http://www.youtube.com/watch?
Monday, November 18, 2013
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Buttons on the Right Side
Before I was fully comfortable with my butchness (butchhood? butchdom?), I had a special "interview outfit" that I kept in the back of my closet for when I needed to femme-it-up for job interviews. This outfit was composed of a button-up that had severe side darts and a collar that was over-sized, slacks that were slightly bell-bottomed but tight around the butt, and dress shoes with some low-key frills decorating the tops and sides. It was ugly and ill-fitting because it was designed by a butch, for a butch, who wanted to appear femme, but still feel butch.
And of course it didn't work. It made me feel sad to wear this outfit and it adhered an extra layer of discomfort to the already challenging interview process. I imagine that I looked like a fraudulent, pre-maturely defeated, over-dressed teenager. But my logic was that I would get a job as a butch in disguise and then gradually de-femme myself. And at the point in which my bosses and co-workers discovered they had unknowingly hired a butch it would be TOO LATE. I would've already stolen their hearts with my strong work ethic and threat of discrimination lawsuit.
But all that mess is over. I have a job and I got it with all my butch parts unhidden. I finally realized that I was applying to jobs with liberal folks that considered gender-nonconformity as weird but not unhireable. My boss hasn't said one sour word about the way I dress. And recently he paid for his progressive acceptance.
The building I work in is famous. It's like a celebrity, which is a waste because no building can appreciate superstar privileges. On this day, I was taking some relatives up to the top of my famous building to enjoy the view. In exchange for the view, they brought me a half dozen cupcakes that were decorated by the kids in the family. They were adorable and delicious, and I decided to share them with my boss who was stationed in the conference room with a client. I thought: "This'll be so cute, the client will totally think that we have a tight-knit office relationship where we all share treats and spend our free time together." My boss doesn't eat sugar and we don't even have a Christmas party in the office.
I didn't care. I sauntered in to the conference room and interrupted conversations of capital gains and audit preparations. I offered the ugly/adorable cupcakes. My boss asked if his client had met me before. The client said with sudden recognition: "Oh! Is this your son?"
My boss struggled to come up with a response that didn't embarrass his client but would clarify the situation. Before he could get there, I said: "No, I'm just an accountant here. Sure you don't want a cupcake?" They shook their heads and I quickly left the room.
Look, I'm still not gonna wear an ugly dress-suit to work just so my boss doesn't have to deal with these kinds of situations.
And of course it didn't work. It made me feel sad to wear this outfit and it adhered an extra layer of discomfort to the already challenging interview process. I imagine that I looked like a fraudulent, pre-maturely defeated, over-dressed teenager. But my logic was that I would get a job as a butch in disguise and then gradually de-femme myself. And at the point in which my bosses and co-workers discovered they had unknowingly hired a butch it would be TOO LATE. I would've already stolen their hearts with my strong work ethic and threat of discrimination lawsuit.
But all that mess is over. I have a job and I got it with all my butch parts unhidden. I finally realized that I was applying to jobs with liberal folks that considered gender-nonconformity as weird but not unhireable. My boss hasn't said one sour word about the way I dress. And recently he paid for his progressive acceptance.
The building I work in is famous. It's like a celebrity, which is a waste because no building can appreciate superstar privileges. On this day, I was taking some relatives up to the top of my famous building to enjoy the view. In exchange for the view, they brought me a half dozen cupcakes that were decorated by the kids in the family. They were adorable and delicious, and I decided to share them with my boss who was stationed in the conference room with a client. I thought: "This'll be so cute, the client will totally think that we have a tight-knit office relationship where we all share treats and spend our free time together." My boss doesn't eat sugar and we don't even have a Christmas party in the office.
I didn't care. I sauntered in to the conference room and interrupted conversations of capital gains and audit preparations. I offered the ugly/adorable cupcakes. My boss asked if his client had met me before. The client said with sudden recognition: "Oh! Is this your son?"
My boss struggled to come up with a response that didn't embarrass his client but would clarify the situation. Before he could get there, I said: "No, I'm just an accountant here. Sure you don't want a cupcake?" They shook their heads and I quickly left the room.
Look, I'm still not gonna wear an ugly dress-suit to work just so my boss doesn't have to deal with these kinds of situations.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Model Citizen
Here's a new story from Kate!
I work for dockers. Well, I work for an ad agency who gets hired by dockers to shoot things and make things and write things. And so we did this print shoot for them, and we were holding auditions where we had to have handsome men come in, get videotaped in these different khaki pants, not khaki colored but like “cool khakis.”
So we held this casting call by my work, so I walked there, later than my coworkers because I’d had car trouble that morning. And at the studio, there was a check-in at the front desk for all of the handsome men arriving, manned (or womanned) by the most green (perhaps an intern) worker in the building. She was flustered when nearly every handsome man approached.
I was late, and I rushed into the building. Nobody looked up, except for the nervous intern with the clipboard. “Models need to sign in here.”
“First off. I’m not a man. Secondly, where is my agency?”
(---> Do you have a similar story to share? We're always looking for contributors!
Please email me: hesaladyblog@gmail.com <---)
-----------------------------------------------------------------I work for dockers. Well, I work for an ad agency who gets hired by dockers to shoot things and make things and write things. And so we did this print shoot for them, and we were holding auditions where we had to have handsome men come in, get videotaped in these different khaki pants, not khaki colored but like “cool khakis.”
So we held this casting call by my work, so I walked there, later than my coworkers because I’d had car trouble that morning. And at the studio, there was a check-in at the front desk for all of the handsome men arriving, manned (or womanned) by the most green (perhaps an intern) worker in the building. She was flustered when nearly every handsome man approached.
I was late, and I rushed into the building. Nobody looked up, except for the nervous intern with the clipboard. “Models need to sign in here.”
“First off. I’m not a man. Secondly, where is my agency?”
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
He's a Lady Hardware
From Ez, who along with a whole pile of confused individuals keep this blog alive:
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There are two mom-and-pop hardware stores across the street from each other in my neighborhood. Which one I shop at depends on whether I need another samurai sword. Okay, I pick according to the side of the street I am already on. Though only one of the stores sells samurai swords.
The other morning fresh out of bed I wandered by store #1 coffee in hand and ducked in because I realized I needed a key copied. The owner said “good morning, sir” and we started our usual banter about the weather, whose coffee was better etc.
“How much is the key,” I asked. “Your key is priceless,” began the owner. Great. I only have $3 and a coupon for a free tasti-delite in my wallet. “But for you $1” he finished. I hand him $1.
“I hope to see you again soon for something more than keys,” he says with a wink as he hands me the key.
I was halfway down the block when it occurred to me that the dude was flirting. Did he read me as a dude the whole time and flirt anyway? Did he realize I was a lady and flirt? Am I reading too much into things? The analysis was beyond my half asleep pre-caffeinated brain.
-----------------------------------------------------
There are two mom-and-pop hardware stores across the street from each other in my neighborhood. Which one I shop at depends on whether I need another samurai sword. Okay, I pick according to the side of the street I am already on. Though only one of the stores sells samurai swords.
The other morning fresh out of bed I wandered by store #1 coffee in hand and ducked in because I realized I needed a key copied. The owner said “good morning, sir” and we started our usual banter about the weather, whose coffee was better etc.
“How much is the key,” I asked. “Your key is priceless,” began the owner. Great. I only have $3 and a coupon for a free tasti-delite in my wallet. “But for you $1” he finished. I hand him $1.
“I hope to see you again soon for something more than keys,” he says with a wink as he hands me the key.
I was halfway down the block when it occurred to me that the dude was flirting. Did he read me as a dude the whole time and flirt anyway? Did he realize I was a lady and flirt? Am I reading too much into things? The analysis was beyond my half asleep pre-caffeinated brain.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Me Vs. Man #1
Man #1: But is it a guy or a girl?
