Drag king stories #9

I’m back to performing, after a 5 year hiatus. “Adam Andro-matic” was last seen at a small bar downtown doing drag-aoke as a wind-up-doll to the song “Blue Monday” by New Order. And then the pandemic hit, and I haven’t been back to that bar since. A new opportunity came up recently! An acquaintance put on a show at a small theater in November that we attended, and they asked me if I wanted to perform in the next one.

I decided that since it was a theater that hosts mostly comedy shows and improv, I would try to lean into that. To tell a humorous story from a past drag experience. It ended up going really well! After telling the story, I did a dramatic reenactment of the event, and then in the 2nd show later that night, I twisted the reenactment into an alternate reality, and did a bizarro-world version.

Here’s the story:
Spring of 2006 – I was a drag baby, a baby king, with 5 whole shows under my belt. The belt was silvery-shimmery, sequined and studded, thick and gaudy and I was so ready to tuck away a bunch more shows. I had weaseled my way into a huge show at the U of R, through a tenuous connection, a last-minute addition. I really had no business being there; it was a bunch of drag queens (who I didn’t know) and Stratus – local drag king legend!  He and I were going to be sharing a dressing room!

I decided to do a song I had already done – I could afford to by now, and I’d feel less nervous if it was a little bit familiar. And by that, I mean to me, not to anyone else; I was going with an obscure song by 90’s Britpop bedroom navel-gazing darlings The London Suede. It was having a moment in my mind. Get this:  they had a lyric that went, “We kissed in his room / to a popular tune” and it was amazing because the singer was a man! This wasn’t some overt queer anthem, but it was in there, subtle.

I had bubblegum pink corduroy bell bottoms (exhibit A: these are the exact same ones – can’t believe they still fit) and a sheer zebra striped women’s blouse. Sideburns that thrilled me to no end and eyeliner that really made my eyeballs pop out. I was going for that vacant deep-stare-at-nothing look.

Stratus and I didn’t talk much, if at all. We had pre-show jitters. I didn’t know how this venue worked – how to get out to the stage, how I had gotten back stage, what it would feel like to be out there. Didn’t matter; I was about to go on and here we go!

And… The wrong song was totally playing. Booming, actually, ricocheting all over this huge cavernous party room.  It was just so painful in my skull.  …A stupid silly song by Oingo Boingo, and I was mortified by the incongruence. I was gonna have to run with it; no one to tell, sound person tucked away back in a secret locale. I kinda knew this song right?  Had done it, but was going to have to improvise. I bounced out onto this huge stage, trying to use the entirety of the space, which was much different than the little hole-in-the-wall gay dive bar I was starting to get used to.

I was cringing on the inside – this song did not match this outfit, and everyone could obviously tell! That’s what I told myself anyway; the students were staring blankly.  And then, I noticed the catwalk. It felt like an abyss, but I did go out there.  At the very end, one dollar bill stuck up straight in the air like a buoy, right when I was starting to feel like maybe I was drowning.

I reached for it and, and realized it was my flamboyant rockabilly friend Sarah, and hanging off her was my fellow drag buddy, Johnny. I didn’t even know they were coming! They had surged through the crowd to deliver this crisp dollar bill, and I was forever grateful. But that was it and I had to keep going and this song was just so long and totally wrong for this crowd!  I did a little song and dance, a little of this, little of that.  Turned around and before I knew it…

Backstage again with Stratus, my adrenaline has surged and oxytocin was hitting my bloodstream hard and we were now a bonded pair. I blurted out, “Oh man, that was so fun! What are you doing now, do you want to come out to Vertex [local goth night club] with me?!” He was polite, soft-spoken, saying, “That sounds fun and I totally would. But I’m going out with my girlfriend and a bunch of people to this lesbian club.” I didn’t say anything, but of course she was. Stratus was a woman, performing as a man, who was now transforming back into her life, going out with her people. I was neither man nor woman, performing as I’m-not-sure, who was now heading out to my misfit happy place, by myself yet again.

Photo from 2006, wearing the bubblegum pink corduroy bell bottoms (sadly can’t see them in all their glory in this B&W photo) and zebra striped women’s blouse, plus bonus Batman muscle-T. I was doing the song again, this time while visiting friends in Ann Arbor, MI.

I came out at work, redux

Eight years ago, after a long buildup, I finally came out at work (an elementary school) as trans, and more specifically, non-binary. It was right after Trump had been elected, and before he took office. It feels like a long time ago now. Lots of new staff members have been hired since then; I don’t have reasons or avenues to come out to any of them.

Last week though, an opportunity arose. Er rather, I took something as an opportunity and ran with it. Trump has been elected again, hasn’t taken office yet. It’s a weird-feelings time, to say the least.

