Categotry Archives: all about me

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A Purloined Girlhood Part 1a: Wild at Heart

Categories: all about me, i get around, tiger beatdown rocks

Hey, where am I today? Over at Tiger Beatdown!

I saw “Where the Wild Things Are” this weekend, ducks. (One of the advantages of living in the Great American Metropolis is that movies tend to hang around a surprising length of time.)

I saw it because of Spike Jonze, and because I am just old enough to have grown up in the Golden Age of Maurice Sendak — that hazy, golden late afternoon in America when Sesame Street had become established, the children raised by Dr. Spock were raising their own children, and Sendak and Shel Silverstein dominated the bookcases of every “with it” parent. (I was too young to say things like “with it,” of course, but I had teenaged cousins, and was vaguely aware of things like The Disco… we are talking about that point in history when The Captain and Teneille had their own TV show, people.) It was an age brought to you by CTW.

 Vamanos!

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How To Tell You’ve Transitioned, Part II

Categories: all about me, how to tell if you've transitioned

I had a kinda frantic day today–spent all day trying to get some SQL to behave correctly, even though the task should have been pretty easy to do. Plus I was late for my therapy appointment–even with catching a cab.

As I was coming up out of the subway, a panhandler asked me for some money; and as I was walking away, he said “You have a nice day ma’am–sir–ma’am.” (I’m assuming he saw either my boobs or my lipstick and that pushed him over the edge.)

I wasn’t particularly happy to hear that, but I wasn’t terrifically surprised either. I was dressed for work, when you work from home: a black tee, jeans, and sneakers. As I was walking away, I thought to myself, you’ve forgotten how to be a girl.

I am much less enlightened in the dark recesses of my mind than I am in print.

But there has been a change in how I present myself over the two years of my fulltime life; there was a time when I always wore eye makeup when I went out, and gave much careful thought to what I was going to wear. Nowadays, not so much; I’ve even gone out without wearing any lipstick, something I’d been avoiding ever since I got read when not wearing it.

A little of this is the weight I’ve put on, and being too broke to buy new clothes and too unmotivated to try and lose weight. But a lot more is simply that I’ve reached a new point of stability with my life; that my acceptance of myself as a woman means that I need fewer and fewer reinforcements via the trappings of femininity. (That, and a year of pounding concrete sidewalks; that gets you out of heels really quick.)

Three years ago, in the middle of my dark winter of discontent when I began to seriously consider the idea of transitioning, I would sometimes ask myself (as a way to not transition) what the difference was between hanging around my apartment in my PJ bottoms and a tee as a man and doing the same as a woman; the idea being that my life would be the same whether or not I transitioned, so why transition? I think I know that answer better now; it’s because now I’m free of the doubts about whether I should transition, the doubts about whether or not I really was a woman, the awful amount of psychic energy I dumped into worrying about that problem. And a lot of those issues are gone now, and overall (when I’m not fighting off major depressive crises), I have a lot more energy to think and do things–case in point, this blog, started a year after I transitioned. Even if I have forgotten how to be “a girl,” however it was that I construed living inside the public tokens of femininity.

Being a woman–a person–is a lot more satisfying anyway.

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The View From My Kitchen Window

Categories: all about me, silly blather

Greetings Ducks, from the home office! Which isn’t even really an office, but it is in my home. My kitchen, actually: space here in The Great American Metropolis is at a premium, let me tell you!

Lately it has become an actual office of sorts, because of that gig I mentioned last week, which I do from the comfort of home. Well, relative comfort: while I’m no longer unemployed, I am underemployed; I need to do about 50 hours a week at my current rate to make my monthly expenses. I’m not really complaining…well, I am a bit, because this is way below my former rate, alas.

That’s the economy, folks.

I do have a view from my window, of sorts–it’s on the air shaft between my building and the one next door. Now, this was supposed to be an improvement, way back in the 19th century, over just having buildings cheek-by-jowl; but the reality is that they don’t help all that much. The shafts let in almost no light (in the spring, I sometimes get some light in through the shaft in the afternoon) and they have no draw whatsoever, so you don’t get much in the way of cross-ventilation. And my view is a brick wall.

Still, it’s nice to have an office with a window.

Working from home doesn’t particularly bother me–writer, remember?–though it is a drag to be chained to my chair all day long without being able to run out for a while (I’m on a timeclock, and I’d have to punch out if I was up from my keyboard for too long.) It’s a bit ironic that I should end up with this gig, though (and not just because my brother used to work for them, something I didn’t know until I applied for the job.) Ironic because a lot of trans people end up either wanting a job like this, or having to take a job like this because it’s the only job they can safely do.

