BOYCOTT AMERICAN WOMEN
Why American men should boycott American women
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I am an American man, and I have decided to boycott American women. In a nutshell, American women are the most likely to cheat on you, to divorce you, to get fat, to steal half of your money in the divorce courts, don’t know how to cook or clean, don’t want to have children, etc. Therefore, what intelligent man would want to get involved with American women?

American women are generally immature, selfish, extremely arrogant and self-centered, mentally unstable, irresponsible, and highly unchaste. The behavior of most American women is utterly disgusting, to say the least.

This blog is my attempt to explain why I feel American women are inferior to foreign women (non-American women), and why American men should boycott American women, and date/marry only foreign (non-American) women.

BOYCOTT AMERICAN WOMEN!

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Wow.

Some fun quotes from the site. Thomas says:

American women are scum. They are out for nothing but money and will sue any man/business owner they can , usually under that flimsy sexual harrassment premise. American women are the most evil of all creatures on earth.

And from William:

The fact that american women don’t want to fold socks is evidence that they suck. Think about it. Why should I be with you if I still gotta do it. I gotta pay the mortgage AND do my own laundry? Eff that. Rather have a chick from the pueblos of Mexico that is hot, young, nice, cleans, and will actually take a pan from the cupboard and are you ready for this? She will put edible objects inside and get this! She will turn on the flame and COOK THEM SO THAT HER MAN MAY CONSUME THEM. A very bizare concept to the American woman yes I know.

Yep, America let the American woman off the LEASH, some 35 years ago. And they really showed the world what they are capable of…
lesbianism, up 250%…
murders against children by their mother’s, up 400%…
Prison population increase of women, up 100% since 1975,increased at a faster rate than the number of male inmates.
Yes, American girls, you really showed the world what your capable of when left to your own devices. lmao.. american woman are so much dangerous now. careful folks.

Dramatic lighting not included

My gallbladder was removed in May, marking my first extended stay in the hospital since I was maybe six or seven. And, as unpleasant as the experience was, it was also an eye-opener in a really surprising way: I like being taken care of.

I consider myself very independent. I have a great relationship with both of my parents, and am wiling (unlike my brother) to accept financial help from my parents. (And, in the case of my mom, accept challah, cookies, sweaters, bras, socks…) But the idea of being given financial or material help, for me, has always somehow been different than the idea of being pampered. Of being waited on. Taken care of. Which is what a hospital stay, almost by definition, has to be.

That was kind of a scary realization for me, since I don’t think of myself who likes that sort of treatment. (It also part of my final realization that – if I’d rather be in a hospital than at work – maybe I should quit my job.) I think some of it comes from feeling it’s too ‘feminine’ to be taken care of. I should be the strong one, the one doing the taking care of. I’ve had similar reactions to my burgeoning realization that I’m more submissive than dominant, sexually, which definitely also plays into ‘being taken care of’ as an emotionally loaded issue.

At the same time, my hospital stay reassured me that getting The Surgery (something I’m thinking more and more about) doesn’t need to be a horrible experience. That health care professionals can be nice and courteous. That I can handle being off my feet, helped by friends and family, and still make it out the other side.

But I’m disturbed to realize how much I think about how nice it was to be in the hospital. I’ve been watching a lot of Grey’s Anatomy (I know, I know) and every so often I’ll think “Boy, it’d be nice to just have people take care of me.” I talked about it with my therapist, who said it’s not an unusual reaction: being in the hospital – unlike even being sick at home – means you have no responsibilities. You’re not expected to get up, get dressed, check your email, anything. And, at a time when I’m often feeling overwhelmed by So Much To Do, that’s a nice fantasy to imagine.

I don’t like how I’m drawn to that feeling of giving up responsibility and abstaining from every day life. I’m still working on adjusting my antidepressants, which I’m hoping will help. I’m also just trying to get more projects I’m excited about, and find consistent part-time work to balance those exciting projects with a steady source of income. (Both of which will help with my feeling blase, I hope.)

Anyone else have advice on how to deal? Chicago winter doesn’t help, exciting snow days aside…

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.

There were two shows today, at 3PM and 6PM, and it wasn’t until after the second show that I realized it was going to be a difficult evening. I turned to my intern, who was helping me run the box office, and said, “My goal for tonight is to not cry in front of campers.”

I…did not so much succeed.

I was doing pretty well through the show, and even managed to go out to mingle with counselors, staff, campers, and parents post-show. I ran into one of the counselors and joked with her about my goal, knowing from another counselor that she’d already failed toward that end. She laughed and explained how one of her campers saying goodbye had prompted her to cry earlier. I said I would try to stay strong, and turned away.

