The line between male and female
Is as thin and sharp as the needle
That kisses my skin dimpled and chilled
By a pack of frozen corn
I close my eyes
breathe
place the
Puncture in at 2 o’clock
on my upper thigh Wince
hope the 2 inches of steel don’t
Break the tenacity of the human will
The spirit of the boy who knocked on the
Window of my psyche since birth
Ceaselessly willing himself into existence
Every day he promises to let me live in clarity
look in the mirror and recognize the reflection
I am terrified of needles
At age 12 the doctor plundered
6 vials of blood testing for anemia
after I bled everyday for a month
without ceasing
my girl body’s first act
of betrayal
Conceived in contradictions
Born at the mouth of the grand canyon,
Mother Earth’s vagina, only to be
swaddled in a blue Blanket and the
mother that held me whispered in my ear
“Baby, you can grow up to be anything
Anything you can dream”
I choked at that gaping hole of possibility
Stunted by confusion coughed on the shards
Of the broken edifice of a broken family
It is a understandable human response
To want to save a wounded animal
If you knew that a caterpillar goes through physical
Pain while in the chrysalis you might want to pluck
It out, rescue it from its misery
But it is those very chemicals released in this torment
That cleave the young larva away from
The lovely apathetic life of eating grass into
Its metamorphosis; metaphor of holy resurrection
The divine rite of every creature to transcend
Itself into the fragile line between
What is and what is possible
I press the needle down
It goes in like butter
exhale and wait
for this fragile
line to snap
Alden
27 February 2010
Chapter One
I thought my face was an open book
My eyes transparent windows
Amber pools of stories you could
Trace the fingers of your
inquisitive spirit with
Now
You wonder why I can’t look you directly in the eye
Or when I do I search your face for cues
Of how to read me
Ten years ago
He told me that I was so cool he was sure
I could pee standing up
I could hold my own in a bar fight
Ride a motorcycle
In me he wanted a lover but instead discovered
A brother
And it’s taken ten years to believe in what he
Was seeing
Sometimes I wonder if my face is a pack of lies
Or a litmus test
The lilt of my voice
The weight of my walk
The size of my hips
drop hints
as to what you choose to call me
either apologetically correcting the pronoun
or blatantly calling me girl from across
the room
I shrug each pronoun mishap
Each bathroom anxiety attack
as if I don’t mind
it’s just a part of the transgendered
adventure but every day
I am trying so hard to match my outside
With my inside so I am completely
telling you the truth with each look
24 February 2010
The Wanderer Part 2
He flipped through the book while the wind blew past whenever a bus drove by, crinkling the pages. The apartment building next to him, with its cheap bricks and depressing title missing at least 4 letters, offered some protection from the wind of vehicles. He was a speck on the world, cars flying past without knowing he was even there. Never knowing what kind of person they'd just so carelessly sped by.
“Man. Is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.” whispered Oscar in his ear. He flipped forward with care, the edges were giving way to age and use. Yellowing at the corners, ripping at the slightest ill-planned pull.
Contemplating Oscar's words, he put away the heavy book, it's original vibrant green giving way to cardboard brown. The grass beneath him was suffering a similar fate.
Looking around, he realized the same could be said of this neglected city.
The trees and sky giving way to buildings that aged as soon as they were planted, trash blew by in a toxic wind.
Kicking away an empty grocery bag, he brushed himself down; refusing to give way to the process himself.
He gathered his things, heading towards the bridge that separated this side of town from the Gay Village. Maybe he would go by the Centre, or maybe he would try to illegally sell some of his paintings (he couldn't sell things on the street without a 'Hocker's licence', which was $300), or maybe he would just stand in the middle of the bridge and ponder.
The walk to the bridge took a good hour, time he was happy to kill. He continued to think of Oscar, and the masks the world wore. Which was the mask, the binding or the makeup? What truth did each bring?
Sun began to shine in his eyes as it rose higher into the day, cars raced by him, giving him no more thought than the gasoline they were burning or the intricate pattern of broken glass he was now walking through.
He tried to feel compassion for each and every one of them. He knew, in their minds, their lives were just as hard, if not harder, than his. Empathy was a game he liked to play.
Finally he approached the bridge, the sides of the street turned to gravel and then to trees, the river running fast past them. He sat his things in the middle of the walk and looked out over the water. It was called the Red River, apparently because of some ancient clay base. But now it was shit brown, and that was on good days.
It looked partially calm from so high above, but he knew underneath there were small whirlpools waiting to grab and drown those who dared swim.
When he was a bit younger, he had 3 best friends. They all lived in houses on the river, and – despite their parent's warnings – he and his friends would go down to the dock or the park next to his home. On the dock they'd push each other, daring one another to fall in. They would exchange stories of pride and goals, dreaming of the day they would own their own homes next to the water bank.
Each Spring the waters would rise, as the snow melted away, and he and his friends would watch for unusual things to float by. One year, the water rose and melted early on in the year, quickly freezing again. That year a purple couch sat in the middle of the river, tattered and worn, begging to be freed from it's icy prison. He still, even now, wondered how it got there. That was the same year they kids had found a small fort in the woods, made of mattresses. He remembered the brisk air hitting him as he sneaked out at night to walk the path to the woods. He would stare at the pile of mattresses, at the trees, the dirt on his hands and the couch in the ice. Pieces of lives stuck together, a collage of accidents and years gone by.
He knew he'd never dip his feet into the water with those friends again. Not now that he himself was the pastiche.
The summer had come that year, as always, and washed the puzzle. He wondered if he too was heavy to be picked up and carried upstream. He wondered what it would be like, to fall from the bridge, and just let the undercurrent take him away.
He took out his sketch book, after rooting through his things a bit. As the sun beat down, he drew the river's body as a woman's, arms outstretched, trees reaching in at her sides. Perhaps he would paint it the next time he could find some canvas. He'd learned to gather little bits of things for his art, discovering a little stealth or kindness could lead to some treasures. His favourite thing to find was canvas... in his old life, canvas was just fancy paper or fabric stretched over some wood. Now, he could see it in the back of signs, old tables and chairs, once he even found a huge glass door that he could take the glass out from and paint.
Finally it was time again to depart, towards the village. The streets were becoming crowded now, and as his queer home drew nearer, as did the people. It was rank with foot-steps and cell phones, of graffiti and weed. He smiled.
Each door had a new shop, with jazzy earrings or a beckoning hand. Music was always playing from somewhere and people of all sorts hurried around in circles.
A couple of butches with tank-tops and underarm hair stomped past, laughing, their eye brows and lips adorned with matching rainbow piercings.
There were two men, one in an argyle vest and another in a leather jacket. One with a crew-cut, the other with a Mohawk. Their matching rainbow bracelets intertwined as they pressed against the wall of a Chinese restaurant.
An old woman with a million necklaces shuffled by in a daze. He swore he knew her from somewhere... It was his great-grandmother! He hadn't seen her in at least a year.
She walked right by him, without an acknowledgement. He didn't know whether he should be proud or shameful that she thought he was just another young man on the street. He kept moving.
A rich woman clad in all white carried her day's purchases passed a man on the ground with his hat out. The homeless man was there each day, crying out for attention and change.
A few weeks back, when he'd been secretly selling art, that very homeless man had made a complaint to the police... “That girl is selling things, she's blocking the street and she has no Hocker's licence!”
The policeman had been very kind, but explained he could not stay there without that licence. The officer tried to compensate by saying, “Don't worry, I won't call your parents. Just head on home, like a good girl.”
He'd asked, he wasn't even allowed to give away the art for free.
He walked past the homeless man, who did not recognize him either.
He walked up and down a few more times before he grew tired, deciding to go to the Cyber Cafe. Luckily, a kind grrl with an asymmetrical haircut stood behind the counter. She gave him some water and told him he could sit on the couches to read.
The smell of coffee and electronics got the best of him, the hum wooing him into a sleep. He awoke with a criss-cross impression on his face and a free bagel on his lap. He smiled at the treat, scarfing it down happily. He never had appreciated before the fulfilling feeling of real food being crushed beneath his teeth.
Oscar sat with him on the burgundy couch, whispering sweet nothings in his ear.
“Vile deeds, like poison weeds, bloom well in prison air. It is only what is good in man that wastes and withers there.” Oscar reminded him.
His back ached from binding, and his head from memories. He reached into his bag and pulled out a small lunch box. Inside he had 3 cigarettes.
He left his imprint, along with his bags, on the couch, abandoning it briefly for the cement stairs outside. As he puffed he found a free Wi-Fi network and went onto messenger. As if a miracle had struck, he was invited over to a not-friend's house. He knew it would just be a night of the not-friend listing each and every Pokemon and eating the two of them enjoying a feast of 3-day-old chips; but it was a meal and it was a place to rest. He accepted eagerly, as people next door began to drink mid-day at the pub. Their laughter carried to him, he couldn't tell if he hated or loved it.
After smoking, he felt the tar on his teeth. As he walked back into the store, he could practically see the thick cologne the smoke had left on him surrounding his person. He saw the grrl behind the counter had been replaced by a balding older man. One look and he knew it was time to leave again.
He couldn't help but wonder if a prison could be without walls, or guards, or name. If instead of being a place you must be, could it just be living a life in which there was no place for you?
If so, had he really escaped at all?
A loonie shone on the ground outside a coffee shop. He leaned over to recover it, but as he did so there was a sharp pain in his back. A safety pin holding his bandage in place had come undone. The pin sunk into his back and he briefly wondered, if it hit his spine, would it kill him?
He shuffled into Starbucks, only to stare at the two bathrooms in fear. Identical figures on each door stared back at him, one with a skirt and one without. He looked down, he saw no skirt in sight; he shook himself and went into the oh-so-sacred Men's room. He said a silent prayer that no one would disturb him.
