What would it be like to be homeless?

I was stopped yesterday and asked to spare some change for food. What struck me about this encounter was that until the young man spoke to me, I had no inkling that he might have been in such need. It got me thinking.

Its relatively easy to separate myself from the homeless that look…well, homeless. Either from acute desperation or from mental illness, their appearance belies a lack of care and a state of poverty that I have difficulty imagining for myself.

But what if I fell on hard times? I probably wouldn’t let it get to the point where I was out on the street before I sought help. And I’m lucky to have family that would step in if necessary. But what if neither of those things were in place? What if, through some turn of circumstance, I found myself without a place to stay, and without family or friends to call on? What would I do?

What if this was me?

I know some people decline to help panhandlers and such because there are services available that provide assistance. But if I were to suddenly find myself on the street, I would have no idea how to find those resources. I might stop in at a police station and ask – but I’m sure there are fears that prevent many from doing so. Perhaps a library? I don’t know if librarians have that information. Even so, the sheer number of resources I would have to access seems overwhelming. I’d need a safe place to sleep at night (shelters?), food to eat (can people access soup kitchens every day? more than once a day?), a place to bathe and the basic utensils to groom myself with, clothes and a way to clean them, access to computers and printers for putting together job search materials (I understand accessing libraries is tricky without an address), and so on.

I can’t imagine how I would cope. I understand why many turn to drugs or alcohol to make it all go away. Would I end up asking for a few coins from strangers on the street? Or a bus ticket to wherever my family might be? Would I be desperately wishing for someone who would set aside the stereotypes and assumptions to help me out or at least point me in the right direction?

I want to have compassion and understanding. I want to help when my help would not turn into enablement. But how and when? I have no answers. Only questions.

A meeting of butches

So a few weeks ago I went to a gathering called “Butch Voices”. Apparently there’s a conference for butches down in the States but not everyone can get to it. So the organizers encouraged people to hold their own smaller gatherings in various cities. They could converse about whatever issues surrounding being butch and butch identity were relevant to them in their context and forward their discussion notes to be included in the larger conversation that will happen later this year.

I thought this sounded pretty cool and wanted to meet other butch women. So I went. I should have blogged about it right away so I didn’t forget anything, but I’m going to try and comment on a few abstracted impressions anyways.

It was a small group – approximately 10 people. As it was open to anyone who identified as butch or trans or masculine of centre, there was a mix.

The main topic of conversation was the divide between the butch and trans communities.

There is a claim that butch women are a dying breed, their ranks shrunk by those who are transitioning from female to male as a result of improved access to gender reassignment therapies. In reaction, some butch denounce FTMs as having never been butch in the first place or as taking the easy way out (as if going through gender reassignment is ‘easy’…not). I think perhaps its because, as the concept of being transgender becomes more widely known and accepted, butch women feel pressured to transition themselves. Now that a complete change to male is possible, why would they stay in a place of gender non-conformity, a place inbetween that makes others uncomfortable. To think thus is to misunderstand the very nature of what it means to be butch. Those who identify as butch are not denying their womanhood, but rather embracing their masculinity while in a woman’s body. While some present as butch along the way to FTM, others view butch as their final destination. But in our society which prefers a gender binary and which dislikes to be confused in this respect, presenting as butch can be a hard and lonely road to take. Completing the transition to male is tempting; the internal (they’d like to be more accepted) and external pressure (others want to clearly categorize them) is potent. I think some butches reject FTMs to create a dividing line, to make sure there is no confusion for others, and also perhaps to protect against their own mental angst.

Some FTMs are so determined to pass as male, so eager to embrace who they’ve always felt they’ve been and to have society accept them as such with no ambiguity, that they reject the queer community. Even if they previously identified as butch, they turn their back on that label and anything that might cause them to continue to be identified as a woman. The line between butch and FTM in terms of physical appearance can be blurry. If they hang out with folks who aren’t trying to hide their womanhood but who dress and act similar, then observers may be alerted to look for feminine attributes that they are trying to hide and be more likely to peg them as female as well.

