Lizzy's t-Spot

Barney's -- So Much More than a Big, Purple Dinosaur

2014-02-14T08:00:00.000-05:00

Do you all know about Barney's spring campaign “Brothers, Sisters, Sons & Daughters,” featuring 17 transgender individuals and photographed by fashion-photographer icon Bruce Weber?

You can watch the five-minute video below.

There's also a 36-minute film about the project, which can't be embedded but can be watched at Brothers, Sisters, Sons & Daughters: The Film.

Finally, you can read about the models starting here.

And, yes, Barney's is the store that was caught racially profiling, which begs the question: if any of the black models were to shop there, would they be frisked on the way out?

Janet Mock vs Piers Morgan -- a Different View

2014-02-13T08:00:00.001-05:00

So, by now we've all heard the story. Janet Mock goes on Piers Morgan to plug her new book. Morgan conducts the interview, they shake hands, and then Mock begins to complain about the interview, saying to the Huff Post "He really just called me a man to my face." Mock and Morgan traded some nasty tweets, then she went back for a second interview, this time live, that left both host and guest unhappy.

Mock's primary complaint seems to be that Morgan, instead of focusing on her life as a successful transgendered woman--she is an editor at people.com and a respected activist and advocate for the transgendered community--he honed in almost entirely on the fact that until 18 she was physically a boy. Indeed, if you watch the first interview, you see the sub-title "Was a boy until age 18" underlying parts of the video.

My problem is two-fold. First, she accuses Morgan of concentrating on the fact that she used to be physically a boy while pushing a book entitled "Redefining Realness: My Path to Womanhood, Identity, Love & So Much More" which, though I haven't read it, would seem to be about that very thing, that she used to be a boy. In fact, if she hadn't once been physically male, she wouldn't have had much to write about. After all, reading about the path to womanhood of a born-woman is hardly groundbreaking, must-read literature. The fact that she used to be a boy is probably the reason she got the publishing deal in the first place.

Second, I am getting a bit tired of people in our "community" biting the hand that feeds them. Morgan complains--and rightly so--that he is on our side, and yet she jumps all over him. What? There aren't enough real bigots around that she has to manufacture one? Was that Duck Dynasty asshole unavailable for an interview? We have to stop slamming our allies and concentrate on our real enemies.

But hey: what do I know? You can make up your own minds. Here are the two interviews, courtesy of the fabulous YouTube.com.

A Tale of Two Plane Rides

2014-02-12T20:47:00.002-05:00

As I wrote about in my last post, I am not a big fan of androgyny, or more precisely, my presenting androgynously. Over the past few weeks, I I've begun to rethink this, at least a little. On my recent trip to Seattle, I flew home as Liz on the way home, and I described the less-than-earth-shattering results here.

On the way out, however, I was fairly androgynous in my presentation, without being over-the-top. I was wearing my women's coat and a pair of baby-blue New Balance sneakers, and I carried the bag

I did NOT look like this guy

that my wife refers to as a man purse. I was pleased, and felt relaxed ... I was at home with myself, and though there might have been some raised eyebrows, I didn't see them.

On the way back, I was full-on Liz, and felt, what? Somewhat nervous and afraid of being read, though I don't think I was. I was aware that I was Liz, and that I had to be on my guard, thinking about voice and movement. I went to the bathroom and panicked when I saw how bad my face looked in the horrible, convinced that I was surely read by everybody I came across, and that I was being laughed at--or worse!--behind my back. When I got to more normal lighting, I saw that it was fine, and my paranoia had simply been working overtime.

Which of these experiences is more positive? Which did I enjoy more? As Liz, I reveled--as usual--in being "one of the girls," sharing in that easy camaraderie with other women. smiling at each other knowingly, etc. But at the same time, there was an underlying sense of unease at the thought of discovery, as remote as the chance might be.

When I was androgynous, there was none of the anxiety, but none of the camaraderie either. I was able to express femininity without the worry of discovery. I felt relaxed and with no worries, but I did not that special satisfaction of being perceived and treated as a woman.

Two different flights, two different experiences. Although on balance, I would rather be entirely Elizabeth, anxiety and all, androgyny allows expression of my dual nature when I can't be completely Liz. Hopefully, I can move toward a more day-to-day mixing. Can I do this on a regular basis? Will it help me to feel more at ease, more complete?

I don't know, but I'm on the journey to find out. Film at eleven.

Androgyny?

2014-02-10T19:28:00.001-05:00

I don't like being androgynous -- if I want to be a woman, I want to go all the way. If I am in guy mode, I want to be all the way guy. Or as all the way as a guy with a feminine haircut and plucked eyebrows can be. I realizing that by insisting on being one or another, I am doing my bit to perpetuate a gender binary that's kept free expression in check for millennia, but I can't help it. In the words of the great Aristotle (or maybe it was somebody else), I yam what I yam.

