Published October 1, 2026
Decades ago, in childhood, I annoyed everyone around me with my impressions of newsmakers and celebrities. Nixon. Kissinger. Cosell. Ali. Cheech. Chong. Carlin. Later, i graduated to Dangerfield. Monty Python. In all, there were too many to remember now. They were all men. If there were any women doing comedy albums, those didn’t seem to make it into our local record stores. In some cases, I was impersonating Rich Little impersonating others, although I wouldn’t have admitted it.
Anyway, the point was to make people laugh, thus neutralizing any perceived threat. At least that’s how it felt in my gut at the time. The rest of it? I didn’t have the vocabulary for it, nor did I have the courage to go against God and the Christian soldiers, marching as to war.
Speaking of …
Hegseth: “It’s worth saying again so the fake news understands it. We are no longer the woke department or the weak department. Simple translation of that — no fatties no trannies no beardos no weirdos no wimps no radicals. Just warriors.”
— Aaron Rupar (@atrupar.com) September 30, 2026 at 12:08 PM
Riding back with classmates from Catholic school outings, I recited entire comedy albums. In the front of the car, the parents surely got the references that I was too young to understand, but they never said anything to me. I’m certain moms and dads exchanged glances. My guess is they told my parents.
“Don’t talk Mr. (classmate’s last name)’s head off,” they would tell me as they dropped me off at an event.
If you’re picking up an AuDHD frequency, or at minimum strong neurodivergent waves, you understand Young Carly way more than Young Carly ever did.
I signed each of my three sisters’ wedding guest books with my assigned name, followed by another name in parentheses. One was an athlete. Another was an absurd non-human character in a comedy. A third was Elton John, the closest I came to letting my colors fly. All three I chose were safer than choosing a girl’s or a woman’s name.
The point was, anything was better than being me, a character I didn’t know how to play. I didn’t know the words, didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin or clothes, and lost the plot whenever I tried to be who they wanted me to be. I taught myself to play guitar. I’d mimic what I heard, but that’s as good as it got. Never learned to read music. Never was all that great at improvising.
I’ve got no memory of my parents calling me by the name they gave me, although I’m sure they must have. I was “son” — a constant reminder of the role I had in the family. I was the youngest child, arriving four years after the last of three girls. Never heard any of them called “daughter” by my parents.
Sometimes my mom called me “buddy.” That may have been inspired by my family’s nickname for my dad: Bud. I don’t know. “Son,” he’d say before lecturing me about something, so often that it was clear that this my assigned identity. This is what I was to them. The what seemed to matter more than the who.
That’s among the reasons I didn’t hesitate to change my name after coming out as a trans woman nine years ago today, on my birthday.
Voice lessons
None of this is meant to convince nonbelievers of who I am. That ship sailed long ago. They can save their “That doesn’t mean you weren’t a boy!” or their “You could have done all of this as a man!” speeches. These are simply stories I haven’t told before. It’s been nine years, you know. I’ve covered a lot of ground since then, but I felt like I had to acknowledge today in some form or fashion. So this is it. The best I can do.
I wish I knew a story to tell you that would make you say, “Oh, I get it now. It all makes sense.” I wish I knew a story that would make me say that. But you don’t always have to finish the puzzle, with every piece in place, to finally see and understand the picture.
Anyway …
The first woman I sounded like when I talked was my mom. It was not on purpose. My voice was changing, and people thought I was her if I answered the phone.
Trying to sound like the men whose voices I imitated was mostly for laughs, but after much reflection, I realized I was trying to find my own voice. What came out never seemed to fit.
A few years ago, I was in line for free gender-affirming voice lessons, but even that went sideways (for reasons I’m still trying to understand). My voice has been cutting in and out on me since my April 2019 gallbladder surgery. What remains of the sounds that come out of my mouth are what I’ll have to live with. It’s such a perverse cosmic joke that as I was finding my voice, I lost it, along with my ability to tell a story. Trauma does Category 5 damage.
My goals and dreams from years ago feel like luxury items after what’s happened in the United States. Trans women are an easy target, and the anti-trans campaigners are picking us off one by one. It’s pretty rough being a trans man or nonbinary person as well, and it feels as if more and more people see throwing us overboard as the best way to escape the horrors as Republicans destroy the U.S. piece by piece.
With what voice I have left, I can tell you life is hard for me now. No real good news to share these days.
I still sleep 16 hours a day, something that started after the November 2024 elections. My hands shake, vertigo trips me up fairly regularly, my extremities still hurt a lot because of my July 2025 fall, and despite medication to alleviate them, my nightmares still own me. One of them earlier this month caused me to rip things off my wall before I woke up screaming.
There are other frights, but I promised myself I’d keep this as short as possible. The horrors will still be there tomorrow.
I’m so glad I came out
People have asked, “Still no regrets?” without any indication that they’re aware of what negative framing that is. Much better: “Are you still glad you did it?”
Yes, I am. Even after years of living as the hunted. Nine years ago today, my life changed for the better. I didn’t just change my name.
Other trans people understand. They know the feeling.
Circling back to comedy in the years when rote memorization was prized …
All of that became more pathological after a series of heartbreaks in 1980 and 1981 that I never really recovered from. As the album-length recitations became steadying mechanisms, friends understandably fell by the wayside. Then the pressure to become a priest held sway for a time. I mean, the entire Mass was a script I’d already memorized as a child. I could even do those voices.
An entire journalism career later, I’m facing the likelihood that I’ll never be able to work again. Each step forward is followed by two steps backward. There’s no point in telling those stories again today. Unable to cobble together coherence and structure, I see readership understandably falling by the wayside.
This is, what, a 12-minute read? That means 34,186,57 minutes spanning my life so far are unaccounted for. Sorry.
Bottom line: I’m 9 years old, really, and it feels like I am running out of time. Mostly, I am sleeping away what’s left of my life.
Sending love. Protect your peace. They’re coming for it.
9 image by NeoLeo via Shutterstock.
Transgender pride flag by TanyaJoy via Shutterstock.
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