Welcome to my weekly post featuring photos that didn’t make it into Queer Rock Love, but probably should have.
This week’s image complements Chapter 28, “No Shortage.”
One afternoon, Waylon was engaged in an art project of his own devising, which involved gluing a bunch of sequins to a cork. As he was working at the kitchen table, I heard him singing a little song that went “God is inside of every thing, God is inside of everything, God is inside of everything!” The melody sounded a lot like the Ramones, but the lyrics gave me pause.
“Who taught you that song? Did you learn that in Sunday school?” I asked. I realized I had no clear idea what he learned when he attended the children’s activities at Trinity.
“No one taught it to me. I taught it to myself.”
“Oh, okay. That’s good.” I picked up a few stray sequins and put them back in his pile.
“Mom,” he said, still gluing.
“God is inside of this table.”
Ready to read more about a gay, trans, rock-n-roll family raising a son in the South? Order the book or come to Naked Girls Reading Austin this Saturday to hear an excerpt read by a real, live naked girl.
“By age thirteen, it was clear that Katy had inherited her mother’s legendary rack. And since she refused to set foot in the lingerie department, Katy was at the mercy of her mother’s taste in bras. Thus, throughout the low-slung seventies, Katy was forced to sport Jayne Mansfield-style bras that launched her boobs up and out, like minor planets orbiting her chin.
It was not a style that complemented a softball uniform. Or a basketball uniform. Or any of the other sporty ensembles that might otherwise have offered androgynous refuge for a budding butch.”
Ready to read more about the journey from Playtex to man chest? Order the book.
Got a memory about butch boobs (or Katy’s mom)? Share in the comments below.
This year, the organizers of Austin’s annual Transgender Day of Remembrance memorial have asked psychotherapists from the LGBT community to be available at City Hall for participants who may need support after the event.
Their request is a recognition that bearing witness to violence—both physical and systemic violence—can be emotionally devastating. It’s crucial for communities to come together, mourn their dead, and organize for the future. But how can members of a vulnerable community remember acts of violence without becoming re-traumatized?
More than 200 names will be read at 2014 DOR memorials all around the country. That’s 200 human beings, many of them trans women of color, who have died because of anti-transgender violence in the past year. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. No one knows how many deaths go uncounted.
“It’s a difficult event to attend,” says blogger Autumn Sandeen. “It’s a difficult event to plan.” In a recent article for San Diego’s LGBT Weekly, Sandeen wrote about the numbness that some long-time trans activists feel in response to the ongoing violence.
My wife, Katy Koonce, has been attending Austin’s TDOR since the beginning. As a trans-identified psychotherapist, she has helped countless clients sort through their feelings after Day of Remembrance. I asked Katy for her tips on emotional self care for folks who are attending this year’s event. Here’s what she had to say:
1. Look around. This may be the most transgender people that you’ve ever seen in one place. Remember that, despite all the violence and discrimination, our community continues to grow and organize. They can’t keep us down.
2. Talk to people. Generally speaking, trans people like to help other trans people. If you’re new to all this, ask about what else is going on in your community. If you’re an old-timer, pay it forward.
4. Observe yourself with compassion. Take note of the things that trigger you. Sometimes the hardest thing about TDOR may be hearing from PFLAG parents and thinking about your relationship to your own family or hearing from trans youth and thinking about your younger self.
5. Remember to breathe. Take in the faces around you. Make eye contact. The anxiety you’re feeling is most likely not about the now. You’re here, surrounded by other people who have come out for similar reasons. Let yourself be in the moment.
Transgender Day of Remembrance
Thursday, November 20th, 2014
Austin City Hall, 301 W 2nd St, Austin, TX 78701
In the interest of full disclosure, let me start by saying that I’ve always been a huge J.K. Rowling fan. I’ve read the entire Harry Potter series aloud. Twice. When Rowling published her first post-Potter novel, The Casual Vacancy, I rushed to buy it and was thrilled to discover a multi-layered story animated by white-hot rage at inequality. Later, I devoured The Cuckoo’s Calling, the first detective novel that Rowling published under the pseudonym Robert Galbraith.
Needless to say, I was excited to dig in to the pseudonymous Galbraith’s second novel, The Silkworm.
