So at work I somewhat frequently, maybe every few weeks, have strange homeless men come the door and try to talk to me for no real reason. They always kind of look at the signs around the doorway and say something like, "Yeah, peace and justice, I'm all about that!" Sometimes they want someone to listen to their stories, or their conspiracy theories, but mostly they just want someone to pay attention to them. This is all well and good, but it's not my job. I'm a goddamn office manager.
Today seemed like it would be one of those days. The guy called me "babe" when I opened the door, though I thought I was beyond that. Ugh, I thought, here we go again. He asked me about some flier on the bulletin board, and as I was explaining he must have rethought his "babe" position, and asked me "So, you're a woman, right? You're a girl?" I said no. He said, "You're a man?" I said, yep. He said my hair made me look like a woman and it was confusing, and I shrugged and said I guess so, though I think my new haircut is more masculine if anything, if pretty faggy. Then he said, kind of slowly backing away, "I mean, I believe whatever it is you do, consensually, is your own business, I mean hopefully not your business, but your own affair." Then he gave me a little Asian-style bow, said, "Best to you, brother," and left. There's a certain power in being able to frighten grown men with your gender.
Further on a personal note, I'm single again, which means I'm learning, yet again, how to flirt with people, or rather with whom I should reasonably flirt. Strangers at bars are becoming more likely to think I'm actually for realz a man, which is in most ways good and in some ways bad. My solution so far is to flood all concerned parties with whiskey until all gender is incomprehensible.
Also, I had the thought to add some style/fashion element to this blog, or at least to draw attention to Trans Style Icons. I'm going to call this segment "X_dressing", as in "cross-dressing," though the Style Icons won't necessarily be cross-dressing, just being trans people with wicked style.
I think there's an assumption that trans people, and especially trans men, are bad dressers. It's true that we face certain unique challenges. When I, and a lot of people, first came out, I felt pressure to wear undeniably masculine clothes to give myself an undeniably masculine image. This translated into unflattering pants, too many t-shirts at once to disguise my chest, and, I'm a bit sorry to say, trucker hats. For transmen with girlish figures (and statures) it can be hard to find men's clothes in the right size--I'm usually exiled to the little boy's section, which is good if I'm wanting to buy t-shirts with motocross racers on them, but bad if I want quality dress shirts, or anything not Mom-approved. And so, any trans man who moves beyond the valley of the over-sized dress shirts and chinos deserves special recognition in my book, or in my blog.
And so here is my love for Dean Spade of the Sylvia Riviera Law Project and Seattle University and what he does with clothes. Look at that cardigan. And those shoes. And the shoes-tie-glasses hat trick. The portly butch in the background is taking notice. Are you?
It's a persistent challenge, especially without the aid of standard male hormone levels, to put together a look that gets you read as both male and a total fox. Dean Spade does this, and does this consistently (to say nothing of his amazing activism and for low-income/POC trans people.) If we could all be such babes.
My passing has gotten out of control, as in, I'm consistently read as a dude lately. When I go out shopping with Ben, it's always, "How are you boys doing?" It's funny, too, the way people, and usually women, treat you as a gay man. There's this kind of chummy will-and-grace-ness that I think I kind of like. It makes a lot more sense to me than the sisterhood chumminess I used to get. I'm also realizing that I find it refreshing to be gendered in a clear way at all. For the past two years or so, people often didn't quite know how to address me, and I didn't know how I would be addressed or read. It's such a relief to have an agreed upon gender again, even if it is in itself a somewhat liminal one.
And, frankly, a fun one. Even if the underlying implication of being treated like a gay best friend by strangers is, "You're non-threatening, sexually neuter, not a real man," and even if the interactions tend to be pretty superficial, I like it. I like that people can feel safe enough to let their guard down around me a bit. And, truth be told, I'm not threatening, and I'm not a "real" man in a binary traditional sense, so, there you go.
I'm singing Pegasissy songs a full octave down. And actually recording again! Hopefully the new CD will at least be ready by the time I perform with the Tranny Roadshow (!!!).