Trans folks come in all shapes and sizes; and sometimes those shapes, for whatever reason (most often because the person is still in the middle of transition), are harder for cis people to “peg” as one gender or another. This causes enormous discomfort on the part of the cis person (see unboxedqueer’s groovy post about this today at Below the Belt), which they immediately pass along to the trans person. Because, that’s like the totally fair thing to do, right? I mean, it’s the freak’s, I mean, your problem, right? Right?

Right.

So a lot of trans people have to look for work that doesn’t involve interaction with other poeple. (And yeah, the phone often counts, if you’re MtF–phone voice is the hardest voice to manage.) I’m fortunate enough to have a skill that lets’ me do this and still survive; many other folks aren’t. But it must be their fault, right?

Right.

Back around Halloween a lot of folks like this Onion bit about finding costumes for your effeminate boy. I wasn’t one of them, though–to me, the bit ultimately felt pretty cruel and lost the point of laughing at the bigoted announcers in favor of indulging in some cruelty towards the kids. You know, like…holding people up to your own standards of gender presentation? Which never ever hurts anybody, or makes it hard for them to get a job? Yeah. I much preferred this SNL bit instead:

Homocil Commercial – watch more funny videos

Until you come around.

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Bonne Année

Categories: all about me, we apologize for the inconvenience

Greetings, ducks, and Happy New Year. It’s been a while, I know. And I’m fine, mostly, now. But I wasn’t before.

We don’t like to talk about depression much as a culture, although to some degree we’ve destigmatized it: I mean, here in the Great American Metropolis, everyone jokes about being in therapy or on antidepressants. Jokes are made; sticom plots revolve around a character’s mental health; and we wonder if Ziggy had some Prozac if his life would improve and he’d finally buy some pants.

But we don’t talk about it, or when we do, when we really sit down and talk about it, all the old stigmas come back. People will whisper about someone being really depressed; there’s an uneasiness around the whole subject, a certain trepidation about approaching them, a certain, well, fear: of driving them to suicide? Of catching it yourself? I don’t know.

What happened to me is that the chronic low-grade depression I’ve carried with me since before puberty flared up, as it does sometimes: but first it just gradually began to increase, helped along, no doubt, by my decision to go off antidepressants over the summer. Sure, I got worse, but gradually, gradually, and I couldn’t tell how badly I was slipping, until I came back from San Francisco without a steady source of income for the first time in something like six years. And even then, I was doing OK, because I had a line on a job that wasn’t ideal but would hold me while I retrenched. And I really thought I was going to get the job. Until I went up and had a horrible series of interviews.

And then I decidedly wasn’t OK anymore.

Some of what happened next you no doubt can glean from my BTB post last week: I went to the psych ER, after a series of humiliations I got some meds that my insurance will actually cover, and if I’m not out of the woods, I can at least see the trees thinning out. And tomorrow I start a gig that while not ideal, will at least hold me while I retrench. (And keep working from home.)

But I was going to talk about my depression…and that’s just it. It’s so hard to talk about: if you don’t have it, it’s hard to understand. It’s nothing like being sad, except when it is; it’s nothing like feeling listless, except when it is; it’s nothing like feeling hopeless, except when it is–and most of the time you feel at least some of those symptoms all at once. William Styron called it a “brain storm” and that comes close, except in my case there isn’t a feeling of storm like violence: just a hopelessness, a feeling that everything I do is futile, that everything is just too hard for me to accomplish and that if I were lucky, I’d just not wake up in the morning. And sometimes, sometimes you just want the pain and hopelessness to go away so badly that you think about making sure you won’t wake up in the morning.

I think until you can contemplate the idea of destroying yourself–of making a permanent end to all your problems–and think it a good thing, a sensible thing, to no longer care about the pain you would inflict on others, just so long as your own would go away–until you’ve hit that point, then no, you don’t know what depression really feels like. I’ve had some sort of suicidal ideation around once a month since I was at least ten years old. And I almost never think seriously about it; when I do, when I get really serious in my own mind, that’s when I know to go down to a doctor and do something about it. And I’m lucky: most of the time, there is something to be done, and something I can access to help me. Not everyone is so lucky.

Yet strangely enough, I don’t want this post itself to be depressing. Dawn is breaking on my battered mental landscape; my Significant Other of Variable and Often Fabulous Gender spent the weekend with me, and cheered me up. I have a source of income again, and believe it or not, a line on some more interviews.

