Just in time for the holiday season, we bring you a different kind of Christmas story for this week’s Translation Tuesday. “My Christmas: Memories of a Transvestite,” written by H.W. Burg and translated from the German by M.M. Pinky, was originally been published 100 years ago, but remains startling in its immediacy. Through a series of Yuletide reflections, the author, assigned male at birth, relates their lifelong journey of coming to terms with their innate femininity. The quest for authentic gender expression expands into a tender exploration of self-discovery, longing, and the profound human need for pure acceptance. In a political climate where transgender rights seem to be an increasingly easy target, this short memoir reminds us why fearmongering rhetoric obscures the simple truth of people who, like anyone else, are searching for connection and love.
It is Christmas Eve again. Alone, I stand at the window of my quiet bachelor’s room and look into the cold winter night. Hoarfrost covers the trees. Hedges and bushes glisten in the light of the streetlamps as if the sky descended to Earth with thousands of little falling stars on this holy night. How beautiful it is when nature unfolds its wonders and no human hand disturbs its mysterious play.
The sound of “Silent Night, Holy Night” floats by my ears from the neighboring house. Through the thin window curtains, I see the dark outline of a Christmas tree and the bright glow of its lights. I close my eyes and imagine how those gathered around the tree join hands in love, how the quiet happiness of peace transfigures their eyes. I know the people. Quiet, simple, content people, who help each other carry the heavy things in life. How beautiful it is when two hearts find each other and love lifts them up from the vices of everyday life.
On my table there too is a Christmas tree. It is small; I bought it today, ready-made with decorations and candles already on it. As I’m about to strike a match, a deep sadness creeps over me. I am suddenly gripped by a desolate loneliness with a force I haven’t felt for some time. Lighting the candles is impossible. My eyes fill with tears and I have to sit down with my head against the table. My deep misery grips me with terrible strength, and I begin crying, crying bitter tears, today—on Christmas Eve—while everyone rejoices and celebrates the season of joy.
Once my tears dried, I sat dreaming, pondering before my Christmas tree, from which no light fell into my saddened soul. Memories from days long ago unfurled within me, memories of celebrations of Christmases past. In my mind they all lay before me, and of the long list, four stayed in my mind with particular clarity.
The first memory took place twenty-five years ago to the day. I was a young student, the pride of my parents. They had invited me home to celebrate the holiday, and I was glad to accept the invitation. I was received with all the love that my father, mother, and sister possessed. My mother proudly showed me the numerous beautiful gifts she went out of her way to buy for me. She got me more than enough. Everything a young man of my age could wish for laid before my eyes and had been lovingly wrapped for Christmas. I kissed my mother gratefully, not because of the numerous presents, but because I was warmed by her love.
Then my eyes fell on the gifts given to my sister. Wonderful clothes and costumes were spread before her, and a beautiful golden bracelet shining with precious stones sat atop her heap of treasures. The value of her gifts was certainly no greater than that of mine. But I could not look away from them. My eyes were drawn to them as if by magic. How I would have loved to swap places with her. This feeling came from the depths of my soul with such force it suppressed my every thought.
So often in my youth I had asked myself why I had been born a boy and not a girl. So often was my silent wish to be like my sister. But I always repressed it, staving it off like it was something malignant. That night, however, on Christmas Eve, during the season of miracles, it enveloped me with strange force. While everyone toasted the night, I remained silent, sad. My mother asked me if I were alright—if I were missing something. I feigned a headache, claiming I was greatly fatigued by the journey. Before the festivities ended, I retired to my room, but my mother worriedly followed me in. Finally, when I was alone, tears ran from my eyes and I cried myself to sleep, exhausted.
I returned to university earlier than I initially intended. I found myself lonelier and quieter than I had ever been before. A heavy sorrow settled over my soul. It never lifted, even during the hectic rush of my busiest days I felt its weight within me. Over and over, I would anxiously ask myself: where did you get this queer desire to dress and act so femininely? Will you ever master this peculiarity?
*
I passed my exams and completed my doctorate with flying colors. I was offered a position in the Orient to conduct research and continue my studies. It took little consideration for me to accept the offer. I hoped it would bring me inspiration and help me master my curious nature.
Years passed since the Christmas party I first recalled. Once again it was Christmas Eve and I found myself far away in India. With companions from the region, I pitched my tents on the outskirts of a remote village, where the sacred waters of Tuwa spring up from the ground and pilgrims seek solace from pain and despair. When it was still early evening and my servants were making preparations for the night, I sat alone in front of my tent and my mind wandered through my past. The memory of Christmas with my parents five years prior crossed my mind. It provoked the feelings it stirred within me then.
I pictured my loved ones a world away. What was the meaning of their love if they could not understand my innermost self—if they didn’t wish to recognize the femininity within me? A sharp sadness sliced deep into my soul. To hide my tears from the servants, I retreated to my tent. But suddenly, an idea dawned on me. I called one of my companions and told him I wanted a souvenir to remind me of our stay in the region. I instructed him to go to the village bazaar that night and bring me the longest, most beautiful woman’s fabric he could find along with jewelry made by the indigenous women.
After some time, he returned. What he gathered was not overly elaborate; he handed me a bundle of simple cloths, the kind women folded into dresses in those remote villages, but they were enough. I told my companions to go to bed for the night. After the last man had retired, I slipped off to the holy springs to bathe in them. I returned to my tent and adorned my body in the feminine fabrics, wrapping them into elaborate folds as is the custom of the region. For the first time in my life, I put on the clothes of a woman.
Energy surged through my soul like a miracle was occurring. It felt as if each scar and wound from my past suddenly healed, and the very force of life unencumbered my soul. I sat in awe, alone in my tent for some time. What had been a moment of crushing despair became a lone celebration of quiet joy. That night I learned a lesson which would guide me through the rest of my life: when that heavy sorrow which long tormented me loomed once again, changing my clothes would cause the whole world to appear in a different, kinder light.
