I went today for a psychiatric assessment. I spend a lot of time being evaluated, alas. This one was at a Tower Hamlets Primary Care Trust medical center. It seemed like most of the other people there were for more body-focused medical stuff. It didn’t have the kind of security that Dutch mental health centers have. Indeed, the doors opened automatically as I approached.
My appointment letter was for “Ms Celeste,” which is better than Miss, at least. The receptionist looked at the letter and looked at me and asked who the appointment was for. I said my name. She looked at me a long second and then said ok and told me to sit.
The shrink was youngish. He had a student sitting in, a man about my age. I said I was ok with that. “Just ignore him” said the shrink. Right.
He had me go on and on about my childhood. Which, frankly, is not that interesting. Any fascinating memoir of my life would start later. I mean, the first time a gender shrink asks you about your childhood, you get to construct a narrative of yourself in regards to gender. Did you always know something was different? Were you blissfully unaware? Did others point out locations of difference that you didn’t see for yourself? All of this tempered by the understanding that the receiver of said narrative is a hurdle between you and hormones/surgery/whatever you’ve come for.
So I banged out a narrative for an hour about how I’m a totally reasonable sane person. He wasn’t a gender specialist, so when I said FTM, he asked what that stood for. So gender issues weren’t even that present in the conversation. He did use the phrase “Gender Identity Disorder” though, and it got my hackles up a bit.
I don’t like being called disordered. At all. The catholic church calls homosexuality “intrinsically disordered,” which is a value judgment that I’m not keen on either. Why must every location of difference be called a disorder? Could it be a condition instead? Some other medical phrase? I’m proud of who I am. Indeed, to be different means that you have to be proud or be crushed. My identity is not a disorder, it’s just atypical.
Then funding came up. He asked me when my student visa expires and started talking about “planned elective surgery.” Which, I mean, Tower Hamlets is not awash in cash. It’s one of the poorest boroughs in London. Why should they allocate their tax money to a foreign student? I don’t know how NHS funding works, but it seems to be geographically divided. Are the residents of Tower Hamlets the main funding source for their primary care trust? Or does it come out of a large pot and then is distributed by population?
In order to change my documents in California, I need to get top surgery. Also, to be able to go swimming or wear a T shirt ever again in my life. So if the NHS won’t fund it, I can . . . wait or self-fund. I don’t think it’s reasonable to try to get it too far from where I’m actually living, so surgery in California is not a good plan unless I move back there. It’s possible for people in the UK to “go private” which means pay themselves for stuff rather than wait for the NHS to decide to pay for it. I have no idea how much this would cost here, nor if it would effect them covering my T prescriptions or anything else. Aside from whether or not I could afford it, there’s issues about recovery time. It’s long. I won’t be able to lift things for weeks. This sort of situation requires close friends and I’ve only lived here since August. So even if I got NHS funding, it still might not be a reasonable plan. So maybe I’m destined to wait years no matter what.
When I do get it, if I still have savings, the first thing I’m going to do is buy the bike jersey I’ve been wanting, which I so can’t wear right now.
Tag: trans
Transfeminist Disucssion
I went to panel discussion on Trans Feminism at the London Transgender Film Festival yesterday, which I think was a very good discussion, although emotions did run high. The panel had four people, two of whom were mtf and two of whom were F2-genderqueer.
Near the start, one of the panelists made an excellent point about how gender is a force acting on everyone in society, but trans people end up being perceived as responsible for all gender because of transition. (I’m not stating this quite right.)
The panelists were talking about second wave and third wave feminism. Bridget, a panelist, talked about conflicts between second wave feminism and trans people and noted that the people in conflict were feeling wounded and attacked by society in general. And the people who were the most vocal were the most hurt. And that, I think, shed a lot of light on the conflict between radfems and trans people. Both of those groups have common cause, but both of them have suffered terribly under groups that (falsely) appear to have commonality with the other.
It also came up that a lot of women’s groups avoid having a trans policy to avoid controversy and then trans people don’t know if they’re welcome or not. Given the history of acrimony, these groups should be willing to make a statement for trans inclusion. For example, one of the Take Back the Night Marches last year was not listed as “official” because it had trans participation . . . which is so terrible because trans women have an even higher incidence of rape perpetuated against them than do cis women.
