Categotry Archives: the tiniest violin in the world

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Negotiations and Love Songs

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

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The Rest Is Silence

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!

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Where In The World Is C.L. Minou?

Categories: all about me, silly blather, the tiniest violin in the world

Well, for once, back here.

I do apologize, ducks. This has been a slightly weird week: I mean, I was in the Guardian, and the Carnival, and also work was busy (I was doing stuff at 10 pm on Tuesday) and oh yeah it was my birthday yesterday and so I had to go out and have drinks with my girlfriends (and one of their boyfriends: he was our Designated Boy.) And then back to work but oh yeah, my enormous cat, Fafhrd, the Grey Mouser, has been sick and I had to take him to the vet, which will set back my primary financial mission for 2010, the Payinge Off Of Ye Ginormous Credite Carde Debte.

So: I know! Wild!

The other thing is my job. I’m glad I have it and it’s mostly not particularly hard (even if they’re paying me a lot less than I’m used to), and it’s cool to be able to work from home–but after spending over ten hours at my desk, I tend to be a little too burned out to sit down and write. At least this week. I think that will sort out eventually.

But there will be more stuff, eventually! Here and at Tiger Beatdown. I have some thoughts about the whole Bindel thing and Second Wave radical feminism that ties into kyriarchy nicely. And I will eventually write something about “Heathers.” Also, Sophie had a really good comment that tied into my post on Mary Daly and I just want you to know, Sophie, that I noticed! And have been thinking about it! And will, one of these days, write about it!

So, stay tuned, you who tune in. And if you’re not tuning in, why not try? Although, given that you’re not tuning in, I’m not so sure how it is you’ll hear me ask you to tune in. But it all comes out in the wash.

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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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How To Be Alone

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

Greetings again, ducks.

One of the hardest things I’ve set myself out to do is to write something every day, mostly here. Not all that easy; occasionally even Motormouth Me runs out of things to say. So I struggle with it, usually right at the point when a bunch of readers have dropped by in response to some blogvertising I’ve done.

Way to keep up the momentum, C.L.

I’ve been busy with work stuff the last few days and not getting enough sleep. Which explains part of why I’ve been away.

Would that it was the only reason.

I’ve been struggling a bit lately with the consequences of my late-aborning political awakening. (You knew there would be consequences, didn’t you?) Specifically, I no longer seem to be able to keep from alienating people, including people who are dear to me.

I’m not sure what to do about it, either.

The essence of my–enlightenment, let’s call it–has been that I have become acutely, painfully aware of my own privilege. This has led me to radically reexamine the world around me and the ways that privilege, mine and others, interact to create this beaten up planet and downtrodden human race.

And I don’t know how to keep quiet about it. I don’t know how to stop seeing, how to stop talking (and let’s face it, preaching) about what I see.

I don’t know, in short, how to just shut up and let things roll over me without it seeming like collusion. That’s in part what I was trying to say in my previous post: that I can’t even watch a muddle-headed B-movie like Uncommon Valor without seeing all the hypocrisies and unspoken assumptions it contains.

And I’m not sure that I even want to stop.

Part of the reason I started the blog is that I wanted to find an outlet for what I was feeling (especially the trans-related stuff) that I could use to keep it from leaking into my everyday life. In that regard, The Second Awakening is an utter failure, because writing about this stuff, digging deeply into my own thought processes, learning about the things going on around me, has only radicalized me even more. (Plus, I’ve become just proud enough of what I’m doing to want to talk about it, which knocks not outing myself as trans into a cocked hat.)

I don’t think of the blog as a failure, of course; I like writing it, I like how I’ve had to confront a lot of my own internalized issues in the course of writing it, I like how I’ve managed to start to come to some conclusions about the world based on the work I’ve done here–work that feels so important to me; maybe the most important work I’ve ever done.

All the same, I wonder about where I am going, where this is taking me. Most of all, I worry that I will go some place that many people who are important to me cannot follow. That as a result of what I am doing, I will end up alone.

Maybe that’s the price to pay. Lord knows I’m used to that kind of thing–transness has always been the gift that keeps on taking.

But I was kind of hoping that I was finally coming home, instead of walking further out into the cold.