GenderBendy

The Trans Explosion

The article I wrote recently for Out in Maine, the LGBT quarterly supplement to the Portland Phoenix, has been posted on line. In the article I assert that trans really seems to be *happening* right now in crucial ways, and, using local examples in Maine, explore how personal trans narratives are driving this change and vice versa. If I have piqued your interest, you can check it out here...

OK, it's different doing comedy for straight people...

I did it - comedy open mic at Slainte, earlier tonight. Way more people in the room than when I went before to check it out - actual audience members, this time, instead of just the Soggy Biscuit Club. (Don’t ask me, I don’t know - some inside joke among the regular core comics, sure to be disgusting). I asked for the second slot, Brian the MC introduced me, I stepped up and did my routine...and the room was almost completely silent the whole time. I could tell some of my lines struck people as funny, because there was this whisper of suppressed laughter, but the rest of the time everyone sat frozen. Scanning the room I saw some listening faces, some carefully immobile faces, some clenched faces, and some crossed arms and heads down. Scattered applause at the end.

Did anyone read me until the moment I said my first line, "So, I used to be a man"? I don’t think so. That’s when I felt the room freeze. Not freeze like ice cold; freeze like deer in the headlights.  Possible thoughts among the audience right then: "Oh fuck, for a second I thought she, I mean he, I mean she, I mean he, was hot!" "Jesus, a fucking tranny." "Jesus, a fucking faggot." (The prejudiced are not always precise with their labels.) "So what?" "I don't want to know about this."  "Woah...she’s so brave!" "Cool!" And maybe mostly, "Shit, am I allowed to laugh at this?"

Did I, as they say, bomb? I don’t know and I don’t care. I went in wanting to work the material and get a little more stage experience...mission accomplished. I do believe I made some people squirm though, and upon reflection, that makes me smile. Fuck yeah. I’m a tranny, I’m smart, I’m funny, I’m kinda cute, and worst of all, I’m actually pretty normal. Deal, my dears. Unpucker your assholes and deal.

I caught Brian the MC between intros and gave him my e-mail address with a request for honest critique. I wonder if he’ll respond, and if so, what he’ll say. He did look me in the eye and talk normally to me, so he at least was not completely freaked out by my transness.

A couple of friends came to cheer me on - thanks Katz and Sophia! And thanks Chris for videoing! Katz and Sophia stayed after I left, so I asked Sophia to tell me if anyone ragged on me after I was gone. Will the PC impulse keep them mute? Will the juiciness of the material be too much to resist? I’m really curious if they will, and if they do, what tone it will take.

Will I go back? Not sure yet...it’s not out of the question. Tonight turned out to be about the one-shot opportunity to surprise a whole roomful of people. That won’t happen again...so, really I think I should go back at least once more and see what happens when they already know I’m trans as I approach the stage. We’ll see.

I get told I’m courageous a lot, which is really nice, but honestly I don’t usually feel courageous. Usually I’m just doing what I have to do to be me, sane, and alive. This was different, and this time I'll own the label: this *did* take courage. Yay for me! :-)

Three men

    Yesterday at work a campus policeman showed up with a clipboard. He was doing an inspection and needed access to the furnace and such, so I grabbed my keys and led him downstairs. I was dressed particularly femme - turquoise skirt, sleeveless top, sandals - and feeling confident, in a mood to twinkle and flirt with the world. I could see in his body language and eyes the wariness of the politely ill-at-ease to which I am becoming accustomed. Still, our interaction went OK. He asked questions, I answered them.
    On the way back upstairs he noticed the black steel door in the corner of the basement. “Does that go outside?”
    “Yes.”
    “Is it alarmed?”
    “No.”
    I don’t know why I did it - impulse of the moment - but I timed it perfectly, just as he turned the knob: “Dwee dwee dwee dwee!”
    He jumped back, then gave me a sheepish glance. “OK, you got me,” he said, and the rest of our talk was natural and easy.

