A few thoughts on ‘Guys Need Pap Tests’

This article has popped up in a few places on my news feed recently. It’s got some great info both for trans masc folx and for our cis allies. A few additional notes I would add from my own experience and those of others who have trusted me with their experiences.

1) Don’t ASSUME that getting a pap, ultrasound, etc is going to be a difficult or traumatic experience for ALL trans masc and non binary folx. My personal experience has been that the only time I’m uncomfortable is when my former doc or their staff acted like I was going to be freaked out. As long as I have clean socks on, I’m totally content in the stirrups. Just ask.

2) Frankly, those of you in the medical field should ALWAYS ask anyone how they feel about getting probed in any of their parts. If someone says it’s no big deal, trust them. If someone says they’re likely to freak out, trust them. Be a responsive and proactive practitioner. I’d rather a dozen trips to the stirrups than one to the dentist but that’s JUST ME. See what I did there?

3) Finding a new doc or practitioner can be tough. If you are in a rural area or are limited by your insurance coverage, you may be stuck with the one doc on your plan or the local doc/vet (not joking here!). It’s important for those of us with choices to remember that “finding a new doctor” may be a facile response to a very difficult situation.

4) Planned Parenthood!!! If anyone reading my stuff is under the delusion that PP is “only” for abortions, you are woefully misinformed. PP performs many services for people with all kinds of junk and their staff are consistently well-informed and expert in working with gender in all its fluid beauty. So, if you are in situation 3, check out your nearest PP and make an appt there. If you aren’t a PP supporter, give them a thought when you are lining up any charitable giving.

Playing Trans

With everything going ” somewhat pottery class” as Mary Berry would say, it boggles my mind that This Shit is what has me sitting down at the computer to do some ‘splainin’.

In case that link disappears or doesn’t work, here’s what This Shit is all about. Scarlett Johansson is going to be playing a transman in the upcoming movie Rub & Tug. Yup, this is the same SJ who recently got chewed up and spit out by playing Major in Ghost in the Shell when that character should have been played by an Asian actor. Notably, both Rub & Tug and Ghost in the Shell are directed by Rupert Sanders. I don’t care about how good or bad an actor she is or the quality of the films (didn’t see the first and won’t see this one). I’m not a film critic and wiser people than I have had plenty to say about cultural appropriation and whitewashing of stories.

However, as a transman with a history in theatre and connections to stage and film, I’ve had (at last count) five people ask me what I think about casting cis people in trans roles since this news hit.

Let me be clear. In this and any representation of trans, non-binary, and genderqueer folx, casting cis actors is not OK.

SJ is well known for feminine roles and sexy figure. A quick cruise through her IMDB page shows a lot of decolletage, spandex-clad booty, and bee-stung lips.  She’s clearly been typecast and I know that a woman’s career in Hollywood can be roughly delineated by ingenue roles and “are you Judy Dench or Meryl Streep?” so I don’t blame her or her agent for wanting to break out of the femme (fatale) box. That is absolutely as far as I’m willing to go in the “I get it” realm.  There are other ways to break out of the box that aren’t reductive and culturally offensive.

By casting a cisgender woman as a transgender man, you reduce the experience of a trans person to a base comment upon their (assumed) genitals at birth. Because a cis woman (probably) has the same anatomy as a transman does not mean that she has the capacity to inhabit the character of that man. The underlying messages are that we don’t actually care about the lived experiences of trans people or their accurate representation in our media, we just want the (illicit?) thrill of seeing transgression and to think freely about what is under that shirt.

This is not about elevating acting ability to transcend barriers. This is not to disparage anyone’s acting ability. I have no idea if SJ can play the role well. I truly don’t care that Hillary Swank did an ok job in Boys Don’t Cry, and Willaim Hurt was brilliant in Kiss of the Spider Woman. All of that is beside the point.

