This is Van Binfa, writing to you to inform you of a new group I have started called Soy Quien Soy (I am who I am): Trans Empowerment Collective. SQS is a grassroots collective created by and for trans* Latin@s and people of color (and their allies) in the Pilsen area of Chicago. The mission of SQS is to gather together and make our presence and unique voices known to the communities around us.

We are here to serve as a source of strength and positive empowerment to all. We want every member of SQS to walk away feeling fabulous and affirmed. SQS aims to provide a sense of community and belonging that trans people of color have unfortunately often been denied. By specifically addressing the trans community of color in Chicago, we are answering a great need amongst a severely underrepresented minority.

At SQS meetings, allies and supporters are welcome to meet with us and celebrate the fact that we are who we are. We meet every month, on the second and last Thursdays of the month at 7:30pm, in Efebina’s Café, accessible via several CTA routes. Meetings are free and follow a simple code of conduct based on responsibility and respect. We do not discriminate against a person’s gender identity, expression, background, or experience.

Our first meeting will be a Meet and Greet on Thursday, September 29th, 2011. We will start promptly at 7:30pm, enjoying coffee and snacks throughout the evening. If you or your organization would like to make a donation and sponsor our first meeting by purchasing a coffee pot and pastry plate for the group, I most sincerely thank you and appreciate it.
I humbly ask you to please forward information about SQS to your members via email, newsletter, and word of mouth. SQS strives to provide a safe space on a bi-monthly basis for trans individuals—this is our chance at creating and maintaining a community that is specifically and entirely ours.

SQS has a main website hosted here: www.sqs-tec.tumblr.com and accounts on Facebook (under Soy Quien Soy) and Twitter (SQSChicago). All emails regarding SQS should be directed to sqs_info@yahoo.com. Attached in this email is our black and white flyer, perfect for copying and distributing. SQS is an effort started by myself, with the tremendous support of other Chicago queer individuals and community organizers.

This is a community and issue near and dear to my heart. It is my sincerest pleasure to start this collective and to bring out the strength and resilience I know this community has.

Thank you for your time.
In solidarity,
Van Binfa
www.sqs-tec.tumblr.com

Just boarded the train back to Chicago and, as hoped, I have lots to reflect on. Lobbying went pretty well, which I’ll cover shortly, and networking was fantastic, which I’ll also discuss, but first I wanted to talk about a little bit of a breakdown I had last night before bed. I met another trans woman about my age in DC, who I’ll call J, and we hung out a lot the last few days. She ended up crashing at my hotel room last night, and we talked for a long time about our experiences as trans women, lobbying experiences (it was her third or fourth year at the NCTE lobbying events), and our broader lives. While we were taking, I – with expecting to and without intending to – started to cry. Which gave way to heavy, cleansing sobs.

My tears were the release of a combination of things. First, traveling is stressful. Even the train, which I really did enjoy more than flying (and hope the return trip will less stressful, with an additional pillow and some sleeping pills), wasn’t without stress. One of the things I liked about the train – the socialization – also meant that I was talking more about why I was going to DC than I might be while flying. And since I didn’t get a ton of sleep, and my seat-mate was (as I mentioned) a bit much. On top of that, running around – meeting people, meetings, listening to the TSA being stupid, and then of course the lobbying itself – was very draining, both physically and emotionally. And the lobbying brought to the surface that I, like 26% of trans folks, had been fired because of who I am. Bringing that up, even if it made my story that much more effective to legislators, was surprisingly raw. But as I lay there crying, talking with J, I realized a some of my tears were from a feeling of having found a community of like-minded trans people, only to lose it almost instantly.

A search for community shouldn’t strike anyone who is a regular reader as something unusual. For a while now, I’ve been making an effort (sometimes greater, sometimes lesser) to find other queer – and particularly trans – people my age in Chicago. People my age who are like me, by which I mean at least somewhat similar age, background, education level, socio-economic status. I’m not saying my friends and I have to have those things in common, but it’s harder to build bridges with someone whose life history is so different from my own. And I was exceptionally relieved to see that there were so many other young trans folks, in their twenties or thirties, at the conference. I admit, I haven’t done a ton of looking in Chicago, but my preliminary efforts haven’t turned up such a great group of people who I could see casually hanging out with, and with whom I’d love to develop friendships.

