S/He and Me – a review

This weekend J and I saw Alexandra Billings’ show S/He and Me at the Renberg Theater (one of the spaces at the Los Angeles LGBT Center). Previously, I had only known of her through her portrayal of Davina on Transparent and by stalking her on instagram (goofy and fun). So we went in knowing we might see something fun, but not knowing what the story could be.

It was a beautiful day and J and I both looked amazing. That’s a good way to start anything. The outdoor space in the Village at Ed Gould Plaza is bright and cheery, although since we arrived almost an hour early it was wanting of a bar. Just about everyone we spoke to was friendly and smiling (and also looked amazing – something in the air?). Another good way to start anything.

The theater was cozy and we checked out the posters from past shows (Kathy & Mo, Margaret Cho, no other rhyming names). As we sat, we noticed Trace Lysette and Amy Landecker sit in the front row. In L.A. or NYC, it’s not cool to be a celebrity hound, but I don’t know if anyone can truly admit they don’t get a little leap of the heart when they see someone they just watched on TV the night before. One time Harvey Firestein smiled and waved at J before leaving the stage after his performance of Tevya. It’s fun, sue me.

The show opened with Alexandra singing a quiet, slow song. She gave a short monologue peppered with wisecracks at piano player Jarod, who played throughout the show and did a fantastic job. I’m not sure if the jabs were scripted, but they were funny and made me feel like the whole audience was part of the show. For such a personal story as this one, I think that was essential early on.

The unexpected part was Alex stripping almost nude. She gave a brutally honest and startlingly funny monologue about her body, which J and I both appreciated considering both of our own body issues. I would say that she was brave to do it, but I get the impression that Alexandra Billings is someone who doesn’t deal in bullshit anyway. I could see her confronting a quietly staring man with, “These are my boobs, do you want a closer look?” and then going back to whatever she was doing.

The entire cast was wonderful and stayed true to their characters throughout the show. As Scott/Alex’s father, Jeff Paul was both funny and at times very scary (more on that later). Valerie Stafford as Mimi, Scott/Alex’s mother, was mesmerizing every time she was on stage. Joey Ruggiero (Scott) and Kayla Kearney (Chrisanne) brought tons of energy to the show, as did Maddie Larson and Christian B. Schmidt.

The production was simple, yet effective. Behind the performers a sort of slide show played at times, with old photos of the real Scott, Chrisanne, their parents, and of course Alex herself. The musical numbers were fun, especially the ones with Alex and Mimi, who at times camped it up and made some hilarious and unexpected sexual references.

The show was funny, heartwarming and at turns shockingly scary for me. In one scene, Scott/Alex’s parents are arguing and after it crescendoed into a full-out screaming match, my nerves were frying. Suddenly, Alex yelled “STOP,” and I felt like it would have come out of me if it had gone on longer.

There were a few times where I was confused by what was happening and in other moments I identified with exactly what was going on. I could have written some of the lines myself, such as when Alex’s parents separately ask her “Why?” (referring to her gender change) and her heartbreaking answer both times is, “I don’t know.”

My favorite moments were when she broke the fourth wall.  As she talked about her long-time relationship with Chrisanne, J and I squeezed each others hands several times. We’ve known each other since we were 14 and 16, have been married almost 25 years and working through my gender issues. It was sweetly touching and very close to home.

At turns ribald, raunchy, sentimental, sad, and wildly celebratory, S/He and Me was really fun to watch. We left the theater feeling light and happy.

Even without a bar.

 

 

Not Ladies

J and I went to the mall yesterday. It was one of those thinly disguised errand trips that are actually a chance to get away from the kids for an hour on a wet Sunday. I say thinly disguised because I suspect they’re happy for us to leave them alone and… we needed light bulbs. That’s just the way it works around here, you take what you can get.

We both quickly threw on Being in Public clothes, which meant a skirt and top for her, t-shirt, jeans and hat for me. As much as I would love to wear the same as J, this wasn’t the day or time for me to be me (those are few and far between). Aside from my usual painted toes and women’s jeans, my face was a stubbled mess and my frame was very manly-looking in my tee. Besides, the kids aren’t in on The Big Secret yet. So, whatever. We’re just getting lightbulbs and I can deal.

We moseyed around the mall for a while, window shopping and people watching, until we wandered into a fancy home decor store. It was fairly empty except for the pretentious nude sculptures with cartoonishly oversized women’s features that, I don’t know, somebody must love. I’ve never actually seen one outside of these kinds of stores.