An email went out two weeks ago that a teacher wanted ALL STAFF to send her a photo from when they were in elementary school. I didn’t think much about it; I’ve participated in school-wide things from time to time over the years, to varying levels of satisfaction; at this point, I usually just opt out. The next day though, I passed the teacher in the hall and she said, “I need your photo!” I asked, “What is it for?” And she gestured toward the front entryway, saying it’d be posted there. Sure enough, there was a banner saying, “Once upon a time, we were kids too,” and really fun photos were already going up – kids in jumpers with frilly bibs, bob cuts, bowl cuts, polyester blouses with rounded collars…

My gears started turning and I asked my mom if I could stop by to look as some school photos after work. We had a nice bonding moment, looking through old stuff and laughing. I took a 5X7 of my kindergarten picture and also looked for photos from a few years later. Before and after my initial transition, from girl to tomboy, midway through 2nd grade.

In 1987, I was a kindergarten student at the school where I now work. As far as I can recall, I thought of myself as a girl. I looked and dressed like a girl and did girl things (whatever that means).

In 2nd grade, I made a new friend and never looked back. She looked like a boy, sat at the boys’ table, played with boys, and I was thrilled she made an exception for me. As more years went by, I skewed more and more masculine. Er, maybe it wasn’t that linear, but it definitely did start there.

I decided that I was going to submit both photos for the bulletin board. I asked the teacher to put them side by side, with the same number so it was clear they were the same person. (No one was identified by name – only number; maybe it is a guessing game.) She replied that she applauded my bravery and celebrated me, but I’d have to pick just one. That was the rule. If I picked the kindergarten photo, I imagined hardly anyone would know, and people would be shocked in the “reveal,” if that was what we were doing, if they were paying attention. I imagined if I picked the one of me as a bigger kid (guessing I’m 11 here?) people would easily guess, and what I was going for would be completely lost.

My response might have been a bit over the top; suddenly I was feeling very passionate about all this. I said,

“I’m sorry, but I can’t pare it down to just one.  This is one small, quiet way I choose to come out, for kids and the school community.

When I originally came out at school 8 years ago, I had to push hard, mostly against the principal at the time, to have my message received the way I intended.
I understand this is a fun way to share who we were as kids.  
I will gladly talk further with you in person.  I feel resolute about it.
Thanks,
Kameron”

My mind was churning through everything I had already gone through and everything I might have to go through to fight in the future. And will I have less to stand on down the road? As in very, very soon? This was going to have to happen now. It was a lot for a little while there.
Luckily, she replied that she understood and she would get both photos up.

They’re there, amongst about 70 other staff photos. These two are squished and elongated, because they were formatted to fit on one page, but that’s OK – they’re there. And if kids and adults are confused, there are other adults around who can fill in the story (I already heard one story about how this did happen.) I have a history at this school; it’s taken a lot out of me to feel comfortable here, and I only want to be even more out and visible, as opportunities arise.

It’s a conversation starter. A statement. And it’s already led to a chance for me to come out to my newest co-worker; I’ve wanted an in for about 4 months…

Backstory: Toward the end of the summer, we had to tackle a huge, last-minute task, involving lots of heavy lifting, moving, taking legs off tables, setting up desks, etc. I asked my co-worker if she could get started on it the night before a huge delivery – I’d be in first thing the next morning, filling in for my supervisor. She did a lot, and then I did a lot, and when we overlapped the next day, she relayed what she had done, but also how she had hurt her foot, and how she had not done as much as she projected. She said, “I’m not a man!.” And I replied, “I get that.” And she just sort of rolled her eyes at me. I wanted to say, “Here’s how much I get that – I’ve been both. I’ve been doing this job both without testosterone coursing through my veins and then also with this magic muscle elixir making aches and pains vanish out of thin air, everything suddenly lighter, more stamina, shifted center of gravity allowing me to get a whole lot more out of my whole body everything suddenly easier, more tolerable, more doable.” I could have ranted on and on. The differences are huge. But, in the moment, I didn’t, didn’t say anything further, because I didn’t know her well enough yet and although I’d be more comfortable with more people knowing, in theory, there’s always a risk. I let the moment pass.

When I told her last week though, in the context of this bulletin board fun guessing game, she was completely shocked (which always boggles my mind a little!) and very supportive, connecting super hard with me and even sharing that her sister is a transwoman and showing me pictures. And just being with me as I relayed the tiny drama that was getting 2 photos on the board because I wanted to tell a story.

I’m going to continue telling this story whenever it comes up or makes sense to share.


The Future of Queer People in the Janitorial Field

I got an email from a reader named Ike the other day. They said,

“hi there! found this site killing time before my shift as a fill in custodian for the NYCSSS and it was about exactly what i was looking for lol. I wish my question was more close ended, but basically, what do you think is the future for being queer in a field like this? At the moment, i have only worked alongside someone else even close to my age once (just turned 20), and other than one OTHER person, its pretty much been 30-50 year old cis men on the job. Why don’t queer youth see this is a possible job i guess, even for a summer like i’m doing it. And is it bound to change? As being queer becomes more normalized, will the next generation of janitors be more evenly diverse in that way? And is that even necessarily something wanted? Nothing against being a custodian i’ve actually enjoyed it a lot, but i feel most of my generation has big plans for their future, and being a custodian is very much a local service. Hope you’re well 🙂 “

And it gave me a lot to think about!

