Decrying Gravity: June 2010

Cognitive Dissident

Posted by Ophelia | | Posted on 6/26/2010 07:44:00 AM

"This got me thinking more about identifying as a rape victim in public. One of the reasons I told my boss I didn’t mind everybody knowing was because I want everybody to think about rape when they see me. This is what a rape victim looks like. I want them to know that. I am a complex individual full of talents and abilities, and I want them to know that rape victims file papers, speak to judges, wear bad shoes, refill the coffee pot, call the repair people, eat their lunches. I want them to think about how many other victims they’re surrounded with and they don’t know. I want to be the antidote to the only depiction of rape victims most of us are going to get, which is either the secret hidden porno in the middle of a movie, or the horrifying image of a woman’s crying, contorted face on a rape “prevention” poster. Rape victims get up and walk around and look like everybody else. They fucking have to. They are there when you talk about Polanski. They are there when you make rape jokes. They are there when you use rape as a euphemism for “did a good job.” I don’t get to forget that, and I don’t think anybody else has the right to forget it, either." -HJ, @ Fugitivus

Two things:
1. HJ's really turned me into an anti-rape advocate. I think she's done it single-handedly. I've read some other things, on the feminist blogs I frequent, but HJ's both humanizes and explicitly explains what it's like being a rape victim and coping with that to a remarkably vivid degree. It's still surprising to me, though, that when I think of my counseling interests: domestic abuse, depression, gender identity/LGBT issues, self-esteem, and rape counseling, rape counseling is the only one I don't have immediate personal experience with. It may be because my father was a rape victim, and I largely consider the miseries of his (and, consequently, my family's) life to be related to that. But it's also so vividly sexist, so vividly hurtful, so vividly crushing that I can't help but feel compelled. I'm not certain of many things, but supporting gay rights, destigmatizing mental illness, and bringing down rape culture are things I'll defend to pieces.

2. I want to do what HJ describes above, but for trans people. Of course, I think it's only something I could do if I was really comfortable with myself/my body/my presentation and identity, and I don't know if that'll happen. But if it does, I want to be out and open. I want to normalize transness, just as many homosexual folk have increasingly normalized gayness. My counselor, a lesbian, once said someone told her that her very existence would cause others "cognitive dissonance." The fact that she existed, in other words, was enough to fundamentally challenge the worldview of others. And I want to do that. In fact, I want to be a cognitive dissident (SEE WHAT I DID THERE?). Not in a "SO ANGRY ALL THE TIME TRANSMASH" kinda way, but with an assertiveness about my identity that causes people not only to question the gendered way our society is structured but for people to question their own gender presentations. That's my kind of activism: actively existing as a political statement. And I think that's what HJ advocates in the quotation above.

Gender Part Four, Female

Posted by Ophelia | Posted in hope, transition | Posted on 6/19/2010 12:37:00 PM

(Divided for fluidity: part 1 safe, part 2 male, part 3 transition, part 4 female)

When I am female, I want to learn how to dance. I want to swing, to flow, to twirl and be twirled, to move organically without hesitation, feeling my partner with the playful intimacy of the platonic or an electric incandescence. I want to feel the visceral joy of physicality as music flows through you, linking the mass of humanity writhing in unison. It's intrinsic, intense, not necessarily ecstatic, not necessarily desolate, but intense and so, so real.

Unfortunately, this is problematic because although my maleness is, arguably, an impediment to that state, this all reeks of self-image and self-esteem. The dichotomy I've established is not one between male and female but rather between right and wrong, inanimate and alive. It's not exclusive to transness but almost certainly to many who find themselves in various states of discomfort about themselves.

I say this is unfortunate because it leaves me searching for identity. I am not, as the stereotype goes, a woman trapped in a male body. I am a genderqueer individual who, for an inexplicable reason, identifies with and seeks female presentation. Not just feminine, but female.

