Senator Durbin,

I have lived in Illinois my entire life. I am almost always in agreement with your legislative viewpoints, and appreciate how accesible and responsive you are to your constituents. And so I ask you: Please raise my taxes.

I’m a freelancer. I make less than $20,000 a year. I work in the arts, with children, with colleges and universities, and receive most of my income as 1099. That means I feel the weight of my taxes directly – they aren’t split between myself and my employer. I have bills, rent, medical expenses. And yet, I want you to raise my taxes.

With all the talk of budget deficits, the worries about angering voters by even mentioning raising taxes, and obstinant insistance by the GOP to refuse to raise taxes, I want to make my voice heard, too. As an American, taxes are part of the responsibility I bear to pay for the government services I enjoy. When I fly to visit family in California, I want to know my planes are inspected by government officials, and airports protected by others. When I drink water, I want to know the tap water I enjoy in Chicago is held to the same basic standard as in Portland or New York. While I disagree with much of our current military policy, I am ready to help pay for the defense of the United States. Everyday I am aware of the countless ways in which government helps make my life easier and safer. And I want to help pay for it.

I’m ready to pay more, for a sane government hand in healthcare. I’m ready to pay more, for a substantial government hand in education. I’m ready to pay more for a government hand in highways, bridges, science research, space exploration, national security, and on and on and on.

Please, raise my taxes.
-Rebecca

My fingers are a gateway to the world. Typers of words, feelers of skin, players of keys, graspers of all that is in reach. They are long and neither slender or fat, but finger-sized. They have hair between the first and second knuckles, between where they connect to my hand and where they bend. The hair has been hit by lasers, plucked by tweezers, shaved by blades, but still it grows back. Less and less with hormones and lasers and frustration, but still it grows.

The thumb on my right hand is larger than that on my left. My gym teacher slammed it in a door when I was in third or fourth grade. It was an accident, and he apologized, but still told me to stop crying when I went to the nurse’s office. I needed stitches under the nail, one of the most painful experiences I’ve ever had.

When I hold my fingers up straight, palm out, the middle and ring fingers pop apart, as if in a permanent Vulcan greeting: Live long and prosper, forever. It’s kind of silly, and makes me incredibly self conscious. When I wave, I make sure to do so with fingers spread. When I hold my hand out, I either cup or spread my fingers to hide this physical quirk. It’s significantly more pronounced on my left hand, presumably because I broke those fingers flipping off my bike sophomore year of college. Ouch.

My arms are long, with a strength that pleases me. They used to be more muscular, but that tissue went elsewhere when I went on hormones. They’re hairy, but not as hairy as they used to be; session after session of laser hair removal has done its job. I still shave my arms occasionally, particularly around the hands and wrists, but less and less as time goes on. My arms pull me up and push me up and support me – at circus, at the gym doing handstands and cartwheels and holding myself above a spent lover.

My chest is a map of the last five years. Four scars, one about an inch long, three much smaller, where my gallbladder is removed. The scars have faded some, but are still quite visible. The lack of sensation along the larger scar, subtle but noticeable if I concentrate while running my hand over my stomach, is somewhat surreal. Traveling up to the mounds of my breasts, the most visible sign of the hormones and hair removal. Smooth(er) skin, but – just like everywhere else – there’s still occasional shaving. Nipple hair doesn’t make me feel attractive.

My breasts continue to surprise me, looking down, looking in the mirror, running my hands over my body in the shower or getting dressed or masturbating. Such simple lumps of flesh, with so much emotional and sexual and identity meaning. The way they move when I run at the gym, or dash up the stairs, or collapse into bed. The previously-foreign and now unnoticed feeling of wearing a bra. (Usually unnoticed, anyway. Underwires aren’t always the most comfy invention, but they sure to make my boobs look great!)

I worry they’re too small for my frame, would they have been bigger had I started transitioning earlier, are they proportioned well on me. Envy friends who are more well-endowed than I. And yet, while having lunch with a trans friend, she asked if I’d had breast augmentation, wondered if my size was “real.” I guess the grass is always greener.

I absolutely do not understand my nipples. Two new erogenous zones, topping flesh which alights with fire when touched the right way. But “the right way” seems ever-shifting, from day to day and even moment to moment. And the lack of language around nipples! A penis gets erect. And nipples can, sometimes. But the rush of sensation they provide when I’m aroused is wholly different. Their warmth or coldness or something, even when encased under a padded bra and layers of clothing. There’s a two-way connection between my nipples and my crotch, to be sure, but my nipples sometimes have a mind of their own, separate from any other part of my body. And (as I’ve said before) I don’t like emotions or sensations I can’t name or quantify or categorize. But I’m not thinking about that when swept away by the sensations they provide.

