A new report states that queer families are living with less than their hetero counterparts. It is estimated that:
One in five children living in a same-sex household is poor compared to one in 10 for children in opposite-sex married families.
Nationally, 24 percent of lesbians and bisexual women are poor compared to 19 percent of heterosexual women.
15 percent of gay and bisexual men nationally are poor compared to 13 percent of heterosexual
Discrimination is the hypothesized reason for the differences. In a world where so many people think that with the passing of many bills and legislation that the world is unmarginalizing, these statistics smash the utopian image of equality.
Last week President Obama signed the United Nation's Statement of Human Rights, Sexual Orientation and Gender Identity document, which serves to "reaffirm the principle of human rights...that everyone is entitled to the enjoyment of human rights without distinction of any kind...that non-discrimination requires that human rights apply equally to every human being regardless of sexual orientation or gender identity...and that (the UN) is disturbed that violence, discrimination, exclusion, stimatization and prejudice are directed against persons in all countries in the world because of sexual orientation or gender identity, and these practices undermine the integrity and dignity of those subjected to these abuses..."
And while the president's signature doesn't make it illegal to oppress, it does finally add us to the list of countries who defend this human right (the U.S. was the last of all Western nations to sign it, thanks in part to the consistent refusal by former President Bush to recognize the importance of engaging in identity politics). There is hope, and we are lucky to be a part of such a strong administration, who may just bring the humanity back to humans and our rights.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Genderphobia is unproductive.
Recently it seems that gender has been the underpinning of many conversations. The concept of gender, and the need to mark the irrelevance of a binary that is not based on realities for so much of the population, is simply too hard for people to wrap their brains around. The other night, for example, I was at a talk about transgender individuals and a person in the audience was attempting to pick apart the issue of gender and gender identification. First, it should be said that education is a beautiful thing, and if people are asking questions, that can only be powerful and positive in the long run. Still, it amazes me that these questions exist.
For example, a question about surgery was asked: (which, of course, erroneously implies that actual reconstruction is the only way one would identify as a way to name their gender) "so, if a person is born a male and then only dressed the part of a 'female', are they just pretending to be a 'female' then?" The thought process of people - me included of course because I am also a product of our genderphobic society - fails to break free of the binary. It seems super hard for folks to just be comfortable with an individualized expression of self. Even people who are enrolled in my social work program exist in a bubble of norms where many don't even question why it is that they feel uncomfortable with removing gender identity disorder from the DSM, or ripping the labels off of the restroom doors that determine who is allowed to come in and pee. What is that really makes someone a man or a woman? Is it a dress or a beard, or a way of thinking, the desire to have children, a career in construction? How did we lose ourselves in these stereotypes in which we are now mostly blind to, and therefore cannot disentangle?
A co-student of mine said that someone in her class talked about the non-acceptance to trans folks at an all-women college. The concern was that a trans woman was accepted, and the general feeling around the campus was that this person used their male privilege to get in to the school and change the ways the administration operates. Clearly, there is a serious disregard for a holistic view of someone - this student was being judged only on what anatomy was between their legs, and not on how they truly identify. In the clause for acceptance at this all-women's college, I wonder what is written. Is the word vagina actually spelled out? And even if this was so, how does the school feel about trans men; how do they conceptualize what it means to embody the energy of a female student?
At the end of the day, it appears that genderphobia hurts those who are gender non-conforming, AND those who can't see beyond the binary because perpetuating a norm means the perpetrator also has to absorb the norms...everyone stuck in a pre-designed box doesn't seem like something that a society that fights against the idea of dictatorship in other countries, while asking its citizens here to carry their own weight as individuals, would uphold. But it does. Feels ironic to me.
For example, a question about surgery was asked: (which, of course, erroneously implies that actual reconstruction is the only way one would identify as a way to name their gender) "so, if a person is born a male and then only dressed the part of a 'female', are they just pretending to be a 'female' then?" The thought process of people - me included of course because I am also a product of our genderphobic society - fails to break free of the binary. It seems super hard for folks to just be comfortable with an individualized expression of self. Even people who are enrolled in my social work program exist in a bubble of norms where many don't even question why it is that they feel uncomfortable with removing gender identity disorder from the DSM, or ripping the labels off of the restroom doors that determine who is allowed to come in and pee. What is that really makes someone a man or a woman? Is it a dress or a beard, or a way of thinking, the desire to have children, a career in construction? How did we lose ourselves in these stereotypes in which we are now mostly blind to, and therefore cannot disentangle?
A co-student of mine said that someone in her class talked about the non-acceptance to trans folks at an all-women college. The concern was that a trans woman was accepted, and the general feeling around the campus was that this person used their male privilege to get in to the school and change the ways the administration operates. Clearly, there is a serious disregard for a holistic view of someone - this student was being judged only on what anatomy was between their legs, and not on how they truly identify. In the clause for acceptance at this all-women's college, I wonder what is written. Is the word vagina actually spelled out? And even if this was so, how does the school feel about trans men; how do they conceptualize what it means to embody the energy of a female student?
At the end of the day, it appears that genderphobia hurts those who are gender non-conforming, AND those who can't see beyond the binary because perpetuating a norm means the perpetrator also has to absorb the norms...everyone stuck in a pre-designed box doesn't seem like something that a society that fights against the idea of dictatorship in other countries, while asking its citizens here to carry their own weight as individuals, would uphold. But it does. Feels ironic to me.
Friday, January 30, 2009
More than the threads on my back.
On Masculine Females, as described by Leslie Feinberg in "Transliberation," an anthology of thoughts collected about gender identification.
The term masculine female elicits many responses in me. The book written by Feinberg seems to want to eliminate the idea of the binary, but what this term seems to do is perpetuate them - or does it? Meaning, perhaps it's only my thoughts that draw up a curvy woman with breasts and hips, who rocks a pair of sagging jeans, walks with her shoulders, has shortened nails and sits with her legs too far apart to be crowned demure by the "feminine" committee, when I hear masculine female. If that's the case then I am not sure how this definition breaks down the concrete identification and societal meanings that lay as the underpinnings of what it means to have an M or F on their government-issued ID. It is, once again, pushing us to catagorize ourselves for the masses.
That being said, in my world, I sometimes feel as though I fall under this label (even though I am being more mindful of the negative ways self-adopting labels affect my psyche). I'm not trying to rid the English language of gender representations, but I am trying to break people away from sticking to their hard fast rules of either all male or all female. I like to talk about the continuum, and I enjoy seeing people happy in their bodies -- be it within the societal terms of male or female, or in the gray that is the creation of their own world.
I will admit that as my body and mind develop and becomes more of my own, there have been times where I considered altering my physical and mental states to match my thoughts on how I felt comfortable. But after talking it out through my dreams, the pages of my journal, friends and the Internet, I felt similar to Feinberg's discussion on how people sometimes adapt themselves to the "trying to be a real man," ideal. Here's the problem we do not live in a bubble and I can't easily escape the definitions and interpretations that have been pounded in to my head. I am, however, very mindful of this, and each time I slip into my jeans and t-shirt, I am also mindful that I am not slipping into a dress. I am also aware that it hasn't always been like this.
It was election day 2008 the last time I wore a dress. I was asked to do live blogging at the LGBT Center as the results came over the wire. I remember feeling both beautiful and uncomfortable. My worries were my own, and I didn't let people in on the fact that lately I would leave the house in dangling earrings, only to stuff them in to my pocket three blocks down the road. It was a full month since I last dressed like this, but I wanted to try it on one last time, just in case.
