A Transcending American

And Burn My Shadow Away

2010-09-11T10:18:00.000-07:00

It has been more than a year since I updated this blog, and even then it was only to write reviews of depilatory products. Now, that is a peerless standard of mediocrity, and I have no interest in losing my record. So today I will repost a piece I wrote on facebook originally. Please note (if I still have any readers at all this means you), if you haven't already seen this, that it is almost nine months old as of this posting. I just feel it marks an essential chapter in the story of my transition.

So, my Grandmother died on Friday.*

It's been a long time coming. She went into hospice a few days ago with massive internal bleeding (source unknown), an egg-sized tumor in her throat, complete renal shutdown, and a 90% blockage in her carotid artery. None of these things was operable, given her age and frailty, and my father has been flying back and forth to Alabama for some months to try to put her affairs in order. So there's no shock, or anything like that. I've been well prepared; we all have.

What does, in fact, shake me, is that we're going to the wake today, and the funeral tomorrow (not to mention the parade o' family all week), and I'll be wearing a suit. I don't fault Dad for asking, I understand the reasons: I'm not out on that side of the family yet, Uncle Nick would probably picket the funeral himself if he saw me at the wake, or worse, and it's important not to distract people from the reason they're there. Regardless of my assertion time and time again that bigotry can only exist in a vacuum, and that therefore everyone must come out that their friends and family lose the excuse of being safe among "their kind," I agreed. For my dad's sake. To make this easier on him. Every minute that passes I get more and more anxious, though. Sleep gets harder the longer I think about it. I didn't think it would be that big a deal, but it's starting to be.

The thing is, I feel like I haven't come very far since I came out. I know I don't pass, and some of that is genetics, the rest my own incompetence. But I've made progress. The old tics, the self-abuse, the fake extroversion, it's all waned. I used to do this trick, where I could just stare at my reflection and switch back and forth between sexes, with no visible transition—I lost that ability some time in the last few months. I can look into a mirror and see myself now. It feels good. Or it did, that is, until I tried on the black jacket and slacks, charcoal grey shirt, and oxblood shoes and tie Sunday evening. I washed off my makeup, pulled my hair back in a tight ponytail, and tried to stand differently. Tried to make it convincing, and here's the thing. It was an effort. I thought it would be like some Star Trek alumnus doing the salute one more goddamn time for one more goddamn fan; instead, it's like putting on a spook mask you haven't worn since you were a kid—it's uncomfortable, it's tight and hot and you look silly. I was surprised to find how alien I look to myself. Harder. Crueler. Arrogant. I can see now how forcing myself to be a man made me a complete bastard.

I thought I'd buried him.

I've always said that I don't think you can escape your roots. Knowledge of self comes from knowledge of one's origins, if only for knowing how far you've come, and to attempt to reinvent yourself from scratch is foolish pride. I think that's why San Francisco is so schizophrenic, you know? But somehow, I thought I could just get rid of the man I used to be, completely. This was supposed to feel like doing drag. Jesus. I'm just amazed at how scary this is. I know it's irrational, but looking at myself in the mirror (something I avoided for a long time), I feel like I'm slipping. Even if you're only a few feet up a cliff face, your heart still races when you lose your grip, you know?

Anyway, I just wanted to shoot this off before we drive to the funeral home. It helps somewhat just to put it to words. Don't worry about me, though: I intend to weather this thing by maintaining a fever pitch of drunkenness twenty-four hours a day until I'm on a plane for St. Paul. I'll see you all when the fog clears.

~Gwyn

* January 8, 2010

It's been a very strange day.

2008-10-31T20:44:00.001-07:00

Overt hostility for once day!*

2008-10-28T00:15:00.000-07:00

You love this city. And so far, it's loved you back. Just like south Alabama, a place about which you've held halcyon, idyllic dreams, people say, "how are you?" and mean it. Men look at you with honest interest, but keep a respectful distance of politesse. Last week, a black guy commented on your ass in a positive way. Now, you know it's kind of racist and very, very classist, but a part of you feels like if black guys are paying your ass respect, you've gotta be doing something right. It's just been one booster after another around here, and you're loving it.