In contrast, some butch woman embrace FTMs, recognizing the whole spectrum of masculine of centre folks. FTMs might be male but they understand the butch experience better than most. They make great buddies. Their choice to transition is a personal one and is respected for the courage and sacrifice it requires. Similarly, while some FTMs desire to pass, to purge any identification with their past as women, others want to remain queer, to remember where they came from and celebrate their differences. The latter grieve the loss of camaraderie that passing brings, that glint in the eye of a passerby that says “I see you. We are the same, you and I. We are queer.”

Beyond this division, there was also some discussion about how the community balks when butches want to hang out together without femmes. Huh? Why? In the hetero world, couples have separate girls nights and guys nights out. I sometimes hang out with my academic friends and sometimes with my queer friends, and sometimes the two groups overlap. So what. Each enriches me in a different way. If I had to always ensure a representative sampling of every group to whom I belong in every gathering I attend, not only would my socializing be greatly reduced, but it would also be boring. We experience different aspects of ourselves in different settings. We can be unified while also celebrating diversity.

I know there’s also a long history of fighting for queer rights and feminism and such that play into the current dynamic, but as a newbie, I am unfamiliar with much of this and can only speak from a present perspective. To me the fight isn’t (or shouldn’t be) about labels and divisions – it’s a fight to make sure everyone is free to be their most authentic self, to express that self in whatever way makes them happy (provided it doesn’t harm others – and I don’t see preventing others from being able to dichotomously categorize someone as harmful).

Variety is GOOD!

I want to hang out with trans guys. I don’t want to reject them or fear them in their difference. And I want to hang out with femmes, strut myself, and feel their appreciation. But I also want to hang out with other butch women sometimes. I want to learn from their struggles and triumphs, glean info about savvy tailors and effective binders, and rest in the full understanding and acceptance of the complexity that is me. As a baby butch, I want to connect with butch mentors and absorb their strength, follow their example (of course, I want to follow those who aren’t promoting the senseless divisions outlined earlier). Where are you?

My age in queer years

I’ve been struggling a bit with my style lately, trying to figure out how masculine I want to dress, how to look dressier while feeling comfortable as who I am. I feel like my style has been evolving a bit over the last couple years and I can see it evolving more as I lose weight and fit into clothes that are perhaps more what I would actually like to wear.

It all makes me feel a bit unsettled. I should know who I am right? Flipping back and forth or moving along a sliding scale makes me seem undecided, fickle. How can I feel confident in how I present if I keep adjusting slightly? How can I attract a person who will like me for who I am if I’m not even quite sure who that is myself?

But then I started to think about how short a time I’ve been this. I remember when I first came out, I felt like a fourteen year old, exploring issues of identity and sexuality for the first time. I had many of what I called ‘teenage’ moments.

So if we consider that I came out just under 3 years ago, and if we place my ‘queer age’ at coming out as 14…then I am only almost 17 now. And what 17 year old has it all figured out. Typically it takes until one’s mid-twenties before one starts to solidify certain aspects of one’s style and identity. I certainly don’t want to take that long, but I should probably give myself a bit more grace as I figure it all out.

The pants dilemma

“No jeans.”

Such a short, simple instruction and yet, following it proved to be anything but. I was going to speak at a conference and although it wasn’t dressy, my supervisor suggested I should look nice at least during my talk.

First, a look through the closet. Jeans, jeans…black jeans. Nope.

Ok, it seemed a shopping trip was in order.

My goal – a pair or two of dressier khakis that fit my plus size female figure while coordinating with my men’s button-up shirts and men’s black dress shoes.

Problem alert!

Women’s pants tend to have extra wide waist bands and flare around the hips or ankles to accentuate curves. They also tend to be made of a lighter fabric and slightly different colors than men’s pants making them difficult to pair with men’s shirts and shoes.

Men’s pants, however, are not designed to fit around hips. Pairs that fit around a woman’s waist tend to experience the dreaded ‘pocket gape’ due to tension in the wrong places. Also, because guys are typically straighter up and down, the width of their pant legs is proportionally wider meaning that a pair that fits my plus size waist ends up looking ridiculously large on the rest of me. Oh, and I shouldn’t forget to mention the baggy crotch issue if the pant doesn’t naturally sit slow enough.

I tried Value Village. Women’s selection – nada. All fancy prints and waistbands. Men’s section – nada. All wide legged and deep crotched. So much for economical.

