The Opera of Eroding Names ~ A Trans Composer's Revolution
Part I: The Authority of Erosion
I'm conducting my banned opera about gender transition in Hong Kong's last underground theater when tear gas seeps through the walls, and I realize both my body and my city are transforming against the will of those who would control us.
My credentials: Composer who transitioned while writing protest operas during the 2019 uprisings. Child of mainland dissidents who taught me music is memory the state can't erase. Creator of "Saltwater"—an opera where identity erodes like coastlines, inevitable despite seawalls.
The paradox: Bureaucracies that can't stop physical erosion believe they can stop human transformation.
Part II: The Opera's Genesis
Eighteen months earlier. My apartment, composing at 3 AM.
The opera began as autobiography hidden in metaphor. Saltwater as hormone therapy, slowly reshaping. Weeds as trans people, growing despite attempts at removal.
My characters emerged:
- Elio: My pre-transition self, defiant but exhausted
- June: Who I'm becoming, voiced by contralto then soprano
- Humar: My grandmother, who never locked her door until the Party told her she was safe
"Write what they can't censor," my mother advised. "Make it so layered they won't understand until it's too late."
Part III: The First Performance
Underground venue, Causeway Bay. Fifty audience members.
Act I begins—the Bureaucratic Entity enters, voiced by fifteen singers in unison, representing every dynasty that claimed to own bodies:
"Zero policy implemented—suppress the weeds!"
June responds, my voice cracking as I sing her part:
"Giving up the zero means erasing truth!"
The audience recognizes the reference—Zero COVID, but also zero tolerance for difference. Someone weeps. Someone films despite the ban.
Part IV: The Gardener
Memory: My hormone therapy appointment.
Dr. Wong tends transgender patients like a gardener—patient, observant, never forcing growth. "Your body knows how to change," she says, adjusting my dosage. "I just remove obstacles."
She becomes the opera's narrator, appearing between acts, kneeling in dirt, speaking:
"Roots stretch where they need to. I don't command them to grow certain ways."
Part V: The Raid
Second performance. Police arrive during Act III.
As June sings about transformation—"They cannot name us, so they pretend we're gone"—uniformed officers enter.
The cast continues singing while being arrested. The audience films everything. Elio's actor, still in costume, tells the officer: "You're arresting a fictional character."
"Subversive content," they respond, confiscating scores.
But we've already distributed recordings through encrypted channels. The opera exists beyond their reach.
Part VI: Saltwater Science
Research with marine biologist Dr. Chen.
"Coastal erosion is inevitable," she explains, showing satellite images of Hong Kong's changing shoreline. "Seawalls delay but don't prevent transformation."
I incorporate her data into the opera—each act timed to tidal rhythms, the Bureaucratic Entity's voice literally eroding, losing consonants as acts progress.
Part VII: Digital Diaspora
Online performance, servers in Iceland.
We stream the opera to 10,000 viewers. Comments flood in—trans people in Beijing, Bangkok, Berlin seeing themselves in the erosion metaphor.
One writes: "I'm June in Act II, not yet Elio in Act V."
Another: "My deadname is dissolving like your Bureaucratic Entity's voice."
The metaphor spreads, becomes language: "I'm saltwaring"—transitioning slowly but inevitably.
Part VIII: The Pool of Blood
Personal history woven into Act IV.
The opera's darkest moment—June remembering trauma: "A pool of blood, quiet beneath cloth."
This is my story, the assault that made me understand my body was never safe as assigned. The gardener enters, tends to June without speaking, just presence.
The audience doesn't know this is autobiography. They feel it anyway.
Part IX: Grandmother's Door
Humar's aria, Act V.
My grandmother's story becomes the opera's revelation. She never locked her door in the village—community was safety. Then the Party came, gave her locks, told her she was protected.
Humar sings: "Some doors don't need locks to be closed forever."
The metaphor lands—safety imposed is another form of control. Gender imposed is another form of prison.
Part X: The Hormone Chorus
Medical accuracy in art.
I collaborate with endocrinologists, incorporating hormone cycles into the score. Testosterone represented by bass drums, estrogen by violins. The orchestra literally transitions during the performance.
Medical students attend, taking notes. "Most accurate depiction of HRT we've seen in art," one says.
Part XI: Return Performance
Hong Kong, one year later. Legal now, sanitized.
The government approves a "revised" version. They've removed references to Zero COVID, to protests, thinking they've defanged it.
But the erosion metaphor remains. The transition narrative persists. June still becomes herself.
Opening night, establishment figures attend. They applaud, not understanding they're watching their own erosion. The trans community understands. We've won by hiding in plain sight.
Part XII: The Completion
Final performance, international tour.
The opera evolves with each performance. Actors transition during the run. The Bureaucratic Entity's voice completely erodes by tour's end, becoming whispers, then silence.
I conduct in a dress for the first time, my body finally matching June's journey. My grandmother, 89, attends via video link from mainland China.
"You became yourself," she says. "Like water finding its level."
Epilogue: Ongoing Erosion
The opera enters repertoire globally. Trans singers perform roles matching their journeys—Elio pre-transition, June during, the gardener after.
Authoritarian states ban it. Underground companies perform it anyway. The score spreads through encrypted channels, translated, adapted, localized.
A teenager in Russia messages: "Your saltwater gave me words for what I am."
A parent in Texas writes: "I understand my child now—erosion, not destruction."
The Bureaucratic Entity tried to stop change. But saltwater doesn't stop. Identity doesn't stop. We don't stop.
Every performance erodes resistance a little more. Every trans person living openly is saltwater against the seawall of rigid gender.
The opera continues, the erosion continues, we continue.
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Author's Note: "Saltwater" has been performed in 47 cities, legally in 23. The composer conducts under both names—the one given, the one chosen—as the tide demands. The gardener's seeds spread. The weeds grow. The transformation is inevitable.