Younger trans-folk are experimenting with gender as never before, doing their best to obliterate that ol' binary. A good friend of mine, who I'll call Sue, is offended by this ... she doesn't want to obliterate the binary, just to live on the pole opposite from that which she was assigned at birth. I think our reluctance to gender blend is in part generational -- we were raised up with pretty rigid gender roles. Womanhood was defined by 50s icons like Donna Reed on one end and Marilyn Monroe on the other. Neither, of course, were in the least androgynous.

Today, pop icons mix n' match with abandon. One of the earliest women to do so was, of course, Madonna, who at 55, I am happy to say, is still kickin' it. Spiritual descendant Lady GaGa is currently on top, and on the male side, Andrej Pejić has graced more trans blogs than Ru Paul (thank God). Popular culture has loosened up tremendously in over the past couple of decades, and young trans-whatever's willingness to play around in the middle of the continuum is a direct result, and a great thing.

It's just not for me ... until recently. In the next post, I'll let y'all know what I mean.

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Somewhere Over Idaho

2014-02-09T16:43:00.001-05:00

So I'm coming home from Seattle to Cincy, and flying as Liz for the first time. It is ridiculously easy. I debated whether or not to go through security completely dressed, but realized that I didn't have a bra without metal clasps, and I didn't want to get wanded (I have to remember to get a sports bra for next time). Instead, I put on foundation before I left the apt., with a sparkly blue tunic and leggings underneath my male khakis. In my carry-on, I put my forms, bling, a pair of comfortable flats, and the rest of my make-up. I went through security with no problems, and changed he rest of the way in the first uni-sex bathroom I saw. Easy-peasy.

The biggest problem is that I have an extra carry-on, besides my purse, and of COURSE, we flew out of D8, the absolute furthest D-gate at Seattle, and there was no people mover. And in Chicago, I have a tight connection with another long walk. Thank goodness for those comfy flats

A lots of trans-folk make a big deal of this. There's even an entire blog dedicated to the experience (which, don't get me wrong, I adore). The truth of it is that it is not as big a deal as we tend to make it; airport personnel have seen it all, and there are even TSA directives on how to treat trans-women *vis-a-vis* the whole body scanner issue (I wasn't scanned in Seattle, though I was in Dayton on the way out.)

The moral if my story? Though it was a thrill, it was also kind of ho-hum at the same time. If your're on the fence about "flying pretty," don't hesitate. Just do it.

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Ghost No More

2014-01-31T17:51:00.001-05:00

Geez Louise, it's been almost two years since the last post to this blog. During that time, I've moved (twice!) and changed jobs (only once). I've started to get out as Liz a lot more, and my skills at what Stana would call femulation have matured. I rarely get read any more, and when I do, it's more an uncertainty, like "there's something different about her, I wonder ..."

The thing is, it doesn't feel like emulation to me, whether with an 'f' or not. When I'm Liz, I feel like me, and when I'm my male self, I feel like me, too. Don't get me wrong, I don't feel like a born woman when I'm Liz, I have to be a bit careful in public, mindful of my "t's and q's." I guess what I do feel like is a trans woman. If I were to put a label on what I am, it would be dual-gendered, perhaps two-spirited, I don't know, but mainly just me.

Well. Reintroductions aside, I will be posting here again, general t-stuff, and over at my new blog, TransSpiration.org, where I'll write things of a more serious, spiritual nature. I hope you'll check it out!

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Ghosts in the Machine

2012-02-12T10:53:00.001-05:00

So. I've been out and about, as countless trans-picture albums put it, for a number of months, since mid-September, really. And I have precious little to show for it, at least in terms of that tgirl currency supreme, the photograph. That's because I'm always by myself, there is never anybody out there with me. I visit coffee shops, malls, thrift shops, malls (and, uh, malls) all without noticeable incident -- one or two odd looks, maybe, but nothing ugly. But setting up a tripod or asking a stranger to take a picture are not exactly ways to blend in, so I never do.

Once in awhile, I see other ghosts in the machine, other lost t-folk flitting amongst the civilians, and I wonder if they're as lonely as me? I remember one poor woman, in the Salvation Army store, who kept her eyes straight ahead, never looking at anyone, never drawing attention to herself, and I wanted to say "I've been where you are, my friend, I understand." But I didn't . . . I was in drab, and being approached by a strange middle aged man with a knowing look isn't conducive to ones equilibrium. Although perhaps she guessed, as I was perusing the women's shoe section at the time.

Why do we do these things to ourselves? Why do we isolate ourselves from the only ones who understand? Fear is the key . . . fear of rejection, of exposure, of ridicule. Fear that if we are exposed, we will lose everything, all we think we love and cherish, gone in one frightening second of recognition. As Frank Herbert wrote, "fear is the mind-killer." It's also the soul-crusher and the spirit slayer. I salute those who have overcome it, who have come out in the face of terrible condemnation and been their true selves, and hope someday to join them.

On Christmas Shopping . . . For me.

2012-02-02T14:06:00.000-05:00

Many trans folk like Halloween because it's the only time of year they can dress the way they want with no -- well, fewer -- questions asked. Many like Christmas for a similar reason: you can buy clothing of your preferred gender without embarrassment or question. It is possible to get real elaborate with it, too: the fake shopping list was always one of my favorites, and there's always the "she's just about my size ..."