I also started in this field at age 20, first on a paint crew for the summers and then as a fill-in cleaner and later full-time.  At that time, I also had a hard time because no one else was my age (they were on the paint crew, but not once I started working as a cleaner).  I considered going into food service or retail instead so that I could work with younger people and maybe even make friends through work.  I also thought that since I went to college, this can’t be enough; I should be looking for bigger things.  And I think being visibly queer was a big factor in thinking about all this stuff as well.  Things seemed more limited because I wasn’t willing or able to conform.  I wanted to be out and loud and proud, but I also very much wanted to be safe and protected and to stay in control.  A public-facing job with other people my age was appealing for those reasons, but it also seemed like it was going to be way too much of a drain, knowing how introverted and sensitive to stimuli I tend to be. And so I stayed where I was, sometimes just by default, and grappled with doubts that it was the right choice.

Now, 22 years later, I am so glad that I did stick with this line of work.  I found peers and community through other avenues, and work is very much compartmentalized, in a good way. I get great health benefits, an annual raise I can count on, insane amounts of paid time off, and an actual pension when I retire. At this rate, I will be able to retire at age 55, which is starting to become a little bit unheard of these days.

I’ve definitely worked with a lot of older cis men, but over the years, I’ve also worked with many women, people of color, and immigrants from all over the world, including Eritrea, Poland, Barbados, The Philippines, Macedonia, Jamaica, Taiwan, and other countries. And now that I’m older, I’ve even worked with some younger people on occasion; I wasn’t the only one!

As far as queer people going into this line of work, and the trades even more so (plumbing, electricians, HVAC, etc.) though, it can definitely be an upward battle. When there’s a pre-scripted culture of homophobia, misogyny, racism, it can feel confining and stifling, to say the least. It can be flat out dangerous. It most certainly depends on the individual people and whether they’re willing to bend and change. It helps to be in a union. It helps even more to be within a school, in a liberal state and town. I have a lot of protections at work. I have to wear a uniform shirt, but otherwise I can wear whatever I want and look however I want to. The bathroom is a non-issue, my name and pronouns and honorifics are what I say they are. If I were being made to feel uncomfortable, there are a number of channels I could go through – my supervisor, the principal, the union. It might not be sorted out perfectly (from experience, it never is!) but at least there are structures in place, and I have felt supported where it matters.

I sincerely do hope that as being queer becomes more normalized, these standards will spread outwardly into some of the more traditionally masculine fields than the one that I am in. I hope things are bound to change! These types of fields offer stability, decent pay and benefits, upward mobility, and lots of autonomy and opportunities for job satisfaction. When I think about other lines of work that people can get into without much experience or education – food service, retail, piecing together a living through the gig economy – it sounds draining with lots of hustling and scrambling involved. If someone calls out last minute, you might be called in on a day off. If customers are rude, you do your best to absorb it or shield yourself from it. You might have to be potentially available or on call way more than 40 hours a week in order to piece together enough money for that week. The work ebbs and flows; many factors are unpredictable. These statements are all just coming from personal opinion, for sure. It’s all about finding the right fit, and for many people, especially younger people who might be more transitory and looking for temporary situations, these areas of work can be a great fit. For me, it’s been about stability, predictability, independence, and low-stress environments.

I do feel like being a cleaner is a secret dream job, a hidden gem.  Too many people might not even consider it because of the low social status.  And/or the “yuck” factor.  Or it’s just too menial and repetitive. They might even think the work is degrading. I struggled with some of this when I was starting out. Especially because I was working in schools that I had attended, just a few years prior, and was running into teachers and personnel who had know me as a high-achieving student. I even remember thinking (and this is a bit embarrassing) that I was too beautiful (I was fabulous and queer!) to be hidden away at a 1pm-9:30pm shift all by myself with no one around to appreciate my style! Haha.

And so I got out more. I used the late nights to my advantage. I did drag, I saw local bands, I became someone who is seen and known out-and-about. And that’s totally separate from my job, which has its own set of perks – I just listen to music and podcasts all day. I get daily exercise. And I finish with enough time to sit down and get some reading done. All the work stays at work.

If younger queer people are feeling a bit aimless after finishing their education (I know I did!), or are overlapping their school and work life, it would make sense they might be looking into temp work or nothing they have to invest too much into. Being a cleaner can definitely be that, but on top of it, if it’s a government job, it has stability and longevity incentives built into it, so if you just keep finding yourself still there (I did!) it might pay off in the long run! And it’s important to keep dreaming big; having a regular day job (or night job) can really help that inspiration flow, even if that seems counterintuitive. If basic needs are being met without too much effort, the sky’s the limit for what else is possible!


Ten year anniversary of this blog!