I’m not an aficionado of detective fiction, but I do enjoy a good whodunit from time to time, and this one seemed especially compelling because the plot revolved around a book within a book, and all the suspects were literary folk. Was The Silkworm J.K. Rowling’s allegory about the London literary world? And if so, who were the real-life inspirations for the murdered author and his eccentric agent? Or the grammatically challenged erotica blogger and her sidekick, the aspiring transsexual memoirist?
I have to admit, I held my breath when I first encountered Pippa, the transwoman who claims that the murder victim misrepresented and betrayed her. When Pippa first enters the action, she’s trying to stab The Silkworm’s detective hero, Cormoran Strike. Good lord, I thought, please don’t let J.K. Rowling go all Law & Order on me.
“Citizen’s arrest,” said Strike. “You tried to fucking knife me. Now, for the last bloody time—“
“Pippa Midgley,” she spat.
“Finally. Have you got ID?”
With another mutinous obscenity she slid a hand into her pocket and threw out a bus pass, which she threw to him.
“This says Phillip Midgley.”
Pippa’s character is filtered through the consciousness of Strike, a former military man, and his assistant Robin, a small town girl trying to adapt to London life. Their impressions of Pippa include plenty of clichés. But Pippa’s violent impulses aren’t what sets her apart in this fictional world. In fact, they put her in good company.
Nearly everyone in the book has a reason to seek revenge on the dead man, and Rowling plays with our cultural preconceptions and the conventions of detective fiction, offering us a series of red herrings—the repressed gay publishing mogul, the cuckolded alcoholic editor, the promiscuous red-haired mistress, and the transsexual woman who’s been cast out by her family and then betrayed again by the dead man.
I didn’t know who actually committed the murder until the very last pages of the book, and I realized that my preconceptions about age and gender and ability played just as much a role in whom I didn’t suspect as whom I did suspect.
I think Rowling is poking fun at the genre and maybe even trying to make readers aware of their own prejudices and expectations. Have you read The Silkworm? What do you think?
This is just a quick note to let you know that one of my stories, “Our Social Experiment,” is a featured archive on Brain, Child magazine’s web site right now. If you’ve never read Brain, Child, you’re in for a treat–it’s a treasure trove of beautiful writing and nuanced feminist parenting knowledge.
If you’ve never read “Our Social Experiment,” here’s a little teaser:
Last Christmas, we decided to splurge and spend a few nights at a fancy beach resort. From the moment the clerk ushered us into the “VIP check-in room,” I knew we were in for an adventure. Our five-year-old son, Waylon, plunged head first into a butter-colored club chair.
“Honey, please keep your shoes off the furniture,” I said, feeling my class issues creep up like a slow and annoying blush.
“But, Mama, I’m a seal.” He rested his front flippers on the marble floor.
I scanned the clerk’s face, hoping for the knowing look that tells you you’re in the presence of Family. Nope. Nary a blip on the old gaydar. His eyes were resolutely glued to his computer screen.
My wife, Katy, was not helping. Early that morning, she’d loaded up our vacation baggage. Then she’d navigated the car through hectic holiday traffic. Now she slouched in the chair beside me, tattooed arms folded across her pecs, head tilted back in a caricature of repose. Mirrored sunglasses shielded her eyes. She was ready for a nap.
I gamely answered the check-in questions, keeping one eye on Waylon, who was maneuvering across the floor on his belly. Like his parents, he was clad in black. His t-shirt was emblazoned with an electric guitar and the words “Toxic Waste.” I wondered what the clerk made of our motley crew. Did he think we might be rock stars?
Apparently, he sized us up and designated us “Mr. and Mrs. Schilt.”
Read the rest on Brain, Child, where they created some awesome art for the story. It’s a picture of a small boy playing with a train track in the shape of the transgender symbol. Show them some love for featuring a story about a genderqueer parent!
We were in my car, heading north. She was behind the wheel. “If we were straight,” she said, turning to the passenger side, “I’d take you to Atlantic City and marry you right now.”
And then, purportedly, I said, “For all this talk of marriage, I don’t see a ring on my finger.”
There are two problems with this scenario. First, I am not a coquette. It is not my custom to speak like a latter day lesbian Scarlet O’Hara. Second, I am not a believer. I’m the divorced child of divorced parents. I don’t venerate marriage as a natural state, a keystone of civilization, or even a particularly convenient model of intimate relationship.
Still, “I don’t see a ring on my finger” are the words that, according to the only other extant witness, I am supposed to have uttered on September 10, 2000.