At the time of this transition I was dating a woman who had known me back when I wore calf-high suede boots with a vintage-looking jersey dress. I was shaving my armpits back then, and I wore my shoulder-length hair pinned back in the middle - a slight twist on 1950s rockabilly. As I began to stretch my wings, I wasn't sure how to hold the balance between the old and the new me. And then I had to determine whether it was old or not -- were the dresses new and jeans and t-shirts old, as opposed to the other way around? I remember all through middle and high school my lanky body would hide beneath Dickies, which are cotton, creased pants mostly worn by maintenance workers. I think I had a pair for every day of the week. When I made it to California post high school I hung around with skateboard kids who, like me, drank 40 ounces of beer, and pretended to not care if we looked good or bad. But then I got a corporate job and everything changed. There was a dress code and a command for respectful attire. I felt the pressure to react in the most feminine way I had ever done in my life: tight shirts and slacks. I guess I felt good, but whenever I would meet my friends after work, I wanted to rip my cleavage-laden top off of my body and replace it with the warm and relaxed hooded sweatshirt that we all wore as we hiked around the San Francisco bay area. I felt grown up, and maybe that is what I also associate with being feminine.
I'd be lying if I said that conformity is not an advantage, and a privilege. I look back and see how cleaning up my image and mouth earned me more respect. Later I understood that I can still be me - a strong woman who cares about her Independence - in a pair of jeans, boat shoes and a nice sweater. The sweater may have been pink, but I was moving back to my comfort space. I looked simple and fem, while still kicking ass while playing darts at the local bar where I threw back beer after beer. Eventually I moved back towards A-line tanks and shorts, sometimes intermixing my style with a skirt; and gender non-conforming flip-flops. It seemed like we all looked alike under the hot sun.
NYC is where much of my life turned. I was finally out as a gay woman to my family and friends, and soon I began to shift (once again) my identity to find out how I could get a date, look good and be successful; feel right in my body - both on the inside and out. It started a happy mix of societal interpretations of gender, then a hyper stage of femininity, and, finally, where I am at now: a point in my life when I simply cannot live without my baseball hat. I feel the best that I have ever felt in my life - armpit hair puffed out, short hair, makeup-free face, and of course my confidence.
I know that it's more than hair and clothes; it's me pushing me from the inside-out. I remember being afraid of going through that with the same woman that I was dating while flaunting myself in a dress. I wasn't sure that I was strong enough to work through all of the emotions that come with the physical and emotional stages I was sifting through - I wasn't feeling affirmed, and would never ask for it, so I broke it off. My world and my affirmation to myself and to my growth was too important to me to not make sure I was both caring and being cared for.
When I was home in Pittsburgh, PA (my hometown) for the winter break I realized my outward appearance has an effect on people. The first night I was home a man stopped me as I walked towards the little image of a person in a dress on the women's restroom door. He asked why I looked like a boy, and also included how he could see my "femaleness" underneath all of the clothing. I asked why he thought there was one definition to explain what an M or F looks, acts, feels like. Reflecting now on the long debate about MY gender and MY sexual orientation with this stranger, I realized something: perhaps I am a masculine female; a person happily stuck in my own interpretation - my own shade of gray.
The term masculine female elicits many responses in me. The book written by Feinberg seems to want to eliminate the idea of the binary, but what this term seems to do is perpetuate them - or does it? Meaning, perhaps it's only my thoughts that draw up a curvy woman with breasts and hips, who rocks a pair of sagging jeans, walks with her shoulders, has shortened nails and sits with her legs too far apart to be crowned demure by the "feminine" committee, when I hear masculine female. If that's the case then I am not sure how this definition breaks down the concrete identification and societal meanings that lay as the underpinnings of what it means to have an M or F on their government-issued ID. It is, once again, pushing us to catagorize ourselves for the masses.
That being said, in my world, I sometimes feel as though I fall under this label (even though I am being more mindful of the negative ways self-adopting labels affect my psyche). I'm not trying to rid the English language of gender representations, but I am trying to break people away from sticking to their hard fast rules of either all male or all female. I like to talk about the continuum, and I enjoy seeing people happy in their bodies -- be it within the societal terms of male or female, or in the gray that is the creation of their own world.
I will admit that as my body and mind develop and becomes more of my own, there have been times where I considered altering my physical and mental states to match my thoughts on how I felt comfortable. But after talking it out through my dreams, the pages of my journal, friends and the Internet, I felt similar to Feinberg's discussion on how people sometimes adapt themselves to the "trying to be a real man," ideal. Here's the problem we do not live in a bubble and I can't easily escape the definitions and interpretations that have been pounded in to my head. I am, however, very mindful of this, and each time I slip into my jeans and t-shirt, I am also mindful that I am not slipping into a dress. I am also aware that it hasn't always been like this.
It was election day 2008 the last time I wore a dress. I was asked to do live blogging at the LGBT Center as the results came over the wire. I remember feeling both beautiful and uncomfortable. My worries were my own, and I didn't let people in on the fact that lately I would leave the house in dangling earrings, only to stuff them in to my pocket three blocks down the road. It was a full month since I last dressed like this, but I wanted to try it on one last time, just in case.
At the time of this transition I was dating a woman who had known me back when I wore calf-high suede boots with a vintage-looking jersey dress. I was shaving my armpits back then, and I wore my shoulder-length hair pinned back in the middle - a slight twist on 1950s rockabilly. As I began to stretch my wings, I wasn't sure how to hold the balance between the old and the new me. And then I had to determine whether it was old or not -- were the dresses new and jeans and t-shirts old, as opposed to the other way around? I remember all through middle and high school my lanky body would hide beneath Dickies, which are cotton, creased pants mostly worn by maintenance workers. I think I had a pair for every day of the week. When I made it to California post high school I hung around with skateboard kids who, like me, drank 40 ounces of beer, and pretended to not care if we looked good or bad. But then I got a corporate job and everything changed. There was a dress code and a command for respectful attire. I felt the pressure to react in the most feminine way I had ever done in my life: tight shirts and slacks. I guess I felt good, but whenever I would meet my friends after work, I wanted to rip my cleavage-laden top off of my body and replace it with the warm and relaxed hooded sweatshirt that we all wore as we hiked around the San Francisco bay area. I felt grown up, and maybe that is what I also associate with being feminine.
I'd be lying if I said that conformity is not an advantage, and a privilege. I look back and see how cleaning up my image and mouth earned me more respect. Later I understood that I can still be me - a strong woman who cares about her Independence - in a pair of jeans, boat shoes and a nice sweater. The sweater may have been pink, but I was moving back to my comfort space. I looked simple and fem, while still kicking ass while playing darts at the local bar where I threw back beer after beer. Eventually I moved back towards A-line tanks and shorts, sometimes intermixing my style with a skirt; and gender non-conforming flip-flops. It seemed like we all looked alike under the hot sun.
NYC is where much of my life turned. I was finally out as a gay woman to my family and friends, and soon I began to shift (once again) my identity to find out how I could get a date, look good and be successful; feel right in my body - both on the inside and out. It started a happy mix of societal interpretations of gender, then a hyper stage of femininity, and, finally, where I am at now: a point in my life when I simply cannot live without my baseball hat. I feel the best that I have ever felt in my life - armpit hair puffed out, short hair, makeup-free face, and of course my confidence.
I know that it's more than hair and clothes; it's me pushing me from the inside-out. I remember being afraid of going through that with the same woman that I was dating while flaunting myself in a dress. I wasn't sure that I was strong enough to work through all of the emotions that come with the physical and emotional stages I was sifting through - I wasn't feeling affirmed, and would never ask for it, so I broke it off. My world and my affirmation to myself and to my growth was too important to me to not make sure I was both caring and being cared for.
When I was home in Pittsburgh, PA (my hometown) for the winter break I realized my outward appearance has an effect on people. The first night I was home a man stopped me as I walked towards the little image of a person in a dress on the women's restroom door. He asked why I looked like a boy, and also included how he could see my "femaleness" underneath all of the clothing. I asked why he thought there was one definition to explain what an M or F looks, acts, feels like. Reflecting now on the long debate about MY gender and MY sexual orientation with this stranger, I realized something: perhaps I am a masculine female; a person happily stuck in my own interpretation - my own shade of gray.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
These boots are made for walking.
It hit me like a ton of bricks.
