Toys r us

Toys R Us paper

In last week's discussion the themes of package coloration, sectioning of the store and images of boys and girls on packages were brought up. When I visited Toys R Us I noticed some instances in which these trends were both upheld and broken. But I also decided to examine some other things.

First, I visited the baby section. It is notable that outfits between girls and boys are pretty similar up until age 3 or 4. While vibrant pinks and blues are available, a lot of baby's and toddler's clothing is available in neutral colors with neutral patterns. As little kid's costumes go, there are dresses and "suits" to choose from but a wide variety of animals as well. The greatest difference is in the shoes: boys can choose from black loafers or brown work boots, girls have a wide variety of sparkly or furry slippers and boots. There were only two pairs of shoes on the wall that could be considered neutral; dark brown, meshy sneakers. Where clothes did differentiate, it was clear that female clothes had a lot more patterns, whereas male clothes kept to solid, dull colors. The writing on girls and boys baby clothes only suggested adoration by their parents, not assigning passivity or activity.

As for sectioning of the store, rather than being able to identify a boy's half of the store vs. girls half, it seemed that the store was organized by interests or activities, and boys and girls' versions of those things were somewhat separated within those section. For example, "building" contained both Star Wars Lego sets and castle building. The stuffed animal section contained cats, dogs, horses and alligators all mixed together. In the sports section, boys and girl's helmets were mixed together on the same wall. While only a few helmets could be considered gender neutral, quite a few girl helmets had designs that expressed traditionally male characteristics such as aggression and daring. Bicycles come in a variety of colors such that I couldn't really tell what was a girl's bike or boy's bike.

The depiction of children on packaging was inconsistent. For the labels on bicycle helmets, I noticed that the boys were actively riding while the girl was just resting on her bike, smiling at the camera. The boys were also at the older end of the age range suggested for those helmets whereas the girl was on the younger end of the age range. For some activity kits, the main picture was of a boy playing with the toy, with a small inset in the corner showing a girl playing with the exact same toy. This appeared over and over again within a particular brand. For others, boys and girls of mixed race (but decidedly light-skinned) played together, though apparently cooperative and not competitive. Sometimes the girls were passive, other times they were active. Competitive table-top games tended to depict young boys competing against each other, with no girl in the picture. However, Nerf guns were advertised exclusively to boys, using pictures of older teens and occupying an entire aisle. There were no guns advertised to girls.

One thing I took note of in particular was the design of toys advertised to boys and girls; I chose particularly to focus on texture. I noticed that Barbie dolls and superhero action figures are made of similar materials and perform the same movements. Similarly, many toys that we would think of as boy themed, such as Ninja turtles or Power Rangers, came in classicly girly designs, such as round, plush toys and backpacks. The undertone of this cross-over is that girls are given room to manipulate their toys and boys are given room to cuddle with their toys. Thus, because both boy and girl theme toys are available in action-ready and cuddly formats, boys and girls can cross over and participate in emotional roles usually excluded from them. However there seemed to be a maintained exclusion of interest groups, as these toys did appear in boy/girl segregated sections.

There were particular groups of toys that were completely gender-neutral while also being gender-inclusive. These include Pixar movie toys that include both male and female action figures in action poses, and Pokemon, which make available both boyish and girlish pokemon in action figure and plush toys.

In conclusion, segregation and exclusion were still apparent but inconsistent. Integration tended to focus on themes or activities not assigned to either gender, rather than bringing gendered themes together. I believe that images of boys and girls playing with certain kinds of toys are much more powerful that the colors on the packaging or segregation in the store. If a pirate costume is accompanied by a picture of a girl wearing that costume, then it will validate that costume as open-gender. If My Little Pony action figures are accompanied by a picture of a little boy playing with them, it will validate the toy as open-gender. I believe that it is most important to show boys and girls playing together so as not to inadvertently reverse gender designations, but rather integrate them. This would also allow boys to be cooperative and girls to be competitive, and allow for individual development rather than gendered pre-determination of characteristics.

The Soldier's Lament: Why Can't I Serve?

The Soldier's Lament (orig. Aug 2)

I had a major breakdown last night. I had discovered the article a day or two previous that transgender persons were still under the confines of Don't Ask, Don't Tell, but I didn't fully understand what that meant. I thought I could join as my target gender as long as I didn'tgo around telling everyone that I used to be a girl. Wrong. On two levels.

One, the official policy is that "transsexualism" is considered a paraphilia, a psychosexual disorder that prohibits participation in the armed forces.

Two, the physical exam considers genital surgery as a "severe genital deformity" that prohibits participation in the armed forces.

So I am not allowed to get sexual reassignment surgery. And while serving as physically female, I cannot acknowledge my true identity, because it would be seen as equivalent to psychosis.

I was so hurt, so lost. Joining the military has been my plan for approx. 4 years now. I don't know if I have a plan anymore. It's not that I was certainly going to transition before beginning service, but at least it was my choice; I was going to transition when it made sense in my life, either before looking for a career and spouse as my true self, or after having children. But it was going to be my choice. And now the military wants to take that away from me.

The fears that had kept me in the closet turned out to be very justified. Because I haven't publicly declared myself, I can still choose to fly under the radar and join the service, and reconsider the pursuit of my "real life" after the conclusion of my service obligation. But I really don't think I want to do that.

I was so ready to come out, I was revving up to be out and proud and explain exactly why being transgender doesn't mean I have to start messing with my body right away. To immediately sweep that under the carpet, to do so deliberately for the next decade... what a betrayal of myself! How many years would I spend hating myself for that decision?

My next move seems to be coming out, in a big, bold way, and advocating for the acceptance of openly trans* persons, both pre- and post-operative, into the armed forces. I hope to be the big hero, I hope to be "the one that made it happen." And maybe when I am accepted openly into the force, everyone will know my name and most of them will hate me, and I may be afraid but I won't have to be ashamed. Maybe they'll put me in the progressive unit, with all the other queers and freaks. Maybe I'll be the first "tranny" most of those soldiers has ever met. Too many maybes.

I think I'm getting committed. I can't just sit back idly and forge some alternative without speaking out, just as I am very resistant to staying in the closet for the sake of ignorant bigots *ahem* commanding officers. I'm not your cookie-cutter corn-fed white Protestant American. But I'm good. I'm worth it. I am a healer, and I am a soldier. Believing in something means doing something about it. It's time for me to fucking do something about this.

