Evil Tranny

Except For Monday

2010-05-06T17:26:00.000-07:00

The GSA bake sale was quite a success. We raised around 200 bucks and attracted rather a lot of lesbians coming from a wedding who were thrilled that we were out there, and wanted to know all about us. So we now have a gig talking to a Lutheran church sometime in the future, to which I am sending one of the freshmen, with notes (at her request, not imposed by my megalomania) about how supporting civil rights is important.

I also completely lost my temper at said bake sale. There is a certain GSA member, we'll call him Shithead, who has repeatedly offended me, and hasn't even managed to learn that pissing off the person most likely to punch you is a bad idea. Here's what happens: Shithead will ask a reasonable question, such as "What's the distinction between transvestite and transsexual?" and I will attempt to answer him. He then proceeds to yammer about what he thinks the answer is, in the process almost always running though the greatest hits of stupid and offensive shit people think about the trans community while I am trying to answer his goddamn question. The speech pattern is irritating enough, but for what he's yammering to be offensive as well as badly timed is too much. So, what happens quite frequently is that I lose my temper completely, shriek like a lunatic and he cowers. This would be all well and good, except that then Shithead does it again. This happened at the bake sale. I came within six inches of punching the little fucker, but didn't, and have decided instead to get him ousted from the GSA for being offensive, insensitive, useless and a general obstruction to doing useful activist type things. (He's the same one who thought that we shouldn't offend the Boy Scouts, presumably out of fear for his pasty little ass. He fails to see that I am more of a threat to the unbruised state of his pasty ass when he spews conciliatory bullshit than any Boy Scout.) I have also planned to secretly have him whacked.

School is still trying to kill me. We have the US History AP test coming up, which is a stress machine. I'm attempting to remain calm, but that's difficult when surrounded by yammering classmates halfway through their fourth espresso and third nervous breakdown. I am resolved that this will not cause me to panic. I'm going to look over my notes again, get some sleep, and drink my normal amount of coffee. So there, AP test.

Summer still beckons, the eternal tease of spring persists. 36 days, including weekends, until school's out. 36 days until I can sleep normally, have free time, enjoy my job fully (because I won't be half asleep doing it), and see The Girlfriend regularly.

My eternally gullible French class persists. I managed to convince one girl at the beginning of the year that I chew on my pens because I'm trying to quit smoking. She wouldn't leave me alone about the pen-chewing (who knew it was so fascinating?), so I made shit up, as per usual. She then spent a week talking to me about how I'm too young to be smoking, so I told her I was lying. That got me left alone slightly more. Today I convinced the girl behind me, who's entirely too tightly-wound, that I'm a complete pothead. I didn't actually say anything to this effect, I merely mentioned that in order to make pot brownies, one must infuse the pot through some sort of fat in order to release the THC. I know this due to innumerable stoner friends, and the fact that the library has a copy of The Cannabis Cookbook. However, wound-too-tight-girl is convinced I know this because I'm the heir apparent to Cheech and/or Chong. I did not disabuse her of this notion, because it makes me laugh.

Evil Tranny, off to study.

The Darkness In Human Hearts

2010-04-30T18:55:00.000-07:00

I went to visit my old counselor, Ms. Sullivan, from middle school yesterday. My primary motive was to apologize for taking my general rage at the administration out on her. She said she'd forgiven me long ago, but the apology was nice. It was also nice to catch up in general, we talked about my school, her kids, and the state of activism at Stanley (still shitty, apparently).

Interestingly, I also learned from her that Susan Rusk, one of my nemeses in the administration, was "deeply affected" by my nasty email. She apparently felt hurt, and felt I'd misunderstood her motives, and not realized that she was "going to bat for me". I replied that if that's what going to bat for me is, I shudder to think what would have happened if she'd been out to get me. According to Ms. Sullivan she misunderstood me when she answered that she would make a gay student use the office bathroom rather than tell homophobic assholes that they were not allowed to harass said gay student in the bathroom. If what she said is what she meant, she's not qualified to do her job, because Ab 537 forbids tacit condoning of homophobia by an administrator. If she really misunderstood the question, she's not qualified to do her job because she's too fucking stupid. She also has been active at her new school in combating "gay" as a slur, which possibly indicates that the dumb broad learned something, at least. Even if she's sincerely repented, I stand by my previous statements, because even if she fucked me up on accident, she still fucked me up. Also, allowing me to learn her response through a third party smacks to me of cowardice.

I love when I get what I want, and in this case, I did. I at the very least hit a nerve, even if I didn't change her mind. And being the evil person I am (hey, it's in the title), revenge is often sweet.

On the subject of sweetness, the GSA is having a bake sale tomorrow. In the course of making muffins for said bake sale, I set one on fire. I had no idea one could set only one of a pan of 12 muffins on fire, but you learn something every day.

Yesterday I learned to make falafel under pressure. Dad had his hernia fixed, and his friend Sarah's been keeping an eye on him while he recovers, and Mom and the Sibling were waiting to go to a thing the Sibling was doing at school, so they were all over when I got home. They then pounced when I got in, (I'd already planned to make dinner), claiming starvation. I then made falafel, as quickly as possible, and contemplated various forms of homicide because they would not get out of the goddamn kitchen. Additionally, I hate being around Mom and Dad at the same time. They get on edge, put me on edge, and we all snipe at each other. One of the few advantages to their divorce is not having to deal with both of them at the same time, and when they mess with that, I get pissed.

Lately I've had periodic longings for mellowness. The nicest days I've had lately have all involved not wearing shoes, playing in the grass and having someone to talk to. School lacks all of these things except someone to talk to, which occurs sporadically. I long for summer. Even with work, having a chance to have actual free time on the weekends would be nice.

42 days left until school's over. I'd gladly give up every day off to shave off days between now and then. I want to be able to sleep like a normal person. I want to not be constantly frustrated. I want to see my girlfriend more than once a week. I want to be treated with respect, which happens at work, but not school. I fucking want it to be summer. Oh well.

Evil Tranny, off to court the fickle gods of mellow.

Dancing On A Friday Night

2010-04-22T20:51:00.000-07:00

So, I ended up on the GSA Network Youth Council, and at the meeting last Sunday I learned that many people experience ineffective GSAs and general apathy. This was sort of a relief, but mostly in a misery-loves-company sort of way.

The organization of the day of loudness is going rather well. I've only flown into apoplectic rage once, and that was for good reason. A certain GSA member believed we should not include mention of the Boy Scouts' discriminatory policies because some Acalanes students are Boy Scouts and it might offend them. In response to this, half the GSA shouted apoplectically, half muttered disapprovingly and general consensus was that that was completely fucking wrong and insane. The guy in question backed down, and all proceeded without incident. I apologized later for howling obscenities (something along the lines of "TAKE YOUR FUCKHEADED CONCILIATORY BULLSHIT AND GET THE FUCK OUT!"). I do not apologize for the sentiment, however. Conciliatory soft walking-on-eggshells bullshit has no place in activism.

Did Day of Silence this year. Was reminded of how shitty it feels to be silent, and ran up against the perennial problem: why are the only people being silent the ones who already know how shitty it is to be silent? I know what being closeted and oppressed and silenced feels like, thank you very much, and the people who need to empathize with that don't do Day of Silence, and correspondingly nothing changes. Add this to the general privilege and apathy rank in the air at Acalanes, and nothing good happens. It is my considered opinion that Day of Silence has ceased to be useful. Moreover, being quiet makes me cranky.

For the day of loudness I've instigated speechmaking at strategic points at school. I'm confident in the attention-getting, speechifying, yelling capabilities of about a quarter of the GSA. Which means I'm sending them out mostly in twos, and will be instigating Making Lots of Noise and Public Speaking 101 shortly. I hope they can pull it off. I'm not too worried, but timidity runs deep in many members, and it must be overcome.

Evil Tranny, off to not be silent.

I Sing The Body Electric

2010-04-07T11:44:00.000-07:00

Hello, hypothetical trans readers! Would you like to answer impertinent questions so I can put them in my play? If you would, here they are, and email the answers to me at AMattachine@gmail.com

The Body Electric

Note: please answer in as much detail as possible. More is better. If you want to write a poem, impressionistic sort of thing, go right ahead. The answers you give will be edited, polished and shaped into cohesive monologues (Think the Vagina Monologues approach). All answers are anonymous unless you say otherwise.

1. How has being transgender affected the way you see your body?

2. How has being transgender affected the way other people see your body?

3. How has being transgender affected the way you view/conduct yourself sexually, either in/with yourself or with (a) partner(s)?

4. How do people react to you when they learn you are transgender?

5. What has your experience been with the medical establishment concerning your trans-ness?

6. (Answer this question if you have had hormones) How have hormones affected you? Describe your experience in detail.

7. (Answer this question if you are not on hormones) Do you want to be on hormones? Why/why not? Describe your thoughts on them.

8. (Answer this question if you have had surgery of any kind) Describe your surgical experience in detail, from nuts and bolts to your impressions and thoughts.

9. (Answer this question if you have not had any surgery) Do you want surgery? What kind? Why? What do you think about surgery (in a trans context) in general?

10. How do you feel about your body? (Go all out on this one. Absolutely anything you think is okay here)

11. Anything else you think is important.

Every Key On The Piano

2010-04-07T11:38:00.000-07:00

I met a guy at the Rainbow Center fundraiser/talent show who wrote a song using every key on the piano because he didn't want any of them to be left out. The remarkable thing was that the song worked on its own musical merit, as well as as a concept. It was sort of beautiful and rambly.

Soon I go to organize the making of Day of Silence buttons in my living room. Again I swallow my cynicism, try to change the world through brightly coloured paper, and feed experimental baked goods to high school students. Mr. Whitman was impressed at our being active over spring break, and I resisted the urge to answer his email with "Bitch, please."

Gary Jules' "Mad World is striking me as particularly profound right now. I shouldn't think too much about that, it'll depress me, which is not conducive to button-making.

By Any Other Name

2010-04-03T19:24:00.000-07:00

It's been a year since I had top surgery as of last Tuesday. It's unfathomable to think that this time last year I was lying in bed conked out on Vicoden and in pain. Oddly, I'm sitting here in the white T-shirt I couldn't wear until I had surgery. It still makes me happy, oddly enough. Don't get me wrong, tits are awesome, just not on me. Although the scars are still huge. That's them in the picture.

I've also instigated my name change. I'm still functionally Syd, just making myself legally (eventually) Henry Malachi Sydney Salsman. Then I can go by Syd like I always have, but not have to deal with any ambiguity on my I.D., role sheets, and so on.

Still Life With Cats

2010-04-03T18:16:00.000-07:00

Hello Internet, my old friend. It's been a while of once again being hijacked by real life and neglecting the primary platform for my bloated ego.

I've become the usual host of GSA movie night, which is pretty cool. We watch interesting movies, (last night was Tokyo Godfathers), eat pizza and plot further GSA actions. Last night we plotted the Day of Silence, which I conceded to not scuttle in order to contrast the day of loudness I wanted. So we're doing the usual Day of Silence schtick, and then doing another day we're calling shOUT, where we make lots of noise and generally call attention to Alphabet people and how clearly fabulous and deserving of civil rights we are. It pleases me to no end that the consensus is that movie nights at my house are the best, both because it fuels my insecure need to have people like me and because it's helping with my coup.

I have also hit upon a solution to my stealth vs. activism problem. I am writing a play, a sort of transgender Vagina Monologues, based in my experience and the experiences of every other trans person I can pester into answering my impertinent questions. This is intended to address the weird double bind that happens to trans people: for us to discuss our own bodies with the rest of the world is seen as over-sharing, intrusive and exhibitionistic, but the same people who don't want us to tell them about our bodies on their own terms feel no qualms in asking rude, invasive questions about our bodies. So, I am going to make something that talks about our bodies, and due to my own cowardice, I will find other people to help me, and synthesize it into a play. Tentative title is The Body Electric. Any trans readers who'd like to be interviewed, let me know, my email's in that little bio thing to the right of the header.

In other news, I've been successfully vegetarian for almost a month now. I figured I'd spent too long feeling crippling guilt whenever I read about the meat industry to continue eating meat. So far it's going well, and Molly Katzen is my new best friend. I'm having fun finding new things to do with eggs, and I've avoided peanut butter fatigue for the time being. The only time steak cravings resurface is when I'm very, very hungry and about to kill and eat the nearest available food source anyway. But I have resisted, and I think I've even lost some of the perennial gut. (Which The Girlfriend calls the coffee gut, but is more like an I-take-the Julia-Child-approach-to-butter gut.)

There's a strange phenomenon that is, as far as I can tell, specific to libraries: in the eyes of the patron, every staff member is a librarian. I thought this too, until Robi explained that being a librarian is far more complicated than working in a library. The other day, a passel of small children adopted very hushed voices as I walked past with an armful of books because "a librarian's coming!". I tried to smile reassuringly, but it probably looked more like a hideous snaggletoothed grimace, due to my inability to smile on command and awful teeth. Aside from inadvertently intimidating small children, work is good. Even at its worst, it's better than school, which has become a grim struggle for my integrity and sanity that involves a lot of shouting and frustration. Oh well. It's spring break now, only a couple months to go. I did manage to write a half-way decent first draft of my Norman Mailer paper. I was actually rather proud of it. Harold Bloom I am not, but it was not complete shit, which is all I really ask for these days.

Continuing my odd relationship to pop music, I found a parody of Ke$ha's "Tik Tok" (a name and title my spellcheck is going apoplectic over), and had to look up the real video to see if the parody was funny. (It was). The real version is appalling, but catchy, and Ke$ha seems like the sort of girl I would have vainly tried to impress when I was in middle school. For some reason, my mostly-vanilla self, even more vanilla back then, was convinced that by pretending I was some bad boy from Berkeley (a charade that fooled no one), attractive, hard drinking girls would like me. This only worked once, and I'm convinced that the girl in question only liked me because I added to her alternative street cred: the messy-haired queer who worked overtime to piss off the conservative administration matched her safety-pin bedecked clothes and DIY piercing.

The other day, a friend told me that I already have an "edgy youth" to look back on. I suppose I do, on paper: the piercing, purple hair, administration-pissing-off, multiple comings-out, activism. But through all my bad Goth and baby-dyke years, I spent all my time afraid the Man could get me. I was terrified of losing the last vestiges of my goody-two-shoes self who never really existed. I was (and am) aware of the conspicuous absence of substance abuse in my rebellions, a fact my peers seem to think is unforgivable. If I'd been the type to drink and fuck too much in middle school, I might have gotten the romance of said mode of conduct out of my system, and not be wondering now what it's like. However, I've never seen any of the people I know who do/did come out any happier for having done it, and ultimately, it's nothing I want. So why the appeal?

At Acalanes, there is a sort of cult of the alternative. A predominately white middle class suburban student body finds itself idolizing things beyond the world of Lafayette but condemning their own smaller non-conforming. Thus is created the drug and alcohol culture of Acalanes, which is called by some Alcoholanes: they seek something edgy, and instead of finding say, Communism, they settle on apolitical, socially acceptable but still dangerous shitfacedness. I reject this model. I WILL NOT CONFORM TO THE ACCEPTED STANDARD OF NONCONFORMITY, GODDAMNIT.

Dad and The Sibling are off at the grandparent's for Easter. I escaped in order to visit The Girlfriend and avoid the drunken neglect of my aunt's house. This means I'm home alone, which means I can turn the music up as loud as I want and eat my apple with a knife, which appalls my father. Small pleasures.

My dad described a dream he had once, in December, where he fell into a coma and woke up in February, and he felt relieved that he wasn't responsible for the holidays and no one was mad at him or expected him to do anything. Occasionally I wish for that. In particularly dark hours, I have a fantasy that I will die in a freak accident and all my faults will be obliterated in the outpouring of grief to follow. The assignments I didn't turn in will vanish, the people I've been cruel to will say they'll remember me fondly, people who never knew me will say "He was a great kid" and I'll be remembered for what people wanted me to be, rather than what I am or was. But this thought is reserved for dark hours, and is the equivalent of standing on my desk and howling "YOU'LL ALL BE SORRY!" When I regain my senses, I banish it to the section of my brain reserved for such silliness.

Evil Tranny, off to placate the cat.

Another Point For The Fuckhead Brigade

2010-03-05T17:49:00.000-08:00

"Shiloh Jolie-Pitt's New Haircut: A Tale of Creepy Gender Politics and a Whole Lot of Fear

Brilliant. A little kid is splashed all over the cover of a fuckhead tabloid because OH MY GOD SHE HAS SHORT HAIR. Boy's clothes for a three year old girl? HORROR! Parents allowing their child freedom of expression? SHOCK!

I quote, from a Focus On The Family fuckwad quoted in the article: "Parents need to be the parents and guide their children. You don't want people asking, 'Are you a little boy or a little girl?' That will start to sink in."

This fuckwad has a point: when people belittle children over their gender expression, it "sinks in". Being picked on fucking sucks. But since when has the appropriate response been to tell the person being picked on to stop doing whatever it was that got them picked on. This "well if you weren't so weird/black/gay/trans/tall/short/purple/insert adjective here this wouldn't happen" is a ridiculous, fucking insane blame the victim mentality along the lines of a rapist saying "She was asking for it, she was wearing a short skirt." Moreover, a fucking tabloid article about how her parents are "turning her into a boy" is worse that "Are you a little boy or a little girl?".

As it is the right of women to wear short skirts if they damn well feel like it, so it is Shiloh Jolie-Pitt's right to wear whatever the hell she wants. And if she grows up to be trans or gay, more power to her. And if she doesn't, which is the more statistically likely outcome, more power to her. Hopefully this won't touch her. For the sake of three year olds everywhere, I hope not.

What the fuck, media. Another fabulous example of gender terrorism. Fuckheads.

Evil Tranny, off to empower some three year olds.

Biography Lends To Death A New Terror

2010-03-02T16:48:00.000-08:00

Whenever I'm having moral or ideological conundrums I enjoy thinking of how they would be represented in my hypothetical biography. For example, when I'm feeling particularly depressed, I think it would say in my biography: "Having struggled with depression his whole life, Salsman finally threw himself to his death from the Park Street Bridge". I have no intention of flinging myself off a bridge, but it sounds so tidy, all wrapped up like that with active verbs and all. I then get distracted tinkering with the sentence structure and forget to be depressed. Hey, whatever works.

Today's moral and ideological conundrum for my future biography, where it will be stated like this: "Salsman, while possessed of revolutionary zeal and a predilection for oratory, came into conflict with the tenets and methods of queer activism, periodically becoming so frustrated by processes that seemed to him bureaucratic and ineffective that he foreswore activism altogether until compelled by some fresh injustice back into the fold". Today Kylie from the GSA Network, which organizes the peer education workshop, came to talk to us about how that went. We talked about sparking discussion, general experiences, and how to prevent gossip afterward. Here we hit a snag, because it is human nature to gossip, especially in high school, but the knowledge that people will gossip prevents people from fully sharing their experiences in ways that could be meaningful. I couldn't bring myself to expose myself like that, but it is empirically less effective to avoid the gut punch of personal experience in trying to educate people. Emotional impact works every time, and to choose not to use my own experience, which I can speak passionately about, as an educational tool seems like bad activism.

However, if the goal of activism is to improve the lives of the oppressed, playing into the hands of the culture of oppression by eviscerating my privacy and personal history before the eyes of an English class seems counterproductive. Thus is formed the conundrum: preserve my personal happiness and privacy, or gamble with my story to possibly change minds and hearts. It's a gamble I've taken before to a limited extent, and it wasn't fun. The most devastating outcome is laying your heart and soul out to be prodded and getting only indifference. The true enemy of change is apathy, not hatred. Hatred can be fought, can be dragged out into the streets, condemned, combatted, debated with, reasoned with, but apathy ends the discussion. "I don't care" blockades change.

In fact, "I don't care" blockades almost everything. It is lack of caring that creates aforementioned culture of oppression, and the feeling familiar to a great many Alphabet people of loneliness and abandonment. Compassion and feeling for each other should be the basis of activism, not cold, analytical political machination. Hence my problem: I long to reach out and touch someone's heart and mind, but I fear for my own heart and mind if I do. Maybe it's just selfishness, an unwillingness to make sacrifices for the greater good. Who knows. I suppose the way forward is to encourage myself and others to reach out and touch someone in other ways, or similar, non-soul-eating ways.

In other news, my production of No Exit was favorably reviewed in the school paper. They said good things about the character development and engrossing portrayals, so I was proud of the cast all over again. I feel it went quite well, especially considering it was the first time I've directed alone.

"Despite his multiple mental problems and undesirable personality traits, Salsman remained determined to change the world."

Vanilla Manifesto

2010-02-13T15:20:00.000-08:00

There is a troubling perception I've experienced, that all trans people are completely asexual or complete freaks in bed due to their transness. I hold this to be patently false. I object to the notion that I am automatically much kinkier/hornier/less repressed than any other person. Nor am I an ascetic monk dedicated to pursuit of the sanitary image of masculinity. In that spirit, I present Evil Tranny's Vanilla Manifesto:

I do not appreciate being asked if I have lesbian sex.

I do not have lesbian sex.

No, you can't watch.

No, my girlfriend is not a lesbian either.

I do not want your advice on how to pretend I have a penis.

I will not tell you if I have a penis.

No, I will not show you.

I do not own any whips and chains.

No, you cannot borrow them.

I am not a complete slut.

I am not a Puritan.

I really couldn't tell you what it's like to have sex stoned.

I refuse to validate your twisted fantasy.

I would like it very much if you stopped asking me about my sex life.

Go home, get laid, and shut up.

***
Evil Tranny, not shutting up.

Hot Damn

2010-02-13T00:56:00.000-08:00

I am thoroughly sick of the implicit tranny bashing in accusations that assorted female celebrities are men. Calling, for example, Lady Gaga "really a man" both invalidates her own gender identity, which is an asshole thing to do in the first place, and buys into and perpetuates the idea that trans people are getting away with something. It perpetuates the "deceiver" model: trans people are "really" one sex pretending to be the other out of a twisted desire to trick the world/straight guys/assholes. It denies the validity of transwomen as women, transmen as men, and makes the accuser look like a complete asshole who loudmouths like me yammer on about. Then there's calling un-butch male celebrities women. This is appallingly sexist, in that it uses "woman" as an insult. Grow the fuck up, media.

The GSA did Marriage Equality Day on Thursday. I organized it, and we all dressed up like we were going to a wedding and handed out flyers. Despite my skepticism that flyers will change the world, lots of people asked me why I was wearing a suit, which enabled me to talk to them, raise awareness and other activist bullshit words. One word conspicuously absent from the activist vocabularies of the amiable freshpeople in the GSA is "agitate". They have very little concept of making a lot of noise and chaos to get a point across. They are younger, mellower and less bitter than I, and correspondingly get less worked up about these things. I am on the fence as to whether or not this is a good thing. I want them to feel their cause more than they do. I feel it too much, and my ability to do something useful is corroded by my emotional ties to the issue, but their abilities are crippled by lack of punch-in-the-gut understanding. I suppose we balance each other out. I wish I had some company over in the bitter and passionate corner.

Performances imminent for No Exit. I've been running around like a chicken with my head cut off getting everything in order. So far, no disasters. And I am so fucking proud of the cast. I was terrified this play would be too hard, that we'd all bit off way too much to chew, but we're close to pulling it off. It'll be great.

The budget cuts at school are not softened by being told about them by our appallingly attractive Bond girl principal. (She's not really a Bond girl, but in that she's sexy, was some sort of scientist, and is from Eastern Europe, she's a contender.) Class sizes up, choices down. Stress up, staff down. Same old shit. Fuck the California system, with a pineapple.

Evil Tranny, shaken, not stirred.

No Existentialism In The Sorting Room

2010-02-06T18:43:00.000-08:00

Every time I sit down and try to sort out my values, hopes, dreams, etc. I find myself editing, or reworking so I have, on paper, the values, hopes, dreams, etc. I wish I had instead of the ones I really do. Most of the values that appeal to me intellectually are based in mercy, forgiveness, closeness to nature and other things from my Berkeley childhood and John Denver songs. How I act in real life tends to be based in retribution, ambition and arrogance. Reconciling my mind with my desire for messy revenge and all-consuming power is difficult, so here I am telling the Internet about it.

I'm trying to learn to whittle competently. So far, in my attempts to whittle a fish, I have made a vaguely fish-shaped block of wood and cut the fuck out of my thumb. It is fun though, when not bleeding.

My job has become the most rewarding part of my life these last few weeks. With school trying to kill me, No Exit raising my blood pressure and experiencing a profound frustration with living with my family, working makes me feel better. It feels productive when very little else does. Also, almost anything I have to do at work is based in making order out of chaos, which I find soothing. It's also nice to be treated with respect by the people I work with. At school, the worst is assumed of everyone, and in self-defense we become the worst of ourselves. At work, a basic level of respect is enough to make me display the best of myself. Or at least something better than the worst.

For some reason, the temptation to take up smoking has increased. No idea why. I resist, out of being a wimp more than anything else. I do crazy things sometimes, but inhaling smoke is not one of them. I hope.

Red, As In Necks, Flags And Ronald Reagan's Tie

2010-01-29T19:21:00.000-08:00

I have been accused recently of being a redneck and/or trashy. I'm not sure how I feel about this. The argument for my redneck status is based on my love of chicken livers, football and Dolly Parton. However, I have the barest idea of the basic functioning of a farm, I hate Budweiser, and read The New Yorker. There's a lot to be valued of "redneck" values: family, loyalty, simple pleasures, honesty, hard work. I reject the anti-intellectual strain, and the blind hatred of minorities. Moreover, I haven't had my neck sunburned since I was 12.

It is now that I shall punt, and quote Walt Whitman: "Do I contradict myself? Very well, I contradict myself. I am vast, I contain multitudes."

The more we read about socialist and labor movements in history class, the more it occurs to me that socialism is the perfect system on paper. It's a shit system in real life, at least at the national level, because it assumes that human nature is charitable rather than self-serving, but on a small scale it seems to work. The best example of this I've seen is a bakery called Nabalom in Berkeley. It's a co-op, they're very ecologically conscious, and they make egg-bread cheese rolls, which are exactly what they sound like, and delicious.

I did the Peer Education Workshops at school for the GSA. The basic premise is this: two students from the GSA who've been trained in facilitation (which is functionally political correctness and public speaking) go into freshman English classes and talk to them about homophobia, transphobia, etc. Yesterday and today, my partner, Carol, who is sublimely organized, and I, who am loud went to two classes. The first one, we ran through how not to be a dick to Alphabet People (LGBT etc), talked about AB537, and spent a very long time prodding recalcitrant freshmen into forming complete sentences. However, said recalcitrant freshmen, at the very least, now know that they can't get away with being dicks to Alphabet People. Today was better. The class talked more, we got them going about how people who are different are looked down on, and how this is bad. They were a good group, and my faith in the freshmen class was restored.

One part of the workshop involved sharing "personal stories" about our experiences with anti-Alphabet People sentiment. As Carol and I are both straight, we didn't really fit the "at least one facilitator should be LGBTQ-identified" as stated on the packet we read from, but I was not about to go into classes full of strangers and invite comment on my genitals. So I told them about the debacle of starting a GSA at Stanley and how much harm a homophobic institution can do. I think I got their attention, with only a little bit of shouting. I was really impressed with Carol, who is usually very quiet, as she totally carried most of the workshop. All in all, a good experience.

One odd part of the workshop was this: instead of having to call someone out on a homophobic assumption, I called someone out on an anti-Christian assumption. The girl in question said something along these lines: "People who agree with anti-gay stuff are usually Christians." Now, I'm no Bible thumper, I'm a lapsed Episcopalian who finds God sporadically, but her comment offended me. Much as not all gay men are fabulous hairdressers, not all Christians are asshole bigots. Me included. I suppose my beliefs are mostly Christian. They're not very Episcopalian, in that I have never shouted "TEA AND CAKE OR DEATH", but I do believe in the general principles. And Lord knows, I got the work ethic. In any case, for every Jerry Falwell, there's a decent human being striving for Christ-like conduct.

Alphabet People and allies cannot afford to bash on others if we want to not be bashed. This seems obvious, but then, so do a lot of things that aren't.

Evil Tranny, off to thump some Bibles.

Real Men Eat Quiche

2010-01-16T21:24:00.000-08:00

One of the fun and exciting side effects of going from WASPy teenage female to WASPy teenage male is that I have suddenly become the image of The Man. If I walk into a restaurant, with few exceptions, I get treated like a white man. Capitalist Pigs on BART see in me the image of their sons and nod in recognition. Women won't meet my eyes on the street. Mothers regard me with suspicion when I smile at their children. In class, my leadership abilities are assumed rather than proven. My speech patterns are no longer bossy or bitchy, just assertive. What the fuck is up with our culture when we treat people so fundamentally differently for one minute factor of their entire existence. That's not to say that gender is easily ignored. The transgender suicide rate alone speaks to how important this shit is. As the single biggest cultural marker we have, I guess it is important, even if it shouldn't be.

An example: the Head Librarian, Susan, told me my haircut looked good the other day. As a woman in power, her telling her 17 year old subordinate such a thing was minor complimentary small-talk. The male boss who said exactly the same words to a 17 year old student aide would most likely have been drawn and quartered. I do not think Susan should be drawn and quartered. I think we should balance our culture the fuck out so men and women can casually talk to each other without psycho politics.

That is not to say I am unaware of the genders of the people I talk to. For example, in the presence of attractive women, my intelligence is on par with a particularly dim potato and I babble like a moron. But I recognize this as my own stupidity/hormones/flaw, and do not blame said women. It seems a large amount of justification for these things follows ''she had it coming" sort of rhetoric.

As the visual representation of The Man, I feel an extra helping of guilt when said attractive women are any less WASPy than I am. Being of German descent, I feel like a leering hypocritical Nazi fucktard for ogling a Jewish girl. Being of Southern descent, I feel like a lecherous hypocritcal, anti-misegenation-but-screws-slaves plantation fucktard ogling a black girl. The real answer here is that I think too much.

At work there are some new people: Charles, who has a ridiculous haircut and is very quiet, and Robert, who is very attractive but thinks I'm a woman. Oh well. At least they're both nice. Sometimes work is the only satisfying part of my life. It doesn't make me depressed, lonely, frustrated or in pain. Just tired, which is okay.

Finals are next week. Shouldn't be too bad, in that I'm not a complete idiot. I'll also have more time to cook and such. Dad lets me make dinner on Tuesday and Thursday, and I'm having far too much fun. Last week was fritatta and mushroom turnovers, both of which were quite good. This week is experiments in quiche, or "egg and cheese pie", to psyche out The Sibling. He thinks he hates quiche.

Cold

2010-01-05T17:16:00.000-08:00

I live in a house without central heating. Consequently, it becomes freezing cold at the slightest provocation, and won't warm up ever. At this point it might be warmer outside. I've resorted to wearing multiple sweaters and huddling by the dinky little radiator. Typing is a bit rough, but that's okay. At least the cats are warm.

Being cold magnifies loneliness and hunger. The Girlfriend is back in Davis, and I'm realizing how much I'd gotten used to her being around. School creates maximal possible human contact with minimal humans I actually want to contact, which is a profoundly lonely experience. I do have friends there, but the vast majority of my "peers" (which is a teacher word I hesitate to use) make me feel homicidal on a good day, and like running away and hiding on bad days. Add homework, which I'm currently ignoring in hopes that it will go away (hasn't worked yet), and you have the steaming pile of shit that is my current high school experience. Plus, getting up early, not getting to eat enough, and being fucking freezing all day. This is the best of all possible worlds.

Rehearsal for No Exit in half an hour. Time to test my ostensible directorial clout, as we have to finish blocking and get the new Garcin/Cradeau caught up. I'm not letting anyone go home until we're blocked. We'll see how well that works.

The most persistent emotion I've felt over the last few months is a profound desire to run away to a cave and never rejoin civilization. I'll learn to eat bugs and grass and become a crazy hermit. It's beginning to seem like the best possible option. I would at least not have to argue with shitheads on a regular basis, and maybe I'd be able to sleep properly for once. I can't run off to a cave, though, because I'm still clinging to the mostly futile idea that I'm worth anything to society, and that I might be able to contribute something to the world.

The school system functions to destroy work ethics. It encourages achievement of a goal at any cost, instead of teaching the value of working to enrich oneself and one's community. It teaches first grade students to work hard and do their best, and then when they get to high school it decides that's not enough, that it doesn't matter how hard you work, you must meet certain arbitrary markers of success. I do not hold with this forcing the choice of success over happiness. I refuse to accept status over character, success over happiness, martyrdom over true achievement, and "capitalism" over ethics. It's wrong, it's bad for the world, bad for the children we ostensibly teach to be good people, and leads to nothing but empty greed, dishonesty and unhappiness. No Harvard diploma can guarantee you happiness. No six figure salary will make your dreams come true. NO ONE KNOWS THE ANSWERS TO LIFE. Least of all the school system. Pretending otherwise is bullshit.

I feel like the kid playing dodgeball who's been hit a couple too many times, is being humiliated and picked on, and yells "I don't wanna play anymore!" But it's a lot harder to get out of all this shit than recess dodgeball.

Hey, they were right about one thing: dodgeball is like real life. Motherfuckers.

Bust Out

2010-01-01T23:19:00.001-08:00

School is trying to kill me. Shitloads of work, and so little of it involves actual learning. Call me crazy, but I figured out how to learn by second grade. So were the Educational Overlords to say to me, "learn this" I could, and I could learn it well, and probably enjoy myself. But no, they say "do this shit, and do it my way, or you will die poor and hungry in the gutter."

So far, I've taken some notes on The Deer Park, finished an essay I'm not at all proud of but can't figure out how to fix/improve/make not a steaming pile of shit. Now there's just a debate I didn't know was Monday, and motherfucking chemistry. Motherfucker.

I need to get some tattoos or something. Maybe ritual scarring. Something that hurts and leaves a mark. A visual "don't fuck up" or something. I think it says something about me that I have two feet of scars on my chest and I still think I need more.

Twisted as it is, I often feel like I need to suffer more than I do to deserve how well my life goes. I've been very statistically lucky. When I look at other people like me, I realize how lucky I am and it scares me. Fuck, even teenagers in general, forget people like me.

Mr. Whitman wants me to give the GSA a pep talk before we do those damn peer education workshops. He says they look up to me. I hope they never end up like me. I'm bitter and cranky and evil, entirely because I got fucked over. They look up to my experience, but I hope they don't think they need it. Nobody should get hurt like I did, nobody should feel like I've felt, and honestly, I don't think anyone should look up to me. I'm evil.

Listening to The Cherry Poppin' Daddies much too loud. It's sort of helping. But then, it's clear I shouldn't be allowed near the Internet when I can't sleep.

Evil Tranny, off to bang my head into the Internet.

Shiny Fresh Decade

2010-01-01T14:19:00.000-08:00

There is apparently raging, foaming-at-the-mouth debate about what the now-past decade should be called. The name gaining steam seems to be "the aughts", which sounds needlessly pretentious to me, and, according to the New Yorker is based on a linguistic error in which "naught" meaning nothing, was corrupted to "aught". "The naughties" is much too cutesy, "the zeros" is boring, but functional, and "the nadas" just sounds ridiculous. Therefore, I propose we call the last decade "those ten years" and be done with it.

It seems pointless for me to here reflect on the last decade, in that at its beginning I was only 7. Most of the significant events of my life, therefore, have happened in the last decade. I suppose I could reflect on significant events from my life in the last ten years, but that seems maudlin and revisionist, in that my version of events vs. what actually happened will always be a little bit different. This is not to say I am a liar, but that my point of view is inherently subjective, as, I suppose, it should be.

Spent New Year's Eve with The Girlfriend and her family, which was fun. Her brother set off fireworks, and we watched The Two Towers. I forget what a good movie it is. Also long. Took BART home, which was an adventure, in that it was full of lunatic drunk people and my train got rerouted, so I had to get off at 12th street instead of Fruitvale. My step-father, who I've resolved to be nicer to, came to pick me up, saving me the trouble of finding a bus to Alameda at 1 in the morning. The resolution to be nicer to my step-father is my only one. Anything else I needed to do anyway, and the new year will not help me accomplish them.

Work is so much nicer when school doesn't precede it. I'm less tired, less cranky, and there's no homework hanging over my head. I do have homework, because the Educational Overlords dislike relaxation and spending time with family and friends, but I've still got two days to do it, and if I buckle down, it's six hours work at the very most.

An exception to the Educational Overlords is my Spanish teacher, Egg. (Yes, that is really what we call him. His name is Mr. Eggertson, shortened to Egg.) He told us on the last day before break that we should not think about Spanish at all, relax, spend time with our families, enjoy ourselves and come back ready to learn. He then gave us no homework at all. Other teachers gave the same spiel, and then gave two-hour assignments. Sometimes they do this because they have to, and they're trying to be nice, but sometimes I'd prefer they were just evil about it, so we could feel less lied to. It adds a level of hypocritical pretend mercy to an already unpleasant task.

I had coffee with a friend from preschool I re-met through the Internet. When we were in preschool, he was a girl. This makes him the third person I knew when I was little to be trans. There must be something in the water. He's turned out to be pretty cool, and it was nice to talk to someone my own age who gets the whole trans thing. It makes me feel less crazy to talk to someone else who worries about the things I worry about, and is having the same problems I've had. I'm beginning to think non-trans people really just don't get it the same way trans people do. It seems like you have to live it to understand it fully, and even then you probably won't. The Girlfriend and I had a conversation about theoretical children in the future (this being way, way in the future), and I said I refuse to contribute my genes to any child of any kind. On the off-chance that this is in some way genetic, that whatever's fucked up in my DNA could be transmitted to my kids, I refuse to risk it. Nobody should have to deal with this. Not even people I hate.

My production of No Exit has descended into a clusterfuck, floundered and been rescued in the last three weeks. My Garcin bailed on me for another production, and I spent weeks frantically scrambling to find a replacement. I found one, or rather Wendy/Estelle found one for me, and the day was saved. We resume rehearsals shortly, and, assuming everyone's actually off book like they say they are, all will be well. That said, I'm still waiting for my blood pressure to stabilize.

Experiments in the kitchen have yielded several variations on grilled cheese sandwiches, and no explosions.

Evil Tranny, off to grill some sandwiches.

Christmas With Gary Gilmore

2009-12-21T14:36:00.001-08:00

This picture is me (right) and my brother (left) about three years ago, when I had hair and he had a cool hat. We were a band called The Woodshed Spiders for a while, until we ran out of traditional songs we both knew how to play.

Norman Mailer is one of my favourite writers. Therefore I selected him as the American author I would like to write a paper on for my English class. Foolishly, the first work of his I chose to read was The Executioner's Song which is 1,019 pages long. However, the psycho cramming of 1,019 pages into two days was accomplished with minimal brain damage. I confess that by the end, I just wanted Gary to hurry up and fucking die. Now I'm reading The Deer Park, which is much shorter, and a nicer read.

The true song of death is unquestionably sung by ABBA. During the very darkest period of my life, when a suicidal girlfriend, gender dysphoria, the administration of my middle school and other mysterious chemical forces in my brain attempted to destroy me, all I could listen to was an ABBA compilation I bought. It started as a misguided attempt to make myself feel better, and became a compulsion. If you listen to the words, a great many ABBA songs are about saying goodbye, or being lonely and pathetic. Distinctly cold comfort to the depressed 13 year old.

It is here that I will admit that I enjoy the holidays. I like the lights, the less egregiously cutesy music, (although, really, there are way too many horrible versions of "Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer), and making cookies. Also, at work one of the aides (Anne, who is indefatigable to a fault) decorated the mechanical carts to look like reindeer, which was entertaining. I'm not so down with the materialism stuff, but then, I do like giving and recieveing presents. My family mostly gives books and music, so that's always fun.

Today The Sibling and I made coffee cake, which was successful, and crepes, which were less so. We don't have a griddle, and making them in a pan involves less control than I'm entirely comfortable with. That said, they were tasty with cinnamon, and The Sibling and I have agreed to practice more. I count all cooking that involves both my brother and no grease fires a success.

The Girlfriend is in town for all of break, which means, in addition to the joy of no school, I actually have someone to spend damp winter evenings with. Scmaltzy as it is, I miss her like hell when she's gone, and I feel a little bit like a puppy when she gets back: "Oh my god! You're here! I'm so glad to see you! I thought you were gone forever! Scratch my ears!"

All in all, life is better without school. On school days, I get up early and bust my ass trying to learn things while being lied to by people who are in power. Lots of fucking fun. Now, all I have to do is go to work, which I enjoy, and keep The Sibling from exploding the house. Life is good.

Evil Tranny, off to check on The Sibling

Dementors

2009-11-13T20:01:00.000-08:00

Demons from times before are making themselves felt. Weird, self-destructive yearnings resurge, and are beaten down by reading Geek Love. Loneliness presses. Bad poetry is written. Emptiness persists, and is assuaged by conversation. Malaise prevails, and life goes on.

I have called suicide hotlines twice in my lifetime. Both times I found myself reassuring the person on the other end of the line. I became so worried that they not freak out that I felt better to make them feel better. There's got to be something fucked up in that. At least it works.

I'm not sure how I feel about To Write Love On Her Arms. Their aim of suicide prevention seems unquestionably honorable, but I always hear about them from bathos-ridden teenagers who cling to the idea of being self-destructive to have a sense of self at all. Not to say that there are no truly self-destructive teenagers, but it seems to be emotion-porn in many cases. That said, these people need help. Much more so than functional depressives like myself.

I've never lived in thrall to my depression. Calling it depression is misleading, as that makes it sound like a brain problem instead of being down because shit happens. Shit happens, I get down, I fix the shit, I feel better. Bada bing. There is nothing more infuriating than being treated like a crazy person for being down because your DNA is fucked. That seems like a legitimate thing to be pissed/sad/down/depressed about. That said, being depressed fucking sucks, so I try to avoid it.

I've learned to live with my dementors. And chocolate does help.

The Idiot

2009-11-13T19:53:00.000-08:00

Ian Curtis hanged himself while listening to Iggy Pop's The Idiot. When I learned this I realized that when I am dead I would like my friends and family to remember what I was listening to when I died. So here is my list of albums to keep circulating through if I'm dying of a terminal disease or something:

In Rainbows by Radiohead (Sweet, depressing, and reminds me of working on Romeo and Juliet two summers ago. "Videotape" especially)

The Wall by Pink Floyd (It just seems right)

I Often Dream of Trains by Robyn Hitchcock (Soothing, of my childhood. This one if my family and friends are sitting by my deathbed.)

Lust For Life by Iggy Pop (As a tribute to Ian Curtis, and for irony's sake)

Nerve Meter by The Nerve Meter (My dad's friend Will's band. Fucking brilliant, and it'll give me something to think about on the way out)

Vision Thing by The Sisters of Mercy (Music to slit your wrists to. Also, good for general angst.)

Abba: Gold by Abba (In case of suicide only. To fortify my resolve to do myself in.)

All that aside, I have no intention of dying anytime soon. I'm not out of things to say yet.

Outrage And Ire

2009-11-11T21:10:00.000-08:00

http://www.pamshouseblend.com/diary/13730/is-it-transphobia-or-just-bad-journalism-at-seventeen-magazine

Seventeen magazine has published an article entitled "My Boyfriend Turned Out To Be A Girl" about a girl who was so surprised to find out her boyfriend was transgender that she felt the need to be a vapid twat and tell Seventeen all about it, so they could write a sensationalized, bullshit article and tell all the twelve year old girls who read their magazine that trannies are shitty, lying boyfriends who will ruin your life.

What the fuck, Seventeen. Shape the fuck up. This is outrageous, wrong, and shitty. It furthers the objectification of trans people as the sum of their incongruous parts, shows no sensitivity to pronoun/name/etc issues and is generally full of vapid twatery. They should stick to fucking lip gloss in the future.

Evil Tranny, off to malign some lipgloss

Traditions

2009-10-29T19:33:00.000-07:00

I've been mulling over the lack of traditional traditions in my life, so to remind myself that I do actually have them, here they are:

-Football on Thanksgiving

-Listening to Horses while studying

-The Salsman Family Chocolate Birthday Cake

-Reading all the cartoons first in The New Yorker

-Messing with my teachers' minds

-Correcting the misuse of "less" and "fewer"

-Reading To Kill A Mockingbird on a bus in Europe

-Eating red meat before a play (this one may count as a superstition)

The Dollhouse

2009-10-28T20:33:00.000-07:00

The single thing that most makes me want to believe in God is a Dolly Parton song called "Travelin' Through". She wrote it for Transamerica, and it speaks to the most universal, heavy, honorable journey of any kind of human being. This is the verse that reminds me that I still believe in some vestige of God:

"God made me for a reason and nothing is in vain
Redemption comes in many shapes with many kinds of pain
Oh sweet Jesus if you're listening, keep me ever close to you
As I'm stumblin', tumblin', wonderin', as I'm travelin' through"

I love the idea that we're all hear to do something, be something, love someone. That is, admittedly at odds with my semi-Existentialist outlook, but, in the words of Walt Whitman: "I contradict myself. I am vast. I contain multitudes." Dolly Parton forces me to acknowledge the faithful in my inner multitude. I should trust them more often.

I have managed to get No Exit cast, and rehearsals are imminent. The cast is solid, and all will be well. I'm excited. We've also been made the youth arm of the theatre we perform at, so we get to do three shows a year. Next up is whatever Music Guru decides to direct, and then I think Midsummer Night's Dream.

Also started an independent paper at school, on the theory that a state-run paper is not free press. First issue in November.

Radio Conspiracy

2009-10-21T20:41:00.000-07:00

The radio likes to taunt me. Years ago, when I was in love with a Jewish dancer, it played "Brown-Eyed Girl" all the time. When I got dumped, it played nothing but sappy Frank Sinatraish songs. When I'm feeling stressed and cranky, it plays "Under Pressure". Once in a while, when I'm feeling low and effeminate, it decides on "Man! I Feel Like A Woman!". Currently, I'm missing The Girlfriend something awful, so it's playing every sweet/sad/sappy Aretha Franklin song known to man. It's outdone itself with "The Nearness of You", which was on earlier.

Any more Everly Brothers and someone gets shot. I'll go all Elvis on the radio.

I was unaware that I know all the words to "Suspicious Minds" until I began singing along.

Look At Me I'm In Love Again

2009-10-21T20:19:00.000-07:00

I was listening to my dad's records today, and I realized that all the people whose voices I was hearing are dead. The magic of recording is that Fats Domino's voice is in my living room. I would like someone to listen to me decades after I die, and think about how different the world is now, and how much the same.

When I met The Girlfriend, I was crippled by a broken heart and an over-active imagination, and had never heard "I'm In Love Again". But if I had, I would have felt exactly like that song sounds when we fell in love. So I've retro-activly imposed a soundtrack on my life that was written by a man who I have never met and never will, and who will most likely die before I have children.

I managed to be productive today. Got my papers in to the library, got all my homework done and the house tidied up. I even made a cake. Admittedly, it was cake mix cake, but it was quite good, and enough ice cream will fix anything.

There's nothing quite as lonely as a house full of the smell of chocolate, Fats Domino and a mellow evening breeze when you're all by yourself. I was on the brink of waylaying the next person who walked by and inviting them in for tea when my dad got home. Having no one to talk to but the dog gets old, no matter how sweet the dog is. So if you're passing through, drop me a line. I have cake.

Evil Tranny, off to seek company

The Norton Anthology Of American Literature

2009-10-17T15:27:00.000-07:00

The Norton Anthology is a giant book with tiny type and appallingly thin pages I am required to schlep about and read things out of. It may be the only book other than math books I've ever met that I didn't like. Don't get me wrong, I like the reading, just not the book itself. Currently we're reading Edgar Allen Poe, and all of his stories involve shutting people up in walls and floors. According to my mother, this is due to Poe's pathological fear of being buried alive, which seems like a rational fear to me.

I've started going to GSA, in order to make my voice heard and hammer on desks. It's now being run by amiable and somewhat effective fresh-persons instead of the last administration who were responsible for the general lameness that drove me off before. Said amiable fresh-persons look at me like I'm a legless veteran of a war fought before they were born, but I suppose that's to be expected. I also embarrassed the teacher sponsor, who I will here call Mr. Whitman (he's an English teacher). He's one of those semi-sanctimonious more-politically-correct-than-thou types who spends all his time personally atoning for the sins of straight white men, and he was going on about how the district has become educated about transgender people. He said it was due to my envelope-pushing that this happened, in part, which was flattering, but through this whole thing he called me she. I called him on it, and he turned twelve shades of purple and dithered. He meant no harm, and he's a good guy, ultimately doing the right thing, but sometimes he gets so smarmy I enjoy putting him in his place.

I've also proposed an alternative to the Day of Silence: Not-Shutting-Up Day. A day of being aggressively pro LGBTetc., calling people on their homophobic fuckheadedness and generally being active and cool, instead of Day of Silence which seems passive and useless. Mr. Whitman posited that the idea behind Day of Silence was to contrast the other out, loud, spiffy things the GSA theoretically does for the rest of the year, and to show that there are people in the world who cannot do out, loud, spiffy things of this nature. I rebutted that we should take it upon ourselves to stand up for those people until they can stand up for themselves. As to the question of contrast, although I did not say this to Mr. Whitman, all the GSA is known for is Day of Silence. We need to be known for something other than Let's-Shut-The-Fuck-Up Day.

I got hired at the library. I'm currently "being flexible", as they're in the midst of moving/packing/dithering. But eventually I'll be getting paid to work in a building full of books, which is more than I could have ever asked for in a first job. Also puttering along preparing for No Exit auditions. I am confident.

Evil Tranny, off to contemplate existential theatre

The Untied Way

2009-09-27T09:23:00.000-07:00

John Carrol of the San Fransisco Chronicle has a method of Christmas giving called the Untied Way. Instead of giving to a charity or Salvation Army guy, take slightly more money than you are comfortable with out of your bank account in 20s. Then, every time someone solicits you for money, give them a 20 until you're out.

