Categories: all about me, intellectualisimus, silly blather
Right, ducks, so when last we left off, which was–Christ on a pontoon, over a month ago–your correspondent, C.L. Minou, was in love! Or like! Or crush! Something!
Well, anyway. Hey, guess what! It worked out. Kinda. Sorta. For a bit. Okay, a couple of good weekends. But it turns out that she–
What? Yes, ducks, are there questions? It’s true, I date girls now. Girls are cool.
Categories: adventures in transition, bitterness, the tiniest violin in the world
I met my old lover
On the street last night
She seemed so glad to see me
I just smiled
And we talked about some old times
And we drank ourselves some beers
Still crazy after all these years
So it seems that The Second Awakening, that is when I get around to posting on it, which is approximately never right now (New Job! Ongoing Tiger Beatdown Commitment! Did We Mention A Little Footy Match Between Deutschland and England Today?), is going to be my Whine Blog. Which is okay, I guess, although I seem to have done a lot of work just to make a MySpace page.
So today, I’m going to talk about love. Yes, love.
Well, okay, and sex.
I’m not the kind of man
Who tends to socialize
I seem to lean on
Old familiar ways
And I ain’t no fool for love songs
That whisper in my ears
Still crazy after all these years
See, the thing is, for a long time I’ve been good at being alone. I made an art of it: I could sing the libretto of loneliness with the best of them, ’tis true. And you know, it’s mostly good; I have my cats, my writing, some good friends, a decent job, the occasional trip to other corners of the map. I’m not complaining much.
Sure, there was a time after my marriage imploded, then exploded, then imploded twice more before exploding a few more times, when I wasn’t so good anymore at being alone. I’d been in relationships, long-term relationships, for a decade, and I didn’t really remember how to deal with being alone again, especially not suddenly. Don’t fret, ducks; it worked out, and it gave me the space to figure out what it was that I needed to do with my life.
And part of what I was going to do to myself, I realized, carried the very real risk of being alone. Permanently. As long-vanished as my fertility.
Now, I was okay with it then, and I’m okay with it now. It was a price I was willing to pay, and in any case back then me and my Ex-Significant Other of Variable and Often Fabulous Gender were still an item, still going strong. So I’d beaten the odds, right? Had cake, ate it too, went back for more cake.
But there wasn’t any more cake, it seems. Me and SOOVAOFG broke up (it was a long-distance relationship in any case), and I was back where I started, although with several problems in my life fixed. All well and good.
Except…
Except…
Except, sometimes, you meet people. People you like, and people you’re even attracted to. People you wouldn’t mind knowing, as the kids today don’t say anymore, a little better, if that’s how it was going to work out. Not like major lust or even burning infatuation; just finding somebody that you think there might be a spark of something, a little glimmer of possibility.
And when that happens, then the long hours alone are harder to distract yourself through, and you don’t feel like staying home, but you don’t feel like going out either, because you’re too depressed to be with other people, even if that was what you needed to do, really. But it’s just too hard.
Four in the morning
Crapped out, yawning
Longing my life away
I’ll never worry
Why should I?
It’s all gonna fade
It’s hard because, once again, you can’t run from who you were, not really, not forever. Oh sure, you go around and live your life as if it never was any different. And you don’t make a big deal of things. You, don’t, really, even when you are a blogger known pretty much for only this one topic.
But then, like I said, you meet somebody. And now what to do? Do you talk about who you were, the you that you never wanted to be? Do you just go on as if that you never was, like you wanted?
There are people who can handle things that way, because to them, it’s true. I don’t mean that in the sense of “to them, the sky is green”; I really mean that there’s no prevarication because they never felt themselves to be what other people said they were.
I envy those folks, sometimes. Maybe a lot.
Because for me, it’s harder, because I was always a bit of a borderline case, because I had a reasonably long and fairly successful life before transition, because I’ve hardly cut any ties with my old life, and because, damnit, it took me over three decades to finally be honest with myself about being a woman and it’s hard for me to to just automatically assume that habit. Oh, sure, I’ll defend trans women as women until my face Doppler shifts from blue to red; and I believe it about myself with a firm conviction.
But. But it’s hard for me to also not include the “trans” part in there.
That’s a weakness, maybe. A flaw. The more-trans-than-thou crowd will pin it on me being a poseur, a “late transitioner”, a cross-dresser, a man in a dress. Whatever.
But it’s hard, I guess, for me–just me, mind you; I’m making no claims on anyone else–to be open and honest enough to pursue a relationship with somebody and hold…that…fact…back.