Ten years ago, today, I started “janitorqueer.” I wanted to write about being queer, specifically genderqueer, and about being a janitor. Mostly though, I wanted to find and connect with others who had similar stories. I wanted to be on testosterone long-term, but I was afraid that it was going to do irreversible “damage” to my body and my life. And before that stage, I was so afraid of even just trying to access testosterone as someone who is nonbinary. I was looking for other people who had traversed that frontier specifically of low-dose testosterone, so low that no one could detect anything going on at all. In the process though, that end goal changed, and my fear of being detected drastically shifted. I am now out in all areas of my life, and I like being pretty loud about it if the opportunity arises. I found other people trying to walk this thin tightrope, but more importantly, I found many many others who dance under this broad umbrella of transgender experiences, and I learned so much from all of these peoples’ writings, more than anything else.

I used to spend 2-3 hours a day reading and commenting on blogs. At the time, it directly fed my soul. And I would write! Write so much, at least once a week, during my “heyday,” which I’ll quantify as being between summer of 2013, and spring of 2018. What changed? Probably a combination of finally feeling comfortable in my skin, and shifting my writing energies toward a memoir. And also going back to my roots of journaling. Been doing a lot of journaling. I don’t think I’ll ever return to this blog with the fervor I once had, but this blog will remain open and public; that I am sure of.

In that first entry I wrote, back on July 24, 2013, entitled “low-dose testosterone for the rest of my life,” I chronicled how being on testosterone had been going so far.

I wrote,

“About 4 months ago, I started a low-dose testosterone adventure.  I wanted to take testosterone long term while ideally, not going through any physical changes.  I didn’t know whether this would be possible, and I still have yet to find any information about whether it’s possible, specifically.  I largely feel comfortable with where I’m at in terms of gender presentation and expression.  But I’d been wondering a lot if certain internal experiences could be better.  Gradually, I found myself in a place where I realized, I need to try out a few things and see what works for me.  I got on a really low dose of Androgel and was completely floored by how well my body seemed to connect with additional testosterone.  To me, it feels like it has a whole lot more to do with my mental health than it does with my gender identity, but of course, it’s all intertwined.  As of now, I plan to be on testosterone for the rest of my life if possible, while minimizing physical changes.  I’m taking testosterone toward androgyny.  Although, I’m already androgynous, so I hope to be transitioning (outwardly) toward more of the same, actually.” (If you wanna read the whole post, it is here: https://janitorqueer.com/2013/07/24/low-dose-testosterone-for-the-rest-of-my-life/ ).

What is striking to me now, is this dreadful fear of changing. It clearly was about a coming-out process, but I would not have framed it that way for you at the time. I wrote, about some physical changes I was hoping to dampen, “Other subtle changes have plateaued out, and I stopped worrying so much that I was going to have to choose between coming out in new ways to people I that didn’t really want to come out to, or stopping this thing that I was falling in love with, internally.” I would have said I don’t want to come out because there’s nothing to come out about, at least nothing that makes sense for me in society as it is now. Looking back, that fear had me patrolling my own body in some strange ways. I’m so much louder, fancy-free, and out and proud these days. (Still do patrol my body a bit – don’t want to go bald! but there’s so much more room for my body to just be, now.)

body, just being, fancy free (from 2 days ago!)

I didn’t know I was going to end up wanting to try all types of doses of testosterone. I didn’t know I’d want to stop and start and stop and start with such (ir)regularity. I didn’t know I’d end up wanting some of the external masculinizing changes. I didn’t know I had the capacity for happiness I now inhabit. If someone had told me I could one day be happy, I would have said, “sure, I guess, this is some version of happiness.” I found something different.

I haven’t written about being a janitor as much as I thought I would. I think that mostly has to do with uncertainty about work stuff, online. But there is one thing I’ve never said about it, and it’s me all the way, so I figure why not? I have never had any career aspirations (outside of being a little kid, when we all do! I wanted to be an artist and a marine biologist). The only other job I could ever envision myself doing is a postal carrier. Except I don’t want to drive the truck; in my fantasy it’s exclusively on foot. Earlier today, I uncovered something I wrote in my journal from March 18, 2003 (twenty years ago! And coincidentally, exactly 10 years later from that date was the first time I tried testosterone!)

I said,

“There’s not much I’m capable of doing right now. I did none of the work for [school] over break, and today in class when we were discussing, I wanted to hurt myself badly. Then I went straight over to the counseling center to see if I could talk to [my counselor] today instead of tomorrow. She’s booked. I want to go home for the rest of the semester. I want to feel safe and secure until this passes.
The reason I want to get a manual labor type job is because I’m at risk of being blocked for an extended period of time. And any sort of brain type job, I’m not always able to do. A manual labor job would be consistent and no brain function working not working. I don’t know how to handle brain right now. This is the second time this has happened so badly. The first time, I truly was severely depressed. I’m depressed now but am able to manage it better. Better at faking, but I’m not doing anything for real. I don’t care about anything. I want to drop out of school. I won’t let myself just lay there, because I know how painful that is. But I can’t get myself to do anything either.
Yesterday I was going to do my midterm. I’m not going to do it anymore. What I did get done is crap. My brain is simply not working in any sort of organized manner. And I’m getting so sick of pretending like I can function. I’m also getting so sick of not functioning.”