It is in this spirit that I propose Untied Activism. No marching, no clever chants, no political lobbies, just a little bit of change in your everyday life. Here's how it works: Whenever you hear someone say something nasty about trans (substitute your favourite oppressed minority here) people, call them on it. If you are a trans person, you can use the, "look, I'm a person, not scary" argument. If you're not, you can use me as an example of someone you know who is trans, and a person, and not scary. Make them feel shame, but as nicely as possible. In this way, we can all make people a little better, or at least a little quieter.

Now, I doubt I will have much success adhering to this. I tend to get angry and reject education people in favour of shouting at them. But I am trying. You try with me, and maybe it'll work.

Evil Tranny, off to practice not shouting

Closure?

2009-09-19T20:45:00.000-07:00

I wrote some emails to Shirley Haberfeld, a now retired counselor and Susan Rusk, previous vice-principal, of Stanley Middle School. These two were the ones responsible for the clusterfuck of my coming out, and they both did me serious harm.

Here's what I wrote:

Hello Susan,

I would like you to know how much you have hurt one of the students you've had under your control. It is due in part to you that I can no longer trust the school system to have my best interest at heart. You revealed to me how entrenched your bigoted, homophobic, narrow-minded mindset was several years ago when you told me you would have enabled prejudicial thinking were a gay student to have asked you for help. You were so willing to please a silent majority that you allowed a student to get hurt. You showed me how little you cared about doing what was right when you told me you would not support a student's right to use a bathroom despite other people's political leanings. You showed me the depths to which you would sink to appease bigoted parents in our community. You showed me that you were, in short, unfit to teach in a public school that made claims of inclusion and respect for all. You violated the principles of respect, integrity and tolerance you preached to the students of Stanley Middle School on a daily basis. I sincerely hope there are no transgender students at Burton Valley, because if there are, I am confident you will treat them just as badly, just as narrow-mindedly, and you will sell them out to the PTA before the PTA even asks you to. So for the sake of your students, I pray that they're just like you.

Yours,

Syd Salsman.

---

Hello Shirley,

It is often said that the intention of a school counseling department is to help the students of a particular school to feel more secure, safe and able to learn and flourish. You, being until recently a school counselor, must be aware of this. You, it can therefore be deduced, have spent your career attempting to help students feel safe, secure and able to learn and flourish.

But you haven't done that, Shirley. I cannot speak for everyone who you have counseled, but I can say that during our dealings I never felt as though you wanted to help me, or cared in the slightest whether I was safe, secure, or able to learn and flourish. In fact, you actively worked against the very things that would have allowed me to learn and flourish. You went beyond simple failure to help and actually caused harm to a student. I have been hurt by you, and your concern only for the feelings of a silent majority instead of the child who came to you for help. It is because of you that I can no longer trust the school system to have my best interest at heart. I trusted you, Shirley, and you betrayed that trust and hurt me.

It was with great relief that I learned of your retirement. I am comforted by the fact that no one like me will ever be hurt by you again. You have failed to do your job, and in the process, you have caused deep and lasting harm to one of the very people you were ostensibly there to protect.

Yours,

Syd Salsman

I'm hoping that hits a nerve, or at least makes them really think about how horrible they were. Evil in a school is the most nefarious of all, as children are especially vulnerable to the violence certain people can do.

Touchdown

2009-09-19T18:57:00.000-07:00

I haven't the faintest idea whether or not this is a photoshop job or actual graffiti, but it is entertaining. I had no idea such a distinguished personage was on My Team.

Speaking of My Team, I am thoroughly tired of people who designate products/protests/interests/etc. as "LGBT" and then proceed to only address the concerns/cultural mindset/interests of LGB persons. Now, I have no beef with the vast majority of LGB people, at least not any more so that I do with all people, but really, if you're going to say LGBT, there better damn well be some T in there. A case in point: the Northern Sun catalog was delivered to my door the other day. It has a section of buttons with witty sayings labelled "LGBT". It contains a great many buttons with witty sayings about being gay, lesbian and bisexual, and not a damn thing about being transgender. So why does it say LGBT? Oh, right, because Northern Sun is run by sanctimonious, pseudo-progressive twats too busy patting themselves on the back about their use of a politically correct acronym to check that all the damn letters were represented. I resent that My Team gets a letter in the acronym for no purpose other than so that stupid self-righteous shitheads can feel that they're wide-minded. (Now, that's uncharitable and bitchy, but bear in mind, I'm not Pleasant Unbiased Tranny.)

However, My Team found an ally last week. I work at the Lafayette Library as a volunteer, and possibly an employee come October. Said library is where a great many kids from the elementary and middle schools down the street come to wait for their parents and hang out after school. The vast majority of them are no worse than the usual library patron, whose greatest sin is an inability to put things back on shelves, but once in a while there's a true paragon of dumbfuckery. A certain herd of said paragons of dumbfuckery decided that they should have a whispered conversation (in my hearing) about which gender I belonged to. The high point of this conversation was "But if she was a girl, wouldn't she have boobs?" and general snickering. I told them to knock it off, and found ways to avoid the half of the library in which they were sitting for the rest of the afternoon. I ground my teeth into stumps, but managed to avoid losing my temper and my job. The next day, I talked to Susan, the Head Librarian. I said that I felt humiliated and uncomfortable at having my anatomy discussed in such a way, and she said, to paraphrase: "Well, this engages every mamma bear instinct in me" and said, in so many words, that she'd throw the book at them. I haven't seen them since, but I'm comforted to think that I have her on my side. She's a force to be reckoned with, and it's nice to have authority on my side.

This incident got me thinking, both about the goodness of many human beings when given a chance, and why exactly I got so angry to begin with. After musing, swearing, and discussion with my father I have determined the following: I assume the worst of people who don't deserve it, because assuming anything more seems dangerous due to Past Demons. I expected no evil of Susan, of course, but I was afraid that I would be further embarrassed if I asked for help. The last time I handled it by myself, I beat up a guy on the track team, and was reprimanded and told to have a little faith in the Powers That Be. As it turns out, that was true. Also, the basis of my anger at having my gender/tits/lack thereof discussed is the very human aversion to humiliation and objectification. No one likes being treated like an animal in the zoo to be gawked at and whispered about. No one deserves that feeling that your faults are laid out to be pointed and laughed at. That's not specific to being trans, that's human. Trans is just an easy thing for people to point and laugh at.

On to less heavy-duty thoughts. Biking to school has been mostly good, if tiring. I have thighs of steel and buns of pain. School itself is alright, mostly time and energy consuming. Occasionally it sends me off on a "why should I do what other people tell me to just because they tell me to" tear, but then I realize that I usually would do what they tell me to even if they didn't tell me to. That said, I resent the idea that an entire institution of teachers know better than I do just because they're teachers. They do know better much of the time, but not because of their status. There are teachers who patently do not know any better about jack shit than I do, and yet, I'm expected to defer to them? Bullshit.

The Girlfriend left for Davis yesterday. I miss her. I shall be making friends with the Gods Of Amtrak in order to visit her on the weekends.

Evil Tranny, off to make a sacrifice to the Gods Of Amtrak.

Call Me Alexander

2009-08-20T21:14:00.000-07:00

I had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Dragged my ass out of bed to work, took BART in to Lafayette, worked for about an hour in which I almost threw up twice, told Susan (The Head Librarian) I needed to go lie down, and left. Went to the elementary school next door, where I read too much Charles Bukowski, dozed and generally felt shitty. Spent some time with The Girlfriend, who is a saint for putting up with me. Dragged my ass home on BART. Now I'm home, still a bit sick, but doing better.

I've given up on vegetarianism. What was supposed to be a fling that evolved into a relationship turned out to be an awkward one-night stand. The call of the cheese steak is too strong for this poor omnivore. My relationship with peanut butter has improved since quitting vegetarianism, in that it is no longer my only source of protein. Vegetables are tasty and virtuous, but there's nothing quite like a big bloody steak to make you feel like the top of the food chain. I am told by my father that my habit of eating steak as rare as possible is barbaric, but it's so damn good. I think I'm much more at peace with my meat eating than he is.

School starts next Wednesday. Back into the morass of hormones, homework, and sleep-deprivation. To add to the hopelessness, The Girlfriend and assorted other friends (including, but not limited to The Cow Haikuist and Token Good-At-Math Friend). On the plus side, I got the classes I wanted, and I have English with my friend The Music Guru.

Buddy Holly may have the weirdest voice I've ever heard. He sounds like he's choking or crying half the time. And he's oddly mellow and sad at the same time. Very cool, but very weird.

Evil Tranny, off to rave on.

Camphor

2009-08-13T20:59:00.000-07:00

Well, I''ve calmed down. Liberal application of Mexican food, BenGay and taking pictures helped. No more running in circles, and I smell pleasantly of camphor. Although I'm now a bit cold.

Crying In My Beer

2009-08-13T17:35:00.000-07:00

I've realized why I don't like television. It's because I only watch it when depressed or very nearly so, so I associate it with being sweaty, weepy, hopeless, et cetera. Today I left work early, did some homework, and then turned on the TV. Watched "The F Word", which is soothing, although even now the sound of Gordon Ramsay reminds me of being conked out on Vicoden and feeling distinctly post-surgical. Then I flipped channels and ended up watching Walmart-type country music videos, including a profoundly depressing one by Reba MacEntire about seeing one's kids and ex husband (with whom the singer is still in love) "every other weekend". This prodded the bitter-child-of-divorce node, so I wept like a small child and proceeded to feel disgusted by myself. Eventually I took a shower, cleaned, and am feeling better. I have also come up with the perfect name for such a country song: "Can't Afford A Beer To Cry In". I'll get one of those cowboy-hat-and-generic-twang types on it right away.

I've been thinking about the narcissism needed to write a blog. It's rather a large assumption that anyone gives a shit about what I have to say. I usually don't say much. What I watched on television is of little importance to the greater world. I advance no one by telling the Internet about my run-in with depressing country music. And yet, I will continue, because I am arrogant, and because I am an American, and therefore convinced far too much of my own worth and the value of the individual in general, despite my disdain for most of the people I meet, because I can't get it through my head that these people are just like me, they're just as fucked up, they fall in love just as hard, they eat breakfast, tie their shoes, fight with their moms, and I don't care, but I expect them to give a shit about what I watched on TV today. I have committed the original American sin, of standing on a hilltop and shrieking to the world that I am important.

I shelved a book the other day about Hugh Hefner and his "reshaping the American Dream". I, for one, have always thought the American Dream involved naked women and a lack of censorship. Maybe that came along with Playboy, but I am not convinced. The American Dream consists of never being satisfied. Of Playboy instead of love, CliffsNotes instead of To Kill A Mockingbird, a thousand Myspace points of light instead of an actual human being looking at you. We were designed to always want more, and we always do. This is the American Dream. My unhappiness is patriotic. I know Major Tom's a junkie, but he's still my hero.

I wish I drank, or smoked pot, or had some addiction that was the mellow kind instead of caffeine, which just amps me up until my hands shake. There's a lot to be said for that, but it's not really something one goes to to unwind. But I can't, because I'm a good boy, and the price is greater than the benefits. So I'll be a good boy, a too-tight boy, boy on the edge. Call it perfectionism or energy, and I can market myself out, bend over and never hold still, and I can have everything.

I need to calm down. The above ridiculousness is a side effect of coming out of depression. First the lethargy, then the explosion of cynical insanity, then on to normal life. I'll run myself in circles for a little while, and it'll go away.

Evil Tranny, off to run in circles.

Manifesto?

2009-08-09T20:04:00.000-07:00

I fear I'm in danger of becoming a militant bicyclist. Not the kind that wears brightly coloured spandex clothing, but the kind that refuses to drive anywhere and makes you feel guilty about your SUV. Now, I'm from Berkeley, where being such a person is a completely respectable goal, and now I live in Lafayette, a place full of people who oppose this goal. I tend to be contrary, and proud of my hometown, so it seems only a matter of time before I start going to Critical Mass and eating tofu. (The tofu will never happen. I hate tofu. Boiled, baked, fried, covered in sugar, soy sauce or bacon, I hate it.)

Tofu-based vitriol aside, I'm considering vegetarianism. Not considering it enough to give up bacon just yet, but thinking about it. I think I'll give it a three week trial, and then see how I feel about it. I've been vegetarian before, for about six months, and I rather liked it, despite occasional steak cravings and eating my body weight in peanut butter. But then my mother met her husband, a man devoted to beef, and who somehow manages to ignore vegetables and fruit almost entirely. She then proceeded to fill the house with things like chorizo, and my resolve crumbled. However, I am now living mostly with Dad, who likes vegetarian food quite a bit, and who is not a tyrant about grocery shopping. I shall attempt non-flesh-eatingness. (That said, I will still not eat tofu. Never ever ever.)

Julie and Julia was good. Sweet, and full of hunger-inducing food close-ups. Go see it, and take a date. It filled me with most unvegetarianish thoughts, wonder at Meryl Streep, and annoyance at the old ladies behind me, who would not shut up.

Evil Tranny, off to not think about boeuf bourguignon.

Silly Love Songs

2009-08-07T16:14:00.000-07:00

My musical taste has taken a turn for the sentimental. I can't figure out why. It's a bit worrying.

This is my cat, Emily, in her usual place of wherever I don't want her to be.

Give Me All Your Lupins

2009-08-07T12:20:00.000-07:00

Today I went out to run errands. I need a new bike helmet, as my old one died slowly and painfully of age, bird shit and hot coffee. So, off I pedaled (yes, without a helmet) to Sharp, a local bike shop. There I found a headlight, which was good, and an assortment of helmets starting at one hundred and thirty dollars. I had forty in my bank account. So, I purchased said headlight and pedaled off to Hank and Frank, where the cheapest helmet was about fifty dollars. In despair, I tried the skate shop, where a very nice and possibly slightly inebriated young man told me the cheapest they had were thirty five dollars. So I gave up, bought some white duct tape (to further assist in the not-getting-flattened-in-the-dark campaign) and went home, helmetless. Now, will someone explain to me why glorified pieces of styrofoam that one straps to one's head in the rather futile attempt to stave off messy death should one encounter a belligerent automobile should cost more than a bicycle? Where I come from, people ride bikes for political or environmental reasons, or because they can't afford to do otherwise. Apparently, here, people ride bikes for some mysterious and expensive reason that shafts the poor and/or environmentally conscious. Fucking highway robbery.

Today is the day of catching up on things I've been meaning to do all week. Hence the errands. Also laundry, and packing for Mom's. I'm with her this weekend, which should be a nice change of pace from work, aimless wandering and getting up soul-crushingly early to go running with Amelia, the Tall and Motivational. She's generally an excellent person, and good running conversation, but damn, my legs are tired. On the plus side, my fat pasty ass is somewhat less fat, although still pasty. I'm coming to enjoy running, although it's still hard, and brutal first thing in the morning.

Going to see Julie and Julia tonight. Should be entertaining, and hey, Meryl Streep. Review to follow tomorrow.

Evil Tranny, off to redistribute the wealth

Return Of The Girlfriend

2009-08-04T15:03:00.000-07:00

The Girlfriend has returned from Far-Off Places. All is right with the world. This is her blog, which I shall plug because it is my duty, and she's clever. http://somethingwittyandclever-sam.blogspot.com/

Sherbert Lemons

2009-08-02T17:01:00.000-07:00

I am opposed to homework on principle. Kids spend hours a day in school, somewhere they're required to be, that they have no say in, where abuse of power runs rampant, and legitimate joys like learning and reading are subjegated to grades and the whims of the budget. And then we get to go home and do 1-3 hours of more work, because seven or eight hours in which there's buckets of wasted time wasn't enough? Oy. Summer homework is just sadistic. But I must do it in order to take Honors English and AP US History, so as to avoid the more blatant forms of idiocy.

However, I am enjoying eating lemon drops (which I try to refer to as "sherbert lemons" as much as possible, because that's what Dumbledore calls them) and listening to Frank Sinatra, who is oddly soothing in the face of inane questions about Jamestown. I got the burrito I've been craving, and managed to bash my way through a third of the English homework and about an eigth of the history. I hate days when I have to be productive. I've no objection to voluntary productivity, it's productivity by force I mind. But then, Sundays are for sleeping in, doing homework and laundry, and having slightly too much time on one's hands.

Lately I've had a strange longing for either a gun or a motorcycle. Something heavy and black and loud that can be used to do serious damage. Not that I intend any damage, I just like the potential for damage involved. A sledgehammer would do, perhaps I'll look for Dad's in the garage.

When I grow up I want to be a local eccentric. Maybe a librarian, or a shopkeeper, or lawyer, but someone who bikes around town, plays ukulele or accordian in a band, wears odd socks and knows a lot about slightly odd things.