I was confronted by another counselor with a bouquet of flowers and a hand-made card signed by all of the counselors, assistant counselors, and staff.

That’s when I started crying.

I tried to go hide in the theatre, where I ran into the assistant camp director and kind of broke down. I didn’t want to completely lose my shit, so I held back my tears as best I could. Not fun, and not conducive to good breathing. She reminded me that I’d still see everyone in the future, and helped me calm down. I went to put the flowers in the office and go out to help my intern clean up the box office supplies.

The drive to the staff dinner was also tough, as I made the mistake of taking a moment to read the card before I started my car. Which (inevitably) started me crying again.

Dinner was fun. I’ve been stuck in the office most of the summer, so it was really nice to socialize both with my bosses and with the counselors and camp staff, without feeling like we should be working or preparing for the next part of camp. I was invited by the (high school and college aged) counselors to come hang out with them, and my inclination was to decline. However, one of the camp teachers was going, too, so I figured it wouldn’t be too weird. (I’m not that old!)

I’m really glad I went, even though it was hard in some unexpected ways. Simply hanging out with them was lovely, both because I enjoy seeing them interact and because I’ve enjoyed seeing them grow up and at least begin to move from students to peers. I wouldn’t say they’re 100% of the way there yet, but they’re getting closer and closer.

When I finally left (about 1:30AM, so maybe an hour ago) I immediately started crying in my car again, and cried the whole drive home. Lets be honest: I sobbed. I haven’t cried that hard in a while, and I’m not convinced I have all the tears out of my system. I was really tempted to not drive home, get back out, and go back to where the socializing was taking place.

Why was I crying so hard? And why did I want to go back inside, to hang out with people 6-8 years younger than me?

I was crying because I already missed seeing these people who I’d been working with every day for the past two months, and intermittently for the past three years. I was crying because many of them were going away (or back) to college, and wouldn’t be back for months or years. I was crying because I’ve loved the community where I work, and I’m worried that losing that will take a bigger toll on me than I’ve been expecting. I was crying because I’m scared I’m going to fail as an artist (at least, fail financially) and end up back at my mom’s, wishing I hadn’t quit my steady job. I was crying because change is hard and scary, and this is a huge change, something I’d never expected or planned for myself.

And I realized, as I cried my way home, I was crying for some less expected reasons, too. I was crying because this was a group of high school and college girl friends who accepted me as one of their own in a way I never experienced in high school. Without a doubt, my friends (and girl friends) accepted me, but not as a girl friend. Not until much more recently, as I’ve transitioned, which has – by virtue of not being in high school or college – been a different kind of relationship. It’s been quite some time since I’ve felt so keenly a desire to have transitioned earlier, or to not have needed to transition at all. I was crying at what still feels like a missed youth, as much as I try not to indulge in such painful and ultimately fruitless thoughts. I was crying because I wanted to be one of them, want to be one of them.

I was crying because this job was where I transitioned, and the manner in which the teen students were simply unfazed was and is touching. Because campers of mine from before I transitioned, who so easily could have avoided me, came up to me today to say they would miss me and were sorry to see me go.

I was crying because I’m so scared of what comes next. I wanted to go back in because I wanted to share that fear, to have a group of people, people I know care about me, crowd around me and assure me things would be OK. They made me feel younger by their inclusion of me, like I needn’t have missed what they have, a simultaneously delightful and dismaying discovery.

1. What do you love?

I love getting out of my head. The feeling of doing something purely physical: playing a song on the piano that I know really well and flowing into the music; biking along the lakefront; holding a really good handstand or whipping around on a Spanish Web; a mind-blowing and body-cleansing orgasm.

I love solving a problem that has been itching at me. Of making technology bend to my will, and deliver satisfying and consistent results. I love the relief that comes when a solution is Right and True.

I love my body when I’m able to feel feminine. I love looking down and seeing my breasts, feeling their weight. I love the wonder of skin and and bone and muscle.

I love a strong sense of community: artistic, social, familial. Of understanding, and being understood. Knowing, and being known.

2. What do you fear?

I fear ridicule. I fear denial of my self and my identity. I fear violence against my person, I fear assault, I fear rape, I fear murder. I fear that who I am will close more doors than it opens, that the ‘trans’ part of my identity will subsume the rest of me. I fear that my friends and their friends and everyone I meet thinks of me as “that trans woman.”

