Today, I picked up a Kurt Vonnegut novel and read leisurely for the first time in ages. Omnivorously, I absorbed the ideas, and all the while, I could feel my neurons generating useful abstractions. The cobwebs, no longer silent, extolled what I had to say. In that instant, a being of intellectual merit emerged from the wreckage of phylogenetically ancient needs that had threatened for months to consume me with their nothingness.
A semester's worth of irremediable and agonizing mental health issues has made me grow weary of echoing evolutionary sentiments. I want to be human again, not a hominid with impulses.
No longer can I allow the incremental nature of the civil right’s movement to pile up on my shoulders. Tetris is a terminal illness from which I must abdicate responsibility.
Consequently, I have decided to step down from my internship with HRC, an action that completely contradicts my character in every way. It is scary when you partake in a life that you did not envision for yourself. But it is also comforting to know that you are capable of initiating action that is conducive to your health and ultimately, your happiness.
As soon as I walked out of that building, I experienced a growing inclination to make it in this world. The misery dissipated with each step that I took in the opposite direction. The snowball effect that had been accelerating my deterioration halted in its tracks.
I wrote the bulk of this sitting at a table in Bryant Park on 40th. As I wrote, a woman-presumably homeless-babbled incoherently about how we are all victims of brainwashing and mind control.
The harrowing realization that we share so much overlap in terms of statistical vulnerability-bouts spent with nowhere to live, battling mental health issues-served as a reminder that losing our rational elements is an event so very austere.
I must take care of my perspective, for it is all that we have in this world. It is our sole means of self-defense.
Right now, I must fix my perspective so that I can make a toast to wonderful things without alcohol and heal without being a victim. I want to spent this summer feeling inspired rather than insipid, dangerously sleep deprived, and useless.
Which is why I plan on doing something completely unpredictable and wonderful this summer. In addition to obtaining professional help, I think I am going to volunteer on a Native American reservation and go on a Spirit Journey. I am going to travel the country, explore, learn, and create a self that I am capable of finding later when times grow dark again.
It is time to reestablish the roots that my parents snapped like guitar strings and tap into the intravenous potential of my own path.
There are very few things in my life that I have quit; then again, my life has never really asked for much. All it asks for at this point is the feeling of safety, a reminder that no matter what happens, perspective will save you. How you choose to view things is more important than what actually occurs. You can alter your own universe instead of creating an alternative one.
I have decided to alter my universe. For once, I am going to take care of myself and devote a significant portion of my effort to healing.
There are so many options for caged birds that now can at least sing. No longer do I operate under the illusion that I am trapped. After all, even a bar can be bent in half by an unassuming body of water.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Saturday, May 25, 2013
The Life of the Activist
In theory, civil rights are unalienable, or something to that effect. So long as you slide out of a cervix onto U.S. soil-and your parents have done the same-then the lofty ideals of the Constitution will present themselves to you.
In practice, it's a bit more like chutes and ladders. And you slide into more sliding.
The bottom of the chute resembles the very groups that you are fighting for; it looks invisible, much like them.
There is no end in sight when you are always standing. You stand outside, rain or shine. You stand up to the slurs that are thrown not in your general direction, but at yourself. And then you must stand, all day long, until the pavement upon which you perch has been incorporated into your very ankles.
Civil rights movements are so very incremental. As I have previously stated, "I see now how unbelievably hard people at HRC work to garner support so that they can pay for lawyers, lobbyists, and advertising, simply so that they aren't outnumbered by right wing organizations 5:1. It thoroughly disgusts me that ENDA has been introduced in every Congress since 1994 (with the exception of the 109th) and that similar legislation has been introduced since 1974, and it's STILL legal to fire someone in 29 states for being LGB and 34 to fire someone for being trans. I can't even wrap my mind around how many people must have come before me, working their asses off, pouring hours, days, weeks, months, and years into this effort, and we still don't have these fucking basic rights. It's so demoralizing."
And so, I am quickly learning that only certain types of people can be activists. For starters, they absolutely must be passionate about the cause. My two directors each work seventy-six hours a week, and literally don't have lives. I can't even imagine how dedicated they must be. It is a humbling realization.
