Writing a semi-autobiographical play unlocked the artist I kept hidden as a trans man

This is a First Person column by Jay Gallant, a trans man living in Charlottetown. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

March 31 is International Trans Day of Visibility. The following piece features excerpts from Gallant's play, What's Eating You? Public readings of the play will be taking place in Charlottetown from March 31 to April 2.

Do you know what the term nostalgia really means? Homesickness. A longing to go back home — a place that's familiar to you. Where you felt safe and cared for and loved. I never got that feeling looking at pictures from childhood because I never felt at home in my own body.

These are words spoken by Sam Goody — a trans character from my play What's Eating You? — as he comes to terms with his gender identity as an adult. Even though the character is fictional, his experiences and feelings are not. 

Because they are my own. 

And just as Sam finds his own voice and identity as the narrative unfolds, I discovered my own voice as an artist in writing it.

I've been a trans activist for the past six years, giving talks locally in P.E.I and providing consultations on creating safer spaces and pathways to health care for the gender diverse community. I use my voice to educate and inform in formal settings. 

But when I started writing this semi-autobiographical play two years ago — as a means of coping with the anxiety and uncertainty of living through a pandemic — I discovered within me another voice desperate to be heard. Buried under layers of self-doubt and shame was the voice of a writer. 

Accepting that I'm trans now means accepting that for most of my life I've been living as a fraction of a person when I could have been whole … all those years I can never get back.

As a trans kid growing up in Charlottetown in the '80s and '90s, I didn't have access to gender-affirming care — like hormone blockers and hormone replacement therapy — or support of any kind. Words like "trans" and "gender diversity" weren't even in my vocabulary. There were no visible trans role models to look up to (that I knew of) or rainbow stickers on guidance counsellor's doors signalling that it was a safe thing to talk about. 

There was nothing to make me feel that what I was going through — that who I was — was normal. So, I grew up believing there was something wrong with me.

For many years, writing was my solace — a way of making sense of the world around and within me. 

I've always had a vivid imagination, my young mind often bursting at the seams with fantastical worlds and characters. I began writing stories as soon as I was able to string words together on a page. In junior high, I wrote poetry about everything from the beauty of Island beaches to grieving the loss of loved ones. I was transfixed with using metaphor to capture and convey elusive ideas and feelings. 

That began to change, however, toward the end of junior high when the shame I felt about my gender identity led to an obsession with perfectionism — a desperate attempt to make up for what I perceived to be a lacking deep within myself.