I am convinced that most sales people are chuckling to themselves and thinking "yeah, sure ..." And the thing is, they really don't care, most of them anyway: after all, the more sales, the more secure their jobs. That's one reason I've pretty much abandoned the practice of obvious excuses ... at fifty-something, I just don't care any more. Heck, I don't have time to care. So I'll go shopping for most things in male mode, especially things that a guy might buy for his wife ... shoes, tops, jeans, jewelry, almost anything.

Of course, here in the Bible Belt, you occasionally run into someone who objects on religious grounds and assumes -- correctly -- that you are buying for yourself. You can usually tell when that happens, because a look of disgust crosses their face. I had that happen one time at a J.C. Penney's in Birmingham, when I hauled a load of tops up to the plus-size register, and the cashier shot me a look that would freeze over hell. Of course, it didn't help that they were all on 60% discount ... even the cheapest guy wouldn't buy gifts for his S.O. from the clearance rack. More than once, anyway.

Bad blogger! Bad blogger!

2012-02-01T22:23:00.000-05:00

I have been a baaaad blogger. It's been almost two months since my last post. I just lost the motivation. It was like, I'd start a post, then when it got to the point I needed to stop and think, to the point that I was at a momentary impassé, I would just give up. I lacked the motivation to get back to it.

Part of the problem is that I have been diagnosed with adult ADHD, and one of the symptoms is that its harder to get motivated to get past the little roadblocks that crop up along the way. Whenever a task arises that is unpleasant, we all have to work up the motivation to get over the "hump" of resistance that is created. For people with ADHD, that hump is higher -- sometimes a lot higher. And the symptoms of ADHD generally get worse when one is under stress, as I have during the past year over employment issues.

To compound the issue, I discovered over the Christmas break that I am clinically depressed, and probably have been for years. This is not uncommon in ADHD-ers ... being perceived as a screw-up all your life wears on a person. But in my case, I have the extra added bonus of a load of shame for being TG. "Stuffing it," as my therapist puts it, hiding and burying part of me all these years tends to produce a profound depressive malaise. As we all know, the rate of depression is much higher in trans-folk than in the general population.

Well. As I write this, I am on my second day of anti-depressants -- a SSRI, if you must know -- and I am waiting to see if it works. Which can take a month with this stuff, and that's speedy With the originals, it could take months to work your way up to an effective dosage. But this one goes to full dosage after a week, and then we'll see.

Another Good Thing

2011-12-04T10:00:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I said that the good thing about the Neil Patrick Harris flap is a funny headline in LGBTQ Nation. Actually, here's another good thing:

A little education for the gay community, which sometimes seems to tolerate us only marginally better than society at large. The original is here.

Poor Neil

2011-12-03T20:32:00.001-05:00

That cute little 'ol thang

We've all heard of the Neil Patrick Harris kerfluffle by now ... on last Friday's Live With Regis and Kelly, NPH said the word "tranny" not once, but twice. Here's how the web-zine On Top described it:

During a segment with Science Bob, Harris and host Kelly Ripa inhaled sulfur hexafluoride, refereed to as “helium's evil twin” by the scientist.

Harris received big laughs from the studio audience when he delivered the line, “It puts the lotion in the basket,” a reference to the transgender villain Buffalo Bill in The Silence of the Lambs.

“I've never sounded more like a tranny in my life,” Harris said after his voice retilurned to normal. “We can sound like trannies all the time. That would sound hilarious.”

Yes. Hilarious. To sound like trans-women desperately trying to make their voices right, so they don't get beat up or worse, is a barrel of laughs. Or to associate the psychopath from Silence with the transgendered one more time ...

Anyway, NPH is a cute little thing, and he apologized in a cute little way -- in a tweet, natch -- saying

“Truly sorry for saying the word 'tranny' on Live this week. Twice! Should have been more thoughtful. Didn't at all mean to offend.”

And I, for one, am willing to accept his apology -- he's so cute -- even though it was clearly premeditated, as the lead-in of Buffalo Bill shows.

But the good side to all of this is the headline

"Even Neil Patrick Harris can’t say ‘tranny’ — a teachable moment"

Poor Neil.

et tu, DES?

2011-11-30T21:02:00.000-05:00

Like many of us, I have agonized off and on over the years about why I am this way. Society's conventional wisdom is that it issinful -- whether they use the theological term or not -- that it is perverted, and that it's something we choose to do. So pervasive are these beliefs that we ourselves become convinced of them, and keep it all hidden, often from our closest loved ones. All of which leads to a huge wad of shame, closed up lives, and increasingly dysfunctional relationships.