Look, if there were thousands of trans characters in film and theatre and all the trans actors were finding work regularly, we could be having a different conversation. But that is not the reality. Not only is this casting reductive, a critical question begs to be asked about the messages we are sending out to trans youth by supporting this casting. The fairly obvious message is that we know you’re “just a [insert gender] playing at being [insert opposite binary gender].” When the percentage of completed suicides in the trans and non-binary communities far outstrip our cisgender counterparts, interrogating the harm done and potential for positive role modeling is not simply an academic exercise.

But what about Dr. Frank-n-Furter played by Tim Curry, Priscilla Queen of the Desert, and nearly every stage and film adaptation of a Shakespearean comedy? Drag and being trans are different things, even on stage and in flim.

Some argue that there aren’t trans folx with marquee names to draw the crowds and $ to the theatres and I know that’s true. In fact, I’ve had numerous conversations about this exact topic with my producer, director, and actor friends.

So, dear producer friends, the questions you should be asking are:

1. Why aren’t there trans actors who I can cast in this role?
2. Am I looking hard enough?
3. If this role and narrative is really critical to the driver of this story, should I be telling it without casting appropriately?
4. What can I be doing from my positions of power to encourage trans and non-binary actors, directors, writers, cinematographers, etc. in my field?
5. If I was casting a role calling for a Black woman but couldn’t find the right actor, what would I do? Consider similar options in this context.

I watched a dear friend of mine search very hard for a trans actor who was available to play a transman in a TV series. He and the studio went to great lengths to find the right man for the part and for various reasons beyond his control, the timing and casting didn’t work. We talked about it a lot and he had the salacious option of casting a cisgender woman, the uninspired option of rewriting the character to be cisgender, the dubious but marginally better option of casting a cisgender man, and the difficult decision not to tell that story in that season. Rather than reduce the part to anatomy, he shelved that storyline and is taking on a longer search to find the right person to play the part. It was a difficult choice for him and the studio because they had to consider the draw of the salacious or handy.

Consumer friends, I challenge you to resist giving your money to endeavors which cast cis folx in trans roles. It’s 2018, there are trans and non-binary actors out there with more on the way.

There is no more room to cast cis folx in trans roles so just knock it off.

The Painful Pause

I was raised in a world run by women.  I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was a matriarchy but there was rarely a question in my universe that women called the shots in most of the important ways.  As I got older, I  learned to see the nuanced and blatant sexism and racism that dominate our cultural landscape.  That dawning awareness didn’t change the fact that I was in swimming in the privileged waters of being a white, upper-class girl attending an all-girls school which was promoting women as leaders in every aspect of our lives (except in marriage and child-bearing expectations but that was for after we’d made our marks in academia or business).  The men in my sphere were aware that this was an environment custom-built for young women.  The school was in the middle of a transformation from a finishing school to a leader in most every facet of life in the eastern edges of Midwest America.  We were encouraged to speak, lead discussions, answer questions and, ironically, question authority.  Sure, there was some anti-intellectualism with the 80s iterations of mean girls mocking the nerds and ensuring there were only the proscribed number of seats at the lunch table but the baseline was academic, social, and cultural excellence.

I lay all of this out in order to explain my current dilemma. I just started grad school last week and it’s my first adventure in academia since I transitioned.  It’s also my first foray since I really started wrapping my head around privilege and social justice.  In the first few days with my cohort I have noticed that we’re all acting like fresh tadpoles in a whole new pond.  As such, we’re all on an theoretically even playing field.  But within that supposed even playing field, there are so many inequities- gender, race, class, socio-economic positioning, physical ability, age, education, etc.- that all play in the back of my head all the time.  I don’t mind the voice in the back of my head that acts as a bias and privilege check.