This was our second date. I had recently relocated from Austin, Texas, to rural Pennsylvania. As a newly minted English Ph.D., I was eager to take advantage of a visiting professorship at a small liberal arts college just west of the Allegheny River. Nevermind that my new home was two hours from the nearest airport. Or that the local lesbians lived like Jamesian maiden aunts. Or that the weather forecast called for snow from October to May. All the better, I told myself, I’ll hole up by the fire and write.
But I wasn’t writing. I was thinking of Katy. And I invited her to visit my rural abode.
A week-long second date is a risky proposition. Since I had left Austin, we’d thrown caution to the wind, confessing our dearest hopes and desires over lengthy long-distance telephone calls. By the time Katy arrived at the airport, we were already building a future on the flimsy foundation of flirtatious conversation. But we hadn’t even kissed yet. If our physical chemistry didn’t match our conversational chemistry, we would have to suffer a long and awkward seven days.
After our first kiss (in the baggage claim area), we did considerably less talking.
Five days later, we came up for air. Our time together was almost over, and I wanted to find something special to mark the end of our epic date.
A colleague told me about Lily Dale, New York, a Victorian-era village populated by psychics. I knew that my new love had an affinity for the supernatural, and I thought it would make an amusing day trip.
Founded in 1879, Lily Dale quaintly bills itself as the largest spiritualist community in the world—as if municipalities worldwide are vying to be the capitol of a nineteenth century fad. In Lily Dale’s heyday, spirits knocked on tables and powerful mediums oozed ectoplasmic goo. These days, so-called “physical manifestations” are frowned upon. But Lily Dale is still home to 90 registered mediums, who commune with the dead in private consultations and regularly scheduled public meetings.
It’s a strange place for a romantic getaway. Most pilgrims are grieving. They come in search of answers about the death of a child or lover. They want to know where the treasure is hidden or whether their dearly beloved is resting peacefully on the other side.
Katy and I arrived just after the regular season, which lasts from June to August. The weather had turned wet and windy, and mud puddles clotted the narrow streets. Standing water glistened from bright green Astroturf on the ramshackle porches of aging Victorian cottages. It looked like several generations of American optimism had collided and fallen into benign disrepair.
Holding hands, Katy and I followed the path to a pet cemetery in a stand of ancient trees. Under their lush green canopy, Katy told me about the deaths of her dogs, Face and General Lee. She told me about her best friend Jane Ellen, who had promised to visit in dreams after she died. Sitting on a stump in the shade of the forest, Katy told me about her crystal meth days, when she could walk into a library or a metaphysical bookstore and literally hear books calling her name.
Normally, this was the kind of talk that caused me to roll my eyes.
As a teenager, I had been hostage to my mother’s New Age awakening, when she bought a condo in Santa Fe and consulted a psychic to help her find husband number three. Surrounded by tanned white people with positive vibrations, I had resisted with the only weapons I knew—sunscreen and a bad attitude. As soon as I could, I fled to the gothic mists of the Pacific Northwest. I vowed that folk art angels would never adorn my home.
Rather than putting me off, Katy’s mysticism made me want to get closer. Her drug-induced visions of talking books had a dark, malevolent edge that was missing from the usual New Age blather. The darkness allowed me to relax my constant vigilance and adopt a guardedly curious posture toward things that I habitually disavowed.
It helped that she had all the trappings of a Romantic hero: Long, dark hair, a prominent brow, and a death sentence. When she quit drugs a decade earlier, Katy had been diagnosed with Hepatitis C. The future looked like cirrhosis or cancer. Then, a few years later, a new generation of antiviral drugs brought hope for people with Hepatitis C. Katy had weathered their punishing regimen—only to find that her particular strain of the virus did not respond. Now she spoke matter-of-factly about her early expiration date.
“When I’m 65, I’ll start drinking again,” she said. “We can go on one of those Delbert McClinton blues cruises and booze it up until my liver gives out.”
I nodded my head. I had no idea who Delbert McClinton was. In her company, I felt unmarked by loss and experience. Being with her was like visiting another planet. It was like fucking an alien.
I told her about my recently deceased cat, for whom I had built a small (secular) shrine. I told her about my exes, which were the closest things I had to ghosts.