I fear that I’ll always think of myself as a trans woman; that I’ll always think of myself as a woman* instead of a woman.

3. What do you want?

I want happiness and contentment. I want to be able to identify as trans without having to identify as trans.

I want to be financially secure and independent.

I want to be in a strong, healthy, loving, sexy, sexual relationship.

I want to be calm, cool, collected.

I want to be satisfied, artistically, professionally, socially, sexually, personally, privately, publicly, and completely.

I was telling him about my frustrations with my dad, and explaining how his use of the wrong names and pronouns really hurts me. The doctor’s response was, basically, “So?”

Now, I understand the importance of not letting the little things get to you. And that’s basically what he was saying: If my dad is at least giving lip-service support to my transition (which he is) why focus on the area(s) where he’s failing?

But that response really frustrated me, and I ultimately told my doctor that we’d have to agree to disagree. That my dad’s moderate and mediocre support of my transition actually made his ultimate lack of support all the more difficult to deal with. And it was a situation where I really felt othered as a trans person, attempting to explain to this white, cis, privileged doctor how my dad’s lack of respect was affecting me and my relationship with him. I made the comparison of having a black partner, and there being a limit to how much racist commentary I could stand from a family member. (Not that I think any family member would cause any problems, but hypothetically.) Again, my doctor said, “Yeah, but you can’t control how someone else acts.”

Right, but I can acknowledge that their behavior is bullshit, and tell them I don’t want to put up with it.

(I always feel obligated to note my own privilege when commenting on the privilege of others. Because I do have privilege: white, educated, so-called “passing” privilege. But those don’t negate trans-misogyny, even though they might mitigate it.)

I rolled down my window and he started talking across the gap between our cars. I couldn’t really hear him over the rain, complicated by his soft voice and foreign accent. I finally understood that he was complimenting me on my bumper stickers. This happens every so often, and I always get a kick out of it. I have a couple dozen bumper stickers on the back of my car, ranging from the political – about Obama or women’s rights – to the silly (“No, I will not fix your computer”). I thanked him, and started to roll my window back up, when he yelled something I heard very clearly:

“Wanna meet up some place?

I rolled up my window, turned back to the light (green, by this time), and sped away.

This absolutely ruined my good mood, and I’m still pretty cranky. After talking with a friend, I think I’ve teased out why.

First is the obvious reason: he was making assumptions on my sexual promiscuity (and interest in his sorry ass) based on my self-expression. This is a little different than assuming someone in a short skirt is a slut, but I think it’s in the same ballpark. (Though I can’t imagine “bumper sticker shaming” catching on as a term.)

I also don’t like how his behavior made me question myself. I’d love to be able to write him off and go along my merry way, but my initial reaction (after “EW!”) was, “Well, maybe it was foolish of me to have all these bumper stickers proclaiming my political views and strongly implying things about my sexuality. Maybe I was asking for it.”

Except I know that’s bullshit.

I’m also really frustrated because I try – mostly with success – to focus on the positive things about transitioning and being a woman. Sure, I miss my upper body strength, but I love my boobs, my smooth legs, my self-expression, my hair. I really enjoy being a woman. But I’ve been pretty insulated from the “bad” things about being a woman. First, I was insulated by not presenting as female. I was still bombarded with the media depictions of womanhood (not to mention trans women) which did take its toll. But I was never socially trained about the negative ramifications of presenting and being perceived as female. First and foremost, that there’s a segment of the population who will assume that any display of sex or sexuality will make them assume you’re ‘open for business.’ And this guy definitely reminded me of that.

And maybe I do need to grow a thicker skin. I just can’t help but miss my childlike innocence about the wonder of the world, and of womanhood.

Dad,

I owe you an apology. I’m sorry I hung up on you last week – it was immature and unfair to you. It’s impossible to have a conversation when one party is no longer on the line.

That said, I’m not sorry I brought up how I’ve been feeling, even though I expressed myself really poorly. I need you to know that it hurts to be called “kid” and “child,” when I know you’re doing so to avoid gendered pronouns. It’s hurts, a lot, to hear you slip up and refer to me as “he” or my old name. I have no doubt that you love me. But like I said, I think you love me as your child and I want – desperately, painfully – for you to love me as your daughter.

But my frustration over how we communicate goes deeper than names and pronouns, and I need you to know that, too. I love you. I see so much of you in myself: my humor, my attentiveness to detail, my love of knowledge and education (and gadgets). So it’s all the more painful when I feel like we’re talking past each other, something that seems to be happening more and more.