Evil Tranny, off to practice ukulele

So Very Soft And Easygoing

2009-07-26T21:13:00.000-07:00

For the last few summers, I've been going to the CalShakes theatre camp. This year I didn't, I'm working at the library instead, but I went to see the shows the camp did at the end. They were most excellent, the Sibling was an awesome Macduff, and everything was generally fabulous. I got to see my friends who were in the last show afterward, and they made me feel greatly loved, to the point of being tackled. I was flattered to no end, particularly to hear that the director (Susannah Martin, who I want to be when I grow up) had been telling the intern about me. I never thought so many people would like me so much.

I realized that camp is full of the kind of life that involves exclamation points and laughing and crying, and the library is full of the kind of life that involves semicolons and long discussions of Sartre and tasteful sweaters. I think I'd not realized I missed the exclamation points until I lived only among the semicolons. I still don't think I want to live exclusively with either, but I've achieved a lovely mix at the moment. That's a very long way to say I'm actually rather happy with my life right now. Who would have thought?

The library is a wonderful place to work. I get to work with books and the people who love them all day, the librarians are nice, I'm reading tons, and all is right with the world. Or that world, at least.

I wish the Girlfriend would come back from Oregon. I miss her.

Evil Tranny, off to find a tasteful sweater

Transamerica

2009-07-24T09:09:00.000-07:00

Apparently, we trans folks aren't supposed to like the movie Transamerica. Admittedly, I'm a guy, from the "wrong" end of the spectrum to identify with the specifics, but the general was very true to my experiences. I liked Transamerica. I've heard/read many trans women get very angry about this movie reinforcing bullshit stereotypes of women, trans or otherwise, what with the make-up, tripping in heels, and so forth. But that's not what the movie's about. It's not focused on Bree (Felicity Huffman) transitioning. Her transition is a factor, but it's used as a counterpoint to her son's journey.

I think, more than Bree is a reinforcement of negative stereotypes, she's a portrait of what those stereotypes do to people. She's locked into them, partially because she wants to be, and partially because the rest of the world wants her to be, and she has to square with that the way people in real life do every day. Every trans person I've ever talked to has had to sort through the stereotypes, expectations and so on to figure out who they really want to be. Some of them decide they like wearing make-up, or fixing cars, or drinking fruity cocktails, or any number of things. But to say that Transamerica portrays trans women as blindly seeking a stereotype to latch onto both misses the point of the movie and trivializes the very real feeling of wanting to fit in and having to sort through that.

The real problem here is that no one can make a movie with a trans person in it without the movie becoming about Transgender Issues. I don't think a movie where there's a character who just happens to be trans will be possible until real people can just happen to be trans without being chased with a tire iron/subjected to discussion about diversity/offered suggestions about being more manly/womanly. That said, someday, I want to see a movie about trans people where surgery doesn't have to be discussed, and that isn't fucking Boys Don't Cry. Maybe I'll make one.

Run! Teenage Poetry!

2009-07-23T21:40:00.000-07:00

Vivaldi

And away we go
And again
All four seasons
And again
And I think if I hear another concerto
I will punch the Big Nurse.

Skirts

There's peaches and lemonade,
Sweat and eating breakfast at 11 o'clock,
Camping, T-shirts, barbecue,
But it's not summer until the short skirts come out,
And casual flesh makes everything seem calmer,
Less hectic, because if you don't have to dress like a
Grown-up, nothing too stressful will be happening today.

Borrowed

It's not my Joy Division cd
That's been playing for three nights running
While I drink coffee and eat tangerines,
It belongs to my brother's friend's mother,
The kind of attractive one, with short hair and biker boots.
I don't know how I ended up with it,
But it's here, in the cd player, and has been for three long
Nights, and I'm so light inside, from the caffeine
And the sweet sour prick of tangerine juice under my fingernails,
The cd player says dance dance dance to the radio
Which makes just as much sense as anything else.
I do not want to give this cd back, for
At least another three nights.

The Idiot

When I die I want people to
Remember what music was playing.

Roy Orbison

Loneliness is nothing like Roy Orbison makes it sound
It's not so poetic, so sweet, or
A consistent state of pining or loss,
A night alone doesn't just pass
In the time you say dum dum dum dum de do wah.
So it's foolish, when he comes warbling onto the radio to think
That he's lonely just like me.

Cliché

I am sixteen, white, middle class, in high school
And I am sitting in my room writing bad poetry
About loneliness while listening to The Smiths
And I'd go out tonight, but I haven't got a stitch to wear.

Porn

There's a point, right after the bodies
Start to look like people again
And the tunnel vision of my left hand fades
That I feel profoundly stupid,
Staring at the things on my screen

In Just Seven Days, I Can Make You A Man

2009-07-23T21:08:00.000-07:00

Today I am going to make a list of things that make me feel manly, to stroke my own ego:

-Carrying heavy objects

-Eating dead animals (I suppose live ones would be more manly, but I don't like oysters)

-Drinking black coffee

-My girlfriend

-Irish Spring

-Stomping on things

-Football

-Wearing a tie (and people taking me more seriously because of it)

-Every single time a girl says something like "You are an artist/poet?"

-Reading Norman Mailer

-Bacon

-Loud music

-Buying condoms

-Boxer shorts

Working Friends

2009-07-18T12:00:00.000-07:00

Life's become mellow. There's time for lemonade and playing ukulele and painting, long conversations and sleeping in. That said, the time off I have is better given that I'm working. As Primus said, the thing about being unemployed is that the weekends don't seem so special, except that you get to see your working friends. Having a (volunteer) job means the weekend's still special, working friends or otherwise.

So, I emailed Buck Angel, the famous FTM porn star, to tell him I think he's cool and he should carry on. This is not to say I particularly care about his porn itself, but the fact that it (and he) exist(s) is a remarkable thing, and, I think, a good one. He shows trans men to be attractive, sexual beings, which is something we need in the world. That said, use of the word "mangina" as though it were erotic is wrong. Bad and wrong. He wrote back, said he was glad I think he's cool and that he does good work. Seems like a nice guy. Rather sexy too.

I learned two wonderful new expressions today. The first, from German: "to play the injured liverwurst", which means to act pissy or huffy. The second, Australian, "a large verandah over the toy shop", which is the best possible euphemism for "beer belly" I've ever heard. I have therefore embarked on a quest to use them in conversation as much as possible.

I've finally been able to write poetry again, although it's taken a dramatic turn from the previous angst-plus-religious-imagery-plus-five-syllable-word-for-despair theme. Now it's much more Billy-Collins-has-listened-to-too-much-Joy-Division. I feel much less of a need to go show it to everyone I know as well. That said, I'll probably post it up here.

Evil Tranny, off to look up a five syllable word for despair

This Cat's On A Hot Tin Roof

2009-06-27T21:00:00.000-07:00

There's something very sexy about swing music and its like. Maybe it's the horn section, or the sleazy lyrics, or the nifty hats. But there's definitely something in there that's much sexier than every song I've ever seen teenagers bump and grind to. (I think by using the phrase "bump and grind" I have just shown myself to be hopelessly out of touch.) The Cherry Poppin' Daddies are currently in heavy rotation in my CD player, and as a result I've had "The Ding Dong Daddy of the D-Car Line" stuck in my head intermittently for the last three weeks. Not a bad thing, just weird when shelving books.

My mom finds the name Cherry Poppin' Daddies appalling. I can't quite make out why. In that "daddy" at the time the band is referring to was used like the Latino "papi", so there's no real incest angle. And last I checked, to "pop a cherry" was a somewhat vulgar phrase, but not a really offensive one. My best guess is that it's a little bit vulgar and very racy, and therefore she is offended. Which seems unlike her, as she tends to tell the best dirty jokes of the people I know.

I learned that racquet ball is very therapeutic today. Nothing like smacking a little rubber thing around an echoey room to mellow you out. Plus, it makes the best noise, and you can wail on the damn thing without any harm done. I think they should have it in psych wards. They've already got the shiny echoey rooms, why not?

I've hit a wall in my painting. My inability to do jack shit with colour is fucking with me, as I can think of all kinds of things to paint, but can't get to the actual painting part, as none of my colour schemes work with the overall composition. For some reason, all recent drawings have involved a floating semi-anatomical heart, sometimes on a string like a balloon. It's either deep or stupid, and I can't figure out which.

I've noticed my blazers fit much better post surgery. No more awkward lumps. This is a good thing, in that I have to get all dressed up and go to church tomorrow. Rest assured, I attend only so I get to go out to breakfast afterward.

Evil Tranny, off to do some sinning

The Ants Go Marching One By One

2009-06-26T21:41:00.000-07:00

I'd put some clever variant of "tranny" in the title instead of "ants", but I can't think of anything that fits. If you can, let me know.

Went to the Trans March in San Francisco today. It was fun, consisted mostly of sitting in a sunny park listening to very earnest rappers of questionable talent and political speeches about progress and "not fucking taking it anymore". All things I am in favour of. I also met the English Aunt, whose nieces are friends of mine. She is indeed as cool as they said she was, and seemed greatly entertained by the sign language interpreter.

To any deaf/friend-of-deaf/deaf-sensitive readers, do know that I intend no disrespect by giggling at the sign language interpreter. I giggle due to the words being translated, mostly with joy that there are people out there who know how to sign things like "health initiative" and "no-op Two Spirit Delta blues drag king transman".

All in all, it was enjoyable. I forget how much I like looking around and seeing so many people like me. And the people-watching is just spectacular. So many bright colours, people wandering around in their underwear, cute puppies, stoned hippies. And of course, the obligatory post-chest-op transmen with their shirts off. I did not do this, as I'm still not supposed to expose my chest to direct sunlight, and besides, I was with a pack of teenage girls, another teenage boy, and the English Aunt, none of whom, I am sure, want to see my hairy gut. And if they do, I don't want to know about it.

I marched a bit, took BART home, and had dinner at a cheap Chinese place near BART. It was alright, I was mostly struck by how much food they give you for five bucks. There was nearly a pound of chow mein alone. Though, given the tastiness of chow mein, that's just fine.

Evil Tranny, off for a chow mein induced doze.

Discotanzen? Ja, Klasse.

2009-06-25T19:31:00.000-07:00

Two points to anyone who knows what the title means.

Worked at the Alameda Library today. The volunteer herder there is a very nice older guy named Mike, who reminds me a little bit of Truman Capote. I think it's the glasses. I shelved my body weight in children's books, then Arnold Schwarzenegger's body weight in children's books, and then some DVDs and CDs. Shelving DVDs makes me hate library patrons who don't put things back where they came from. I realize that the Dewey Decimal system is arbitrary and a bit confusing, but it's still in numerical order. 306.7 still comes before 306.8. So, should you go to the library, take out a non-fiction DVD, then decide you don't want it, have pity on the volunteers and librarians and PUT IT BACK WHERE YOU FOUND IT. CDs are fun though, because the library has strange ideas about which genres certain bands and musicians belong to. For instance, Tom Waits is filed under Pop, and the Pouges' album Rum, Sodomy and the Lash is in Folk. Peter, Paul and Mary are mortified, I'm sure.

I also ran around the Lafayette reservoir with my friend Elizabeth. She's one of the best human beings I know, and excellent at keeping up morale in the face of hills and sore legs. She's going off to college in September, and I'll miss her, as I'll have precious few people to compare David Bowie albums with. Despite the pain in my legs and heat, it was fun, although I got bit by a wasp.

I'm having problems with Dashiell Hammet. I finished Red Harvest, and have moved on to the second novel in the collection, in which the same detective works for a couple who have a black servant. Said black servant, named Minnie, is continually refered to as "yellow" or "the mulatto" or "dark meat". This makes me uncomfortable, and interferes with an otherwise enjoyable read. Add that to Raymond Chandler's whole bit with the detective calling people "queens" and "fairies" left and right in The Big Sleep, and it ruins good escapist literature. Curse these men of their time.

Going to the Trans March in San Francisco tomorrow. Should be fun, if only for the angry performance art punk bands who sing songs about sodomizing the patriarchy with the purple dildo of understanding and organic vegetables. The bands are fun, but the sign language interpreters are more fun. Also, a bevy of friends and their family members, including a much-talked-of English Aunt, are coming.

Evil Tranny, off to put a Band-Aid on a wasp bite

Deus Ex Machina

2009-06-24T15:56:00.000-07:00

My, it has been a while. My apologies, I was hijacked by real life, and had to neglect the Internet for the world.

This summer I'm working as a volunteer at the Lafayette and Alameda libraries. I ride my bike to get to them, and take BART in between Lafayette and Alameda when necessary. Between the library work and the bike, I've developed a complex relationship with the alphabet, a dislike of library patrons who can't put things back where they found them, and very sore legs. I've resumed running at least a mile every morning in an attempt to vanquish my Hawaiian-food-and-Philly-cheesesteak gut, but this means biking while tired, which is less than wonderful. Still, much nicer than walking.

I'd forgotten how much affection I can have for a machine. The bike I ride is my mom's old blue Schwinn. It's the bicycle equivalent of a Volkswagon, and about as much fun to carry up stairs in a BART station, but utterly reliable. Although I realized today, while on BART, that with my books, jacket, bag of things I forgot at Mom's and had to pick up, and lunch, I had almost my entire life with me. This was a bit distressing, as it hammered home my feeling of perpetually camping. Nothing like having half your underwear 20 miles away to make you feel not at home. Still, having my own mobility has made this a little better, and I'm attempting to stay with Dad more, as it feels more like home.

Working at the library has caused me to find, and therefore read, an unusually large volume of hardboiled detective fiction. I've just finished The Big Sleep, and am most of the way through Red Harvest. The book version of The Big Sleep is vastly superior to the movie, as censorship cut out the sex-related plot points that make much of it make sense. The only thing the movie has over the book is Humphrey Bogart.

Went to the Northern California Pirate Festival on the weekend, with Dad and Sibling. It was fun, full of weird drunk people as per usual, and an entertaining pirate rock band called The Pirates Charles. It was nice to wear a poofy white shirt without a binder, altough I got my neck and chest ridiculously sunburnt, and my striped socks have gone AWOL.

All in all, life is much better without school. I'm sleeping somewhat normally, getting more exercise, eating like a human being instead of a robot, and having time to read. After this week I'll be less lonely, as my girlfriend will be back from San Diego.

Evil Tranny, off to hardboil some detectives...

My Tender Transgender Heart

2009-05-31T21:42:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OSn01MLcUXA

This is a song from the movie Better Than Chocolate, which is a cute, sort of benignly quirky lesbian romantic comedy. In it, Judy, a trans woman, sings about not being "a fucking drag queen". It makes me laugh every time, and it's so true.

O Brave New World, That Has Such People In It!

2009-05-27T17:46:00.000-07:00

I just finished up a production of the Tempest I completely neglected to mention on this blog at all, in which I played Prospero and co-directed. I was very proud of it, and the whole cast, but damn, it was hard. Still, it's the Shakespeare play dearest to my heart. It was the first one I ever did, about 4 or 5 years ago, and it has some of the most beautiful language in all of his plays. Between the "we are such stuff as dreams are made on" monologue and the oft-quoted "O brave new world", it has almost all my favourite passages. The only ones it doesn't have, that I can think of off the top of my head, are the "all the world's a stage" speech in As You Like It and this line from Romeo and Juliet:

"And when he dies, cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of Heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun." -Juliet, somewhere in Act 3

I checked out a book on word origins the other day, and learned something neat about the words "cliche" and "stereotype". They both originally referred to pre-made chunks of text used by printers and typesetters that could be inserted without setting the individual letters. They then morphed into trite, worn phrases and limiting negative archetypes, respectively, thus proving yet another saying is born of metaphor.

Life without boobs is excellent. I can swim, run, put on T-shirts, change in public, all with greater ease than before. And nothing hurts anymore, unless I smack straight into the scars.

A friend of mine, Grace, who is tall, funny, and possessed of excellent fashion sense, sent me an email the other day in response to my resending the link to this blog that made me smile. She told me that she's always thought of me as a manly guy, and that she hopes I'll be less insecure, because I don't have anything to worry about on that front. It made me feel good, and included an amusing reference to a local water-polo-playing-Lacoste-wearing-future-date-raping-frat-boy type as "afraid of his own dick", which caused me to giggle uncontrollably.

Evil Tranny, off to giggle some more.

Boys Don't Cry

2009-05-06T20:05:00.000-07:00

This movie is inevitable if one is a trans guy. It's the only movie with a trans guy character that's at all well known, although many people say it's about lesbians, which never fails to annoy me. Brandon Teena was a guy. Period.

However, Boys Don't Cry might be the most freaky, depressing, scary, nightmare-causing movie ever, particularly if you're young, trans and scared. There's something positve to show the youth, a trans guy gets brutally raped and murdered by people he thought were his friends. Of all the true stories about trans guys, all of which include edgy, Oscar-getting envelope-pushing posibilities, why pick the one with rape and murder? Oh yeah, it gets the Academy's attention. And goes on to terrify every transgender boy who ever saw it. Well done, Hollywood. There's a whole pack of teenagers who didn't sleep for a week who would like to speak to you.

