Art by @shes-an-iso – commissioned by me and posted here with permission
It is ten years ago and I am watching Frozen.
It is ten years ago and I am watching Elsa transform herself into her truest self, watching her spin threads of blue around herself, seizing power for herself – radical self-actualization.
The glint of Elsa’s ice dress reflects in my eyes as I watch Elsa strut into the sunlight – and I do not have words for why I am so moved.
I do not have words, but the shimmer stays.
It is ten years ago and I am choosing to become a part of the Frozen fandom.
I have lurked in fandom circles before, but never posted a thing, never made an account.
It is my first time being part of an online fan community – and, as awful as fandoms can be at times, this fandom – for me – ten years ago – is truly a community.
I begin to make friends in the Frozen fandom.
Some of these friends are trans.
The gleam of Elsa’s hair in the rose-gold dawn shines again in my eyes, and shyly, I begin asking questions of my friends.
Realization is nothing without the words to process it – and my friends give me words, my friends help me to understand.
It is in this online space that I first take the name Liza for myself, since this online space is the only place that I can allow myself to be.
I build for myself. My blog is my own ice palace. What I cannot sculpt in daily life, I carve within online spaces – offering my writing, my thoughts, my edits, my soul to the world.
Everyone here knows me as Liza.
Even as I’m in the closet to my family for years, in here, I am Liza. My friends know me as I am, and as Liza is all they will ever know me.
But I am in the closet. For years.
(It’s why Do You Want to Build a Snowman still breaks me.)
In the closet more out of some misplaced sense of duty to my family than out of dread, though I am scared. Always scared. And then in the closet because I feel it’s better if I bury this. Not better for me, but for them. If I’m bleeding inside, it doesn’t matter. I can put on a show. I have fine-woven gloves. Well-taught decorum. Be the good girl you always have to be, etc.
(Maybe it’s my fault I’m in the closet for years. Anons on this site have told me that in the past. I don’t have it as bad as others in the closet, I’m just a coward, the fault is mine, the fault is mine…)
(People blame Elsa for the thirteen years in the same way, placing the blame on her and not the tutelage that trained her, because her parents loved her, you see, and love becomes a convenient means of shifting blame to the victim.)
In June 2016, after the Pulse shooting, I make a post about how I’m never going to come out. I am terrified, heartbroken, mangled by grief – but my friends are there for me. My friends send me messages of support, of compassion.
I still cherish the memory of those.
Years pass. When I finally come out to my father, I can barely say the words, barely look him in the eye.
It is ten years since Frozen and I have come out to my family – far too late. I have been on HRT more than a year now.
(My dad still misgenders me when he thinks I’m out of earshot. He resents when I get frustrated with him over this.)
It is ten years since Frozen and I am Elsa on the North Mountain, staring into the whirlwind of an uncertain future, defiant and scared.
And I know – I know – that I didn’t process I was trans because of the film – it was because of the friendship of fellow trans people, trans people who happened to be Frozen fans a decade ago – but my journey of self-realization, my time in the closet, my creation of a sense of self, are so entwined with memories of Frozen that I can’t help but think of it when thinking about my own transition…
Can’t help but think of Elsa, hips swaying, arms outstretched, flashing, radiant –
Happy tenth anniversary, Frozen.
And thank you. Thank you.
(This is okay to reblog. In fact, please do. It is a sliver of my soul that I offer to the world.)
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