I say I want to dance when I am female, because I can't as a male. Oh, I've tried. Importantly, I don't want to lead. I don't want to be the aggressor, the controller. And that shouldn't be a problem, since that's a matter of gender. And I wonder, if our culture was different and women could lead me instead, would I not feel this dysphoria? Are cultural norms the things responsible for this? Is it all just a matter of me not liking what society tells me to do?

Perhaps. But so too I'm aware of how people look at me and see something that shouldn't be there, that I can't stand, that isn't me, isn't expressing what I want it to. Only in words can I express what I want, and there my gender doesn't come into play. Perhaps I dislike the role of the male (or much of it, anyway). But I have distaste for the role of the female, too. What I want is to be authentic, whole. I want to be real instead of a construct. And even though so much of identity is a construction, there is something essential there that points us towards certain avenues of expression, certain presentations, certain ways of being that are truer than others.

In many ways, dancing is emblematic of how I'd like to feel in general. As a male, I simply cannot express myself physically because my physical express are not me. I like me, for the most part; it is the maleness that I am so worried about. And I hope that I can overcome that worry and anxiety by becoming female. The stiff, self-hating, self-consciousness resulting from my maleness dropping away like shed skin and leaving a female fluid and vividly alive.

Again, not just feminine but female. Female and feminine are distinct. I would say that I already foster a great deal of femininity. As far as stereotypes go, my body is slight, my mannerisms submissive (more often than not), my preference to be submissive rather than dominant, my valuation and facility with empathy, etc. I am masculine, too, in some regards: I am assertive sometimes to the point of being aggressive in debate, I have a masculine frame and facial structure, I have interests that probably veer towards culturally masculine although the way I interact in those spaces tends to be closer to feminine. Point being, becoming female is not simply a matter of feminisizing my personality; I've already, significantly, done that.

What it is, though, is a set of signs and signals, understood implicitly by our culture, to represent the female. Clothing, obviously, is very significant. Voice, a make-or-break. Ways of taking up physical space, gait, demeanor, hair, shoes, makeup, and more and more. These all have elements of femininity to them, naturally; gender is a construction, after all. But they're learned on a level that make them difficult to crack. I'm trying, but it's difficult to feel "female" without them, which is discouraging because it's difficult to practice them if I don't feel female.

I say this to try and say that it's a difficult thing for me to conceptualize and make real. I can crossdress, I can work on my voice, I can do all these different things, but to actually feel female? To actually believe? I cannot simply say "I am letting my true self come out" because what I'm doing is constructing myself according to cultural norms of sex. They're norms that, mostly, I'm pretty ok with meeting (in the theoretical "You can do it!" kind of way). Yes, I want to wear skirts. Yes, I want to speak like a woman. Yes, I want to be pretty. But one of the reasons it's taken me so long to get here is because I know how fake it all is. I can wear a skirt and be male, I can speak differently and be male, and I can, to some people, be pretty and be a male. Hell, I can have a vagina and still look, talk, think, and act male.

So is being female just a matter of critical mass? It's not just the clothes, not just the mannerisms, not just the voice, not just the physical aspects, but instead an amalgamation of them all? As if gender is a scale and at some magical point one trait or prop or the other tips it from one side to the other.

You can note my incredulity, but I cannot conceive of an alternative. And maybe that's ok. I don't know why I want these things. I don't know why I identify this way. But when the pieces start falling into place, and the scale finally tips, I feel... right. I feel joyful. Not because I think only females can feel joyful, but because I am thankful for so much, excited about so much, engaged with so much and this maleness stands like a wall, a dam blocking it from flowing. And I wish I knew why. I wish I knew why.

Gender Part Three, Transition

Posted by Ophelia | Posted in past, transition, transsexuality | Posted on 6/19/2010 09:32:00 AM

(Divided for fluidity: part 1 safe, part 2 male, part 3 transition, part 4 female)

So, in a sense, I know who I am/am not. Or, at the very least, I know "he" is a state that cuts the horizon in half, turning a vibrant and beaming existence into a puppet-shadow-show. As a male, I do not identify with myself. This means my "pleasure" mustneedsbe vicarious, my joy a zeitgeist not a bubbling from within. I could hold Laura, as we fell asleep, assured that she was what mattered more than all the small somethings that batter and bruise beyond, and I still, despite my passion, love, devotion, would be apart. I could feel, but her smile reflected in me so much more than one of my own.

