Well, here we are, the very first one. It’s exciting and terrifying for me to load up a blank page and start typing words. Most of the time, I hope that when I’m done, the words are Good Words™ and make some semblance of comprehension.

Yes, the title (and the blog itself) refers to the 1996 Christopher Guest film Waiting for Guffman and its titular inspiration, the Samuel Beckett play Waiting for Godot. Growing up as a theater kid in the early aughts had its effects in more ways than one, so there was no better title for a blog about my life.

One reason for that, poetically speaking, is that I am a trans woman. It took me 34 years to finally figure that out. When I did, all the lightbulbs went off, and it's been an incredible journey ever since.

If you are a language nerd like me, Saoirse comes from Irish Gaelic (Gaeilge, pronounced gwayl · guh) and means "freedom”. It’s astonishing how, out of all the names I had considered, this one floated its way over to me and landed in my palm with its damn near perfect allegory about what transitioning had done for me. As the kids say, you cannot make this stuff up.

Anyway, welcome to Waiting for Saoirse. I hope you enjoy reading this and future stuff as much as I enjoy writing it.

I was over at a friend’s apartment last weekend. My apartment’s laundry machines consist of one washer and one dryer. Both are coin-operated and need maintenance often. Sometimes a girl doesn’t have time for all that.

I'm waiting for my clothes to dry. My friend mentioned they were going to a concert in Seattle tomorrow with their housemates. Not just any concert, mind you—a K-pop (Korean pop) concert. The band, Stray Kids, was one that I was not too familiar with, but I liked what I had heard, so it sounded like a fun time. And then, as if on cue, my friend dropped the words:

“We have an extra ticket if you would like to join us.”

I paused. Not for lack of desire, as I had never been to a K-pop concert, but I had an electrolysis appointment the day after the concert.

Electrolysis is, quite simply, a procedure where a trained practitioner uses a tiny needle and electric current to remove hair from an unwanted area of the body. It’s painful. It is, however, very effective and one of the only methods for people of all persuasions wanting permanent hair removal.

For the whole thing to work, there needs to be visible hair to yeet. That means shaving, a method that a lot of trans people with dysphoria use to ease that discomfort is out of the question for 3-4 days prior (a quick and friendly reminder/rant that you DO NOT need a clinical diagnosis of gender dysphoria to be trans, but that’s for another post).

Back to my dilemma.

So here I was, on day 2 of not shaving and already feeling very self-conscious about my face. An opportunity to go have a fun time with a dear friend in a different city just plopped in my lap, but that also means being perceived in a public space at a vulnerable time.

“That sounds fun, I will think about it,” I said out loud.

We return to the glow of the TV we’ve had on in the background, a behind-the-scenes video of another K-pop group, and the churning of the laundry machines.

My typical routine for a week with an electrolysis appointment at the end of it is to do the following:

Normally, a request to go out on such a weekend would be swiftly met with an apologetic offer for a rain check without going into too many specifics. This was different. My friend is also trans, and I felt like I could go into detail about why I wasn’t immediately saying yes. It’s tough to explain trans issues to a non-trans person sometimes.

I mentioned how I had been working my way up past just hiding in my house on weekends with electrolysis sessions, but visiting a whole ass city and stadium full of people was a huge step. They answered with warmth, understanding my hesitancy, but underlying how great it would be to have me along.

The dryer dinged sweetly to tell everyone nearby that it had completed a cycle and that warm, fluffy, and most importantly, dry clothes lay within its doors. As I walked down the apartment hall to fetch the clothes and start folding them into the bright blue IKEA bag they had traveled in, a thought crossed my mind that began to turn the decision toward going.

Girl, you need some social time.

The thought dug in like a hook. My week prior included learning that the U.S. House, in the dead of night, altered a single sentence in the tax spending bill to include an elimination of coverage of gender-affirming care for adults on Medicaid. Plenty of people were fine with that. While unemployed for 3 years, I was on the Oregon Health Plan, our state-sponsored Medicaid program. Lots of my friends are on it now. There is a non-zero chance I will need it again. It’s infuriating that it is being debated and it was the final straw in a very shitty week.

I walked back with an armful of clothes from the dryer, and then I turned to my friend.

“Yes, I would like to go.”

I knew I would be putting myself into a potentially anxious situation, but I just could not be by myself that weekend. Even if that meant taking a risk like this. I got this, I told myself shakily.

My friend was so excited about my acceptance, and we went over what to expect from the show to prepare. I folded the rest of my laundry before going home, pausing to play with one of their adorable cats.

I woke up the next day with Anxious Brain. The weasels, my name for those nasty, intrusive thoughts that frequently barge in (UNINVITED, I might add), were already running through worst-case scenarios of what could happen. It got to the point that I just wanted to hide under the covers for the rest of time, plans be damned.

My therapist, bless her, has helped me with situations like this over the last year and a half. She keeps telling me to have more self-compassion. So I tried to repeat what I’d gathered from our many past sessions.

My facial hair is incongruent with my identity. This feels bad. That’s okay. I am doing everything I can to remedy this. This does not change my identity at all.

