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.