One of the audience members was involved in some women’s march in London (the one that shut down their mics rather than let a sex worker speak!) and she was talking about how she was in favor of trans inclusion and everybody come along, etc. But she wasn’t speaking on behalf of the group, so it was an invitation to push for inclusion.
This didn’t come up, but I want to note that “not having a policy” is a position of privilege. Cis people get to avoid having discussions they’d rather avoid. And then trans people get mixed messages about whether or not they should show up. And then, if they do come, all of the controversy is directed at them. So their quiet allies can avoid having to get involved. I’m a bit bitter about this because I got involved last spring with a feminist thing without an official policy and, as I was on T barely four months by then and feeling incredibly vulnerable anyway, a controversy focused on my own gender presentation was hugely stressful and not ok.
Anyway, somebody in the audience wanted to note that the experiences of trans women resonate with dysphoric (read: eating disorder) cis girls, and trans feminism is thus a valuable contribution to feminism because it benefits cis women. This did not go over well. I know she was well-intentioned, but it simultaneous came off as “they think THEY have it bad, but look at you (exotic) lot!” and “well, your stuff also matters to REAL females.”
The person sitting in front of me tried to defend Julie Bindel, by raising the point that Bindel apologized for the tone, but not the content, of her transphobic column in 2004. But she gave up quickly. During the break, she said she had been hoping for a panel of ftms talking about how we still care about feminism. And she wanted to talk about socialization. Given that this is a cornerstone of why some feminists are transphobic, it’s easy to see why the panel wasn’t keen to bring it up. Also, I’m concerned about why a feminist discussion that mostly included ftms would be more desirable than one that included mtfs. The implications trouble me.
What was largely lost in the whole discussion, was that third wave feminism, as an extension of second wave feminism is thus a validation of the second wave. If the second wave hadn’t been useful and made great gains, there wouldn’t be a third wave. We want to build upon the success of the second wave while, at the same time, making critiques of some of the shortcomings of the previous wave. Second wavers were feeling attacked and third wavers get annoyed and don’t spend much time on the positives of the second wave. Which is logical, really, I mean when you’re complaining about radfem transphobia, you shouldn’t have to start every complaint with an acknowledgement that they were the originators of the concept “patriarchy.” But it should come up more often than it does. We owe these women a great debt, but it doesn’t mean theyre right all the time on everything.
Anyway, the discussion was lively and I think productive and it can’t help but continue.
New Information
DOROTHY: Oh, will you help me? Can you help me?
GLINDA:
You don’t need to be helped any longer.
You’ve always had the power to go back to
Kansas.DOROTHY:
I have?SCARECROW:
Then why didn’t you tell her before?GLINDA:
Because she wouldn’t have believed me. She
had to learn it for herself.
I have a French friend, Sasha, staying with me for a couple of nights. He asked me why I wanted to change my name. I gave hi a look, but before I could speak, he continued, “It’s a gender neutral name in France.” And went on to tell me that it was exceedingly traditional.
Saint Céleste was the second bishop of Metz, around the end of the third century. My middle name is “Marie”, which is a traditional masculine middle name for Catholic French men. To pick an unfortunate example, it’s the middle name of Jean Marie Le Pen.
Sasha said, you can’t get much more traditional than that, the name of a bishop and then Marie as a middle name.
It’s somewhat archaic. In the 18th century, it would have been male all the time. Now, it’s more often given to girls, but still can go either way.
All my life, I’ve wished I had a gender neutral name.
What do you mean I’ve had it the entire time?!
I had filled out zero paperwork towards trying to get my name changed. It’s a bit of a pain in the ass, obviously, especially living abroad. I was going to wait until I could also change my gender marker, which will also require a new passport – and thus a new student visa. It took me months to get the last one, so you can see why I hesitate.
It’s certainly simpler not to change my name at all. Ok, in English, it’s almost always given to girls, but it’s not an English name. Really, what was my mom thinking giving me a French name in the first place? There’s no French in my family, even, except for a rumor that her maiden name had distantly French origins. Like, Norman Invasion sort of distant.
I have a hobby, and that’s second guessing myself.
