Finally

I was skeptical going into this movie. I grew up with the ‘Disney Renaissance,’ and was raised on films like The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin, and The Lion King. Needless to say, I have high expectations for my animated musical Disney films. I was also nervous about the race issues surrounding Disney’s first black princess. Fortunately, The Princess and the Frog surprised me: the songs were good, the animation quality high, and while it mostly sidestepped issues of race (particularly interracial interactions in the 1920s American South) there were occasional nods to racism. I don’t feel well-versed enough in race theory to really comment, other than to say that – as an admittedly privileged white woman – I enjoyed the film.

What really threw me for a loop was the issues of ‘passing’ brought up by the alligator, Louis.

(Warning: Beyond here be – minor – spoilers.) I know, I know: I look for gender issues everywhere. I look for trans characters (or characters with trans themes) where none exist. It’s the lens through which I see the world. So sue me.

For all that, I couldn’t help but see Louis – a trumpet-playing alligator who longs to be human so he can join a band in New Orleans – as a character longing to transition. Maybe I’m reading too much into Louis…at the end of the movie, when Tiana (the ‘princess’ of The Princess and the Frog) opens her restaurant, Louis takes his place as the trumpet player, and no one is able to argue with a trumpet-playing alligator. So perhaps Louis doesn’t really want to be human, he just wants to have some of the privileges (like playing in a band) that go with it.

Here’s Louis’s big song:

It’s called “When We’re Human,” and involves Louis singing about how wonderful things will be when he’s a human being, and Naveen and Tiana singing about how wonderful things will be when they’re back to being human beings. From the song:

If I were a human being
I’d head strait for New Orleans
And I’d blow this hprn so hot and strong
Like no one they’ve ever seen

You’ve heard of Louis Arsrong,
Mr. Sidney Bechet?
All those boys gonna step aside
When they hear this old ex-gator play, Listen… (trumpet solo)

I admit, rewatching the song does make me think Louis is more interested in privileges than actually being human. But it bummed me out when, later in the movie, the Voodoo priestess who is looking to help Naveen and Tiana basically says, “Yeah, you’re never going to be human” to an unhappy Louis. Why are the magically transformed English-speaking frogs first in line to turn back into humans, but the English speaking, trumpet playing alligator is told to be happy with who he is?

As a viewer of many Disney films, I’m forced to admit Louis probably isn’t trans. (Ariel from The Little Mermaid still takes the cake for my trans character in the Disney canon.) But I do think Louis’s story is a queer narrative, of being told who to be and who not to be. Of ultimately refusing to allow society’s guidelines on acceptable behavior dictate passion.

And that’s good enough for me.

Remember, friends, when 9/11 happened, and people around the world said, “We are all New Yorkers.” Well, I want to start a movement where heteros stand beside our LGBT sisters and brothers and declare, “We are all queer.”

If I were an adult during the 60s, I would have been fighting alongside my black sisters and brothers. I don’t know about you, but I cannot take it any more. How many more kids have to die before we stand in defiance of what we all know i…s wrong? How many more human beings around the world have to suffer ostracization and torture before we stand up and declare, “We are all queer.”

This shit’s pissing me off. Time to end this. Are you with me?

I’m queer.

Here’s my response:

I absolutely support the intent of this movement, but I really don’t agree with the slogan. I don’t claim a black identity to fight racism, and support those who are its victims. I don’t claim a disabled identity to support equal treatment and access. Likewise, I don’t think heterosexual, cissexual, binary-presenting people need to claim a queer identity to support LGBT(QQAAAI) rights.

For me, queer is an identity that means I’m not heteronormative, and lose out on at least some of the privileges and rights that I would have otherwise been entitled to, ranging from marriage and inheritance to walking down the street without having my gender questioned and relationships by the people around me.

I’ll happily agree most people don’t fit into the cookie-cutter image of gender and sexuality we’re expected to, But I think it’s a leap to say that we’re all queer.

Not the actual dog, I presume...

I don’t expect the mainstream media to get queer topics right, particularly when it comes to anything about gender or trans issues. Take, for example, this recent article at NBC LA:

Transgender Dog to Be Given a Home

A Pomeranian puppy who has the unusual distinction of having undergone a sex change will be given a home next week.

The puppy, named Red, is recovering after gender-reassignment surgery saved the dog from euthanasia. The dog was born with partially formed male and female reproductive organs and required surgery to prevent infection and reduce the risk of cancer.

Source: http://www.nbclosangeles.com/news/local-beat/Transgender-Dog-To-Be-Given-a-Home-100304599.html

Lets go through this one by one…

1. The dog isn’t trans. I have yet to see evidence that dogs have any sort of gender identity. Rather, it sounds as if the dog is intersex, having “intermediate or atypical combinations of physical features that usually distinguish female from male.” Transgender != intersex.

