So, living in the middle of and occasionally on both sides of the binary opens one's mind to many an issue that goes unnoticed. Body image is not one of them--at least, for the feminine side of the spectrum.
But what about masculinity? In this time of progression and (post-)modernity, the rise of Women's Studies and reclamation of reproductive rights, I feel like there is little emphasis on the plight of the male. Which is fine sometimes, because the entire history of the world is basically Men's Studies. But the more that I notice things I've never noticed before, the more important I find it to be.
People tend to forget that *everything* is constructed in the media. It's not just stereotypes about minority groups or standards for how to fit in as a biological/social misfit. Our normalcy is also entirely constructed. What is considered to be "normal" in our society is nothing more than an image created by swollen-headed billionaires sitting in a conference room at the top floor of some shiny skyscraper asking themselves, "What will the American people projectile vomit their money toward becoming in the hopes of being successful and appealing?"
Men are no exception to this, though it is usually talked about only in the context of women's bodies, which, again, makes sense because the rest of male privilege really doesn't put anyone with a penis in any position to be whining about his position in the social hierarchy. But the more that I experience it, the more I think it, too, needs to be noticed, analyzed, and fixed.
In this journey of self-discovery that I've been embarking on for the past year, I've made it a point to try to examine my own prejudices. I will freely admit this right now: I am horrifically sexist. Toward men. Cismen, to be exact. I used to think this was because I had suffered the plight of the teenage girl in America and was experiencing a lifelong backlash against the patriarchy and blahblahblah. And that's all fine and dandy because it's true for some and you go, girl. But that's not what it is for me.
So, I reevaluated and came to the second conclusion: I hate men because I am jealous of them. I'm jealous that every man was just born with the body that I'm going to have to dump buckets and buckets of money into attaining. None of them had to do jack shit to get to where I wish I could be and none of them understand what kind of privilege that grants them. And I got on this "transmen unite!" kick where I joined every social networking site for FTMs that I could find and reveled in the company of my brothers in arms.
Today, I went with my best friend to a doctor's appointment. On the way home, we were talking about a friend of mine from college who she's never met before but finds to be irresistibly attractive. I asked her why it was that she was so infatuated with him, because, as one of his good friends, I had a hard time seeing him in anything but a silly little brotherly way. She said that he was "gorgeous," because he was 6'5", had broad shoulders, facial hair, and big arms. And that's when it hit me.
See, I'm a tiny guy. 5'3" on a good day, 115 lbs, barely any muscle anywhere and curves like a mountain road in Italy. And this girl is like my sister, so some guy she likes is not going to strike a chord of jealousy in me for want of her affections. But as she highlighted all the parts of this guy that I knew I would never have, I seethed. I white-knuckle gripped my steering wheel and ground my teeth into my jaw so hard, it was almost painful. What made him so goddamn special because he got good genes from his dad? He's "perfect" because he was blessed in the womb? That's not fucking fair. Not fair at all. I love this kid, and I'm not going to hate him for this, I told myself (and I truly think that). But I couldn't help but think about his sweet smile and, for a split second, want to punch his teeth out.
I came home and was messing around on the internet, waiting for the time to come to leave for another errand (which is vehemently approaching as I type). I came across a photoseries on Jezebel, one of the leading feminist blogs on the interwebs. The female models in the series ranged from supermodel thin to close to obese. But all of the male models were the same: slender, but muscular, carved and ripped like they'd been whittled out of strong oak. And it hit me in the face like a fastball.
Women are increasingly being told that being fat is OK, embrace your curves, let Mother Nature work her magic, just be yourself and the weight won't matter anymore. But nobody's telling this to guys. Men are still shown that the rugged, strong jaw muscle man look is all they've got to snag a good looking lady (or any lady at all, if he's posing with the average sized models).
And yes, yes, I *can* think of instances where this isn't true (any sitcom on primetime television, for example, where a balding white guy with a beer belly and his hand in his pants is happily married to a thin, well put together and logical bombshell). Men still have the upperhand, men are still allowed to be brash and impolite and douchey without consequence.
But it's still hard on guys like me. Already, I've got to wear a neoprene girdle on my chest to flatten myself out. I've slouched my entire life and now, to gain a little bit of wingspan in my shoulders, I'm painfully trying to practice standing up straight as an arrow at all times. I've spent countless hours at the gym trying to gain some muscle mass but balancing that with a vegetarian diet and diabetes, as well as a family who doesn't know that you're trying to pass as male, is proving to be fruitless and I'm too easily discouraged. And what have I got to live up to? It's impossible. Even after HRT, I'm not going to get any taller. My weight will shift but I've already got a little bit of a belly. In plain English, I'm fucked.
This isn't supposed to be "waah waah look at me I can't live up to impossible expectations now hold me while I cry" but it is venting frustration and it is a cry for better representation for guys like me. Guys who can't help how they were born and just want to know that we can be functional in this society as who we want to be. Give me something to lean on, give me someone to look at who I can see myself in. Give me something to look forward to. Or else I'm gonna have to step up and try to become a famous body and believe me, nobody wants me to have a voice in the media.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
"What pronoun do you prefer?"
I was at a "mocktail" party for one of the seminars I'm in this semester the other night, the primary objective being to meet everyone in the class and get to know them outside of class. Most of the class is made up of freshmen, but there was another sophomore that I had seen around campus. I immediately drifted over. We'd had brief conversations at the student center before, so introductions were not required. As I approached, the first question I heard was, "So, what pronouns do you prefer?"
I don't think I've heard a better pick-up line in my life.
Okay, so, it wasn't a pick-up line, as we are both quite happily taken, but if we hadn't been, it would have been perfect. It was, however, an amazing introductory line, not only because it would have fostered an amazing conversation between us if I hadn't been dragged away by my professor, but because it seemed so wonderfully polite and considerate.
