All too familiar
this uncertainty
this fear
She becomes an object
(far too willingly- I think)
As they turn her life into
numbers, and
charts
something quantifiable
something
not her

Thighs squeezed
tight around thighs
Lips and breasts
mashed together
Fingers in hair
(fingers inside)
This is not sex
Not making love
This is our blood
This is life itself

Preparing for the GLBT Expo this weekend at the Javitz Center, I had some idea of what to expect; would it be an enormous room full of beautiful queermos hocking pride jewelry, free dental dams and condoms? (Yes.)
Would there be a slew of corporate and tourism booths dedicated to opportunistically courting the almighty "pink dollar"? (Predictably, yes.)
Would there be incessant, inescapable and incoherent babble coursing from loudspeakers over a driving bass thump from the back of the room? (Annoyingly, also yes.)
In fact, most of what I expected to fill the large conference room at the Javitz Center did, but there was something else.
This is where I should let you in on a little secret: This was my first time at the GLBT Expo. Therefore, I have no idea what was there previous years. That said, I was struck at how completely family oriented the whole thing had become, and not in that Sister Sledge- "We Are Family..." kind of way, although it was that too.
Amidst the free HIV testing booths, the booths promoting the latest Broadway shows and the queer, ethical porn booth, were booths offering at home fertilization devices, promoting sperm cryo-banks, adoption services for same-sex couples and foster parent advocacy groups. The whole thing was so normal, so nice, so... non-subversive, which is a good thing. Right?
I mean, sure there was the occasional bear or leatherman walking around, or the odd old school butch/femme couple- one in a slinky dress, the other with a lead gray crew cut, but the overwhelming feeling I got walking around the expo was, "we're here, we're queer, and, let's face it, America's used to it."
Now, before you get your carabiner clipped keys in a tangle, let me explain. I'm not romanticizing the days of unrecognized partnerships, daily gay bashings and general societal homophobic ickyness.. Hell, leave New York City and you'll find that that world still exists. In fact, I think it's amazing and wonderful that I can go with my WIFE to her new doctor, and when he asks what our relationship is, answer "I'm her wife". I love the fact that we live in a city (and time,) where the love of my life and I can walk down almost any street holding hands and barely get a second look from passersby, and it's incredible that- if we were a bit more solvent and in a position to adopt a child, there are services to help us do just that.
All these things, and so much more that have come about with this great sociopolitical shift are more than I could have dreamt of when as a child, I first realized that I could never follow in my parents' socially sanctioned footsteps, but there's a part of me that wanders if, along with all these gains, we as a people haven't lost something precious.
Gay culture has always given its proverbial middle finger to the bourgeois, middle American ideal of white bread, Bible thumping conformity. As dykes, queers and trans* people, we've always had somewhat of a rebel cachè. What now, now that we're becoming that bourgeois cliché? Does the fact that we're out and proud on Kindle commercials, raising adopted children before coast to coast network TV audiences and a frontrunner in the NYC mayoral race mean that we're slated for sociocultural lesbian bed death?
Maybe not so much. As out front as our collective fight for equality has become, (even the POTUS has publicly sworn his support for marriage equality,) it's easy to forget that in several states, conservative lawmakers are still proposing laws as heinous as the "Don't Say Gay" bill, and rates of anti-gay and anti-trans* violence have barely waned.
Events such as the GLBT Expo are designed- not only to support GLBT owned/friendly businesses, but to increase opportunities for LGBTQ people, and to make more visible our presence in the world.
Being an out and proud dyke of trans* history may make me feel a little badass, but I'll gladly trade that little bit of outsider cool for a world in which my sisters and brothers can celebrate their loves and lives and enjoy the same privileges as the rest of the hetero world.

Your breath on my neck
Your breasts against my back
Your arm across my breasts
Like this, we revel in now
Already, day's blue light
stains our dancing
white gauze curtains.

