For my 16th birthday I was given a copy of Sandman: A Game of You. This is part of the larger Sandman series of graphic novels which, if you haven’t read, you should do so as soon as possible. Really. (The first volume or two are perhaps the weakest of the series, but once you get through that it’s just masterful storytelling.) One of the main characters is Wanda, a pre-op trans woman. I can’t imagine this was the first trans character I’d seen in fiction, but she stays with me as my first memory of seeing a strong trans character in fiction; one of the first experiences I had saying “She’s like me!” when relating to a fictional character about my trans identity.
I remember flying through the book, eager to see what would happen next and impatient when the action shifted from Wanda. (Something I’ve managed to surpress in later rereadings. Fortunate, as the book as a whole is wonderful as well.) I stayed up later than I should, in those high school days where going to bed after midnight or one or two and getting up before seven all week long just seemed routine. But I couldn’t imagine waiting until tomorrow to see how the story turned out.
A spoiler warning. Those who haven’t read the book, think they might, and want every moment to be a surprise, should stop reading this post now. (I don’t know if the information ahead will fundamentally change your first read, but I’ve had friends give spoiler warnings about the information on dust jackets, so I know some people take these things very seriously.)
Continue reading 'Wanda'»
This is the text from a writing excersize in the workshop. I was very much continuing the work I’d done here, but enjoying letting the power of storytelling enter a little more. The final text I performed, which I’ll post one of these days, was somewhere in between in terms of flowery storytelling language and stark physical imagery.
I was struck at birth by the shaft of Ares. It’s true. The gods on high looked down and across time and saw me, barely formed. Perhaps one smiled or one frowned, perhaps they were spiteful or bitter or joyful or pleased; I don’t know. But I know Ares (or, perhaps, the warriors of Ares, his phalanx of gleaming, armored troops, which – in the end – is close enough to a mortal such as myself) drew his bow, notched a piece of wood, straight and true, and let fly his arrow.
It was a poison arrow.
Continue reading 'Workshop writings – an intermediate stage'»
This morning I received a FaceBook invite from SH to her bachelorette party in a couple weeks (she’s getting married in late September) and I’ve spent time on and off throughout the day thinking about how I feel about getting the invite. (Which is a separate issue from whether or not I’m going to go.)
I think the biggest thing I need to focus on is that I do feel good about getting invited. I know, from two decades of experience, that when I’m not included in women’s spaces I feel bad about it, even if the exclusion was on the not horribly unreasonable assumption that I was male. So I know that, had she not invited me, I would have felt really lousy about it.
But it reminds me about how I felt when I got accepted to the mentorship program: There was a definite aspect of, “Wait, what? You think I’m trans? You think I’m an artist? You think I’m a trans artist?” I know I have major issues with claiming identities, ranging to things having nothing to do with gender: pianist, geek, actor, artist, etc. But maybe it all does relate to gender, in that if everyone is (unintentionally) negating my femaleness on a daily basis that self-doubt about who I am seeps into everything else.
And so part of me doesn’t want to go and have to face that fear of being ‘woman enough’ to exist in an explicitly female space, and the other part does.
-R
Just acknowledging I didn’t spontaneously combust or get hit by a bear-driven SUV. The workshop performance yesterday went really well and I’ll post the text of what I performed (and perhaps some intermediate versions) one of these days. Likewise, I’m psyched to start work towards the final November performance, and am thinking a lot about how I’m going to proceed.
I just need a little recovery time.
-R
(From tonight’s workshop. I’m rather pleased with how this piece came out, and think the metaphor I tapped will be fertile ground for future work.)
The audience is seated in a circle. I have intertwined male and female symbols drawn on my sternum in red/brown marker, partially obscured by my top. Two performers throw me on stage by my arms. I address the audience, making eye contact while prowling the circle.
I was struck at birth by the shaft of Ares. It’s true. And this was a poison arrow. Now, let it be said that the weapons of Ares are not poison to all. Walking with Ares does not always mean death and destruction. But, for me, it was a poison arrow.
Continue reading 'Ares and Aphrodite'»
What a change from Sunday, eh?