But name wasn’t nearly as girly as I thought. Plus, I have a saint day, the 14th of October. (This is something that matters in Catholic school . . ..) And the saint was a dude. If I wanted to change my name because it was much too feminine, but it turns out to have masculine roots and a masculine present, well, that changes things.
In the states, nobody will have heard of such a thing, but it’s not common there anyway and I’m not going back in the next two years, so . . . What to do? I want to work this out sooner, rather than later. It’s a funny thing, Sasha brought it up because I was changing it, but never mentioned it earlier.
I feel kind of like Dorothy in that scene in the Wizard of Oz. (that’s so so gay.)
Keep calling me Les
There’s never a convenient time to get a sex change. I mean, really. There’s always other things going on in your life that are going to get disrupted. 90% of you reading this think I’m talking about surgery (and are quietly crossing your legs, I’m sure), but it’s like a million fucking things. (Such is the poor scheduling of post teenage puberty.) One of the most annoying is the name thing.
I have a tiny smattering of people who may search for me under my given name on the internets. I’m not a famous composer (yet), but I’m out there a bit. I would like people who have got something from the first 10 years of my production to be able to find me.
If I were more radical, I would leave my name unchanged Right now, though, that’s not working for me. So I started going by the middle three letters of my name. And then I started doing music with the appellation, but I think this is a mistake. People from earlier won’t find me. It makes the “C Hutchins” on my podcast kind of inexplicable. It’s not the thing to do.
So if trying to leave my name unchanged will make me unhappy and ‘Les’ isn’t the answer, what to do? An ideal name would: Start with C. Somehow be related to what my parents might have named me (I would have my brother’s name, so I think about what they would have named him) or have a connection to my family. Contain a “Les” in it someplace, so I could keep using it as a nickname.
My uncle and great grandfather were named Charles. Ok, perfect.
So, for people searching for me on google, I can go by “Charles Celeste Hutchins.” So I’m going to publish music under that name from now on and I’ve stuck it on my email. It will go on future business cards, etc.
And you can keep calling me whatever you call me.
Wrong Pronouns
In the last week, I’ve twice experienced old friends using the wrong pronouns in front of a third party. In the first case, I was buying lunch at a counter and my friend said, “she” to the cashier, to refer to me. The cashier stared intently at me for several moments, but was otherwise polite and didn’t say anything. It was a bit uncomfortable. Afterwards, my friend apologized profusely.
In the second instance, I was talking with a neighbor that I’ve spoken with a few times before. My friend (a different one) said, “she. I mean he. Sorry.” The neighbor stared at me a few moments, but the conversation carried on. A few minutes later, he said something about “we boys” including me. Later, my friend apologized.
Ok, wrong pronouns happen. I’ve done it to other people. People will do it to me. It’s not the end of the world. I appreciate your effort. I know it’s a challenge.
How to deal
When you use the wrong pronoun, correct yourself. You had a moment of space out, so treat it like that. We all misspeak from time to time.
Obviously, I’m not stealth, but I don’t want to be out loud and proud every moment of every day. Imagine starting every conversation with every person with “Hi, I’m queer.” Like, “Hi, I’m a queer. Can I pay for my meal.” “Hi, I’m a queer. I’d like a half pint of Guinness.” It would be a bit much. And as weird as straight people are about LGB people, it’s a bit more intense with trans folks.
My Bank
Ok, I signed up with my bank, despite witnessing what looked a lot like open racism towards Chinese foreign students. I was disturbed, but it didn’t effect me, right? Because a culture of discrimination could never bite my ass. (Attention white people: it will bite your ass.)
I went in over a week ago to change my address. The form I filled out said that I would receive a letter in the mail confirming this. The guy at the desk said it would take 24 hours to go through. He asked for my passport to photocopy. When he got the copy out of the machine, he studied it and frowned, but was polite to me. Until I turned to leave. I could feel him staring after me. As I got out on the street, I could see him, through the window, looking at me like I climbed out of the Black Lagoon.
Obviously, he must have noticed the gender marker on my passport. If I were a stronger person, I would have gone back in and asked if there was a problem, as he seemed to be looking at me as if he wanted to say something. Instead, I felt shitty about myself, lost my passport for a few days, panicked, found it again and wondered why my letter for address change never came.