I Need Feminism Because:

I need feminism because
No woman owes beauty to anyone else, but we're all treated as subhuman if we aren't at least "pretty"

I need feminism because being fat, and unabashedly eating a Butterfinger on a crowded rush hour bus ought not be a revolutionary act
but it is

I need feminism because
"feminist" is still viewed as a dirty word

I need feminism because
politicians are still trying to regulate every woman's uterus, but any yutz can still walk into Walmart and buy a gun

I need feminism because
my wife, the woman I love more than anything in the world thinks she's ugly because she's also fat
and has scars

I need feminism because she thinks that not being "beautiful", somehow detracts from her worth as a woman

I need feminism because
My sisters and I continue to make only 77% of our male peers' salaries, work harder to receive less recognition, and are often passed up for promotions in favor of far less capable men

I need feminism because
every woman is taught to think of her virginity as a "gift to bestow", rather than her sexuality as something for her own enjoyment

I need feminism because
even today, on Facebook and elsewhere, women who choose to appear in sexy outfits are exhorted to "respect themselves" by practicing modesty, lest they be viewed as complicit in their own sexuality

I need feminism because
no woman becomes a lesbian just because she's never been fucked by a really great dick
(just remember..strap-ons don't need Viagra!)

All kidding aside, I need feminism because I don't hate men
In fact, I know many men are victimized by the patriarchy as well

I need feminism because
I'm exhausted.
I'm exhausted from crying over my sisters:
14 years old and shot in the face for saying that girls should go to school too
15 years old and throat slit because she wanted a brighter future than being forced to marry her 28 year old cousin
23, and gang raped to death on a bus

I need feminism because
this list could go on for a hundred thousand pages, and the world will continue to invent new ways to make my sisters and me feel that we're somehow failures- as women and as human beings

I need feminism because
I will reject each one, and I pray that my sisters will all find their strength
and stand beside me

Questioning the Term "Transgender"

This is exceedingly personal and, a personal narrative is- as its name implies, personal. For the sake of real discourse, it must be maintained that from the personal comes the political, and never the other way around, or we risk sacrificing what's important, (i.e., the truth,) for what's convenient, or useful as propaganda. That said, while I'm writing about gender identity, I'm presenting my own perspective on my own experience, and in no way should this be mistaken for a political statement or manifesto.
...
I've been thinking about the word "transgender" alot lately. Although I'd never dream of denying my own history, I'm no longer certain that I can identify with the term, and here's why: first, I must begrudgingly confess my compulsive disorder regarding language, particularly when it comes to grammar and the obsessive drive to find the exact right word for any given situation. Mind you, I don't always succeed, and much self-flagellation has ensued as a result, but this is slightly beside the point.
The "point" is, The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language defines "Gender" as, "sexual identity", not biological sex. The selfsame dictionary defines the prefix "trans" as "across; on the other side; beyond".
In that light, let's examine the word "transgender":

"Across gender": this would mean encompassing more than one gender.

"On the other side of gender": this suggests that there was some initial place from which an original gender identity was formulated prior to being changed; while I'm certain this is applicable to many who identify as "transgender"- and for the sake of argument, I'll include myself, it doesn't exactly match my own experience in that, I always knew I was female, regardless of what the doctor stamped on my birth certificate. This brings us to...

"Beyond gender": while I've known many who legitimately identify as "genderqueer", or outside the male/female binary, I do not. I identify as female and I always have, regardless of my presentation at any given time.

So you see, in several ways this "transgender" thing is a conundrum; if when asked about my identity (this kind of thing comes up in conversation far more often than I'm comfortable with,) I simply say "I'm a woman", it will be read one of two possible ways: either more or less at face value, (I'm exceedingly thankful for "passing privilege"!), or that I'm challenging the socially accepted definition of the word "woman" itself. For my part, both apply. While I was not born with ovaries, I was born with an XXY chromosome and a female gender identity, and while I have had to utilize medical and cosmetic intervention for the purpose of aligning my external gender presentation with my internal identity, I'm far from alone; there are millions of women the world over who- for one reason or another suffer from hirsuteness (typically male pattern body and facial hair growth), have no ovaries, etc. Would any concientious person have the gall to suggest that they aren't women?
Equally important, there's the issue of the personal as the political: as an "out" "transitioning woman who was at one time thought to be, and presented herself as a man (etc. etc.)", whether I like it or not, any way in which I explain my identity to the world matters. If I reject the mantle of "transgender", I will be perceived by my trans* sisters and brothers as a turncoat, and by the
cis world as "proof" that trans* experiences are somehow less than genuine.