My entire academic life has been directed at being a leader, contributing without hesitation, supporting my cohort in expressing themselves and pushing the limits of what is comfortable.  But now I’m one of the privileged white dudes in the class.  Sure, I’m broke but it’s grad school, most of us are. Sure, I’m trans but in this ivy-covered ivory tower, I’m not feeling particularly threatened by transphobia.  This might change when I push the campus for gender-neutral bathrooms and equal access to all facilities for gender non conforming athletes.  But for the time being, the nature of my junk hasn’t been a thing. I’m a hearty chunk older than everyone in my cohort and I don’t know how that is going to play out other than in bringing wisdom *giggle* and needing a nap. I’m a single queer but I also have the sense that I’m not going to have time for dating.  Sum total here is that I’m a white dude in a program dominated by white folks on a very white, very wealth-driven campus.

Here is where I hit some mental gridlock. Everything in my social justice, self-awareness says my first job should be to hold space for marginalized voices to be heard first.  Everything in my academic life is telling me that when questions are asked, when those painful pauses draw out, when I have a thought, I should put it out there.  Of the many challenges I expected going into grad school, this wasn’t one of them.  I never considered what being a man in class was going to be like. Fascinating stuff, this introspection is.

My conclusion so far: don’t be that guy; maintain self-awareness; hold space where I can, contribute when it’s valuable and viable; listen first, speak second.  Mostly, just don’t be that guy.  Check back with me in a few months and I’ll report.  Or maybe your best bet will be to check with my cohort.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Boy Meets Girl

Yeah, don’t let the title mislead you, this isn’t a love story at all.  At best it’s a tale of reconciliation with my body but we’ll have to see where we land. Going to talk genitals and swear a bunch here, kids, so if that kind of thing bugs you, please find the exit now.

I was born in 1973- the era of the Pinto, polyester, shag carpet, and hippies raising kids.  My parents would both deny the hippie moniker and rightly so, however, I was surrounded by fantastic, well-intentioned people who wanted all the little squirts running around to be Free to be You and Me.  Yup, that’s a reference to the Free to Be Foundation, Marlo Thomas’ brain child featuring singable songs and mostly harmless messages about how awesome people are and how we can all just be who we are and everything will be super fantastic.  It’s as if Mr. Rogers, Jim Henson,  and HR Puffnstuff were hanging out one afternoon talking about how they should get the band back together and cut a kids album.  But… I digress.

This is the hard shit. I remember the day I discovered I wasn’t getting a penis.  In the way of the very young, I somehow just didn’t understand that what you’re born with is what you get.  I suppose I was expecting the ‘innie’ to become an ‘outie’ or some other magical thinking.  That’s the great thing about being a kid, you get to have all this magic- cardboard boxes become rocket ships and the bogeyman can be banished with the force of a teddy bear and one day you’ll wake up and pee standing up and grow up into a boy scout.

But then Marlo and Mel had to go and fuck it up.  It was inevitable, really.

I don’t remember where I was that I heard “Boy Meets Girl” but I do remember asking a lot of questions of the (probably amused or possibly annoyed adult) about how the babies knew that they were boys and girls.  I didn’t have the visual clues from the video, just the audio about diapers, baldness and a few other bits not in the video to go on. Eventually, I suspect I got a very direct answer about boys having penises and girls having vaginas because this was a big shocker.

I’ll translate my memories of those feelings into adult words:

“Wait, what the fuck?  You mean I’m stuck like this? But you said I could be anything I wanted to be. I don’t know what I want to be but I know I don’t want to be a girl.  I mean, this isn’t right. I’d like to talk to whoever is in charge.”

I have vivid snapshots of memory- sitting in the tire swing at Horizon Montessori School just spinning slowly, head down, sun on my neck, withdrawing into myself; rubbing the raised green and white floral patterned wallpaper next to my new “big kid” bed making deals with God (which says something since we were the most secular WASPs out there), playing in the ravine with friends and just deciding that I’d keep pretending I was a boy until it happened.