    Later another man came around the mailboxes to the corner of my desk. His clothes said he was from facilities. He had football-player shoulders and a manly moustache. He shied when he saw me and then stared into the corner. “Is Jim around?” he stammered. Jim is my boss.
    “No, he’s out today. May I help you?” Open, warm. I was still feeling fine.
    “I wanted to ask him a question.”
    “What’s the question?”
    He glanced at me and away again. “No, uh...when will Jim be back?”
    “Not until tomorrow. What’s your question?”
    He was edging away. “It’s just a question about the door.” They had installed a new front door the day before.
    “Ask it.” Pointed now. I was starting to feel offended. It was more than his obvious discomfort. I felt as though he had concluded in the first instant that I could not possibly have any authority, and/or that I wouldn’t be able to understand what he had to say.
    Reluctantly he explained: he had a heavy workload and couldn’t put the door-closer back on for a week...was that going to be OK?  Yes, I said, that would be fine; but still his face was clouded and his eyes skittered away.
    At this point Dale Robin showed up - our other manager. He turned to her with obvious relief and explained his business again. She gave him the same answer I had given him. His shoulders relaxed, and he smiled and thanked her.
    She asked him to look at a sticky window, and off they went. I sat at my desk, trying to absorb the experience. Earlier in my transition it could have triggered a tailspin, but now I just felt stung, as though I had been slapped. In the front room DR was chatting with the man as he ripped apart the casement with his screwdriver...so I went and joined the conversation. He still addressed his remarks entirely to her, except at the very end, when, in response to something friendly I said, he gave me the first and only open-faced glance of our encounter and answered me directly.

    Still later, still feeling fine, I went to drop off an application for part-time work at Trader Joe’s. I had thought of applying there because they hired Eleanor, another trans woman I know.
    The man behind the customer service counter was flusteringly handsome. Eleanor had tipped me that they hire based on personality, so I made an extra effort to smile and meet his eyes. He met mine right back and thanked me warmly for my application. He glanced at it.  “Elizabeth?”
    “I go by Lisa.”
    “Why Trader Joe’s?” He had the uptempo conversational cadence of the quick-minded.
    Oh shit, impromptu interview. Presumable trans-friendliness wouldn’t do - I needed something not self-focused. “Because I like the feel of the place. It’s got a good vibe, you know?” True enough. Attentive, he waited for more. “And I’m a customer - I, you know, shop here to fill around the edges of...” I flapped my hand toward my other store. Fuck. Oh well. I couldn’t say I shopped here only, it not being true. “And I love dried fruit.” The same quip from my application - oh well again.
    “What about ginger?” I stared at him blankly. “We haven’t had any ginger for a couple of weeks. Our regular customers are upset about it.”
    “Oh? Why’s that?”
    “An FDA thing...it’s complicated.” He held out a hand, I shook it, and we exchanged thanks. I left not sure whether I had just ruined my chances, but feeling I had been heard and respected.

    And what useful conclusions might a person draw from these three encounters? From the first two I glean additional evidence that people will have a harder time labeling, dismissing (fearing, hating) you if you can somehow get them to see you as an individual human; and that humor does this particularly well. Also, it clearly makes a difference to try to re-engage after a first snub - you might teach the person something, and in any case it matters to assert one’s dignity. From the third, I conclude that having someone else respond to you from the first moment based entirely on what you do and say is a precious gift.

    Do you suppose it is only coincidence that first two men were white, the third black? And, hey, another femme first: I teased a policeman! ;->

Overdue blurt update

Blurg...blogging backlog...too much to narrate coherently without writing a novella...slave to notion that everything must be recorded...the dammed flow of observation, musings, and purported wit rises up the walls of the mental reservoir, threatening to overflow...the walls bulge.

Weary of writing “I, I, I” all the time, Elizabeth switches to the third person. An arguably pretentious move, but it gives her more practice referring to herself with female pronouns, which she needs, as her confidence that she’s really managing to pull off this woman in the world thing wavers from moment to moment.