As we made our way into the Approachable Customer Zone, we triggered the dreaded sales rep alarm, who got up to approach us. Ugh, because I thought we had our We Are Just Browsing masks on. Damn.

“Hello, Ladies.”

As we turned to face her and she got a little closer, she muttered, “Er… uh, ladies? I mean, uh…”

As my heart leapt into my throat (see Not Really Trying description above), J cut her off. “You know, you really shouldn’t be gendering anyone at all, ever. You could just say, ‘Hello,’ but you shouldn’t use ‘Ladies’ or ‘Sir’ or anything. Just ‘Hello’ is enough!”

The sales rep tried to make light of the situation by making these little chortling sounds and muttered some things I can’t remember (heart still in throat, but now also laughing inside), but she backed off and retreated to her pretentious gallery-style desk/counter thing.

We left shortly afterwards and had an otherwise uneventful hour “getting light bulbs.” Then we actually got light bulbs. And Halloween candy, because oops, that’s tomorrow.

On the drive home, I brought up the Incident. I said that I actually didn’t mind being called “Ladies,” and I thought it was funny – especially considering how much I was not trying. Her point of hating being called “Ladies,” or “Girls” is well taken. It’s 2016, time to just greet people without assuming anything. What I didn’t say, and only fully realize now as I write this, was that I also had this warm, safe feeling when J told her off. Maybe it wasn’t intentional, but I felt that she kind of had my back.

I suppose she could have said, “He’s a man, you idiot,” but she didn’t. Maybe it’s my false sense of security that J didn’t automatically proclaim that, but maybe she sees me as something other than “He” or “Man.” Hopeful thinking on my part. Then again, everything isn’t about me and maybe this was more about her.

Erasing the past

It’s a late breezy evening, wind-down time in our house. As we lounge on the couch and listen to our 8-year old read aloud, I’m scanning the wall. It’s blanketed with small to medium-sized photos, mostly framed simply in inexpensive raw wood from decades of lazy Sunday IKEA shopping. Nestled against the wall is a recycled wood bookcase, the top of which is filled with more photos, similarly framed.

It’s the photos I’m scanning.

In particular, my eyes rest on the ones that have me in them. Me as bearded father, me as balding brother at my sister’s wedding, me as a laughing teenage boy in love with a teenage girl, who is now cuddling in my lap.

As I’ve spent the last several years agonizing over the maleness in those photos, and finally coming to rest on the acceptance of not being that gender, I’ve often returned to them as a way of considering my past and my future. What of it?

I suppose I could complain bitterly to the gods that I was dealt an unfair hand. I could make a case against family and society that my beard was forced on me by their expectations. I could lament these photos and wish them gone, the horror of my appearance screaming at me like the voice of a woman buried behind a brick wall.

I don’t.

What would I do? Would I wipe away all traces of my existence up until now? Hide the albums, take down the framed photos, remove all evidence of my manly visage from the world?

I won’t do that. I don’t even want to.

It occurs to me that this isn’t my past only. The past I have is a shared past, filled with other beings who have their own memories of our places, our travels, our homes, and yes, my face. I shared my face with these people. Those are my children’s memories, our family’s history that, wiped or hidden away would be negating the love and togetherness we’ve shared. It is a shared past.

Watching children grow up is a phenomenon that you don’t put into full significance for many years. It’s only looking back at those tiny chunks, baby faces, baby hands and toddler feet that allows you to marvel at their now more chiseled, adult features.

We don’t throw away baby pictures because the kids are grown.

I’m not a person who dwells in regret. I tend to move forward to new things. When I do look back, I look back with curiosity, reverence, and love. It’s not just my life.

The photos stay up.

Hiding

I get tired of hiding.

Hiding is hard. Hiding means you can’t connect the way you were going to. Hiding means people don’t see you, they see a projection. Hiding creates misunderstanding right from the get-go. “Hi, nice to meet you, I’m HIDING.” Hiding means that people who could benefit from your experience don’t know your experience. Hiding means that hate gets a leg up because when we’re hiding, we’re letting the hate take over the world. Hiding is being afraid. Hiding is playing it safe. Hiding is a life that could otherwise be richer. Hiding is keeping your head down when you should be keeping it high in the air. Hiding is fear of rejection. Hiding is assuming that the World out There is going to be terrible. Hiding isn’t fair to people you love. Hiding is saying you don’t trust your friends to have your back.

I think it’s okay to hide for a while. It’s self-preservation. Then it’s time to stop hiding, because an entire life of hiding is not a life you’re really living.