Last night I was in a dismal mood, drinking wine and popping hydrocodone and smoking weed, and I gave myself a little miniature shot of T off the schedule, just as an unwise pick me up, half hoping it would jolt me a little out of my emotional throes (which it did) and half simply wanting to inject something. I think this officially makes me a "bad transsexual" and by rights means that I should get my reasonable human being card revoked. Being on T (and, maybe, being 23 and increasingly burned out on this pseudo-James Dean business) has given me a strange perspective on my usual emotional self-destructive thoughtless style. My brain is working in such a way that I can really see what I'm doing wrong, and why I do what I do, and what the sensible conclusion is. It's like I gained an extra conscience, or a boost to it. I haven't smoked a cigarette in two weeks, and besides yesterday have been pretty good about other substances. Of course, just because I can intellectually understand my little addictions and little despairs doesn't mean they affect me any less forcefully. Except for crying. I've cried exactly once (not counting tearing up slightly at Dot's funeral) since starting T, and it lasted about thirty seconds. I've even tried crying, but couldn't manage to do it. I ended up just making a face like this.
It's about time I posted something, because there have been things to report. I'll try to remember faithfully.
On the business end (always my favorite), my T dosage has been upped. I was taking .5 ccs of 200 mg/ml testosterone cypionate every two weeks, and now I'm taking it every ten days. I had my first ten-day shot on Sunday, and it seems to have preempted my mood dip quite nicely. I don't think I can recall a time when it was so relatively easy to get myself out of bed on a Monday morning.
The past few shots I've kind of wimped out and only put the needle in halfway--though it didn't hurt as much, it bled more, leaked a little oil, and didn't give me as strong an initial rush. This time I went for it and really jabbed myself, with seemingly better or more complete results. The bad thing: over the past few months I've lost what Ben called my "lady butt", meaning that my ass is now more muscle than blub. And, I've learned, muscle bruises way more readily. It's Tuesday and my butt cheek is still way bruised. TMI? Probably. Just don't slap me on the ass between now and Thursday.
Andrew laughed at me when I said I was stubbly, but I think it's legitimate. A few days ago Molly put "Kiss Molly" on the list of chores for the day, and when planted a wet smack on her cheek, she said I was stubbly. I trust her.
A few weeks ago I made some unhealthy party decisions and ended up outside Burrito Boy with some mostly ridiculous people, eating a bean and cheese I was barely coherent enough to order and chain smoking at 5:30 in the morning. Some total dolt of a hipster (who I hear is an outrageous closet case, to be anything but discreet) was asking the two girls in our party whether they'd be more likely to go for vaginal or anal fisting, in a theoretical way. When I chimed in (vaginal, at least to start off, because of the natural lube), the dolt was incredulous: "What would you know? You only have one hole! Would you, like, take it in your URETHRA?!" I was on the verge of explaining his folly when Ben made the wise suggestion that it was neither the time nor place. I guess it's a kind of triumph of passing when a drunk hipster adamantly denies that you have a vagina. I'll take what I can get.
In the (pop culture) news of the queer, I read an amusing and interesting article with Heather Cassils, the Canadian performance artist and genderqueer hottie with whom Lady Gaga makes out in the music video for "Telephone." If there weren't enough reasons to love Gaga, when Heather called out the camera men on their drooling over "girl on girl action" as not being tasteful or accurate, Gaga asked how Heather identified. Good to know that she loves the tranz as well as the gayz.
After a perfectly stellar weekend, weather-wise, it's back to grayness. I guess that old groundhog knew a thing or two.
I had some stellar passing times this weekend, in a revealing muscle tee with minimal binding, no less. I went to order new contacts at the mall wearing tight american apparel jeans, my floral print docs, and my Harley-Davidson Muscle tee with James Dean's face on it. As I said, stellar weather outside left me scantily clad and wicked femme. And I was "sirred" by the salesperson! How about that?
Recording is coming along slowly. I think I need some time (or some extra takes, at least) to get used to where my voice is. I haven't quite dropped down so much that I can sing my old songs an octave down, but I can't quite hit the high notes on the old versions any more. Bring out the capo and make due, I guess.
Also, um, Mogwai? Still a great band.
Nothing big lately, just a steady increase of mannishness, in the standard uberfem way. The neckbeard part of my beard--that is, the part that that would look especially terrible if I neglected it--is coming in with terrific force. Otherwise, still fairly babyfaced. So, unless I want to look like a teenage metalhead virgin, shaving it is.