Stop Decorating the Closet Door!

So, X came out on my behalf to his mother. I couldn't really blame him in context; we were having a really hard time (okay, I was having a really hard time) and he wasn't dealing with it well by himself. He had to talk to his mom, and in order to properly do that, he had to out me. I wasn't thrilled, but I dealt.

Here's the real problem. His mom started hugging me and telling me that "we" (her, her husband, her son) love me no matter what. Sounds great so far, right? Coming out story of everyone's dreams! Then she told me that I probably shouldn't come out yet, because I wasn't strong enough.

I was ready to say "Fuck You" right then and there.

For me, it's no longer about being strong enough to come out. I'm not strong enough to keep it hidden. I'm not strong enough to keep lying to people. It's not that I'm too weak to come out of the closet. I'm too big to stay in it. I've outgrown the confines of how everyone else defines me. I am big. I am special. I am wonderful. I am proud.

My actions should reflect how I really feel about my gender; frustration. Not shame. Before a lot of my hiding was fueled by fear, then I realized, I'm too smart. I'm too awesome. I'm too kind and charitable. People can't throw me away just because of this, and the ones who do, don't deserve me. I believe in tolerance and circumspection and empathy. If people can't show that towards me, then clearly I'm wasting my efforts on them. The other argument is to lead by example. It's so clear that the lot of gays everywhere is made better by so many of them being out. Well? My lot would be better if more people like me were out, but they're not, so I guess I'm just going to have to assume the courage to be a trailblazer. If I'm so fucking gifted, isn't being bigger and better than the closet for the sake of others less blessed my responsibility? 

He May Surprise You

I've been picking fights with my boyfriend. He noticed. This is a sequel to "The Inevitable End". Out of my frustration from being convinced that he would drop me the moment I started to self-actualize, even just with name and presentation, I wanted to draw him into a fight about it. I didn't want to try it first. I wanted him to admit it. I wanted it to be his fault that it was all over.

Then one night he confronted me about picking fights with him. I had been conscious that I had been distant, perhaps cold even, but when I was faced with the harsh truth of my combativeness, I felt ashamed. I admitted to it. I admitted it was my fault. I told him why I was so dour, so pessimistic. I felt like he was holding my identity hostage to this relationship. I wasn't ready for the fight yet, I had expected it to happen later, but to all appearances, it seemed like it was happening now.

What he told me next shocked me. He told me that not being able to introduce me as his boyfriend was his failing. He told me he was sorry.

I had been so ready for him to defend his sexuality, I was so ready to be angry at him, and it turns out that the very thing I'd been wanting to shout in his face, he'd been thinking all along. I'd underestimated him in a big way.

I know we're still a long way from being out and proud together, that he's a long way from going from two decades of straight-dating to being in an openly gay relationship, in the eyes of friends who have seen him trip through a string of cis-women for all that time. I can't allow myself to hope that he will ever reach that point, if he admits to being unsure now. But it's still a considerable improvement from assuming that we're already doomed.

He says that the closest concession he can conceive of being able to make right now is to make introductions as "this is M, the person I love." It's sort of odd that such a sentence should seem so awkward; why don't we talk about the person we love? Why must gender always be assigned? Girlfriend, boyfriend, husband, wife... all gender-delineated. Fascinatingly the only standard American gender-neutral romantic partner word is originally French: fiancée. Maybe I'm just weird, but I really wouldn't mind introducing my significant other as, "this is X, X is my person". I think everyone would get what I was talking about. 

Writing Under the Influence

Ethanol Therapy

So in lieu of testosterone therapy, or workout therapy, or even some goddamn talk-to-someone therapy, I have resorted to the age-old remedy; booze. But not just any booze! Belvediere. Cuz that's where its at.

And even I sit here I can smell my own crotch stank. And I know that everybody's individual, but I'm still pretty sure that all lady crotch stanks are distinctly distinguishable from manly crotch stanks. Who would think that THAT could be a trigger? Who thinks about it? No one, except the people who are going through it. And thats the thing. No one can understand how pervasive this is, how consuming, how everything is a trigger. Even crotch stank.

My mother isn't speaking to me anymore. My father completely misunderstands me. I have to tell this story. Just two days ago I was at my dad's place, trying to get things sorted out so I can move back in, after the guy who raped me has been living there for four years on full ride father-without-a-son sympathy scholarship. And we're looking at this old, crappy ass table that's got drawers under the tabletop. I already knew what was in there. I knew what he was going to find. I waited patiently. Yep. There they were. Pictures of me from when I was 3. I didn't remember the halloween pictures, though. Pictures of me dressed up like a fairy princess. I remembered that my hair was ridiculously long, I didn't remember that it used to be curly. Like, fluffy curls. I was a tall white preschool girl with long curly blondish hair. In a fucking fairy princess dress.

And my dad starts cooing and says that I'll want these someday. I say, as assertively as possible without giving myself away, that I will not. And then he says, look how cute your daughters will be. That might have been the most hurtful thing of all. This assumption that I was going to be a baby factory, that I would end up with multiple girl-children that I could dress up like princesses like my parents had done to me. I'll let him keep the pictures. I'll let him send some copies to my mom. And I'll take some copies for me. I'll put them in an envelope labelled "To Be Burned on the Day of Retribution". Because I can't move on from that, from my past, from what people will always assume was a part of my past, until I present them with something different. Really different. And not this vacillating androgynous in-between expecting people to respect my individuality. Individuality does not exist in a vacuum. I do not exist in a vacuum. I want to help people. And unfortunately, that's going to require working with people. And if I want people to call me "sir", I'm going to have to look and sound and move like a "sir." And when I'm finally ready to make that commitment, I will burn those pictures. Fueled by about a fifth of gin.

But the thing that my dad didn't notice, the thing that dawned on me as he flipped through more and more of these pictures (it looks like I was dressed up as a princess for two consecutive Halloweens; I got chubbier than taller), I realized that in every single one of them, I was not smiling. It was this sort of sad, questioning resignation, the look that says "I don't want to be here, like this, but I don't want to say anything either."

