A Few Mostly Funny Bits

So the performance at OUT/LOUD went really well, I think. At about the third song or so I had gained some acceptable level of confidence (the power of playing a harmonica and having people actually cheer for you) and the rest was basically a party. I was also very pleased to meet and hang out with Katz of Athens Boys Choir, whose song Fagette was instrumental in affirming my identity as a fem transman, and perhaps most importantly is hilarious and contains the line, "I'm a pansexual, got my hands on the manual, a smooth Jew, a bar mitzvah party animal."

After the show I went to Ben's Judith Butler-themed birthday party, though I mostly just hung out in the garage and drank champagne with the usual types, plus Samuel, arguably my favorite person to frequently sport a skirt and a full beard. Amusing passing anecdote: One of the OUT/LOUD volunteers, whom I've known as a party acquaintance since maybe September, or in any case before I started hormones, said to me, "It was funny, one of my friends said she thought you were a transman!" I did a total double take, and said, "I AM a trans man," to which the rest of the kids chuckled semi-awkwardly and she kind of blushed. I asked her, perhaps a little too forcefully, "What did you think I was?" She kind of shyly sputtered out, "I just thought you were really femme!" It's strange to me to be consistently read as a man, even by people who should, perhaps, "know better." Even though it's what I want (in a lot of ways it one of the main points of transitioning, to get others to see you as the right gender) it takes some getting used to.

I'd also like to look at the statement, "My friend thought you were a transman!" Does this strike anyone else as a strange thing to say to someone? There's some judgment in it: "My friend noticed that you're short and barrel-chested and have a relatively high voice, so she made this assumption about your medical history!" or, "My friend heard from someone that you're trans, but I've known you for a while and haven't picked up on it myself, and it would be such an outlandish thing if you were!" Would you say to someone, "I noticed the way you were limping, and I thought you might have actually had a disability!" or "I heard you were of Puerto Rican descent, how nuts is that?" (I know race/ability/gender aren't all the same thing, but for the sake of an example.) What if I'd been a butch woman? What if I had just been a very femme ordinary dude? Would I have been justified if I'd been insulted? "Looking like a tranny", most notably on the mtf side, is a pretty common insult, even among otherwise sensible people, and even among certain circles of trans people who are wanting, for whatever reason, to be stealth. So, not to pick on this specific person and what she said, but there's more to "I thought you were trans" than meets the eye, so to speak.

At the same time, I can't say I'm not a bit pleased that this girl didn't think I was trans. I guess I just kind of assume that everyone knows I'm trans at all times, at least within my social circle, that they refer to me as, "Yeah, Russell, you know, the trans one?", that I kind of have a sign around my neck about it. I know this happens to a degree, and I don't exactly have a problem with it: I'd rather it not be the main thing people know about me, but I don't not want people to know. But I just feel a little proud, I guess, of my friends for keeping it under their trucker caps to a degree.

"IUD, SIS, stay in school, cuz it's the best"

Sorry to be remiss about blogging. There have been all sorts of happenings and distractions that needn't be aired in as silly a blog as this.

I've had a few humorous passing/not anecdotes in the past couple weeks, but they're mostly slipping my mind at the moment. I got "Hello sir...ma'am?" on the phone at work, which I ignored.

There's been a whole bonanza (I really wanted to write "banana") of furor, at least by my Emily Dickinsonish standards, about the whole Pegasissy at OUT/LOUD thing. I can't say it's not strange having pictures of my face all over town, or having a stranger tell me how great I am when I'm standing in line for a hot dog at the fashion show (which did happen.)

These times are strange times, and I'd like to place at least some of the strangeness on hormones. I recently acquired an IUD, which I've started calling a DUI in front of acquaintances with whom I'm not in the mood to discuss my uterus. As in, "I got a DUI last Monday and I felt like garbage for the next two days, and I still feel a little shaken about it." Which I do.

After a relatively pleasant seven months of being able to forget entirely that I'm in possession of a uterus, I was reminded quite solidly of it last week. So there's that dysphoria, and the strange misplaced instinctual sadness at being rendered physically incapable (if temporarily) of making a baby--not that I want one in the least, but even when you're hitting snooze on your biological clock it still wakes you up before you drift back to sleep--plus the perennial, lonely "Why am I going through all of this when I'm only sharing my bed with the cat and a pile of books?" Of course, there are good reasons. Though the Mirena has low levels of levornorgestrel (=ladymones) and on the one hand sounds counter-intuitive for my purposes, it wards off endometriosis and certain types of cancer, and doubly ensures that I don't bleed, and generally keeps my baby bag not seen and not heard. Even if I'm not putting it to the test at the moment, it lasts for 5-7 years, and I'd rather know I'm all set in the not accidentally getting knocked up department than have to wait a month to set another appointment once anything does come up.