This is what Man #1 said to Man #2 moments after I entered the elevator in my office building. I look up, surprised at their audacity, ready to bare my teeth, when I realize they are talking about someone else.
They move on to office chatter and gossip about avoiding a co-worker, until they come back around to whether or not it was a guy or girl.
Man #1: No, but seriously, is it a guy or a girl?
Man #2: I don't know.
Man #1: I just can't tell!
Then, I'm all riled up, and like a gender-neutral tea kettle I screech:
Me: Who cares?
Man #1 turns to me so slowly I'm afraid I might have to say it again. But eventually he turns to face me and says with pinched eyes:
Man #1: What?
Me: Why does it matter?
Man #1: You don't even know what we're talking about.
Me: I know. I'm sorry, you just sound ... really judgmental.
Man #1 huffs and puffs looking alternately at me and Man #2. His anger and confusion make his eyes look like they're about to pop out of his face.
Man #2: Just be quiet before someone gets hurt.
I decide Man #2 is warning Man #1 about me and how I could become violent at any moment. Either way, this is a long elevator ride and we have some time together. I'm on the 60th floor of my building and though the view is nice, it's insane how high up I work. We all stare at the video screen, reading about Kate Middleton's pregnancy, until the elevator doors open at the ground level. I start to rush past them, happy that I confronted this situation. But then:
Man #1: I was talking about my dog.
Me: You're talking about an animal?
My mind races. Am I a total, total asshole??? I conclude that I am.
Me: Ahh. My apologies.
----------------------
So that happened yesterday, and when I told my girlfriend that story, she immediately said that Man #1 had enough time to think of a good excuse. She argued that it's really not hard to figure out if a dog is a boy dog or a girl dog.
Do you agree with her? Or, am I total asshole?
This is what Man #1 said to Man #2 moments after I entered the elevator in my office building. I look up, surprised at their audacity, ready to bare my teeth, when I realize they are talking about someone else.
They move on to office chatter and gossip about avoiding a co-worker, until they come back around to whether or not it was a guy or girl.
Man #1: No, but seriously, is it a guy or a girl?
Man #2: I don't know.
Man #1: I just can't tell!
Then, I'm all riled up, and like a gender-neutral tea kettle I screech:
Me: Who cares?
Man #1 turns to me so slowly I'm afraid I might have to say it again. But eventually he turns to face me and says with pinched eyes:
Man #1: What?
Me: Why does it matter?
Man #1: You don't even know what we're talking about.
Me: I know. I'm sorry, you just sound ... really judgmental.
Man #1 huffs and puffs looking alternately at me and Man #2. His anger and confusion make his eyes look like they're about to pop out of his face.
Man #2: Just be quiet before someone gets hurt.
I decide Man #2 is warning Man #1 about me and how I could become violent at any moment. Either way, this is a long elevator ride and we have some time together. I'm on the 60th floor of my building and though the view is nice, it's insane how high up I work. We all stare at the video screen, reading about Kate Middleton's pregnancy, until the elevator doors open at the ground level. I start to rush past them, happy that I confronted this situation. But then:
Man #1: I was talking about my dog.
Me: You're talking about an animal?
My mind races. Am I a total, total asshole??? I conclude that I am.
Me: Ahh. My apologies.
----------------------
So that happened yesterday, and when I told my girlfriend that story, she immediately said that Man #1 had enough time to think of a good excuse. She argued that it's really not hard to figure out if a dog is a boy dog or a girl dog.
Do you agree with her? Or, am I total asshole?
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Uptown Determination
Great story from Ez:
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For graduation my mom gave me a briefcase she was given when she practiced law. It’s a great gift. I’m stoked to use something of hers in my professional life. It needed some repairs so Mom sent the briefcase off to a fancy-pants leather shop on an even more fancy-pants street on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Here’s what happened when I went to pick it up:
I approach the counter to speak to a patrician looking lady with upright posture and arched eyebrows. If you can admit to yourself that you watched The L Word, picture a taller Peggy Peabody. “Last name?” asks the lady.
Per usual, I say my name and then spell out “C-U-K-O-R.” It’s not phonetic.
Oh, “Coo-Core,” responds the lady.
“Actually its pronounced ‘Sue-core’”, I reply.
No, “Coo-core” she insists.
At this point in the conversation I conclude the lady is in fact snobbier than she looks. No small achievement. I blurt out. “It’s my name, I know how to pronounce it.”
The lady’s eyes sweep my body from faux-hawked head to Adidas-Samba clad toe. I’m guessing she was trying to raise her eyebrows, but they couldn’t go any higher.
“Oh. I thought you were the delivery boy.”
Thursday, July 19, 2012
My Gym
Awkward conversation in my gym's locker room yesterday went like this:
Her: (looking me straight in the eye) This is the female locker room.
Me: (shaking my head and to no one in particular) People are SO RUDE.
- a few seconds pass -
Her: I'm sorry.
Me: Have you lived in NYC for very long? Haven't you seen people that look like me?
Her: I said I'm sorry.
Her: (looking me straight in the eye) This is the female locker room.
Me: (shaking my head and to no one in particular) People are SO RUDE.
- a few seconds pass -
Her: I'm sorry.
Me: Have you lived in NYC for very long? Haven't you seen people that look like me?
Her: I said I'm sorry.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Buddies
New post from my new friendcrush:
----------------------------------------------------------------------
it was the first day of kindergarten. my second year of kindergarten. i'd been held back, because of a summer birthday, they said. and now i was the oldest in the class. a better reader. confident. cocky, maybe even. i don't remember.
but it was the first day of school and a bowl-cutted andrew mueller runs home to his mother after school, out of breath he's so excited: "mom, mom. i met the coolest kid at school today. i want to invite him to the farm. and over to play in my fort. and we can ride bikes and ... " his mother cuts andrew off, trying to calm her excited son.
"that's great, andrew. what's his name?" she is met with a confused look.
"i don't know. i didn't ask him."
"well, go back tomorrow and get his name and i will call his mother to set up a play date."
andrew, let down at the lack of immediacy, could barely sleep.
the next day, he did as he was told. and he asked me my name.
later, the first thing blurted out in the loop-de-loop parking lot after school:
"mom. his name is kate."
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Wives & Men
Today Rickard and I texted each other.
She said:
"Today's He's A Lady moment: Spent ten minutes talking to my health care rep about benefits for same sex partners, for me and my wife. Eventually the rep called over a supervisor and said: "He has questions about benefits for his wife."
I responded:
"Was walking outside the Empire State Building holding hands with my girlfriend when a sales person hocking tickets to see the view said to me: "Sir, would you like to take your wife up to the top of the Empire State Building, ladies?
She said:
"Today's He's A Lady moment: Spent ten minutes talking to my health care rep about benefits for same sex partners, for me and my wife. Eventually the rep called over a supervisor and said: "He has questions about benefits for his wife."
I responded:
"Was walking outside the Empire State Building holding hands with my girlfriend when a sales person hocking tickets to see the view said to me: "Sir, would you like to take your wife up to the top of the Empire State Building, ladies?
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Identification Please
Another stranger than fiction, real-life, true story of mistaken gender-identity from Becky:
Despite the incredibly high number of times I have been mistaken for a ‘dude’, this is only the second time I have received an apology freebie. I ventured to a burlesque bar last night for a friend’s birthday party, feeling pretty confident that the bouncer would show me in with a gentle nod. (Queers frequent the burlesques, right? Well, what would prove to be my overconfidence was certainly cradled in this assumption…). Sans bouncer I headed to the bar. 'Can I get some water and a Stella?' (‘Twas a rough ride from Crown Heights to the LES...).
He asked for my ID. Over it went. I did the glance around the room for ten seconds thing.
