Mary

I’ve had it in my head for a little while now to write about this. I’ve hesitated because I don’t want it to sound accusatory or generalizing. Every situation and every person is unique. What I’ve found though is that sometimes things need to be put out there cause they happened. And when they happened to you, it exists as the why and how you move about the world. In this case, my Mary incident sets up my relationship with cis women.

One day when I was about 8, I was playing with some new kids who happened to be on my block. There were two boys whose names I’ve forgotten and a girl named Mary. We probably played a mixture of tag and hide n go seek . I remember having fun . I remember me and Mary spending more time with each other than with the two boys. And sometime over the course of the afternoon ,all of us kids got together probably tired of running. And Mary told one of the boys I had said I wanted to kiss him. I denied it because of course I had said no such thing. I denied it with tears in my eyes and pleas in my voice . The boy , future thug in training asked if it was true. Asked if I was a faggot. And then in my copping pleas and not wanting to fight but also not wanting people in the building to hear those accusations caught a hard punch to my face. Our fun playful afternoon had come to an end. I remember Mary laughing, I remember the boys walking off and I remember hating all of them including myself for not standing up for myself. There’s so much about this incident that as I write makes me cringe a bit not only for all of us as kids but the community and the norms in which we grew up under. Kids under 10 in the hood were already trained to weed out gender and sexual deviation. They were already conditioned to hate and reward the violators with violence if need be. It says a lot about the people who raised us and I say us cause I too was given those same lessons. Gay was wrong and needed to be beat outta them was common dogma when I was growing up. If you were gay you were seen as literally asking for an ass whupping. There was no permission for gay kids to just be kids. Instead we were made into predators. It’s so funny when people protest LGBT anything they always , ALWAYS make it a point to mention the kids. Their so called concern and wanting /needing to shield their kids from our “lifestyle”. And little do they acknowledge, how kids have already absorbed and analyzed culture’s dominant perceptions on sexuality, gender and norms. And how kids themselves as representatives of their oh so concerned parents do enough gatekeeping on their own.

A hallmark of my Mary episode was that it made me look at cis girls by and large as fair weather type of friends. It made me much more guarded around cis girls and made me understand that instead of being able to let all of me be seen ,I had to not share those parts for fear of being attacked. The overwhelming majority of my friends growing up were cis Black girls from my immediate area. My very best friend was a cis straight black girl. But still and all I continued to on some levels retain a very fundamental belief that our friendship is to a point. And I feel like as a transwoman, I am never really accepted by cis women en masse. My invite to the women’s event will always be up for debate. Cis women have their own levels of homophobia and transphobia that doesn’t get as much traction as those offenses committed by cis men. I think perhaps it has to do with lesser physical violence but I look at both as equal opportunity offenders. I can’t count how many times I’ve been out and about and pass a group and there’s always some loud ass cis woman who has to yell out ” that’s a man”. As if she’s seen a rodent she must call out. Many times it’s a group of guys nearby as well and I have to wonder if Im’a have a Mary moment.

I can imagine there will be people who say shit like not judging folks on the actions of one as a child, people who will provide their own disclaimer as an ally and the overwhelming majority who don’t give a fuck because we’ve all experienced trauma as kids. But Mary sticks to me as a reminder to never think I can blindly seek solace or understanding in that womanhood umbrella. Its’ keepers can and will use me against me. In some pit, in her mind she will always see me as a man. It makes all of our interactions shrouded in a superficiality at best, at worst, a kind indifference.

Mama Black Widow

One of my favorite books is a sordid drama not for those interested in feel good themes. Mama Black Widow by Iceberg Slim (1969)is the tale of drag queen Otis Tilson and his family’s struggles in Mississippi and Chicago over the span of 40 years or so. The book at surface reads as a bad tale of misfortune and is cautionary in its’ tone of aspiring for more, the precariousness of femininity and queerness is heavy as a theme as well. But what redeems Mama Black Widow for me is the grit of Otis or Tilly as she/he will be known. Tilly does not give up despite a constant barrage of bad luck. I am always struck by the imagery of “back in the days”, envisioning the vivid fashion, the story of southern Blacks in the cold North and the presence of Queer culture back then. It’s a rare glimpse in the life led by a Black queer person in the 40s-60s. I first read this book as a teenager looking for my roots as a Black queer, debunking the so called modernity of queer culture. I smiled knowing that people like me did exist back then and they had fire and style and honed this very queer counterculture that breeds a resistance still present to this day. It’s kinda like yea it can suck to be gay or trans at times and I’m gon experience some shit but my truth is my truth. I have no choice but to live with it.

