Comment Responses to “I Hate ‘Transsexual’”

Holy potatoes! I had intended to dedicate today’s post to how the GSA is AOK in my book, but my last post on the word “transsexual” managed to bring out some *strong* feelings in the people who read it. It just wouldn’t be right in my book not to address this, so I’m going to attempt to discuss some of the commentary received on my main blog Michellelianna, my reposting on PinkEssense, personal messages, and of course Facebook. It would appear I jangled a nerve or two. If I miss anyone’s salient point, mea culpa, I’m doing this from memory.

I’m going to start with the easy stuff first. A few respondents became very indignant about being lumped into a generalized category with cross-dressers, female impersonators and such. I was disappointed to see the term “pervert” being thrown about. I absolutely do not agree with this thinking. Yes, I got annoyed when several people asked me if I could “just do this on the weekends”. My irritation was their misunderstanding of my existence, and assuredly not that people for whom this would be an acceptable solution are in any way less than. We are not all the same under the transgender umbrella, but we are equal. As a class so frequently misunderstood, feared, and attacked, I think the very least we can do is show a kindness of spirit, understanding, and inclusion. I’m willing to be proven wrong on most issues, but not this.

On to a topic even easier… I know I used the term “transgendered” and that is doesn’t officially exist anymore than “gayed”. I’ll confess right now. I make words up. All the time actually. Incredibly, I am hardly ever called on it. Here is my thinking: if I make up a word, it fits the flow of what I’m typing out, and people understand what I’m attempting to communicate, it is then a word, “official” or not. I know this irritates the hell out of purists, but chances are I’m not going to stop. I do have a degree in English and I do understand this makes my little habit nearly unforgivable, I also feel all rules are made up and therefore changeable, breakable, and somewhat illusory to boot.

One of the more prevalent types of comment can be boiled down to, “why are we so focused on labels anyway?” That one is more difficult. I do have a lot of thoughts on the matter I’m going to address in a future post regarding why it is so difficult to get anything done (which to summarize, is that I think the trans community is trying to address way, way too many things at once, and currently the notion of “trans community” is an ill defined collection of individuals). For the record, I also don’t think a lot of time should be focused on labels. The intent of the post was to present a slightly humorous look at my personal peccadilloes regarding language. Should I ever have the opportunity to address Congress or even appear on ‘AM Buffalo’ for some reason, I’ll come armed with much more relevant subject matter.

Someone wrote up a long medical sounding description wherein she and I were referred to as “Wolffian Females”. I immediately agreed as my last name is Wolf and I identify as female, so this made perfect sense. Then she totally lost me with a description of nephritic tube formation and I wasn’t so sure. On about the fifth reading I think I understand and agree and concede that Wolffian Female sounds a lot nicer to me than transsexual, which I still find a bit naary.

I received lots of pros and cons regarding the word transsexual itself. The main takeaway was that the ‘sex’ in ‘transsexual’ is not meant to convey libidinous preference, and also that cisgender people often take it that way anyway, making us all uncomfortable. I’ll clarify. My discomfort is not with the word, but with the way people say it that it comes out very lascivious sounding, especially when uttered by Tim Curry or Stewie from Family Guy. I understand a certain segment of the population tends to fetishize our condition, and that is one thing. I just don’t want to give the impression that I do.

I got a very clever reference to the Transgender Borg indicating the eventual assimilation of individualized pockets of trans around the planet that will one day speak with one voice, and hopefully shoot lasers at our detractors. It is certainly an interesting idea, but at the moment it resembles a bunch of cats duct taped together. If it does happen, I call dibs on being Seven of Nine, figuring I have ample time to get my buns in shape.

All in all, it seems like a pretty divisive issue. Some don’t care, some care a whole lot. Some like the standard terminology, and some make my dislike border on apathy. Others offer alternatives that while likable, will probably never go into vogue. I still don’t care for it, but on the same magnitude that I don’t care for orange clothing; it doesn’t enrage me, I’ll never buy it, but I suppose I’ll put it on if there is nothing else to wear and find a way to live with it. Until the Transgender Borg catches me unaware in her hideous pumpkin colored pants suit.

I Hate “Transsexual”

I know I already talked about allowing words to push my buttons and how I wasn’t going to go apeshit on someone for calling me a tranny. I still hold to that, but let me tell you, I still can’t get comfortable with the word transsexual. It’s stupid, right? I mean, by very definition, I am a transsexual and meet most or all of the criteria as defined in the DSM V… that says I have gender identity disorder? Shit, my copy at home is still the III-R from back in college. Nevertheless, I, Michelle Wolf, am a Transsexual. It’s true… buy why does this make me uncomfortable?

I’ve never made it a secret that my preferred term is Transgendered. I know this is an umbrella term and by co-opting it I’m pushing aside the cross-dressers, female impersonators, gender queer, third sex, intersex, no sex, two-spirit, and every other slightly different but equal group that might also prefer it as an exclusive definition. It’s not fair of me, but I still want to do it. Why, why, why? I think it really comes down to the fact that ‘transsexual’ just sounds incredibly creepy.