Despite the incredibly high number of times I have been mistaken for a ‘dude’, this is only the second time I have received an apology freebie. I ventured to a burlesque bar last night for a friend’s birthday party, feeling pretty confident that the bouncer would show me in with a gentle nod. (Queers frequent the burlesques, right? Well, what would prove to be my overconfidence was certainly cradled in this assumption…). Sans bouncer I headed to the bar. 'Can I get some water and a Stella?' (‘Twas a rough ride from Crown Heights to the LES...).
He asked for my ID. Over it went. I did the glance around the room for ten seconds thing.
He flicked it back. “Dude. This is a girl's ID.”
“Umm yeah…I am.”
Silence. Exchange of glances (his a good deal southward of my eyes…)
“Oh fuck. Shit your hair is short. Listen, your beer's on me tonight. But goddamn your hair is fucking short.”
I still tipped. Pissed but pleased at the night's budget increase.
“Umm yeah…I am.”
Silence. Exchange of glances (his a good deal southward of my eyes…)
“Oh fuck. Shit your hair is short. Listen, your beer's on me tonight. But goddamn your hair is fucking short.”
I still tipped. Pissed but pleased at the night's budget increase.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Parts of Me That Matter
I think the idea to visit every borough of NYC in one day has been over 4 years in the making. Which is kind of surprising, because my friend Rickard and I are really not known as procrastinators. We are pretty good at making things happen, even if it's just to be done with them. Check it off the list. Earn our bragging rights. Obtain our badges. Etc.
Rickard came to NYC from Boston this past weekend. It was kind of a last-minute visit, so we didn't make any plans and on Saturday morning we found ourselves staring at google, wondering what to do. I thought the day might turn into one of those trips where you just kind of go from one restaurant to another, eating your way through the city. Not an adventure, but still fulfilling.
But before we could pick our first restaurant, Rickard turns to me and says: "Should we do our 5 borough tour?"
What is a 5 Borough Tour? Literally, we wanted to visit each borough (Staten Island, the Bronx, Brooklyn, Manhattan, Queens) in one day. And we wanted to something special in each borough. It was decided that we would "do something cultural" in each borough. Which was vague enough to do anything we could quickly find.
As we were rushing out of the house, I grabbed a fake severed arm that I had bought for a Halloween outfit and stuffed it in my bag with the fingers sticking out. We wanted something weird to include in each photo we took as we documented our 5 Borough Tour.
Since Staten Island seemed the most laborious to get to, we immediately set out towards the ferry. As we sat on the subway train, we got down to business: how would we create a situation in which I could write a story for my He's A Lady blog. It would just be so perfect to be able to post about the 5 Borough Tour and how we got mistaken for 12 year old boys.
A few minutes after we discussed this, about ten 12 year olds walked on the train. We continued to catch up about our lives, when Rickard nudged me:
"I think those kids are confused by us."
I looked over and sure enough the kids were pointing and whispering about us. The girls went to the boys on the other side of the bench and made them come over and look at us. It was too good to be true. Maybe they would come up to us and we could discuss gender identity. Maybe they would say something outrageously cute and simple for me to quote. Maybe the possibilities were endless.
And then suddenly we noticed that they weren't exactly pointing at us, but at my bag sitting by my feet. My bag, with the fake severed arm, with the fingers sticking out ever so slightly. What was happening had nothing at all to do with our gender, they probably hadn't even looked at the owners of the severed arm. We laughed a bit at our foolishness and then decided to pretend like we were upset that the fingers were showing. Rickard put her jacket over my bag.
We reached the ferry stop, and as we left the train we heard one of the girls say:
"Bye-bye hand."
Monday, February 6, 2012
Typical Things You Learn At A Museum
Wow, I truly apologize for my blog absence, but life has been busy and genderconfusion pretty slow.
Luckily, after prodding my friend for a story, I got this bundle of joy:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
I am a queer lady museum educator with short hair. Usually
I'm responsible for elementary and middle school groups coming to the museum,
but on this particular day I was graced by the presence of 20 smiling 4 year
olds. After a brief conversation in the lobby about our super special
museum rules and about animals that we'd be looking for in the museum we stood
up and got into our best "museum walk" posture.
“Are you a boy or a girl?” (I'd just introduced myself as Becky)
“I am a girl.”
“But you have a boy haircut!”
“Well I'm a girl and I have short hair because that's how I like it but
sometimes that confuses people.”
“My name is Michaela and I'm a girl because
I have short hair!” she said pulling at two of her tiny braids. (Note the
‘because’!)
“See! We all have different hairstyles today and when you grow up you can
choose your hairstyle like I did.”
A round of other voices chimed in sharing their hair length/color/type.
Now, despite the fact that they were barely 4 years old and seemingly confused about their current environment, their overzealous teacher wanted me to introduce new vocab words: galleries, exhibitions, visitors, and educator. Educator seemed simple enough…I had just introduced myself as Becky, their educator for the day. After a visit at each object their teacher would prompt, "And what is Becky’s job here?" Blank stares. "She is an Ed...?" One adorable smartie pants remembered it sounded like gator. The teacher pushed, "Educator! Let's repeat it"
A round of other voices chimed in sharing their hair length/color/type.
Now, despite the fact that they were barely 4 years old and seemingly confused about their current environment, their overzealous teacher wanted me to introduce new vocab words: galleries, exhibitions, visitors, and educator. Educator seemed simple enough…I had just introduced myself as Becky, their educator for the day. After a visit at each object their teacher would prompt, "And what is Becky’s job here?" Blank stares. "She is an Ed...?" One adorable smartie pants remembered it sounded like gator. The teacher pushed, "Educator! Let's repeat it"
"EDU-U-CA-TOR!"
We moved on to the last object where I told a story and thanked them for joining me at the museum. The teacher prompted one last time, "and Becky is a...?"
The smiling, wriggling bunch chanted back in unison "GIRL!"
With that four letter word they caused the parent chaperones to laugh, their teacher to stutter and blush, but I was brought to my knees...well figuratively since we were all sitting 'cris-cross applesauce'. With a huge smile and just a couple of appreciative tears, I answered "That's right, and an educator."
After four vocab words, three art objects, two galleries, and one story about the Hindu god Ganesh, they couldn't recall educator BUT they knew I was a girl! Now that's quality education.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Clearing My Name
Seriously, only the most boring of gender confusing events have occurred in my life lately. Which has been both a reprieve for my soul and a major downturn for my blog. I'm super grateful to all the gender-line-walkers who have graced Turns Out He's A Lady with their stories, but I've been waiting for something to write about it and it finally showed up last Friday.
So, sad story: my back is a pile of useless spine bones and nerves and puny muscles at the moment. It hurts to sit, it hurts to stand, it hurrrrrts. I complain a lot to people, so I'll spare the blogosphere the boring details. The point is, I decided to give myself a treat and go get a massage after work and before sitting through a 4 hour long opera.
Along 5th Avenue there are signs written half in Chinese and half in English advertising their 35 minute for $30 massages. I've gone one other time to this kind of venue for a massage and it was easy breezy. No ceremony or chit-chat of any kind occurs, you just strip off your clothes and plop on their table. The women who aren't working at the moment watch TV and gab right outside of the massage table curtain. I like the casualness of it, though I am terrified of the possibility that I might hear a happy ending in the curtained "room" next to me.
It had been over 6 months since I had gotten a massage along 5th avenue, so I forgot where I had gone the last time. I ended up just walking up the stairs of the first place I saw and rang the doorbell to get in. The door was half frosted and half transparent. I woman's face appears and she says nothing and walks away shouting: "He's very young!"
Suddenly, another woman's face emerges above the frosting and she immediately waves her hand at me and screams: "NO! You must go! You are too young! Too young boy!"
I'm scream back: "WHAT?? I'm nearly 30 years old!"