Elizabeth applied last month for a job at Hannaford, checking groceries for the summer, or bagging, or anything...she really needs to supplement her income. At first she thought she wasn’t even going to get an interview, because the woman behind the customer service desk gave her one of *those* looks (hooded eyes, tight mouth, stiff shoulders). Elizabeth persevered, calling twice to follow up, and got an interview. The woman who interviewed her was warm and talkative and hyperactive, and called her “sweet,” and Elizabeth really couldn’t tell if this woman could tell that she was trans...no double-takes, no slightly-too-long stares, no care with pronouns or the like. Elizabeth left with high hopes...but then the regretful message on her voice mail...polite, with a good reason carefully spelled out. And it turns out once there’s something about you which people might react to with prejudice, there’s always that question - is it because I’m trans?

Another recent consumer-life hassle centers around a smarmy eye doctor who has given her a bad prescription for new glasses twice now, the correction as off as the original try. Is he just burned out, as he seems, or is it a passive-aggressive response to the fact that she’s trans?  She realizes she’s being suspicious, and she thinks of a person of African descent she knows who takes every minor setback in life as evidence of pervasive racism, and swears she never wants to become like that person...but how? Just roll with the bullshit? Stay noble and calm and not sink to their level and let the assholes do their worst? Their worst can be be really bad, she knows...history has shown.

Then there’s the thorny question of money. Elizabeth is actively planning at this point to get Sexual Reassignment Surgery in the next year or two. It is not covered by insurance, and generally runs about $20K. And that’s not all...she also wants Facial Feminization Surgery, which runs more like $50-60K, and is also not covered by insurance. Where is this $80K supposed to come from? She could liquidate her retirement savings, but that would mean swallowing the penalty for early withdrawal, and of course no more retirement savings. She could sell her house, but that would disrupt her own life and the lives of her children, and leave her without even the modest equity she has managed to retain through divorce and other reverses. Borrowing the money doesn’t seem to be an option, because it turns out lenders won’t accept mobile homes for collateral unless you own the land underneath them too, and she doesn’t. She has one lead on a company that might still...that’s one glimmer of hope. And then there’s always appealing to relatives, but oh, my, how terribly awkward that feels...and meanwhile, she’s going slowly but steadily deeper into debt, just to live. That second part-time job grows more and more important, but it’s so hard to find.

One bright spot: Elizabeth’s dentist, a friend, has offered to give her enamelplasty to feminize her smile. Boy teeth are bigger and squarer than girl teeth, and just a little artful rounding and shaping here and there could have a subtle but significant effect. He really seems to know what he’s doing - prides himself in his denture work, which is quite an art, it seems - so she’s going ahead with the procedure. She plans to post before and after pics.

And, at some point earlier in the month, Elizabeth passed the first year anniversary of starting hormones. That has been going well. Her whole body has grown slimmer and softer, most of the hair below her neck has faded away, her face looks significantly thinner and more feminine (actual cheekbones!), and her new baby breasts comfortably fill an A-cup. She is happy about the changes, but she has also begun to yearn for the return of sexual feeling...not the old way, though, never again the old way...hence the growing feeling of urgency around the need for SRS soon.

Still very much in process: electrolysis (another expense); and voice work (slow progress, rather than any breakthrough).

Having typed for an hour more or less at speed, Elizabeth decides to post immediately, without the usual meticulous rewriting and copy-editing. Blurt it out, put it up. Save the exquisite craftswomanship for next time. And so, she thinks, off it goes. (But it should come as no surprise that the next day she can't resist coming back and tinkering.)

Denied existence

Recently I had the novel and unpleasant experience of having someone who was angry with me purposefully revert in an e-mail to my old name and male pronouns.

Julia Serano, in her book "Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity," calls this trans-exclusion, which she defines as, among other things, dismissing a person’s identified gender.  She writes, “it is difficult to view trans-exclusion...as anything other than an arrogant attempt to belittle and humiliate trans people.”