If they are as disillusioned and jaded as I already am, they do an impeccable job of concealing it. That alone would be impressive.
I wonder how the activist manages to convert tedium, borderline poverty, and dejection into romanticism. How are they capable of adjusting their attitudes so that they are able to survive the opposition they face daily? What frequency do they tap into that sustains their longevity?
At first, I thought that it might be possible to find empowerment through humor. So in my head, I attempted to turn every negative interaction with a stranger into an opportunity for stand up.
"Gay need Jesus."
Gay smash.
"Oh. I'm self-employed. And I don't discriminate against myself."
Haha. Very funny. Actually, wait, no. You should keep your day job, you talentless soul.
"Do you have a minute for gay rights?"
"Uh-oh."
Spaghettios. Anyone ever notice how they look like assholes? Now I see this guy's point. Gay rights do elicit an "uh-oh." And we can't be serving our five-year-olds anal sex in a can. It's just not right.
"Fuck you, faggot."
Fuck you too! But only if we can invite David Bowie, Mick Jagger, and the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Because gay people are into all of that at the same time. The rumors are true.
"I'm not gay!"
Not even for James Dean? It's not a bad place to start. And he probably wouldn't complain.
"We're working to end discrimination against gay and transgender people in the workplace."
"What? Why would you want to do that?"
Same reason you're allowed to have a face, even though you shouldn't be.
"HRC partners give a small monthly contribution."
"Wait. I'm straight. I'm not a member."
"You don't have to be gay to be a member!"
It's a five star club and we will give you free towels with Meryl Streep's face stitched onto the front. Aren't you thrilled about being able to bask in the exclusivity?
And then, I saw that there were some positive encounters interspersed with all of the daunting effort. There was the guy who looked like a broey straight douche fuck, but was actually only straight, and thought it was ridiculous that anyone should be denied rights simply based on who they are. There was the young woman who, in spite of being soaked, exhausted, and broke, said that she would at least stop to hear hear what I had to say because her background in social work had made her sensitive to the plight of disadvantaged groups. There was the adorable old man whose progressive views completely defied what I was (erroneously) expecting from someone his age. There was a young man in a yellow sweater who did not know much about LGBT issues but was completely on board with all human beings having basic rights. And then there was the man with a thick Scottish accent, a shirt that said "Blow Me" above an image of bagpipes, and an affinity for the cause that was so infectious, it must have paralleled my own. He gave me $20 and ardently thanked me for what I was doing.
This is why I kind of feel like I'm in the LGBT military. I'm miserable without detesting what I am doing. Never in a million years could I use the word "hate" in reference to the type of work that I must engage in. This is why that, in spite of how taxing this effort is on every nerve in my body, I will never stop being a part of it. I honestly believe that what I am doing is important, and-in a sense of the word that artificially inflates the value of my own opinion-right.
I also know that what I am doing is the only path to legislative success. Much like when I experienced major trepidation prior to taking testosterone, I realize that the only way out is through.
And the activists that get the job done can only make it with the help of ordinary, average people. Many of the services that we take for granted, such as those that are provided by Planned Parenthood, are only available to us because activists are willing to do the grunt work that makes it possible for them to exist at all.
Whenever you are out on the streets of the city and make the decision that the gym you are headed to takes precedence over what the binder-equipped activist has to say, you undermine the urgency of legislative action and make it that much more difficult for us to overcome the opposition of groups like Focus on the Family and Christian Coalition, organizations that contribute on a weekly basis to discrimination. Freedom-unfortunately-is a marketplace, and it is only by treating ideas as commodities and exchangeable assets that must leave the lips of one and enter the ears of another that our liberty will have any value.
However, we don't only need the finances that give us the sustained and ongoing grassroots support that are required in order for every single campaign to be a success. We desperately need your time of day.
When you stare straight ahead as if the activist is not there, and walk right on by, our intrinsic motivation to do what it is that we do on a daily basis becomes ghostly, as well.
All it takes is one positive interaction to boost the morale of someone who has been standing up, against, and out, all day long.