As she walks away from the window she screams again: "No, you are too young boy! You must go! You come here every Friday! Not this time! Go!"
I scramble in my bag for my driver's license to show her my age and gender and clear my name (well, really my face). "I'm a girl! And 30!"
She's gone from view and I'm so embarrassed and angry. I fume up and down the street, not sure what to do. I want to go buy a frilly shirt and put a barrette in my hair and then go back and show them what's what. I want to write a hundred bad reviews on yelp. I want to sit outside of their massage parlour every Friday and wait for the boy who looks like me and then bring him in there by his ear and show them how different we are.
Instead, I continue down 5th avenue and find another massage place that hasn't heard about my bad reputation and they laugh when I take off my clothes and surprise them with my girl parts. But I still get a massage.
So, sad story: my back is a pile of useless spine bones and nerves and puny muscles at the moment. It hurts to sit, it hurts to stand, it hurrrrrts. I complain a lot to people, so I'll spare the blogosphere the boring details. The point is, I decided to give myself a treat and go get a massage after work and before sitting through a 4 hour long opera.
Along 5th Avenue there are signs written half in Chinese and half in English advertising their 35 minute for $30 massages. I've gone one other time to this kind of venue for a massage and it was easy breezy. No ceremony or chit-chat of any kind occurs, you just strip off your clothes and plop on their table. The women who aren't working at the moment watch TV and gab right outside of the massage table curtain. I like the casualness of it, though I am terrified of the possibility that I might hear a happy ending in the curtained "room" next to me.
It had been over 6 months since I had gotten a massage along 5th avenue, so I forgot where I had gone the last time. I ended up just walking up the stairs of the first place I saw and rang the doorbell to get in. The door was half frosted and half transparent. I woman's face appears and she says nothing and walks away shouting: "He's very young!"
Suddenly, another woman's face emerges above the frosting and she immediately waves her hand at me and screams: "NO! You must go! You are too young! Too young boy!"
I'm scream back: "WHAT?? I'm nearly 30 years old!"
As she walks away from the window she screams again: "No, you are too young boy! You must go! You come here every Friday! Not this time! Go!"
I scramble in my bag for my driver's license to show her my age and gender and clear my name (well, really my face). "I'm a girl! And 30!"
She's gone from view and I'm so embarrassed and angry. I fume up and down the street, not sure what to do. I want to go buy a frilly shirt and put a barrette in my hair and then go back and show them what's what. I want to write a hundred bad reviews on yelp. I want to sit outside of their massage parlour every Friday and wait for the boy who looks like me and then bring him in there by his ear and show them how different we are.
Instead, I continue down 5th avenue and find another massage place that hasn't heard about my bad reputation and they laugh when I take off my clothes and surprise them with my girl parts. But I still get a massage.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
High Holiday Special
Dear He's A Lady Reader,
You didn't even know it, but you've been waiting for this story for a long time.
Fondly,
Lauren
P.S. It's written by Hannah.
--------------------------------------
My dad tells me that while I’m in Budapest I should go to the Dohány Synagogue, where he thinks my great grandparents were married. It’s a very beautiful synagogue, with lots of nice geometry on the outside and two large black and gold minarets, so I want to go inside to see more. They want to charge me fifteen bucks for the pleasure, which is not acceptable to me, so I enquire whether there is a time I could come for free – for services, perhaps? (“You cheap Jew,” I think to myself)
Yes, Friday evening.
Do men and women sit separately at this synagogue?
Yes. (“We’ll get through this, Hannah.”)
I suddenly realize that I have not been to a gender segregated service in a long time, not since I gave away the bulk of my dresses, not since strangers regularly began addressing me as “Sir.”
A friend and I come back to the synagogue a few days later. The one dress I brought to Hungary is not long enough to get me into a synagogue, and I’ve gone the route of no compromise and worn what’s most comfortable for me – pants, collared shirt, vest. Leaving my apartment I have a moment of guilt and throw a long cotton scarf into my bag, in case I feel the need to sport a feminine accessory.
My friend is late. I watch the door to the synagogue anxiously. Sweet-looking old couples are being wished a good shabbes and shorts-wearing tourists of all genders are being turned away. Are they admitting women in pants? I think so. I do a trial run. I approach the door. “My friend will be here soon, and then we would like to come to services.” In halting English he responds, “All right, but no cameras.” Ok. My friend arrives, and the guard tells her that the sleeves on her dress are too short, so she can’t come in without a shawl. I give her my scarf, and while she goes to lock up her bike I walk into the synagogue unaccessorized and unaccompanied. A man hands me a kipah, the head covering worn by Jewish men and sometimes women. The kipah is a sign of humility before God (who is above you).
I sit in the center aisle, where men and a few women are milling around. Without comment. My friend comes in and pulls me to the side, and upon reflection, and as services begin, this is in fact where all the women are. It turns out that every person sitting in our row is an English speaker, from London, Westchester, and Long Island. We chat, as we cannot understand the Hungarian inflected Hebrew or discern from the melodies where we are in the services. After a few prayers, a man comes to our row and speaks to me in Hungarian. “I’m so sorry, do you speak English?” (In my head, “I’m sorry, I will not continue to disrupt your services with my idle chatter”). “Please take off that kipah. You cannot wear it. I’m very sorry.” “Ok.” “Would you like a different head covering? I can give you a piece of lace.” “No, thank you.”
And with that, I can stop worrying. Whatever gender situation there was has been resolved, for me, for now. I’m in.
After services, several groups of women approach me. “Why did he take the kippah away from you?” “Well, why do you think?” I say.
You didn't even know it, but you've been waiting for this story for a long time.
Fondly,
Lauren
P.S. It's written by Hannah.
--------------------------------------
My dad tells me that while I’m in Budapest I should go to the Dohány Synagogue, where he thinks my great grandparents were married. It’s a very beautiful synagogue, with lots of nice geometry on the outside and two large black and gold minarets, so I want to go inside to see more. They want to charge me fifteen bucks for the pleasure, which is not acceptable to me, so I enquire whether there is a time I could come for free – for services, perhaps? (“You cheap Jew,” I think to myself)
Yes, Friday evening.
Do men and women sit separately at this synagogue?
Yes. (“We’ll get through this, Hannah.”)
I suddenly realize that I have not been to a gender segregated service in a long time, not since I gave away the bulk of my dresses, not since strangers regularly began addressing me as “Sir.”
A friend and I come back to the synagogue a few days later. The one dress I brought to Hungary is not long enough to get me into a synagogue, and I’ve gone the route of no compromise and worn what’s most comfortable for me – pants, collared shirt, vest. Leaving my apartment I have a moment of guilt and throw a long cotton scarf into my bag, in case I feel the need to sport a feminine accessory.
My friend is late. I watch the door to the synagogue anxiously. Sweet-looking old couples are being wished a good shabbes and shorts-wearing tourists of all genders are being turned away. Are they admitting women in pants? I think so. I do a trial run. I approach the door. “My friend will be here soon, and then we would like to come to services.” In halting English he responds, “All right, but no cameras.” Ok. My friend arrives, and the guard tells her that the sleeves on her dress are too short, so she can’t come in without a shawl. I give her my scarf, and while she goes to lock up her bike I walk into the synagogue unaccessorized and unaccompanied. A man hands me a kipah, the head covering worn by Jewish men and sometimes women. The kipah is a sign of humility before God (who is above you).
I sit in the center aisle, where men and a few women are milling around. Without comment. My friend comes in and pulls me to the side, and upon reflection, and as services begin, this is in fact where all the women are. It turns out that every person sitting in our row is an English speaker, from London, Westchester, and Long Island. We chat, as we cannot understand the Hungarian inflected Hebrew or discern from the melodies where we are in the services. After a few prayers, a man comes to our row and speaks to me in Hungarian. “I’m so sorry, do you speak English?” (In my head, “I’m sorry, I will not continue to disrupt your services with my idle chatter”). “Please take off that kipah. You cannot wear it. I’m very sorry.” “Ok.” “Would you like a different head covering? I can give you a piece of lace.” “No, thank you.”
