I guess I could’ve mentioned this, rather than disappearing…
But the manuscript for my memoir, Nina Here Nor There: My Journey Beyond Gender, is due mid-Oct. So, that’s where I am, what I’m doing, what I’m thinking, when I’m not panicking, of course.
Apparently the book will be in stores May 10, 2011. Assuming I finish, that is. I guess I should get back to it.
Check back here in Nov. Something new will be on this site…
It is way harder than writing a blog. And don’t get me started on writing memoir, which is perhaps the hardest kind of book, maybe not to write, but to live with writing. We’ll save that dumb move of mine for another day. But writing a book is harder than writing blog posts because I have to think about things like characters, description, narrative, plot, scene. Not just once, but like, in every chapter, for many, many chapters. Then, there are the words themselves, approximately 65,000. And I fondle all of them, even the little ones—conjunctions and articles–and I’m not talking one-night stand fondle either—I have full-on relationships with each word. My brain feels like mush, like split pea soup. And I can’t tell if that’s a metaphor or a cliche. Because I’ve lost all perspective. Which is why I’m deleting the next five paragraphs or random incoherency I spewed in the past couple days and ending this post. Apparently writing a book is so hard, I can’t even blog. At least not right now.
My To-Do List:
Exhale as deeply as you inhale.
Drink four glasses of water for every coffee or beer.
Make eye-contact with strangers and smile (except in the Castro after dark).
Ride high on the joys of others.
Call or see at least one friend you haven’t spoken to in six months.
Write.
Accept all offerings of fruits and vegetables.
Lie in the sun.
We were in one of my favorite neighborhood bars, a mixed-crowd gay bar, late on Saturday night. Heated in conversation, gossip actually, my friend, a woman, followed me into the men’s room. We were standing in front of the door to the stall, leaving both the trough and urinal open and available, when a dude entered. He literally tried to push his way through us while telling us not so kindly to get out of his way.
My friend started to argue, yelling at him to calm down as she took a step to the side, forced out of the way. I did the opposite, shut my mouth and stepped directly in front of him, prompted by I don’t know what, the confidence that comes from having a new tree-trunk neck or an extra few inches of thickness around my chest.
I stood my ground, until he turned, then I used the stall. When I returned to the bar, my friend was still fuming, prattling on about the asshole. I had nothing to say. I was a jumble of emotions, at the axis of so much conflict, angry at the boy for his bullying and frustrated with the girl for following me in, stripping me of everything I fought for daily.
I’d made a territorial move. I was protecting my right to be in the men’s room, and especially my right to the stall. I was protecting my right to be transgender, my hard-earned identity. Had my friend not been there talking to me, I knew the altercation wouldn’t have happened. But had she not been physically present, her body sort of in the way, I also knew something that scared me, that is still scaring me, that I hadn’t ever thought myself capable of until that moment. I would’ve punched him, of that I’m sure, and I would’ve done it before I’d even had the chance to stop myself.
The other day I went over to a buddy’s house and used the bathroom. The toilet seat was up, as it probably had been, for the most part, since his wife and children left town. If it were a public toilet, I would’ve squatted, but being inside a person’s house, I decided to put the seat down and actually sit. Afterward, I wondered whether to put the seat back up. Generally speaking, I’m not entirely convinced that down should be the standard position. It’s certainly cleaner, nicer, and more respectable, but should a guy really have to do the work of raising and lowering the seat every time? However, that’s not my point. Down tends to be the default position, and having already spent way too much time in the bathroom thinking about toilet seats, I left it down, the way I used it.
Over dinner, my buddy, who hadn’t seen me in several months, said my voice is way deeper and my jawline has hardened. (I was wearing too many layers for him to see the thickening of my chest.) I was a tiny bit on edge since I don’t see him very often, and even though he was the very first person to call me Nick, based on a personal essay I wrote two years before I adopted it, he tends to get caught up in the moment and relapse on the name thing. But all was smooth on the gender front, until he referred to me as “she” to the waitress. Twice.
I felt myself crumble, my whole body collapsing under the slight he didn’t even notice. The pronoun thing didn’t used to bother me as much, and I think that maybe because I’m more certain of myself than ever before, it’s become even more deflating to see my sense of self go unacknowledged. I feel looked through, invisible, and I shrink. I’m not entirely sure why I don’t always correct people, either at the time or later. Maybe it happens too often, or maybe it’s too painful, exhausting, annoying, frustrating, confrontational, and endless. Maybe I’m too weak to bear it, or strong enough to handle it, or I tend to implode rather than explode. Maybe I’m just tired of explaining what I want to be recognized and am relying on a hormone to, eventually, do the work for me.