I went in today to get my automatic rent payments straightened out and discovered that my address was changed. To Berkeley. All of my statements are going to California, which is not really helpful and also not at all what I asked for.
There is some possibility that the bloke that originally took my paperwork thought he was preventing fraud. Somebody came into my bank in California, impersonating me, complete with fake ID, and tried to cash a bogus check. The teller got suspicious and the lady buggered off. The bank got highly concerned, froze the account, and called me to tell me about it. And that’s what you do if you think there’s fraud.
In this case, the guy pretended to be polite, didn’t ask for any other documents or security questions and must have noted that the picture on my passport is obviously me. It has the weird reflective thingees embedded in it, so it’s also clearly the photo that came with the passport. In short, he knew that it wasn’t fraud and he didn’t act like it was fraud. He might have told himself that he suspected fraud when he threw all my documents in the bin, but I highly doubt that he was following the set procedure of the bank. Why would he ignore procedure? Because he knew it didn’t apply.
So if bank workers feel empowered to stare at me like a monster and fuck up my bank account metadata on the basis of me being a trannie, you can see why I want you to use the right pronouns. It’s my lot in life to have to deal with a certain amount of bullshit, but I’d rather not. And speaking of outing people, why the fuck is there a gender marker on my passport in the first place? It’s got my name age and picture. Isn’t that enough? Having a legally defined sex is bullshit and it’s only practical use is to discriminate against queers. You can’t marry that person. You’re going to be fucked with every time you go to the airport. It’s bullshit.
NHS endo
I’ve just talked to an endocrinologist in a british hospital. The hospital, Birlingham City Hospital is a newish building. It has large windows and an airy, almost pleasant interior. There is a large central atrium in the center of the outpatient wing. This is part of a shared waiting area. It’s almost like cafe. Food and drink are available.
I arrived early for my appointment, as directed and checked in and waited. The receptionist asked where the patient was. “I’m the patient.” She double checked everything and aplogized. Later, when a nurse called me, she also double checked my name and address. The NHS has me listed as “Miss Celeste.” My efforts to change this have, so far, failed, alas.
The endo’s assistant asked me a bunch of questions and sort of hinted at scary things that can go wrong on T. Blindness?!? Um, not that I’ve noticed.
The endo then came around to talk to me and ordered a million blood tests and said his assistant would write a letter telling my GP to prescribe sustanon, which is the form of T given to transmen in Europe. I can do it every 3 weeks instead of every 2. Huzzah. I’m to return in 6 months for a follow up.
He ordered 17 blood tests, so now I’m now waiting to have my blood drawn. The tests are for various hormones, cholesterol, glucose levels, things that I don’t recognize. Gods help me if they have to take 17 vials. I’m using that blood!
Anyway, the hospital is clean and bright and airy. I’ve also been to a hospital in france, alas, and this is altogether more pleasant. But that was Paris’ “worst” hospital, so maybe this isn’t a fair comparison.
NHS Mental Health Trust Shrink
In order to ration care treat trans patients, the NHS wants shrinks to be involved. Specifically, you can’t get a referral to an endocrinologist without a psychiatrist. Also, importantly, nobody wants to pay for anything unless you jump through all the proper hoops like a trained circus dog. So this morning I arose bright and early to go see a shrink.
The letter informing me of my appointment told me to go to the Queen Elizabeth Psychiatric Hospital (QEPH), which is right by school. It always struck me as highly convient, having the mental hospital right next to the Uni. I also often wonder how the queen feels about having a mental hospital named after her? There must be a great number of strange things named after her. The Queen Elizabeth Car Park. The Queen Elizabeth Strip Mall. The Queen Elizabeth Home for Rabid Puppies. Does she get any say in it? “Oh, thank you for the kind offer, but I was really holding out for a suspension bridge?” (Or can there be multiple Queen Elizabeth Bridges? Would that be too confusing? Could there be both the Queen Elizabeth Bridge and the Queen Elizabeth Suspension Bridge?) I mean, personally, I wouldn’t be picky, but I have many fewer people asking to use my name for their construction projects. Nevertheless, I think I would balk at a mental hospital. What are you trying to say?