I walked under the radar and the suited professional asked me to move off to the side – apparently gel and hair “smoothing milk” are considered weapons against humanity when taking a flight on an airplane. As he rummaged through my flannels and chuck tailors, he made small talk about how he works out to avoid having, “no offense, boobs;” because it's simply not sexy to fall outside of the perfect body. Wrapped up in my own internal dialogue on identity, I casually said, “yeah buddy; me too.” As he struggled to rezip my overfilled carry-on bag he looked at me with a smile, and I offered one in return. Swaggering off the smile remained.
The waiting area of the New York airport was chock full of people heading southeast on a balmy Tuesday evening. I sat there uncomfortable. What was it? Maybe it was because I hadn’t seen my family or the city since that hot and humid August day when I packed my car and departed four months prior. But I knew it wasn’t. It was my feet. They were nestled comfortably into a pair of grey boots cut out of suede in to a feminine style. They were loosly pulled over one of my favorite pairs of faded skinny jeans. At that moment they were not me. I felt so out of place, like a costumed character in a bad Christmas play. I rolled my carry-on case to a lonely corner of the USAir wing, located my sneakers and made the switch. I changed my shoes and sighed with relief. I felt so good in my more comfortable genderfree look of jeans and vintage flannel. Moments later I was confident as I stood waiting in line to find my seat on the tiny, overcrowded jet.
When I landed I touched my short hair, now cut into an edgy fauxhawk, and the anxiety crept up from the pit of my stomach and into my face. Flushed, I sent a text to my support: “OMG – I am a huge dyke in my hometown!” It took only seconds to receive, “Awesome babe!,” and “Of course you are honey; what’s wrong?”
My city of three rivers can feel stifling at times when I think about the various cultures that make up my hometown demographics: machismo and feminity reign strong here. Can I walk around rocking the cocked-to-the-side baseball hat and scarf, showing my slim hip bones off like a boy in a town where foundation was built on the sweat of men and the aromas of women? Do I have the right to walk my own path in a place where history has carved out my "purpose" long before I asked it to? Will I be judged for a-line tanks with a bra, instead of v-neck and cleavage? Can I make jokes as I chug beer, legs casually spread apart on the barstool without getting a look from the patrons around me?
Beer in hand I bobbed my head to the booming, yet sultry voice coming from a person no larger than my leg who stood, eyes closed, singing into a microphone on the tiny stage. The room appeared candle lit, and I felt at peace with the radiant variety of skin color around me -- all of us swaying and reflecting on the importance of true hip hop; a communication style that speaks truth to not only our minds but our limbs. Orientation doesnt seem to matter here. Race doesnt seem to matter here. Gender doesnt seem to matter here. Until it does.
The hallway to the bathroom is damn near dim and I'm headed to the stalls when I'm stopped.
"Why do you look like a boy?" He asks me; wrinkles across his otherwise smooth face.
"Excuse me. Um. Why do you," I asked back, adding that I think we should question why we only identify our outward appearence based on historical "purpose."
"Cause I'm a boy, and I can see that you are feminine under all those clothes."
For a second, a wave of fear rippled through my body as I felt the pressure to explain, while also feeling the pressure to turn on my heel and run. I waited. Numbly.
"Are you gay?" He asked next -- not quite accusingly, but almost more assuredly as if all gender-neutral dressers have to be queer. The argument in my mind fell flat as I dribbled out a HELL YES I am, and realized that perhaps I now fit his stereotypical and narrow mind of expression. And then he said it. Like a meat-eaters pompance comment to a vegetarian about how they only need a well-cooked steak to shake them of their custom; as if to say values and morals can be shifted by a well-built grill; a warm summer evening and a bottle of A-1 sauce bought on sale at the local market.
"Maybe you just need a good man" to release and to "re-embrace" the man-pleasing woman inside who is just begging and tearing through my vagina -- waiting for him to hold me and point me in the right direction.
Or maybe, I thought, I just need a good man (or a bunch of men and women and trans folks) to release the heterocentric gender binary and "re-embrace" humanity and insert self and reciprocal love back in to communications; back into relationships; back into love and trust and reality. No matter who we are and what we have between our legs or on our backs.
Instead I shook my head no, and made a jumbled statement about self-determination and individual affirmation, and then politely asked him to not follow me into the restroom.
A couple of days later my head was between the hands of old classmates as I pranced around a crowded, music-less room for my ten year highschool reunion. My hair seems to be a constant point of discussion as many gal pals find bravery and sexiness in my decision to chop it off and be free of conformity. But Im just trying to be me, and I realize one night (back in the my bubble in NYC) that it is super hard to stand out, remain visible, be an educator; while also being private and wrapped up in my growth as I seek out who I am.
In the meantime, my dangly earrings, tights and flats are slowly covered in dust as I button up my size small men's collared shirt in the mirror. I smile, and say hello to my reflection. My friend and gender mentor recently remarked on my height: "It seems like every time I see you, you get taller." I laugh and wonder if that is simply my confidence - perhaps we all stand a bit taller when we are truly good to our souls and those around us.
It reminds me of an email signature I came across in my inbox, of which asked me to remember that somewhere between my soapbox and tears is a person who is working hard to sift through the healthy and not so healthy contradictions:
"Be kinder than necessary
Because everyone you meet is fighting
Some kind of battle"
I walked under the radar and the suited professional asked me to move off to the side – apparently gel and hair “smoothing milk” are considered weapons against humanity when taking a flight on an airplane. As he rummaged through my flannels and chuck tailors, he made small talk about how he works out to avoid having, “no offense, boobs;” because it's simply not sexy to fall outside of the perfect body. Wrapped up in my own internal dialogue on identity, I casually said, “yeah buddy; me too.” As he struggled to rezip my overfilled carry-on bag he looked at me with a smile, and I offered one in return. Swaggering off the smile remained.
The waiting area of the New York airport was chock full of people heading southeast on a balmy Tuesday evening. I sat there uncomfortable. What was it? Maybe it was because I hadn’t seen my family or the city since that hot and humid August day when I packed my car and departed four months prior. But I knew it wasn’t. It was my feet. They were nestled comfortably into a pair of grey boots cut out of suede in to a feminine style. They were loosly pulled over one of my favorite pairs of faded skinny jeans. At that moment they were not me. I felt so out of place, like a costumed character in a bad Christmas play. I rolled my carry-on case to a lonely corner of the USAir wing, located my sneakers and made the switch. I changed my shoes and sighed with relief. I felt so good in my more comfortable genderfree look of jeans and vintage flannel. Moments later I was confident as I stood waiting in line to find my seat on the tiny, overcrowded jet.
When I landed I touched my short hair, now cut into an edgy fauxhawk, and the anxiety crept up from the pit of my stomach and into my face. Flushed, I sent a text to my support: “OMG – I am a huge dyke in my hometown!” It took only seconds to receive, “Awesome babe!,” and “Of course you are honey; what’s wrong?”
My city of three rivers can feel stifling at times when I think about the various cultures that make up my hometown demographics: machismo and feminity reign strong here. Can I walk around rocking the cocked-to-the-side baseball hat and scarf, showing my slim hip bones off like a boy in a town where foundation was built on the sweat of men and the aromas of women? Do I have the right to walk my own path in a place where history has carved out my "purpose" long before I asked it to? Will I be judged for a-line tanks with a bra, instead of v-neck and cleavage? Can I make jokes as I chug beer, legs casually spread apart on the barstool without getting a look from the patrons around me?
Beer in hand I bobbed my head to the booming, yet sultry voice coming from a person no larger than my leg who stood, eyes closed, singing into a microphone on the tiny stage. The room appeared candle lit, and I felt at peace with the radiant variety of skin color around me -- all of us swaying and reflecting on the importance of true hip hop; a communication style that speaks truth to not only our minds but our limbs. Orientation doesnt seem to matter here. Race doesnt seem to matter here. Gender doesnt seem to matter here. Until it does.
