The Second Awakening

We've moved--again!

2010-03-23T16:48:00.001-04:00

Most lovely ducks! And readers of a non-anatidean persuasion!

At long last I've moved to my own url and completely updated the look of the blog--I hope you like it!

You can now find me at www.thesecondawakening.com.

Thanks for following me so long, and hope to see you at the new place!

Mass Resistance Made Me Mad Enough To Vomit

2010-03-17T16:00:00.000-04:00

In the spirit of spring training, I am apparently having an Away week, as all most posts so far have originated elsewhere!

Today's offering appears at Shakesville:

First Event is an annual conference held in January by the Tiffany Club of New England, a transgender support group. Like any conference, it consists of workshops, cocktail parties, and banquets with awards ceremonies and occasionally pompous keynote addresses. About the only difference between it and, say, a Linux convention is that there will be slightly more trans people at First Event. (There may also be more computer engineers, for that matter.)

But that's not all. According to Southern Poverty Law Center-certified hate group Mass Resistance, First Event is what America will look like in the horrifying post-Homosexual Agenda^™ world soon to be imposed upon the honest, godfearing citizens of These United.

And to prove their point, they made a video....

Fight the power!

And Now In GaGa Studies...

2010-03-16T09:46:00.000-04:00

Hey, I have a post up at Tiger Beatdown about Lady GaGa! It's about the 11 things I learned from watching the "Telephone" video...many of which weren't all that useful, actually.

All I Ever Needed to Know* I Learned From "Sex in the City"

2010-03-15T13:23:00.000-04:00

* for the set {being a woman, being a writer, living in New York, things that are totally inaccurate}

It is possible to rent a large one-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side as a writer whose only paid gig is a column for a newspaper that is a) free b) more annoying than the free morning paper they hand out in subway stations and c) couldn’t beat the Village Voice’s circulation even when you had to pay for the Voice.
In addition, you will be able to afford a closet full of designer dresses and shoes.
And also only take cabs to places, because real New Yorkers don’t ride the subway.
The worst thing that will happen to you in a mugging is that the mugger will take your shoes.
Writers only take their inspiration from the messed up lives of their friends.
The most likely person for a highly-motivated, highly-overworked, and highly-educated lawyer to end up with is a bartender.
Who will make her move to Brooklyn.
And be the primary caretaker of his ailing mother.
Every woman needs a gay friend to have a truly complete life.
Gay friends come in two flavors: nebbishly queeny, and outrageously queeny.
There’s a third type, the incredibly hot underwear model, but within a few years that character type will be straight anyway.
Female friendships are all-consuming, have no boundaries of time, subject, or privacy, and absolutely necessary for life because your girlfriends will support you no matter what.
They will also, however, mock your grooming habits and sexual partners.
Women need to be strong, self-actualized, and firm in their knowledge of who they are.
However, they should also change their lives completely for a man. Such changes include but are not limited to: changing your boro of residence, changing your city of residence, changing your religion.
You will start out by declaring your sexual freedom from the past. You will plan to enact this by having the same soul-less, commitment-less relationships of the douchiest of guys.
You will then spend the next several years doing completely the opposite.
A gentle, caring man who is a committed artist, interested in you and your career, and supportive of your friends and life-choices will enter your life. You must reject this person.
A man who alternates between a creepy sexual obsession with you and treating you like an afterthought to his social calendar will enter your life. He will specialize in sending mixed signals. He will ignore your needs and career. He will break up with you, get married, and only then declare his love for you. He will enter and exit your life with a total disregard for your feelings, and refuse to ever discuss any of these points and how they relate to your relationship. He will, in short, treat you as an amusing accessory. You must cling to this man like a drowning sailor to a life preserver.
There will be a television show about four female friends who engage in frank discussions about their sex lives. Often these discussions will take place during a meal. A frequent subject will be the difficulties of dating at their age. In the 1980s that age will be the late 50s. A decade later, the age will be the mid-30s. This will be considered progress.

In Reality

2010-03-10T11:09:00.000-05:00

Oh, yeah, you know what time it is...time for REALITY TELEVISION:

OK, I'm dense: but "I Want to Work For Diddy" wasn't on my radar two years ago, and anyway, having a trans person on a reality show isn't that big a deal anymore; we're like the gay folks in the "Real World" reruns from the '90s, only with a lot less flannel shirts and Hole albums in the background.

So I don't know much about Ms. Cox, except I admire her for her success and for turning her 15 minutes of fame into a full half-hour. Kudos, ma'am, kudos.

But: is it good for teh Tranz?

You go, person of any gender!

What It Means

2010-03-08T15:57:00.002-05:00

Today is Blog for International Woman's Day. It is also about two years since I started living as a woman fulltime, and one year since I made my body finally align with my head.

It is hard, to come to grips with what that all means. It is hard, to talk about what being a woman means. Not just for me, but for all women. But I do know this, and it is something that bonds me with all other women: I sure have a lot of people willing to tell me what I should think it means.

In a lot of ways, I can really not remember ever not being a woman. The things that I did, that happened to me, before transtion: a lot of the time they feel like things that happened to some one else, some one I once knew but isn't around anymore.

I cannot describe how good that feels.

Other times, I am conscious of all the differences between me and the great majority of women out there; I am reminded that I am a woman who was never a girl, and that there is a great gulf between me and the other women of my background, one that I'll never fill. That no matter what I do, I'll always be an outsider.

But. There is this too: I know that I am a woman, and a feminist woman. I know that I struggle against the same oppression as any other woman. I know that I have many, many sisters throughout the world, and their struggle is, should be, must be, will always be mine. I know what it feels to look out upon my culture and see no place for me, for what I feel, for my desires and needs and thoughts. I know what it feels like to be ignored, commodified, boxed in, defined, talked to, talked down to, talked to not at all. To be unheard, unnoticed, unregarded. To be only seen for what I look like, to be only heard when I say what they want me to say, to only be expected to know what they want me to know.

I've stood in a bookstore and been deafened by the volumes of men's voices around me, all the books and books and words words words written by men, and so few thoughts by women.

I've despaired at the billions of women history forget, ignored, suppressed, oppressed, killed, raped.

I've feared the same for me.

I fight against that. For me. For my sisters. For our daughters, nieces, mothers, grandmothers, granddaughters. Because I must.

Because I am a woman.

Listen, Sister....

2010-03-04T15:17:00.001-05:00

Hey, did you know that I am kinda sorta now on the Tumblr? And that it is also a good place to get your daily Sady Doyle fix on those days she is not conquering the internet in other places?

I am not so "hip" as these modern kids with their facey-spaces, but Tumblr has been amusing me of late--and this was too good to miss:

Old Home Week

2010-03-01T22:25:00.000-05:00

Thank you all for your very nice anniversary messages. It isn't exactly a Big Day for me--I watched the dreary "Assassination of Richard Nixon," bought a Barbara Ehrenreich book and the "Diary of Anne Frank," and had some leftover butter chicken for dinner.

But on the other hand it's kind of a big deal, which I think my post conveyed.

I'm going to try and revisit some topics of note this week on the blog. But not tonight; I'm beat. However, in the meantime, if you've ever wondered, why isn't C.L. on Facebook? Well, now she is. Drop on by and become a fan, if you're so inclined.

Me and My Vagina, Special Anniversary Edition: Part II of an Infinitely Reductive Series

2010-02-28T21:42:00.001-05:00

Today is the anniversary of my surgery. In fact, as I type this now, I am about a year removed from my first full day of having a vagina--Thailand being twelve hours ahead of my local time, and the six or more hours of my surgery having started at noon Bangkok time. (I don't remember how long the surgery lasted, as I slept through it and for a long time afterwards, only waking up for a brief moment to say goodnight to my significant other of variable and often fabulous gender.)

In fact, there's almost a week of time that I have very little recollection of--the five days I had to stay immobile in bed, according to my surgeon's regimen. Not everyone does this; had I gone to the Canadian surgeon I first considered, I'd have been up and walking around after about a day or so. Everybody does things differently. But I'm somewhat glad for being immobile; during that five days I only moved once, and that was because I'd thrown up on myself the first day after my surgery--juice boxes and opiates don't agree all that well. The only way to get me clean sheets was to move me to an entirely new bed. Which meant I had to crab walk over to it. Now, even under normal circumstances, that would be both uncomfortable and ungraceful; but I had to not only contend with the pain from my brand-new down there, with the attendant catheter and surgical drains, but since I'd also opted to have my boobs done at the same time, I could barely move my arms; the surgeon went in under my armpits, and to be honest that pain was more omnipresent and inconveniencing than the other.

But other than that, and my SOOVAOFG saying goodbye to me to fly home--we'd spent ten days together bumping around India and Cambodia prior to my surgery, and vacation time is precious nowadays--I really don't remember much. I slept a lot; I was too out of it to even watch TV. Every so often, they'd bring me a thick creamy soup and some juice boxes to eat and drink. I rarely ate the soup, but I drank the juice. (As an aside, Thai sweets of all kinds tend to be sweeter than American sweets--probably because they use real sugar.) I've come to realize that it wasn't so much that I was drugged out of my head--Thais don't practice American pain management, and I didn't even have a morphine drip--but because nothing changed. There was me; my bed; my room with the blinds drawn; and the occasional ministrations of kind Thai nurses who spoke little English. (My Thai was suspect at its best and no match for my pain and grogginess.)

But eventually they packed me up and sent me home, after giving me a huge, cumbersome, old-fashioned bra. It was trimmed with lace and looked like something from the "18-hour bra" commercials I'd seen as a kid. And then I was dumped back in my hotel room, just me and my catheter bag--they didn't take the catheter out until the next day, which was a little scary and gross. On the other hand, it was pretty convenient for lying in bed and drinking stuff, which was about all I was up for.

But it's surprising how quickly you can heal. I was moving around the hotel room that, night, had enough energy to make breakfast the next day, and even hosted a pizza party for some of the other patients of my surgeon a day or so after that. (We had a couple of these affairs. They were interesting; we'd have a great time for about an hour, and then everyone would be in too much pain to continue. But they were fun while they lasted.)

That was all a year ago.

Things have changed. For one thing, I now only have to dilate once a day for about 30 minutes. That will mean I can actually get up at the same time but still get to work earlier, which will help me have more time and energy to write in the evening. I've had sex, by which I mean--this being America and all--PIV sex, so now I know how much I've been missing. My recovery has been remarkably hassle free, even with the UTI I developed a month after getting home.

There's more, of course, much more. But how can I put it all in words? There are days when I forget that I never had a vagina, and there are days when I forget for a second that I do. There are many days when I am astonished by the miracle of it all, and many more days when I simply take it for granted. And most of all, I feel like what I am supposed to be. I feel like a woman.

And I felt that way before. I am not going to play pussy politics with you and engage in zero-sum games about the proper anatomy a woman needs. It's reductive, and cruel, and ignores the economic reality of far too many trans women.

But there's no question that I like myself better this way, that I feel a peace with my body I never felt before. That I had to wound myself to heal.

Not that I'm completely healed. None of us, I suppose, ever really can be--and I'm not just talking about trans people. If we measure lives by ideals, then we're all a little broken, all in need of some kind of healing. And I've come so very far.

But there are still times when I resent that passage; when I resent all the things that were taken from me, all the things that I never had--even the bad things, even the things that in a sense I was fortunate enough to miss: if I feel the omnipresent judgment of every damn TV commercial on how I should look, act, think, and feel simply because of my gender, can I really long to have had that drummed into my head from the moment it poked into our world? Do I really feel sorry for myself for not having spent three and a half decades as a victim of sexism?

No. Not really. But I do regret the necessity of it all, the long slow struggle to find out who I am, the summoning up of awful reserves of energy just to survive each day, and then the ultimate effort to make myself into the person I desperately needed to be. And so I regret that passage; but I am grateful, oh so very grateful, to have survived it.

And you could say, maybe, that my vagina is a symbol of that: a physical manifestation of not just my womanhood, but my struggle to achieve that womanhood, a signpost showing how far I've come and how much I had to undergo to reach it. I suppose that would be fine; I'd hardly be the first woman to eulogize my vagina, and I doubt I'll be the last, cis or trans.

But I don't really do that much. Because most of the time it's just a vagina. And believe me, that is more than enough. In fact, it's perfect.

Is YOUR Muffin Bluffin'

2010-02-25T22:30:00.000-05:00

What's that? Yes, ducks, we are still a going concern, though lately that seems to be...going away!

(Thank you, I'll be here all week.)

The truth is that the day job from hell--currently consuming 50+ hours of my week every week--while allowing me to do useful stuff like eat and pay off both my credit cards in a year, is Not Conducive for the whole writing thing, especially when I don't get any sleep.

That said, I still do try and do stuff, and I'm hoping to pick up the pace at Tiger Beatdown, at least, where Sady and I have been talking about stuff of late! Some of it will even be cool!

Anyway, if it's ~~Wednesday~~ Thurday, it must be Below The Belt! This week, I write about one "Lady GaGa," whom, I hear, is all the rage with the kids these days!

I am almost terminally unhip when it comes to popular music. It's not that I have snobbish pretensions, or at least I try not to--I'm a firm believer in Duke Ellington's maxim, "if it sounds good, it is good," and there's room for both Mozart and Garbage on my iPod, Radiohead and John Coltrane, Bjork and Kanye "I'm going to interrupt this playlist" West. But the fact is, I don't watch MTV--not that they have much to do with music nowadays, but I'm dinosaur enough to remember when they did--or listen to much top 40 radio, so I almost never have any idea of what those kids, thesadays, are listening to. (And they need to get off my lawn, too.)

It's so bad that about the only way I hear popular songs is when they're background music for a TV show. (When my ex made me watch "Smallville" or "The O.C." with her, I used to parody the way that they would have a constant churn of hot bands: "Hey, I hear {BAND_OF_THE_WEEK} is playing at the club tonight! I love {BAND_OF_THE_WEEK}." Of course, Buffy the Vampire Slayer is immune from my scorn, since a) it's awesome and b) all of those bands are safely a decade behind us.)

But even a pathetic stick in the mud like transfeminist has heard of every queer's new best friend, The Lady Gaga.

Ba-ba Lo Lo Lo Bel Bel Below the Belt!

Songs of Love and Hate, and Mascara

2010-02-13T21:08:00.000-05:00

Sady at Tiger Beatdown has been running guest posts on breakup songs in honor of Valentines Day, and was kind enough to ask me to write one. So I did, and it's over here. I wrote it on Leonard Cohen, who you might have guessed is my favorite songwriter, but of course I touched on other stuff. Trans stuff! (I know, I know, jeez lady can't you ever not talk about that?) But it was an interesting assignment and I ended up getting personal in a way I don't always do even over here, so you might find it good reading. Meanwhile I'll hang out here muttering the "Dress Rehearsal Rag" to myself.

Many Returns, Happily Confused

2010-02-10T11:05:00.000-05:00

Who dat saying they going to beat Below The Belt? Who dat? Who dat?

I had my birthday last week, which beyond the reminder that I am a) one milestone closer to ultimate mortality and b) so much older than so many of my internet comrades, was a true blast: I took the day for myself, finally caught "The Hurt Locker," and had dinner with the hardest core of my friends. And friend gave me "Leonard Cohen: Live From London," which takes me back every time I listen to it (which is constantly) to the concert of his we both had the good luck to be blown away by last year.

So, hey, yay for transfeminist. Pass you some nachos and maybe you'll care, right?

But wait, things are going to get complicated.

On y va, cherie!

Hiram Monserrate Watch: Then Fall Caesar Edition

2010-02-10T09:29:00.000-05:00

In our ongoing quest to track the downfall of New York State's douchiest public servant,* this story brings a smile to us:

The State Senate on Tuesday expelled a senator convicted of domestic assault, the first time in nearly a century that the Legislature has forced a member from office.

The Senate voted 53-to-8 to immediately oust the senator, Hiram Monserrate, a Queens Democrat convicted last fall of a misdemeanor for dragging his companion down the hallway of his apartment building.

Monserrate has vowed to fight the expulsion, and his lawyers are expected to file a restraining order today, if they can make it through the snow. Sadly, one of them is Norman Siegel, past head of the New York Civil Liberties Union and candidate for Public Advocate; a guy, in fact, that I voted for. Not so happy to see his name there.

Still, the Senate voting to expel somebody for a misdemeanor--normally in Albany, you get a mulligan on your first five or six of those--is a welcome change, and the fact that it was mainly because of the specific crime he was convicted for--battering a woman--is an even more welcome change. This being Albany, however, who knows how this will end. Probably with the Monster Rat as majority leader.

*At the state level. There's a lot of competition above and below him.

The Dilemma Of Having a Long Tail

2010-02-09T22:22:00.000-05:00

Now, ducks, before you think that I mean that my surgeon had some, er, interesting ideas about anatomy, by a long tail I just mean: I have a past. It was not particularly unaccomplished, although--duh--it wasn't exactly fulfilled. But I did some cool things, was on (syndicated) TV a few times, got married, got divorced, wrote a couple dozen books, learned to speak French, even learned a little aikido.

Oh, the books? Yeah, you might have guessed that's what I wanted to talk about.

Now, before you search the ISBN catalog (and begin speculation that I am actually John Irving, finally over his castration issues), let me hasten to say: as writing goes, this was pretty assembly-line stuff. I wrote, mostly as work-for-hire, not-quite-textbooks. For 8th graders.

I say not-quite textbooks because they weren't text books: that is, you wouldn't teach a class using them. Instead, these were the books you'd read to do a book report on, say, Gold. (I didn't write one on gold, but I kinda wish I had--it was more interesting than some of the stuff I did write about.)

Now, I'm telling you all this because a few months ago I got something from my publisher. I was rather astonished--it couldn't be a royalty check, those dried up years ago. But I was even more surprised when I read what was inside:

Fan mail.

It seems that a young boy had read my book about a famous sports figure of the previous century, and written me a letter.

Well, not me exactly.

Me, just before. The other me. The...aw, you get the picture.

So, I've been trying to figure out what to do with this: it was a nice letter, though it asks some interesting questions (did I play football as a boy, for example), and rather charmingly lets me know how cool it would be for an author to write back to him.

But--and this is the dilemma of me and my tail--how on earth do I go about this? Write back using my old name? No offense, but I hate having to do that; I still have a few accounts under my old name and I never call their customer service anymore, because I'd have to....it's too gruesome to contemplate.

Or do I write back and say that Old Name was a pseudonym (not exactly a lie) and I'd be happy to correspond but I am, you know, a girl. Not super honest, but maybe more palatable.

Or do I do evangelism? Say, hey kid, here's an update about me: and maybe open his mind up to queer and other possibilities? Is that too heavy to dump on a kid? Sheesh, I don't even know how old he is!

(Hmm, maybe I could write to his parents. Hadn't thought of that.)

Anyway, I've been going back and forth about this; I've kept the letter pegged to my apartment door, so I see it every time I leave. And it was a nice letter, and maybe deserves a response.

Then I realized: hey, I have a smart readership. Small, but smart: you guys are like the elite core of my future dominance of a tiny little corner of the trans internet! So, I thought I'd ask you all to weigh in, ducks: I put it up as a poll at the upper right. Or answer in the comments. Or ignore the question--trust me, I sympathize.

A Room of One's Own: ID Required For Admission

2010-02-08T23:29:00.000-05:00

Well, ducks! It's been a week since I did my little UK stomp and kicked over a fair-sized, even by Guardian standards, ant hill! Such fun!

Let me be serious. For a change. A surprise! A first! C.L. serious on her own blog!

I want to talk about one of those very tricky things that come up when trans folks, and most especially trans women, get talked about. Pretty universally, I should hasten to add, when cis folks talk about trans folks; but then I said people, and don't we all know that people means cis people? Silly ducks.

The bugbear in the room is, of course, "women-only spaces." In its most extreme form, this resolves to the old "bathroom libel": the idea that, say, allowing trans people to use the rest rooms that match their gender presentation will open a flood of rapists donning drag in order to rape unsuspecting women. That no trans person has ever done this, and that women get raped in women's rooms by men not wearing dresses, never seems to make a dent in this argument; but then it's held by only the most set in their way anti-trans folks.

Sadly, this includes a large number of otherwise noteworthy feminists. Google it; I'll wait.

A less extreme version of the "women's spaces exclusion" doesn't have a problem with trans folk in the ladies', (perhaps because being booted from your stall for looking too masculine can happen to cis women too), but still make an exception for other spaces: women's spiritual circles, social groups, and, most--notoriously isn't the right word, but bear with me for a second--rape crisis centers.

Yes, that's right--I'm bringing Kimberley Nixon into this again.

For those of you who don't know, a precis: Ms. Nixon is a trans woman who lived in Vancouver. She applied for a volunteer counseling position at Vancouver Rape Relief, and passed their initial phone interview. When she showed up for training, however, she was read as trans and told that she could not be a counselor because of VRR's woman-only policy. Ms. Nixon eventually sued the center, won one trial, but the decision was overturned on appeal.

That's the basics. VRR claimed that the legal fees put them in danger of closing. Julie Bindel and many other trans-exclusionary feminists castigated Ms. Nixon.

But when you go deeper, it gets a whole lot more complicated.

For starters, Ms. Nixon herself had been raped and battered by her male partner. After receiving help from a different group for battered women, she entered their counseling training course, and did very well; she would later be described as a "superior" counselor. But the first group wanted her to wait a year to heal before she became a counselor, which led her to VRR.

Now hearken with me to the little lower layer. Above, I linked to an article about a butch cis woman who was unceremoniously tossed from a restaurant bathroom for looking too masculine. This is precisely what happened to Ms. Nixon. Yet Ms. Farmer would be allowed to counsel for VRR, and Ms. Nixon wouldn't. Even though they both looked "masculine."

Ponder that one in light of feminist principles, if you will.

Dig even deeper: it is a misconception that Ms. Nixon was demanding a spot as a counselor for VRR; what she wanted was the chance to prove herself on her own merits, and not be judged by her appearance. Furthermore, VRR claimed that her presence might traumatize other women, who might harbor fear or resentment or hatred towards men. Fair enough, I suppose, though one would think that this could apply to very butch cis women as well. But the thing is, we'll never know if Ms. Nixon would traumatize people; we'll never know if she could have fit in, if she could have provided healing services to women. We'll never know, because she never got the chance.

And neither did any of the women who might use the shelter; VRR made the decision for them.

I don't think there's any way to slice this that doesn't come up as prejudice. They could have done any number of things; had her help in the office and get training from the counselors, so that even if she didn't work out there, she would gain experience; have her act as a liaison to the trans community (one would assume that VRR would also turn away trans women who were the victims of rape as well); any number of things.

But instead they said, you look like a man. You are a man. You cannot come here.

Now, it may surprise you to know that I am ambivalent--very--about these situations. I can see many sides to these issues, and they're always tricky. And I do not dispute for a second that there is a very real difference in the background of trans and cis women, especially trans women who transition after, say, their twenties (present company included.) We, I, don't have the experience of growing up female; we don't have the same bodily experiences as the majority of cis women. (This is why I will never be teaching a class on Your Period and You.)

But--and this is so important that in needs to be said, again and again--the question remains: is that condition unredemediable? Is it so impossible to think that a trans woman who has spent 25 years living as a woman might have insight into women's lives approaching that of a 25-year old cis woman? Think on this: you could transition as soon as you were of age, have been on hormone blockers so you never experienced male puberty, spent your teens and twenties living as a woman, majored in women's studies, gone on to become a social worker specializing in the problems of battered women and rape victims, worked for ten years in public health--and you will be less qualified, in the eyes of VRR, than a high school drop out who happens to be cis.

That is to say, that not judging a person on her merits is discriminatory. Unless, of course, you're trans. Then it's totes feminist.

Next: I'll take this to Tiger Beatdown and do some feminism and gender analysis.

Where In The World Is C.L. Minou?

2010-02-04T22:20:00.001-05:00

Well, for once, back here.

I do apologize, ducks. This has been a slightly weird week: I mean, I was in the Guardian, and the Carnival, and also work was busy (I was doing stuff at 10 pm on Tuesday) and oh yeah it was my birthday yesterday and so I had to go out and have drinks with my girlfriends (and one of their boyfriends: he was our Designated Boy.) And then back to work but oh yeah, my enormous cat, Fafhrd, the Grey Mouser, has been sick and I had to take him to the vet, which will set back my primary financial mission for 2010, the Payinge Off Of Ye Ginormous Credite Carde Debte.

So: I know! Wild!

The other thing is my job. I'm glad I have it and it's mostly not particularly hard (even if they're paying me a lot less than I'm used to), and it's cool to be able to work from home--but after spending over ten hours at my desk, I tend to be a little too burned out to sit down and write. At least this week. I think that will sort out eventually.

But there will be more stuff, eventually! Here and at Tiger Beatdown. I have some thoughts about the whole Bindel thing and Second Wave radical feminism that ties into kyriarchy nicely. And I will eventually write something about "Heathers." Also, Sophie had a really good comment that tied into my post on Mary Daly and I just want you to know, Sophie, that I noticed! And have been thinking about it! And will, one of these days, write about it!

So, stay tuned, you who tune in. And if you're not tuning in, why not try? Although, given that you're not tuning in, I'm not so sure how it is you'll hear me ask you to tune in. But it all comes out in the wash.

In Unexpected Delights

2010-02-01T15:45:00.000-05:00

Hey, the takedown of that London Times article I did over at Tiger Beatdown got included in the 13th Carnival of Feminists! Drop by to read the other stuff, you know it's good!

And in other unexpected pleasures, I haven't been flayed to pieces in the comments section at the Guardian. And Julie Bindel replied to me! And I replied back! Wow!

C.L. vs Julie Bindel

2010-02-01T08:30:00.000-05:00

Where in the world is C.L. today?
Over on the Guardian's CIFA!

I don't much care for Julie Bindel, unlike Beatrix Campbell, who defended her on this site yesterday. That does not mean I don't admire her. As a feminist whose radicalism would probably surprise her, I appreciate Ms Bindel's advocacy and the genuine good that has come for her work against violence directed at women. Yet in her long, lonely crusade against transsexuals she contradicts three of her own three feminist principles:

Yes, I get to take on Julie Bindel and her belief that I have not been, and never will be, a woman! Comments should be fun!

BTB: P.O.'d

2010-01-27T11:06:00.000-05:00

If it's Wednesday, then it must be Belgium. Wait! No! Below the Belt:

Something interesting happened recently in the Michigan Secretary of State election race.

