Les Hutchins & Polly Moller @ the Luggage Store

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Les Hutchins & Polly Moller @ the Luggage Store, originally uploaded by celesteh.

Hey Bay Area people, I’ve got a show coming up on 3 January in San Francisco. Start out the new year with live music!
I’ll be playing laptop, didjeridu and some synthesizer. Specifically, I’ll be using my live sampling application, as heard in Paris, Berlin, the Hague and now San Francisco! It will be a duo with monster-flutist Polly Moller. (Note that she is not literally a monster but her flute playing is what you would get if King Kong or Godzilla played flute – and were really good at it.)
If Polly’s name sounds familiar with you, it’s because she was the lead of the flute-fronted rock band that I played in some years ago. Her flute playing then, as now, was full of agro tones and weird-awesome sounds that you don’t expect from a flute. She’s also really fun to improv with and her sounds work really well with electronic processing. I can do stuff with her that I haven’t been able to do with other flutists.
(Also, just to add, I’m awesome too.)
The show is at 1007 Market St in SF at the Luggage Store Gallery. It’s easily accessible via BART or muni (take the N line from the Caltrain station). Admission is $6 – $10 sliding scale. But if all you’ve got is $3 or $0 or something, they’ll still let you in.
The show starts at 8 with Jen Baker (Trombone) and Damon Smith (Double Bass). Those two formed half of the Just in Time Quartet, of which I was a member. Damon was also my bass teacher. He’s really cool and knows how to throat sing. Jen is also cool, but I don’t know her work as well.
Then at 9, Polly and I are on for 45 minutes or so.
I know some people have been curious about my Evenfall Minimodular synth. Polly describes it as “vintage” but it’s less than 10 years old. They are, however, rare. A guy in the south bay made them. At the time they were new, they were absolutely your best bet for starting into analog synths. It’s small, portable, yet a fully featured modular. Like an Arp, it has a bunch of normalized connections (it doesn’t need to be patched, but can be). And it’s got a MIDI in. The Evenfall guy thought it would be a raver’s dream. I don’t know if the trance/house folks ever got into this, but, it really should have been their dream. It’s flexible enough to be anybody’s dream, since it’s modular. I’ll be patching it and otherwise being arty. So here’s a chance to see / hear it in action.
The poster image is kind of random. I was hoping to find a picture of Polly and I together, but then gave up and used this snapshot I took of a peace sign at the Cesar Chavez park

