Honey

I wore a three-piece suit to my community college graduation ceremony over 10 years ago. I was just a baby really, beginning the long discovery of my strange and fascinating gender identity. I felt this was my breakthrough moment, the very first time I left the house wearing something so obviously, and loudly male. I was embracing a long held desire to dress formally in masculine attire, and I was proud of it.

Unfortunately, not everyone shared my enthusiasm. I waited and waited for my mom to show up at the graduation, but she never came. When I went home to my parents’ house, worried out of my mind, my father told me that she had seen me leaving the house in a suit and had experienced such an intense, emotional reaction, that she had been unable to come to my graduation. After confronting my mother, I stood in the driveway and cried harder than I’ve ever cried in my life. I had broken my mother’s heart by being gender queer, and she had broken mine by being offended by a part of me I was no longer willing to ignore.

I’m really not sure how much of my mother’s revulsion to my gender expression was based in fear of the queer, so to speak, or if she was only wildly disappointed in my attempts to cross over into the male identity. My mother is a feminist, and she taught me well of the patriarchy, which to her represents repression, unchecked power, arrogance, greed, control, and injustice to women everywhere. She would tell me later that it was the vision of her daughter in a three-piece suit specifically that gave her such a shock, attire in her mind only worn by power-hungry corporate executive types who have little to no respect for women in general.

So many times since I began wondering about gender have I thought that perhaps I am, in fact, a man trapped in a woman’s body. I’ve pondered excitedly the idea of going all the way, taking testosterone, becoming physically as much of a man as is possible in today’s vast landscape of medical and social possibilities. I’ve watched a lot of my gender queer friends do just that, or some version of that, growing facial hair, going bald, beefing up, and passing as men, a clear realization of the gender that drives them from within.

Unfortunately (or fortunately) for me, it’s never been simple. Although most of me happily basks in the knowledge that I’m special and freaky, a part of me yearns so much to be just another normal person, someone who doesn’t conjure fear and confusion in the minds of the common people. If I were a man, everything would be so much easier, I think to myself: I could marry my girlfriend anywhere, I could finally have a manly, muscular body, I wouldn’t feel as vulnerable, I’d fit in with ease, I could grow some side burns, etc. It would be amazing to watch my body and my perspective change as a result of injecting hormones. I would finally and absolutely know what it was like to live as a man in this world, and I would surely enjoy all those benefits that come with male privilege.

There’s some other part of me, though, that has stopped me every time I’ve come close to beginning a physical transition. I went as far as to make an appointment to begin hormone injections a few years ago, but realized at the last minute that it just wasn’t the right thing for me to do. It may be childhood brainwashing, it may be fear of the unknown, it may be any number of subconscious lines of reason that I will never be able to fully comprehend. All I really know is that I am a woman more than I am a man, no matter how full of penis envy I might be. I may be a representation of a new kind of woman, an atypical reminder of the fallibility of a binary gender system, a slap in the face to traditional female roles, and a poster child for the next (and perhaps, sadly, the last) generation of butch dykes.

Unfortunately, it appears to me that my particular situation is only a jumping off point for most gender queer folks of my age and younger. I felt angry and betrayed as a young dyke discovering the butch community. I watched my peers and role models changing into something else, something I had no desire to be, and I felt left behind and alone. The more I hear about queer kids rejecting anything with feminine associations, the more disappointed (and worried) I become.

I believe we live in a misogynistic society. I realize that a lot has changed over the past hundred years, “we’ve come a long way baby”, and all that, but I still see the sickness pervading our world. One of the most obvious symptoms is the self-inflicted hatred that all women seem to share. So many of my fellow queers are more than willing to date and love women, but refuse to allow themselves to express a gender that ever reflects any sort of womanness at all. We instead choose to mirror the typical man whose masculinity is in question, becoming righteously offended and defensive against anyone who dares to perceive us as female: using the incorrect pronoun, including us in the collective “we” when referring to “us women” or “girls night out”.

I am by no means trying to submit that my trans friends who identify as he, man, male, and him deserve any less respect or acknowledgment as the gender they have chosen. Every single person deserves to be perceived exactly as they desire, as much as that is possible by our limited psychic and communicative abilities. Many of my queer brethren rock the same fence I do, and have ended up on the other side. I will continue to support them in whatever identities they choose to explore and discover for themselves. Above all, we must support each other.

