Another Good Thing

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

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 ...

et tu, DES?

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.

A Place to Feel Safe

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.

Thanksgiving Wishes

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

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:

1. I would remain Liz, and endure ridicule and possible bodily harm when Bubba showed up to spring the car door, or
2. 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."

Elizabeth's Excellent Adventures -- Coffee Time

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.

Random Bits and Whistles

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

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.

Crumb's Rejected Cover

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

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.

New Hair! Yay!

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

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?

What I Didn't Do on Halloween

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

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.

Way-points

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.

Thank Goddess for Target

At least the one I've taken to shopping at outside of Birmingham.  They not only have a family rest room, but family fitting rooms, which means that in a state notoriously fussy about mixing genders, I don't have to try on clothes in a single-gendered women's fitting room.  I say this because although it is not illegal to crossdress in Alabama, I'm not so sure about using restrooms of the opposite biological sex.  And finding out whether or not it is against the law is not as easy as it sounds: the statutes in every state vary from city to city, jurisdiction to jurisdiction, and county to county.

Shoving Myself Out the Door: The Evil Beard

We all take them, don't we?  We all inch toward being "out" -- whatever that means to us -- step by step, a little at a time.  For me, it was my beard ... it used to be dark and intractable.  As I talked about here, over the years I tried most of the tricks ... Dermablend, the red-lipstick trick, to no avail.  The shadow still showed through.

Not my beard

So, at last, as I became determined to finally express who I am -- whatever that is -- for good, and to be who I am -- whoever that is -- out and about in the world, I naturally started there.  (Ok, ok ... I'll stop with the whatevers, already.) Besides gradually, painfully acquiring a wardrobe, I began with the foundation, attacking that shadow.  The thing is, it's mostly not there anymore:  it's almost all on my upper lip, and a little on my chin.

Still, I worried at the problem, attacking it and fulminating about it with all the analytical glee that this (former) research scientist could muster, but the problem hadn't gotten any easier. I tried the red lipstick thing.  Again.  I tried a thick, creamy foundation.  Again.  Still, no joy.  The rest of my beard may be white, with a few dark hairs scattered around for measure, but that upper lip still gave me away.  The blue-black shadow ruled, at least in the area above my lips.

I've Been ...

For anyone who has begun to read this blog -- and there may actually be one or two of you -- I apologize:  I have been sick and out of town, and it's been hard to get time for a post.

But to paraphrase Stan Laurel, I am better now, and back, and so more is forthcoming.  Like, tomorrow.  Thanks!

Liz

P.S. It would be nice if Blogger actually let you resize your pics continuously, wouldn't it?

Interaction

Creature of the night?

One of the things I've never done a lot of -- make that any of, really -- is interact with folks as Lizzy. And that is what I crave: to be able to go out casually, in broad daylight and be ... me.  But as we all know, that is easier said than done.  When I get near others, my heart freezes and I fight a (usually losing) battle to (a) turn my head (b) turn around or (c) all of the above.   So, on my recent cross country trip from Somewhere In Western Alabama to Somewhere in Northern Georgia and back (detailed beginning here) I was determined to interact while I looked like how I feel inside.

It began, as do so many of our adventures, in the dark ... after indulging in the t-girl ritual of Photos at the Hotel (see some of them here), I got in the car to fill up its tank.  Of course, this was in Somewhere in Northern Georgia, in the roots of the Southern Appalachians, so it was cold, and I didn't have sweater one, so I stood shivering in my capris and tee, filling the gas tank, hoping that some roving gang of teen-aged hoodlums didn't read and/or harass me.

Gender Testing for Fun and Profit

I don't remember much about my childhood, a fact that has kept my therapists rapt with interest over the years.  What I do remember are individual incidences of dressing as a girl, from the proverbial trying on of Mama's slips and pantyhose to full-on dressing up, like the time I went trick-or-treating dressed as a little girl for Halloween.  That episode is the earliest I recall -- it had to have been before I was eight, and it may have been as early as four or five.  Questions of nature versus nurture aside, I was exploring my feminine side long before I those annoying black hairs started to grow on my, ah ... legs.

Increasingly over the past few years, I've wondered just where I am on the transgendered spectrum.  I'm not  a "classic," early-onset transsexual: I have not felt from my earliest days as if I were a female trapped in a male's body, I have not hated my penis and longed for a vagina, nor have I experienced a significant amount of discomfort due to my male body. (Other than wishing my very masculine body proportions were just a bit  more a feminine ... oh well, that's what padding is for.)

Scenes From a Movie: Gun Hill Road (2011)

Travels With Lizzy: The Road Home I

The things we do to express who we really are.  On my recent cross-country trip -- well, my recent cross-two-state trip -- I was determined to return to Somewhere In Western Alabama the way I had come: expressing my better side.  Problem was, the check-out time at the motel was 11:00, but I had interviews until 12:30 or so.  Where was I going to change?

WPATH Releases New Standards of Care

The World Professional Association for Transgender Health (WPATH) released an updated Stanards of Care (SOC) Sunday.  It is the seventh edition, and the first since 2001.  "Overall," reports Kellie Winters of GID Reform Advocates, "this newest SOC represents significant forward progress in respecting trans people and affirming the necessity of medical transition care for trans and transsexual individuals who need it."