I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower, hoping that would at least help quiet the weasels. It helped. It’s amazing what a little hot water and steam can do.

Feeling better, I got dressed. I opted for one of my favorite red and black A-line dresses, along with some sparkly sunglasses, some cute black ankle booties, and a new KN95 mask, both to help with my feeling of being perceived and because Covid is still not over, you fucks. Torrid makes these incredible leggings that are standard cotton fabric from the waist to the thigh, and the rest is mesh with varying designs, mimicking tights. They’re great and very affirming. This was not the time to debut a new outfit, this was the time to wear something confidence-boosting. Vibe check: passed.

As I finished styling my hair, my phone buzzed. They’re here. I took a deep breath in, hoping to inhale some extra strength because, well, I just couldn’t back out now after all that time getting ready, right? I gathered my things and walked out the door. Everyone in the car greeted me enthusiastically, and off we sped towards Seattle.

Section 9 of Interstate 5 travel law states that one must stop in Centralia at least once on every road trip between Portland and Seattle, and thus we obliged. I was anxious, but I darted down an aisle and grabbed a sandwich along with a drink. The cashier was nice and friendly. Back to the safety of the car. One interaction down.

Three and a half hours later, we arrived in the Emerald City. We toodled around the International District since we had arrived several hours before the doors opened. We had yogurt smoothies, sipped tea, and relaxed a bit in Hing Hay Park, all fairly low-level interactions. I was still doing okay.

Closer to concert time, we made our way towards the venue, T-Mobile Park, the home of the Seattle Mariners baseball team. It was a place I fondly remembered. My dad took me to see live baseball in person when we were able to, back when I was younger. I saw one game in the Kingdome before it was demolished, but every game I saw since then was in this stadium.

By the time we got close, the line we jumped into was already several blocks long. This is intense, I thought as I observed the crowded line. One group of younger-looking folks that arrived just after we did were dressed in tuxedos and formal dresses with a large sign that read “We skipped prom for this”. Truly adorable. Several others moved up and down the lines handing out free goodie bags of fan-made merch, a common occurrence at K-pop concerts.

My mask was doing an adequate job of concealing my face throughout the day, at least that’s what I told myself. My brain insisted on being alert, still. My friend, likely noticing, said that my fit was divine. "Thanks,” I said, definitely not absorbing the compliment in hindsight.

After we got inside, not much had changed about the stadium from my younger memories. The sponsor had changed. Gone were the days of Safeco Field. The juniper-colored beams that made up the stadium’s structure were still there, a little worn since the stadium’s grand opening in 1999, but still towering over me like the first time I stepped foot inside.

We found our section, and before settling in, my friend and I went to get some food.

Everything was predictably expensive for stadium fare. I’m sorry, $20 for a small cup of curried chicken is gonna be a no from me. We had decided on a stadium hot dog and some chicken tenders when both of us needed to use the restroom…

…and that is when the brain weasels that had been largely kept at bay returned in full force. The Thing I Feared all day, why I felt the need to be so alert, was someone seeing a very visible trans woman (me) and choosing to harass her. I could just hold it.

No. The concert was 3 hours long, and the trip back to Portland was nearly equal in time, so the bathroom trip had to be now. The line was long, not nearly as long as the merch lines we had passed on our way in. I tried to distract myself by talking with my friend while we waited for our turn. We got in, turned a corner, and then two stalls became available.

Nothing happened. No altercations. No harassment. If there was a dirty look, I didn’t see it. It’s silly that I even have to be worried about going to the bathroom to USE THE BATHROOM. The trope being flung around about the “dangers of trans people in public bathrooms” is demeaning and false. I pissed, I washed my hands, and then I left. The world did not burst into flames as the feminism-appropriating, ridiculous transphobes would have you believe. FARTs. The name suits them to a T.

I told my friend after we got into the food line how happy I was that they were with me. I had been to public bathrooms plenty of times, with varying degrees of anxiousness. This was the first time less than 24 hours before an electrolysis appointment though.

I am taking this memory and reminding your silly goose ass the next time you need to use a public bathroom that you were able to do this, I told myself as we made our way back to our seats.

The concert was a full-on spectacle for the entire three hours. The boys danced their HEARTS out. The crowd danced and gleefully swung light sticks that synced with the performance lights. When there was a solo verse, a deafening collective scream pierced the air. At times, the noise reached decibels that made me glad there were earplugs in one of the fan-made merch bags.

When the encore wrapped and the stage darkened, we made our way out of the stadium and back to the car. Tired, we motored back to Portland, and it was nearly 3 am by the time I crawled my aching body into bed. I slept well that night.

There’s a line in the eponymously titled song Stray Kids wherein a duet precedes the second chorus. It stayed with me for quite a while after hearing it live.

Oh, I won't let me fall down
So proud of myself, never doubt
Who we are 언제까지나 믿어 날 (translated as “Always believe in me”. Korean folks, please correct me if that is wrong!)

Those were words I needed to hear that weekend. The world is scary right now, but I’m so proud of how far I’ve come, and I’ll doubt myself a little less after this.

Until next time. 💜