There’s no one to blame and nothing to be done but these memories run from age two to seven.  I knew I was a boy.  I forgot for twenty years.  Thank the hundred little gods, the powers that be, therapy, amazing family and friends and some level of internal fortitude that I figured it out before I ate the business end of a pistol.

But as I mentioned recently, I was lousy at being a girl. It was not a fun ride.  It wasn’t the worst fate by any stretch of the imagination but I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

All I can do now is help speak for other kids who DO KNOW THAT young.  I’ve been facing a lot of that lately- well, it may just be a phase; they may just be doing this to be cool (dafuq?); what if they change their mind again (so?); we don’t want to rock the boat, upset the parents/board/applecart (so we’ll sacrifice the health, sanity or possibly LIFE of a child instead?) .

Humans are sensual, sexual, gendered beings from the womb to the tomb and pretending it is otherwise is incredibly destructive. Culturally, we seem to be stuck in this neo-puritanical world where we’re all obsessed with everyone’s anatomy, who is putting what where, and recently who pees where but we can’t seem to hold a reasonable conversation about how badly the XX/XY myth fails us.  Yes, gender is something we can and should talk to kids about.  Yes, we should let them guide the conversation while being educated ourselves and not setting our personal, professional, moral, or religious agendas upon them.  Yes, some people explore gender their whole lives and some know clearly who they are from the outset- including transkids.

I hold that young boy in my heart all the time and I tell him I’m grateful for his strength and wisdom.  I tell him that the grown ups just didn’t know better and that I’m doing what I can to make sure other little boys and girls don’t have to make deals with gods. I tell him that I’m really glad he stuck around and that we figured out how to function better.

Do we really have to make other kids go through the trails that I and so many of my peers, leaders and friends have gone through?  Are we so afraid of difference and uncertainty, facing difficult conversations, and speaking up for the disenfranchised that we’re willing to lose another generation of beautiful humans?

I’m not.

 

the myth of “the surgery”

Hi- Ranty McRanterson here.  I’d like to think that people asking me if I’ve had The Surgery yet are genuinely interested in my physical health.  The truth is that 99.4% of people who ask me and other trans* folk if we’ve had The Surgery are asking out of nothing but prurient interest and ignorance.  I can forgive the ignorance and blame most of it on Maury Povich and the media fascination with trans* junk. The prurient self-interest is what really gets to me.

I get it, trans* people are identified by our general disagreement with our anatomy and so your first thought upon discovering or suspecting our transness is to wonder about what junk we have in which trunk.  Hell, sometimes my first thought upon meeting fellow trans* identified people is to wonder about their anatomy.  On the other hand, I wonder about a lot of peoples’ anatomy but I have the good sense and common decency not to ask, “hey, are those your “real” boobs?” or,  “just how are you hung?” because it’s none of my fucking business.  Even after I’ve been chatting with someone for a few hours or even a few days, the state of their foreskin, nipples and uterus are still none of my business.

I can’t tell you how often the conversation goes like this:

• Them: Hey, you’re hot/interesting/standing in this corner people watching
• Me: Thanks/Hi
• Them: I see you’re trans (in online forums where I ID as trans or IRT spaces where I’m open about being trans, it’s all the same)
• Me: Yup
• Them: I don’t mean to be offensive but I’m just curious, have you had The Surgery yet?
• Me: …
• Me: …

I get this question or some form of it on average every other day. I shit you not. I’d like to say I have some pithy, witty reply that makes me sound like a super trans-activist while at the same time informing them that they made teh dum. I don’t.  I have yet to discover a wise, satisfying reply.

And here I beg for cisgender folks to refrain from offering your wisdom. In general I welcome advice and feedback from all my people but on this one, I need to just Be Heard. Maybe when I’m not as upset as I am at the moment, I’ll be able to hear you but right now back away from the comment button.  Telling them to just fuck off or mind their own business has, in fact, occurred to me and sometimes it happens. Hearing that you personally never would ask is all well and good and I deeply appreciate you in the world. If I’ve helped bring you some understanding, I’m grateful for that.  But this isn’t about you.