And with that, I can stop worrying. Whatever gender situation there was has been resolved, for me, for now. I’m in.
After services, several groups of women approach me. “Why did he take the kippah away from you?” “Well, why do you think?” I say.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Sunset on the West Side Highway
Wow. I'm very sorry for how long it's been since I've posted. Here's a good one from Jesse to make it up to you:
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SO... I'm biking home to Washington Heights along the West Side bike path. It's around dusk. The rolling hills of Jersey are to my left and the West Side Highway is to my right (see figure 1). Just south of 125th St, I look up and see what appears to be a naked woman on the side of the bike path. I'm thinking: this cannot possibly be a naked woman, but then it IS! Framed by the sunset and concrete bucolic Jersey, there is a completely naked woman with cartoonish porn star proportions. As I get closer, it becomes clear she's in some kind of photo shoot, complete with seductive lip poses & the works.
I keep biking and maybe 20 feet past her, there are about 8 men who have stopped and are leaning against the railing leering at the naked woman. The most skeevy looking of the men (see figure 2) looks at me and grins a skeevy grin and gestures with his chin for me to stop and gawk. He may have winked. I'd slowed down because the path is narrow and I didn't want to hit anyone so we get a nice, extended moment of eye contact in which his complete skeeviness and his glee at the photoshoot are fully communicated. And then--he realizes I'm a woman.
He starts. Pauses. Looks down. Looks at me again. Looks horrified. Spits over the railing to reaffirm his manliness--and then I'm gone.
I did not stay to watch the photoshoot.
FIGURE 1
FIGURE 2
Friday, July 29, 2011
Staten Island Rules
How I manage to get such great guest bloggers - I dont' know.
Here's another one from J.L. Mecum:
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I used to regularly volunteer at the Manhattan LBGT Center a few years ago. I was working an emotionally exhausting job and was looking for a queer community outlet that didn’t involved getting shitfaced and having drinks spilled on me while I waited for the bathroom at Cubbyhole, crushed up against the jukebox awkwardly. Serving pizza and manning the popcorn machine while a fabu drag queen called bingo seemed like a good change of pace. I became friendly with the volunteer coordinator at The Center (probably because I was always available on short notice) and he began asking me to help with other events.
When June rolled around, I agreed to help The Center hand out information (and apply temporary tattoos to sexy revelers!) at the various borough Pride celebrations. I mean, when else was I going to go to Queens? (Hint: um, NEVER. BK. All. Day.) I even agreed to help with Staten Island Pride, mostly because I had a friend who had been living there for years and hadn’t convinced me to actually make the trek out to his ‘hood. Thinking I’d kill two birds and all that, I made a plan for my buddy Paul to meet me at the Pride site so we could go to his favorite restaurant-slash-dive bar on the island post-Pride. I was excited.
June in New York City = hot as balls. The gymnasium hosting Staten Island Pride predictably was air-conditioning free, so there I was, in my Birks, cargo shorts, and Center t-shirt with sleeves sheared right off. Completing my Dyke in the Summer uniform was the comfy sports bra underneath it all. Gimme a break, okay? It was Staten Island in 2008. I was…younger than I am now. Go easy.
Paul came to meet me. The first thing I said was, “dude, it’s 90 effing degrees. Long sleeves and jeans? You crazy.” He just shook his head (I’ve never seen him in shorts…) and led the way to Book By Its Cover Restaurant and Bar*.
BBIC was a divey dive, with a parrot painted on the side of the building to rival Jimmy Buffet’s trailer. In what I can only assume was a flimsy attempt at “classin’ up the joint,” a hand-lettered sign was posted on the door: NO SHIRT NO SHOES NO SERVICE. NO BASEBALL HATS. MEN MUST HAVE SLEEVES. I chuckled as I glanced through the window and saw an overweight middle-aged man with his sleeveless Champion-brand sweatshirt shooting pool with his also-sleeveless tween son.
The petite bottle-blonde hostess stopped us in our tracks. “You can’t come in here like that,” she said. Like what? Brunette? Sweaty? LIKE WHAT? Paul asked her. She stared at me, then at Paul, then back at me. “You have to have sleeves. You can’t come in here like that.” Now, Paul’s a very traditional guy. He started to step up for me, his friend who happens to be, very much in his mind, a lady, and I don’t think he fully understood what was going on. I knew. I knew from the moment she laid eyes on me: MUST HAVE SLEEVES.
You could almost see the wheels turning in Paul’s head. He looked at the riffraff at the bar. “Those women are wearing tank tops,” he countered. The hostess glanced over at the deflated barflies, “Yes, those women are wearing tank tops. But your friend has to have sleeves.” I told her that the only other shirt I had was a ribbed tank top. Even after speaking to her in my decidedly unmanly voice, the hostess did not change her position. During the course of this awkward encounter, she never used a male pronoun. I fully believe that she felt she just needed to stand by her original judgment and not back down, though by this time she was clearly questioning her appraisal. I have to say that this is a poor life choice and I sincerely hope it
bites her in the ass someday.
Finally, exasperated, she decided, “It’s fine, it’s fine,” and seated us. I am not exaggerating when I say that not one other soul was having a sit-down meal in that establishment. She handed me my menu without making eye contact. In fact, the hostess never looked me directly in the eye again. Paul was livid. He couldn’t understand how anyone could mistake me for a man. I couldn’t understand why, if I was indeed a man, I would be singled out over other bar patrons. It felt very much like “we don’t want your kind here, whatever it is.” Which is lame and so un-New York is makes me sad.
The food was unimpressive and the mood was a sour. The conversation finally started flowing until I had to ask Paul, “Um, uh, where is the bathroom? Should I just use the men’s room?” Without hesitation, he replied, “The men’s room here doesn’t have a seat on the toilet. Don’t use the men’s room here.” I glanced around and made sure no one saw me steal away to the bathroom. But wait, what? I had to make sure no one saw me HEAD INTO THE BATHROOM? This was just ridiculous. No one should ever be made to feel ashamed of getting up to use the bathroom in a restaurant. I was angry at the hostess for her cursory judgment; I was angry at myself for allowing her to affect me; but mostly I was angry at the hostess’s clearly sheltered idea of stereotyping: if I was fitting into any mould, I was ripped from the pages of How to Spot a Lesbian 101. Psssh, get some culture, Improperly-Prejudiced-Hostess-with-Dumb-Hair-Nobody-Likes-You.
I haven’t been back to Staten Island since. I wonder if that make me better or worse than that hostess.
*the establishment's name has been changed to a more fitting moniker.
Here's another one from J.L. Mecum:
-----------------------------------------------
I used to regularly volunteer at the Manhattan LBGT Center a few years ago. I was working an emotionally exhausting job and was looking for a queer community outlet that didn’t involved getting shitfaced and having drinks spilled on me while I waited for the bathroom at Cubbyhole, crushed up against the jukebox awkwardly. Serving pizza and manning the popcorn machine while a fabu drag queen called bingo seemed like a good change of pace. I became friendly with the volunteer coordinator at The Center (probably because I was always available on short notice) and he began asking me to help with other events.
When June rolled around, I agreed to help The Center hand out information (and apply temporary tattoos to sexy revelers!) at the various borough Pride celebrations. I mean, when else was I going to go to Queens? (Hint: um, NEVER. BK. All. Day.) I even agreed to help with Staten Island Pride, mostly because I had a friend who had been living there for years and hadn’t convinced me to actually make the trek out to his ‘hood. Thinking I’d kill two birds and all that, I made a plan for my buddy Paul to meet me at the Pride site so we could go to his favorite restaurant-slash-dive bar on the island post-Pride. I was excited.