I’m writing again. And that’s a light all of its own.

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Adventures in Transition: Inadequacy Edition

Categories: adventures in transition, all about me, the tiniest violin in the world

Hola, ducks! Did you know that I’m currently between positions? Yes, tis true that I work as a consultant when not writing pithy internet ramblings. But while I was out in California, I lost my main client in a move of wonderful class upon their part. Wev. Anyway, did you know we are in a recession, despite what the economic gurus tell us? I sure do–I’m reminded of it daily as I watch my bank balances dwindle! And also, have I mentioned that I seem to be getting depression for Christmas! And now you are too, if you’ve read this far?

This is all preamble.

So, okay. I had an interview on Friday. Which didn’t go so well…but I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start again.

So I had an interview on Friday. It was my third interview with these people, but the first one that would be face-to-face; I had survived two phone interviews prior to this, and passed the little “mess around with this database” test they’d sent me with flying colors.

That in itself is an accomplishment of sorts–not the application thing, I do that for a living after all; the phone interview bit. Now, you may not know this, but there’s only one kind of transsexual whose voice is helped by transitioning, and I am not that kind of a transsexual! Or to put it more bluntly, estrogen doesn’t do anything to your voice. (Testosterone will, so FTMs get a break there, but–as I well know–the effects are permanent.)

So back when I was transitioning–actually, just before I was sure I was going to transition–I began to work with an actress who gave voice lessons on finding a less obviously masculine way for me to talk. Not that I have anything against deep voices in women! Just, um, it was a way to make sure I would get outed. I didn’t have a James Earl Jones bass or anything, but my voice pretty clearly marked me as trans.

The best part of the experience was that I was her first trans client, so we sort of assembled our own course in how to do this out of things on the internet, a DVD I had, and whatever seemed to work for us. After a while, we just spent half the class talking to each other, which was a great way to get comfortable using my new voice.

Thus, passing two phone interviews was not a small accomplishment.

Anyway. The face to face interview, which was not only face to face but a state away. And potentially guarded my economic future! After being so confident on the phone interviews, I suddenly found myself…inadequate. Because:

–I needed a new suit, since I’d gained some weight.

–Jeez, skirt or slacks? What was more appropriate?

–It turns out I needed a new suit that was two sizes larger than I normally wear, because I’ve gained so much weight. Sigh.

–I began to worry: would I come on too aggressive?

–I began to worry: would I not be aggressive enough?

–Or too feminine?

–Or not feminine enough?

–Or for that matter, would they immediately think I was trans?

–Or pull a credit bureau on me and know I was trans (I’ve been lazy about getting every account I own fixed.)

–Even if they hired me, would they hit me with the “female discount”?

–Do they want a woman in their IT department?

–Was I just the “diversity interview”?

Now, ducks, I know a lot of my female readers are somewhere between bemusement and rage at going over that list. I know it sounds whiny. It is whiny. But let me just say: I knew all this stuff going in, and I decided to transition anyway. I don’t have any regrets about that, and I’m not saying I should have any special treatment.

But. This was the first time a lot of these things hit home for me all at once. And it was definitely a different experience for me to think of this stuff before an interview. (Also, I should note that I hadn’t been on a serious interview in over six years–advantage to consulting–so there was that factor as well.) And the inadequacy I felt…was pretty massive. There was so much to be afraid of, so many traps I felt like I could blunder into just based on how I looked.

And you, my beloved female ducks, are more than welcome to chorus “Duh!” in my general direction right now. And I deserve it.

Anyway, as far as all that stuff went, I think things went fine–I looked professional, I don’t think anyone read me, and I think I struck the right amount of aggression/femininity/whatever. It was the tech questions I whiffed on that probably sunk me! So there you have it.

But at least it was beautiful out in the snow today–the sky a hazy pastel blue at sunset, the air clear and all edges sharp-edged, the snow that light twilit blue you get at sunset. That helps. Even if it won’t pay the rent.

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Blogging From Home: Anomie Of Unemployment Edition

Categories: all about me, silly blather

Okay, unemployed is a strong word for me: I haven’t worked a fulltime W-2 job in over 10 years, and I have some contract work that will be coming down the pike soonish, plus a serious line on an actual job. But still: for the first time in a couple of years, I have no place to be to make money right now.

Funny, it actually is like the last time I was out of work around Christmas, four years ago: which incidentally was about two months before the collapse of my marriage.

