WeiXiang is Fine
[Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual beings, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.]
This first-person story follows a determined young woman navigating the minefields of identity and dignity in contemporary Malaysia. A misplaced identity card may shift how others see her—but being the woman she is, and wants to be, isn’t up for debate. Honest, poignant, and deeply human, she will soldier on.
Sarah was getting out of the driver's seat when her gaze drifted towards the ground just outside her open door. A flash of familiar blue caught her eye.
“Eh, Wei Xiang, isn’t this yours?” she’d called out, waving it in the air just as I was about to leave the carpark.
My stomach lurched.
A careless moment, a forgotten slip from my wallet.
My past, indelible and undeniable, now in the hands of my present.
The photo on the card was undeniably me, albeit a younger, more unsure version. The haircut was short, almost boyish, a far cry from the long, flowing locks I now carefully styled each morning. But the eyes, the slight tilt of my chin – those were the same.
And then there it was, blunt and accusatory: “LELAKI.” Male.
Instead of returning it to me, Sarah handed it over to HR.
The hell that broke loose wasn’t the fire and brimstone I might have once feared. Instead, it was a slow burn of confusion, disbelief, and then a creeping sense of betrayal from some quarters.
Rahim, the kind HR manager who had been privy to the delicate arrangement we had made eighteen months ago, looked utterly bewildered, the colour drained from his face. He swallowed hard, his gaze darting nervously around the suddenly hostile atmosphere.
Around us, the open-plan office of the Kuala Lumpur branch of GlobalSure Insurance had fallen into a stunned silence. The clatter of keyboards had ceased, hushed chatter replacing the usual hum of corporate life.
The next moment, he was clutching the ID card like a hot potato, and practically marched towards Mr Davies’ glass-walled office.
A tense few minutes crawled by, punctuated only by the muted murmurs rippling through the office.
Then, the intercom crackled to life.
“Attention everyone, could you please gather in the main meeting room? Thank you.”
The CEO's voice, usually calm and measured, held a note of unusual urgency, his Canadian accent more pronounced than usual.
We filed into the meeting room, the air thick with anticipation and speculation. Davies stood at the head of the long table, Rahim hovering nervously by his side.
My blue identity card lay on the polished surface, a sharp focal point.
“Alright everyone,” Davies began. He cleared his throat, his gaze sweeping across the anxious faces.
“It has come to our attention that there has been… a discovery.” He gestured towards the ID card.
“For some of you, this may come as a surprise. For others…” He glanced briefly at Rahim, who looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
“I want to be clear about a few things,” Davies continued, his tone firm but measured. “Yes, Rahim was aware of Wei Xiang’s… personal circumstances when she joined GlobalSure eighteen months ago. We had a discussion, and an agreement was made.”
He paused, letting his words sink in.
“Perhaps the communication wasn’t as transparent as it could have been, and for that, I take full responsibility as your chief. Rahim acted in what he believed to be the best interest of maintaining a respectful and productive work environment.”
He shot a pointed look at Rahim, a silent message of support. “We are a team here at GlobalSure.”
He then turned his attention to the wider audience.
“GlobalSure is a foreign company. We operate under the principles of equal opportunity employment. Matters of personal identity are exactly that – personal. Our headquarters in Canada fully supports a diverse and inclusive workforce.”
He looked directly at me, a reassuring nod in his eyes.
“Wei Xiang is a valued member of our actuarial team, and her contributions have been exemplary and enormous.”
Davies then addressed the elephant in the room.
“We are also aware of the sudden concerns regarding shared facilities. Wei Xiang has always been mindful and respectful in her use of the female toilets, and I understand there have been no untoward incidents. Let us not allow a misplaced piece of identification to create unnecessary discomfort or division. We are a professional organization. Let’s not make a mountain out of a molehill because of an identity card that reflects a past that is not entirely aligned with the present.”
The room remained quiet, the initial shock slowly giving way to a hesitant acceptance for some, and lingering skepticism for others.
Davies’ decisive words had diffused the immediate tension, at least professionally. But I knew the undercurrent of scrutiny would likely remain.
“It is what it is,” I stated briefly when I was asked to address my fellow workmates.
