I’ve been told, by trans people in their forties or fifties, that I’m “so lucky” to be able to transition when I am, with the support I have. And that’s absolutely true. But it would have been nice to be able to transition ten years earlier. That’s true, too.

I imagine that, whenever you realize you want to transition, and begin that process – be it at six or sixty – you’re going to say, “If only I’d transitioned earlier!” Because being trans is about realizing something isn’t quite right, and going about fixing it. And even if that something is only wrong for a few months, it’s still wrong.

This isn’t to say I don’t harbor some jealousy against kids who are transitioning at 18, 15, 12, even younger. I have a short-and-sweet list of things I think I could have done better had I transitioned earlier. Experiences I wanted to take advantage of. People I might not have alienated quite so much. But I know that same jealousy is directed toward me by older trans men and women, and they’re just as entitled to their jealousy and regret as I am.

What I’m trying to focus on, then, is the time I have left, not the time that’s gone.

I was walking to a show with one of my stage manegers, Amanda, who I became friendly with. She and I were chatting and I said, “I’m going to gloat for a moment. I feel like, as a trans woman, I can so rarely gloat about being trans. But, well, here goes: peeing standing up is awesome!”

She laughed, and called me a bitch, and we walked on, chatting about the wondrous products that exist for women to do just that. Amanda’s two friends were trailing behind us, and while I felt a little embarrassed having a conversation about peeing standing up while in earshot of them, I didn’t really care. (Hell, they’d be seeing my show later that night!)

Well, I found out from Amanda that, even though I felt like I was having a very ‘out’ conversation, they missed that I was trans! So when they did see my show, they went to Amanda afterwards and said, “The peeing standing up conversation makes so much more sense now!”

Another night, I was at the bar were most people hung out after the shows were done for the night. I was just packing up to leave – it was about 1AM – when a guy came up and asked if he could buy me a drink. Fortunately, I was already getting stuff together to go, so I didn’t have to figure out what to do. (I still really haven’t figured out how to handle it…) Instead, I said, “That’s sweet, but I’m about to leave. Come to my show, though!” and handed him a postcard. It wasn’t until after I was out the door that I wondered how he’d react to realize he had been hitting on a trans woman (if he even read the postcard).

One last story for tonight. On the final night of Fringe, right after the bar had closed at 2AM, myself and a bunch of other artists and organizers were standing outside wondering where to go next. I lamented the demise of parking meters in Chicago (replacement by ticket-vending systems) because you didn’t have anything to jump while drunk. I was immediately called crazy for wanting to jump a parking meter, so decided to prove my awesomeness by jumping a mailbox.

Fortunately, I had enough brains to not try to clear the entire thing, but I did successfully hop up to straddling the mailbox, pummel horse style, and was able to be silly before gracefully sliding off. (“Gracefully,” she says…)  Well, someone else there insisted he could do better: he could clear the entire mailbox. He came close, too. Barely clipped the inside of one of his thighs, and went spinning out to land on the pavement. He was fine, which gave everyone else permission to laugh hysterically at his failure.

That’s all for tonight, but I’m trying to get back into the swing of posting every day, so hopefully more to come soon!

'Till next year!

First and foremost: the Fringe Festival was AWESOME! It was great to perform, fun to volunteer, a blast to be able to see other shows, and an all-in-all wonderful experience.

Some Fringe thoughts, in no particular order:

Selling out on Saturday night was really wonderful. The Festival started off rocky for me, because on Tuesday night (the last rehearsal) I was very cranky, unsure if I would ever get off book, exhausted by dealing with technical issues, and at the edge of tears (and occasionally over the edge). Wednesday night (opening) went well, and it was good being able to improve on the show each night. Saturday night was both the strongest show and the largest house, although I finished off Sunday with a really strong show and a good house as well, which was great.

I performed at the Temple Gallery, home to Posterchild, which was great. The two people who lived there were lovely, and generously opened their home (and badass performance space) to us. Chatting with them and bonding with their cats made the Festival seem that much more community-based, and I’m excited to see Posterchild perform in Andersonville in a few weeks. The stage managers assigned to the venue, Rose and Amanda, went above and beyond, and I was lucky to have ‘em.

Part of being an artist at a Fringe Festival is going to see other shows, and I was able to see a bunch (of which I’ll try to give more mini-reviews later this week): Skinny Dipping, Christmas in Bakersfield, Playdating, Bridges, Peter Panties, and Inner Cartography, just to mention a few. They ran the range from really fantastic to kind of unfortunate, but it was cool having a single festival where anyone and everyone was performing.