The thing that has pissed me off for years is that he knew. I remember this conversation, I was probably 10 or 11, and I was wondering why men would want to be women, and he scoffed and said "when you were little you wanted to be a boy!" My first thought was "Oh shit he knows, my secret is out." Then I thought, "wait, wanted? He thinks it's over." Then, "wait, he knew?! And he didn't do anything about it?" I don't know what happened that these declarations of self that occurred before I even had memory of them were silenced, but I knew it wasn't because they became any less true. I can't help but blame him; he knew, and he did nothing. Not just nothing; he silenced me. I can think of no other force that could have put me so thoroughly in the closet by the time I was entering "Louis" in the name-screen of Pokemon: Blue Version on my gameboy color. Except for maybe my mom. I never found out whether she knew about my preferences as a toddler, but it seems unlikely that my father was listening more closely to what I had to say. And I find it doubly unlikely that he would be so adamant about putting me in terrible outfits. My mother does remember the day when I refused to wear dresses from then on out. But my mother has always encouraged me to be in the closet in other ways. Her entire argument against tattoos is that they limit job mobility, and if you're an olympic athlete with a tattoo visible because you're wearing a fucking speedo to compete on behalf of your country, it's disrespectful to your country. Give me a fucking break. Unless ink under the skin is causing drag, all these athletes owe us is their best effort, and we owe them our respect for their effort, and for representing one of the most OPEN and DIVERSE (theoretically) countries in the world. My mother wouldn't give me money for tuition, or even food. But she would take me on extravagant shopping sprees so that I could "make a good first impression." This is how this woman's mind works. So it's no surprise that she would tell a four year old girl with an "I'm a boy" complex to keep "her" mouth shut about it. So I did. And I'm only now just regaining my voice. And it is so painful. And it still isn't loud enough for anyone to hear, like listening to a kitten's first attempts at chirping. It's a bad example, because that is fucking adorable. This, this is just pathetic.

I don't know what I'm waiting for. I'm constantly waiting for something, always another excuse, a reason that will surely go away in the foreseeable future that will clear the way for my self-declaration. I'm almost twenty-two. How much more time do I need to let pass? My mother has a said a handful of wise things in her time, and one that seems relevant now is, "if there were a perfect time to have a baby, there wouldn't be any." I am being reborn in the eyes of my peers, and the world at large. There will never be a perfect time. There will never be a time that I have enough courage to close my eyes, push through the fodder and shout "I am self" to a crowd of people who are just trying to go about their own lives and don't have time for my shit, unless I summon that courage, until I make today the day. Nobody's going to tell me, there (probably) won't be a sign from God. The decision will be mine, without guidance or signal of any kind. It will inevitably be "the wrong time", but what other time could there possibly be? I'm going to pick the least of the possible "worst moments" to present myself to the world and that will be the best I can do.

The more I read the more I know, but still I have not stumbled across a published "Guide to Coming Out as Trans." I guess that's not entirely true. Many trans people have published their coming-out stories, but always with the disclaimer that this is specific to their context. And ain't that just the truth. Even when there is a published guide, like what classes to take and when for a college major, everyone has their own reasons to deviate; some elective that they just couldn't wait until next year to take so they put off a major class, taking a major class early to prepare for some program or test, or wondering if they're even going to stick to that major. The human experience is messy; no matter how much hand-holding goes on, very few people go through it perfectly "according to plan."

It seems like such a distant dream, to be married, to have someone stick by you through the transition. Someone who falls in love with you in one body and stays in love with you while your body undergoes drastic change and is willing to commit to the person you will be. Perhaps that's the human ideal, loving you for who you are on the inside regardless of who you are on the inside, at least, it seems to be the ideal in the LGBT/progressive community. This is where we want society to be. But can humanity obtain it? Apparently it has, for at least two MTFs. But I'm not MTF. I'm FTM. And that's very different. The two people who have stuck by their lovers through transition have been women; I've only ever been with men. I've only ever fallen in love with a few women. Women who were all straight. Who, to no fault of their own, pushed me to complete transition so that I could be worthy of their love. Three women. Three beautiful, complicated, wonderful, straight women. And I hope I will never forget them, or their names, or how they were beautiful on the inside. But in many ways it was their femininity that made them beautiful, and I would be the last person to deny them their gender identity. Granted, I only understand the attraction to being a woman in an academic perspective; it is not something I can identify with personally, because I never personally felt that way. I remember being at the high school prom; I was wearing a dress that really showed off how much my boobs had grown in. A teacher commented on how much I'd grown up. I expressed that I felt that I didn't belong there, at a high school prom, not in that beautiful dress, not with those ridiculous orbs of fat hanging off my chest.

The more I think about it, the more I think of myself as non-gendered. I think of what God could have made, without any estrogen or testosterone. A slender, short, soft-voiced creature that would know no anger or jealousy and live for 120 years. And perhaps I think of myself this way. But constrained by the English language and American culture, the closest I can get is Male. I don't want breasts, but neither do I want testicles. I'd like to pee standing up, mostly as a convenience. I would like to know what it feels like to be inside a woman. Inside a person. To be entrusted with that kind of vulnerability and treat it with care and gentleness.

And because I've partaken of ethanol therapy, my aquaporins have been deployed and I desperately need to pee in a way that requires entirely too much toilet paper. I mean really, God. This is the stupidest design. And bleeding once a month? I understand the anti-bacterial aspect, but how was this practical before the advent of tampons?

Inevitable End

The Inevitable End?

So why am I depressed? I've been reading a lot of trans*scribe testimonies lately. I feel like I've found people who validate my experiences, my identity, because their concerns and reactions and focus are so similar to mine, despite transitioning in the opposite direction, as it were. I should feel like a member of a community, I should feel valid and real and unapologetic. And to a small extent I do.

Except that at the end of every day, my boyfriend comes home from work. My big muscular fuzzy deep-voiced boyfriend. And I enjoy having someone to care for and to care for me, and he is a very good man. But I know that the moment I take any real step towards self-actualization, he'll be the most supportive "friend" I've got. And it breaks my heart. I'm basically trading any progress in self-actualization for keeping this relationship alive. And this isn't the only relationship. My parents, my school-mates, potential future employers and judgment-makers have all held me back. But in this moment, in these circumstances, his influence is the most keenly felt, and I find myself blaming him in this moment when as I am discovering this community of people who are, without addressing me, telling me that my experiences are real and that transition may really be the answer to a happy life, I am still not moving forward in any physical (or even un-anonymously social) way.