Now, before you tell me that the word "interesting" and the phrase "Michigan Secretary of State" syntactically can't be in the same sentence together, bear with me, and let me introduce you to Representative Paul Scott:

Seems a charming enough fellow! Step right up, sir, and let us know what you're planning to do for the people of the great Wolverine State! Let's see, I have his website right here...

Jāie!

The Secret Lives of Married Men--Now With Bingo Cards

2010-01-26T15:13:00.000-05:00

Where am I again? Why, Tiger Beatdown:

I have not, temporally speaking, been doing this here ladybusiness for all that long. (Some would draw a facetious comparison, in fact, to the amount of time I have in fact been a lady, but as that number would vary between never and 37 years depending on whether you asked Germaine Greer or Kate Bornstein, I’ll just move on.)
Yet even that short time, the depressing amount of material that exists out in the lady-hating or lady-indifferent or just lady, get me a beer world can drag you down. Why, you say to yourself as you labor over your blog in a hot kitchen (well, I’m baking cookies, see…) should I address another MRA apologia, tear apart another straw-feminist, or deal with this week’s Exciting Variation on the Tone Argument. (I solve those by getting louder.)
But then, as Sady herself discovered, you come across something absolutely stunning in its bold sweep, all-encompassing douchery, and just plain ol’ damnfoolishness.

Yosh!

Later That Same Evening

2010-01-24T21:50:00.000-05:00

I'm not much for the late night talk shows--I don't even watch Jon Stewart when he comes on, preferring to let my DVR work its magic. (Not to mention that there have been more occasions than I care to discuss where Jon was--there's no gentle way to say this--a bit of a douche.)

So I really haven't cared too much about the Leno-O'Brien freeforall on NBC; I have better things to worry about than which middle-aged white guy is going to bore me at 11:35 PM. I haven't watched Conan O'Brien since I was in college, and Letterman since I was in high school--and the odd times I have caught Dave since then have just proved that what played well to my 15-year old, kinda-sorta guy self is pretty crappy nowadays.

And as for Leno, his show has always been an unwatchable piece of trash--he turned hard into the gutter back in 1995 with the Lance Ito dancers and has gleefully wallowed there ever since.

But one thing that I have noticed about this whole fiasco is how often the principals have descended to lady-hating and other associated misogynies. I said noticed, not "surprised at": Leno has frequently been a public prick about women, and Dave...well, Dave built a frakking bedroom over his set so that he could not-quite coerce his not-quite interns with not-quite threats about very, very realistically killing any chance of a career in the business.

So no surprise as well, as Liss noted, that Leno is a contemptible misogynistic jerk:

He takes a swipe at Letterman's marriage that, in trying to hit Letterman, sprays collateral buckshot all over Regina Lasko, who is married to Letterman. And that's not a bug of the joke; it's a feature. Leno's the kind of nasty bully who will take aim at another guy in a way that hits his wife, too.

It's a construction that treats Lasko like Letterman's property, which is why this jibe has the same cowardly feel as a guy who keys another guy's car in the dark parking lot of a bar, instead of taking a swing at him.

But wait! It's not just the principals in this mess, it's also the feakin' commentators:

Now, Seth Myers has always been pretty douchetastic; it's his shtick, and it has been ever since he started co-hosting Weekend Update with Amy Poehler. But for fuck's sake, comparing hosting a TV show to being married to a woman, and the process of changing hosts to divorce...and...and...the whole way it just assumes that women are commodities to be traded, is special even for him, and a further sign of SNL's two-decade decline into pointless wankitude. To think: this was the show that started out with Jane Curtin, Gilda Radner, and Laraine Newman, launched the career of Julia Sweeney, and gave as Tina Fey as well as the aforementioned Amy...well, sigh.

Of course, it's a woman's fault to begin with, because a woman fucked up the Tonight Show 17 years ago.

That woman was the late Helen Kushnick, the woman who had discovered Leno, served as his manager and personal friend for his entire career, and engineered his takeover of Johnny Carson's well worn seat. And right away there were nasty stories about her: she was most notorious for her vindictive policies of shitlisting guests who had dared to appear on Arsenio instead of The Tonight Show. NBC, tired of her bullying ways, fired her after a few months of heading up the gabfest, and Leno sadly had to let his friend go before she destroyed the career she had built.

Or wait! Maybe that's not what happened, mostly because Leno is a huge douche and misogyny is a recreational sport in Hollywood. To wit, from a 1996 EW profile:

Kushnick's story is well-known to those who follow the late-night TV wars. She was portrayed as an abusive tyrant in The Late Shift, Bill Carter's 1994 book about Leno and Letterman, and in last February's HBO movie; and the image was no exaggeration. In the end, many who had been her supporters, like former client Jimmie Walker, and even NBC executives, found her impossible to deal with. Her stepdaughter, Beth Kushnick, 35, still calls her a ''ghastly monster.'' Even her only sibling, Joseph Gorman, 48, had been estranged from her until shortly before her death at age 51.

But what is not so well-known is the story of Kushnick's final years — years spent out of the media eye, years that ended in a kind of redemption and, for her daughter, Sara, 16, in a reconciliation with Leno. ''Maybe she did have to be a bitch to get where she did,'' says Sara, Sam's surviving twin. ''But when she started out, women were supposed to be secretaries. She did things with anger because it was the only way she knew how.''

''They called her a bitch,'' says Mitzi Shore, owner of L.A.'s Comedy Store, ''but if she were a man, she wouldn't be called a bitch. There are managers in town who are 10 times worse than she was and they don't call them bastards.''

And if you needed any more confirmation about Leno's jerkiness, consider this from the same piece, about Kushnick's daughter:

She grew up with Leno, called him Uncle Jay, considered his parents her grandparents. ''He came over for dinner the weekend after my mom got fired,'' she says. ''We had chicken wings — we always had chicken wings. I sat on his lap and he said everything would be okay. That was the last time I saw him.''

And there's another way to look at the Kushnick story, as Rudy Panucci explains in a sweetly vitriolic piece on the whole late night mess:

Kushnick was dying of cancer while Leno was explaining that he had to fire her and ban her from the studio lot because he was shocked, shocked, to discover that she had lied to him about planting the rumors that hounded Carson into early retirement. The truth is, Leno threw his long-time manager and personal friend under the bus when it became clear that The Tonight Show with Jay Leno was a poorly-produced, barely-watchable disaster. After eighteen months of coming in second to Letterman, even though NBC had a strong prime-time line-up, Leno’s manager took the fall, and then the large-chinned wonder let NBC revamp the show to rescue it from cancellation.

So there you have it, folks--the kyriarchy in a nutshell, brought to you by a bunch of rich white guys who are barely even funny. I think I'll just go to bed early.

A Purloined Girlhood Part 1a: Wild at Heart

2010-01-20T21:22:00.001-05:00

Hey, where am I today? Over at Tiger Beatdown!

I saw “Where the Wild Things Are” this weekend, ducks. (One of the advantages of living in the Great American Metropolis is that movies tend to hang around a surprising length of time.)

I saw it because of Spike Jonze, and because I am just old enough to have grown up in the Golden Age of Maurice Sendak — that hazy, golden late afternoon in America when Sesame Street had become established, the children raised by Dr. Spock were raising their own children, and Sendak and Shel Silverstein dominated the bookcases of every “with it” parent. (I was too young to say things like “with it,” of course, but I had teenaged cousins, and was vaguely aware of things like The Disco… we are talking about that point in history when The Captain and Teneille had their own TV show, people.) It was an age brought to you by CTW.

Vamanos!

How To Tell You've Transitioned, Part II

2010-01-19T21:48:00.000-05:00

I had a kinda frantic day today--spent all day trying to get some SQL to behave correctly, even though the task should have been pretty easy to do. Plus I was late for my therapy appointment--even with catching a cab.

As I was coming up out of the subway, a panhandler asked me for some money; and as I was walking away, he said "You have a nice day ma'am--sir--ma'am." (I'm assuming he saw either my boobs or my lipstick and that pushed him over the edge.)

I wasn't particularly happy to hear that, but I wasn't terrifically surprised either. I was dressed for work, when you work from home: a black tee, jeans, and sneakers. As I was walking away, I thought to myself, you've forgotten how to be a girl.

I am much less enlightened in the dark recesses of my mind than I am in print.

But there has been a change in how I present myself over the two years of my fulltime life; there was a time when I always wore eye makeup when I went out, and gave much careful thought to what I was going to wear. Nowadays, not so much; I've even gone out without wearing any lipstick, something I'd been avoiding ever since I got read when not wearing it.

A little of this is the weight I've put on, and being too broke to buy new clothes and too unmotivated to try and lose weight. But a lot more is simply that I've reached a new point of stability with my life; that my acceptance of myself as a woman means that I need fewer and fewer reinforcements via the trappings of femininity. (That, and a year of pounding concrete sidewalks; that gets you out of heels really quick.)

Three years ago, in the middle of my dark winter of discontent when I began to seriously consider the idea of transitioning, I would sometimes ask myself (as a way to not transition) what the difference was between hanging around my apartment in my PJ bottoms and a tee as a man and doing the same as a woman; the idea being that my life would be the same whether or not I transitioned, so why transition? I think I know that answer better now; it's because now I'm free of the doubts about whether I should transition, the doubts about whether or not I really was a woman, the awful amount of psychic energy I dumped into worrying about that problem. And a lot of those issues are gone now, and overall (when I'm not fighting off major depressive crises), I have a lot more energy to think and do things--case in point, this blog, started a year after I transitioned. Even if I have forgotten how to be "a girl," however it was that I construed living inside the public tokens of femininity.

Being a woman--a person--is a lot more satisfying anyway.

Hiram Monserrate Watch

2010-01-14T21:55:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, you get a win:

The political fate of State Senator Hiram Monserrate, a Queens Democrat convicted of assault in a dispute that left his companion with a gash on her face, grew uncertain on Thursday as a special committee recommended that the Senate vote soon on a motion to expel him.[...]

The special committee formed after the trial concluded that Mr. Monserrate lied about the dispute and demonstrated “a lack of fitness to serve in this body.”

The report says that he recklessly put his interests above the safety of Ms. Giraldo and was insincere in his apology. “Whether the senator was worried for his political future or not, the evidence demonstrates both recklessness and callousness,” the committee wrote.

“Accordingly,” the report said, “the select committee recommends that Senator Monserrate be sanctioned by the full Senate, and that the Senate vote to impose one of two punishments: Expulsion, or in the alternative, censure with revocation of privileges.”

Now, the New York State Senate is the most useless legislature since the steering committee of th Mesopotamian Pot-Washer's Guild tried to formalize which pots they would, in fact, wash, and the most corrupt legislature since...well...since ever, I think.

What I'm saying is that if these guys think you can't sit with them, you really have to be an asshole.

Like Monster Rat QED.

BTB: Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

2010-01-13T11:26:00.000-05:00

It's Below the Belt time again!

I call myself transfeminist, because I identify as trans (with a little help from our wonderful society which does so much to keep me from forgetting it) and feminist. Usually this isn't a problem: I identify as a woman, and feminism is about furthering the causes and rights of women, and I am. so. there.

But at the same time it has to be acknowledged that feminism and transgender activism often have found themselves in at best an uneasy alliance, and at worst completely divorced from each other. A certain strain of radical feminism (see: Heart, Michigan Womyn's Music Festival, and my friends at AROOO) maintain a richly transphobic tradition of never seeing trans women as women (or trans men as men, for that matter; that's why so many trans men have had no problem getting into MWMF), using such all-time hits as "mutilated men," "colonizers," and still number one with a bullet, "rapists." (I always like that one. I once went looking for statistics on how many trans women get raped a year. The numbers proved very elusive--it seems most trans victims are either killed instead of being raped, or killed right after being raped.)

Mach schnell!

The Patriarchy Doesn't Exist And Other Comforting Fictions For Hard Times

2010-01-12T17:38:00.001-05:00

It's comforting to tell ourselves that a lot of the battles that feminists have fought are finally over, and we're in the mop up stage. It seems undeniable that attitudes have indeed improved since the days of the pre-Second Wave; one sees more and more female executives, attorneys, and doctors (though not nearly enough) than ever nowadays, and even my D&D book uses the female pronoun as often as the male pronoun in the text.

When D&D hops the equality train, that's progress.

So we can tell ourselves that women are finally (at least in the West) moving out of the shadow of men, begin to truly have autonomy: that what Elizabeth Gilbert says below is indeed happening, and more than that, is being successful:

...Gilbert says, we're still in the midst of a radical new social experiment.
"And the radical, unprecedented new social experiment is: What happens if we give women autonomy, education, finances, you know, control over their sexual biology?" she says. "What happens if we give you all this freedom? What are you going to do with it? … And we're all still sort of puzzling it out in a very intense way."

And then you open your browser or flip through a newspaper and all that comes crashing down around you, and you see it for the papier-mâché construct it truly is. Like when you read this:

Before the first juror is selected or witness called, a decision allowing a confessed killer to argue he believes the slaying of one of the nation's few late-term abortion providers was a justified act aimed at saving unborn children has upended what most expected to be an open-and-shut case.

Some abortion opponents are pleasantly stunned and eager to watch Scott Roeder tell a jury his slaying of Wichita doctor George Tiller was voluntary manslaughter. Tiller's colleagues and abortion rights advocates are outraged and fear the court's actions give a more than tacit approval to further acts of violence.

''This judge has basically announced a death sentence for all of us who help women,'' said Dr. Warren Hern of Boulder, Colo., a longtime friend of Tiller who also performs late-term abortions. ''That is the effect of the ruling.''

Just so that we're really clear on this, just so that everybody gets on the same footing, just so we can skip past the language issues of calling fetuses "unborn children," understand this: Roeder's defense, basically, is that he had the right to kill someone based on his right to control what another human being does with her body.

He had the right to control you. And if you asserted that control (which is due to you, one would hope, as a member of the human race--at least the male half is supposed to have bodily autonomy) and enlisted the help of a medical professional, he had the right to kill that professional in order to remove your autonomy.

Of course, "yours" only if you're female. Which still seems to be a quasi-legal status.

Think of other cases where bodily autonomy might be involved, and wonder to yourselves if they would be able to be entered as legal justifications: But your Honor, I had to kill that abolitionist, she was helping my slave to escape.

If somebody had killed Dr. Kevorkian, would the court allow a justification defense? Even though it would be a lot more warranted than one in the case of the murder of a physician, a man who helped save the lives of many women?

Jill at Feministe has a good explanation of what's happening, though it hasn't quite gotten me off the ledge:

I will write more about this later as time allows, but the judge in the Scott Roeder case — Roeder is the man who shot abortion provider George Tiller at Tiller’s church — has ruled that Roeder may present a case for voluntary manslaughter instead of murder. Voluntary manslaughter is a less serious crime than murder, and subject to softer penalties. This doesn’t mean that Roeder is only being charged with voluntary manslaughter; my best guess based on the judge’s comments here is that he doesn’t want this case to be overturned on appeal, and so he’s allowing the jury to consider voluntary manslaughter as a lesser-included offense. Which makes sense.

Except that there are, of course, bigger issues at play. The judge at least rejected Roeder’s proposed “necessity” defense, but a jury will still have the option of giving Roeder a lighter sentence if the defense makes the case that Roeder had an “unreasonable but honest belief that circumstances existed that justified deadly force.” If the jury does buy that defense — and you can bet that Roeder’s team will make the trial about Dr. Tiller and abortion — it lessens the disincentives for other would-be terrorists to take out abortion providers.

Indeed.

So there is no patriarchy, and justice is for all. Just not the all that includes you.

The View From My Kitchen Window

2010-01-11T22:17:00.003-05:00

Greetings Ducks, from the home office! Which isn't even really an office, but it is in my home. My kitchen, actually: space here in The Great American Metropolis is at a premium, let me tell you!

Lately it has become an actual office of sorts, because of that gig I mentioned last week, which I do from the comfort of home. Well, relative comfort: while I'm no longer unemployed, I am underemployed; I need to do about 50 hours a week at my current rate to make my monthly expenses. I'm not really complaining...well, I am a bit, because this is way below my former rate, alas.

That's the economy, folks.

I do have a view from my window, of sorts--it's on the air shaft between my building and the one next door. Now, this was supposed to be an improvement, way back in the 19th century, over just having buildings cheek-by-jowl; but the reality is that they don't help all that much. The shafts let in almost no light (in the spring, I sometimes get some light in through the shaft in the afternoon) and they have no draw whatsoever, so you don't get much in the way of cross-ventilation. And my view is a brick wall.

Still, it's nice to have an office with a window.

Working from home doesn't particularly bother me--writer, remember?--though it is a drag to be chained to my chair all day long without being able to run out for a while (I'm on a timeclock, and I'd have to punch out if I was up from my keyboard for too long.) It's a bit ironic that I should end up with this gig, though (and not just because my brother used to work for them, something I didn't know until I applied for the job.) Ironic because a lot of trans people end up either wanting a job like this, or having to take a job like this because it's the only job they can safely do.

Trans folks come in all shapes and sizes; and sometimes those shapes, for whatever reason (most often because the person is still in the middle of transition), are harder for cis people to "peg" as one gender or another. This causes enormous discomfort on the part of the cis person (see unboxedqueer's groovy post about this today at Below the Belt), which they immediately pass along to the trans person. Because, that's like the totally fair thing to do, right? I mean, it's the freak's, I mean, your problem, right? Right?

Right.

So a lot of trans people have to look for work that doesn't involve interaction with other poeple. (And yeah, the phone often counts, if you're MtF--phone voice is the hardest voice to manage.) I'm fortunate enough to have a skill that lets' me do this and still survive; many other folks aren't. But it must be their fault, right?

Right.

Back around Halloween a lot of folks like this Onion bit about finding costumes for your effeminate boy. I wasn't one of them, though--to me, the bit ultimately felt pretty cruel and lost the point of laughing at the bigoted announcers in favor of indulging in some cruelty towards the kids. You know, like...holding people up to your own standards of gender presentation? Which never ever hurts anybody, or makes it hard for them to get a job? Yeah. I much preferred this SNL bit instead:

Homocil Commercial - watch more funny videos

Until you come around.

And Other Stories in Transphobia (Yawn)

2010-01-08T22:15:00.000-05:00

Hey, I haven't said anything about David Letterman yet!

I mean, not that there's often much to say about David Letterman, besides he's mostly a jerk. It's, you know, what he's famous for.

But I guess you might have heard about this...

Yeah. OK. Wow, a show hosted by a known jerk (of the douchey, cheating on his wife with interns in a bedroom he had built at the studio just for that purpose kind of way) engages in some cheap-shot transphobia. Yawn. Hand me the remote...

But what's that you say? Speak up, Straw-Reader-I-am-making-up-for-this-piece! Are you saying that Dave at least sort of respectable towards Ms. Sampson? And that the joke is really on sidekick douchebag Kalter? That I should not, you know, get my panties all in a twist about things, you hysterical trann--sorry, you like to be called a transgenderdamajig now, right?

Sorry, Straw Reader, you're wrong! A transgendamajig is a drink, not a gender identity, one of the many fascinating cocktails I dreamed up while vacationing on painkillers in Thailand! But you're also wrong about the joke.

Sure, true to his straightdouche persona, Dave didn't say anything spiteful about Ms. Sanders. (He also called her a transgendered person, not woman. Asshole.) But the joke wasn't on Kalter--it was decidedly on Ms. Sampson.

Because, you see, at heart this was a gay joke. (Amazing! Letterman homophobic too? Whodathunkit?) Kalter is upset because he slept with a "man," not a transgendered woman. At heart, this bit was calling Ms. Sanders a man.

Which is pretty much the definition of transphobia.

I of course, don't watch any of the talk shows myself--I really could care less about the latest vapid anecdote or stupid plug a celebrity comes on to talk about. (And even The Daily Show is wearing thin on me these days.) Instead, when not reading Russian novels in French or French movies in Russian, I watch Monty Python reruns. Because our world is so surreal nowadays that they seem positively normal.

Now Let Us Praise Complicated Women, And Condemn Them While We're At It

2010-01-07T21:33:00.000-05:00

So Mary Daly died.

(You might have heard about it.)

I don't have much to say about Mary Daly, really. I haven't read anything by her (because I am a bad feminist, or at least a lazy one, or at least somebody made very theory-adverse thanks to my graduate studies in English.) I'm not really sure if I'd heard her name before she died (because I am a bad...oh, you know.)

But I was utterly unsurprised to find out that she was a Second Wave radical feminist who, you know, hated me.

(Well, one thing surprised me: she was Janice Raymond's thesis adviser. Janice Raymond! And no, I'm not going to link to anything about her--if you're here, you should know about her; if you don't, use the bloody Google.)

As I said over at the ol' Tiger Beatdown today, it's clear that Mary Daly gave a lot of women a new way of looking at the world; that in a very real sense, she liberated them. And the glowing testimonials of people who knew her--about how generous she was with her time, how she helped other women writers and feminists, how she created, in the truest sense of the word, sisterhood with her fellow women.

But I just can't be all that happy about it, because she also wanted to deny me all those things; because to Mary Daly, I would never have been woman or even feminist enough.

And this doesn't even touch on the criticisms Audre Lorde leveled at her of ignoring the voices of women of color except as anecdotes, a bit of "color" for a chapter mostly about white women--something Daly never publicly cleared up, at least not while Lorde was alive--or her belief that the male of the species should be reverse decimated (leave one in ten alive) and those secluded in zoos.

And yet a lot of women I admire got their start in feminism with her.

And yet she thought I was a monster.

And yet she was dismissive towards women of color.

And....and what? There was a lot of good Mary Daly did. There was a lot of bad as well. How do we sort this out? How can you honor the legacy of people who were noble in some ways, and wicked in others?

How do you make sense of human lives?

Me, I dunno; like I said, I never read her. But her fame should not expunge her failings.

(And if you want a balanced, no-nonsense appraisal of her good and bad, Sady has it.)

Bonne Année

2010-01-06T22:34:00.000-05:00

Greetings, ducks, and Happy New Year. It's been a while, I know. And I'm fine, mostly, now. But I wasn't before.

We don't like to talk about depression much as a culture, although to some degree we've destigmatized it: I mean, here in the Great American Metropolis, everyone jokes about being in therapy or on antidepressants. Jokes are made; sticom plots revolve around a character's mental health; and we wonder if Ziggy had some Prozac if his life would improve and he'd finally buy some pants.

But we don't talk about it, or when we do, when we really sit down and talk about it, all the old stigmas come back. People will whisper about someone being really depressed; there's an uneasiness around the whole subject, a certain trepidation about approaching them, a certain, well, fear: of driving them to suicide? Of catching it yourself? I don't know.

What happened to me is that the chronic low-grade depression I've carried with me since before puberty flared up, as it does sometimes: but first it just gradually began to increase, helped along, no doubt, by my decision to go off antidepressants over the summer. Sure, I got worse, but gradually, gradually, and I couldn't tell how badly I was slipping, until I came back from San Francisco without a steady source of income for the first time in something like six years. And even then, I was doing OK, because I had a line on a job that wasn't ideal but would hold me while I retrenched. And I really thought I was going to get the job. Until I went up and had a horrible series of interviews.

And then I decidedly wasn't OK anymore.

Some of what happened next you no doubt can glean from my BTB post last week: I went to the psych ER, after a series of humiliations I got some meds that my insurance will actually cover, and if I'm not out of the woods, I can at least see the trees thinning out. And tomorrow I start a gig that while not ideal, will at least hold me while I retrench. (And keep working from home.)

But I was going to talk about my depression...and that's just it. It's so hard to talk about: if you don't have it, it's hard to understand. It's nothing like being sad, except when it is; it's nothing like feeling listless, except when it is; it's nothing like feeling hopeless, except when it is--and most of the time you feel at least some of those symptoms all at once. William Styron called it a "brain storm" and that comes close, except in my case there isn't a feeling of storm like violence: just a hopelessness, a feeling that everything I do is futile, that everything is just too hard for me to accomplish and that if I were lucky, I'd just not wake up in the morning. And sometimes, sometimes you just want the pain and hopelessness to go away so badly that you think about making sure you won't wake up in the morning.

I think until you can contemplate the idea of destroying yourself--of making a permanent end to all your problems--and think it a good thing, a sensible thing, to no longer care about the pain you would inflict on others, just so long as your own would go away--until you've hit that point, then no, you don't know what depression really feels like. I've had some sort of suicidal ideation around once a month since I was at least ten years old. And I almost never think seriously about it; when I do, when I get really serious in my own mind, that's when I know to go down to a doctor and do something about it. And I'm lucky: most of the time, there is something to be done, and something I can access to help me. Not everyone is so lucky.

Yet strangely enough, I don't want this post itself to be depressing. Dawn is breaking on my battered mental landscape; my Significant Other of Variable and Often Fabulous Gender spent the weekend with me, and cheered me up. I have a source of income again, and believe it or not, a line on some more interviews.

I'm writing again. And that's a light all of its own.

Coming Out, Staying In

2009-12-30T10:32:00.000-05:00

New Below the Belt content!

I recently had an encounter with our mental health system. (I'm fine. Now.) I don't have to tell you that almost any encounter with our health system is embarrassing; that seems to be the state of American healthcare. But what do you think the frosting on my mortification cake--the little extra bit of humiliation to go with the spongy cake of being put in a room with no sharp corners and the delectable pudding filling of despair that having them take my belt away proved to be?

Having to out myself. Three times--once to the triage nurse, once to the nurse who took my vitals, and once to the doctor.

Avanti!

Adventures in Transition: Inadequacy Edition

2009-12-20T21:11:00.000-05:00

Hola, ducks! Did you know that I'm currently between positions? Yes, tis true that I work as a consultant when not writing pithy internet ramblings. But while I was out in California, I lost my main client in a move of wonderful class upon their part. Wev. Anyway, did you know we are in a recession, despite what the economic gurus tell us? I sure do--I'm reminded of it daily as I watch my bank balances dwindle! And also, have I mentioned that I seem to be getting depression for Christmas! And now you are too, if you've read this far?

This is all preamble.

So, okay. I had an interview on Friday. Which didn't go so well...but I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start again.

So I had an interview on Friday. It was my third interview with these people, but the first one that would be face-to-face; I had survived two phone interviews prior to this, and passed the little "mess around with this database" test they'd sent me with flying colors.