Of course, theories abound about the origin of trans, from the psychological -- dominant mother, nebbishy father, etc. -- to the physical, such hormonal anomalies in the womb. In recent years, there has been increasing evidence that Diethylstylbesterol (DES), administered prenatally to millions of women over a period of three decades, may play a role. Approved in 1941 for a variety of gynecological conditions, it's use was expanded in 1947 to women with a prior history of miscarriage. In the early 1970s, it was linked to a rare form of cancer in women who were exposed prenatally, and was discontinued. In that time, between the late 40s and early 70s, five to 10 million women are estimated to have been exposed to it, either prenatally or during their pregnancies.

DES is a powerful estrogenizing drug, so its role in the feminization of biological males has always been suspected. However, though the effects of prenatal DES have been well-documented in women (so-called "DES daughters), that is not the case with the estimated one to three million "DES sons." Over the years, researchers have reported structural abnormalities of the male reproductive system, links to "psychiatric" phenomena, such as anxiety and depressive disorders, and suspected ties to gender-related issues. However, due to a variety of factors, sample sizes have been so low that no definite conclusions could be reached, especially with respect to gender issues.

In 2005, Dr. Scott P. Kerlin published a paper based on surveys of the "DES Sons International Network," an organization of men exposed prenatally to the compound. The results were stunning: in the survey of 500 DES sons with confirmed or strongly suspected exposure, the three most frequently "core health concerns," in descending order, are (a) gender-identity (over 150 reports);
(b) psychological issues, especially depression and anxiety disorders (100 reports); and (c) hormonal/endocrine issues (at least 75 reports). Amazingly, nearly one third of all respondents listed gender identity as a major health issue.

Here's the breakdown: Of the 158 reporting gender-identity issues,

90 (57%) self-identified as pre-or-post-op transsexual
48 (30%) self-identified as transgendered
17 (11%) self-identified as gender-dysphoric
3 (2%) self-identified as intersexed

For me, this is revelatory: besides being transgendered, I have had anxiety disorder and at least one of the physical an mother omalies reported elsewhere in the paper. Further, I was born in 1953, at the height of DES use, and my mother had a miscarriage prior to my birth.

Although I have no idea if she was treated with DES, you can bet I will be finding out soon.

Thanks to Christen Bustani who, in her marvelous blog, pointed me to this issue.
There is an earlier version of Kerling's paper here.

A Place to Feel Safe

2011-11-26T17:20:00.001-05:00

At Forest Perk

I returned to Forest Perk Coffee a couple of days before Thanksgiving, two weeks after my near disaster with the keys. As as I ordered my coffee and scone, the barista grinned at me and said "Don't lose your keys this time," and I got a warm and fuzzy feeling, thinking "he remembered me!" Then I thought, well wouldn't anybody remember an largish t-girl who'd had him on the floor moving furniture last time she was in? We are, if nothing else, memorable.

I smiled back and accepted my change, and I was totally disarmed, totally relaxed. He'd made me feel at ease, but more than that: I was beginning to make acquaintances as Liz. He did not know me as my other half. As I noted before, he surely knew I was trans, my voice was all over the place (how much harder it is to control in random conversation!) and it didn't matter.

On my last visit, I was nervous as a cat -- wary and guarded. I tried to read a book on my trusty Kindle, but didn't get far. I could not relax, and it doubtless played a part in the losing of my keys in my own handbag. This visit was different: nibbling at my scone, I edited a paper on my tablet, then read a good chunk of the novel I was working on. I felt comfortable and calm and at ease. And as I walked out with a cheery "take care," waving my keys in the air with a smile, I reflected on how lucky I was. Because of combination of circumstances and friendly, truly kind people, I found what many in our community never do: a place to feel safe.

I hear a lot about how when we're out at "T-friendly" places -- gay bars, t-girl nights, support groups -- that we're just in a "bigger closet," and I suppose that's true. And some might categorize Forest Perk that way, even though I didn't know it was t-friendly going in: I just liked the looks of it and took a risk. But if it is a bigger closet, it's a lot bigger than the one I was in, and a lot less lonely too. And I'll take that any day of the week.

Thanksgiving Wishes

2011-11-24T11:02:00.000-05:00

And so this is Thanksgiving (sorry, John). And some of us are gathering around hearth and home, with friends and family, preparing to overeat outrageously, then diet frantically until Christmas, when the cycle begins all over again.

Some of us aren't so lucky: some of us are alone, and all the homey clichés presented on television and the web rub the wounds raw. All the perfect families gathered around the perfect tables, all the ads reminding us that every gift begins with Zales ... they remember the way it was for them, and think about all they have given up to be themselves.

This is for them. Happy Thanksgiving. Never give up.

Elizabeth's Excellent Adventures -- Coffee Time, Part II

2011-11-22T21:31:00.001-05:00

Ok. When we last saw our intrepid explorer, her worst fear had apparently come true: she had lost her keys somewhere. And in my mind, I already was having to call a locksmith and one of two things would happen:

I would remain Liz, and endure ridicule and possible bodily harm when Bubba showed up to spring the car door, or
I'd call Bubba, then repair into the coffee-house bathroom, change into my drab other half, and wait for him to show up. In front of the customers and baristas, who would know who I am in both incarnations, and I'd never be able to go back there again.

