INTRODUCTION: TRANS PIECE
Over the past 8 years, the Vagina Monologues have celebrated women's sexuality and condemned its violation. Being assigned a female gender at birth, however, is not the defining aspect of being a woman, and in 2004 Eve Ensler added a monologue entitled "They Beat the Girl out of My Boy... Or So They Tried," to honor the millions of women around the world
who were not born that way.
This year, the Harvard University Vagina Monologues team decided to incorporate a new piece into our performance, in order to recognize of all of transgender women, who often tread silently in the midst of a general population that still harbors unease towards trans issues.
In order to best represent the Harvard transgender community, we solicited testimonies, stories and anecdotes from anyone affiliated with Harvard University, through anonymous submission to a private blogsite and email address.
The stories we received were touching, scary, witty and generally incredible. Most significantly, they are the stories of our neighbors, blockmates, friends and lovers.
Our selection team comprised of Vagina Monologues team members, both transgender and not, and we have chosen a cross-section to represent several issues that resonated with us.
Transgender women, as well as women who are significant others of transwomen, trans men, and genderqueer people, are all greatly under-represented in women's spaces and shows, and tonight we are proud to share some of their stories with you.
The Gun I Carry is unlicensed
Border problems for genderqueers, I have learned, are not just limited to gender issues. Sometimes, it's not just about bathrooms, but about crossing political borders - say, like when flying to Canada for a sex change operation.
See, the US government won't change your sex on your passport without a letter from a surgeon indicating you have undergone GRS (genital reassignment surgery). This is a problem for everyone, although it is admittedly ameliorated for those of us who choose the surgical route.
But back to me. I'm going to Canada in two months for the ol' "back-alley nip'n'tuck", and herein lies my drama: how do I cross the border?
And I don't mean "walk or drive or fly or ferry". I mean, how the fuck can I deal with psychotic US border patrol worried about terrorists and wielding a memo from Homeland Security to be on the lookout for persons trying to cross the border using disguises such as 'impersonating the opposite sex'?
My passport shows me looking very female - I pass very well, I am told - and has my name, [Emily Zilch]. And sex? Male.
If you think I'm looking forward to having to use that passport, guess again. I get harassed every damn time I fly - and I used my driver's license as ID as it says female on it. Then it was just the usual female harassment, plus the fact that I'm clearly a big dyke.
So when they pull me aside and feel up my tits, I start to sweat. Not because I care about my tits being poked, but if they are checking me for unusual bulges, guess what they are going to notice?
Ah, yes. The age-old joy of the transsexual crotch. And no, I don't bind or tie it up or any of that crazy stuff. I just wear jeans, and I'm not ashamed of wearing jeans with a bulge. But I sure as fuck don't want some stupid, ill-paid woman to freak the fuck out when her creepy blue-gloved hands roam cootchwards and find a lump - and I don't mean cancer, honey.
See, cause then the men run over and "escort" me to a Special Room of my own, and no one can figure out who searches me now, and my luggage torn apart and I have to repack it myself and I'm already late for the plane, and humiliation, and all that fucking shit. The gender police are looking for terrorists, too.
It gets better when I come home from Canada, because then I'll have a vagina, but a passport that claims I'm male, plus my carry-on will have three clear dildos in them used for daily dilation.
If it could be more awkward, I'd also be in a burqa. I've seriously considered trying to play transman on the way there. Bind my not-insignificant breasts, wear man-clothes, try to remember to use the men's room, hope no one notices I have no facial hair, play it out that way. Because then I'd be passing as male, effeminate as I am, and match my passport.
And on the way back, I'll have a doctor's note explaining I am legally permitted to bear a vagina.
I wish I were a detective or an agent so I could carry a gun and breeze around those detectors. As it is, the gun I carry is unlicensed
The Shuttle
It's freezing cold and me and my friends are far away from our dorms, so I call the Harvard late-night shuttle to come and pick us up. I tell the dispatcher all the necessary information: I give him my location, where we’re going, and how many people in my party... but then he asks me:
"What are the genders of the people in your party?"
Well, I'm standing there with my friends in the freezing cold, and I’m not sure how to answer his question. Actually, our group included a closeted transwoman who is clearly trans based on her appearance, her "straight" girlfriend (who believes she's dating a man – which is awkward enough, someone who just came out as genderqueer last week but was only partially out at the time (and not even to all of us standing there in the cold), another transwoman, a transguy who would probably appear female to a shuttle driver, a queer woman, and a lesbian.
