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.