Introducing: They Call Me Vroom

So hey: the Second Awakening craves content! It demands it! It keeps me up all night mewling about it! And since I’ve got to feed it and the rest of my kittens–er, writing commitments–I’m in the process of adding some regular contributors to the site. I’ll have more on this soon, but in the meantime, I am very proud to introduce our first new regular contributor, They Call Me Vroom. I worked with Vroomsie, as we call her behind her back at the watercooler here in TSA Central, back on Below the Belt, and I’m very proud to have her join the team! (And if you are interested in writing for The Second Awakening, shoot me an email.)

I’m not here on behalf of the community. Any community. Nobody knows I’m here. This is…let’s call it a professional courtesy. Because you have to treat activism like a business. It is not a hobby. Remote control airplanes are a hobby. A hobby is something you can put off for a week or a month at no detriment to you or your quality of living. The struggle for your rights, as a woman, as a transgendered individual, as a queer, whatever it says on the button pinned to the strap of your messenger bag, is a 24/7 industry. There are no “slow periods” in the fight against the kyriarchy. Demand always outweighs the supply. And in that kind of a market, freelancing really is the way to go. I say this not to discredit the benefit of the community. There can be no fight, no struggle, without organization, and when the time comes we all need to heed the call, per se. But the community is busy. It has community-sized problems. The community does not have time to pressure your employer or frequented establishment to adjust their attitude towards our plight in the world. The community does not have the manpower to visit each and every one of our families and educate them. That’s your job. And my job. If you do yours, and I do mine, then alas, we can accrue small victories for ourselves and for others without having to involve the community. There is no greater service you can provide for “the cause” than to learn to think and act for yourself.

The problem with entrusting your identity to the collective is that nobody can or will agree on what any of this means. What does being a woman mean? What does being trans mean? Feminist? Activist? What does all it all mean? I’m waiting. You seem a little unsure there. Are you asking me or are you telling me? Write it down. Right now, write it down. Don’t show me yet. Are you finished? Give it to me. Before I read it, let me tell you what it means for me.

Being a trans woman, to me, is about learning how to mix that metaphorical lemonade. It means accepting that I may never be truly happy with my body presentation, because sexual reassignment surgery is not a fucking mindwipe. A vagina will not replace will erase the irrational anger I have towards my genetics for not being born with one in the first place, or at myself for not coming out earlier than I did or finding a better paying day job that would have expedited this whole process.  And then there’s still the guilt of being able to afford a vagina when there is a plethora of trans people hanging from the poverty line, unable to even procure hormones or clothing that matches their gender expression. All this and I still love myself and do my best to let others love me. That, to me, is pride.

I’m as sensitive as I can bear to be. I use language like “pre-op” and “pre-transition”. I refer to my genitals as my penis (and occasionally by car parts, though I’ve tried to tone that down upon realizing that I don’t know how a fucking car works and if these metaphors are even applicable). I don’t care if that language doesn’t sit well with you. I’m not speaking for you. I’m speaking for myself. I do my part by not spreading my thoughts and opinions around as the party line of the trans community. You can do yours by not giving your cis hetero friend in need of education a link to my blog. If you don’t agree with what I say, don’t let me speak for you. If your friends, family, employer, gardener asks you about pronoun usage or what constitutes an invasive question, I’m willing to bet my last rupee that you are going to be the only person they apply any of this new modern learning towards. So go ahead and tailor make the experience to fit you, with the caveat “this speaks only of my experience”. The most important lesson we can impart on our cis hetero loved ones is that no two of us are alike.

One of the nicest compliments I ever received was “being trans wasn’t the strangest thing about [me]”. I take pride in the eccentrically typical behavior my queer feminism compels me to exhibit. For example, after I began living as a woman, I gave up beef. Then poultry, pork. Last week I gave up fish. I am officially a full time vegetarian, though I’ve been preaching it a lot more than I’ve been practicing. I advocate vegetarian, vegan , and pescetarian options at queer spaces and queer get togethers. For me, queer feminism means recognizing the systemic brutality of the meat industry, and connecting that to the similarly ruthless oppression and subjugation of women and queers by The Man. I don’t use quotes because I take The Man very seriously. He believes you exist. You should return the favor. You might be one of the lucky majority who can sit through a Burger King commercial and not instinctively make the link between the “real men eat meat” sentiment and corrosive disease of “body image perfection” that has infected and overrun the “female oriented” magazines that populate your local supermarket. Real men eat red meat. Real women don’t eat at all. Fuck. That. You have your chicken fried steak and twice cooked pork, and I’ll keep my falafel and pad thai. Besides, if Hungry Man did come out with a tofu option it would probably taste like cancer.

This is how I relate to queer feminism and what it means to be. It’s a stereotype, and I own the ever-loving shit out of it. It’s more cost and energy effective in the long run to just admit what you, enjoy being it, and save yourself the countless hours spent actively contemplating ways you can be more atypical. My promotion of healthier, alternative eating habits as a means of embracing queerness and feminism is only as superficial and forced as you buying ever season of The L Word on DVD or bragging on your blog about how short your hair is and how you own no skirts or dresses. Just because it’s an “act” doesn’t make it insincere.  My experience may not match yours. In fact, in a way I hope it doesn’t. A community that makes no room for differing (but respectfully so) viewpoints will falter and implode with stagnation.

And let me ask you this: who the fuck am I, anyway? You wanna write for a trans feminist blog? Do what I did and become friends with a trans feminist activist who has a blog. Or fuck. Start your own. It’s that fucking simple. There’s no vetting process to get to where I am. You ever wonder why you can’t find your views and values adequately represented in the blogosphere? It’s probably because the person who should be doing that is reading this post right now and is too distracted with how much an idiot they think I am.

Don’t trust me with spreading your truth and telling your story. I work alone. And so should you. That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, collaborators, sisters in arms, lovers. By fighting for yourself, you fight for others. In the end this all boils down to the freedom to express one’s individuality. We must lash out at the kyriarchy in every direction, like an octopus on crystal meth playing the drums.

If you come see the opening of my art show I’ll go to one of your games. Deal?

Okay. So that’s my answer. Let’s see what you wrote down .

Ah.

You drew a picture of me being hit by a…is that a train?

Clearly, I underestimated you. It shan’t happen again.