So the other morning, while I blearily stumbled into the shower, I got just a glimpse of myself in the mirror, looking the same as always. All this stuff I’ve been talking about happening are, um, not really all that evident. Or, rather, they’re present, but in very small quantities.
I replaced my razor blade with a new one, and my miami vice-like roughness went away. So I dug the old one out of the trash. I am such a n00b.
I want to talk about trans guys who don’t pass. This is a topic laden with all sorts of baggage. But, it is true that there is some population of people who go on T, who get various surgeries, who do all kinds of things and yet do not pass. This could happen to me – it’s something I have no control over and, indeed, might not even notice happening. This used to give me pause, but now, really, I can’t complain about looking like a dyke, so if it happens, it happens.
I was reading some crit theory about how body transformations are perceived through the lens of gender. Specifically, it was talking about a reality TV show called the Swan and also about a documentary series about trans youth. These depictions subscribed to a cultural myth that femininity is artifice and masculinity is internal. The women on the the Swan, who underwent extreme plastic surgery, get to look in a mirror only after it’s all over and all exclaim that they’re not themselves. The trans women in the documentary are coached on how to move and act in a more feminine manner. By contrast, the ftms look in the mirror and see what they felt was always lurking there. I AM myself, rather than I am NOT myself. The ftms get no classes in how to move and act like men.
There’s some truth to femininity being artifice – I mean, look at all the props! But masculinity also has that element. Boys are rigorously drilled on how to move and act like men. You run like a girl, you throw like a girl. They undergo training as well. Training that ftms don’t usually get.
And so part of the reason that some ftms don’t pass is because they move and act like dykes. I want to hold on to my dyke roots, but I don’t know how much or in what way. Do I want to try to adopt a more manly affect? Do I move like a dyke now? Do I want to change that?
Author: Charles Céleste Hutchins
Supercolliding since 2003
Same Language, Different Culture
I’m feeling extremely frustrated about my immigration status. I haven’t written anything about this for a while because absolutely nothing has changed. I still need proof of lodging and I still don’t have it. My letting agent agreed to send it about three weeks ago. I just assumed that he would. I feel like I’m sitting around with my thumb up my ass, waiting on people who couldn’t care less whether I can come back or not.
I called last night, leaving a polite message, asking them to ship me (another) letter via express mail. Well, I assume it was polite. Due to the time difference, I’m never going to get to speak to a live human. I don’t know how to leave a message which will communicate my urgency. Should I yell and be angry? Should I throw myself at their mercy? Should I just wait a few more days and avoid calling?
They didn’t email me back, which has left me extremely frustrated. I think I will go to my academic supervisor for help. He’s (anglophone) Canadian, though, so if yelling and abuse is called for, he’s not a good go-to guy.
I don’t want to drop out of school because my letting agent can’t be bothered to send me a vital document. But my school can’t be bothered either. If the two entities which derive an income from my presence don’t give a fuck, why should I? Put me in detention, be all transphobic, send me home, don’t give me any documents I need – I’m starting to feel somewhat unwelcome.
Hitting the one week mark
A single shot lasts two weeks, so I’m halfway through the very first one. It’s been a week of moving quickly. Much more quickly than I expected. Note that I’m still in the normal female range for everything, but I’m moving towards the edge of that range, and with alarming speed. In the last week, my face has changed shape, my neck looks different, I’ve gotten some peach fuzz, my voice has lowered (maybe a fourth), my junk has changed and I’ve got some mild acne. And my hormones continue to rage.
Again, it’s possible that some stuff is imagined or less obvious to others than it is to me. My gf noticed the fuzz. And my friend failed to recognize me on the phone due to the voice thing, so it’s not all in my mind. Nobody else, however, has commented on my somewhat squarer face or thicker neck.
[Skip this paragraph if you’re a blood relative, have the power to evaluate my academic output or don’t want to know about my junk.] Ok, there are parts of the female anatomy that are analogous to the male anatomy. And T causes this part to grow. Normally, to two or three centimeters long, but sometimes twice that much and sometimes less. And while I’m no where near that, I just didn’t expect anything to be noticeable after one week. And yet, whoop, there it is.