Moving up, my neck and face find the same relative smoothness, a product of the same hair removal sessions. I shave my face far more often than I need to (at least, according to friends who have seen me when I haven’t shaved) but it makes me feel so much better when I run my hand along a smooth cheek without finding the random catch of stubble which has thus far escaped the laser.

I pierced my ears the summer I lived in NYC, 2006, when I was still presenting as male. I wore simple studs for what seemed like forever, but now have two piercings in each ear (the second one I got with my mom) and my students comment on how ridiculous or fun or silly my earrings are: LEGOs and cats and Scrabble pieces and fly fishing lures. My ears are big (this is really apparent in childhood photos) but earrings and my long hair mean I don’t think about them too much.

My hair is one of the few things I like about my body without reservation. A product of the same Russian Jewish genes which gave me body hair gave me thick brown hair which is incredibly easy to take care of. I sometimes wish I could wear it shorter, particularly in the hot summer months, but admit I worry about looking too much like a man. And, if not that, then just looking bad. My eyebrows are thick and bushy, unruly and untamed. I get them waxed on occasion, and will pluck when I see them trying to join forces over my noise, but I spend more time ignoring them than taking care of them.

My lips and tongue and voice are tools, of performance and of pleasure. I don’t have an Adam’s apple, for whatever lucky reason. I wonder if it’s because I had a benign lump removed from my throat when I was five or six, but I don’t really care. I’m just happy not to worry about it creating a gendered perception I don’t want. With a genie’s wish, I’d knock my voice up a few notes, but can’t really complain. I know how to use my voice from a decade of performing in classes and workshops and on stage, and can get it to do what I want. I rarely get ma’am’ed on the phone, even though that sometimes requires me to pitch my voice up a hair. I worry sometimes that my voice is really a “giveaway” to my transness, but then I remember its been ages since I got sir’ed and tell myself to relax.

And, of course, my lips and tongue are sexual organs. Like my nipples, the pleasure of something on my lips has gone up significantly since going on hormones. It’s a similarly difficult experience to describe, other than (pun slightly intended) yummy. They’re also givers of pleasure, on the lips of others, on necks and nipples and hips and clits and cocks and cunts. Yummy indeed.

Dreaming of Dresses: Transgender Books for Children – Anyone read any of these? I enjoyed Luna, but don’t think I’ve read the others.

The 7 Most Baffling Things About Women’s Clothing –  Yes. Yes. One thousand times yes.

Requiem for a Dialogue – Lots of things, but particularly about femme and trans. A good read.

2012 Oscars and the Bechdel Test – Yes, I’m late. So sue me.

Why Mass Effect is the Most Important Science Fiction Universe of Our Generation – I’ve only played #1, so no spoilers please, but I did love it and this is an interesting article.

One Town’s War on Gay Teens – Great article from the Rolling Stone.

On behalf of SQS we are immeasurably pleased and excited to announce a joint event with the Center on Halsted called SEED: Self Education Empowerment and Defense. This wonderful workshop will take place in the John Baran Senior Center, at 5:30pm, on March 18th, 2012.

SEED is an empowering forty-five program designed for individuals of all ability, specifically for those who are trans*, queer, and/or female-identified. These communities are often the targets of physical and emotional harassment and violence. We will teach participants the skills to avoid these situations and stay safe and in control. A member from the Center’s Anti-Violence Project will speak about developing less violent and more affirming environments and relationships.

Our instructors are trans* identified individuals of color and this program will be offered in English and Spanish. Participants are encouraged to attend in comfortable clothes and be ready to transform! We are grateful for the opportunity to educate, empower, and advocate for these communities, which are too often underserved and underrepresented.

This workshop is free and open to all who wish to attend—allies included.

SQS is a fierce grassroots collective of trans* individuals and their allies from a variety of cultures, backgrounds, and experiences. We are here to serve as a force of strength and empowerment to all—and to connect individuals to community resources. Meeting in the Pilsen neighborhood of Chicago, we are dedicated to advocacy and celebrating the simple fact that we are who we are.

For more information, please contact Van Binfa at sqs_info@yahoo.com. Visit our web page at www.sqs-tec.tumblr.com. Please RSVP to June LaTrobe at jlatrobe@centeronhalsted.org to ensure sufficient resources and materials.

Oh hush.

These have been sitting in a draft for a while, so some are a bit dated.

Being the Visible Femme – Thoughts from Autostraddle on how to be a out, visible, lesbian femme.

