Posts Tagged ‘ acceptance ’

Abortion: Just another frakken health issue that I need to jump through hoops for!

Today is International Health Day. I’ve been really lucky to have pretty good overall health. More often than not when I go to visit a doctor it’s because I need a note of some kind. For work because I took a sick day, for Uni because I need an extension or (in the future) for a piece of paper saying that I suffer from gender dysphoria so that I can start living my new life.

At the beginning of last year I had to visit the doctor because there was something seriously wrong. I had become pregnant and there was no way that I could bear the child to term.   I hold the view that a fetus becomes a child when the woman in question decides that it’s a child and, well to me, it’s always been a child as soon as that little stick changes colour.   So, I couldn’t have this child.   My relationship was having issues and to put it frankly I just didn’t think that I could handle a second child.  If I had had that child it would have meant that my existing child would suffer as a result.

I was lucky.  I had a miscarraige.  It meant that I didn’t have to skip through all of the ridiculous hoops that countless women before me had to.

I couldn’t have that child because it was just the wrong time in my life.  Not only would I have suffered but so would my child and my partner.  I couldn’t do that to them.  Yet that would not have been reason enough to get an abortion under our current laws.  I would have had to exagerate the truth somewhat and say that ‘my mental health would drastically suffer’.  The fact that my life would become CRAP just wouldn’t be reason enough.

Why don’t we trust women enough to decide what’s best for them?

We just need to trust them.  They know what’s best for themselves.  We need to support them in whatever decision they make and we need to make sure it is safe, affordable, accesible, without question and on demand.

BUT, hang on…. I hear some of you asking…. Isn’t this supposed to be, well like, a blog on your transitioning and stuff?  What does abortion stuff have to do with that?

EVERYTHING!!  Trans Rights and Abortion Rightsare the same thing.  They are about trusting people to know what is best for themselves in their own very unique and personal situation.  Nobody has the right to say what you can and can’t do to your body except for YOU!

Abortion is a crime in my country and that’s just wrong.

All I want is the right to decide what happens to my body wether that’s aborting an embryo or getting chest reconstruction.

It’s my body, get your stupid laws off it!

Go have a look at ALRANZ, read up on the ridiculous situation at the moment and write a letter to your MP.  Hell, get all uppity and join one of the pro-choice groups near wherever you are and go on a protest or rally, attend a hui or better still let some of your friends know whats going on.

You should also pop over to The Hand Mirror and read the other blogs in the swarm that are phrased a lot more eloquently than mine.

(I know I haven’t been posting much, I’m trying to pass papers at Uni)

Funerals and Shirt Shopping

So I’ve just recently returned home from my friends funeral.  It’s a good thing that me and my peeps were sitting at the back because we did get a bit fidgity during certain parts.  That’s kind of what happens when you have a christian funeral for a hard-core atheist.

On the other hand we were actually invited.  Me and a friend were even palbearers.  I’ve heard of plenty of funerals where the parents are conservative and the children are liberal where the friends don’t get invited at all.

So, it could have been worse

ON TO SHIRT SHOPPING!!!

So I panicked a bit about what I should wear.  Most of my nice stuff are, well, dresses.  So I needed to go shopping.  I’d set my heart on wearing a long sleeved black shirt with a black tie.  So shopping I went.

I’m 5ft 1.5in (I don’t know how to write it properly we use metre’s and centimetres over here but somehow that’s how I know my height)

So, they don’t make shirts for guys with my length arms.  XS got close to the right arm length but were a bit to snug for my little tum and 4hrs of labour hips.  Which is fine.  When I have the spare cash I’ll buy myself some really nice ones and get them altered.  All good.  Didn’t solve my current problem though.

When I went into Hallensteins in the central city I got really nice service.  The guy was really polite and nice and when he realised they didn’t have an XS on the rack he went upstairs to look for one.  He was really apologetic that they didn’t have any in.

So I try the Hallenstiens in my local suburban mall.  They even have a kids section so I thought that maybe I stood a chance.  The woman who served me took a look through the kids shirts and was like ‘No, no black sorry’.  So I asked if there was a chance there was an XS in the adult section.  She went over, looked and said ‘No’.  She was being rather curt at this point.  Then she suggested that I tried a couple of womens stores.  Now, I haven’t been binding every day recently because the heat has just been killing me.  I was binding that day though because I wanted to make sure that the shirt looked right.  The way that I was dressed was an obvious indication that while I may have a vagina (the child was with me too) I obviously don’t shop in the kind of stores that middle-aged suburban women shopped in.

The message was clear.  I’m not comfortable with you.  Please go to another store.

So I did.  I walked a couple of metres over to Barkers.  While the guy there seemed a bit suprised to be dealing with me he was nice, kind and polite.  When it was clear that, no, long sleeved shirts would not fit me he suggested I try on a short sleeved one.  He was even apologetic about it to because he knew I wanted a long sleeved one.