Despite all the stereotypes of lesbian merging, I had no intention of actually changing my mind about New Age spirituality. However, because I was drunk on infatuation, and because I wanted to continue having exciting alien sex, I didn’t voice my usual opinions on mediums (quacks), the afterlife (unlikely), or monogamous marriage (extremely unlikely).
We kissed in the dappled light under the trees. An old man in overalls wandered past the headstones of long-dead pets. I was wearing a blue vintage dress and spiky hair. Katy was wearing combat boots and a black bowling shirt with the name “Dick” emblazoned on the pocket. I wondered, when the old man looked at us, did he see a man and a woman? Or two dykes defiling the woods?
We emerged from the forest and into the circle of Victorian houses where mediums entertain spiritual seekers. My ambivalence was like a powerful alternating current, propelling us up the stairs of each house and then repelling us back down into the street. Each time we found a medium at home, Katy looked at me, trying to sense whether this was the one. Each time, I shook my head no.
In truth, I did not want to get a reading because I was afraid that Katy would see my disbelief. I did not want to pretend to believe, but I didn’t want her to think I was incapable of believing, either. It was confusing. The air was full of other people’s hope and grief and yearning. They mixed with my own swirling feelings and manifested as a lump in the back of my throat.
I do not know if Katy sensed my ambivalence. Having grown up in a culture of ruthless affirmation, I had learned to hide mixed feelings. But, as a dissenter, I had also learned to trust my instincts. And now my instincts were guiding me to the Crystal Cove Gift Shop.
In the car, when the subject of weddings had arisen, Katy had predicted that a place like Lily Dale would surely have a crystal shop with rings. Now that we had passed up all of the potential mediums, she suggested that we seek it out.
Inside the Crystal Cove, I felt like the planchette on a Ouija board. I glided to the jewelry case. Scanning the rows of quartz and hematite, my eyes lit on a silver diamante figure eight, an ersatz antique infinity symbol.
“Can I try that one?” I asked the heavily bejeweled white woman behind the counter. I thought, I can’t believe I’m doing this. I thought, I want it.
While the saleswoman was busy below the counter, I glanced at Katy to see if I was overstepping the bounds. She looked happy and excited. She told me that the ring was perfect for me.
I wanted something of hers to keep. (Later, before she went back to Texas, I would steal her shirt and keep it under my pillow, where I could press it to my face at night and breathe her in.)
If the ring fits, that will be a sign.
I kept looking at Katy. Are we really doing this? She was selecting a ring for herself, a chunky Celtic design that looked at home on her big hand.
We paid for each other’s souvenirs. Back outside, we sat on a wrought-iron bench bedecked with cherubs. We hadn’t spoken about what, exactly, we were up to. Now two small, white cardboard jewelry boxes were sitting between us. Katy looked nervous. I closed my eyes and searched for words and ritual that would consecrate the moment without overwhelming it.
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you,” she replied. Tears streamed down both of our faces. I was crying because I was vulnerable and because it was okay. The lump in my throat was fading away. I felt for the rings and removed hers from the box.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” I said, quickly. I slipped the ring on her finger and smiled.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” she echoed. She slipped the ring on my finger.
I do not believe in mediums, but I do believe in the future.
Photo credits: Tuffy by Ross Griff; Forest Temple by MHBaker.
Since I can’t come to O Magazine, I decided to bring a little bit of Oprah to the blog. Here are some of my favorite things. Picture me lavishing them upon you like an Oprah-style giveaway, because they are all cheap or free.
1) Tango, My Childhood Backward and in High Heels by Justin Vivian Bond
Justin Vivian Bond performed in Austin a few weeks ago, and I had the pleasure of reading this memoir while I could still hear the cadence of v’s voice, the way every sentence pulls up short, leaving half the meaning in the space between.
Here’s one of my favorite lines:
“But looking back, I think that a frosted pink is a perfect color for a little trans child in first grade.”
This book has (deservedly) great blurbs, including one from Michael Warner, who says that Tango “should be in the hands of every child who can read.” (For those of us with a queer theory background, it’s kind of delicious to speculate what else might be on MW’s recommended reading list for children.)
