GenderBendy

Job hunting, and a night on the town

I haven’t posted much since the surgery because I have a willful literal part of my brain which tries to make something so because something else is so, as in, I’ve had the surgery, so I'm not trans any more - I’m just another ordinary woman now, dammit. These kinds of simplistic formulations can help with motivation and focus, but they don’t turn out to be exactly true, which leads to stress. The trans thing just keeps coming up again.

For example, I’m job hunting. I like my current job, but after eleven years I itch for a new challenge. Also, as a practical matter, I need to start making a little more money if I can. So the question is, do I mention that I am trans in my applications?

It shouldn’t matter, but that doesn’t mean it won’t. There is definitely a lot of transphobia in the world, and in my experience even many enlightened liberal folks still have some work to do to get comfortable with a trans person. On the other hand, bringing the trans thing up early might actually make me a more attractive candidate for some positions. A trans woman might trump a cis woman in some people’s diversity tallies.

So far I have mentioned it (with a brief factual note at the head of my resume - experience before 2011 under the name...), because I did a lot of the stuff on my resume under my old male name, and I figure they might go looking online for, say, those articles I wrote back in the early 00’s. I might stop mentioning it though, if none of my current apps pan out, so they can think about me first, at least for a little while, as just as a woman who’s interested in their job.

It feels icky, having to calculate the when-to-tell issue, but I can't avoid it.

Then there’s dating, which so far just isn’t happening. I got feeling so antsy and fun-starved this week that I messaged Taffy, my dear outrageous drag queen friend, and arranged to share a night on the town. I wanted to get drunk, play pool, dance ecstatically, flirt, and maybe even kiss someone.

Which all happened except I didn’t kiss anyone, though someone did kiss me. I got drunk and played pool at Blackstones, and flirted with a guy at the table. In our short conversation just before Taffy and I left I saw and took an opening to include in a list of pert questions “So do you like guys?” which he answered with a careful “For the most part.” He was handsome, nearly as tall as me, and seemed quiet and kind. Hm, maybe we’ll bump into each other again.

On to Styxx, to dance ecstatically with a bunch of sweat-sheened twentysomethings. At some point I opened my eyes and a cute femme woman was dancing with me. We smiled at each other, and I enjoyed watching her dance - yep, I still like girl-bodies, especially the round softnesses. After a couple minutes she shouted something I couldn’t hear, pecked me on the cheek, and disappeared into the crowd. Later I found her on the floor again and we exchanged names. She excused herself with “I’m going to go get a drink, but I’ll find you later,” and I didn’t see her again, though I did look. Gentle brush-off? Doesn’t matter...she kissed me! :-) Hm, maybe we’ll bump into each other again.

The part I didn’t plan for was resting by the subwoofers with Taffy, our whole bodies vibrating to the pounding of the beat, and suddenly bursting into tears. Taffy held me while I cried and didn’t ask why. Such a good friend.

It’s thrilling out here in the light, and slowly I am becoming more accustomed to the feeling of constant emotional peril. The old sense of myself as a monster unfit to live among humans still intrudes from time to time, but I’m learning to weather those episodes. I guess I’m getting better at really being alive. Yay me. :-)

The Lobster

I have become nocturnal. Last night's adventure in gritty overnight verismo blogging led to napping all day today, and now it's 11pm and I am as awake as I have been all day. That's fine, because the computer is free! Ten-finger typing! This blog post is going to be airy and light because it is being typed about twenty times faster than the last two. And just to give a complete picture: I am dressed in a nightgown and bathrobe, and am kneeling on a folded towel in front of a nice little hardwood desk in a well-appointed living room. One of the many cool things about this aftercare residence is everyone's complete acceptance of all sorts of dress, walking, sitting, and doing, at all hours of the day and night.