Now I sit by my window
And I watch the cars
I fear I’ll do some damage
One fine day
But I would not be convicted
By a jury of my peers
Still crazy after all these years
So what do you do, when you’ve met somebody you like, maybe even have a crush on, when the way their eyes light up when they smile can make you smile just remembering it, and yet you think that maybe knowing about who you were would be the deal-breaker, that you’d be friends, of course, but that’s all? Especially what do you do on the weekend where your Dilation Drama Theater screening was an episode of “Law and Order: Special Dead Lady Unit” about Teh Tranz, about a girl who hadn’t told her boyfriend, because she was afraid of losing him? And he was filled with rage and more-or-less killed himself? And the character in question had been beaten repeatedly and ends up gang-raped in prison at the end? Besides cry in the shower for a while, that is.
I don’t know. I haven’t figured it out. Especially after they, the subject of your little crush, has already been fairly open with you, has made their own revelations and was worried on their end about losing you. Me. Your mixed-up correspondent.
I mean, “Gift of the Magi” anyone? To tell, or not to tell? Either way risks losing, either now or later. No good choices here.
How can it be, that when you’re finally fixing your life, really emerging as the person you wanted to be, the person who could finally really give, that you realize that maybe nobody will ever want to get?
I don’t know. I wish I could tell you. I wish I had my normal moral authority, ducks, and could fill you with some wrath and rage and well-turned oratory. I wish I could do it for you, so you could do it for me.
It’s just that even when you’re a past master at the art of loneliness, sometimes the long years before you weigh a lot more than they usually do, and the realization that there’s a very good chance you won’t be with anyone becomes a steeper price than you thought.
Oh, still crazy
Still crazy
Still crazy after all these years
Categories: Uncategorized
Yeah, I have a post up…someplace other than here. You know where.
If I were to tell you that the New York Times had published something that skirted the line between outright misogyny and paternalistic smugness, you’d probably yawn. If I told you that Ross Douthat had said something mock-controversial about women, you’d probably note that I had come up with an observation of the same erudition that rain is wet and litterboxes stink. (I know. The litterbox thing seemed like a natural metaphor for a Ross Douthat column to me too.)
But ladies–and those few poor gentlemen in the room–I have news for you! Because according to Mr. Douthat, the long war of the sexes is finally over! And FEMINISM WON! YES! IT’S V-F DAY! YOU LADIES HAVE FINALLY DONE IT!
And how does Mr. Douthat know this? Because a teabagger candidate won a primary in Nevada. While female.
Categories: adventures in transition, all about me, i get around, tiger beatdown rocks
Have I mentioned that I’ll be doing a regular Tuesday column at Tiger Beatdown?
Have you noticed today is Tuesday?
Have you noticed…I have a post on Tiger Beatdown?
Once, a long time ago (in Internet terms; for non-digitally based life forms, it was about twelve months ago),someone paid me a compliment about something I’d written. You have a great voice, she said. It was a very nice thing to say, and even more so to hear it from someone who is an amazing writer, because voice is something writers tend to worry about. Mostly because nobody is sure exactly what it is that makes a voice, but everyone agrees it’s a good thing to have.
Voice is more than just style. It’s not that hard to imitate a style, as anyone who has read my Raymond Chandler–J. R. R. Tolkien crossover will have seen. Even the really out-there stylists can be imitated–you could, for example, mix a World War II engineering text with random pages of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas to come up with a fairly good imitation of Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow. You would not, however, have Pynchon’s voice, the thing that can make a forty page digression on an obscure meteorological phenomenon in Central Asia seem gripping, goofy, and lord help us even a bit profound. (If you like that sort of thing; I do, or at least I know I did once.)
Voice is a lot of things: but if I had to define it for myself, it means using all your quirks, knowledge, style, tics, vocabulary, word choice, hell, even your spell check and thesaurus, to create an effect that not only communicates what you want to say, but does it in a way that is uniquely you. Maybe once we’d have called it wit, but this is America and the twenty-first century, and we don’t have time for anything that can’t be barked out at a personal improvement seminar.
On a number of levels, I’ve had to learn a lot about voice.
Categories: adventures in transition, all about me, double bound, failings, how to tell if you've transitioned, the tiniest violin in the world
So, hi, ducks.
I’ve been away a bit. Not completely away, I’ve written a thing or two here and there. But I haven’t written much of late.
I have an excuse, for what it’s worth.
The excuse is that I was depressed to the point of…well, of taking rather irrevocable action to solve my depression.
Now, that would be kind of hasty, I think. But I was down so far that I couldn’t really see up anymore.
The thing is, I got laid off at the end of March. The job sucked, so I didn’t miss it, but I sure as heck missed the money. Because coupled with my previous client’s habit of not paying my invoices until I screamed and turned blue, and then being out of work for two months, my savings were pretty thin. And I’d been using my paychecks from the last gig to reduce some of my debt, so that I could live cheaper than I do, in case this kind of thing happened again. Which is a great plan, but it blew up in my face when I got laid off after only ten weeks.