In fact, your confidence has been so bolstered by this place that last night, you did something you've never done before in your life. You gave a guy your number and email. Think of that! A relative stranger (to be fair, he did get that reference to They Might Be Giants in an adorably humble and distinctly un-hipsterish way)! It's a whole new you!

Well, today you're trying something different. You'll get prettied up (as much as you can, given that remarkably square and stubbly jaw of yours), and you'll put on that new sweater you just haven't been brave enough to wear out yet. You know, the one that's surprisingly warm, given how much of your midriff it bares? You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror as you leave, and for once in your life you feel sexy. Ready for... well, anything. And all thanks to the life you've kick-started in this city.

Today, you'll find out how harsh a mistress she really is.

You can feel the difference as you walk out the door. Somehow, the street where you live doesn't feel like it did yesterday. The people you pass as you walk to the subway don't look at you with that mixture of respect and libido you've, though you hate to admit it, come to expect. In fact, they don't look at you at all if they can avoid it. "It must just be my nerves," you say to yourself as another pedestrian carefully orbits you in passing.

Then, for the first time since you left your increasingly tiny-seeming hometown, a pickup will fly by, and an almost-empty beer can will narrowly miss your head as the driver shouts, "hey, freak!"

As the evening wears on, you'll find that, for some reason, the entire city seems colder, more aggressive, more... spiteful. You'll even go back to the café where you saw that John Linnell-looking guy last night. Instead of seeing him again, you'll meet a horrifyingly intoxicated young(ish) man named "Devlin" who will shout in your ear about polemics until you give up and head to the transit station.

Maybe it's the hormones talking, but right then, shivering in that stupid sweater, as you cave in to nicotine's bitter nagging and stoop to pick up most of a cigarette from next to a tree planter, you'll just want to be held.

Then, as you round the corner of 22nd St, you'll see, on the western horizon, what seems to be a blocks-long fire glowing against its own smoke-filled backdrop.

You will smile.

Happy Overt Hostility for Once day!

*If you don't get this, you should check out Girls are pretty. It's one of my favorite blogs EVAR.

Author's note: Before you comment, today was actually pretty ok. Just feeling a little persecuted by forces unknown (except, of course, that guy in the pickup), and felt like this would be a good format. Yes, I know that was a horribly fragmentary "sentence."

This town...

2008-10-16T22:27:00.001-07:00

... is good for me, but not for the reasons you'd think. I'm barely interacting with the queer "community," if at all. I think I'm feeling generally pretty positive about myself, and myself in the context of the transition, for several less direct reasons.

I'm just not that unique here. The diversity of gender expression in this town makes me, if not a standard tranny, and if not a standard woman, at least very squarely on the feminine/female end of the visible spectrum. That's just not that left field around here. I don't even look like a drag queen. SF queens, man, you know when you meet them. But with me, it's like you have to already be exposed to the transgender spectrum or just be observant, and big city populations aren't known for their attention to detail where strangers are concerned. For that matter, nobody stares at a shemale in this town. It's not like we're anything new. So I find some comfort in my blandness. As Sunshine, a seminarian I had the pleasure of meeting recently, said, "sometimes it's more important to be able to blend in than to be unique. Sometimes you need that."

With that in mind, the overall accepted "culture of queer" (as opposed to "queer culture," which suggests a subset or differentiation) which sets this city apart from most of the union means that most strangers, when I am read*, still don't modify their behavior towards me. Even if it's understood that I'm trans (which it usually is), I am referred to as "Miss," and "Ma'am," and "Hey lady!" Kind of nice to be taken at face value. That, I think, is what was missing at home: a basic understanding that gender expression should define gender-determined responses. If I'm telling the world, with my voice, my clothes, my hair, my makeup, my tits, my everything visible, that my gender is female, I don't see why such a petty thing as my sex should matter. It seems simple to me. I know it isn't, for most people, but why does it feel like there was a concerted effort to collectively repress my gender expression back home? Whatever it was, I don't really get much of it here. In fact, the only "sir" I've gotten was from a bartender at a cozy little spot called Aunt Charlie's. Hardly a bastion of anti-queer sentiment.