It's not like I haven't been in this situation before. Being with a man who says "I like women, I understand that you feel like a man on the inside but that won't really matter to me until you actually change your body so until then we can fuck and think about a future together where you never change your body." In a very convoluted way, it's disrespectful. To make so clear that their romantic love is conditional on my physical appearance and gender-parts... and to allow the relationship to continue, is pretty much owning that they are holding me hostage, forcing me to choose between being loved and being myself. And that's sort of a horrible thing to do. It's also sort of my fault, because, well, I allowed it to happen. It's always my choice to acknowledge their unilateral sexuality, leave the relationship and continue untethered on my journey of self-actualization. But let's be real, lonely is a terrible option. It's the reason I've been in the closet this long.

And yes, I've only recently begun using the term "in the closet" to refer to myself. Because it is so fucking true. I'm so admiring and jealous of my friends who are OUT and PROUD, but then, they're mostly gay white men. And white male privilege really trumps a lot. Not to mention that "homosexual" is really the only atypical sexuality that's being flaunted in the media as the big target of tolerance. Gender-fluidity is hardly addressed. Why? Because we have "rights". A transgender person can get their birth certificate sexual assignment changed IF they undergo correctional surgery.

Well that's just great. I feel like I'm going to have a hard time explaining to people why this is unfair. In my mind, it really boils down to this; surgery is scary, and irreversible. Far from "coming out" to your friends by just saying "hey I'm gay", what's asked of transgender people is to put their bodies UNDER THE KNIFE in order to declare their identity. I understand the initial logic. Your stereotypical trans person has some parts that you can usually assume they don't want anymore, either testicles or chesticles. Why wouldn't they want to get those things surgically removed?

Well, let's look at a few arguments. First, they don't want to permanently remove the possibility of having biological children. I think everybody can get on that boat. Second, they don't want to leave scars on their bodies that would prevent a normal (sex) life. That could do with some more elaboration but I'll leave it for now. Third, for quite a few transgender people it's not really about the nibbly bits, it's about presentation! The clothes, the styles, the way they're treated by others. I happen to be one of those people. Yes, I find my breasts to be a passing annoyance and having a vagina is an absolute pain in the crotch, but with circumspection it seems a fair bit better than having super-sensitive shut-down switches knocking about and getting stuck to the side of your leg. I have penis envy sometimes. I have zero scrotum envy. But what I really have is "sir" envy. I just want to be treated like a man, to be allowed to participate in things that men do without getting weird looks (although frankly the days of joining the school wrestling team and games of pick-up basketball are behind me). And yes, in my society women get to do lots of things that men get to, and quite a few things that men don't. Apparently girls can join high school wrestling teams now. Doesn't matter. I want to be called sir and invited to the table as "one of the boys." It's stupidly simple.

Which is why I think that my friends are going to have an extra-hard time treating me as I wish to be treated, because they won't see any of the changes they're looking for. I may not even keep my hair short. Talk about confusion. But this will certainly be the event in which I find out who my real friends are. I'm sure there will be a few disappointed faces from the straight men, but they'll get over it.

Breaking Gender Norms, While Re-writing Your Gender

Getting hair like Brad Pitt, and other tribulations.

So, I've been introduced to this great resource called autostraddle. A website at helping women discover themselves and come together in a safe community, exploring sexuality and society, mostly. Which is all great.

Except that it's for women.

Finally, a group of people who would seem to have the mindset to open and accepting, who might have the information base to point me in the right direction. Except that this group, open and accepting of women of all races, religions, and sexualities, is NOT open to MEN. Or us something-in-betweens-but-decidely-masculine beings. MTFs? Gotcha covered. Lesbians? All over that. FTMs? Uhh, sorry guys.

But there was a very good article I read, about a recent MTF that was not having such a good time because other MTFs were telling her that she was "not feminine enough." This woman decided to dress the way a lot of my (decidely girl) girlfriends choose to dress, in college or on their weekends off work; a fringe band tee-shirt, skinny jeans, and a nice pair of boots. Not exactly girls-only clothes, but definitely being sold in the girls section of Target. Yet these other women are saying that if you're going to be "for-real" transgender, you have to push all the way to the other side of the spectrum; sundresses and skirts seemed to be the message.

And so I have to throw my vote in with this woman. This is a progressive time. Cis, hetero and very proud of it women can be found in favorite-band tees and shapely jeans pretty much everywhere in America and Britain, I think. So isn't that safely within the realm of acceptable dress for a trans woman?

But I don't think that takes it far enough. And I'm going to try very hard to organize my thoughts clearly on this matter. Point one: most trans people, and frankly most LGBT persons and allies, would consider themselves on the cutting, nay, the blunt-force crashing edge of progress when it comes to softening, blending, and in some cases shattering gender norms and barriers. As LGBT we are advocates (I hope) of considering a person as individual, and not categorizing people based on their appearance. Granted, being "outside the box" is often something that points a person out as LGBT, an unfortunate distinction I think.

So basically, I think that transgender people telling other transgender people to dress like heteronormative people and not continuing the work to break gender boundaries and stereotypes is a travesty.

But I understand why we do it.

It's hard enough to "fit in" back with your group of friends and community (the one you came from if not the one you've made in your search for acceptance) after telling them that you'd like them to use different pronouns to refer to you when you're not around, that you'd like them to forget the name they used to know you by and pick up with a new one. To firmly assert that you're not a girl, you're a boy, well, lots of people need proof. And that proof is to fully conform to the gender norms of the gender to claim to be. To still be in the middle gives them every chance to say "nah, you're just faking it, you're just a tomboy/in touch with your feminine side/a fag." And that hurts. So part of being taken seriously is coming out of one closet to get back into another. I hope I will have the strength (and stage time) to assert myself outside that.

I saw this great interview with Jazz, who at the time of the interview was 11 years old. A MTF who was very feminine and very happy about it. And when the interviewer asked her if she liked girls or boys, I found myself holding my breath. And when she said "I like boys," I let it go in a sigh of relief. And I felt ashamed, but not unjustified. I liked this girl, and I really wanted her to "pass," and I knew that part of that had to be heteronormativity. It's just sort of impossible to tell your friends "ohh b-t-dubs, I'm not a straight guy, I'm a lesbian lady. Hiiii!" and be met with the same level of understanding as "ohh b-t-dubs, I'm not a gay guy, I'm a straight lady trapped in a guy's body. Hey y'all!" Why? Because one level of unusual can be overwhelming for some, two levels of unusual can be... unbelievable. Especially when they seem to cancel each other out.