Coming Out for Christmas

On Christmas Eve, I had my handbell playing debut. It was only my 4th time holding them. They’re heavy percussion instruments, like a disassembled marimba or something. They’re exactly what the name implies: bells you ring by hand. I had some big ones, F4 and D#4. I feel like I’m ahead of the curve for only my 4th attempt. So far ahead, I finished the piece several bars ahead of everybody else. (It’s hard to come up with page turns that work when everybody reads the same score.)
My third time playing them was the day before, the 23rd. Since the bells were in Palo Alto, I stayed over the whole holiday in the South Bay. I came down for rehearsal and then had lunch with my dad. The rehearsal foreshadowed the performance for me. My mind wasn’t on the bells, but on coming out to dad.
I met my dad at a chinese restaurant. Sarah gave me a lift and my dad invited her to lunch also, much to my relief. After we started eating, I said that I had been thinking about things a long time and I was very happy to say that I was taking T.
My dad chewed on his noodles.
Finally he said something about how it might change my attitudes.
I said I didn’t think I would become a conservative, and then immediately regretted the way I’d said it.
No, my dad explained, I might start eating like my brother and want to consume vast amounts of meat!
I have been kind of craving protein lately . . .. (This kind of seals it for me in my research of the cultural equation where meat is masculinity. I need no more evidence.)
So he more or less didn’t really react. Sarah said it’s what she had expected. I hadn’t known what to expect. I felt weird about it and stressed for the next few hours.
After lunch, Sarah and I went up to the San Francisco zoo for Daniella’s birthday party. There’s an ice rink there and it was open into the night, even though the rest fo the zoo was closed. Sarah and I were super late, so Daniella’s friends passed the time looking for the lions, until they finally started skating and we joined them. Sarah wanted to look at sleeping animals in violation of zoo rules, but all we saw were gigantic sleeping reindeer and some chilly looking flamingoes.
(About 48 hours later, some zoo visitors got a very close look at one of the lions. Some poor kid was mauled last night by an escaped lion, right next to where we were hanging out two days previous. Sarah was perturbed to learn this on the news, but I don’t feel like we just had a brush with danger.)
The next day, Christmas eve, I was sitting in Sarah’s living room, trying to get a p5 glove to work with SuperCollider when my dad called with a question. He said I sounded terribly depressed. I said I wasn’t. He said he had a question for me. I said ok. He decided he shouldn’t ask me over the phone. I said ok. He hung up.
I spent the rest of the day worrying about what he might have wanted to ask. So when I played handbells, my mind wasn’t totally on it.
After services, Sarah, Daniella and I went to the house of Sarah’s mother and grandmother. They made Swedish pancakes for dinner. It was fantastically tasty, but extremely sugary. I got into a punchy, post-sugar mood and then we went to another xmas party and then another with a glass of wine or so for me at each.
I woke up on Christmas at the crack of noon. Oh crap, I was supposed to go to Brother Bob’s early to help with cooking. Instead my holiday threesome (Sarah, Daniella and I) rolled into Bob’s house at the same time as my dad. My brother and his wife showed up shortly thereafter. We all chatted and then Bob put me to work cooking. My dad came into the kitchen and asked to talk to me. We went out into Bob’s garage.
My dad looked me seriously in the eyes. I have a question, he said. “Are you suicidal?”
“What?” This was not what I was expecting.
“I spent some time on the internet reading about what you’re doing. I want to make sure you’re not suicidal.”
Oh!! He read statistics about unhappy closetted, non-transitioning people. My dad was worried about me. My heart felt slightly warmed and relieved. No, no, no, don’t worry about that, I said.
Ok, he said, In that case . . . “have you ever contemplated a cue ball?”
“What?” I asked. He repeated himself. I had no idea where he was going with this. “No, I can’t say I have.”
“You should ask your uncle about his grandfather.”
“He was a pool shark?!” One of them was a dentist in San Francisco about a hundred years ago. Maybe he played pool on the side? Here was some new family history.
“No” my dad said and paused in the way he does when he’s about to make a clever point. All this setup is the clearest part of the day in my mind. But the punchline? I can’t remember how he delivered it. My great grandfather was apparently very bald. That could happen to me. I can’t say I haven’t worried about going bald, but um. at least we were in familiar territory. My dad was trying to talk me out of something. He does that a lot. This had become just another mundane scheme to be discouraged. I felt great relief and my heart warmed even further. I might have smiled.
He turned serious again, bringing up health risks. He repeated a few times that he didn’t want to bury me. I assured him that we were in agreement there as I don’t especially want to be buried. He told me that no surgery was without risks, which is true. Then he told me that he thought my mom got her brain tumor from her last surgery, which was for a stomach problem. I expressed doubt on this, but he started talking about how her brain tumor was so agressive it could have dated from a time so recent to it’s discovery. He said that 90 percent of all brain tumors come from the lung getting punctured.
I was losing the thread again. Mom’s stomach thing didn’t go near her lungs . . .. Maybe he’s confused about top surgery? I told him that I didn’t think my lungs were going to get punctured. He just wanted me to be careful, he didn’t want me to die before him.
I told him that I was moving into male risk categories and that I would possibly live shorter, but not that much. I looked at the corner of the garage. “I’d rather live shorter and be happier.” I said. Then I smiled and put my hand on his shoulder. “Dad, you told me something really smart a few years ago. You said that if I put off dealing with my troubles now, they would just be worse later. And I didn’t want to hear it because of this. But now I’m doing it and I feel really good about it.”
He awkwardly turned to leave the garage. I felt profound relief at the termination of the conversation. And then I drank moderate amounts of alcohol for the rest of the evening.
While waiting for the train back to Berkeley this afternoon, I noticed that I was feeling kind of anxious and wondered if maybe I should have not decreased my zoloft. But man, if all I have from that is mild anxiousness the next day, well, I think I can manage.
I am so tired right now. Daniella asked me today how my mom would have reacted to my transitioning. She would have been extremely upset. But the brain tumor changed everything, didn’t it? I want to think that if she could possibly think anything now, that she would think that I did the best I could when she was sick. I think that makes up for a lot of things that happened before. And precludes any afterwards. So what’s there to think about what my mom might think other than that I did my best and if it wasn’t good enough, well, it was my best. She sent me an email months and months before she got really sick, before the surgery my dad blames, about how she was having memory problems. And I didn’t write back for some reason, I don’t know. (It wasn’t good enough, but it was my best.) And my dad struggles with that too. How could a quarter of somebody’s brain go bad without me noticing? It must have been sudden. It must not have been noticeable. It’s not my fault. Of course it’s not. She followed a very typical trajectory for people with brain cancer. Nobody notices until it’s really bad and then she lives for maybe six more months. What causes it? Well, what causes a tiger to escape from the zoo one day but another? Our very existence is so improbable, what’s a few near misses along the way? What’s a fluke when our whole existence is a fluke? I might have been anyone, prior to the moment of conception.
I imagine my parents, my dad in grad school, my mom no longer working, holding their baby. This impossible thing they just made, in their arms. And them, with money tight, dreaming dreams. Of what I would be. Their little girl. Only god could know what lay ahead. No mortal would ever do anything if they knew. And so I didn’t go according to plan, but what did?
Happy Holidays.