June in New York City = hot as balls. The gymnasium hosting Staten Island Pride predictably was air-conditioning free, so there I was, in my Birks, cargo shorts, and Center t-shirt with sleeves sheared right off. Completing my Dyke in the Summer uniform was the comfy sports bra underneath it all. Gimme a break, okay? It was Staten Island in 2008. I was…younger than I am now. Go easy.
Paul came to meet me. The first thing I said was, “dude, it’s 90 effing degrees. Long sleeves and jeans? You crazy.” He just shook his head (I’ve never seen him in shorts…) and led the way to Book By Its Cover Restaurant and Bar*.
BBIC was a divey dive, with a parrot painted on the side of the building to rival Jimmy Buffet’s trailer. In what I can only assume was a flimsy attempt at “classin’ up the joint,” a hand-lettered sign was posted on the door: NO SHIRT NO SHOES NO SERVICE. NO BASEBALL HATS. MEN MUST HAVE SLEEVES. I chuckled as I glanced through the window and saw an overweight middle-aged man with his sleeveless Champion-brand sweatshirt shooting pool with his also-sleeveless tween son.
The petite bottle-blonde hostess stopped us in our tracks. “You can’t come in here like that,” she said. Like what? Brunette? Sweaty? LIKE WHAT? Paul asked her. She stared at me, then at Paul, then back at me. “You have to have sleeves. You can’t come in here like that.” Now, Paul’s a very traditional guy. He started to step up for me, his friend who happens to be, very much in his mind, a lady, and I don’t think he fully understood what was going on. I knew. I knew from the moment she laid eyes on me: MUST HAVE SLEEVES.
You could almost see the wheels turning in Paul’s head. He looked at the riffraff at the bar. “Those women are wearing tank tops,” he countered. The hostess glanced over at the deflated barflies, “Yes, those women are wearing tank tops. But your friend has to have sleeves.” I told her that the only other shirt I had was a ribbed tank top. Even after speaking to her in my decidedly unmanly voice, the hostess did not change her position. During the course of this awkward encounter, she never used a male pronoun. I fully believe that she felt she just needed to stand by her original judgment and not back down, though by this time she was clearly questioning her appraisal. I have to say that this is a poor life choice and I sincerely hope it
bites her in the ass someday.
Finally, exasperated, she decided, “It’s fine, it’s fine,” and seated us. I am not exaggerating when I say that not one other soul was having a sit-down meal in that establishment. She handed me my menu without making eye contact. In fact, the hostess never looked me directly in the eye again. Paul was livid. He couldn’t understand how anyone could mistake me for a man. I couldn’t understand why, if I was indeed a man, I would be singled out over other bar patrons. It felt very much like “we don’t want your kind here, whatever it is.” Which is lame and so un-New York is makes me sad.
The food was unimpressive and the mood was a sour. The conversation finally started flowing until I had to ask Paul, “Um, uh, where is the bathroom? Should I just use the men’s room?” Without hesitation, he replied, “The men’s room here doesn’t have a seat on the toilet. Don’t use the men’s room here.” I glanced around and made sure no one saw me steal away to the bathroom. But wait, what? I had to make sure no one saw me HEAD INTO THE BATHROOM? This was just ridiculous. No one should ever be made to feel ashamed of getting up to use the bathroom in a restaurant. I was angry at the hostess for her cursory judgment; I was angry at myself for allowing her to affect me; but mostly I was angry at the hostess’s clearly sheltered idea of stereotyping: if I was fitting into any mould, I was ripped from the pages of How to Spot a Lesbian 101. Psssh, get some culture, Improperly-Prejudiced-Hostess-with-Dumb-Hair-Nobody-Likes-You.
I haven’t been back to Staten Island since. I wonder if that make me better or worse than that hostess.
*the establishment's name has been changed to a more fitting moniker.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Cutting It All Off
In high school I got really obsessed with a Team Dresch song called Growing Up in Springfield. These are the lyrics:
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when i was fourteen i fell in love with her in metal shop she said kaia come pray with me we sat on her bed and we held our hands together she told me i needed god i told her i just needed her when i was fifteen i liked to start fires and i drive my parents truck to the jasper store things were out of control i couldn't stop to see others the ones like me were not far from reach when i was sixteen she said to me you have a demon possession i said what the fuck does that mean she said she couldn't be my friend those were the worst days of my life and all the hick boys loved to harass me so i flaunted my hatred of the flag my mother cried when i shaved my head
----------------------------------------------------------
Honest and unfiltered like most Team Dresch songs, I especially fixated on the last line about her mother. Instead of writing my first name and a boys last name all over my binders, I would write that lyric. But, no one cried when I shaved my head. There were critical reactions far and wide, but never tears.
My mom was not happy about the news that I was rejecting compulsive straightness, she was not happy that I was starting to dress more and more masculine, she was not happy about my hair being short on my head. Her unhappiness was unselfish and in regards to safety and family. But I was still offended and outraged at what I took to be fake liberal ideals and a lack of support in what was already a difficult and confusing situation. But parental disapproval of queerness is generally expected, so I complained to my friends a bit, listened to Team Dresch as if I could relate to religious indoctrination, and then hunkered down to wait out the likely evaporation of motherly disappointment.
I can't remember the first time I shaved my head. I think my friend Abbey may have done the dirty deed since her excitement and support for my changing self was eternal. I could always count on her for a mohawk or a tight buzzcut, but mostly for the encouraging words that went with such a dramatic haircut that asked for at least a little bullying and snickering. Her goodwill overshadowed what could have been pure mess.
There was a day when my hair was starting to grow back into a wavy blob of ugly and somehow it was decided with my mom that I would go to a hair salon for a professional cut. She was hoping I would get a haircut that promoted a less radical look and somehow I felt guilty enough to agree.
We went to a place called The Yellow Balloon that was definitely for children and for children only. I was 17 and way too old to be going to a place that had a Claw Crane game and literally handed out yellow balloons to their patrons for being well behaved during the haircut.
The hairstylist was talkative and dismissive. She sat me down, threw the cape over my body, and asked me what kind of cut I wanted. Just a trim, I said. And that was that. No further questioning, she just took out her shears and went to work while chatting with my mom. Minutes later, she unbuttoned the cape and I met my mother's eyes as we reviewed the haircut. Something was off. It was too short on the sides and too long on the top. My face was unflatteringly elongated.
Unfortunately, my mother and I both lack the natural instinct (backbone) to demand customer satisfaction. But after our shock dissipated, we briefly discussed the issue sitting on my head and concluded it was too bad not to try and fix. Shamefully walking back to the hairstylist, my mom told her that I looked too much like a boy. Which, wasn't exactly the issue, because I didn't mind looking like a boy. It's just, some haircuts for men don't suit my womanly facial features. And this was one of those haircuts.
Now it was the hairstylist's turn to be stunned. She stammered: Oh, I thought she was a boy. It was awkward. Everyone was embarrassed and all for different reasons. My mom came up with a solution: Shave it all off, she said. That was her idea and THAT was how bad this haircut was.
After this happened I couldn't even possibly conceive of re-telling this story to anyone, much less of having a blog to laugh over these types of incidents. But now, I know why this happens and I'm prepared for it. I give specific instructions to people who are going to cut my hair, buy me clothing, or point me in the direction of the restroom.
The hairstylist obliged, and for what Abbey could've done in five minutes and for free and with love and affection, my mom paid $20.