Two things happen at once when I hear that question 1) I am reduced to parts and 2) my status as a whole being is put under suspicion. I feel like I *should* elaborate on this point but really, that’s it.  What’s “real” about me and what do I look like between my legs or under my shirt is what I hear. Trust me, what’s between my ears and what has happened in my 42 years on this planet are a whole lot more interesting than my speedo-zone.

No matter the source of curiosity, be it an desire to get in my pants, a desire to get to know me as a human, just your awkward ice breaker (stick with cheesy lines!), your desire to sound worldly and cool, or some other impetus, unless you’re my physician or someone dealing with my physical body in an emergency situation, there’s exactly zero reason for you to ask this question.

If you are diving into some sort of physical relationship with a trans* person, trust me, we know about our own anatomy and for the most part, we’ll tell you what’s what when and if the time is right.  We’re not keeping it a secret just to spring it on you despite what TV and movies would have you think.

I have news for you, THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS THE SURGERY! There is no single, defining surgery that separates gender lines.  There are literally dozens of surgical options for a transperson and not a single one of them makes any of us less or more.  I think that’s it really.  If I have a phalloplasty or a throat-shave I am no more or less human. I am no less deserving of my self-hood than an cisgender individual and yet by asking and particularly if you use the word ‘yet’ you imply that I am somehow less than.

I get that I represent an Other and that I’m interesting in my Otherness.  I have been so ridiculously open about my gender and sexuality most of my friends know more than they probably need or want to know but that should tell you something right there.  My friends-people with whom I have a relationship, people who have invested in me and in whom I have invested- know about my junk and which trunks I keep it all in.  They see me as a whole person and as such have held my hand through painful surgery recovery, have seen me naked when we’ve changed in locker rooms together, have wept with me through breakups and have celebrated with me through triumph.

So if you find yourself wanting to know if someone has had The Surgery, you really need to stop that thought right there.  Even if you’re wondering if they’ve had any surgery, ask yourself if it’s any of your business.  Ask yourself if you’d like to get to know them as a human being and trust that the answer to that question will eventually lead to a much more fulfilling relationship than diving headfirst into the shallow-end of the pool ever will.

 

 

 

In under 200 words

Well dear reader, I did it.  With the help of several friends with ruthless virtual red pens, it’s under 200 words.  I think I’ve reduced it to the perfect demi-glace.

Discuss a time when you received significant support from an individual, group, organization, or other source, how that experience impacted your life, and the lasting effect it had on your commitment to the source of that support. (200 words or less)

Coming out as a transman to my straight, cisgender field hockey teammates was terrifying because they are the core of my social circle and family of choice.

Soon after, at a tournament in Phoenix, I played four games in one day.  After hours sweating in what I lovingly call my evening-length foam parka, I was ripe.  Before the flight, we were offered showers on campus.  While passing reasonably well clothed, my anatomy was unmistakable when naked.  I was terrified.  Though I didn’t want to spend sticky, stinky hours flying, I feared being noticed, embarrassed, arrested, beaten, or worse.

I decided to load up on deodorant and bail.

I turned to find my guys standing around in towels awaiting me.  Without words, they told me they were with me.  Trembling and dizzy, I stripped, wrapped a towel around my waist and walked to the showers.  They let me choose a shower then filled into the others.  No one noticed tears mixing with the water.

Their generosity of spirit strengthened me, and I still wear the confidence they shared.  In years since, I’ve found opportunities to give back: mentoring queer athletes, leading LGBTQ organizations, and advising gender and sexuality courses.