Maybe I can find a way in which the term trans* is personally applicable. Afterall, my entire life is in transition: my wife who met me when I was presenting as male, is straight, (I identify as lesbian,) and finds herself grappling with her own identity within our relationship, and my parents who, for 43 years believed that they had had a son, must now come to grips with the fact that they suddenly have a 44 year old daughter.
Perhaps I need to come up with a new term, one that more accurately fits my identity. Maybe, the next time some probing questioner asks me what I am, (and I feel safe to answer truthfully,) I'll reply, "I'm a woman living a life in transition", or, maybe that's far too long winded and will lead to too many other probing questions I'd rather not deal with. The fact is, if some future gatekeeper or self-appointed gender gendarme has the chutzpah to ask me "what are you?" I'll likely answer "I'm a woman ", and simply leave it at that.

thank you

To the beautiful, twenty-something lesbian from the makeup counter at Macy's on Fulton Street today: Thank you for flirting with me when you're obviously out of my league. Thank you for touching my arm and then my curls as you leaned conspiratorially close to whisper that I could find eyeshadow of the same colors and quality at less than half the price at Duane Reade. Thank you for making me blush. Although I acted cool and unaffected, you made my day.

For Everywoman

I don't owe you/ pretty, or/ thin/ or shapely/ or "hot"/ I don't owe you/ my tits/ nor my ass/ nor do I owe you/ (or anyone else)/ "Modesty"/ Or a plan to shield you from looking at me./ (that's all on you.)/ I owe you very little in fact, nothing but what you owe me/ Like respect/ as another human being/ not as a "lady", or a mother or a daughter/ Just another human being/ who rides on the same bus/ Walks on the same sidewalk/ Or breathes the same air.

This morning in the laundry room,/ I learned that Jose had died./ Jose was a homeless man./ He stayed in the neighborhood./ He was kind and had a dog named Shorty. /He was eloquent and thoughtful and spoke like a poet. / I'm going to miss the fixture of his cart./ I'll pass the corner where he spent temperate days/ and miss the inspiration he lent my stories./ I didn't know him well, but I'll miss him./ Occasionally, I'll wander what became of his dog.

body

Naked, we press/ together in purple sleep, my/ budding breasts/ reach toward your back/ but my belly/ your ass/ put air between us/ This is our body/ ankles tangled / thigh between thighs/ under white down comforter/ pulled up around cheeks/ Warm breath on back/ against the cold/ late November open window.

The Butterfinger Incident

Since transitioning, I've become acutely aware of male privilege.  For one thing, taking the subway, or even the bus doesn't feel as safe as it once did, but that's something to be expected. I'm not by any means condoning street harassment, but let's face it, men can sometimes be creeps.  I was however surprised when one recent rush hour on the M14 bus, I was forced into the realization that something as mundane as eating a candy bar could be so controversial. I should probably explain. I'm fat. I take up space. In no earthly culture could I be viewed as "thin".  And so it was that one evening rush hour on the M14, while eating a Butterfinger candy bar that I was reminded by a man (who was at least once and a half my own girth,) that I was "...kinda pretty", and if only I would "... lose a few pounds, maybe [ I ] could get myself a nice guy".  I won't even bother to go into the myriad replies that filled my incredulous head, all jostling towards my mouth only to get stuck shoulder to shoulder to shoulder in the doorway (chief among them, I'm a lesbian who happens to be married, thank you very much!) In fact, I was sadly unable to say anything brilliantly cutting or clever before he disembarked at 5th Avenue.  Had I been quicker on my verbal feet, I might have retorted that women's bodies, indeed all bodies ought not be regarded as grist for the mill of public commentary. How many of us have looked at another woman and commented that she was too thin or too tanned, or that her breasts or ass were too small or too big? I'm not only pointing the finger at everyone else.  Admittedly, I've done this too. Obviously, as a lesbian I look at other women. I am afterall a sexual creature, and it's only natural, but the problem arises when we don't only look, but feel entitled to comment, as though we've some right to lay claim to another's body. I realize that I've digressed from my original point about male privilege, or, maybe not. The fact of the matter is, women are often complicit in creating the perception that women's bodies are public property, and although men are becoming increasingly regarded in much the same way, it's usually men who are already in the public arena as celebrities. This doesn't make it alright by any means, (in fact it compounds the issue) but that's fodder for another rant; this one's about women's bodies, and our right to own our own.  After all, a fat woman standing on a rush hour bus should be able to enjoy her Butterfinger, without it being an act of feminist rebellion.