I have a new room and a new roommate, named Cat. She's cool - a tattooed ex-musician DJ with three kids, two of whom are just about the age of mine. I finally busted through the weird calm I have been feeling and cried listening to her tell her daughter on the phone what a great kid she is and how much she loves her...and I am totally tearing up again as I type this. Tomorrow - talk to the children. We've fb'ed, but it's not the same as voice to voice, and I *am* going to blub like a baby. Mad, Sam, if you read this before we talk, brace yourselves. I am so incredibly proud of you, and your response to my turning out to be a woman. Hell of a curve ball, as I've said before, to toss into anyone's adolescence, and we've had a few bumpy patches, but that was mostly me. You have behaved with consumate grace and aplomb, and taught me important teachings, and I am more happy to be your father/parent/mother/whatever than anything else in my whole life ever. I love you with all my heart, and that's for always.

OK. Pause to blow nose...

I think the vibe here must change each week with the comings and goings of new batches of patients. The current batch, as a group, has a lot of humor and attitude...meals are raucous, with multiple conversations going on in French and English. Some quieter people seem to be choosing to eat around the corner at the little wicker tables in the foyer. The staff seem sometimes harried, but in all good-humored and alive to their patients. It's a happier, more communal feel than the hospital. Other things which are better: the food, cooked fresh each meal; the beds, with remote controls on long cords; and (I think I've got the name right) Yvonne, a former patient become semi-official den mother to the house. In ten minutes of confiding and cheerfully bossy chat she taught me and Cat more about what the rest of this is *really* going to be like than all the official prep.

One thing I could do without: two loudly ticking clocks in the bedroom. Ah well.

I'm getting sore, and so must wrap. The key point I wanted to get across: this surgery turns out to be a huge tease. I have *not* seen my new parts yet, and will not for several more days. They will be revealed in slow (and often uncomfortable) stages, the first of which I will encounter on Sunday: the removal of the surgical dressing. Yvonne told us the proper name for it. It's The Lobster, because that's exactly what it looks like - this red ribbed thing crouching in all our crotches. Ew and incredibly cool at the same time. There's a whole other new life under that...I am getting eager to see.

Genderqueer conversations

I recently had the pleasure of chatting with three fascinating people who identify outside the gender binary. Jules, Lyndon, and Taffy challenged my preconceptions and broadened my perspectives about gender in the same way that I hope my transsexualism challenges and broadens my cisgendered friends' and relatives' preconceptions and perspectives. Our conversations resulted in an article in the summer 2012 edition of Out In Maine, which can be viewed here. (Note this link takes you to a browsable on-line mockup of the magazine; the article starts on page 24.) Happy reading! :-)

After the lecture

Dr. Broida delivered his lecture to an audience of about twenty-five, including at least one other trans person besides myself, a lovely contingent of sceptical Queers, and some students and community members. I found Dr. B's explications of fetal sexual development and a couple of intriguing intersex conditions to be valuable. I was also grateful for his downplaying of dichotomies in favor of spectra, and I appreciated his refraining from an overt statement of the biological determinism I feared. Other than that, I found the talk most interesting for what it left out, for a troubling blurring of key terms, and for its uninformed and negatively-skewed characterization of the trans experience.

A significant omission came on an early slide listing the defining characteristics of sex/gender in humans. Gonads were on there, along with genitalia, chromosomes, and a catch-all category for social expressions of gender, but a person's own stated sense of their gender was not. Although it disappoints me, this omission doesn't surprise me, for two reasons: first of all, because stated sense of gender has got to be annoyingly hard for scientists to measure objectively and precisely; but also, and more importantly, because I don't think most cisgendered people understand how clear and powerful this sense of one's gender can be. I fear it takes enduring the adversity of having the sex of your body be out of sync with the gender of your mind to truly grasp how crucial it is that stated gender sense should be included on Dr. B's list.

The key terms Dr. B was less than precise about were "sex" and "gender," which he sometimes used interchangeably and sometimes conflated. I see this lack of precision as another facet of the same cisgendered obliviousness I mentioned in the previous paragraph. A trans person would be highly unlikely to blur these terms, because their seperateness defines our dilemmas, and our dilemmas are real and often dire. Sex is of the body, gender of the mind. Why does it seem so hard to preserve this simple distinction in orthodox thought and speech?