That basic kindness goes a long way...the entire length of the Statue of Liberty's cervix, actually, just to be clear, in no uncertain terms.
In practice, it's a bit more like chutes and ladders. And you slide into more sliding.
The bottom of the chute resembles the very groups that you are fighting for; it looks invisible, much like them.
There is no end in sight when you are always standing. You stand outside, rain or shine. You stand up to the slurs that are thrown not in your general direction, but at yourself. And then you must stand, all day long, until the pavement upon which you perch has been incorporated into your very ankles.
Civil rights movements are so very incremental. As I have previously stated, "I see now how unbelievably hard people at HRC work to garner support so that they can pay for lawyers, lobbyists, and advertising, simply so that they aren't outnumbered by right wing organizations 5:1. It thoroughly disgusts me that ENDA has been introduced in every Congress since 1994 (with the exception of the 109th) and that similar legislation has been introduced since 1974, and it's STILL legal to fire someone in 29 states for being LGB and 34 to fire someone for being trans. I can't even wrap my mind around how many people must have come before me, working their asses off, pouring hours, days, weeks, months, and years into this effort, and we still don't have these fucking basic rights. It's so demoralizing."
And so, I am quickly learning that only certain types of people can be activists. For starters, they absolutely must be passionate about the cause. My two directors each work seventy-six hours a week, and literally don't have lives. I can't even imagine how dedicated they must be. It is a humbling realization.
If they are as disillusioned and jaded as I already am, they do an impeccable job of concealing it. That alone would be impressive.
I wonder how the activist manages to convert tedium, borderline poverty, and dejection into romanticism. How are they capable of adjusting their attitudes so that they are able to survive the opposition they face daily? What frequency do they tap into that sustains their longevity?
At first, I thought that it might be possible to find empowerment through humor. So in my head, I attempted to turn every negative interaction with a stranger into an opportunity for stand up.
"Gay need Jesus."
Gay smash.
"Oh. I'm self-employed. And I don't discriminate against myself."
Haha. Very funny. Actually, wait, no. You should keep your day job, you talentless soul.
"Do you have a minute for gay rights?"
"Uh-oh."
Spaghettios. Anyone ever notice how they look like assholes? Now I see this guy's point. Gay rights do elicit an "uh-oh." And we can't be serving our five-year-olds anal sex in a can. It's just not right.
"Fuck you, faggot."
Fuck you too! But only if we can invite David Bowie, Mick Jagger, and the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Because gay people are into all of that at the same time. The rumors are true.
"I'm not gay!"
Not even for James Dean? It's not a bad place to start. And he probably wouldn't complain.
"We're working to end discrimination against gay and transgender people in the workplace."
"What? Why would you want to do that?"
Same reason you're allowed to have a face, even though you shouldn't be.
"HRC partners give a small monthly contribution."
"Wait. I'm straight. I'm not a member."
"You don't have to be gay to be a member!"
It's a five star club and we will give you free towels with Meryl Streep's face stitched onto the front. Aren't you thrilled about being able to bask in the exclusivity?
And then, I saw that there were some positive encounters interspersed with all of the daunting effort. There was the guy who looked like a broey straight douche fuck, but was actually only straight, and thought it was ridiculous that anyone should be denied rights simply based on who they are. There was the young woman who, in spite of being soaked, exhausted, and broke, said that she would at least stop to hear hear what I had to say because her background in social work had made her sensitive to the plight of disadvantaged groups. There was the adorable old man whose progressive views completely defied what I was (erroneously) expecting from someone his age. There was a young man in a yellow sweater who did not know much about LGBT issues but was completely on board with all human beings having basic rights. And then there was the man with a thick Scottish accent, a shirt that said "Blow Me" above an image of bagpipes, and an affinity for the cause that was so infectious, it must have paralleled my own. He gave me $20 and ardently thanked me for what I was doing.
This is why I kind of feel like I'm in the LGBT military. I'm miserable without detesting what I am doing. Never in a million years could I use the word "hate" in reference to the type of work that I must engage in. This is why that, in spite of how taxing this effort is on every nerve in my body, I will never stop being a part of it. I honestly believe that what I am doing is important, and-in a sense of the word that artificially inflates the value of my own opinion-right.