Perhaps that is why I worry. I worry that an already difficult experience as a woman (and as a queer) has made transitioning an all too obvious assumption for those that grow up confused about where their gender fits into the inflexibility that is mainstream America. I worry that the only way we know to support each other is to provide transitioning as the only solution to our dissatisfaction with the state of our body and mind. Are there any other solutions (besides taking hormones and having surgery) that will help us to feel good (or at least alright) about who we are?

For a lot of queer people I know, gender identity is a complex, personal experience, full of hope, introspection, pain, need, self-love, curiosity, wonderment, and confusion. It’s never simple, and it’s never the same for any two people. Gender is just a part of all the other stuff that makes us who we are, a neverending, beautiful web of expression, identity, and understanding. Here’s to the continuing journey of our own discovery as well as the ongoing support of all of our queer brothers, sisters, and others.

I was showing off my tattoos last night to some fellow CFers at the hotel bar. I’m especially proud of the women who stand on my forearms and entered into a discussion about other tattoos I could have that would represent still other influential women in history.

Steve kept proclaiming: “There are so many kick ass women in history!” I tried to explain my attraction to feminine imagery with a theological bent, but he continued to rattle off (a few) names of the 19th and 20th centuries. I realized that the powerful women of history do not (for the most part) have a recognizable image. I’m not sure if I could identify a photo of Rosa Parks or Susan B. Anthony, for example. Perhaps if I had been surrounded and infused by stained glass windows full of iconography of the women’s suffrage movement, I would be more likely to have a tattoo of Elizabeth Cady Stanton.

When people ask who it is inked into my right arm, I like to answer: “The mother of god, of course.” I immediately identify Joan of Arc on my left arm, in order to maintain balance between the two images. Invariably, someone will ask me why I chose to have Mary and Joan tattooed on my body. I’m flustered by this question. It is so difficult to explain such a personal expression.

Most of my tattoos have a spiritual significance. In another lifetime, I was a deeply thoughtful theologian, but in this one, I stumble over my ideas about religion and philosophy and have a very difficult time trying to explain myself.

To my ex-Catholic mind (and heart), Mary is a representation of the eternal mother. I am not alone, I’m sure, as a person with a complicated mother-daughter experience, and Mary remains a simple image of constant motherly compassion. In common iconography, she is typically holding her child or opening her arms, seemingly to welcome me into her comforting embrace. Mary is the most accurate image I have of god and the universe (personified).

In contrast, Joan of Arc was a warrior and a leader. She was a fiercely loyal and courageous woman who functioned in a man’s world (just like me). Joan represents the inherent ability of women to succeed outside of socially expected norms, to demand great respect, and to live with absolute integrity.

I’m a long way from home this week, hanging out with a bunch of CF nerds (ok, I’m one too) in Washington, D.C. We’re in a ginormous convention center, impossible to describe. My coworkers, Barney and Joshua, are here too. We had a great time today playing a modified version of disc golf outside the curtained bounds of the common conference area.

I’ve had the most fun talking with other developers from all over the country (and beyond). I enjoy talking about technology and the web, what’s possible and what’s awesome. The primary topic of discussion, ColdFusion, is especially close to my heart.

I’m one of a few women in attendance. I’d estimate approximately 5% of the folks here at the conference are women. I even saw a big butch lezzie, identifiable by the familiar wide hips and spiky hair. Unfortunately, I think there is an unspoken law about speaking to each other, because she refused to even make eye contact. What’s up with that? Here we are, a couple of techie dykes in a sea of bald / long haired white man weirdos, and we can’t talk to each other? I guess it could be presumptuous of me to assume that we would actually have anything in common.

Although attendance is 95% men, and proudly logical men at that, there is a good sized helping of good old fashioned drama in almost every session and key note address. ColdFusion has a bastard step child, an elite set of name-droppers, and a throng of masses who seem to bend and sway with the community’s latest “cutting-edge” ideas.

I want to remain objective. Even though I’ve used (and loved) ColdFusion and other web technology for years, I struggle to feel like I belong here. As my queer friends dedicate their lives to a grueling life of social service, I spend most of my time with a mainstream population that may sometimes briefly reflect me in human and occupational mind only, but mainly makes me feel like an outsider. It’s confusing for me, especially when I long to grow exponentially as a programmer, but have limited resources to do so.

There’s something mysteriously cool about the quintessential woman who is a programmer (especially a hacker) but usually only when that woman meets our current social standards for what is deemed sexy. She’s straight, visually female, young, skinny, and hard to get. She reminds me of the typical straight man’s fantasy lesbian, someone who appears out of reach but will ultimately cave for a man’s attention.