Before settling on door number 2, I decided to go into the coffee house and look around the comfy leather chair in which I'd been sitting, on the off-chance that the keys were there. So I did: I walked over to the chair (thank goodness another customer hadn't since occupied it) and began to look around it on the floor, run my hands around the cushion edges, and etc. One of the baristas -- the cute bald one with the neat goate -- asked what I'd lost, and I said, my keys, and he began to help me look. Finally, I dropped down on my knees to look under the chair, and he proceeded to say: "Here, let me move it for you."
And I'd like to believe it was chivalry, and it might have been. He might have been one of those rare guys who treat you the way you obviously wish to be treated, gender-wise. I know he knew I was trans: if he hadn't tumbled to it when I first came in, he surely did now. My voice had grown increasingly unreliable as my panic had set in, and I'm sure my deportment wasn't of the highest caliber. But he treated me as he would anybody else, and for that I am profoundly grateful.

Well. The keys were not in or around the chair, so with a sense of impending doom, I moved on to the ladies room, the only other place I'd been. I could feel Bubba's hot breath already -- I didn't see the keys anywhere in the small room.

Then, before I bowed to the inevitable, I decided to search my bag one more time, even though I'd been through it frantically out at the car. I searched the front pocket I'd searched before ... nothing. I searched the main compartment I'd searched before ... nothing. Finally, I searched the capacious back pocket I'd searched before ... and somehow, there it was. I was one relieved t-girl.

Elizabeth's Excellent Adventures -- Coffee Time

2011-11-15T14:36:00.000-05:00

I'm not much into the club scene -- and have nobody to go with if I were -- and the quiet atmosphere of a good coffeehouse and a book relaxes me and allows me to decompress as few experiences can. So simply sitting as myself, as Liz, in a coffeehouse and chilling had become something of a lodestone in my journey of, well, out-and-about-ness. I was determined to do it on one of my weekly trips to my Birmingham therapist. As I said in a previous post, I found what I thought was the perfect place: Forest Perk Coffee in the South Side area of Birmingham, and so last Tuesday, I was determined to go for it.

Once again, I was able to get ready at home, though I was determined not to take as long as last time. In this I succeeded: beginning at about 8:15 am, I applied my makeup (Maybelline mineral foundation, a sweep of blush, and a couple of coats of lippy) and my new auburn wig. I chose -- after much less hesitation than last week -- a nice blue top over a white lace-trimmed cami, denim capris, and 10-dollar black flats from J.C. Penney. Finally, I threw on a cardigan -- its finally gotten cooler here in Alabam -- and some jewelry, and I was out the door shortly before nine. Not bad, not bad at all.

Unfortunately, advanced planning is not my forté, and I'd neglected to get cash before hand, so 15 precious minutes were wasted getting to the closest branch of my bank. Hey, I'm not comfortable enough to buy something with my (male) debit card ... what if he asked for my license? How humiliating would that be?

Anyway. I pulled into the parking lot of Forest Perk at about twenty past ten and courageously ... dithered. Do you know about dithering? If you're a t-girl who has ventured at all, it is likely that you do. Oh, I'm a lot better than I used to be about it, but still: this was going into uncharted territory, with face-to-face interaction and -- so my imagination told me -- a high chance of ridicule. So, I dithered. I transferred my necessaries -- keys, lipstick, powder, license, cash -- from my everyday Baggalini into a purse I'd brought, but whoops! My 2nd generation Kindle wouldn't fit. So, everything back into the bag, which works just fine as a purse, and last and very carefully, the keys: it is a particular fear of mine to be locked out of my car and having to call a locksmith, and he comes along -- his name is Billy Earl -- and after laughing uproariously, beats the living sh*t out of me.

So I put the keys very deliberately in my bag, locked the car, turned and saw that there was a man and woman sitting outside the coffee house chatting and I just knew they were going to turn as one and start laughing at me, then follow me into the coffee house pointing and laughing. So, I dithered some more ... looking in my bag for some imaginary item, opening the car door and looking on the front seat for same imaginary item, the usual ... but finally I slapped myself mentally and started across the lot, toward the door, past my soon-to-be tormentors and ... nothing happened. Not a thing. They barely even glanced up.

Nobody did anything, as a matter of fact. I waltzed up to the counter, the man behind it asked me what I wanted, I told him a large drip coffee. He asked if I wanted room for cream, I told him no, and he handed me the cup. I took it to a table, went to the ladies room, then settled into the comfy armchair to read and sip my coffee. Nobody looked at me funny, nobody giggled then turned quickly away, nobody said "boo."

After too short a time -- I had banked and dithered far too long -- I walked out past the other patrons, who still didn't bat an eye, back across the parking lot, and reached into my purse for my keys. They weren't in the pocket I remember putting them in. I reached the car and began to rummage in the other pockets. Nothing. I placed my coffee on the roof of the car, the bag on the trunk, and went through it in earnest. No keys.

I had to face the fact that I had lost my keys. My worst fear had come true.

To be continued . . .