I know it was probably the first thing ze asked because I am, quite clearly, a big ol' queer. But I thought of how smoothly the ensuing conversation went. It didn't feel awkward or clumsy at all, as I've always been told it would be if we all had to ask people what pronouns they preferred at the time of introduction. It actually worked as a gateway of connection between us. I wouldn't normally have sought interaction with hir, merely because I didn't think we'd have much in common (and because I'm notoriously shy around strangers). But with that one simple question, we now have a bond, and not just because we are both transgender but because we both see a need for there to be a bit more etiquette in the world!
So why haven't we started this trend? Why haven't we enforced this in Miss Manners? Why is the subject of pronouns not addressed in introductions where we address the issue of what to call someone by name? It seems like the two would go hand in hand, as both are vital components of communication.
Well, for one, we assume that we can determine the preferred pronoun simply by looking (this is nothing that you don't already know). We assess the way someone dresses, keeps themselves, speaks, etc. and from that, we assume that we know their gender and, subsequently, what pronouns to use when referencing them.
How hard would it be to simply ask this question at introduction? For starters, most people don't see a need for it, because of the aforementioned aesthetic assumptions (gosh, look at that alliteration!). This would also legitimize transgender behavior and identity, and gods forbid we expand the binary! Next thing you know, they'll be letting those queers get married to each other! AND THEN PEOPLE WITH VAGINAS WILL BE ABLE TO VOTE!
Me? I still haven't moved past the issue of having gender pronouns at all. In the ideal world I've constructed in my mind, everyone would go by "he" and that would be that. But, of course, this is my quixotic dream and this would never happen because all the women would be pissed that we're taking on the male pronoun and all the men would be pissed because then they'd say they would be gay because everyone would be a man and the transgenders would be mad because they'd think that the binary they worked so hard to dismantle was just put back together by the patriarchy with duct tape and slammed into the backs of their heads. In my perfect world, "he" is not a male pronoun, it is just a pronoun, with no connotations whatsoever, but until I get that magic wand that lets me do as I please (it's been on back order for about 18 years, but I swear, it'll be here), this is not going to happen.
... and my response to the question? "Neither, really. But if you have to, 'he' will do nicely." Because I'm a he-man woman-hater.
GENDERGENDERGENDERGENDER. It's everywhere, it's inescapable, it's ALIVE! RUN, DON'T WALK, TO YOUR NEAREST GENDERQUEER BOMB SHELTER! I feel like gender was this atomic bomb that someone dropped on the entire world and although the worst has passed, we're still dealing with the ramifications that give the continuing generations third arms and crossed eyes. And it sucks. Sucks sucks sucks.
I will most certainly be returning to this post to make it less of a manic ramble with no direction, but for right now, Winston Churchill calls for my attention.
I don't think I've heard a better pick-up line in my life.
Okay, so, it wasn't a pick-up line, as we are both quite happily taken, but if we hadn't been, it would have been perfect. It was, however, an amazing introductory line, not only because it would have fostered an amazing conversation between us if I hadn't been dragged away by my professor, but because it seemed so wonderfully polite and considerate.
I know it was probably the first thing ze asked because I am, quite clearly, a big ol' queer. But I thought of how smoothly the ensuing conversation went. It didn't feel awkward or clumsy at all, as I've always been told it would be if we all had to ask people what pronouns they preferred at the time of introduction. It actually worked as a gateway of connection between us. I wouldn't normally have sought interaction with hir, merely because I didn't think we'd have much in common (and because I'm notoriously shy around strangers). But with that one simple question, we now have a bond, and not just because we are both transgender but because we both see a need for there to be a bit more etiquette in the world!
So why haven't we started this trend? Why haven't we enforced this in Miss Manners? Why is the subject of pronouns not addressed in introductions where we address the issue of what to call someone by name? It seems like the two would go hand in hand, as both are vital components of communication.
Well, for one, we assume that we can determine the preferred pronoun simply by looking (this is nothing that you don't already know). We assess the way someone dresses, keeps themselves, speaks, etc. and from that, we assume that we know their gender and, subsequently, what pronouns to use when referencing them.
How hard would it be to simply ask this question at introduction? For starters, most people don't see a need for it, because of the aforementioned aesthetic assumptions (gosh, look at that alliteration!). This would also legitimize transgender behavior and identity, and gods forbid we expand the binary! Next thing you know, they'll be letting those queers get married to each other! AND THEN PEOPLE WITH VAGINAS WILL BE ABLE TO VOTE!
Me? I still haven't moved past the issue of having gender pronouns at all. In the ideal world I've constructed in my mind, everyone would go by "he" and that would be that. But, of course, this is my quixotic dream and this would never happen because all the women would be pissed that we're taking on the male pronoun and all the men would be pissed because then they'd say they would be gay because everyone would be a man and the transgenders would be mad because they'd think that the binary they worked so hard to dismantle was just put back together by the patriarchy with duct tape and slammed into the backs of their heads. In my perfect world, "he" is not a male pronoun, it is just a pronoun, with no connotations whatsoever, but until I get that magic wand that lets me do as I please (it's been on back order for about 18 years, but I swear, it'll be here), this is not going to happen.
... and my response to the question? "Neither, really. But if you have to, 'he' will do nicely." Because I'm a he-man woman-hater.
GENDERGENDERGENDERGENDER. It's everywhere, it's inescapable, it's ALIVE! RUN, DON'T WALK, TO YOUR NEAREST GENDERQUEER BOMB SHELTER! I feel like gender was this atomic bomb that someone dropped on the entire world and although the worst has passed, we're still dealing with the ramifications that give the continuing generations third arms and crossed eyes. And it sucks. Sucks sucks sucks.