But I think the most important factor so far has been the divorce from (almost) everybody I know. With four specific exceptions, nobody out here knew me before I came out. Two of them knew me only very briefly and cursorily before now. What this means is that I am away from any active acknowledgement of my transition as a modifier for my relationships: most everybody knows Gwyneth, and that's that. Gwyneth gets to be who she is, without the baggage of who she was. In addition, I'm free of the intellectualized, abusive sense of humor which is particular to most of my friends out there. Don't get me wrong, I love the kind of attacking, cynical, and usually very funny jibes which make up the bread and butter of most conversations back home**. I even appreciate it reflectively, to the extent that my friends refusing to take me seriously prevents me from taking myself seriously, which can be very dangerous. On the other hand, not being needled, mocked, and mildly harassed, by my friends, for something that I really can't control is kind of refreshing. I miss them, and I even miss that back-and-forth, but right now I think I'm okay without it. In short (too late as always), I'm just liking being gone. I wonder if I'm missed, too, or if the Twin Cities are just as relieved to have me out of their collective hair.

It doesn't really matter. The point, I guess, is that I'm feeling pretty good about stuff.

Now, if I only had some money.

*Read, as in the past tense of read, in this case meaning understood to be biologically male.
**Choco knows what I mean.

Interstitial Integrity

2008-10-02T14:03:00.000-07:00

An interesting pattern I've noticed since beginning my transition is that of duality. Every experience, every moment, means somehow concurrent if opposite things. My gut emotional reaction is always split, and I don't swing up and down, but entertain contradictory feelings as one. I don't have a word for it, but I have evidence. Anecdotes. One of them is really long.

•Some months ago, well after I'd begun cross-dressing full time, I was playing a set at St. Paul's favorite dive bar (name omitted because I don't want to admit playing there). After we'd finished and offloaded our gear, I sat at the bar to play the "wait-and-see-if we-get-paid-tonight" game. In about thirty seconds, I was approached by a somewhat older man with a good start on a more than comfortable buzz.

He sat next to me, I tried to ignore him, he persisted in trying to buy my drink, I persisted in politely deferring. The bartender seemed entirely preoccupied with the relatively complex task of mixing a screwdriver for another customer, and I was stuck. I pulled out my book as soon as he finished a "thought," and applied my most explicit body language to indicate this conversation's abortion. No go. This merely piqued his interest even further, and he asked, "What are you reading? Oh, a mystery? I love thrillers. You read a lot of thrillers? You ever read Tom Clancy? He's great..." And so on. Every girl who's ever had a drink at a bar has had this experience more often than they'd like.

Finally I closed my book on the bar and announced that I'd walk down to where the bartender had moved and ask her for some of the crap coffee they make for the doorman. When I returned, he was staring at me literally slack-jawed (really weird to see in real life). I asked what was wrong, and he said, "You're... a guy... but you're like... also a chick?" After I explained that that was, to some extent, accurate, and how exactly it was inaccurate, he sat and stared a little longer, and finally stammered, "You know, I ain't gay, I ain't no faggot or nothin', so, don't get me wrong, but... yeah you, uh, what you're doing? What you're trying to do, I mean... uh, you look good.*"

That felt weird. On one hand, I was flattered in a strange way by what he said: passing to and being seen as attractive by a man gave me a sort of thrill, a sense of validation, even if seeing me walk (or whatever it was) dissolved it immediately. On the other, that attraction, that validation, was prefaced with "I ain't no faggot, but..." Kind of a downer, especially when I don't know what I said or did to clue his drunk ass in.

