Wherein I make excuses for my participation in dreadful things

WARNING:  Purely personal ranting and purging ahead.

This isn't really a continuation of my post on privilege, but it does have alot to do with my actual privilege.  And alot to do with being lucky as hell with no small amount of skill at manipulating others.

At the beginning of this year I was in a dead panic about my employment situation. I had just found out that my company was about to sign a client who'd require extensive background checks on everyone in my dept.   Being that I'm not out as queer at my job, let alone trans, I felt this was really bad news.   It wasn't that I felt that my work environment was especially transphobic or hateful... I just know how things inevitably change with cis people once they know for sure that you're trans.  They may have suspected all along.  They may have had no clue.  They may have known for sure in their hearts but were just being respectful of your privacy.  But once "yep, I'm trans" is on the table, suddenly cis attitudes and behaviors shift, and not for the more accepting.  Suddenly,  cis people start slipping up on pronouns where they never did before.  Suddenly cis people are reluctant to go to the restroom at the same time as you.  Suddenly cis people have all sorts of wildly inappropriate comments and questions about surgeries and body parts they never would have dared saying before....    It's exhuasting.  It's death by a thousand personal questions. Death by awkward silences when you enter the room, by catching unstealthy coworkers darting their  eyes away from you as soon as you glance their way... over and over again ....until you finally go away becuz you're so damned tired of being stared at and never seen.

No I didn't want to go thru any of that, not again... not with me only now getting  life back on track financially, not with me finally feeling like I could live life as a human person and not a moral fugitive with a terrible secret.   But I didn't see any reasonable way to hide my assigned past during a federal background check.  So I started to hunt for another gig.

Ever practical, I also kept my ear to the ground at the workplace for other opportunties.  It was a long shot but I thought, maybe if there wasn't an easy way out, there might be a way ... up?

Well, there was, apparently.

To make a very long story short, I am still at the same place of employment I was before, but  promoted to a position of some authority, and with HR clearance.  Not to mention a huge raise to boot, the largest raise I've ever personally heard of anyone getting for the kind of work I do.     All of that and control over my own employee documentation too.  =|

And oh....  To get this position I was forced to challenge the person who hired me for HER job and I won.  (To be fair, she really wasn't very good at key parts of the job... like not being an openly racist snob.  I mean she SUPPORTED the idea of the AZ "Papers Please" Bill, so that should tell you a few things.... ).   She was demoted. I was promoted.  My gain, her loss.

But  yeah even if somebody wanted to do a background check on my entire dept, it is actually now MY responsibility to carry out and report the details to the HR manager.  I am much more confident that I would be able to keep any "troubling" personal info confined to one or two sets of eyes in upper management only. 

If you know anything at all about the way trans people are routinely undone by background checks, Social Security no-match letters, and accusations of insurance fraud, you'll know that I'm lucky as hell.   To have that kind of harm reduction built into my job is a privilege I can't afford to take for granted.

I wasn't only worried about being "outed" tho.   For the last two years I've been in a precarious financial way all around, being the sole income source for two adults, living entire paycheck to entire paycheck, with zero savings and zero ability to save.    This coming on the heels of WA State Disability declaring war against all its enrollees making Mr. Laplain's situation even more dire than just my own.  But thanks to this new job, I am doubly confident that if he were to lose his benefits altogether, we'd still be able to get by... maybe even better than that.

Oh and here's the funny thing.  I've since come to the conclusion that I actually DON'T care about being outed at this job anymore.  Yes, part of it is security in my new position...  maybe even most of it.. considering that I only came to this conclusion AFTER i realized my chances of being outed were much reduced.  Still that  initial scare set me on a period of reflection, wherein I began processing a few unhealed wounds.

The fact is, I can't and won't go back to living with that level of paranoia anymore.  During my first marriage,  I lived stealth for about 5 years.  5 years of hell.  I was married (or so i thought), to a closeted, wannabe social climber type.  I was his exotic arm candy for office parties, republican fundraisers and political rallies.  I was his "inside joke" on his ultra conservative circle of friends and frenemies, whom he simultaneously despised and longed to be like.  It was the most confusing, demoralizing, confidence draining period of my life.  I gave up everything I thought mattered to me for the security of my husband's racist/classist/cissexist facade.   This would be a long post for another day.  The point is, the thought of going back to a life where I'm worried who knows about me and who merely suspects and what harm they can do me....   well I can't and I won't do that ever again.

So.  Hooray for phases of spiritual growth.

Let me be real tho.   Nothing is guaranteed in this world, and with this particular gig, all these shiny new hopes will disappear overnight if my company doesn't survive this first stage of rapid growth with the new client we signed (not the creepy background searchers... they got paranoid and backed out at the last minute, go figure!)  I  may be out of the poorhouse, but I ain't out of the woods yet.

So why do I feel so damned proud of myself then?  Why do I feel like I really accomplished something to be crowed about?  What did I do exactly?    I brought two adults who were living right on the poverty line and dangerously close to homelessness ... well into lower middle class, YEAH!   I jumped the gates of the poorhouse and landed in a Honda Accord.

What I did accomplish was what I always seem to in the end... I survived.  In this case survival meant I successfully took advantage of my various educational privileges, schmoozed the right execs, then gambled and won on a longshot promotion.  I "played the game," as it were. 

 I do feel guilty for surviving where others have perished.  I mean even literally in the here and now.. I am now my boss's boss! What the hell???   But mostly I feel guilty for not feeling more guilty.  I feel like I deserve to do whatever it takes at whoever's expense to survive if I have to.  I feel like the world I live in has made it very clear it would rather see me die, fail,  disappear.  I know that this is because the world is built on many interlacing systems of oppression and that it is nigh impossible to experience advantage without causing someone else somewhere to experience disadvantage.    I want to feel something when I sit down and take stock of my complicity in  these systems of oppression and inequality.  Yes, I now line my pocketbook while my peers do without.  But I feel like I've "paid my dues"...   I feel like ME  benefiting from unfair systems in any way can't really be so bad.. because look at all I had to go thru to get to here.

I try not to think about all the people who went thru all I had to go thru and more and didn't make it. I don't want to think about the basic unfairness of this world. I just want to survive it.  I want to stop the suffering.  MY suffering.