----------------------------------------------------------
when i was fourteen i fell in love with her in metal shop she said kaia come pray with me we sat on her bed and we held our hands together she told me i needed god i told her i just needed her when i was fifteen i liked to start fires and i drive my parents truck to the jasper store things were out of control i couldn't stop to see others the ones like me were not far from reach when i was sixteen she said to me you have a demon possession i said what the fuck does that mean she said she couldn't be my friend those were the worst days of my life and all the hick boys loved to harass me so i flaunted my hatred of the flag my mother cried when i shaved my head
----------------------------------------------------------
Honest and unfiltered like most Team Dresch songs, I especially fixated on the last line about her mother. Instead of writing my first name and a boys last name all over my binders, I would write that lyric. But, no one cried when I shaved my head. There were critical reactions far and wide, but never tears.
My mom was not happy about the news that I was rejecting compulsive straightness, she was not happy that I was starting to dress more and more masculine, she was not happy about my hair being short on my head. Her unhappiness was unselfish and in regards to safety and family. But I was still offended and outraged at what I took to be fake liberal ideals and a lack of support in what was already a difficult and confusing situation. But parental disapproval of queerness is generally expected, so I complained to my friends a bit, listened to Team Dresch as if I could relate to religious indoctrination, and then hunkered down to wait out the likely evaporation of motherly disappointment.
I can't remember the first time I shaved my head. I think my friend Abbey may have done the dirty deed since her excitement and support for my changing self was eternal. I could always count on her for a mohawk or a tight buzzcut, but mostly for the encouraging words that went with such a dramatic haircut that asked for at least a little bullying and snickering. Her goodwill overshadowed what could have been pure mess.
There was a day when my hair was starting to grow back into a wavy blob of ugly and somehow it was decided with my mom that I would go to a hair salon for a professional cut. She was hoping I would get a haircut that promoted a less radical look and somehow I felt guilty enough to agree.
We went to a place called The Yellow Balloon that was definitely for children and for children only. I was 17 and way too old to be going to a place that had a Claw Crane game and literally handed out yellow balloons to their patrons for being well behaved during the haircut.
The hairstylist was talkative and dismissive. She sat me down, threw the cape over my body, and asked me what kind of cut I wanted. Just a trim, I said. And that was that. No further questioning, she just took out her shears and went to work while chatting with my mom. Minutes later, she unbuttoned the cape and I met my mother's eyes as we reviewed the haircut. Something was off. It was too short on the sides and too long on the top. My face was unflatteringly elongated.
Unfortunately, my mother and I both lack the natural instinct (backbone) to demand customer satisfaction. But after our shock dissipated, we briefly discussed the issue sitting on my head and concluded it was too bad not to try and fix. Shamefully walking back to the hairstylist, my mom told her that I looked too much like a boy. Which, wasn't exactly the issue, because I didn't mind looking like a boy. It's just, some haircuts for men don't suit my womanly facial features. And this was one of those haircuts.
Now it was the hairstylist's turn to be stunned. She stammered: Oh, I thought she was a boy. It was awkward. Everyone was embarrassed and all for different reasons. My mom came up with a solution: Shave it all off, she said. That was her idea and THAT was how bad this haircut was.
After this happened I couldn't even possibly conceive of re-telling this story to anyone, much less of having a blog to laugh over these types of incidents. But now, I know why this happens and I'm prepared for it. I give specific instructions to people who are going to cut my hair, buy me clothing, or point me in the direction of the restroom.
The hairstylist obliged, and for what Abbey could've done in five minutes and for free and with love and affection, my mom paid $20.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Shamrock and Fuschia
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Guest post from J.L. Mecum!
--------------------------------------
I am a law student, a Godfather, an only daughter, and a queer. Bieber-doppelganger-extraordinaire. I've been asked if I was trans, had a girlfriend, had a boyfriend, if I'm Native American, if I'm Jewish, if I'm lost (in a public bathroom), if I'm lost (in the little boys' section of Daffy's). Just like Lauren, the proprietor of this blog, I live at the intersection of Sir Street and Ma'am Avenue.
Recently, I had been asked to be in two upcoming weddings for two very dear friends. I was given the gilded title of "Jen of Honour" in one; a happy bridesmaid in the other. Jen of Honor was asked to wear her smartest suit and sharpest tie, and to simply be "comfortable." The bride-to-be, Alexandra, knew my eyes would light up as soon as she said "summer suit." Visions of cotton and linen danced in my head. Maybe even a madras tie?! Perchance to dream!
Amanda, on the other hand, had a plethora of bridesmaids and groomsmen lined up. "Sorry, dude, but Rick's already got seven guys walking with him. If you don't walk on my side and wear a dress, we'll be uneven." I could've balked or complained or begged off, but this isn't about me, it's about my good friend, her marriage, and quite frankly, her wedding album. So I said sure, I'll wear the shamrock and fuschia
dress. Whatever you want. It's your day.
But wait - hold the phone. I haven't worn a dress since the late '90s. What's an andro-butch-boi to do without her trusty knit tie, a sparkly tie bar, those patent leather wing-tips that look strikingly like Gene Kelly's tap shoes? WHERE WILL MY POWERS COME FROM? I took a breath and reminded myself that this day was not about me. Then I took two trains to Church Avenue in Brooklyn.
The dress had been ordered and now it was in. I had returned for the fitting. Being June and the swell of wedding, the place was packed. I sauntered in, alone, with my swoopy short Beatles bangs and my chinos rolled up to my calves, showing off a prominent boat shoe tan. A gaggle of preteens (where are your parents?!) was gathered in front of the dressing mirror, generally being obnoxious, pre-hormonal, and as terrifying to 29-year-old me as they had been in the fifth grade.
The saleswoman expressed her complete disappointment at my inability to produce my receipt; I countered with a glower at their non-computerized record keeping system. "She's going downstairs to find it. It'll just be a minute," she said.
Then I was completely alone.
The preteens stole glances that became less and less stealthy. I shifted my weight back and forth, sweating into my Brooklyn Industries shirt and wishing I were somewhat invisible, or at least translucent. A shadow, perhaps. Peter Pan's shadow would be a dead ringer. They whispered and stared and pointed a little. I dissolved from the inside out. I mean, where the hell was Wendy when I needed her?
After an eternity, the saleswoman reappeared with my dress. I could see the shamrock mocking me through the plastic covering. I slipped inside the changing room and stepped into the glowing green puddle of the dress, drawing it up around me. The long zipper closed and I was snuggly inside my costume.
My emergence from the dressing room must've been like a butterfly from a cocoon, judging by the look on the preteens' faces.' "That's a pretty dress," one said. "Do you want to stand up here?" offered another as they all made way for me in front of the mirror.
I stepped up on to the fitting pedestal. The first preteen made sure I knew just how lucky I was: "That is a pretty dress," she repeated. "Thank you. It's for my friend's wedding." The second piped up, "Are you a bridesmaid?" "Yes," I said, "I'll tell her you think she made a good choice."
The girls stared at me. No more sniggering; no more whispers; just open-mouthed admiration. I've never felt so pretty in all my life. And I owned it. It was possibly the only time I've ever been happy to feel like a princess instead of having one on my arm. But why? Because I'm still me, in a dress or a suit or a
cowboy hat or a banana costume. Those preteens knew it, too. They did not point and laugh at the awkward girl-boy in a dress; they wished they were me.
Now, I know not everyone feels good, or confident, or even comfortable in feminine clothing. I know I usually do not. But I've finally gotten to a place in my life, my identity and my sense of self that I am wearing the clothes, the clothes are no longer wearing me.
Photo by Mary Lou Quillen
Guest post from J.L. Mecum!
--------------------------------------
I am a law student, a Godfather, an only daughter, and a queer. Bieber-doppelganger-extraordinaire. I've been asked if I was trans, had a girlfriend, had a boyfriend, if I'm Native American, if I'm Jewish, if I'm lost (in a public bathroom), if I'm lost (in the little boys' section of Daffy's). Just like Lauren, the proprietor of this blog, I live at the intersection of Sir Street and Ma'am Avenue.