Pronouns: A Fast Introduction

The problem: English lacks a commonly used gender-neutral personal pronoun. Also, sometimes people switch pronouns.

There used to be a singular “they” for unknown individuals. Shakespeare used it. It’s making a comeback, but it’s imperfect as it’s never used to refer to a person that you know. There are a punch of proposed gender neutral pronouns (GNP), including Spivak and my favorites: ze and hir: “Ze laughed. I called hir. Hir head hurts. I am hirs. Ze feeds hirself.” Of course, the way to get things into common usage is to use them.
Ok, so what about people who change pronouns? Obviously, the solution is to refer to them the way they wish. If you don’t know what you’re supposed to use, go with a GNP.
Then, there are temporal issues. I know some folks who have transitioned. Some I only knew afterwards, but know stories about them that are from before. I usually tell those stories with the pronoun that I’ve always used. “When she was a boy, she went to math camp.” Then, there are folks I knew before they came out. I use the pronouns that matched them at the time of the story. “She was a Mills student then, but now he’s at UCLA.” If I’m talking about a public figure or writing academically, I’ll use the current pronoun. “Wendy Carlos was still known as ‘Walter’ when she released Switched on Bach.” I can’t imagine a situation where using the most recent pronoun would be in error.
For myself, I prefer male or gender-neutral pronouns. Since I haven’t really changed appearance much, I think it would be unfair for me to get annoyed when old friends refer to me as ‘she.’ Mostly, it doesn’t bother me, but sometimes it’s like fingernails on chalkboard. I feel so much more comfortable with being ‘he’ or ‘ze’ that my tolerance of ‘she’ is declining. I mean, imagine if everyone referred to you for a day by the wrong pronoun. That would be really weird and uncomfortable, right?

Christmas Letter

Dear Friends,

It’s been quite a year for the Hutchins / Wilkins family. We started out by moving out furriest member, Xena the dog, to Europe with us. She didn’t much enjoy the flight, but soon settled into her new home in The Hague. We took her with us on several trips.

Last May, after Les finished the Sonology course at the Royal conservatory of the Netherlands, we set out to bike along the Loire to follow in the footsteps of Joan of Arc. We went from Orléans to Tours in several days, taking Xena along with us in a dog trailer. This worked out so well that we took Xena, the folding bikes and folding trailer with us wherever we went. When Les played a gig in Berlin, Xena and the bike stuff came along too – and on further to visit Prague and Dresden. Our next bike trip left from The Hague and took us through Antwerp to Brussels. We were scheduled to go further, but the last day of that trip included several disasters, including Xena’s trailer getting hit by a flatbed truck and a junkie trying to steal Nicole’s bike. Still, after the trailer was repaired and after Les’ concert in Austria, we were off on another bike trip, this time to Copenhagen. We biked about a thousand kilometers through the Netherlands, northern Germany and Denmark until we finally ran out of good maps and took the train the last hundred kilometers to Copenhagen. Fortunately, by complete coincidence, we arrived just in time for Gay Pride!