I was also able to hang out with a bunch of other artists and volunteers. I volunteered in Temple Gallery on Thursday night, which let me meet people and see the other three shows in that venue. That – and connecting with artists throughout the festival – was a good idea, since as a solo performer I wasn’t able to go out with my cast or anything. I successfully made both local and non-local friends, and was glad to be able to have people to hang out with at the bar.

Ahh, the bar. The after party every night was at Honky Tonk BBQ, and consisted of good but WAY TOO LOUD music, and yummy and reasonably priced drinks. (Ace Cider is fucking delicious.) This was a great mingling place, too, and I got good advice on how to pursue future Fringe Festivals and some other festivals and conferences to look into. It was also fun exploring Pilsen a bit – it’s a cool neighborhood, but I (being a north-sider) don’t have much opportunity to head down there.

From chatting with other artists, they said that the whole festival – being the first Chicago Fringe – was a bit disorganized, and I could understand their points. For example, having shows at 4PM on Wednesday and Thursday really makes it difficult, if not impossible, to get good audiences. It might be better to push the last show of the evening to 11:30PM, rather than start so early. Likewise, the volunteers were all great and dedicated, but not always the most organized. But the artists seemed forgiving, and everyone I met was really nice.

I’m now starting on my To Do List, which included this post. (Other To Do highlights: researching conferences and festivals, putting together more posts, updating my website, and more!)

Stay tuned, and it’s nice to be back.

Rebecca Kling’s 40-minute solo performance begins with her miming her way through her morning routine—shower, makeup and swallowing a comical number of pills. She repeats it over and over, the ritual becoming more and more abstract. The transgender performer’s piece returns to this motif several times, as ritual is one of the show’s defining themes (the title is a reference to the Jewish mourning ritual of sitting shiva, during which a house’s mirrors are covered). Kling’s exploration of her experience as a transgender person and her transition process meanders a bit, and as is so often the danger with the solo-confessional genre, it teeters in places on the edge of navel-gazing. Kling is a charming presence, and she explains her struggle to own her gender identity compellingly. In fact, I wish she’d do more direct connection with the audience. Bits and gags like a “build your own ritual” instructional-video sequence serve to distance us. —Kris Vire

But it’s opened! The infernal beast is on its way, and I didn’t die (or have to call for lines, or cry on stage, or run out of the theatre screaming, all things I worried I might have to do).

In other news, this link has been sitting in my ‘drafts’ folder for a while while. Jezebel had a post on “Boob jobs that don’t involve actual boob jobs,” including

That seems like a reasonable claim to make...

There’s also bras and bra inserts, hypnotism, and “boob slapping.” Good stuff.

But I don’t like begging and pleading for money. I’ll do it, but I don’t like it. (Did I mention please donate!?!) In an effort to spice things up, I’m going to introduce some donation gifts for people who donate at the following levels:

• $5 – I’ll mail you a show postcard for Uncovering the Mirrors, complete with a personalized greeting
• $15 – I’ll mail you a show poster for Uncovering the Mirrors, and a show postcard
• $35 – Everything from the above levels, and I’ll mail you a DVD of Uncovering the Mirrors (whenever the DVD is done)
• $50 – Everything from the above levels, and I’ll write a blog post about a topic of you choosing
• $100 – Everything from the above levels, and I’ll take you out for coffee or a drink if you’re ever in Chicago
• $500 – Everything from the above levels, and I’ll post a video to this blog thanking you for your donation (or, if you’d rather not be publicly thanked, I’ll do a silly video in your honor)

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: your donations help make what I do, doable. PLEEEEEEAAAAASSE (please please pretty please) donate.

Please?

Just like this. Except I wasn't vacuuming. Or in a dress. Or in heels. Really, nothing like this at all.

My room opens out to the apartment dining room. One of my roommates has been working from home lately, and he often sets up his laptop and materials on the dining room table.

This morning, I’ve been in a bit of a rush (though I obviously paused long enough to write this post…) and was trying to pay bills while getting dressed. I had my shorts on, but hadn’t gotten around to putting on a shirt or bra, when I realized I needed the tape dispenser from the other room.

You can probably see where this is going.

Forgetting I was topless, I boldly opened my door to my roommate working. At which point I remembered I was topless, helpfully squeaked, “I have no top on!” and retreated to my room.

I’m the classiest.

Down the street