The prescribing doctor said the standard dose was a little high given my weight. I wonder if perhaps it’s too high? I don’t know. I can’t do anything about it for the time being, but I can ask when I go in next week to learn to self-inject.
I asked a cismale friend about the raging hormones thing and he said it gets worse with lower body exercise like biking. Oh no, my favorite sport! I spent the weekend at Sarah’s house and the heater was broken and that was actually helpful for things like getting work done.
On the way home from Sarah’s there were a couple of stoned guys in Berkeley standing on the sidewalk along the bike route. “Excuse me, sir” one of them said and I turned around, “Oh, I mean ma’am. Or sir – actually I can’t tell.”
“Actually, I’m in transition.” I replied.
“Good for you! Do you know the way to Sacramento – or, no, Dwight? Do you know the way to Dwight?”
Berkeley is cool.
Anyway, I have more stamina, but that might be from my semi-regular sprinting. Always running late and trying to catch trains has health benefits! I’m less risk adverse, which means I need to use my head more when crossing busy streets. My anxiety is pretty much non-existent, although I’ve been a bit moody when hungry and sleep-deprived, which is pretty normal. Also – puberty redux.
Humans rely a lot on emotions for the decision making process, so in places where my emotions are changing, I need to tweak my process accordingly, like the crossing the street thing. Note that I don’t think that T causes stamina or bravery in general. I think that I feel happier and more sane on it, which causes me to not be depressed and anxious and therefore braver and more energetic. However, I know that hormones raging is caused by the T and so, when I’m being flirty, I need a new metric by which to judge what’s appropriate. To confound that further, my social context is changing. An ass-grabbing dyke is different than an ass-grabbing guy. Some of my formerly amusing actions become problematic when gendered male. So at the same time that my emotions are pushing me to be more libertine, my feminist consciousness requires me to be more reserved. All of which is a lot to navigate. I’m relying on my friends and loved ones to be patient, but also to speak up. If they see me being overly friendly or taking a dangerous risk, I hope they would say something and not bite their tongues. I don’t want to permanently place myself in a subordinate position, but pubescence does require some guidance – in this case, “watch out!” or “please remove your hand this instant!”
Rawr, I am transzilla!!
Testosterone is the most commonly found hormone in both men’s and women’s bodies. Indeed, sometimes women have below-normal amounts and this can have health implications. Relatively recently, the FDA declined to approve a T patch for women – the purpose was to boost sex drive. I don’t know why they didn’t approve it, as it was found to work very well. I think there are certainly issues with medicalizing being bored by your boyfriend. Also, T is sometimes abused by athletes and is therefore under tighter control than other prescription medications.
The women in the FDA test were getting a whole lot less T than I am. I’m getting enough that it’s going to overwhelm all the other ones in my system and turn them (mostly) off. So the phenomenon for which it did not gain approval is driving me to distraction. I’m hoping that this effect decreases with time or peaks in the injection cycle and goes away or I get used to it, because man, I am getting absolutely no work done. Is this what cisgender guys experience? How do they ever leave the house?
But that’s not the only thing I’ve noticed. I am, like, super-hungry. I’m usually pretty hungry and can eat a whole lot (and still stay scrawny), but now I seem to want to eat even more. So the mood of me now are: tired, hungry, driven to distraction. I am a simple creature.
Fun fact for drag kings and crossdressers: that faint moustache on your upper lip makes you look more girly, not more manly. If people are looking at you, looking for the clues that tell them what you are, a faint moustache will place you firmly in the girl category. Ergo, I’ve been shaving my face once every few days for the last few years. And did so yesterday morning. And good lord, by yesterday evening, my skin felt rough and, dare I say, stubbly! Ok, not really stubbly. I probably have the kind of peach fuzz commonly sighted on highschool freshman boys (which I will not let grow out. ewww). But my goodness! yay!