For all of our bike trips, we usually spent the night in a tent and packed it and all our gear up the next morning, loaded it onto the bike and were off. European campgrounds are really nice. One in France brought us fresh baguettes and croissants every morning. One in the Netherlands had pizza and beer. It was quite different than my experiences camping in the US. We hardly roughed it all, except on our first night in Denmark, where several hotels had closed, as had the advertised campground, it was pouring rain and we ended up in a hastily pitched leaking tent in a cornfield! (The next several nights were spent in hotel rooms . . ..)

Alas, soon after returning form Copenhagen, it was time to move again. In September, we packed all our stuff on boxes and mailed to the US and England. We would soon be separated, but first Nicole helped Les move to a new home in Birmingham. Les expects to get a PhD at the University there in music composition in 3 or 4 years. So we loaded our bikes again, took them to a ferry and moved Xena to England. Once Les was settled, Nicole returned to the US, where she applied and was accepted to San Jose state University’s Library Science program. She will start her masters degree in the spring of 2008.

Les’s program is going well in England. Due to a visa mix-up, Xena is wintering in the UK, while Les takes a much-need vacation on the West Coast to catch up with old friends. This unexpected time off has provided Les with an opportunity to pursue a long sought-after sex change and he started taking male hormones in December.

We hope your year was filled with blessings and wish everybody a happy 2008!

(I’m half-tempted to mail this.)
(edited to incorporate Vince’s suggestions.)

I don’t want to be whiny, but

. . . but since I cut my zoloft dose in half a few days ago, I’m starting to experience negative emotions like a normal person. Er, yeah, only minor headaches from withdrawl, so that’s good. And in other health-related news – (I used to think that getting sent to hell would mean spending an eternity at a dinner party where the person next to you described all the minutiae of their health concerns in great detail. I hope my blog isn’t too much like that.) I went to SF yesterday to learn to give myself my own needle sticks. I was thinking maybe I could just look it up on wikipedia and try it that way. I mean, how hard can it be? Yeah. so the nurse showed me how to do it, but I didn’t do it myself at all. Actually, I was kind of freaking out when she jabbed me with the needle. She seems to think it will take me a few months before I’ll be able to do it. Alas and woe. Not only is it a pain to get in to the clinic, but I’m paying out of pocket for getting somebody to prick me.