I don’t think there is such a thing as a good ‘creepy’. Creepy is when you shake hands with someone who uses way too much lotion. It’s like going into a corn field with disconcerting blonde children who never smile. Too creepy; I’d rather be boiled. Maybe it’s that double ‘s’ in the middle of the word. It’s very German. These are the people who turned the whimsically delightful notion of going to camp into the worst thing ever. I think if someone opened a transsexual gym, people would imagine it has whips, chains, leather and probably a gimp or two running around. I’m probably one of the people who would think that.

That half the word is ‘sexual’ doesn’t help at all. When many people hear the term, I would not be surprised if they assume it’s some sort of fetish where the person being described derives some intense orgasmic delight over the prospect of changing their gender. Those of us who are trans know there isn’t an iota of truth to that. It takes about a week on hormones before even the thought of arousal is a thing of the past. Yes, we know it, but just type it into any search engine, even wavy-gravy hip Amazon, and the vast majority of offerings are meant to titillate, to put it politely. I’m OK with being misunderstood, but not so much when it involves shallow breathing and upper lip perspiration. Ew.

So what do we want to be called? If we stick with the DSM, switching it up to become GID’s would fit, unless we don’t care to sound like we fast tracked a later in life high school diploma. Given a choice, I’d just go with ‘woman’, but we are human and must classify well beyond logical reason. ‘Transgender’ you know I’m down with, but tired of being corrected or asked to qualify, bringing me back to ‘transsexual’. Something about ‘t-girl’ just pisses me off. I have no reason for this, but it does. We could make up something new. Sisters of Loki? The Untesticulated? Reidentified? I’m being facetious.

Truth be told, if I could come up with some catchy new term that would be enthusiastically adopted, I’d do it. This blog just doesn’t get enough hits. Our lives are such that unless we are unquestionably passable, we are going to have to spend a significant portion of our lives having to explain what we are supposed to be anyway. If a single word could sum it all up succinctly, it would be a wonderful thing. In the mean time I’ll stick with transgendered and the strong probability of invasive questions to follow.

Hormonapalooza (Part I)

I began hormone replacement about twenty or so weeks ago, and I have to say, there are a few things no one really warns you about. Yes, yes, I heard all the cautionary tales up front from my peers and therapist about all the gloomy catastrophic consequences and such. That I’m not seeing so much. If people at work notice I’m filling out my sweater a little more, no one is saying anything. In ‘Under the Radar’ I talked about a former co-worker who was sporting some generous B’s under their shirt and very long hair and no one thought much of it, and if they do, so what? What I’m talking about is a dark new relationship with food and my body that goes virtually ignored in guy world.

I was talking with my friend Dave on the phone and began complaining about my weight. You might not know it to look at me, but a few years back I was rocking the scales on a Homer Simpson level. I developed my own weight loss program and dropped nearly 90 lbs in a little less than a year. A somewhat modest diet and a little weekly exercise and the fat melted off my like Frosty in a boxcar. Here I am on a few months of hormones, and winter is back baby, and apparently just a little pissed. All I need do is draw breath in the same building as a 5 Guys burger and I’ve gained four pounds. Because I haven’t been on the hormones for quite long enough, it still doesn’t go to my hips and ass where it belongs, but the old gut. Nice and effective for achieving that ‘man in a dress’ image we all try so hard to strive for.

When Dave said, “ah don’t worry, you’ll take it off in no time”, I went a little hissy on him. OK, maybe not just a little bit, but he had no idea. “Look buddy, you have no idea what you are talking about OK? My whole life I’ve heard men bitching about women and their obsession with weight. Do you have any freaking idea how hard it is? Things that used to just taste pretty good are now incredibly delicious. I can be in the worst mood ever and a pint of ice cream or a few pieces of chocolate ever and I turn into little Mary Sunshine. What do you know? To you it’s just ice cream, but to me all of a sudden it’s like filled with uppers. Of course all I have to do is breath near it and I gain a hundred pounds. I used follow my plan and lost 5 pounds ever two weeks and now I’m lucky if I drop half of one eating the exact same thing. Plus I’m in a horrible shit mood the entire time! Do you have any idea what it’s like eating raw green peppers all week and losing nothing for it? Sure, you joke about women but you have no fucking idea how much work goes into it. Ass clown!”

For the record I think he was just trying to be supportive, but his male view foolishness was pushing my buttons. Men. Men with their svelte muscle building testosterone and ability to eat cheese fries all week without being consigned to some fat boy store. I will admit that used to be me before the hormone changes that ensured a small fries at McDonald’s meant a trip back to Lane Bryant for pants that could be closed. Anyway, I let it go. He’s a guy and didn’t know.