I will most certainly be returning to this post to make it less of a manic ramble with no direction, but for right now, Winston Churchill calls for my attention.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Revamp!
Sort of.
So, as you can see, the blog finally has a name. I thought it was appropriate, being as I feel like I'm constantly saying those four dreadful words to society:
"We need to talk.
It's just not the same between us anymore, Society. We used to get along so well, but the more I learn about your not-so-deep-but-pretty-dark secrets, the less I think we're going to work.
I know you can change. I've seen it happen before. You just need some help, and I'm going to be there for you every step of the way. But you have to at least try, okay?"
Anyway, I've been gone for a while, I know. No blog posts, scarce vlog updates, barely any Twitter action... I'm lazy. I apologize.
There are two videos coming up really soon (one even tonight, perhaps). Twitter will get more attention when I've convinced myself that Twitter is necessary. This blog... well, it's hanging on by the skin of its teeth, but it will survive! I promise.
Thank you for being a loyal reader (or a brand new one!). I love you all!
- J
So, as you can see, the blog finally has a name. I thought it was appropriate, being as I feel like I'm constantly saying those four dreadful words to society:
"We need to talk.
It's just not the same between us anymore, Society. We used to get along so well, but the more I learn about your not-so-deep-but-pretty-dark secrets, the less I think we're going to work.
I know you can change. I've seen it happen before. You just need some help, and I'm going to be there for you every step of the way. But you have to at least try, okay?"
Anyway, I've been gone for a while, I know. No blog posts, scarce vlog updates, barely any Twitter action... I'm lazy. I apologize.
There are two videos coming up really soon (one even tonight, perhaps). Twitter will get more attention when I've convinced myself that Twitter is necessary. This blog... well, it's hanging on by the skin of its teeth, but it will survive! I promise.
Thank you for being a loyal reader (or a brand new one!). I love you all!
- J
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Want a $100 gift card to EdenFantasys.com?
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Saturday, August 1, 2009
Sean Dorsey's "Uncovered"
Last night was incredible. Beautiful. Astonishing. Enlightening. Encouraging. Inspiring. Wonderful. Fun.
With nothing more than bus fare and text message directions, Katie and I embarked on a journey into NYC. Our intention was to see the HOT! Festival premiere of Sean Dorsey's "Uncovered." More than anything, though, I was ecstatic to see Kate Bornstein perform one of her newest pieces at the prologue to the show.
To be entirely honest with you, I had no idea who Sean Dorsey was. I didn't really know what his show was going to be like; I'll admit, I wasn't really concerned. I was going to see Kate Bornstein. I was going to be in the same room as Kate Bornstein, and having been just a few months shy of seeing her at SMCM, I was beyond thrilled.
I had no idea what to expect. I had never even heard of Dixon Place before. How big is the theater? How many people are going to be there? Will I get to meet Kate? What will I say if I do? I tried to get myself out of my old habit of babbling incoherently at people who are more important than me. I told myself I would be calm and personable and not make an ass of myself. I also told myself that I probably would anyway, so don't worry too much about it.
We got off to a bit of a late start, having hit major traffic getting into the city. It was 7:00 when we stepped off the bus and into Port Authority, and, as such, my heart was racing. The show started at 8:00, we still had to get our tickets at the box office, and we were still faced with battling the NY Subway system for a 30 minute train ride. When my phone read 7:15 in the subway station, I thought for sure I was going to have a heart attack. Not to mention that my blood sugar was skyrocketing, from stress and excitement and the grilled cheese sandwich I ate before getting on the bus, so I had to pee like a racehorse on the bus, and then again when we were waiting for the subway. (It became a joke after a while; I'd turn to Katie and all I'd have to say was, "Guess what?" and she'd sigh and say, "Again?!")
Somehow, miraculously, we made it to Delancey St. at 7:30. Dixon Place was just a half of a block away. We walked toward it, though I saw a lot of very impeccably dressed young people walking in the opposite direction. "I think we're going the wrong way," I said. "All those people look like they should be going to Dixon Place." But, we were right, as was made evident by a 6'4" bald man who flamboyantly threw the door open as we started to pass and said, "Looking for Dixon Place? This is it!" Eagerly, I bounded in like an addict into a pharmacy.
We turned right immediately upon entering the door and went down a short hallway. Then, we turned left, and we were no longer on Earth. We were in the den of decadent debauchery. A bar to the left was tended to by a bearded man covered in tattoos and piercings that made him almost unrecognizable (as if I knew who he was in the first place). Past the bar was a small lounge-type area. Chairs were scattered around haphazardly, each looking like they came from individual yard sales. Some wooden folding chairs, a black bar stool, one wicker chair, and two "normal" restaurant-type chairs. I didn't even notice that there were chairs at all at first, because I was looking at the walls...
The walls were hypnotizing. Pictures hung from nails in the wall like proud family portraits; portraits of a "tribal tranny family," as Kate might say. I recognized some faces; Margaret Cho the most prominent of them all. But most were names unknown to me. Still, looking at the faces, the naked bodies, the chests covered in sequins and glitter, the legs coated in fishnet... I felt like I knew them. I knew the transman standing naked, with the skull of an animal covering his genitals, rendering them ambiguous. I knew the heavily make-upped drag queen, toting peacock feathers on her head and looking more beautiful than any exotic bird I'd ever seen. I felt like they were my family. It was like walking into your own home after an awful vacation--except I'd never been inside this place before.
We made our way to the line waiting for the box office to open. I wanted so desperately to speak to the people standing in front of us. They were family, too. I felt like the unborn child, a stranger to these relatives, but one who would be welcomed with open arms and loving hearts as soon as he was born.