It was, I think, one of the fatal flaws of our relationship. I cannot be vulnerable to the extent intimacy demands simply because I am always masked even when bare. I am always deceptive, always hiding, even when revealing. I am distorted, stiff. I am constructed, thoroughly. You cannot truly love a strawman, you can only feel the outlines of what should be real.

It's difficult to wrap your mind around if you're cis (aka not trans), but the best way I can concisely describe it is like a fundamental feeling of wrongness that can't be fixed not for lack of trying but for the implacability of definition. Being called "he," being expected to "act" as a male, being grouped with other males, checking off male on forms, going into the male restroom, having other males view me with a sense of intimate (unearned) camaraderie, having females view me as predator other, these and more are not so much wrong, in a political sense; they are insults, lies, distortions. Every time I check "male" on a form, it feels like a compromise.

Of course, I don't want to be expected to act "female" either; I want the dissolution of gender policing. But that's a political stance. If I was the sex I feel, I would roll my eyes against the forms, speak against policing, transgress groups and norms, but these acts would be assured and with ideology oft in mind. Being referenced as male is a much more personal, much more fundamental affront. It is personal. It hurts, in the way insults, slurs, hatespeech, abuse hurt. It cuts past the armor of reason and assurance to hit a place still vulnerable, still weak. I am Cassandra, speaking truth, feeling truth, and believed by no one. Maleness hurts. It's wrong. It's false. It's a wound that will not heal, but bleeds and bleeds until it's out and I'm out and I am naught but vapors, shadows, masks. Smoke and broken, breaking mirrors.

Gender Part Two, Male

Posted by Ophelia | Posted in past, self-hate, transsexuality | Posted on 6/19/2010 09:29:00 AM

(Divided for fluidity: part 1 safe, part 2 male, part 3 transition, part 4 female)

As a male, I am hopeless. At least, I have no hope for happiness. It seems incompatible. I am anxious. I am depressed. I am wrong. I am so damned wrong. My body hair taunts me, sits like scars from a desperate surgery, tainting once pure flesh. My hands and feet are large, dwarfing, monstrous in their reach and extent. My eyebrows are thick like storm clouds, my face is harsh like rocks against waves. My voice is a cannon or a coffee grinder, my self lacks subtlety and grace. I am large, bulky, clumsy. I am worried, always worried. I grind my teeth awake and asleep, worried. I am wrong. The veins in my hands speak of age beyond me, speak of death while they breathe life. My chest is flab and pricks of hair, weeds after a costly war. Between my legs is a nuisance, a demon, a callous lackluster display of aimless flesh. A protrusion, a weapon, a tacit assertion where I mean to invite, a warning. My shoulders seek lebensraum, invading space around me while I try to reign them in, ashamed and fallen angel, wings wrapped around me. My beard an irrepressible disease, a herpes that can be cleared but never cleansed, a reminder of who I am am not cannot be.

I am distant. Pulled like a puppet. Commanded and obeying. I do not feel insomuch as I react. I wry and decry, deride and snide, snark and bark, not tough but too rough all the same. How can I want him/like him/love him? Who could want such an abomination? Who could want a predator, a carnivore who munches sullenly on grass while hungrily eying gazelles? Who could touch him unscathed? He is a mangy dog, snapping and pitiful. He is a shell. He is a mask. He is deficient. He is man's monster, risen from the dead to stalk and stumble towards a best-case complacency with a lifetime of gray and graying days. He is not who I am who I am cannot be not who not who not who whom being not no wrong.

