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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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.

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!

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

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.