In case you’re wondering how to give yourself an injection into a muscle . . . first wash your hands. Then swab off the top of the bottle containing the injectables. Draw some air into the needle. Stab the bottle with the needle. Push the air out into the bottle. Draw back (a lot) to suck the sesame oil into the needle. Stare at the needle as the oil slowly trickles in. Push up on the needle until the black plunger is even with the 1 ml line (or with whatever line you need). Flick at the needle to get out big air bubbles (these aren’t such a big deal when you’re trying not to hit a vein). Take the needle out of the bottle. Fine the “belly” of the target muscle. If you’re covered with freckles and moles, you can use these for navigation. Clean the spot with rubbing alcohol. Relax the muscle. No, really. Try exhaling. Relax it. Really. They tell me this is possible. Hold the needle perpendicular to the skin to be stabbed. Relax, damn it. Jab yourself. Stay relaxed (ha ha ha). Slowly push extremely thick oil out and into your muscle. When you push the plunger all the way down, the needle will suddenly (and somewhat painfully) retract. Put on a bandaid.
Yeah, so as soon as the needle stabbed me, I clenched up like a mofo. This is undesirable because it means that I won’t absorb as much and because it really smarts today. The needle starts tearing up my poor muscle when it’s all clenched. Ouch. Once every two weeks isn’t all that often. This isn’t overly traumatic or time consuming. Using the jell would probably be more hassle. But, alas, this is annoying.
Anyway, I went out for lunch today with an old friend. And when he asked “what’s new?” I took a deep breath and said, “not much, how about you?”
October 11th is National Coming out Day. Once, in the 90’s, I played a concert with the LGBT marching band on that day and the conductor gave a rousing speech about how everybody should come out. It was such a big deal in the 90’s! You don’t even know. But at some point, I just sort of, well, stopped. I haven’t come out in ages. I mean, it’s one of the advantages of being visibly queer. I can mention my girlfriend once and folks look at my wardrobe and then we all rely on common sense. So I’m not in the habit of coming out.
I got my haircut last night and I worked up the courage to tell my hair dresser and she squealed her delighted support. (I love San Francisco.) And then, I was at a bar after wussing out on my injection and I told a guy I know and he said, “really? That’s awesome!” (again, I love San Francisco.) And, I mean, it’s a big deal, but it’s cool and stuff. Like, I dunno, coming out always seemed so serious, like some sort of civic duty. I guess I could say to folks, “hey, I got a new girlfriend! She’s awesome!” and that might be coming out. And that’s more what this is like. So I get all worked up and don’t want to come out because it’s intimidating, when it should be more like having an awesome new girlfriend. But, alas, I’m still intimidated.
I called my brother today and asked if him if he was keeping up with this blog. Yep, he is. (Hi Paul.) On the one hand, it’s kind of impersonal, but on the other hand, it’s a really awkward conversation. Traditionally, people send letters, but that seems to dramatic. This is the 21st century. I think most folks might tend more towards being surprised than shocked. Writing a letter makes it seem more shocking and scandalous than merely surprising. Anyway, my brother was really cool, which is what I hoped for.
And I called my dad today and . . . we debated whether or not waterboarding is torture. And then my head exploded. I’m going to tell my dad in person. (My brother said, “doesn’t he read your blog too?” Um, I don’t think so?) Then I can hear his theory on the difference between the left and the right in America. He seems to be very pleased with the theory and wants to disclose it in person. It has something to do with evolutionary theory.
I still have no mail form my letting agent. I’m starting to suspect that I won’t be able to get on my booked flight back to England, since I still don’t have everything I need to apply for a visa and it’s less than a week form xmas.
It’s been raining like crazy and apparently, my building had construction defects related to the water proofing. So we just started getting those fixed, like, the day I got back here. This is not the best timing to be peeling the skin off the building, since it’s actually raining a lot. Predictably, it started leaking a couple of days ago. Today, the leak was fixed. And then it started raining again and now there’s more leaking. The water has punched a hole in the ceiling, which is dripping in earnest. And the plasterboard of the wall is getting all messed up.
Oh, yeah and when I tried to install Mac OS X 10.5, it said I had a bad master boot record and refused to mount my hard drive and then some files disappeared when I rebooted in 10.4 and I fear my hard drive might be dying again.
And xmas shopping? Barely started.
So yeah, my home, which I own, is leaking. I have to come out to my dad. And all of my friends who don’t read this blog. (BTW, if you’re reading this, you should feel empowered to tell people. I mean, I should probably tell my dad myself and also my godmother, but friends and acquaintances can gossip to their heart’s delight – just as if I had an awesome new girlfriend.) The conversation with my brother went really well, but was still stressful just to have it. I have to be able to stab myself in the leg while keeping it relaxed and have pain from failing to be relaxed last night. My immigration status is still in disarray. My computer’s broke (maybe), and I don’t know what to get you for xmas. And I wanted to whine a bit about these things: *whine* ok, thanks.
Um, on a more positive note, I had my second shot. There was a blog several months ago called “The Man Project” where the writer gave herself a dose of T and chronicled what the two weeks were like. My experience was very similar to hers. After two weeks, your body is still treating it like a one time fluke. The first sign of non-flukiness is zits. I started getting them in earnest on Sunday or Monday. (I know I said my voice was lower. One of my friends says the lower pitch is in my normal range for when I’m relaxed. So it’s only a sign of happiness, which is nice of it’s own right.) I’m all, like, happy to have zits. I bet the novelty of that won’t last overly long! Ha ha ha ha!