Julia is right: X’s e-mail did make me feel belittled and humiliated. The message I got was: you say you are a woman, but you are not. Your identified gender is not real. You don’t exist.

In Julia’s terminology, trans-exclusion is an expression of cissexual privilege, which she defines as “the double standard that promotes the idea that transsexual genders are distinct from, and less legitimate, than cissexual genders.” (Cissexual refers to people whose identified gender matches their biological sex at birth. If you are not trans, you are cis.) X’s e-mail would appear to be an expression of cissexual privilege, based as it is on an unspoken assumption that X is in a position to deny my identified gender.

We also see cissexual privilege expressed by supporters of LD 1046, the bill which would roll back civil rights protections for trans people in Maine, when they evoke the virulent false image of the trans woman as sexual predator. That image’s hold on the public imagination is clearly based on the persistent underlying notion that, whatever they say, trans women are still really men.

Distressingly, I also sometimes sense cissexual privilege behind the words and actions of allies. For example, I have had a sympathetic person say to me, referring to possible future sexual reassignment surgery, “So, when you become a woman...”

How can I say this plainer? I am a woman. It is not an act. It is not provisional. My sense of self is all one gender, and that gender is female!

It’s the penis, isn’t it? You people saying and doing these things, you just don’t seem to be able to get past the fact that I still have a penis. For heaven’s sake! If my very identity was not at risk, I would roll my eyes at you and burst out laughing. Gah! It makes me so mad! WHY MUST YOU INSIST THAT GENITALS DEFINE GENDER?

Shh, shh...breathe, girl, breathe.

Coming soon:  The Lurking Penis

The Hearing and the Beating

On April 12th I attended a Judiciary Committee hearing in Augusta on a bill (LD 1046) which would make an exception for trans people in Maine’s Human Rights Act, so that forcing a trans person to use the bathroom or locker room matching her/his physical sex at birth would not count as discrimination. I went to add my voice to the chorus of “against” voices; and I came away with puzzles to figure out about prejudice. Please forgive the long post, but I’ve travelled down a long chain of thought and feeling since the hearing, and I want to try to get it all down.

The hearing went well for us opponents, I think. Equality Maine did a great job of organizing, so we had all been briefed on how to be courteous to the Committee, how to field questions from reporters, and when it would be our turn to have our three-minute say; and the supporters soon ran out of speakers, so then it was just a long string of trans-positive testimony. Many non-trans allies spoke, which was lovely; the most moving for me was the father of a young trans girl who wept talking about the ordeals his family has endured trying to find safe schooling for his daughter. And the trans among us accomplished as much, I think, by showing ourselves to the Committee as by speaking. Look at me, each of us said, just by standing there: I am trans, and I am intelligent and well-spoken, and I dress in ordinary clothes and act in ordinary ways, and I clearly have feelings just like everyone, and, in short, I am an ordinary human being, just like you.

This was a crucial point to make...because behind the testimony of the supporters of the bill lurked the pernicious and utterly false phantom image of the trans person, especially the trans woman, as sexual predator and pedophile.

Walking to the Bridge

I just got back from the Portland Maine observance of the Transgender Day of Remembrance. It was cold and windy in the square, but dozens and dozens of people showed up, and after the speeches we made a respectable crowd as we marched up Congress Street with our candles to the art gallery where the second half of the evening's ceremony took place. The most moving part for me was the reading of the names, and placing a flower in a vase for each name read.

I was slated to be one of the speakers. With these terrible tragic suicides in the news recently, I wanted to try to say something to the question, how could a person be driven to take her own life or his own life by the prejudice and hate of others? I ended up writing and reciting a poem, and a few people kindly said they would like to see it in print, so here it is:

Walking to the Bridge

How can I say I know I am OK
When I don't even know who I am?
Everything is wrong.
My body is wrong, my face is wrong, my voice is wrong.
I don't fit together,
And I don't belong!
The words they throw at me...
Their hate is so strong,
Their hate is so sure.
I guess they must be right?
...and I have no more strength to fight;
My heart has taken all the hurt it can endure.
So, I am walking to the bridge now.
I am walking to the bridge...
But if just one person I pass
Looks into my eyes,
And their eyes smile at mine,
So I can see that they see me...
I will turn around.