2. “Sex change” is not considered appropriate terminology for any surgery. The article goes on to use a more appropriate term, “gender-reassignment surgery,” in the very next paragraph.

3. The dog wasn’t undergoing gender-reassignment surgery anyway. Rather, the dog appears to have undergone corrective surgery to repair dangerously unhealthy “partially formed male and female reproductive organs.”

I think it’s awesome that Red, now considered an “altered male,” was adopted and great that the seemingly necessary surgery was performed to keep him healthy. But it pisses me off to see headlines like this in my news reader (actually, the News and Weather app on Android) and think, “That can’t be right.” Of course, when I go to check the actual article (thinking I must have misunderstood) to find out that, no, the headline was just stupid.

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.

When I began talking [about what I liked doing, sexually] I didn’t discuss the things lovers have done I’ve really liked or dynamics which I find hot, instead I found myself explaining my sometimes difficult relationship with cissexual queer women as a group and as individuals, the fucked-up attitudes about trans women I’ve encountered in various communities, the mistrust I have because of the history trans women have with cissexual queers – all of the things I write about and do activism on which intersect with sex, but I had nothing to say about the actual sex I have or would like to have. I stopped myself and apologized for not answering the question, then sat back to consider this sudden disheartening awareness of how deeply my sexuality is entangled with the politics in which I am active.

This spoke to me because of what I’ve felt recently as an uphill climb toward finding a relationship. First, I’ve been socialized in the rituals of straight sexuality. I didn’t buy into them for myself, but I did end up with a peer group that is almost exclusively straight and cis. So while I see friends all around me meeting people, hooking up with people, being introduced to friends of friends, I feel kind of left out.

At some point in college, my high school friends and I constructed a ‘sex map.’ I think we used dotted lines for making out or hooking up, and solid lines for sex.

I was the lone dot.

It wasn’t because I didn’t want to be having sex. I definitely wanted sex. It was partially because I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to be having sex as male, and much more because I was utterly clueless and totally petrified by the idea of expressing interest in a girl, as a boy. The hetero mating dances I saw swirling around me seemed utterly confusing, because I didn’t understand why any of the girls – who I wanted to be, and to be with – were attracted to any of the boys – which kinda included me, at the time.

Now I am ‘one of the girls.’ I have days where I feel more confident in that identity, and days were I feel less confident, but my confidence is slowly increasing over time. But I feel sort of like I’m coming out as gay at 25. Not because I didn’t know it was true, but because I avoided any of the lesbian socialization or community I might have been exposed to had I been able to come out earlier.

Which brings me to the title of this post. Namely, that I’d like to get laid. That I’m jealous of my friends who are having regular sex, and even of the ones who are having intermittent sex, but clearly know how the dating game works. I’ve had a total of two sexual partners in my life (two and a half, if you count drunkenly making out) and only one of those was I sexual with since I started transitioning.

I have fantasies about being the type of person who can go out and get drunk, gohome with a different stranger every weekend, have mad sexual escapades. But I know that A) that’s rather unsafe for any woman, let alone trans women, and B) I don’t think I could actually go through with it. But the idea of going out and taken back to some hot thing’s apartment is kind of appealing.

But because of my own lingering confidence issues, I sort of can’t imagine picking anyone else up. This comes back to “If I don’t like me, why would anyone else?” I can admit, when forced by the evidence, that someone else might be trying to flirt with me. But I “naturally” assume I shouldn’t be flirting with other women, “imposing” myself on them. I’d feel silly going to Spyners or t’s or Big Chicks (all not too far from my neck of the woods) and being a wallflower until someone takes pity on me.

I’ve been on OK Cupid for almost six months now, and it’s been fun to be flirty, but I still have only had one (absolutely and comically miserable) date, which hasn’t exactly been a confidence booster. I say I’m trans in my profile, which I sort of worry is scaring people away, but I’d also feel uncomfortable not saying I’m trans.

Any thoughts or suggestions on getting into the dating realm? Lacking that, anyone want to play matchmaker?

Hey friends!

This is kind of an uncomfortable email for me to write, but it’s something that I’ve been thinking about and need to address:

Please don’t out me. That is, please don’t tell people I’m trans.

I love you all. I’ve said this over and over again: I’m privileged, blessed, and really fucking lucky to be surrounded by friends like you. In a world that isn’t too kind to people outside the norm, you all pretty much shrugged your shoulders when I came out. Not because it wasn’t important to me, but because it didn’t change our friendships.  I really value that. I love being able to have conversations and debates, to share joy and sorrow, with people who I’ve known for years, and who have known me.