I know it is this attitude that keeps otherwise good people from making meaningful changes in their social environments.

But even so, I am angry because I feel the need to apologize for having survived, for having known ANY pleasure or advantages in life.  It's like... so you wanted my life to be nothing but hardship and lack??  Like my friend Carmen's or Shandra's or Alexa's??  Well they're all dead now.    And now what?  What does their being dead mean other than they are no longer suffering in a world that never wanted them?  What does my being alive matter in a world that never wanted me?  And if it doesn't matter, how does it matter if I'm suffering or I'm complacent or blissfully unaware?

I have no idea what this post is about.  Forgive me.

mr laplain

i asked u 2 shave ur beard becuz i was on youtube all day
and daydreaming i was sarah and ella and
then i saw mel torme and thought how much
he reminded me of u when u shave
when he was a tiny young man
not at all  a handsome man
but he was
"the velvet fog"
and beloved

i know u say ur eyes are green
but they aren't and i'm sorry
but how many hours
have u spent staring into ur own eyes
none/never?
unfortunately our eyes are more like the backs of our heads
than the back of our own  hands
more like the nape of our necks or our rear ends
the parts of the body others see more often than we
as much as it galls

ur eyes are gray without gloom they are
a seattle sky that tries to be blue and sunny
but fails
does not count how often it fails
is beloved for trying
the gray of a cloud smothered daylight
even grubworms and vampires do not fear dying
the gray of my reason for moving here

sorry

Drat!

I totally missed an opportunity to be interviewed for an international feminist project.  All because I've been forgetting to check one of my eleventythousand email addys.

Back in January, apparently, Jessica Yee of  Feminists With Disabilities tried to contact me!

An excerpt:
....

"I am currently writing a book called "Feminism FOR REAL - Deconstructing the Academic Industrial Complex of Feminism" (I have attached the guidelines for your reference) and am looking to interview someone who identifies as queer or Two Spirit person of color who identifies with a disability or has their own identity for "disability" to interview for the book. I'd like to chat about your thoughts about the "feminist" movement - the isolationism and sea of white that exists in feminism, the gender and sexuality policing that happens because of "women", and the silence about dis/abilities.


Would you be interested in being interviewed for the book?" ....
.......................

Shoot!  I am totally interested.  I'm not sure  if the window has closed yet, so if it hasn't please contact me Jessica Yee! 

Although I've already replied to your email and you know this.  Just thought it couldn't hurt to re-post here.

It's time I started re-evaluating my ideas about having a disability, which I've been putting off (one of many soulsearch projects).

What ARE my ideas?  I know that my queerness, for lack of a better term (i don't love queer as an identity for myself,  but I don't know of any other that really describes my experience either), is very intimately connected to the way I experience my disability and I know specifically that my being a woman of color and trans further informs how I experience my disability issues.

Honestly?  Brutally?  I experience disability as this burdensome condition that makes me feel incredibly vulnerable to attack on all other fronts. That's why I know I have alot of work ahead of me.  I, literally, can no longer run from trouble the way I used to, I can no longer do certain kinds of work to support myself (no i don't mean sex work, I mean any kind of work that requires standing or walking for long periods), which limits the types of work I can do that can accomodate my chronic pain issues.  And then there is the PTSD... which is a whole 'nother bag of worms.

I have sooooo much to work out, and I'm sort of slacking on doing it.  Okay, not even sort of.  But people reaching out to me to talk about it like this inspires me to start taking this work seriously. 

Off to do some feminist blogreading!

To tweet or not to tweet... what was the question?

This week I've been dragged kicking and screaming into 21st century social networking. I now have a twitter account.

http://twitter.com/#!/janelaplain

If I can ever figure out how to add that button to the layout to take you there automatically, I will.

I can't promise to twitter all that often or ever. But I do understand it's become quite a formidable news source, so I plan to use it for that.  This is really just an FYI under duress. I'm so not interested in gathering a following I can't begin to tell you.  When I was young we didn't have no twitter.  We used local teenagers to spread our vicious gossip.  And we LIKED it.  We loved it I tell you...  kids these days...

My Body, My Privilege (part 1)

  


This is an extremely difficult post for me.

It's a post I've been meaning to do since I began the blog and have been putting off.  A post wherein I acknowledge the privileges that have been attached to my body, as well as the stigmas. 

MY BODY is such a complicated topic for me.  Thru out what seems the entirety of my life, I've felt detached from it and burdened by it and privileged by it and stigmatized by it and resentful of it and undeserving of it on so many levels at different times, and often, all at the same time.

As a trans person, as a black person, and finally as a person who is coming to terms with no longer being able bodied, there has been much to cause me to feel that my body is a source of constant danger or handicap.

Thus, coming to terms with the fact that it is this society that is the source of constant danger and handicap has been a very long journey.

When I first started learning about the concept of privilege I was of the opinion that I could possibly not have ever experienced any privilege myself.  Not with so many axes of oppression in my life!  Wasn't I black?  Wasn't I  transsexual?  Wasn't I a survivor of domestic abuse, an alcoholic family, of homelessness, rape, homophobic and transphobic street harassment, sexual harassment, you name it??   I could NEVER have possibly benefited from any systems of oppression with such a long pedigree of suffering...

But other folks?  My  oppressors??  Oh how I've revelled in learning about the evils of those who definitely DO exist with privilege and don't have the guts to admit it!  As a result I came to anti-oppression awareness for selfish reasons, as understandable as those reasons may be.

I want this post to be about acceptance.  Acceptance of what my body means to me, and what it means to others.  Acceptance of its boundaries and my own power to be an agent in its healing, in my own healing, as well as an arbiter of my own suffering. 

That means doing myself what I constantly ask my oppressors to do:  Acknowledge the privileges at work in our lives, to take responsibility for the consequences of that privilege. To confess.

Unsurprisingly, admitting the problem is always the first and hardest step.  This will be the first in a series of posts (I hope), where I analyze the privileges I've had in my life and the harm they have caused as well as the help they have been.  This means making myself a little more vulnerable than I've been before.

OH, THE PRIVILEGES I HAVE KNOWN

CLASS PRIVILEGE: 

I was raised solidly and emphatically middle class, by middle class parents who had been raised the same way.  By the time of my birth, my mother was taking maternity leave from her then budding career as a hospital administrator. My father was a spoiled "Cosby" type kid who had never had to keep a job for longer than it held his interest.  I was raised as the beloved only child for 11 years, not even understanding the concept of having to wait until christmas for a toy I wanted, let alone do without.   I attended expensive private schools for the entirety of my education (my mother never lets me forget this).  I had most of the same material  advantages my school peers had, but true to American Middle Class culture, I never felt that I had enough and felt inadequate in the presence of those who had more.  And also true to American Middle Class culture,  I grew up believing that poor people were just terribly unlucky for the most part, and that some (most?) of them were just too lazy or too unintelligent to better their own lot in life. 

Oddly enough, I haven't personally qualified as anything more than "working poor"  for over ten years now, but that "boozhie" upbringing is still there.  I've never experienced the full weight of my poverty because I have always known, in the back of my mind, that I can always ask my mommy for money, or go back home to her  and take a "break" from having bills to pay.  I have done this several times in my adult life.  During critical times when I needed a "break" from the tedium of supporting myself, a place to stay after being kicked out of wherever, a place to recuperate from catastrophic health issues, it's always back to my Mommy and her 5 bedroom house I go.  Knowing you have that "soft place" to land makes ALL the difference in the world when it comes to the choices you make and the chances you take.

At 30 something, I am only now learning how much this privilege has informed how I relate to others.   Especially as it exists in my relationship with Mr. Laplain.  He grew up quite the opposite.  Often going without, often not knowing if his most basic needs would be met, he has an intimate understanding of poverty and its rigors that alternately make me feel guilty (for my own excess), embarrassed (of his lack of "taste" according to my American Middle Class values), and desperate (to rescue him from a "poor person's" fate). 

It's been a source of tension for us in our life together..  So many times I feel we are experiencing our relationship as polar opposites , divided along class lines.  Where I feel like we just "happen" to be living in subsidized housing and that we are "lucky" to be "getting over" with such cheap rent, he notices and feels the indignities of living in "poor people's housing" in a way I just don't (and don't want to... because then that would make ME poor too). 

Also because I am the sole source of income for us right now, I do not experience the fear and forced dependence he does within our relationship.  For me, I provide for the both of us  simply because NOT providing for the both of us isn't even an option in my mind.  I would no sooner allow him to "do without" than I would allow ME to do without... and I've never allowed myself to do without for too long.   For him, no matter how sincere my intentions, I still retain the "power" to choose not to provide for him and that infuses our relationship with a dynamic that leaves him at a distinct disadvantage. 

But I never have to think about that if I don't want to.  I know that when it comes down to it, I'ma be a'ight.  I got my mommy.  I'm in her will. I got an  upbringing that makes me accessible to others with similar backgrounds who in turn are willing to offer me opportunities they probably wouldn't if I didn't.  But I don't have to think of my financial opportunities like that if I don't want to. 

The result is privilege. My privilege.

LIGHT SKINNED PRIVILEGE:  

Like many light-skinned blacks in the USA it was very hard for me to cop to this one.  My favorite excuse was to say  being light-skinned didn't matter because white people don't notice the difference among Black people anyway.  And I should know because I've grown up around them my whole life and they never once let me forget I was black, and besides I'm one of the darker skinned ones on my Daddy's side of the family so I'm not really all that light-skinned anyway , end of conversation.

The truth is, documentably, different.  While white people in this culture certainly don't tend to treat light skinned blacks as their social equals, it is understood that Whites are far more comfortable with fairer skinned blacks and tend to offer them more opportunities than they do the darker skinned.  This is obviously true just considering the media alone. 

It's not just all about how Whites behave tho.  Black people tend to respond more favorably to lighter skinned blacks as well, tend to associate light-skinnedness with better treatment, better education, and just being "better" in general. 

I know this.  I've lived this.  I have never once had anyone black or white, ever make fun of my skin tone or comment unfavorably.  Whenever my skin tone HAS come up it's invariably "wow, you really ARE fair for a black person."  When white people have commented on my skin, it's usually something nauseating and half-insincere,"Wow it's like you have the PERFECT TAN all the time.  I'M SO JEALOUS!"   These are things that are often said to light skinned black people.   Much much more rarely said to dark skinned people of ANY ethnicity or race.  Thus the light-skinned experience of white people"complimenting" us on being black, no matter how preposterous or insincere the praise, it is a far cry from the common experience of people "recoiling" in reflexive fear at the sight of a dark skinned face entering the room. 

Among black folks, I found from a very early age that my skin tone was a source of fascination, community envy, and community pride.  I have been referred to as "pretty" "redboned"  and "black but mixed with..." since I can first remember.    I remember during childhood, the tense but oh-so-subtle ways my mother and grandmother would inspect my skin after coming indoors from playing in the sun for a few hours... sighing with relief  that I hadn't gotten "too dark"... I remember more than one conversation I overheard about how lucky I was to have inherited my "daddy's good looks" rather than my mother's hershey bar complexion.

I remember my own feelings of confusion and relief around my skin tone growing up.  I remember being about 5 years old, sitting next to my mother on the couch,  comparing my hand in hers and noticing the contrast in colors.  I remember thinking, almost instinctively, "how sad for mommy" without even understanding why I would think that.  I also remember feeling angry at the way our difference in skin tone marked me as different from my own mother, my mother who I so longed to be just like, how it divided me from her,, and at the same time inwardly being glad that I ended up on THIS side of the divide. 

These are all painful things to admit out loud. 

These are just two privileges, huge ones, that have informed my life.  I've willfully and sometimes genuinely cluelessly remained unaware of whenever they were in play, but they have always informed how I move thru this world.

The hardest part to admit is that I'd be lying if I said I didn't still retain a certain sense of entitlement due to these two privileges in particular.   These privileges caused me to experience the world in such a way as if I were "special" and also as if I were "typical"....  as if I had better treatment coming to me simply because my body/my background was more easily accepted by others. 