I never got up the nerve to say something. Instead, I turned to Katie and rambled about something unimportant, probably involving me having to use the bathroom again. The box office opened shortly afterward and in return for my name I was given two "ADMIT ONE" tickets, like the ones you get at carnivals that you trade in exchange for your turn on a ride. For some reason, this was incredibly endearing to me. It felt like we were getting tickets to the carnival side show, but instead of being the normalfolk coming to stare at the freaks, we were other freaks coming to awe at freakishness that we only dreamed of attaining.
Katie and I sat in two wooden folding chairs, chatting and nervously checking our cell phones. Suddenly, I felt all too normal. My uninked skin and holeless face felt pure and virginal. I couldn't have looked more normal if I'd tried, and believe me, I wasn't trying. But... it felt good. If I, the one who always felt like the sore thumb for being unconventional, felt like a sore thumb for being too normal, I knew I was in the right place.
Someone announced that we were about to enter the theatre. "I'm going to take your ticket and shake your hand," she said and headed to the door marked "PERFORMANCE SPACE." She wasn't kidding, either. When I approached her, she took my ticket with one hand and shook my hand with the other. "Welcome to Dixon Place," she said. My heart went up in flames and I felt it all the way from my head to my toes.
We descended the stairway to the black box theater. On one side, the wall was covered with a mural depicting poor village life in, what appeared to be, a South American village, bearing the words, "Indigenous cultures for 100." Then, we made a sharp right and we were entering the theater. Katie was suddenly at my side, and, on the other side was... Kate Bornstein.
OhmygodholyshitkatebornsteinisrightnexttomesheisRIGHTNEXTOMEFUCKwhatdoidowhatdoidojustgotoaseatjustkeepwalkingFUCKINGWALKWALKWALKWALK*
*direct quote from my brain
There was no stage. There were no risers, bleachers, or fixed seats. Just three groups of folding chairs, in rows of two, in front of the stage, on stage left and on stage right. The stage was an open part of the floor where no chairs sat... save one: a metal chair with intricate floral pattern of ironwork, painted white and sitting beside a white glass sidetable with notecards and a lamp sitting on it. A spotlight shone on the chair and table, and instantly I knew who was supposed to be sitting there.
Katie and I sat and I punched her in the arm until she paid attention to me. "That's Kate Bornstein," I whispered, glancing deliberately toward Kate, who was bending to speak to Barbara Carellas--HOLYSHITTHATSBARBARACARELLASOHHOLYFUCKME*
*direct quote from my brain
"Go say something!" Katie hissed back. I froze. What the fuck was I going to say? "Hi, Kate, you don't know me, but I Twitterstalk the shit out of you. You were at my school last year but I wasn't there but I've read your books and you saved my life and you had lunch with my girlfriend. How are you?"
... Actually, that is kind of what I said.
Kate came to the middle of the stage and addressed the audience: "Is there anybody here from Twitter?" Kate had mentioned she might do a "tweet-up" at the show, and I tweeted at her that I was going to try to make it in for the show and I was excited to see her (because I am a stalker). My hand shot into the air before I could tell it to behave itself. Kate smiled to me and went to her table, grabbing something before coming over to me. "What's your name?" she asked me as she handed me one of her infamous "Get Out of Hell Free" cards. I told her my Twitter username and her smile grew. "You said you might be coming, I'm so glad you made it!" I could have died, right there. Just melted into a puddle of gender goo and been mopped away with the sweat that Sean and his dancers would shed later in their performance.
I told her I was going to SMCM but, unfortunately, was not there to see her performance last year. I mentioned that my girlfriend had been there, though, and had, later, asked for Barbara to come down this past Fall semester and give a workshop. Kate asked if I'd like to be introduced to Barbara. "But I have so many questions for you!" was what would have come out of my mouth if I was feeling brave (or intoxicated), but I couldn't stop shaking, so I said, "Sure!" Kate brought me over to Barbara and introduced me as "JD from Twitter," which gave me a twitter in my stomach and my heart, being introduced as my male persona in real life. I told her who I was and where I was from and who I was dating and, immediately, we began a conversation about my lovely girl. We talked basically just about her the whole time, and then I told her that I was a Twitter stalker of Kate's. She laughed and told me there was a line between avid fan and stalker and that I was not the latter, as she'd had a run-in with a Twitter stalker and, thankfully, I did not identify with any of the characteristics that she described of her stalker.
We went back to our seats shortly after because I was afraid that prolonged exposure would cause me to slip into the realm of high which would mean I would never shut the fuck up and I'd start saying things that nobody needed to hear.
Shortly after, one of the important people from Dixon Place walked out and gave a short introduction to Dixon Place and the HOT! Fest, and passed around a construction hat into which she asked for donations. Apparently, the reason I'd never heard of them before was because they had been moving from temporary location to temporary location and just settled on Chrystie St. in January. I had planned to give money, but somehow, the hat never made its way over to us. Then, another important person came out to speak, and I could not tell you what he/she/ze said because all I was thinking was that Kate was about to start.
And start she did. And it was incredible. Her piece was a commentary alongside a PowerPoint presentation about the evolution of the face of the trans community, from middle-aged MtF to young FtM. "How did this happen?" she asked. Her piece included video/audio clips from old drag queens/crossdressers/genderbenders who I'd never heard of but have noted in my head to Google and read up on when I have more time. It was cute, complete with distorted drawings of little Dutch people who just looked like figurines from the Little People playsets you have in your youth. And educational, for those of us interested in this sort of stuff.