But it's still jarring to have to think about these things, and to have that tiny extra boost of lady hormones in my system. I've been doing that thing I hate where I have really strong, devastating emotions that I know aren't especially useful or reasonable, but there's nothing I can do to make them disperse in a timely way. But perhaps this is less about being a trans man and more about being a human being. Let me quote Blink-182 when I say, "Well I guess this is growing up."

I know this is getting long, but I need to do a little meta-blogging: I'd like to address how personal this blog can be, and justify it a bit. The reason I'm doing this, besides to amuse my friends and bolster my cult of personality, is to rep and describe my trans experience, or rather a trans experience. We all know that there's a disproportionate number of images like this and this of trans people, and not enough like this. Even kind understanding open types who want to see trans people as something not strange and off-putting may not know where to turn. I don't like to spend every moment Being a Transsexual, and this blog is a way to do my part in educating the masses in a pleasantly compartmentalized way. Which is another reason for the over-sharing. By describing my shots and my uterus and my physical changes and hormonal roller coaster in depth, I'm hoping that the curious details of transitioning will all become common (at least within this small readership) knowledge, and you, dear reader, won't be tempted to ask an unsuspecting trans person how big their clitoris is, or how long they've felt this way, or whether they like to be penetrated, next time you meet such a person at a dinner party. Because, frankly, unless you would feel comfortable having similar questions asked of you, you probably shouldn't be tossing them around. Just throwing that out there.

Tranny for Money

Last night I performed as the local act with the Tranny Roadshow, a "trans person performance art extravaganza" that was coming through town. I played four songs: a Mag Fields cover that seemed especially pertinent, the always-a-hit Unicorn song, the Presidents song, and Party and Bullshit. It was the debut of Pegasissy with "male vocals," which was interesting and a little more frightening than I had anticipated. I found myself getting really nervous before the show, and involuntarily so. I'd practiced the Mag Fields song plenty, and was really excited to be singing it in the real live Stephin Merritt key, but I was nervous and I basically lost those few notes at the bottom. But people seemed to like it. I got a really good response for the Biggie cover, where I change all the n*ggas to faggots (or breeders, in the case of "when breeders wanna flex, who got the gat?) and bitches to butches and honeys to homos, but after that my set was over.

I realized that this is was the first time that I'd performed at a specifically trans event, or, really, any kind of explicitly queer event, or even (correct me if I'm wrong) with other overtly queer people, now that I think about it. I think I was a little disarmed by it. Everyone in the audience was there to see trans people perform, and EVERYONE IN THE ROOM KNEW I WAS TRANS, which I don't know, was a little frightening, or embarrassing. As I've said before, it's not because I'm ashamed of being trans or anything. It's nerve wracking enough to play a show in front of 150 people, but, I realized, the situation is kind of made psychically worse when the audience has a special interest in what your genitals look like, and is probably scrutinizing your chest for lumps.

I also got asked to play at Out/Loud, the UO's queer womyn music fest. It's kind of a last minute thing, but I guess I made such an impression that they just *have* to have me. I'm playing right before Bitch, of Bitch and Animal. I'm sure all my middle school dyke friends circa 2000 would shit their pants. I'm also playing at a queer neighborhood happening called A Gay In The Park in June,

I feel kind of odd about the timing of all this. Was I not queer enough before I transitioned? Do they just need a transfag to round out the bill? Not that I'm complaining; it will be totally wild to play in front of an actual audience on an actual stage (note to self: bring a flask and/or a couple of valium.) There's also the whole "Queer Womyn" thing. Apparently Out/Loud is for "queer women and allies of queer women's music," and I suppose I am the latter, though it hasn't been my scene in years. I've never really felt comfortable in queer women's spaces. When I was first coming out a bisexual with long hair and goth makeup, none of my older dyke friends were really taking me seriously. I remember a group of butch 17 year olds actually saying to me, "You'll never be a real dyke." Not that I am a real dyke, but maybe I'm still nursing the bruise of that first exclusion and dismissal. It's just funny to finally be enthusiastically invited into the queer womyn club now that I'm a man.

Pure Hilarity and Fashion Blogging

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.

A model gay and a bad transsexual

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.

Goddamn Time!

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.

R U Still in 2 It?

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.