The floor was sticky as his boots stomped across it, the air was thick with a funk that coated all the surfaces. Finally, inside the stall, he ripped off his gender and stood there. Topless.
His two... accessories... were red and sore, and a bit smelly. He rubbed them briefly to quell the pain. His body took this opportunity to tell him he needed to pee, but before he could drop his pants there was the faint but deadly sound of the door opening.
Feet crossed the floor, the urinal was next to the stall. A zipper was pulled, a groan was released, along with a fair amount of liquid. After a few breaths from the companion in the room, the stranger re-zipped and walked out without the sounds of running water accompanying the exit.
During all this time, the two of them sharing so little air and space between them, all he could think was please don't tap your foot.
Finally, sweet release.
Before leaving his safety zone, making sure once again the lock on the stall was secure, he re-bound and went through his things for another outfit. The summer's heat was making his regular 3-layer routine near unbearable.
He decided to put on the only thing he was truly scared to wear, a pair of trunks.
In his life before, he had sat out in the yard with his mother. She had just had her third child and was sunbathing, thinner than ever. She looked over at him, in his tank top and shorts, and told him he needed to cut down on the Oroes.
In his life before, he had changed for gym one day, opting to wear his new shorts rather than his old sweat pants. The girl next to him looked down at his baggy shirt and plaid leg-wear. She told him he needed to shave his legs, for goodness sake he was 14 already!
In his life before, shorts were a daemon-pant. They were exposing, and embarrassing. They were butchdyke and useless.
Clenching his teeth, he slipped the fabric over his legs. After this, he even took off one of his layers of shirts, and strode out the stall's door as best he could.
It was then he realized there was a new occupant in the room, standing against the urinal.
A few seconds later he was outside and panting.
He pointed himself towards the nearest Safeway, and before he even took his first step a boy with arm tattoos and pink hair strolled past. His eyes followed the attractive young man, awestruck. The boy caught his eye, awkwardly smiled, and hurried on.
He looked down.
He knew what he had seen, an attractive man walking by a less attractive man, a polite hello and his temporary fantasy was quickly put back in its place.
He knew what the world had just seen. A cute, gay punk man walking by a dumpy homeless, shaven headed lesbo.
He turned back to the Starbucks to change again into his uncomfortable clothes, choose a chance at passing over a more 'freeing' outfit.
The sun pulled itself closer to its resting place.
Mark
“Man. Is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.” whispered Oscar in his ear. He flipped forward with care, the edges were giving way to age and use. Yellowing at the corners, ripping at the slightest ill-planned pull.
Contemplating Oscar's words, he put away the heavy book, it's original vibrant green giving way to cardboard brown. The grass beneath him was suffering a similar fate.
Looking around, he realized the same could be said of this neglected city.
The trees and sky giving way to buildings that aged as soon as they were planted, trash blew by in a toxic wind.
Kicking away an empty grocery bag, he brushed himself down; refusing to give way to the process himself.
He gathered his things, heading towards the bridge that separated this side of town from the Gay Village. Maybe he would go by the Centre, or maybe he would try to illegally sell some of his paintings (he couldn't sell things on the street without a 'Hocker's licence', which was $300), or maybe he would just stand in the middle of the bridge and ponder.
The walk to the bridge took a good hour, time he was happy to kill. He continued to think of Oscar, and the masks the world wore. Which was the mask, the binding or the makeup? What truth did each bring?
Sun began to shine in his eyes as it rose higher into the day, cars raced by him, giving him no more thought than the gasoline they were burning or the intricate pattern of broken glass he was now walking through.
He tried to feel compassion for each and every one of them. He knew, in their minds, their lives were just as hard, if not harder, than his. Empathy was a game he liked to play.
Finally he approached the bridge, the sides of the street turned to gravel and then to trees, the river running fast past them. He sat his things in the middle of the walk and looked out over the water. It was called the Red River, apparently because of some ancient clay base. But now it was shit brown, and that was on good days.
It looked partially calm from so high above, but he knew underneath there were small whirlpools waiting to grab and drown those who dared swim.
When he was a bit younger, he had 3 best friends. They all lived in houses on the river, and – despite their parent's warnings – he and his friends would go down to the dock or the park next to his home. On the dock they'd push each other, daring one another to fall in. They would exchange stories of pride and goals, dreaming of the day they would own their own homes next to the water bank.
Each Spring the waters would rise, as the snow melted away, and he and his friends would watch for unusual things to float by. One year, the water rose and melted early on in the year, quickly freezing again. That year a purple couch sat in the middle of the river, tattered and worn, begging to be freed from it's icy prison. He still, even now, wondered how it got there. That was the same year they kids had found a small fort in the woods, made of mattresses. He remembered the brisk air hitting him as he sneaked out at night to walk the path to the woods. He would stare at the pile of mattresses, at the trees, the dirt on his hands and the couch in the ice. Pieces of lives stuck together, a collage of accidents and years gone by.