The grownup kid

The older I get, the more I realize how much of my foundation is in my childhood. Those first experiences of life stick with you with an intensity far greater than the day to day as an adult. It was when you learned that there were things that were wrong with you. It’s when you saw the punishment or rewards netted to someone simply on who they were. It’s when you realized how temporary and sustaining that thing called childhood is. All those lessons and experiences sticking to you like flies to shit. Growing up is a process that never stops happening and “growing out” of conditioning and experiences is something else.

The other day I was struck by my walk and how I struggle with what to do with my hands, my arms in ways that didn’t look or feel awkward. Try as I might I couldn’t get to a motion that seemed congruent to femininity. I wondered why I was so stiff, why my movements weren’t light and flowy. And I remembered as a kid being told to “stop switching”, “stop walking like a faggot” which extended to being seen as one. I did the best I could hoping I could be stiff enough for whoever requested it. It’s really such a small thing right, how you walk. But for young me ,it was a matter of being as good or in this case as un- gay as unfeminine as possible. Now as an adult say over 20 years later and very much into my womanhood, the residuals remain from my repression.

I’d venture to say my experience is the norm in some respects for the majority. As you grew up ,you were shamed for something you could not control, some natural aspect of yourself that you didn’t know was a problem till someone said so. I’ve always been a tad bit envious of works by queers who were steadfast in their identity from childhood. Those kids bullied, beaten, ostracized, villainized mercilessly for being different yet did not change or play it safe. Those kids who took all that abuse and were able to hone their identity as authentic. I’ve found those kids to be far more confident and more at peace then those of us who came into our truths later. But it’s hard as fuck for many adults to live their most authentic lives so imagine kids. Imagine kids who know they are different and their difference inspires such a degree of scorn and disgust. And when I think of that ,I extend so much compassion and empathy for my younger self and all those like me. Grown up kids doing our best to tend to battle wounds incurred when we weren’t so grown up.

Pride

The word pride evokes so many emotions. It can be a noun, an adjective and also a verb. Pride is a must for any and all oppressed peoples for no other purpose than a rebuttal to the edict of self hate that oppression produces. Pride has also been castigated in some instances as something that one needs to be mindful of, as something to not have too much of. For me, the notion of Pride is greater than Rainbow wristbands and packed venues in June where Rainbow people come together in this great contingent to stick it to the mainstream. Except ,I guess that notion is dated since nowadays in June and even before everyone is Rainbow , flags are flying, merchandise is found everywhere and everything and everywhere is seemingly a Rainbow inclusive utopia. My pride is a call for action, it’s a reminder of my greatness, it’s the inspiration I need to persist in this parasitic climate as a Big Black transwoman. It’s knowing that I’m always the unicorn in the room and my struggle and my identity are intertwined yet also often at odds as I reckon with mainstream Black and Trans identities and how I have come to see myself as an individual irrespective of demographic. To be a Black transwoman, I feel like I’m robbed of being able to be human in the world . There is a sensationalistic ,caricature, taboo ridden dogma that follows our lives. In our neighborhoods and the world at large ,we are thought of as men, as threatening, as insulting established social norms. I feel like we’re expected to live up to the caricatures in certain ways and then made to feel this need to disappear in other parts of our lives as well.