So I bought the shirt.  With my skinny black jeans I looked totally kick-ass hot.  I didn’t wear a tie because the internet informs me that ties with short-sleeved shirts are bad.  I even just got a txt telling me that I totally pulled off the whole short-sleeved thing.  I think my friend would have liked that.

 

So guess where I’m going to go to buy my shirts now?

(although I have to point out I’ve always been served well at the Hallensteins in town.  Perhaps the staff are just a bit more cosmopolitan than the suburban ones…)

Christmas and the In-Laws*

So for the past three years we’ve been spending Christmas with my partners family.  This year when we walked through the door his dad seemed a wee bit startled when he saw me.  Which is pretty understandable when you compare how I look now to how I looked the last time he saw me.

 

 

His mum comes over and visits a couple of times throughout the year when she’s over this way on business so she was already used to my new look.

The major difference I noticed this year was what the guys called me.  His dad and his brother used mate/man/buddy and various other masculine phrases.  Not once did a feminine turn of phrase escape their lips.  It was kind of awesome.

The thing is, I haven’t told them.  His brother has enough mutual friends with us that I have told about being genderqueer that he might have heard from them but they haven’t been told officially.  They just took one look at me and started treating me the way they expect someone who looks like me should be treated.  Which was pretty awesome.

I’m pretty sure they think that somethings up but they are way too respectful to pry.  It’s why I like them so much.  They’ve noticed I’m a bit different and have adapted accordingly but will let me come out to them when I feel ready to.

So I enjoyed this Christmas.

On the other hand it was so ridiculously hot that I haven’t been wearing my binders as I would be absolutely sweltering.  I want summer to be over. 😦

Today it’s so hot that the breastages are producing the oily pre-milk stuff even though it’s been nearly three years since I weaned the child.  Bodies are gross.

 

*Not technically in-laws but it’s the easiest description of their relationship with me.

"But it’s Christmas!" "But I don’t care!" (via Ideologically Impure)

It’s about vegetarians but could easily be adapted for various situations in which families and/or loved ones are being wankers. My childhood memories of Christmas are of the fighting. And the tears. This is why we visit my partners family for Christmas. They are nice and do not stress and actually tell me how awesome I am instead of telling me what an awful disappointment and failure I am. We can’t choose our family but we can choose who we spend time with.

[The following takes place between 12:00am and 1:00am, and also specifically focuses on individuals’ choices to be vegetarian and attend Christmas family gatherings.  Obviously the principles in question are not unique to vegetarianism or Christmas; and in other situations other considerations/context may apply.] I was at a loss for a post this evening, and went in search of any NZ media touting Christmas ZOMG OBESITYTURKEY panic.  I’ve always th … Read More

via Ideologically Impure

Guy friends and stuff

I’m reading a lot of books at the moment.  There are quite a few personal essays by transmen that recall their childhoods playing with the other boys.  Until the boys learnt that they weren’t meant to play with them.  I’m so jealous.  I had one male friend as a kid.  I didn’t make any more till University and even then it quite often had the sexual undercurrent running through it.  I kind of have male friends now.  I’m nearly thirty and I’m only just getting mates.

 

My friend M. was my next door neighbour.  I have one photo of him playing tea party with me.  He looks pretty much how I remember him.  Overweight and blonde.  I’m in a many-ruffled pink monstrosity of a creation, but I’m pretty sure that I’m wearing it over something.  I’m in dress-up.  Drag Queen age 4.  For his fifth birthday he got a stamp with his name on it.  I took it (I was a rather dominating friend as a child.  My friends now would probably say that that hasn’t changed).  While I was at school I stamped his name on my hand.  It was red ink.  Such a masculine name too.  No gender ambiguity about it.  I stamped it a few more times on my hand then worked my way up my arm.  Then I stamped the next arm.  I got my face too.  I had tattooed myself with a boys name in red ink.  Only it was my name.  I had taken it.  It was mine now.  My teacher asked me where I had got the stamp from.  I said it was mine.  She kept on asking me till I finally said it was my brothers.  I didn’t get a brother for another four years.  We moved house.  No more M. to play tea party with, boss around and steal off.

 

I went to a Catholic primary school that had predominately Italian and Greek students which meant that playground was divided neatly in the middle with boys on one side and girls on the other.  Not an actually physical line, it was never enforced, but it was there.  I was obsessed with the boys.  The boys that I couldn’t play with.  So that meant that I was boy crazy.  If you have a vagina and you can’t stop thinking about the boys that’s what you are.

 

It took me a couple of years to make friends with girls.  They were really nice.  I’m still in contact with a few of them.  I used to try and gross out the other girls.  I’d put snails on my face so they could crawl around.  When I grazed my knee I’d sit down, bend my knee and lick the blood off gravel and all.  The girls would go ‘Eeewww!’ but the boys weren’t impressed, they just thought I was weird.