*
Years passed, and I returned home again. By this time, my father and mother had passed away, and my sister was married off. My job eventually led me to a big city. By chance, I came across a book which taught me that I was not alone in my desire to dress as a woman, but indeed there were others. By that time, I had bought a number of European dresses and I often sat in my room wearing women’s finery when I had the time. A calming peace would cradle me when I did. But something was still missing; I longed to have someone else in my life, someone who understood my desires and saw the woman within me. I longed for someone who could love me—for someone who would hold me dear. Was there anyone on Earth who would do so? For me?
Despite how affable I became if asked about by career, I was shy and distant when it came to things about myself. For my entire life, I lived as a recluse and I didn’t dare open my heart to anyone. I avoided men because I could not understand their relationships with women. But I also evaded women because they always deemed me to be an eligible bachelor and only sought my love. No one knew about my unconventional quirk, and I was careful to keep it from everyone to protect myself.
*
Later in life, I happened to become acquainted with an older lady who had endured many hardships and saw the world through wizened eyes. We talked to each other often, touching on everything imaginable. One day, we happened to discuss transvestism. She was familiar with the subject and her sentiments proved she was comfortable with the topic. Soon after, I summoned all my courage. I told her that I was so inclined. She nodded simply, as if it were self-evident. She then told me she would be glad to see me in women’s clothes and suggested I visit her apartment soon to re-dress with her. I gladly accepted her warm invitation.
One visit quickly became many. I was soon her regular guest. Several times a week, and later even whole days, I spent time with her—dressed as a woman—helping her with her work and chatting with her like any other of her friends.
*
Christmas Eve eventually came once more. This year we celebrated the night in each other’s company. Together, we dressed quite nicely for our little party. I gave her some jewelry and she surprised me with a wonderful silk dress which she custom-made for me. Standing beside the Christmas tree, my joy was so great I was compelled to kiss her—freely—as I had kissed my mother in my youth. My emotions were boundless. For the first time in my life, I kissed someone who was my own.
For a long time after we sat together, her hand in mine, and I could feel our souls intertwine. Only when the last candle on the Christmas tree burnt out, did I set off. It was the most beautiful Christmas of my life.
Months passed. The bond of our tender friendship bound us tightly together. We met frequently, more often than before, and quickly became one, heart and soul. She lived far away from the city where traffic was very light in the evenings, and in the summer months, we dared to leave the house together. It seemed my every wish had been granted.
*
When autumn came around, I unexpectedly received an order to work abroad, again for some time. Rejecting it was impossible. With a heavy heart, I parted ways with my girlfriend. We wrote to each other regularly and my assignment took me to South Africa when the terrible struck. Upon returning to Cape Town from a trip to the interior, I found a telegram informing me of the death of my girlfriend. I later found out she passed in the company of a nurse and let go of everything when she saw her last hour approaching.
The telegram reached me on the evening before Christmas. What a mournful holy night it was. For a long time I sat in disbelief—how brief my happiness had been. I stood a picture of her before me, the one I took on our final day together. I kissed it again and again—I had to—but my cruel reality did not change. Once more, I was alone in life, forlorn and loveless.
As my grief subsided, I set out to find a new partner, someone I could connect with, similarly as before. Now whenever I sit alone before my Christmas tree, abandoned by the whole world (my little sister, my only sibling, died two years ago, and her husband remarried soon after), I ask myself if there is anyone like me: people who pass the Season of Joy forsaken, celebrating alone, yet too diffident to find love. As I write these lines with Christmas approaching, this question, grim and pressing, weighs on my soul like never before.
*
Love should prevail over the world. I am just as beautiful as anyone; anyone who is happy today, for another loves them and they have another to love. But where can I find my other?
There are enough women looking for men. But they cower and run when they discover a woman within, instead of a man. There are enough men who long for women. But they want what they see as a woman, not a female being in a male shell. So, I have no other choice. I must continue to walk the difficult path of life alone until death frees me from my suffering.
Translated from the German by M.M. Pinky
H.W. Burg, the phantom name behind Meine Weihnachten; Erinnerungen eines Transvestit (My Christmas: Memories of a Transvestite), appeared only once in the world’s first lesbian magazine, Die Freundin (The Girlfriend), exactly 100 years ago. The German magazine was first issued by the League for Human Rights in 1924 Berlin, and hailed as the singular cultural touchstone for lesbians in the 1920. Publishing queer literature, trans and homosexual lifestyle pieces, lesbian erotica, reader submissions, and advertisements for gay establishments, Die Freundin served as a forum for pioneering conversations on divergent people’s status in the doomed Weimar Republic. The revolutionary magazine’s notoriety and readership grew until the Nazi party criminalized the periodical in 1933, forcefully eradicating it from the public consciousness.
Burg’s identity, like many of Die Freundin’s contributors, remains intentionally obscured to this day. The most notable authors published by the magazine include Lotte Hahm, Selli Engler, and Elsbeth Killmer, some of the earliest contributors to the modern lesbian and trans movement. Much of their work, alongside Burg’s, was originally published in Der Transvestite (The Transvestite), a running column of Die Freundin, which would eventually be independently serialized as Das 3. Geschlecht (The Third Gender) in 1930. Together, Die Freundin and Der Transvestite are some of the earliest sources of discourse on contemporary queer identity, standing as the foundation of modern queer culture in the Western world.
M.M. Pinky is a translator and writer interested in literature which gave rise to stories, characters, and tropes commonplace in the contemporary western imagination. Pinky is a native Floridian, who escaped to Dartmouth College to study German alongside engineering and graduated in 2024.
*****
Read more from the Asymptote blog: