Investing

About 6 or 7 years ago, before or very early on in my transition, I went to a queer conference at Center for Lesbian and Gay Studies at the City University of New York. Between lectures I was standing alone in the lobby and a older butch dyke walked up to me. We had never met, but I had seen her at a conference I had attended previously. She looked at me, perhaps made a little small talk, and told me she had something for me. She asked for my address.

A month or so later a box arrived in the mail. It was full of neck ties and a short note that said something to the effect of "I thought you might like these." No name, no return address. This small gesture may have simply been an attempt on this butches part to clean out her closet, but to me it was the act of a queer mentor I had never had before. It was someone taking me aside, telling me they knew what it was like, and offering a bit of hope the only way she knew how.

I am wearing one of those ties today. I still have no idea who this woman is, but I think about her every time I open my closet. We never know where our mentors will come from, and now, as I grow a little older, I think about how I never know whose life I am going to touch. I have a lot of ties I don't need and I am sure that young queer is out there. If it's you, let me know.

Getting Better

The world is (rightfully) having a strong reaction to the wave of gay suicides and general bullying going on. There is Dan Savage's new "It Gets Better" campaign which seem to be getting lots of the attention. I certainly appreciate the waves of people coming forward and am thrilled with how many un-famous, totally normal people are participating. Regardless of my opinion on the project I think there is always value in queer people telling our stories.

Still, if I had seen these movies when I was in high school I wonder if it would have made a difference. Would they have calmed me, given me hope? A part of me thinks that this future these people are describing would seem so far away, so remote that although I would have greatly valued seeing positive images of queer adults, it would have been very hard to imagine my life ever being like theirs. I was too busy trying to figure out what I was to imagine any day beyond tomorrow.

I am more interested in the world getting better, and getting better now. I, like so many It Gets Better videos, could tell you about how I grew up in a small, religiously conservative town in the mid-west. I could tell you about the boy who wore a "God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" shirt to school. Or the one who wrote his research paper for Advanced Composition on how gays should not be in the military. He defended his position by stating that gay soldiers could get shot and bleed on not gay soldiers and give them AIDS. I know I probably would have been harassed or beaten up if I had come out at Holland Christian High School as a lesbian, or, heaven forbid, as a trans man. And I could tell you about how I have transitioned, moved to a large urban area, have friends that like me for myself and a fiancé who loves me for the person I am, but in this case I'm going to lay off the personal and talk about the world.

The world is changing--and its changing fast. My sister is 6 years younger than me. By the time she was in high school her friends knew I was queer and thought it was "cool." I was a groomsman in her wedding and walked down the aisle with one of her high school friends in front of many people who 10 years ago would rail against the evils of homosexuality. I thought all this was amazing, but I was blown away when I saw the story of Oak Read.

Oak is a senior at Mona Shores High School in Muskegon, MI. Muskegon, though larger than Holland, is still in Michigan. I remember playing Mona Shores in sports matches as a student. There wasn't much remarkable about the students, but now I will never forget them. The students of Mona Shores High School voted Oak Reed, a pre-op FTM, to be their Homecoming King. The school then stripped him of that title claiming he couldn't be Homecoming King because he was registered at the school as a female. The students revolted, starting a Facebook campaign in support of him (which, by the way, has over 12,000 members). These students, in my mind, are doing more to make queer teens feel safe than 100 videos by Tim Gunn could ever do.

The world is changing. People are changing. Some more slowly than others, but they are changing. As adults we need to keep telling our stories, as parents we need to teach our kids to love everyone, as allies we need to create a safe space for queer youth to be loved unconditionally. But, to all the young people out there--take a lesson from Mona Shores Students. It's getting better. It will continue to get better. And when history is written this is not an issue you will want to be on the wrong side of. Stand up for someone so they don't have to stand alone. It could change the world, or at least someone's world.

It's getting better

The world is (rightfully) having a strong reaction to the wave of gay suicides and general bullying going on. There is Dan Savage's new "It Gets Better" campaign which seem to be getting lots of the attention. I certainly appreciate the waves of people coming forward and am thrilled with how many un-famous, totally normal people are participating. Regardless of my opinion on the project I think there is always value in queer people telling our stories.

Still, if I had seen these movies when I was in high school I wonder if it would have made a difference. Would they have calmed me, given me hope? A part of me thinks that this future these people are describing would seem so far away, so remote that although I would have greatly valued seeing positive images of queer adults, it would have been very hard to imagine my life ever being like theirs. I was too busy trying to figure out what I was to imagine any day beyond tomorrow.

I am more interested in the world getting better, and getting better now. I, like so many It Gets Better videos, could tell you about how I grew up in a small, religiously conservative town in the mid-west. I could tell you about the boy who wore a "God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" shirt to school. Or the one who wrote his research paper for Advanced Composition on how gays should not be in the military. He defended his position by stating that gay soldiers could get shot and bleed on not gay soldiers and give them AIDS. I know I probably would have been harassed or beaten up if I had come out at Holland Christian High School as a lesbian, or, heaven forbid, as a trans man. And I could tell you about how I have transitioned, moved to a large urban area, have friends that like me for myself and a fiancé who loves me for the person I am, but in this case I'm going to lay off the personal and talk about the world.

The world is changing--and its changing fast. My sister is 6 years younger than me. By the time she was in high school her friends knew I was queer and thought it was "cool." I was a groomsman in her wedding and walked down the aisle with one of her high school friends in front of many people who 10 years ago would rail against the evils of homosexuality. I thought all this was amazing, but I was blown away when I saw the story of Oak Read.

Oak is a senior at Mona Shores High School in Muskegon, MI. Muskegon, though larger than Holland, is still in Michigan. I remember playing Mona Shores in sports matches as a student. There wasn't much remarkable about the students, but now I will never forget them. The students of Mona Shores High School voted Oak Reed, a pre-op FTM, to be their Homecoming King. The school then stripped him of that title claiming he couldn't be Homecoming King because he was registered at the school as a female. The students revolted, starting a Facebook campaign in support of him. These students, in my mind, are doing more to make queer teens feel safe than 100 videos by Tim Gunn could ever do.

The world is changing. People are changing. Some more slowly than others, but they are changing. As adults we need to keep telling our stories, as parents we need to teach our kids to love everyone, as allies we need to create a safe space for queer youth to be loved unconditionally. But, to all the young people out there--take a lesson from Mona Shores Students. It's getting better. It will continue to get better. And when history is written this is not an issue you will want to be on the wrong side of. Stand up for someone so they don't have to stand alone. It could change the world, or at least someone's world.

Coming Together

My last post was a bit of a love letter about the project Embodiment: A Portrait of Queer Art In America. This past weekend I had the opportunity to participate in another great photo project by L. Weingarten called A Series of Questions. In his own words:

This ongoing body of work explores the power dynamics inherent in the questions asked of transgender, transsexual, genderqueer, gender non-conforming, and gender-variant people.

Many documentary photographic projects that deal with trans issues exploit the genders of their subjects, pointing to an "otherness" or inappropriately exoticizing their bodies. A Series of Questions seeks instead to make visible the transphobia and gender-baiting that can become part of everyday interactions and lives, forming a fuller picture of the various lived experiences. In so doing, this work contrasts with the dehumanizing approaches that predominate the images made of transgender, transsexual, genderqueer, gender non-conforming, and gender-variant people, which often focus solely on their gender or trans status, or use them to further a specific point about social construction and gender.

I was drawn to this project for the way it exposes the level of invasion trans people experience on a day to day basis. Strangers asking questions about our bodies and relationships that they would never ask anyone other than perhaps a very close friend. By turning the very personal questions outwards, the public is forced to grapple with what these questions mean and how uncomfortable they can make us.

The only other person I had modeled for in this intimate sort of way was Molly, and we had known each other for a long time prior. I was a little apprehensive about what it would be like with a stranger. Being photographed can be a really intimate experience. Good photos and photographers ask you to expose a lot of yourself. To truly participate I knew I needed to bring that to the table. The experience ended up being wonderful. We went to a park in deep South Philly (not necessarily known for it's queer friendliness) and although we got a number of stares I always felt comfortable, protected and safe. (Anyone who would like to participate in this project should contact the artist.)

The experience reminded me how great it is that there are a number of projects that are focusing on queer communities--projects looking beyond ourselves and trying to capture our worlds. Aside from us as queer people taking control of own representation, I love how these projects are forming bonds within our communities that otherwise never would have been there. I am able to meet artists and models and through my being photographed I have a shared experience with countless others.

I've noted before that transitioning is a very isolating experience. We transition (some of us more publicly than others) we feel awkward and uncomfortable and lonely and lost. Then we begin to pass and, for some of us, we're so relieved that we just want to be left alone. This happened to me and being left alone was fine, until I realized I was alone. Not literally alone, not unsupported--I had great friends, a wonderful family and an amazing partner. I just didn't have that same group around me that seemed to come out of nowhere when I moved to college and really came out publicly as a dyke.

Part of this is certainly a change in life circumstances. I don't want to go out to a street fair, get wasted and look at at people. (All those things are great, but I'm partnered and too old. I prefer to sit and get wasted in a darkened bar or my living room.) I've met other trans guys, many of whom I like a lot, but for what ever reason our paths don't cross on a regular basis and I don't feel that sense of connection.

These projects make me feel a little more connected, they help us all be part of one big picture. I recognize names, I recognize faces, I recognize people. We are making our own culture and we are beginning to do it smartly, consciously and, most importantly, we are doing it together.

The Chance to Change Everything

About 10 years ago, while studying abroad in Glasgow, Scotland, I met a wee lil' dyke named Molly. We hit it off right away. She always had her camera over her shoulder and documented many of the crazy times and personalities that mixed together to make an unforgettable year.

We stayed in touch for a while but over time lost track of each other. I never forgot her spirit or her work. When I was in New York working on my MFA I began to wonder whatever happened to her. Using the magic of Google I learned that she was also in New York getting her MFA at SVA. Our paths had crossed again and I couldn't be more pleased. We managed to find each other right as she was beginning to flush out a new project photographing queer youth. I'd been photographed by Molly before and was happy to participate again. She showed up at my apartment while I was hanging new curtains. I was wearing pajama pants, a white t-shirt, bunny slippers and a tool belt. She dug in my closet, found the perfect outfit (which still included the bunny slippers), helped me bind my breasts, gel my Mohawk and for the first time in a long time I felt happy in my body.

One peek at my facebook pictures and it becomes pretty evident that I'm not always aware of my face when I'm being photographed. Somehow Molly goes beyond the face and finds the strength, vulnerability, power, hope and pride in a person. She can find that part that's been beaten down to the point that you think it's lost. Just when you're ready to give up on it you hear "Stop! Don't move. Right there."

These photos are more than great pictures that you want to show your friends, they are more than the perfect head shot. They are a window into a world that is often forgotten. Instead of categorizing and dividing us into small groups--butch, femme, trans, bears, fat, thin, dyke, lesbian, gay, southern, east coast, west coast, leather, religious, etc--this project brings us all together into one beautiful, powerful force. A force that covers every inch of this country and has the chance to change everything. This project is more than a project, it is a movement. A movement with the chance to change everything.

There are very few things that I feel this passionately about, but, my friends, even if it's only $5 put it towards something more lasting than a beer. Its not often that your money has the chance to change the life of both a young queer in Iowa, and every queer in the country. But don't take my word for it. Watch the trailer below.

Collecting: Body, Memory and Meaning

I saved my last bras--one black and one white sports bra. They were over a year old and were stretched to the point of barely being functional. Every time I thought about replacing them I couldn't bring myself to do it. I was waiting for top surgery. Buying a bra would be admitting defeat, putting surgery off even longer. I continued to wear them and wait for the day.

The other day I was cleaning my studio and found them stuffed in a Strawbridges bag deep in the bottom of a box. When I pulled them out to look at them I thought I'd feel something. Some memory, some pain, some tears pushing behind my eyes, but I didn't. So often the objects I expect to hold meaning simply don't while those things that seem completely mundane are impossible to let go. Instead of meaning, these bras just looked like tattered, smelly bits of fabric. I rolled them back up and put them back in the bag and box. I don't need to save them but I still can't throw them away. It has been so long. Maybe I just need to wait for the memory and meaning to hit me.

I have heard of a lot of guys ceremonially burning their last bras, but I never felt the need. I guess I preferred to just wait for them to disintegrate. Like my bras, the person I was before I had surgery didn't go up in flames, but slowly changed, morphed and eventually became the person I am today. The woman slowly degraded and the bras will as well.

Collecting

I've kept all my empty Testosterone bottles. I don't know why. Somehow they feel important. A bottle I waited 25 years for, a bottle full of a substance other men make naturally.

But maybe it's better this way. Better to wait 25 years for this substance, this bottle could never be taken for granted.

After almost six years the bottles no longer symbolize manhood, but they still hold all the weight of memory. The memory of change, of accomplishment, of hope. Every injection used to hold so many emotions, but not any longer. The emotion couldn't continue. Now it is just a fact, sometimes a nuisance. But five years, ago everything changed. I kept the bottle.

When masculinity goes down the toilet.

It was the Philadelphia Eagles stadium--a shrine to masculinity. I was there to hang artwork for The Print Center. In addition to the on field pursuits, the owners of the Eagles also donate money to the arts and have local galleries and schools hang artwork in their club lounges. It was my first year on the job the first time the union workers had had a seemingly straight guy come in to hang art. Not only was I "straight," but I love football. I was excited to be there and the carpenters could tell. I got a tour of the field, got to walk through the visiting team's tunnel. I felt like one of the guys.

After a couple hours of "supervising" I had to pee. It was the off season so the stadium was pretty empty. One of the carpenters unlocked the men's room. I walked into a stall and sat down hoping no one else walks in. I still believe that men can hear that I am sitting down to pee. I quickly did my business and went to stand and pull my pants up when I hear a loud splash. I freeze, look down between my legs into the bowl and see my dick floating in the yellow water of the toilet.

My first thought was to sacrifice the dick. Just flush and run. Or just leave it? I spend what feels like forever just staring at the silicone soft pack bobbing just below the surface. I have to do something. I man up, fish my dripping penis out of the toilet and wrap it in cheap, single ply toilet paper. Then what? I knew I couldn't stuff a urine soaked soft pack in my pocket. I'd have to wash it off. I begin to panic. The stadium was empty except for the crew, but what would happen if someone walked in and saw me soaping up a soft pink penis, detached from my body, in the bathroom sink? I knew that if someone were to need the restroom, now would be the time.

I scurry to the sink. Rushing while trying to look like everything is normal. I run my dick under the painfully loud stream of water, picking off bits of toilet paper. Once I make it back to the stall I stuff it in my pants. After a few deep breaths I walk back out to the club lounge. So much for manhood.

Mom Remebers

I called my mom last night and reminded her of where we were five years ago that night. She was with me in Baltimore and took care of me, emptying my drains, changing my bandages, entertaining me. On the day of the surgery Mom and Anna arrived with me at 7am and stayed in the waiting room the entire four hours of the surgery.

Since that time my mom's memories have faded but she said she remembers two things from that experience. The first was how kind and respectful everyone at Dr. Fisher's office was. The second was that they asked me if they needed to call me a cab for me after surgery to take me back to the hotel. That was when it hit her that people often go through this surgery alone. She said her heart just hurt for them.

I tell this story not to show how amazing my mom is (though she certainly is and that's something I never take for granted). Instead I am writing this to anyone out there who has had to go through surgery alone or will have to go through surgery alone--someone is thinking of you and caring for you. When she says her heart hurts, she means it. It may be of little comfort when you are climbing into a cab alone, but I hope it will mean something when you are lying in a hotel bed and looking at a body that finally makes sense.

Body, Revisited

Five years ago today I was in Baltimore, lying on an table having my chest put back together. In honor of this milestone I have taken a story I wrote shortly after the surgery and cut it down to it's bare bones. Some of what I read had left my memory, some I will never forget. I've left what I feel are the most important parts--less story and more memory/feelings. You can read the full story here.

Anna and I sat silently in the brightly lit exam room. Neither of us knew what to talk about. I wanted to talk to Anna; tell her everything I was feeling but I couldn't open my mouth.

We were left alone to page through a notebook of surgeries, forcing me to face my expectations. I looked at the results. This was a book full of men who had had gone before me. Anna could see that they had not died, my mom could see that they weren't mutilated, and I could just look without having to face a million questions that I could not answer. What I saw was not perfection, but a natural variation. Mine would not be the chest of a man but that of a trans man.

We returned to the hotel room that night sensing the gravity of the next day, but knowing there was nothing more to say. Tomorrow night I was going to fall asleep in a body forever changed. As I tried to sleep fear welled inside me. I wanted to be comforted, told everything was going to be all right, but I couldn’t admit that to anyone.

