Honey

There are certainly two sides to my gender story. There is the gender that others see, the way that I dress and talk and act and the identity that other people place on me as a result. The cleaning lady in the bathroom sees me as a freak, my co-workers accept me as one of the guys, my friends see a complicated queer person who emanates masculinity. My own expression is drawn toward short hair and button ups and jeans and all those appearances that have typically been associated with men. I cannot control how other people classify me, but I can present myself in a way that is in line with how I see and feel comfortable with myself. When I look in the mirror, I feel the most attractive with a tight fade and hip-hiding Levi’s.

On the other side of the story is how I understand and experience my own gender. Sometimes I experience my gender when something that I am doing or feeling reminds me of the ideas I have around one gender or another. I don’t really have any desire to constantly lift myself out of the binary gender system, but instead I enjoy allowing myself to dabble in all of the options. It sure is nice to have options.

I think it’s important for me to be able to say “I am experiencing this part of myself or this part of my world as a woman, or as a man, or as something else.” I spend so much of my time not feeling like I belong to any genderedness at all that I appreciate these moments when I can identify my perspective as that of a woman or a man. I enjoy being neither, but I also enjoy being both.

Sometimes it’s hard to express ideas around gender because gender associations with behavior, ideas, and feelings are widely seen as pre-feminist rhetoric. I want to identify and appreciate those things about me that I find are connected to my experience as a woman or as a man, but my immediate reaction is to suppress these ideas because in the attempt to make all things equal between man and woman, we have decided that there are no differences and so my insistence of these differences would mean that I am upholding an archaic stereotype.

Okay, there’s a third side, too, and that’s the experience of my gender in relationship to another person. It’s not just about how Agent sees me, but how I see myself through my interactions and experiences adjacent to Agent and her gender. When Agent and I started dating almost seven years ago, I had some intense initial feelings of desire to expand and solidify my gender as something else, something more manly. In a relationship with someone who was not by the queer community’s standard definition of “femme” for the very first time in my life, the part of me that feels masculine swelled and caused my closest attempt to start testosterone.

Thanks for the comments you made that has had me thinking about this stuff the last couple of days. I’m no gender theorist, but I wonder about this stuff a lot. I’d love to hear more about how other queer people experience their gender and how they deal with the moments when labels beg to be used but are seemingly inappropriate for one reason or another. How do you define your gender?

When I was born, my biological mother was too young to be able to care for me and finish growing up herself. Her older sister took me to live with her new husband when I was a toddler and they eventually adopted me.

My circumstances were explained to me at a young age and yet no amount of explanation could possibly quell the confusion that has followed me ever since, like an extra shadow at my heels. Being adopted added a complex layer of experience that drastically altered my understanding of childhood, family, relationships, authority, and of course, attachment and abandonment. After many years of allowing thoughts and feelings surrounding these issues to churn and change shape beneath my consciousness, I’m ready to take a look at where I am and how I got here.

I’m extremely suspicious of the feelings and ideas I remember and have now as a result of the drama of my childhood. Many people, all adults, were very vocal in their opinions of what was best for me and what I was feeling and going through. Without siblings or close friends understanding of my dilemma, I usually took these adults’ words as gospel, making their ideas and their feelings my own. I know that I got lost in there somewhere. Lately I’ve been feeling things that I don’t really remember feeling before, and so I think that these must be my own and that perhaps my own experience is bubbling to the surface and ready for me to explore.

I’ve been wondering a lot about that pivotal moment, the moment when I was told that I was adopted. I’m not sure how old I was, maybe 5 or 6? I vaguely recall being more fascinated by the supporting intelligence of where babies came from than where I came from exactly. I wonder what the standard age is these days for telling a child that he or she is adopted. Does the 18 year old resent his parents for waiting and deceiving him his entire life? Does the teenager use their adoption as fresh ammunition against parents they already struggle against? I assume that my parents told me I was adopted at such an early age because we were close to the extended family and someone was going to tell me and it might as well have been them. I’m glad they told me as soon as they did. I don’t know if I could have easily forgiven them for not being completely honest throughout my childhood.