Significantly, the SOC denounces gender-conversion therapies as unethical.  "“Treatment aimed at trying to change a person’s gender identity and lived gender expression to become more congruent with sex assigned at birth has been attempted in the past ... Such treatment is no longer considered ethical.” (SOC, p 16).  This is truly good news: psychologists have considered reparative therapies unethical for homosexual men and women for decades, but have maintained a double standard in the case of the transgendered.  This can only help further the de-pathologization of trans folk.  Along those lines, it also replaces the language of "disorder" with "dysphoria," and removes some of the barriers for the care of trans people. 

The Perils of Presenting -- Greasy Face 101

Beard cover.  In the past, I've put way too much thought into it.  And for good reason: I had a pretty heavy black beard.  So fifteen years or so ago, in the early 90s, I worked up enough courage to go into a J.C. Penneys in the middle of the Colorado prairie.  Well, it was in a town, and it was on the prairie, but close to the edge, not the middle ... ok, it was in  Greeley.

Anyway, I entered the J.C. Penney and did the usual dry-run passes by the makeup counter.  I had concocted a fool-proof alibi that would spare me any embarrassment and leave the clerk totally clueless about the true nature of my mission.  The following is a recreation of that fateful day:

Motel Dreams

One thing we TG types do is decorate motels.  I mean, it's sad when we can't openly express our other side on a daily basis.  So a staple of many a transwoman's photo collection are pictures taken in various motel rooms, snapped on lonely trips away from her loved ones, standing in front of the door, or window, sitting on blandly-upholstered couches or posing provocatively on the bed.

For many, especially those toward the heterosexual crossdresser end of things, these are the only times they get to express their inner girl.  The resulting pics often have an undefinable desperation to them, as if this is it, as if they can see their entire career as a TG playing out in these rooms.

Travels With Lizzy

This is a post about a trip.  It was a watershed trip for me, for one very simple reason: it was the longest time spent in trans-mode.  Ever.  As my renaissance has progressed, and I have become increasingly proficient at presenting as the female me, I have hankered to be Lizzy for increasing lengths of time.

Approximate route of my trek

My daylight experience has been, until now, limited.  So, I decided to inch out into the daylit realms with my usual caution and prudence:  I set out from my home Somewhere in West Alabama, bound for Somewhere in North Georgia.  Trip time: five hours each way.  Route: a busy I-20/59 to Birmingham, then I-20 to Atlanta, then the dreaded Georgia 400 (and smaller two-lanes) to my destination.

I was going for a job interview, which was in two parts: dinner with the hiring committee on Friday evening, then interviews with each member the next morning.  I was determined to spend as much time as Lizzy as I possibly could.

t-Spotlight -- The Lazy Crossdresser

I live Somewhere in the Bible Belt, and at the moment, anyway, I am not near a big market, where there are makeover places, trans-friendly bars, etc., etc.  So in my recent renaissance, I have had to find help online and via the mail.  There are many helps out there in the form of books, web-sites and specialty companies, and in this occasional feature, spotlight a resource that has been of particular help to me.

First up is The Lazy Crossdresser,  by Charlie Anders, the single most positive book on getting dressed and getting out that I've ever read.  Sure, it's got the word "crossdresser" in the title, but it applies to all trangendered who experience the paralyzing fear many of us feel at the thought of getting out and about as who we are.  Plus, he doesn't write crappy sentences like I do.

News You (might be able to) Use (9/14/2011)

Is it just me, or is the rate of violence against trans-people on the rise?   I sincerely hope not, but it sure looks like it.  Diana, over at her little Corner of the Nutmeg State, reports that "Washington DC is becoming a place of death for us," and tells us about the third group of assaults on transwomen this summer in that city.

Meanwhile, the most high-profile case has been resolved.  Sort of:  the teen who pleased guilty to beating a transwoman in a Rosedale, MD McDonalds was sentenced to five years in prison, plus three of supervised probation.  The maximum sentence for such a crime is 35 years, but the 19-year-old woman had no previous record, and tearfully apologized in court.

Hi, There

Me.   But I'm working on it ...

So, here I am, writing another in a long line of introductory posts.  So be it ... folks need to know who you are, right?  I mean, there is a whole lot of blogging going on, and it behooves the smart blogger to state up front what it's all about.  Alfie.

With that in mind, let me say the "t" in "t-Spot" is for transgender, not tea ... although aren't I clever, calling it t-Spot?  I'm a little t-Spot, short and stout ... here is the handle, here is the spout.

Ok, so I'm no comedian ... but I am a transgendered woman, unspecified as to category, and I prefer to keep it that way, thank you very much.  There is far too much reductionism in our "community" for my taste.  Although categories are how we learn, they are also how we exclude and label.

After being away from it the "community" for a couple of decades, I am saddened to find the same old arguments  being . . . argued.  Just how transgendered are you, anyway?  Are you a transsexual, heading toward the promised land, or are you "only" a crossdresser?  Are you pre or post or non?  Are you truly a woman at heart or just a perverted little fetishistic panty wearer?

Ok, so I have issues.  Come explore them with me as I go on this journey from whatever I was before to whatever I am becoming.