•I often hear, second-or-firsthand, "You're really good on the bass... especially for a chick." It's flattering to know I pass well enough to inspire sexism. Woo?

•Pulling out of a parking space in the Midway Shopping Center, nearly clipped by a lunatic doing 45 down the lanes, I hear, "Dumb bitch! Learn to drive!"
Self-explanatory.

•I went to the "Fall of America" recently to get some clothes that fit. After seeing myself in the fitting room mirror, I realized how dumpily I'd dressed when I left the house. So, after checking out with a new turtleneck sweater (both warm and hot, thank you) and a pair of heeled boots, I jetted to the nearest mall bathroom.

I could tell by the emanating sounds of Minnesota-chick cackling and by the forty-something dude laden with ten-plus full shopping bags, milling about near the entrance, that the women's room was very occupado. I try to avoid contact with anybody in the women's room, because cognitive dissonance isn't the kind of thing that sits well in that situation with a gender trained to expect rape at all times. So I waited, pretending to study the digital display for the rows of nearby lockers. If asked, I don't know what I'd have said. "My, did you know they offer instructions for ten languages on this thing? Wow! I'll make sure to tell that Brazillian guy on my block about that... so that... he can... lock his stuff up? Here?"

I'm not very good at undercover work.

Around this time, I noticed that, far off to the left of the two brightly lit, tile-covered entrances to the men's and women's rooms, was a small, grey door with the inscription, "Family." AHA! Family restrooms are the best thing ever. Most large-scale movie theaters have them, and lots of shopping centers, too. They're great, because they are universally single-seaters, non-gendered, and have doors that lock. Which, of course, the door to this one was. Damn. Back I went, trying to figure out exactly how many Euros (or indeed, yen, pounds, or kronur) it would take to store my valuables during an all-day shopping expedition. Finally, the gaggle in the ladies' left, taking with them the hapless father-figure type. As I breathed a sigh of relief (by this time, I actually had to piss pretty badly), I noted that he still carried all of their bags, even now that the delicate expedition to the water closet was finished.

So I peed, I changed, I even took a moment to touch up my makeup a little. Empty bathroom, all to myself... heaven. As I left, one of the girls from that original crowd passed me in the entryway. Averting eye contact, I heard a stifled gasp and saw her entire clan once again waiting outside. Maybe she'd forgotten to crap in all the hubbub? Superdamn. Don't say anything, don't look at anybody, just march straight to the parking lot and get going.

After what felt like a day and a half, I reached the exit and kept going. In my periphery, I noticed a man keeping pace with me. He had semi-formal clothes, close-cropped hair, and a solid build. He was also wearing an earpiece like the feds have in movies. As I walked, he made occasional eye contact, and his facial expression never shifted out of neutral. Security? Superduperdamn. I picked up the pace, rounding the stairwell towards my car, and as I did so, he closed the remaining few steps and said, "excuse me, miss."

"All, right," I thought, bracing myself, "here we go."

"I was wondering if I could buy you dinner." I am very rarely caught off-guard, and I struggled to figure out what to say as I rearranged my perceptions: I had sized him up as a threat, and now had to size him up as a date. Guh? After a moment of pass-fumbling (get it?), I finally worked in that I had a prior engagement ("Fences" at Penumbra... kind of a let-down) and deferred. To his credit, he was as tenacious as polity allowed.

I thought to myself about how many guys I turn down, and how often they themselves get turned down. I don't entertain the illusion that I fool anybody, at least not in daylight, and for him, I was probably a very specific interest. If you work at the Mall of America, you have plenty of opportunity to ask straight women and gay men out. But out in Bleemingdorf, how many transwomen are you going to meet? How many transwomen are going to meet interested parties? I felt bad: even if I didn't end up dating/screwing/cybering/whatevering him, I could at least have taken him up on dinner, or gotten his myspace or something. On the other hand, what the fuck kind of guy displays his affection by geographically boxing you in and giving off distinctly aggressive predator signals? He spoke like a gentleman, but his approach had me eyeing possible escape routes and fingering my keys as a possible defensive weapon. I mean, fucking seriously!