T Report – Day 1 & 2
Warning: The 4th paragraph of this post contains TMI and reader discretion is advised. Specifically, if I’m a blood relative of yours or if you have the power to evaluate my academic output, you should skip paragraph number 4, but the rest of the post is ok.
I woke up yesterday morning feeling really good. Surprisingly really good because by posterior had been sore all night, but whether from injection or clenching in response to said injection, I didn’t know. When I woke in the morning I felt happy and just good. I was really aware of my skin – how it felt against the bed sheets and how it was just nice.
Normally, I spend a lot of time in my head, but didn’t feel that way at all. I tried describing it to Nicole and she teased me, saying I sounded high. I did have the sort of grounded feeling I got once in a great while from pot, but I was as smart as normal, as far as I know.
[The warning up top was about this paragraph, which, alas, is not really all that graphic.] Then my cursed Aunt Flo arrived. I’ve been been fretting about being disowned by relatives, but this is one I expect and hope to lose. But she was due and not going to be deterred so quickly. So I went from feeling really good to feeling really weird. I mean I guess it was all perfectly normal. Except that my circumstances now are rather odd and it seemed weird for being so normal.
[We now return to normal content.] I spent time peering into the mirror, but off course, it’s much too soon. Still, I think my face might be slightly more square? It’s normal for face shape to change with hormone shifts and it’s one of the very subtle ways that women advertise fertility. So it’s not impossible, just extremely subtle and possibly imagined. This morning, Nicole said that my chin felt stubbly, but that’s entirely unlikely.
I got a glimpse of myself this afternoon and really saw a squarer jaw and felt a bit unnerved. It’s all so very early, though, that I could just stop if I realized I was on the wrong track and any changes would slip back or be entirely unnoticeable to others. Nicole said she couldn’t see any changes, aside from the stubble she insists is sprouting. Aside from that one disconcerting moment, I’ve been feeling really happy. I feel comfortable in my skin.
I hung out with a friend from my undergrad days and she said I was like my old self – like myself 10 years ago. Indeed, I feel better than I’ve felt since before I started taking zoloft, since before I started needing zoloft, since before my life became a series of mixed blessings and working through things. Sophie, my friend, said “it’s ironic that taking T would make you more like yourself.” But it’s not ironic at all. It’s the dominant narrative: “This is who I’ve always been, but now visible.”
My murdered-by-zoloft mojo is back in working order. I’m a happy camper. Also, a sleepy camper. I’ve been sleeping a lot, but it could just be the rain.
Shot in the butt
The closer the date got, the more my nervousness dropped away. Some kind email helped, as did supportive friends and forming a sort of game plan for disclosure.
Still, I was nervous when I got to the doctor office. I had a sort of a mini-physical. Apparently, I haven’t been eating enough vegetables and it’s caused my body Ph to change in undesirable, bacteria-friendly ways. Or it could be stress. I declined anti-fungal meds (don’t ask), vowing to eat more brussel sprouts. It’s pathetic, though, that when I lived in England, I ate more vegetables than I’ve been eating in California.
Everything checked out alright, so I got a scrip. I asked for androgel, but apparently it’s expensive and requires very large quantities. The doctor recommended a once-every-two-week shot. I didn’t argue much or insist. I’m concerned about how long I’m going to want to continue having to inject myself. I hate taking a zoloft pill every night and that’s just a pill. But on the other hand, this is only once every two weeks and gel would have been at least once a day and in large quantities and danger of accidentally giving it to others when snuggling with them.
I felt happy and freaked out at the same time, as I went to a pharmacy to fill my new scrip. They told me to come back in half an hour, so I went to a restaurant and got a plate of steamed vegetables. Because I’m supposed to eat more of them. And I went back to find a snafu at the pharmacy because the doctor wrote tomorrow’s date. I recalled fondly all the insane things one can get over-the-counter in France and here they have to page rather than fill something 4 hours in advance of the written date.
Stuff in hand, I went back to the doc, where they were about to close, so I didn’t learn how to self-inject, but instead, got a shot in the ass administered by a nurse.