A short intermission later (indicated by the lights coming up and Queen blasting from the speakers) and it was time for Sean. The lights went down. A voice came through the speakers, telling a story about having a Norman Rockwell "Diary for a Young Girl." Lights up, and Sean was on stage. I didn't know that he was Sean until I looked at the program and saw that this introduction would be danced by Sean and another man, Brian Fischer, and that this was an intro, an excerpt from Sean's own life, not Lou Sullivan's, the main focus of "Uncovered."
I don't know what I was expecting but I was not expecting what I saw. I didn't know that Sean Dorsey was trans; I honestly had no idea that the show was about a trans person at all. I was expecting Sean Dorsey to be a bald, somewhat aged but gracefully gay man with thick appendages and a crooked nose. Sean Dorsey is, in actuality, one of the most beautiful people I've ever seen.
I watched him and his partner dance out the story of Sean abandoning his "Diary for a Young Girl" for a second-hand "Diary for a Young Boy" at a pawn shop. He reads the entries of the young boy, and realizes that this young man has no more of a clue what he's doing than young Sean did--and they share an attraction to George Michael. Sean plays himself and Brian Fischer plays the young man (and occasionally George Michael). The struggle they get into, when Sean wants desperately to cling to that image of a young man, that childhood that he never had because he was expected to be a "Young Girl," is heartbreaking, and heightens the relief and comedic value of the two realizing that they have more in common than they thought.
This piece ended and so began the pieces dedicated to Lou Sullivan, the first openly gay transman who fought the system and transitioned despite the medical field's resistance to grant him his rights to surgery. Lou was told that he couldn't be trans if he was attracted to men; transitioning was (and, in some ways, still is) considered to be an extension of homosexuality--why would a "normal" "straight" girl want to change her gender to become a gay man? It was unheard of. But, thankfully, Lou persevered and was granted the body he desired.
Unfortunately, Lou was also the first transman to publicly die from AIDS. One of the saddest and most touching moments of the dance is when Sean's voice reads Lou's last diary entry, while Sean dances out Lou's only feeling of regret: not having more time to enjoy the body he longed and fought for. If there was anyone in that room not crying at that moment, they must have fallen asleep.
I watched the dance with intensity, not allowing myself to drift off into the dead zone of my brain, focusing solely on what was going on in front of me. The four dancers walked onto the stage in white brief underwear and white tanktops. After this dance, just two dancers remained on the stage: Sean and Brian. Brian took the hem of Sean's shirt in his hands and began to lift it. I watched it slide up Sean's flat belly, over his diaphragm, and he lifted his arms to allow it over his head. He was whiter than snow as I watched his bare chest heave with breath quickened by his art.
Under the spotlights, his scars gleamed like diamonds in the dark. They are beautiful. He is beautiful. I wanted to walk up to him and touch them, feel their pink smoothness in contrast to the flesh around them. I wanted to pull him to me and rest my head against the flatness of his chest. I wanted to have him in my arms, to feel him there, a corporeal form, a survivor, real living proof that I can pull through this. Just a touch to know that he truly exists. That all of these blogs and vlogs and Twitters are more than just pictures on the internet. What I would have given to just shake his hand, to know that I won't always be a ghost. That I can and will inhabit something that is real. That this isn't just a fantasy in my head. I wanted him to prove to me I'm not making this up after all.
I was at the brink of tears through the rest of the show, so Lou's death was just the thing to push me over the edge and send me frantically scrambling for something to wipe my tears on. After the show, we were encouraged to stay and talk to the dancers, but I couldn't. If I had, I would have unloaded all of my mental shit ontop of them, and if they didn't drag me out for being a security risk, I would never have shut up and everyone would have hated me anyway. Besides, while I know that Katie enjoyed the show, I didn't think she wanted to hang around and chat. She already looked completely lost when I was babbling at Kate and Barbara, I'd feel bad.
Plus... you know... I'm terrified to come out. Terrified of telling the people that I know that I might become someone else. Asking them to refer to me by new pronouns... honestly, it just feels so petty to me. Would I be happier if they did? Probably. But am I miserable now? No. Asking them to completely change the way they think of me just seems unnecessary to me. I imagine the whispers of how ridiculous I am and, "Oh, what, she's a lesbian, and then she's an atheist, and now she's a *man?* Next she'll be a nudist. Ho-hum." Do I care what people think of me? No. But do I care about my friends not taking me seriously and, potentially, making a complete and total ass of myself to them? Yes. Yesyesyesyes.
We left Dixon Place and I felt my heart sobbing quietly to itself while we walked away. I am still tethered there, and always will be. Aside from it being an amazing art venue, it might possibly be the first place where I've felt 100% safe to be myself. And, goddamn, does that feel good.
With nothing more than bus fare and text message directions, Katie and I embarked on a journey into NYC. Our intention was to see the HOT! Festival premiere of Sean Dorsey's "Uncovered." More than anything, though, I was ecstatic to see Kate Bornstein perform one of her newest pieces at the prologue to the show.
To be entirely honest with you, I had no idea who Sean Dorsey was. I didn't really know what his show was going to be like; I'll admit, I wasn't really concerned. I was going to see Kate Bornstein. I was going to be in the same room as Kate Bornstein, and having been just a few months shy of seeing her at SMCM, I was beyond thrilled.
I had no idea what to expect. I had never even heard of Dixon Place before. How big is the theater? How many people are going to be there? Will I get to meet Kate? What will I say if I do? I tried to get myself out of my old habit of babbling incoherently at people who are more important than me. I told myself I would be calm and personable and not make an ass of myself. I also told myself that I probably would anyway, so don't worry too much about it.