At work, I told the admin assistant not to come in because she was sick. I then left to go to the workshop, and everything sort of fell apart, culminating in one of my bosses threatening to fire the admin assistant. (No one was fired, fortunately.) This morning we had a Meeting with both of my bosses, the admin assistant, and myself. While I’m still not happy how my boss handled things (threatening the admin assistant’s job was way out of proportion for what had happened) my bosses had really valid points about how I and the admin assistant had let the office slip over the past couple of months. They did manage to say a few things we’re doing well, and I do know that this isn’t the end of the world and it’s a learning experience and all that mumbo-jumbo that will make me feel better a month from now. But, for right now, I had my nose rubbed in a number of things that are ligitimately my fault, as well as a few that aren’t (but are difficult to extract from the lump of things that have gone wrong).
(Amazingly enough, getting that all out helped a little….need to just keep reminding myself that things will look better – or, at least, less bad – with every passing day.)
I’m also frustrated because I wanted to be able to focus on this workshop, and not on my job. But that’s kind of difficult, now. I’m still trying, but I know I’m bad at compartmentalizing and the stress about work is definitely spilling over into feelings of inadequacy as a performer and as an artist. (Not to mention as a woman…) I realized today that I’m uncomfortable as J and as R. For example, this morning, in the Meeting, I was feeling awkward in boymode because of my boobs and how I was sitting and wondering how obvious it was that I was wearing a bra. Then, during the workshop (in girlmode) I was feeling awkward becuase of my boobs and how I was sitting and wondering if I looked like a boy who was feeling awkward about his boobs. I knew this before, but never quite in such stark relief…
(Thinking happy thoughts. Thinking happy thoughts. Thinking happy thoughts.)
(Trying to, anyway…)
-R
Today we focused more on stories from the body. We each had a big sheet of butcher paper and were told to draw the metaphors of our body. My ended up with a balloon head tied with string to balloon boobs and string arms, all attached to a weight keeping the balloons from floating away. Hanging from the weight was a bucket filled with perscription pill bottles, and at the crotch was a bunsen burner heating a thermometer to the bursting point. (Can you tell I have body and sexuality issues right now?)
We performed a semi-improvised piece based on an action. Mine was awkwardly rubbing my crotch, as if wiping something off your hand. The (general idea of the) text, with changes/additions/subtractions made on things I think would work better, didn’t work well, or I just forgot:
Mmmmmmm.
MMmmmmmmmmm.
MMmmmmasturbation.
Continue reading 'Second day of the workshop'»
The shadows were long across the bed, the dark deep purple of the sky just after the sun sets. Her neck fit my lips perfectly and when our eyes met I started to cry. “Why are you crying?” she asked, and the not-knowing made me cry all the more. Her neck tasted of her and of the salt of my tears. At last I was able to say, “I’m stronger when I’m with you. I’m happier when I’m with you. I’m better when I’m with you. And I don’t want to be without you.”
MG has been in this past weekend (and a little last week) for wedding prep and bridal shower stuff for SH’s upcoming fall wedding, and has given me a big shot of confidence. I’m generally feeling better about lots of stuff, so everything sort of collectively seems less scary, but MG said some specific comments about how I was looking (like guessing my weight 15 pounds below what it actually is!) that really just made me feel good about myself. We also went shopping for some clothing (at Target! ooooh, classy) just so my closet wasn’t so androgynous (at best…)
Likewise, I went out some this weekend in explicitly feminine clothing and it felt good. I even got included in a collective ‘ladies’ tonight after going to the beach and decidedly not looking feminine…
So yeah. I’m starting the mentorship thing tomorrow, culminating in a group performance next Sunday and solo performance in November (so far away!) so I’ll definitely post on how it goes. But although I’m still a little terrified – about presenting myself as R artistically and just presenting myself artistically, period, and just presenting presenting myself as R, period – I’m feeling lots better about all three of those things.
Hopefully I’ll still feel the same way after the first meeting tomorrow!
-R
I realized recently that, while my least favorite part of testoserone poisoning is the mode changes and general mopiness, the most irritable part is the way my sexuality seems to be pouring out my eyeballs at the moment. That is, I’ve noticed over the past month that I’m tracking attractive women in a way that I haven’t done in over a year.
(And may not have been doing before I went on hormones; I certainly wasn’t aware of it at the time and am only aware of it now because it feels so overpowering compared to the much more palatable relation to my sexuality I had on hormones. That said, I readily admit I may have been visually tracking women consistently before going on hormones, and just didn’t notice the urge to do so decreading.)
Continue reading 'Shifty eyes!'»
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