Anyway, my damn jet lag (and spending too much time reading a Culture novel the last few nights) finally caught up with me and I crashed this morning–fed the Evil Feline Overlords and passed out in bed again. So I didn’t get much done today. I was going to walk over to the library to get more Banks novels, but I checked the website and they’re all out or on hold.

So I’m going to treat myself to a fabulously cheap calzone for dinner. I thought about ordering a movie from my cable company, but the best I saw was the new Transformers movie. Then I remembered I have “Ginger Snaps” on my DVR, and I also set the same to record “Heathers,” a movie I had never seen before. So definitely some blog fodder coming.

Anything is better than watching TNT tonight–they’re showing Spielberg’s 9/11 porn adaption of “War of the Worlds.”

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Allow me to introduce myself…

Categories: all about me

Greetings, Ducks!

I seem to have taken an inadvertent week off from the blog there–sorry about that. Much of this is because my free time currently is being swallowed by some intense computer programming work; there’s a lot to get done, and I’m trying to get it done and over with already, and I’ve had to teach myself a bunch of things I didn’t know how to do before. (Today, I grabbed a static Google maps image and dumped onto my server! Yatta!)

The other truth, though, is that I’ve been struggling lately with my anti-depression meds. I went off of them over the summer–you may have noticed the intense, burning rage from that period–and went on a completely different med right before I left for Paris. It’s an SSRI, a kind of AD that I have a real love-hate relationship with: on the one hand, they seem to work really well for me; on the other, I get all the side-effects. (I now think that my caffeine-withdrawal insomnia the first few days in Paris was heavily exacerbated by the new meds, which have been giving me insomnia of late.) And while the meds definitely kept me from crashing into the slough of despond, I wasn’t exactly scaling the heights of ecstasy of late: in fact, my motivation has completely vanished. I haven’t done aikido since that night I trained in Paris, I’ve only posted once in the last week here, and in general I lack any willpower to get things done. (Let’s not even talk about my rapidly ballooning weight.)

So I’m going off them again, and maybe I’ll find a new psychopharmacologist to get me on something new, or maybe I’ll try to find another way to control my mood swings. But I can’t keep on going the way I was, with a head lightly wrapped in what felt like fabric softener sheets. And I can’t give up my writing, not after I finally began to reclaim it.

This, by the way, is pretty much par for the course with me–I’ve had a long battle against my depression ever since I finally began to seriously treat it almost a decade and a half ago (there’s a fascinating story about how that all came about, which I will save for another day.) The first time I took AD meds, I thought I had locked my depression in a cell deep in my soul and it would never bother me again. The second time, I realized I was locked up in that same cell, but my depression was safely chained up and couldn’t get me.

After the third time, I realized that my depression was chained up to me. And if I ever took my eyes off of, that fucker would kill me.

Don’t worry, I have an excellent support system and I’m not in any danger right now. And I’m sure I’ll get through this and cope–one of the reasons it took me so long to finally start working on my depression is that I’m so damn high-functioning. But it’s frustrating to keep ping-ponging around like this.

Also, withdrawal sucks, even with my tapering off regime.

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Reruns

Categories: all about me, This Was My Life

One of those days, yesterday, though not as bad as the following will make it seem–just didn’t feel much like doing anything, so sorry no post.

Thought I’d rerun this bit…from a long time ago, before The Second Awakening, both the blog and my own personal sense of it. More original stuff later on, I promise.

Ma Saison en Enfer

1. Un nuit en enfer/A night in Hell

The night your wife finally moves out of the apartment, at your request, turns out to be surprisingly shitty. You knew this day would come, probably suddenly, and you’ve wanted it, but now that it’s here you find yourself gripped with a slow-spreading, vastly deepening sense of loss.

You try to keep busy. You’ve already left work early, giving up billable hours just when you need them the most, to run home to make sure that the things you really want to keep have been clearly separated. As it turns out, you have a surprising number of purses, more than you thought.

You go to your therapy session and remain calm, and then head out to go to a gig at CBGB’s gallery with your best friend, who has been your rock through the whole thing. The singer starts launching old songs–“You belong to me” is the one that hits you the worst–and you end up in the bathroom trying to cry. As it turns out, you can sob but there are no tears, not now, not even at the end, not even for you.

2. Mavais Sang/Bad Blood

Maybe it was your fault all along; maybe it was how you were made, all the issues you never confronted. Maybe it was too much in your nature to compromise, to sacrifice. Maybe you thought that somehow, bizarrely, that made you more of who you thought you were, even as the compromises took you further and further away from that idealized, non-existant person.