We got off to a bit of a late start, having hit major traffic getting into the city. It was 7:00 when we stepped off the bus and into Port Authority, and, as such, my heart was racing. The show started at 8:00, we still had to get our tickets at the box office, and we were still faced with battling the NY Subway system for a 30 minute train ride. When my phone read 7:15 in the subway station, I thought for sure I was going to have a heart attack. Not to mention that my blood sugar was skyrocketing, from stress and excitement and the grilled cheese sandwich I ate before getting on the bus, so I had to pee like a racehorse on the bus, and then again when we were waiting for the subway. (It became a joke after a while; I'd turn to Katie and all I'd have to say was, "Guess what?" and she'd sigh and say, "Again?!")
Somehow, miraculously, we made it to Delancey St. at 7:30. Dixon Place was just a half of a block away. We walked toward it, though I saw a lot of very impeccably dressed young people walking in the opposite direction. "I think we're going the wrong way," I said. "All those people look like they should be going to Dixon Place." But, we were right, as was made evident by a 6'4" bald man who flamboyantly threw the door open as we started to pass and said, "Looking for Dixon Place? This is it!" Eagerly, I bounded in like an addict into a pharmacy.
We turned right immediately upon entering the door and went down a short hallway. Then, we turned left, and we were no longer on Earth. We were in the den of decadent debauchery. A bar to the left was tended to by a bearded man covered in tattoos and piercings that made him almost unrecognizable (as if I knew who he was in the first place). Past the bar was a small lounge-type area. Chairs were scattered around haphazardly, each looking like they came from individual yard sales. Some wooden folding chairs, a black bar stool, one wicker chair, and two "normal" restaurant-type chairs. I didn't even notice that there were chairs at all at first, because I was looking at the walls...
The walls were hypnotizing. Pictures hung from nails in the wall like proud family portraits; portraits of a "tribal tranny family," as Kate might say. I recognized some faces; Margaret Cho the most prominent of them all. But most were names unknown to me. Still, looking at the faces, the naked bodies, the chests covered in sequins and glitter, the legs coated in fishnet... I felt like I knew them. I knew the transman standing naked, with the skull of an animal covering his genitals, rendering them ambiguous. I knew the heavily make-upped drag queen, toting peacock feathers on her head and looking more beautiful than any exotic bird I'd ever seen. I felt like they were my family. It was like walking into your own home after an awful vacation--except I'd never been inside this place before.
We made our way to the line waiting for the box office to open. I wanted so desperately to speak to the people standing in front of us. They were family, too. I felt like the unborn child, a stranger to these relatives, but one who would be welcomed with open arms and loving hearts as soon as he was born.
I never got up the nerve to say something. Instead, I turned to Katie and rambled about something unimportant, probably involving me having to use the bathroom again. The box office opened shortly afterward and in return for my name I was given two "ADMIT ONE" tickets, like the ones you get at carnivals that you trade in exchange for your turn on a ride. For some reason, this was incredibly endearing to me. It felt like we were getting tickets to the carnival side show, but instead of being the normalfolk coming to stare at the freaks, we were other freaks coming to awe at freakishness that we only dreamed of attaining.
Katie and I sat in two wooden folding chairs, chatting and nervously checking our cell phones. Suddenly, I felt all too normal. My uninked skin and holeless face felt pure and virginal. I couldn't have looked more normal if I'd tried, and believe me, I wasn't trying. But... it felt good. If I, the one who always felt like the sore thumb for being unconventional, felt like a sore thumb for being too normal, I knew I was in the right place.
Someone announced that we were about to enter the theatre. "I'm going to take your ticket and shake your hand," she said and headed to the door marked "PERFORMANCE SPACE." She wasn't kidding, either. When I approached her, she took my ticket with one hand and shook my hand with the other. "Welcome to Dixon Place," she said. My heart went up in flames and I felt it all the way from my head to my toes.
We descended the stairway to the black box theater. On one side, the wall was covered with a mural depicting poor village life in, what appeared to be, a South American village, bearing the words, "Indigenous cultures for 100." Then, we made a sharp right and we were entering the theater. Katie was suddenly at my side, and, on the other side was... Kate Bornstein.
OhmygodholyshitkatebornsteinisrightnexttomesheisRIGHTNEXTOMEFUCKwhatdoidowhatdoidojustgotoaseatjustkeepwalkingFUCKINGWALKWALKWALKWALK*
*direct quote from my brain
There was no stage. There were no risers, bleachers, or fixed seats. Just three groups of folding chairs, in rows of two, in front of the stage, on stage left and on stage right. The stage was an open part of the floor where no chairs sat... save one: a metal chair with intricate floral pattern of ironwork, painted white and sitting beside a white glass sidetable with notecards and a lamp sitting on it. A spotlight shone on the chair and table, and instantly I knew who was supposed to be sitting there.
Katie and I sat and I punched her in the arm until she paid attention to me. "That's Kate Bornstein," I whispered, glancing deliberately toward Kate, who was bending to speak to Barbara Carellas--HOLYSHITTHATSBARBARACARELLASOHHOLYFUCKME*
*direct quote from my brain
"Go say something!" Katie hissed back. I froze. What the fuck was I going to say? "Hi, Kate, you don't know me, but I Twitterstalk the shit out of you. You were at my school last year but I wasn't there but I've read your books and you saved my life and you had lunch with my girlfriend. How are you?"
... Actually, that is kind of what I said.
Kate came to the middle of the stage and addressed the audience: "Is there anybody here from Twitter?" Kate had mentioned she might do a "tweet-up" at the show, and I tweeted at her that I was going to try to make it in for the show and I was excited to see her (because I am a stalker). My hand shot into the air before I could tell it to behave itself. Kate smiled to me and went to her table, grabbing something before coming over to me. "What's your name?" she asked me as she handed me one of her infamous "Get Out of Hell Free" cards. I told her my Twitter username and her smile grew. "You said you might be coming, I'm so glad you made it!" I could have died, right there. Just melted into a puddle of gender goo and been mopped away with the sweat that Sean and his dancers would shed later in their performance.