I feel kind of giddy. Also my ass hurts. Maybe. Or I could be imagining it. Also, I think my voice is kind of scratchy. Except I know I’m imagining that. On the BART train back to Bezerkeley, I suggested going on a run around the Aquatic Park tomorrow morning and Nicole looked at me like I’d lost my mind. It’s impossible to separate expectations from reality so early on. I’ve had folks (ok, one person) ask me to keep a regular update of whatever tiny thing might be going on related to this. I might do it for a while, at least until some novelty wears off.
My Mother’s Last Pie
When I arrived, it was sitting on the counter. I hadn’t fully expected to see it, a part of me thinking that it couldn’t be real. But there it was, looking more or less like I remembered. Maybe the color of the crust had changed, but it just looked so typical. Like any other of my mother’s pies.
I looked at the knife holes in the crust, searching for special meanings, but there were none. They looked hasty, as if the pie had been assembled as part of a larger process and not prepared specifically for this occasion. Indeed, it had been one of many pies that she’d made that day and frozen unbaked.
Like all her best pies, it was apricot. The baked syrup had bubbled out the slits in the top and around the sides, as normal. It was a little bit browner than usual. My sister-in-law apologized for leaving it in the oven too long.
I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe we were going to eat it. I couldn’t believe the general lightness of mood. I tried, gently, to broach the topic with my brother who seemed puzzled by my point of view. I tried a different track, “This pie should be enrolled in the first grade.”
He laughed, “It’s not that old!”
“Actually it is. We found a label on it that said ‘2001’” said his wife.
“It would have to be.” I concurred. “Mom died in 2002 and didn’t have a chance to make any pies that year.”
My brother shrugged it off and turned his attention to the thanksgiving turkey. I tried to ignore the pie, sitting there. Eventually, it got moved to the top of the refrigerator in order to clear up counter space. It almost slipped from my mind. Except that it didn’t slip from my mind at all.
I had plans to spend the night at a friend’s house. She arrived at my brother’s house in time for dessert and with an entourage. Encouraged by her presence, I again tried to cast doubt on the advisability of eating a six year old pie. “What if the power went out or something while it was frozen?”
My dad explained that he had given the last three pies to my brother over 2 years ago. My brother said, “the first thing I did was bake one of them and eat it. It was delicious.” He saved the second one for last thanksgiving and the third one for this year. It was the last pie made by mother that anyone would ever eat.
As to a power failure, he’d had one for three days. After the first 45 minutes, he’d rushed the pie over to his neighbor’s (still working) freezer for safe-keeping. The pie was still frozen solid at the time and, he argued, unharmed.
My friend was a biologist. Normally when I see her consume something, I feel like it’s risk levels are acceptably low. So when dessert was served and she took a bite of the pie, I felt like maybe I could too. Still, I spent a long time thinking about it, voicing my objections. My brother assured me that he was just as happy to eat my share and I didn’t need to.
This pie would surely kill us all.
How could they not see that eating this pie, made by mother those six years ago, before any of knew she had cancer, when she seemed well, how could it not kill us to eat it? But they ate and didn’t die immediately, so I asked for a slice.
I stared at the tiny sliver on my plate for a long time. It was a different color than I remembered her pies. The fruit had browned slightly with age. I took a tiny bite. I chewed slowly. And then another bite.
Did it’s age change it’s taste? The texture was different. It was more like a pie made with jam than with whole slices of fruit. But the taste, I don’t know. I can’t think of it now. I couldn’t think of it between swallowing one bite and putting the next in my mouth. Now, I don’t know if I could even remember the taste of her pies when they were new: fruit picked and baked on the same day.
Instead with every bite, the undeniable truth – that this pie would certainly kill us in horrible ways – got harder to ignore. This was a mausoleum pie. Not a pie for the living.