Feeling Useful

Feeling Useful (after a long stint of feeling... unwanted.)

So today I met Destiny. Destiny lives with her mom, brother and sister at a homeless shelter in the grittier part of South Los Angeles. The shelter itself is actually surprisingly nice; private sleeping rooms for families, a well-equipped kid's playroom, PCs for open use (mostly by the adolescents). All in all very clean and up to date. But still, I imagine, as a matter of pride, not a place that people really want to spend the rest of their lives.

Anyways. Destiny is about to enter the 10th grade. She didn't spend a whole lot of time in 9th grade because her mom simply could not get her and her siblings to school, so she ended up failing English, Earth Sciences and Algebra (at least, maybe more). She's retaking English and Earth Sciences this summer without lecture, just home study, packets and tests. But after talking to her and seeing her work through the "elementary school" packets, I can tell that's she's reasonably smart. She can read accurately and reasonably fast, she's fine at basic math and the bare bones of algebra, from what I could see, and she's got a good idea of where she is, too. I think it really frustrated her that she doesn't have a good handle on fractions (a skill deficit thats really out of tune with the rest of her general competency), but that easily points out something that we can focus on.

I asked her what her career goals were. She said she wanted to be a therapist. What kind? For kids. Yes, but what kind? I dunno, for kids? Yes, I said, but kids can go to therapy for all sorts of reasons, maybe their parents are getting divorced, or they moved schools, or they're coming to terms with being gay. Under this pressure, she revealed that she wanted to put her emphasis on addiction. So I spent a few minutes explaining to her the process of becoming a therapist, and that becoming a youth addiction counselor potentially takes much less schooling. I asked her if she was interested in spending more time talking about this stuff, about future-planning, in our future meetings. She said yes.

I felt very useful in that moment. This girl has a pretty solid idea of what kind of work she wants to do in her future, but seemed to have no clue about how to get there, what requirements or obstacles she might have to overcome. It really seemed that she hadn't even though about it, assuming as most young people do that they'll get there eventually and everything will be laid out for them step by step the same way elementary, middle and high school curriculum has been. To get individuals to be the leading force, the primary driver, of their own education, is to undo a decade of training in complacency and followership.

I asked her what she does for fun. Watch TV? Play video games? Nope, she just texts with her friends. Doesn't look up stuff on the internet, or read for fun, just... texts. I have to wonder what happens when her friends aren't also glued to their phones, but then its a big assumption to say that that ever happens. I want to get her into reading. It seems like a good place to start would be beginner's guides to addiction and behavioral therapy methods, so that she at least has an idea of what she'll be doing when she finally gets this dream job of hers. Of course, the benefit of learning more about a profession before you devote all your resources to getting into it, is finding out that maybe this isn't the thing for you. She might find that there's a lot more science involved in this than she is willing to handle; certainly there's going to be a lot a lot a LOT of reading, not that she's incapable of it, but is she ready for it? Would it be a deal-breaker for her to know that part of being in that profession means being on top of all the latest research, and that means... a lot of reading? For someone who doesn't read at all for fun, it would seem to me like a big life-style change. Taking AP classes and college classes were less of a struggle for me I think, in part, because I read a lot. I was extremely comfortable with written language and staring at black words on a white page for hours on end and that allowed me to focus on the things I wasn't comfortable with, like the brand new concepts.

I thought for a moment about getting some copies of Addiction Magazine or the like for her to browse, but then I have to realize, this is a girl who has zero academic exposure to psychology or addiction, and those articles are written for professionals. Much better to get her started with an introductory book, hopefully a copy of the actual texts used in those 8 month addiction counseling programs, something aimed at the person who knows nothing but is trying to break into the profession.

A Third-Gender "Wife" and Her Mother-In-Law

Now, "wife" is in quotes for a variety of reasons. First of all, we are not actually married, I and this boy I might as well call X for privacy purposes and the remainder of this post (chapter? maybe later). I moved in with him and his parents about a month ago as a very temporary solution to a hopefully resolving-at-this-very-moment problem; I have no where else to go. Now, that's slightly misleading; my mother asked me multiple times if I'd like to come live with her. I refused every time, for many reasons that sum up to I know that I would not remain mentally stable and certainly not happy in that situation. My father says that I am always welcome at his house, as does the ex-boyfriend who has been living there for the past 4 years (and I'm rounding down). That should give the discerning reader the shivers, but for those more inclined to benefit of the doubt, I'll spell it out; The Ex and I have tried to get along for those four years. He has sabotaged a few of the other relationships I have attempted to have in that time, has tried to get back together with me not a few times (and to be fair, I gave it a shot once or twice), and in a general sort of way has used sex and guilt to manipulate me. That would all be standard fare for exes that stay in contact; the biting point is that I have been asking him to leave my family home for three years and he never made any visible effort to do so, completely disrespecting me and my relationship with my father. Which if this becomes a proper autobiography will be better outlined in Chapter 7.

So, I refuse to live with my mother or my father for the basic reason that neither would be a good situation for me. And X's parents love me. Though I was very resistant to putting X, his family and myself in this situation, it made sense for me to live amongst people who appreciate me and treat me with respect. So that's what I did.

It's inevitable for all but the most adult-independence-minded of matrons to revert to the mother-son relationship from grade school, and X's mother is no exception. It must be noted that she is an excellent home-maker on top of working a very demanding job; she keeps a beautiful and fastidious environment in most rooms that she would call her own. Her "minimalist" husband does not do much damage to her efforts. X, however, is the quintessential fraternity slob; laundry on the floor, pizza crusts in the bed, the whole nine yards. And of course, he could do this because his mother would clean up after him, primarily to "make up for" being a less-than-present single mother decades past, and secondly to maintain her home to her standards. But, according to X, he needs this help; he can't do it on his own, due to the combined influences of barely-treated bipolarity, unstable employment and an almost permanent state of debt. He just can't handle the stress to take care of himself.

