Saturday, February 24, 2007

What I would do with $3000

Last week at a dinner party, I was chatting with a young (20-ish?) woman I had never met before. She was telling us about a vacation she’d taken, some years back, in England and Ireland. She said how much she’d like to do it again. She said, “Yeah, if I just found $3000, I would go back!”

Her intention, I think, was to emphasize how improbable a return trip was. That the trip was out of her reach, because she couldn’t afford it.

Before thinking, I said, “If I found $3000, I’d buy a more reliable car.” Actually, I could think of a lot of things to spend $3000 on, before I’d spend it on a vacation. After the car, if I somehow came into another $3000, I’d probably pay off a (small) portion of my debt. Then I'd buy an even more reliable car (because $3000 doesn't go very far when you're talking about cars). After that I'd consider upgrading my computer. Then I’d buy enough body work to keep me pain-free for a couple of years, without having to argue with the insurance company. Then I’d put some money into savings for the next time I move. I hate moving when I’m broke. I’d go to the dentist, and get my cat his shots for the year, and buy snow tires, and then pay off some more of my debt.

I could go on. On my list of things I could do with $3000, a vacation is several pages down. (A vacation to England does not appear at all.)

It occurred to me then that anyone who would spend an unexpected windfall on a vacation, without even considering other options, probably doesn’t have many unmet needs in their life. And yet the woman's tone made me think she felt deprived, or at least disappointed, that she couldn't afford the trip. I discovered that this is one of my class triggers – when somebody says or implies that they are poor because they can’t afford everything they want.

(A trigger is when something happens and you have an immediate emotional reaction to it – whether anger, fear, shame, feeling “shut down,” or something else – and that reaction is not only about the thing that just happened, but also about the similar things that have happened in the past, to you or to people you identify with, such as your family or social group. In this case I felt angry and unseen, not only because of what this individual said in the moment, but also because I have been in other situations that were similar, where a person assumed everyone in the room had as much access to resources as they did, and were wrong. Some times when that happened I did not know how to respond, or felt I was “less than” the person who had so much. Even though I know better now, this situation reminded me of those, and the same emotions came up – a trigger.)

The vacation itself is not as much of a trigger for me, because I understand that people prioritize differently. Spending limitted resources on travel is a decision I can respect, even though I probably wouldn't do it myself. What really bugged me about this interaction was the woman's assumption that we could empathize about what a hardship it is to forgo international travel. As I sometimes say to my partnered friends who complain when they haven't had sex in a few days, "Honey if I had problems like you have problems, all my problems would be solved."

I can afford what I need, barely. And, because I understand that many people can’t afford even what they need, I don’t get too stressed out about things I merely want. I’m happy to have a car, a computer, and a body that are working well enough. I know that’s a privilege. And I'm learning to feel satisfied with paying off my debt quickly enough, even though I know it will still be with me for a while.

My response to the young woman at the dinner party was not thought-out, but it was honest and, I imagine, unexpected. I hope that by breaking the ordinary pattern of polite conversation, I challenged or at least shook up some of her assumptions about what she was saying. I’m glad for the opportunity to reflect so that next time, I can say something even more useful.

Meanwhile, I’m curious for some feedback. Please use the comments function to tell us 1) what would you do with $3000? and 2) what are some of your class triggers?

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Trans Ironies, Part 2

Thanks for your contributions! I appreciate all the painful-humorous stories. It is good to be able to laugh at our lives sometimes.

Maybe I should have been more clear about what I meant by ironies that only happen to trans people. For me, being trans is not in itself ironic. I'm a boy, and I have periods. That's not ironic. It's just how I am. I'm female-bodied, and I wear boxer shorts. That's not ironic, either. But the "oh-shit" of blood stains combined with the "ahh, freedom!" of boxer shorts ... somehow, that's funnier.

I guess it's a fine distinction. Maybe I'm just being picky. Maybe y'all can help me figure out what makes some trans ironies funny, and others just hard.

Here's another one:

I'm a guy, and I still have a collection of leotards and dance tights in my closet. That's not ironic. My straight-feminine friends don't have that stuff, because they were never dancers. That's not ironic, either. But when they want to play dress-ups for Halloween, and I'm the only one with the body and the gear to pull off "ballerina," that's ironic.

Usually I don't choose to be a ballerina for Halloween. I'm more likely to be a baseball player, because it feels better for my gender. I can pull it off because I have the gear for that, too - not because I'm a guy, but because I used to be a big softball dyke. Ironic, right?

Maybe there are types of trans ironies. Maybe we should start to catalogue them.

There's the "FtM does girl stuff more successfully than feminine women friends" ironies. (E.g. it's not ironic for a trans guy to sing soprano, but it is ironic for him to be the best soprano in the choir.)

There's the "FtM has a particular masculine-gendered skill, but only because he used to be a dyke" ironies. (The softball thing would fall under this category.)

Are there more?

Why We Come Out

This is a first draft. I'd love to have your editorial comments, as well as any responses. Thanks. ~D.

I heard a coming out story the other day. It came from a friend of mine who’s studying in Europe for a semester. The gist of it was: “I tried to explain to my (heterosexual, American) roommates that I’m a queer dyke who dates men, likes women, and thinks marriage is a tool of the patriarchy, and they just don’t understand!”

My first instinct was to say, “Uh, yeah honey, what did you expect? You don’t go layin’ it on that thick if you want people to understand you.” I thought, my friend is not stupid, or oblivious to heterosexism. The only explanation for her decision to come out to her roommates so completely and so quickly is that she was aiming for something other than understanding. She must want to feel all alone and alienated.