My Body is a Revolution

As a lesbian identified woman of trans history, my criteria for attraction/attractiveness already differ slightly from those of most of the hetero/cisexual public. That said, my wife was shocked when, during a conversation last week about "getting into better shape", I declared that I didn't want to completely get rid of my belly. The truth of the matter is, I like having a belly. I enjoy being "fat". It makes me feel feminine and in charge of my own image because, with the revolutionary act of simply accepting my body as it is, I've declared- both to myself and to the world, that the media will never dictate to me what I should look like, nor what I should find aesthetically or even sexually attractive. My body is a revolutionary act because, I declare ownership of it and responsibility for it every day. And to those who would cite the fact that I was born biologically male, rendering me incapable of understanding the angst and social pressure brought to bare on girls to conform to media imposed strictures of acceptability, I say this: I am a woman. I'm a woman who until only recently was perceived as, and expected to behave as a man, simply because, externally, I didn't fit anyone's concept of what a woman should be. Believe me, I understand the pressures of society to conform, and admittedly, I embrace some of them: I take hormones to grow my breasts. I still shave daily (because as yet, I cannot afford laser depilation) and wear makeup. I paint my nails, and do my best to maintain some semblance of a manicure which isn't easy, considering that I've got dry nails that crack and I'm a klutz. I do all these things and more, because they help me feel more in touch with my femininity, as well as helping me "pass" in the world, but mostly I do them because I like to. It's as simple as that. They simply feel right, like they're a part of me, and if tomorrow, Vogue Magazine came out in favor of absolute androgyny, and women everywhere began foregoing their lipstick and makeup for a K.D. Lang circa 1991 inspired look, I'd walk out my front door in my size 26 pencil skirt, blood red lipstick and matching nails, and- as much as I'd enjoy checking out all the hot androgynous women, I'd thank the universe for the fact that I am who I am: a fat, femme dyke who has, after years of struggling with identity and body dysphoria issues, finally come to love herself, exactly as she is.

The View From E 88th

Stepping outside my front door this morning, coffee in hand, ankle length winter coat for lack of a bathrobe, onto the catwalk: our street is eerily calm. It's cold, and there's a carpet of wet, yellow leaves on the ground. The three trees in front of my building thankfully withstood the storm, as did a carelessly parked Harley across the street. In fact, but for the news, loudly insinuating itself from my neighbor's apartment, one looking out on this street might think she had merely awoken to an average Manhattan morning still wet with the results of an average October rain. But there's no sound of traffic coming up the hill from Second, and no march of morning umbrellas torwards the 6 train on Lex and down on 14th, at Avenue C the cars' roofs are like islands in an inland sea.

Ritual

The sounds of her pills, my pills being counted / This diurnal inventory that greets me each morning.

Just A Comment

When someone tells me I'm "very brave" for transitioning, I can't help but think it has less to do with bravery, than it does that survival instinct that kicks in when one's house is on fire; if one wishes to go on living, one gets up from their easy chair and runs outside. My decision to transition was- indeed IS no more nor less than that primary instinctual imperative to get out of a burning building.

untitled

I did not choose this otherness
I did not choose isolation or
the fear
of leaving the house
unshaven and without my face
I did not choose this otherness, this
life apart, of complexities
and complications
I never chose anxiety
over which public restroom to use, nor
to be a target
just for walking in daylight
I did not choose this otherness
any more than to have two hands
or to be 5 foot 6
or to have curly hair
I choose only to be myself
Unapologetic
Unashamed
Let others be shamed by their sameness, their lack of courage
I did not choose this otherness
but I will accept it with
wide open hands.

Suheir,
The brothers in olive have
wrapped you in your own anger
You smother there
For whom?

this morning

We shared a pint of
giant blackberries
stained our fingers with
Blackberry blood--
a sweet memory from
our first meeting
and now I sit in my
yellow chair
reading your Hammad
my fingertips still red.





*poet Suheir Hammad

By way of my contribution to the "I need feminism because..." meme circulating on Facebook:

I need feminism because
people think it's ok to suggest that:
(a) I've sacrificed status, and
(b) I shouldn't be surprised or upset when people
regard me as a joke because I'm transgendered.

offering

Some intruders
come with hammers and torches
Knocking down walls, throwing
books to the pyre
Others come full of
only good intentions, with
Ziploc bags full of
sage for burning.