He knew he'd never dip his feet into the water with those friends again. Not now that he himself was the pastiche.
The summer had come that year, as always, and washed the puzzle. He wondered if he too was heavy to be picked up and carried upstream. He wondered what it would be like, to fall from the bridge, and just let the undercurrent take him away.
He took out his sketch book, after rooting through his things a bit. As the sun beat down, he drew the river's body as a woman's, arms outstretched, trees reaching in at her sides. Perhaps he would paint it the next time he could find some canvas. He'd learned to gather little bits of things for his art, discovering a little stealth or kindness could lead to some treasures. His favourite thing to find was canvas... in his old life, canvas was just fancy paper or fabric stretched over some wood. Now, he could see it in the back of signs, old tables and chairs, once he even found a huge glass door that he could take the glass out from and paint.
Finally it was time again to depart, towards the village. The streets were becoming crowded now, and as his queer home drew nearer, as did the people. It was rank with foot-steps and cell phones, of graffiti and weed. He smiled.
Each door had a new shop, with jazzy earrings or a beckoning hand. Music was always playing from somewhere and people of all sorts hurried around in circles.
A couple of butches with tank-tops and underarm hair stomped past, laughing, their eye brows and lips adorned with matching rainbow piercings.
There were two men, one in an argyle vest and another in a leather jacket. One with a crew-cut, the other with a Mohawk. Their matching rainbow bracelets intertwined as they pressed against the wall of a Chinese restaurant.
An old woman with a million necklaces shuffled by in a daze. He swore he knew her from somewhere... It was his great-grandmother! He hadn't seen her in at least a year.
She walked right by him, without an acknowledgement. He didn't know whether he should be proud or shameful that she thought he was just another young man on the street. He kept moving.
A rich woman clad in all white carried her day's purchases passed a man on the ground with his hat out. The homeless man was there each day, crying out for attention and change.
A few weeks back, when he'd been secretly selling art, that very homeless man had made a complaint to the police... “That girl is selling things, she's blocking the street and she has no Hocker's licence!”
The policeman had been very kind, but explained he could not stay there without that licence. The officer tried to compensate by saying, “Don't worry, I won't call your parents. Just head on home, like a good girl.”
He'd asked, he wasn't even allowed to give away the art for free.
He walked past the homeless man, who did not recognize him either.
He walked up and down a few more times before he grew tired, deciding to go to the Cyber Cafe. Luckily, a kind grrl with an asymmetrical haircut stood behind the counter. She gave him some water and told him he could sit on the couches to read.
The smell of coffee and electronics got the best of him, the hum wooing him into a sleep. He awoke with a criss-cross impression on his face and a free bagel on his lap. He smiled at the treat, scarfing it down happily. He never had appreciated before the fulfilling feeling of real food being crushed beneath his teeth.
Oscar sat with him on the burgundy couch, whispering sweet nothings in his ear.
“Vile deeds, like poison weeds, bloom well in prison air. It is only what is good in man that wastes and withers there.” Oscar reminded him.
His back ached from binding, and his head from memories. He reached into his bag and pulled out a small lunch box. Inside he had 3 cigarettes.
He left his imprint, along with his bags, on the couch, abandoning it briefly for the cement stairs outside. As he puffed he found a free Wi-Fi network and went onto messenger. As if a miracle had struck, he was invited over to a not-friend's house. He knew it would just be a night of the not-friend listing each and every Pokemon and eating the two of them enjoying a feast of 3-day-old chips; but it was a meal and it was a place to rest. He accepted eagerly, as people next door began to drink mid-day at the pub. Their laughter carried to him, he couldn't tell if he hated or loved it.
After smoking, he felt the tar on his teeth. As he walked back into the store, he could practically see the thick cologne the smoke had left on him surrounding his person. He saw the grrl behind the counter had been replaced by a balding older man. One look and he knew it was time to leave again.
He couldn't help but wonder if a prison could be without walls, or guards, or name. If instead of being a place you must be, could it just be living a life in which there was no place for you?
If so, had he really escaped at all?
A loonie shone on the ground outside a coffee shop. He leaned over to recover it, but as he did so there was a sharp pain in his back. A safety pin holding his bandage in place had come undone. The pin sunk into his back and he briefly wondered, if it hit his spine, would it kill him?
He shuffled into Starbucks, only to stare at the two bathrooms in fear. Identical figures on each door stared back at him, one with a skirt and one without. He looked down, he saw no skirt in sight; he shook himself and went into the oh-so-sacred Men's room. He said a silent prayer that no one would disturb him.
The floor was sticky as his boots stomped across it, the air was thick with a funk that coated all the surfaces. Finally, inside the stall, he ripped off his gender and stood there. Topless.