Well, being unemployed, I felt guided by a sense of uselessness to be useful. To him. So in an attempt to put a dent in his 80 lb body fat surplus, I started making him a healthy snack to take to work; apple slices and a yogurt cup. Again, the more discerning readers can already see where this is going. This turned into a pattern, a way for me to influence his diet and to show that I cared. I was a bit concerned when he told me that on one morning when I wasn't up early enough, his mom cut up the apples instead, but I couldn't put my finger on why it bothered me.

This morning I came downstairs to find Mom (X's mom) cutting up an apple and dropping the slices in a zip-lock bag; she thought I was still asleep. There was a tenor chord in my voice when I told her that I had already done it; indeed, an hour ago I had put the zip-lock baggie in the fridge. I then realized exactly what was happening; we were competing for who got to coddle this man-child, and in what ways.

I left the house as quickly as I could; I had to step away from the situation, since we were clearly stepping on each others' toes. I spent the next three hours at my office looking up "wife mother-in-law conflict" articles. It turned out that the situation we were encountering was textbook, but the only thing either of us had done wrong was to humor X's feelings of insufficiency. A man should not need a woman to keep him in clean clothes and eating right, let alone two!

One particular anecdote goes with this; X had been undressing on his side of the bed and leaving his clothes on the floor. This had gone on for a few days until quite a disgusting pile had accumulated. I noticed it. I thought about moving it to the laundry. Then I thought, no, this is something he needs to do for himself. There needs to be a threshold for when even he thinks that things have gotten too messy. The pile disappeared a day later, along with some rearrangement of things in the room, between him leaving for work and coming home. He thanked me for taking care of it. I told him it wasn't me, his mother had done it, and I even bothered to expound that I would never pick his clothes up off the floor, that that was something I expected him to do on his own. I kept to myself, however, that I was disappointed that his mother did not hold him to this same expectation, or at least, that she could not resist intervening when it just got too maddeningly filthy by her standards.

Some may think that I acted prematurely, taking on the "role of a wife" and interpreting the situation as (and consequently reading up on) a wife vs. mother-in-law nurture-struggle. I think there's a grain of truth to that, but I'm also glad that I preemptively took action to educate myself and prevent further conflict.

After reading these articles, I began to look at myself differently; perhaps Mom felt threatened that I was taking on some of her jobs, as if I was suggesting that she couldn't do them herself, that I was encroaching on her territory. After thinking about it for awhile, I started thinking about past events a little differently; was she cleaning up in his room more often than usual, trying to make sure he didn't forget about her, that I would not be allowed to become primary caregiver? I also kicked myself, because the very fact that mom was taking over one of my self-assigned jobs meant that it was a mommy job; I was buying into X's man-boy pity party just as much as she was, enabling his continued dependence. I was being a wife-mom.

Then I came home, and Mom asked me to go back out again to get her some brown sugar and baking chocolate so she could make a cake for tonight's dinner with a family friend, to which I have been invited before and am invited again. And I realized that our dynamic was not nearly as sinister as I had feared; I wasn't just X's caretaker, I was part of the family, contributing my fare share to keep the household running smoothly. The fact that my efforts largely focus on X is to be expected, not just because of our relationship but because, well, Mom, Dad and I are simply a lot more functional than he is; Mom and Dad don't need my help as much as X does. The fact that any portion of my effort goes towards caring for the whole household, such as buying groceries that everyone eats (not just him) or cleaning up in the kitchen, cements my position as a general contributor.

In the editing of this piece, it will be necessary for me to create a better flow accommodating the two relationships I am trying to discuss; the one, wife with mother-in-law, and the other, wife-mom with man-child.

I also read one more anecdotal article, one that made me flinch and groan internally. The "girl-friends, beware if your boyfriend moves back in with his parents, and if he does, watch out for these signs of regression." As I read them, I very clearly recognized behavior patterns that were already present when I first met X; not making his own breakfast, not doing his own laundry. And this inevitably led to my self-questioning; why didn't I have higher standards before? Why didn't this mother/man-child dynamic send me running for the hills as soon as I saw it? Probably it had something to do with all those other reasons why I like him.

Tucker Reed's story

http://coveredinbandaids.tumblr.com/post/43786458193/what-does-a-rapist-look-like-and-how-does-he-come-to

This link contains the transcript of a conversation between Tucker and her rapist, including testimony that she said "no, don't do it!" and he did it anyway. How can anyone say that that's not rape?

Chapter 7

A Third-Gender "Wife" and Her Mother-In-Law

Now, "wife" is in quotes for a variety of reasons. First of all, we are not actually married, I and this boy I might as well call X for privacy purposes and the remainder of this post (chapter? maybe later). I moved in with him and his parents about a month ago as a very temporary solution to a hopefully resolving-at-this-very-moment problem; I have no where else to go. Now, that's slightly misleading; my mother asked me multiple times if I'd like to come live with her. I refused every time, for many reasons that sum up to I know that I would not remain mentally stable and certainly not happy in that situation. My father says that I am always welcome at his house, as does the ex-boyfriend who has been living there for the past 4 years (and I'm rounding down). That should give the discerning reader the shivers, but for those more inclined to benefit of the doubt, I'll spell it out; The Ex and I have tried to get along for those four years. He has sabotaged a few of the other relationships I have attempted to have in that time, has tried to get back together with me not a few times (and to be fair, I gave it a shot once or twice), and in a general sort of way has used sex and guilt to manipulate me. That would all be standard fare for exes that stay in contact; the biting point is that I have been asking him to leave my family home for three years and he never made any visible effort to do so, completely disrespecting me and my relationship with my father. Which if this becomes a proper autobiography will be better outlined in Chapter 7.

So, I refuse to live with my mother or my father for the basic reason that neither would be a good situation for me. And X's parents love me. Though I was very resistant to putting X, his family and myself in this situation, it made sense for me to live amongst people who appreciate me and treat me with respect. So that's what I did.

It's inevitable for all but the most adult-independence-minded of matrons to revert to the mother-son relationship from grade school, and X's mother is no exception. It must be noted that she is an excellent home-maker on top of working a very demanding job; she keeps a beautiful and fastidious environment in most rooms that she would call her own. Her "minimalist" husband does not do much damage to her efforts. X, however, is the quintessential fraternity slob; laundry on the floor, pizza crusts in the bed, the whole nine yards. And of course, he could do this because his mother would clean up after him, primarily to "make up for" being a less-than-present single mother decades past, and secondly to maintain her home to her standards. But, according to X, he needs this help; he can't do it on his own, due to the combined influences of barely-treated bipolarity, unstable employment and an almost permanent state of debt. He just can't handle the stress to take care of himself.