And then, as quickly as the community was formed, it disappeared when the conference was over.

The title of this post comes from part of the discussion J and I had. I said that, in spite of my work as an educator and performer and activist, in spite of my five visits with lobbyists earlier that day, in spite of knowing that I’m an effective and occasionally eloquent speaker, I felt like I didn’t live up to some of the trans activists I was meeting. That I had a hard time imagining the conference organizers, these strong trans men and women I’d been meeting, going home after a day of lobbying and bursting into tears.

J replied, “Of course they do. Or, if they don’t any more, they did once upon a time.” She’s undoubtedly correct. I bet most of the folks I met at the conference wouldn’t believe that I went back to my hotel and cried, because I kept myself together where and when it counted. And I certainly needed the emotional release.

So maybe activists do to cry.

This isn't an actual picture of us, but it's kind of how ridiculous I imagine we are.

Earlier this week, a few friends and I chilled on my apartment roof, drinking wine. It was a beautiful night, and I’ve come to love going up around 9PM, when the sunlight is fading and the stars are beginning to come out. (I’ll try and get a pic one of these days, but I usually only have my phone up with me and it doesn’t do good low-light photography.)

The discussion was pretty wide-ranging, from a male birth control pill (both of my friends were hesitant, but interested) to the appropriate way to play first base (close to the bag, apparently). We also talked about our experiences still being in Chicago (or being back in Chicago) after having grown up in the area, and our various social groups.

Then the topic of my transition came up, I think from of discussing my upcoming show, and it was interesting to hear some perspectives from people who have known me since early high school.

First, it was wonderful to – once again – hear how my friends have made a concentrated effort to respect my name and pronoun choices. They brought up a car ride to my place, right after I’d sent an email to all of my friends asking to be called Rebecca. During the ride, one of them said, “OK, so we all need to do this for him. Her. For Rebecca. This is going to be tough…” But I remember much more of their attempts and successes than their attempts and failures, even though they said they felt like they were constantly failing. That night, we were all sitting around and I said, “You can ask me about that email,” and there was a collective sigh of relief that I was willing to discuss what I was going through and not just put out an edict that could never be mentioned.

Is there anything you can't do, Google Image Search?

But it was also interesting, if difficult, to be asked questions like, “Do you think you’d be presenting differently if you’d left Chicago for college?” or “What’s your queer social group like right now?” Because those are exactly the questions I’ve been asking myself. I was once again reminded that my transition-related issues aren’t unique to being trans: everyone struggles with their identity, particularly during and after college. I was impressed my friends were aware of those issues, though, and struggled through the answers I’ve been putting together in my own head.

Concerning (still) being in Chicago, I do think that I’d have had a different experience experimenting with my presentation were I elsewhere for college. That also links into my thoughts about social groups, because many (although not all) of my friends are from high school, meaning I still see them a lot since we’re all back home. I think that being in a familiar place was comforting when I was stressed about beginning to transition, but it would have been nice to be somewhere I felt less likely to be recognized and judged. (Fortunately I’ve had very little of that, though I was afraid of it.)

Likewise, I really regret not taking the opportunity to transition while really in college – I started at the very tail end – because college allows for some built-in socialization and community in the way post-college life doesn’t. I felt like the socializing I was doing in college, and to some extent in high school, felt somewhat false. My presentation and identity weren’t my own, so I either felt like I was being superficial with people – because they weren’t seeing the “real” me – or feel really vulnerable by outing myself.

One of my friends made the shocking recommendation that I should find some queer groups and go explore the city without my (straight) high school friends. This isn’t shocking because I disagree; it’s actually something I’ve been considering doing anyway. It’s shocking because, again, I hadn’t realized how astute my friends would be when it came to something they readily admit they don’t have a lot of experience with.

"Can Becca come out and play?"

To that end, I’ve been thinking about joining a Women and Children First bookgroup or two (not very scary), maybe looking into some some queer Meetup.com groups (moderately scary), or maybe even just going to one of the queer bars I’ve been told to check out (very scary!). The main point I’m realizing is that I won’t magically develop a queer community or circle of friends unless I make some sort of effort. I think my OKCupid and Craigslist dating has been a good step in that direction, because it sets the bar for success really low: I’m trying to go on dates with women this summer, and by going on dates – whether or not they’re good dates, and whether or not I develop any lasting friendships out of ‘em   – I feel like I’m accomplishing something.