His two... accessories... were red and sore, and a bit smelly. He rubbed them briefly to quell the pain. His body took this opportunity to tell him he needed to pee, but before he could drop his pants there was the faint but deadly sound of the door opening.
Feet crossed the floor, the urinal was next to the stall. A zipper was pulled, a groan was released, along with a fair amount of liquid. After a few breaths from the companion in the room, the stranger re-zipped and walked out without the sounds of running water accompanying the exit.
During all this time, the two of them sharing so little air and space between them, all he could think was please don't tap your foot.
Finally, sweet release.
Before leaving his safety zone, making sure once again the lock on the stall was secure, he re-bound and went through his things for another outfit. The summer's heat was making his regular 3-layer routine near unbearable.
He decided to put on the only thing he was truly scared to wear, a pair of trunks.
In his life before, he had sat out in the yard with his mother. She had just had her third child and was sunbathing, thinner than ever. She looked over at him, in his tank top and shorts, and told him he needed to cut down on the Oroes.
In his life before, he had changed for gym one day, opting to wear his new shorts rather than his old sweat pants. The girl next to him looked down at his baggy shirt and plaid leg-wear. She told him he needed to shave his legs, for goodness sake he was 14 already!
In his life before, shorts were a daemon-pant. They were exposing, and embarrassing. They were butchdyke and useless.
Clenching his teeth, he slipped the fabric over his legs. After this, he even took off one of his layers of shirts, and strode out the stall's door as best he could.
It was then he realized there was a new occupant in the room, standing against the urinal.
A few seconds later he was outside and panting.
He pointed himself towards the nearest Safeway, and before he even took his first step a boy with arm tattoos and pink hair strolled past. His eyes followed the attractive young man, awestruck. The boy caught his eye, awkwardly smiled, and hurried on.
He looked down.
He knew what he had seen, an attractive man walking by a less attractive man, a polite hello and his temporary fantasy was quickly put back in its place.
He knew what the world had just seen. A cute, gay punk man walking by a dumpy homeless, shaven headed lesbo.
He turned back to the Starbucks to change again into his uncomfortable clothes, choose a chance at passing over a more 'freeing' outfit.
The sun pulled itself closer to its resting place.
Mark
23 February 2010
The Wanderer Part 1
The air was crisp and chill, he walked briskly, unsure of where he was to go. The downtown cement clicking at his heels, he gaped into the empty shops, the caretakers and owners would be there soon... ringing bells, opening doorways, pulling curtains.
Next to a shop for incredibly thin women who liked incredibly hideous dresses was a poster in a shop of a fat woman saying 'love your body'. He smirked at the irony, though he felt like crying.
He'd been up all night, now the morning light felt like a beacon, he could walk home now...
But where was home?
It wasn't with his family, this was for certain. But, it wasn't with the his estranged 'friends', and it wasn't with the Stranger either. His back ached, carrying his heavy back pack, his arms sore from pulling second bag and the suitcase behind him.
Inside were all the worldly possessions he owned, much had been left behind in of his many moves. He would lose more in the months to come. The collection of items was all he had, and it was slowly being chipped away... Like he was being hit by an ebbing tide.
He remembered when he was a child, his family had moved homes when he was 3, out to Victoria Island. He had a small blue bear, one he'd gotten the day he was born, named Corduroy. Corduroy was nothing special, a blue bear with spots on his ears and hands. He had a small bell inside that rang when he was shook, and soft, soft fur. The day of the move, he'd looked everywhere for his bear, he swore he was behind the couch, under the chair, next to his bed. He couldn't find it, and the truck was there. He screamed as his parents carried him to the car, he didn't have his bear! He didn't have Corduroy!
For the next 3 months, he pouted and cried, all he wanted to do was go back to Winnipeg and get that bear. His parent's tried to explain, they couldn't go back, Mommy needed to get her law degree in Vancouver. Finally, his father ordered a Corduroy replica, it was given to him on his 4th birthday that year.
His father explained it was not the same bear, but the new bear had the same soul.
He pulled his possessions down the sidewalk and into the street, tar cracking beneath his feet, breathing heavy, his binding was sweaty and sticky underneath, he hadn't changed bandages in days. He hadn't taken Corduroy with him, when he'd left home he'd left the bear with his baby sister. He'd left so much behind, but he had it's reincarnation.
He was a reincarnation.
More than ever he wished he owned a cell phone, or at least was old enough to have his own plan... or a credit card. Or maybe a job, so he would have money for a pay phone. Maybe he could call another friend tonight, walk over to their neighbourhood, crash for a night or two on some unfamiliar couch in some shag carpeted basement. After a while, they all seem the same.
He got to a Safeway and sat on the stairs outside, he was lucky it was summertime, lucky it was warm, lucky he was done school for this year. Only one more year until he graduated, and he could move into dorms, maybe, or at least find an apartment on his own... for now he knew that was impossible; no one would rent to a 17-year-old.