I also know that what I am doing is the only path to legislative success. Much like when I experienced major trepidation prior to taking testosterone, I realize that the only way out is through.
And the activists that get the job done can only make it with the help of ordinary, average people. Many of the services that we take for granted, such as those that are provided by Planned Parenthood, are only available to us because activists are willing to do the grunt work that makes it possible for them to exist at all.
Whenever you are out on the streets of the city and make the decision that the gym you are headed to takes precedence over what the binder-equipped activist has to say, you undermine the urgency of legislative action and make it that much more difficult for us to overcome the opposition of groups like Focus on the Family and Christian Coalition, organizations that contribute on a weekly basis to discrimination. Freedom-unfortunately-is a marketplace, and it is only by treating ideas as commodities and exchangeable assets that must leave the lips of one and enter the ears of another that our liberty will have any value.
However, we don't only need the finances that give us the sustained and ongoing grassroots support that are required in order for every single campaign to be a success. We desperately need your time of day.
When you stare straight ahead as if the activist is not there, and walk right on by, our intrinsic motivation to do what it is that we do on a daily basis becomes ghostly, as well.
All it takes is one positive interaction to boost the morale of someone who has been standing up, against, and out, all day long.
That basic kindness goes a long way...the entire length of the Statue of Liberty's cervix, actually, just to be clear, in no uncertain terms.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Why Marriage Equality Is No Longer My Cause
Yesterday, I posted the following status:
"Dear Civil Rights Movement,
Please. Guide me in the right direction this summer while I work for HRC. Help me to reconcile my disillusionment with the neoliberal/albelist/classist/racially unjust/trans exclusive LGB"T" movement and its emphasis on assimilation as a determinant of respectability and equal protection with my faith that the same pragmatic approaches and principles that worked so many years ago will once again motivate genuine social reform. I am torn between promoting change from the inside slowly but surely and the knowledge that I will be enabling an agenda which focuses on the privileged majority and ignores those whose very existence obfuscates its image to the masses..."
That status was triggered by my escalating resentment with a nearly seven year long career in queer activism that has seen one issue beaten to death, and, well...to be perfectly blunt, queer (mostly trans friends) actually beaten and their access to justice occluded by the lack of visibility that is perpetuated by the umbrella LGB movement.
A few weeks ago, one of my closest friends attempted suicide. A lot of his distress resulted from his status as a trans person. To receive the news was nothing short of devastating. I realized to my chagrin not long after that he had joined what I like to call the "How The Other Half Lives" club. Since 50% of trans individuals attempt suicide by their 20th birthday, I use this term to denote those of us who incredulously ask our trans brothers and sisters who do not try to take their lives, "Really? How does the other half actually live? How do they do it when this world is so inhospitable to our existence?!"
Today, I received a Facebook message that did it for me. This message was sent by a trans friend who has already been severely taken advantage of by the system in regards to his trans related health care. He is commenting about Rainbow Perspectives at Rutgers and how invaluable it is, since he faced many difficulties at his old school due to his trans status:
"I would have had a much higher chance of being able to graduate living in that situation. I feel like such a failure dropping out but I just can't live like this anymore. I'm really happy that situations like your exist and I really hope that more students are given that option. I'm so happy that you are where you are. I'm sure you'll use your education to do great things and I hope to see you this weekend."
It made me cry. It still makes me cry that HRC employees made trans activists remove the trans flag from the view of cameras at a protest in Washington D.C. that had been organized by those who wanted to see DOMA and Prop 8 rescinded.
What moves me so much about the Freedom Rides of 1961 is that both black and white people were willing to die so that all Americans could have rights.
But it is 2013 and I feel like I am watching my trans family drop like flies around me. I am sick of feeling as though there is something so egregiously wrong with our identity that those in power are ashamed to expand legislation in our name.
They hone in on our protection-worthy status without even bothering to know us as people, and by focusing only on our vulnerability, and not the damaging perceptions that cause others to target us in the first place, we become this burden, a Scarlet Letter facing a situation so grave that the LGB group begrudgingly adopts our cause in the name of purported fairness.