My privileges have allowed me to feel indignant whenever I 've received less than I thought I should, and to project an air of confidence,  of "transcending" my lowly circumstances whenever I've been caught flatfooted by one of my oppressions.  These privileges, or rather, the ego benefits of having been raised with these privileges, have born me through many  genuinely desperate situations.  I can't exactly say I'm sorry about having these privileges when I know, for instance when I was homeless,  being able to use "pass" for a recent college graduate who was just having a bit of bad luck after moving to a new city, influenced potential benefactors to take me much more seriously than they otherwise would have .. how it made my homelessness more sympathetic and ultimately alot shorter lived than it would have been otherwise.

The hardest part of learning to do this anti-oppression awareness stuff is figuring out how to feel about things like this.  The truth is, when I really really needed it, I DON'T feel guilty for having had privilege.  I DON'T feel guilty for being able to use whatever resources were at my disposal to survive until the next day.  But it's hard to know that and also know so many of my FRIENDS in similar circumstances perished because they didn't have what I had.  I DO feel guilty about that. 

Guilty may not be a very useful way to feel... but everybody's gotta start somewhere I guess.

I think that's enough for now.  Next post I'll tackle other privileges.

Your Naked Body Is None of My Business

Let's file this post under things that I notice aren't being said in common anti-transphobia blogs I've seen.  Not that I've seen every single blog in this vein in the blogosphere, I haven't, not even close.  But I do think that certain responses should be a lot more common when the issue of "should pre-ops and non-ops be allowed to .... XYZ" seems to come up.

I am referring of course to the more common debates over whether transwomen should be allowed to access women's public restrooms and locker rooms, changing rooms, or White Womyn's Music Festivals etc... places where, apparently, women are expected to be at least partially nude at any time.  These debates always seem to reach a fever pitch when it comes to whether or not transwomen who have not had "the surgery" should be allowed or barred from the premises.

Before I give you my opinion, let me explain what MY dog is in this fight.

As I've explained in my blog earlier, I am an "Op" transsexual, for lack of a better term.  This is to say my vaginoplasty failed in a big bad way..  The surgical outcome has resulted in years of chronic pain and scarring and a lifetime of behavior modification centered around accomodating said pain. 

That said, I am far happier, far more comfortable  psychologically, possessing a "failed vagina" than I ever was possessing a "normal penis." Such was the intensity  of my body dysphoria pre-surgery if I had to go back and do it all over again, pain and cosmetic trauma and all, I would.  I HATED having a penis. I HATED the masculinization of my body during puberty I hated everything about my primary and secondary sexual characteristics right up until and long after I began HRT. 

Having surgery, even with crap results, undid an incredible amount of body dysphoria for me.  I can't over emphasize how important getting one's body "right", whatever "right" looks like for individual trans people,can be.  But even more compelling than the need to have one's body look "right" for the individual transperson, is often the need to stop looking "wrong." 

And that's what surgery did for me.  It didn't do a damn thing else for me, and with it came a host of hellish problems all their own.  But I will forever be grateful and glad for escaping that feeling of abject "wrongness" inside of my own naked skin.

So yes, if you must know,  I am good to go in women's changing rooms and just about any other place you might expect to see a naked lady *gasp and swoon.*   Unless you get right up between my legs, which I can't imagine why anyone would do so in a women's changing room, you wouldn't automatically know there was anything particularly wrong with my lady parts.  I haven't personally feared being ejected from women's restrooms and locker rooms for many many years now. 

BUT.  Every morning, like some hapless Rip Van Winkle who rouses from his 100 year sleep still terribly alive, loved ones long dead and memories still reeling...  I do recall what life was like before surgery. What my life felt like, I mean.  From the fucking inside.  Before passing.  Before I was allowed to access women's only spaces without fearing the side-eye.    Personally I don't understand how ANY post-op and/or post-transsexual could EVER forget what zir life was like beforehand.... Time does not heal all wounds.  I have been transitioned for the entirety of my adult life and... some days I remember the years as if yesterday.

What do I remember?  Other than the self loathing, the feeling of being trapped (Yes, TRAPPED in my own body... my apologies to those who hate the metaphor)...  What I remember best was that I was every bit as emphatically female identified  then as I am today... My mind was still my mind, my soul my soul.  Only my BODY was different.

Here I go again with the "Primary Transsexual" crap.  (I hate that cissexist psycho-medical jargon too, believe me.  But for some reason it has become as tho we obviously trans "male" children who grow up into women are slowly being re-written out of existence.... as if there were only ever six of us thru out history, well documented cases cynically invented by the patriarchs of Psychiatry and Sexology to control  The Flesh... while the rest of transkind , the REAL transfolk, all fall into the category of the much later in life transitioning manifesting one day out of the ether of self doubt and self denial.   That may be an unfair assessment of what mainstream trans culture has become, but that's how it often FEELS hearing my story discussed in trans circles these days)...   

Like I was saying, as a "primary transsexual", I came out in earliest childhood and I was always very vocal about being a girl and NOT being a boy.  I NEVER felt it was appropriate to identify as male I NEVER willingly consented to identify as male and I constantly looked for ways to get out of doing so.   I took the absolute earliest opportunity to escape my assignment as male and I haven't looked back since, except to shudder with relief and horror over the twilight zone mindfuck that had been my life til  right up until I got out.  I know that sounds hyperbolic, I know that sounds so "surely it wasn't THAT, bad Jane..." but for me, and for so many of my trans sisters, yes it sure was.  

A big part of the mindfuck of being coercively assigned male was being forced to use boys' and men's public restrooms and changing rooms, no matter how inappropriate and unsafe I felt doing so.

So yeah, I can't and won't forget any of that and I will never sit in smug judgment of those who long to access critical safe public spaces, have a demonstrable NEED for these safe spaces,  but are  not allowed simply for having the bodies that they have.  And even today I thank my lucky stars for my privilege, knowing that when I go into the women's restroom nobody is likely to say  "HEY WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE! I'M CALLING THE POLICE IF YOU DON'T LEAVE NOW!"