The hallway to the bathroom is damn near dim and I'm headed to the stalls when I'm stopped.
"Why do you look like a boy?" He asks me; wrinkles across his otherwise smooth face.
"Excuse me. Um. Why do you," I asked back, adding that I think we should question why we only identify our outward appearence based on historical "purpose."
"Cause I'm a boy, and I can see that you are feminine under all those clothes."
For a second, a wave of fear rippled through my body as I felt the pressure to explain, while also feeling the pressure to turn on my heel and run. I waited. Numbly.
"Are you gay?" He asked next -- not quite accusingly, but almost more assuredly as if all gender-neutral dressers have to be queer. The argument in my mind fell flat as I dribbled out a HELL YES I am, and realized that perhaps I now fit his stereotypical and narrow mind of expression. And then he said it. Like a meat-eaters pompance comment to a vegetarian about how they only need a well-cooked steak to shake them of their custom; as if to say values and morals can be shifted by a well-built grill; a warm summer evening and a bottle of A-1 sauce bought on sale at the local market.
"Maybe you just need a good man" to release and to "re-embrace" the man-pleasing woman inside who is just begging and tearing through my vagina -- waiting for him to hold me and point me in the right direction.
Or maybe, I thought, I just need a good man (or a bunch of men and women and trans folks) to release the heterocentric gender binary and "re-embrace" humanity and insert self and reciprocal love back in to communications; back into relationships; back into love and trust and reality. No matter who we are and what we have between our legs or on our backs.
Instead I shook my head no, and made a jumbled statement about self-determination and individual affirmation, and then politely asked him to not follow me into the restroom.
A couple of days later my head was between the hands of old classmates as I pranced around a crowded, music-less room for my ten year highschool reunion. My hair seems to be a constant point of discussion as many gal pals find bravery and sexiness in my decision to chop it off and be free of conformity. But Im just trying to be me, and I realize one night (back in the my bubble in NYC) that it is super hard to stand out, remain visible, be an educator; while also being private and wrapped up in my growth as I seek out who I am.
In the meantime, my dangly earrings, tights and flats are slowly covered in dust as I button up my size small men's collared shirt in the mirror. I smile, and say hello to my reflection. My friend and gender mentor recently remarked on my height: "It seems like every time I see you, you get taller." I laugh and wonder if that is simply my confidence - perhaps we all stand a bit taller when we are truly good to our souls and those around us.
It reminds me of an email signature I came across in my inbox, of which asked me to remember that somewhere between my soapbox and tears is a person who is working hard to sift through the healthy and not so healthy contradictions:
"Be kinder than necessary
Because everyone you meet is fighting
Some kind of battle"
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Hope is a big word.
The world was presented with a historic moment last night: Barack Obama was elected to be the 44th president of the United States. As he stood on a Chicago stage, messages of hope and change dribbled from his mouth. Around me, at the LGBT Community Center in New York City, messages of equality and openness and willingness to adjust frames of mind dribbled from the hundreds of folks who sat and watched the poll returns.
For human rights, and women’s rights, and immigration rights, and the plethora of issues that now sit on the White House doorstep, waiting to come inside and be picked apart by a competent administration, this is a victory. Change will come, that is a given, but what it will look is still a mystery.
I floated through my dreams last night, as I thought about the 21-months of debates leading up to this point. I was content and nervous because sometimes simply uttering the word hope brings forth unrealistic expectations of acceptance, of positive energy and (in this country) the idea that a quick-fix, band-aid approach will happen the day Obama is inaugurated in early January. We don’t need any more of that. Quick fixes don’t heal; they create a sort of skin over the wound, but never stitch up cuts that are actually quite deep.
Coffee in hand this morning, I see that California’s Proposition 8 – which sets to overturn a Supreme Court decision to ban same-sex marriages in the great west coast state – was approved. And while I am not necessarily a proponent of marriage in the way that it sets a hierarchy of who is a REAL couple and who is not, my heart dropped as I read the L.A. Times. Similar bans were passed in Florida, Arkansas and Arizona -- with the emphasis on banning fostering/adopting young people if one is not married (and if queer folks are banned from this human right, then being a caregiver for a person in need is also not an option). Last night we talked about hope and equality, but this morning I question who that equality is really for? Does it stop at sexual orientation? Does it stop at gender manifestations? Does it stop at the gates of the prison? Where does this line begin and end?
On the one hand, the country is ready to accept the challenges of being a community, a democracy; and on the other hand the country is still turning their backs, and dictating the desire for assimilation. Continuing to fight for real and true individual freedom? “Yes we can.”
For human rights, and women’s rights, and immigration rights, and the plethora of issues that now sit on the White House doorstep, waiting to come inside and be picked apart by a competent administration, this is a victory. Change will come, that is a given, but what it will look is still a mystery.
I floated through my dreams last night, as I thought about the 21-months of debates leading up to this point. I was content and nervous because sometimes simply uttering the word hope brings forth unrealistic expectations of acceptance, of positive energy and (in this country) the idea that a quick-fix, band-aid approach will happen the day Obama is inaugurated in early January. We don’t need any more of that. Quick fixes don’t heal; they create a sort of skin over the wound, but never stitch up cuts that are actually quite deep.
Coffee in hand this morning, I see that California’s Proposition 8 – which sets to overturn a Supreme Court decision to ban same-sex marriages in the great west coast state – was approved. And while I am not necessarily a proponent of marriage in the way that it sets a hierarchy of who is a REAL couple and who is not, my heart dropped as I read the L.A. Times. Similar bans were passed in Florida, Arkansas and Arizona -- with the emphasis on banning fostering/adopting young people if one is not married (and if queer folks are banned from this human right, then being a caregiver for a person in need is also not an option). Last night we talked about hope and equality, but this morning I question who that equality is really for? Does it stop at sexual orientation? Does it stop at gender manifestations? Does it stop at the gates of the prison? Where does this line begin and end?
On the one hand, the country is ready to accept the challenges of being a community, a democracy; and on the other hand the country is still turning their backs, and dictating the desire for assimilation. Continuing to fight for real and true individual freedom? “Yes we can.”
Monday, October 20, 2008
Hairy Situations...
It’s nothing really. It’s just mineral and proteins strung together to create a tangible strand. Hair. We all got it – some more than others, and I was in this category of flowing tresses – tied up, braided, pushed to the side with a clip, pulled back in a ponytail under a hat…the list goes on. A couple of weeks ago I cut it off.
It was a Friday night; I just got off work and was walking to a friend’s apartment to watch the debate. In my mind, my own type of debate ensued: how much to chop? How do I style it; I have never been good at being consistent – except maybe when eating peas, corn and parmesan for dinner on a very regular schedule – so I found myself scouring each block. There were barbershops with the classic red, white and blue spindle in its window, there were nail salons that also gave cuts; and then there was this little spot located about a block a way from my friend. A slim woman, dressed head to toe in black, a gold belt slung loosely around her waist, stood smoking a cigarette outside of the small storefront. “Are you still offering appointments,” I asked. She leaked out a “yes” between the blue smoke rising from her lips, and waved her hand for me to go inside and set up a time slot at the front desk.
I guess I should’ve known from the door. Literally. Walking through the door put me smack into the end of a tunnel-like shop that was decorated in mauve and gold, glass tables and techno music; men strewn on either side of the counter who donned slick-back hair and limited buttoned button-up shirts. Chest hair and smiles. He gave me the last appointment of the day. I would be back in 20 minutes. Slowly, but giddy about the new transformation that was sure to ensue, I buzzed my friend and updated her on the evening’s schedule. Per usual, my need to be chaotically organized lends way to overriding impulses, and per usual, good people in my life make attempts to shake me from my Piscean dream-like state. She lay there, her own hair tussled and pulled high on top of her head, and dialed the number of her trusted salon in the Village – she added me to her appointment the next day and hung up. I had the option of waiting a little over 12 hours to sit in front of a mirror, under the hands of professionals who are like comic book drawers creating this week’s episode of the Transformers – a breed that is more than meets the eye.