I mentioned last year that I felt really disconnected from the TDOR, and I’m not sure my feelings have changed.

QueenEmily at Questioning Transphobia wrote a post, the drowned and the saved, today in which she said

There was an Italian atheist Jewish writer called Primo Levi who wrote about his experience of Auschwitz, over and over.  In his last book The Drowned and the Saved, he drew up a distinction between “the drowned” (those who died) and “the saved” (those who lived).  He argued that only the drowned could give true and full witness to the horror of the Shoah.

I’m not comparing the murders of trans people to the Shoah directly – the murder of trans people, which horrific, is not institutionally organised towards genocide in quite the same way.  But what I want to point out is the structure of witnessing.  Even Levi, a man who lived through the camp, at the end of his life felt inadequate to witnessing, unable to have fully experienced the violence he wrote about.  Even his proximity was not enough.

She goes on to say that, even with her own experiences of transphobic hatred, it is impossible to properly give witness to those murdered, particularly across cultural or racial lines (most of those murdered this past year where latino or black, and in Central or South America). But that we should try, anyway, because it is our duty and responsibility to the dead.

I agree, but feel even more like I shouldn’t be the one (or one of the ones) charged with this task of remembrance. I haven’t experienced transphobic behavior directed at me, and don’t have close friends who are trans to share in their experiences. I’m worried that my disconnect, my privilege, makes me unable to and unworthy of finding a personal meaning in the TDOR. (See my comment to Bond about antisemitism, where I put my foot in my mouth due to a similar, privileged, disconnect.)

To use a term often linked with how true to their “roots” Jewish people are perceived to be, it makes me feel very assimilated. Something which, on the one hand, I’m obviously happy about – I don’t want to be harassed. Beaten. Raped. Killed. At the same time, such harassment is linked – at least, in my mind – with the “trans experience.”

More broadly, it speaks to my socioeconomic privilege when compared to much of the trans population. Due to my family’s support, my liberal work environment, my kickass friends, I’ve never worried about not being able to pay rent or find a good job due to my status as trans.

Linking back with what Bond and I discussed, concerning antisemitism, I find myself in a similar position of having this horrible thing – transphobia or antisemitism – be removed from my life to the point of being unable to find common ground with my of the respective populations, trans or Jewish. I completely agree with queenemily and others that the TDOR is important and worthwhile, because transphobia and trans-targeted violence are both important issues; I’m not going to escape harassment or violence if someone perceives me as trans, even for all my privilege elsewhere.

But more importantly, the trans community has a responsibility to not sit idly by, but to call  attention to the violence directed at trans men and women. And trans men and women like myself, who feel disconnected from all this transphobia and violence, have a particular responsibility to help remember the dead, because we’re privileged out of luck and chance, not some innate better-ness about us. Even if we can’t do justice to the dead, we owe it to them to keep them from being forgotten.

I was worried that everyone would be considerably older than me, that everyone would be from larger theatres than where I work, that everyone would know I was trans and reject me from this “women’s only” space, that everyone would already know each other and I’d sit alone to the sidelines, that I’d leave feeling a more heightened sense of a lack of communities in my life.

I had a great time, and left feeling really good about the whole experience.

First, the organizers had thought ahead and had name tags and markers. They asked everyone to put their name and organization, which helped immensely in placing people and remembering their faces linked with their names. And, while lots of people obviously did know each other, many more didn’t. It was the type of evening where you were allowed (and encouraged) to turn to someone, stick out your hand, and introduce yourself.

Likewise, the age/experience range was broad enough that I didn’t feel awkward. I would guess I’m on the younger end of the women who were there, but I definitely wasn’t the youngest and I didn’t feel awkwardly young compared to everyone else. And I forget just how many theatre companies there are in Chicago – I knew a lot of the organizations that were there, but hadn’t heard of others (and wasn’t alone in this, either).

It also felt amazing to be included in a women’s only space. To feel absolutely no awkwardness or hesitation from anyone else there in accepting me as part of this group. I won’t lie – it was also really nice to not feel “read.” (As much as that word, and “passing” in general, are both really problematic.) And when I did hand out show postcards, which explicitly note I’m trans, I got a lot of, “Awesome! I’ll have to try and come see it!” and not even a hint of, “What the hell are you doing at this ladies’ night, man?”