Since we are on the subject, my whole hissy fit to begin with is sooo uncharacteristic. It seems I stumbled on another effect I was not at all expecting. Suddenly it seems that during certain times the tiniest little things drive me bonkers and I just want to tell everyone off. WTF? How can I have PMS? I can’t ovulate and I can’t get a period, both mainly because I lack ovaries and a uterus that sheds it’s lining on a monthly basis (more on my feelings about this in another post). It doesn’t seem at all right that I should be getting PMS, but yet here it is happening. One would think it came with the correct internal plumbing, but apparently all it needs is the juice to drive it.

The real message here is that there many more effects of hormones than you often read about. For the record I’m OK with this. Surprising yes, but it doesn’t feel at all wrong either. It’s as if there were dry stream beds running through my brain that I understood where there on a very esoteric level, but now that they are filled and flowing, things seem much more right than they used to be. Sure, there turned out to be a lot of life under the rocks I was unaware of, but even though it surprises me, I know it is supposed to be there and always was. I have no doubt further changes are coming and I welcome them. It’s not easy going through puberty again, but I also wouldn’t trade it for anything. Far better now than never.

Shiny Artifacts of the Past

“Everybody knows you can make a man a woman; just a shiny artifact of the past”, is how I thought the line went in Leonard Cohen’s classic “Everybody Knows”. My ears zeroed in on that for reasons that are pretty clear. Those really aren’t the lyrics by the way. I don’t get songs right, ever. Anyway, it’s close enough for my purposes as a lead in for what I want to talk about today. If you are good and read the whole post, I’ll share what the real words to the song are, and won’t you be disappointed!

A great many of the other trans people I’ve talked to have a very ambivalent relationship with their own pasts. This shouldn’t be surprising. Who really wants to spend a lot of time wool gathering over an extended tract of time where they walked around all clueless about their own core identity? Many of us, self included, feel just a little like giant foolish assholes about it. It doesn’t help that we are constantly reminded of enormous decisions we made based solely on an incomplete truth, or that those who knew us by a different name like to go back and grill us about whether we were intentionally lying, deceiving them, and how come we weren’t being a lot more obvious to maybe clue them in. “But I knew you, and you never showed any signs!” Wanting to retreat and say, “Ugh. Let’s pretend the past 30 or 40 years never happened, OK?”, is perfectly natural. Unfortunately, it is nearly impossible.

Back in the day when we were perceived as diseased perverse monsters, it was far more common for someone transgendered to nip out for a pack of smokes and disappear to another coast, the past left well behind. Nowadays we have it a thousand times better and usually transition with at least part or even most of our support network intact. The majority of these people knew you as the original name on your birth certificate and have ample pleasant memories of times spent with you when you looked a bit different. They like or love you for all those times spent and have stuck around because of that, and not because you can do an interesting trick with your deformed pinky finger. It goes much deeper. Consequentially, they are never going to see that person as being someone different who didn’t really exist, even if you really preferred they would.

Our pasts may seem like artifacts of a different life, a different person, but we have to remember that viewing it that way can be an unkindness to ourselves and our loved ones. I try to keep that in mind, even when it’s hard. My partner/ spouse likes to keep pictures on the mantle, including several from our wedding day and a gigantic print of me in the Air Force. I don’t look like that anymore, but the slices of time the pictures represent really happened and that is what I really looked like during them. Maybe I was unable to be truthful with myself at those times, but still really was me. I was in those moments, and happy in them too. Well, for the most part. The Air Force picture fails to capture the presence of an infuriated drill sergeant screaming in my ear just millimeters outside the frame of the shot. I can look at them, and old albums as well, and think “good times, good times”, because they were.

The point is that we all took a long and winding road to arrive where we are, right at this moment. None of us sprang fully formed from sea foam like Aphrodite (or let’s face it, look like her either). Our present was built brick by brick by the artifacts of our past. All the things we did right, all the things we did wrong, and in all the ways we interacted with others; good, bad or indifferent. Maybe our names were different as well as our faces, but our histories are irrevocable, no matter what we looked like or how we presented ourselves. Unless you feel you turned into a real shithead, honoring the steps that brought you to today is not at all wrong, and probably a good thing to do.

It is, however, perfectly all right to be mortally embarrassed by it. It’s where our best stories come from.

As promised, the correct words are, “Everybody knows that the naked man and woman; Are just shining artifact of the past”. Wasn’t’ that worth waiting for? I still like mine better though.

Early Out

I was recently conversing with someone who self-identified as a cross-dresser rather than transsexual (I still prefer the umbrella term transgendered for the latter, but want my point to be clear) and much of what they were saying was eerily similar to thought processes I had some time ago when still struggling. It was very tempting to hit her with a grand revelation regarding her true self and sit back smugly as she mentally transformed in front of me, awash with gratitude for plucking the scales from her eyes. I made it a rule to do nothing of the kind and simply let her talk and listened. I wish C had done the same for me.