That in itself is an accomplishment of sorts--not the application thing, I do that for a living after all; the phone interview bit. Now, you may not know this, but there's only one kind of transsexual whose voice is helped by transitioning, and I am not that kind of a transsexual! Or to put it more bluntly, estrogen doesn't do anything to your voice. (Testosterone will, so FTMs get a break there, but--as I well know--the effects are permanent.)

So back when I was transitioning--actually, just before I was sure I was going to transition--I began to work with an actress who gave voice lessons on finding a less obviously masculine way for me to talk. Not that I have anything against deep voices in women! Just, um, it was a way to make sure I would get outed. I didn't have a James Earl Jones bass or anything, but my voice pretty clearly marked me as trans.

The best part of the experience was that I was her first trans client, so we sort of assembled our own course in how to do this out of things on the internet, a DVD I had, and whatever seemed to work for us. After a while, we just spent half the class talking to each other, which was a great way to get comfortable using my new voice.

Thus, passing two phone interviews was not a small accomplishment.

Anyway. The face to face interview, which was not only face to face but a state away. And potentially guarded my economic future! After being so confident on the phone interviews, I suddenly found myself...inadequate. Because:

--I needed a new suit, since I'd gained some weight.

--Jeez, skirt or slacks? What was more appropriate?

--It turns out I needed a new suit that was two sizes larger than I normally wear, because I've gained so much weight. Sigh.

--I began to worry: would I come on too aggressive?

--I began to worry: would I not be aggressive enough?

--Or too feminine?

--Or not feminine enough?

--Or for that matter, would they immediately think I was trans?

--Or pull a credit bureau on me and know I was trans (I've been lazy about getting every account I own fixed.)

--Even if they hired me, would they hit me with the "female discount"?

--Do they want a woman in their IT department?

--Was I just the "diversity interview"?

Now, ducks, I know a lot of my female readers are somewhere between bemusement and rage at going over that list. I know it sounds whiny. It is whiny. But let me just say: I knew all this stuff going in, and I decided to transition anyway. I don't have any regrets about that, and I'm not saying I should have any special treatment.

But. This was the first time a lot of these things hit home for me all at once. And it was definitely a different experience for me to think of this stuff before an interview. (Also, I should note that I hadn't been on a serious interview in over six years--advantage to consulting--so there was that factor as well.) And the inadequacy I felt...was pretty massive. There was so much to be afraid of, so many traps I felt like I could blunder into just based on how I looked.

And you, my beloved female ducks, are more than welcome to chorus "Duh!" in my general direction right now. And I deserve it.

Anyway, as far as all that stuff went, I think things went fine--I looked professional, I don't think anyone read me, and I think I struck the right amount of aggression/femininity/whatever. It was the tech questions I whiffed on that probably sunk me! So there you have it.

But at least it was beautiful out in the snow today--the sky a hazy pastel blue at sunset, the air clear and all edges sharp-edged, the snow that light twilit blue you get at sunset. That helps. Even if it won't pay the rent.

Forgotten Feminist Films: My Brilliant Career

2009-12-17T21:11:00.000-05:00

So I've been watching a lot of things on IFC lately. Thank you IFC! You are an underemployed person's true friend--you brought me Heathers and Ginger Snaps which I promise I am going write about soon!

It also brought my My Brilliant Career, a quirky Australian movie starring a very young (and fantastic) Judy Davis, and a Sam Neill who is so young that he is actually handsome. But still boring! Just, in a handsome way.

Now, it should be said that I have never gone in for the domestic English novel of manners. (Which according to Mikhail Bakhtin, is what the novel is really about.) To this day, I have never finished a novel by Jane Austen or George Eliot, and only one by Henry James (The American, a second-tier work of his.) This is very likely due in part to my upbringing--back in the day when I was still, shall we say, confused about who I was, novels about who was going to marry whom and why that would be a disaster simply didn't resonate. And while I regret not having made my peace with Austen, for the most part I've kept this prejudice even into my transition.

So I wasn't necessarily excited about My Brilliant Career, which shapes up early to be a rather typical story of the rough-around-the-edges outsider girl who charms the rich and reserved bachelor. (Sounds like Pride and Prejudice, fercryinoutloud.) Indeed, I only recorded it because the synopsis indicated it was about a woman struggling to be a writer at the turn of the century. So I kept at it, and I am glad I did.

Because Davis' Sybylla Melvyne isn't just a stand-in for Elizabeth Bennett. Twice, handsome Sam Neill (it feels odd typing that) proposes to her, and twice...she turns him down. Even when the second time it would literally lifted her out of the mud. And that's just the beginning of the charm of this film.

Everyone, you see, is onboard telling Sybylla that she can't expect more--can't expect a love match for her marriage, can't expect a career, can't expect not to pay a huge price if she is so indulgent as to pursue one. "Loneliness is a terrible price to pay for independence," says Sam Neill's mother, the closest thing to a genuine parent figure she has. But Sybylla doesn't listen; and if early on her refusals are little more than temper tantrums, over time she learns how to rely upon herself to persevere, eventually publishing a novel based on her experiences. (In real life, Miles Franklin published the novel the film is based on while in her early twenties, and it became a classic for its brutally honest portrayal of life in the Australian bush.)

Plus the movie is a pleasure to watch. Director Gillian Armstrong--who would go on to do the 1990s remake of Little Women--finds beauty in almost every frame of the movie. Plus she is unafraid to make interesting choices: an outdoors pillow fight between Neill and Davis lasts a good five minutes, is stunning, and despite the lack of dialogue manages to capture Sybylla's attraction to Neill's Harry, and at the same time her fears of giving up all her dreams before she even knows what they are.

Perhaps the best compliment I can give the movie is this: after I finished watching it, I started to read Pride and Prejudice.

Trailers For Films That Were Never Made: Dennis Moore

2009-12-16T19:10:00.000-05:00

So Liss over at Shakesville notes that there's a new Ridley Scott version of Robin Hood coming in 2010, starring Russel Crowe as Robin Hood. This would be yawn inducing news, but for her hilarious transcript of the trailer:

TW] A lone figure runs through dark empty woods. Armor-clad knights ride horses through the woods. A tripwire is released and a net flies up. A wolf walks among corpses from a battle. A man peeps on an undressing woman. A thread is pulled through cloth. Light streams in through a stone wall. Armor-clad warriors creep through the woods. Text: "From Ridley Scott. The director of Gladiator." Armor-clad knights ride horses on the beach. Armor-clad knights run from the water onto the beach. Russell Crowe emerges from water screaming and raising a sword. More armor-clad knights ride horses on the beach. Russell Crowe rides a horse. Someone else strikes a tree with a hatchet. Armor-clad knights scream and get hit by falling trees and fight with swords and shit. Russell Crowe kisses a totes babe. Russell Crowe on horseback throws a sword. Text: "Academy Award Winner Russell Crowe." Russell Crowe looks at a bald dude with a sword. Text: "Academy Award Winner Cate Blanchett." Cate Blanchett appears for a brief instant; cut back to bald dude with a sword, who chops the fuck out of someone. Text: "Universal Pictures Presents." Sword-fighting! Fire! Text: "The story behind the legend." Vaguely swarthy dude with beard holds knife at totes babe's exposed bosom. Hey, arrows! A dirty dude hand rubs over Cate Blanchett's face. Russell Crowe runs. Text: "The hero behind the outlaw." Gold coins. Swarthy dude on horse grabs Cate Blanchett by the neck. Russell Crowe rides a horse, waving a sword. Russell Crowe kneels over a fallen comrade and makes the sign of the cross. Says: "Rise and rise again, until lambs become lions." Ooh, arrows again! Text: "Robin Hood." Russell Crowe aims an arrow, blood on his face. Text: "Coming 2010."

Now, that got me thinking. I really don't need to see another Robin Hood movie: even the presence of BRIAN BLESSED and Alan Rickman couldn't save the unfortunate Costner vehicle Robin Dude: Prince of Dweebs, and everything ends up just being a sketch on the 1930s Errol Flynn classic.

But it did give me an idea for a blog post series! Movie trailers for films that were never made! So I thought, instead of Russel Crowe as Robin Hood, howabout him as another hero of English folklore--Dennis Moore!

Dennis Moore? That's right, Dennis Moore:

Below is a working script for the Dennis Moore trailer. Note how, as per the conventions of The Film of the Series, I worked in a cameo from the original version!

A group of richly dressed nobles get into a carriage. Text: "In an age of kings..." A masked rider on a horse rides through the night. British soldiers in 18th century uniforms emerge from the mist. Various quick cuts of poor people in rags. Text: "One man dared to stand up." Another shot of the masked rider. A coach rumbles through the darkness. Cut to soldiers firing muskets. Something explodes. The coach pulls up in front of the masked figure, seen from behind in a slow tracking shot from his stirrups to his hat.

Russell Crowe: Stand and Deliver!"

More soldiers. Text: "From Academy Award-winning director Ridley Scott." Horsemen ride; Crowe rakes coins into a bag at a tavern. Text: "Starring Oscar winner Russell Crowe." A brief two second shot of Cate Blanchett in period dress, barely enough for us to register someone blonde, elegant, and far too talented for this crap. Text, briefly: "AndacademyawardwinningladyactorCateBlanchett" Crowe, with a pistol, is relieving the occupants of a carriage of their valuables. One starts to run away. Crowe picks up an axe and flings it sideways, chopping the fleeing man's head off; the blood, as Eric Idle says, goes "pssssss" in slow motion.

Crowe: This redistribution of wealth is trickier than I thought.

Guns! Soldiers! Fire! Poor people dancing! Wealthy nobles at a ball! Horses ride through the dark. Something murky happens while a rock ballad plays. Crowe clutches Blanchett under a waterfall. Text: "DENNIS MOORE"

John Cleese, dressed as a country squire, sits in his library holding a book. He looks up.

Cleese: Dennis? How did the day go? Did you get any gold?

Crowe, off-screen: Sorry, father, they were all out.

Cleese: Ah, I see. Very good. (beat) Did they have any....lupins?

Text: COMING IN 2010

When Allies Attack

2009-12-16T12:49:00.000-05:00

Hey! I have a new post up at Below the Belt!

So did you hear about how the Bilerico Project ran a piece from their brand-new contributor Ron Gold last week and the internet caught fire and burned down because it was so smugly transphobic? (No? Then you should be reading my blog. Seriously, people, I have a life outside of here you know.)

Now, Bil Browning ultimately did the right thing and took down the offending post and rescinded Gold's contributor status. I'm not going to rehash the particular reasons why this post was incredibly wrongheaded and stunningly insulting. I'm more interested in a phenomenon illustrated by this fracas: what happens when allies do something you find profoundly hurtful.

On y va!

In Space, No One Can Hear Your Right To Choose

2009-12-14T14:59:00.000-05:00

So I've been reading science fiction again. Not a big surprise--there was a period of time (roughly from age 10 to 16) where I read nothing BUT science fiction, before embarking on a self-designed Great Books survey.

Anyway: I needed a book to read on the flight home from San Francisco, so I picked up a copy of Iain M. Banks' Matter, one of his Culture novels. For those of you who aren't familiar with his work, the Culture is a space opera series set in a human civilization that has evolved beyond such petty concerns as money, economy, gender, government, or living on planets. As that describes the place I want to live in one day, I'm a big fan. I also re-read two of Vernor Vinge's postmodern space operas, A Fire Upon the Deep and A Deepness in the Sky. And that got me thinking of one of the grandparents of postmodern space opera, Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle's The Mote in God's Eye. (Warning: there be spoilers below.)

In case you haven't heard of it, TMiGE sets out to reverse the classic "first contact" story: instead of hideously advanced aliens showing up over a backwards earth, in the novel the humans are the advanced aliens with an interstellar empire who discover an alien race confined to one star system. The Moties, as they are called by the humans, aren't hicks: a "differentiated" species that has several subspecies that rely heavily on instinctive knowledge, the Moties are the equivalent of an entire race of experts: their Engineer subspecies can barely talk, but can repair advanced machinery after only a cursory inspection of it; the Mediator class can talk the hind legs off a mule; and the Warrior class are born tacticians, generals, and special ops fighters. (Moties also change sex after being pregnant, regularly cycling between male and female, which is kinda cool.)

It's a fun read, but of course there's a lot of built-in FAIL. (You were expecting something different from the work of two white sci-fi authors in the '70s?) The sexism isn't just cultural, it's built into the characters: the one human female is consistently airheaded, muddle-minded, and wrong about everything--how she is supposed to be a "doctoral candidate" is beyond me. (She is a noble, so that may be explained.) Besides providing a mouthpiece for liberal strawviewpoints, her primary function is to comfort the crew and be the love interest for the dashing captain. I suppose this could be cultural criticism--after all, the humans not only have revived feudalism in their empire, but the Catholic frakkin' church as well; that might be giving them too much credit. (Plus they seem not to have read anything ever written by a woman or even encountered a woman in everyday life, based on Sally's characterization.)

Then there's the Motie subspecies. This is actually a clever idea...until you take a look at how it's organized. The primary way to tell Moties apart is by the color of their fur: Warriors are red colored, Doctors rust colored, Engineers brown colored--and the Masters, the subspecies genetically determined to lead all the other subspecies are white.

Yeah. You read that correctly. In the Motie species, white guys literally are genetically superior to the brown guys. Holy frak.

But that's not the most bizarre aspect of the Motie civilization. The central mystery in the book, the thing that the Moties try hard to hide, is that they are doomed to a constant cycle of the collapse of civilization--millions of years, thousands upon thousands of falls into barbarity. And the reason? I'll let a Motie explain:

"That's the whole secret. Don't you get it yet? Every variant of my species has to be made pregnant after she's been female for a while. Child, male, female, pregnancy, male, female, pregnancy, 'round and 'round. If she doesn't get pregnant in time, she dies."

I suppose this makes a certain very, very strange sense--a sort of evolutionary impetus on steroids, if you will. But what doesn't make sense is that in Niven and Pournelle's world, pregnancy always equals childbirth.

Think about that one.

I mean, let's just go with the idea that somehow becoming pregnant makes a Motie healthy again--that there is some hormonal change that occurs after the Blessed Event that she needs, and somehow can't be simulated even by the genius Motie doctors (Huh? How? Why? WTF?) Somehow, though, it isn't getting pregnant or even staying pregnant for a length of time that's the key--it's actually giving birth. Which is just a boggle: there's Something Important about the Motie vagina, I guess.

And of course, abortion is never mentioned. The closest the book comes is to say that the Motie equivalent of birth control would be infanticide. (What? How? The Pill just doesn't work on Moties? Do these guys know anything about mammalian female physiology? WTF?)

That's right--in the future, abortion is literally unthinkable. At least, nobody thinks about it. But of course the special Magic Motie Vagina probably explains all this.

Why am I taking all this time to rag on a book from the 1970s, you ask? Because of this:

--Because even then two popular male writers could create a scenario that was grossly ignorant of the female body

--Because I've never heard a male fan of the book ever wonder why the hell the Moties don't have abortions

--Because it's astonishing that the subject never even comes up given the nightmare parody of female reproduction the book creates.

--Because this book could be written today, and all my objections would remain; because abortion and women's control over their bodies still remains a taboo subject in much of the world's literature; because that silence contributes to the oppression of women's reproductive rights.

And let's not get into the book's other nightmare (super-fertile brown aliens are going to invade our country and breed all over the place, destroying civilization!) I'll leave that one for Lou Dobbs to take care of.

A Purloined Girlhood

2009-12-14T13:14:00.000-05:00

I have a new post up at Tiger Beatdown!

It's the first post in a series I'm calling "A Purloined Girlhood" where I look at the ways that watching movies about growing up female have a completely different resonance for me nowadays. The first post is about Say Anything:

You have an odd relationship to the past when you’ve transitioned.

There’s barriers, thresholds, hesitations. Things Not Wanted To Be Said. Occasionally, misdirection and dodging. It can get…complicated.

You see, I am a woman in her thirties Without A Past–or at least, Without An Adolescence.

There are times I don’t regret not having had a girlhood; from what I’ve observed, and from what I’ve heard from my friends, it can definitely be one of those things that is Not All It’s Cracked Up To Be.

But at the same time, I feel, sometimes…a loss? A lack? A missing connection between me and other women? Adolescence is such a key experience for so many of the women I know, so my lack of a girlhood sometimes leaves me feeling–still–like I’m on the outside, looking in. It’s difficult to pin down, exactly, especially because doing so sometimes brings back all the pain I felt during my childhood: the pain of having a boyhood I never wanted thrust upon me, the pain of watching others have the life I wanted and not being able to figure out what to do about it.

The next one will be on Heathers.

Ron Gold, Choice, And The End Of The Affair

2009-12-13T00:10:00.000-05:00

So on further reveiw, the infamous Ron Gold post was taken down and he had his contributor status revoked. This was the proper step to take: one doesn't run a blog that supposedly caters to every letter in the LGBT spectrum and then publish something like that.

In the past I've found Bilerico to be pretty approachable for trans people and trans bloggers, which makes this failure hurt so much more than if it had been on a blog that didn't have that reputation. It revealed an enormous blind spot in the editor's outlook. One thing is certain: nothing that attacked the gay and lesbian identity in such a way would have been posted there.

However, one must wonder about the screening process over there. Were they aware that Ron Gold had previously claimed that being gay was largely a matter of "imprinting"?

First, about the science of the thing. My reading of the literature gives me no cause (despite highly publicized research by Simon LeVay and others) to believe that there is any physical, chemical or genetic difference between heterosexuals and homosexuals. Indeed, I think the current data leads to the inescapable conclusion that all human beings are born with the capacity for both homosexual and heterosexual responses. Preferences for one or the other seem, in most cases, to be fairly fixed by the age of six, but within the species homosexuality and heterosexuality do not appear to be discrete entities, with preferences running the continuum from exclusivity at both ends to genuine bisexuality in the middle. Even within individuals there is ample evidence that people can and do change, whether situationally (as in same-sex settings like prisons) or culturally (as in virulently homophobic societies).

So what causes sexual orientation? My guess is that preferences for one gender or another is much like preferences for people who are dark or fair, young or old, tall or short; imprinted patterns that are usually formed quite early in life. How these imprints occur has yet to be discovered, principally, I think because the bulk of the research has been looking for "the cause of homosexuality" rather than the cause of sexual preferences in general. Do we choose our imprints? No, but we do choose not only whether to act on them but whether our feelings are appropriate for our self-image. It really isn't too hard to repress feelings that embarrass us or make us feel guilty. It's a bit harder to try, as I've tried, to expand my imprints beyond young, short, dark men to others I might like just as well if I gave it a chance.

You should go and read the whole thing, because it's remarkable how this presaged the line of argument he used in his anti-transgender piece--with the exception that he was respectful of gay identities, but didn't deliver the same courtesy to trans folk.

I should note that one of the few good things about this mess is how many LGB and straight cis folk defended transgendered people and decried the bigotry of the Gold article. Peterson Toscano has a nice post about this, with many wonderful replies. (h/t to helen boyd, with a side order of snark.)

It should be noted too that not every trans person in the world acquitted themselves spotlessly. Our old friends the HBSers leaped in to score their usual desiccated points about "the transgender." There were some posts of fail in the various comment threads--even having bigotry shoved in your face shouldn't be an excuse to shove bigotry right back. These were few and far between, and somewhat ameliorated by the shocking level of insult Gold heaped out.

And by the fact that, well, we've heard it all before. Bil Browning said he wanted to "challenge" the readers of The Project, but how the fuck was the latest reiteration of the same old argument I've heard for all my life from all kinds of cis people, queer or not, challenging? Would Peter LaBarbera be allowed to be a contributor to The Bilerico Project? He'd certainly "challenge" the views of many in the gay community.

I think Lisa Harney of Questioning Transphobia said it best in the comments thread to the non-apology apology:

Don't you think trans people are constantly challenged already? Why do we need to be shocked out of a comfort zone that we largely do not have access to? [...] Would you honestly allow a post that called all LGB people deluded and unnatural, and said that same-sex attraction doesn't really exist? And when your commenters respond predictably (that is, with anger), would you deliver this same apology?

And with that, let's put L'Affaire Ron Gold to bed. I'm sure by tomorrow morning the world will have found a new champion to tell me that I don't exist.

"No" to the question of homosexuality

2009-12-11T13:51:00.001-05:00

So Bil Browning posted a non-apology apology over at Bilerico and mumbled the usual things about wanting challenging posts, noted they had run stuff from ex-gay activists, made a typical mistake about the meaning of "safe space" (hint: it's not a space where no one disagrees, it's a space where people don't get attacked based on who they are as a person rather than what they believe or do.) But let's take Bil at face value: he wants challenging posts, and I'd certainly still like to write for Bilerico. Let's see if this post would run there:

What is a homosexual? Well, there are two sorts who seem to be covered by the name, the gay guys and girls so good at portraying cartoon imitations of straight people, and queers, the folks who report that from an early age they've acted in ways that don't look like how normal boys and girls act. Despite the equipment they were born with that belies their assertions, they say they are really attracted to men or really attracted to women.

What does it mean to be really attracted to a man or a woman? Since it's not just about genitalia, it must be about personality, and what, one asks, is a male or a female personality? Even transsexual people nowadays concede that some men have attractions to men in ways thought to be exclusive to women, and some women have attractions to women in the sort that used to be thought exclusive to men. And transsexuals have always known that people of the same gender can be very different from each other. Isn't it true that those we form mated relationships with are always complementary - even polar opposites - to ourselves?

Let me state it categorically. There is no such thing as a gay or lesbian personality. Personality is not a function of sexuality.

So where does that put the concept of homosexuality? In my view, down the tubes! And that leaves the further questions of how homosexuals got to think the way they do, and what to do to resolve their dilemmas. I hope I'll be forgiven for rejecting as just plain silly the idea that some cosmic accident just turned these people into queers. What happened, more than likely, is that, from an early age, when they discovered that their personalities didn't jibe with who little boys and girls are supposed to be attracted to, they just assumed they mustn't be real straight little boys and girls--when in fact they're just real transsexual boys and girls, and a sex-change is the natural and correct way for them to express this side of themselves.

So, parents of such little boys and girls, do not take them to the psychiatrist and treat them like they're suffering from some sort of illness. Explain to them that, whatever the other kids say, real little girls attracted to boys, and real little boys are attracted to girls. And make sure the teachers are on the same page.

As for adults struggling with what to do about their feelings, I'd tell them too to stay away from the psychiatrists - those prime reinforcers of sexuality stereotypes - and remind them that whatever they're feeling, or feel like doing, it's perfectly possible with the sexuality everyone else has. If a man wants to sleep with a man; if a woman wants to sleep with a woman; if people want to change their sexuality; who says they can't violate these perfectly arbitrary taboos? A short historical and cross-cultural survey should establish that men and women have worn and done all sorts of stuff. I recall reading something by Ron Gold in which it seemed that he thought at the age of 13 he liked boys. For starters, I'd have told him that I like boys too, but like normal people I got rid of my pecker to do it.

Perhaps it isn't needless to say that a No to the notion of homosexuality does not excuse discrimination against gays or lesbians in employment, housing and public accommodation; and I strongly support legislation that would forbid it. I would, however, get after the doctors - the psychiatrists who use a phony medical model to invent a disease that doesn't exist, and the activists who use such spurious diagnoses to endanger with horrific diseases the bodies of the deluded.

Somehow I think not.

WTF, Bilerico?

2009-12-10T17:52:00.002-05:00

I really like the Bilerico project--it's a great place for queer and trans folks and their allies to meet and discuss things. And it's never shied away from controversy.

Bilerico recently added a new contributor, Ronald Gold, and reading his biography he's just the kind of person you want to have there--a long time gay activist, one of the founders of the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force, and a man who was instrumental in getting homosexuality removed from the DSM.

So it's an enormous disappointment to read his first post, officially titled "'No' to the notion of transgender" but if you look at the url it must have been called "Transgender: a disease that doesn't exist" at some point. And, well, let's see if you, Gentle Reader, can understand why I was shocked to see it on Bilerico:

What is transgender? Well, there are two sorts who seem to be covered by the name, the drag kings and queens so good at portraying cartoon imitations of straight people, and transsexuals, the folks who report that from an early age they've felt themselves trapped in the wrong bodies. Despite the equipment they were born with that belies their assertions, they say they are really men or really women.

Holy fuck. Did I just read that at a queer site? Seriously? Please tell me this is some kind of horrid fundamentalist satire...

I recall reading something by Jan Morris in which it seemed that he thought he needed a sex change because he wanted men to hold doors open for him and kiss him goodbye at train stations. For starters, I'd have told him that I've had these nice things happen to me and I've still got my pecker.

Oh ye ghods.

Oh, but he isn't prejudiced against trans folk! See, this is how he ends the piece:

Perhaps it isn't needless to say that a No to the notion of transgender does not excuse discrimination against cross-dressers or post-op "transsexuals" in employment, housing and public accommodation; and I strongly support legislation that would forbid it. I would, however, get after the doctors - the psychiatrists who use a phony medical model to invent a disease that doesn't exist, and the surgeons who use such spurious diagnoses to mutilate the bodies of the deluded.

See? I just think you're deluded, C.L.--but that's no reason for people to be cruel to you. That is, for levels of cruelty beyond calling you a man and a "transsexual."

If I was to be charitable (I am reliably informed that for some reason December is a month we're supposed to do so, here in Merka; the media says so), I guess I could scratch out some kind of "hmm, he's really against gender essentialism, which I'm down with so...win?" Except, oddly enough, as I write this he's sharing the front page with Autumn Sandeen, the transgender barista from Pam's House Blend, and whom I'm sure enjoys having her identity crumpled up in front of her eyes and tossed away.

I just...can't understand why this of all things should be the first post this guy makes at Bilerico. Didn't somebody tell him there are actual trans people who visit? Or even, you know, write stuff there? Holy cow.

Grumble...gotta write that "how to take an ally to task" post that everybody is writing nowadays...sheesh.

Your RDA of Internalized Misogyny

2009-12-09T20:44:00.001-05:00

I don't always follow the Daily Show anymore; there are days when it seems like Jon Stewart has kicked all the lady writers out of the room and lets his dudebros handle all the jokes. But last night's segment on Gretchen Carlson was fantastic:

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c

Gretchen Carlson Dumbs Down

www.thedailyshow.com

Daily Show
Full Episodes

Political Humor

Health Care Crisis

If you had doubts about the misogyny of the right wing, the media, and especially the right wing media: put them to rest.