•The other day, on Hyde St.**, this streetguy I see all the time when I walk home from the subway stopped to bum a cigarette. Hoodie, skinny jeans, eyeliner, shaved head and eyebrows with eyebrow pencil, work boots. At one point, he dug in his pocket, saying "do you want to buy some... Makeup?" I've been offered any number of transactions on the street, but that was a first. His name's Randy. On accepting my cigarette, he started walking along with me, and talking. I love Randy, because I don't have to say a word. He just keeps going.

Somewhere in his monologue, he popped in a quip about a drag hooker on my street who, to his mind, "doesn't know what she's doing. She wears waaaay too much shit. You seen that shit? with that fucking shadow all over her shit? No, no, no, you don't look like that bitch. You look good.*** Your skin's clear, you don't barely need no foundation. Not like her-fucking-majesty's-ass up there."

I wanted to cry, what with how obvious I was to him, and Randy's presuming I was working the street. Then again, among a class of women more-than-normally obsessed with appearance, the contrast to which he referred felt good. It feels fucked up, taking a compliment like that.

The point is, this kind of thing is every day. Incomprehensibly self-contradicting experiences, all the time. The only way I can stay sane is to just enjoy it. Kick back and enjoy the duality. And I suppose that's kind of important for somebody learning to be something in between. I think of Rita Nakashima Brock, a biracial writer and theologian, who describes the concept of "interstitial integrity." Interstitial space is defined as between: the hollow between the walls of your house, the tissues whose sole duty in your body is to hold it together. Though rarely seen, that's where all of the electrical cables, plumbing, heating, and everything else that makes your home livable is. As Brock said, without those tissues, we'd be nothing but a pile of bones; as Denis Paul said, "If there lies nothing between here and there, there can be no journey."****

Thanks for reading, if you did. Thanks to Blogger's geeks for FINALLY UNLOCKING MY FUCKING PAGE YOU SAID IT WOULD TAKE A DAY AND IT TOOK A WEEK NOW I'M BEHIND GAAAAH! I really appreciate it. It's nice to know I'm not a robot.

*This is foreshadowing.
**I live in San Francisco now.
***Note how I set that one up, with the foreshadowing and all. Classy, huh?
****Massive paraphrase. It was something like that.

Hello, internet.

2008-10-01T15:27:00.000-07:00

I'm not going to bother with a coming-out story, or years of background on my miserable life as a boy, or any of that. Sometime when I feel like waxing maudlin*, but not now.

I presume that anybody reading this already knows me, and knows that in September of last year, I came out of the closet and began the long road to womanhood. If, by some fluke, you're not a friend redirected from some other internets and genuinely have no idea what I'm talking about, by way of introduction let me say that I am an mtf transsexual woman, a tranny, a chick-with-dick, a shemale, a trap, or, as Matt would say, "Transcending American." By and large, this blog will be dedicated to anecdotes, memories, journals, and other bloggy crap related to my transition. I don't intend to be a great resource for any of my sisters or posterity: I think most people going through what I'm going through are probably doing it better and have better heads on their shoulders; I don't entertain the narcissism to believe I'll change one anyone's life with a blog. Rather, I just think that it will be positive for me to put some of these thoughts down, get them out of my headspace to sort of turn them over and look at them under the light. You can, this way, too, and doesn't that make you feel special?

...Transcending American. I like that. Kind of ambiguous, which, of course, suits me well.

I'm not quite ready to start pooping this stuff out quite yet, maybe later tonight. But anyway, I thought I'd start by saying, "Hi!"

...ummm...

Hi!

Ok, headpoops coming soon.

*Read: drunkpost