How to be a fan of problematic things – Amazing! A must read for fans of Lord of the Rings, anything Robert Heinlein wrote, 99% of comics out there, Orson Scott Card, or anything else that is both awesome and really problematic. The comments are also well-worth a read.

A 13-year-old hits a slam-dunk on why slut shaming is wrong - If you have a bad taste in your mouth after Taylor and the Girl Scout transgender thing, WATCH THIS VIDEO! She’s my hero.

Stuff cis people say to trans people – Part of the “Stuff ____ people say to ____ people” trend, but still hilarious. “So what’s your real name?”

Finally, I’ll be in Indianapolis tomorrow and Thursday, performing at Butler University. More info is at their website. Hope you can check it out if you’re in the area. Let me know if you’ll be there!

Not the kind of race I mean

I was recently having a conversation with a number of artistic peers, discussing the impact of our personal and community histories on our art and artistic process. I don’t remember who the question was raised by, but the group consisted of a mix of racial/ethnic/gender/sexual identities, making for good conversation.

In general we all agreed that our various personal and community histories – of religion, race, ethnicity, language, geography, class, sexuality, gender, and so on and on and on and on – played a factor in how we approached creating art. While it was a great conversation, and fodder for more discussion, I’m less interested in that than in something which happened after.

During the conversation, I said, “It’s been interesting going from presenting as part of a strong, privileged group – white, heterosexual, male – to an oppressed group: queer, trans, female.  I try to both be conscious of and artistically honor that oppression while being aware of the privilege I still do posses.”

Then, while giving someone a ride home – who identifies as black, female, lesbian – she turned to me and said, “Your comment really surprised me, since I don’t think of you as white.”

What?

She continued saying that my olive complexion doesn’t meet her idea of ‘white’ness. And it’s true. At various points, I’ve been thought to be Hispanic, American Indian, India-subcontinent-Indian, Pacific Islander, Italian, Arab, and – most humorously – ‘ethnic looking.’ (I shit you not. By a photographer wanting diversity in a high school photo shoot. She didn’t intend for me to hear.) My mom jokes that, when she came back from summer vacation when I was young and we spent every day at the beach, the (very dark-skinned) custodian at her school would come up to her and say “You could be my daughter!” I’m not too pasty even in the dead of winter.

But not white?

The friend who said all this felt that, in some ways, the more old-school way of looking at race was more accurate. Race, she said, is more of a subdivision of culture and geography than a huge lumping together of sort-of-similar skin tones. So, she concluded, Jewish people weren’t white.

There is certainly historical precedence for her opinion: “among those not considered white at some points in American history have been: the Irish, Germans, Jews, Italians, Spaniards, white Hispanics, Slavs, and Greeks.” But she didn’t mean that I wasn’t white in  racist way, as a justification for discrimination, just in an observational way.

It reminded me of a story I heard at a storytelling conference. A black woman was talking about her experience as a voter’s rights activist in Chicago in the 1960s. She apparently pissed off the the wrong people in the Chicago machine and  so her dad said she had to leave Chicago for a little while: white people were out to get her. He was going to send her to Israel to stay with some friends, because “Jews aint white.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about all this for the past week, particularly as I just finished the excellent book Constantine’s Sword, which covers the 2,000 year relationship between Judaism and the Catholic Church. Hopefully that’ll be the subject of another post one of these days.

But back to race. Googling “are jews white” doesn’t offer much help. An interesting take on genetic information. An essay from Majority Rights, a site which “discusses various issues related to the preservation of Western culture and the ethnic genetic interests (EGI) of people of European ancestry.” I do, however, like “Jews and the Problem of Whiteness,” which discusses community relations between Jewish and Black populations through the lens of race. From that essay:

As Lerner points out, Jewish whiteness “is the privilege to renounce one’s Judaism. By and large the way to get into this system is to take off your kippah, cut off your beard, hide your fringes; in other words, to reject your entire cultural and religious humanity.” I seek to empathize, here, as my previous discussion of the sociological passing of blacks should indicate. Nonetheless, the Jewish option to be white, however difficult, has been exercised widely.

That’s a good summary of why the idea of my not being white kind of surprised me. The history of Jewish oppression is absolutely a history of racism, of othering, of bigotry. It shares lots with the racism which impacts people of color. But I have at least somewhat adequate passing privilege (how I hate that term!) as white. Part of that, admittedly, has to do with geography: how I’m perceived as white versus Jewish would probably be different in different parts of the country, and of the world. My mom and my brother have both talked about living in smaller communities where their Judaism was strange or exotic. My dad has told me about going to civil rights marches in Chicago’s northern suburbs, where families had signs on the lawn reading “No dogs, blacks, or Jews.”