Regarding the negative characterization of the trans experience, Dr. B told us that studies have shown that 85 percent of post-op transsexuals report being unhappy with surgery results. A Google search on "percentage of people happy with sex change" returns no reference in the first two or three screens of results to any such studies, but does return multiple mainstream media references to a recent and apparently reputable survey which concludes just the opposite, that 85 to 90 percent of M to F transsexuals are happy with surgery results. (One such story here.) This was the most troubling moment in the lecture for me. I'm afraid I find myself wondering whether Dr. B's overlooking of such easily findable results betrays a selection bias based in prejudice.

Dr. B's lecture reminded me of a frustrating debate I've been having with my endocrinologist, who is another straight white male in a position of power. Dr. S's office has careful courteous protocols about accepting me *socially* as a woman - calling me "her" and so on - but his diagnosis code is still "gender identity disorder," and so insurance doesn't pay for the tests. When, I have asked him, if ever, will I appear in his professional gaze to be simply a woman lacking proper gonads and so seeking hormone replacement, which is covered by insurance? His answer so far is, demonstrably, "not yet," and verbally, "I don't know." I plan to ask him again after I've had the surgery, because at that point I'll have little left about me that's male except my chromosomes...presumably; I've never actually had them tested.

In my dealings with Dr. B and Dr. S I sense on both their parts a kind of complacent inertia. Both men are clearly smart, courteous, and pleasant, but neither seems willing to bump up out of his comfortable construct of values and beliefs and truly challenge his traditional assumptions. So, the most valuable benefit for me of Dr. B's lecture has been a furthering of the evolution of my understanding of the strengths and weaknesses of the scientific/medical establishment when it turns its attention to something so elusive and so politically and socially loaded as peoples' senses of their genders. An obvious strength would be that if and when solid science of gender happens, it will be solid science, and may teach us useful and amazing things. A clear weakness is a cautious conservatism which might by turns manifest as benignly unrigorous, or harmfully reactionary, in the face of evolution and change. Gender *is* changing, right now, in huge ways in our society. I'm afraid I have fresh doubts whether science will ever catch up.

Shooting pool at Blackstones

Sarah posts an open invite on fb to attend her birthday movie viewing (The Hunger Games) and hang out for drinks after. Can’t make the movie - still working, and anyway, saving it for Son16, in case he hasn’t seen it yet when he comes home again next week. Fat chance - he devoured the books - I’m sure he’s going this weekend - but still, just in case. The drinks part sounds fun, though, so I have my own dinner and a movie (Jeff, Who Lives at Home - slight, cute, worth seeing), jostle myself through the habitual shy fuddyduddiness, and show up around 9p at Blackstones, where I have never gone before in my life. In fact the only gay bar I have ever been to before was a couple times at Styxx, and that was strictly to dance.

Sarah and her entourage have not yet arrived. Anxious look around. Levi! He was my first crew leader when I started canvassing for No On One, back in the still being male in public days. He talked me down, the dear, after I got worked up arguing with Senator Nass. Hug. Banter. Already feeling less anxious. Over in the corner by the pool table, Steven! I know him from work. He beckons me over, and helps me feel even more at ease by narrating the place a bit - that guy there, trash, pure trash. It’s loud, which I don’t like, but I put little wads of tissue in my ears and feel better. Steven buys me a tonic with lime. What a sweetie! :-) I start to have fun.

Guys playing pool, badly. I find out how to put in for a game. There’s one intense skinny little guy in a white cotton tank and a fifties haircut who has a sweet stroke...if he settled down behind every shot he would own the table, but he tosses them off, and so misses some. The birthday posse arrives just before my game, so Sarah watches my purse while I play Tanktop. I’m tense and eager to make an impression, and so can’t see the angles and lose, though we do get down to the lone eight.