What on earth does it say about this woman's political beliefs that she purposely makes herself look less intelligent in order to be able to speak about them? (Of course, according to Wikipedia her nanny growing up was Michelle Bachmann, so...) And in case you just think that's broadcasting, don't forget that many of her colleagues regularly strut out how smart they are--frequent commentator Karl Rove is admired for his genius, for example--but Ms. Carlson has to pretend to have never accomplished anything intellectual before. Now, maybe that's okay for Michelle Bachmann, who genuinely hasn't done anything noteworthy with her brain; but for goodness' sake, studying at Stanford and Oxford doesn't just happen; neither does playing classical music solos on the violin. Yet one cannot help but feel that the most important qualification for her job--at least in the minds of the heads of the network--was her Miss America title, not her degrees.

But why? Why can't she be smart and beautiful? (And conservative. It's a free country, mostly.) Even if she's the host of a morning show? What on earth is so awful about a woman who can think--what is so terrible that she purposely hides it?

Yes, I know. The kyriarchy. Still, funny how that thing can bite you even when you're not looking.

Better Watch...Out!

2009-12-07T20:51:00.000-05:00

So tonight, I had a choice in my TV watching. I could watch the new TNT show "Men of a Certain Age", about the World's Most Undercovered Topic--the ever so gentle male ego--or Ridiculous Wooden Puppets.

What Ridiculous Wooden Puppets, you ask? Surely you jest, Strawperson Reader I am having an imaginary conversation with! Why, these Ridiculous Wooden Puppets!

Except it wasn't even Rudolph! Rudolph would have been cool! No, it was the much-less well known Santa Claus is Coming to Town, narrated by Fred Astaire (you haven't lived until you've seen a Ridiculous Wooden Puppet representation of Fred Astaire dancing) and...Mickey Rooney? As Santa? Did I just type that right?

Anyway, Ridiculous Wooden Puppets is still better than Ridiculous Wooden Actors. Talking about, um, wood.

Je Me Souviens

2009-12-06T19:33:00.001-05:00

Today is the anniversary of the infamous École Polytechnique Massacre.

For those of you who don't know, here are the basics: on December 6, 1989, a gunman named Marc Lépine entered the École Polytechnique in Montreal, an engineering college. He entered a classroom, separated the men from the women, and then shot all nine of the women, killing six. He then began wandering the school, specifically targeting women, before taking his own life. He killed 14 women, wounded 10 others, and also wounded four men.

Before setting out on his mass murder, he had left a suicide note which mentioned that he specifically targeted "feminists" for ruining his life, and included a list of nineteen women he wanted to die because they were feminists.

Today is commemorated as National Day of Remembrance and Action on Violence Against Women in Canada. Survivors of the massacre helped pass a gun control law that required the registration of all firearms--and which probably has helped reduce firearm-related violence against women.(Which is something to think about, O ye who criticize TDOR for being an ineffectual "pity party.")

And the response has been a serious consideration of how misogyny pervades our society, right? Or about how violence and especially armed violence is a plague, right? No. It seems lots of folks deny that what has to be one of the most brain-thuddingly obvious acts of violent misogyny in recent history...wasn't misogyny at all, no ma'am. Oh, and the Harper government wants to drop the gun registry. Nice commemoration, assholes.

CaitieCat on Shakesville has a poignant post on the subject today, and I highly recommend (and when was the last time you read a post from me with this sentiment?) the comments thread. The Toronto Star has an article about how the lives of the survivors have changed, and how many of them have fought to prevent further massacres, and for women's rights in general.

Je me souviens. Je ne oublierai jamais. Jamais encore.

Science Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

2009-12-05T23:11:00.000-05:00

There is so much miserable shit in this world.

There's ~~the~~ a many wars. An economy that seems geared to either kill us all or return us to feudalism (the line's fifty-fifty either way.) And not to mention the constant and perpetual oppression that stems from the horror that everybody isn't just like yourself, and maybe you can turn a buck on that fact.

In this crapsack world, Mythbusters is a shining light of goodness.

I mean, yes there's Adam and Jamie and the whole "hey, science actually proves things! Knowledge is good and fun to acquire" message they cleverly disguise by blowing shit up with great abandon.

More than that, there is Kari Byron.

I love Kari Byron. Even if she did do a FHM spread, sigh.

I mean, first, she is a full-fledged member of the team. She works on all their advanced crazy toys. She's always there when they blow stuff up, and she has a ton of her own good ideas.

And the fact that she's a woman is never particularly comment upon. She's just another member of the build crew.

And she does all this stuff even when she's nine months pregnant. Which is awesome. There is something in me that delights at the sight of her swaddled in a bulletproof vest, testing their latest explosive craziness experiment.

Also, she does cool and weird conceptual art.

But beyond all that: you know what's cool? Today I'm watching an episode where they are testing whether or not you can really hold on to the roof or hood of a car if the person driving tries to do maneuvers to throw you off. So they build this boom rig attached to the car that will let them hang from it without flying off to their death.

And Adam paints it bright pink.

That is awesome. And it's symptomatic of the show, because for all of their We Love The Big Booms, it never is all about macho BS about how big their booms are. They need a color to make the boom show up on camera. They choose pink. No biggie.

Life should be more like Mythbusters.

Blogging From Home: Anomie Of Unemployment Edition

2009-12-04T18:36:00.000-05:00

Okay, unemployed is a strong word for me: I haven't worked a fulltime W-2 job in over 10 years, and I have some contract work that will be coming down the pike soonish, plus a serious line on an actual job. But still: for the first time in a couple of years, I have no place to be to make money right now.

Funny, it actually is like the last time I was out of work around Christmas, four years ago: which incidentally was about two months before the collapse of my marriage.

Anyway, my damn jet lag (and spending too much time reading a Culture novel the last few nights) finally caught up with me and I crashed this morning--fed the Evil Feline Overlords and passed out in bed again. So I didn't get much done today. I was going to walk over to the library to get more Banks novels, but I checked the website and they're all out or on hold.

So I'm going to treat myself to a fabulously cheap calzone for dinner. I thought about ordering a movie from my cable company, but the best I saw was the new Transformers movie. Then I remembered I have "Ginger Snaps" on my DVR, and I also set the same to record "Heathers," a movie I had never seen before. So definitely some blog fodder coming.

Anything is better than watching TNT tonight--they're showing Spielberg's 9/11 porn adaption of "War of the Worlds."

Duck, Duck, Silly Goose

2009-12-03T21:30:00.000-05:00

OK, so some of you may wonder where the hell I've been, assuming anyone still reads me given my recent vanishing act.

The answer is--well, I've been through the wringer. Not quite. Rather, I've been in California, which was quite pleasant, though I did miss the Great American Metropolis.

I also lost my major client and so I've been looking for work rather more actively than I've been writing.

And I had a bit of a case of burnout, something I think is going to be my perpetual inheritance as long as I insist on being the on the Radical side of the fence.

And a lot of other not so great excuses. There you are.

I have been thinking about just how I want to continue in my writing on these subjects. For one thing, I think at least on this blog I may open up just a little bit and do some more personal pieces, or at least personal experience pieces.

My vision for The Second Awakening was always to be an analysis site--there are plenty of places on Ye Olde Blogosphereee where you can get up to date info on how badly the world sucks. I never planned to break news. So I see what I do as catching up on stories and bringing my own view to things.

But one thing I've learned in writing these last--sheesh, seven months?--is that I need, or want, or have to if I want the whole analysis thing to work, tie stories and outrages to a larger theoretical framework. This is what Sady at Tiger Beatdown does so seemingly effortlessly, and it's what I want to learn how to do. (And speaking of the Ol' Tiger Beatdown, it looks like I'm going to be a semi-demi-occasionally-regular contributor there--yay!)

And also maybe do stuff at Op-Ed length (600-800 words for you aspiring writers) which is not only easier on the brain and fingers, but something that writing for Below the Belt has really trained me how to do.

So...so what, Cat? So this. I do plan to do more writing, here and at other venues. There will be posts! It may take a while to gear back up, but this is what I do. It's all I've ever wanted to do (well, that and get paid for it...I'm working on that one.) I'm not giving up anytime soon.

General Francisco Franco Is Still Dead, and Hiram Montserrate Is Still A Douche

2009-12-02T19:34:00.000-05:00

So the New York State Senate finally got around to voting on legalizing gay marriage today:

Marriage equality failed today in the New York Senate after a years-long battle to bring the issue to a vote. The final tally: 24 YES, 38 NO. Among the surprises was a "no" vote from Queens Democrat Sen. Hiram Monserrate, who had previously been a vocal supporter. In October, Monserrate narrowly escaped a felony assault conviction for slashing the face of his girlfriend with a broken glass. Monserrate's NYC office: (718) 205-3881. His Albany office: (518) 455-2529.

Yes, it's our old friend Hiram Montserrate shocking nobody with a fucking brain that he once again turned out to be lying, devious jerk. We knew he hated women; now we know he hates gays: fortunately, the New York State Senate takes so few damn meaningful votes that we may have to go months before we find the next group Montserrate thinks is disposable.

And fuck, it sucks that NYS couldn't make this happen, although there is hope now for future votes (and primary challenges to the Democrats who voted No.)

BTB: The Wages of Transness

2009-12-02T19:23:00.000-05:00

Yanno, these days I guess I'm lucky to be able to even write these damn things, let alone tell anyone about them: but I have a post up at Below the Belt about the tragic death of Mike Penner, and transition in general:

Transition, as you may have heard, is really hard.

There is the actual physical nature of it: the hormones, the changes to your body, the surgeries (if you want them), the hair removal (if you want or need that too), the way you look in the mirror, the way people look at you. There is the long period when you may look like you could be either gender, or neither, when passing as your birth gender is as hard or harder than passing as your new gender.

Enjoy.

I Get Around (and Around and Around...)

2009-11-26T11:50:00.000-05:00

Howdy, ducks! Hope you have a happy thanksgiving--and I have a post up at Tiger Beatdown about the V series and the backlash against feminism! Enjoy.

BTB: TDOR

2009-11-20T21:18:00.000-05:00

I've got a post about today--Transgender Day of Remembrance--up on Below the Belt:

Today is the eleventh annual Transgender Day of Remembrance (TDOR), a day when trans people and allies are encouraged to pause and remember the people who have died in the previous year for the simple crime of being trans (or even, in the case of one person on this year's list, loving a trans person.) Today events will be held all around the world to memorialize, celebrate, and educate people about the lives of trans people and the all-to-often fatal prejudice they face.

Which isn't to say that there aren't controversies even inside the trans community about TDOR. Some people find it overly morbid--that by making our annual celebration about people who have been killed, we make ourselves out to be victims, not strong people struggling against sometimes impossible barriers. (I once heard a transsexual woman describe the day as a "pity party.") Another criticism is that we should be celebrating our lives, not our deaths--that people who are trans and live "normal" or "successful" lives should be the focus of our celebration, not the unfortunates that died.

But not me.

The rest is here.

Hobbyhorses

2009-11-11T17:22:00.002-05:00

Here's a quick duck-in to discuss some hobbyhorses of mine--the Polanski debacle, and the Senate filibuster rules! (What, you didn't know I have an obsession with that? Good thing most of you haven't met me in person, I natter on about them a lot.)

First, Jay Smooth does an amazing take down of all the arguments people have been throwing around about why Rapin' Roman should go free or something:

Like a lot of people, I always like Jay Smooth, but that was teh awesome.

(h/t to the fabulous Lena D.)

Next, here's a nifty piece from Gail Collins and everyone's favorite muddle-headed voice of conservative received wisdom, David Brooks, where they talk about the House's recent health care bill. Gail voices one of my particular frustrations with the Senate's arcane rules:

We used to think of the filibuster as a dramatic, once-in-a-blue-moon vehicle that was used only in extreme circumstances, like Jimmy Stewart in “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.” (What I like about that movie, in retrospect, is that Stewart was not standing there, holding the floor all by himself for hour after hour until he collapsed from exhaustion, in order to save puppies or fight unemployment. It was because the evil Claude Rains was trying to destroy his career, and Jimmy had to prove that he was as saintly as ever. It was all about him. So very Senate like.) Or, of course, when the Southerners wanted to stop civil rights legislation.

But now, a minority of senators don’t have to bother to actually keep talking, or take turns talking, or even hang around the chambers to bring progress to a screeching halt. They just declare their intention (it’s the thought that counts) and nothing can go forward without 60 votes.

That’s crazy. If we’re going to have this system, the filibuster should be reserved for matters that can’t be undone later, like important judicial nominations. Or wars. Not normal domestic policy, no matter how large.

I so 100% agree with that. It would be a will of the people moment--if you've judged opinion correctly, then people will support your principled stand against oppressive legislation; otherwise, they'll think you're a bunch of obstructionist clowns.

Honestly, I can't see why the Democrats wouldn't go for this--can you imagine the glee in Chuck Shumer's face as he goes on talk show after talk show to run the same damn clip of Orrin Hatch reading the AMA membership lists into the Congressional Record? It would be great.

Gail then goes on to attack Joe Lieberman, which is always good fun. She doesn't, however, mention the single largest problem with the health care bills: the evil Stupak-Pitts amendment, the greatest rollback in women's health and reproductive rights in over a quarter of a century, and something Ms. Collins might presumably be interested in.

Unless, of course, she thinks it's just "politics" instead of "fundamental rights."

Or maybe she was afraid of offending Bobo's delicate sensibilities. WEV.

Female Imponderablization

2009-11-04T13:51:00.000-05:00

Hey! It's time for another Below the Belt post......this time, on DRAG!

Nowadays, Halloween isn't much of a holiday for me; I rarely make special plans for it or bother to get a costume--and considering the average woman's costume--Sexy Ninja! Sexy Vacuum Cleaner Salesperson! Sexy First Lady!--that's maybe for the best. (I may not be a radical feminist--they won't take me--but come on, people--Amanda Hess at the Sexist has done yeowoman's duty on this subject.)

This Halloween, however, I was out in San Francisco and went to see a friend's performance in a drag show. So I donned my homemade ironic vampire disguise--fangs, pvc duster and dress, boots, and my "...And Then Buffy Staked Edward. The End." tee shirt--and caught some decidedly non-vintage drag.

You know the drill!

Monday Media Watch, Edizione Internazionale

2009-11-03T02:53:00.000-05:00

O HAI AGAIN, DUCKS! And yes, this really is a Monday Media Watch--I get in just under the wire by virtue of being in California.And being in California, I decided to put aside my usual Monday Media Watch sparring opponent--the New York Times--and try one of the local papers for a change.

So today's target: The San Francisco Comical, er, Chronicle, and specifically this article on Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi! Take it away, Joel Brinkley:

So Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi is shaming his nation. That's what pundits and commentators are saying as the Italian courts pursue charges of bribery, corruption and tax evasion. But by far the most visible allegations revolve around his sexual escapades.

But before we all clamber aboard that bandwagon, is it possible we misunderstand?

Hey, that is one promising start, Mr. Brinkley--because certainly lady people have noticed a disturbing trend to judge us by our sexual escapades rather than the substance of our scandals! In fact, we often get judged on our "sexual escapades" in the absence of any other "scandal"! Let's take a look at Mr. Berlusconi's issues:

After all, as the prime minister explained at a recent news conference, "to my male colleagues present here I say: Raise your hand and tell me you don't think it's nice to rest your eyes on pleasant and enjoyable feminine presences - rather than sitting at a table with people lacking aesthetic qualities."

Oh. I see. I think I can diagnose these difficulties. He's a douche.

Now, "pleasant and enjoyable feminine presences" by its very nature is enough to make me do a Radfem Stomp. But for the sake of my blood pressure, and the possible edification of a dudebro who stumbles upon this site, let's unpack that: first, only feminine presences are pleasant and enjoyable--this comes as a surprise not only to big ol' bisexual me, who has been known to find masculine presences both pleasant and mm-hmm-hmm enjoyable, but it also pretends that there are no men who might agree with Your Duckmistress about said pleasant and enjoyable masculinities.

But let's dig, Starbuck, to the little lower layer: you can't just utter a sentence like that without it seeping context. And the context for it is that for men in power, women have far too long been seen only as, well, pleasant decoration and the occasional useful sex object. One would presume, just from his saying such an asinine thing, that a room with Chancellor Merkel, Baroness Thatcher, Secretary Clinton, and Secretary Albright would not be one of "pleasant and enjoyable" presences, despite all the named presences being female. So to sum up, on the Berlusconi scorecard of douchiness:

Female Heterosexual Desire....................................................Inconsequential
Male Homosexual Desire........................................................Invisible
"Plesant and Enjoyable" Males................................................Ignorable
Women Who Aren't "Pleasant and Enjoyable"
by virtue of Silvio's Lust..........................................................Inconceivable

Okay, I know what you're saying: I'm making some leaps of logic here. Maybe his (very debatable) Excellency isn't a douchebag--maybe he's just a man of his time, well-meaning but saying douchey stuff. Allowances should be made, etc. And maybe you're right; maybe I haven't given him a fair shake...

Certainly that must be why he showed up at 18-year-old Noemi Letizia's birthday party last spring. It's probably a coincidence that Letizia, a model, poses for provocative photos in her underwear. That couldn't have been why he gave her a nice birthday present, a gold necklace worth about $10,000.

Berlusconi's wife was angry. She left him, saying his visit to the birthday party "really surprised me because he has never come to the 18th birthday parties of any of our three children, despite being invited."

Come, now. Berlusconi is the prime minister of Italy. He has a busy schedule. Even a young Noemi Letizia understands that. "I am in awe of him," she told an interviewer. "He calls me, and I go to him." But only "if he has time."

Right. Well-meaning guy who can make time for underwear models but not his own children...como si dice "douchebag" in italiano?

But let's not stop at Italian heads of state--there's plenty of members of the doucheoisie right here at home!

For example, two newspapers, Corriere della Sera and La Stampa, recently reported that [businessman Giampaolo] Tarantini told police he lined up 30 women for Berlusconi and his friends, "if the need arose," and brought them to 18 parties in Berlusconi's homes in Rome and Sardinia in 2008 and 2009.

"I wanted to meet Premier Berlusconi, and to that end I spent a lot to get into contact with him, knowing his taste for women," Tarantini told the papers. "I merely accompanied to his house young women who I introduced as my friends while keeping quiet about the fact that I sometimes paid them."

You'd assume that all of the press coverage, all of that back-room business, would spell Berlusconi's political demise. Think of Gov. Mark Sanford of South Carolina and Sen. John Ensign of Nevada, both of whom are accused of covering up extramarital affairs. The South Carolina legislature is considering impeachment, and Ensign's re-election prospects in 2012 appear to be slim.

What about Berlusconi? Do we misunderstand? If the public opinion polls are an indicator, we do. His popularity among Italians, in recent polls, stands at 63 percent - a figure any chief of state would envy.

What do Italians know that we don't?

Well, Joel, first off, maybe Americans do know something about this--President Clinton had approval ratings at or near the 60% range all during l'affaire Lewinsky. And you conveniently ignore the fact that in the case of Urbin and Sanford, a huge part of the scandal is the hypocrisy of a candidate who deliberately cultivates an image of being squeaky clean and virginal (outside the God-sanctioned marriage bed) being caught metaphorically with their trousers down. Neither Berlusconi nor Clinton built their image around their presumed superior morals, and more importantly neither routinely made political hay out of condemning other people for their presumed moral failings.

And of course the article ignores, or minimizes, the fact that Berlusconi is the richest man in Italy, someone who routinely throws bushels of money into his various political campaigns (he owns his own political party) and has been mired in controversy, legal actions, and charges of criminality pretty much from the inception of his political career. With Berlusconi, his sexist actions are just the tip of the iceberg. Which could have been an interesting jumping off point for an article that might look at how hidebound belief in personal superiority (such as sexism) might also be revealed in other aspects of someone's personal dealings (such as rampant corruption from within the government.) But that wouldn't be as fun to write as a "Europe good sexy fun, America evil Puritanical morals police" article, which continues to get written whenever any scandal remotely sniffing of sex heaves into view--witness how often people have taken this precise tack over the Polansky arrest, even when European opinion is hardly neither uniform nor even close to the perception of the writer.

And besides--writing about how a European leader who is both sexist and corrupt, and whose sexism reveals things about his corruption, might force you to consider the same things about American leaders--and then who would invite you to the cool parties, or give you op-eds in local papers?

Bloggity Blogity Blog Blog Blog Note

2009-10-30T22:22:00.000-04:00

O HAI! Like, remember me? I used to post--sometimes more than once a week--on this here blog!

Sorry, ducks, I know I promised you more vitriol--I did try to deliver with tonight's offering--but getting caught up with things out here on the west coast has been demanding. Also, my main client is playing the "we're not going to pay you, nyah nyah nyah" game, which is awful fun--nothing like being far from home with two months income being held in hock.

HOWEVER, I am slowly regaining equilibrium--or, since this blog is about anything but that--massive amounts of rage, and will be writing more and more often. I promise--and I've never let you down before, except for all those other times. Ahem.

Monster Rat: A Gallery of the Rape Culture

2009-10-30T20:13:00.005-04:00

Hiram Monserrate is a douchebag.

Need proof? Consider the lovely legislative record of the freshman NYS senator: he not once, but twice threatened to caucus against his own party--which for the first time in over 40 years was in control of the upper house of the New York State legislature and had an ambitious progressive and reform agenda, including legalizing gay marriage--making good on his threat the second time and throwing the entire state government into chaos (and costing the taxpayers billions of dollars.) And both times, he couldn't even stand steadfast to his own dirtbag principles (well, except the most important: look out for Hiram first)--he turned coat on his turncoat companions and slunk back to the Democrats.

And that's not even what earned him his nickname: Monster Rat.

That comes as a result of the "incident" of December 19th, 2009. Monserrate brought his girlfriend, Karla Giraldo, to an emergency room over a half hour from his apartment. She had been slashed down to the bone by a broken glass. Monserrate claimed he had tripped in a darkened room and accidentally smashed the glass into her face. Giraldo disagreed, although she would later recant and say that his version was correct. But that night she called him "crazy" and said, "I can't believe he did this to me!"

It seems that he had been driven into a jealous rage by finding another man's business card in her purse. A security camera would later show images of him beating her in the hallway, dragging her by her hair. She tried to get away from him but nobody opened their door.

He was indicted, but once Giraldo changed her story, it proved impossible to convict him of anything but misdemeanor assault.

Now, I can leave it there: yet another case of a powerful man using his privilege to abuse a woman and get away with it--as Joanna Molloy did in the New York Daily News:

In the hallway after the verdict, women in jeans and lawyers' suits clustered in groups and shook their heads. "This sets women's rights back a long time," said one female court officer.

Forgive us if we find the couple's story the most incredible coincidence since Thomas Jefferson and John Adams died on the same Fourth of July.

Erlbaum did find Monserrate - who courthouse wags have been calling Monster Rat - guilty of reckless assault, for forcibly dragging Giraldo out of the apartment in a scene caught on videotape.

It's a misdemeanor, so Monserrate gets to keep his job in Albany.

But what I find fascinating (read: sickening, disgusting, makes me quiver with rage) is the way that the Daily News' cartoonist Bill Bramhall used images of Monserrate and a generic woman (who never looked like his actual victim, Karla Giraldo) as a commentary on politics, pop culture, his job as a cartoonist--everything, in fact, except violence against women.

So for your enjoyment (read: rage), here is a gallery of Bramhall's cartoons, which are disturbing and triggering enough that (in a Second Awakening first) I present them after the jump.

A Gallery of the Damned

Politics
Most often, Bramhall used Monserrate's image as a commentary on politics, albeit one divorced completely from anything having to do with women's politics:

Don't you just love the terrified woman in that last cartoon? Way to exhibit sensitivity as well as your usual perspicacity, Bill!

The Cartoonist's Chore

A few times, Bramhall includes an image of Monserrate in cartoons commenting about how hard/easy it is for him to do his job, i.e. come up with cartoons:

Almost, But Not Quite

Once or twice, Bramhall almost shows some sensitivity to the underlying issue of violence towards women--but then as usual completely smothers that in a smug blanket of privileged fuckery that uses images of that violence to make a crude joke:

The Big Finish

This last cartoon ran during the height of the Senate leadership crisis. It is so full of douchebaggery and misogynistic imagery that it practically makes up its own genre: douchedy, maybe, or WTF-tire.

For those uninitiated into New York State politics: in addition to Senator Douche, you can see former New York Governor Eliot Spitzer (presumably with a prostitute) at upper center, and in a nice homophobic touch former Senate Majority Leader Malcolm Smith dressed in the little Lord Faunteleroy outfit. The horse's ass at lower right is Assembly leader Shel Silver (and an assessment of his character I tend to agree with.)

Blog Note

2009-10-26T16:30:00.000-04:00

I know I've been away. Thank you for all your concern about my mental health: it is improving as my withdrawal stabilizes. Also, I'm currently on a transcontinental sojourn, which means that I have nice weather (I am typing this from a patio in California) and that can't but help my mood.

And that means more yummy vitriol, coming your way now!

Yet Another Below The Belt Post

2009-10-21T12:01:00.003-04:00

That time of the month again:

The first person I knew who told me they weren't transgendered was a crossdresser I'll call Gene. He (and he did later come to insist on male pronouns, and stopped calling himself Gina on the message board we met on), decided that he really was in it for the clothes, and didn't find himself aligned with the other crossdressers on the board, who all thought of themselves as transgendered.
It was a little jarring to me at first; I had naively assumed that crossdressing=transgendered, so having someone overturn that conviction was surprising. But as I reflected on it, I could see his point. And since that time, I've met other people like Gene, some crossdressers, some genderqueer, and even some transsexuals who identify completely as their post-transition gender and have no desire to continue with any kind of transgender identity.
There exists, however, a group of trans women--at least, they seem to be exclusively trans women--who resist being placed under the transgender umbrella. Some refuse to even call themselves transsexuals, preferring the term Harry Benjamin Syndrome instead. They claim that transsexualism is a case of being "neurologically nteresexed" by which they mean that they have a "female brain," and therefore a medical, not a psychological condition.

Finish up over here.

Blog Note

2009-10-19T21:21:00.000-04:00

Bad serotonin day. Be back tomorrow.

Friday Duck Blogging

2009-10-16T16:00:00.003-04:00

Lake Tahoe--courtesy of the fabulous Lena D.

Allow me to introduce myself...

2009-10-16T15:47:00.003-04:00

Greetings, Ducks!

I seem to have taken an inadvertent week off from the blog there--sorry about that. Much of this is because my free time currently is being swallowed by some intense computer programming work; there's a lot to get done, and I'm trying to get it done and over with already, and I've had to teach myself a bunch of things I didn't know how to do before. (Today, I grabbed a static Google maps image and dumped onto my server! Yatta!)