I don’t have to tell you it’s hard out there. It’s hard, even if your day job is a fairly skilled position, and in one of the few segments of the economy that’s making a come back. Even so, it’s hard out there. I would send out resumes and work the phones but only a trickle would come back. I had one or two interviews but no second interviews.
At some point I realized that I was between six and ten weeks from being bankrupt, and losing everything I’ve spent the last fifteen years building.
I have to stop myself there. What I am complaining about is still incredibly privileged. I’d lose my home, but I wouldn’t be homeless–my family can easily put me up, and a friend of mine would do the same. That’s one thing.
Another is…that I’m complaining about the fact that I just wouldn’t be able to live in my expensive (now–it wasn’t when I moved in) neighborhood in Manhattan. I mean, boo fucking hoo, yeah? That would only be something I’d share with all but 1.8 million people in the world. This is not a tragedy.
But all the same, it felt like one. This apartment has been my home for over eight years; it’s where I lived with someone for the first time, where I got my first pets as an adult, the place where I’d come home to a person I loved, the place where I decided to transition and the place where I made that happen. And the neighborhood feels the same to me; I’ve lived within three blocks of this apartment for the last fifteen years.
And too this is the only place I’ve ever wanted to live, and I’ve sacrificed (some) to get here.
And also…it was shocking how quickly it could all get swept away. Three months could do it. That seemed shocking.
There was other stuff too. Between the fall and the last two months, this is the longest I’ve been out of work as an adult. I’ve had a job of some kind since I was seventeen. I’ve always found a way to get some work in the door.
So all that, plus our threadbare economy, had me down. But there was some other stuff. And I think I need to talk about this, because it is a feminist issue, because it is something I can comment on maybe more than other people.
That was the two strikes (at least) I had against me: that I was a woman trying to get a job in technology, and that I was a trans woman trying to get a job in technology.
All that stuff you may have heard about how much harder it is for women just to look professional is true. A stupid example: getting an interview would cost me at least ten bucks, because I’d go and get my nails done, because I can’t put a sheer color on myself and have it look good, and because where I was looking for work, women at my professional level don’t wear colored nail polish.
Okay, that’s a privilege thing, and maybe just my own prejudices. But when you have big hands (and you worry about what people might conclude about that), you do your best to not draw attention to them either from lack of care or for flamboyance.
Anyway. I had other stupid image issues. I haven’t been able to afford a decent hair cut in a while now–and a bad haircut would be held against me far more than it would a man–so I had to either try to blow it out and go long, or pin it up and hope I didn’t look too masculine. I’ll talk more about that in a bit, but: this is an issue for every professional woman, and it’s one of the cruelest of the catch-22s of patriarchy. To wit: professionalism is defined by men’s dress codes. So they tend to make women look more masculine. But you can’t look too masculine! But you don’t want to look too feminine either! It’s the same dynamic as the pointless manicures: don’t get your nails done, and you look too butch and like you can’t be bothered to be professional. But have red nails and you might be too feminine. And so it goes.
These are of course my prejudices. People can and do make either end of the spectrum work. But it’s a much tougher, much more individual struggle than it is for most men. That you’re getting straight from the horse.
Of course the other part of butch vs femme, masculine vs feminine for me was worrying about being read as trans. If my hair is up, I don’t have to worry about it looking too bad, but will it make my face look too masculine? My pumps are my most neutral dress shoes, but do they make me too tall? Will my voice hold up for an entire interview? Will they know? Will they care? It doesn’t really matter that I live in a place where there are workplace protections for trans people. I’d never be able to prove anything.
I’m not really making that up, not that you would think I am. There was this study by Make the Road New York which is pretty depressing in just how blatant the discrimination is. And yeah, I know, it was retail, right CL? I mean customers public face corporate image! Surely it’s different in other jobs.
Surely you jest. You think if people aren’t comfortable buying jeans from a trans lady that having one be your CTO is going to make people more comfortable?
Or to put it more simply: everywhere I went I hoped they didn’t make me fill out a formal job application. Because then I’d have to give my social security number and Ghu knows what they’d be able to find out; sure, I fixed that and my driver’s license, but even with letters to my credit bureaus, that stuff just lasts forever.
This story has a happy ending. I finally found a small place where I was able to meet with the guys doing the hiring right away and I hit it off with them. And two days later they offered me a job that will pay my bills and even get me out of debt. Which again makes me one privileged cat, one lucky ducky: and I’m very thankful.
But for a long time there I was really scared. And you want to know what one of my signs that I’ve transitioned is? I no longer am confident I’ll always pull things out anymore, not like I used to be. And that’s part of the reality of being a woman and being trans in the world today.