But they are not really willing to die for us, and with us, as I undoubtedly would have been willing to do for my black brothers and sisters, provided that I had been born in the 1960's and able to participate in the Freedom Rides.
At this point, we remain a knob of disenfranchised and severely disadvantaged nerve endings that are easier for those in power to amputate than repair.
This post is for every trans person I have met who has has attempted suicide (nearly all of them), who has been homeless for who they are, who has been physically or sexually injured because of who they are, who has turned to sex work or lives in poverty due to employment discrimination, and who has cried in despondency before Google search results that yield no promise of conditions improving for trans individuals anytime soon.
And this is why I have pretty much stopped giving a shit about marriage equality.
"Dear Civil Rights Movement,
Please. Guide me in the right direction this summer while I work for HRC. Help me to reconcile my disillusionment with the neoliberal/albelist/classist/racially unjust/trans exclusive LGB"T" movement and its emphasis on assimilation as a determinant of respectability and equal protection with my faith that the same pragmatic approaches and principles that worked so many years ago will once again motivate genuine social reform. I am torn between promoting change from the inside slowly but surely and the knowledge that I will be enabling an agenda which focuses on the privileged majority and ignores those whose very existence obfuscates its image to the masses..."
That status was triggered by my escalating resentment with a nearly seven year long career in queer activism that has seen one issue beaten to death, and, well...to be perfectly blunt, queer (mostly trans friends) actually beaten and their access to justice occluded by the lack of visibility that is perpetuated by the umbrella LGB movement.
A few weeks ago, one of my closest friends attempted suicide. A lot of his distress resulted from his status as a trans person. To receive the news was nothing short of devastating. I realized to my chagrin not long after that he had joined what I like to call the "How The Other Half Lives" club. Since 50% of trans individuals attempt suicide by their 20th birthday, I use this term to denote those of us who incredulously ask our trans brothers and sisters who do not try to take their lives, "Really? How does the other half actually live? How do they do it when this world is so inhospitable to our existence?!"
Today, I received a Facebook message that did it for me. This message was sent by a trans friend who has already been severely taken advantage of by the system in regards to his trans related health care. He is commenting about Rainbow Perspectives at Rutgers and how invaluable it is, since he faced many difficulties at his old school due to his trans status:
"I would have had a much higher chance of being able to graduate living in that situation. I feel like such a failure dropping out but I just can't live like this anymore. I'm really happy that situations like your exist and I really hope that more students are given that option. I'm so happy that you are where you are. I'm sure you'll use your education to do great things and I hope to see you this weekend."
It made me cry. It still makes me cry that HRC employees made trans activists remove the trans flag from the view of cameras at a protest in Washington D.C. that had been organized by those who wanted to see DOMA and Prop 8 rescinded.
What moves me so much about the Freedom Rides of 1961 is that both black and white people were willing to die so that all Americans could have rights.
But it is 2013 and I feel like I am watching my trans family drop like flies around me. I am sick of feeling as though there is something so egregiously wrong with our identity that those in power are ashamed to expand legislation in our name.
They hone in on our protection-worthy status without even bothering to know us as people, and by focusing only on our vulnerability, and not the damaging perceptions that cause others to target us in the first place, we become this burden, a Scarlet Letter facing a situation so grave that the LGB group begrudgingly adopts our cause in the name of purported fairness.
But they are not really willing to die for us, and with us, as I undoubtedly would have been willing to do for my black brothers and sisters, provided that I had been born in the 1960's and able to participate in the Freedom Rides.
At this point, we remain a knob of disenfranchised and severely disadvantaged nerve endings that are easier for those in power to amputate than repair.
This post is for every trans person I have met who has has attempted suicide (nearly all of them), who has been homeless for who they are, who has been physically or sexually injured because of who they are, who has turned to sex work or lives in poverty due to employment discrimination, and who has cried in despondency before Google search results that yield no promise of conditions improving for trans individuals anytime soon.
And this is why I have pretty much stopped giving a shit about marriage equality.
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