Gender Part One, Safe

Posted by Ophelia | Posted in past, retrospective, transition, transsexuality | Posted on 6/19/2010 09:28:00 AM

(Divided for fluidity: part 1 safe, part 2 male, part 3 transition, part 4 female)

I've written a great many things, over the course of my years journaling, that have often been quite (if not excruciatingly) personal. I'm not nearly as daring as some, but, given my social circles, I'd say that I ere on the side of disclosure instead of veiled retention. But for all that, I've never really written and addressed my gender issues head on. Part of that is somewhat paranoia; when teaching, it never felt safe to put into traceable words what my gender dysphoria is, what it feels like, what it explicitly means. And after teaching, I've been all kinds of emotional places that haven't lent themselves to proper distillation. Now, though, I'm entering into a different phase of transition. A phase that goes beyond hormones, goes beyond crossing, goes beyond coming out. This is where it becomes real. Where I become real. And that, as much as anything, is my greatest obstacle.

I'll start with a brief narrative, not just because it's how these things go (what is a transgirl without hir story?) but because it's how I process. There's a conception that transness is the sort of thing a person knows from a very early age. The boy who wore girls clothing, who always wanted to be with the girls, who played with girls things, who couldn't understand why he couldn't wear a dress to kindergarten. And, for many people, that's true. Common, too, is the idea that as adolescence progressed, these transgirls-in-training would wear their female family members' clothing or would transgress norms in various overt ways that signaled "I want to be a female and always have."

I wasn't like that, though. For whatever reason, I never crossdressed. I never felt I was "a girl trapped in a male body." My dysphoria was, perhaps, more subtle. Instead of crossing, I simply played. Not house or anything terribly domestic, of course. When we weren't playing video games during elementary school, my friends and I (usually a few friends, girls, who lived nearby) would essentially role play. We'd create characters (often anthropomorphic), give them personalities/backgrounds, and run around doing space opera. I don't know that there was all that much we could do our constructions, but I remember the creation. I remember it because I remember negotiating gender. My problem: I wanted to be a girl character. Almost every time. But that gets you noticed, and it's unusual even if you're playing with girls. So I'd barter with myself. Every three games, every four games I'd get to be a girl. Just to "try it out." And it felt invigorating.

I don't know if I ever wondered why I wanted to be a girl. It just felt right. And, even today, it's the same: I don't know why, I just know how it feels. As you can imagine, that's very confusing. Having an abusive, unpredictable (alcoholic) parent makes it worse. Feelings are not things you express or count upon; they're what get you into violent situations, get you screamed at, get you punished and cowed and and and. So you lie. You put on a mask and you pretend when the parent is around, and when they're not everything rushes out and you're unhappy and terrible. At least, I was. My sister was too. We fluctuated between being bitter, sullen, spoiled brats for our mother and quiet, compliant, passive ghosts for our father. That is hyperbole, somewhat, but it's not far from the truth either. The point is, though, that what you want is largely irrelevant; what feels good is a red herring. What keeps you safe is an entirely different matter.

So I stayed safe. Safe and terribly unhappy. I'm sorry this keeps turning into a defense, but it's half for you and half for me. I've wasted so much time, ignored so many signals, spent far too long doing what made sense instead of what actually felt worth doing. Doing what kept me safe. And safety is not happiness; it's survival. I didn't do much aside from survive until Laura. And even then, she became my reason and my worth. I haven't lived yet. I don't know how to live, in and of myself, for I've always been ethereal, not there, evasive, protected, and ultimately a construct rather an organic entity.

I feel like I have to say this to prove that I'm not crazy. To make sense of how long I've hidden, how long I've resisted. I don't know when I first consciously acknowledged that I wanted to be a female. As recently as last November, I could barely verbalize it. It seemed insane. I mean, literally insane. Why the hell can't be I be ok with who I am? Why can't I say what I mean? Why can't I accept and and-

What GSSE Means for Me

Posted by Ophelia | | Posted on 6/12/2010 11:16:00 AM

Whew. One week of GSSE down, and it's flown by. I've gotten up at 8:30, gone to bed from 1:30-3:00, felt exhausted every night, and loved it. I honestly believe this is the best start to a Governor's School yet. I start to try and describe the individual events that make up the experience, but it defies compartmentalization. Nevertheless, there are broad reasons why I love GSSE, and, being myself, I can't help but try to understand them and apply them to the rest of my life. When I say GSSE is my favorite time of the year, I'm in no way kidding. And to find something you love so much, I can't help but think I ought to try to replicate it down the line.