He pulled out the only sign of his birth-class, an iPod touch. It was only an 8 gig, but it was better than what most kids had in his situation. He didn't get to charge it much, he would like to at the library but he owed them too much money to dare go there. He remembered this and his shoulders ached a little more, knowing he'd never returned "The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde". He had forgotten to the day he dropped off 12 of 14 of his overdue books. He'd sold the other one, in exchange for bus fare, and he was still working his way through Oscar's. He swore to himself he'd return it one day.
Turning on his iPod he searched for the free signal that was at every Safeway, logging on to his Facebook and then to MSN online. No one was online, so he turned off the device to save a little power. He pulled his life over to the nearest patch of grass, over by the bus stop, and lay down to read. He even treated himself to a little bit of music from his iPod, energy conservation be damned.
He was pretty sure where he would end up that night. Either sleeping behind the Queer Youth Drop in Centre, or behind the bookshelf of the Stranger. The Stranger had been good to him, they'd been friends briefly a year before, he'd played babysitter for the Stranger's child, but now he just felt guilty going back there. He couldn't pay rent, and he never did the dishes or cleaned, and the baby now lived with the Stranger's mother. He just lay there, taking up space.
Sometimes the Stranger would let him sleep in the same bed, but it was only a twin size and he never liked the little room and awkward moments. Not that he ever said no if the bed was offered.
The Stranger's basement apartment smelt like mold and hair, like a shower that had been over-used, like a towel in the laundry. It was small, but clean enough, the carpet was a dingy white, and he had a small cot behind the tiny bookshelf in the living room. The Stranger got the bedroom.
He would wake up in the mornings, in boxers and a t-shirt, an crouch behind that bookcase to bind his chest down for the day; as pulled on his withering blue jeans. On days where he'd gone a week or two without washing the jeans, he'd put on his second pair... and on a rare occasion when both were so dirty they were impossible to wear, he'd put on his old girl-jeans from his life before.
The grass was making his arms itch as he rested them on the ground, holding the fraying pages of the book. He smelled the paper, it had the pungent scent of home and of adventure all at once. It smelt like a million fingerprints, and tears, and breath, and laughter.
It smelt like memories.
Stars
I exist in the space between the genders we thought Were.
Then our worlds were blown apart like exploding stars, giving birth to new worlds in the Darkness.
I stand here, alone but whole, for nobody can stand here with Me.
My voice echoes off the stones, My music comes back to Me, the poetry of My Self keeping its own company.
I twirl here, beautiful and free, while life flows around Me, over and through Me, people reflecting each other's worlds like children in funhouse mirrors, passing by like golden leaves on an autumn river.
Some catch in an eddy and dance with Me, others glide on, leaving us with little more of each other than one
fleeting
glimpse.
I am man, I am woman.
I am son, I am daughter.
I am mother and father.
I am sister and brother.
I am some of everything and all of nothing, I am contradiction embodied,
living in one unique form in one unique place at one unique moment in time.
I am perfect in My imperfection.
I am Myself.
And that is all I need to be.
Keith
Then our worlds were blown apart like exploding stars, giving birth to new worlds in the Darkness.
I stand here, alone but whole, for nobody can stand here with Me.
My voice echoes off the stones, My music comes back to Me, the poetry of My Self keeping its own company.
I twirl here, beautiful and free, while life flows around Me, over and through Me, people reflecting each other's worlds like children in funhouse mirrors, passing by like golden leaves on an autumn river.
Some catch in an eddy and dance with Me, others glide on, leaving us with little more of each other than one
fleeting
glimpse.
I am man, I am woman.
I am son, I am daughter.
I am mother and father.
I am sister and brother.
I am some of everything and all of nothing, I am contradiction embodied,
living in one unique form in one unique place at one unique moment in time.
I am perfect in My imperfection.
I am Myself.
And that is all I need to be.
Keith
22 February 2010
Tranny Chasers
To me, the term 'tranny chaser' counjours up images of a dirty old man in adult book shop. It's not a nice term, it's not a nice thing. My understanding of the term is that it someone who has a sexual fetish for transsexual people, I.E. they fetishise the transsexual aspects of those people. To me a tranny chaser isn't someone who has an attraction to the person, just the physical charactaristics that usually define transsexualism.
I know the term can be banded about far too easily and people in the trans community can be quick to label someone a tranny chaser when it's not the case at all. A friend brought up a genuine point, she was branded a tranny chaser by a group of transpeople because she expressed an attraction to transmen and women. She made the point, by their logic, if a transperson is attracted to another transperson, does that not then make them a tranny chaser? I know myself as a transman who has been attracted to other transpeople, that I'm not a tranny chaser, there's no fetish involved for me and the same is true for my friend.
So what does it make me? Well not a tranny chaser for one. When defining my sexuality, I tend to use the terms queer or pansexual. My primary attraction is to cisgendered females, but I'm not going to rule anything out, so I don't define it too specifically. There is a clear difference between someone who has a genuine attraction to a person who is a transsexual and someone who has a fetish for the transsexual aspects of a person's body.