Most Brits probably have odd ideas about America. I think they imagine the shootout at the OK Corral as being highly symbolic of the country as a whole, which is not an entirely unfair assessment. Similarly, I have various stereotypes floating around in my head about the UK, many of which come from Victorian novels. High school English classes typically spend one year on American Literature and then one year on British literature. The Victorian era seems to have been a golden age of writing in England. Or, at the very least, it’s the one most enshrined in American highschools. Costume dramas made by the BBC are also a major cultural import into the states. We all imagine a dark, smoky gray London with a polluted fog overhead, women in petticoats, Dickensonian beggars, murderers left and right (with Sherlock Holmes or Miss Marple on their tail) and hulking brick asylums, filled with suffering upperclass women who can’t accept their station in life. Women who want to read too much. Women who want to be men.
Fortunately, I have managed to avoid being committed. I woke at an extremely early hour and managed to spill every drop of my morning coffee on the floor before I left for my appointment, alas and woe. The QEPH is in a typical largish medical building. They have automatic doors, which, unlike mental health centers in the Netherlands, are actually automatic. The reception was separated only by a normal counter, again, unlike the Netherlands which was behind glass. Maybe they think I’m crazy, but at least they don’t think I’m dangerous. That was nice.
The doctor asked me when I first knew I might be trans. I should have a set answer for this by now. I should write out my official narrative and post it to my blog. Then, when somebody decides that I need to see a shrink, I can just give them the link. I don’t fucking know when I first had gender issues, ok? sheesh. I really don’t want to draw any kind of line anywhere. I don’t want to validate all the homophobic bullshit I used to be subjected to. I don’t don’t want invalidate decisions of other butch women not to transition. When did I cease just being a butch woman? When I started taking hormones and told people to call me he. Not before. It happened then.
Lack of coffee, up early in the morning, strident (formerly) lesbian feminist, so very very american. I must have seemed a bit like Hillary Clinton. But, you know, if she were a bloke. I was confused by the questions and gave confusing answers. I’m pretty sure I annoyed the doctor. Nevertheless, I have successfully jumped through this hoop.
He explained that there were evaluations and waiting lists and whatnot. We don’t just give out hormones on demand to people who ask for them, he explained. Why the hell not? What terrible harm would befall the commonwealth is trans people had easy access to transition? None!
Alas, this is just one hoop. This doctor is not a gender specialist. I’m to keep seeing him while I wait to see the one specialist for the region. Who is not in Birmingham. The second largest city in the UK has no gender clinic. The waiting list is apparently months long. In the mean time, I can keep taking T – and I can keep paying for it.
I am so very, very, very glad I started on hormones while I was back in the states. Sure, we’re all cowboys and it’s the wild west and all, but that’s not all bad. The social worker in San Francisco explained that the city had no vested interest in saying no to trans people. What purpose would it serve? The city pays for it’s residents to get this service if they want and need it, like the NHS pays for Brits (and foreign students). And San Francisco found it was coming out ahead when it got rid of all its hoops. People who come in for hormones also get the other health services that they need. Happier people tend to take better care of themselves and are healthier. Does it save tax money to say no to trans people? No, quite the opposite.
I left my heart in San Francisco. Sometimes, I think it’s the only place in the world where anything makes any sense.
I felt good about myself when I left QEPH. I got through this round. I was treated more or less like a normal person. When I got back outside to the bike parking, somebody had left a nice, new, red mountain bike leaning on my bike. With no lock on it at all. You’d have to be crazy to leave that bike out unlocked like that! . . . oh right . . . I wish my issues weren’t treated as mental health issues.
More on Coming Out
Even as I wonder about how to deal with new acquaintances, there are old friends and classmates who are still using old pronouns. I need to write some sort of general coming out letter. Telling everybody individually is too much stress and I can’t rely on the grapevine. So I’m writing a general form letter than I can customize to, say, send to my entire department.
Here is a draft. If you have questions, comments or suggestions, that would be good. Mostly, I want to lay out what I expect from people and a tiny bit about what they can expect from me.
I am transgender. For me, this means that although I used to go by female pronouns and titles, I now go by male ones. When people talk about me, they should use male pronouns: he, him, his, etc. My correct title is now “Mr.” although hopefully that will change to “Dr.” within the next 3 years.
I’m currently in transition, which, for me, means taking male hormones. These have already lowered my voice and caused small changes to how I look. They should continue to change my appearance such that I give off male physical cues. Hopefully, I’ll be able to grow a goatee by the time I become Dr.