 

 

exceeding my 200 words

Discuss a time when you received significant support from an individual, group, organization, or other source, how that experience impacted your life, and the lasting effect it had on your commitment to the source of that support. (200 words or less)

Dear readers, I believe I have mentioned that brevity is not often the soul of this Whit. To that end, I’m going to let loose on this answer here and then edit down if (when!) I make the cut for the semifinals of this scholarship application. So here goes the long version…

I play field hockey with a variety of teams and clubs but one of my favorites is my Colorado home team. This tale is about that group of people and their remarkable response to what could have been an awkward situation.

Coming out as a transman to my teammates was scary because they were also a huge part of my social circle, support system and a few were becoming family of choice. Rather than making a big deal of it, while we were in the van on the way to a game, I just blurted it out, “So, this isn’t probably a surprise but I’m transitioning to be a guy.” Now, mind you, my teammates are from across the globe, representing everything from Christian to Muslim, military to hippy. The only questions they had at the time were about locker rooms, pronouns and my then partner. We had some fumbling moments but for the most part, they embraced the new Whit as much as they had the old Whit.

Soon thereafter, we were at a coed tournament in Phoenix on the ASU campus for a long weekend in February. On the third day, I played not only for my team but I volunteered to play for a team from Dallas whose goalie had gotten hurt. As you can imagine, after playing four games in the Phoenix heat wearing what I lovingly describe as a full length foam parka I smelled incredibly rank. This was our last day in Phoenix and we had already checked out of our hotel. The host team offered up showers in the locker rooms at the campus rec center before we headed to the airport.

Walking into the rec center, I felt like I was going to pass out. While I was passing reasonably well with my clothes on, there was no mistaking my anatomy when naked. I had never been in a men’s locker room before and I was terrified. I thought I was looking all cool, calm and collected but clearly, my guys weren’t buying it. As much as I really didn’t want to spend the next 8 hours in a tube of people sticky and stinky I was battling with the sheer terror of what if. What if I got noticed; what if I was kicked out, embarrassed, arrested, beaten up; what if my sheer presence was so offensive that something I couldn’t even imagine or eloquate was going to happen. As I was standing there facing the open locker with my bag hanging from it, my heart pounding in my ears and my hands trembling like a leaf, I decided to bail. I’d just change clothes quickly, load up on baby powder and deodorant and call it good enough.

Decision made, I turned around to find my teammates all standing around with towels around their waists clearly waiting for me. In that way of people who have spent years together, they were telling me they were with me. Still trembling and dizzy, I stripped, wrapped a towel around my waist and we walked to the showers. They were open showers along the walls and on columns in the middle of the room. They let me pick a shower in the corner and filled in around me. I don’t know if they noticed the tears mixing with the water as I de-stinkified and hosed off. We repeated the procession back to the lockers and made our way out to the van.

In the years since, I have gotten much more comfortable being myself in traditionally cisgender, heteronormative spaces and I always carry the strength and confidence my teammates gave me that day tucked away in my heart. I have never forgotten the generosity of spirit my teammates showed. In the years since, I have had the opportunity to give back on many sides of the equation- from working with young, queer athletes to being a leader in large organizations as an advocate from LGBTQ rights to working with programs of new therapists in gender and sexuality classes. It all circles back to being part of a larger community. Without that silent wall of support at a critical juncture, I don’t know that I would have been able to put together the person that I have become.

TDOR- A call to speak, a call to act

Today is Transgender Day of Remembrance #TDOR and I’m trying to find words to commemorate the day.

Frankly, I’m tired today.  This year has been the most brutal, painful year on record for the trans* community in the U.S. and worldwide.  We know that there were at least 81 murders worldwide and 27 murders in the U.S.  of trans* folken– mostly women of color– for nothing more than being who they were.

I remember every day.  I walk around in each moment with a (usually) quiet voice reminding me that there are people who would murder me for breathing the same air as they do.  Some of these people I probably walk past every day.  I am privileged to safely pass, to be a white dude who looks like many white dudes in the U.S.  I speak out regularly for myself and for others.  I act out and I act up.  I call people on their bullshit and I speak truth to power.  It’s exhausting and I’m a white dude living a fairly safe existence.