At that time, I had been working for my former school district in the summers, on the “paint crew,” mostly painting classrooms and fulfilling more specified work orders.  Somehow, I instinctively knew I would/should continue pursuing something similar, as opposed to any career that involved working with others or using my brain to generate good work. I continue to experience “brain function working not working,” all the time – sometimes I can watch complex television shows and listen to dense podcasts and read for fun when I have down time. Other times, all I can muster is staring off into space for extended periods of time. And move. All I can do is keep my body moving, for that forward momentum I need to maintain my stability. This job I have been doing for 19 years now, this cleaning at an elementary school, ends up being a near-perfect fit. It is heavily routine-based, but it doesn’t have to be – that’s up to me. I don’t have to interact or collaborate with anyone, usually. Just doing my own thing, getting exercise, finding various ways to entertain myself. I envision myself retiring from this gig.

Long live being a janitor. Long live being queer.


Ten years on testosterone (and also off, on, back off/on, etc.)

Prior to finally trying testosterone, ten years ago today, I was stressing so hard about whether to do it or not. Perseverating for years, really. If I could go back to that younger version of myself, I’d say, “Just try the dang thing! It doesn’t have to mean anything in particular, as far as identity, and you’ll probably fairly quickly know whether it’s something to continue to pursue or not. And if not, no harm done!”

And if yes, then, wow, yea, the benefits have exceeded my wildest dreams. It ended up being a lot more complicated than yes or no; that was apparent from the outset. I continue to fall somewhere in the middle with it; there are lots of nuanced layers that go into changing it up, frequently: internal experiences, changes I’m ambivalent about, identity. Until very recently, I felt compelled to document every time I went back off or on testosterone, and what doses / methods I was using. These past few months, I did go back off of it, after my longest stretch yet of being on injections, and although I’m mentioning it here now, I might not anymore moving forward. It all evens out. It’s never very long of being one way or another. I like that space that comes with this approach, and as the years go by, there feels like less distinction between this “being one way or another.” Being either off or on feels like it’s blurring together a little more, and I’m into that! Definitely never completely – some experiences are very much testosterone induced, or lack thereof as my body readjusts and other hormones come more to the forefront.

I feel like keeping this relatively short; details abound in older entries. I feel celebratory. To commemorate the occasion, I did some recreation photos. Here they are:

pre-T
Ten years!
One Year
Ten Years!
pre-T
Ten Years!

Specific trauma feels so far away

For as long as I’ve had this blog (9 years!), I’ve written annually around this time of year, about a hospitalization I went through at age 17. I was there for 19 days; it was voluntary but quickly became involuntary once it was clear I wasn’t actually based in reality.

This year, I wasn’t sure if was going to write anything. I’ve been thinking it over for the past few days. What else is there to say? I mean, there’s a lot, but is it worthwhile? Do I want to get back into the headspace? I’m not even sure if that’s possible anymore (which is mostly a positive thing.)

I started by opening a tab for each post I’ve made about it, so far. Rereading it all. I’m not sure why, but I think I want to try to plot out a timeline, even if it’s hazy and incomplete.

November 12 – December 1, 1999 – hospital
Spring of 2001 – wrote down everything I could remember, for a college course
Next 10+ years – continued to get blindsided by the emotional intensity of this trauma, all the time, but especially mid-November
Spring of 2012 – talked a lot about it, tentatively, in therapy, which really started to help
2013 – got a copy of the medical records. Was disappointed at how boring and repetitive they were. There were some nuggets though, for sure. First wrote about it on my blog.
2014 – brought the records to therapy. Watched my therapist zero in on the paperwork as if she were working out a puzzle. She kinda tore it apart, actually! This was both alarming and calming. Something was definitely lifting.
2015 – I got the records back from my therapist (she had been hanging on to them for me). I had been hospitalized earlier in the year, for the 2nd time for the same reasons, and it started to sink in that I might actually have bipolar disorder, type 1, might have had it this whole time.
2016 – didn’t dwell on it. Lots of other things were going on.
2017 – I was hospitalized for a third time, and the traumatic event was starting to be re-contextualized as just, one of the times I was hospitalized.
2018 – This is where I really started to rework things. I’m not sure how to distill that down into a sentence; it’s just pretty amazing to be able to look back on this journey.
2019 – This was the 20th anniversary of my first hospitalization. I wrote that I thought all this writing might serve a future purpose; I just wasn’t sure what yet. I included a photograph of a re-working of different photos I did for a college project, in the spring of 2002.
2020 – I wrote about starting work on a memoir, and the raw material from that college course in 2001 factors into it, but I couldn’t get myself to revise that stuff; make it more cohesive. I was working hard on everything else surrounding it.
2021 – I had gotten past that block and had reworked the writing quite a bit.
Earlier in 2022 – I was clearing out a lot of old stuff from a storage area in my parents’ house, this spring. I save everything. In sorting through all that stuff and reorganizing it to bring to my house, I found a hand-written letter my mom had given to me while in the hospital. I had been looking for this ever since then! I even asked her about it; I was at a loss for where it might have gone. It was in response to a letter I wrote her – that piece is still a mystery, but it was so healing to finally find this thing.