1. The students. Not all of them, certainly. But, as a group, they're wonderful. They're still teenagers, of course, and with that comes awkwardness, insecurity, brazenness, etc. But they're smart. They get my jokes. They're curious. They're so multifaceted. I want to crack them open and gorge myself on their inner lives. Heh, perhaps that's too vivid, but they're so compelling! To wit:
- The most articulate self-identified liberal I've met in some time; we talked for 2 hours or so and it was all a joy.
- Another moderate-ish Christian girl (like two years ago) with verve and a great sense of humor masking... well, I'm not sure, but I'm searching.
-A nerdy guy still trying to wrestle with his taste and aesthetics, but with wit to spare.
- So many more. I love their banter! It's addicting. And I can see hints of sensitivity behind the veneers of irony; I don't know if I'll reach through or not, but I hope I get to keep seeing glimpses.

2. Myself. I know, with teaching, there's an idea that one needs at least three years to start getting a handle on the job. It's why we all feel like failures (and kind of are) our first few years. But I think it's true, with teaching as with most things. This is my fourth year at GSSE. I know the ropes. I'm decent at recognizing patterns. I know how this thing plays out, the things I've liked, the things I've regretted. And I'm adapting accordingly.

For instance, I regretted not getting to know the students faster the past year. Some of that was my time being divided between them and Laura, but a lot of that was my timidity. I'd stay in my room and wander the internet instead of engaging the students. (Often, anyway; hardly always). This year, though, other than a few diversions talking to Sara for a few hours, I am booked solid. My RSS feed floats around 100 simply because I don't have time to read more, and I love it. I'm more confident in myself, and that makes it easier for me to engage the students.

And I think they appreciate that, too. I had at least 25 show up for the first LAN party (we ran out of computers). The first one. And yeah, group variations. But I think my personality's pulling them in. They smile and wave when they see me. They like talking to me. Many of them really like me (or at least find me pretty amusing). One asked "Have you always been this cool?" and it was so sweet (I didn't respond as such, but I felt it). I'm sarcastic, sincere, enthusiastic, and, well, myself (another student said he thought I'd look good in drag, if I did better at shaving. Dramatic irony ftw). It's such a better fit than "Mr. Meggs." I'm still... in charge, often. I've gotten a lot better at directing. But I don't have to be in control.

The other RAs, for the most part, seem comfortable with each other. They see the students, sure, but they don't... play with them, like I do. They don't engage them, don't enjoy their company like I do. And part of that is that I'm just more selectively extroverted than they are. But part of it is that I just thrive on people. Especially people who like or get/respect/are amused be me. It's partly the group. But so much must be me, too. And I love it.

3. Detox. Teaching took a lot out of me. It didn't destroy me, but it gutted me and left me raw and bleeding. It damaged my efficacy, my self-concept, my identity in ways that I've still not grasped. Of course, much of that turns positive. I'm more confident and... battle-tested. I'm not nearly as nervous or scared as I might have been a few years ago. I'm not fearless, but the skitterish pseudo-terror I kept struggling to choke down is largely dissipated after teaching. However, I was also an authoritarian. I was an agent of oppression. I was unliked, boring, not respected, treated like an amusing novelty. Sometimes, that last part's still true. But GSSE is really helping me move past the damage high school wrought. I feel like I'm doing a good job. I feel like I'm liked. I feel.... good. More or less. Better than I have in a long time. Part of that is the sheer quantity of things I'm doing, sending me accomplished and exhausted into bed too late every night. And part of it's hope that I'm on the right track, identity-wise. But part of it is also that I love what I'm doing. Would that it would never stop...