Squeeee!

Yesterday I was walking down Congress Street in downtown Portland, wearing women’s cut jeans, my elegant dark green short-sleeved top, and a reasonable amount of silver jewelry - rings, bracelet, earrings. My hair (recently salon-colored medium brown) was loose and blowing around in the fitful wind. I was in a good mood, smiling to myself.

Suddenly I heard someone close to my left ear doing a passable imitation of a pig squealing:  “Squeee!” I turned and looked. Two young men sat on a retaining wall, giving me impudent eye-contact, smirking. The second one giggled at what the first one had done. I scowled at them and swept on by.

My first thought: Assholes.

My second thought: They saw me as a woman! (I know...<eyeroll>)

I don’t believe this was an incident of prejudice against a trans person. Nah. It was just plain sexism. It was the arrogance of a young man presuming to express offensively to a stranger-woman that he thinks she’s ugly.

Forty years of feminism, and yet there they are: the next generation of jerks in training. What’s up with that? Could it be that chauvinism is such a natural impulse of the human male that it can never be eradicated? I hope not, but I fear it might be so.

They were quite young...maybe they were just trying the attitude out? And maybe they’ll decide it’s not for them? The second boy at least had the decency to look uncomfortable.

Hm. Maybe.

Interesting to note: I hardly felt the insult at all. Other earlier incidents of male assholery have sent me into major tailspins (see these posts: the seafood man and girding my loins, such as they are). No more. A twinge...feeling the hurt of their contempt, but immediately beginning to let it go...a safety check...are they a danger to me? No...and so walking on, good mood spoiled, but essentially unharmed.

I’m learning.

A tale of two roofers

I wanted to find a good local roofer to fix the damage to my roof from the storm last month, and I had seen that other houses in my neighborhood had been damaged and fixed, so, a couple of weeks ago when I was out walking and saw the owner of one of those houses getting out of his car I called out a "good morning" and he came to talk with me.

He was a young fellow, solidly built, a touch pugnacious but polite.  When I explained what I was looking for he told me that his guy was good but was going to be out of town for the next couple of weeks (odd thing to know about a roofer, I thought...maybe they're friends), but that he had the card of the guy who did the house next door.  I copied down the name and number from the card, thanked him, and continued on.  Then, as I passed his house again a little later, he came back out and gave me a slip of paper with the name and number of his guy after all.  I thanked him once more, shook his hand, and came home to Google the names. 

I checked the name from the card first and found a business listing for a contractor at a local address.  I checked the other (an unusual name, so it was unlikely there were two of them) and found no business listings.  Instead, I found the that second roofer was affiliated with the KKK and had, in my local area, been convicted and had served time for threatening to kill a black man.

So.  I have a neighbor who might be friends with a guy who traffics in hate.  This does not mean, I keep reminding myself, that my neighbor shares his possible friend's views.  Still, I keep feeling anxious about how femme I might have seemed to the man.  I was dressed entirely in man-clothes, but there was still my long dyed hair, plucked eyebrows, and jeweled ear studs.  If he drew a conclusion it was probably that I'm gay, rather than trans...but if he is a basher I know this distinction will not matter to him at all. 

I have not seen or heard anything from my neighbor since our conversation.  It was the first time in three years living in the neighborhood I had talked with him.  He doesn't seem to be around much.  There have been no words, no actions, no threats.  But I am afraid. 

I didn't truly understand when I was a man - I don't suppose most white men do - that the absence of fear is a privilege.  The possibility of violence will always be with me now, because I am trans, and because I will be a woman.  My friend Deb gave me a good word...she said I need to become wary.  I hate that, but I see that it is true, and I am learning. 