I get tired of hiding.

Trans Girl, the World’s Most Dangerous Lesbian

We were in bed, naked. Panting. Sighing. Moaning. It was one of those nights, the kind where physical passion was lightning let out of a bottle. The orgasms were many and they were long.

And yet, it was hours before my penis came into play. Tongues, fingers, and lips were all put to thrillingly good use without want of a phallus. We had amazing sex for hours without the aid of a penis. When it finally came into the picture, it was a cherry on top of the sundae.

I felt like the World’s Most Dangerous Lesbian.

There is a scene in Sense8 where Nomi and Amanita (a trans/lesbian couple) are having sex, one thrusting into the other with a strapon. In our case, I carry my dildo around everywhere I go, safely tucked inside my pants.

It’s one of the reasons I don’t mind having a cock. I feel like a lesbian with a wicked trick up my…sleeve.

For some reason, I’ve noticed that many trans women and couples dodge the issue of sex after coming out or transitioning. Of course, most times in polite society some things are not up for discussion (body parts at dinner, for example). And for some couples who have gone through one partner transitioning, it may be a sore subject. I often read about trans women whose libido disappears after hormones. I would feel badly for them, but I also know that some are either relieved or simply don’t care. For some people, sex was never very important in their lives and that’s just the way they feel. Others, for whom it’s always been important, seem to figure out how to keep it going.

Whatever the case may be, it’s worth talking about openly. I know that I benefit from hearing others’ experiences, even if they don’t parallel mine. Especially if they don’t.

I hope that my wife and I continue to have great sex until we’re dead. After this many years, I optimistically anticipate that we’ll figure it out somehow, whatever the circumstances. Although she’s not a lesbian or even bisexual, I hope that the person that is me (and always has been me) will still be a source of pleasure no matter what gender I’m presenting.

Because we cannot forget the dangerous secret I’ve got tucked away.

 

The “Trans” Voice

Flipping through channels after midnight in a downtown L.A. hotel room, I stopped on one of those infamous infomercials. The narrator’s voice was deep and resonant, bass-but-soft, and I had a hard time recognizing it as male or female. Turns out the speaker was an older woman. She was not a big woman, she just happened to possess a very deep, Bea Arthur-style voice.

I’ve also heard other women who possess a natural baritone. I’ve known men who squeak out their words. And so what? It seems that it only gets weird when someone is transgender.

I have a fairly deep voice. We’re not talking Barry White here, but when I speak it’s definitely on the oboe side of the orchestra.

Actually, I have many voices. I’ve always “done voices” to entertain myself (and anyone else in my vicinity) since I could first speak. Accents, characters, you name it, I have a gift for mimicry. And sure, I can do a passable female voice if I try.

The thing is, I don’t really want to.

I dislike many things that puberty changed in me, and my voice is one of them. Even so, it’s one thing that seems odd for me to change just to make my barista or Uber driver feel more comfortable.

Any advice you read online about transitioning includes changing your voice as a Number One Thing You Just Have to Do. I disagree.

My philosophy (and the reason I started this site) is that being trans is a very personal thing. For some transgender people, the voice is a make-or-break. There are voice-training systems and free videos all over the internet. They may be for some, they aren’t for me.

There are trans men and women out there for whom having a passing voice is not only a win over their dysphoria, it can be life-saving. So I support their choice to change it. How could I not support someone’s choice to change something about themselves that helps them feel more of their true self?

That’s why especially within the trans community, we need to allow for diversity. Out there in the big, bad world, there is intolerance and violence to be experienced by trans people. Within the trans community, we should feel 100% safe to be who we are.

 

The trans conversations we need to have

Coming out as a viewer of I Am Cait is almost as difficult as coming out as queer. Trans people on social media love to hate I Am Cait.

I get it, kind of.

On the surface, here is this refugee from The Kardashians who is totally new to being out as transgender. Cait is making all sorts of gaffs and saying provocative things (no doubt producer/editor-enhanced) that make the trans community cringe and say “She doesn’t represent us!”

True. Good! Yes! Fine! We can feel that without shutting down the whole conversation. I maintain that no one can represent me, including Cait, Kate, Jenny, Laverne or… Betty. But I want to listen. I still need to hear what’s going on. It’s about respecting the conversation.

I really enjoyed the sparky chat between Kate Bornstein and Jenny Boylan about the use of the word “tranny.” It offends Jenny and Kate identifies with it. Certainly there were more sparks and depth in that discussion than I describe, but that’s why they have a TV show and I have a blog with three posts.