Decided to upgrade to Sears and the Bay. The women’s section, again, bears no fruit. If its not a wide waistband, it’s a jeweled pocket detail, or a pastel color. The men’s dress pant section of these stores contains rack after rack of pants with style names and fit distinctions galore – a deep, dark forest guaranteed to intimidate the uninitiated. In the Bay I happened across Haggars which had nice colors and a slim fit option. Potential!

Optimistic, I took what I thought was my size and trekked across the store to the women’s change room. As I entered, a saleslady came running up behind me, loudly stating “You can’t go in there. This is a ladies change room.” Steeling myself, I turned and explained quietly that I was a woman. “Oh, okay.” She left and I closed myself inside the little stall, pausing for a moment to regain my composure. I tried on the pants and although they seemed like they might work, they were a size too small. Waiting until I couldn’t hear any voices in the hall, I slipped out and trekked back across the store to the men’s department. They had one pair in the larger size. I stood holding them in my hands, debating whether I wanted to face the possibility of humiliation again after yet another trek. I decided against it. I still had several weeks until I needed the pants. I’d just go to another Bay, maybe in Toronto where the gender thing would hopefully be less of an issue.

In the meantime, I checked out Mark’s, Walmart, another Value Village. I walked through two different malls. No luck. A week or so later, I hit up another Bay (a giant, giant Bay in Toronto which has more than one floor per department – I got lost). They had very, very few pants in my size in any style of Haggar. I should have tried on that pair I held in my hands. While I didn’t have any change room incidents, I also didn’t have any luck. Every pair gaped in the wrong places and made me look even larger than I was.

Panic started to set in.

My mom suggested Moore’s. Apparently my dad buys most of his clothes there which presumably would make them reasonable. Okey dokey. Off I went.

I stopped in first at the Pennington’s next door and tried on a pair of women’s black dress pants. They had a slightly wider waistband than I liked with some odd button accents that would have to be removed. But they fit well. Sigh. If worse came to worse, I’d get those and try to find an un-frilly women’s shirt to go with them to at least cover me for the day I was speaking.

On to Moore’s.

Such very nice salespeople. They didn’t blink at the fact that I was a woman in a men’s clothing store. They immediately set me up in a dressing room and started to bring me dress pants…actual dress pants, not khakis. That was okay with me. I figured I could use a good dress pant for potential interviews and such in addition to this conference. And the khakis clearly hadn’t worked out. First style – horrific. Second style – closer. Third style – bingo!

They weren’t too deep in the crotch. They sat in a nice place on my hips. The pockets didn’t gape too much. The legs were of an appropriate width. Wow!

I glanced at the price tag. Ouch!!!

But it was a two for one sale and I was stuck, so I took the plunge. I decided to go back to Value Village for shirts though and to the bargain basement of a store near my house for ties. I ended up with several really snazzy outfits and knew I’d look good all week.

Of course, I get to the so called ‘no jeans’ conference and at least 80% of the people were wearing jeans. Gah!

The language of dance

Okay, so I need some language lessons, stat! To me the language of dance is just as mystifying as a foreign language – perhaps even more so, because I’ve taken linguistics courses and understand the basic structure of spoken and written language in general.

First of all, there’s the basic moves. I love choreographed dances where there’s a routine for me to follow. But free-style...??? Other than a basic shuffle left and right, I don’t seem to even have a vocabulary to build from. And the words I do know – grapevine, rock, hitch, etc. – don’t seem to be used on this kind of dancefloor. The repetitive rhythm of the music that is typically played ends up feeling like the same word or phrase being repeated over and over again, and yet people seem to be able to translate it into a variety of movements.

But more than that, the language of the interaction between people baffles me. Sometimes they are communicating fun, sometimes friendship, sometimes drunkenness, sometimes attraction, and sometimes blatant sexuality. Not knowing what moves communicate what, I feel like I’m in a foreign country, afraid to try any words in that land’s language for fear that I’ll string them together wrong and say something stupid or offensive.