Maybe it was that never in your life have you felt the need to ravish. Maybe it was that you lay fallow waiting for ravishment.

Maybe that was some taint of the genes. Of the blood, the blood of your father and your funny uncle.

But there came a day when your wife began to take potshots at you for not noticing her, and then your bad blood roared through your tortured veins, poisoning your vision, painting the landscape with loss.

3. Nuit de l’enfer/Hellish Night

There comes a night, as it must, when your wife and alcohol and your medication mix together to perfect a cocktail of hell.

A night when your wife will yell at you, when you will feel everything slipping away from you as she tells you how you are not a man, or not the man she needs, and those words will cut you apart and pare away your illusions of your own happiness.

And the ground of your hell is fertile, and her words take root and bear fruit.

In this night, she will tell you that after the next morning she is no longer sure if you will be together.

Dawn will come without sleep and you will waken to the realization that your marriage is over. You will feel nothing at first. Nothing is left to feel.

Nothing will matter.

4. Délieres/Delerium I

You waken to a wedding, and it saves you. On the dance floor she will beg forgiveness and claim forgetfulness, and you will hold her and feel relieved. You will resolve not to throw away your second chance, because you have stared into the abyss and it nearly ate you.

You will resolve all these things, though you don’t mean them. It is not in either of your natures to change course now.

5. Délieres/Delerium II

And for a while you both belive in the lie, because the lie has worked for so long. She will forget that you are not what you seem, not what anybody, even her, wants. And you will forget that she is a flesh and blood woman, not one of your fantasies that you try and shoehorn yourself into, to take the shape of your airy dreams. You will forget her impatience and her impulsiveness and your own propensity for inertia. You will forget all these things in the delerium of the most seductive drug, nostalgia.

You will forget all these things. But you will suspect.

6. L’impossible/The Impossible

She will tell you that she cannot deal with seeing you dressed as a woman anymore, and suggest that she spend the night with her girlfriends outside the city. You will be touched by her sacrifice and seduced by the thought of transgressing, for a while, the narrow boundaries of custom and biology. So you agree, though you grudge it, and hope for a day where the separation won’t be necessary.

And yet, and yet, like a canker the suspicion grows that there is more here than you suspect, more being said than you have heard. And yet, and yet, you think that what you suspect, the hair of shadow that now hovers like a flaw in your sight, cannot, must not be true.

Your plans are both disrupted for your birthday. You come home to change, still made up, in your new jeans and pedicured toes, and you sense her anger and hurt. You think it is just that she is home, alone, and confronted even briefly by your own perverted self, and you are sad, you grieve inside yourself for the you that never was and never could be.

You grieve, not knowing yet what you grieve for, not knowing that grief is going to be your lot.

7. L’Eclair/Lightning

When you finally learn the truth, discover the betrayal, it leaves you physically ill. You stumble out of the house on an excuse, and wander downtown. You sit in anger with your best friend and she has nothing to say, nothing to give but an embrace.

Later will come the confrontation, the flash of brilliance that has lit up the dark corners of your marriage, of your soul, and you know as the bolt cleaves the sky so your life has been cloven in two, and you have been put asunder.

And in that flash you see the empty plain of new possibilities, even as your future dies upon the vine and with it all that you were, all that you were trying to be for five years, all that you thought was worth having and sacrificing for. The sacrifice is returned, you look at it as a feast, but your hunger makes you sick and you don’t know how to begin, or even if you should.

8. Matin/Morning

You stay up late, far into the morning most days. Sleep is something you find only in the pills you bought at the drugstore. Even strong drink, which you avoid, does not bring it.

You find that you shared so many things. You replace a manicure set and several purses. You agree to give up the chairs in the living room, and her sister’s bed that you slept on for two years. You keep the cats but lose the rug and the toothbrush. You lose a bookcase but gain several shelves on your new built-ins, the ones she insisted on.

You find your arms aching for her at night even as your heart shrieks its anger and drowns in its own blood.

The morning after she leaves, this very morning, you come home to the apartment, the empty spaces like fading ghosts. You want to collapse and sleep, but the bed is gone and you are too tired to inflate the air mattress. You take a shower and go to work. You want to cry as you walk to the subway, but you can’t, because you are a man and there is no place to go and hide while you weep.

And you know that you will pass almost directly from this morning to another long, empty morning, despite not sleeping since the day before.

9. Adieu/Goodbye

And though she is gone, it cannot, will not be goodbye, though sometimes you scream in your soul to just be left alone, to lick your wounds alone in silence.