I took three or four bites in total and then looked sadly at my plate. It was my last ever chance to eat my mother’s pie. Her apricot pie. Her specialty. Something she excelled at. Made with love. I would never again have the opportunity to eat such a thing and I couldn’t do it. I felt like an important moment had come and I wasn’t up to the task. I felt like crying. I worried I would forever remember the terrible moment of having to choose between total panic and rejecting the pie. My sister in law informed me kindly that it wasn’t a big deal. Nobody thought it was a big deal. Not my dad who provided the pie. Not my brother who saved the pie. Not my sister in law who baked the pie. Not the friend of my mom who arrived in time for dessert. Nobody.
Except for me.
I knew my truth of death-dealing pie was irrational, but there was no visible middle ground between joyous object and horrifying object. No room to grieve for the pie or for myself.
I’d also brought a pie. In case we decided not to eat the other one. It was a sweet potato pie. I took it with me when I left. My brother hoped I would leave it, but his wife told me not to, fondly patting his stomach. One left over pie for him to eat was enough.
Moving Quickly
So I went in this morning to see the social worker and she wasn’t gate keeper-y at all. This clinic gives T to anybody who won’t be harmed by it and at a wide variety of doses. “We have lots of genderqueer patients,” she said.
She asked me for a lot of personal background, like where I went to school and if I took drugs and whatnot. She asked about a definition of a man and a definition of a woman. I complained about gender essentialism, and that was ok and, indeed, she agreed when I said the question was “inherently essentialist” and problematic. No “in the wrong body” or other dualist things. It was very low key.
Then, afterwards, she took me down to have about 500 (ok, like 5 – 10) vials of blood removed to be tested for lord knows what. The most critical one (unless I turn out to have somehow picked up an STD, which is supremely (nearly divinely) unlikely) is a cholesterol test. T is a type of cholesterol, so if mine is high, being on T could push it out of hand. Actually, this is probably more of a concern if I move back to France and start feasting on baguettes with butter and cheese again.
I don’t like getting blood drawn. It smarts. Also, I need that blood! I’m totally using it right now! They also took some pee, which I’m much less attached to, but anyway. I should have probably asked more questions, but instead I was marvelling that my appointment with a prescribing doctor is next Tuesday. Holy Smokes!
I’m pretty excited. I came home and went out for a celebratory cup of coffee (it was too early in the day for a drink, also, blood loss would probably make me more easily drunk than normal. (just kidding.)
This is momentous, and (as always for me) I have some worries.
What if my friends stop talking to me or are transphobic / unsupportive? Also, what about my family? What if Nicole’s family gets all upset at her? I mean, I know that a lot of people are transphobic, but normally I think of them as neanderthals who somehow fell through a wormhole into modern times. But some people I care about might turn out to be secret neanderthals.
Also, this is going to change the way I smell. (I will soon reek like a teenage boy, alas. I’ll try to take showers much more often.) What if my dog doesn’t recognize me or dislikes me or something? I wish I could start this with her around so she would know it was still me with a different smell.
Anyway, despite worrying about my friends, family and dog, I was still up and I’m an American, so I decided to go shopping! Err, yeah, I went to REI (an adventure sports store) to look at socks . . . and biking stuff . . . and more biking stuff. I wanted gloves because last time I fell off my bike, my gloves saved my hands from road rash. I don’t have them here and anyway, they’re not warm enough for this time of year. So I was looking at gloves when a guy came up and asked me if I wanted help. I told him I wanted gloves.
“The women’s gloves are on the other side.”
“I don’t wear women’s clothes.”
“Women’s gloves will fit you better.”
“They have little flowers on them.” (Indeed, they do.)
“No, they’re exactly the same as the men’s gloves. Here are some without flowers. Try these on.”
“They fit exactly the same as the men’s gloves offset by one size.”
“See, I told you they were the same!” He seemed to think he had won. This went on for a long while, actually. He took me to another glove department, clearly hoping that I wouldn’t notice that he was handing me all women’s gloves and kept talking about the merits of each one. Then, after having run out of merits, he switched to stories about being in the airforce and how there are no vegans who are true athletes. Eventually, he realized that no matter how much he talked, I wasn’t going to commit to buying a pair of women’s gloves and so he wandered off.