I get a glass of wine. A drunk guy hits on me. I brush him off. I sit and yak with Mike, Sarah, Anna, Sam. The wine works fast. I start to feel really buzzy good. I get another, waiting for my name to come up again on the pooltable chalkboard. I know from that time right after college when I got intense about pool that after two drinks everything else goes away and all I see is the geometry of the table. I feel myself entering that state of altered concentration. My name comes up.

The old heightened focus wins me a couple of games. The second guy I play is all over me, flirting drunkenly...I brush him off. I look in the big wall mirror and see myself, all girl in a room full of boys, and, you know what? Fuckin’ cute. Yeah! :-) I start dancing while waiting for my opponent to shoot. Another drunk guy hits on me. He is so persistent one of the bar guys comes over and leads him outside.

Tanktop comes up again, and we play once more down to the lone eight. He wins again after I choke on a makeable shot - still wanting to impress. Which I do anyway - the people watching who care about pool see it is a game, and I start hearing my name. 

It’s four or five names on the chalkboard to get another chance at the table, and after midnight. The birthday posse is decamping en masse. Tired. Home.

Am I straight or queer? Most of the evening I felt like a straight woman, because I was being so completely utterly gloriously Not. A. Man. in a room full of men who dig men. But, I also felt at ease and at home. I liked it. (Thank goodness for how bars are smoke free now.) I plan to go back. Gotta take another shot at Tanktop...and see if I can make a few friends, and explore a little more inhabiting “Queer” as an identity. Altogether, darling, a fabulous evening!

Posting without the usual wait until morning to rewrite. Curiosity about how many reads I’ve gotten will help me push through the hangover... :-)

Out of a flame war, pandemic love

Last night my 19-year old daughter Madeleine posted on facebook some whimsical wordplay based on terms she is trying out to describe her sexuality. She has already claimed “pansexual,” (which I also am coming to prefer for myself), meaning attracted to people based on who they are as people, regardless of biological sex or gender; and she’s trying out the word “demisexual”, meaning not tending to feel sexual attraction except to a person with whom one has first become emotionally intimate (which I also like for myself...I hope you don’t mind, dearest, that I’m co-opting your words). “Demisexual” is a new-minted word, courtesy of the asexuality movement, for an old-fashioned idea: sex as an adjunct to, an extension and expression of, love. So Mad’s line was that she’s a “pandemic romantic,” which, I don’t know about you, but I think that’s funny.

A few of her friends posted light-hearted comments, and then one particular friend, whom I will call X, posted this: “‘Pansexual’ is an orientation. ‘Demisexual’ is not. Neither is ‘romantic’. Just sayin'.”

An escalation ensued. Points got misunderstood, feelings got hurt, and what could have been a substantive conversation about the complexities of identity quickly turned personal. An hour and 40-some posts later, several people had posted things they are probably regretting today (if they’re done fuming), my daughter had defriended X, and various friends both in cyber and real space were giving her hugs in commiseration for having been the unwitting trigger of, and scorched figure at the center of, a doozy of a flame war.

This incident has helped me crystallize some thoughts about sex, gender, and queer identity. First of all, I respectfully disagree with X. Demisexuality and being a romantic *are* both orientations. In fact, in a way, they are more radical orientations than the L, G, and B of LGBT, because, just as pansexuality challenges the unquestioned assumption behind these letters that gender matters, they challenge the unquestioned assumption that sex matters. They are a “none of the above” option. They say: “If I, whoever I turn out to be, should happen to want to go to bed with my sweetie, whoever my sweetie turns out to be, it will be because I love my sweetie and my sweetie loves me. Love is different from sex and knows no gender, and love is what matters most to me.”

I am *not* saying that LGB folk don’t understand or care about love. Completely not. But queer culture does seem to me to be as obsessed with sex as our culture as a whole is. I don’t really have a problem with that, though as a person who cares less about sex than love it makes me feel marginalized at both cultural levels. And I could hardly blame people fighting for equality for their sexual identities if they felt threatened by the idea that sex doesn’t matter. I do have a problem, though, when it becomes politically incorrect to speak of non-sexual or only-incidentally-sexual love.

