Further thoughts on that submission post for Gender Outlaws: The Next Generation

Here.

I'm thinking seriously about submitting something to this anthology. This is in part because it's a platform for voices to be heard by wide audiences: the original Gender Outlaw is one of those books that sometimes appears as the (or one of the) Token Trans book(s) in mainstream bookstores. There are two problematic aspects of the submission post and its comments that I've seen, which I see as two opportunities. Yes, I am an incurable optimist. Whut.

1. There's this comment thread that really makes me want to get non-North-American trans voices into this anthology. I fear Mr. Bergman is being a bit "Gosh! Really? Should we? Okay!" about it. So if anyone felt like spreading this around to gender variant writers you know that aren't in the US and Canada, that'd be neat.

2. There's also a discussion further up about whether or not it's okay for Mr. Bergman to use the word "trannie" in this submission post, and whether he should retract it and apologize to those who abhor it. Feelings are hurt, people get upset, the OP is sort of understanding but in the end brash and unapologetic... it's another day on the internet.

Rather than boycott the anthology, which is one approach, I am filled with a desire to do what I can to actually give the collection some trans perspectives that may be different (or new) to those of the organizers: because I choose to take bearsir at his word that this is what he wants, and hope that it is true. It's the cold marketing soul in me, you see -- I may not think that the editors are the most awesome things ever with absolutely no flaws, but they're doing a good and important thing and they have the connections to make this important thing available to lots of people.

Also at the end of the day, Kate Bornstein and S. Bear Bergman are people I can admire.

on labels, identity, and offense

Note: This is sort of a post-about-a-post, but it's also just a post about me and thinky gender identity things that happens to use another post as the springboard. After the first paragraph I use the phrase "OP" instead of the original poster's name: in part to emphasize that I'm trying to be more universal than specific, and in part because I'm lazy with typing. If you're new here, I'm a transguy who's mostly socially transitioned, has just started on hormones, and plans to get a legal name change as soon as he saves enough money.

I've gotten a lot of cool links from elke-tanzer's post requesting women bloggers, vloggers, and twitterers. I also seem to be at odds with some people who found the post and were angered by her initial wording of the gender-specific request. There's a full explanation and heavily edited wording there along with all the original comments, if you care to look at it.

The thing is, when I saw the (now edited) sentence:

Most of my Dreamwidth Circle of people are women, and while I do value the men and transpeople, and the folks who don't identify with any gender at all who are part of my Circle, I really do value the fact that most of the voices I read here on DW are women.

I felt like "transpeople" meant me, and this was a good thing. (I don't know if she was actually thinking about me at all, but really that's immaterial.) I'm still at that stage -- or maybe I'll always be there -- where I see a word that begins with trans* and I'm pinged into full attention the way most people are with the word "sex".

Or cock, or cunt, or boobs, or arsehole, or take your pick.

That is, I feel myself getting viscerally prepared to be either horrified or thrilled: horrified that I-as-trans* am being ignored, or dehumanized, or dismissed, or laughed at, or given violence; thrilled that I-as-trans* am being recognized, or welcomed, or noticed, or validated, or remembered. It so happens that I read that sentence and got a thrill: I felt welcomed, remembered, noticed.

So why is that? Let's deconstruct.

1. I'm new to calling myself transgendered, my transition is still fresh and active, and it's really nice to see a category into which I know I fit.
2. Maybe it's my brand of Geek self-identity, but being looked at askance actually feels like a good thing sometimes.
3. I am on the male side of Trans Ave, so it wasn't exclusionary to be put in a clause with "men" -- actually excluding the 'me' kind of people from a call for Women's voices is validating to my identity, because I don't belong there.
4. I still kind of identify as genderqueer or third gendered -- although it's not my primary identity now that I'm actively becoming a man in the eyes of the world, it's an identity that speaks to me philosophically and emotionally, so placing the Me gender separate from the Woman and Man genders is something I can get behind.
5. I know the OP as a trans ally who's passionate about justice and equality and learning new ways of implementing same. It's REALLY HELPFUL to know who it is that's speaking. In fact, because of my understanding of her intention, I read the sentence pretty much how she corrected it later: ...(cis and trans)women... (cis and trans)men and (those that identify first as)transpeople. Because if you put yourself in the "woman" part of that sentence, here is one person who's not going to deny you entry. Or so is my impression.

One of the fundamental points of dispute here is related to #4: that a phrase like "women, men, and transpeople" can be nonconsensual third-gendering language. Some transpeople fight to their last breath (at times literally) to be recognized as their newer gender For Real and are hindered by (well- or ill-meaning) people along the way who want to ungender them and place them in some woobly in-between space without their consent. Then there are also those people who fight to their last breath to BE that third- or other- or non-gender, and they may ID as many different things on the gender map, but often somewhere in the trans* family of words. And then there are the genderfuckers who think it's fun to use the word trannie, (and I may or may not be one of them, but that's a post for another time.) The point being, it's not right to ungender someone without their consent, but neither is it right to force-gender someone without their consent. How do we avoid doing one or the other when "transgender" is such a wide umbrella with such seemingly opposing identities under it? I don't want to kick the genderqueers out into the rain, and I don't want the cis-queers thinking they know how our genders work, and I don't want to stop the conversation about how we want the world to think about gender. And how to we balance un-gendering and forced-gendering with the initial point of female-oppressing?