I told her I was going to SMCM but, unfortunately, was not there to see her performance last year. I mentioned that my girlfriend had been there, though, and had, later, asked for Barbara to come down this past Fall semester and give a workshop. Kate asked if I'd like to be introduced to Barbara. "But I have so many questions for you!" was what would have come out of my mouth if I was feeling brave (or intoxicated), but I couldn't stop shaking, so I said, "Sure!" Kate brought me over to Barbara and introduced me as "JD from Twitter," which gave me a twitter in my stomach and my heart, being introduced as my male persona in real life. I told her who I was and where I was from and who I was dating and, immediately, we began a conversation about my lovely girl. We talked basically just about her the whole time, and then I told her that I was a Twitter stalker of Kate's. She laughed and told me there was a line between avid fan and stalker and that I was not the latter, as she'd had a run-in with a Twitter stalker and, thankfully, I did not identify with any of the characteristics that she described of her stalker.
We went back to our seats shortly after because I was afraid that prolonged exposure would cause me to slip into the realm of high which would mean I would never shut the fuck up and I'd start saying things that nobody needed to hear.
Shortly after, one of the important people from Dixon Place walked out and gave a short introduction to Dixon Place and the HOT! Fest, and passed around a construction hat into which she asked for donations. Apparently, the reason I'd never heard of them before was because they had been moving from temporary location to temporary location and just settled on Chrystie St. in January. I had planned to give money, but somehow, the hat never made its way over to us. Then, another important person came out to speak, and I could not tell you what he/she/ze said because all I was thinking was that Kate was about to start.
And start she did. And it was incredible. Her piece was a commentary alongside a PowerPoint presentation about the evolution of the face of the trans community, from middle-aged MtF to young FtM. "How did this happen?" she asked. Her piece included video/audio clips from old drag queens/crossdressers/genderbenders who I'd never heard of but have noted in my head to Google and read up on when I have more time. It was cute, complete with distorted drawings of little Dutch people who just looked like figurines from the Little People playsets you have in your youth. And educational, for those of us interested in this sort of stuff.
A short intermission later (indicated by the lights coming up and Queen blasting from the speakers) and it was time for Sean. The lights went down. A voice came through the speakers, telling a story about having a Norman Rockwell "Diary for a Young Girl." Lights up, and Sean was on stage. I didn't know that he was Sean until I looked at the program and saw that this introduction would be danced by Sean and another man, Brian Fischer, and that this was an intro, an excerpt from Sean's own life, not Lou Sullivan's, the main focus of "Uncovered."
I don't know what I was expecting but I was not expecting what I saw. I didn't know that Sean Dorsey was trans; I honestly had no idea that the show was about a trans person at all. I was expecting Sean Dorsey to be a bald, somewhat aged but gracefully gay man with thick appendages and a crooked nose. Sean Dorsey is, in actuality, one of the most beautiful people I've ever seen.
I watched him and his partner dance out the story of Sean abandoning his "Diary for a Young Girl" for a second-hand "Diary for a Young Boy" at a pawn shop. He reads the entries of the young boy, and realizes that this young man has no more of a clue what he's doing than young Sean did--and they share an attraction to George Michael. Sean plays himself and Brian Fischer plays the young man (and occasionally George Michael). The struggle they get into, when Sean wants desperately to cling to that image of a young man, that childhood that he never had because he was expected to be a "Young Girl," is heartbreaking, and heightens the relief and comedic value of the two realizing that they have more in common than they thought.
This piece ended and so began the pieces dedicated to Lou Sullivan, the first openly gay transman who fought the system and transitioned despite the medical field's resistance to grant him his rights to surgery. Lou was told that he couldn't be trans if he was attracted to men; transitioning was (and, in some ways, still is) considered to be an extension of homosexuality--why would a "normal" "straight" girl want to change her gender to become a gay man? It was unheard of. But, thankfully, Lou persevered and was granted the body he desired.
Unfortunately, Lou was also the first transman to publicly die from AIDS. One of the saddest and most touching moments of the dance is when Sean's voice reads Lou's last diary entry, while Sean dances out Lou's only feeling of regret: not having more time to enjoy the body he longed and fought for. If there was anyone in that room not crying at that moment, they must have fallen asleep.
I watched the dance with intensity, not allowing myself to drift off into the dead zone of my brain, focusing solely on what was going on in front of me. The four dancers walked onto the stage in white brief underwear and white tanktops. After this dance, just two dancers remained on the stage: Sean and Brian. Brian took the hem of Sean's shirt in his hands and began to lift it. I watched it slide up Sean's flat belly, over his diaphragm, and he lifted his arms to allow it over his head. He was whiter than snow as I watched his bare chest heave with breath quickened by his art.
Under the spotlights, his scars gleamed like diamonds in the dark. They are beautiful. He is beautiful. I wanted to walk up to him and touch them, feel their pink smoothness in contrast to the flesh around them. I wanted to pull him to me and rest my head against the flatness of his chest. I wanted to have him in my arms, to feel him there, a corporeal form, a survivor, real living proof that I can pull through this. Just a touch to know that he truly exists. That all of these blogs and vlogs and Twitters are more than just pictures on the internet. What I would have given to just shake his hand, to know that I won't always be a ghost. That I can and will inhabit something that is real. That this isn't just a fantasy in my head. I wanted him to prove to me I'm not making this up after all.
