Mic Check, or WWJD part 2

As I was working on my last post, I struggled with how to also talk about the media portrayal of trans deaths. About how trans women and transfeminine people of color are disproportionately affected by murder and violence, and no one hears about it, no one talks about it. And then a white girl dies, and it's a national news event. About how I am complicit in widening that gap by amplifying the stories that I can relate to and falling silent in the face of a violence I have never known.

Well, Alok of trans activist/performance duo Darkmatter posted a poem called "bible belt" on their blog on my birthday, and I'm just seeing it today, and it is everything. And if I just shut up and redirect you to other people's blogs forever, I hope you'll understand. Here's a snippet, but go read the whole thing for the love of Maude. And then donate to the Trans Women of Color Collective if you can.

this is the town where i attempt suicide at thirteen. i did not have the language for it at the time, it was a tightness in this chest, a tinge in this voice a belt around my neck [...] these days i have all the theory to know why they would have called this a ‘suicide’ and not a ‘murder’ to rinse their own hands and crosses of the blood as if we hate ourselves because it is our choice and not theirs as if we kill ourselves because we wanted to and not because they told us to as if we were not following their prophesy on our knees, in His name amen © Alok Vaid-Menon

WWJD?

A week and a half or so ago, I read about Leelah Alcorn (warning: link contains her birth name for no good reason), a teenage trans girl from Ohio who had just committed suicide. Just before she did so, she had posted a Tumblr note (which has since been deleted??!!) in which she explained that her parents' systematic denial of support in the name of Christianity had led her to conclude she would never be able to transition successfully or be happy. They told her "God doesn't make mistakes" and brought her to "conversion" therapy. They took away her access to technology and outside support. She was made to feel so isolated and alone that she could see no future for herself, no way out.

I only started coming out as trans to my family in the last couple of years, and I'm a grown adult with strong community supports and a number of tools for taking care of myself. Plenty of family members have been great, and some are vocal about their acceptance of and even pride in me. But I've also heard things similar to what Leelah described before taking her own life: that I am delusional, wrong, and couldn't possibly know who I am or what to do about it. This from those who claim to know what Jesus would do.

There are plenty of statistics out there showing that trans and gender-nonconforming people attempt suicide at alarming rates. Studies attribute these attempts to experiencing greater physical and sexual violence—including institutional violence and healthcare discrimination—and homelessness. This study also cites family rejection as a "minority stressor" (57% who reported family rejection had attempted suicide).

Whatever excuses we are using as a culture to not care for trans people, to treat them as less than human, we need to stop. Whether it's religion, medicine, psychology, politics—whatever we're hiding behind, it's killing people. In her final blog post, Leelah pleaded with us to "fix society," or she will not be able to rest in peace. So get your shit together, people, or Leelah Alcorn's ghost will be at your fucking door!

Poem to Fix Society

If I were to pray,
I would pray for plowshares
To spring up where you brandish swords.

I would pray for my siblings everywhere,
Told that they're sick and broken
Until they break themselves open.

I would pray for no more
Prayers as weapons.

I would pray for no more
Scapegoats, no more
Sacrificial lambs.

But I don't pray anymore.
The rebel cast out cannot commune.

"Jesus was a rebel," you used to say.
Who would Jesus damn?

Quiet...Too Quiet

This post has been generously donated to our friend-blog City Mouse Country and can be found there. You should totally go read it.

Y Would You Say That, X-actly?

Because I had to change health insurance carriers twice in the last four months, I don't have a primary care physician anymore. So when I needed to see a doctor (somewhat urgently), I had to scramble a bit to find someone in my network who is accepting new patients. None of the doctors that were at all recommended fit both criteria. So, tomorrow I meet with a random stranger to talk about what hurts.

In making the appointment, the person on the phone hesitated audibly, palpably even, before asking me my sex. I did not give a one-word answer. (Hell, it was more than one sentence.) After hearing me out, they replied, "I'm okay with that."

Sure, I'd rather have them okay with it than not okay with it. But it's not like they offered their opinion about my birth date or phone number. Still, it was easier than sitting alone with a clipboard staring down two check boxes.

Poem Partially Explaining Why I Sometimes Avoid Healthcare

Cis professional
Is okay with my gender.
Permission granted.

It's so much simpler at Radio Shack.

What a (Lot of) Feeling(s)

I did that thing again where I watched an old favorite 80s movie and was slightly horrified. Last time, I was disturbed by Danny Zuko and friends' misogyny (while still enamored of their cars and greaser fashion). This time, I was really excited to show my roommate a movie that had both of her favorite things in it--dancing and feminism--and ended up feeling like I should apologize.