I’ve been slowly sharing some anecdotes regarding my personal journey here, and going to skip ahead a few years for the sake of making this point. I like how Homer Simpson begins tales from the past, so I’m going to begin the same way. You just can’t top that level of exaggerated style. It was the early aughts; a more innocent time before America dreamed of having a minority president and a tea party was still regarded as being something pleasant. The country was awash with the heady victory of vanquishing the Y2K juggernaut and I was riding the wave of optimism to take the next step in my journey of self discovery. Utilizing the ingenuity of new fangled web crawlers, I had discovered the presence of a local transgendered organization, the Buffalo Belles. Eagerly, I filled out the membership application, signed the check and walked it down to the mailbox in anticipation of a quick reply within the next 4 to 6 weeks.

Each day I arrived home and checked my mailbox and my caller ID. I assumed of course they likely had posh business offices downtown and would show up on my call box under the organizational name. My wait was rewarded, and I did receive a personal phone call when I happened to be home. An interview was required to vette me as acceptable for membership and we set up a time in my apartment. I dressed in the ‘Heathers’ style I was rocking at the time and slipped into my most enormous fake breasts. I waited anxiously for C to arrive, and she did, right on schedule.

I don’t remember much about the interview. I was pretty nervous but still tried to act natural and told at least a boiled down version of my life story. C disclosed early on that she was not a cross-dresser, but a transitioned woman. I’m reasonably certain I asked more than my share of inappropriate questions, and she was a very good sport about it. The concept of living that way, out there in broad daylight and all, seemed terrifying to me. At this point I had only ever taken brief walks in the wee morning hours or used the Halloween free pass to full advantage. I was also bewildered. She had been married and had children. She didn’t resemble Dr Frank in any way, shape or form. Somehow she was able to refrain from belting out half familiar show tunes.

My abilities as a chameleon extended to hiding extreme social discomfort, so I can’t blame her for getting the impression that I was casually relaxed when inwardly I was freaking out a little bit. She finally laid it on me. “I don’t think you are ready to hear this, but I really don’t think you are a cross-dresser, gigantic breasts aside, but transsexual like I am.” I agreed with the first statement. I was not ready to hear that. Not one tiny bit. I covered by giving her a wan, condescending smile, and begged to differ. She didn’t stick around to debate the matter, approved me for membership, and left.

Once she was gone, I changed back to male mode. Her words bothered me more than I felt they should. Over the next few weeks, anytime I even touched on the notion that her assessment could possibly be true, my mind drew up bleak and terrifying images of a future swallowed in pain and despair. My inner drama queen was rampant, a real bitch on wheels. Ultimately, I rejected the assessment as far too inconvenient to possibly be true. I packed away my wardrobe to the basement. I never ventured out to a Belles meeting. I threw myself into career, friends and family. By the time my membership expired, I was already exploring on-line dating and had constructed a vision of the future where I was a solid, dependable family man, and nothing more. C’s visit was regulated back to a subconscious whimsy that when surfaced was pushed back down with detached indifference. I lost a decade that way.

Right in her assessment, but oh so wrong for speaking it to me! What if she said nothing and simply approved my membership? What if I showed to meetings and met others, some like me, some not? What if I was able to gradually draw my own conclusions born of self-discovery in an environment populated by friends who would understand and support me? What if, what if, what if. It does no good dwelling on it. It didn’t happen that way, so the only thing worth focusing on is what did happen.

Now, over 10 years later in C’s position, I’m talking to someone who could be me. Desperate for opportunities to let her inner woman fly free, but cowed by the incalculable price we all pay for being ourselves instead of who so many want us to be. If she is she, then she she’ll be. Dammit, I hate when I come up with these cutesy tongue twisters. Yes, or no, it’s not for me to say, and I hope everyone else can give her the space she needs to make these discoveries on her own terms. So many of us are anxious to validate ourselves by uncovering our likeness in others, whether it is truly there or not. Don’t read me wrong, I have that too, but bowing out. I think it might be the kinder path.

The Rocky Horror Picture Show

My first adult introduction to transgender culture was the Rocky Horror Picture Show featuring Tim Curry as the effervescent Dr. Frank. Simmer down now, it was the early 90’s, pre widespread internet and all. Aside from Bosom Buddies, my only exposure to gender issues was at Kenmore Books and News, the regularly picketed ‘dirty book store’. What I scoped out there as a filthier Rob Zombie grumped at me from the counter made Rocky look pretty mainstream. At least there were no petite ballerina types with enormous penises.

I really didn’t know what I was walking into. I had heard of Rocky, but only that it was something cool I needed to check out. The night we decided to check it out, we got ready by drinking a 12 pack each of Golden Anniversary beer and putting on costumes as Dan and JP, our friends who had been, were kind enough to inform us it was Halloween night. Saved from the faux pas of showing up looking ridiculous, I went with a dirty evil clown look. JP picked a sexy French maid number which filled me with repressed envy. He had just come out as gay, and the outfit was not helping much as I struggled with my own identity uncertainty, filling me with a big knot of crippling anxiety. Instead of exploring these feelings, I got drunk on the cheapest of all beers, smeared grease paint over my face and renamed myself Dark Pistacio. I took a little bit of a circuitous route to get to where I am today.