2) Sinead O’Connor Bathroom Shrine
I was having kind of a rocky time a few weeks ago, and the universe sent two signs from my personal savior, Sinead O’Connor. First, The Atlanticpublished a long biographical article titled “The Redemption of Sinead O’ Connor,” and then Justin Vivian Bond, Christeene Vale and Silas Howard played “Black Boys on Mopeds” at the aforementioned show. It reminded me to ask for solace and guidance at the Sinead shrine in my bathroom (and to listen to Faith and Courage, one of my favorite albums of all time).
I made the shrine with magazine clippings and mod podge.
3) Succulent Garden
My most recent fortune cookie said “time and nature heal all wounds.” Now that temperatures have finally dropped into the double digits, I’ve been healing myself in the beautiful golden light of Texas in October. My favorite puttering project is a succulent garden on our front porch. Most of the plants were originally gifts from friends, and others were pocketed from public places. (The great thing about succulents is that a single leaf can grow into a whole new plant. They just need “a touch of earth” as my friend Gretchen likes to say.)
4) Used Record Player
I have to admit that I rolled my eyes when Katy pulled this portable turntable out of her mom’s best friend’s garage. Apparently I was underestimating the quality of a mid-1970s portable Sanyo, because this baby sounds amazing.
So much about this school year has been stressful—finding academic support for our dyslexic child—or boring—helping him plow through mountains of worksheets. It seems like there’s always something to do: eat vegetables, practice handwriting, brush your teeth, put your napkin in your lap, practice multiplication tables. Last night, I was cooking dinner and (between rounds of homework) I put B-52s on our new turntable. As cries of “hot lava” filled the kitchen, Waylon broke into spontaneous dance. He did the mashed potato and the twist and a funny little Mick Jagger dance with mincing feet and chicken wings. He grabbed a spatula and a serving spoon and danced until he cracked himself up, and I thought “when I think of this year I will remember this moment.”
5) Dear Colleague Letter from the Department of Education
If you would like to feel enthused about the Obama administration, I suggest that you re-read this 2010 letter from the Department of Education, which explains how federal civil rights law pertains to bullying based on race, color, national origin, sex or disability.
Here’s one of my favorite parts:
Title IX prohibits harassment of both male and female students regardless of the sex of the harasser—i.e., even if the harasser and target are members of the same sex. It also prohibits gender-based harassment, which may include acts of verbal, nonverbal, or physical aggression, intimidation, or hostility based on sex or sex-stereotyping. Thus, it can be sex discrimination if students are harassed either for exhibiting what is perceived as a stereotypical characteristic for their sex, or for failing to conform to stereotypical notions of masculinity and femininity. Title IX also prohibits sexual harassment and gender-based harassment of all students, regardless of the actual or perceived sexual orientation or gender identity of the harasser or target.
6) The Gang
Waylon and I have been creating stuffed homemade stuffed animals from a pile of fleece blankets that our neighbor gave us. Originally we got the pattern from Sewing School: 21 Sewing Projects Kids Will Love to Make, which was a gift from Uncle Rachael. Then we decided that we wanted to create on a slightly smaller scale, so I free-handed a pattern with a sharpie and a piece of copy paper.
Their names are Jean Pierre (he’s the one made out of a sock, which is way too difficult), Stripes and Jessie (inspired by the femme stylings of Jessie Dress.) There was another guy, with a jaunty bandanna, but we gave him away and now we’re sad.
7) Men Who Sew
I had a sweet sewing date with Waylon and his friend a few weeks ago. There’s something about a man who sews really captures my heart. Speaking of which, check out this needlepoint stocking created by Bil Browning, beloved editor of The Bilerico Project.
8) Indian-Inspired Pantry Dinner
I’ve been on a quest to use up odds and ends in my pantry and refrigerator. Here’s a recipe that can accommodate almost any combination of veggies and canned beans. The only mandatory ingredient is fresh ginger.
Put some brown rice on to boil. Dice some fresh ginger, as much as you like. Dice onions and celery or whatever aromatics you have on hand. Sauté in olive oil until nicely browned. Add 1 tsp curry powder, 1 tsp cumin and ½ tsp crushed cumin seeds.
Remember to turn the rice down to a simmer.
Add some more veggies. I used leftover chard, and I let it cook down a bit. Then I added a can of diced tomatoes with green chilies and a can of garbanzos. I had a little bit of tomato paste in the freezer, so I threw that in too. I let it cook until all the flavors got gay married and the rice was ready to eat.
If you like it spicy, you could add some cayenne or crushed red pepper. Serve over the rice. Enjoy!