Back to the issue at hand.  Pre-ops and Non-ops and  Bears oh MY.  Okay not Bears.  I know absolutely nothing about that scene and it's besides the point.   But about the pre-ops and Non-ops in women's changing rooms.... I have this to say.

Your naked body is none of my business.  Even if we're in a public space where we're all gonna be naked. Conversely, my naked body is none of YOUR business either.  Full Stop. Period.

The anti-trans arguments always  hinge upon whether women, particularly cis women, will feel "invaded" or "annoyed" or "threatened" by the presence of  a woman-with-a-penis in the room.  Because having a penis means you're a man.  And women's spaces are created as safe spaces from Men.  And thus from penises.  And if you have any respect for women's spaces you must be willing to bar all penis bearing individuals from said spaces.

Okay.  I can understand, in this cissexist world, where having a certain set of genitals automatically marks you as being a certain class of person, why this argument seems to hold water.  I can even agree, when I use women's restrooms and/or changing rooms the LAST thing I expect or want to see there is a penis. I will cop to that. 

That said, I don't see how it's any of my business what my lockermate's junk looks like, just because she's naked.  

For those of you who've been in these spaces... Umm... haven't you ever seen something you wish you hadn't??   One time I accidentally walked in on my 67 year old ex co-worker changing her adult diaper in a stall.  I really wish I hadn't seen that.  I have seen other women, cis women,  with bodies so hirsute I had to stop and wonder about them for a second. I have seen nude and partially nude women's bodies of all shapes and sizes and textures and I'd rather not have seen any of it.   But their bodies were NONE OF MY BUSINESS.  If what I saw before me was unpleasant to my eye, I always had the option of AVERTING MY GAZE! 

I swear I'm not being obtuse. I understand that there are situations where public nudity is involved, where the atmosphere is more social, such as in women's bathhouses, steam rooms and day spas and whatnot.  Places where having non-standard-for-a-typical-female body would be a big handicap in that atmosphere.    Again, that still doesnt make anybody else's body your business.   If you don't wish to nudely interact with someone based upon the way their nude body looks to you... you do not have to do so. 

The problem comes when BEHAVIOR starts to transgress the boundaries of comfort and safety of the persons occupying any given space.  The "logic" behind the fear of un-operated transwomen being in women only spaces is that this might give cis men the bright idea to pretend to be transwomen just to gain access to women's space.  Do I really have to take down this argument?  Others have done it much better than I.  And really... I don't know of anybody who has ever done that.

Now I would think that if any person, cis or trans, male or female or neuter, were to enter into a public space reserved for one particular type of behavior and began oh, aggressively propositioning and ogling the people in that space, I would PRAY the attendees would be empowered to eject them as a matter of course.   People can always (and should always) be held accountable for their behavior.  But to be held accountable for having a certain kind of body?  For having the gall to drag a particular shape of meat-avatar into a room??   Umm... not so much.

I could go on and on, but I'm hoping you gather my meaning.  There is no excuse for upholding Cissexism (and it is nothing else but) by claiming that the mere existence of a penis in women's space is the exact same as a man invading women's space.    The only way to make this claim is to say that Penis=Man.  And please don't hide behind the disingenuous claim of "I personally don't believe that a pre-op transwoman is really a man, but I respect the fact that most cis women would be bothered by seeing one in the locker room..   I Because what you're saying is,  "I don't believe in cissexism, but I respect other people's cissexist beliefs."   and that would be BULLSHIT.

Believe it or not I am an infinitely practical person.  I do understand how the world works and how much power cis people have to define what is and what is not women's space and who should have access to it.    I understand that the majority of the world currently believes that there is no such thing as a woman with a penis, that only men have penises, and if you're born with a penis that and only that is what makes you a man, no matter what else you turn that penis into, or your life, for that matter.  .  I also understand that in a sexist and misogynist world, women really do have a vested interested in creating women only safe speces where Men Do Not Enter.  But a no penises policy does not accomplish this task.  Men who are trans, that is coercively assigned female based upon their genitals and who have not had phalloplasty,  retain the  theoretical "right" to enter such spaces based on the shape of their genitals.  Meanwhile Women who are Trans,  coercively assigned male and  until surgery thus forced to identify themselves by the shape of their genitals, are barred from the very safe spaces they, as women,  they are (documentably) in dire need of.

Back to me now.   I remember....  !!!     Pre-transition, preteen, pre-power to define my own life, I still desperately needed a safe space, even then.  ESPECIALLY THEN.   A safe space from MEN in general,  and a safe space to BE female.  Being openly feminine and yet coercively identified as male, I was certainly never felt welcome in men's only spaces, certainly never made to feel safe or that I really belonged there.  The men who did see me in these spaces (more often than not)  treated me as a threat to their very manhood for simply existing, like I had come to infect them with my girl cooties.  Ironically, when I think about it, pre-transition and passing for a feminine teenage boy, I never met with ANY panic from cis women whenever I occasionally did go into women's restrooms, precisely BECAUSE of my obvious femininity. 

I'm sure then, assuming I was a flamboyant gay male,  they also assumed I must have a penis. I don't remember the topic ever coming up tho?  Hrmmmm.   I do remember my best girl friends from school would drag me in along with them at the malls, and occasionally sneak me into the girl's restroom at school (picture  the Ricky Vasquez character in My So Called Life.  Uncomfortably similar to me back then...)   Pre-transition, passing for a cis gay male, nobody ever "went and told" on me, nobody ever said they were afraid I was there ogling them, nobody ever protested my presence (to my knowledge). 

Granted, personal anecdotes aren't proof of one's argument, but when we're talking about the "dangers" of penises in women's restrooms, it's anecdote city, baby.  So, you show me yours and I'll show you mine.

Wow this post is going on forever when I really wanted to say something very simple.

*AHEM*

"Trans women are NOT a danger to cis women in women only spaces.  Not even " un-operated" trans women. People who behave disruptively in women's only spaces ARE a danger to women.  However, a women being naked in a women's only space where nudity is expected is NOT being disruptive... even if the naked women in question has a penis.  PERIOD.  (But Jane, a MAN being naked in a women's only space IS disruptive.  Again, if you can't drop the cissexist premise that penis=man then you will never get what I'm saying and you should probably move on to the next blog).  