I think of our physical transitions and how much of it is reduced to a means to an end. The classic trans narrative in general is boy is uncomfortable being so, boy finds themself seeing themself as girl, boy gets surgeries and voila she becomes this beautiful girl. I am being facetious of course but it’s how I have always kinda gleaned the very rare glimpses of transwomen in media especially say pre 2015 ish. What isn’t spoken about or even I think admitted to ourselves as transwomen is this idea that we must become as mainstream cis beautiful as possible and if that means 25 surgeries and every correction available then so be it. I know how real the struggle is so I won’t knock the steps we take to live our best life. But know this, transwoman wherever you’re at in this struggle and especially Black transwomen because the added dose of Blackness always makes that self actualization not only more harder but also critical, you are enough as you are. Snatched waists and cute faces does not make love of one’s self persist past the vapidness of superficiality.

I will speak often of Pride and I don’t necessarily believe it can be a thing as too much pride. I think by and large there’s a deficit of Pride in this country. The necessity to function in a hyper politically correct white supremacist entrenched society ensures vast levels of conformity and self hate amongst everyone. Pride in one’s self if owned by the majority who would claim it so, would not be the reason the plastic surgery industry is a multibillion dollar force in this country. Pride is a reminder for one to be purposeful about existing and knowing that existence is valid period.

Size 13 shoes

There’s a tragedy when you hate parts of yourself but especially when you hate what those parts of yourself mean for the struggles you’ll face in life. For me, it’s my big ass beautiful feet whom I appreciate for their strength , for their capabilities, for carrying my large frame to and fro, aching ,tired and crying but also hated. I wear a size 13 in women’s sizes. It dominates my mind on a daily that I have such large feet and I can not walk into any shoe store and look for women’s shoes that have my size. It means having to order what I can and finding the options extremely limited and expensive to boot, no pun intended. It means trying to get as many shoes as i can before my limited options are sold out. There was once a store that I at once loathed and loved.

Payless was my closet secret for a long time.My shame for shopping at Payless meant that when I would go in there I would often hurriedly put my Payless shoes inside another store bag. I wouldn’t let myself be caught dead holding a Payless bag despite having them on my feet. My mindset was that Payless was for cheap bitches and growing up in Harlem I was taught in so many ways to avoid buying and looking cheap. But Payless was the only store where I could literally find a size 13 section. It was remarkable to me, a young transwoman desperately finding myself through my appearance and a big part of that was getting my girly footwear up. Mini skirts just don’t look the same with sneakers as they do with flats. I’d continue shopping covertly at Payless up to the last minute when they were going out of business. Before they were closing , I bought as many shoes as I can. The reality though cheap shoes don’t last long and in the almost 2 years that they have been out of business, I’ve found my supply dwindling. And I’ve concurrently noticed a decrease in online options particularly flats as I am an enthusiast and for shoe manufacturers to know that women and people who do wear size 13 are not only interested in Burlesque heels. It’s one of those situations of not knowing what you had till it’s gone.

I continue to do my best looking online but truly my options have dwindled and its gotten a lot more costlier for shoes. I think of that social dogma of women loving shoes and having tons of options, styles etc. And I acknowledge my and other women’s struggles to gear up their big beautiful feet. It’s bigger than shoes. It’s about who is allowed to be a woman and society’s requisites for what women look like and how much space they are allowed to take up. We’re not all 5’2-5’6 and less than 170 lbs. Many of us are quite larger but women still the same. Fashion has to do better. Society has to do better. Stop making people feel bad for being larger and having larger parts and pieces and reckon with a market that is diverse and inclusive. And also consider poverty as well. I can imagine my sisters who are not in as generous a spot in life having a hard time affording some of these pricier brands.

Maybe there can be a newer Payless one with sizes that extend past 13 for women with options that look nice and feel nice and with a better name brand. Let’s face it ,who in Capitalist America wants to buy shoes from a place marketing them as cheap? Until then, I’ll try to preserve the few I have and remember a woman is more than the adornment on her feet.

Compliance

It’s challenging hell damn near impossible to escape this C shit. As we near like 17 months of this bullshit, I have to applaud humanity’s will to exist and function amongst and within fuckery. Because it is so broad and contentious and emotional a subject I will only speak about one aspect of this whole thing that I find seriously downplayed, ignored and disregarded. The right of the individual.