Present day (my 10th time posting about this) – I’m stuck. My memoir is off track and I’m sad about it. I started to revise it drastically in a whole different direction for a long time, but it doesn’t feel like it’s mine anymore and so I stopped. I haven’t touched it for over 6 months. Instead, I’ve been doing a lot of journal writing, emailing my therapist, the usual. Recently, I started on ideas for a 2nd memoir. I’m starting to feel a little more serious about writing overall; I think I have three different stories to tell. Working on this other memoir has felt rewarding, but it’s not the story. I want to get back to this traumatic event and the events surrounding it. I feel like I might be on the cusp of getting back to it…

In those early posts about the hospitalization, I kept ascertaining that I didn’t need to be there, that it was extreme, and I didn’t actually lose a grip on reality until I got there. I see it much differently now. I definitely was going to need to be there – it was more a matter of when? If I hadn’t gotten my mom to get me there, I would have eventually had to go some other way. I know that now. And I could have ended up doing a lot more long-term damage. It’s kinda incredible that at 17, I had enough insight to know I needed to get there. Somehow, I saved myself. (In looking back over all these posts, I realized I wrote something very similar in 2018. For me, writing and recording and reviewing and revisiting all overlap and blend into each other. I’m starting to feel like maybe I am a memoirist? And trying to understand this one experience could be the impetus that has been pushing me there?)


Addressing hate mail

I got some hate mail yesterday, and decided to respond.

Anonymous asked,

Why the fuck are you doingvthis [sic] to yourself and causing other people to follow you. [sic]

The main reason I’m doing “this” to myself is because I value the quality of my life. I’m just going to have to venture a guess about what “this” is, based on the contents of this blog: taking testosterone, getting top surgery, changing my name and pronouns, being a janitor, being a writer, being out and open about being nonbinary… hmm, what else is this blog about? Going to therapy. Taking psychotropic medications. Being open about mental health struggles. Umm… wearing t-shirts. Talking about portrayals of trans people and characters in the media. Sometimes I’ve mentioned going on vacation or important things going on in my community.

If I were to narrow it down to the most controversial topics, it’d probably be taking testosterone, getting top surgery, and being open about those things. I do these things to myself because when I was not doing those things, my life was fairly hellish. And so I tried, very tentatively at first, a little bit of this. And things started to vastly improve, all around me, relatively quickly. So I was able to determine it was most likely a cause and effect relationship. So I tried a little bit more. And then more and more. But since I’m not a binary person, I also had to try less, and also stop and start and feel it out. But as far as being open and documenting the journey, I did not have to back off or stop – it was all forward momentum and connecting with others and learning from others and sharing with others, and the more I came out, in all areas of my life, the better the entire world got. And I’m not just talking about things like a promotion or going on a cruise or accruing more material possessions. I’m talking about a deep connection with who I actually am which radiates outward and fulfills so many of the ways I always thought I was falling short, missing out, and avoiding what could be. So, yea, I’d say that doing “this” to myself has been extremely worthwhile.

And to address the second part of your question, I’m not actually causing other people to follow me. Fortunately, I don’t hold that much power over others. Other people get to do whatever they will with their lives, and if that includes looking online for information or connection or to relate to others’ experiences, then that’s pretty cool. I’d have to categorize that as more of a symbiotic correlation as opposed to a causation.

And I also just want to note that when I say, “follow,” I just mean literally clicking “follow” on this blog so that they can stay up to date about when I next post. I don’t mean, “follow” in any cultish, fervent, collecting “followers” to do my bidding and do whatever I am doing or say they should be doing type of way. That would feel highly uncomfortable.

If you are interested in “following” other people who are out as nonbinary on the internet and who also like to address people who send them hate mail, my spouse recommends the following:

ALOK on instagram

Jeffrey Marsh on instagram


Laura Jane Grace and Her Dysphoria Hoodie

On Wednesday, a friend posted on social media that he had an extra ticket to go see singer/songwriter/trans icon/punk rocker Laura Jane Grace in the next town over, and did anyone want to take him up on it? My first reaction was, “Oh wow! I would love to see her!” Followed by, “Damn, I have to work, like always.” (I work till 9:30pm – not conducive to having much of an evening social life.) The more I thought about it though, the more I was like, “Well wait! I have all kinds of time I could use. Why don’t I just be freaking spontaneous for once and do this thing?”

I’m so glad I did! The show was the following night, and it was beyond incredible, on many levels.