Existing is not disruptive!!  If you don't like what you see, then don't look!!  It's just that simple.  And if you are personally so traumatized by the very idea of a person with a certain body part being in the same room as you... THERE IS THERAPY FOR THAT!  

Okay I will have to go back and clean up this post for sure.  But I need to get it out there.  Just something that's been a long time in the making for me to talk about.  So... yeah.  Happy Restrooming, everyone?

Peace.

**NOTE**  I have been editing and re-editing this post like mad and I'm not done yet.  You might wanna give this another read after a couple of days a week or so.  I'm sloooow.

Chronic Pain + PTSD = Sexual Dysfunction Squared

So.  In the interest of using this space to process my feelings honestly, it's time I got embarrassingly honest.  These are things that need to be said out loud, things that have gone unsaid in my life for too long.  To the point that the silence has become deafening here in this howling vortex where my relationship should be.

In cissexist medical terms there is no category for what kind of "Transsexual" I am.   I haven't been pre-op for nearly 15 years now..  However due to complications during surgery, my SRS was never completed.  It was in fact halted at a fairly early stage of the operation.    I am not pre-op and not quite post-op.  I could call myself an "Op" transsexual or more accurately a "chOPped transsexual" but that would be cissexist and I am determined to stop categorizing myself according to that paradigm.

The resulting complications of surgery over time have resulted in massive internal and external scarring,  intermittent incontinence and frequent urinary tract infections.  And oh yes, terrible, chronic pain as a result of the scarring.  Some days I can barely stand to be in pants or underwear for longer than a couple of hours.  Standing and walking for long periods hurts.  So does sitting for long periods.  Sexual contact is extremely painful, particularly direct physical contact to my genital area.  Any direct contact to my genital area actually is VERY uncomfortable, at best physically and psychologically. 

Over the last 5 years or so the pain has gotten steadily worse.  I've developed various coping strategies and patterns of behavior to limit the pain impact, but the only permanent solution to all of the above is another surgery.  Being that i spent everything I had on surgery the first time around and have lived pretty much right on or below the poverty line ever since, this has  been but a distant dream.  As for the pain itself, doctors have been unwilling to prescribe me painkillers for fear of my developing an addiction.  I imagine if I had a "socially acceptable" reason for my chronic pain, like a nerve disease or something, they would be more willing to work with me.  But the subtle impression I've gotten from docs over the years has been "well, you got yourself into this by undergoung an ill advised cosmetic surgery with an inexperienced surgeon to begin with, so pain is just the price you have to pay."   

Again, the only longterm solution for my problem is another surgery.   I've never had health insurance for the entirety of my adult life and have barely been able to support myself with the basics. Simply put, I'm S.O.L.  until I find away to scrape together another 15 to 20K.  Which I mos def will, TRUST . One of these days not too long from now. I'm on the right track again.. FINALLY after so many years of financial abjection.  But that's still some years away.

I've long since come to accept that this is the hand I've been dealt.. but the dealing with the reality of chronic pain has been a different story.   I suppose due to internalized ableism, I've always been reluctant to see myself as disabled.  To me, being disabled meant being in a wheelchair or having some sort of physical problem that requires you to walk around with a MedicAlert bracelet.  Anything else was just a "problem."  I may be unable to do a few things other people take for granted, like wear tight pants, or thongs, or run a marathon, or orgasm, or enjoy sex whatsoever, or sit with my legs crossed for an extended period.. but hey I'm not DISABLED.  So I kept telling myself.

So let's talk about sex.  I've had lots of it.  In spite of the pain in spite of my physical limitations and the emotional cost, I've always been able to "please" a man sexually.  I did this by focusing entirely on his pleasure, faking my own, and in general completely removing my real feelings and real sexuality far away from the sex act itself.   This strategy made me a phenomenal escort, not to mention frequently sought after bootycall material for however many dozens of men I've , ermm.. "entertained" over the years.   No matter my pain, no matter how little I actually enjoyed the act itself, I was always able to make sure my partner was pleased... even if i had to LIE.

Enter Mr. Laplain,  true love, and the first ever man to actually give a damn about me and my pleasure.  Suddenly the game is changed and I am exposed for what I really am.  A sexually crippled, disfigured fraud who wouldn't know what really pleased her in bed if her l.ife depended on it. 

I am unable to perform sexually with Mr. Laplain because I am UNABLE TO LIE to him.  His pleasure, his interest in me sexually is dependent upon making sure I am at least as satisfied as he is, if not moreso.   But I honestly do not know how to associate the act of performing sexually with feeling sexually stimulated myself.  In truth I think of the two things as mutually exclusive.   I HAVE NO CLUE what feels good to me.  Because as far as I'm concerned NOTHING actually feels good (physically), everything is painful, everything is a chore.. and while I could always fake pleasure/lack of pain for my partners before, I owe Mr Laplain so much more than that and I refuse to treat him like a John.

Our sex life is a disaster, if you haven't guessed already.  And it is entirely my fault. I don't know what to do about it.  In reality  all I have to offer is "Yes baby, that is so much less painful when you do that.  Oh yes lover touch me over here so that I don't wet the bed or start bleeding!"

While at first the passion between us was born of newness and the charge of emotion that comes with having a brand new relationship... my ability to endure the pain and respond only to the pleasure he gives me has greatly diminished over time.  Whereas before I could get off on the fact that this guy really is into me and lose myself in the novelty of that... now I can only think god please don't get me started up because as soon as the blood starts flowing to my crotch the pain comes even harder and lasts for hours  after we're done.

You can imagine how this would take a toll on a man's self esteem and/or interest in a relationship,  to have his girlfriend constantly shrinking away from even the most vaguely intimate physical contact.  To have your own girlfriend refusing to share a bed with you at night for fear of getting turned on by you or turning you on and starting something that she won't be able to finish. 

And then there is the tiny matter of the pain in my crotch serving as a constant reminder of all the years of giving my body to men who could give a damn about me to begin with...  some of whom took my body by force because that's how little they thought of  me as a human being.