The other truth, though, is that I've been struggling lately with my anti-depression meds. I went off of them over the summer--you may have noticed the intense, burning rage from that period--and went on a completely different med right before I left for Paris. It's an SSRI, a kind of AD that I have a real love-hate relationship with: on the one hand, they seem to work really well for me; on the other, I get all the side-effects. (I now think that my caffeine-withdrawal insomnia the first few days in Paris was heavily exacerbated by the new meds, which have been giving me insomnia of late.) And while the meds definitely kept me from crashing into the slough of despond, I wasn't exactly scaling the heights of ecstasy of late: in fact, my motivation has completely vanished. I haven't done aikido since that night I trained in Paris, I've only posted once in the last week here, and in general I lack any willpower to get things done. (Let's not even talk about my rapidly ballooning weight.)

So I'm going off them again, and maybe I'll find a new psychopharmacologist to get me on something new, or maybe I'll try to find another way to control my mood swings. But I can't keep on going the way I was, with a head lightly wrapped in what felt like fabric softener sheets. And I can't give up my writing, not after I finally began to reclaim it.

This, by the way, is pretty much par for the course with me--I've had a long battle against my depression ever since I finally began to seriously treat it almost a decade and a half ago (there's a fascinating story about how that all came about, which I will save for another day.) The first time I took AD meds, I thought I had locked my depression in a cell deep in my soul and it would never bother me again. The second time, I realized I was locked up in that same cell, but my depression was safely chained up and couldn't get me.

After the third time, I realized that my depression was chained up to me. And if I ever took my eyes off of, that fucker would kill me.

Don't worry, I have an excellent support system and I'm not in any danger right now. And I'm sure I'll get through this and cope--one of the reasons it took me so long to finally start working on my depression is that I'm so damn high-functioning. But it's frustrating to keep ping-ponging around like this.

Also, withdrawal sucks, even with my tapering off regime.

Today in Tales From the Douchoisie

2009-10-08T21:43:00.002-04:00

Hello, Ducks! Can you guess what Google Reader threw up in my lap today? Did you guess Tucker Max? I didn't, which I guess is what makes it sexy...or something; I'm not up on my fratire. But let's check in, courtesy of The Frisky...

Oh, what? The fratire thing?

The Frisky: Gawker deemed you a “ham-fisted frat s***.” The feminist bloggers hate you. You’ve been called a “professional sexist,” “anti-feminist,” and a “promoter of rape culture.” The New York Times labeled your prose “fratire.”

TM: Hold on now. The New York Times was not insulting me when they called my writing “fratire.” In fact, they said I invented a new literary genre, one that defines a whole new generation of writers and readers. How is that an insult?

Yes, the brave new world of Two and a Half Men, Maxim, and Ketel One ads:

I think that this isn't exactly a new genre...unless you think that the needs, feelings, and emotions of young white dudes has been an underserved artistic destination for these last, um, 2,000 years.

Sigh. On y va...

The Frisky: Are you a “misogynist”?

TM: Complete bulls**t. A misogynist is someone who hates women. I love women. Everything I do is to impress women. Without women, I wouldn’t get out of bed in the morning. Plus, half my fans are women. The people who call me misogynist are the ones who haven’t read or engaged my writing, and are just looking for a bogeyman to attack.
The Frisky: In your stories, women throw themselves at you. How many women have you slept with, and what advice do you give men on women?

TM: I have no idea how many women I’ve slept with. Probably more than 300, probably less than 600? I don’t keep count, because that would be super creepy.

Some women absolutely do throw themselves at me. I think part of it is that there are always some women that are into rich, famous, and powerful men. Then there is the artist aspect. Half my fans are women, and they are fans because they love my writing. There is the masculine thing; I am one of the few people in media who is unapologetically masculine, and that’s very attractive to some women.

You know? He's not a misogynist. Just a narcissist living in his own, private world where women flock to him to give him blowjobs, sexy girls (the only real girls: see Amanda Hess' brilliant "Anatomy of a Tucker Max Joke") never think he's being insulting to him, and "I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell" is...

...an awesome and groundbreaking movie, and great art always finds its way.

Box Office total, after two weeks: $960,425.

But wait! Ol' Tuck has an excuse for that!

It may not hit at the theater, but it will hit on DVD, and hit big.

Yeah, you and Joe Francis, amigo. Funny the company you keep.

You Win Some, But You Lose Many, Many Others...

2009-10-07T15:55:00.004-04:00

Double header of media mayhem!

First, the good news:

Roman Polanski lost the first round yesterday in his battle to avoid extradition to the US for having sex with a 13-year-old girl in 1977.

Already locked in a Zurich cell for the last dozen days, Polanski learned that he will remain incarcerated for an extended period after the Swiss Justice Ministry rejected his plea to be released from custody.

Swiss authorities said they feared he might leave the country if released. The director of film classics such as Rosemary's Baby and Chinatown has been wanted by US authorities since fleeing sentencing 31 years ago.

"We continue to be of the opinion that there is a high risk of flight," said the ministry spokesman Folco Galli.

He said the threat was too great for the government to accept bail or other security measures in exchange for the release.

Oh, and by the way? If you had any doubt remaining that this guy wasn't a megadouche? Or that he had somehow made some recompense? Feast your eyes on this:

Roman Polanskiwas to pay at least $500,000 to Samantha Geimer, the victim in his 1977 child-sex case, under a settlement in a civil suit Ms. Geimer later filed against him, The Los Angeles Times reported over the weekend. Mr. Polanski, right, agreed to the settlement in 1993, but as of 1996 had not made the payment, according to court records provided to the news media in response to requests for access to the old case. It remained unclear whether the settlement was ever paid, though Ms. Geimer was still trying to collect as of 1996, by which time accrued interest had pushed the amount to more than $600,000, according to the court records.

Sheesh.

But don't worry, the news can always get worse...especially when it's the NY Daily News:

A shocked judge demanded prosecutors explain why they asked him to allow a prominent Manhattan therapist to return to the home where she's accused of
slashing her husband Tuesday.
"I'm going to send her home to a 79-year-old husband when it's alleged she stabbed him with knives?" Manhattan Criminal Court Judge Anthony Ferrara asked prosecutors.
"You're assuring me he's going to be safe, that this piece of paper is going to protect him from knives?" he said, after granting a "limited" order of protection allowing Joyce Poster-Lederman, 64, to return home.

Funny how people never seem to worry that it's "just a piece of paper" when it's a woman who's being covered by it. Don't believe me? Check out this site about orders of protection in New York:

You have been arrested because you got into a fight with your girlfriend or wife. Maybe there is a reasonable explanation or your girlfriend does not want to "press charges." Unfortunately, at this stage it doesn't matter. You are now before a judge and whether or not you are released, you must completely stay away from the complainant.
[...]
A "full" order of protection or "restraining order" is a an order by the court preventing you from having any contact at all with the complainant or alleged victim of a crime. This could mean that if you live together you may not enter the home. Alternatively, the police will arrange a time for you to enter and get some of your things. You will not be able to call the complainant or talk to the complainant even if she calls you. The burden placed upon you is quite severe.

Yeah. Imagine, not being able to see the woman--please note, it was assumed to be a woman who was the victim--because you beat her up! Oh, the humanity!

Which is kind what the order is trying to protect, ya know?

Below The Belt: The Umbrellas of Transburg

2009-10-07T08:03:00.001-04:00

My latest post for Below The Belt is now up:

I invariably use trans as short for transgendered, and transgendered in its so-called "umbrella sense": embracing anyone with a variance with the gender assigned to them because of their biological sex. (When referring to a transsexual's gender, however, I use trans as an adjective modifying that gender: trans man, trans woman. Although this is slightly confusing, I agree with Julia Serano and helen boyd that the space is vital in avoiding "othering" or invalidating a transsexual's gender--something that transwoman doesn't do, since it implies that transsexual women aren't women but something else entirely).

You can read the rest here.

The Times, They Are A-Draggin'

2009-10-05T20:23:00.004-04:00

Several years ago, back when I was still a crossdresser myself (and working as a man), I came across a picture on an old hard drive of my boss. Wearing tight leather pants, a low-cut blouse, and makeup. And written in a pink script on the picture was a feminine name that shared his first initial.

I was caught somewhere between completely weirded out and strangely relieved to know I wasn't the only trans person in the office.

Which leads me to events in East Cleveland, Ohio, where mayor Eric Brewer was recently defeated in a primary election. Unremarkable, right?

Well...except for the fact that like me and my boss, somebody found pictures that seem to look like the ex-mayor on his computer hard drive. Wearing lingerie.

I'm not going to reprint the photos here--you can find them easy enough, ducks--except to say that they do look like the mayor, and that they "vibe" crossdresser for me. (When you've been around as long as I have, you've seen this sort of thing before.)

And speaking of seeing this thing before, it reminds me of another crossdressing pol who was outed before an election: Sam Walls, a conservative Republican in Texas who lost a runoff election for the state House in 2004. Now, in Walls' case, you just have to wonder how he didn't think this would happen: not only (as the pics showed) had he been out and about while crossdressed, but for Pete's sake he seems to have been the treasurer of the local chapter of Tri-Ess, the national crossdressers' organization.

Cases like Walls' and Brewer's show some of the disturbing inequities of life under the transgendered umbrella. One may point out that people like Walls or Brewer retained substantial privilege and did not face everyday transphobia--something that MtF transsexuals often have to deal with every day. But. Even in Oklahoma, a trans woman can run for office and be open about her history, whereas neither of the crossdressing politicians felt comfortable doing that.

And that shows the relatively large gap in both visibility and acceptance between transsexuals and crossdressers. Television shows, news reports, books--all concentrate on transsexuals, not on crossdressers; and the leadership of many trans organizations is dominated by transsexuals. Now, again, some of this is because there is a greater incentive for transsexuals, especially trans women, to push for their rights. There is too what helen boyd once called the "fear of queer": crossdressers can look "normal" in their everyday presentation and can fear (or feel no need) to lose that part of their gender identity in service to activism.

But that obscures--just as crossdressers themselves are obscured; no one is really sure how many there are, since so many are relatively closeted--the very real pain and angst of being a crossdresser, of not having the comforting narrative of transition--a story that seems, at least, to have a beginning, middle and end. If people now seem to understand, if not accept all the time, the transsexual narrative--"you're a woman on the inside" or "born wrong" or whatever the current popular meme is--but how do you explain that you only need to be a woman part of the time? That you only seek temporary solutions? That you live in the shadow of, as helen has also said, the other shoe never dropping?

A crossdresser I used to know wrote about this once*:

[...]my transness will always be subordinate to other people's experience of either womanhood or transhood. Women can look down at me because I'm a "part-time" woman, who dresses in costume and "doesn't know what a real woman's life is like"; transwomen can throw the same criticism at me, with the added vector that my transness can't be serious because it doesn't manifest itself constantly or as urgently as it does for a transsexual.

But it isn't true; I'm trans all the time, and there are a lot of times that I feel trapped in an endless cycle of oscillation between femininity and masculinity with no way to end the cycle.

Sure, compared to transitioning, my problems are the difference between jumping off of a cliff and riding the kiddie roller coaster. But who the hell wants to ride on the kiddie coaster for the rest of their lives?

But let's not stay all doom and gloom...courtesy of Joe My God, here's Donna Sachet performing the national anthem before a Giants game in San Francisco--the first drag performer to ever do so! Rock on, Ms. Sachet!

*She later transitioned, so take it with a grain of salt. Still, it's a good sentiment.

Reruns

2009-10-02T10:59:00.002-04:00

One of those days, yesterday, though not as bad as the following will make it seem--just didn't feel much like doing anything, so sorry no post.

Thought I'd rerun this bit...from a long time ago, before The Second Awakening, both the blog and my own personal sense of it. More original stuff later on, I promise.

Ma Saison en Enfer

1. Un nuit en enfer/A night in Hell

The night your wife finally moves out of the apartment, at your request, turns out to be surprisingly shitty. You knew this day would come, probably suddenly, and you've wanted it, but now that it's here you find yourself gripped with a slow-spreading, vastly deepening sense of loss.

You try to keep busy. You've already left work early, giving up billable hours just when you need them the most, to run home to make sure that the things you really want to keep have been clearly separated. As it turns out, you have a surprising number of purses, more than you thought.

You go to your therapy session and remain calm, and then head out to go to a gig at CBGB's gallery with your best friend, who has been your rock through the whole thing. The singer starts launching old songs--"You belong to me" is the one that hits you the worst--and you end up in the bathroom trying to cry. As it turns out, you can sob but there are no tears, not now, not even at the end, not even for you.

2. Mavais Sang/Bad Blood

Maybe it was your fault all along; maybe it was how you were made, all the issues you never confronted. Maybe it was too much in your nature to compromise, to sacrifice. Maybe you thought that somehow, bizarrely, that made you more of who you thought you were, even as the compromises took you further and further away from that idealized, non-existant person.

Maybe it was that never in your life have you felt the need to ravish. Maybe it was that you lay fallow waiting for ravishment.

Maybe that was some taint of the genes. Of the blood, the blood of your father and your funny uncle.

But there came a day when your wife began to take potshots at you for not noticing her, and then your bad blood roared through your tortured veins, poisoning your vision, painting the landscape with loss.

3. Nuit de l'enfer/Hellish Night

There comes a night, as it must, when your wife and alcohol and your medication mix together to perfect a cocktail of hell.

A night when your wife will yell at you, when you will feel everything slipping away from you as she tells you how you are not a man, or not the man she needs, and those words will cut you apart and pare away your illusions of your own happiness.

And the ground of your hell is fertile, and her words take root and bear fruit.

In this night, she will tell you that after the next morning she is no longer sure if you will be together.

Dawn will come without sleep and you will waken to the realization that your marriage is over. You will feel nothing at first. Nothing is left to feel.

Nothing will matter.

4. Délieres/Delerium I

You waken to a wedding, and it saves you. On the dance floor she will beg forgiveness and claim forgetfulness, and you will hold her and feel relieved. You will resolve not to throw away your second chance, because you have stared into the abyss and it nearly ate you.

You will resolve all these things, though you don't mean them. It is not in either of your natures to change course now.

5. Délieres/Delerium II

And for a while you both belive in the lie, because the lie has worked for so long. She will forget that you are not what you seem, not what anybody, even her, wants. And you will forget that she is a flesh and blood woman, not one of your fantasies that you try and shoehorn yourself into, to take the shape of your airy dreams. You will forget her impatience and her impulsiveness and your own propensity for inertia. You will forget all these things in the delerium of the most seductive drug, nostalgia.

You will forget all these things. But you will suspect.

6. L'impossible/The Impossible

She will tell you that she cannot deal with seeing you dressed as a woman anymore, and suggest that she spend the night with her girlfriends outside the city. You will be touched by her sacrifice and seduced by the thought of transgressing, for a while, the narrow boundaries of custom and biology. So you agree, though you grudge it, and hope for a day where the separation won't be necessary.

And yet, and yet, like a canker the suspicion grows that there is more here than you suspect, more being said than you have heard. And yet, and yet, you think that what you suspect, the hair of shadow that now hovers like a flaw in your sight, cannot, must not be true.

Your plans are both disrupted for your birthday. You come home to change, still made up, in your new jeans and pedicured toes, and you sense her anger and hurt. You think it is just that she is home, alone, and confronted even briefly by your own perverted self, and you are sad, you grieve inside yourself for the you that never was and never could be.

You grieve, not knowing yet what you grieve for, not knowing that grief is going to be your lot.

7. L'Eclair/Lightning

When you finally learn the truth, discover the betrayal, it leaves you physically ill. You stumble out of the house on an excuse, and wander downtown. You sit in anger with your best friend and she has nothing to say, nothing to give but an embrace.

Later will come the confrontation, the flash of brilliance that has lit up the dark corners of your marriage, of your soul, and you know as the bolt cleaves the sky so your life has been cloven in two, and you have been put asunder.

And in that flash you see the empty plain of new possibilities, even as your future dies upon the vine and with it all that you were, all that you were trying to be for five years, all that you thought was worth having and sacrificing for. The sacrifice is returned, you look at it as a feast, but your hunger makes you sick and you don't know how to begin, or even if you should.

8. Matin/Morning

You stay up late, far into the morning most days. Sleep is something you find only in the pills you bought at the drugstore. Even strong drink, which you avoid, does not bring it.

You find that you shared so many things. You replace a manicure set and several purses. You agree to give up the chairs in the living room, and her sister's bed that you slept on for two years. You keep the cats but lose the rug and the toothbrush. You lose a bookcase but gain several shelves on your new built-ins, the ones she insisted on.

You find your arms aching for her at night even as your heart shrieks its anger and drowns in its own blood.

The morning after she leaves, this very morning, you come home to the apartment, the empty spaces like fading ghosts. You want to collapse and sleep, but the bed is gone and you are too tired to inflate the air mattress. You take a shower and go to work. You want to cry as you walk to the subway, but you can't, because you are a man and there is no place to go and hide while you weep.

And you know that you will pass almost directly from this morning to another long, empty morning, despite not sleeping since the day before.

9. Adieu/Goodbye

And though she is gone, it cannot, will not be goodbye, though sometimes you scream in your soul to just be left alone, to lick your wounds alone in silence.

You know there will come a day when you can see her again without seeing him in your mind as well. You know there will come a day when you forgive each other for what you did, what you did not do, and all the myriad days that should have come but now will never arrive.

And you know this won't be the end of everything. You know it is the beginning for both of you, and the dammed stream of frustrated posibilities is already pushing you strongly from behind.

But you still want to weep, even though you cannot. You still want your tears, so you can say farewell to them. You still want her with you, and you can never say goodbye to that.

After Arthur Rimbaud
Translations of titles by Bertrand Mathieu

February 23, 2006

L'Affaire Polansky: autres voix

2009-09-29T21:56:00.005-04:00

The perception here is that the Polanski arrest has generated outrage in France--that the opinion of Frédéric Mitterand, the Culture Minister, reflects that of the entire country:

Both French Culture Minister Frederic Mitterrand and Foreign Minister Bernard Kouchner stressed Polanski's artistic gifts in their defense of him, though in theory all men — regardless of talent — are equal before the law.
Kouchner called the arrest "sinister," adding: "A man of such talent, recognized in the entire world, recognized especially in the country that arrested him — all this just isn't nice."
To many here, the slap of American justice seemed particularly sharp as the arrest came as Polanski was entering Switzerland to receive a lifetime achievement award from the Zurich Film Festival.
Mitterrand said, "To see him like that, thrown to the lions because of ancient history, really doesn't make any sense."
Mitterrand continued with a jab against the United States: "In the same way that there is a generous America that we like, there is also a scary America that has just shown its face."

As my Francophilia knows no bounds, I thought I'd investigate: so today I spent some time reading Le Monde, the Parisian paper of record for the Francophone world. I am happy to report that French "outrage" is exaggerated, at least based on the comments I read on this story (warning: if you can read French, it is quite douchey.) Quite the opposite: most of the commentors railed about how there seems to be two laws, one for famous people and one for everyone else, about how Polanski is an admitted rapist and should be punished, and basically how the "but he made cool movies" film is an utter failure. (One poster had an arresting image of an "evil cocktail" that the article's author had mixed up, and ironically said she was glad she only had sons, so that no daughter of hers would have to drink it. I thought I was at a French Shakesville.)

And then there's this article, whose title is pretty obvious even if you don't have much French: "La Loi est la même pour les artistes et les citroyens." It's an interview with Maitre Eolas, author of a French legal blog, and he calmly shoots down most of the arguments against the arrest of Polanski. I like the last paragraph the best, where he answers the "objections" of the artists that it wasn't fair to surprise him with an arrest when he came to collect an award in Switzerland:

C'est un peu le principe d'une arrestation que d'être effectuée par surprise, sinon, elle échoue... D'autres estiment qu'il ne pouvait pas s'en douter puisqu'il se rendait régulièrement en Suisse, dans sa maison à Gstaad. Cela n'a rien à voir car cette fois il venait recevoir un prix dans un festival, sa venue était annoncée dans tous les journaux. Et apparemment, la police lit le journal.

A quick and dirty translation (anyone who speaks French better than I do, please feel free to jump in with corrections!):
It is a principle that an arrest should be effected with surprise, otherwise it fails...they consider that he couldn't have suspected it since he came regularly to Switzerland, to his house in Gstaad. But that this time he came to receive a prize at a festival has nothing to do with it; the venue was announced in all the newspapers, and apparently, the police read the news.

Waker Attie provides a better translation below--thanks!

It is somewhat the essence of an arrest that it comes as a surprise, otherwise it fails... Others think that he couldn't have suspected it since he came regularly to Switzerland, to his house in Gstaad. But that is totally different: this time he came to accept an award at a festival, and his attendance was announced in all the newspapers. And apparently, the police read the news.

Cahiers Parisiens: les derniers jours

2009-09-29T21:26:00.002-04:00

My last three days in Paris, I went to museums twice; since on Tuesdays most of the museums are closed, I stayed in and worked that day. (Pity, it was another beautiful day--but at least I went out and had some Senegalese food that night. Chicken Yassa is incredibly yummy!)

That Monday I went to the Louvre. Because, as I said last time, you just have to. Since I've been sharing my favorite paintings with you, I guess I should include my favorite painting in the Louvre not named La Gioconde (or the Mona Lisa, if you're feeling vulgar, heh.) It's by Caravaggio--I just love the voluptuousness of his canvases:

It's an astonishing work, although I understand why the monks who commissioned it ended up rejecting the painting--there's absolutely nothing transcendent about it at all, except for the all-too-human transcendence of grief. No halos (well, just a tiny one), no angels, no heavenly light, just a corpse and mourners. Amazing.

Then Wednesday, my last day in Paris...I wrote a post that you may remember, then headed out to the newest museum in the city, the Musée du Quai Branly. This is an ethnography museum. (We call it history if you can beat us in a war, and ethnography when you can't.) And it's a stunning place: beautifully designed, with a wonderful garden surrounding a modern building with a pleasantly chunky, open interior. Of course, given that it's an ethnography museum, everything is done up in shades of brown and ocher, with plenty of shadows and dim lighting; c'est normal.

I don't want to run the place down too much, because it really has an amazing collection. But there were amusing moments. If you follow the suggested path, you start in Oceania, and right at the start they have a lot of items having to do with the initiation into the various men's societies that are a rite of adolescence in New Guinea. And I was reading one of the placards about these rites, which mentioned in passing: "women's societies are known to exist, but very little is known about them." Which surprised me--not. Because I'm sure the male anthropologists were a) not able to gain access to the rites and b) really didn't care too much, either.

I get bitey sometimes.

The one part of the museum that truly stunned me, though, was a temporary exhibit on Tarzan. Being of an occasionally pulpy mindset, I thought that might be an interesting thing to see: especially because there's certainly a lot to be looked at in the Tarzan mythos, and how it relates to Western perceptions of Africa, and African perceptions of those perceptions. And while there does indeed remain a lot to be said, this exhibit sure the fuck wasn't going to say it.

Oh no, ducks. Instead, it started out comparing Tarzan to the heroes of ancient Greek and Roman myths, and actually went downhill from there. There were plenty of blown up pages from Tarzan comics (continuous salient feature: Africa had a lot of people in it, but almost none of them were black--there were lost Romans, lost Egyptians--drawn as Caucasians, natch--lost explorers, lost elephants, but damn few not-lost-at-all-because-we-live-here Africans.) There were video exhibits of King Kong (uncommented upon: the, uh, racism?) and in general an astonishing avoidance of the fact that the Tarzan myth is about a white English lord who rules over a kingdom of black apes. No metaphors for colonialization there, no sir, just keep on walking!

And of course this is--surprising? Maybe not really?--for a country that once claimed a significant portion of sub-Saharan Africa as its territory. And has remained uncomfortable with that legacy ever since.

That chewed up most of the day. For dinner, I went to a bistro called Boullion Chartier in the 9th. It was recommended by my exchange mate as a very traditional French bistro--so traditional that they actually keep track of your check by writing it on the tablecloth. Since I was alone, they seated me with somebody--the place was empty, but it fills up quickly. He turned out to be a montréalais who spoke excellent English, so I had one last anglophone conversation in Paris over my steak au poivre and profiteroles. Then I went home and watched the last episode of Heroes, Season 1: my exchange mate had a copy, which I was able to switch over to English, except for the subtitles for the Japanese characters; those I had to read, quickly, in French (and French as it's spoken, at that: but now I know that Je l'ai reussi! means "I did it!" in French.)

So that was my Paris sojourn, my attempt to find out what it would be like to live in the City of Light. And I think I succeeded; it was a good fit, though I recognize to really live there I'd have to truly immerse myself in the language and not spend so much time in self-created anglophone spaces. And of course I found privilege there, expected and unexpected, much that was the same as home, and a few that were quite different.

But you knew that already; heck, it's really not even fair: I always find privilege.

Rapist, International Fugitive Arrested: Media Aghast

2009-09-28T20:52:00.004-04:00

I will preface this by saying I like Roman Polanski's movies, at least the ones I've seen--Rosemary's Baby, Frantic, The Pianist, and especially Chinatown; I saw a restored print of it ten years ago that was almost a religious experience.

His sudden arrest in Switzerland over the weekend has stunned the world's artistic community. A true cinematic artist, one who's long-suffered and even been forgiven by his victim, opinion seems to be that...the man is a rapist and why the fuck are we having this conversation?

Yeah. Rapist. He didn't "have sex" with a 13-year old girl. He raped her. Well, first he got her drunk and high on quaaludes. Then he raped her.

Don't believe me? Check out the Smoking Gun's transcript of her testimony. I looked at it for the first time on Sunday. It made me ill.

Predictably, the comments at the New York Times website were full of fail. A lot of people seem to feel that he's "suffered enough." They base this, I guess, because he hasn't been allowed to re-enter the United States since he fled in 1977. Instead, he's had to content himself with making lots of money directing movies in Europe and living in France.

Ya know, I just got back from France. That's really not a hardship assignment.

The latest bit of doucheoisie posturing is this:

Nearly 100 entertainment industry professionals, including the movie directors Pedro Almodovar, Wong Kar Wai and Wim Wenders urged in a petition that Mr. Polanski be release, saying: “Filmmakers in France, in Europe, in the United States and around the world are dismayed by this decision.”
Ronald Harwood, who won an Oscar as screenwriter of “The Pianist,” which Mr. Polanski directed, said: “It’s really disgraceful. Both the Americans and the Swiss have miscalculated.”
Jack Lang, a former French culture minister, said that for Europeans the development showed that the American system of justice had run amok.
“Sometimes, the American justice system shows an excess of formalism,” Mr. Lang said, “like an infernal machine that advances inexorably and blindly.”