No really, that wasn't sarcasm. I'd love to get some answers to that.

So what's the upshot of all this? If I take away the five points I made above, I begin to come to an understanding of why the original wording of the post was (unintentionally) hurtful to some people. I can (sort of, intellectually) appreciate why it became necessary to change the words that recalled negative experiences for my brothers and sisters. I respect the OP for her dedication to apologize, change, and learn. It also makes me sad, because this argument has taken away a set of words that was meaningful to me because they spoke to my way of being trans*; a set of words that it's possible my presence in her reading circle had encouraged in the past. Yes, I'm aware that I have other privileges that probably affect how I see things like this and how little offense I take at them. Not the least of which is that I'm pretty emotionally detached (just ask my exes), but also that I'm white, born in the US, from a liberal family with supportive friends, educated, employed, and as I said above: on the ftm side of Trans Ave. But if there's anything I CAN get passionate about, its getting inside both sides of a trans argument, so I wanted to say something.

Now to contemplate submitting something to that Gender Outlaws: The Next Generation anthology. I actually do hope there's at least one good "Why I Hate The Word Trannie" and one "Why I Love The Word Trannie" piece. Because that'd be awesome.

(x-posted to various journaling services)

Boyjuice!

Today I signed an informed consent form for Hormone Therapy.

Today I walked out of the health center with my first prescription for injectable testosterone.

Today I left the pharmacy with two tiny vials of liquid boyjuice.

Today I came home to my four non-blood family members and celebrated with a hilarious reading session of Baron Munchausen: The Roleplaying Game, along with Sam Adams Cherry Wheat and some delicious dessert wine.

Tomorrow I get my first doctor-administered injection.

HI.

adventures in doctor-land

The 21st of May: My first doctor's appointment at Callen Lorde to begin the process of Transgender HRT. As recalled one week later.

I check in at the front desk, and though I've been told ahead of time to bring proof of residence and proof of either insurance or income, in truth they don't ask for these things and seem to be taking my word for it. I head upstairs to the Medical floor and am shortly called into an examination room. A nurse takes my vitals and tells me "don't be nervous, we'll be good to you." Minutes later Hot Young Doctor Guy In A Tight Shirt comes in (I swear, I thought I'd fallen into a porn or something). As I'm more of the listening sort and am probably giving off Craving Information vibes, HYDGIATS spends what seems like the entire time talking at me about procedures and options and possibilities and side effects of going on hormone therapy. All the while he's listening to my lungs, palpating me... you know. Doctory things. Hahaha. He finishes up, asks if I have any more questions, and sends me off to another floor for my blood draw.

The phlebotomist is also distractingly attractive (and female), and I comment on her skill with the needle. She grins at me, sticks a wad of gauze to my arm, and sends me off.

At the front desk I pay my bill and ask about a counseling appointment; then it's back upstairs to schedule one. Surprisingly, they have an opening for that very day, so I head up to work for an hour before coming back.

At noon I meet with Hot Young Motherly Counselor (apparently I'm having a Shallow Day) for half an hour or so. She begins with:

"This is not a gender test. I'm not here to determine whether you're trans enough."

This is nice to hear. We talk about me a lot, and I find myself feeling oddly calm and open. I walk out of that meeting holding a list of local therapists I can check out. If I feel like it.

At the front desk, I make another appointment to see HYDGIATS in two weeks.

I've been waiting for this day for months, and at the end of it all I'm both massively relieved that it's finally happening and wondering what I was so nervous about in the first place.

A hunnert persent troo

This occurred a few weeks after moving out to New York to transition while living with my best friends; I hosted a party called Farewell Femme, wherein the guests were encouraged to come en femme. There was Drag Rock Banding. And then there was this.

The scene:

I wear a long black evening gown, elegant black satin sandals with six inch heels; my hair is down to my waist. On the chair in front of me is laid out a suit - Black, three-button, with a light purple shirt and a dark grey five-button waistcoat.

I stand in the center of a circle of friends, my head a garden of tiny braids that those friends have made. On the speakers, Bitch and Animal lay down the "Pussy Manifesto". I hold up the scissors: "Who's first?"

J's idea, so she's it. She approaches with the cheap hair scissors, dulled by casual use, and saws her way through a hunk of my long locks. She holds it up in her fist, triumphant and pleased with herself and proud of me as the cameras flash around us. She gives me a new hug: a welcoming hug. She tells me she can't wait to get to know me, steps back, shakes my hand. Nice to meet you, Gabriel. Holds up the hair: I'm keeping this forever. I'll keep this to remember Faith. J is a storyteller, you see. A real one, the classic kind, the kind to whom you want to entrust your history, knowing it's in good hands and will be incorporated into the stories that shape the future.