 

Towards the end of primary school there developed an intergender game of ‘kiss and catch’.  No actual kissing was involved because eww, germs!  So it involved chasing someone with the supposed opposite genitals down kissing your hand and then slapping them with it.  I loved it.  The boys were letting me play with them and we were playing rough.

 

I was sent to a girls only high-school so I didn’t learn any social skills with boys there.  Hell, I didn’t learn social skills with girls either.  But around that age I did learn something.  If you have a vagina the boys will want to hang around you.  They’ll actually think that you are pretty cool.

 

Introducing….. (drumroll please)… the girl in the little top and little cut-off jeans (so short that my ass was escaping slightly) who would do whatever you want!!  I thought I was so awesome.  Looking back I think I actually scared quite a few guys, I was so sexually aggressive.  If you have a vagina you’re not meant to be sexually aggressive.  It freaks them out.

 

I realised when I was fourteen that I liked girls sexually.  My sexual fantasies (based on T.V. shows) kept on morphing and I’d end up being the guy fucking the girl.  Again and again and again…  So that meant that I was a lesbian.  Right?  What else could it have meant?  There were no words in my adolescent mind for someone with a vagina who wants to fuck other people with their cock other than lesbian.  So that’s what I was.  I didn’t know how to tell anyone so I asked my mum to shave off my hair for me.  Because that’s what lesbians do right?  They have no hair?

 

I still did my thing with the boys.  Because, you know, I kind of like cock.  A girl who puts out and likes to fuck girls?  I was their wet dream.  You need to keep in mind that I mainly met these boys through Catholic Youth Group… They weren’t my friends though.

 

When I went to University I kind of made male friends.  I say kind of because there was always the sexual undercurrent.  I was awesome because I was so overtly sexual/laughed at dirty jokes/took my top off in public.  If I wasn’t fucking them I was flirting with them.

 

Now I’m in this weird situation where I have male friends who kind of respect me.  Some are actually a bit intimidated by me.  Which is kind of awesome.  When I told some of them that I was Genderqueer and was talking about clothes a couple of them actually offered to take me shopping.

 

It’s weird.  There’s this group of people that I desperately want to be a part of and I don’t know how to interact with them because nobody taught me how.

Answering Questions

For quite a long time now I’ve held the view that if someone challenges what you’re talking about and asks a question that you should be able to answer it. Sometimes you may need to walk away and look a few things up but you should be able to answer it eventually or admit that there might be something wrong with the view your expressing.

So last night I finally tell my significant other that while I came out to him as genderqueer not that long ago I think that in the future there might be even more changes. Actually I’m pretty sure of it. While I’m not at the stage yet where I’m ready to transition I am pretty sure that I’m Trans. Only I didn’t actually say that because I’m nailbitey wimpy/nervous/apprehensive/scared and stuff. He said it for me.

I’m so glad that (eventually after umming and ahhing and many deep sighs) I managed to get it out. It’s something that was weighing on me a lot and I really needed to discuss with him. While I’m not going to be doing anything major for over a year, I though he deserved fair warning. After all while I’ll still be ME, the ME that he fell in love with was female, not male. By not talking to him I felt that I was being dishonest, that I was hiding it and it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. I don’t feel like that in relation to other people because, frankly, it’s none of their business. They’ll get told when I’m good and ready to tell them. Probably when I change my name. It is his business though.

So then the questions started. Now, don’t get me wrong, they weren’t at all inquisitorial! They were all prefaced with ‘I’m not trying to talk you out of anything, I’m just trying to understand…’ This is why I wanted to talk to him about it. I think that answering questions is actually a good way for me to formulate what my views on this whole process actually are. I need to work out why I need to do some things but not others and why I can’t do other things instead.

The more questions I get asked the more answers I have to give which means the more answers I need to work out.

That’s good. I like having answers. 🙂

It’s also really good to share a burden.

Raging

It was going really well. So well.

I have awesome friends. I got rid of most of the idiots a while ago.

But I swear, the next person who says to me ‘Oh, of-course! Gender is complete fluid. I’m gender-queer too.’ I am going to hit over THE FRICKEN HEAD.

Right, so those of you who know me, know that I will do no such thing. But seriously, I feel like screaming.

I’m really bloody happy for you that your in touch with your gender-queerness and enjoy being a feminine male or masculine female, really I am. But you manage to do it while still representing to the general public the gender that they expect you to display.

I am not a feminine male. Nor am I a masculine female.

I am a male/female, therefore I am both feminine/masculine.

I was so happy for a while there, I wasn’t getting angry at all. Shit.

Is the problem the definition, peoples understanding of the definition, or am I just being too precious?

Some days it almost feels that it would be worth changing my name (which I like and am comfortable with) and asking people to change pronouns just so they’ll take this shit seriously.

Damn it.