Random Bits and Whistles

2011-11-13T22:24:00.001-05:00

If you're somehow convinced that we mtf tg types have come a long way, baby, I offer up one Oscar De La Hoya. Being caught "prancing around in women's underwear" is the reportorial gift that just keeps on giving. Here's the latest article, from somebody named Johnny Benz at an adenoidal site called Doghouseboxing.com: "Oscar De La Hoya in new Cross Dressing and Drugs scandal."

Question: which of those two activities -- crossdressing or drugs -- is actually illegal? And which one is first -- and thus, more prominent -- in the title of Benz's piece? Jesus H. Christ, people, it's 2011 ... who gives a flying f*** what kind of panties he wears? I hope they're cute ...

As I write this, Silence of the Lambs is playing on MGM HD. You know, the one about the "transsexual" serial killer named Buffalo Bill, who kills his victims, skins them, and makes "people suits" out of them. And even though we're told he's not a "true transsexual," it is surely a distinction that is lost on most casual viewers.

Meanwhile, according to Gina Damron of the Detroit Free Press, "The mother of a transgender teen found dismembered in Detroit said she is mourning her child's death and waiting for answers as police continue their investigation." Her daughter Shelly's body was found burnt and dismembered beside I-94 on October 23rd of this year, but lay anonymously in the morgue until last Thursday.

And do it goes.

Elizabeth's Excellent Adventures -- The Search for Coffee

2011-11-12T11:00:00.000-05:00

I love coffee houses. I do. There is nothing more relaxing than to sit in a comfortable chair, reading and sipping a good cup of coffee. After my last, abbreviated foray into Birmingham, I checked out a couple of likely places in drab -- places that seemed like they'd be at least a little more welcoming to a t-person than the local neighborhood Starbucks.

The first was a bookstore/coffee shop named "Books, Beans and Candles," which bills itself as "Alabama’s largest Metaphysical Coffee shoppe." I'm not certain there are any other metaphysical coffee shoppes -- or shops, for that matter -- in Alabama, given that the state is not known for its embracing of neo-pagan ideals. Nevertheless, I found out about this place through safe2pee.org, which maintains an ever-growing database of unisex and family restrooms. And along the way, in the notes section, it has at times
interesting and useful tid-bits.

In the case of "Books, Beans and Candles," safe2pee said it was trans friendly and the site of the Birmingham Transgender Day of Remembrance. It is located in the South Side (or Southtown), the area to the South and East of the University of Alabama at Birmingham that is more tolerant and receptive of people like me. I visited in drab, and while it seemed nice, it didn't do much for my (hypersensitive) comfort level -- in the coffee area, there is one big table, and there were several people sitting around it, people who obviously knew each other. Even if they were to be trans-friendly, I want a space I can sit anonymously and sip my coffee, if I so desire, and not have to interact with folks if I do not want to. I can't think of anything less conducive to getting to know "civilians" -- those not in the trans community -- than nervously making small talk while my anxiety builds over ... whatever.

But, if you're into the neo-pagan scene -- with a heavy emphasis on Wicca -- it could be a place where you'd want to hang out. They even have a section of clothing -- robes, long skirts with moons on them, etc. -- that are pricey, yet appropriate for the Goddess worshiper in us all. There were even a few in my size.

A bit dispirited, I headed East, still on the South Side, and out University Blvd, which becomes Clairmont east of the Red Mountain Freeway. I was kind of half-way looking for a salon where I'd feel comfortable asking for a hair-cut that could do double duty -- styled male for work, female for other times. (I have a love-hate relationship with wigs.) Just after the place where Clairmont splits into the Highlands (Highland Dr. and Highland Ave), I spied a Forest Perk Coffee in a small shopping center. Because I needed caffeine for the ride home, I stopped in, and when I did, I knew my search was over.

Forest Perk has the layout I was looking for -- it's a nice blend of communal (in the front) and private (towards the rear). In the latter area, are were clusters of two comfy chairs, a large couch, and several individual tables for two. Plus, the restrooms, though gendered, are single-stall and lockable, the next best thing to unisex/family. I knew on my next Liz trip to Birmingham, that was where I would go.

Crumb's Rejected Cover

2011-11-11T17:39:00.001-05:00

In 2009, celebrated artist R. Crumb was commissioned to do a cover for the June issue of The New Yorker. After agonizing over it for a number of months, Editor-in-Chief David Remnick returned the work to Crumb, refusing to give an reason. This led the artist to vow never to do work for The New Yorker again.

The work in question is at left. It features a couple whose genders are indeterminate -- or is it their biological sexes that are? They are applying for a marriage license, and the individual dressed in a blouse, skirt and heels is a caricature of a man in drag, bulging muscles and all. The individual holding her/his hand is slight, delicately featured, and dressed in man's business suit.