One by one they come at me with the scissors, each chopping off a hunk of hair to keep or to give back. We're creating a turning point in this journey from she to he, and everyone here knows it; except maybe for my cat, hiding in the other room waiting for all these goddamn PEOPLE to leave. Some of the guys shake my hand and promise to induct me into the secret handshake club of gay men (once I've gotten in touch with that part of my sexuality, of course.) All right, dude, now hug me like a man. Good ta meetcha, Gabe. Back pats. Hugs that linger, hugs that say goodbye and hello at the same time.

At last the braids are all gone, and I rub a hand vigorously through my short shagginess. I make an announcement.

"I'm going to change my clothes now! Anyone who might be offended by my boobies... well, I don't know why you're here in the first place then."

I remember a conversation from earlier in the evening, and continue,

"Besides, now? They're not boobies. They're MAN nipples."

I am VERY pleased with myself for this witticism, and begin the arduous task of unzipping my very fabulous and fancy sparkly black evening gown. It takes nearly a full minute. This is a LONG time when a lot of people are watching. Trust me. On the speakers I hear B&A singing the praises of "The Best Cock On The Block". Still struggling. At last I get the zipper down, shimmy out of the dress and shoes, and slip into a rather dapper three-piece.

My oldest friend (no no, not the friend who is oldest, the friend I've known the LONGEST) then gets the honor of taking the dull scissors and fixing the chop-do into something presentable, which is something he's apparently been longing to do for many years. I've, uh, never been one for caring about or HAVING good haircuts, you see. He tells me that he wishes he were still in seminary, because this personal ritual I've created tonight is exactly the kind of thing that could have given him a thesis topic. Then R - who's been with me through every stage of this transition from first decision on, and because she's WAY less dorky than I and knows how to dress a fashionable man she has promised to take me shopping once I'm settled into my new body-image - messes with the lay of the new haircut so it's adorably mussed and not parted in the center.

I am called alternately "Hitler Jungend -- it's so the fashion right now", "really hot as a guy - and now I'm a little more gay" and "someone who totally would fit in at a hipster bar in the West Village, that look is very in". I sip an excellent Bowmore single malt as the evening winds down and people begin to leave, though we continue to talk of gender and games and Roman emperors and orgies far into the night. At last I slip into the guest room, cat at feet and computer at the ready; I ruffle my short hair once more and smile, glancing at my shadow on the wall.

Hey, Gabe. 'Sup.

Androgyne

Tuesday, 12:30 am - Chicago's North Loop.

Three German college boys walk behind me on a narrow sidewalk with sophomoric swaggers. One darts forward to peek under my cap, past my deep blue hood. Darts back, laughs. I hear the chatter of a language I know just well enough to pick out bits here and there. A word something like "androgyne" pops out and slaps me like a sticky wet ball of tissue. I tense a little but don't walk any faster; a tiny part of me is grinning in anticipation, waiting for a shove, wanting to get into it, to make it real, to know I'm alive and I'm me and to prove to the assholes they don't control me. More chatter behind me and one eggs his buddy on, in English this time.

"Go for it."

A pause, and I'm relieved and let down all and once that he doesn't touch me, doesn't make it more personal, but he calls out loud enough I know it's meant for me.

"Hey, man, can you feel your balls? CAN YOU FEEL YOUR BALLS?"

A dozen beginnings to clever comebacks pop into my head as I roll my eyes, but witty banter has never been my forte. I raise my right hand instead, never breaking stride, and flip the guy and his buddies and any more sophomoric swaggering cocks who might be nearby a deep, silent, heartfelt Fuck You. He calls again.

"Oh, a tough guy, huh?"

A smile creeps its way unbidden to my face as I descend the steps to the Red Line.

Yeah. Tough guy.

And then I got on the subway and wrote that down.

moving about in the world of boystown

A month and a half after Beginnings I made a 'coming out' post to my livejournal. In its entirety, here 'tis.

Those who follow my twitter page will have already heard this, but I thought I'd make a semi-public post to chronicle my important life changes. The way to phrase my "coming out" to various groups of people is something that has occupied much of my mental landscape over the past few weeks, so I think I'll try out a few of the phrases I've been toying with.

I am undergoing gender reassignment.

I have decided to transition.

How would you feel about me if I were me, but a guy?

It's a boy!

Am I going to cut my hair? No, not at the present. What kind of a man has hair that long? THIS kind. It's Ren Faire hair, hair down to who-knows-where, hair like Samson's, don't you dare chop it off.

Note: This conviction only lasted another month or so, when I realized that shorter hair would help a lot in my initial transition phase.

Hi, my name is Gabriel. No, not like Sylar.

In practical terms, I'm currently negotiating the prospects of telling my employers, getting a court order to change my name, figuring out how to change the gender marker on my ID, calling up a doctor who may or may not choose to prescribe the great and revered T so my body can begin to reflect myself, and working out how to tell the extended family and so on who may have a harder time than my queer/geek friends to accept this revelation of myself as transgendered. And I'm contemplating the complicated life journey of becoming a man without having the traditional history of boyhood, but rather a rich and complex history of girlhood and all I have to say about that is...

Coming out as queer was so much less COMPLICATED.