Luckily for both of us, I didn’t write back to her right away. First I vented about it to another friend here, and got some feedback, and reflected. I remembered that I also have sometimes chosen to come out in ways that were not conducive to helping others understand me. It got me thinking about why and how we come out.

Coming out for the Good of the Movement
Some of us have felt obligated to come out as a sort of political duty. This was particularly big in the ‘90s, as with Ellen’s grand coming-out episode (as if we didn’t know). It was part of a strategy to promote visibility of GLB (sometimes T) people, put forth by a gay rights movement that was and is dominated by the interests and leadership of white, middle-class, gay-not-queer people. I think it’s not a particularly good strategy. Nevertheless, the idea that coming out is good for the movement is now part of our GLB (sometimes T) culture, and we have to grapple with it. When we come out because of a sense of duty to be visible as a GLB (or maybe T) person, the idea is that our visibility as individuals is good for GLB (or maybe T) people generally. For this strategy to make sense, we have to associate ourselves with a recognizable identity label, such as “gay” or “lesbian”. Coming out for the good of the movement usually takes the form of a declarative statement along the lines of, “I am a ­­­­­­­­­­­­­_________."

There are a few circumstances in which I might consider coming out for the good of the movement. For example, if some totally ignorant person who I’m never going to meet again says, “All transsexuals are rich selfish antisocial sick-os,” I might say, “Well, I’m a transsexual, and I’m not rich, and here I am being social, so … are you sure?” In that case, playing a label serves a purpose. By saying “I am a transsexual,” I can challenge a person to have a broader and more positive view of trans people as a group. Now, savvy readers will have deduced that I do not usually identify as a transsexual. But so what? In this situation, I’m not trying to get the person to understand me as an individual. I’m doing it for the good of the movement.

In my life, those convenient moments where I could change the world just by coming out as a fill-in-the-blank do not come up very often. Usually, I’m coming out for much more mundane reasons.

Coming out to Build Connections
In my personal life, I come out because I want to be close to other people. It’s hard to be close to people if they don’t know about a really central aspect of my life, like my gender. My goal when I come out to friends and acquaintances is to help them understand me so that we can build a closer relationship.

If I want someone to understand me, saying “I am transgender” (or “I am a dyke”) usually will not do it. Claiming a label may communicate some important information, but there is other information that it will obscure or make harder to know. People think they know what these labels mean. That’s the point of labels, after all. But I know that their meanings aren’t static, and chances are a new acquaintance will not share my definition of “transgender,” for example. In this case a declarative statement might be counter-productive. It might make someone believe they know things about me that are not true.

So I consider very carefully how to come out to people who I want to build connection with. If I tell them I am transgender or FtM, will they understand me better than if I tell them I am queer or genderqueer? What will they understand if I mention that my ex-boyfriend is female? Or what if I tell them nothing at all? Sometimes letting my behavior and appearance speak for themselves communicates far more about my identity than a verbal “coming out” ever could. It depends. When I want to be understood, I don’t come out by closing my eyes and jumping in with both feet. I test the water first, and choose a strategy that makes sense for that person in that situation.

Coming out to Alienate myself before they can do it for me
Sometimes I don’t want to be understood. As a queer person, as a trans person, as a Jew, as a class-straddler, I have a lot of experience feeling invisible or misunderstood. Being on the outside feels comfortable and familiar.

It is hard to build understanding and closeness. Putting myself out there to seek connection is risky. Sometimes I come out to someone - carefully, gently, thoughtfully – and they reject me. Maybe they say, “Wow, you’re a fucking freak,” or maybe it’s subtler than that, but in any case, it sucks. If I’m feeling confident or optimistic, I take these risks anyway, because connection is worth it. But if I’m not feeling confident or optimistic, then sometimes it feels easier to say, “Look, we’re not alike, you don’t understand me, and I am way weirder than you want to deal with. So back off, okay?”

These are the situations where I tend to lay it on thick, as I (probably wrongly) assumed my friend was doing with her roommates in Europe. I come out all at once, in a big gush. I say I’m a trans guy, genderqueer, tranny-fag and anti-marriage, all in the first few minutes of a conversation. Sometimes I even exaggerate, depicting myself as farther from the norm than my experience really is. It’s not hard to turn people off this way.

Occasionally I get surprised when someone says, “Hey, me too!” or even more rarely, “Gosh, I don’t really understand, but I’d like to. Can you tell me more?” That’s always fun. But usually the strategy does exactly what it’s meant to do. It allows me to alienate myself from the group before anyone else gets a chance to push me out. And it allows me to feel like a righteous queer, while saving me from the work of building real connection across differences of experience and understanding.

Coming out to Validate My Self
Sometimes I just don’t care whether someone understands me or not. Sometimes I just need to confirm that I understand me. I do this especially in situations where I am not invested in the relationship, like with strangers on the street who I’m not likely to meet again. I’m not trying to push them away, but I’m not going to invest energy in the situation either.

If a random guy in a bar says, “Hey, you’re a beautiful woman,” I might say, “Nice try, but I’m a dude,” and walk away. The coming out doesn’t accomplish anything for the relationship, and probably has little effect on the guy’s understanding of me or of trans people as a group. It simply shields me from his mis-reading of me, and reaffirms what I know about myself.

Why do you come out?
Please use the comment function to tell us about the whys and hows of your coming out experiences. I may incorporate your ideas (not your particular experience or words) into future drafts.