Walking in to the old Amherst Theater, we were greeted by Larry, a nebbish guy resembling Michael Jeter, the guy who played Mr Noodle’s brother, Mr Noodle on Sesame Street. Larry was wearing a beautiful black lace teddy and fishnets; not how he normally dressed when we made subs together weeknights at the school food court. I noticed a lot of people dressed that way. I thought I had found the secret door to the underground trans scene. The movie experience only reinforced that. Dr Frank was self described “sweet transvestite from Transsexual, Transylvania”. I was all kinds of confused. I had no clue yet what I was, but was reasonably sure I wasn’t that.

The members of the cast didn’t help matters much. Not the real cast, Susan Sarandon is above reproach in my book, but the ones who act out the movie for some reason, ad-libbing lines, songs, or entire scenes all willy nilly. It didn’t take long to realize I wasn’t quite like them either. True, they were also gender attire challenged, and geeks, much like myself, but a different kind of geek. The kind who thought wearing a cape to class had panache or would recite every line of Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail in German, even after you begged them not to. I was still inexplicably drawn to the entire experience.

After 12 years of Catholic school, followed by 1 year dorming at UB with an introverted roommate, anything that smacked against the hum drum of conservatism had a certain appeal. Knowing I was different, but not sure how, I was hungry for any experience that shoved me out of the mainstream I never felt I belonged to. At Rocky, people wore what they liked and went by preposterous names like Dr Eye, Jeff Death, and Monkey Jaw. Actually I don’t think Monkey Jaw was aware of her moniker, even though the guy known as Monkey Head was of his. I attempted to “blend” into this crowd by continuing the Dark Pistacio façade and deplorable hyper-masculine caricature. In hindsight it was a hideous fit and ultimately unsustainable. Eventually I came to the right conclusion that this wasn’t me either and lost interest.

It took many more years before I came to the understanding that Rocky Horror was not a good representation of transgender culture, catchy songs notwithstanding. I have to wonder what path I would have wandered down had I not assumed Dr Frank to be a typical depiction, of whom I had an inability to relate. While I liked the whole gothic horror element in an Addams Family way, I couldn’t see myself running around in my skivvies while trying to build a blond dude in gold bikini bottoms in my basement. Still better than Buffalo Bill, but not much.

Ironically, in doing some Wikipedia research while writing this I noticed that the writer of Rocky Horror, Richard O’Brien (who also played Riff Raff in the film) identifies as either transgender or third sex. Part of his motivation for creating this delightful hot mess was his deep feeling that society should not dictate gender. I certainly can’t argue the intention, but for a young closeted trans woman, oh what confusion!

Sanskaras

The world has had no shortage of people claiming to be god. I’m pretty sure one of them sits but a stone throw away from my cubicle at work and is ready to present a strong case filled with self-aggrandizing ravings; if you are interested, I’ll introduce you to Brian. You can curse me for it later. In my early 20’s, a time farther away than I care to admit, I became aware of Meher Baba, an Indian mystic who died in the late 60’s, who in my limited philosophy, made about the best case I had heard. This probably doesn’t ring a bell, which to me was the seed of doubt. My conception of the almighty is that he or she would make a bigger splash when touching down on our big ball of mud.

The reason I bring him up isn’t religion, but a concept I was introduced to that bears retelling to the trans world. Baba’s teaching (he was vehemently against founding a religion, although a group called Sufism Reoriented sprang up to carry on the message) was an amalgamation of the overall Judeo-Christian-Muslim-Buddhist-Hindu-Farsi umbrella. Like Manichaeism, only different. Reincarnation figures big, with the end goal to shed our illusory identities and rejoin with the over-soul, or god, of whom we are part of anyway, but just are not aware. One of the analogies was as if the over-soul were the ocean, our existences are bubbles that formed within a wave, believing briefly to be something unique and independently different, until such occurred that they dissolved back into the ocean they were to begin with. Don’t worry, I’m not going to go much deeper than that. One of the things preventing us from realizing this and attaining the eternal bliss of godhood, are sanskaras, or impressions.

Sanskaras, in Baba’s teaching (borrowed from the Hindu tradition), are the impressions we accumulate lifetime after lifetime, that wind around our souls. Over many lifetimes, these build up like a plaque and become our identity. The path to god then is to unwind these impressions back. From there the philosophy gets somewhat esoteric, but the concept strikes me as relevant to transgendered people and the impressions we must overcome and unwind to drill down to our gender identities. By now you probably see where I’m going with this.