One thing though:  I refuse to be ruled by, or silenced by, my fear.  I will be prudent and watchful...I am going to start locking my house, for instance...but I am determined neither to flee nor to live in terror.  I decline to cower.

Easy to say that...hard to do.

Needless to say, with regards to getting my roof fixed, I called the first guy.

The end of a whirlwind week

I've had a couple of kind inquiries about how I'm doing since coming out at work on Wednesday, and I'm doing fine, thanks.  A lot has happened in a short time, all of it good.

Thursday:  I had many more e-mails waiting for me when I got to work, expressing congrats and support.  No stink bombs.  Several people said they thought what I had done took real balls, which is funny when you think about it.  There was one e-mail from a volunteer friend who read my blog from top to bottom with real attention and said some really nice things about it.  I am totally susceptible to compliments of my writing (take note if you ever want to try to get something out of me), and enjoyed a warm buzz for the rest of the day.  Otherwise, a more or less ordinary busy day at work. 

Friday:  e-mails trickling off...some people saving saying something nice for a face-to-face encounter.  Still no stink bombs.  Sharing news this personal invites return confidences...I've had more than one conversation which was mostly listening on my part.  And, otherwise, another regular busy day.  Then home to prepare for a trip to western MA for the second laser treatment on my beard.

The Weekend:  The second treatment was not nearly as traumatic as the first.  (See Zap! for an account of that.)  I knew what to expect this time, and also I'm extremely pleased with how well the first one worked.  Afterward Ardis and I started talking clothes (she's an old family friend...we played together as toddlers) and next thing I know, we're at her house and she's hauling outfits out of multiple closets for me to try, and it turns out we wear the same size shoe, and an hour and a half later I'm driving on to Sue's house (Sue is Ardis's mother and a kind of surrogate mom to me too) with two big bags in the back ...some really nice stuff.  Thanks Ardis!  Total pink fog orgy!  :-)

Sue had invited me to a night of comedy improv at a local VFW hall, and I had asked if she minded if I went in femme mode, and she said she was expecting it, so I got dressed, wolfed some stew, and out we went, stopping back at Ardis's house to pick her up too.  This was pretty much my first time out as a woman in a completely ordinary everyday social setting...non-shopping (where they have to be polite), non-LGBT friendly.  Nobody looked at me twice.  Sue and Ardis were great...just treating me like their old girlfriend in town for the weekend.  I got to experience what life will be like when I'm transitioned... and it was a bit of a letdown.  I was tired and feeling a little shook up, and the fact that I was dressed the way I wanted didn't make that go away.  I know this is a lesson I need to learn, that even if my transition goes perfectly I'm still going to have plenty of sucky times, and that was perhaps the beginning of learning it.  I still savored every moment, though.

Before I left Sue's house this morning I had added a third big bag of clothes to the back of my car...thanks Sue...clothes-swapping like this may happen all the time in girl world, but not in boy world, so it feels special, and it's a thrill to have so many more wardrobe options...  :-)

One last event of note:  I stopped for the weekly grocery shop on my way home, and an employee of the store who pointedly declined to serve me several months back was once again behind the seafood counter. (Original account here.)  He saw me coming and moved into a little alcove with his face hidden, pretending to be busy.  I felt the adrenaline begin to bubble up, and without giving myself a chance to really think about it I stepped up to the counter and waited a moment to see if he would acknowledge my presence.  He did not, so I said clearly and loudly, "Could I buy some fish please?" 

Reluctantly, with hostile eyes, he served me.  When he handed me the bag of salmon fillet, I met his eye for just a second and said warmly "Thank you kindly," and then stayed a moment more to cross things off my list before rolling out of sight.  It was a sweet ending to a fine weekend.

I've made an enormous amount of progress in a very short time.  My children are due to arrive any time now for their week with me, and I think I need to slow down now, breathe, rest...show myself I can still take a step back, bide my time...work, write, parent.