Well, being unemployed, I felt guided by a sense of uselessness to be useful. To him. So in an attempt to put a dent in his 80 lb body fat surplus, I started making him a healthy snack to take to work; apple slices and a yogurt cup. Again, the more discerning readers can already see where this is going. This turned into a pattern, a way for me to influence his diet and to show that I cared. I was a bit concerned when he told me that on one morning when I wasn't up early enough, his mom cut up the apples instead, but I couldn't put my finger on why it bothered me.
This morning I came downstairs to find Mom (X's mom) cutting up an apple and dropping the slices in a zip-lock bag; she thought I was still asleep. There was a tenor chord in my voice when I told her that I had already done it; indeed, an hour ago I had put the zip-lock baggie in the fridge. I then realized exactly what was happening; we were competing for who got to coddle this man-child, and in what ways.
I left the house as quickly as I could; I had to step away from the situation, since we were clearly stepping on each others' toes. I spent the next three hours at my office looking up "wife mother-in-law conflict" articles. It turned out that the situation we were encountering was textbook, but the only thing either of us had done wrong was to humor X's feelings of insufficiency. A man should not need a woman to keep him in clean clothes and eating right, let alone two!
One particular anecdote goes with this; X had been undressing on his side of the bed and leaving his clothes on the floor. This had gone on for a few days until quite a disgusting pile had accumulated. I noticed it. I thought about moving it to the laundry. Then I thought, no, this is something he needs to do for himself. There needs to be a threshold for when even he thinks that things have gotten too messy. The pile disappeared a day later, along with some rearrangement of things in the room, between him leaving for work and coming home. He thanked me for taking care of it. I told him it wasn't me, his mother had done it, and I even bothered to expound that I would never pick his clothes up off the floor, that that was something I expected him to do on his own. I kept to myself, however, that I was disappointed that his mother did not hold him to this same expectation, or at least, that she could not resist intervening when it just got too maddeningly filthy by her standards.
Some may think that I acted prematurely, taking on the "role of a wife" and interpreting the situation as (and consequently reading up on) a wife vs. mother-in-law nurture-struggle. I think there's a grain of truth to that, but I'm also glad that I preemptively took action to educate myself and prevent further conflict.
After reading these articles, I began to look at myself differently; perhaps Mom felt threatened that I was taking on some of her jobs, as if I was suggesting that she couldn't do them herself, that I was encroaching on her territory. After thinking about it for awhile, I started thinking about past events a little differently; was she cleaning up in his room more often than usual, trying to make sure he didn't forget about her, that I would not be allowed to become primary caregiver? I also kicked myself, because the very fact that mom was taking over one of my self-assigned jobs meant that it was a mommy job; I was buying into X's man-boy pity party just as much as she was, enabling his continued dependence. I was being a wife-mom.
Then I came home, and Mom asked me to go back out again to get her some brown sugar and baking chocolate so she could make a cake for tonight's dinner with a family friend, to which I have been invited before and am invited again. And I realized that our dynamic was not nearly as sinister as I had feared; I wasn't just X's caretaker, I was part of the family, contributing my fare share to keep the household running smoothly. The fact that my efforts largely focus on X is to be expected, not just because of our relationship but because, well, Mom, Dad and I are simply a lot more functional than he is; Mom and Dad don't need my help as much as X does. The fact that any portion of my effort goes towards caring for the whole household, such as buying groceries that everyone eats (not just him) or cleaning up in the kitchen, cements my position as a general contributor.

In the editing of this piece, it will be necessary for me to create a better flow accommodating the two relationships I am trying to discuss; the one, wife with mother-in-law, and the other, wife-mom with man-child.

I also read one more anecdotal article, one that made me flinch and groan internally. The "girl-friends, beware if your boyfriend moves back in with his parents, and if he does, watch out for these signs of regression." As I read them, I very clearly recognized behavior patterns that were already present when I first met X; not making his own breakfast, not doing his own laundry. And this inevitably led to my self-questioning; why didn't I have higher standards before? Why didn't this mother/man-child dynamic send me running for the hills as soon as I saw it? Probably it had something to do with all those other reasons why I like him.

Hodgen's Advice

Say What You Know, Know Something Interesting, Know What You Know.

This is the advice of John Hodgen, a man who told himself he couldn't be a writer and so read other people's crap for seven years before he got up the confidence to do what he was made to do.

And I realize that, with enough self-assurance to put it out there, I have a story to tell too. I think many would perceive me as far too young to have some undiscovered knowledge to convey, but the things that happen to us in our coming of age usually are the most interesting, defining moments. And I think my growing up story is just enough mainstream, and just enough weird, to be interesting. I think the hardest trick of this is knowing what I know. Which is sort of anti-Socratean wisdom, but that's just part of the job.

So with Hodgen's words to guide me, I think I may just write a book. I'll call it something like, Third-gender and Clueless: An abnormal individual's encounters with very normal situations.
Here's my first go at the table of contents:

1. Why this isn't just any coming of age story.
a. being smart and not pretty
b. very different fantasy-play
c. parents and hiding in plain sight
2. puberty and identity: the guy with nice boobies.
a. being shaped by girls
b. being wanted by boys
3. Falling in Love with a Boy
4. Falling in Love with a Girl
5. Rebounding over a Boy with Girls
6. An Indifferent Coming-Out
7. The First Time a Boy Lives with Me and My Parents
8. College Boys (who are decidedly not High School Boys)
a. College Girls (not what you think)
9. Being the only Guy in a Girl's Dorm
10. The First Time I Live with a Boy and His Parents
a. being a "wife" with a "mother-in-law"
11. Leaving College, aka Going Back to High School

I'm sure that if I undertake this endeavor, I will have more chapters to add by time I catch up with now, but hell, as a confused teenager with angst and identity issues, if I had seen this table of contents and a free e-book chapter, I would totally fucking read it!
So this is a stand-alone post, and because it's what I've been dealing with all day (I would say chiefly morning, but this it's now 4:30 so eh), I will start with Chapter 10-a.