It seems like the ‘whiteness’ of Jews depends on perspective. That makes me remember a page from my high school year book. The editors had surveyed students from different Chicago-area high schools and asked them what they thought of Evanston, a very diverse community, and its high school, which has a huge range of student academic achievement. Everyone north of Evanston (generally more wealthy suburbs) saw Evanston as “ghetto” and dangerous. Everyone south (generally less wealthy, in Chicago proper) saw Evanston as rich, white, privileged.

The idea of racial identity changing with geography is fascinating to me. That, growing up in Chicago, I’m white. Growing up in Generic Small Town, I might not have been perceived as white. Or identified my own race as something other than white. And how much identity depends on other people, as a reference for ones self.

I’ll leave you with this chart:

I talked to my lawyer, who said this isn’t great news – that would be if Neal decided to cooperate with the EEOC from the beginning. But it does mean that the EEOC hasn’t forgotten about my complaint, and hasn’t (yet) said it’s not under their jurrisdiction.

In other news, my dad sent me a Chicago Tribune article about Dr Schechter, a plastic surgeon in the Chicago suburbs who does gender reassignment surgery. This is very interesting to me, since the only folks I’d found doing surgery were decidedly not in the Chicago area. At the same time, the fact that I haven’t heard of this guy makes me hesitant – all the doctors I’ve been researching are well-established, with reviews online over at this site. The article also says Schecther works with the Drs Etner, who I’m not fans of.

Has anyone heard anything about him? Positive or negative?

First, the gap in writing. I’ve come to love blogging, something that is honestly surprising to me. It’s cathartic, a great source for performance material, and has allowed me to engage in a worldwide online community. Blogging is also tiring. It requires, much like the performance work I do, a public display of emotion, of experience, of self. And while I was on the road, I was surprised to find it took a little too much out of me. In retrospect, perhaps it shouldn’t have been a surprise: Flyering, doing interviews, staying with strangers, then doing very personal shows followed by talkbacks, being ‘on’ all the time, it’s tiring. Lots of fun, too, but tiring. And so when I got home at the end of the day, to the house I was staying at or to hang out with the friends I’d made on the road, I was reluctant to crack open my laptop and deal with all that again online. Not that it was bad stuff; as I said, I had an amazing time touring No Gender Left Behind. I’m already looking at touring opportunities for the coming year. But it also took a lot out of me.

I’ve also been struggling with how to write about things I don’t necessarily want to post. I’ve become used to posting just about everything in my life, so when I’ve had interactions with friends, or considerations about life, or just thoughts I don’t think are worth posting, I’m not sure the best way to do that. This seems like a silly question, but I’m wondering how a blogger is supposed to keep a diary? (I’d welcome any thoughts.) That is, do I want to use this blog and just keep certain things private? Go with a hand-written journal? (I hate my handwriting, and type faster than I write.) Find a free journal site like Penzu? I want to be in a good writing frame of mind, without second-guessing myself. I’m probably over-thinking things, I know…

Now that those things are out of the way, though, lets catch up a little bit.

Fringe was awesome. I was in Kansas City in July, Indianapolis in August, and Chicago in September. I received consistently good press response, audience response (and numbers!) and just generally had a blast. It was also a great learning experience, in many ways. First, and perhaps most important, I enjoy touring. I enjoy doing the travel thing, handing out flyers, meeting people, seeing shows. I know great performers who don’t like all that, or who aren’t very good at the self-promotion end, and it’s tough for them. Touring was exhausting, but also left me charged with the knowledge that A) I have a product people are willing to pay money for and B) there are people out there making money doing what I’d like to be doing.

Not to shabby.

As for turning that excitement into gigs, I’m still working on that part… A huge bonus of Fringe was networking, both with theatrical producers and (much much more) with other artists. Folks who were able to give advice on Fringe touring (get to Orlando and Minneapolis, do the Canadian Fringe circuit, avoid DC’s Capitol Fringe), self promotion (get a good press packet together), looking at colleges and universities (organizations like NACA, how to contact student activity boards, etc), and on staying sane on the road. (Hint: Lots of foursquare. Not the phone app, the game with the ball. AMAZING!)

So. I’m going to work on the rest of today’s to-do list. But I’m keeping my fingers crossed that this post will return The Thang Blog to the realm of regular updates.

Of course, finding that balance between too little and too much is the real trick…

Also, Steam is having a sale and I’m allowing myself one game. Trying to decide between between Left 4 Dead 1+2, Far Cry 1+2, Batman: Arkham Asylum, and GTA4…Thoughts?