One of the levels: Today, serendipitously, marks the 20th anniversary of the release of Against Me!’s debut album, Reinventing Axl Rose. From reading Laura Jane Grace’s, memoir (Tranny: Confessions of Punk Rock’s Most Infamous Anarchist Sellout), this was not Against Me!’s first release, but I’m not sure how you would find the earlier stuff, mostly dubbed cassette tapes and a poorly recorded 12″ EP. There are two more well known early EPs: they contain some of the earlier versions of songs that found their way onto this first LP… So back to Reinventing Axl Rose: This album had a huge impact on me. The brother of the person I was seeing at the time (2003), handed me a CD copy he had burned, along with a handwritten note of the tracklisting. In general, his taste in music was super obscure, but not quite what I was into, so I was a little dubious. But damn, listen to this record! – It’s one of the most solid, versatile punk albums of all time. It has everything: anarcho-inspired lyrics, syncopated dance beats, both electric and acoustic guitars mixed with rough around the edges production, anthemic sing-alongs, growling and grimy vocals, and it even ends with a lullaby (“8 Full Hours of Sleep”). All eleven songs are so incredibly solid. And it was recorded over 2 days, for $800, which makes it all the more impressive. This album reminds me of being 21, mostly alone, trying to muster the energy to do anything. It reminds me of the guy who gave me the CD, and all the times he picked me up in his lilac colored Chevy Prizm to go grocery shopping together, and then maybe even also make dinner together and watch a movie, barely having much to say to each other, but just enjoying the music.

Laura Jane Grace came out as trans in 2012, and she continued on in Against Me! but also struck out on her own, playing acoustic shows. Since the pandemic, I’ve wandered into a handful of local shows, but this was the first big intentional show I’ve been to in the roughly 2 years. What a joyous return! There were so many queer and trans kids there, right up front and center, singing along to every lyric, even to the songs that are now 20 years old, possibly older than they were (I know from the X’s on their hands, when they threw their hands above their head, clapping along, or throwing a fist up into the air, that they were underage. My heart soared.) Older queer and trans people were there too, and punks, of course. She played 4 songs from that first album:

“Pints of Guinness Make You Strong”
“Those Anarcho Punks are Mysterious…”
“Reinventing Axl Rose”
“Baby, I’m an Anarchist!”

a crappy photo I took of her at the show, on my basic phone

On stage, she was magical: riffing in between songs, flashing her intensely crazy grin, sharing anecdotes from her life. She covered “Androgynous,” by The Replacements, a song I don’t actually like (I might get some hate comments for this, but I think Paul Westerberg is way overrated), but I liked when she did it; from her, it’s coming straight from her heart.

She had three new songs, one which involved a quick costume adjustment: she asked someone up front to hold her guitar, went offstage for a second, and came back with a shapeless black Adidas hoodie. She declared it her “dysphoria hoodie,” saying she’s had it for so long; she used to use it to hide her body. Said you don’t have to be trans to have a dysphoria hoodie; having body issues isn’t exclusively a trans thing, of course, but most trans people can probably relate so hard. She put it on, with the hood up, took the guitar back, and launched into this story-within-a-song. I’m not generally a lyrics oriented person, but with her, I want to know it all!

a crappy image of her, wearing the dysphoria hoodie, I took with my basic phone

Haircut

Last week, I got my hair cut by a professional for the first time in over 20 years. Why haven’t I done this sooner?! I was aware that I had acquired some stubborn habits around my hair, and I was planning to go to someone to intervene, but it still took me a long time to follow through and book an appointment.

Hair salons / barber shops are one of the most gendered spaces someone can enter. That is the biggest reason I’ve avoided them for so long. I have never been to a barber. Starting at age 8, I decided I needed my hair cut short, like a boy. My mom took me to Hairzoo, a unisex salon with 8 locations in Western, NY (and, strangely, one location in Santa Monica, CA). I just wanted a fucking bowl cut, but the stylists, every time, talked about a “feathered look,” tapered down to the neck, etc. I kind of hated going there as a kid, but I tolerated it because it was the best avenue toward the ultimate goal of keeping my hair short. As I got older, my mom met a friend who did hair, so we’d go to her kitchen and I’d get my hair kept short.

At age 18, a friend buzzed my head for the first time, and I immediately knew I needed to procure my own set of clippers.

I got my hair cut professionally one final time, at age 19, at a salon in my college town. It wasn’t a bad experience. Actually, it was probably one of the best hair styles I’ve ever had – I had bleached hair at the time which was growing out. Long natural brown roots. I asked the stylist to keep the tips of the blonde, and she actually followed my instructions, and I had a cool frosted effect (am aware this fashion trend is very much dated. But in 2001, it looked awesome!) The person I had a crush on, who didn’t talk to me much, complimented me on my hair shortly after this cut. It doesn’t get much better than that!