So, I’m asking YOU to speak and act– speak and act WITH me.  

Yup, it’s hard and scary sometimes.  It’s gratifying and beautiful.  LISTEN to the voices of the disenfranchised, allow them (us and) safe places, compassionate ears, support and action in the ways (we) they ask for it.  Don’t assume you know what (we) they need.

Please, I beg of you, don’t allow ignorance, hate or ugliness to happen around you without acting.  I’m not going to presume to dictate what your actions or voice will look like or sound like but we need them.

The life you save might just be mine.

Advocate article on TDOR with history and data

UK Government flies a flag to mark TDOR

A Year of Fighting for Trans* Lives

TDOR events across CO.

Transgender Day of RESILIENCE

Dear HB

Dear Hathaway Brown,

This is not a love letter.

I am thankful that you’re trying to reengage with me after a long and complicated estrangement.  Something I’ve learned over the decades since we last saw each other is that if I don’t work through the past hurts I really struggle to be in the present.  So there’s things we both need to own up to before we can try to have a modern relationship.

You treated me really poorly back in the day.  I can fully admit that I wasn’t really able to talk about who I was or what was going on back then. When I rolled in there in 7th grade, I had no idea that I was going to grow up into being a guy.  In an all-girls school in 1985, we didn’t use the word gay and I don’t even think the concept of transgender was in parlance in anything but the most marginalized communities.  Looking back on it, single gender education systems at the time were struggling hard to stay away from the stigma of being gay and lesbian enclaves.  It was like Cancer– the whispered “c” word of the day– we didn’t talk about gender or sexuality with any flavor of nuance.

So there I was, a nerdy, jockish, socially awkward pre-teen suddenly trying to swim in a pool full of what I perceived to be graceful, socially adept young women.  Boy howdy, did I flail around a lot.

Sometime in the first few months of seventh grade I tried to stand up to what I now understand was petty bullying and subtle social ostracism.  I was a potent blend of self-righteous and clueless.  I stopped eating in the cafeteria, I found places to hide and dodge social settings as much as I could.  I’m betting that this was perceived by my peers as snubbing because soon after, someone wrote “bitch” across the face of my locker.  No one talked about it.  Walking into the basement where our lockers were, I remember an unusual hush.  I saw my the scrawl of sharpie across the metal and felt my face flush.  That moment when people describe wanting the earth to open up and swallow them whole?  Yup, that’s what I had. Honestly, I have no idea what I did after I saw it.  My next recollection is that it had been scrubbed off.

All year I got to walk down into the basement and see the Ajax-scrubbed oval where Bitch was, at least in my mind, still there.  I planned my days so I could dodge my locker as much as possible.  I carried my books with me, used my gym locker, ran down between classes instead of in bigger breaks, and generally tried not to be around the locker and people at the same time.

If my life was a TV show, I would have worn Bitch like a badge of honor– putting some pithy comment on the inside of my locker along with an affirmation of how awesome I was and a mirror so I could reflect on my real-self.  I would have been comforted by the administration or at least by a friendly teacher.  The culprit would have confessed after soul-searching and realizing that I was, indeed, awesome.

My life wasn’t a TV show.  I have no idea who wrote it or what I did to elicit such a strong feeling.  No one comforted me and I wandered about alone– a lost boy in a sea of girls. I put some of that on you.  Even if you weren’t equipped to deal with the extreme reactions that my peers had to me and my sore-thumb-sticking-out nature, you should have tried harder.  Hell, you should have tried at all.

I’ve wondered what things would have looked like if I could have said, “I’m a boy.”

Instead, I gave off oddball vibes and even as I started to make something approximating friends I was giving off the wrong signals and the wrong pheromones.  Clearly, my confusion was like blood in the water to the school of sharks that was seventh grade girls.