Ok, yeah, so I have mixed feelings. On the one hand soon, I will never have to deal with that kind of crap again. On the other hand, I feel like I’m fleeing the fight against gender essentialism being fought by my brothers and sisters. Like, ‘so long suckers, have fun being kicked out of barber shops! I’m about to pass!’ Except that it’s not like I fought at all. No, I was a good little passive shopper and didn’t tell him to stick it up his ass, and just sort of waited for him to give up. So passive, I didn’t even get angry until later and instead just wondered why my anxiety was acting up. (‘Hm, it is as if my person has just come under attack. I wonder what caused that?’) Like, I’m just so used to it that it didn’t even really register.
Now, I want to go back and kick his ass. But I didn’t. I didn’t resort to violence. I didn’t use my words. I didn’t even absent myself. I bought men’s gloves when he wasn’t looking.
I don’t want to make this a bigger thing than it is. And, you know, I really don’t like to fight. I hate having to get into a fight to get my hair cut or whatever. I know that I should speak up, but sometimes, you know, I just want to buy some damn gloves from a store that hasn’t given me grief in the past. (I did ask him later if he had a men’s shirt in a smaller size, so I guess I made his lack of dissuasion clear. I dunno.) And, also, let’s be clear, the wrong doer in this situation was him, not me & my lack of self-defense.
I don’t know how strongly I’ll be able to conform to a male stereotype anyway, as I like art and dressing well and other suspect activities, so it’s not like I’ll stop being genderqueer or IDing thusly. And while I want to stand in solidarity with my gendervariant, metaphorical siblings, I don’t think that foregoing hormones is a way to do that. I mean, I would never ask that of anybody. If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your revolution.
My last main worry on the transition front has to do with me being a special snowflake. I’m rather unusual for a woman, but much more typical for a guy. I go from being tall to being average height. I go from having unexpected interests to encouraged ones. I go from cross dressing to not. I go from lesbian to guy-who-likes-women (I refuse to ID as straight. I just won’t). So yeah, I’m a special snowflake. Except that I don’t think my most interesting traits are tied in with my gender presentation. I’m a composer. I go on long bike trips. I blog. Certainly my experiences of gender inform and influence my entire life (and vice versa) but if I had nothing more going for me than being a tall, female cross dresser, well, that wouldn’t be so much to go on. (I’d still have my looks, but still.) I’m only a slightly less special snowflake. Also, I don’t plan to go stealth, so maybe I’m an even more special snowflake? Again, not so much to go on. My gender is really not the most exciting thing about me.
Happy Thanksgiving
Every 4th Thursday in November is the American holiday of Thanksgiving. It is basically a harvest festival where people gather together with family and friends to stuff themselves with food and feel grateful for things that are going well in their lives. Traditionally, people eat turkey and other autumn foods like cranberries and pumpkins. It became a federal holiday in 1941. There’s a cultural idea that this festival dates back to early colonial times. It’s true there was a feast of thanksgiving back with the Pilgrims, but it was in honor of a military victory and not repeated the next year. There would be similar festivities to celebrate other victories and these were held at any time of year. The had mostly fallen out of favor by the mid 1880’s, until Lincoln declared two of them in honor of Civil War victories.
Some folks who I’ve talked to described hearing this like learning there was no Santa Claus. Sorry. Personally, I like the idea of having a harvest festival and having a national holiday that is secular and non-statist-patriotic. It’s a cultural disaster that we’ve established this connection to that particular feast with the Pilgrims. It’s as if Germany established a holiday and said it commemorated their successful invasion of Poland. So I’d like to reject the Genocide Day aspect tacked on to what ought to be just be a harvest feast.