Alex, the main character, still comes across as badass and empowered, the way I remembered her--a teenage steel worker and nightclub dancer with her own warehouse apartment, pit bull, and gracefully aging mentor--except when it comes to the romantic interest. He's a patron of the club where she works, who turns out to be the owner of the steel mill where she also works. He essentially stalks her, even jokingly "firing" her, until she goes out with him. In one scene, she declines his offer of a ride, so he follows behind her in his Porsche as she rides home on her bicycle. The image of her grim face, even as she is back-lit by his headlights, will not leave my mind.

The dancing was okay but, because it was the 80s, marred by surreal MTV-esque sets and waaaay high-cut leotards. Also, you know, uncredited dancing by Marine Jahan as Jennifer Beals' double.

Poem for Flashdance

She's a maniac,
Dancing like never before.
What's that even mean?

Alex fucks with a traffic cop "in a world made of steel" (Pittsburgh).

Also I'm just going to pretend it hasn't been almost a month since my last "daily" blog post, because even thinking about how far out of my groove I've gotten makes me want to procrastinate more.

When Worlds Collide

Haiku for a False Binary

Thanks, I guess, but
I'm not the best of both worlds.
There are more than two.

Either/Or

This post comes from longtime reader, first-time contributor Hunter James.

I had dinner with my dad the other day. It was nice to see him and catch up since I haven’t seen him since Christmas. We discussed how school was going for me and he regaled me with updates on his health. He lost his job that day. He seemed pretty sad about it. He’s probably also worried and scared, but we didn't touch on those feelings. Typical evening for us.

However, as we were leaving, he said he had to use the bathroom - as did I - so I said, that’s a good idea. He went into the men’s room and I was left conflicted - follow my dad into the men’s room or use the women’s room. I chose neither. When he came out, he asked if I had gone and I replied that I was having a hard time reconciling bathrooms lately. He made some comment about public bathrooms, completely missing my point. I didn't reply. I couldn't find the words to explain to him my feelings and so didn't. Then when we were saying our goodbyes, he called me by my old name; called me his girl. Again, I remained silent. Walking away, I beat myself up for missing this opportunity for self-advocacy and promised myself that next time I’d have some words to say.

Haiku for transition

A ghost of myself
Trapped between realities
Who am I again?

Finding My Root

Last summer, in wishing Prince a happy birthday via haiku, I credited Purple Rain with helping form some of my early perceptions of masculinity. I watched it last night after not having seen it for many years, this time looking for clues about myself via the movie's portrayal of gender and sexuality. I made the following observations:

This is what I think a grown man's bedroom looks like.

This is how I think men who love women dress.

And this is how I think they dance.

This is what I think flirting is.

Also this.

And this is the most romantic five minutes in cinema history.

Haiku for a Tiny, Purple Role Model

He's not a woman,

Not a man. He is something

You won't understand.

Call Me "Kiddo"

I bought my tickets! I'm flying to Minnesota at the end of the month to go on a road trip with my dad. We're driving to Montana with his girlfriend to see my little sisters, both of whom just had kids.

This post is in honor of the guy who has never batted an eye about anything I've ever told him. Except when I wouldn't eat my beets. That was pretty serious.

Haiku for 2,368 Miles

I was daddy's girl
Now I am my father's son
Some things never change

I am stoked to spend many hours confined in a hybrid car with this guy.

Take the drag queens bowling

This post is mostly just an excuse to show off this photo I took at the drag show/karaoke/bowling party last night.

Ta-da!

Also it is sad and confusing to witness and be complicit in misogyny toward drag queens.

Haiku for April 23, 2013

It would feel too weird
To tip them, were they women.
It still kind of does.

Fish sticks and lady fingers

Last night I attended a performance of the Fully Functional Cabaret on the campus of Smith College. Tonight's the last stop on their tour, otherwise I would tell you to go see it. Fingers crossed they will be able to tour the rest of the country with it.

Sunday bromance

Haiku for April 7, 2013

Montague Bookmill
Books you don't need, friends you do
Bro date, at long last

We are all made of stars

So, last night I read the following passage in Imogen Binnie's debut novel Nevada, available for preorder from Topside Press:

She can't think of anything else to write, though, and after four and a half words her hand is starting to cramp. She can type all night, but with a pen, not so much. Maybe she should keep a haiku journal, in a non-appropriative way.

Take these D cups from me

Yesterday I realized I had been wearing a binder every day for a week straight. I also realized it hurts a lot when I turn my head or breathe. Lifting things and driving are difficult. I made an appointment for physical therapy.