I think tranny is a great word, when used in love and respect. As an insult it’s as horrible as anything. “Housewife” can be an insult in some feminist circles. For others it’s a proud label.

I call my younger son “Twerp.” For us, it’s an affectionate nickname and in his words, “Being a twerp is awesome!” It’s awesome for him because he feels the endearment and my love behind it. “Twerp” is nowhere near tranny status, but it illustrates my feeling that the language we use to express ourselves is very individual. We are not a hive of bees, although sometimes we all get stirred up like one over perceived threats.

On the show, when Auntie Kate chants, “Trannies, trannies, let’s go trannies!” I get it completely. While I don’t identify as a tranny, I know where she’s coming from.

Labels are hard, ya know? I don’t identify totally as a woman. I don’t consider myself a woman or a man. I don’t know if there’s an existing label that accurately represents who I am. Gender fluid comes close, but even that is hard for my mind to settle on.

Regardless of the surface nature of a reality show on E!, there are lessons to be learned by watching. The lesson in this case is not about labeling, it’s about open conversation. It’s hard enough to have conversations with friends and family who don’t understand what being transgender means. We shouldn’t feel protective of our words within the LGBTQ community.

Let’s have less judgement, less labeling and more respectful, truly open conversations. Go!

 

Brand new… to you.

I am the same person I always was. I have always been this person, as far back as I can remember.

I’ve always identified more feminine than masculine. There were those aspects of my personality that defied any convention of gender. I loved motorcycles, Evel Knievel, The Bionic Woman, Dorothy Hamill’s hair, and cute heart patterns equally. I climbed trees and skinned knees. I liked playing with girls more than boys, we could hang effortlessly whereas playing with boys required effort. I always considered myself a sort of a tomboy, like the girl in Betty Miles’ The Real Me, who wanted to deliver papers.

The sticky wicket is that as I grew older, I hid more of who I am on the inside and projected an image that I thought would be okay with everyone else. I’m not proud of that part of myself – the cowardly part – and I certainly don’t blame anyone else for my circumstances. It is what it is, here we are. I’m now at a place in my life where I’m tired of hiding that real person inside.

Back to the sticky wicket part, where that is now going to be very surprising to friends, family, clients and co-workers who felt they knew who I was. The closer we are, the harder it will be for them.

I get it, but I hope for understanding.

 

 

Does my penis bother you?

A while back, I came across the fantastic Body Painting Day photos from the Village Voice. This is only one reason why I miss NYC. In L.A., you very rarely come across street art as you walk to your destination because, well, hardly anyone walks to their destination in L.A..

As I was browsing through the photos, I saw a woman being painted, crouching on her knees (photo #9). Just before I clicked to the next photo, I thought, Funny, her foot looks like a penis. Ha. I wonder if she saw that later. Oops.

Many photos later, there she is again. Standing (photo #50).

Wait. That is a penis between her legs. A rather large penis, in fact. Cannot ignore large dangling member.

At first I’m taken aback. Yes, there is a transgender woman with breasts and a penis standing nude (albeit painted) in the middle of Manhattan.

I realized how beautiful that is. She is who she is and she is standing in front of all those people (and the internet) expressing it fully. That’s a beautiful thing.

The idea that every transgender person necessarily wants to follow the same path is completely bogus. Now, not knowing this person, I really have no idea if she is saving up for surgery. Maybe she hates her penis. Somehow I think that if that were the case, she would not be posing nude in public.

But I think this woman is happy. It’s only two photos. But in those two photos, I sense contentment, acceptance, happiness. Maybe it’s only moments, I can’t really know that and I’m interpreting a static image.

It’s a beautiful thing to express yourself in a way that says, “This is who I am. Too damn bad if that doesn’t suit your preexisting notions of how the world works.”

I do know what I feel about the photo and how it relates to me, which is to say that I do not, in fact, hate my penis. It doesn’t bother me like it bothers some trans women, yet it’s perfectly valid that their penis is not welcome in their own lives.

The transgender zeitgeist these days seems to be “passing,” and becoming whole through surgery as your true gender. That’s the Holy Grail of transgender people as far as the media portrays it. It’s just not true for everyone.

It’s also not all about body parts. It’s about getting to a level of understanding and acceptance that, like a penis, gender is not always a rigid construct.

The real battle is not in getting people to accept trans people as long as they aren’t visibly obvious. It’s changing society’s perceptions of gender so that being visibly trans doesn’t matter anymore.