One of the traditions associated with the holiday is making a list of things that they are thankful for. I’m thankful that I get to see my family today, since it’s unexpected for me. Also, that I have the resources to deal with my immigration problems and will (eventually) be able to return to my school. I’m thankful that I had a useful telephone conversation with the foreign student office. I’m thankful that I will soon be getting one last needed document in the mail. I’m thankful for their advice. I’m thankful that stupid “anti-terrorist” restrictions on who can learn about what kind of technology in the UK won’t apply to me. Indeed, I’m grateful to have the opportunity to laugh at the idea of a Silicon Valley native sneaking overseas to get access to sekrit British technology. I mean, not that they don’t have any. At one time, they had a total monopoly on the secret of excellent musket design. It’s just that, well, the silicon wafer computer chip was invented in my neighborhood, so to speak. The ipod was invented in my home town. (My dad worked on the nano.) Alarmingly, as the US now spends very little money on R&D, it may be the case that Brits do have some advanced technology not available here. Um, but we invented MySpace. Anyway, I’m getting off topic.
As soon as my admission letter and proof of lodging come in the mail, I forward them off to my visa service who goes and stands in line at the British consulate in LA and then I should be able to travel very shortly afterwards. I want to believe it will be like a week longer, but that’s overly optimistic. I need to get plane tickets (it turns out that same day sales are rather pricey (my credit card bill is for $1500)) but I don’t want to do it until I have a better idea of when exactly and at the same time, I need to be concerned about financial details. Maybe I can fly standby. So, yeah, I’m thankful that it’s all going to work out, hopefully soon.
Sometimes people say “Happy T-day” where the T stands for both Thanksgiving and turkey. However, I’m a vegetarian. My friend Sarah sent me a poem in honor of this:
The turkey bird,
it cannot fly.
I’d rather have
a piece of pie.
Transgender Day of Remembrance
This last Tuesday was Transgender Day of Remembrance. It’s a day of mourning and protest in memory of folks killed for being transgender. Alas, trans folks are the most likely group to experience hate-based violence. The FBI reports, alas, that hate crimes were up last year, which implies that it was a bad year for trans folks as well.
Part of the reason that hate crimes are so high for trans people is because they are often a more vulnerable group. Queers in general experience economic discrimination. Trans folks get it much much worse. Imagine if you had to lie about your job history. It would be hard to get a good job. A disproportionate number of trans people end up in sex work. Many trans people end up homeless. (50% of MTF transsexuals lose their jobs when they transition.) An economically vulnerable class is also a physically vulnerable class.
What can I do about this?
Ok, so you don’t go around beating anybody up. And you would call the cops or something if you saw it. Good for you. But you can do more.
Trans folks are vulnerable due to non-violent hostility in work environments and other types of discrimination. So don’t discriminate against trans people! If somebody around you does, say something. Something like, “that’s not funny.” Or “I have trans friends and don’t appreciate your saying that.” Or “I think X prefers the opposite pronouns and therefore we should use them.”
Obviously, you should treat trans people with respect. Outing folks is not cool. Making fun of somebody who had unknowing contact with a passing transperson is not cool. Jargon free: If your friend think a person is hot and then finds out the person is trans, don’t make fun of your friend. It is possible to both be trans and hot and that is awesome. Or if your TSA/immigration coworker patted down somebody, don’t make fun of them for that, and especially not where the somebody can hear. (Just sayin’)
no, alas, I didn’t go to the protest
There was one in SF, but I was occupied with related business. Namely, sitting in the waiting room of SF’s gender clinic. The website said to show up at 2:00 for new patient intake. It did not mention that this particular intake is not in the building’s main intake. I should have asked somebody if I was in the right place, but I was too busy feeling extremely daunted. So I waited for nearly 2 hours and then got to talk to a nurse, who asked me questions.
What is your earliest memory of having a gender?
Please leave your answer to that question in a comment before going on reading here. It’s ok, I’ll wait. hmmm hmm hmm hmmm hmmm
So I said something about having to wear a skirt to catholic school. That’s not what she meant. She meant something more like, what’s the earliest memory of you having a concept of the gender that you would come to embody in adulthood? Like, when did you first realize that you were (really, deeply, actually) a girl or boy and what was that experience?
Leave a new comment answering the second question. Take your time. I’ll still be here.