One wonders, however, if Wong Kar Wei, Wim Wenders, or Pedro Almodovar would feel comfortable leaving a prepubescent female relative unattended around Roman Polanski. Or if they'd be arguing about the "great artist" exemption for a shocking act of rape if it were their 13-year old daughter.

Liss McEwan, as usual, hits it right on the head:

Very few, if any, of the people who have publicly defended Polanski, or who have worked with him, make it their business to champion or associate themselves with admitted child rapists. They make an exception for Polanski for the same reason exceptions have been for other famous, artistic men – directors, writers, actors, comedians, singers, musicians, dancers, choreographers, painters, sculptors, photographers – who have been known to sexually assault women and/or children: Because geniuses get special dispensation.
Because there's only one Roman Polanski.
So goes the breathless defense of the artiste, while the flipside of that particular coin, because thirteen-year-old girls are a dime a dozen, goes unspoken.

So yeah. Overaggressive prosecution! Of a child molester! Who admitted to it! That's overzealousness, all right! Just remember, as long as you can paint a nice picture or make a good movie, you get to rape young girls!

But not boys. That would be sick.

Cahiers Parisiens: Tout le monde parle à moi

2009-09-27T18:05:00.004-04:00

Bon jour, mes canards! Paris may be a fading memory, but I will try and catch you up on the last few days of the Cahiers Parisiens.

Maybe it didn't come through, but I didn't talk much with people while I was in Paris. This is not that unusual. I work either from home or at a desk marooned at the other end of the floor from everyone else; I don't often go out to bars either home or in Europe; and in general, I am a misanthropic sour puss. This helps out in the writing game, but isn't so much use in other places.

But...well, the last few days in Paris I actually had some interactions with people.

The first couple happened on Sunday last. I went up to the Canal St. Martin, which is a hip spot to hang out nowadays. The canal is indeed quite lovely, and they close off motor traffic along it on the weekends. I stopped at a little cafe (amusingly, when I asked for the menu, the waitress brought an enormous blackboard with the specials written on it out to my table.) While I roasted in the sun I wrote the first draft of my long screed below. (I had what amounted to a mess of egg over good country ham with some sort of vinegar sauce--it was fabulous.)

After brunch I walked over towards Buttes Chaumont park, one of the gems of non-tourist Paris, a magnificent landscape of hills, crags, and a lovely lake. Here's a picture of the grotto in the center of the park:However, on the way over to the park, I had my first experience with...Latin lovers.

I was crossing the street when a young Tunisian guy (as he told me) came up to me to tell me how pretty I was. Which was nice of him, but I kept walking. He followed me, and we struck up a bit of a conversation in French. Admittedly, I was a bit lonely, which let me fall into the trap of talking with this guy, something I wouldn't have done in English. And of course, he got a bit grabby as the conversation progressed. I did finally manage to extricate myself (after a bunch of "arretes" and "ma relationship est grave!") but it left me slightly shaken. And of course this all flows into my background as a trans woman: should I be worried because I don't have the experience that would have helped me learn the skills to deflect guys like this, or relieved because I haven't spent my whole life deflecting guys like this?

Later that day, as I was walking home (baguette in hand, of course), another guy came up to me and began to talk rapidly in French to me. I couldn't really follow him, but it wasn't hard to figure out what he was after. I let him down firmly but gently: "S'il vous plait lassez-moi suele." (Please leave me alone.)

And oh! On Monday, I went to pay my respects at the Louvre (you have to see the Mona Lisa while you're in Paris...you just do.) And as I was walking to the Metro, another guy wanted to "make my acquaintance." This time I just said I didn't speak French.

But the best story has to be when I was walking home from the Louvre on Monday. I passed a store I had previously seen, and just had to snap a pic, because...well, because the sign is a rather weak joke:

The name of the store is Les Bonnes Compines which in French means something approximately like "The Good Girlfriends." Fair enough...but it's written with out the space between Les and Bonnes, making it look a bit like...something else in English.

As I said, a weak joke. I'm not proud

Like most of the stores in that region of Paris, it's a wholesaler--I had basically landed in the Parisian garment district, with "Ne vente pas au detail" (wholesale only) in almost every window. And for some reason, when I took the pic, a woman in a telephone booth (yes, they still have them there) started to scream at me.

I couldn't follow everything she said, but it was mostly about how I shouldn't take a pic. I tried to explain, but only got as far as Parce que...("because...") before she started to scream again. She even spit on the ground. Eventually I just walked away...I guess she thought I was some sort of corporate spy or something.

Shows what you get for acting like a tourist; I should know better.

If it's Wednesday, it's Below The Belt!

2009-09-23T05:19:00.003-04:00

My latest post at Below the Belt is up:

It must be something in the air: we seem to be having another round of the Great Cisgender Debate. For those of you unfamiliar with it, the question is whether or not it is appropriate to refer to people who are not trans with the term cis, short for cisgender, as trans is short for transgender.

You can read it here. And while you're at it, there's my companion piece down below, this post on cis and this post on the linguistics of cis at Billerico, and genderbitch's take on helen's post as well. When you're done, you'll be as exhausted about the subject as I am!

I'm off to the museums! Enjoy!

Nonsense is as Nonsense Does

2009-09-23T04:22:00.005-04:00

As a companion to my new post on Below the Belt about use of the term "cis," I thought I'd amplify my issues with helen boyd's recent post on (en)Gender ("Jeez Louise this cisgendered nonsese": nothing dismissive there, nope!) about her objections to the term, as I found the post highly problematic for a number of reasons.

First, she claims that "cis" is unclear, because you can't tell if it means cisgendered or cissexual:

[...]I’m going to claim a difference between cisgender & cissexual. Cisgender, the problem seems to me, is not the easy opposite of transgender. Cisgender implies, or means, or could mean (depending on who you talk to), that someone’s sex and gender are concordant. So your average butch woman, who is not trans, or is, depending on how she feels about it (see Bear Bergman), is now somehow cisgender. So is someone like me. So is a femme-y gay man who maybe performs a more gender normative masculinity for his job. That is, those of us who have variable genders, who maybe are gender fluid or gender neutral but who don’t identify as trans, are now somehow cisgender.

I have a number of issues with this. For one thing, she does not make the same objection about "trans": that is, when we use trans, there's no clear indication as to what kind of trans person you are talking about: crossdresser, drag queen (yes, some are trans), transsexual, etc. So it demands something more from the term cis than is demanded from trans, which in of itself is an act of privilege.

But I also don't think that the division between cissexual and cisgender is clear, or even as important as helen (and Julia Serano) make it out to be. Yes, I know, it seems so logical: we make a division between sex and gender, so we should make a similar axis for trans and cis.

On closer inspection, however, it simply does not hold up. There are trans people, for example, who live fulltime in a gender other than the one they were assigned at birth, with legal recognition of that gender, who have never had either hormones or surgery. Yet I feel more than comfortable calling them transsexual. And this just points out another issue: it puts so much focus on a transsexual's body, and not his or her gender--and that plays far too easily into the very ways that anti-trans people attempt to invalidate trans people's genders. Finally, I've met many trans people of all stripes, and all have had some sort of body issue that the cis people I know simply don't have--the motivations are completely different. Both a straight man and a heterosexual crossdresser might pluck their eyebrows: but only the crossdresser does it to look more like a woman. So even if we were to accept that cissexual is a valid distinction, it is experienced quite differently by cis- and transgendered people.

The key point for me is that you have to be transgendered to be transsexual. That is, transsexuality is a phenomenon within the larger trans condition. It is a variety of trans experience, not an essential axis of being. Therefore, I think it is safe to say that in the absence of other qualifiers, "cis" means cisgendered and "trans" means transgendered.

So, taking helen's two examples, can we call them "cisgendered"? I think we can, because both a butch lesbian and an effeminate gay man don't ever identify as a gender other than they were assigned. That is, a butch calls herself a woman, a queeny gay man calls himself a man. And when they stop--we call them something else.

Telling me, & other partners whose lives are profoundly impacted by the legal rights / cultural perceptions of trans people, that we are “not trans” implies that we are also not part of the trans community. I’ve been saying for years now that we are. When trans people are killed, harassed, not hired, fired due to discrimination, denied health care, etc. etc. etc., their loved ones suffer along with them. Their families, their lovers, their kids especially. We are not just “allies.” We are vested, dammit, & a part of the trans community, so when “cisgender” comes to mean, or is used to mean, “not part of the trans community,” we are once again left out in the dark.

And...wow. This is an extraordinary statement and I am struggling to understand why it was said.

First, I'd have a lot easier time figuring it out had helen not ended her post with this:

I have lots of genders, but I’m not trans.

So...this is only a problem if trans people say it?

Second, replace "trans" with "in a wheelchair" in that paragraph and you can see how this starts to get queasy for me.

What do we mean by "community"? When we say "gay community" or "deaf community," do we mean allies and families of gay or deaf people, or only those who are gay or deaf? I think the usage is often contextual, but most commonly we mean only those members who have the trait being discussed. And with good reason, because while an ally may simply stop being an ally--friendships can end, married people can be divorced, a person's political alignment may change--for the person with the trait it is extraordinarily difficult, if not impossible, to remove that trait. I don't think it is uncalled for to make the primary meaning of community those people who have the greatest self-interest in it.

This leads us to another of helen's points:

Likewise, cisgender seems to get used a lot in place of “ignorant or unsympathetic to trans issues” which is also bullshit. Being cisgender or experiencing cissexual privilege – say by having a doctor assume correctly that I have a uterus – is not the same thing as being ignorant or unsympathetic to trans issues.

The exclusion and silencing of allies is a problem for all progressive movements, not just trans movements: witness the problematic relationships between men and feminists, for example. Some people certainly make attempts to cold-shoulder cis people from trans discussions, and often this is hurtful and unnecessary. At the same time, however, we should recognize that a movement needs both safe spaces and leaders from within its primary constituency: I call this the "no male president of NOW" theory. And just as straight or white people can condescend, obstruct, or even derail gay or black rights movements, cis people can do the same in trans movements, and trans people are well within their rights to talk about it and safeguard the goals of their movements.

This doesn't mean, however, that use of the term cis means open season on trashing allies. Trashing is a serious problem for any movement; bell hooks talks at length about this in Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center. Trans people have a responsibility to make sure that they use the term responsibly, and not just as a shorthand for "bigot." But cis people have a responsibility too--to listen to trans people, and not get so caught up on a point of terminology that they use silencing tactics wholesale to shut down discussion. Men didn't like the term "male privilege" but feminists insisted on it because it was a valuable concept that made visible a previously invisible prejudice; and while sometimes people used it in an irresponsible or even hateful way, the term has entered our discourse and is an important part of everyday discussions about gender.

i guess the point is that there are women, & gay men, who actually have legitimate & well thought out reasons for objecting to the term [...] so if all these explanations of why some people criticize the term or how it’s used, only convinces some trans people that anyone who is uncomfortable being called cis is (1) ignorant, (2) unhip, and (3) unwittingly transphobic, then i guess there’s been no point whatsoever in explaining that maybe people have their reasons, & that none of them have anything to do with being any of those things.
which i suppose means i should go ahead & go back to using “tranny” since i think it’s playful & sweet, & to hell with any trans people who don’t like being called that, because obviously they’re just (1) unhip, (2) ignorant, and (3) self hating.

This comment was addressed to me on the discussion boards at helen's site. But the thing is, and as I argued there, there really haven't been any good reasons to object: just people who feel that they're being called bigots, or saying that they don't identify as cis and thus the term shouldn't be used--on them, or really, on anyone.

But both arguments fail. First, it is not clear that every use of the term cis is conflated with "transphobic bigot"; plenty of feminist and progressive sites use the word every day in its primary meaning, "the opposite of trans." And yet I don't see posts by helen directed at Liss McEwan at Shakespeare's Sister, for example. It only seems to be problematic when trans people use the term. Now, the argument can be made that trans people use it the most more often in a problematic way. And I'll agree, but always with the caveat that trans people are also going to be the ones with the greatest understanding of cis privilege, and will call people out on it more frequently than others will. After all, who uses male privilege more often? Feminists or non-feminist guys? So yes, the most problematic uses of "male privilege" will be by feminists, but there will also be a much higher volume of overall use.

And it's not as if there isn't any oppression here or anything. That can make people upset.

The other argument is that cis is an identity. But it's not; as I said on Below the Belt, it's a descriptive term, like trans. That trans has more in common with an identity is purely a function of the oppression and disprivileging of trans people, just as it is with being black, or disabled. We use terms like "identify as trans" because there is a step you have to take, an identification you have to make: you have to reject the dominant culture's discourse about who you are--perverted, subhuman, crippled, and instead find a positive strength in who you are. Trans isn't an identity: it is the act of being trans, of being unashamed for what you are, that is the act of identification.

I mean, we don't talk about whiteness or being able as identities: and neither is being cis.

So all we are left with, then, is a really elaborate tone argument. And a tone argument is never an acceptable objection--it's a silencing technique. (As is helen's idea that the word only be used in an "appropriate" context, like a classroom.) And make no mistake, that's what's happening here. By telling trans people that there can be no word for people who aren't trans, we are being told that we are so unique and so different that we are the pure exception of the human race; that every other oppressed group gets to have de-centering language (sighted, able, hearing, straight) but we don't. That it is impossible to talk about not being trans without mentioning being trans. (Quick: I can write an article about dating as a straight woman, put straight in the title or the first paragraph, and never mention lesbians anywhere; that is impossible to do with a term like "non-trans.") And what happens when there is no term for non-trans? Simple. All too often, when people are talking about being non-trans, they will simply not even mention it: they will remain comfortably normal.

I am neither alien nor monster. I am not permanently othered by the accident of being born. And I will not accept a permanent second-class existence in the world simply because a three-letter word pisses some people off.

Cahiers Parisiens: ce qui vous tenez, ça c'est ce que je prends

2009-09-21T11:44:00.005-04:00

I've finally escaped my Catcave the last several days, making my way out to a few museums I hadn't visited before. First was the Musée Carnavalet on Friday, down in the Marais. Carnavalet focuses on the history of Paris itself, and has dioramas, objects d'art, paintings, etc. from various time periods. They also had a special exhibition on the French Revolution, which engaged the military historiophile and the Francophile in me: the Revolution is one of my favorite time periods, and they had a wealth of stuff. Including some of the commemorative models of the Bastille that were actually carved from the stones of the Bastille itself.

Plus I discovered that I could read the Declaration of the Rights of Man in French. Score one for me.

I've been eating lunch rather than dinner the last several days, since lunch is cheaper, so I had my traditional, once a trip croque monsieur at a nearby cafe, washed down with some Haut-Médoc and a cup of strong French espresso. I've taken to drinking coffee in the French style after meals--espresso, with some sugar to cut the bitterness. It makes me feel all expatriate and such. Though I suppose I'd really need to drink some Pernods in a bar with a zinc counter top, and scribble furiously away in my notebooks about running the bulls at Pamplona and other homoerotic displays of masculinity.

Wait. That's not me. That was Hemmingway. Maybe I've been drinking too much wine.

Saturday I had a real treat...well, not an unproblematic treat. But you've probably come to expect that of me. I went to the Musée Guimet, over by the Trocadero. This is the main Asian art museum in Paris. I didn't go straight there, acutally: I had a large lunch nearby first, which included a desert of profiteroles--cream puffs stuffed with vanilla ice cream and drenched in chocolate sause--my favorite desert in the world, and something that it is almost impossible to get (at least, impossible to get done right) back in the states:

Anyway, the museum really has an excellent collection, from all parts of Asia. The India collection was quite good; and as someone that has been interested in Shiva since my days researching Indian mythology, I was happy to see this marvelous bronze of Shiva Nataraja, the Lord of the Dance:

They have an excellent Cambodian section. As I've been to Cambodia this year, it was quite pleasant at first to reacquaint myself with the amazing and monumental Khmer art--to see one of the gently smiling, inexplicable faces of the Bayon silently contemplating me again, to look at a marvelously preserved naga, to see a beautiful bas-relief apsara.

But something began to bother me. When I would read the labels to see where these things came from, I began to feel...uncomfortable. That's because I've actually been to those places; I've seen the elephant terrace, the royal palace, the Bayon of Angkor Thom. And given that Cambodia was a French colony for ninety years, I thought it was a pretty good bet that they didn't ask if they could take any of those things.

This isn't a new issue, of course: the Louvre has the best egyptology collection outside of Egypt, because of Napoleon's conquests there; the British plundered the Greek world to build their amazing collections; even within Europe itself museum collections are often the plunder of war.

Still, the enormous gap of wealth, privilege and power between the colonial nations of the nineteenth century and the countries they subjugated seems to lend an air of disquietude that doesn't linger over the internecine push and shove of Europe's long shabby history of warfare. Because they essentially stole these things from people who found it difficult or impossible to resist. Stole, and left no recompense, and often no regrets. Even the great humanist Andre Malraux got into the act, trying to steal artifacts and whole bas-reliefs from the newly-rediscovered and beautifully-preserved Banteay Srei in Cambodia.

Of course, it's nice that people in other places in the world can see these things, and it's good to have some of them safe in a museum--the Angkor artifacts suffered during the reign of the Khmer Rouge. But that still doesn't make up for the crime of taking them in the first place. I mean...they could have just asked.

In any case, maybe it's appropriate that this guy, donated by the women of the United States in the memory of Lafayette, should be right outside the museum:

(Yeah, that's good ol' George himself.)

Cahiers Parisiens: les Autres, les Etrangres, le Moi

2009-09-18T12:44:00.003-04:00

Last night I was having a somewhat dismal (in Paris, that means it was actually decent) meal over on République when I think I saw the mostly iconic image of 21st century Paris I've ever seen: a guy on a rented bicycle, smoking a cigarette as he rode down the boulevards.

Paris, of course, has an uncomfortable relationship with the modern world. It retains it's preeminent place in the world of fashion, is a major political and business center for Europe, and remains the center of gravity of the francophone world. And, of course, it is one of the most beautiful cities in Europe.

But so much of that comes from its curious sense of being frozen in time: the perfection of the nineteenth-century vision of Good City Life, the architecture frozen in place, the parks looking almost identitical to the images on the canvases of the Musée d'Orsay. It's static the way New York, my other favorite city in the world, never is: New York reinvents itself every day, in a furious pace of rebuilding, modifying, reconsidering, reconfiguring. Paris sedately glides by, asleep in the long belle rêve of Haussman.

Sometimes I think only Paris' status as the capital of a major country in Europe keeps it a living city. That, and the changing face of the French world.

I am staying in the Oberkampf district, on the northeastern edge of the city. I'm guessing it's going through a gentrification cycle; it's close to the Marais, the former Jewish ghetto that has become not only the heart of gay and lesbian Paris, but the home of most forward-looking fashion designers. It's an area of former factories being transformed into a residential district.

Out here, not quite in the periphery (let alone the banlieues, the suburbs that ring Paris), I still see more people of color than you do in central Paris, tourist Paris: Africans and Berbers from the old colonies, Indians, Vietnamese, Chinese, Arabs. It makes me homesick and feel at home at the same time, resembling my ethnically mixed neighborhood in the Great American Metropolis. (Also a rapidly gentrifying area with great restaurants.)

I won't rehearse for you the litany of troubles the changing population of France has brought on: the difficulties in assimilating different ethnicities into the French self-conception, the poverty and racism and rioting in the banlieues, the fact that the President of France once threatened retributary violence on those same rioters, before he was elected. France bans the veil at school, championing the cause of secularism and human rights, and we are left with profoundly mixed feelings about exactly what liberties are being abridged, and who has the right to do that. Etre Muslulman en France, screams the headline of one magazine I see advertised: being Muslim in France. What is it like, I, they, wonder, to be marooned in a culture that regards you cautiously, obliged to help you because of the mythic ideals of its own past, but not sure how to come to terms with being more than it was in the past: plural, multiple, different. How it is to be Other until that happens, if it ever does.

I could claim some parcel of this terrain, as both a woman and trans, but I really doubt it's the same: here, as in America, the swath my privilege as a white, able-bodied, educated person cuts through most hindrances.

Still: Tuesday night I went to an aikido class. The dojo has a very different style compared to my dojo back home: much harder, more concerned with proper form than movement. A good experience, but too much like my original aikido dojo for my taste.

I've talked about my French being better on this trip, but the truth is, it's still very weak, comparatively. I can read it passably well (today I was reading the "Declaration of the Rights of Man" in French and getting most of it), but anyone who speaks even moderately fast will have me in the dust. So, when the teacher would explain the technique, I would be...lost. I have almost no vocabulary for body parts: no word for wrist, barely able to recognize "leg" or "knee." I would get a word in every so often, and occasionally a general sense, but for the most part I'd be lost, and have to rely only on what I could see.

Which is the best way to learn, actually. But in those moments...I was the other. I was the one lost in a sea of incomprehension, struggling to use all my wits to figure things out, almost mute, ignorent. (There are times I grow so frustrated with how I speak, because my mind leaps so far out in front of what I actually know how to say: and I know I must sound stupid, with my mangled syntax and wonky accent.) And this is a valuable lesson to learn, to hold to myself the next time I get frustrated with someone else.

We never learn more about our privilege than when we are called on it. Or made to see the other side of it.

Cahiers Parisiens: À faire vôtre conaissance, je suis ravie

2009-09-16T16:29:00.003-04:00

Désolée, mes canards! Sorry, Ducks! Been an odd few days--an exhausting theory fight on a board I belong to, and general exhaustion! You see, it would seem that I did an apartment exchange with a French person who only drinks tea. That's right! No means of creating coffee in the apartment except a jar of instant coffee. Which I was actually desperate enough to use.

So I've been drinking tea. Now, I know that the UKians in my audience will think this odd, but tea doesn't wake me up, or at least not enough, not like coffee. And I think I've been going into serious caffeine withdrawal, which has completely messed up my sleep cycle. So today's big accomplishments--on the day I needed to do a solid day's work to get back on track--was walking down the Boulevard Voltaire to a kitchen appliances store where I got a tiny french press to make coffee with. And after I'd had a pot, and took a long nap, I finally am feeling human again.

So anyway. Do you like puns? do you like obscure French puns that only make sense in English! I do! I've named two blogs after that way, and the title of this post! Which I will explain below.

On Monday I went to the opening of Titian, Tintoretto, Veronese: Venetian Rivalries at the Louvre, thanks to a ticket my exchange mate scored for me. I'm not a huge fan of the Cinquecento, but there's obviously some insanely good stuff done by these painters, so I was happy to go--plus sailing into the special exhibition hall in the Louvre was pretty posh.

The show has some really good paintings, and they are really beautiful--though I agree a bit with Michelangelo's critique that the Venetian painters placed color over drawing skill. (It's okay; you can make the same criticism of my favorite painting in the world, which has some awkward bits--look at the way the arm kind of hangs out there in the foreground.) And as I walked through the exhibit, two thoughts came immediately to mind:

A) These guys painted real women! Take a look at the centerpiece of the exhibit, one of Titian's most famous paintings, Danaë:

It's astonishing to contrast Danaë with media images today--her breasts, hips, thighs, arms--and look, she even has a bit of stomach. And she's a gorgeous, idealized image of femininity; this is what women were supposed to look like.

In fact, she looks a lot like Lizzi Miller...the plus-size (size 14) model:

Although she's hardly idealized, at least by some people:

So what do you think? Does Lizzi Miller look fantastic or is this lowering standards for stick thinness industrywide?

(For a little more intelligent discussion, see this Below the Belt post.)

However, my appreciation for this fact was kinda mitigate by my next observation...

B) This exhibit is a little...rapey

OK, a lot rapey.

I mean, the signature painting of the exhibit--the afore-referenced Danaë--depicts, well, the rape of a woman by Zeus. Oh, and did I mention that she had been kidnapped by her father and locked up to prevent her from having a kid? I know the Greeks weren't really big on happy stories, but still.

In fact, and I guess sort of to it's credit, the exhibit has a whole couple of rooms about the ways nudes are depicted in the arts of these masters. But even that was a bit problematic: wall to wall naked women, offering themselves up to men, or the male gaze, or alone by themselves (letting you gaze voyeuristically at them.) And in one room, there were five separate treatments of the Rape of Lucretia. Which is a lot of rape to have in one room, even if the paintings themselves are exquisitely decorated.

So that takes me back to French puns.

One of the things you say in French when you are introduced to someone is Ravissante à faire vôtre conaissance. Now, ravissante means ravished; and in French, this is basically only used in the way we use the English word ravishing, that is, beautiful.

But it comes from the same roots and same sense as ravished in English: to take, to carry off...to rape.

So that's why I flipped it around in my post title, one translation of which might be: "to meet you, I am ravished."

I don't mean to say that in French you say that you're raped when you meet people. That's not what it means anymore. But it is an artifact of how rape, how the principles of rape--that a woman's body belongs not to her, but the men who look at her, who can take her--pervades every corner of our culture. You can see it art; you can hear it in language; you can feel it in the way men look at you, or in the long lists that people send you telling you how you can avoid being assaulted--because assault is an implacable force of nature, not the acts of people with the moral capacity to make decisions.

But hey, don't believe me. Just ask Tucker Max!

Les Cahiers Parisiens de C.L. Minou: un dimanche de feminisme

2009-09-14T09:42:00.002-04:00

So yesterday I managed to do a few feminist things while here in Paris--both homages, of a sort.

First, I visited Père-Lachaise, the largest cemetery in Paris and a convenient ten-minute walk from the apartment. I didn't stay long, just long enough to visit the tomb of Heloise and Abelard, the great medieval lovers and philosophers.

After that (and after a quick café au lait--my exchange mate doesn't drink coffee, it seems, and I'm in a caffeine deficiency from trying to make do with tea), I dropped by Violette and Co., a feminist/LGBT bookstore in the arrondissement. I picked up a new copy of Le Deuxième Sexe, volume I--I somehow managed to lose the copy I bought last year--and a book called Je suis pas feministe, mais... ("I'm not a feminist, but..."), mostly because I have a book in English with the same title. They're very different books--the French one is a collection of pointed cartoons, the English one a collection of feminist facts aimed at consciousness raising (i.e., if you believe/know all these things, you really are a feminist.) The cartoons are interesting to me beyond their humor (which I mostly get) because they reproduce spoken French, a very different thing from written French or even the French they teach you at school.