There is no immediately solution to any of this  as far as I can see except to call a moratorium on all sexual contact until my physical problems areresolved. Which is a ridiculous thing to ask of anyone in a relationship.  It's not like surgery is around the corner.  How is it fair to ask someone to give up his sex life just because you want to give up yours?  If I could be the kind of girl who was secure enough to let her man have a little on the side, I would totally do that.  But I don't think I am.. and I don't think Mr. Laplain would go for that anyway.  He is one of those rare(?)  men who needs to have some kind of emotional connection with the person he's sleeping with.. so any other person he slept with would a priori be someone who constituted a threat to our relationship.

I am completely utterly and hopelesssly lost here.  And if I don't figure something out soon, I'm going to lose alot more than my "focus." 

But what?

Two things on my mind. Real quick.

Quickly as I can, anyways.


The Princess Boy

I am only addressing this so certain  people offline will finally stop asking me to comment on this.  I have no comment on The Princess Boy.  That is, none on the child zirself, mind you.  I refuse. I have in fact gone out of my way not to read up on the media phenomenon because something about it all makes me VERY uncomfortable.

No, I don't object to children's gender expressions being supported and celebrated.  What I will comment on is the "media" aspect of the story.  I think it's heinous that a child ANY child, is ever made into a media figure.  Fame is a destructive thing, as we see time and time again in our fame obsessed culture.  But fame without the support network of any one specific industry to mitigate one's fame to begin with, particularly a child's fame, is a recipe for crash and burn and never ever ever being able to live it down that once long ago you were that famous person who was or did or said XYZ and whatever happened to you.. etc. 

Another reason for my discomfort  comes from a completely personal space.  Again I've gone out of my way NOT to educate myself on the particulars of this child so I don't know how zie identifies zirself to others.  but I do know that I would have been mortified to be known the world over as a Boy anything, even a Princess Boy.   If this child is ultimately trans and identifies as a girl, calling zir "Boy" is just a slap in the face.  And  YES take it from me you can be 4 years old and know what it means to be called a boy and how crushingly humiliated and powerless that makes you feel when you already know you are a girl.

The parents?:  Sure you don't mind if your "Boy" lives as a girl or at least girlishly, as long as HE remembers HE'S a BOY and you'll make damn sure the entire WORLD knows that you have a SON who may be different but he's your BOY and you accept HIM.... 

Yeah... that's why I can't bring myself to read up on him actually.  Too close to home.  My parents were never terribly concerned with my femininity... I was spared much of the mandatory "toughening up" that most gender nonconforming male-assigned children face in this society (tho by no means did I escape all forms of this particular type of hazing...).  But they were always very sure to emphasize I was their SON.... that I was a Junior to my father's Senior, that I would grow up to be a Man, even if that meant being a "different" kind of man one day, a MAN i would still be....  all of this was explained to me painstakingly, no matter how much I protested this notion, how much I complained and explained until I just finally gave up and completely shut down.

And while not forcing me to feel particularly ashamed of  being feminine definitely helped me cope in the long run... my family's insistence that I be recognized as male to any and everyone who asked and who didn't ask, to people who might one day ask.. well that definitely hurt in the long run...   baggage I still struggle with to this day.

Cis vs Non-Trans

I have been noticing that alot of people in the transosphere (gawd how i HATE these made up words that end in "--osphere"... UGH UGH UGH.. but for lack of a better phrase...)   have stuck with using Non-Trans even tho they are well aware of the term Cis.  

At first I thought it was just fuddy duddy on their part, not wanting to use the new weird sounding jargon, no matter how useful it is  But the more I think it over the more I start to see "non-trans" as the more inclusive descriptor in some instances.

This revelation came at the same time I realized that so much of my own writing about these issues actually erases the existence and  experiences of Intersex people.   Intersex experiences frequently do not  fall under the label of Cis or Trans as I talk about them, at least not neatly.  There are plenty of intersex people who were assigned a birth sex they do NOT disagree with that and yet they were still made to endure the indignities of being shoehorned medically, surgically, and socially into society's binary ideas about what gendered bodies should look like... in fact they endure a very unique style of coercion and punishment based on their bodies that people who aren't intersex simply don't experience.  

It hardly seems accurate to describe someone intersex as "technically cis" just for not disagreeing with the assignment they were born with.  And for intersex persons who do come to object to their birth assignment and take steps to correct that, they may easily identify as trans or may not identify as trans at all and it is NOT for me to say.

Anyway, I say all that just to say that from now on whenever I say or write Non-Trans, and whenever I read it on other blogs, I will take it to mean exactly that.  NON-TRANS... as in NOT TRANS.  as in  Something Other Than Trans.  Including not just Cis people as a group, but also Intersex persons and anyone else I may have missed who is definitely NOT Trans.

Not that I will stop using Cis any time soon.  We simply can't unpack Cissexism without it!

Did any of this make any sense?  I will have to come back later and check.  I would like to finish sleeping for the night!!

Anti-Oppression Lingo I don't quite "Get" yet...

I am still very new to anti-oppression work. However I do know enough not to bother those who are more skilled in recognizing and dismantling various oppressions with questions I can easily answer for myself by doing research.  "Please explain why this is wrong" is the exact opposite attitude to take when learning about 'isms... If you aren't willing to take responsibility for your own ignorance, then you probably aren't willing to make any meaningful changes once you do learn.  So yeah, I get it.

But in spite of my study, there are a few items that I still don't get that everyone else seems to.  And apparently I am the only one who doesn't get it, which makes finding answers even more intimidating, because I don't want to be THAT BOZO, the one asking questions too ignorant even for a 101 Seminar.

 Let me just jump to the point.  I am supremely grateful for the anti-oppression blogosphere.. but I don't think it's culture is beyond critique.   Here are a few words/concepts/phrases I see commonly in anti-oppression discourse that I don't think I fully "get."  Or more accurately, don't fully agree with. I am not out to start beef with anybody or single out any bl og(s) in particular.   These are just a few linguistic phenomena I've noticed around and have found slightly troubling.  I suspect I'm not the only one who feels this way.  But even if I am... this is MY blog and if I can't say this stuff anywhere else without fear of reprisal, I can at least say it here.

