Rarely is there a moment in which I forget I am a transsexual. Frequently, though, I forget transsexual equals big freak. It's only taken thirty years for me to forget that I'm not normal.

You know how it is - you show up on your first day of work and they have to show you where everything is: the whips, the handcuffs, the diapers, the Lysol. For a while it's all scary and new, but soon the novelty wears off. It becomes your job; it's what you do. You require a reality check now and then to ensure your work still has a bit of an edge.

My latest jolt of reality came at the National Aquarium in Baltimore. As we approached a woodland creek habitat display, I said to my companions: "Do you ever have those days when you try to get out of the house all day long, but you just can't seem to do it? I think turtles always feel like that." Fueled with amphibious empathy, I approached the tank and looked down on one turtle. He swam to the surface, and stuck out his pale, mottled neck to look directly at me. He reminded me of Riff Raff from the Rocky Horror Picture Show, so I mimicked the character's voice: "Hello."

After getting a load of me, Riff dove. I crouched to watch him swim, and he went down to jostle a turtle who was sleeping awkwardly, jammed between a rock and the tank glass. She woke, irritated, and I continued mimicking Riff's voice. "Magenta, you must see this. There is a transsexual in the aquarium!" The second turtle swam up. She was much less interested in me than her partner, but she still stuck out her neck to peer at me as she reached the surface. I said hi to her, and she said, "Yes, that is a transsexual." She went back to her nap, and then Riff poked up his head for a second look. "Wow. A real transsexual in my aquarium," he mused.

I got gawked at by captive turtles, and I have witnesses.

Flash back a few days and I'm having dinner with a symphony musician. He's Hungarian, and more than twice my age. He'd wanted me to teach him about his computer, but after we met for the consultation it became clear that he didn't want me for my software. He wanted to take me to his favorite restaurant for dinner, and I agreed. I wanted compensation for my wasted afternoon.

He busied himself making his intentions for me clear, doing all of the talking. He was clearly not interested in my intellect. We barely even addressed the computer - he apparently didn't want me to teach him anything at all. He didn't clock me as transsexual, and I wondered if he even knew what a tranny is. This was a delicate situation. If I came out to him, he might think I'd misled him, even though he asked me out. There could even be violence. Perhaps scariest of all, he could be entirely unfazed and still want to take me home.

I thought of one well-publicized case of a transwoman who married a much older man. When he died, his family accused her of being a gold digger, and when they found their trump card upon discovering that she's a tranny. The courts have invalidated the marriage, leaving her with nothing, and her entire life history is now a matter of court record.

I took another bite of my scampi alfredo. It was disgusting.

In this situation, what do you do?

A) Lie and say you're married or engaged or on the rag
B) Duck out to the bathroom and call yourself a cab
C) Painfully explain how your ex still has your heart
D) Tell him you're a tranny and explain your life from the start

Well, D is what I did. (But not after trying C - a story which only encouraged him.) I needed practice. Usually, coming out to someone who wants to date me is an embarassing disaster. Since I had little to lose in this situation, I laid it on the table. I drew diagrams.

The word "transsexual" meant nothing to him. He wanted to know if I'm a woman; yes. He asked if I'd had an operation; no. He asked again if I'm a woman; again, yes. He couldn't understand that the problem is that if he were to get with me, he'd think I was a man, despite all other evidence. He was clearly resisting my efforts to separate the concepts of sex and gender into distinct but correlated categories.

I refuse to believe that old dogs can't learn new tricks, but he refused to understand. He invited me home, waving away my diagrams and explanations. He was convinced I was female enough for him, but even if I were swooning over him, he'd never think of me as a woman if the clothes came off. He'd freak out, and I'd still walk home feeling like the biggest freak of all time. So I skipped the middle step, thanked him for dinner, and left.

If I were an average girl with the desire to have my cradle robbed, I wouldn't have to explain anything to him. Or if I had had a few extra thousand dollars to invest in surgery, I might also get away without any kind of explanation. But the thing is that I don't need any surgery to confirm my sex or gender. I no longer have to convince myself that I'm a woman, regardless of the shape of my genitals. And I don't want to have to waste any more of my time trying to convince other people of my sex, whether I'm clothed or naked. At this point, surgery will benefit other people more than it will me. (Which reminds me - if you think that surgery on my genitals will benefit you in any way, I am taking donations, in care of this publication. Thanks for your support.)

Part of the difficulty in providing a clear explanation of my particular sex and gender is that my explanation relies on technology. The language of transsexuality has been developed slowly over the last century, with an enormous explosion within the last decade. The technology which has made it possible for me to inject hormones and have body modification surgery is all recent. If I had existed a hundred years ago, I might perplex myself as much I did my Hungarian paramour. I feel fortunate to live now, even if that means that I have to live as something of a gender freak. I may be a freak, but at least I have some mental clarity, and I wouldn't trade that for anything.

Language, in this light, is as much a kind of technology as is the internet or the production line. We understand the word "transsexual" because we were able to develop things like sexual reassignment surgery (SRS). And the concept of "transsexual" has given rise to such a wide range of nuanced gender identities it is among the most important technological advancements of the 20th century. It's certainly produced much more interesting lives than has, say, television.

Donna Haraway, who is one of the smartest people anywhere, has had a lot to say about gender and technology. She speaks a great deal about cyborgs, which is to say "natural" animals directly and permanently affected by technology. She'd say that we are all cyborgs. Technically speaking, even the Amish would be cyborgs - but they are cyborgs who have set a deliberate limit on how much technology will affect their lives. Sometimes, Haraway is brought up in tranny discussions, and there are those of us who really resist being called cyborgs. It brings to mind all kinds of nasty science fiction images, with garish skin grafts and robotic voices. There are those among us who want this transsexuality to be an organic phenomenon.

There is something internal and as yet unidentified in me that makes me more convincing when I function as a female in this world. That part - call it my soul, if you need a word for it - is organic, but everything else is cultural, manufactured and technological. This is a world in which even Aretha Franklin can only feel like a natural woman, so we trannygirls are not in bad shape. We are no more or less "natural" than a cell phone user, an organ replacement recipient, or a multi-national corporate vice president. We all require technology to maintain our standards of living, which is to say, to live our normal lives.

The turtle in the fake natural habitat is in no position to stare. The dirty old man trying to seduce a pretty woman shouldn't turn her out if he doesn't like the prize in her Cracker Jack box - especially if all he really wants is the Cracker Jack. There isn't a soul among us who doesn't somehow press the boundaries of what it means to be normal. Some of us beg elaborate explanations, and others can shrug it all off, saying "I guess I'm just a freak."