On that note (and of interest to nobody besides myself), I'm doing better with my French than ever--I even attempted to use the subjunctive while talking to the clerk at Violette's. (We also discussed, unbelievably enough, the fact that a) the only translation of The Second Sex into English was, as I said, absolument merde, and b) there's a new one coming, thank goodness.) In any case, it's a relief to me, as one of my quirks is that I actually like to speak French, even if I'm not very good at it.

Today, I'm off to the Louvre--my exchange mate got me a ticket to the premiere of a Titian/Tintoretto show. Tomorrow, I'm going to try aikido Paris-style.

Monday Media Watch: Oh NYT, You've Done It Again

2009-09-14T09:10:00.002-04:00

Oh, New York Times! You mixed-up kid! When you're not panting all over the latest Dan Brown novel (for shame, Janet Maslin, for shame) you're punting muddle-headed essays on gender on us.

Let's take a look-see...hm, they talk about Caster Semenya--hey, join the club! I used the controversy to talk about gender issues too, seeing as gender and appearances were a major part of my life. What's Peggy Orenstein got to say?

I had my own reasons to be fascinated by Semenya’s story: I related to it. Not directly — I mean, no one has ever called my biological sex into question. No one, that is, except for me. After my breast-cancer diagnosis at age 35, I was told I almost certainly had a genetic mutation that predisposed me to reproductive cancers. The way I could best reduce my risk would be to surgically remove both of my breasts and my ovaries. In other words, to amputate healthy body parts. But not just any parts: the ones associated in the most primal way with reproduction, sexuality, with my sense of myself as female.

I...see.

No, wait, I don't.

I mean the whole point of the Caster Semenya story is how people question your gender, right? Now, not to diminish Ms. Orenstein's pain here. I am well aware of how terrible cancer, breast cancer, and the surgeries proposed are, and how not having breasts or a womb or ovaries can make you question your femininity and your sense of yourself as female, as a woman. (I'm rather intimately acquainted with that, actually.)

But like they say over here, quoi?

So I began to fret: without breasts or hormone-producing ovaries, what would the difference be, say, between myself and a pre-op female-to-male transsexual? Other than that my situation was involuntary? That seemed an awfully thin straw on which to base my entire sense of womanhood. What, precisely, made me a girl anyway? Who got to decide? How much did it matter?

Um...the difference would be that you thought of yourself as a woman? Ya think? And waitaminute--involuntary? Are you kidding me?

I guess you can say that starting treatment to transition is voluntary--I mean, you have to decide to do it; nobody makes you. But the being trans part isn't.

Oh, goodness, ducks, there's a lot to pick apart in the essay--like when she says biology is destiny! Sorta! But it totes shouldn't mean anything to women's rights or stuff (which seems pretty baffling.) She does inch close to something important though:

According to Sheri Berenbaum, a professor of psychology and pediatrics at Penn State who studies children with disorders of sex development, even people with ambiguous biology tend to identify as male or female, though what motivates that decision remains unclear. “People’s hormones matter,” she said, “but something about their rearing matters too. What about it, though, no one really knows.”

There is something mysterious at work, then, that makes us who we are, something internally driven. Maybe it’s about our innate need to categorize the world around us. Maybe it arises from — or gives rise to — languages that don’t allow for neutrality. My guess, however, is that it’s deeper than that, something that transcends objectivity, defies explanation.

Now, that I can agree with. I mean, that's the story of my life, right? Except that in my case, my sense of gender was at odds with my body. I didn't choose a middle way or androgyny or something like that (though people do and that's just as valid as my own gender), but instead was impelled to think of myself as female. Why? And why is it so hard for some people to accept that about me--why do people cling to narrowly construed models of gender? What is it in human culture or the human brain that does that? These are good questions! Ms. Orenstein, maybe you'll leave me on a good note!

I know that my sex could never really be changed by any surgeon’s scalpel.

Thunk. Boy it's a good thing my desk is 5,000 miles away.

I mean, I know what she means, and it actually follows the same course as my own thinking: my gender was female before, during, and after my surgery. But sheesh, lady, for TS and intersex people, surgery can be Kind. Of. Important.

And that's just it. She wants to talk about gender, she even brings in the example of a famous person who is intersex (or presumed to be, thanks to the leaks of evil, evil people), but does she engage with any intersex or transsexual people, who sure as hell know a lot about intrinsic gender identity?

Fuck no.

People get all in an uproar, it seems lately, about the word cis as opposed to trans. (Right now on a message board I still read we're having our latest battle about it, a three-way fight between cis folks who don't want the word applied to them, trans folks who want it applied in the neutral and descriptive way, and other trans folks who oppose its use and want to be nice in hope of getting a cookie from the cis folks.) But an article like this shows exactly why we need to have a word like this: because the privilege of not only never wondering about your gender identity, but never needing to know anything about people who have, is astonishing and smothering. So many of the questions Ms. Orenstein ponders have been batted around for years. There's research, books, testimonials, diatribes, and even blogs.

There were answers. But privilege deafened her to them.

Adventures in Transition: Édition française

2009-09-11T15:44:00.003-04:00

Bon jour, mes canards! I'm spending the next two weeks here in Paris, doing the apartment exchange thing (there's some value to living in the Great American Metropolis--people want your place!) I hope to report on le feminisme and transness here in France, and also make some of you green with envy.

More later--I splurged on a traditional dinner (vegetable soup, confit de canard, crème caramel and 50 bloody cl of wine) and need to sleep it off.

If it's Wednesday, it must be Below The Belt

2009-09-09T10:33:00.006-04:00

My bimonthly post for Below The Belt is up!

One of the things about being part of a maginalized population that is the most fun--if for fun, you read "uncomfortable, occasionally stomach-churningly so"--is that many pleasures cannot simply remain unmixed: messages, tropes, and cultural references that can be overlooked, disregarded or just plain unseen by the dominant group hit home with you in unmistakable and unignorable ways.

Even worse is when you make the, ahem, transition from dominant to marginalized groups. Things that once gave you easy enjoyment now leave a bad taste in your mouth, and when you complain, people tell you you've become humorless or a radical.

And that's just when you talk about popular entertainment.

Which leads me to Adult Swim...

You can read the rest here.

Edit: Links Now Work--Sorry!

How to Tell You've Transitioned, Part I

2009-09-09T09:56:00.003-04:00

How can you tell you've transitioned?

...because shopping for clothes becomes a tedious chore rather than a fun excursion.

OK. Not fair, I get that--I know plenty of women of all stripes and origins who enjoy clothes shopping, including me, on occasion. But still...as compared to the times when I constructed myself as a crossdresser, shopping for clothes doesn't have the same kick.

On the face of it, this seems strange. I mean, I no longer have to use the exasperating and even sometime ridiculous accoutrements to round out my figure, give me the appearance of having breasts, add to my hips so that my skirts wouldn't fall down. I've got a body that actually fits the mold women's clothing is intended for...and that is a relief and a pleasure, often.

On the other hand, maybe my body's part of the issue--I've gained about 25 pounds in the last six months, and while that's not an earth-shattering, cry myself to sleep issue, I am a little unhappy about how I look in my clothes lately.

Which got hammered home yesterday when I went out to buy some clothes for the first time in months (business has been slow and I haven't had the cash to spend on clothes--though maybe I'd kill both my issues there if I stopped ordering out all the time.) But I'm travelling tomorrow and wanted to have some new clothes for the trip, especially some casual dresses, which would be light to pack. I didn't find any that I liked, although I did get some new jeans that will actually fit.

I hate shopping for jeans. There are times I just can't even work up the energy to go try them on, even though I think I look good in a lot of different styles of jeans. But I just hate doing it.

Maybe that's another sign I've transitioned.

My relationship with my clothing has always been...interesting. I'm not like a lot of trans women--I don't deny having had a long period of time identifying as a crossdresser; I think I was a crossdresser, albeit one with a greater interest in transitioning than I let on, even to myself. Back in those days, clothes held an allure, a mystique, an air of the forbidden about them. To crossdress was to engage all my hidden desires and frailities at once; the feeling of being at home while crossdressed was exhilerating and terrifying, and my clothes were fraught with a lot of meaning.

Which isn't to say that clothes aren't fraught with meaning for anyone--compare the different uniforms we wear every day, from bike messenger with one pants leg rolled to corporate honcho in a bespoke suit. Clothes are shorthand for our identities, they send out messages about us--sometimes ones that we don't want to send.

For example, when I was in India, I bought two saris. I bought them because I loved India and the culture and the people, because I wanted to bring home a souvenir, because I think saris are beautiful dresses. I even asked a friend of mine (not Indian) if I could wear one of them to her wedding, and she enthusiastically agreed.

All this was before my "second awakening," though. After I began to engage identity politics further, I saw that my wearing a sari just couldn't be an isolated action--that I couldn't avoid all the centuries of past interactions between Western and Indian people, and that ultimately I wouldn't be able to get past the fact that if I wore a sari, I'd be a cool multiculti chick--whereas an Indian woman who wore a sari in America would seem to be "fresh off the boat," unassimilated, perhaps ingnorant of American culture or even English. And that while some Indian people wouldn't have a problem with me wearing a sari, others would, and it wouldn't be easy to just discount their opinion simply because it was a beautiful dress and I liked it a lot.

I did end up wearing the sari, because my friend insisted, and she was the bride. I was fortunate; the only couple I met at the wedding who were from the region didn't mind at all. Still I changed out of the sari and into a dress after the ceremony. And I'm not upset that I felt I had to do it, and certainly not upset at any Indian people who might take offense at me wearing a sari. I'm upset at the four centuries of Westerners who plundered India, who exoticized it, who used and abused the people there. They're the ones who've "ruined" it for me--not their victims.

So yeah, clothes mean a lot more than just something to keep the wind out.

But you knew that already, didn't you? Any woman who has been verbally (or all too often, physically) assaulted because her neckline or hemline had crossed the invisible threshold between "prude" and "slut," who's been told she's "asking for it" because of what she's wearing, who's been told that her outfit was part of the reason she was attacked (as if women in pants and long sleeves are never raped) knows this. Hell, even I knew that back when I was a crossdresser, although sadly like many of the CDs I knew, I don't think I really fully engaged with all the implications of what that meant. (There are things that being full-time does to you.)

Wearing clothes has a context for me now that it didn't have back when I kept mostly to safe spaces--it has the context any woman has to deal with, from issues of personal safety to the whole construct of female beauty and its impossible-to-attain ideals. So yeah, some of the fun has leached out of it. And that's how I can tell I've transitioned.

Mailbag

2009-09-04T16:20:00.002-04:00

Sorry ducks--it's the doldrums here, where I try to not flip on the a/c even as it gets warm again, my PHP website continues to progress PHPfully--that is, in fits, starts, and inexplicable error messages--and the rest of my hilariously-titled "free time" is eaten by aikido.

So that's for me, why I've not been writing more (I do have something I want to get down about "Johnny Guitar", which I watched last weekend and was tickled rainbow about, but that will have to wait.) Fortunately, you have been writing here, so...to the mailbag!

First, about the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival: Sal writes

Whilst a trans woman, and feminist, I'm not that bothered over the whole Mich controversy. It's just one festival in the world which has a slightly strict (and from what I can gather, over the years difficult to even enforce) policy. If they want to try and define that someone like myself can't be female by their definitions despite that I've been post-op since 18, well, meh. I say just let them get on with it and I'll happily be at Glastonbury instead!

Well, said! However, I do still think it is important to continue to raise consciousness about MWMF, because it is a very influential event for many in both lesbian and feminist circles. So, I'll keep talking about it, even though you'll likely never see me at one--because three days in the mud only sounds good to me if it's the hot mud treatment at a spa, decadent capitalist that I am!

There were a lot of good responses to my "How to be alone" post (and one slightly clueless--you know who I'm talking about.) Friend of the blog Spatula
had some very interesting things to say about the dimensions of the problem:

You know, maybe setting up the whole thing as "enlightened me vs. barbarous them" is not the only way... I'm starting to see the whole calling-out-and-being-called out as a collaborative figuring-life-out-together thing. I'm muddling through my own thinking and perceptions and how to deal with situations, and so is everyone else.

And while I agree with that wholeheartedly, the thing is--some of these issues have taken on a moral dimension to me, and that makes it hard to not respond forcefully, albeit there need to be ways to temper the insta-crush reaction that you develop online. I think, ultimately, the way forward will be to continue to try and live up to my own ideals: to listen more and talk less, to teach and educate...but also to be willing to take a stand, even when it's not popular.

Also, aikido. Lots of aikido. At the very least I'll be too tired to argue.

Finally, as I expected, my post on video gaming got a bunch of comments. Thank you all, especially VM & feministswithfsd, a blog I really oughta take a look at since there are certain issues we may have in common. I guess I'll update you: I blew up Kilrah, finally, and with fewer qualms than I thought I'd have--I got frustrated at having to fly the mission over and over again until I finally figured out that the Big Bomb would indeed lock on even while I was cloaked. I still have the WC games kicking around on my PC (WCIV plays beautifully and still looks good--twas ahead of its time) but I haven't done much, maybe because I've actually finished those games in the past. And have I mentioned I'm busy?

Speaking of which, I'm late to get picked up and thrown around. Also, I have to go to aikido! More new stuff soon, I promise.

Now Let Us Abhor Wicked Men

2009-09-01T20:59:00.002-04:00

I haven't had much to say about the Rihanna incident--where for "incident", I invite and encourage you to read "vicious beating inflicted upon her by an depraved, jealous boyfriend." Like a lot of folks I was appalled at the light sentence he received, incensed that once again money and fame insulate men from the consequences of their actions (but said money and fame didn't do squat for Rihanna) and moved on to the latest outrage.

Turns out, today everything old is new again! Because Chris Brown has kicked off his rehabilitation tour! (You know, the one where a douchebag guy goes on the talk shows, displays a vetted-level of contrition, promises to never do that again, mentions Jesus somewhere, and is immediately rehabilitated in public opinion so you never have to feel guilty about listening to/voting for/paying $12 bucks* to watch him again.)

Chris has hit upon an interesting rehab tactic, however: he claims he doesn't remember assaulting Rihanna:

King, whose interview airs on Wednesday night on CNN's "Larry King Live," asked Brown if he could remember the event, and the singer told him "no."

"I just look at it like, wow, I'm in shock, because, first of all, that's not who I am as a person, and that's not who I promise I want to be," Brown said in a video posted on CNN's website. "So when I look at the police reports or hear about the police reports, I just don't know what to think."

Hey, dude, guess what: that fucking is who you are as a person. A person who beats his girlfriend viciously and repeatedly. Even if you "can't remember" doing it.

Separately, Brown told People in a story for the issue on newsstands Friday that he still loves Rihanna. "I never fell out of love with her. That just wouldn't go away," Brown said.

Well, that seems to be the problem, since the assault started

...when Rihanna found a text message on Brown's phone from "a woman who Brown had a previous sexual relationship with," according to CNN's story.

Yeah, he never fell out of love with her, provided he could get some on the side. And when the woman he "loved" argued with him about that, he attacked her. He assaulted her. He choked her. He bit her.

Brown, 20, said he was distraught the night of the event and "broke down" after he told his mother, who herself was a victim of an abusive relationship.

His mom, Joyce Hawkins, told People that Brown's confession was "the most painful moment of my life," and sitting with her son on Larry King's program, she said she was "totally shocked."

"I know that Chris has never, ever been a violent person. Never," Hawkins said.

I'm supposed to say something sympathetic here about the cycle of abuse. And honestly, I am sympathetic--there's no question that children who are abused, or whose parents have an abusive relationship, are more likely to abuse other people. But that sympathy kind of sputters to an abrupt halt when it includes putting a horrific beatdown on a woman. One that you claim you love.

I mean, it's not like Chris Brown was without resources to help him get over the abuse he'd suffered.

As for Ms. Hawkins...well, see above. And below:

But a story accompanying CNN's video cites a probation report for Brown stating he and Rihanna had two other abusive incidents: one a verbal argument in which Rihanna slapped him and he shoved her, and a second in which he broke the windshields of a rented car while she was with him.

Yeah. Never violent at all.

Of course, the thing is...the thing is. Bloggers like me will write about this. Lots of women and well-thinking men will get outraged. People will be upset. Hell, Rihanna will even do a revenge song about Chris Brown.

And he'll probably go on ultimately like it never happened. And the next time some rich and powerful douchebag beats his girlfriend, he'll go on TV and do his contrition waltz and the rich and powerful douchebag interviewers will pronounce their absolution and it will all go on and on and on again.

Because they know they can wear us down with all the other outrages they throw at us every day, while their patience seems unlimited.

Now Let Us Praise Wicked Men

2009-08-31T22:26:00.003-04:00

So dear friend of the blog Sady has a post up at Salon's Broadsheet about Sophie Tucker, whose career as a female singer who pushed gender boundaries in the early 20th century would normally make her a feminist icon--except that she also did blackface for a long time. And that, as well as the funeral of Senator Kennedy, has me thinking about bad people who did good things, or vice versa.

Of course, Teddy looms large in this calculus.

Liss at Shakesville has the most nuanced discussion of the senior senator from Massachusetts' career, I think:

Teddy, as he was known, was privileged, in every sense of the word. And he made liberal use of his privilege, in ways I admired and ways I did not. The terrible bargain we all seem to have made with Teddy is that we overlooked the occasions when he invoked his privilege as a powerful and well-connected man from a prominent family, because of the career he made using that same privilege to try to make the world a better place for the people dealt a different lot.

Twice, Teddy did despicable things with his privilege, very publicly.

...the two things being the horrific Chappaquiddick affair, and whatever role he helped play in getting his nephew, William Kennedy Smith off the hook for his (alleged, I have to say alleged) rape of a young woman.

Those are two pretty terrible things, by the way.

Daisy over at Daisy's Dead Air does her best to speak for the dead:

I will mourn the working woman who was forgotten, as the actual circumstances of her death were covered up by a powerful family, who then arbitrarily assigned her slut status.

Imagine slowly, slowly drowning, water enveloping you inch by inch as you drown, waiting for the person to rescue you that never arrives.

Sorry, folks. Some things, I do not excuse.

Mary Jo represents all the nobody-women killed (or allowed to die, if you want to quibble over my terms) by all the powerful, rich men, because they were "evidence"--because they got in the way.

And yet, and yet--he fought hard for people who weren't able to fight as hard for themselves--the Americans With Disabilities Act, fighting apartheid, even helping Jews escape the Soviet Union. He never let up on the universal healthcare fight. He blocked Robert Bork from the Supreme Court. And he did all those things largely in part by using his name, his wealth, and his reputation to accomplish things other people might not have.

And he let a woman slowly drown. And he helped an (alleged, ok? alleged.) rapist avoid punishment.

Lots of--let's not say heroes--icons have feet of clay. Martin Luther King had affairs. Thomas Jefferson raped his slaves. And lots of wicked people do great things: Napoleon spread the rule of law, the ideals of the French Revolution, and death, death, death throughout Europe; Wagner wrote some of the most complex (and occasionally even beautiful) music in history and was a dead-beat, adulterer, and depraved anti-Semite. Julia Child was frequently homophobic. And so it goes.

How do we judge? Is it only time that allows us to be dispassionate? What are the morals of admiring the Declaration of Independence or the ADA when you know that they are the results of men who did despicable deeds?

I'm not sure I know. I mean, I'm glad for the Declaration and (well, sometimes) Tristan und Isolde and the millions of people that Senator Kennedy helped. I am aware of the enormous good that has been wrought by flawed men and women.

But I still can't shake the thought of that woman drowning, or that woman screaming on the beach where nobody could hear her.

Pepper

2009-08-28T16:03:00.002-04:00

Ducks, I beat up on the NY Times sometimes. OK, quite a bit! Sometimes not even on my own blog! But today I found something I actually liked there. (Besides Paul Krugman. Thank you, Paul, just for being you.)

It's from their photo/multimedia series, One in Eight Million, about interesting New Yorkers. Today's spot, The Night Keeper, is about a transgendered woman living in Brooklyn:

For nearly 30 years, Pepper has lived in the same building in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn. She used to hustle and shiplift, snagging designer clothing to flaunt at drag balls. "I can be very dangerous," she explained, "it depends on how far you push me." Once, a man hit her in the face with a beer bottle, breaking her nose and cutting her cheek. "That devastated me for a long time," she said. Pepper stopped taking hormones four years ago because they were making her sick; now she spends nights cooking, cleaning, talking to her mother on the telephone and "looking out for her building."

It's a fascinating piece, evocatively photographed by Todd Heisler, especially as Pepper is a living link to New York's more frentic drag heyday, when the lines between transgender and gay, drag and transitioning, were much blurrier.

And it's fantastic to have a piece on a transgendered person who isn't white, middle-class, and post-operative for once.

There are criticisms I suppose I could make, like how an element of the "sad life" meme creeps into the story (poor Pepper is all alone because she is trans), but in my opinion they are drowned out by her remarkable strength and will to survive and go on, head high.

So go read it...if for no other reason than ghu knows how long it will be before I send you back to the Times.

Adventures in Transition: Faster, Evil Space Pussycat, Kill, Kill, Kill!

2009-08-27T15:19:00.003-04:00

I am a child of the video game era.

Like most white, middle-class kids of my era, we owned an Atari 2600 (the real thing, not the cheesy Sears version.) And while we enjoyed the hell out of the system, we also knew...it sucked.

Plate 1: This was once considered cool!

Like I said, we lived in the golden age of video games, and arcade games--with their superior graphics and gameplay--were all around us. Things weren't helped by how poorly most arcade games were ported over to the 2600--the infamous Pac-Man port is widely credited as causing the North American video game market crash of 1983.

Plate 2: You've heard the legends, but I actually played it--and it was really that horrible.

I didn't care that much for video games.

You probably think that it was because I was some high-falutin' intellectual, with my nose in a book all the time and too much of a nerd to be any good at sports. But that wasn't the reason...well, it wasn't the only reason.

The reason was that I generally stank at them. I have a rather low eye-hand coordination, so most of that generation of video games were full of FAIL for me--I didn't have the reflexes to be any good at them, or rather, I just got too frustrated to actually learn how to play through my difficulties.

So I watched a lot of other people play video games--hell, I just hung out for weeks while a buddy of mine played Ultima IV, which is about as interesting as watching people play D&D...in a language you don't speak.

Once I got to college and had a computer of my very own, however, I got interested in games again. There were actual genres that didn't require me to have the fast-twitch reflexes of a chihuahua who'd drunk too much coffee, and I played those--SimCity, Civilization (I racked up insane hours conquering various planets), baseball games where you only had to "manage," and even less-athletic, more strategic games like Sid Meier's Pirates.

So when I was finally out of college, and got a "real" computer (well, a Packard-Bell--26% new parts!), I made sure to pick up a few games to go with it. One was Doom, which I had played in multi-player mode and enjoyed. (I didn't get too far in that one: have I mentioned my reflexes?) The other was Wing Commander IV. And that one hooked me.

I'd heard about the Wing Commander series for years, but never owned a machine powerful enough to run them--the closest I'd come was playing on a friend's Nintendo once. But the third and fourth versions of the game were really different--they used movies to forward a plot line between missions, and you could actually make choices in how to respond during some of the movie sequences. It was like a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure Book! (Yes, I am a child of the '80s.)

It certainly didn't hurt that Mark Effin' Hamill played your character.

Plate 3: Hey, isn't that the guy from Star Wars?

While I understand while this kind of video game (usually called Full-Motion Video or FMV) didn't catch on (costs were high, graphics got good enough to do all the stuff inside the game itself), it was extraordinarily compelling for the time--they really managed to come close to the state objective of making it an interactive movie. I ploughed through WCIV in about a month, and for my birthday my girlfriend gave me a boxed set with the first three games. Which I slogged through as well, even though the first two were more standard video games--no movies, but there was an overarching storyline for both. I started playing WCIII, the climax of the series...and stopped.

I was changing computers, I had a girlfriend, I was taking aikido--I had a bunch of reasons. So I never finished the third game, never got past the third mission. And I mostly stopped playing anything resembling shoot-em-ups; I had the occasional game of Civ going on, but for the most part I didn't have any time to play videogames. I did reload Wing Commander I on my machine a few months after my wife and I separated, played it all the way through again, but didn't bother to play the next game.

And then I transitioned.

Now, obviously, video games are a huge minefield of misogynistic crap. (Just check out the ongoing saga of Fat Princess over at Shakesville.) Most games are marketed for men, often in the crudest, most sexist way possible--and then you play the game, and it just gets worse when you see how women are depicted inside the games themselves. Plus so many video games are filled with non-stop, wall-to-wall violence, domination, and macho posturing.

So it makes sense for me to avoid video games, and for the most part I've had no interest--not even in my beloved Civ. Until recently.

Because on a whim I dug out my copy of Wing Commander III, and after wrestling with Windows for a few days, have been flying missions again. And loving it.

This is full of irony for me. First, aren't I the person railing on about kyriarchy and how we need a culture freed from the evils of domination? Aren't I generally opposed to violence of almost any kind? And don't I love cats? Hell, don't people call me Cat?

So why in the hell am I zipping around space blowing up evil space cats and following a plotline that ultimately ends with a shocking act of genocide?

Plate 4: I'm sure with a big enough lap to cuddle up in, he'd stop trying to DESTROY ALL HUMANS.

I have no idea. I'm sucked in, again, by the storyline, and the gameplay remains challenging but not impossible even for a slow-fingered person like myself. There are even female characters in the game, and they're not decoration--two are highly competent fighter pilots, and one is the ship's chief mechanic. (Of course, one set of choices leads you to have a relationship with one of them, which is a bit squicky, but on the other hand it is remarkable to have a video game that was a combat sim even mention the word love.)

I've noticed a few things different this time around. I'm not any better or worse a pilot than I used to be--I always played the game the way I thought my character really would fly, so I don't try to run up my score if the mission can be finished otherwise. My adrenaline reactions are...different nowadays, though. After a long session at the game, I can get a bit twitchy, and somewhat spatially disoriented, like I keep expecting the constant motion the 3D sim provides. I don't recall that stuff happening the first time around, and I wonder how much my current endocrinology has to do with that.