A few factors contributed to me never going back in there though: I hated the “culture” I had walked into when I went to that salon. Too many ladies and women talking too much and too emotively, basically. Plus there was the price factor. I didn’t have the spending money, as a college student, to keep doing that. So I pulled out my clippers and any pair of scissors I had laying around and hacked away at my hair every so often until I actually got pretty good at it. (Getting kinda good took a while. I definitely had some hair disasters. I usually went for either a mohawk or bowlish cut / undercut. One time, I shaved everything off completely, down to using a razor.)

The mohawk eventually morphed into a mullet-hawk and then just a full on mullet. I have been rocking a mullet for a solid 15 years. I stopped bleaching it about 15 years ago as well. It was ravaging my scalp. But I did pick up another bad habit around this time: a friend emphatically stated that he stopped using hair products. Only baking soda as shampoo and apple cider vinegar as conditioner. I followed suit because I didn’t know whether hair products were working for me and there are just way too many and I liked the idea of being stripped bare. And also getting rid of fragrances. I started the regimen but quickly discarded the vinegar – too smelly – in favor of a fragrance-free conditioner. But the baking soda stayed. It was a point of pride.

In retrospect, it was probably drying out my hair and scalp like nothing else! For so long!

I started testosterone in 2013, and it’s brought on two major changes to my hair: It suddenly made my hair very, very curly (it had always been wavy, but now we’re talking sausage curls inverting inward toward infinity) and a receding hairline. The receding hairline has been such a concern that it’s been the major reason I’ve gone on and off T, over the years. (I finally started taking Finasteride a month ago – it has yet to be determined whether it’ll help, long-term.)

Anyway, jump back in time to just a week ago. For months, I had been toying with the idea of at least consulting with a professional, if not actually letting them cut my hair. And I had someone in mind – someone who is an acquaintance, so at least I already know them, and they’re an expert on curly hair, and they curate their space to be non-gender specific, and they work alone. Pretty much, the perfect person. I booked the appointment. I kept the appointment.

And, I’m so super happy I followed through. We talked about habits I’d been doing for years, if not decades, that haven’t been working for me. She verified baking soda is no good regularly, but could be good as a cleanser, maybe monthly or so. She suggested some products that are known as “no-poo,” basically shampoos that don’t foam up, act more as conditioners, and maybe that’s all I’d need. And I told her about how I’ve barely cut my hair in a very long time, maybe just 1/8 of an inch to take care of split ends, but I’m aware that’s not nearly enough but I can’t get myself to cut more because I just want more of my hair in light of the receding hairline and I pull hairs from the back and sides forward in an effort for more coverage and it’s really not working for me, not to mention my split ends and knots. (Wow, OK, that was a run-on sentence!) She acknowledged that it made sense I was trying to do the things I was doing. Then she proceeded to start cutting (after I consented to that) and it was like AN INCH OFF! and I was a little freaking out. Until I realized it made almost no difference in actual hair coverage. It just looks smarter and cleaner. And, no one in my regular daily life has yet noticed I’ve gotten my hair cut at all, which to me, means it’s a resounding success. Because I didn’t want my hair to look much different. I just wanted to clean it up and learn some ways to take care of curly hair. I want healthy hair, now, and I think I can achieve that. Maybe I can actually coax it to grow longer, over time. That’s the dream! I tipped her 40%. I’m pretty happy overall.


Incorporating a traumatic event into a narrative, pt. 2

Every year around this time, since starting this blog eight years ago, I revisit the events surrounding a hospitalization that happened when I was 17. That was 22 years ago now, and I’m getting closer toward a goal of sharing my writing about it with a wider audience. Two years ago, I wrote, “Maybe one day I’ll share it with a wider audience.” Last year, I wrote that I was actively working on a memoir, in which the hospitalization plays a large part, but I was avoiding revising that portion. I had a lot of other work to do at that point, so it was easy to not get to it.

This year, I can say that I have a fairly cohesive draft of the entire memoir complete, and I am now forcing myself to get in there with the hospitalization “interlude.” I’m calling it an “interlude” because it’s written in a much different style than the rest of the piece. We’ll see if I keep that phrasing. Almost all of it, I wrote twenty years ago, for a class in college. It’s super disjointed, out of sequence, and jarring. Which, in a lot of ways, works, I think. I was going through a psychotic break. But I definitely needed to get in there to help readers orient themselves. I started to straighten out the timeline a bit. I added a lot of information about when I first got there, and my relationship with my mom, who brought me, at the time. It feels doable. I am glad I can finally start to face it down.

Other than that though, I’m stuck. I feel like it’s been so long ago that I no longer have any firsthand memories. It’s hard to conjure a feeling. (Which is amazing because I used to feel like it was always looming over my head.) I have all this writing, which I think is very accurate because I recorded it so closely in time to the events. I’m trying to figure out how to improve on it.

At this time, the event feels like a mosquito crystalized in amber. Or any other thing that’s trapped in a protective casing. And I’m trying to extract its essence without tampering with it too much. I’m trying to bring it back to life.