Not Buying It

There are no CDs on my xmas list this year. I love music, but I’m done with major record labels. I just read that the RIAA is trying to remove financial aid from college students who file share. Enough is enough. If they want to prevent fans from going to school, I’m going to prevent my money from going to their companies.
There are enough (real) indies and podcasts and the like to keep me in great music for years. Indeed, there is also Pandora, which requires no capital investment at all and keeps me in good music by analyzing what I say I like. It actually works and they have classical music now too.
Alas, Pandora is not a real break from the RIAA because they track music based on CD barcodes. Everything they play is therefore at least somewhat corporate. So I guess I’m giving their money to the RIAA (and indies) instead of mine. (And, alas, as I have no barcodes, I’ll never turn up in a playlist.)
Frankly, I’m highly displeased with the state of media distribution in America. I purchased Battlestar Galactica from the iTunes store – because I liked the show. It has great writing and acting, etc. And then I learned from the writer’s strike that none of the creative people are seeing any money form my purchases. I have not yet decided how to proceed. If I buy DVDs, the creative people get some revenue, but too little and I’m stuck with a bunch of media when I probably only want to watch an episode once. And I’m left without instant gratification. In fact, if nobody who does anything productive is getting money from my buying it online, why shouldn’t I just pirate it? The writers are getting the same amount whether I get it from bittorrent or iTunes.
So yeah, in solidarity with the writer’s strike, I’m doing a consumer strike. Screw the media companies.

Amtrak

Ghost Town

The Capitol Corridor Rocks

There exists a really great Amtrak train that goes from Sacramento to San Jose – right by my house. It is the fastest way to get from my home to downtown San Jose – way faster than driving in most traffic conditions. (Only a little faster than driving when traffic is really, really, light.)

I love national rail trains. This one is a good example because it has a cafe car that sells coffee, tea and beer and snacks and discount BART tickets (20% off). All of the trains have a bunch of electrical plugs so you can use your laptop. Most have wifi. I dig sitting in a train car, sipping tea and checking my email while speeding towards my destination. Or I can stare out the window (at a real ghost town in the south bay (see picture)). It’s really low stress.
And once I get to Diridon in San Jose (or Great America in Santa Clara, I usually get on my bike. The trains have a couple of bike cars, each of which can fit at least 4 bikes. I’ve never seen these filled up. It stops at a couple of BART stations, one of which is the Coliseum in Oakland (the other is north of Berkeley). And the final stop in San Jose is a light rail station as well as a Caltrain station, so you can continue on to Gilroy, head back up the Peninsula towards SF, get on a bus to Santa Cruz or to Santa Barbara – Diridon is a major transit hub, as is the Emeryville station and a few others on the route. When I was a kid, the public transit in the South Bay sucked, but it has gotten a whole lot better. I could live down there without a car now.
You can buy Capitol Corridor tickets with credit or ATM at any station and get a substantial discount if you buy a 10 ride pass. Or, if you want to pay cash, you have to go to a station with an office, like San Jose or Emeryville.
I want to tell everybody I know about this train. You can get to San Jose in an hour! with your bike! And lunch! And beer! It’s so civilized! I started a facebook group for the route (shut up, you’re a geek too).
Of course, nothing is perfect. The train should come more often. There are only around 7 trains a day between the East Bay and South Bay. Increased ridership would help with this. And, of course, more trains would increase ridership. The board is rumored to be responsive to rider concerns, so asking for more trains may well cause there to be more trains. So give it a ride and ask for more!
The route is a joint project between Amtrak, the state of California and the counties which it passes through, so it has it’s own governing board made up of representatives from all these groups. Ok, every other (foreign) rail that I’ve ever ridden allows people to take dogs – sometimes making them buy expensive dog tickets. Dog owners shouldn’t be trapped in cars any more than anybody else. They should start selling dog tickets for this train too. Since it’s run by a representative government and whatnot, they will allow dogs if enough people ask for it.
In summary, the Capitol corridor is awesome and I only wish I could use it more. You should ride it too.

Reality Check

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?

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!”