It's just too easy to be invisible. We can blend in much better (in general) than trans women, so we get used to it. When we're invisible, people only pay attention when we get raped and murdered. Therefore, we must make them pay the fuck attention before we get raped and murdered.

Why is this not obvious? Why does our culture allow a whole section of people to be shown as victims of rape and murder and nothing else? Where is the recognition of all the trans men who don't get raped and murdered? Why don't we treat the people who rape and murder trans guys the way we treat people who rape and murder everyone else?

WHY DO I HAVE TO ASK THESE QUESTIONS. THE ANSWERS ARE FUCKING OBVIOUS. GET THE FUCK WITH IT, SOCIETY.

We're your kids too, Society. We don't just spring up out of the ground. We have moms and dads and annoying little brothers. We played with Legos when we were kids. We coloured with crayons in elementary school. We ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We read books and went to soccer practice and were in school plays, we got good grades and bad grades and had detention just like everybody else. I have much more in common with you, Allegorical Personification of Society, than with a trans guy who lives in New York, plays in a band and goes to night school. And yet, night-school-band-guy and I are seen as part of one team that stands in opposition to you, Allegorical Personification of Society.

Just once, I'd like people to think I'm not normal because of something I chose to do.

Adorable Kitten

2009-05-03T19:04:00.000-07:00

This is an adorable kitten. It soothes my crankiness.

Aunt Flo Must Die

2009-05-03T18:09:00.000-07:00

My uterus is being evil again. It has decided to gush blood and generally be a bitch. It is on the list of anatomical evils to be destroyed. If my parents knew I thought like this, they'd fly into a panic and dither on about how I shouldn't hate my body and hormones and surgeries are big decisions and so on. So is choosing to be unhappy for the rest of your life. Dysphoria will do that to you. Give my mom a dick, see how she'd feel about it then.

I don't hate my body. I hate my uterus and its attendant tubes and such, because they cause me pain. This seems reasonable to me. It hurts, I don't like it. Gee, wouldn't it be great if there was a way to fix it? There is? Sign me up, Doc! It's not that complicated. The proceedures themselves are, and are not to be handled lightly, but this isn't handling them lightly, this is being sure of what I want. To wit: I want to be as little biologically female as possible. Q.E.D., no boobs, no reproductive anatomy is a great way to start. Half way there.

This doesn't make me insane, does it? I think it just makes me goal directed. My family is less convinced. Perhaps they should try living like this for a day, just a day, and see how it makes them feel. Maybe then they'd understand, and stop deciding I'm nuts.

Hot And Cold

2009-05-03T17:32:00.000-07:00

I am having a distressing feeling of identification with the Katy Perry song "Hot and Cold". Hey, it's catchy, and was on the radio. But anyway, I am feeling like the girl, with the boy in question, who is accused of being hot and then cold, being my okayness with being trans in today's world.

To wit:

You're hot then you're cold (Shemale porn good! Actual tranny bad!)

You're yes then you're no (Diversity good! But not when it's a tranny, that's too diverse)

You're in then you're out (Symbolism obvious.)

You're up and you're down (Protect, nurture, love everybody! Except the trannies. Freaks)

You're wrong when it's right (See that twat with the fire extinguisher, and the guys who killed Brandon Teena, and on and on and on...)

It's black and it's white (No flexibility! Blue and pink for everyone!)

We fight, we break up (Fuck you, world, I'm going to live in a cave)

We kiss, we make up (Oh wait, there are no coffee machines in caves)

This is what being an almost invisible part of society will do to you. It's a bit like being a Mccarthy-era Communist investigator. The signs are everywhere. Throw in caffeine, an analytical personality and some teen angst and you've got yourself a Syd Salsman, here to dissect all your vapid pop songs for secret meanings known only to The Cabal Of Super Secret Tranny Evil Geniuses.

Living so long with no one like me to look up to has taken its toll on some level. The same thing happens to gay kids, in my experience, where they're forced to make up what they should grow up to be totally from scratch and in secret. Nowadays, many gay kids get to meet and befriend sensible gay adults, who they can see eye-to-eye with and will keep them from growing up thinking all grownups are evil and don't understand. It allows them to see someone like them who made it out of being a teenager alive. This is much harder with trans kids. We're forced into believing that we're so different from everybody else that no one will love us or help us if they know the truth. We hide, we lie, we cave in on ourselves. Or, we make ourselves perfect every way we can, so we don't have to look at the broken part. It's a shitty way to live for anybody, and the last thing anyone needs in high school or middle school. Someday, I think I want to start a queer version of the Big Brothers, Big Sisters program. Maybe that will be what I do for those who come after me.

The problem with this would be that I wouldn't want to fall into the trap of teaching people to define themselves by their sexuality/gender identity/whatever. I find I'm happiest when I'm not thinking about it, or worried about it. I hope I'd be able to teach that, instead of just handing off the chip on my shoulder to the next generation.

The best part about post-surgery existence is that I am sitting here, typing this, in a white t-shirt, and I feel utterly unself-conscious. Plus, the scars are kind of cool. I went to the gym to swim (another thing I can do now), and I saw people look at me like "Wow, that guy has big scars" instead of "Wow, that dyke has big tits". No disrespect intended to the lesbians I know, but anyone who'd assume I'm a lesbian would also call me a dyke, so the quote (sort of) is apt. However, I showered in the men's locker room, and no chaos broke out. I was ignored completely. It was nice.

This is what I aspire to, I think: to be an innocuous man, my manhood totally divorced from how I live my life or what I have to say. But that's a long way away, I fear. I can't shut up about it until it's no longer an issue, because if I shut up before then, the Man wins. And that motherfucker will not win. Sometimes, England pisses you off, and you have to be William Wallace.

Evil Tranny, off to find a kilt.

Scars Decorate A Man

2009-04-16T20:47:00.000-07:00

I went back to school yesterday. I'm more or less healed up, just a bit sore, and still wearing bandages on the grafts (functionally, my nipples) so my shirt won't irritate them. Huge scars, shaped sort of like a handlebar mustache. I confess I've toyed with the idea of drawing or tattooing a smile on my stomach to complete the face.

My dad went in to have a growth on his head looked at last year. It turned out to be benign, just a weird little anomaly. However, he was attended by a Russian nurse, who stitched him up after they took the lump out for a biopsy. My dad is bald, and he asked if it would scar, to which the nurse replied "Scars decorate a man." I have thought of this phrase every time I get a cut or burn, as I scar easily. I am, therefore, well-decorated. I shall consider the scars on my chest my crowning decorative achievement.

I used to think of the scars that would come with assorted transexual-related surgeries as similar to the ritual scars of certain cultures, used as a rite of passage into manhood. I guess it's worked out that way, at least so far. I consider the ones I have quite sufficient, at least for now.

The next step in transition is testosterone. Well, practically speaking, the next step is getting a therapist and submitting to having my head shrunk for three months, and then testosterone. When I mention this to my parents it provokes my mother to become oddly repressive and weird, which for her is a sort of low-grade panic state. She says hormones scare her because they're systemic and can play havoc with all sorts of things. She says the side effects scare her. Whenever I ask her which specifically scare her, she says one of two things: "The part where it makes you angry" and "you'll become sterile". To the first, I say, that's what the therapist part is for, and besides, anger problems are rare in hormone taking FTMs. Many say they become much calmer. To the second, I can't believe she worries about this. Even if I want to have children when I'm older, why on Earth would I want to carry them myself? I can't stand having my period, let alone pregnancy. That pregnant guy in Oregon aside, in pretty much every case everywhere, MEN DON'T GET PREGNANT. Nor do they want to. I am not an exception to this. I hate it when people place value on my sex/reproduction organs more than I do. It invalidates that whole part where I said IT'S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE THIS. UTERUS BAD. Just because I have one doesn't mean I have to use it, or I'll want to use it, or I should use it. Argh. She's really good about the whole messy business of having a trans kid, until she's not, when she's really, really bad at it.

Dad, on the other hand, launches into existential conversation mode. To be fair, he approaches everything this way, but occasionally I wish he'd just listen and accept what I say instead of dissecting it and asking me if I've thought everything through. The implication is sometimes that if I had thought it through, I would see it his way. He worries that I "act like I have it all figured out". In this case, I would posit, I have it as figured out as I can. The next part of figuring it out comes with the therapist, and the stated intent. I hate when he asks if I've thought about it. I think about it all the time, thank you very much. I live in this body all day, every day, and the things that could potentially be changed by taking hormones are fairly constant. His other frequent argument is that hormones would be systemically huge, and do all kinds of things that would be unexpected/scary/huge. I argue that I already have hormones that do that, so really, what is there to lose. Estrogen fucks with me just as much. Let's not even talk about ovaries.

I hesitate, when talking to my parents, to play the "you just don't understand" card, as this is almost always a cop-out, and often a cheap shot. However, they really don't understand. They try very hard, and they do okay, but when it comes to things that are very physical and heavy-duty personal type shit, they don't understand. They've never lived like this. I'm sure there are things about living your whole life the right gender/sex that they inherently know that I don't understand.

Day of Silence is this Friday. I'm bracing myself for the question "why aren't you doing it?" and its attendant implication of ''you deserter!". I maintain that I have been quiet for long enough. I shut up for years, and it almost killed me. I was quiet, and it ate me alive. It will never happen again, not in life, not at work or school or anywhere, not even symbolically. I'm beginning to question the very foundation of the Day of Silence. Here's why: The forces that work against queer people want queer people to go away and shut up. So, queer students have a big activist to-do, with rainbows and suchlike. What do they do? They shut up! Wow, we showed them.

My dislike of Day of Silence is furthered by the way it goes down at school: nobody really notices. Lots of people do it, the teachers understand, so do the students, the GSA puts rainbows and duct tape on things, and a gay old time is had by all. What a revolution. Now, does the GSA do anything for Transgender Day of Remembrance? No. Yet again, the LGBT Establishment lets the T down. I suppose they think no one will know or care what Transgender Day of Remembrance is. One tranny? Not enough. A handful of gay/lesbian/bi people? Break out the rainbows, motherfuckers.

Silence is not the answer. The longer we are silent, the weaker we become. The weaker we are, the less we are able to fuck shit up, and when we can't fuck shit up, the Man wins. So speak up. Be strong. There is shit out there that needs fucking up.

Full disclosure time: I was one of the biggest supporters/organizers/participants of Day of Silence at my middle school. Because Stanley Middle School needed it. They are so backasswards that not even the straight kids get treated right. Case in point: they have a policy against public displays of affection. They enforce this policy unevenly, subjectively, and erratically. An administrator walked past a boy and girl nuzzling in the hall to come tell me that because my female friend leaned against my shoulder (when I was a lesbian), we were breaking the rules. Stanley needed something that would shake it up. They needed the brouhaha that Day of Silence can cause. Acalanes (my high school) does not do these things. They swiftly crush homophobia, crack down on people who say "gay" meaning "stupid", and took my transition totally in stride. There is little or nothing to protest there.

Batshit Crazy

2009-04-10T14:34:00.000-07:00

I have been diagnosed. Labeled by the powers that be, designated as legally and medically fucking batshit crazy. Well, kind of. My ex-therapist ever-so-kindly diagnosed me with Gender Identity Disorder in the letter she wrote to Brownstein so I could have surgery. And when I saw it, the first thing I did was laugh my head off, and the second was think "Well, duh."

I'm not sure Gender Identity Disorder is an accurate way of describing it though. My gender identity's just fine, thanks very much. My biology, not so much, but I'd hardly call that a psychological condition or problem.

A friend of mine/my dad's is a therapist, one of the few I've met who makes me think therapy could be helpful and useful. I mentioned this to her, and she postulated that such things are diagnosed so that they can be treated more quickly and effectively. I suppose this is true, but it's rather uncomfortable to have a bona-fide psychological diagnosis. But then, I'm one of those people who flips through a book on psychological illnesses and determines that I have all of them.

The worst part of post-surgical existence so far is the itchiness of the bandage things. Quite an improvement over existential boob-related angst. Plus, I have purple nipples, due to the guidelines the surgeon drew on me. I assume they'll fade.

Cabin Fever

2009-04-07T21:49:00.000-07:00

Cue the Muppets singing on a boat.

Got the stitches on the skin grafts out today. And I can shower! I am now clean, and it is wonderful. Also bought socks.

This is all I have accomplished today. Shower, socks. There are only so many things I can do, and I manage to lack motivation to do any of them. Oh, the joys of convalescence.

Oh well. Once this week is over, I'll be back on my feet and more or less healed. Plus, I don't have to do PE for a month.

Morning

2009-04-07T03:16:00.000-07:00

I watched Milk this evening. It was excellent, a well-told rendition of a powerful story. One of those movies that makes you think.

Unfortunately, the thoughts get sticky fast. I started out all warm and fuzzy at the idea of equal rights for gay people, and freedom for all etc etc. But then I remembered that the Employment Non-Discrimination Act in California only passed once they dropped "gender identity" from the list of things you couldn't be fired for. I quote, from the Human Rights Campaign website: "A version of ENDA that did not include protections based on gender identity passed the house by a vote of 235-184." So, theoretically, if I get a job, and my boss finds out I'm trans, and decided to be a fuckwad and fire me for it, that's not illegal. Thanks, California. Thanks, San Francisco. Thanks, fucking Human Rights Campaign.

The HRC makes me angry. They are the big, assimilationist machine that will settle for less and let the people they're supposedly fighting for get shafted. When ENDA passed, I heard a hell of a lot about "baby steps" and "working up to" including trans people. Awesome, thanks guys. Way to let down one of the letters in LGBT. Imagine if a law had been passed that protected people of mixed race from being fired on a racial basis, but not full-on black people. There'd be riots in the streets, outrage, wailing and gnashing of teeth. And yet, when the complacent, stodgy old queens protect themselves but not the drag queens who threw rocks at Stonewall, there's so little. Apparently, we're not worth sticking necks out for. I like to think that Harvey Milk would agree that bloated, self-satisfied pseudo-activism is not helping at all.

Gay people have come a long way in terms of rights and acceptance and suchlike, and I think sometimes it's assumed among people who are aware of this that trans people have come with them. On some level, yes, we did, because gay people opened the door for discussion that let us out of the closet. But on another level, we haven't. We're still stuck in the '50's in many ways. Trans women are murdered in hugely disproportionate numbers. Schools pretend we don't exist. Our surgeries and hormones are considered cosmetic, and therefore rarely covered by insurance.

But this will change. My generation is far more kind to us than those before. I don't know what it will be, but someday, somehow, I want to make life easier for someone who comes after me. Someday I want some confused 13 year old to find a little hope. I'm still working on how to do this, but the dream is there.

The line that stuck with me from Milk more than any other was one spoken when Harvey is on the phone to his ex-boyfriend/friend Scott: "Look out the window, the sun is coming up."

The sun will come up. I know from experience that even the longest sleepless night will end. Dawn always comes.

Photos

2009-04-07T01:42:00.001-07:00

This is one of the guide lines the surgeon drew, with my necklace.

The contents of my nightstand.

What happens when you stay in the house too long. I call this the Artistic Bucket, as it usually houses paint, brushes, glue and such. It does not usually house my head, but I'm out of tinfoil.

It's What I Have To Work With

2009-04-04T18:21:00.000-07:00

That's one of my favourite quotes. It's from Hedwig and the Angry Inch. When her boyfriend puts his hand down her skirt and feels her "angry inch" and asks "what's that?" she replies "it's what I have to work with." I try to respond to life like this, although not as successfully as I like. Oh well.

I think I want to get a tattoo. Perhaps a rose or something on my forearm, as they're somewhat well muscled. I worry that such an image would be trite, but there's a fine line between classic and trite. Oh well. Moot point until I'm 18 anyway.

Occasionally I remember that maleness is not a set list of qualities. I need to do that more often. I worry that I'm not big and butch enough, or that I'm too emotional or whatever, but then I remember how obnoxious most of the big butch males of my acquaintance are, and listen to Roy Orbison, who's nothing if not emotional, and feel better. Oy.

Still, being able to grow a beard would be nice. Oh well. C'est la vie, I suppose.

After The Wall Came Down

2009-04-03T14:14:00.000-07:00

Well, I am duly un-breasted. Three days to go until I can shower. The first few days after surgery sucked, as I couldn't really move or eat properly, but I've improved quite a lot, and graduated from Vicoden to Tylenol, which is a nice change. Vicoden made me feel as though my bones had been removed, which is not a pleasant feeling.