Of course, playing a video game--playing a violent, combat-oriented video game--brings up all sorts of gender crap for me. (But then, getting the paper in the morning has the potential to do that.) Mostly it's societal stuff that I, of all people, should know better than to listen too--women aren't violent, women don't play video games, women should sit down and watch the damn Lifetime Movie Network and keep careful notes of the cleaning products they must buy next trip to the store. Like I said, mostly crap.

But on the other hand, I haven't talked much about this with other women I know. Maybe because I fear that the women who know about my history will view this as one more way I'm not like them--and the women who don't know about my history might get ideas.

Silly. But there you have it.

In any case, I'm close to the end, and I'll drop The Big Bomb on Kilrah and win the game pretty soon now. Maybe with more qualms than the designers might have expected their players to have--they may be evil space kitties, but that doesn't make me happy to blow up their home planet, for goodness sake. And then maybe I'll head over to Women Gamers; I'll be needing a new fix soon.

Looks Like Trouble

2009-08-26T08:22:00.002-04:00

My second post for Below the Belt is up!

When I practice aikido, I always wear lipstick.

That probably seems odd. I mean, getting thrown around the floor has nothing to do with my cosmetics--despite advertising claims to the contrary, lipstick won't improve my performance or even distract my partner with my feminine wiles.

Still, I always make sure to wear some lipstick when I practice. Because I want to have something about me that looks feminine.

Normally I don't need to worry about such things. I am a bit of a femme by nature and wear skirts about as often as pants. I've developed sufficient curves over the course of my transition that I don't worry too much about the remaining somewhat-masculine features I possess.

But when I am practicing at the dojo, I find myself much more insecure about my appearance. Squashed into a sports bra and muffled under the heavy layers of my uniform top, my breasts are much less noticeable. Ditto my hips. With my hair pulled back for comfort and convenience, my face reveals a masculine cast. I suddenly become very conscious of how much taller, heavier, and broader I am than most ofthe other female students

You can read the rest here! And yes, new posts to the Blog Itself are coming, ducks!

I Get Around (and Around and Around...)

2009-08-21T11:54:00.002-04:00

Howdy, ducks! Sorry no posts recently...I plead being busy writing this bit about Caster Semenya for the Guardian's Comment Is Free section!

And while a sex test sounds benign enough, it won't be anything as simple as a DNA test – as Meloncye McAfee points out, there are a variety of conditions that can lead to a man having two X chromosomes, or a woman having a Y chromosome. No: Semenya will not only have her DNA checked, her urine and blood sampled and her genitals examined, but will even be required to have an interview with a psychologist – hopefully to help her get over the trauma of having all these tests done in a media fishbowl.
The irony is that had she not been born female, she could compete perfectly legally.

The rest of the article can be found here.

It's Funny Because It's True

2009-08-19T00:30:00.002-04:00

This made me laugh, which I needed to do.

(h/t Shakesville)

How To Be Alone

2009-08-18T21:19:00.002-04:00

Greetings again, ducks.

One of the hardest things I've set myself out to do is to write something every day, mostly here. Not all that easy; occasionally even Motormouth Me runs out of things to say. So I struggle with it, usually right at the point when a bunch of readers have dropped by in response to some blogvertising I've done.

Way to keep up the momentum, C.L.

I've been busy with work stuff the last few days and not getting enough sleep. Which explains part of why I've been away.

Would that it was the only reason.

I've been struggling a bit lately with the consequences of my late-aborning political awakening. (You knew there would be consequences, didn't you?) Specifically, I no longer seem to be able to keep from alienating people, including people who are dear to me.

I'm not sure what to do about it, either.

The essence of my--enlightenment, let's call it--has been that I have become acutely, painfully aware of my own privilege. This has led me to radically reexamine the world around me and the ways that privilege, mine and others, interact to create this beaten up planet and downtrodden human race.

And I don't know how to keep quiet about it. I don't know how to stop seeing, how to stop talking (and let's face it, preaching) about what I see.

I don't know, in short, how to just shut up and let things roll over me without it seeming like collusion. That's in part what I was trying to say in my previous post: that I can't even watch a muddle-headed B-movie like Uncommon Valor without seeing all the hypocrisies and unspoken assumptions it contains.

And I'm not sure that I even want to stop.

Part of the reason I started the blog is that I wanted to find an outlet for what I was feeling (especially the trans-related stuff) that I could use to keep it from leaking into my everyday life. In that regard, The Second Awakening is an utter failure, because writing about this stuff, digging deeply into my own thought processes, learning about the things going on around me, has only radicalized me even more. (Plus, I've become just proud enough of what I'm doing to want to talk about it, which knocks not outing myself as trans into a cocked hat.)

I don't think of the blog as a failure, of course; I like writing it, I like how I've had to confront a lot of my own internalized issues in the course of writing it, I like how I've managed to start to come to some conclusions about the world based on the work I've done here--work that feels so important to me; maybe the most important work I've ever done.

All the same, I wonder about where I am going, where this is taking me. Most of all, I worry that I will go some place that many people who are important to me cannot follow. That as a result of what I am doing, I will end up alone.

Maybe that's the price to pay. Lord knows I'm used to that kind of thing--transness has always been the gift that keeps on taking.

But I was kind of hoping that I was finally coming home, instead of walking further out into the cold.

How To Lose Your Sense Of Humor

2009-08-14T13:21:00.003-04:00

Greetings, Ducks! So I had a super bad day yesterday--one of my depressive episodes, just didn't want to do anything--which explains why there wasn't a post. (Also: why I still haven't touched some work for one of my clients, yikes.) I slept late and blew off most of my responsibilities besides feeding the cats, and watched some TV.

One of the things I watched was an old movie--I shudder to think how old, because I remember when it came out: Uncommon Valor. In case you never heard the name before, it was a Reagan-era film about a mission to rescue POWs still being held by the Vietnamese.

As a movie, it's not bad: it has a decent cast (Gene Hackman, Fred Ward, a pre-Dirty Dancing Patrick Swayze among others) and gives the idea an above-average treatment. I won't comment too much on the circumstances of the era the movie was made--Reagan-era macho posturing, the very real question about whether there were any POWs still in Indochina, and the overall wish-fulfillment the whole back-to-Vietnam genre invoked.

What was interesting to me, watching the movie for the first time in, hmm, over 20 years, was my reaction to it now as opposed to how I might have viewed the movie at different points in my life.

I first saw Uncommon Valor when I was in a, a, um, Scouting organization. Okay? Nuff said. So it was a decidedly masculine environment, we were all kids--I was 11, there were some teenagers--and we probably grooved off the well-done action sequences. (And the foul language--it was an R-rated film.) The film became a favorite of mine, and my brother and I borrowed it several times from the local library.

Since then, many things have changed, of course: I've grown up, I've changed genders, I've lost a lot of my taste for war movies. But maybe most important of all, I've become politically awakened. And that has radically changed how I see--everything.

Now, I know I'm caught up in the first flush of all this activism, that there's nothing so zealous as a new convert, and that I could be a bit of a prig under the best of circumstances. But at the same time, having begun to look at the world in terms of dominance and oppression, privilege and denial--well, it's like eating one potato chip: you just can't stop yourself.

So, watching Uncommon Valor brought up a lot of thoughts that frankly might not have occurred to me even after I transitioned, but do occur to me now, such as (spoilers follow):

Is it really true that men have to fight each other to resolve their issues? Early on in the film, Patrick Swayze--a skilled soldier with no combat experience--ends up fighting Randall "Tex" Cobb, the toughest of the Vietnam vets on the team. The vets resent Swayze for treating them like recruits while he trains them; he feels he has to prove to them he won't fail in combat. So they fight, as custom, law, and generic Hollywood screenwriting all demand.

But seriously? Is that the only way he could have proved himself to them? Why do we just assume so? Why do men think that's so? Isn't that a poisonous thing to indoctrinate our children with? Aren't there alternatives?

Wait a minute, you're the good guys?: When Hackman's outfit arrives in Thailand to pick up their weapons, they are seized by the CIA and the Thai police. Hackman, obsessed with rescuing his son (whom he believes is held in the prison camp that is their target) decides to continue on anyway, buying weapons in the Golden Triangle. He sends out some of his men to get a vehicle, instructing them to "Steal it!"

So they come back with a truck that is clearly owned by a Thai--it's decorated with Buddha imagery. And clearly not a rich Thai, because the back of the truck is covered with plastic, not the tarpulin it comes with. So WTF? They just stole some local poor guy's livlihood? Presumably, somebody used that truck to feed their family, earn a living, escape from poverty. Yet we're supposed to overlook this, because our "heros" are on a noble mission...that will involve killing some more poor people. Nice.

Speaking of the locals: Depsite spending the last half of the movie in Thailand and Indochina, the only people of color our heros have any interaction with is a porter/guide, Mr. Chang, and his two daughters. Purpose: to die (two of them are killed in the mission), and serve as a sex interest for one of the white characters. No other people of color have any major interactions with the main characters except to get shot or provide a service--even the arms dealer they meet in the Golden Triangle is French. (And a poorly-done stereotype he is as well.)

And speaking of people of color, who are we rescuing?: In the end, the mission succeeds, and four American POWs are rescued. All of whom are white.

Say what?

It's not exactly a secret that the Vietnam War was proportionally worse on African-American than on white soldiers:

African Americans often did supply a disproportionate number of combat troops, a high percentage of whom had voluntarily enlisted. Although they made up less than 10 percent of American men in arms and about 13 percent of the U.S. population between 1961 and 1966, they accounted for almost 20 percent of all combat-related deaths in Vietnam during that period. In 1965 alone African Americans represented almost one-fourth of the Army's killed in action. In 1968 African Americans, who made up roughly 12 percent of Army and Marine total strengths, frequently contributed half the men in front-line combat units, especially in rifle squads and fire teams. Under heavy criticism, Army and Marine commanders worked to lessen black casualties after 1966, and by the end of the conflict, African American combat deaths amounted to approximately 12 percent—more in line with national population figures. Final casualty estimates do not support the assertion that African Americans suffered disproportionate losses in Vietnam, but this in no way diminishes the fact that they bore a heavy share of the fighting burden, especially early in the conflict.

So the odds are that at least one of those POWs should have been black, unless there was some Vietcong/NVA policy to not capture black soldiers. (There may have been, perhaps motivated by both Vietnamese and American racism--white prisoners would have been more valuable, sigh.) But somehow I don't think a movie to go in and rescue black, Latino, or even Asian-descended POWs would have sold as well, especially not in Reagan-era America. Instead, a bunch of white guys (plus one African-American, who to give the film its due, is a highly decorated helicopter pilot and an officer) recuse some other white guys, and kill a bunch of brown people along the way.

This isn't to come down too hard on Uncommon Valor, which is what it is and is very much a movie of its times. Rather, I wanted to show you what my thought processes look like now--how becoming more engaged keeps me from just letting things slide; how learning about my own privilege makes it difficult for me to just ignore it and go with the flow.

Maybe this has made me "humorless" or "shrill" or "a pain in the ass." Actually, it probably has. And that makes me sad; I don't want to be those things, I don't want to alienate people or always be harping about things.

But we live in a violence soaked world, filled with oppressions and petty tyrannies, and they drive me to distraction. How can I not be outraged? How can I not feel sympathy with the downtrodden? How can I not acknowledge how I am complicit with these horrors?

I don't know. But it seems to have cost me my sense of humor. If that's what it was.

Think It Like A Man

2009-08-12T11:13:00.004-04:00

Greetings, ducks! Today I am very pleased to announce that I have been invited to be a regular contributor to the Below the Belt blog, "a multi-faceted genderblog designed to provide a space for informed, critical commentary about gender, sex, sexuality, and the many other aspects of gender facing people around the world."

They do really good and cool work over there, and I'm enormously happy to be working with them.

My first post for them is up today:

In between rounds of the pub trivia contest, my friend Vanessa told me that
sometimes people tell her she thinks like a man.

"I hate it," she said. "It's so sexist."

I knew what she meant; Vanessa has been on several game shows and has an
astonishing recall of facts, as well as a killer competitive edge--two things
generally considered either "male" or at least "unfeminine."

I wondered if people thought the same thing about me.

In my pretransition days, I'm sure many people saw me as "thinking like a
man." I used to be told that I was very logical; I was good at analysis; I was a
fierce debater. Yet at the same time, I was always convinced that on some level
I was "thinking like a woman"--because part of me was convinced beyond all
debate or contrary evidence that I was female.

Go on over to BTB to read the rest of the post.

Oh, and I even get this cool pinkified avatar!

This is so cool.

Womyn Born Better...Than You

2009-08-11T16:05:00.002-04:00

Over on Below The Belt there's this piece about the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival.

If you're trans, the festival is fairly notorious. This is because of its "womyn-born-womyn" policy: only those people born female are allowed to participate; trans women need not apply.

Now, I'm all for safe spaces for women, and I can even see having places and services that might deal with the stresses of having grown up female. But I'm not sure that a music festival has much to do with it, at least not everywhere, at all times during it.

What makes it even more fun is that, much like Lu's Pharmacy in Vancouver, the festival has historically included trans men. So the "born womyn" thing obviously trumps the "womyn" thing.

Like I say, biology equals destiny is such a feminist point.

Supposedly the festival now allows trans women to attend, although still (in the words of organizer Lisa Vogel) "If a transwoman purchased a ticket, it represents nothing more than that woman choosing to disrespect the stated intention of this Festival."

Nice.

While I believe in community spaces, and even in community leadership for groups that advocate for a community even if the group doesn't restrict its membership (for example, I think a male president of NOW would be...disturbing somehow), I'm not a fan of separatists of any stripe--not even trans separatists. (For a taste of how that looks, check out this thread of fail at Bilerico.) Too often, in my experience, separatism and division only leads to each group acting out a shadow play of their own oppression against other groups--like they were building sandcastles instead of tearing down real castles.

Of course, I won't attend MWMF. But that's not about politics; I just hate camping.

Monday Media Watch: Special Chan(n)eling Edition

2009-08-10T16:42:00.002-04:00

Ducks! I almost forgot this bit of bizarreness in the upcoming September issue of Harper's Bazaar:

From “What Would Coco Do” in the September issue of Bazaar, wherein designer Karl Lagerfeld was asked to “channel the original fashion wit,” Coco Chanel:
HB: Your clothing liberated women in the 1920s. Are you still a feminist?

CC: I was never a feminist because I was never ugly enough for that.

Um. Wow. I know why they chose Lagerfeld (he's headed Chanel in the past) but still...a man being asked to channel one of the first major female designers? One of the first women to head her own house? And then to say she wasn't a feminist because she wasn't ugly?

Heh. Well you know what they say: ugly is as ugly does, Karl.

Monday Media Watch: The Grey Lady Strikes Again

2009-08-10T15:53:00.004-04:00

Greetings, ducks! Today, on Monday Media Watch, a special double-hit from our favorite source of all the news the establishment deems worthy to print, the New York Times!

First, let's talk the economy! I'll wait while you finish crying. There, there.

It's bad, right? I myself am an underemployed computer worker, which is why I have so much time to write internet screeds. But do you know who has it worse than me? Did you guess men? Because the Times sure did!

We’ve pointed out before that that recession has disproportionately hurt men, who are more likely to work in cyclically sensitive industries like manufacturing and construction. Women, on the other hand, are overrepresented in more downturn-resistant sectors like education and health care.
Casey B. Mulligan noted, for example, that for the first time in American history women are coming close to representing the majority of the national workforce. It would of course be a bittersweet milestone, given that it comes primarily as a result of men’s layoffs.

The data is actually very interesting--it is in fact true that men are getting laid off more than women. The article linked in the quote has some ideas on why:

Women tend to be employed in areas like education and health care, which are less sensitive to economic ups and downs, and in jobs that allow more time for child care and other domestic work.

But is that the only reason? Or is it also that, well, women make a lot less?

 ________________________________________________________________________
                      Male                         Female
          _____________________________ _____________________________
             Number     Mean income        Number     Mean income
Age and year      with ___________________      with ___________________
             income   Current      2007    income   Current      2007
           (thous.)   dollars   dollars  (thous.)   dollars   dollars
________________________________________________________________________
15 YEARS OLD AND OVER
2007           104,789   $47,137   $47,137   105,230   $29,249   $29,249
2006           103,909    46,677    48,001   104,582    28,416    29,222
2005           102,986    44,850    47,635   104,245    26,261    27,891

CY 2007 data

Even when you factor out women working part-time jobs, the median wage gap between full-time male and full-time female employees was still almost $10,000 a year. (see page 14 of the pdf.)

So maybe that's another reason that women aren't losing their jobs as fast--they're cheaper to keep on.

Of course, some things never change:

When women are unemployed and looking for a job, the time they spend daily taking care of children nearly doubles. Unemployed men’s child care duties, by contrast, are virtually identical to those of their working counterparts, and they instead spend more time sleeping, watching TV and looking for a job, along with other domestic activities.

Speaking of things that don't change: Ross Douthat is still kind of a tool! Today he bewails the fact that nobody likes Judd Apatow's new movie--not because it's not that good, but because it's too conservative:

Don’t laugh. No contemporary figure has done more than Apatow, the 41-year-old auteur of gross-out comedies, to rebrand social conservatism for a younger generation that associates it primarily with priggishness and puritanism. No recent movie has made the case for abortion look as self-evidently awful as “Knocked Up,” Apatow’s 2007 keep-the-baby farce. No movie has made saving — and saving, and saving — your virginity seem as enviable as “The 40-Year Old Virgin,” whose closing segue into connubial bliss played like an infomercial for True Love Waits.

Oh yeah, Knocked Up sure makes keeping your baby look glamorous and wonderful--plus you get to be the reason a 30-year old man finally decides to grow up! And The 40-Year Old Virgin tells us that woman can be the reason a...40-year old man finally grows up. Which is a great deal, if you're not the one who's the lady.

Somehow I don't think that ever crossed Ross's mind.

Lies the Internet Told Me

2009-08-08T00:13:00.003-04:00

Sady at Tiger Beatdown, who is having an awesome week, wrote an amazing post about the (false) rumors that Lady Gaga is intersex:

So, yeah. It will always puzzle me when cisgendered people don't see how the marginalization and oppression of trans people affects them. Because the fact is that there are a ton of trans people in the world, and you don't necessarily know who they are, and they're not required to tell you. But when people get a case of the Deceptive Tranny Fever, nothing - not decency, not tolerance, not basic fact-checking, not even Google - will get in their way.

So true. The whole "deceptive tranny" thing is the old double-bind in action as well, ergo: if you're trans, and you don't tell the whole wide world, aaaand you sleep with some cisgendered dude or lady, aaaand they find out, then you are a deceiver and deserve to die or at least have your CDs thrown out; but if you're trans, aaand you tell the whole world, then people call you a thing or refuse to use your correct gender, aaaand you deserve to die or at least have your CDs thrown out.

That is, you get it both ways: you're punished for both telling and not telling, because the culture punishes "deception" without rewarding "honesty."

Go read the post, because like most things Sady, it is awesome.

It's a Crime

2009-08-06T11:12:00.003-04:00

Richard Cohen, writing on Tuesday, had this to say about James von Brunn, the man who attacked the Holocaust museum earlier this year:

He also proves the stupidity of hate-crime laws. A prime justification for such laws is that some crimes really affect a class of people. The hate-crimes bill recently passed by the Senate puts it this way: "A prominent characteristic of a violent crime motivated by bias is that it devastates not just the actual victim . . . but frequently savages the community sharing the traits that caused the victim to be selected." No doubt. But how is this crime different from most other crimes?

First, let us consider the question of which "community" von Brunn was allegedly attempting to devastate. He rushed the Holocaust museum, which memorializes the 6 million Jews killed by the Nazis and their enablers. There could be no more poignant symbol for the Jewish community. Yet von Brunn killed not a Jew but an African American -- security guard Stephen Tyrone Johns.

So which community was affected by this weird, virtually suicidal act? Was it the Jewish community or the black community? Since von Brunn hated both, you could argue that it does not matter. But since I would guess that neither community now gives the incident much thought, the answer might well be "neither one." So what is the point of piling on hate crimes to what von Brunn has allegedly done? Beats me. He already faces -- at age 89, remember -- a life sentence and, possibly, the death penalty.

The real purpose of hate-crime laws is to reassure politically significant groups -- blacks, Hispanics, Jews, gays, etc. -- that someone cares about them and takes their fears seriously. That's nice. It does not change the fact, though, that what's being punished is thought or speech.

Actually, the real purpose of hate crime laws is to punish terrorism.

Yes, I used the t-word. A hate crime is one where the victim was a target only because of membership in some group (frequently a disprivileged or discriminated against group.) Hate crimes have the effect (even if the intention is not always so far-reaching) of terrorizing that group; of reminding them that they are in danger by virtue of who they are; of reminding them that violence remains the prerogative of the powerful.

Cohen sarcastically asks, "which group was terrorized?" which seems so disingenuous coming from a Jewish person. Can he not see that one of the effects of von Brunn's attack was to remind people that just being at a Jewish cultural institution is dangerous? If even one person decides not to go to the Holocaust Museum because of von Brunn's actions, doesn't that make what he did terrorism?

People forget, I think, what the purpose of terrorism is: it's not to kill people. September 11th remains the worst terrorist act in history, and the casualty count would barely make the list of interesting battles of the American Civil War. No. The point of terrorism is terror: the use of asymnetric violence to break the morale of a militarily superior society; to make all people, not just soldiers in combat, afraid of violent death; to cause people to change they way they live, to bring the battle home to them.

Cohen understands this, even if he doesn't seem to appreciate it--maybe because he doesn't think his example affects him:

If there's a murder in a park, I'll stay out of it for months. If there's a rape, women will stay out of the park. If there's another and another, women will know that a real hater is loose. Rape, though, is not a hate crime. Why not?

Indeed, why not? as Liss at Shakesville ponders. Especially in light of a story like this:

Four people are confirmed dead and nine others were wounded when a gunman opened fire inside the L.A. Fitness in Collier Township Tuesday night.

The shooting happened shortly after 8 p.m.

The county coroner's office has identified the gunman as 48-year-old George Sodini from Scott Township. [...] Sodini was keeping an online diary where it appears as if he was planning the shooting for about nine months. He also detailed on the site how he attempted to carry out the shooting once before, but backed out.

Right now, there's at least one woman worried about going to the gym because she might be cornered there and shot simply because she's a woman. (I know that for sure, because she is me.) This isn't a random crime, or an act of desperation by a criminal: this is a cold-blooded act of mass murder, an act of "revenge" for a mythical wrong, a crime designed to make a whole group of people feel afraid.

It's terrorism. And we shouldn't stand for it.

Adventures in Transition: Definitely not Fast as Lightening Edition

2009-08-05T15:59:00.003-04:00

Last night I took an aikido class for the first time in three years.

I first started doing aikido about ten years ago, during the summer when I finally started to treat my depression. I stayed for about two years at a very, very tough dojo, then quit for a variety of reasons (including my desire to quit my lousy job and go freelance.) About three years ago I found another dojo in my nabe and was there for maybe seven months, before the instructor moved to California.

The points being a) I'm not a complete beginner and b) all of this took place before my transition.

These are relavant because last night, for the first time ever, I had to leave the mat while class was in session. Twice.

Now, there are some decent reasons for that: it was hot and muggy yesterday. I didn't eat a big lunch (my usual onsite gourmet meal of yogurt and a buttered roll, with a peanut butter granola bar thrown in for good measure.) I've gained a lot of weight recently. And of course, I did have major surgery five months ago.

I think there was more to it than all that. The fact of the matter is, I'm not the same person I used to be.

One of the things that shocked me about starting hormones was just how much muscle mass I lost in a relatively short time. I never needed to worry about binding my breasts (Not that there was a lot to bind. Then, I mean.) because my suits and dress shirts suddenly got huge on me. And I also stopped doing a lot of physical activity after a few months on HRT, so I wasn't really keeping track of how much I was changing. (I dropped my gym membership after about six months because I couldn't stand using the men's locker room anymore, which meant that I stopped biking into work--about a 6.5 mile ride each way; in any case, I wasn't pushing myself anywhere close to what I had done before hormones.)

So I think that a lot of what I learned once before I'm going to have to unlearn, because the strength (and endurance, until I get my wind back) just isn't there anymore; a big part of my "failures" yesterday was trying to do things as if nothing had changed. But it has.

This isn't really a bad thing, because one of the reasons I decided to go back to aikido is that it is the only martial art I know of with a philosophy against domination--and as you may have gleaned, my current project is to find ways to live without dominating other human beings. My first dojo had a definite macho air about it, and I learned to use my strength--not that I was Conan or something--in ways that let me blow past a lot of the deeper philosophical lessons of aikido, like blending with your partner or using her energy against her instead of using your own.

So like everything else related to my transition, this is a learning moment. And I hope I can really learn from it--maybe I'll even be able to survive the whole class tomorrow.

I hope so--I have a peanut butter Twix bar waiting for me when I do.

========================================
Blog note: I had wanted to start another new weekly feature, "Evil Willow's Weekly Web Round Up," which will have some snark--er, witty--commentary on the dreck that Google Reader finds for me, but for once there's a paucity of teh stoopid on the nets right now--and a surfeit of actual, horrifying evil. So it can wait til next week.

And the Lightbulb Goes On

2009-08-04T16:15:00.003-04:00

So I'm reading this post at Shakesville about a full-of-FAIL article by Satoshi Kanazawa about how feminism is evil and unneccesary because women are HAWT and only need shoes (or something; his logic is hard to follow, mostly because there doesn't seem to be any.) And there's a comments thread that is in the best tradition of Shakesville comments threads. Which means, among other things, that there's a discussion of why a common epithet turns out to be far nastier than you thought.*

In this case, it turns out the word "maroon" really is a racist term**, even though I (and the original commentator) seem to have always associated it with Bugs Bunny's joking mispronunciation of "moron." (Which is also not cool, because it makes fun of people with mental disabilities.)

Now, being what I am--a human being caught in the invisible web of the kyriarchy--I couldn't help for a second thinking, "great, another word I'll have to be careful about using." (Just for a second, ducks, we take checking privilege seriously around here.) And then it occurred to me: oh yes, how terrible it would be to end up living in a world where a person's thoughts would have to be actually addressed, instead of just dismissed by a senseless epithet that lets you turn off your brain. How truly awful that would be for everyone.

But I never claimed to be quick on the uptake.

================

*That's not snark; one of the great things about Shakesville is that you continually get your assumptions challenged there.

**The people the term applied to were actually pretty amazing--fleeing slavery to forge an existence out of almost nothing.