I was at the brink of tears through the rest of the show, so Lou's death was just the thing to push me over the edge and send me frantically scrambling for something to wipe my tears on. After the show, we were encouraged to stay and talk to the dancers, but I couldn't. If I had, I would have unloaded all of my mental shit ontop of them, and if they didn't drag me out for being a security risk, I would never have shut up and everyone would have hated me anyway. Besides, while I know that Katie enjoyed the show, I didn't think she wanted to hang around and chat. She already looked completely lost when I was babbling at Kate and Barbara, I'd feel bad.
Plus... you know... I'm terrified to come out. Terrified of telling the people that I know that I might become someone else. Asking them to refer to me by new pronouns... honestly, it just feels so petty to me. Would I be happier if they did? Probably. But am I miserable now? No. Asking them to completely change the way they think of me just seems unnecessary to me. I imagine the whispers of how ridiculous I am and, "Oh, what, she's a lesbian, and then she's an atheist, and now she's a *man?* Next she'll be a nudist. Ho-hum." Do I care what people think of me? No. But do I care about my friends not taking me seriously and, potentially, making a complete and total ass of myself to them? Yes. Yesyesyesyes.
We left Dixon Place and I felt my heart sobbing quietly to itself while we walked away. I am still tethered there, and always will be. Aside from it being an amazing art venue, it might possibly be the first place where I've felt 100% safe to be myself. And, goddamn, does that feel good.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Thought-provoking quote #3
For example, for me, a woman to say I am uncomfortable around men is fine, but for me a white person to say the same thing about oh, any race, would make me a racist, but they are both prejudiced views.
From July 14, 2009's post by Jamie Royce on Stuff Queer People Need to Know
This reminds me of something else that's been eating away at me recently. There was a story recently in the news about a controversial jury decision regarding the killing of a gay man, Terrance Hauser, in Illinois by his neighbor, Joseph Biedermann. Biedermannn claims that, while at Hauser's house for a drink, Hauser sexually assaulted and physically threatened him with a 14 inch blade. Biedermann, supposedly in self defense, stabbed Hauser 61 times in various places. (Read the full story here)
The controversy lies in the alleged "gay panic defense" that Biedermann and his lawyer used to get Biedermann acquitted of first-degree murder. People are pissed because this guy is getting away with murder based on the jury's inherent homophobia.
Normally, I'd be all over this shit. "Get the motherfucker and string him up like a pinata!" But some other people's comments have made me rethink everything...
Let's change the situation from Joseph Biedermann to Joanne Biedermann. Joanne goes to her neighbor Terrance's house for a drink and she is sexually assaulted and physically threatened with a 14-inch blade by him. Joanne, in her panic and violation, stabs the shit out of Hauser. She is later acquitted of first degree murder.
...
How did that story make you feel? Because it kind of made me want to shake Joanne's hand, and then I got a little nauseous because I realized I was being a sexist prick.
I'm not saying that Biedermann's story is true. There are many loopholes in his story. But, also, if it was Joanne's story, I wouldn't say she made it up at all, and I don't think many others would, either. We'd all shake our heads at the depravity of Man and give Joanne a gold star for sticking up for herself. But since Joseph Biedermann is Joseph Biedermann, we call him a homophobic, homicidal inbred.
This says many a thing about our conceptions, perceptions, and the ramifications of gender.
1.) Joanne Biedermann's story tugs at our heart strings only because she is a woman. Therefore, she MUST be a victim. Joseph Biedermann is a MAN, and clearly, men are NEVER victims of sexual violence.
2.) Joanne, as a woman, must be weak, vulnerable, and, apparently, incapable of holding her liquor. "That poor girl," we say, "Just trying to be a friendly neighbor and look what happens." Joseph, as a REAL MAN, should know better than to drink himself under the table.
3.) Joanne is also unable to control herself and her emotions get the best of her. Clearly, in her rage, confusion, and violation, she couldn't stop herself from mutilating her attacker's body. Joseph is able to be logical and should have incapacitated Hauser, then picked up the phone and called 911 to help him survive. Men are never overtaken by their emotions. Men don't even have emotions.
4.) Terrance Hauser, as a supposedly gay man, is clearly the victim because he is a gay man who's been killed by a straight man. Because gay men are incapable of being sexual predators. Clearly, possessing an attraction to other men automatically absolves you from being capable of committing a crime, especially against a straight man.
Did Biedermann make it all up to get out of being found guilty of a hate crime? I don't know. As Michael Rowe put it, "Only two people know what really happened in that apartment on Hassell Road in Hoffman Estates." One of them is dead, and we already know what the other has said.
The point I'm trying to make here, while I ramble like a fucking lunatic, is that there are so many more ramifications and implications of gender than just who holds the door on the way into the library. Just changing the gender of the defendant in a murder trial changes the way we think about it. Changing the variable from the color of someone's skin to the organ they have between their legs automatically changes prejudiced hate speech to a statement of safety and precaution.
I'm all for fucking political correctness, but maybe we need to step back and realize when we're being prejudiced and we don't even realize it.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Great Quote #2
But that doesn't mean I have always really been a girl. It just means I would like to be. Why can't people understand that? Maybe if I lived in a different culture I would be fine being a boy. I don't know exactly why I want to be a girl, I just do. If I have to lie to people and say I have always been a girl to become one then I will, but my point is, I don't think I should have to. I think the way I feel is valid. And that's my point. It doesn't mean it would come naturally to me. I will have to learn to walk like a girl, talk like a girl, act like a girl, think like a girl. Because I'm not a girl right now. I'm bi-gendered. More towards male. More of a boy. But the way my personal gender makeup is, I know I'd be happier as a girl. I choose to be a girl.
From etransgender.com
Really reiterates the point from my "I am not transgender" post. And it's comforting to see that others understand and share this frustration with me. Someone1 is one of those people that I was talking about--someone who is changing their body not to match their mind but to match what the world is telling them that their body should be.
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