When we talk, I feel like we’re having different conversations. You’ll ask a question, and before I’m half-finished answering it you’ll have asked another. It makes me feel like a client (or, worse, an opposing witness) rather than someone you love and care about. Or I’ll ask about how you perceived Billy Elliot’s father – whether he resonated with you – and be absolutely baffled when you say, “No, that wasn’t my experience.”

Than what was your experience? What is your experience? Because, from where I’m sitting, I feel like you’re ashamed of me. Or embarrassed. Awkward and unsure how to interact, torn between loving me and wanting to be done with whatever conversation or interaction we’re in.

So that’s why I hung up on you. I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry I did, but I become so flustered and so hurt when we talk, that I lashed out.

I love you, even when you frustrate the hell out of me
-Rebecca

I'm not convinced my father could carry me on his shoulders these days...

Earlier this week, I asked my mom to call my dad. I hate having her act as an intermediary between the two of us, but I wanted to figure out what – if anything – he’d be doing about my hospital bills and insurance since my telling him off. He’s been speaking with the “risk management” department at the first ER I visited, because when I finally got my gallbladder out they strongly implied the first ER should have caught the gallstones.

So my mom called my dad. She said she’d thought things out beforehand, and opened by asking him, “Rebecca asked me to talk to you about the insurance situation, and if you need to return any of the paperwork to her.” (My mom knew he didn’t, as I’d provided him with copies, but wasn’t sure how to say “So are you continuing to help your daughter while refusing to speak to her, or not?” without sound like she was judging him. Which she was, but didn’t want to sound like it.) He replied, “Nope. She’s fine to speak to the hospital herself,” and said goodbye.

About three minutes later, he called my mom back. “I don’t like you being a go-between for Rebecca and I.”

My mom said that she didn’t want to be a go-between either, but just wanted to figure out what was happening with the hospital and insurance.

Ever the tactful one, my dad told my mom that “Rebecca can call me herself. But I won’t be calling her until I hear from her. So I guess she’ll have to figure things out with the hospital on her own.” And, that said, hung up on my mom.

I’m not too concerned about the hospital. Worst case scenario is I pay them the ~$1,000 they say I owe. That’ll obviously suck, but my insurance is covering the vast majority of the expenses, so I wont have to go into debt or anything too bad. I know my mom said she’d help with the bills, too.

And, to some extent, it’s nice not having to deal with my dad for a while. Obviously it’d be nicer to not have to “deal” with him because we were speaking and he didn’t need “dealing with,” but this is a (distant) second-place substitute.

One less thing I have to think about. Anyone want to start a pool on if or when I’ll hear from him? Because he won’t be hearing from me.

No, I'm not pretending I'm the cute blond in the middle.

A few months ago, I was having dinner with some friends after our circus class. We were chatting about relationships – I was bemoaning my lack thereof – and someone mentioned how her boyfriend was an awkward geek. I said, “Well, as an awkward geek myself, I feel obligated to stand up for my fellow geeks.” Both of my friends turned to me, and simultaneously said something along the lines of, “You’re not awkward. And you may be a geek, but you’re a hot geek.”

I don’t say this to toot my own horn, because I didn’t (and don’t) particularly believe them. But I do bring it up to talk about a perspective flip I’ve had over the course of my transition: I’m now seen as the cool, geeky, girl.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this as I’ve been watching The Big Bang Theory. I think the show is pretty funny, as I’m a sucker for a show that makes good, accurate jokes about comic books, general relativity, Lord of the Rings, particle physics, video games and more. It’s funny even if you don’t get all the references, but their jokes are obviously well researched and even funnier if you know what they’re talking about.

At the same time, the gender relationships of the show are kind of predictable: four smart-but-awkward boys befriend their pretty-but-uneducated female neighbor. And I find myself very torn over who to sympathize with when they butt heads.

Because I’m so used to being the dorky guy who doesn’t really understand the rules of socialization, but that’s not actually who I am anymore, or at least not how I’m perceived by the world. So I simultaneously sympathize with the guys in the show when they’re ridiculous to women, and sympathize with the women who are being treated ridiculously by these guys.

This flip in perspective is something I’ve discussed before, although in that previous post(s) I was talking more about being on the giving or receiving end of harassment or sexist jokes. In this case, although it’s also about gender dynamics in social situations, I feel like I’ve gained power in transitioning. It’s not a consistent power, and it definitely relies on the awkward deference of the awkward men in my life, but it’s an odd feeling. To join the ranks of the women in the world who realize that their gender affords them some amount of power, even if it’s really unfair and ridiculous power.