My voice is getting pretty relatively deep, I think. It's hard for me to gauge sometimes. I'm going to start recording the new Pegasissy album this week, so I think I'll get a better sense of where my voice is when I hear it compared to it's former version. Needless to say, I can no longer sing the Roy Orbison song "Crying" like I used to.
I still am not actively passing too much, I think. Yesterday a giant Rastafarian street person stopped by CALC insisting that he was a member and stating that he was looking for lost relatives "in the philosophical sense." He asked my name, and when I said Russell, he said, "But that is man name! What is your woman name!?" I just said it was my name, and that I had to get back to my lunch.
I'm certainly a teenage boy in a lot of ways these days. My emotional responses to situations are different, and I half don't know what to do with them. I am more likely to get "pissed off", which is to say likely at all. At the same time, I realize that I'm being angry and short[-tempered], and usually calm or apologize myself out of it pretty well. Plus, I'm finally figuring out what I want to do when I grow up. For the past few months I've been leaning toward faggy high school English teacher, though as of last night, I think it will have to coincide or even be superseded by bartender. I had a realization that I should really stop worrying about having a respectable career that helps the future of tomorrow when all I want to do is stay out late and make drinks.
If anyone reading this is in the mood for a counselor, trans-related or not, I just want to give another resounding shout out to Jordan Junechul Shin. She is hilarious and pure awesome.
All kinds of gender business, I'm sure, but I'm going to keep this post marginal.
-I went to a Dress As Your Spirit Animal party as a cougar, complete with short skirt, blond wig, and visible cleavage. A very drunk girl felt my boobs and immediately fell over into a pile of broken glass.
-Ben and I went to the Gateway Mall to see a movie but ended up just wandering and taking in the madness. It's getting to the point in my transition where I actually look like a guy, more or less, and was slightly worried about harassment, as we were kind of holding hands and generally looking like a couple (as a side note: so fun to have a date at the Gateway Mall for the first time in years. He won a stuffed pikachu for me at Tilt!) On the way out, a three year old turned to her mom and said, "Mommy, he looks like the Jonas Brothers!" It's most likely that she was talking about Ben, what with his sweeping brown hair and leather jacket, but in the official version that I'm telling, she was referring to both of us.
-I actually for real have to shave every day, which probably means I should stop borrowing my roommate's razor.
-I think that's it.
Sorry there haven't been posts and posts--it's just been a slow time in gender news, I guess. The holidays--as my boss would say, "Christian holidays and the Gregorian New Year"--came and went with little trans-related to-do. I mostly did a lot of drinking and lazing around, rather, more than usual.
Today is shot number seven, and just in the nick of time. I need to talk to my RNNP about getting shots every 10 days instead of 14. A few days every other week I turn into a Bennington student again. Ugh. I thought I'd received my diploma, and thereby my ability to get through a day without multiple naps.
My legs are getting frighteningly muscular. As in there's a muscly part that juts out just above my knees. Are these glutes or something? Hamstrings? I'm lost. Alternately, my masculine gut is on the increase, though I can actually feel muscles under it, for once. I may have to stop dining exclusively on egg sandwiches and Chinese food.
My voice is getting actually pretty deep, and consistently so. Give me a call and marvel, if you haven't talked to me lately.
At the same time, I don't know that I'm passing much more than I did. Or maybe I am and am not noticing. I guess I am in little ways. I was biking to work today and I checked out some guy, or really his outfit, as he wasn't much to look at, as I rode past. Instead of the usual flirtatious-smile-back, I got the slightly-frightened-sup-dude-head-nod. Success?
I've spent today drooling over the website of Dr. Christine McGinn, who offers ftm mastectomies for a mere 6,300 smackeroos. This is a price I could be comfortable with, and her results look pretty fine. Also, she is kind of a babe. And her website is covered with butterflies. How can you not trust that? Anyone want to put me up in Philly this summer? Michelle Zauner, I'm looking at you.
And so here is my love for Dean Spade of the Sylvia Riviera Law Project and Seattle University and what he does with clothes. Look at that cardigan. And those shoes. And the shoes-tie-glasses hat trick. The portly butch in the background is taking notice. Are you?