I had what is considered an “open adoption”. Open adoptions are becoming more and more popular as parents of all kinds try to find the right way to go about a difficult situation. I think the general idea is to try to lessen the suffering of the child as well as the birth parents. It would seem that transparency and open communication would lead to a healthier, more honest experience for the child, allowing for important, life-long relationships to form. Unfortunately, as emotional beings, parents grasp relentlessly to the traditional meanings behind parenthood and family, falling into the dysfunctional traps of possessiveness, selfishness, competition, and ownership. In an effort to protect the child, which is perhaps the number one goal for most parents, outside familial forces are not entirely accepted. This goes for the adoptive as well as the biological parents.

Even though my biological father was not part of my legal extended family, the relationship I formed with his parents (my grandparents) was very meaningful for me growing up. In many ways, I felt lucky that I had the opportunity to bond with people who were my direct ancestors. I could look for and recognize myself in them. I could feel like I naturally belonged in relationship to them. I also had infrequent contact with my birth father. Although our visits were awkward for me, I cherished the time we spent together. Of all those adults that had so much to say about my adoption and its aftermath, my birth father never talked about it. We were able to form a brand new relationship that had nothing to do with where I came from, and for this I was always grateful.

I guess I have a lot to say about being adopted, probably more than I can fit in one post. I would love to hear other peoples’ experiences with being adopted, too. Are there any books I should be reading for deeper understanding? And for all those adopted or not, how do you sift through your own tangled experience?

I can barely admit it, but I must. I hold on to a lot of stereotypes that distort my experience in relationship to other people. As you may have been following in the last while through my blog, I am attempting to dissect and disseminate my own “outsider syndrome” (did I just coin a phrase?) and learn all over again how to connect with people in real and meaningful ways.

I went for a walk yesterday. It was blazing hot outside, but I was in desperate need of an adventure. I packed all the water I could carry without putting too much strain on my aching knee, collared up my trusty puppy, and headed out on one of those excursions that the young folks these days call “urban hiking”. I had a few possible destinations in mind, but mainly followed the instincts inherent to the part of myself who is free and innocent and trusting. I headed south.

Miso and I kept an easy pace through the neighborhoods of Northeast Portland. I know I teased her a little by walking through Irving Park, but it wasn’t too bad, seeing as how there were no other dogs playing on the hill. We stuck to the shade where we could find it. Miso spent most of her attention on the curved base of trees while I wondered at the lush, beautiful gardens embracing old Portland homes.

When we finally reached Broadway, it was like entering a whole other place entirely. The traffic was, as it is typically, commuter centric, cars on a mission. The sidewalks widened, making room for a homeless population that I rarely see from the outside of my car. A closed-up, out of business deli stood empty beside the goodwill and the Chinese buffet. Every corner held at least two of our poorest fellow humans, old folks in older clothing, sometimes yelling but mostly just looking forlorn and drawn.

I couldn’t help it. I gave money to whomever asked. (Side note: Every time I do something like this, I think that I can never, ever tell anyone, because that would mean that my intentions weren’t pure. Maybe it doesn’t matter how “pure” my intentions happen to be at any given moment and I was just brainwashed by the Catholic Church. Hmmm.)

I went to my favorite sushi place, Yuki on Broadway and 14th. My order was a little complicated and I had to sit outside with my dog, in the sweltering heat. I asked for a pitcher of water and the server who brought the water was so confused at my need for an entire pitcher that he almost took it away. Luckily, he granted my wish when I begged him to leave it.

I made a good sized puddle out of the ice water for Miso to lay her hot body in. We sat there together, observing the constant activity. It was then, looking around at the corner and the intersection full of people that I started to see myself making assumptions about the people who walked, rode, or drove by me. I noticed that the negative assumptions were aimed at the kind of people to whom I consider myself an outsider (there’s that “outsider syndrome” I was talking about).

As you may have been gathering in this endless search I’m on to find out what’s beneath the bullshit, I am tired of feeling like an outsider. Gazing at the strange and diverse pedestrians addle by me and my dog, I wondered if perhaps a way to help me stop thinking that I am separate than other people is to seek out the goodness in others rather than seeing what I have taught myself to see.