After dinner, we went back to my friend’s house. This time when I went into the bathroom, I made sure to leave the toilet seat up. As I raised it, I wondered which was more ridiculous: my actions or the lengths that I have to go to to make others see me.
Last week I had one of those total and complete writing breakdowns. I’d share the trigger, but I really don’t think it matters. Every rejection, criticism, negative word and thought about my writing banged against my skull. I lacked powers of description, I couldn’t find my voice, would I ever learn to use a metaphor, my dialogue was flat filler. I couldn’t come up with anything I could do well other than develop synonyms for failure, inadequacy and shortcoming.
This was about 8 on a weekday morning. I’d been at my computer since 6:30, staring at the screen and trying to convince myself I didn’t suck. Convincing myself required way more strength than I had, so I got in my bed and cried. It was the first time I cried since starting testosterone, and I felt relieved, both because I could still and for the release.
In my torrent of despair, everything swirled. I would never finish my book, which meant I wouldn’t have anything. Like money. This thought almost made me laugh because I hold no hope of making money on writing–not now, not ever. I started thinking about how I wouldn’t be able talk about my writing in public and feel accomplished and proud and important, but it’s been a long time since I cared about those things, since I tried to earn love through my writing.
I was in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering what it was that I was really so afraid of losing. The sun streamed through my windows and it was really bright in my room, as it always is around that time. I get up early, so for me, eight feels like noon. Then, I realized what I was afraid of: having nothing to do before going to my job, of getting up and going to my job first thing in the morning, of having my job be the focus of my life. If I didn’t write or didn’t have a reason to write or became too scared to face my writing demons, I would lose my mornings, my time for me, my meditation, my peace, my will to fucking survive, and my consolation for doing so.
I can’t say I picked myself up right away. I basically spent the next two days begging every friend and mentor to tell me what I needed to hear, “Nick, you are a good writer. You can do this.” And although I have boosted myself upon their words in the past week, it is mostly an awareness of why I write that has kept me going, a feeling and place I refuse to give up, a time before I’ve spoken a word aloud. My space heater is on high, the remnants of night still linger outside my window, my desk is bathed in the glow of only a small lamp; I am a dot of light in the dark world, reaching out in calm desperation.
Why hasn’t Nick written on his blog?
a) He forgot he had a blog.
b) He remembered he had a job.
c) He is using up all of his wit on Facebook.
d) He is busy reading other people’s blogs, like this, and this, and this.
e) He is confused about this Nina, who is no longer here nor there nor anywhere. Well, except on mail, bank statements, driver’s license, passport, gym membership, paychecks, and one email account.
f) He is blowing all of his writing energy, discipline, and abilities on trying to make his book not suck; he is failing.
g) He has nothing to say.
h) It turns out everything the experts said about mind altering substances killing brain cells is true.
i) It turns out everything I said about a cubicle job killing brain cells is true.
j) He has actually written several blog posts but cannot bring himself to hit “publish.”
k) He has too much to say and the funnel of his mind is upside down.
It’s been over six months since I took the training wheels off of “Nick” and brought him out of my trans group into my everyday life. There is only one place where I keep him a secret. Every Thursday, I go to the Project Read office in the main library and meet my adult learner. He (we’ll call him S.) is gregarious, charismatic, and greets everyone with a “Hello” followed by their name. When I hear my old name come out of his mouth, I feel empty, weak, and like a liar. The staff in the office uses my old name, too. When I send the volunteer coordinator my hours for the month, I change the name on my email account from Nick to my old one. Then I change it back.
I have come up with every explanation/excuse available: Sometimes I just don’t want to deal with being trans; gender is insignificant to our tutor-learner connection; our cultural and generational experiences (S. is sixty-plus years old and African-American) are so different that telling him I’m “Nick” or transgender won’t mean anything; he sees me as I am and understands my “character” as he calls it, even though when I’m a hardass, he says, “yes, ma’aam”; class, race, privilege guilt that I have the luxury to be trans while he fought drugs, prison, and the same system that made my life so easy; he doesn’t need to know about “Nick” unless I take T; I don’t know how much longer I’ll tutor him, anyways. (I’ve been saying that for the almost year and a half we’ve been together).
Sometimes I have this fantasy where I tell him about “Nick,” and he goes, of course, duh, thank god, that whole “yes, ma’am” business was such a struggle. I picture him shaking his head disappointedly and saying, “It’s about time you told me. I knew.”
S. and I were asked to emcee the tutor-learner recognition event last week. I was shocked because I tend to think I’m an awful, undedicated, slacking tutor. I was doubly surprised when I showed up and the entire place was packed. I don’t know why the staff asked us, but we did a terrific job.