You know there will come a day when you can see her again without seeing him in your mind as well. You know there will come a day when you forgive each other for what you did, what you did not do, and all the myriad days that should have come but now will never arrive.

And you know this won’t be the end of everything. You know it is the beginning for both of you, and the dammed stream of frustrated posibilities is already pushing you strongly from behind.

But you still want to weep, even though you cannot. You still want your tears, so you can say farewell to them. You still want her with you, and you can never say goodbye to that.

After Arthur Rimbaud
Translations of titles by Bertrand Mathieu

February 23, 2006

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Cahiers Parisiens: les Autres, les Etrangres, le Moi

Categories: all about me, kyriarchy, paris notebook, travels with CL

Last night I was having a somewhat dismal (in Paris, that means it was actually decent) meal over on République when I think I saw the mostly iconic image of 21st century Paris I’ve ever seen: a guy on a rented bicycle, smoking a cigarette as he rode down the boulevards.

Paris, of course, has an uncomfortable relationship with the modern world. It retains it’s preeminent place in the world of fashion, is a major political and business center for Europe, and remains the center of gravity of the francophone world. And, of course, it is one of the most beautiful cities in Europe.

But so much of that comes from its curious sense of being frozen in time: the perfection of the nineteenth-century vision of Good City Life, the architecture frozen in place, the parks looking almost identitical to the images on the canvases of the Musée d’Orsay. It’s static the way New York, my other favorite city in the world, never is: New York reinvents itself every day, in a furious pace of rebuilding, modifying, reconsidering, reconfiguring. Paris sedately glides by, asleep in the long belle rêve of Haussman.

Sometimes I think only Paris’ status as the capital of a major country in Europe keeps it a living city. That, and the changing face of the French world.

I am staying in the Oberkampf district, on the northeastern edge of the city. I’m guessing it’s going through a gentrification cycle; it’s close to the Marais, the former Jewish ghetto that has become not only the heart of gay and lesbian Paris, but the home of most forward-looking fashion designers. It’s an area of former factories being transformed into a residential district.

Out here, not quite in the periphery (let alone the banlieues, the suburbs that ring Paris), I still see more people of color than you do in central Paris, tourist Paris: Africans and Berbers from the old colonies, Indians, Vietnamese, Chinese, Arabs. It makes me homesick and feel at home at the same time, resembling my ethnically mixed neighborhood in the Great American Metropolis. (Also a rapidly gentrifying area with great restaurants.)

I won’t rehearse for you the litany of troubles the changing population of France has brought on: the difficulties in assimilating different ethnicities into the French self-conception, the poverty and racism and rioting in the banlieues, the fact that the President of France once threatened retributary violence on those same rioters, before he was elected. France bans the veil at school, championing the cause of secularism and human rights, and we are left with profoundly mixed feelings about exactly what liberties are being abridged, and who has the right to do that. Etre Muslulman en France, screams the headline of one magazine I see advertised: being Muslim in France. What is it like, I, they, wonder, to be marooned in a culture that regards you cautiously, obliged to help you because of the mythic ideals of its own past, but not sure how to come to terms with being more than it was in the past: plural, multiple, different. How it is to be Other until that happens, if it ever does.

I could claim some parcel of this terrain, as both a woman and trans, but I really doubt it’s the same: here, as in America, the swath my privilege as a white, able-bodied, educated person cuts through most hindrances.

Still: Tuesday night I went to an aikido class. The dojo has a very different style compared to my dojo back home: much harder, more concerned with proper form than movement. A good experience, but too much like my original aikido dojo for my taste.

I’ve talked about my French being better on this trip, but the truth is, it’s still very weak, comparatively. I can read it passably well (today I was reading the “Declaration of the Rights of Man” in French and getting most of it), but anyone who speaks even moderately fast will have me in the dust. So, when the teacher would explain the technique, I would be…lost. I have almost no vocabulary for body parts: no word for wrist, barely able to recognize “leg” or “knee.” I would get a word in every so often, and occasionally a general sense, but for the most part I’d be lost, and have to rely only on what I could see.

Which is the best way to learn, actually. But in those moments…I was the other. I was the one lost in a sea of incomprehension, struggling to use all my wits to figure things out, almost mute, ignorent. (There are times I grow so frustrated with how I speak, because my mind leaps so far out in front of what I actually know how to say: and I know I must sound stupid, with my mangled syntax and wonky accent.) And this is a valuable lesson to learn, to hold to myself the next time I get frustrated with someone else.

We never learn more about our privilege than when we are called on it. Or made to see the other side of it.

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