Look; I've made a neck-
lace of the jagged stones that
you have thrown at me.

There is
so much loveliness here
in these three-o-clock shadows-
the naked trees that spread their claws
o'er the slick black road
ice spikes that threaten
from stone ceilings of transverse tunnels
and in the cold that promises to wait out my patient bones
So much loveliness, that
I would be fine
to leave it all behind
so long as I might depart
with its
taste yet upon my cold lips.

I think I need to come out again, not as a trans* this time, nor as a lesbian, but as someone who suffers from major depression and anxiety disorder. I'm not writing this to solicit notes of sympathy or support, (I know my family and friends love me,) but because I'm ashamed.

Being depressed, in addition to making certain feelings of helplessness and hopelessness extremely pronounced, causes me to feel more or less worthless, and as someone who feels worthless, the other feelings of pain start to feel like an unearned indulgence, because no matter how I know that it's not my fault, there's that nasty stigma- that nagging inner voice that tells me I should be able to move through my life productively, like "everyone else", if only I would "just get over it".
I know that these are lies I tell myself, and that I'm not worthless, (that's how I'm able to share these feelings,) but much of the time, that's how I truly feel.
I know I'm not the only one who's daily life is a battle with major depression and/or crippling anxiety, and I know I'm not the only one who victimizes herself with this kind of hurtful self-talk. I'm sharing this part of myself, because, as we are with our queerness, it's time we were about all the aspects of who we are. We ought not suffer from shame because we fail to represent some shining ideal of emotional and/or mental and/or physical fitness. Instead, we should revel in our strength, the strength we find when we reject the outside expectations, the power we reclaim, when we choose live our genuine lives without shame.

An open letter to a cisgender friend who excitedly informed me of a part she'd gotten playing a trans* woman in an indie film:

Although I'd originally congratulated you, my conscience wouldn't allow me to leave something unsaid; understand that I think highly of you, as both an actor and as a human being, and that I don't fault you in the least for innocently taking on what promises to be both an interesting and challenging role. That said, I have to admit that when I read your excited pronouncement, I found myself shaking, and that soon after, came tears, nausea, and a level of upset that at first I didn't understand.

The fact is, frankly, it's unacceptable that the creators of your film chose you, a cis woman, to play the part of a trans* character.
Maybe I sound harsh, but hear me out: Time and again, trans* lives are used by popular media as little more than awkward plot devices, or worse, (as in recent episodes of both "Mike & Molly" and "Two and a Half Men",) the punchline of harmful and hurtful jokes; more often than not, we're cast as predators, out to trick unwitting straight men into betraying their heterosexuality. The usual joke goes like this:
Joe Stud meets a gorgeous chick at the bar. The two of them are getting hot and heavy, when suddenly, it turns out that the gorgeous chick has (or had,) a penis. Joe Stud is now a laughingstock, because he fell for a dude, and the whole world knows it. That's right, according to the ever repeated joke, the trans* woman isn't a woman at all; she's, or, "he's" a "dude". Do you see what I'm getting at?
Wait though, it actually gets worse, because you see, as the studio audience (or laugh track or whatever) titters nervously, or groans, or laughs at a character revealed to be trans*, (and the emasculated guy who got duped,) another would-be attacker of a trans* person is validated in his feeling that we're dangerous or even just "icky", that our lives are inherently "less than", and that it's therefore okay that scores of trans* women (and although less frequently, not less notable, trans* men) are killed each year, simply because they're trans*.

Look; I know that you're a good and thoughtful person, and that you'll do your best to play this role with as much sensitivity and understanding as possible; I also know, that had you any understanding of how insensitive and hurtful it is when trans* roles are played by cis actors, you would have never accepted it, but how could you have known? Afterall, you only know me through my Facebook posts since we haven't seen one another since 1985; otherwise, it's more likely than not that your main understanding of trans* lives comes from those aforementioned misrepresentations popular culture is so fond of. You're not trans*, and so you enjoy the privilege of moving through your daily life without ever having to worry about passing, or not passing, or being harassed or arrested for using the restroom consummate with your true gender, or how or when or if to safely "come out" to a prospective romantic or sexual partner. None of these things, nor the myriad of others that sometimes render so many of us trans* folk's lives a neurotic nightmare are issues for you; you're both privileged, and lucky.
Unfortunately, it's because of just that, that it's so inappropriate for you to undertake this role, and so, while I wish you joy and success, I simply can't congratulate you or share in your excitement.

Sometimes it seems
the dark has such advantages
Its course runs smooth and known
and it brings with it the warmth
of old familiarity
but the light
The light
is a tourist here
a brash neophyte
who makes assumptions and generalizations
and so, so many promises
one ought never hope
it will keep.

I want

I want
I want to feel light.
I want it to be December already, so I can finally have my "enso" wrist tattoo.
I want gluten free pizza that
tastes like pizza
and
a dress that's easy to wear, machine washable and looks great on me.
I want to master mindfulness meditation, and
I want to visit my parents
and for my mom to tell me
that I'm pretty.
I want to feel
as if I've
earned the exhaustion that sometimes creeps into my bones like mold, and
I want more lazy, sunny days with
low humidity
and a high of 60.
I want Republicans to suddenly, and universally lose all credibility, and
"reality programming" to
fall out of favor.
I want more unhurried morning sex, and more and better choices on Netflix.
I want you to want to learn my body.
I want you to be happy.
I want you to be able to walk 20 blocks without getting tired, and
I want to be able to do that too.
Middle-of-the-night-half-asleep-sex is awesome too by the way.
Most of all,
I want to stop passing time,
and to stop having to choose
between
being in the world,
and
being with you.

Dorothea

As the beat rises
her nerves remember:
The scaffold of ossified calcium trembles
beneath the atrophied muscles
A gentle, sad smile
She closes her eyes
leans back into her chair
and dances.

Dear terrorists;
The people you killed and maimed today have nothing to do with your war. They were innocents, with people who love them, people they love/d, dreams and fears, children and boyfriends, girlfriends and wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers and friends, and they themselves were all these things too.
You did not win your cause, but you disrupted worlds, caused grief that will never end for some, fear that will live on forever for others, and again, these people had nothing to do with you. Your act was selfish and petty and mean.
You may have intended to make a point, but you did not. You may have imagined you were fighting for some glorious cause, or that you were defeating some great satan. Neither is true.
What is true, is that you caused pain beyond belief, set back immeasurably, whatever cause you represent, and for some innocent people who had no quarrel with you, and perhaps even sympathized with you, you brought their entire universe to an end.

The image of the small, wooden remnant of an eyeliner pencil, about an inch in length and bereft of its white, waxy "lead" stayed with her hours later. It remained where she'd dropped it during her frenzied morning makeup ritual, there, in the middle of the dirty bathroom mat about which her wife often complained she never washed often enough. There it lay like a memorial.
It evoked a dream she'd had 32 years before, in which she herself had been a stick of waxy makeup and lived in the bottom of an unknown lady's purse; as the dream progressed, she was aware of the temporaryness of her existence. She was aware that she was being used up. She was aware, that she was disappearing. In her dream, it felt like she was dying, and when she awoke, she was both sexually aroused and incredibly happy.

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.