There is no force like fear to motivate and alarm the public. There is no person more dangerous than a fearful one. There is no emotion more contagious, incessant and consuming than fear. Fear is a rational ,human from caveman type of reaction. It is normal and it makes sense. There is a point though where fear becomes bestial, where fear becomes weaponry and where fear becomes the because of something and the cause of something.

I imagine in the smallest crevices of my little brain that I am the subject of a force that cares if i live or die. But there’s a more immediate part of me that can’t help but acknowledge with a Times Square like glare how much of life has felt like a constant struggle as of late to have rights. And as I write with my biting cynicism and I reflect on an old Black truism,” Nigga , you ain’t got no rights”. What is willed and willed and because the authority has that control, to survive you submit.

I wonder about the other side of this all. I wonder what it means when it’s all been contained, and is no longer the shit that doesn’t keep shitting. When on the other side shit eating grins and smug expressions of triumph reign, what is left after all objection is taken away? How do I rationalize my fear of being forced? How do I assuage the pain of being too chicken shit to go against the grain? Why does it feel sometimes like a do as I say and not question us type of atmosphere?

Sula

Sula by Toni Morrison is one of my favorite books. I have a penchant and compassion for the bad ones. I don’t look to the Mother Theresas for inspiration as much as I look for the Sulas. Sula as the bad assed heroine of this novel moves about with a no fucks given attitude that is inspiringly deviant. It’s bigger than Sula though. It’s about the ways in which intersections can serve as layers and layers of oppression. How they interlock and operate in tandem to exert an unforgiving amount of vitriol on the one being oppressed.

Sula exists solely to challenge the authority and “rightness” of that authority. As a Black woman, this flies quite contrary to this edict by white people and Black men to bend to rules that keep a Black woman submissive and self hating of her humanity. You add in this early 20th century, pre -Civil Rights era setting and I find Sula’s story quite captivating. What is it in some people where they refuse to submit to the wills of the majority? What is it about some people who say fuck your rules , fuck respectability and fuck the systems that keep me trapped and hating myself? What is it about people who have these beliefs and exist with great risk and sacrifice to themselves? And again, to center Sula as a Black woman’s cry for empowerment with a theme being the right and need to be imperfect makes Toni Morrison one of the baddest assed writers to have ever graced this earth! There’s a way of reading her works that feels so layered and yet revealing as hell to when you read it a couple of times. It sounds so eloquent and politically painful but is never spelled out with an abject vulgarity. It’s up to the reader to take from it what she will.

Rebels appeal to me as a Black transwoman because I am an active deviant from the norm. I am by virtue of existing offendable and “wrong” by myopic majority views across the board. So there’s something soothing about people who exist and live on their own terms without a damned of regard for what the majority thinks and in spite of the requisite punishment and pain incurred for honoring one’s truth.

In conclusion, Sula is a must read for any and every Black woman looking for permission and inspiration to move to her own beat. One questioning authority, conformity and what it means to love or not one’s self.

Accepting Weirdness

I wonder if it takes a while to get to a place where you accept your weirdness. We all have those parts of our selves we hide away, the parts we wish weren’t there, the kinks and screws that keep you , you. For some of us, weirdness is your whole existence. In my case as a Black transwoman, I walk through the world cognizant of my many clashes with society at large. I haven’t mastered or maybe I eschew that part of us weirdoes who make ourselves palatable to the majority.

I don’t ever want to blend in. I fear losing myself in bastions of sameness, of safeness of pretend. I write this as someone unsure of how I may appear in the world. And what I mean is I don’t always know if t is spooked or if I’m able to appear a “regular” woman. And when I use regular ,its relating to the way the majority sees us. Ciswoman as normal , as regular , as real. And by contrast trans women as abnormal, irregular and fake. I operate though on the assumption that my t is always open for question . I operate on a wave that expects to hear ‘that’s a man’ or perhaps get confronted by some random sucker punch by some kid who yells ‘tranny’. While I don’t experience that level of violence too often, I am too aware of how much receiving those blows would hurt.

