A few weeks ago, after we got home from work and the Atlanta weather had cooled off, my husband, August, and I were out for a walk, as couples have done since time immemorial. As each of us absentmindedly reached out for the other’s hand, we shared a subtle nod with two well-dressed men who passed us on the opposite side of the path. I thought it was nothing more than an unspoken, gentlemanly, “How d’you do?” But August interpreted it as something else.
“It’s weird that for the first 15 years of our relationship, nobody paid any attention to whether or not we were holding hands,” August said. “Now it’s a political statement.”
What had changed? Three or four years ago—it’s hard to pin down the exact date—August wasn’t my husband. They were my wife.
August and I first met in Asheville, North Carolina, in 2006, when they were a 22-year-old, female-presenting barista. I was a few years older, working as a dishwasher. One of my earliest memories of August, before I even knew their name, occurred at the coffee shop we both frequented. I had a mohawk and mutton chops at the time and wore a heavy, utilitarian kilt. August was petite with a cute smile and a mane of curly brown hair. We were hanging out with mutual friends, but when August came to sit down at our table, all the seats were occupied. I very gentlemanly offered them my chair, but to my surprise, they simply took a seat on my lap. That, as they say, was that.
About a year later, we announced that we were running off to San Jose so August could attend grad school for library science. We should’ve known the plan would fail for a few reasons: Neither of us had ever been to San Jose, August had never even been on a plane before, and the Great Recession had just begun a few months prior. We couch-surfed with friends in Berkeley until the companies we worked for went bankrupt within a few weeks of each other. Still, we powered through to San Jose, moving into what could be best described as a hovel with a sink and a shower. We filled out applications for weeks before we realized there were no jobs to be had.
Every couple should start their relationship with an utter failure to make sure they’re both in it for the long haul. We had previously purchased plane tickets to visit August’s parents in Tennessee and asked ourselves, What if we just go and don’t come back to California? If we could survive this disaster, we thought, then we can survive anything. Maybe we needed something to look forward to, but around this time, we started planning our wedding. Neither of us ever popped the question. We both just knew.
Moving in with our parents or back to Asheville, however, felt like too much of a setback. August’s brother helped us find jobs and a place to stay where he lived, in Greensboro, North Carolina. Sure enough, a month later, we were living with a roommate and working service-industry jobs.
August and I have always been a “we,” one of those couples that almost always prefer to hang out with each other rather than anyone else.
We got married in 2008 at my parent’s farmhouse in middle-of-nowhere Kentucky. The wedding theme was “garden party at which we get married.” My father had an Amish butcher roast a goat for the occasion, and my cousins made a vat of our secret-family-recipe German potato salad. We had cupcakes instead of wedding cake, before that idea was cool and then not cool. There was so much homemade wine and moonshine that two people passed out in the living room before all was said and done.
Less than a year later, August was accepted to another graduate program, this time in Iowa. Thankfully, it worked out a lot better. August finally began their career as an academic librarian after getting a job at the University of Georgia and later Georgia Tech.
I don’t remember the first time they mentioned wanting to transition. Like our decision to marry, it seemed like something that was going to happen eventually. Back when we lived in Asheville, August would do this thing they called Mustache Thursday. Every week, on that day, they would wear an obviously fake handlebar mustache to work. People did that sort of thing in mid-aughts Asheville, but for August, it hinted at what they were feeling inside themself.
In 2023, we settled into a comfortable middle-class existence in Atlanta. August realized they wanted to talk to the doctor about microdosing testosterone. What I remember most about their first shot is the immediate pep in their step and the way they described the feeling: “It was like when an old radio dial is stuck between two stations. You tap it, and one comes in clear.” They almost immediately went from a microdose to a regular dose.
August has a big family, so they sent out a group email to inform everyone. We knew my sister would be cool, so we just called her. I told my parents in person, since I was going up for a visit anyway. I was probably a bit dramatic with them; I don’t have a lot of experience delivering Big News. They were sitting on the couch watching Jeopardy! while I was doing something in the kitchen. I asked them to turn off the television because I had something important to share.
Everyone was cool or at least feigned coolness; I expected some muttering behind the scenes. But we made it pretty clear that we weren’t interested in feedback. The Big News was not phrased as a question. There was no “What do you think?” or “How do you feel?” Only: “This is what’s happening.” We didn’t want to create the impression that anyone else got a vote on our relationship or August’s gender.
“It’s weird that for the first 15 years of our relationship, nobody paid any attention to whether or not we were holding hands,” August told me. “Now it’s a political statement.”
The top surgery was a different story—not that people were opposed. But no one, myself included, was thrilled about the idea of August getting major surgery. If anyone in our families announced they were having an elective procedure with a long recovery time, we’d all probably have about the same supportive but nervous reaction.
To prepare, August and I watched a lot of the plastic-surgery show Botched, read up on top-surgery recovery, and talked to friends who’d had it done. My day job is at a lactation clinic, so I already knew a lot more about breast and chest surgery than most men. One thing I didn’t know about top surgery, however, was that they ask you to bring in images of what you want your chest to look like. August went with Bill Skarsgård; we agreed that Alexander would have been a bit much.
My mom is a retired RN with a Pride-flag tattoo, so of course she came down to help out the week after surgery. One afternoon, while August was having a nap, my mom asked me a question on a drive to the grocery store: “So, given everything that’s been going on, do I need to prepare myself for an amicable divorce between you two?”
It was, I suppose, a fair question, but honestly the thought had never occurred to me. We’d been through so much together. If the California debacle and multiple grad schools didn’t split us up, why would a little thing like transitioning?
“No, I’m in love with them,” I replied.
I don’t begrudge people who end a relationship after their partner changes genders. If you’ve always considered both yourself and your marriage to be straight, breaking up seems like a fairly reasonable reaction. My situation is not exactly unique, but it’s certainly rare. We know a few male couples in which one is trans and the other cis, but the former had almost always transitioned before meeting their current partner.
As much as I loved August pre-transition—their cute voice, their big hair—I love their deeper voice and broader chest and shoulders. What I love most, though, is their newfound self-assurance. I always used to tell them, “I wish you knew how great you are.” Whether it’s because of testosterone’s known impact on confidence or because now they just feel more comfortable with who they are as a person, I feel like now they finally do.
It didn’t surprise me when August wanted to start testosterone and change their pronouns. In hindsight, it’s more surprising that they took so long to do so.
Recently, August and I were again walking through our neighborhood when we had another interaction with a passerby. An older man by himself saw us, two men nonchalantly holding hands. He said nothing but dramatically placed his hand on his heart and smiled at us.
Others may disagree, but I don’t think I necessarily come off as gay. That being said, people don’t look too surprised when I say, “My husband…” This affords me the privilege of being largely anonymous and occasionally invisible. I’m also a pretty big guy, so I never feel as though anybody is going to target me even if they see me only as a gay man. The only time I’ve ever been called a faggot is when the speaker was already in a car, driving away from me.
There’s a comfort in that invisibility that I didn’t recognize until it was gone. Now, a solid three years into August’s transition, even if people don’t clock August as trans, we appear as middle-aged gay guys. Although we live in an area that could fairly be referred to as Gay Country, it’s slightly unnerving for random bystanders to have an opinion on our sexualities, even if it’s only visible through a look or a pointed lack thereof.
Historically, this is the best time and probably one of the best places to be gay or trans. But that didn’t happen by magic, and we still have a lot of work to do. Part of that work is just making ourselves visible. Because when the two of us, one trans, one cis, walk down the street and hold hands, we’re making a political statement—whether we mean to or not.