Recently, I had been asked to be in two upcoming weddings for two very dear friends. I was given the gilded title of "Jen of Honour" in one; a happy bridesmaid in the other. Jen of Honor was asked to wear her smartest suit and sharpest tie, and to simply be "comfortable." The bride-to-be, Alexandra, knew my eyes would light up as soon as she said "summer suit." Visions of cotton and linen danced in my head. Maybe even a madras tie?! Perchance to dream!
Amanda, on the other hand, had a plethora of bridesmaids and groomsmen lined up. "Sorry, dude, but Rick's already got seven guys walking with him. If you don't walk on my side and wear a dress, we'll be uneven." I could've balked or complained or begged off, but this isn't about me, it's about my good friend, her marriage, and quite frankly, her wedding album. So I said sure, I'll wear the shamrock and fuschia
dress. Whatever you want. It's your day.
But wait - hold the phone. I haven't worn a dress since the late '90s. What's an andro-butch-boi to do without her trusty knit tie, a sparkly tie bar, those patent leather wing-tips that look strikingly like Gene Kelly's tap shoes? WHERE WILL MY POWERS COME FROM? I took a breath and reminded myself that this day was not about me. Then I took two trains to Church Avenue in Brooklyn.
The dress had been ordered and now it was in. I had returned for the fitting. Being June and the swell of wedding, the place was packed. I sauntered in, alone, with my swoopy short Beatles bangs and my chinos rolled up to my calves, showing off a prominent boat shoe tan. A gaggle of preteens (where are your parents?!) was gathered in front of the dressing mirror, generally being obnoxious, pre-hormonal, and as terrifying to 29-year-old me as they had been in the fifth grade.
The saleswoman expressed her complete disappointment at my inability to produce my receipt; I countered with a glower at their non-computerized record keeping system. "She's going downstairs to find it. It'll just be a minute," she said.
Then I was completely alone.
The preteens stole glances that became less and less stealthy. I shifted my weight back and forth, sweating into my Brooklyn Industries shirt and wishing I were somewhat invisible, or at least translucent. A shadow, perhaps. Peter Pan's shadow would be a dead ringer. They whispered and stared and pointed a little. I dissolved from the inside out. I mean, where the hell was Wendy when I needed her?
After an eternity, the saleswoman reappeared with my dress. I could see the shamrock mocking me through the plastic covering. I slipped inside the changing room and stepped into the glowing green puddle of the dress, drawing it up around me. The long zipper closed and I was snuggly inside my costume.
My emergence from the dressing room must've been like a butterfly from a cocoon, judging by the look on the preteens' faces.' "That's a pretty dress," one said. "Do you want to stand up here?" offered another as they all made way for me in front of the mirror.
I stepped up on to the fitting pedestal. The first preteen made sure I knew just how lucky I was: "That is a pretty dress," she repeated. "Thank you. It's for my friend's wedding." The second piped up, "Are you a bridesmaid?" "Yes," I said, "I'll tell her you think she made a good choice."
The girls stared at me. No more sniggering; no more whispers; just open-mouthed admiration. I've never felt so pretty in all my life. And I owned it. It was possibly the only time I've ever been happy to feel like a princess instead of having one on my arm. But why? Because I'm still me, in a dress or a suit or a
cowboy hat or a banana costume. Those preteens knew it, too. They did not point and laugh at the awkward girl-boy in a dress; they wished they were me.
Now, I know not everyone feels good, or confident, or even comfortable in feminine clothing. I know I usually do not. But I've finally gotten to a place in my life, my identity and my sense of self that I am wearing the clothes, the clothes are no longer wearing me.
Photo by Mary Lou Quillen
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Welcome to Boston, Friends.
I guess since I continuously mystify other people with my gender presentation, I deserve a little confusion now and then myself. Maybe someone can help interpret what was going through this man's mind when he said and did the following:
My friend Cody and I decided to take a trip to Boston to visit Rickard. We get on the Chinatown bus and after 4 hours we arrive at the South Station Bus Terminal. I love this part of the trip because after a long bus ride it's a quick hop on Boston's sleepy subway system (called the "T") to Rickard's place.
Now. I have to admit, I'm pretty sensitive to people staring at me. I'm not as bad as my ex-girlfriend who nearly got us in fist fights with kids from Nepal and big men from Brooklyn. But, I also don't enjoy getting looked at for longer than is polite (Two seconds? Three seconds?). I will usually get up and move away from incessantly or aggressively staring people. Or sometimes, if I'm feeling particularly frisky I'll say: WHAT.
Anyhow. Cody and I are sitting on the T, chatting excitedly to each other, closing in on our destination. I begin to notice a guy sitting across from us and staring. He's maybe 25 years old and wearing your typical fraternity gear. I try to focus on Cody, but this guy just won't quit it. Finally, I look up and stare back, daring him not to look away. He doesn't flinch, and he grins at me - a smile that is maybe drunk or maybe flirting or maybe it's just a smirk. I can't tell. He wins the staring contest and I look up at the train map to see how far away we are from our stop.
Suddenly, The Guy is sitting right next to me. He managed to stealthily make his way over to my side of the train without me noticing. I brace myself for some sort of confrontation and make that half smile/half grimace thing at him hoping to appease whatever interest he has towards me. I look away, turning to Cody for some support and The Guy slurs in my ear: "You guys make a cute couple."
Um. What? I look over at Cody to make sure I'm not holding his hand or fondling him in some sort of couple-like manner. Maybe in our excitement to see Rickard we unknowingly embraced or made eyes at each other, but I'm pretty sure we didn't. I'm pretty sure my dude friend Cody and my strangely gendered self were sitting like friends, not touching, on the T.
So, what, exactly was The Guy trying to say????? And why can I not help but think this is a Boston thing?
My friend Cody and I decided to take a trip to Boston to visit Rickard. We get on the Chinatown bus and after 4 hours we arrive at the South Station Bus Terminal. I love this part of the trip because after a long bus ride it's a quick hop on Boston's sleepy subway system (called the "T") to Rickard's place.
Now. I have to admit, I'm pretty sensitive to people staring at me. I'm not as bad as my ex-girlfriend who nearly got us in fist fights with kids from Nepal and big men from Brooklyn. But, I also don't enjoy getting looked at for longer than is polite (Two seconds? Three seconds?). I will usually get up and move away from incessantly or aggressively staring people. Or sometimes, if I'm feeling particularly frisky I'll say: WHAT.
Anyhow. Cody and I are sitting on the T, chatting excitedly to each other, closing in on our destination. I begin to notice a guy sitting across from us and staring. He's maybe 25 years old and wearing your typical fraternity gear. I try to focus on Cody, but this guy just won't quit it. Finally, I look up and stare back, daring him not to look away. He doesn't flinch, and he grins at me - a smile that is maybe drunk or maybe flirting or maybe it's just a smirk. I can't tell. He wins the staring contest and I look up at the train map to see how far away we are from our stop.
Suddenly, The Guy is sitting right next to me. He managed to stealthily make his way over to my side of the train without me noticing. I brace myself for some sort of confrontation and make that half smile/half grimace thing at him hoping to appease whatever interest he has towards me. I look away, turning to Cody for some support and The Guy slurs in my ear: "You guys make a cute couple."
Um. What? I look over at Cody to make sure I'm not holding his hand or fondling him in some sort of couple-like manner. Maybe in our excitement to see Rickard we unknowingly embraced or made eyes at each other, but I'm pretty sure we didn't. I'm pretty sure my dude friend Cody and my strangely gendered self were sitting like friends, not touching, on the T.
So, what, exactly was The Guy trying to say????? And why can I not help but think this is a Boston thing?
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
I'd Go See This
A short film about gender idenity, bullying, and self-empowerment needs some funding love:
http://www.indiegogo.com/Sam
http://www.indiegogo.com/Sam
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