At first glance, I thought it was mocking slap at gender variance, but as I began to look closer, little details began to change my mind. The most obvious is the sign with one red arrow, pointing to "GENDER INSPECTION." Then there are the two arrows of the "MARRIAGE LICENSE" sign, which point decisively down to the gentleman filling out the license, and his expression of ... what? Dismay? Confusion? Terror? on his face. And if the person in female drag is a caricature, as is the one in male drag, so is the man in the window decked out in bureaucrat drag, complete with white shirt, skinny tie and pocket protector.

Why was the cover rejected? What did Crumb want to say? What do you think?

Thanks to Allison Atwood for the pointer; more info can be found here.

Elizabeth's Excellent Adventures -- 11/2/2011

2011-11-08T22:27:00.001-05:00

One of the many joys of regular therapy -- how many t-blog posts begin like that? -- is that it takes me to the Big City on a regular basis. Well, it takes me to Birmingham, Alabama on a regular basis, and that's a reasonable facsimile thereof.

And when I go, I always try to get out and about some, either before or after the appointment. I don't go to the session in female mode because even though that's what the counseling is largely about, as well as coping with my adult ADHD (yes, I am a basket-case), I don't want to stampede the, er, patients in the waiting room before hand.

Unfortunately, things didn't quite work out that way. The first thing that went wrong is my hip padding. That's right, my hip padding. Though I don't wear a waist cincher -- this is supposed to be fun, after all -- I pad my hips, otherwise I'd look like an inverted pear. I use a wonderful product from Underworks that I enhance with some homemade pads. Padded garments made for women assume that the customer has at least some curves, and those made for men who want to look like women tend to be crap.

Anyway, I have zero curves in the hip and butt region; in fact, if it were possible to have negative curves, that would be me. So I add home made hip and butt pads that give me two and a half inches on all sides, which seems to be good enough. Problem is, they are very hard to insert, and the pads are different, and I hadn't planned ahead to put them together beforehand (have I mentioned I have ADHD?), so I spent fully 20 minutes stupidly trying to insert the right pads into the left pocket. And, of course, vice versa.

So, that was 20 minutes of shopping, down the tubes, or rather the pads, and as I went through my routine -- a bit of MAC Morange to red-out a tiny bit of shadow on my upper lip, Maybelline Mineral Power in creamy natural (tap and swirl, tap and swirl), a couple of sweeps of blush and some plummy-natural lipstick, and I was good to go, make-up wise.

And then ... the closet, and things come to a screeching halt. One of the problems with having time, is that I take the time. I'm a past mistress at staring at a closet at my tops, trying to figure what will go with my jeans, or capris, or shorts ... is it this gray burnout? If so, what do I wear as accessories? My black and white bracelet is in need of repair ... maybe I oughta wear something blue, I have a nice blue necklace and bracelet set ... jeez, I gotta get some more jewelry. I'm supposed to match the accessories to the outfit, not the other way around.

By the time I settle on a simple rose-colored tee, jeans and ballet flats, the extra time has pretty much evaporated. I drive to B'ham, fill the car up with gas, and change back out of the light, into the darkness once again.

And so it goes.

New Hair! Yay!

2011-11-07T22:53:00.000-05:00

Don't you just love new hair? The eagerness, the anticipation, the hope that this wig will be the one to transform me from barely passable -- if you squint and hold your head just right -- to Heidi Klum, or at least her older sister Gerte.

But then reality hits -- it doesn't do that. Oh, it may better fit the shape of my face, be a better shade for my coloration, or cover more stuff up (!), but I am almost invariably disappointed. Rather than going from Harold to Heidi, I go from George to Getrude Stein, if that.

Why are our expectations often so out of line with reality? How can we get so out of touch with reality? Do we all have an image in our head of how we picture ourselves, an image that if disappointed, can send us into the black pit of despair?

How should I know? What do I look like, a shrink? (More photos after the jump)

Gun-Club Chic

2011-11-04T23:30:00.000-04:00

When I was a little, uh ... girl, my dad took me hunting. We were never very good, we used to say we gave the deer their exercise, running them around the woods, about a mile ahead of us. Since then, I've come to be not a fan of the sport, but I remember fondly the Cabela's catalog, which sold manly, woodsy things -- from fishing poles to waders to reloadng equipment -- with a kind of a breathlessly loopy enthusiasm. Think P.T. Barnum meets Randolph Hearst.

Then, the other day, I received a catalog called "Cabela's Women's" which is all about women's clothes ... and they're still manly and woodsy. Well, not quite, but definitely not my cup of chai, but then I saw this little number and at first glance, I thought: hmmm. That's kind of cute, until I noticed that its made from Realtree, a species of camouflage. Of course, pink isn't your grandfather's camo, or even your grandmother's, but hey: deer are color-blind, right?

I can picture the commercial now:

A black title card, with pink, cursive text: "I dreamed I stalked a deer in my Realtree underwear" fades to shot of a lissome blonde, stalking the elusive white tail deer in her camo bikini.