But staying in Chicago after high school and college has also made transitioning occasionally more work than I’d like. To pick a really easy example, I went to the bank yesterday and the teller was the mom of someone I went to elementary school with (and not someone I particularly cared for, at that). She knew she sort of recognized me, but totally didn’t know how to respond to my presentation as Rebecca. It wasn’t a problem, and she was respectful, but it kind of threw me out of my stride to have to say, “Yeah, I’m going by Rebecca now…”  Even though I love Chicago, and am glad I’ve stuck around, having to be reminded of that pre- and post-transition disconnect takes its toll.

That’s a big part of the reason I’m asking you not to out me: while I’m working on being proud of my identity as a trans woman, I don’t always want to have to deal with it. It’s part of who I am – a big part of who I am – but it’s not the only part that’s important.  And I’m 100% confident that all of you feel the same way. But (as I said) you’ve known me for a bazillion years, and see who I am as one continual person. For a lot of people, though, when they’re told someone is trans, that part ‘wins’ against all the other parts of their identity.  People have this tendency to totally shift their mental perception of a person when they learn that person is trans. I’ve seen it happen: pronouns immediately switch, awkward and rude questions start to get asked, and (in extreme cases) the trans person gets beaten, raped, or killed.

I want to emphasize that those less violent reactions – incorrect pronouns, rude questions – don’t come from bigotry. I’m not accusing everyone who uses the wrong names or pronouns with me of intolerance. They can learn – like I’ve had to, like you all have done brilliantly and in a way that really makes me proud – that being trans doesn’t have to be that big of a deal. But while they’re learning that, they may call me by the wrong pronoun. They may ask awkward questions. They may end up treating me differently. And all of those things hurt, even though I wish they didn’t and even though I’m working on not letting them get to me. I don’t like how easy it is for me to go from happy to miserable by being referred to as ‘he,’ but that’s where I am right now.

I’m also asking this of you for more than my emotional comfort. I’m asking you for my safety. I am absolutely confident that none of you would ever out me to anyone who would give me any reason to feel unsafe. But I don’t know who their friends are. Or the friends of their friends. I’ve led something of a charmed life when compared to the rest of the trans community, and ask your help in keeping me safe from potential violence and harassment.

I also want to make it really clear that I am not mad at any of you. I’ve never given this issue much thought, and haven’t really talked about it with anyone before this week. I’m open to talking about it more, and would love to chat over drinks or a game of Mario Kart. Thank you all so much for respecting this decision.

Much love,
-Rebecca

The first draft was much snarkier and less diplomatic, but a friend (hi Jess) convinced me that leading with a carrot (reminding my friends that I love them and enlisting their help) would be better than a stick (letting my friends know I’d be angry with them if they ignored this request).

This email also glosses over the more ideological issue that they don’t have the right to out me; it focuses entirely on the safety and comfort of not outing me. That was a conscious choice, even if it’s one that was difficult for me to make. Ultimately, I thought this version of the email had more of a chance of working with less of a chance of annoying any of my friends. That doesn’t sit well with me – I always prefer diving into the nitty-gritty of a discussion or argument, particularly when it’s about something so close to me – but I sort of decided to take one for the team.

If any of my friends bring this topic up with me, I’ll definitely explain my more nuanced position, but I don’t think I needed to get into it for the purposes of this email, even if I did really want to.

But I have to admit, I was (and am) a little confused by the question Morgan is asking. It seems self evident – even in the links within her post, not to mention those in the comments – that there is trans literature being generated. (Morgan seems to define ‘trans lit’ as ‘fiction,’ a definition I don’t have any problems with.) More broadly, she seems to be creating divisions where none need be:

Yet what would “trans literature” be like? When we talk about the literature of an identity group we mean that members of the group want to read about people like themselves. African-Americans want books with African-American protagonists; lesbians want books with lesbian protagonists; and so on. But the trans community is very diverse, and different parts of it have very different needs. Cross-dressers, for example, often read, and write, erotic fantasies about cross-dressing. Pre-transition transsexuals reportedly read memoirs and theory voraciously in order to find out if transition is right for them, and how to survive it. Post transition, however, they often settle happily into their preferred gender and have no further need for trans books. They are often content identifying with characters of their preferred gender and don’t want to be reminded of what they see as a painful past life.

Those who regard themselves as in a third gender, as gender-free or gender-fluid, and those who are intersex, will probably want books about people like themselves. Obviously there is a real need for a literature for them. However, they are only a part of the trans community (and apologies to any of them who do not want to be regarded as part of it), so the market is even smaller.

It’s true: “trans” is very broad term, which catches potentially disparate groups under its net. But so does “people of color” or “lesbian” or “young adult.” A protagonist who is in the midst of transitioning with full familial support may have a different audience than a protagonist who identifies as genderqueer and has been kicked out of hir home. But I can imagine books being listed under ‘African American fiction’ that nevertheless share little in common beyond the protagonist’s skin color. (I was hoping to use the the books listed in African American fiction at Amazon for examples, but it looks like most/all of those are specifically romance novels aimed at women. Odd.)

