth. The moment was a reminder that everyone (except that voice guy) knows I am transgender. I am proud to be transgender. If someone knows this about me, well, good for them. It’s not unlike someone knowing I am right-handed. I am right-handed. My dominant hand, and my gender identity, are as clear as day.

At least to me.
And really, isn’t that who matters?

Love, Hanna