Earlier this week, my director and I were discussing metaphors for transitioning. I was saying that transitioning is something I’ve mostly been able to acknowledge in retrospect. Everything I did seemed to be in tiny, incremental changes, regardless of how I am able to understand its significance now. And so I come up with a new transitioning metaphor: that of a frog being boiled alive.
Supposedly, if you place a frog in cold water and slowly bring the temperature to a boil, the frog is too stupid to notice and hop out. (Wikipedia says it may be true, if the temperature rise is slow enough.) I’m not saying I was too stupid to notice the transition, but I do stop and wonder sometimes at how different my life is than it was just a few scant years ago.
Ribbit! Ribbit!
Warm and bubbly
As I look forward to continued writing and performing, I’m brainstorming about interesting metaphors for transitioning. I previously worked with the constructed myth of Ares and Aphrodite, about a child who was assigned the wrong gender by the gods. Likewise, in my most recent piece, Trans Form, I used a physical box full of costumes and props as a metaphor for the emotional weight of pre-transition life, and of the complicated and confusing natrue of transitioning. I’d like to play with both of those metaphors more, but I’d love to find some other avenues to explore, too.
Things that spring to mind, or that I’ve used in the past:
- Caterpillar/butterfly (a bit obvious)
- The Little Mermaid (from Trans Form)
- Cooking – a recipe for transitioning, with instructions on ingredients/baking time/etc
- Being trapped or constrained
- Puppetry or being a puppet
Anyone else have some interesting transition metaphors? I’d love to hear ‘em!
(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.
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