I paced, I checked my phone, went pee, washed my hands, applied chapstick, paced again. Finally, I decided;I was gonna go that night. Shrugging, my friend and I made our way down the crowded block to the salon.
Never again would I feel those exact stands of hair being tugged and scrubbed in that forceful, yet pleasurable way that only the shampooers at a salon can elicit. Staring at the ceiling I noticed the gold belt walk by a couple of times; she would be my stylist. Hair wrapped in a towel I was asked if wanted a glass of wine, of which came in a low crystal-cut baller glass, kind of like the ones you scoop from an estate sale or your grammy’s attic, or perhaps in that one cheesy Days Inn hotel that I stayed in after blowing a tire in Virginia, driving between Florida and Pennsylvania long over a year and a half ago. I liked it, and I swigged easy from its rim.
“How would you like it styled,” she asked me, dancing a bit to the music blaring out of a speaker somewhere above us. “I want it really short, but with a longer, sort of, swoop in the front – something I could perhaps tuck behind my ear, but still have the feeling of next to nothing on the back of my head.” She nodded like she knew, but 20 minutes later, my cheeks pink from the wine, I realized that she was giving me the old lady bob. “Um, I was hoping it would be short – like really, really short.” And she looked at me, paused, shifted her weight and said, “But you are a woman; that is a boy cut.”
I think I laughed.
“Yes, make it look like a boy cut then.”
She made several attempts – like Edward Scissorhands, hair dropped all around us, but she just couldn’t get it close to the head. Perhaps her own long hair kept her from seeing the beauty in being flexible, breaking down the barriers of what it means to be a woman, a beautiful woman, in this society. How does length of hair become genderized and normalized and perpetuated by those who think they are strong enough to smash through the bullshit? Well, it was that night. Her scissors were like the blades of the patriarch – they created me from the mold that sat on top of my head. I was restless; she looked tired from fighting the challenge in front of her. She undraped me, and sent me on my way.
Still, that night, I felt pretty darn good; I mean, my ‘do WAS finally off of my neck, and I WAS wearing a flannel, jeans, and a silly grin. A group of us went out, and I have to admit that I felt like I wanted to be wanted, and I wanted to want all in my path. It was like an internal game of tug-o-war where I didn’t want to be demure, but I also didn’t want to ogle and demand the women in our group to be protected by me. The stew of my analysis was already beginning to bubble on my stove. The next day, hung-over, and planted on a brown leather stool, I was getting it recut. I was once again asked “how would like it to be styled, and seeing as how my stylist and I already established that we were both gay, I blurted out, “Make it dykey, make it edgy.” Why couldn’t’ I say this to the woman who refused to get my cut closer than a bowl/bob cut? How does my internalized fear of being myself creep in to some situations, and not others? At the end of that session, hairs were super short -- an almost orgasmic feeling of freedom rising from my body as I ran my fingers through the next-to-nothing length.
Here’s the thing about making change, it can take minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, but it’s there. Real and tangible – and people love to comment on their own inhibitions based on your act of alteration. “Oh my gawd, I, like totally love your hair; I was going to do it too, but I just feel so connected to this length.” Or, “You are so brave.” Or, “Can you send a picture where you are smiling?” (Ok, that one was because I was only taking pictures of myself where I had that pouty model look of desperation/uber sexy). For the most part, I nod and smile, and for the first couple of days I came up with witty responds, such as “What? You mean my hair looks shorter without the wig?” I like that place – somewhere between obnoxious confidence and unnoticeable ego. It’s a slight line – ebbing and flowing, my radar teeters.
There are a number of things that happened to me in the last 18 months, one of which was the realization that I easily fall in love with people who may be a great connection, but of whom I may be better suited to ask the question, “do I want to be with them, or do I want to be them?” Again, a fine line that takes courage to disentangle. Part of that realization was that perhaps I am sort of 60 - 40 on masculine versus feminine identity. Funny how showing neck and ear skin can bump that number higher on days when it matches both my outer fashion, and my inner style where with my legs casually apart, I watch a mysteriously stunning woman from across the room – eyebrows furrowed, she reads and ponders, back straight, chest out, just absolutely beautiful in all that she exudes, and I think how I am not like her. I am not that creature. Yet, having the privilege to move through my day and recognize that I can ebb and flow is a gift, and I know that. I know that I look exactly who I feel like: a dykey, edgy woman who is comfortable in a dress, but only if I am wearing high-top Chucks, and who would rather play Scrabble over football, eat salad instead of a steak, and who simply cannot stop flirting and strutting like the men in black and white films who wore fancy hats and a boyish grin.
It’s nothing really. It’s just a haircut. But it feels like another layer of my cocoon being stripped away, closer and closer to a center in which will metamorphosis into a butterfly.
It was a Friday night; I just got off work and was walking to a friend’s apartment to watch the debate. In my mind, my own type of debate ensued: how much to chop? How do I style it; I have never been good at being consistent – except maybe when eating peas, corn and parmesan for dinner on a very regular schedule – so I found myself scouring each block. There were barbershops with the classic red, white and blue spindle in its window, there were nail salons that also gave cuts; and then there was this little spot located about a block a way from my friend. A slim woman, dressed head to toe in black, a gold belt slung loosely around her waist, stood smoking a cigarette outside of the small storefront. “Are you still offering appointments,” I asked. She leaked out a “yes” between the blue smoke rising from her lips, and waved her hand for me to go inside and set up a time slot at the front desk.
I guess I should’ve known from the door. Literally. Walking through the door put me smack into the end of a tunnel-like shop that was decorated in mauve and gold, glass tables and techno music; men strewn on either side of the counter who donned slick-back hair and limited buttoned button-up shirts. Chest hair and smiles. He gave me the last appointment of the day. I would be back in 20 minutes. Slowly, but giddy about the new transformation that was sure to ensue, I buzzed my friend and updated her on the evening’s schedule. Per usual, my need to be chaotically organized lends way to overriding impulses, and per usual, good people in my life make attempts to shake me from my Piscean dream-like state. She lay there, her own hair tussled and pulled high on top of her head, and dialed the number of her trusted salon in the Village – she added me to her appointment the next day and hung up. I had the option of waiting a little over 12 hours to sit in front of a mirror, under the hands of professionals who are like comic book drawers creating this week’s episode of the Transformers – a breed that is more than meets the eye.
I paced, I checked my phone, went pee, washed my hands, applied chapstick, paced again. Finally, I decided;I was gonna go that night. Shrugging, my friend and I made our way down the crowded block to the salon.
Never again would I feel those exact stands of hair being tugged and scrubbed in that forceful, yet pleasurable way that only the shampooers at a salon can elicit. Staring at the ceiling I noticed the gold belt walk by a couple of times; she would be my stylist. Hair wrapped in a towel I was asked if wanted a glass of wine, of which came in a low crystal-cut baller glass, kind of like the ones you scoop from an estate sale or your grammy’s attic, or perhaps in that one cheesy Days Inn hotel that I stayed in after blowing a tire in Virginia, driving between Florida and Pennsylvania long over a year and a half ago. I liked it, and I swigged easy from its rim.
“How would you like it styled,” she asked me, dancing a bit to the music blaring out of a speaker somewhere above us. “I want it really short, but with a longer, sort of, swoop in the front – something I could perhaps tuck behind my ear, but still have the feeling of next to nothing on the back of my head.” She nodded like she knew, but 20 minutes later, my cheeks pink from the wine, I realized that she was giving me the old lady bob. “Um, I was hoping it would be short – like really, really short.” And she looked at me, paused, shifted her weight and said, “But you are a woman; that is a boy cut.”
I think I laughed.
“Yes, make it look like a boy cut then.”
She made several attempts – like Edward Scissorhands, hair dropped all around us, but she just couldn’t get it close to the head. Perhaps her own long hair kept her from seeing the beauty in being flexible, breaking down the barriers of what it means to be a woman, a beautiful woman, in this society. How does length of hair become genderized and normalized and perpetuated by those who think they are strong enough to smash through the bullshit? Well, it was that night. Her scissors were like the blades of the patriarch – they created me from the mold that sat on top of my head. I was restless; she looked tired from fighting the challenge in front of her. She undraped me, and sent me on my way.
Still, that night, I felt pretty darn good; I mean, my ‘do WAS finally off of my neck, and I WAS wearing a flannel, jeans, and a silly grin. A group of us went out, and I have to admit that I felt like I wanted to be wanted, and I wanted to want all in my path. It was like an internal game of tug-o-war where I didn’t want to be demure, but I also didn’t want to ogle and demand the women in our group to be protected by me. The stew of my analysis was already beginning to bubble on my stove. The next day, hung-over, and planted on a brown leather stool, I was getting it recut. I was once again asked “how would like it to be styled, and seeing as how my stylist and I already established that we were both gay, I blurted out, “Make it dykey, make it edgy.” Why couldn’t’ I say this to the woman who refused to get my cut closer than a bowl/bob cut? How does my internalized fear of being myself creep in to some situations, and not others? At the end of that session, hairs were super short -- an almost orgasmic feeling of freedom rising from my body as I ran my fingers through the next-to-nothing length.
Here’s the thing about making change, it can take minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, but it’s there. Real and tangible – and people love to comment on their own inhibitions based on your act of alteration. “Oh my gawd, I, like totally love your hair; I was going to do it too, but I just feel so connected to this length.” Or, “You are so brave.” Or, “Can you send a picture where you are smiling?” (Ok, that one was because I was only taking pictures of myself where I had that pouty model look of desperation/uber sexy). For the most part, I nod and smile, and for the first couple of days I came up with witty responds, such as “What? You mean my hair looks shorter without the wig?” I like that place – somewhere between obnoxious confidence and unnoticeable ego. It’s a slight line – ebbing and flowing, my radar teeters.
There are a number of things that happened to me in the last 18 months, one of which was the realization that I easily fall in love with people who may be a great connection, but of whom I may be better suited to ask the question, “do I want to be with them, or do I want to be them?” Again, a fine line that takes courage to disentangle. Part of that realization was that perhaps I am sort of 60 - 40 on masculine versus feminine identity. Funny how showing neck and ear skin can bump that number higher on days when it matches both my outer fashion, and my inner style where with my legs casually apart, I watch a mysteriously stunning woman from across the room – eyebrows furrowed, she reads and ponders, back straight, chest out, just absolutely beautiful in all that she exudes, and I think how I am not like her. I am not that creature. Yet, having the privilege to move through my day and recognize that I can ebb and flow is a gift, and I know that. I know that I look exactly who I feel like: a dykey, edgy woman who is comfortable in a dress, but only if I am wearing high-top Chucks, and who would rather play Scrabble over football, eat salad instead of a steak, and who simply cannot stop flirting and strutting like the men in black and white films who wore fancy hats and a boyish grin.
It’s nothing really. It’s just a haircut. But it feels like another layer of my cocoon being stripped away, closer and closer to a center in which will metamorphosis into a butterfly.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
All gender restrooms are where it's at.
A group of cohorts and I are working on creating an all-gender restroom at Columbia University's School of Social Work, where I am in my second year of graduate school. Of the 11 floors, there are no multi-stall, all-gender restroom where people can feel safe. Some may argue that the single stall facilities should be adequate enough, but how marginalizing is it to have to hide one's self away if one simply wants to be themselves, and pee in peace? Breaking down the boundaries of what a person has to look like to use a woman or man's restroom is something that should be smashed.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Gender manifestations: not on the binary
What does it really mean to act like a man, or to act like a woman? Are we constantly adopting to gender expectations that society places upon our bodies, voice, mannerism, clothing and relational connections, or is it an innate persona that shines through based on the anatomy that we have between our legs. For most, it is that reasoning. For others, the binary is blasted out of the water through example and reasoning in which exemplify the disillusion and unrealistic commands of our world; people are not THIS or THAT, instead individuals adopt their own perceptions and lie on a continuum of manifestations that is constantly evolving.
The Marshall School of Business, located within the University of Southern California, found interesting resultsfrom a research study looking at the ways people change their gender expression during job interviews to appear either more masculine if presenting as a biological woman, or more feminine if presenting as a biological male.
“In the study, women who were motivated to make a positive impression, perhaps in an effort to refute the stereotype that they are weak or ineffective negotiators, advocated more strongly for their own interests. In contrast, men who were motivated to make a positive impression, perhaps in an effort to refute the stereotype that they are overly aggressive, yielded to the demands of the other side.”
The result of the study: men take an economic hit, and women take a relationship hit. Their recommendation, “Our recommendation is that the more negotiators of both sexes are conscious of dynamics affecting negotiation, the more planning or practicing they can and should do.”
The real result: Sexism and gender marginalization are still very real in the society’s workplace. What’s more, it appears that people, in general, operate in a dualistic fashion where the complete opposite is acted upon. Perhaps we all need some lessons on the continuum – find understanding and acceptance in the grey area.
The Marshall School of Business, located within the University of Southern California, found interesting resultsfrom a research study looking at the ways people change their gender expression during job interviews to appear either more masculine if presenting as a biological woman, or more feminine if presenting as a biological male.
“In the study, women who were motivated to make a positive impression, perhaps in an effort to refute the stereotype that they are weak or ineffective negotiators, advocated more strongly for their own interests. In contrast, men who were motivated to make a positive impression, perhaps in an effort to refute the stereotype that they are overly aggressive, yielded to the demands of the other side.”
The result of the study: men take an economic hit, and women take a relationship hit. Their recommendation, “Our recommendation is that the more negotiators of both sexes are conscious of dynamics affecting negotiation, the more planning or practicing they can and should do.”
The real result: Sexism and gender marginalization are still very real in the society’s workplace. What’s more, it appears that people, in general, operate in a dualistic fashion where the complete opposite is acted upon. Perhaps we all need some lessons on the continuum – find understanding and acceptance in the grey area.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
My Experience With Armpit Hair
There have been an interesting string of events that have taken place since I ditched the razor. Well, I guess I didn’t ditch it completely; I just stopped using it above my hipbone. It started with a dare, of sorts. I should start from the beginning.
It was a sunny morning in the Midwest, and I lay on my friend’s backyard hammock. The breeze was just light enough to keep my sweat from dripping, but it was not enough to alleviate the sweat. “You need a test of conformity,” she said; “perhaps you should not shave your armpits until I see you again.” That’s seven weeks I thought, and that is a long time for my underarms to go without a sharp blade slicing into its sensitive flesh. “Sure,” I said. Why? Well I thought I knew exactly who I was: a strong woman with no ego; I am a feminist who touts my SELF as my own – to do with as I please; and in some ways I was comfortable because not shaving may fall in to a stereotypical category in which I already pridefully and passionately place upon myself: gay. These are silly generalizations, but as the days turned into weeks, my hair’s length began to match that of my awareness of gender.
My confidence was through the roof, and I wonder now if it is because I was subconsciously discovering/holding on to a masculine trait of feeling positive about my role in the world. Choosing to go against the grain was brave, and that is masculine, right? Maybe not, but, I decided to be real with a lot of folks in my life. If I could be brave in my own world, perhaps others could be brave in my world too. So, um, yeah. Armpits don’t emit any special potion that protect, and needless to say, I was rejected here and there on a multitude of issues based on my need to be free from my own set-up boundaries, constrictions and conformity. Still, I was determined to keep my “locks” (ew, can I call armpit hair such a thing?).