We arrived back at the office the next morning. I was told to take off all my clothes except my boxer shorts. I sat in silence while Anna held my hand. Our palms were sweating and our fingers freezing. My nipples hardened, unaware they’d soon be sitting in a bowl of ice two feet from the rest of my body. With a flurry of tape measure and purple marker, their cold fingers moved rapidly to measure and mark my chest. I was lead down the hall into surgery feeling very alone.

Four hours later I awoke in a small dark room, freezing cold and about to throw up. Instead I forced myself to speak. “Tell Anna I didn’t die.” As my body temperature slowly returned to normal I remembered to look down at my body and saw myself for the first time. Anna appeared at the door gently asking how I felt while she rubbed my head and fed me ice chips. After no more than five minutes a nurse entered with my clothes. She wrapped my shirt around me and held out my pants for me to climb into. I’d just woken up but one look at her face told me to get dressed.

“Stand up straight,” I heard behind me. “You don’t have breasts anymore.” She had never witnessed me trying to hide a chest that didn't belong but now there was nothing left to hide. I grabbed Anna’s arm for support, cautiously put my shoulders back, and made my way to the waiting car.

Truisms

I just found Jenny Holzer's Twitter page which is really a continuation of the Truisms series that she began in 1977. (If you're not familiar with Holzer's work I highly recommend checking it out.) Anyway, I was reading through her posts and found one that particularly resonated.

"SELF-AWARENESS CAN BE CRIPPLING"

I don't think it would have been possible for me to go through life without knowing myself, but there were and still are certainly moments where I wished I could pretend I had no idea. I don't think I could have truly become myself without transitioning, but there was certainly a time where acknowledging my self-awareness was the most frightening thing I had ever faced. If I acknowledged that I knew who I was, then I would have no choice but to do something about it. That is the other part of the equation. Integrity requires that once you know yourself, you then must become yourself.

Many people don't know who they are. They are stuck going through motions, but ignorance can be bliss. For some people that is happiness and I have no problem with that. Then there are those who know who they are, what they need and where they should go, but they do nothing. I find this incredibly frustrating. Self-awareness is a ride you can't get off of. Once you start you can't stop. But if you have done the work to know yourself you've already done the difficult part. Self-awareness is crippling, but knowledge without action will paralyze.

There are still times where I want to go back, still moments where I long for it to be easier, but we tend to remember things much better than they are. It was never easy and being here is worth it.

You don't know what you've got 'til its gone

I've been incredibly lax about writing lately. I don't have any excuse other than laziness, but I do think the lack of compulsion to write has been somewhat telling of where I am in my life.

I got a new license a few months ago. I didn't realize how much legally changing my name and gender would affect me. It was something I had put off for a long time. I didn't want to deal with it, I didn't want to spend the money on it and I found it incredibly unfair that I had to do it at all. My legal name didn't come up much, it only caused the occasional inconvenience, it wasn't a big deal, it was important to recognize my female past--I came up with any number of excuses to put it off as long as possible.

The saying you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone applies to negative as well as positive. I didn't realize how much fear and anxiety I was carrying around in my back pocket until it was no longer there. I could show my license in a small Midwestern airport and not fear the questions, not wear bulky clothes to try to look female-ish, not be scared to speak. I could rent a car without fearing an awkward confrontation. I could buy beer in a small town and not fear for my physical safety.

I didn't realize the stress and fear i was carrying in my body and self, how my ID affected my self confidence and personal sense of safety. Now that its legal, my transition is completely on my terms. I can tell only who I want. Those that do not need to know can also be told, but I retain the power. My identity is truly my own.

I still had to go through and change my name with the credit cards and phone company but now I had the law on my side. I was legitimate in my request. I am still angry that the law has this much power over my gender, but I can't deny the strength and confidence this has given me.

I still get the occasional junk mail addressed to Elizabeth. I didn't realize until now that I used to actually feel embarrassed. Now I feel indignant. Indignant and a little embarrassed that I ever felt embarrassed. Transitioning will always be an incredibly emotional process but you don't know what emotional baggage you're carrying until you suddenly leave it behind. For a moment I stopped transitioning and started living. It felt really good to be boring.