My old name was printed in the program, and for the first time in the last six months, I intentionally wrote it on a name tag (confession: sometimes I accidentally catch myself doodling it), a fate that didn’t anger me since I set it up for myself by keeping a secret.
Most of the event consisted of adult learners sharing their experiences. One learner took the podium to read and was so nervous he sweetly smiled, shaking perceptibly, and said he just couldn’t do it tonight. One woman read from the bible, her face quivering as she held back tears, practicing for her goal of reading in church. Another woman read a story about being blind as an extended metaphor for illiteracy. More adults, including large men, cried in one room than I’d ever seen, not counting this past election night.
Tutors took the stage with their learners, and I was deeply struck by the intimacy in these relationships; in their reflection, I saw S. and myself. I’ve known for awhile now, I guess, that our banter is special, that we were made for each other, and when I admit it, how addicted I am to watching his self-confidence expand, his pride in his dedication and education grow. I have not taught him all that much, but man does he feel good about it, and so do I.
As I watched the event, my name tag glued tightly to me, I understood fully and clearly why I haven’t told him about “Nick.” This is a man whom I have seen at his most vulnerable. I’ve watched and listened to him grope for a few syllables, trying to hear the sounds in words that he cannot spell. For three months, he wrote in a journal; he thought the word was pronounced jonna. Sometimes, he closes his eyes when he is fighting for the letters, struggling, sweating and I sit there silently, because he will figure it out, or at least he will know he tried. I can sit there silently for a long time, thirty seconds at least, just waiting with a kind heart in awe of his unabashed weakness on display, his nakedness.
At the end of the tutor-learner recognition event, S. was floating on our performance, but more than that, he was impressed with mine. “You were so smooth,” he said, shaking my hand and exploding with that huge life-loving grin of his. “It was like you’ve done that before.” What he didn’t know is that I’ve spent a little time in front of the mic. But he doesn’t know a lot of things about me because I do not tell him, because I care about him more than I lead on, because I know that if I show myself to him in the vulnerable way he has revealed himself to me that he could reject me.
I have not told him to call me Nick because I am afraid.
The first time I had to deal with my new chest, I almost passed out. One of the best parts of those seven post-surgical days was that I was wrapped with a chest binder, much like a large Ace bandage, and forbidden to open it. The doctor unwrapped me twice, once to remove the drains and then to take out the nipple sutures. He told me everything looked good; I smiled. I had no responsibility. On day seven I was finally rewarded with a shower. With it came the daily maintenance–the gauze and tape and ointment and scabs–associated with a site of intense healing.
I am squeamish. I quit pre-med my sophomore year of college in large part because I find the human body, especially the wounded human body, kind of disgusting. When I first looked at my chest alone, I noticed the skin ballooned on the left side where fluid had pooled underneath. I pushed the skin and it rippled like a water bed. My head went light and I needed to lie down.
At least I understood the situation. Brownstein had noticed some excess fluid a couple days before. He drained me with a needle that I refused to look at. Then, when I stood up, my head went pins and needles, a thickness filled my ears, and I felt like I was on fire. Being that close to passing out is scary. I was not pleased when Brownstein said the fluid might come back. I was less pleased when I noticed it by myself, again, alone, and my head went fuzzy.
I’ve had fluid drained three times now, and each time it’s less and less of a big deal, and I’m getting much, much better at dealing with my healing chest. But I wanted to share that first horrible experience of unwrapping my binder to make it clear that having surgery doesn’t mean I’m going to love my chest all the time. During my whole trans discovery process, I mistakenly believed that if the changes I was entertaining were meant to be then they’d feel perfect while they were happening. This just isn’t true. There are moments of awkwardness and doubt and nearly passing out at the sight of the chest that you’ve wanted for so long. I wonder if it’s because we spend so much time proving ourselves, forcing our therapists to write us permission slips and telling everyone time and time again that we are absolutely positive we are doing the right thing that there is no room for us to be less than 100% happy or sure. Or maybe months and years later we forget about the hard parts. It’s taken me a long time to realize that most trans people experience uncertainty. Some of us may even pass out looking at our near-dreams in the mirror.
The doubts and gross-outs and painful drainage moments are there. They just pale in comparison to the first time I put on a t-shirt without the binding. That feeling, without a binder, sports bra, regular bra, or flesh hanging off my chest, is one of the best I’ve ever experienced. I feel naked, not vulnerable naked, but shout-from-the-rooftop glorious and free naked. Because I’m still supposed to wear the binding, I’ve only been that free for a few pre- and post-shower minutes. But after ONE MORE DAY, I will throw away that soiled binding. I will give away my binders and sports bras. And I will be free for the rest of my life.
