Decrying Gravity

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...

Of Sticks, Snakes, and Shaman

Posted by Ophelia | Posted in counseling, hope, transsexuality | Posted on 5/30/2010 07:07:00 AM

For someone who's been a skeptic since ze knew how to doubt, I like symbols a bit too much. I used to disdain symbolism in high school when I considered it little more than seeing what you want to in anything. And, really, that criticism has a lot of validity (not that that's necessarily a bad thing). But I also think there's something... powerful about an image, a myth, a concept loaded with historical, cultural, and personal weight. Perhaps this fits with my gradual integration into the "physical world." As I get away from living firmly in my mind, I'm finding all kinds of things mean more and matter more than they did before. Whereas I used to just glance at a picture and move on to the next in rapid succession, I'm growing into comfort with analyzing images. I'm nowhere near where I could be, especially compared to narratives, but it's intriguing nonetheless.

So, when looking for a new facebook profile picture to replace my beloved Juliet, I stumbled upon Tiresias (don't ask me how or why). Tiresias was a blind prophet who traveled mythological Greece. There are many myths surrounding zer, but one in particular caught my attention on my reintroduction to zer, for obvious reasons.

The picture above shows Tiresias coming upon two snakes copulating and shaking a stick at them to separate them. The first time ze did this, ze was punished by Hera and transformed into a woman. Seven years later, zecame upon another pair and did (or didn't do) something, depending on the source, granting zem zes masculinity back.

Tiresias's interim state was considered something of a blessing and a curse. It gave zem a distinct perspective on life, and ze was even called to answer a dispute on which sex received more sexual pleasure between Zeus and Hera.

Another place in Greek mythology involving snakes and staffs is the rod of Asclepius, the Greek healer god. Snakes are compared to medicine both for their ability to "shed their skin" and be born anew, as one does when healed, and for their simultaneous connection to poison and death, the other side of the scale that the healer balances. It's a potent symbol, still used by many medical organizations today.

It's interesting that snakes are associated with healing here, but the skin metaphor seems apt enough (and the poison probably reflects early medicine's potential to be as deadly due to its unrealibility as well as a tendency in medicine to treat disease using part of that same disease). This "shedding of skin" metaphor also seems to work quite well with Tiresias's transformation.

Just for the sake of clarity, the caduceous is commonly confused with Asclepius's rod, and is used by many medical organizations as a result (even though it is the symbol of Hermes and bears little connection to healing).

So there's a snake-healer-trans connection. It's a bit coincidental, I know, but I still found it interesting. It's somewhat ironic, given my fear of snakes. Hell, I've even decided my Patronus (or animal I identify most with) is the mongoose, which is famous for fighting snakes. It's small, clever, useful, and is often portrayed as being specialized for a very distinct kind of war.

There's another trans connection to healing, found in Native American traditions. Of course, there are so many Native American traditions among the various tribes that such variance is bound to spring up, but there is the idea of the "two-spirit," an individual who has two spirits in one body. Sometimes these people are considering blessed/holy, sometimes they're considered men or women who can transcend their born gender role (as in, an ftm warrior), and sometimes they're derided/cast into lower tiers.

In fact, some Eastern religions which are, in some ways, more tolerant of transgenderness, maintain the notion that being transgender is a karmic punishment for discretions (such as adultery, incest, pedophilia, etc) in a past life. Since it is the result of a past life, it ought to be pitied instead of maligned. So, you know, there's that.

But if we go back to Tiresias and the healer, the analogue in Native American culture is the shaman. In church a few weeks back, we learned about David Paladin, a Native American who was derided for being a half-breed (neither fitting with whites or Native Americans). He ran away, was eventually in the army, was put into a work camp at Dachau, survived but was crippled, came back defeated and bitter, and was singled out by the elders of his tribe as a potential shaman, a "wounded healer" due to his experiences. His pain and separation gave him an insight into suffering that made him a perfect candidate to be a spiritual guide. He eventually became a Unitarian Universalist minister and worked in prisons while engaging in various artistic pursuits.

As stretched as all this may be (and yeah, I'm somewhat pulling a Glenn Beck), it's reassuring (in the same way Myers-Briggs is). I want to be a counselor, a healer. I'm also transsexual. I've not endured nearly the hardships Paladin has, but I think there's some legitimacy in the notion of the "wounded healer," of the person who's experienced pain and draws from it to help others. Just like Tiresias, I'll have a unique perspective on gender, just like Paladin I've been stuck in a limbo of neither fitting with male or female. The snake is a symbol of transformation (including the aforementioned gendered transformation) and it adorns the healer's staff. I'll know more than many what it's like to "shed a skin," to engage healing through transformation. And I've an intimate familiarity with pain (anorexia, depression, gender incongruence, the effects of alcoholism, etc).

Is it fate? Hardly. I searched "transgender shaman" and soo many Wiccan sites came up. I couldn't read through most of them, the mysticism was lathered so thickly (which is not a slight against Wicca, just a personal preference). You can find connections and coincidences when you look hard enough in most things.

But there's precedent. Transness as a widener of experience, a conveyor of wisdom. Transformation and shedding skins as a metaphor for healing. Pain and darkness as an asset in the fight against pain and darkness. And they all tie together, the transness informing the pain through virtue of the dissonance between common experience and my own and the healing as I gradually inch towards living authentically via transformation. Lacan would get a kick out of it, at least.

In short, I feel suited to be a counselor. I feel I have traits that lend themselves to empathy and to healing. Not command, certainly, but a kind of... spiritual support. My writing ability and breadth of knowledge would seem to almost point in the direction of the ministry; perhaps in a different life. In this one, though, I feel like I could be a counselor. I feel that my challenges turn into strengths via counseling. And I want it. Here's hoping I can find it.

Tiresias's presence in my favorite poet's best known poem is a good note to end on. Ze's an unfortunate, unwilling truth-teller in Oedipus Rex. In Eliot's "The Wasteland, " we find Tiresias "throbbing between two lives," the dominator and the dominated simultaneously (a quintessential and "integral" representation of humanity). Ze distinctly feels the emptiness both parties feel, all the moreso for having a universal spirit. Ze is empathy, and when the world is a wasteland that's a huge burden to bear. I'm rather looking forward to it.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back	215
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives	220
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,	225
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too awaited the expected guest.	230
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,	235
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;	240
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall	245
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows on final patronising kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit...

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;	250
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
'Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.'
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,	255
And puts a record on the gramophone.

Vulnerability is Viral.

Posted by Ophelia | | Posted on 5/28/2010 02:27:00 PM

It really is. Exposing yourself seems to do wonders for getting others to open up about their own fears, despairs, and secret desires. Naturally, this doesn't work for everyone, every time. But it still surprises how people will react when you place your trust in them. Perhaps I haven't met enough "bad people" yet, and I'm waiting to get burned. Or perhaps I'm a decent judge of character. Or perhaps people, more often than not, are pretty decent. I dunno. But there's something to be said for being honest and open about yourself and, in so doing, aiding others to do the same. Call it inspiration, call it edification, call it commiseration, but "being there" is only half the battle; you have to be willing to let out as much as you let in.

Heh, if this is naiveté, I don't want to be jaded.