What my greater concern is, why are we so quick to brand someone a tranny chaser? Why are we so quick to push these people away from our community? To slap this quite frankly derogatory term on them and react so violently towards them? I see the trans community talk about feeling excluded from the 'LGBTQPI' community as a whole, yet when someone from another letter in the acronym shows an interest, we reject it.
I used to see something similar when I was still identifying as a lesbian (a good many years ago!), in pubs and clubs on 'the scene' in Glasgow, the girls I was with branding others as "hettys" and being so disdainful and hateful towards them. I think they felt that it was an attack on their space, there are so many 'straight' clubs in Glasgow yet at that time there was maybe 3 or 4 gay pubs and basically 1 club. Is it the same mentality that is prevailing? A feeling of "us and them"?
Something I'm finding as the trans community comes into it's own, is that with the spectrum of gender identities out there, there's alot of 'gender fucking' going on. The porn that the queer community is producing reflects this, different body types, different genders getting it on and getting off. Where's the harm in that?
Personally, I don't want to be fetishised for those parts of my body. To me, they are abhorrant, and for someone's primary interest in me to be just those parts, it would be an insult to me. On the other hand, if someone was attracted to me for who I was, and who I am because I am trans, well that's just fine by me.
Keltik
I know the term can be banded about far too easily and people in the trans community can be quick to label someone a tranny chaser when it's not the case at all. A friend brought up a genuine point, she was branded a tranny chaser by a group of transpeople because she expressed an attraction to transmen and women. She made the point, by their logic, if a transperson is attracted to another transperson, does that not then make them a tranny chaser? I know myself as a transman who has been attracted to other transpeople, that I'm not a tranny chaser, there's no fetish involved for me and the same is true for my friend.
So what does it make me? Well not a tranny chaser for one. When defining my sexuality, I tend to use the terms queer or pansexual. My primary attraction is to cisgendered females, but I'm not going to rule anything out, so I don't define it too specifically. There is a clear difference between someone who has a genuine attraction to a person who is a transsexual and someone who has a fetish for the transsexual aspects of a person's body.
What my greater concern is, why are we so quick to brand someone a tranny chaser? Why are we so quick to push these people away from our community? To slap this quite frankly derogatory term on them and react so violently towards them? I see the trans community talk about feeling excluded from the 'LGBTQPI' community as a whole, yet when someone from another letter in the acronym shows an interest, we reject it.
I used to see something similar when I was still identifying as a lesbian (a good many years ago!), in pubs and clubs on 'the scene' in Glasgow, the girls I was with branding others as "hettys" and being so disdainful and hateful towards them. I think they felt that it was an attack on their space, there are so many 'straight' clubs in Glasgow yet at that time there was maybe 3 or 4 gay pubs and basically 1 club. Is it the same mentality that is prevailing? A feeling of "us and them"?
Something I'm finding as the trans community comes into it's own, is that with the spectrum of gender identities out there, there's alot of 'gender fucking' going on. The porn that the queer community is producing reflects this, different body types, different genders getting it on and getting off. Where's the harm in that?
Personally, I don't want to be fetishised for those parts of my body. To me, they are abhorrant, and for someone's primary interest in me to be just those parts, it would be an insult to me. On the other hand, if someone was attracted to me for who I was, and who I am because I am trans, well that's just fine by me.
Keltik
8 February 2010
Trangst: Comparing Yourself to Others, Measuring Up & Being Happy with Yourself
Sometimes as transmen (and transwomen, too) we have a hard time feeling like "real men," (or "real women" in a transwoman's case) or in some essence that our masculinity is not on the same level as other guys', both trans and not. We tend to get caught up comparing ourselves to non trans males and get hung up about it; we do the same when we see other transguys further in transition or who might possess a masculine physical trait that we particularly desire, like facial hair, penis growth, or a deep voice, etc, and feel like we will never be where he is at, look as masculine as he does, or that we will never even really feel like a "real man" (whatever that is).
I certainly felt that a lot in the beginning of my transition. I would look at other transguys that were much farther than me into transition and be so envious of them; the non transmale hate came when I started passing more regularly and thus was seen to be on their level/"as one of them" and thus was able/had to "compete" with them.
The first photo is me (right) in the fall of 2005, just months before starting testosterone. I was 21, but felt 12, sometimes 15 if I was lucky. I felt like a little high school boy compared to the people my age, especially women. I was uncomfortable around non transmales because not having medically transitioned at the time, I was neither man nor women to them because I was female-bodied but certainly not feminine and anybody they would be interested in, but at the same time, they did not accept me as a male, one of the bros, etc, even though they knew of my transgender identity and that I identified as male, not female. This was entirely frustrating, but at the time I can see that they were not acting only out of ignorance, but the energy they were receiving from me was completely and utterly confusing to them, whether they could physically recognize this or not.