And, I *am* saying that the emphasis on traditional concepts of gender inherent in the definitions of L, G, and B sometimes feels inimical to the interests of us T folk. My dear LGB friends: I thank you most fervently for the enormous amount of help and support you have given me in my gender work, both individually and, by fighting a version of the same fight first, on a global scale. I have learned and benefited from your struggle. I stand shoulder to shoulder with you against the forces of prejudice and hate which so seldom distinguish between us. And, I enjoy your company, feel at ease with you, and am so grateful to have been welcomed in under the big LGBT umbrella. But, alas, all that said, I do also sometimes see you as part of the gender hegemony against which, all my life, I have struggled. I will never self-identify as gay, lesbian, bi, hetero or homo, because all of this terminology fails to challenge and continues to perpetrate the bad old binary concept of gender. Until I come up with something I like better, I am a pandemisexual romantic trans woman.

May I invite you to join me and Mad in seeking new ways of talking about ourselves and each other which celebrate the diversity, complexity, and subtlety of gender as thoroughly as we have celebrated the diversity, complexity, and subtlety of sexuality? And could we all, please, get at least part of the way back to the charming old-fashioned notion of speaking reverently of love?

A five-star rush

The Femme Show performance went great! Doing my piece was both intensely exciting and deeply self-affirming. The house was full and the crowd enthusiastic; I got laughs and cheers and applause...not always on the lines I thought I would, which was interesting, but I was able to roll with that. I achieved my main ambition going in which was to relax into the performance and take the time I needed to feel the sexy symbiotic give-and-take with the audience. And I got lots of compliments after, which was of course gratifying; especially meaningful were those from my fellow performers, whose work I admired, and the one from a trans man who had been in the audience who thanked me sincerely for speaking for us T's of the LGBT. My fellow performers were kind and accepting and supportive, and I learned an enormous amount about theater, writing, and performance from them in a very short time - soaking up that thespian lore like a sponge. From the bottom of my heart, Femme Show darlings, thank you for including me! :-)

So I am already mulling next steps...I definitely want to do this again...new material, new venue...I need more experience...maybe a one-woman show someday...hmmm...happy mulling...

And, since I don't have to try to entice you to the show any more, here is my script from last night, if you're curious:

Enter all trannied up - breast forms, hip pads, tranny-mane wig, high heels, etc.

Hi, my name is Lisa, and I am a tranny - which I get to say because I am one. I’m so happy to be here tonight, being seen by you!

As you can see, I have put on for you this evening the best patiche I can manage of the hyper-sexualized stereotype of femininity foisted upon us by our hetero-normative, cis-gender dominant, masculinity-privileging culture.  I hope you like it.

Actually, let me say that again: I hope *you* like it, because honestly, I don’t. This is fun to put on every once in a while, but it’s not me. Literally, this is not me.

Pull out a breast form:  *This* is not me...
The other:  And this is not me...
Take off hips: And this is not me...
Wig off:  And this is not me...
And the shoes...I do love the shoes, but I’m already too fucking tall without them. Take off shoes.

That was four layers of gender right there: a trans woman born in a male body, double re-crossdressed as a man in drag!

Now that I am less complicated and more comfortable, I’m here this evening for two reasons. The first reason is, whenever there’s an LGBT event going on, I do like to do whatever I can to make sure that the T is not just hinted at, but, you know, really *firmly* tacked on the end there.

And, the second reason is, I have something to say about the subject of the evening, femininity.

And you might be saying to yourself, yeah, right, who made you Ms. fabulous queen expert on the subject? Well, think about it: a trans-woman has to study and theorize and practice and then dare to assert every single aspect of her femininity in the world...so, we tend to have very clear and detailed ideas of what we mean by that word. In fact, I myself, through my gender work, have discovered the elusive golden secret of femininity....and I am here to share it with you...maybe, if I feel like it.

While you’re waiting to find out if I am in the mood, I *can* mention right off a couple of things that we are definitely *not* talking about this evening.