I really wanted to ask the dispatcher why he needed that information, but because it was so cold we wanted to get picked up quickly, giving him a hard time didn't seem like a good idea. So I just said, "Um, we're all female."
Everyone around me heard me say it. After I got off the phone, one of my friends said, "What the fuck? You know everyone here isn't female, right?" It so was awkward. I was trying really hard to be a good trans ally and supporter to my friends, and I felt like I screwed up.
Reflecting on it, though, I'm not sure what I would do differently: I was just trying to get us home safe and warm
Thankfully, a few months after this happened the Harvard Shuttle Services changed their policy and stopped asking for the genders of the passengers. I’m not sure that they know how much of a relief that decision was, but for all of us, I’m really glad.
Coming Out is Hard To Do
I've always been a good kid. I did well in school, I was involved every possible after-school activity. Well, not like sports or anything. Mostly the nerdy stuff... Student Council, Drama Club,
Band. Yeah, I'm a geek, I don't deny it. All the teachers and parents around town loved me, always stopping my parents at the supermarket to say "Oh, he's such a smart boy, you must be very proud of him." Well, they certainly are proud of their son. Too bad I'm really their daughter.
When I came out to my mom, I tried to be as clear as I could. "Mom, I need to be a girl. I know you've always thought of me as your son, but I'm incredibly unhappy as a boy and I can't take it anymore. I've been thinking about this for a years, I just never had the courage to mention it before."
Her questions came fast and furiously. "Do you even know what you're talking about?" "How can you be sure, you're still so young!" and "Are you trying to punish me?" I tried to respond as calmly and as clearly as I could, but it was so hard for her. She said she'd had a clue that something was wrong with me for some time; but she thought I was gay, or I was taking drugs or something, but that she never suspected something like this. That was a wonderful moment, my Mom essentially telling me she'd rather I was hooked on crack than transsexual.
"You should have dated more girls.” She said remorsefully. “What if 10 years down the line you find yourself attracted to a woman, as a man?"
"Well, Mom...I can't say I know what it's like to be attracted to anybody as a man, but if I'm attracted to women, that would make me a lesbian."
Her face was priceless. I don't think she ever expected that answer. She automatically assumed that, in becoming a woman, that I'd become a straight woman. She never considered that her beloved son might actually be a lesbian. Well, at least then I'd be dating more girls.
We Are Here
Dating a trans person means gender affects my life, too, because my boyfriend is who he is and I love him. There are discussions in classes, study groups, in person and on email lists, even on the BGLTSA list, about "trans issues" and "trans people" - always acting like it is some elusive people who aren't there.
There was the discussion in my boyfriend's biology class about Trans people and why don’t they
all just go ahead and commit suicide. The professor said nothing and no one seemed really bothered by it, except my boyfriend who sunk into his chair, stunned.
There was the dressing room - I stepped towards the door to bring him a different shirt to try on, and the attendant glared and said that there were no women allowed inside. He was delighted that he had passed through, but was also worried what they would do if they found out that, the way they looked at it, he was a woman, too. This same scene is repeated every day, outside the gender-specific bathroom stalls.
There was the scare when we thought my mom would be coming here for Thanksgiving, and he bravely volunteered to bind his hardest and swallow his pride at anything my mom might say. Then there was the pain in his eyes when I said I was relieved that she wouldn't be coming after all; he honestly believed, at least for a moment, that I was ashamed of him. (In reality, it's my mom I'm ashamed of.)
All of these constant daily hassles, and shitty little indignities pile up during the day and run endlessly through our heads all night long. Trans issues affect not just trans people, but anyone who knows and cares about someone who doesn’t like they’re “supposed” to.
Our lives are not all gloom and doom. For every time I wait outside a public restroom to make sure he'll be ok, for every time I pointedly remind people of the right name to call him, for every time I reassure him that regardless of what his body looks like to other people, he's always a man in my eyes - for every moment like that, there are a hundred wonderful moments every day.
For every awkward conversation, there have been good ones as well - a friend asking me what I love about her, another friend telling me we're cute together, my sister so pleased that I'm happy, my mother wanting to understand.