So hey: where have I been in the meantime? Well, Below the Belt is on hiatus, but I’m now a blogger at Change.org! You can read the two pieces I have up so far–about a trans woman and the crappy treatment the DC police gave her, and more about our favorite douchebags, Roman Polanski and Bernard Henri-Lévi!
And over on Tiger Beatdown, where I am somehow now the Senior (non)Contributor, I have this trifle about “The Tudors.” Enjoy!
Categories: all about me, i get around, teh tranz
I apologize. I’m caught up in a nearly fulltime job hunt, plus trying to get some freelance computer work done. But hey, if you’re really hungry for some CL, well, Amanda Hess of the always brilliant The Sexist blog has an interview with me, on the subject of boob implants, feminism, and beauty standards. So drop on by there (and stay a while, Amanda’s fabulous.)
Categories: (un)popular entertainment, beating them at their own game, bitterness, don't get your panties in a bunch, Humorless Tranny™, i heart oppression, kyriarchy, the transsexual empire strikes back, transphobia: now in blog format
Hey, ducks! I’ve been talking quite a bit of late about Ticked Off No-I-Won’t-Say-Its With Knives. You know, because of the outrage, and because I went to the protest. What ho!
Now, the general consensus here in Transland (Population: More than you think) is that this thing is outrageous, especially the trailer (which Luna has now modified to take out the references to recently brutally murdered transfolk. Um, thanks–I’m glad to know it took a massive outcry for you to display basic humanity! No, kudos to you, sir!) But that doesn’t mean that there’s massive agreement on the film. Some people actually are defending it! Trans people! Trans people who were not employed in it as actors!
Take, for example, Tom Leger’s post over at Trans Group Blog:
Categories: Uncategorized
So guess who has a guest post up at Feministe today? (Hint: it’s me. I shamelessly self-promote a lot here.)
So here’s the thing. I want to talk quite seriously about the whole issue of sexual assault and trans women, bring in all kinds of good scholarship, talk quite soberly and calmly about the facts, weighing each one with all due rational consideration. In fact, as I type this my browser has a forest of tabs open to anti-violence centers, studies on the incidences of violence in the LGBT community, articles, policy papers, and citations to more of the same.
But I really can’t be scholarly and rational, I fear. I really can’t sit back and give you the statistics that will horrify for a moment, break up your day with some hideous imagery for however long it stays in your memory. I can’t do this because for one thing, the studies are practically non-existent–not too many people have bothered to investigate the prevalence of sexual assault in the trans community (and, as we’ll see, there’s probably a lot of underreporting anyway.) That’s one reason.
The other is that for trans women especially, sexual assault rarely stops there. In a depressing number of cases, the assault isn’t even mentioned. Because the victim is dead.
Go on, read the rest at Feministe!
Categories: media tool kit, the patriarchy: you can't live with it....that is all, the transsexual empire strikes back
So it was a beautiful night for a protest, and thus we had a beautiful protest. Organizer Ashley Love energetically led our band in chants and was everywhere, talking with reporters, handing out fliers, creating some great photo ops like this one:
Later, before a brief vigil we held for the murdered trans people this film so callously exploits, there were several speeches from on top of a box (I’m not sure if it was a soapbox), including yours truly doing my now patented dissection of the ridiculous defenses people have put forward about this movie.
And we even got some press!
NY Times: Transgender Film Draws Protests at Festival Site
The Advocate: Ticked Off [You Knows] Protested
There will probably be another action on the actual premiere of the film.
Categories: (un)popular entertainment, cis-o-rama, don't get your panties in a bunch, hipster irony must die, Humorless Tranny™, i get around, takin' it to the streets!, we don't put the "T" in LGB
So if you are going to be in New York tomorrow, and you care to protest the shameful exploitation of both trans women and some of the most brutal murders of trans people, you might want to run down and help us protest the Tribeca Film Festival’s decision to screen Ticked Off…Disparaging-Word-For-Trans-People…With Knives.
Here are the details of the protest, from its Facebook page:
“Protest/rally Against Tribeca’s Decision to Premiere Transphobic Film “Ticked Off Trannies With Knives”
What: A protest/rally demanding that Tribeca Film Festival remove the transphobic film “Ticked Off Trannies With Knives (TOTWK)”. Melissa Sklarz- Director of New York Trans Rights Organization, celebrities, elected officials & LGBT activists will be speaking. A candle light vigil for trans victims of hate crimes will also be held.
When/Where: Tuesday, April 6th, 2010 6:30-8:00pm @ Tribeca Cinemas @ 54 Varick Street, NYC
Why: The movie makes light of violence and rape against trans women, exploits the high-profile murder of teenager Angie Zapata, includes the pejorative term “trannies” in its title, inaccurately depicts trans women’s identities as drag queen “performers” and “caricatures” and misrepresents the lives of an extremely disenfranchised group who suffer violence at alarming rates.