1. CRAZY vs CRAZYMAKING.  I get that the word "crazy" has been used to demonize those who struggle with mental illnesses. I get that this is a word that has been used to invalidate more often than its been used to illuminate.  I get that Crazy is too often used in the same derisive spirit as the word "Lame," appropriating the experience of the mentally and physically  handicapped  (respectively) by assigning a maliciously negative and yet nearly irrelevant connotation to the word (crazy is used to mean anything socially outrageous and objectionable, not necessarily related to insanity, lame is used to mean anything considered unpopular and/or awkward, completely unrelated to an inability to walk)   for no other reason than to have a handy insult to use against somebody, a bad name to use as punishment,  a stigma for another's perceived social mis-steps.

So, I do NOT for the life of me, then, understand why the word CRAZYMAKING is just fine.  I can't think of any other word where on its own it is considered an insufferable slur, but in  conjunction with another word, it is considered a valid critique.  (There is no such word as "Fatmaking"  or "Uglymaking" for example, altho the words Fat and Ugly are often used in the same derisive vein as Crazy).   To say that certain harassing behaviors are "crazymaking" to me seems to lend support to the idea that there IS such a thing as crazy and that its okay to call it that. 

So is there such a thing as crazy? And is it ever okay to call it that?

I refrain from asking this question at other blogs, even tho I see the word "crazymaking" all the time... as if it means something non-abstract and obvious. But even more frequently I see commenters getting called out for being ableist, even banned, for commenters  for saying things like "You must be crazy if you think ...." yadda yadda.  

I am NOT trying to obtuse here. I am not advocating for the use of Crazy in spite of its ableist stigma. I really am confused about the so-called anti-oppression culture's use of this world.  How can Crazy be verboten, but Crazymaking is right on?

2. DEHUMANIZING.  I get the concept alright. I understand the definition.  But I feel like this word gets waaaay overused. 

Often when I see Dehumanized used in posts or conversation, I feel like what the author really means is closer to "Subhumanized," or even "Animalized." Made into a creature that is less than a human, more like an animal.  Well  duh, isn't that what dehumanizing already implies?  Only if you accept that being human is a binary state.. you are either human or you are Something Else.  And while I do believe that is exactly the goal of all oppressions.. to make people feel the tension of this particular binary.. I am not comfortable leaving the paradigm unexamined.

Plus I feel like Dehumanizing isn't specific enough.  The action specifically being critiqued as "dehumanizing" can be understood not only as stripping a person of their status as a human being, but actively re-creating that person into a subhuman being.  Thereby, putting them on par with animals, that other class of creatures we commonly recognize as living but not endowed with any rights relative to human beings. (I have always had a big problem with the premise that human beings are the natural "superior" of animals, but I have an even bigger problem with animal rights activists and their raging racism and classism, so I tend to stay quiet on this score).

Let me put it another way.   When somebody calls me the N Word... I don't feel Dehumanized. I feel like I've been ANIMALIZED. I feel shamed and insulted, exactly as if they had called me a Gorilla.  I feel like they don't see me as a human being so much as this mythical creature they call  N****R.  

I don't just feel stripped of my humanity, I feel like I've been categorized as something much worse than a human altogether.

IMHO this is a small but very important distinction to make.  It's the difference between simple erasure and being flat out lied on. 

I know I have alot more to say on this score, but its still tangled up in my head, so I will move on for now.

3. DOUCHE/DOUCHEBAG/DOUCHEBAGGERY.  This one REALLY bothers me because I feel its hypocritical of anyone who resists Misogyny to use this term as if it were an innocuous insult and in no way related to female genitalia.  I mean come ON.  Every feminist understands that calling someone the P Word or the C Word is horribly misogynist.   Comparing people, particularly "men" to vaginas is considered the ultimate insult to their manhood and their very character.  Associating a man with items specifically designed for use with vaginas is the EXACT SAME MISOGYNIST LOGIC. 

I'm pretty sure if people started calling men who behave like insufferable jerks TAMPONS, the misogyny would  be loud and clear.  But Douchebag is somehow... totally kosher?  Please explain this one to me.

I know I have other stuff that irks me about anti-oppression culture, but my back is killing me and I need to get ready for bed.  Work comes deadly early tomorrow.  And yes, the jobhunt still goes on. I turned down two offers because they were too far away.  But I will take that as an encouraging sign that my resume is out there, doing its thang.

More on this post later.

Hiatus complete.

Many good things came from taking time off.  I was able to channel the emotional energy I had been wasting fretting about how to blog about my life and my relationship back into ... my life and my relationship.  I gained much needed insight.  Mainly, I really do need the guidance of a professional if I'm going to manage my PTSD properly. 

That said, I haven't had much opportunity, financially speaking or schedule-wise, to find that professional help.  Still very much in the throes of job hunting.  That slowed down a bit once I realized the background check won't be happening til January or so, and there is a small but viable chance I might be able to opt out of it altogether by requesting a shift of duties...   but at any rate. I need another gig.  Even without the threat of being outed, the place is toxic on many other levels.

I have also learned in this time off that, in the longterm, I will never be happy in any job that I do if it doesn't involve the uplift of the trans community and other vulnerable populations I happen to be a part of.  Which is why I have decided to partner with Mr. Laplain on building a non-profit organization devoted to this end.

It's been a pet project of his for a while but he's only just been able to give it some legs  this year.  I won't go into great detail about it here as it's his baby and I don't want to create any coflicts of interest.   But, overwhelming new responsibilities notwithsanding, I am delighted to be of service to him and to our community.

As for Mr. Laplain and I, our brief split did us a solid.  I got a much needed wake up call that life with me shouldn't revolve around my triggers and recovery.  That other people's triggers do still matter.  And that having somebody love you unconditionally is not an open invitation to test  the boundaries of that love every freaking chance you get. 

I can't speak for him or to whatever he gained from our break, but he seems to be more committed than ever before.   I love him. I do.

And uh, I still intend to, like, totally use this blog as a personal space to dissect my overlapping identities and whatnot as well as a public forum for conversation with others who do meaningful work resisting oppressions.  I'm just not going to obsess over it like I was.... it was getting me nowhere.

Promises promises.  The proof is in the blogging. We shall see.