One of the first couple of days that I was back from the safety of the hammock, I was at the pool with my nephew. It was unbearably hot – like the sun-is-right-here-on-your-neck type of hot. They were there when I arrived. Two women – whom my queerdar picked up as family – strolled over to the edge of the city pool where I was diving, flipping and laughing in the deep, cooling water. My armpits had been consciously on my mind these days. I knew when to hide ‘em. In fact, I can’t believe how often my elbows jabbed in to my sides – as if to remind me to not lift my arms too high – we wouldn’t want to show the world that I am a woman who doesn’t conform to standards. Somewhere in the back of my heat-dazed head I decided that these women might find it sexy that not only am I wearing a white bathing suit with rainbow hearts, but they would also realize that I am interested in them because I have armpit hair (seeing the stereotype of this type of hair). So I propped my arms up on the ledge adjacent to their legs and proudly rocked my stubble. I’m pretty sure they never looked at me. And if they did, what type of weirdo checks out their possible date’s pits? Perhaps it wasn’t long enough yet.
It was finally noticeable on a day where I was not quite as puffed up as the day at the pool. It was the first day at the mural site, and I was the only woman. I had on my painting gear, ready to get dirty, and my hair was swept up into a bun, and held together by my pen. That morning I noticed the dark mass under my arms, growing (too close for comfort) next to my sports bra. With a wince and a crinkle of my nose I hopped on my bike and headed out to the neighborhood where the mural wall needed pointed, primed and landscaped. The guys at the site were dope: super funny and very masculine in that they wore long shorts, Timberland boots and either A-line tanks or crisp white t’s. First thing we had to do was put the scaffolding together, which means a lot of heavy lifting, and holding up the metal pieces. It also means exposing the world to my armpits. I noticed them noticing, and I thought, well, already they think I am not a “girly-girl” because I was working on such a hard job – and in fact one of the guys asked me if I am the male in my intimate relationships (no, you idiot, gay relationships don’t have to mirror your heterosexual ways…) – and maybe this would work to my favor because they will give me the benefit of the doubt that I can indeed lift and work hard. Because I can. Instantaneously I was in charge of things; pointing out where to place the metal sides, calling out for more mortar to be mixed. My demands were intermixed with stories told by my fellow workers that were littered with misogynistic words. They talked about music and hollered at ladies walking by in their summer ‘fits. Usually men apologize to me in these situations; “oh, sorry Bonnie, no disrespect, but…” Nothing like that was ever said. I felt truly accepted by them, and I dug that. I wondered on my way home if it had anything to do with the hair growing under my (now dirty) arms.
The next day, I rode my bike the five miles to the center of town, and waited for the early morning bus to drop me off at the site. A guy about my age walked by a few times, and then stopped. “What’s that pin mean,” he asked while pointing to my rainbow pin on book bag strap. It says “Celebrate Diversity.” It was silent for a moment as I gave him that look that says, come on now, you know what a rainbow flag symbolizes. “So, are you, like, a lesbian?” he sputtered. “Yes.” Yes I am buddy. “So, have you ever been with guys? I mean, do you have guys trying to turn you, like how I am doing now?”
Oh goodness, I thought. Seriously? So I lifted my arms and fixed my hair, armpit hair practically stabbing him in the eye. The magical powers still didn’t work. He was still standing there.
“Well,” I tell him, “I usually don’t wear work clothes covered in paint like this, so yes, when I am wearing my usual flowing dresses, I get mistaken all of the time for a straight woman.” I knew I would either have to be rude or educate so I chose the latter. “You may not realize it, but women are so conditioned in our world to be a princess and to marry a prince that coming out is a later-in-life practice among many queer folks.” He nodded. The bus came at that moment, and, of course, we were going in the same direction. He sat next to me, and told me about his job as a barber, and then he asked the most insane thing a person on public transportation has ever asked: “Ok, I will make you a deal; You get with me, and I will get with another man.” What in the world is this crazy dude’s problem? Here I am being nice and then he drops some weirdo sex stuff on me. I tried to laugh it off.
“Ha, um, yeah, not interested in that.” My social work skills jumped the gun (I should have just put my ipod back in my ear canals): “Have you ever been with a man?” I asked. He was silent for a moment and I could tell that he had never really talked about this before. Perhaps his ignorance was mistaken; he may be trying to reach out. He told me that before he went to prison for five years he had sex with “a he-she”… “Sorry, you mean a transgender person?” He looked at his shoes, and muttered, “Yeah, that’s it.” “Ok. Well, have you met anyone recently?” “No, I don’t go to those type of bars,” he said, still not looking up at me. I noticed then that he was the type of person who, like me, is often spotted as straight. He wore Dickies, new sneakers, a crisp t-shirt. He was covered in tattoos and had a cool-guy demeanor. I was happy to have the conversation now because he may be reaching out. I now wish I had been less consumed with flashing my pits, and, instead, more mindful of his real intentions. But, alas, we parted ways on the desolate streets of Carnegie.
I could seriously go on for pages here about all of the men who approached me during the week I worked on the job site. One person commented on my outfit (“You gonna paint in that; you don’t want to get messed up”). One person touched my hands (I didn’t give him permission to do so) and said I clearly didn’t do this type of job for a living. I got a grip of business cards from folks whose services I didn’t need, but who decided to waltz up to me as I rolled the super bright white paint on the walls. Madness I tell you. And the freakin’ armpits were doing nothing for me. I didn’t care about the hair, and no one else seemed to care. In fact, they seemed to be a magnet for men, and I don’t swing that way.
On July 26th, a mere 12 days since the dare, I shaved it off. It was about 7 in the morning and I was in the bathroom staring at myself in the early morning light. It took a split second, but I grabbed the razor, splashed some water on my pits, and got rid of it all. A slight sting of “good job Bonnie, you couldn’t make it even a month” rushed over me, but then it was gone. I realized that I am ok with being me, and if that means shaving and conforming, then so be it. If it means breaking down stereotypes while sometimes contradicting myself, then that’s my role. I still got treated the same way that I get treated when I don a skirt.
The day I shaved my armpits I worked so incredibly hard at the site. I was with the kids, I primed the wall, I did landscaping, I pressure washed the adjacent, moldy walls. I was filthy. I came home beat. My folks were down the street at their local hangout. I needed to collect my head for a moment. Purple dress, black flats, my hair clean and smelling good, and my armpits gleaming in all of their naked beauty, I walked in to the bar. “Yuengling draft,” I ordered. It wasn’t long until a local guy told my mom that her daughter was beautiful, and that he just broke up with his wife. He was going on and on. I drown the conversation out; I was too interested in my pint and the extreme fighting that was on TV. Two women, one from South Dakota and one from Brazil, were interlocked in move after move on the bloody mat. People in the bar were amazed at these “girls” who were being aggressive. They would never make the same comments if the two women were, instead, two men. My mom looked at me. “Should I tell him, or do you want to?” He noticed and said, “tell me what?” I looked at him square in the eye, and after a week of these types of approaches, I flatly and loudly said, “That I am gay.” He stood back, and looked shocked. “What, you think I’m gay?” So now he thinks that being gay is an insult, and, besides, that is not what I said. “Now (you jerk), I am gay.” He smiled. “Oh, well, that makes it even better; that’s totally hot.” Oh how I wish I had saved the shavings and sprinkled them in his Coors Light draft sweating on the counter top.
Instead I simply turned my head and watched a woman beat the crap out of another woman.
It was a sunny morning in the Midwest, and I lay on my friend’s backyard hammock. The breeze was just light enough to keep my sweat from dripping, but it was not enough to alleviate the sweat. “You need a test of conformity,” she said; “perhaps you should not shave your armpits until I see you again.” That’s seven weeks I thought, and that is a long time for my underarms to go without a sharp blade slicing into its sensitive flesh. “Sure,” I said. Why? Well I thought I knew exactly who I was: a strong woman with no ego; I am a feminist who touts my SELF as my own – to do with as I please; and in some ways I was comfortable because not shaving may fall in to a stereotypical category in which I already pridefully and passionately place upon myself: gay. These are silly generalizations, but as the days turned into weeks, my hair’s length began to match that of my awareness of gender.