And I think the thing that does bind different trans* identities together – somehow feeling outside one’s assigned gender roles – could allow those interested in trans fiction to enjoy a wide variety of trans protagonists, even if not every protagonist matches every reader’s lived experience.

I’m also concerned by how Morgan divides the trans community:

• Cross-dressers: “often read, and write, erotic fantasies about cross-dressing”
• Pre-transition transsexuals: “reportedly read memoirs and theory voraciously in order to find out if transition is right for them, and how to survive it.”
• Post-transition transsexuals: “often content identifying with characters of their preferred gender and don’t want to be reminded of what they see as a painful past life”
• Genderqueer: “probably want books about people like themselves”

First, as I said, I think someone who identifies as genderqueer might still be able to identify with a cross-dressing protagonist in a way that someone who is cis might not. But I also feel like Morgan is reinforcing really stereotypical ideas about what those identities mean.

I attempted to bring this up in the comments section of the post, saying

I think [the way you present post-transition life in your post is] an overly simplistic view of transitioning, or of post-transition life. Without getting into the ‘are you still trans after transitioning’ debate, I think there’s even more value in depicting successful, empowered post-transition characters to remind both trans and cis individuals that it is possible to transition and be a whole and complete person.

I’m not sure Morgan understood where I was coming from, though. Her reply:

I used the word “often” in that section you quote very deliberately. I certainly wouldn’t suggest that such attitudes were true of everyone who transitions. What I have tried to do here is give readers an overview of the great diversity of the trans community, and that means trying to give space to as many different viewpoints as possible.

But I don’t think Morgan got in multiple viewpoints, I think she got in multiple stereotypes.

I’m curious how self-identified cross-dessers, drag queens/kings, pre- mid- and post-transition transsexuals, and genderqueer individuals would react to Morgan’s assessment of what they are looking for. To be clear, I think members of all those groups share a desire for protagonists in which they can find themselves. I think all humans, period, share a desire for art which reflects their own experiences.

I just don’t think anyone should decide for another group what their reflection looks like.

I think it’s something that’s been building all week. As I’m working on my show, I’ve been thinking a lot about my identity as trans, and the transition, and it’s reminded me how straight and heteronormative most of my friends are. Obviously that’s not a bad thing, but it’s made me feel a little alone being trans, let alone gay. We were watching How I Met Your Mother (a show that I’ve had issues with before) and they did yet another “man in drag as stand-in for ugly woman in a fantasy” sequence. The sequence wasn’t specifically about trans women, and there was no mention of “she’s a man” (as there has been more explicitly in the past), but it still made me upset. I’m not sure if I’m ready to give up on How I Met Your Mother, but I felt closer to calling it quits than I have before. (I know, I know, not watching a TV show isn’t exactly a huge deal, but it’s a show my roommate s and I watch together, and I’m the only one who has issues with it, so it’s feeding into my feeling queer.)

Then, on Wednesday, I went to a trans youth group in Chicago. I’ve been going off and on for over a year, and it’s – on the whole – been a positive experience. But I feel closer to the facilitators than I do to the other youth (the facilitators aren’t tons older than me). And I feel really bad saying this, but I sometimes think I’m the only youth coming to this group who has their shit together. That is, I know I’m super privileged – don’t have debt, have a full-time job, accepting friends and family and coworkers – and I’m definitely not faulting any of the other youth for having a harder situation than I do. But it also makes me feel like I don’t have much in common with them.

As I said, I’m also processing a lot as I try and get my show together. I’ve thought a lot about the idea of transitioning as being a teenager (self-discovery, figuring out identity and presentation, etc) and I don’t want to be a teenager anymore. I don’t have the time to be a teenager, and I feel stupid trying on new identities and modes of self-presentation to see what fits.

I also feel like all my posts this week have been whiny and obnoxious…

This afternoon I was assistant teaching for a high school theatre class. Another teacher was leading a guest workshop and called for a boy and a girl to get on stage for an awkward “I want to ask them out, but feel too scared” improvised scene. The scene was actually really adorable, and she made some really effective calls that I’ll have to remember. Yet, part of me couldn’t help but feeling disappointed in having to watch my students portray a relationship that I would never be a part of, and remembering how it felt in high school to have to play that part 24/7.

I just got home from Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind, a Chicago theatrical institution, and one of the plays referenced Caster Semenya, and not in a complimentary way. I’ve always considered Too Much Light to be this great, liberal company filled with awesome, progressive artists who I want to be -slash- have crushes on, so it was really disappointing (not to mention a little hurtful) to hear “Maybe she’s not really a woman, like that South African athlete!” used as an insult. (Even if, for the record, I don’t think the actors or play’s authors actually think that. But repeating bigotry you don’t believe in isn’t an automatic out.)

I’m feeling like I’m a little overly sensitive, and wanting to feel included instead of othered.