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.]
What happens when your identity is suspect, but your spirit isn’t? Set in contemporary Malaysia, this is the story of a young woman whose misplaced ID card casts a shadow on how society views her. But for her, the woman she is, and the woman she’s destined to be, isn’t a matter for anyone else to decide. It’s a poignant, deeply human battle for self.
Sarah was just stepping out of her car when something on the ground by her open door caught her eye. A flash of familiar blue.
“Eh, Wei Xiang, isn’t this yours?” she called, waving it in the air just as I was about to leave the carpark.
A wave of dread washed over me.
A careless moment. Just one slip from my wallet that should not have happened.
The photo was me, sure, but a younger, uncertain version. The haircut, short, almost boyish, was a world away from the long, flowing hair I styled every morning. But those eyes, that slight tilt of my chin — those were the same.
And then I saw the word, staring back at me, blunt and accusatory: “LELAKI.” Male.
My past, laid bare, now in the hands of my present.
Instead of handing it back, Sarah took it to HR.
The hell that broke loose wasn't anything like the instant sound of firecrackers I once feared as a little boy. Instead, it was a slow, agonizing burn of confusion, disbelief, and a seeping sense of betrayal from everyone around me.
Rahim, the HR manager who’d been privy to our delicate arrangement eighteen months ago, looked utterly bewildered. His usually kind and confident face appeared completely drained. He swallowed hard. And his gaze darted nervously around the suddenly hostile atmosphere
Around us, the open-plan office at GlobalSure Insurance in Kuala Lumpur had gone utterly silent. The clatter of keyboards died, replaced by hushed chatter. The whole usual corporate hum suddenly seemed to have evaporated.
Then, clutching the ID card like a hot potato, Rahim practically strode towards Mr. Davies’ glass-walled office.
The next few minutes dragged on. The hushed chatter turned into low murmurs that echoed through the office.
The intercom crackled to life.
“Attention everyone, could you please gather in the main meeting room? Thank you.”
The CEO’s voice, usually calm, held a new urgency. Even his Canadian accent was noticeably thicker.
We filed into the meeting room. The air inside was thicker — 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, an undeniable centrepiece to everyone’s eyes.
“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 visibly timid as a church mouse hoping there is a hole in the floor that he could crawl in.
“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, allowing his words to settle.
“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 I believed was in the best interest of fostering a respectful and productive workplace.”
He shot Rahim a pointed look, a clear message of support. “We are a team here at GlobalSure.”
He then turned his attention to his entire team.
“GlobalSure is a foreign company. We operate under the principles of equal opportunity employment. Matters of personal identity should stay exactly that. Personal. Our headquarters in Toronto 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 issues this far.”
He paused, then continued, his voice remaining firm: “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 doesn’t entirely align with the present.”
The room remained quiet. The initial shock was slowly giving way to a hesitant acceptance for some, and lingering scepticism for others.
Davies’ decisive words had diffused the immediate tension, at least professionally. But I knew the undercurrent would likely remain. My colleagues would continue to scrutinise my every move.
“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. Those were 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 durians and the slow and tender pulse of kampung life. My Baba and Mama, dear, simple souls, 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 and gentler, and my interests leaned towards what was seen as feminine. But in their naivety, they attributed it to just a passing 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, my most prominent feature was a penis.
The other, the subtle opening that would later confuse doctors and myself, was overlooked, or dismissed as insignificant.
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, with the wind whipping through my short hair as it fluttered like a victory flag.
But team sports, the rough and tumble of football for instance, never appealed. And teachers considered me too short for basketball.
Karate was another story. I enjoyed the discipline, the focus, but somehow, the raw aggression needed to earn a black belt always eluded me.
I had hoped the gentle boy would someday evolve into a gentleman. But subtle leakages started around the time I was thirteen. A dampness I didn’t understand, and a second opening that seemed… wrong.
It coincided with the changes in my features — my body softening, and the growing curves became more obvious. Meanwhile, one part of me didn’t seem to keep pace with my growing body. The mirror became a source of conflict, and my reflection a constant source of unease.
Yet, the blue identity card in my wallet remained the undeniable truth in everyone else’s eyes: 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 — me. It was exhilarating, terrifying, and utterly right.
The university environment was accepting. Professors, classmates, flatmates — they saw me for who I was. They respected me. They never suspected. I thrived academically, the logical precision of actuarial science constantly resonating with my analytical mind. Graduation with distinction felt like a triumphant affirmation of my true self — the same victorious feeling I had when I touched the finishing line of a 100-metre sprint.
Returning to Malaysia was a calculated risk. By then, 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 gone through my documents like he was holding a magnifying glass and he caught the discrepancy.
The discrepancy between the “LELAKI” and my appearance was obvious. I was upfront, explaining my journey, my internal sense of self.
To his credit, he listened. Perhaps it was his understanding of the complexities, or his desire to secure a bright graduate, or that he was simply a kind soul. So, he agreed to a discreet arrangement. With Davies’ consent, HR’s official records would reflect my legal gender, but within the workplace, Lee Wei Xiang would be treated as female.
This arrangement at the office allowed me to live authentically within the confines of a society that didn’t quite understand. And for eighteen months, it worked. I built a life, a career. I thrived.
The thought of gender alignment surgery lingered. It was a future necessity, but not an immediate possibility. It 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 all their subsequent questions diplomatically, no longer shying away from 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 one day. 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, shadowing whatever turmoil there was churning inside me.
The whispers intensified. I could feel their eyes on me in the pantry, in the elevator. Just about anywhere when we crossed paths — literally.
The female toilets, once a sanctuary where I could finally feel like myself, soon became a crucible of doubts.
I braced myself, remembering the quiet strength I had cultivated in Ireland, the resolute 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, ampliflying their aggressive posture.
“So, ‘Wei Qiang’,” Chong sneered. “Still pretending? Playing dress-up?”
I said nothing at first. I wasn’t cross-dressing; I didn’t feel I was. I looked at them — grown men acting like schoolyard bullies. I was simply tired.
“My gender is not a costume,” I said.
“Oh yeah? Then what’s this?” Azman jeered, waving an enlarged 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 like a relic from a past I thought I had left behind. But I knew I was no longer that scared teenager anymore.
“The MyKad does not define who I am now,” I stated calmly. “Not now”, I emphasized the last word.
“Oh yeah?” 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 at me. He was clumsy, fueled more by anger than by 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 his midsection with my pointed high-heels sent him stumbling back. I watched him as he gasped for air, and I wondered how badly I had hurt him.
His cronies hesitated, their bravado momentarily deflated.
I held my ground, keeping my stance firm.
They saw something in my gaze. Maybe it was 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. I continued keeping my eyes on them as 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, but from sheer exhaustion. 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.
Yes, I had defended myself in the car park. But it was still a stark reminder of the prejudice that ran deep in society. I would hate to live in such 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 colour in my mind continued to mock me. The chipped card suddenly felt heavier than ever. It reminded me that I would have to continue shouldering society’s intolerance in order that someday I could truly belong. The road ahead might be uncertain, but one thing was clear: I couldn’t keep living a life constantly battling a piece of paper, even with a 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 means we have to live thousands of miles apart. Back then in Ireland when I told them over the phone, Baba had wept quietly. Not because he disapproved, but because he acknowledged that 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.
* * * * *