When learning a language, one generally looks for patterns, for the same groupings of sounds to repeated in some circumstances but not others. But on the dance floor, it all seems to get mixed up. Sometimes couples dance sexy together, but sometimes friends do to. Or sometimes, partners will dance sexy with people other than the person they are with. So when does sexy mean ‘not really sexy’ and when does it mean ‘sexy’. The last thing I want to do is have someone think I’m trying to come on to their girlfriend or boyfriend or whatever.

And of course, that’s on top of the nagging feeling from my past that dancing so provocatively is wrong in the first place. I was able to cross that line a little bit with my girlfriend because I knew it was welcome – I knew how the words would be translated. But when I’m out on the dance floor with others, I’m paralyzed into inaction by my lack of language proficiency. Sigh. Anybody got one of those ‘learn ___ in 30 days’ books for this situation?

Why is gender so vulnerable to threat?

Another camp inspired post...

On Wednesday, at Jamboree, several dozen men came traipsing down the hillside in drag, some realistic, some ridiculous. But all were unabashedly having fun. On Thursday they dressed in ladies pantsuits and on Saturday, many dressed up as some version of Barbie. And at various moments inbetween they played with gender expression and fashion.

More than that, they enthusiastically participated in dance workshops, made crafts, cooked and more. I found the experience of being among them absolutely delightful. And never did I question that they were men. In snippets of conversation I heard here and there, I discovered that most held regular and well-respected jobs as teachers and businessmen, etc.

Why did this surprise me? It comes down to my background, yet again. The men in the churches I was a part of would not have been caught dead in a dress. They’d stand by awkwardly while the women danced. And they’d do the heavy lifting while the women decorated or cooked. There were clear gender divides that were not crossed. It wasn’t as blatant as requiring women to wear skirts or restricting them to the role of homemaker, but it was there all the same. We were always scrambling for male volunteers and participants.

The thing is, I think this divide goes beyond the church. I think a great majority of straight men would find it debasing or at the very least, mildly embarrassing to cross the unspoken gender divide. They would feel threatened to wear a dress or dance in wild abandon. And I don’t understand why. Where is the threat? How does that make one any less a man? I understand that some cross-dressers are also transgender, but that is not always the case. And even so...who cares!

I then go on to puzzle about why gay men appear to have obtained a measure of freedom from such restrictions. Is it just because they already face stereotypes or discomfort caused by their sexuality and don’t care anymore? Or is it because they have a more strongly developed feminine side (I don’t know that I find this one sufficient to explain all cases)?

I’m sure there are those who have taken gender classes in university and could cite various theories that explain this phenomenon. I’m sure there are historical and perhaps even evolutionary explanations. I’d probably even be interested in some of them. But all I really want to do right now is say to all the men of the world “Get over yourselves and have some fun!”. Yay for all the brave and creative and amazing men I met at camp.

Is being naked inherently sexual?

I recently returned from an awesome week of camp with some genuinely delightful folks (if you have never heard of the Out and Out Club’s annual Jamboree, check it out here). I went with some apprehension, having been informed that the main dock was ‘clothing optional’. Due to my rather prudish upbringing, I feared I might find myself privy to blatant sexual activities or perpetually distracted by sexual imagery...or something.

I did indeed see more naked people than I have perhaps seen in the entirety of my life so far (excluding diaper changes). I saw naked men sunbathing, walking around, and gleefully slipping down a slide. I saw women sunbathing and swimming. (I did not manage to wake up early enough to observe, nor participate in, the daily group skinny dip).

But there was absolutely nothing sexual about it. It was natural and free – people simply enjoying the pleasure of their skin against air and sun and water without the barrier of fabric. After the first twinge or two of novelty wore off, there were times when I walked away from the dock realizing I hadn’t particularly noticed the nakedness at all.

As I ponder this, however, I wonder why it surprises me. After all, there are natural vs. sexual contrasts in other areas of life. One can dance in a friendly or a sexual way. Once can chat with another in a natural or a flirtatious way. It’s the attitude, not the clothing or lack thereof, that makes an action sexual. Of course that raises the fascinating question of what it is about our brains or physiology that can both recognize and produce such an attitude that can instantaneously change an innocent encounter into an arousing escapade. But that’s a bigger question than can be addressed here. There’s also the question of how conscious or unconscious such an attitude is - any times one party feels chemistry that the other is oblivious to. Fascinating mysteries.