The whole experience felt extremely validating, both personally, professionally, and artistically.

I don’t assume this one evening will magically change the feelings I’ve had, of a lack of community in my life. I still need to find recurring events like these – be they theatre-related or not – to build a consistent experience of connection.

But I’m really glad I went, and that I got a much-needed boost in a lot of different ways.

This year, my roommates and I are again having a Halloween party. It’ll be on Friday, the 30th, so planned to leave time for everyone to go out and/or go to the other inevitable parties on Saturday, the actual night of Halloween. I’m actually pretty psyched about the party; it should be good friends, and my roommates are indulging my ridiculous costume idea: one of them is dressing in a gold dress, and will be a gold-backed currency, I’ll be in a silver dress, as silver-backed currency, and the other is going to wear a shirt saying “What would you trade for me?” as a barter-based economy! (I’m a giant dork…)

The assumption seems to be, though, that we’re also all going to go out together on Saturday night. But I’m really not interested in going out to Wrigleyville again, even if this time everyone will be in ridiculous costumes. And, thus far, the only other party I’ve been invited to that I’d really want to go to is also on Friday…I can’t exactly ditch my party to go to another one. What I’d like to do is have my birthday party on the 31st, on the weekend of my birthday, and stay in with drinks, Rock Band, maybe some singing around the piano… But I’ve been told (repeatedly) that I’m not allowed to do that, and no one will come if I try. (Which isn’t unreasonable,  but does speak to the lousy birth date I have.)

This is also all part of the larger feeling I’ve been having, of a dearth of queer friends and an utter lack of queer community. And I don’t feel close enough to the few queer friends I do have – or, at least, the queer people I’m friendly with – to simply invite myself to whatever they’re doing for Halloween.

None of this was helped by the conversation I had today with my therapist. I was talking about this lack of community that I’ve been feeling, and she said Chicago was, to her knowledge, unique among US metropolises. Chicago – unlike NYC, San Francisco, LA, Portland, Austin, and so on – had ridiculously isolated communities among the GLBT population. She did stress she’s only lived in Chicago, but from speaking with other GLBT people she’s gather that a lot of other major cities have much more of a “queer” population, OK to be joined under that umbrella, whereas Chicago has much more isolated pockets.

This fits with my understanding of Chicago as ridiculously neighborhood-based, of diverse but nonetheless self-segregated. Of a political attitude where disagreement results in, “Well, fine! I’ll start my own (whatever)!” My therapist commented on how there was Gay Pride and Black Pride, which has further split into Windy City Black Pride and Chicago Windy City Black Pride…

She said this kind of leaves lesbian-identified trans women (such as yours truly) out in the cold: the lesbian community isn’t particularly welcoming, and the trans community doesn’t exactly have the resources or commonality to provide solid support. Basically, said my therapist, I need to figure out how to piece community together, since no one resource is really going to provide what I’m looking for.

I know I have at least a few Chicago readers in my audience, so I’d love to hear if you have any advice… Or, I suppose, people from other cities: how do you find a new community, a new social group, when it feels like everyone your age is already set in theirs? Feel free to leave thoughts in the comments, or email me at blog [at] fridaythang [dot] com

Basically, I’ve been thinking about what community support I need right now. The mentorship and performance (final night went well!) have made me think about this, too. Basically, if I’m identifying as an out trans woman, and as a an out trans female performance artist, what do I need from those communities (queer in general, trans specifically, and artistic) and how do I want to allign myself with them?

The TDOR event was disapointing in large part because it didn’t satisfy my desire to be part of either community – trans or artistic – that I was hoping to get from the experience. On the flip side, I was very concious of how the different people who came to see the performance this weekend affected me  – family, friends, people from the Workshop, and people from the trans youth group I’ve attended on-and-off. Each group was tremendously important, but the feedback from the two trans facilitators who came was somehow satisfying in a way I hadn’t previously experienced – these weren’t only people I respected as loved ones or as artists complimenting me, but other trans people who were saying I’d done a good job communicating something about that very unique experience.

And I want more of that, but I’m not entirely sure where to get it.

-R