My confidence was through the roof, and I wonder now if it is because I was subconsciously discovering/holding on to a masculine trait of feeling positive about my role in the world. Choosing to go against the grain was brave, and that is masculine, right? Maybe not, but, I decided to be real with a lot of folks in my life. If I could be brave in my own world, perhaps others could be brave in my world too. So, um, yeah. Armpits don’t emit any special potion that protect, and needless to say, I was rejected here and there on a multitude of issues based on my need to be free from my own set-up boundaries, constrictions and conformity. Still, I was determined to keep my “locks” (ew, can I call armpit hair such a thing?).
One of the first couple of days that I was back from the safety of the hammock, I was at the pool with my nephew. It was unbearably hot – like the sun-is-right-here-on-your-neck type of hot. They were there when I arrived. Two women – whom my queerdar picked up as family – strolled over to the edge of the city pool where I was diving, flipping and laughing in the deep, cooling water. My armpits had been consciously on my mind these days. I knew when to hide ‘em. In fact, I can’t believe how often my elbows jabbed in to my sides – as if to remind me to not lift my arms too high – we wouldn’t want to show the world that I am a woman who doesn’t conform to standards. Somewhere in the back of my heat-dazed head I decided that these women might find it sexy that not only am I wearing a white bathing suit with rainbow hearts, but they would also realize that I am interested in them because I have armpit hair (seeing the stereotype of this type of hair). So I propped my arms up on the ledge adjacent to their legs and proudly rocked my stubble. I’m pretty sure they never looked at me. And if they did, what type of weirdo checks out their possible date’s pits? Perhaps it wasn’t long enough yet.
It was finally noticeable on a day where I was not quite as puffed up as the day at the pool. It was the first day at the mural site, and I was the only woman. I had on my painting gear, ready to get dirty, and my hair was swept up into a bun, and held together by my pen. That morning I noticed the dark mass under my arms, growing (too close for comfort) next to my sports bra. With a wince and a crinkle of my nose I hopped on my bike and headed out to the neighborhood where the mural wall needed pointed, primed and landscaped. The guys at the site were dope: super funny and very masculine in that they wore long shorts, Timberland boots and either A-line tanks or crisp white t’s. First thing we had to do was put the scaffolding together, which means a lot of heavy lifting, and holding up the metal pieces. It also means exposing the world to my armpits. I noticed them noticing, and I thought, well, already they think I am not a “girly-girl” because I was working on such a hard job – and in fact one of the guys asked me if I am the male in my intimate relationships (no, you idiot, gay relationships don’t have to mirror your heterosexual ways…) – and maybe this would work to my favor because they will give me the benefit of the doubt that I can indeed lift and work hard. Because I can. Instantaneously I was in charge of things; pointing out where to place the metal sides, calling out for more mortar to be mixed. My demands were intermixed with stories told by my fellow workers that were littered with misogynistic words. They talked about music and hollered at ladies walking by in their summer ‘fits. Usually men apologize to me in these situations; “oh, sorry Bonnie, no disrespect, but…” Nothing like that was ever said. I felt truly accepted by them, and I dug that. I wondered on my way home if it had anything to do with the hair growing under my (now dirty) arms.
The next day, I rode my bike the five miles to the center of town, and waited for the early morning bus to drop me off at the site. A guy about my age walked by a few times, and then stopped. “What’s that pin mean,” he asked while pointing to my rainbow pin on book bag strap. It says “Celebrate Diversity.” It was silent for a moment as I gave him that look that says, come on now, you know what a rainbow flag symbolizes. “So, are you, like, a lesbian?” he sputtered. “Yes.” Yes I am buddy. “So, have you ever been with guys? I mean, do you have guys trying to turn you, like how I am doing now?”
Oh goodness, I thought. Seriously? So I lifted my arms and fixed my hair, armpit hair practically stabbing him in the eye. The magical powers still didn’t work. He was still standing there.
“Well,” I tell him, “I usually don’t wear work clothes covered in paint like this, so yes, when I am wearing my usual flowing dresses, I get mistaken all of the time for a straight woman.” I knew I would either have to be rude or educate so I chose the latter. “You may not realize it, but women are so conditioned in our world to be a princess and to marry a prince that coming out is a later-in-life practice among many queer folks.” He nodded. The bus came at that moment, and, of course, we were going in the same direction. He sat next to me, and told me about his job as a barber, and then he asked the most insane thing a person on public transportation has ever asked: “Ok, I will make you a deal; You get with me, and I will get with another man.” What in the world is this crazy dude’s problem? Here I am being nice and then he drops some weirdo sex stuff on me. I tried to laugh it off.
“Ha, um, yeah, not interested in that.” My social work skills jumped the gun (I should have just put my ipod back in my ear canals): “Have you ever been with a man?” I asked. He was silent for a moment and I could tell that he had never really talked about this before. Perhaps his ignorance was mistaken; he may be trying to reach out. He told me that before he went to prison for five years he had sex with “a he-she”… “Sorry, you mean a transgender person?” He looked at his shoes, and muttered, “Yeah, that’s it.” “Ok. Well, have you met anyone recently?” “No, I don’t go to those type of bars,” he said, still not looking up at me. I noticed then that he was the type of person who, like me, is often spotted as straight. He wore Dickies, new sneakers, a crisp t-shirt. He was covered in tattoos and had a cool-guy demeanor. I was happy to have the conversation now because he may be reaching out. I now wish I had been less consumed with flashing my pits, and, instead, more mindful of his real intentions. But, alas, we parted ways on the desolate streets of Carnegie.
I could seriously go on for pages here about all of the men who approached me during the week I worked on the job site. One person commented on my outfit (“You gonna paint in that; you don’t want to get messed up”). One person touched my hands (I didn’t give him permission to do so) and said I clearly didn’t do this type of job for a living. I got a grip of business cards from folks whose services I didn’t need, but who decided to waltz up to me as I rolled the super bright white paint on the walls. Madness I tell you. And the freakin’ armpits were doing nothing for me. I didn’t care about the hair, and no one else seemed to care. In fact, they seemed to be a magnet for men, and I don’t swing that way.
On July 26th, a mere 12 days since the dare, I shaved it off. It was about 7 in the morning and I was in the bathroom staring at myself in the early morning light. It took a split second, but I grabbed the razor, splashed some water on my pits, and got rid of it all. A slight sting of “good job Bonnie, you couldn’t make it even a month” rushed over me, but then it was gone. I realized that I am ok with being me, and if that means shaving and conforming, then so be it. If it means breaking down stereotypes while sometimes contradicting myself, then that’s my role. I still got treated the same way that I get treated when I don a skirt.
The day I shaved my armpits I worked so incredibly hard at the site. I was with the kids, I primed the wall, I did landscaping, I pressure washed the adjacent, moldy walls. I was filthy. I came home beat. My folks were down the street at their local hangout. I needed to collect my head for a moment. Purple dress, black flats, my hair clean and smelling good, and my armpits gleaming in all of their naked beauty, I walked in to the bar. “Yuengling draft,” I ordered. It wasn’t long until a local guy told my mom that her daughter was beautiful, and that he just broke up with his wife. He was going on and on. I drown the conversation out; I was too interested in my pint and the extreme fighting that was on TV. Two women, one from South Dakota and one from Brazil, were interlocked in move after move on the bloody mat. People in the bar were amazed at these “girls” who were being aggressive. They would never make the same comments if the two women were, instead, two men. My mom looked at me. “Should I tell him, or do you want to?” He noticed and said, “tell me what?” I looked at him square in the eye, and after a week of these types of approaches, I flatly and loudly said, “That I am gay.” He stood back, and looked shocked. “What, you think I’m gay?” So now he thinks that being gay is an insult, and, besides, that is not what I said. “Now (you jerk), I am gay.” He smiled. “Oh, well, that makes it even better; that’s totally hot.” Oh how I wish I had saved the shavings and sprinkled them in his Coors Light draft sweating on the counter top.
Instead I simply turned my head and watched a woman beat the crap out of another woman.
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