It’s hard I find to be a woman, any kind of woman without having to give thought and possible credence in the hierarchies of women. And how there are women seen as better than others for a myriad of different stats that are endorsed by society’s views. The vast majority are cast as lesser than’s who will aspire to be the bad bitches that everyone wants to be or be with. In those hierarchies for sure ,trans women are at the bottom of the bottom , if we’re even included. As I get older and more into my journey of myself, I find dominant sociology, culture and norms of womanhood to be contrary to my own sense of self and my own ways of relating to the world. This is not a diss to womanhood as a collective or a set of ideologies but more a call that in honoring my own unique individuality, I must eschew and unlearn all the dogma of what makes a woman , a woman. And who gets to be one and what does that mean? It’s a question I ruminate on frequently. But I have learned that I absolutely have to accept my weirdness, what ever and all that it may be.

Rejection

You know, Rejection is one of those things in life that everyone apparently goes through. It is made into this fuel that is supposed to propel someone forward and inspiration for future endeavors. One is not supposed to ,according to conventional wisdom, give in to rejection but move against it and in spite of it. And in some ways, I can agree to all of that and yet still have a space to acknowledge rejection as also like a virus that is uncontrolled. A virus that becomes entrenched in your blood and seeps through your pores. Rejection as this binding force that attracts more and more rejection to the afflicted.

I hope I am never one of those know it all’s , one of those super people who make it thru the fires and spin the “you can make it too” or “you just have to keep trying,”. And that’s not to say I’d advocate for someone to give up on themselves or their goals but to also acknowledge how much rejection can take out of you. How you can “little engine yourself think you can” for years and still never make it. How social and systemic forces dominate against you. How you come in expected to fuck up and never given the grace to at least try. How the game is rigged and for many ,it takes years, decades even before you stop going against the tide.

I’ve experienced rejection in every part of my life chronically. From family , friends, employment, housing, romantically and even socially at large. Out of all those rejections, I think the one that has left a sting the most would have to be romantically. I’ve had that Hallmark fantasy for years of love. Even when I was very young. Back then , I just wanted to hold some boy’s hand and maybe walk in the park. I darkly laugh at myself as a child with these unrealized, almost comical dreams. Cause let’s face it for a young, gay Black boy of husky stature growing up in Harlem, there was no way in hell my little fantasies and dreams would come true. As I grew up, there would be more opportunities to potentially meet that hand holder walk in the park mate but just like when I was a child I’d find those opportunities slim to none. You take me at 21 and by then I’m well versed in my sexuality and my gender identity. But there was also this biting reality that even though I was looking, seeing and being the woman that I am, it did not mean I would have the same opportunities as Ashley or Crystal from around my way. It did not mean guys would be trying to take me out, or introduce me to friends/family, or even be seen in public with me. I accepted this tacit insult as the norm when you date men from around the way as a transwoman.

I went through my twenties experiencing a few different relationships but a theme of them all was the right to remain silent and hidden. These men would often express or not that me being me meant that I had to understand their reasons for the eventual rejection. They never saw me as a woman like any other even when they have feigned so. It is only recently that I’ve had opportunity to assess that , to take ownership of my role in my subjugation as the know it all’s will readily point out to you. I’ve even come to the conclusion that maybe on some levels it’s meant for me to be alone. Or maybe I attract rejection like flies to shit because that’s all I can attract, the men who want to reject me. This line of thinking can be so fucked up because it sends you down a rabbit hole of wondering what’s wrong with you, you critique your physical, your style, your personality, everything from head to toe. After all I am the common denominator, right?

I write all this to say it adds up. Rejection. I only gave a piece of the complex ball of shit bags of rejection that I’ve experienced. I reflect a lot as I write and give them shout outs the know it all’s who will have diagnoses , fixes and words of seemingly inspiration. But I’ve also found those who tell you to pick yourselves and lick your wounds and keep trying to be gaslighters as well. Because on a certain level, it invalidates your pain, it squashes your discontent and it keeps you trapped in this one frame goal achieving way. I get those especially for my fellow Black transwomen, those of us who give up our goals whatever they may be. I understand those who even think about certain things and just tear up for all the trauma and pain. I feel those who are broken and know that no remedy soon come. Rejection is a bitch that hits deep and some of us get that hit deeper.