This is all working out very well for me. I’m much happier and more confident. Things seem “right” to me in a way that they haven’t before. I’m very relieved to be doing it. If you run into somebody using my old pronouns, feel free to share this happy news with them.
Some people are confused as to what pronouns they should use to refer to me in the past. From a practical standpoint, if you try to flip back and forth, you will get confused. It will be easier for everybody if you use “he” throughout. Also, while I’m not “stealth” (which is to say, silent about my trans status), I do want some agency about coming out to new people. So, especially if you’ve known me a year or less, please go by “he.”
I want everyone to know that I’m “he” now. I intend to be honest about my past, but it’s not necessarily the first thing I want to come up, as you can probably imagine. Everybody trips up sometimes, but please do make an effort.
The Uni has an information page about this online. If you have questions about transgender issues in general, you can start there or on wikipedia. If you have questions about me specifically, then you can ask. Sometimes people are concerned about what questions might be inappropriate. Fortunately, there is a very funny video about this issue. (The gist is that normal rules of politeness apply).
That video is so damn funny. The first time I saw it, I thought some of her boundaries were stricter than ones I want to draw. But it’s funny how experience changes things. Anyway, it’s pretty obvious that close friends get somewhat different rules than acquaintances. I’m not really close with anybody in Brum, so this applies broadly. I should probably take it out of a form letter, though.
Coming Out?
Many trans people view being trans as a medical condition or a birth defect, which they had fixed. Why would run around telling people that you used to have an embarrassing medical problem? Most of these folks are stealth. Their trans history is nobody’s business.
Other trans people, especially genderqueers, see their trans status as a big part of their sense of self. These folks are usually out. This is a new phenomenon.
Not long ago, trans people were instructed to change their name, move out of town and lie about their past. Genderqueers did not have access to transition in that era.
Fortunately, thanks to the work of trans activists and also feminism, normativity is much less emphasized and I don’t need to go into hiding. I’ve got the moving far, far away part covered, but composing is a high-profile occupation. If you have to be stealth, it’s incompatible. I’m not willing to walk away from the years I spent learning my craft and “paying my dues” as they say. So from a practical standpoint, I’ve got to be out. From an emotional standpoint, I do terribly at being stealth anything. Secrets eat at me. So I’m out. Which means coming out.
Thus far, I’ve mostly been telling people who knew me before. That’s stressful enough. My strategy has been to try to tell the biggest gossips that I know, preferably via email, and hope they spread it around everywhere. They fill in all my other friends, and then I am spared awkward conversations. There’s undoubtedly extra commentary that goes with the news, but that would happen anyway. I imagine that in many cases, it’s a sarcastic, “big surprise!”
But I also meet new people. And I’m at kind of a loss on how to proceed. Do I want to be out? Probably. I mean, I’ve been in transition for less than 6 months. I don’t want to lie about the previous 31 years of my life. And it’s kind of a big deal. On the other hand, it’s a lot to lay on somebody the first time I meet them. I had gotten in the habit of subtly slipping my girlfriend into conversations to let people know that I’m queer, but that doesn’t work at all anymore. Also, people who knew me before are still tripping over pronouns and I can’t grow any more than the most very pathetic moustache. I’m passing, but not overwhelmingly, if you know what I mean.
Passing is great, by the way. But not without it’s own issues. I keep worrying that somebody is going to read me. The last time I was out with a crowd of strangers, I was gripped by a sudden fear that somebody would suddenly stand, point, and shout “fraud!” But this is Britain. People are so very polite. Maybe they had already worked it out and were just humoring me and I wasn’t passing at all? How could it be that my interactions with men were so totally unchanged if I was actually passing?
I’ve always gotten on well with men older than myself. I find it easy to establish a rapport. When I started to transition, I worried that I would lose this. But then I started talking to a bloke who seemed to be 5 or 10 years older than myself and it was the same as always. Exactly the same. How could this be? What was going on? Had he somehow read me? Was he gay and flirting with me? Had I always been acting like and treated like a guy? Was I acting like a girl and him responding to that without consciously following? I was completely unnerved.