Unfortunately, this post serves to admit, most humbly, that I am a judgmental person. Did you already know that about me?

I would love more than anything to free myself of all that cynicism and rejection I’ve felt toward other people. I want to really care about everyone, not because I have to, but because I want to. Is it possible to recognize the person in every person, the thing(s) that make us more alike than we are different? Are we doomed to continue to lose touch with helping each other and taking care of each other until we crumble under the weight of our loneliness? Or will our evolution turn us toward the love and respect that will finally heal us? I don’t usually think about this question, since in it lies the greatest sadness that we share as human beings.

Back to how I was sitting outside with my dog in 94 degree weather on Broadway in Northeast Portland. (Have I told you that I love Portland?) Once I had finished my delicious veggie tempura roll (yum) I headed north with my hot dog. I had two interactions with people that were meaningful to me on the way home. They were meaningful because I am (astonishingly) growing out of my shyness and finding ways to genuinely relate to people. I’ve been afraid of people for a very long time.

With all that and a soy dream icecream sandwich under my belt, Miso and I made our way home. I was content and satisfied with my urban adventure.

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Ever since I can remember, I have wanted to be a performer. I had more than just a typical desire for attention - I longed to attract a certain kind of attention, the kind that inspires admiration and awe. A few short-lived periods dot my life story in which I successfully realized my fantasies, but these times passed, and insecurity and confusion tucked me under to await another opportunity.

My desire to perform has led me to spend a lot of time with the Internet. The Internet provides an opportunity to perform in a million different ways from behind the safety of my own computer. It also allows for complete control over such performances, since barely anything is in real time. I can write and rewrite this post a million times before offering it to the world to be witnessed and criticized appropriately.

Sometimes, I spend too much time with the Internet. Sometimes I start to feel as though I’m expecting too much of my identity to be validated by a complex network of opinion, an unreachable mass of constant change. I feel angry at myself for sinking too much weight into something that is intangible, resulting only in a smattering of memorable images of cute kittens, a vague recollection of the sexual habits of bonobos, and a general idea of how to be more productive in my day to day activities.

For some, the Internet has provided more than just information, but has also served to form and strengthen human relationships. This is a valuable byproduct of the Internet experience that I am yet to know first hand. It takes more effort than I can offer to maintain the amount of interaction necessary to keep up with massive amounts of personal information through endless numbers of social channels. All this social networking is making me dizzy. As someone whose identity is constantly in flux (what’s my name now?), I cannot be expected to maintain so many online identities! It’s a ridiculous expectation, really. I think the only answer is to purge myself from the Internet (as much as is possible) and also to spend a little less time paying attention to my online existence.

Do you ever get sick of the Internet? I can’t ever really get away, since this is where I work. I think maybe I need a vacation.

I’m so mad at you. I haven’t quite figured out why you’ve made me so angry, but I thought perhaps some direct communication could help.

We’ve been together for a really long time now, and I’ve put a ton of energy into making this relationship work. I’ve spent more time with you than anyone else, and I’ve tried to be as open and honest as possible.

Even though you’re always there for me, I feel like you’re elusive and sometimes extremely cold in our interactions with each other. Sometimes I feel like I know you so well and then I’ll wake up one day to discover that I don’t actually, really know anything about you at all.

Whenever we get together, I feel expectant that you will satisfy a loneliness inside of me that no one else understands. I think that you will enable me to be honest with myself and as a result, I will be more connected to the world as a whole. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of that connection and I’m inspired to make things work between us. Other times, like now, I just feel sick and tired of giving and giving and never feeling like you actually care one bit about how hard I’m trying to understand and relate to you. I have literally dedicated my life to you. What have you done for me besides made me feel empty and alone?

I think maybe I’ve had enough of you for a while. It was better when we took that little break and spent less time together. It doesn’t do any relationship any good to overdo it. Ever since I started taking you everywhere with me, I’ve become more and more overwhelmed with you. I don’t want our relationship to be about need or addiction and I’m tired of looking to you to make me feel good about myself.

I know I can’t get away from you entirely, but we need to spend less time together. I know you’ll still be there for me if I ever want to be more deeply involved.