It makes sense; I was uncomfortable with myself. Extremely. How could I expect others to feel comfortable around me? The energy I was giving off was of extreme confusion and coming from two opposite poles to them- both the male and female. On one hand they did not see me as a "normal" girl, but at the same time, I was not a "normal" guy to them either.
The second picture was taken in the summer of 2003 or 2004 when I was not yet trans-identified; I hadn't yet discovered the term "transgender." Clearly I did not dress in a feminine manner and looked quite androgynous. This photo perfectly illustrates the level of discomfort I was at with myself with a body and identity that didn't fit me. The energy and vibes people were getting from me very chaotic, confused, and intense. Perhaps if I had made this realization when I was first transitioning, lack of immediate acceptance would have been more understood on my part and caused much less grief, anxiety, and stress on my part. You live and learn, right?
One of the things that has helped me move from a very depressive, low emotional state was to realize that it is okay to be different. As simple and cliche as it sounds, it is so true. Nobody, whether they're trans or not will be happy if they constantly compare themselves to others. There will always be those that have more, those that have less, and those that actually are jealous of YOU and what you have (believe it or not).
Diversity is one of the many things that makes the human race so unique; no one wants to be a carbon copy of everyone else, except when they're in middle school. You will be happy once you can get comfortable with not having to keep up with others, not comparing what you have to what they have, not always playing Transguy vs. Non Transguy Face-Off in your head; basically, once you can learn to like and value yourself for who you are and not always stressing yourself over who you are compared to others will you ever be happy.
You can still do the things that you like to do and that make you happy without worrying if your actions are "masculine" enough, or "if guys would really do that." You event what it means to be your own man, your own person. Don't let someone else define it for you. Or as Judy Garland more eloquently put it:
"Always be a first-rate version of yourself, instead of a second-rate version of somebody else."
I leave you with a video from 7 year old Jazz, who is wise far beyond her years and sums up simply yet eloquently in a 37 second video what it takes most people their whole lives to come to terms with and accept.
Charles
I certainly felt that a lot in the beginning of my transition. I would look at other transguys that were much farther than me into transition and be so envious of them; the non transmale hate came when I started passing more regularly and thus was seen to be on their level/"as one of them" and thus was able/had to "compete" with them.
The first photo is me (right) in the fall of 2005, just months before starting testosterone. I was 21, but felt 12, sometimes 15 if I was lucky. I felt like a little high school boy compared to the people my age, especially women. I was uncomfortable around non transmales because not having medically transitioned at the time, I was neither man nor women to them because I was female-bodied but certainly not feminine and anybody they would be interested in, but at the same time, they did not accept me as a male, one of the bros, etc, even though they knew of my transgender identity and that I identified as male, not female. This was entirely frustrating, but at the time I can see that they were not acting only out of ignorance, but the energy they were receiving from me was completely and utterly confusing to them, whether they could physically recognize this or not.
It makes sense; I was uncomfortable with myself. Extremely. How could I expect others to feel comfortable around me? The energy I was giving off was of extreme confusion and coming from two opposite poles to them- both the male and female. On one hand they did not see me as a "normal" girl, but at the same time, I was not a "normal" guy to them either.
The second picture was taken in the summer of 2003 or 2004 when I was not yet trans-identified; I hadn't yet discovered the term "transgender." Clearly I did not dress in a feminine manner and looked quite androgynous. This photo perfectly illustrates the level of discomfort I was at with myself with a body and identity that didn't fit me. The energy and vibes people were getting from me very chaotic, confused, and intense. Perhaps if I had made this realization when I was first transitioning, lack of immediate acceptance would have been more understood on my part and caused much less grief, anxiety, and stress on my part. You live and learn, right?
One of the things that has helped me move from a very depressive, low emotional state was to realize that it is okay to be different. As simple and cliche as it sounds, it is so true. Nobody, whether they're trans or not will be happy if they constantly compare themselves to others. There will always be those that have more, those that have less, and those that actually are jealous of YOU and what you have (believe it or not).
Diversity is one of the many things that makes the human race so unique; no one wants to be a carbon copy of everyone else, except when they're in middle school. You will be happy once you can get comfortable with not having to keep up with others, not comparing what you have to what they have, not always playing Transguy vs. Non Transguy Face-Off in your head; basically, once you can learn to like and value yourself for who you are and not always stressing yourself over who you are compared to others will you ever be happy.
You can still do the things that you like to do and that make you happy without worrying if your actions are "masculine" enough, or "if guys would really do that." You event what it means to be your own man, your own person. Don't let someone else define it for you. Or as Judy Garland more eloquently put it:
"Always be a first-rate version of yourself, instead of a second-rate version of somebody else."
I leave you with a video from 7 year old Jazz, who is wise far beyond her years and sums up simply yet eloquently in a 37 second video what it takes most people their whole lives to come to terms with and accept.
Charles
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