Scenario one: my grandmother’s generation:

Yes dear. Whatever you say, dear. (My goodness, you are so stupid sometimes.) Whatever you say, dear. (I cannot believe you just said that.) Whatever you say, dear. Whatever you say.

Debunked forty years ago, thank goodness...and good riddance!

Scenario two: my mother’s generation:

I am as good as any man, and I am going to prove it by being as much like a man as I can be. I can and will out-masculinize my husband and all those other macho male-type manly men out there. So there. I mean, huh!

Which admittedly had some good ideas in it, and lead to some beneficial social changes, but I don’t think we’re there quite yet.

Which brings us to this generation, the present day...and I guess I’ve tantalized you enough, so I’ll tell. The elusive golden secret of femininity. Here’s how it goes. Hold my hand...and I’ll just tease you some more.

Sorry, I can’t seem to help it. But I’m running out of time...so here it is for real. Hold my hand (and take me to dinner and buy me flowers and tell me I’m beautiful), and I’ll just tease you. But: take me in your arms and kiss me with tenderness and passion...and then I’ll whisper a hint in your ear. Just a hint. Would you like that? I know I would.

I am aware that I am still teasing. I do so enjoy it. But on the other hand, I am extremely empathetic, (Oh, darlings, I *do* feel your pain), so I will always give you satisfaction in the end....probably.

OK, all teasing aside...I am really, REALLY, going to tell you now...the elusive golden secret.  Hold my hand (and take me to dinner and buy me flowers and tell me I’m beautiful), and I will just tease you some more. Kiss me with tenderness and passion...and I’ll whisper a hint in your ear. But if you want the Truth with a capital T, the Answer with a capital A (hey, T and A, how about that); if you want me to share the elusive golden secret with you; then...well, then, you must promise to love me and treasure me and cherish me for always and always...and then...well, then I’ll *show* you.

Ta-ta, darlings! It’s been fun. Catch me if you can!

Exit.

I am speaking, my dear, of the theatah!

I’m gonna be in a show! I’m so excited! :-D

Here’s how it happened: I went to this show last year, the Femme Show, touring up from Boston, and really enjoyed it. It’s a variety show - theater, readings, dance, etc. - looking at the femme identity in queer culture from various angles. I was nodding and laughing and learning stuff, but I also thought, hm, no trans women up there, and also, hm, I’ve got a bunch of funny things to say about femininity; and I felt this intense impulse to perform. So I wrote some e-mails, and on the strength of the writing here at Genderbendy I got in. Just for the Portland show tomorrow night, not the whole tour, but still...a chance to try strutting my stuff! Glee!

I’ve been feeling the impluse to perform all my life, actually...watching people on stages and thinking resentfully, *I* could do that. But whenever I thought of actually doing something, I was immediately paralyzed by extreme self-consciousness and dread. Hardly surprising, given that at the time I was 100 percent committed to clamped-down hyper-controlled male mode.

No longer! The deeper cool thing about being in this show is that I am hardly nervous at all. I’m feeling confident and joyful. All eyes will be on me; all minds engaged with my words...amazing. And I look forward to trying to find that sweet natural rhythm of give and take I know can exist between performer and audience, riding the wave of their response. No doubt at show-time my heart will be beating in my throat, but hey, bring it. The adrenaline, the flash of the lights when I go out on stage, launching into my first line and off we go...sounds like a total rush. I hope so. I’ll report after.

Oh, and, what am I doing? All I can say is that it involves three or four layers of crossdressing, breast-form gags, and the elusive golden secret of femininity...and if you want to know more, you’re just going to have to see for yourself tomorrow night, darling! Wish me luck! :-)

A few observations from pride

Everybody wanted the purple beads.

Male-bodied people hug big and bristly.

Gay can be as geeky as anything else.

Shade has no particular gender or sexuality.

There are so many ways for rainbows to be pretty.

What's not to love about having hundreds of people cheer for you? :-)

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.