Did you know that I slept in the bathtub on our field trip to Williamsburg?  Yeah, no one would share a bed with me.  I wasn’t going around flirting with my classmates or even expressing any preference confusion.  It just seeped out of my pores in a flop sweat of failure and anxiety.  I was chased away from social events and once I was physically circled by classmates whispering “freak” and laughing at me.  Fortunately, I was also the biggest jock (not the kind of cache you get these days and certainly not the quaterback of the football team status) and I was able to dodge physical threats. My experience was all about the mental and emotional shame.

The pinnacle of TV moments when someone should have intervened and given me an “it gets better” speech while encouraging my classmates to be understanding and empathetic  was when I got blindsided [OK– I’m 42 and writing about my 13-year old self has me in tears.  Clearly, I still hold some hurt here].

In the way of kids who are too smart for our own good, my circle of, I hesitate to call them friends as the next moments explain, friends called me into Mrs. Ramsey’s classroom during lunch.  We all sat in a circle on the floor and one of them asked me if I was gay.  Cue the flop sweat and sheer panic.  In my perception behind the wall of blood rushing away from my brain and extremities into my face this was not a kind question.  It wasn’t asked out of concern or a desire to understand me or help me.  In the moment I felt pretty sure that saying yes was going to lead to some level of exile I hadn’t even imagined possible.  I said no. I promptly ran to the bathroom and puked up everything I’d ever eaten in the history of food.

In recent years, I have had the opportunity to talk to some of the women who were girls in that circle and the consensus has been that they were worried but they didn’t really know what to be worried about.  They wanted to know something and were going to do something but from thirty years away the flavor of memory has left them.  They have apologized and several of them I consider to be close friends.

Thank the hundred little gods it did get better.  I found friends- my group of outcasts who now are the coolest cats I know.  I found safe spaces–  art classes, sports, some academics where I could excel.  But I was always on the outside, usually the butt of subtle and not so subtle jokes.  I was never able to go into the PE lockers and change without having a group of girls walk out.

There was no Gay Straight Alliance back in the day.  I have had teachers apologize to me as an adult.  They knew I was in a rough spot but offering me active support wasn’t really possible without threatening their jobs.

Late in my junior year I had a parent threaten me in the senior’s parking lot to stay away from her daughter (as if!). She told me she was going to have me expelled from the school.  I really thought she could.  I spent an eternity waiting for my parents to be called in to be told I was being expelled.  It never happened.  At that point I was a two-sport Varsity athlete, academically near the top of my class and rocking the standardized testing.  There was no reason you could have used to kick me out but my 16-year old self didn’t know that.

And there is a paradox in my memory.  Somehow I managed to get elected student body president for our senior year.  Evidently many of my classmates perceived me and my “merry” band to be the cool kids.  We sure didn’t know that.  Even walking in for the three occasions I’ve been back since graduation has created anxiety and stress.

Is it fair for me to put this on you, HB?  Well, probably not.  In retrospect there was no cultural movement to understand gender fluidity or analysis of sexual preference.  There was no way even I could have predicted where I would be twenty five years on.  All I knew then was that I liked girls and boys and that I felt like my body was betraying me at every turn.

So as an adult, I can get all of this out and hopefully feel like we can start seeing each other again. I got lots of great things out of our six year relationship: a fantastic education and foundation of learning; some amazing life-long friendships; my introduction to field hockey; a deep appreciation for art and theatre; and the sense that I can manage in most any social setting.  Ironically, I also started weaving the fabric of social justice and political activism through my experiences with you.

Now you’ve called me up and asked me to talk to you about gender identity, language and walking the interesting paths of single-gender education from a multifaceted social understanding.  It’s like you want to go out again and you’re willing to talk about all the things that scarred me back then.

In the balance, I feel like I get to tell the me of the past that it gets better in the form of the students of the present.  I am hopeful that I will be able to break up some of the scar tissue and breathe life into the places that are still hidden.

Maybe this is a love letter after all.

 

Whitr