Born in a package that the world perceived as male, anatomically correct and everything, it was impressed upon me from the start and onward that I was this. Males are this, and as I was “male”, I therefore would also be this. Having nothing but my own deep thoughts to counter with, I got with the program and bedecked myself with those male mode impressions until they became second nature, no matter how uncomfortable they might be. Fortunately I was raised to be chivalrous and protective of women; it could have been worse. On the flip side I felt the need to adopt an interest in sports, cars, action movies and other subjects I found crushingly boring, but received social cues that I was expected to be knowledgeable about. Now I’m attempting to undo all of that and it’s not so easy.

Some impressions are easy to shed while others are hopelessly tangled. Back in the Air Force I bought my first used car, and all the men in the shop immediately wanted to come out and look at it, even though it was cold outside. I understood this was something men did, and still see groups of guys in parking lots, standing around, gazing at cars. That one is easy. I never got it, and still don’t, so I just no longer pretend.

Some are mixed. As a purportedly heterosexual male, I was expected to gawk when an attractive woman walked by. I understand women do not gawk so obviously, but at the same time end up staring because I want to see what she’s wearing to decide if it’s something that might look good on me. This is an impression I need to unwind, modify, and wind back in the right direction. It’s ok to glance to see what she is wearing, but cisgender women hardly ever do the bug eyed stare.

Some impressions I have to learn to drop, even if they were well meant in guy land. When traveling with a female companion, as a rule I would open the car door for her, wait for her to get in, and close the door behind her. This is a really good move for a dude. Doing at as a woman, however, just comes across as weird and makes people uncomfortable. Unfortunately there are hundreds of these impressions trans people must drop, modify, and add in order to fit in with the correct gender mores. Thankfully I was never into snapping bra straps, audibly passing gas, or ‘shot gunning’ beers. I might have a lot farther to go.

Baba was probably right – chances are I would be a lot happier and come closer to achieving bliss if I could just shed all impressions. I’m too excited to learn the ones that rightfully belong to me; it’s just been too long living the wrong way. Maybe in another life. If we are all just god in a cosmic drama of let’s pretend, I’ve got nothing but time.

Oh The Things I Used to Do

Oh the things I have done… I know it sounds like the invitation to a pretty racy post, but you can sit back, mop your brow and put the lotion away. I’m just not that kind of blogger. Not due to any real inhibition per se, I’m just not nearly as interesting as you might think I am. What I’m referring to is my pseudo nascent girlhood; the time before I was self-realized as trans, but already engaging in what now seems to be some pretty predictably indicative behaviors. I have a lot of stories in this bag, but today I’m going to focus on shopping. As a “dude”.

I was at a Belles meeting when someone advertised that they had a wonderful shopping guide for cross-dressers. Just some handy tips and do’s and don’ts that can help ease a person into a comfortable shopping experience so they can buy what they want in peace. Some of the transitioned members had a bit of a smug look at this, myself included. I also had a strong reality check as I realized that I was doing some of these exact same things not really all that long ago.

The guide contained some nice hints most of us know. You can “get away” with shopping for pretty much anything around the holidays and Halloween. A ring on your finger puts you virtually above suspicion when buying even the most intimate of items. In certain stores it’s possible to ‘sneak’ a pair of jeans or other semi-androgynous articles into the men’s dressing rooms. Come on, if you are reading this you know what I’m talking about. It’s OK though. I’m going to share some of my own just so you might feel less freakish to know a full blown ‘I-don’t-give-a-shit’ trans woman had her salad days as well.

One of my smoothest moves was the all powerful list. Sometimes it was a real list and sometimes it was nothing more than an Arby’s receipt I found in my jacket pocket. Shield in front of me like a young knight, I would brave the perilous intimates and hosiery sections with wanton abandon knowing full well that the tiny slip of paper clutched in my sweaty hand would deflect even the most curious of stares. It’s OK, I’m supposed to be here. I was sent for this stuff. Look, I have a list, dammit.

Sometimes I forgot the list and still had an undeniable desire to shop anyway. What to do? It was fine, I knew how to be cool. Any time someone came within earshot I would make a point to start muttering under my breath, but loud enough to hear, such gems as, “I think this is what she said she wanted.” or “God, I don’t know why she sends me for this stuff.” and even, “Dang it, I think she takes a size 10… better not fuck this up.” Seriously, the CIA should send me behind enemy lines I was that freaking cool. Never mind the tomato red face and gigantic salty droplets coursing down my face.

“Can I help you find anything?” Oh, I knew what she was up to, but I was made of stronger stuff than that. I’d look her dead in the eye and say, “Yes, yes you can. I was sent to look for Spanx in a size D, if you please, and thank you ever so much.” Oh, I passed the test in my own mind. She tried to call my bluff, but I held fast. For some reason it never occurred to me that in the history of retail, no woman has ever sent a guy out to pick her up panties, stretch leggings and a cute pair of flats. Pantyhose, yes, if she was convinced he’d get the size right. Mascara maybe. Lipstick, I doubt it, unless she was comfortable wearing the Hoochie-Mama scarlet shade he would invariably come back with.