Does it make any difference that I am not the gender or sexuality of the typical person in attendance at this conference? It seems it would matter less if I only proved my enthusiasm for any relevant discussion, and these outward, distracting expressions of my identity would just fade away. I would be perceived and treated like just another CF geek. The flaw in this idea is that I became tired of proving myself a long time ago.

As Barney explained on his blog, these conferences are made up of at least 2 dimensions: the sessions where I might learn a thing or 2, but more importantly, the chance to converse with like minds about technology we all use and usually admire. I enjoy seeing and talking with the people whose names are behind the blogs I read and the frameworks I use. Deep down, I know that I fit in as much as I think I do. As long as I separate myself through the eyes / perception of the unique aspects of my identity, I will continue to feel out of place and alone. As soon as I open my mind to these nerdy white guys (and realize that I am one of them), I will accept myself entirely and allow myself to recognize my place in this sometimes dysfunctional but mostly friendly ColdFusion community.

Agent and I had the most awesome party last night. It was a drink and ping party, with much laughter, drunken ping pong, and lively conversation. Our very talented friend took amazing pictures that captured the spectacular moments with great clarity.

This is Kate. Kate plays poker with us and frequently wins all our chips. It’s also her birthday. Happy Birthday, Kate!

Do you believe in superheros? Why or why not?

Had you asked me whether or not I believed in superheroes a decade ago, I would have, without reservation or hesitation and as much authority as a seventeen year-old can muster up answered you no, absolutely not, that’s ridiculous. This is one of the many areas of my life that I can now, with the same clenched fist authority, tell you, with absolute certainty, that yes, in fact, I do believe in superheroes and could give you their number if you needed.

Take for example, my friend Bearded Jason. Bearded Jason often claims that if he were to take on an alternate identity, it would be Plain-clothed Amish Man. While this might not be the kind of superhero identity that would sell comic books, it fits Bearded Jason to a t.

While Jason’s striking resemblance to a plain-clothed Amish man is astounding and noteworthy, there are several other finer points that have me convinced that he possesses something greater, qualities that rightfully carry enough wonder to be called super powers.

He has never lost at tic-tac-toe. Not once.

In a game of pool at the bar down the street from my house, Jason and I were playing for the table against two obviously superior players. Guys with their own sticks and hand chalk and names like Carl and Bruce. The game was surprisingly close, each team with one of their own balls on the table and the eight ball. I was unable to bank our ball, leaving the other team with a perfect leave to finish the game. They were able to cleanly sink their last ball and had a clear shot at the eight. Bearded Jason looked over at me with a wink, crossed fingers on both hands, linked his arms under his raised left knee, and mumbled something under his breathe. The other team them proceeded to scratch on the eight ball. Bearded Jason later told me that he rarely uses the his super jinx against strangers, but he really wanted to play another game of pool.

If Portland had its own superhero, what would they be like?

If Portland were to have its own super hero in the same vain of super hero as say, the Green Lantern or the Incredible Hulk, I imagine someone like Bearded Jason wouldn’t do. And while a plaided out lumberjack with overalls might work for Eugene, Stumptown, at last to this urban transplant, seems to be a far cry from its logging industrial roots. Our super hero would need to be far more androgynous than a burly, bearded, barrel chested eight foot tall man in overalls. Obviously. Perhaps someone closer to David Bowie or Grace Jones, but without the flashy fashion sensibility, unless skinny jeans, converse, faux-hawks and black hoodies are flashy. And while I should never be hired to create super hero characters for Marvel, we could call ours Do-It-Yourself Dynamo and replace the scary Portlandia statue downtown (the that sort of looks like a young, beautiful devil) with a fifty-seven foot tall multi-tool.

What’s the best super power you can imagine? If you had that power, what would you do with it?

There was this Ducktales episode where Huey, Louie, and Dewey had this stopwatch that would stop time and they would be able to wreak all sorts of havoc while every one else in the world was frozen in that moment. I know that there are far more interesting super powers out there, like, you know, flying, but I always wanted the stopwatch power. If I had one, I’d probably bake a lot more, my garden would be in better shape, I’d learn how to break dance, read a few books a day, ride my bicycle everywhere, shower more often, maybe start a small farm. You know, simple things. Again, flying is way more exciting.

Who is your superhero?

There is this guy in Mexico City who wears a yellow lucha libre wrestling mask and red tights and goes by Superbarrio. Rather than going after crime rings, he uses this persona to organize labor rallies, protests, and petition drives which is arguably the same thing as going after crime rings.

Do you believe one person, superhero or not, can save the world?

If there are more Superbarrios and Bearded Jasons in the world, then, yes, absolutely.