Another bloke I was talking to kept bringing up balls. He didn’t know why he kept talking about them. His unconscious mind was nudging him. I guess I could have taken the opportunities to mention that (like Harry Partch) I don’t have any. But I was already unnerved. Also, is that something I really want to disclose the first time I meet somebody? I have no idea – probably not in those terms. A straight friend suggested that I “just be a guy” and not tell anybody. But then, that’s 31 years of my life. That’s this blog. That’s the last piece I posted to my podcast. That’s a whole lot of hiding.
I gave the ball bloke my card. He didn’t write. Maybe he lost my card. Maybe I should take it all down: the blog, the podcast, everything. Just be a guy. People who google me can know and people who don’t won’t. Is that what I want?
Some people tell me that I’m brave. I don’t follow their logic at all. I’m just trying to survive the best I can. If that’s brave, so is getting out of bed in the morning. Maybe we’re all brave. Maybe we’re all passing. We pretend to be the person we wish we were and come to create and inhabit that reality. So what is coming out, in that case? I used to be kind of an asshole? I used to be a software engineer? I used to be a girl?
Sound and Fury
I went to a noise show tonight. It was really really fucking loud. That was probably the primary adjective: loud. It was brilliant. I mean, most of my classmates did not fully agree with this assessment, but I think there’s a certain value to just hearing really fucking loud noise once in a while.
Also, there was a full room of people in the audience. A whole bunch of people turned out to hear really fucking loud noise. And there was a table selling records. I talked to the record people. There’s a local record company that just does noise music and dark ambient. Brilliant. I decided to purchase a record with the headline act on it. (It’s less fucking loud on my home system, but it would still be a wall ‘o noise.)
The record table was lit by candle light. The kind in those red glass containers you see at nightclubs and cabarets. I got the wrong CD. I didn’t notice until I got home. So I was slightly disappointed, but still popped it into my computer to put it into my itunes library. I started typing in the track names. “iii. is it wrong to love a transexual”
. . .
You know, I was in a really good mood. I had a couple of pints of beer. I hung out with people. I had some really good chips. I heard fucking loud noise.
. . .
It’s like somebody hit the pause button on my enthusiasm. I stopped breathing for a minute. I typed in the rest of the track names. And then I hit eject.
so if anybody wants a CD of dark ambient or noise, it could be yours. Unless I drop it in the trash first. I don’t think I have the energy to try to get a refund from the record company. Alas, I’ve had this conversation before.
It’s always, like, I’m excited about something and then all of the sudden, wham.
I was reading a scifi webzine. And wham. I spoke up. The editor literally told me not to worry my pretty face. The writer gave me a little lecture on what “passing” means, as if, possibly, I might not know (where would minorities be without white straight men informing of us of our own subculture?). And then explained he couldn’t transphobic because he’d had a transgender girlfriend once. Just like I could never possibly write or say anything racist because of my girlfriend. And why no straight guy could ever possibly be sexist.
I feel like the ur-queer lately. Somebody says something about gay men, and hey, I’m a queer man. Somebody says something about lesbians, and I was a lesbian. Somebody says something about about women, and I was a woman. I’m noticing sexism more than I used to. The scifi story I worried my little head about . . .. I got as far as a minor character sketch in which the main baddie was shown to be bad because he owned a woman that he used for sex. Your worst nightmare is just an aside.
Sci-fi can be dystopian. My favorites are. Sci-fi can contain slurs. Again, Man in a High Castle is slur-filled and completely dystopian. And it’s fantastic. But they’re not asides. If you’re going to have the third person narrator use a slur that’s currently in common usage and just throw in as an aside human trafficking, well, it’s fair to assume that the writer hasn’t really thought things out.
But, being ur-queer isn’t not all negative. I feel solidarity with everybody too. I feel like I can kind of fit in with any group of people. Well, as much as an Esperanto-speaking transsexual is ever going to fit in, if you know what I mean. I feel more at ease around people than I’ve ever felt. It’s a weird transition, to being much, much happier and at ease and, at the same time, a gigantic target for hate. So alien other as to not really even be a person anymore. And yet, I can go to the pub, have a pint and chat with anybody.
I need to toughen up and not let the little shit get to me. And I need to be prepared for it coming from any direction at any time from any one under any circumstance.
It’s a lot to get used to.