The register though, that is where the men were separated from the boys, if such a crappy analogy is even appropriate. An uncomfortably long wait was always guaranteed, ensuring I would manage to accomplish visible pit stains through a leather jacket. I’d hold off putting my wares on the belt, instead shielding them in my arms under yet another table cloth I would never, ever use. Nothing suspicious here, everyone does this. Eventually I had to interact with the cashier. With a wedding ring this was much easier. I’d flash that sucker around like I just won the Superbowl; my passport to buy whatever I damn well pleased. Prior was a little harder. “Yes, I certainly do need a gift receipt. Lord knows I probably got all of this wrong!”

Only one occasion did my fears actually get realized. I was still in the Air Force and managed to find an abundance of great hosiery, in unopened packages, at a thrift store. I plopped my glorious find on the counter in front of the douche bag counter boy, who looked at my pile, me, and said with a loud chuckle, “Heh. Seriously dude?” I stammered an indignant response about the proximity to Halloween (it was early September), lost half my body weight in perspiration, paid quickly and left. I don’t think I ever went back to that location. Actually, the first statement isn’t completely true. Back in college I was at a Salvation Army when the cute grunge girl working the floor flat out asked me if the heap in my arms was for me. I was completely surprised and even more so when I answered her yes. She nodded her head and said, “That’s cool. We get a lot of you guys in here.” The experience was surreal and I never went back there either.

I can laugh now in ridiculous condescension toward my younger self, but it really wasn’t that long ago that I was so driven by need to brave the most mortifying circumstances to fill it. Once I achieved self-realization, the fear and embarrassment just stopped. I am female, and am going to shop like it, even in male mode if such is the circumstance. There is nothing so liberating as being comfortable with exactly who you are.

Creationism… Ugh. Seriously….

Recently the State of Indiana legislature introduced and passed a bill, final vote withstanding, that allows for the teaching of creationist “theory” alongside evolution in school science classes. Proponents of the bill are clearly coming from the standpoint, as addressed in my earlier post ‘Common Language’, that it is right to do so as in their mind this is an equal or more valid possibility than evolution. Opponents see this as crossing the line and a transparent attempt to infuse a fact based science curriculum with religious overtones. Nothing new here. Less than a century back, creation, and in this country specifically Judeo-Christian creation, was the science of our origins.

BFD Michelle, the net and affiliated media is already buzzing with outrage and logically devastating proofs that such a move reinforces the world intelligence opinion that we are but once removed from the Clampets. True, and this is a transgender discussion blog, or would be if anyone engaged [ahem], and  I doubt I have anything to add that fuels this fire of outrage a tenth of a degree. So, I’m going to pull my usual schtick and link this right up with transgender rights. Stick to what you know, right?

As far as I can tell, the one huge prevailing obstacle, and always has been, to LGBTQ rights (and before that minority and women’s rights) is the belief in a personally interested creator god who set things up the way they are. Slavery was justified this way. There wouldn’t be slavery if god didn’t create lesser people to be slaves, ipso facto, we are only doing what was ordained from the beginning of all things, several thousand years ago. God made it very clear in dozens of scripture references that women are lesser and created to be subservient, making the notion of equal rights and protection, or even a voice in government and policy, simply absurd. Thankfully society at large has since been able to “gloss over” such clear directions and rationalize that their god didn’t really mean it that way. Some heavenly directives are less equal to others and such.

Not that I can argue full equality has been reached by minorities and women, not by a long shot, but the LGBTQ community is still in the thick of it. The passages pertaining to us have not quite been glossed over by the majority of believers. “The whole slavery thing? Weeeelllllll…. not so sure about that. Gays though, dear lord, you know he meant that shit! Says so right here!” This can change and I think it will if we keep pressing hard enough. Our LGB brothers and sisters are finally making some headway, and more and more  of the compassionate and forward thinking biblical literalists are making the humanistic decision to say maybe these passages too aren’t of such importance. Transgender folks should be next in line. It’s a good paradigm shift from ‘god didn’t make anyone naturally this way’ to ‘maybe he actually did’ and the gays and trans aren’t opening themselves up to a world of hurt just for giggles.

Where I find the recent push to incorporate creationism back into schools very dangerous, aside from the obvious, is that is represents a downward slope for everyone. White males excluded, of course. I don’t think it is an erroneous conclusion to state that those pushing this agenda are also those hold outs who maybe think the parts that are currently being “glossed over”, probably shouldn’t be. If the biblical creation story is fact, contrary to all physical and logical evidence, doesn’t it stand to reason that rest of it should be taken as rote fact as well? If the implausible beginning of this book is taken word for word, it seems foolishly dangerous to mold a society where the rest of it isn’t also a prime directive, straight from above.