Beggars, Choosers and Educators

Beggars, Choosers and Educators

So here's an interesting situation. I am a charitable person. I also, to a large degree, believe in freedom of choice. I am also a bit of a nutritionist.

Then this situation presents itself to me. A person begging for a meal. Okay. They want a swiss mushroom burger, onion rings, and a coke. Umm... I wouldn't let my kids eat that, I would never advise anyone to eat that, especially if that's your sole source of nutrition. Good god.
So what am I "allowed" to do by my own moral rules? This is an unforeseen intersection of my guiding values. I am charitable, I am somewhat bound to feed her. I believe in freedom; I am somewhat bound to give her what she wants. But I am a nutritionist; I am bound to advise her to eat differently. What, then, is my course of action? Should I stand there and argue with her to order something different? Should I ignore my gut feelings and give her what she wants, which will contribute to the further deterioration of her health? Should I threaten not to give her charity if she does not order my way? Or should I just order what I think is best, say my money my rules, and let her eat it or dump it?

As it stands I went with the last option. I didn't feel comfortable standing around and arguing with her, telling an older woman that she was making bad decisions for herself, and that I, a youngling, know better. At the same time I can't just be a bystander, an ignorant party and contributor to either her starvation or gluttony. It doesn't look like she's starving, but I'm pretty sure that if a fat person doesn't eat, they'll die of vitamin deficiency before they run out of fat to metabolize. I'd have to research further into the matter.

The greatest, arguably controlled experimentation with human starvation was the holocaust. In that situation, most photographs that I've seen are of incredibly emaciated people. But does evidence exist that corpulent individuals keeled over early, due to some other cause? Probably heart disease and the such killed the genetically predisposed. But conversely, what kept the emaciated people alive as long as they did? What was the composition of their gruel? What concentrations of vitamins, minerals and electrolytes did it contain? How much protein and carbohydrate? And what is important, the absolute values or the relative concentrations? Did they survive on a 10gcarb/10g protein diet because it was in a 50/50 ratio? Would doubling the amount of carbohydrate have had a positive or negative effect? What if the carbohydrate were replaced with fat? These are terribly morbid questions to ask and ones more readily answered in the context of therapeutic diet than of starvation, though such experiments were conducted in America with volunteers, which would probably be a better place to start.

But all of these conditions are a bit of a far cry from the current problem in our homeless, "starving" population. An over-abundance of fat and highly refined sugar. I had no problem giving her a mushroom burger; protein is important. I ordered a side of fruit instead of onion rings and a bottle of water instead of soda. When I handed it all over she said water was better anyway, so I felt redeemed. As it turned out someone else got her some food too so she'll have enough to eat today. A Sunday. If there's one day out of every seven that the homeless should eat well, it's Sunday. At least in a country that subscribes to Judeo-Christian sensibilities. I can't fathom all the inconsistencies, as I have just found a few in myself to boot, but I can hope for this much, that the homeless will eat on Sunday.

Waiting on a call from God

Waiting on a Call from God

So here I was sitting in a little donut/boba shop... I love that these exist by the way... just getting my sugar fix and trying something new. And in walks in this nervous teenage girl, a black girl with a handful of giant pixie sticks, and after a pause she just starts making her pitch, hardly able to annunciate herself. She hands me a little card and I figure out what's going on. Solicitation to support a cause. In this case, a religious sober living home for men. Be saved from your addiction by giving yourself to Jesus Christ. Okay. I'll give. This girl deserves credit just for talking to me, and I try to reward that kind of behavior, to help people come out of their shell. The way I should. Maybe I'm trying to save myself. But that's an essay for another day.
I thought for a second about giving her coins, but I decided against it. This was a good cause, and a small one. They needed and deserved more. And so did she. I reach into my wallet, there are no ones. So I hand her a five. In my hunt for lodging and employment I am keenly aware of my excess cash, my bountiful blessings, and $5 is not too much to share. And the girl was so surprised by this, that bless her heart, she asked me if I wanted change. I said no. This could be her big prize of the day. She asked me if I wanted any candy. I took a giant pixie stick. Why? Because they are just so ridiculous, and I don't think I've seen one, let alone had one, in years.
What I will remember most from this encounter was how shredded her annunciation was, I'm not sure you could call it an accent, maybe she just doesn't speak much or it was an effect of the terrible nervousness or maybe thats just how the people in her community talk, but I hope talking to new people will help her practice more understandable diction. The other thing I will remember is how she called me sister. I was invited into her community. And maybe its a ploy, one of the psychological schemes used to get people to donate, but here's the problem. A girl that young, with a face that innocent, and a pitch that desperate, rooted in faith, cannot call a person her sister without believing it herself. She believes that I am in her community, especially since we are now joined in the support of a just cause. And that is how we are going to break the race barriers that still divide one of the most racially rich metropolises in the world.
I can't say for certain that this area is culturally rich. Perhaps because I have never witnessed the practice of culture. Perhaps the interfaith religious discussions at the colleges are the best place to look for evidence of such things. But how, on a day to day basis, is my life different from another person who lives here, on the basis of ancestry? Really the biggest "cultural" difference is defined by money. What you talk about, your daily activities, what you deem necessary for yourself, even the way you expect to be treated, seems to be largely defined by how much money you have. And if you live in a community of similarly rich or poor people, you create a culture, that surrounds either how to survive, or how to thrive. How to have fun on the least cash possible, or how to turn cash into land, and consequently security. How to jam as many people as possible into the least amount of space, or how to organize your prize possessions into the most aesthetically pleasing arrangement. These are the different concerns that define the discussions, thoughts, behaviors of people who live in this disturbingly overcrowded tenement paradise, and these are the things that define culture, I think.
There is one thing that pleases me, though, is the complete dissolution of cuisine barriers. I, for one, would now name as my favorite foods those things that come from far away lands, things that I never would have tasted in times when people didn't mingle, and the foods that would be considered to belong to me culturally have fallen to the bottom of the list. Perhaps its because I was fed my cultural food for most of my childhood and now I'm bored of it. All this to say, the human species is actually much smaller than people tend to realize. We are all much more closely related than is immediately obvious. But its time for us to come together, to mingle. Because we have a planet to save, and the first step to saving it is to discuss it. And how can we have a heartfelt, meaningful discussion if we cannot break bread together, and call each other sister.