Having been interviewed about such topics multiple times in the Netherlands, you’d think I’d have an answer for these things but I don’t. Geez, I spend my time trying NOT to think about these sorts of questions. I just, I dunno, write music and stuff. Also, I have philosophical issues with the phrase “true self.” And “in the wrong body.” Like, this body got me all the damn way here, so it’s not wrong. What, am I supposed to long for a brain transplant? I AM my body. Dualism is bullshit. I’m tall. I’m somewhat handsome. I can ride a unicycle. That’s not a “wrong body.” It’s just a body that inexplicably refuses to grow a goatee.
And without dualism, you also lose the idea of “true self.” My true self is sitting here on the sofa, typing. My true self drug it’s ass down to san Francisco to wait for hours to answer gatekeeper questions. Ok, sure, there are parts of me that are absolutely non-negotiable. And there are parts that are becoming increasingly stubborn. And this inexplicable lack of goatee ability has some inhibiting impact on my ideal presentation. Part of my problem with the idea of “true self” is that I think it robs me of agency. I decided to drag my ass down to answer annoying questions. I can pick whether I want to do this, or go nuts, or do something else. I construct my own identity by mixing the negotiable with the not, having conversations with myself, others, the world around me. I am my own man. Mine. Created by me. And since I own me, and since me IS my body and since everything I do all the time is changing me, I should get to be in the drivers seat about what I want to do to me and how I want to change over time. Some stuff is going to happen no matter what I think about it (eventually, I will die. Alas). Some stuff, I can effect.
The whole gatekeeper thing annoys me. If I have to ask somebody permission before painting my bicycle, it’s not really my bike. It’s a bike that they control. So if I want to modify my body, and I have to get permission first, then it means that they are in control. My body doesn’t belong to me, then, it belongs to a medical establishment. And as we’re rejecting dualism here, that means ME. I belong to the medical establishment.
that’s crap.
Rather than try to explain this worldview, I got quiet and defensive. I’m NOT in the wrong body! *sigh*
They didn’t chuck me out on my ear, but instead made an appointment for me to see a social worker, a week from T-day. That person can refer me to a doc who can write prescriptions. This is the normal procedure. The nurse insisted that I see one particular social worker. It’s funny that when I was in Holland, they wanted to send me off to transition and thought it was odd that I wanted to discuss it further first and here they seem to want me to discuss it further.
I really suck at lying. I probably suck at truth telling too. I would do terribly on a lie detector test, overthinking everything. This is why I got rejected from England. These concise, tell-em-that-they-want-to-hear answers are not easy for me. Still, I’m considering trying to lie anyway. Rawr! I’m very binary identified! I am incredibly manly! I have been convinced of my manliness from my earliest memory! I have no doubts or concerns whatsoever! My family is entirely supportive!
Jean says that is a whole lot of fabrication . . . enough to make a suit out of. (Only problem is that I’d still be naked afterwards.) I don’t know. Maybe a social worker will tell me how to bring this up with my family. (Or maybe the fam reads my blog. Yikes. Meh.)
Speaking of my family . . .
My brother is planning on baking a pie for thanksgiving that my mother made. My mother died in 2002. But she was really in to preserving fruit. It broke my heart to throw away the outdated jars of applesauce that she had given me in 2001. she didn’t just put things in jars, but also froze them. My mom was also the pie queen (more so than Lois). When apricots were in season, she sprung into action, making jam, preserves, canned half apricots, frozen apricots and pies. She made so many pies. But instead of baking them, she parked them in the freezer and baked them when needed. My mom left behind a freezer full of frozen pies. And her pies were really fantastic.
I don’t know, but I’m guessing that her last pie probably dates from 2001. That’s a six year old pie. Freezer burn + morbidity all in one package. I’m not sure my mother would want us to honor her memory by eating a six year old pie. I have trepidation regarding the experience, frankly. Aside from all the concerns associated with eating a pie that’s old enough to be in the first grade, I feel that it’s likely that a pall will be cast over the gathering. It will be a pie of mourning.
So at that very opportune moment, I can say, “So I have an appointment with a social worker a week from today . . .”
I’m sure the social worker wouldn’t approve. Also, I wish I was making this whole thing up.