I've spent the last five days or so inside, mostly in my room. I feared going stir-crazy, but instead I've become sluggish and depressed, which is worse. I can only do about 5 or 6 things, and none of them sound appealing. I can't sit up straight properly, so I can't sit at my desk and paint, and I can't go anywhere. Not that there's really anywhere to go in Alameda, but I wish I could at least wander around. I managed to walk to the grocery store to get coffee this morning, which is a start, but another week of this and I'll explode.

I really, really wanted this surgery, and I'll be thrilled to be boobless and recovered. But Christ on a pogo stick, this recovering bit sucks. I haven't showered in about five days. I had no idea how greasy I could become. And the bandage holder-oner thing is itchy as hell. Still, it's gotten better. I've been seized with a need to shave my face. I don't grow consistant stubble, just a little on my neck and sideburns, but it's driving me nuts. It contributes to my feeling like a bum. A bitchy, achy bum.

My mom, brother and stepfather have been quite tolerable through all this. They've mostly asked me alone as I asked them to, but I still want to choke them a little bit. An odd symptom of divorced parents is that I've come to have difficulty dealing with one parent or the other for more time than I'd ordinarily see them. Having spent since last Wednesday with my mom, I'm going bonkers.

Parents, divorce is bad. Admittedly, fighting constantly is worse, but divorce is horrible. Not for any sanctity-of-the-family bullshit reasons, but because it will do weird shit to your kids. There's the obvious shit like separation, being forced to see your parents as people instead of figuring it out, and the hell that is one parent's moving out. But then there's the weird shit, like how people look at kids with divorced parents, with this mix of sympathy and revulsion. And how your kids start to see time based on which parent they're with. Or get confused when the schedule changes. It's bad. Try everything else before you do it, parents.

It's also weird to have where I live be political. My parents are very civil, and get along well, collaborate on school stuff, split holidays without having wars about it, and so on. But it's a fine balance, and I'm left feeling like tipping either way could result in some nasty shit. I love my mom very much, and I like being with her, but she lives in Alameda, and school is in Lafayette. That's about half an hour's drive, over heavy-duty commuter freeway. Not fun. She won't take kindly to me spending less time with her. But getting up early and still not getting to eat breakfast half the time is not cutting it.

I want to live on my own, if only so I'll go home to one place. A little more control over my life would be nice too. Right now, life looks like this:

Monday: School, couple hours waiting until Dad's off work, go home.

Tuesday: Much the same. Existential conversation with Dad.

Wednesday: Struggle to get all shit together to change houses, school, get picked up by Mom. Fight with Mom.

Thursday: School. Go home with Mom. If in bad mood, fight again.

Friday: School. Go home with whoever's weekend it is.

I'm tired of camping in my own home. I asked my mom the other day why she could leave stacks of books everywhere but I can't. She replied, "Because I live here all the time and you live here half the time." Great. Such stability to build my life on. I love feeling like the place that's supposed to be my home is a hotel. I hate hotels.

Right now, I would kill to be able to play frisbee or go swimming or something.

Taj Mahal just came on the radio. I like his music, but unfortunately he reminds me of a creepy relative of mine, David. He shows pretty much all the signs of being a child molester, beats his wife, and seems unclear on the fact that I am not a nine year old girl. I once got stuck talking to him on Easter, and he told me all about Taj Mahal and where he used to live in Berkeley.

Figures that when I have far too much time to think my brain all but shuts down. I feel so useless.

Evil Tranny, off to mope somewhere else.

The Monster In The Closet

2009-03-30T18:33:00.000-07:00

Being out is a noble concept for a gay person. It implies the freedom, guts and maturity to live as you are and not let the world get you down when it tells you not to. This concept gets applied to trans people a lot, as in "Suzy came out as a man, now he's Fred." However, while the quintessence of an out gay person is someone who doesn't care if their mom, son, mailman and Mrs. Jones next door know they're gay, an "out" trans person may feel that having all these people know they're trans is counterproductive. At least from my perspective, the idea is to be a normal guy, distinguished by my personality rather than my naughty bits (or what I do with them). Having Mrs. Jones next door know that I'm trans seems excessive. She (and the society she represents) don't need to know. Does this mean I'm not "out"? Am I supposed to be "out"? What's to hide? Once you get past the part where I'm a guy, there's nothing to tell anyone other than my girlfriend and my doctor. Lumping trans people in with gay people as people who should be out and tell the world all about it seems erroneous. Yes, the good fight needs fighting. I just question the need to metaphorically write "I AM A TRANSSEXUAL" on my forehead in big letters.

This breeds a paradox. I would like to be "active in my community"(and other barf-worthy activist words. Good concepts, but the PC bullshit language makes me sick). I would like people to listen when I say that trans kids and people need to be respected, listened to, and treated like human beings, but the only way I get to talk about these things is to speak from experience. If I don't say "Hi, I'm Syd the transsexual, I'm here to talk about...." then nobody listens. It has to be personal for people to pay attention, and I'm not ready to get personal. I've barely got some semblance of a normal life together. I want to have made something of myself, and have something more than the condition of my naughty bits to offer the world. I don't want to be listened to because of who I am, I want to be listened to because of what I have to say. It's objectifying, to be told that the reason you should be involved is because you're trans. This is why I don't go to the school GSA. I don't want to deal with trying to be heard without having to splay my gender/sex out on the table. It's my business, not theirs. Besides which, I'm allergic to sanctimonious liberals.

When I say I wish fewer people knew about my "unique perspective" I've often heard that I should put myself out there so that those who come after me will have an easier time. This is an honorable goal, and someday, I want to do things to make life easier for the next generation. But right now, I need to get my own shit in order. It's hard to order someone else's shit before yours is in order. Besides which, if everything I've done up until now hasn't at least set a precedent for the next generation, it's hopeless. I took on the most reactionary, head-in-the-sand closet conservative shitheads in the school district (the administration of Stanley Middle School), and eventually won. I'm tempted to write a taunting letter to two of my more zealous adversaries (Shirley Haberfeld, a school counselor, and Susan Rusk, a vice-principal) saying "I'm still a boy." But I won't, because that would trash my remaining high ground. But if they don't remember me, and remember what a shitstorm that was, and try to get it right with the next kid who says "I'm a boy" to his PE teacher, I will send that letter. Because they'll deserve it. Hell, they deserve it now, but I'm trying to be less bitter. Some days it works, some not. Apparently, today, not so much.

I postulate that this flood of bitterness/musing comes from the mounting paranoia I am accumulating. Surgery's tomorrow. I am willing myself not to panic, and it's not working too well. I had been wedging my fears under other thoughts successfully, until my grandma called, and reminded me of them by saying "I'm sure it'll go well, and I love you very much". The panicking resumed, so I am attempting to obliterate it by typing furiously.

Had a pre-op appointment today with Dr. Brownstein. I still don't like his secretary, she's very scattered, which is stressful when she calls to say "oh, we lost this vitally important...oh wait, here it is". However, Brownstein was reassuring. He asked if I was nervous. I said yes, and he said that's normal. He then said that he's not nervous, which was very comforting. His dog was at his office, and was very sweet. It's an old, giant dachshund that seemed to find my dad's shoes fascinating.

Nothing makes me want to go work out furiously like being told I can't for the next four to six weeks. Damn contrary psychology. Although right now what I want is to see my girlfriend or sleep for a very long time. Though I'll have to settle for a cup of coffee, as that's within my grasp.

A couple people at school wanted to know why I was having surgery, and as they're not people I know well I told them I was having an inverted rib fixed. I mentioned this to my father, who went and looked it up. Apparently, no such thing exists, not that the people in my Spanish class will know this, but the term has wonderful double meanings. I quote, from my dad Rick:

"I mean...if Eve was made from a rib taken from Adam...what would the inverse of that be? it smacks so much as if to speak to transgender and related things..."

So therefore a convenient lie becomes an excellent invention. My dad is brilliant.

Well, I got my cup of coffee. It is wonderful. One of the finest things in life is decent, hot black coffee. That and getting what you want. That's always nice.

Evil Tranny, off for more coffee.

Hawaiian Restaurants

2009-03-29T22:18:00.000-07:00

There are two Hawaiian restaurants (to my knowledge) on the bland little island that is Alameda. One is a local fixture, friend of the high school, has wonderfully caloric tasty food, and is run by a very friendly woman. It's called Hawaiian Drive-In, and it's right across from Alameda High. Unless you're a vegetarian, try it if you're in the area, it's awesome. The other is a godforsaken pit with really, really bad gravy, shitty lighting, and staff of questionable cleanliness. Its name shall not be spoken here.

Two days until surgery. I'm becoming scared. Today, while canoodling with my girlfriend I became seized with the notion that I was going to die and therefore never see her again. This passed, but the faint undercurrent of terror is building. I'm doing my best not to think about it, as that won't help, but it's lingering. I have an appointment with Dr. Brownstein tomorrow, presumably to discuss the finer points of logistics and recovery. I will be proud of myself if I do not curl up into a ball of panic before then.

In reading the information on his website, I have learned that I won't be able to shower for seven days after the surgery. I am praying it's an impact thing, rather than contact with water, because I'll go nuts if I can't clean myself for that long. This worries me more than it should, but given that I am a bit neurotic about self-cleanliness, I guess it's not surprising. I'll feel a bit like the wicked witch of the west if I'm not allowed to take a bath or something.

I bought some art supplies with which to occupy myself while laid up. I'm planning on making aforementioned girlfriend a map of Middle Earth. I figure it'll be fun, and she'll like it. I've also been painting a fair amount, mostly watercolour. The paintings look sort of like Marc Chagall as crossbred with Tim Burton. Lots of people floating through blueness, but all angular, stripy sorts of people.

And now, I am off, for I am very tired. Evil Tranny is off to dreamland.

Poetry Salvage

2009-03-23T21:04:00.000-07:00

Part two:

The Rose That Grew From The Crack In The Pavement

I heard about a rose that grew from a crack in the pavement.
That's a beautiful image,
But have you ever seen a rose grow from a crack in the pavement?
Have you ever seen something beautiful grow out of concrete? Anything? Ever?
I never have.

Rather, I have seen grass grow from cracks in the pavement.
And weeds, the kind of weeds people swear at while they dig them out of their rose garden. They hack away at them, tear their roots out, poison them.
Don't people pull those out of the sidewalk, when they grow there,
And I wonder, are these the same people who speak of the beauty
Of the rose that grew from the crack in the pavement?

Little, scrappy, funny looking weeds that nobody would ever say were beautiful,
Trampled on, pulled out or slowly turning brown, these are what grow
From the cracks in the pavement.

And yet, there is nothing more heroic
Than the little, scrappy, useless weeds
That grow from the cracks in the pavement
Where the roses are afraid to venture.

Poetry Salvage

2009-03-23T21:00:00.000-07:00

So, I'm salvaging some poetry from my other, never-to-be-spoken-of-again blog before I kill it. Here's installment one.

Evening Walk Haiku

Empty coffee cup
Abandoned on the sidewalk
Used up, and tossed out

Many pairs of shoes
Intrinsically animate
But still not alive

Familiar streetlight
Unlit and useless until
Twilight steals in

Silly little boy
Ice cream precariously
Balanced in his hand

A destination
Much more precious than its end
Because windows glow

Stare out the window
Of the well-lit coffee shop
Longing for the rain

Books on Kennedy
A different bookstore, but still,
Such a reminder

Feet against the ground
Tramping off the largest street
Winding towards home

Myopic

2009-03-23T20:11:00.000-07:00

I worry sometimes that my worldview is too distorted to be of any use to anyone but me. I think what I see in the mirror, literally or otherwise, may be so completely divorced from what the rest of the world sees that I'm just nuts. I can convince myself I'm a studly, assertive, intelligent young man, only to be condescendingly referred to as "ma'am" by some fuckhead in a polo shirt. (They're a distinct breed) The sad part is that even knowing that said fuckhead is indeed a fuckhead, and therefore of no value or deep impact in my life, it still deflates me, and I go from feeling studly etc. to feeling like the guy who gets picked last and called ''fag'' all the time. The whole "ignore it and it'll go away" line of reasoning really doesn't work. As my seventh-grade math teacher, Mr. Ratto, said, the only things that go away if you ignore them are your teeth.

He's a wise man, Mr. Ratto. One of the first people to call me "he". At first on accident, and then when I told him I was a guy, he said "oh, so I was getting it right?" I vividly remember that making me smile when I felt like I hadn't in forever. He was (presumably is) very sarcastic, but never mean, an awesome teacher and in many ways a friend. Despite my deep dislike of all things mathmatical, I looked forward to his class. Given the recent budget chaos, I very much hope he's doing okay.

There's a guy on the track (well, technically field) team with me, Blake, who might be the most earnest human being on the planet. He uses the word "buddies" unironically, discusses sports with enthusiasm, is a good sport, friendly, makes slightly dirty jokes, and is helpful in the weight room. I realized today that of all the people I know now, he is the one I want to re-meet at the reunion and get sozzled with. He'd be fun to talk to in 20 years.

8 days until surgery. I'm a little worried about the surgery itself, as I tend not to like doctors, knives, and such, but not unduly. I trust this guy. He's one of the best in the country, and therefore costs an arm and a leg (not the parts I want off), but as far as I can tell, it's worth it. There are some scary quacks out there. Dr. Michael Brownstein, should anyone want to know. Afterwards, I promise to stop putting countdown type things in my posts.

Once I beat the scanner into submission I'll be posting a couple paintings of mine.

Evil Tranny, off to strangle an appliance.

Aw, Kitty

2009-03-20T23:03:00.001-07:00

For rather a long time, I struggled with trying to be masculine and my innate tendency to cuddle small fuzzy animals. Eventually, with my father (a consummate small fuzzy animal-cuddler) as example, I got over it. Real men like kitties.

This seems painfully obvious now, as does the fact that dirty jokes are not always funny, wearing deodorant is a good idea and women are not some scary alternate race. I had to realize all of these things, and it took longer than I would like to admit. So I'm learning to give myself time on such things. The only problem comes in keeping people from killing me while I'm figuring them out.

By the way, the cat in the picture is Dusty, who died a few years ago. A finer cat we could not have wished for.

I Remember Doing The Time Warp

2009-03-20T22:27:00.000-07:00

Now I know as a card carrying tranny I'm supposed to be opposed to this whole before/after pictures thing. But I find it kind of neat, so here you go.

Me, at roughly 4.

Me (with brother, W action figure and stuffed rabbit), age 11, pudgy, unhappy and female.

And me now, a fine picture of teen angst.

Guyliner and Other Linguistic Horrors

2009-03-20T20:08:00.000-07:00

Guyliner. Mantyhose. Brozillian. Manpurse. And now, meggings. Dear God, make it stop! If you are so insecure in your masculinity that you must refer to your eyeliner as "guyliner" you clearly should not be wearing it. Many self-respecting eyeliner-wearing men manage to be masculine without this tortured, horrible, stupid word. David Bowie never wore "guyliner". Nor did Iggy Pop, or Ian Curtis, or that guy from The Cure. We do not need this word. Make it go away.

Likewise the other atrocities the self-conscious, stealing-women's-clothes trend has wrought. No self respecting person should call anything "meggings". How about "leggings for men"? Last I checked, the word "men" was rather masculine. Much more so than "meggings", which sounds at best silly and at worst like something only found in really twisted porn. Oy. Grow a pair, fashion world.

And then, my favourite of the linguistic horror category: herstory. Yes, women kicked serious ass in history, yes, women's achievements are important, yes, women have been ignored by society for way too long. But this will not be fixed by making up a juvenile sounding word. The root of "history" is not the same as the root of "his". "History" comes from the Greek "historia", which came from a root meaning to know or see. No masculine possessive pronoun in sight. So using a word like "herstory" makes the user sound uneducated and childish, undermining their legitimate point about the importance of women historically.

11 days until surgery. It's a bit odd to look in the mirror, see my chest and think that there are only 11 days of boobs left. Still, my white T-shirt is waiting.

I made a transition map today. It traced a path from top surgery, to hormones, to hysterectomy/oophorectomy, and then (with question mark) the possibility of bottom surgery. I recently found out about a kind of bottom surgery called the Centurion, in which they build a dick out of your clit and assorted labia bits. The upside to this is that you can get erections, feel stuff etc. The downside is the size, the risk, and the lots and lots of money it costs. Oh well. No matter which way I go, it's a long way away.

Evil Tranny, off to make some tea.

Iron John

2009-03-19T19:24:00.000-07:00

I attempted to read Robert Bly's Iron John yesterday. I say attempted, because it was so dated and ridiculous that I had to stop before my psycho-babble/bullshit detector exploded. The care with which he dissected fairy tales and myths into ostensibly deep and meaningful communion with the inner Wild Man boggles the mind.

Perhaps being the product of a more recent decade than Bly, and having the added perspective of interacting with society as both a man and a woman has made me a bit jaded. But half the things in the book made me think "What the hell?" and the rest "Well, duh".