Teaching creationism as a valid theory is a simple way to get more people thinking that if Noah’s lookie-lou kid wasn’t such a disrespectful asshole, his descendants wouldn’t be in the whole human bondage mess. But that is the way god wanted it… And isn’t it so much nicer if women would just close their legs, sit in the back, do what their betters tell them, and shut the fuck up? Sure didn’t remember the story mentioning any Adam and Steve either. Yes, it might seem harmless at the outset to tolerate the anachronistic beliefs of the fervently devout, but my thinking is that it means no good for the majority of the population. I’m not very jazzed to live in a country where Margaret Atwood’s, Handmaids Tale is reinvented from a cautionary parable to a good guide of how things ought to be.

Family Guy

In May of 2010 I was still hard at work in my last ditch effort to become comfortable as a male. I was already losing, and fast, but at the time encountering anything that smacked of gender identity issues brought upon a big old dose of anxiety. It wasn’t helping that my wife was still accusing me of being either gay or a girl, as it turns out with good reason. I attribute all this to the reason I missed the epic episode of Family Guy where Quagmire’s dad reveals himself to be transgendered and all the hullabaloo that resulted. I somehow “forgot” to set the Tivo for that night and probably blamed my wife.

I was watching reruns not too long ago after I already came to my senses and began transition. Now hypersensitive in the other direction, it seemed like the universe was determined to crack me across the face at every available opportunity for my former stupidity. Just wonderful, the universe is an abusive male. It was bound to happen that that this particular episode was going to air as Fox evidently didn’t see fit to pull it from the rotation for sensitivity reasons.

For those who haven’t seen it, it begins with horn dog Quagmire’s dad coming for a visit, and in spite of his reputation as a legendary swordsman with the ladies, his behavior from the beginning indicates he may lean more toward the laddies. Quagmire can’t take the idea that someone so close to him isn’t exactly like him (no wonder old Cleveland got deported and he hates the talking dog who sounds suspiciously like Seth McFarlane), in spite of the fact that he’s a reprehensible pig. Nope, dear old dad isn’t gay, just transgender; something far worse. In typical media fashion, dad gets a 10 minute operation and emerges as a very passable woman. I know, but if you aren’t going to spend the full half decade it deserves, you may as well shrink down transition to a single scene.

Quagmire can’t accept the idea of his dad transitioning into the gender he holds in such contempt and through a well contrived sequence of events, she ends up getting picked up and seduced by Brian the talking dog. Toward the end we get to the scene I imagine causes all the controversy. When Brian, the dog, finds out he slept with a transgender woman, he becomes violently ill at the thought. Yep, woman and dog have sex and it’s the dog who goes bananas over it. If you are transgendered, you are probably a little upset by now. It’s OK, I’m going to rile you up just a little more before calming you down.

No matter how you look at it, it’s pretty offensive. All the usual stereotypes are there – transition can happen in an afternoon, transgender women are out trolling for unsuspecting men trying to ‘trick’ them into bed, transgender sex is actually worse than bestiality – OK, I never heard the last one before, but you know there are people who probably think it. So we should be offended, right? I don’t know, but I’m thinking no.

First of all, the writers of ‘Family Guy’ are equal opportunity shitheads. No one gets a fair shake in Quahog, and the lowest common denominator stereotypes usually shine through. Over the top horny airline pilot, all African American’s subscribing to ‘Grape Soda Monthly’, incompetent politicians, financially hypersensitive Jews, Downs children with Alaskan politician parents, handicapped people who can turn into a form of Voltron. OK, that last one is a little obscure, but I’m sure I’ve heard it at least two or three times growing up. If you are a performing artist, you get mocked by Weird Al Yankovic; if you are human, you get mocked by Family Guy.

I know I should be offended by the sleeping with the dog thing. Having watched the show for many years, it seems that pretty much every female character has slept with that dog one time or another. Sure he’s an alcoholic bore, but compared to the rest of the cast, he’s also arguably the most intelligent and mature of the crazy bunch. Besides, his over the top gay cousin also has a human lover. Not that this justifies anything, but in the context of the FG world, human to talking dog relations are socially acceptable. If it happened on ‘Frasier’ with Eddie and a trans person, that would be one thing, but here, not so much.

We do have a lot to be prickly about. Most people misunderstand our existence and hold a lot of false stereotypes. I believe there are many venues in which we should take up the fight to educate, but one where the title character routinely fights a giant chicken to a bloody mess is probably not worth wasting the energy. Anyone who solidifies their world concept based on a cartoon is likely the same guy who changes his vote due to a hyperactive douche waving a sign in the parking lot of the polling place; he’s good for the last thing he sees and not a whole lot more. If anything, anyone watching the show uneducated about trans existence, chances are they will view this episode and immediately draw the conclusion that what they are seeing is incontrovertibly inaccurate. In this case I think it’s OK to be a good sport and take the joke as just a joke.