Cut to the blond, posing in camo PJ's, distracting the deer with her seductive beauty. Hubby is creeping up on the besotted animal, and as we cut back to the blond, we hear a loud bang! offstage as we

Cut to a bearskin rug before a roaring fire, bloody carcass background stage right, the blond foreground stage right, posing coyly for her man in her camo cami and boy shorts. He paws the floor like a rutting buck, saying "Where are you, where are you?" ('Cause she's, like, wearing camo) and then

A final shot of the couple, rolling around on the in the bed, and as we fade to black, she whispers seductively: "Is that a gun in your pocket, or is it just my Realtree?"

Call my agent. This has CLIO written all over it.

What I Didn't Do on Halloween

2011-11-03T11:37:00.000-04:00

I didn't go out, that's what I didn't do. My small-ish town and my position in it kept me from doing it. I cannot even think of doing a poor job, and too many people would say the proverbial "Hmm. He sure is good at it maybe that explains the long(ish) fingernails ..." It is my firm conviction that people don't normally think "transgender" or "crossdresser" when they see single things like cleaned-up eyebrows or pierced ears singly, but when they see more than one, they can begin to put it together. But maybe I'm wrong.

Given my circumstances, I don't know if I'll ever be all the way to "I don't care" as Meg puts it over on her blog. I have to make a living, after all. So for the moment, when it comes to Halloween, at least, I'll just have to go on living vicariously through others.

Sigh.

Interaction, the Sequel

2011-10-30T11:06:00.003-04:00

As I headed back last month to Somewhere in West Alabama, down through Atlanta and Oxford and Talledega, I wanted more . . . I'd begun to scurry to those way-points along my journey and gobble them up. Out in broad daylight: check. Interaction with another human being: check. It had been a great couple of days but I, typically, wanted more.

So I get out my little camera, and my mini-tripod, and stop at the Welcome Center on I-20, just inside the border of Alabama (motto: what we don't understand we beat the crap out of), and snap a couple of pics. Well, more than a couple, actually ... but I don't go into the women's room, and I have to go, you understand, but see the motto above.

But I want more, more you understand, so -- and this is going to sound really silly for those of you for whom it's old hat -- I decide another drive-by interaction is in order, this time (gasp!) in broad daylight. So I pull into a Burger King parking lot. And dither. And slather on a more makeup, trying in vain to hide the pores on my chin. And then I dither some more.

Finally, I say "F--- it," and pull into the drive through, and using my best female voice, order a large un-sweet tea. Even though, you understand, I still have to go. But I've gotta order something . . . and my voice passes, I think, but my heart falls: an older-sounding black woman, sure as all get out,. They, next to teenage girls, I fear the most -- they tend to take no shit, especially from white males, so I could imagine the open scorn I was about to be subjected to.

But what the heck. I round the corner, and stop at the first window, and I can see her leaning out of the second window, waving me forward with a big smile on her face, and when I get up there she says, still grinning: "Whew, it's hot in here, like I'm havin' hot flashes" and I return her grin, thoughts of sisterly solidarity leaping into my brain, and she says "A dollar fifteen."

I hand her what I had clutched in my sweaty hand, which is two dollars fifty, and she looks at me funny, and hands back one of the dollars, saying "A dollar fifteen," and I stammer -- again in a feminine register, I hope -- "Oops, I thought you said two," and as she hands me my change, she says, smile fading, "That's ok. Have a nice day . . . ma'am." And I swear there is a hesitation, that she almost can't get that last word out, but as I drive off, I don't hear the expected whoop of laughter, she just says something to somebody about the job, maybe into her microphone to the next customer.

And I drive off, un-sweet tea in my cup-holder, another minor way-point reached.

Way-points

2011-10-27T10:04:00.002-04:00

On a compass route, a "way-point" is an intermediate stop along the journey. They're important because they prevent one from having to do the entire route in one compass reading. It's next to impossible to walk a route precisely, and errors accumulate over distance. Way-points allow you to navigate a short distance, perhaps to a distinctive rock or other prominent landmark, one that is visible even if you're a ways off. In this way, you can re-orient yourself, erasing any error, and literally "toe the line" once again.

The transgendered life can be like that, sometimes. We have way-points, intermediate achievements along the path. Buying our first wig. Taking a makeup lesson. Sneaking out of a motel room in the dead of the night. Just kidding. But even that one, as furtive and unfulfilling as it may be, can also empower us to move along, and like a way-point, re-orient us on the path.

The thing is, for many of us, the end-point is a moving target. A lot of the time, we start out thinking we're going one place, and end up heading somewhere else. When I became old enough to know what crossdressing is, and that I was not alone -- a much later date than it would be nowadays -- I thought "Ok, you're just a 'garden-variety' crossdresser." I envisioned the end-point of my journey to be able to dress with impunity, dance the night away, and resume my male existence the next day.

Problem is, now that I'm approaching that goal, I find that the end-point has changed on me, and that way-points I thought were on one route might turn out to be on another. Now I find that what I want is to be comfortable in my female gender, to be able to just "be me" when I am Lizzy, and to not raise any eyebrows when I am. And though I'm not there yet, I'm confident that I will get there, but I wonder. When I do, will I discover that instead of being a destination, that that's a way-point too?