Odd side-effects: Depression. I've been off antidepressants for about a month. I've been spending so much on hormones that I didn't want to keep paying $40/month on a pill that was addressing symptoms and not problems (the antithesis of the hormones). As my anxiety fades and my fatigue increases, though, I find myself deflated and depressed once the kids are tucked safely in bed. It's not a bad depression; in some ways, I like it. But it's like Paul Simon's "window in your heart/ everyone can see you're blown apart:" I feel vulnerable and empty. I want physical contact, I want intimacy, I want to be able to collapse somewhere other than a desolate bed. It's not pressing. But it's an undercurrent of dissatisfaction that's manifesting itself regardless of the otherwise positive developments in my life otherwise.

Implications: I want to teach. I like groups of people, when I'm fairly comfortable with what I'm doing. I'm in a Social Psych class now, and it's actually fun. I could see myself really liking it. Lots of analysis and personal relevance; English without the distraction of signs and signifiers. I want to be around lots of people, often, and engage groups. I want to mentor. I want to help others grow into themselves, to support them on their ways. I want to be make an impact in lives through discussion and instruction. In short, I want to teach college. Which is rather convenient, since I'm planning on getting a PhD. But it's affirming to find that high school's not tainted my love for teaching or groups or, even, teenagers.

Overall, I'm excited. In the long term. After GSSE ends, I'll start the descent into... treading water? A long period of inactivity, at least. But after that, I feel like I'll be on a good path to a good place. For now, though, I'll consider this a preview of things to come instead of a last hurrah. Whether that's wishful thinking or not, I guess we'll see.

In Cogneato

Posted by Ophelia | Posted in hope, transition, transsexuality | Posted on 6/04/2010 10:04:00 PM

Governor's School, my favorite time of the year, is starting. I'm moved in, and the students show up Sunday. It means I'm largely dead to the outside world for ~five weeks (except for rare daytime hours), but it's such fun to work with smart students who'll play games with me. Of course, the games are just a pretext for social engagement, which I just... like. I'll try to savor it.

***

Speaking of sociability, I'm becoming a bit of a bitch. I'm opening up more, but it's almost flamboyant, and I'm not sure what to think of that. It's kind of fun, to be extroverted. But I'm not... sensitive and nice like I should be. It's kind of like I need to be more controlled to be a better person. It's worth exploring, certainly.

***

Finally, my counselor had some friends moving who were getting rid of a lot of clothes, and she kindly sent them to me in lieu of Goodwill. It's nice to have things to play with. And, really, I rather like a lot of the fits and textures. If I was better shaved (I do a poor job with my face, much less the rest of my body), I think I'd be pretty cute. Except for the arms and hands (and probably feet). I've never noticed how truly large they were until tonight. Wearing this top and minimizing my body space coyly in the mirror, my hands are... huge. Boney, veiny, fundamentally large. Honestly, if that's my worst issue, I'm cool. My arms are still too hairy, but I'm holding out hope that the spiro (anti-testosterone drug) will largely address that. And even if not, it's not an amount that is necessarily impossible for ggs (genetic girls) to have. One of my students actually shaved her arm hair.

I feel fortunate to be growing boobs. But they're practically that. It's funny; so many men have larger "breasts" than I do just because they have more fat on their abdomens. I'm almost starting at a disadvantage because I can't fill in a lot of the clothing I have. I need a padded bra. Again, something fixable.

Like I said, I feel fortune those are my main concerns. I feel fortunate to live in a country that can get me relatively easy access to hormones, to live in a place that has many supportive people, to be able to go forth through my life in ways that will be less than ideal but better, still, than they would have been even a decade ago. I think of Iran, where homosexuality is illegal, so instead they prompt many people to get SRS [sexual reassignment surgery] in order to make these men's desires more natural (transmen, of course, don't exist). I think of Uganda wanting to ban homosexuality. I think of so many places and times that were harder. And yes, I'll have difficulties. But I'm fortunate. In so many ways other than this, but even here, I'm fortunate. And I think it's important to remember that (while I'm in the mind too).

I hope you're taking care. I wish I could provide pictures, but that'll probably just have to wait until I'm better made up anyway...

Decrying Gravity