My voice was steady, a far cry from the trembling uncertainty of my teenage years. Years spent navigating the confusing landscape of my own body, growing up in the sleepy town of Raub, nestled amidst the lush greenery of Pahang.
Raub. The air thick with the scent of durian and the tender rhythm of kampung life. My Baba and Mama, bless their simple hearts, had showered me with affection. An only child, I was their precious jewel.
They had noticed I was different, of course. Even as a young boy, I preferred playing with the girls, my movements were softer, my interests veered towards the traditionally feminine. But in their naivety, they attributed it to a phase.
“He’ll grow out of it,” Mama would often say, stroking my hair. Baba would just nod, his love unwavering.
The initial registration as male had been a matter of the obvious. At birth, the most prominent feature was a penis.
The other, the subtle opening that would later confuse doctors and myself, was overlooked, deemed insignificant.
So, Lee Wei Xiang became the name on the birth certificate, with a gender that dictated my early years. In school, I was 李伟祥 (Lǐ Wěixiáng), the masculine characters matching the name on my birth certificate and later the identity card.
School was a blur of contradictions.
I was a gentle boy, yes, but surprisingly athletic. My lighter build gave me an unexpected advantage in short sprints. I remember the stunned faces of the other boys as I blazed past them on sports day, the wind whipping through my short hair.
But team sports, the rough and tumble of football, never appealed.
Karate was another story. I enjoyed the discipline, the focus, but somehow, the raw aggression needed to break through to the black belt always eluded me.
I had hoped the gentle boy would evolve into a gentleman. But the weak leakages started around thirteen. A dampness I couldn’t explain, a second opening that seemed… wrong.
It coincided with the burgeoning of curvaceousness, a gentler cast to my features. Meanwhile, one part of me didn't seem to keep pace with my growing body. The mirror became a glass looking for conflict, my reflection a constant source of unease.
Yet, the blue identity card in my wallet remained my undeniable truth in the eyes of the world: LELAKI.
University College Dublin was my escape, my liberation. The scholarship felt like a lifeline, pulling me away from the stifling expectations of Raub.
Stepping onto Irish soil felt like breathing fresh air for the first time. Here, miles away from the familiar faces, I could finally be me.
To those who spoke Mandarin, especially my Chinese Mainlander college mates, I gave my name as 李蔚香 (Lǐ Wèixiāng), the characters carrying a softer, more feminine resonance.
Everyone at UCD knew me as Wei Xiang, and for the first time, I truly felt seen. It was exhilarating, terrifying, and utterly right.
The university environment was accepting. Professors, classmates, flatmates — they saw me. Respected me. Never suspecting. I thrived academically, the logical precision of actuarial science resonating with my analytical mind. Graduation with distinction felt like a triumphant affirmation of my true self.
Returning to Malaysia was a calculated risk. My parents had relocated to Kuala Lumpur, which was a world away from Raub. Here, I was a new face, a fresh graduate ready to conquer the corporate world.
During GlobalSure’s recruitment, Rahim had meticulously reviewed my documents and noticed the discrepancy.
The discrepancy between the “LELAKI” and my presentation was obvious. I was upfront, explaining my journey, my internal sense of self.
To his credit, he listened. And perhaps understanding the complexities or simply wanting to secure a bright graduate, he had agreed to a discreet arrangement. HR’s official records would reflect my legal gender, but within the workplace, Lee Wei Xiang would be treated as female.
This professional courtesy at the workplace allowed me to live authentically within the confines of a less-than-understanding society. And for eighteen months, it worked. I built a life, a career. I thrived.
The thought of gender alignment surgery lingered, a future necessity, but not an immediate possibility. That costs money.
I was at peace within these carefully constructed boundaries, and that felt like enough. I enjoyed the moment.
Until Sarah found that damned identity card.
The initial shock in the office gave way to a flurry of whispers and furtive glances.
Rahim handled it well, thanks to Davies’ support and understanding. He addressed inquisitive questions from staff diplomatically, no longer having to tiptoe around the truth.
The snide remarks from some male staff started subtly, laced with a faux concern.
“So, should we call you Kok Keong?” Azman, a portly office boy with a booming laugh that now felt menacing, cornered me by the water cooler. His eyes flickered down my body with a blatant disrespect that made my skin crawl.