There's a part of me that thinks that all this is much more useful for people who like following formulas. Having a set, mythologically supported, published formula to explain one's psychology and feelings about one's gender must be nice. Having never had one, I wouldn't know.

So let's get this straight: men are allowed to have emotions. So are women. Whoop-de-fucking-do. Let's move on, shall we?

12 days until surgery. A rather frustrating to-do with the hospital, who managed to figure out I was a minor only after calling me in class twice. However, all went well eventually, and everything is on track. As of next Tuesday, I won't be able to take ibuprofen or eat garlic, as those are blood thinners. I'm betting on my period, and its attendant horrible cramps, starting somewhere within that time.

A while ago someone I knew in elementary school got in contact with me. Turns out, he's trans too. Other than that, he's not much different than the last time I saw him, other than changes age have wrought. Although the medical end could be difficult for him, as his mom's some sort of doctor, and filled with terror at the thought of surgery and hormones. Admittedly, my mother was likewise terrified, and with time and reassurance has gotten over at least some of it. I wish him luck. It's unlikely he's reading this, as I don't know how he would have found it, but if you are, Oliver, good luck, dude.

At dinner with the above-mentioned Oliver and his mom, I felt rather like I was being trotted out to be the Well-Adjusted, Polite and Non-Fuckedup Transgendered Young Man. Admittedly, this is useful, as sometimes parents chill out once they figure out that their kid turn out fine and be trans at the same time. Still, it's weird to talk to someone so unfamiliar with it when they have a trans kid. It clearly freaks her out a bit, and she just as clearly wants to be okay with it out of love for her son. With time, I trust, it'll get better. However, she asked an Unforgivable Question: "So...how do you have sex?". This is unforgivable in that a)it is none of her business b)my mother was at the table and c)NOT GOOD DINNER TOPIC. My sex life is my deal. In answer, I pulled a "well, if you love someone..." sort of thing out, and that diffused it.

It seems odd that "hardly" does not mean " in a manner which is hard".

Evil Tranny departs.

Simple Pleasures

2009-03-16T21:09:00.000-07:00

Today I will not bitch. Instead, a list of things I consider simple pleasures:

-Sleeping in

-Talking to my art teacher

-Really good coffee

-Really bad coffee

-New guitar strings

-Rice Krispie treats

-Holding my girlfriend's hand

-My grandmother's grilled cheese sandwiches

-My girlfriend's grilled cheese sandwiches (between these two, there is a Fort Knox of melty-cheese mojo)

-Having no homework

-Legos

-Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

-Bagels

-Irish Spring soap

-Tinsel

-Bacon

-Flowers by the side of the road

-Warm socks

-The thermos in the picture

21 Days

2009-03-10T19:09:00.000-07:00

There are 21 days until surgery. Exactly three weeks. Only 15 days, if you count just the ones spent at school.

The track coach referred to me and a bunch of other guys today as "boys" without giving it a second thought, which was nice. He knows, but I see him trip over it, especially as I've had to tell off assorted stupid freshmen for calling me 'she'.

I've been reading about Michael Dillon, the man widely known as the first FTM transsexual. He's not actually the first, but he is the first to have bottom surgery of a type used today (phalloplasty. Look it up, but don't look at the pictures, they're gory.) as well as take testosterone. In summary, his life sounds hard, but not tragic, full of the usual tropes of transsexual existence: felt like the wrong body, no one will ever love me, I will do anything to make this better, awkwardness, pain, and ultimately a measure of peace. Having read more deeply into his life, he was a little nuts. Not like, Hannibal Lecter or Freudian fixation nuts, just really, really, really felt he needed to have a dick to be a man. Now, given the time he lived, the way people even now view manhood etc, etc, this makes a certain amount of sense, but man, did he ever go far to get it. Phalloplasty is not an easy procedure today, forget in the early 1900's. He had thirteen operations. Thirteen. Fuck, I'm terrified of one. The thought I took away from reading about him is that I really hope I never feel the need to go that far. Not that bottom surgery's totally out, just that I don't ever want to be obsessed with it.

I found, through link-clicking in Wikipedia, a list of transgender individuals. There was Sylvia Rivera and Christine Jorgenson and Jamison Green, and loads of other people. It becomes apparent, looking at a list, that you are reading a list of people who chose their own names. Think about it. If you could name yourself anything, would you make your name something boring like Bob, or something cool, like Wolf? The majority seems to like Wolf. Although I noticed rather a lot of Michaels.

I didn't have to change my name, it's always been Syd. However, I still hate the question "what was your name before?" It's like, had I been Mary, they'd always think of me as Mary once they knew. Although I have decided to coin a term:

Norma-Jean: (noun) The name a person is known by pre-transition.

"Oh, Shelly told me her Norma-Jean, she used to be Robert"

I'm hoping it'll catch on, so that someday someone will say "No, you asshole, I won't tell you my Norma-Jean!"

Early in my transition/just pre-transition, I read loads of books by and about trans people, and I came to several conclusions. One, that there are not enough books about this. Two, that eventually books stop being helpful, which may be why there are so few. Three, trans men all too often become all the things that are wrong with men of their generation. Michael Dillon, for example: absolute shithead to women, much like many men of his time. I think sometimes we forget that those who went before us are still people of their time, and still to some extent limited by that as much as we are limited by being young. An old trans person is still an old person, and there's quite a bit a young and old person of any sort might not see eye to eye on.

This brings me to another thought brought on by my reading: old-school trans men make me uncomfortable. The whole phallocentric, macho, analytical, keeping everyone, especially women at arm's length thing freaks me out. I now understand why my dad found my reading these books unsettling. I remember from one man's memoir a discussion with his wife about his need for "a perfect phallus". She told him that it didn't matter to her, she loved him anyway, and he said he wasn't sure he believed it. I hope I never feel that way. Actually, scratch that, I have felt that way, and it was terrible. It's terrible to be unable to believe someone when they tell you you're a good person, or worth loving.

A friend of mine who smokes far too much pot said something that stuck with me about transness. He said that it was like negative numbers. Most people start out at zero, as a boy or girl, and add on as they grow up, to normal numbers, 1, 2, 3, and so on. But trans people have to build up to zero from the wrong end of the scale, and then go up from there. I rather like this analogy. It's a good way to describe the feeling of being sub-par, and working really hard just to be the minimum.

I have discovered the best way to avoid being called "ma'am" and other such things: wear a jacket and tie, in non-noticable colours. Nothing flashy, and you'll look like a teenage boy all cleaned up for church, and people say "such a nice young man". Works every time.

Evil Tranny, off to find a tie.

Useful Links And Such

2009-03-09T21:27:00.000-07:00

Here's some stuff I found/find useful.

http://www.thetransitionalmale.com

http://www.outproud.org

http://www.oasisjournals.com

http://www.theartofmanliness.com

http://www.ftmi.com

A word about FTM International: They are one of the best FTM organizations in the world. They have the least helpful website ever. However, I'm sure the newsletter is informative, and the meetings are reputed to be great, if you're in the area.

Evil Tranny Writes A Poem...

2009-03-09T21:23:00.000-07:00

For all your teenage-angst poetry needs...

Holden Caufield

I tried to make myself the perfect

Combination of Jimmy Stewart

Humphrey Bogart,

Charles Atlas

And Harvey Milk.

And yet, when I look

In the mirror

I am Holden Caufield,

Red hunting hat and all.

Man-Child And The Dysphorias

2009-03-09T18:12:00.000-07:00

I have invented a fictitious band for the purposes of my art class called Man-Child And The Dysphorias. I just finished a poster of them that was supposed to look like the posters at the Fillmore. I was pleased with it, and it allowed me to laugh at myself a little. Plus, I put the name of my actual band (Slutty Frisbee) as an opening act. I'll post it here once I scan it, which might be a while, given the inherently evil nature of the scanner.

I named the imaginary band this in semi-mockery of something I often say about myself when I'm in a bad mood; that I am watching my peers grow up while I remain some strange, reedy-voiced man child. This leads to thoughts of hormones, in all their terrifying promise. By my own admission I become angry much too quickly, and I worry that an increase of testosterone will make that worse. However, I am told by other trans guys that this is rare. I still don't know. I fear for the state of my temper, libido and skin (acne runs in the family). I'd also eventually go bald. Then there's the good side. The potential for muscles, facial hair and a deeper voice. It's possible, though unlikely, I'd even get taller, as I'm not sure I've stopped growing. I think, if I ever do go on hormones, that I'll grow a beard, just so people stop calling me ma'am in stores. This doesn't happen often, just often enough to stomp on my confidence.

All these thoughts run through my head with alarming frequency. I worry, in my more paranoid moments, that top surgery will not be enough. That even sans boobs I'll be too feminine to be read as a guy all the time. Once I start thinking like this, I have to go lift weights or listen to loud music to re-convince myself of my masculinity.

Lifting weights is a wonderful thing. It permits me to live outside my head for a little while, and provides useful muscles and endorphins. Also, I enjoy intimidating the tiny little freshmen in the weight room. As they are usually the ones asking stupid questions about my genitals/chest/girlfriend/legitimacy of maleness, I feel no guilt in this. Also, I have learned important secrets about male bonding, as follows: football and girls are things it is always safe to talk about. However, discussion of girls is limited to idle comments on the hotness of assorted girls, not deep thoughts about one's actual girlfriend.

I fear that when I live in a city instead of the two suburban places I now live (divorced parents who insist on living in different counties) I will be mistaken for a butch lesbian. Lafayette was puked up by a freeway entirely devoid of Dykes on Bikes, and therefore that which has short hair is male, and that which has boobs is female, and that with both is unmentionable and not to be thought too hard about. Alameda was puked up by the Navy, and is full of people too old or too middle-of-the-road for Berkeley, and with more money than most of Oakland. My girlfriend's mother's boyfriend (Chris, to spare that tortured qualifier) once said it's where people who aren't bad enough for hell or good enough for heaven go. He's not wrong.

Anyway, I have managed to go through most of my adolescence in a land devoid of butch lesbians, wherein flannel and motorcycle boots denote male, not just masculine. Thus, when I live somewhere where butch lesbians are generally accepted and par for the course, I may very well be mistaken for one, which would be irritating. Besides which, I'm not all that butch. Most of the girls I know could kick my ass.

On to other things: today I wrote an angry song about the school counselor in middle school who made my life hell when I said I was a boy. (Bear in mind, I'm in my second year of high school, so middle school's not all that far away.) It started with a rumination on her refusal to acknowledge the need to tell people about queer youth suicide, and led to the phrase "have you ever wanted to die, Shirley?" which spun into an angry, rather sarcastic song. I'm thinking it needs bouncy, ironic Beach Boys-like music behind it. I'll record it, and play it with my band, and put up the file.

And so concludes some blathering from Evil Tranny.

False Dichotomies

2009-03-08T21:15:00.000-07:00

Men are supposed to be macho. This is what the TV and the Internet tell me, anyway. And men who are not macho are supposed to be stylish and of questionable heterosexuality. I have tried to be macho. It didn't work, and I spent much of my time confused as to why exactly I was supposed to find Budweiser and Pamela Anderson attractive. So I tried being stylish and vaguely gay, and quickly learned that I cannot keep clothes from clashing and I don't really want to sleep with men. So I learned that the TV and the Internet do not allow for nuance between strength and style, and I was better off matching my motorcycle boots to my belt.

My grandfather is an ex-cop, an alcoholic and a man of his time, which is to say racist, sexist, homophobic and harboring a mysterious and seemingly random idea that the Jews are taking over. He watches too much TV about cowboys and football, hates those "pinko liberals'' and frowns on any signs of efffeminate behavior in his son (my father) and my brother. He hasn't figured out that I'm a guy, despite being told. I have resolved to not take this personally.

My father works for an art company, has never been drunk, and lived in Berkeley from the time he was in college until five years ago, which should tell you all you need to know about his politics. He idolizes David Bowie, occasionally paints his toenails red, does all his own ironing and lives with three cats. He intellectualizes everything, and the faintest whiff of traditional masculine behavior in my brother or I sends him into a panic, in which it is obvious he is thinking "Oh my god, my kid is turning into my father!"

I don't think I could be as much of a macho asshole as my grandfather even if I spent the rest of my life trying. However, I cannot reject traditional masculinity the way my father has. He fails to see that his manliness may be called into question, but his maleness never will. My maleness is in question no matter how hard I try, so a little camoflage is useful. This does not mean I will abuse women, become violent and leave the toilet seat up, it just means that I will sit with my legs apart, wear baggy clothes and watch football. Moreover, I enjoy sports and meat and other "manly" things, as well as being quite capable of ironing my shirts and painting my toenails.

There are far too many false dichotomies as to what it means to be a man. Let's not even get into the false dichotomy of gender itself, because that gets very sticky very fast, and I am tired.

Evil Tranny, feeling more existential than evil.

No Soap Radio

2009-03-08T20:58:00.000-07:00

I have top surgery on March 31. That's in 23 days. Only 23 more days of freshmen staring at my tits, binders that pinch and carefully layered shirts.

I have a white T-shirt that I've never worn that my aunt gave me. I intend to wear it the first day I'm recovered enough. This summer, I am going to the beach. I will swim without the weight of a cotton T-shirt for the first time since I turned 11. I am going to play frisbee with my friends, and when I gasp for breath, it will be because I am out of shape, and not because of the binder I'm wearing.

I used to have long hair, and it took me years to stop trying to pull it out of my sweatshirt collar or flick it out of my face once I cut it short. I wonder if the tics I've developed with the binder and tits will be the same. It's possible I'll try to pull up a nonexistent binder and just wrinkle my shirt. I don't think I'll mind. Ironing is better than having tits.

It's been a long time coming. I grew breasts at 10 or 11, and they're not small. I've been unhappy with them since they came to be, and uncomfortable with the concept of having them for longer. I used to read books about puberty, and wish for the male things to happen to me so I wouldn't have to deal with breasts and periods and all that other stuff. I would rather endure 500 embarrassing spontaneous erections in the next week than have my period ever again.

Since I started throwing shot put and discus for school, I've been lifting weights. I have realized that I have actual pectoral muscles. I'll be able to see them in a month or so. It is inevitable that I will do one of those flexing-in-the-mirror poses.

In celebration, as soon as I am ambulatory, I am taking my girlfriend out to dinner. Or ice cream.

Stupid Questions

2009-03-08T20:33:00.000-07:00

If you go to Youtube, and search for ''Calpernia Addams" you will come across a video entitled "Bad Questions To Ask A Transsexual". It won't embed, or I'd do it for you.

One of the first ones is "Don't be offended by this but...". She makes the point that anything that follows this is automatically offensive. And she's right. And yet, at least once a week, I get to hear...

"Don't be offended by this, but what was your name before you were a boy?"

"Don't be offended by this, but do you have a penis?"

And my favourite...

"Don't be offended by this, but is your girlfriend straight if she's dating you?"

All offensive. All things I'd get the shit beaten out of me for asking anyone. I have never asked anyone if they have a penis. I don't know anyone who has ever asked anyone if they have a penis. As far as I can tell, this is not a standard small-talk question. Therefore, wouldn't it make sense that asking me this is just as not okay and weird? Apparently not.

Why is it that typical, really fucking obvious standards of manners go out the window the minute a trans person gets involved? These are not manners like which fork to use for the seafood. They're manners like DON'T ASK PEOPLE ABOUT THEIR GENITALS OR SEX LIFE IN PUBLIC UNLESS YOU KNOW THEM REALLY FUCKING WELL. This should be obvious.

I think I will start asking the same people who ask me these questions probing questions about their genitals. I imagine it will go like this:

"So, do you have a penis?"

"Um...dude, what?"

"Do you have a penis, or a vagina? Or some hybrid thereof?"

"What the hell?"

"How long is it? Do you think it's too short?"

"Ack, my fragile masculinity!"

Okay, the last part is pushing it. At least I can console myself with the fact that I probably get laid more than these people.

Evil Tranny out.

Let's Get Evil

2009-03-08T20:17:00.001-07:00

Hello all, and welcome to Evil Tranny, a blog by an angry young man who just happens to be transsexual (FTM, if you must know).

This is not one of those politically correct trans blogs. Words like tranny, faggot, shit, fuck and damn will be used. I realize the need for useful, informative websites about the transgender experience, and ultimately, I hope this will be useful and informative. But to be honest, one can only be useful and informative for so long before it gets really fucking annoying. And I'm 16. How many useful, informative transsexual 16 year olds do you know?

This is a blog for every waiter who calls me ma'am, every teacher who asks me to "talk about (my) experience with the class", for that school counselor who made my life hell when I said I was a boy, for every cliche I aped so as to not get caught, and for every time I didn't punch someone who asked me if I was a boy or a girl.

Evil Tranny is a convenient alter-ego, and he is custodian to the uncharitable, violent, bitchy, angry, sad, infantile emotions that come with being a 16 year old guy with the body of a chick.

So here we go. Evil Tranny, away!