Chong, the despatch boy, chuckled and said Kok Keong was old-fashioned, and Wei Qiang would be more modern.
I met their gaze steadily.
“Wei Xiang is my name, not Wei Qiang.” My voice was calm, betraying none of the turmoil churning within me.
The whispers intensified. I could feel their eyes on me in the pantry, in the elevator.
The female toilets, once a sanctuary where I could finally feel like myself, now became a crucible of doubts.
I braced myself, remembering the quiet strength I had cultivated in Ireland, the unwavering sense of self that years of living as the real me had forged.
The eventual confrontation in the carpark was almost inevitable.
As I walked towards my car after a long and tense day, Azman, Chong and Rajoo blocked my path. In the open carpark, the setting sun cast long, distorted shadows, amplifying their aggressive posture.
“So, ‘Wei Qiang,’” Chong sneered. “Still pretending? Playing dress-up?”
I said nothing at first. I wasn’t cross-dressing for a show. I looked at them — grown men acting like schoolyard bullies. I was tired.
“My gender is not a costume,” I said.
“Oh yeah? Then what’s this?” Azman jeered, waving a photocopy of my identity card. “Says ‘LELAKI’ right here. You’ve been lying to everyone, you… pondan!”
The local slang for effeminate male hung in the air, thick with malice. The insult stung, a relic from a past I thought I had left behind. But I was not that scared teen anymore.
“The MyKad does not define who I am now,” I stated calmly, emphasizing the last word.
Rajoo took a step closer, his bulk intimidating. “You think you can just waltz in here, pretending to be a Miss Lee? Using the female toilets? What kind of freak are you?” I was not a freak. I was simply me.
“I am female,” I said, my voice unwavering.
Rajoo lunged. He was clumsy, fueled by anger rather than skill.
Instinct took over. The basic blocks and strikes from my karate training resurfaced. A sharp block deflected his punch, and a swift front kick to the midsection sent him stumbling back, gasping for air.
His cronies hesitated, their bravado momentarily deflated.
I held my ground, my stance firm, my eyes narrowed.
They saw something in my gaze, a quiet determination that belied my graceful demeanour. They muttered amongst themselves, their courage waning.
“Let’s… let’s get out of here,” one of them mumbled, and they grudgingly parted, allowing me to pass.
As I drove home that evening, the familiar KL skyline blurred through my tears. Tears not from fear. From sheer exhaustion, and a profound sense of resignation settled within me.
Malaysia, my beloved tanah air, was not ready. The chipped blue card, cold with the word “LELAKI,” weighed like an anchor.
The fight in the carpark, though I had defended myself, had been a stark reminder of the prejudice that still permeated society. I couldn’t live in a state of constant resistance.
Over dinner with my parents, I made no mention of that evening’s fight. Nor the misplaced MyKad incident the week earlier. As I later sat by the window, gazing at the golden tips of the phallic Petronas Towers in the distance, the word “LELAKI” against a cold blue color in my mind continued to mock me. The chipped card suddenly felt heavier than ever, a symbol of the journey I still had to undertake to truly belong. The road ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear. I do not want to continue living a life constantly battling against a piece of paper, even with the fragile agreement with an employer.
The thought of Ireland returned. Sweet Dublin, where I had once been free. It was now time to find a place where that liberation could be permanent, where my identity was not a carefully guarded secret, but simply… me, Lee Wei Xiang.
Or perhaps Australia, a land where policy matched humanity. I could walk into a clinic, a bank, a job interview, and my documents would align with who I was. Somewhere I could live, not just survive. A place where “LELAKI” is irrelevant and could be replaced with the truth of who I am. Change the script. Start anew.
Mama and Baba would understand. They had come a long way. I knew they would support my decision, even if it meant me living thousands of miles away. Back then in Ireland when I told them over the phone, Baba had wept quietly. Not because he disapproved, but because he hadn’t known how much pain I’d carried. Mama reminded me to remain strong, exactly the same words she had been saying since I was five. They might not fully grasp the complexities, but their acceptance was a constant in my life.
I am still Lee Wei Xiang. I am a daughter. A woman. An actuary. A fighter.
And I will find a place that sees me as whole.
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