Let’s not talk about Tyler Clementi.
Twenty-six-year-old Eyricka Morgan died earlier this week at Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital after she was stabbed to death by a man living in her boarding house on Baldwin Street.
There are many among us who would like to know why the murder of a former Rutgers student in the town that we have come to call home is not enough to galvanize a national response to the violence that many transgender people, and especially transgender women of color, face on a daily basis.
But I don’t think that the trans* community needs to draw parallels to the struggles of a gay student in order to humanize our own experiences or make them more palpable to the masses. I want us to be defined by our own citizens.
This is why people who want to help should be asking what the murder of Eyricka Morgan means to us, and how this incident stymies our efforts to create a safe space.
Ask us how it feels to wait in line for food at the dining hall or ride the bus as our bodies are scrutinized by passerby, our secondary sex characteristics are subjected to appraisal, and our identities are invalidated by a lingering gaze.
Ask us how it feels when a file drawer full of death threats is not enough to mobilize university administrators to protect our trans* brothers and sisters in other states.
Ask us how it feels to know that our rapists were attacking a fundamental facet of who we are and why, consequently, opportunistic or random acts of violence mean nothing to us.
Ask us why random acts of kindness also mean nothing, and we will tell you that it is because the condition by which the kindness of a stranger is extended to us is our silence about our life experiences and who we actually are.
Do not further obfuscate the voice of Eyricka Morgan by publishing a name that she did not choose in local media outlets or by making claims that she faced constant “homophobia.”
Transgender people face “transphobia.” The speech and actions of the majority of people on this earth, including some who identify with the LGB community, serve to objectify and demean us. I frame my approaching graduation not in terms of my same-sex attraction, but in terms of my unique marginalized framework. When a recent Rutgers graduate is murdered a few streets away from where I had previously felt safer than anywhere else in the world, graduation can be seen as a catalyst for destruction at the hands of others and a safe space antagonist.
The perennial violence makes me feel dispensable, like a paper airplane, something that can be brought into this world only to be devalued and thrown away. I feel this way not because I am queer, but rather, because I am trans*. The number of faces that we can place to the malice aforethought and self-slaughter is unprecedented.
As I write this, I ask a close trans* friend of mine who is sitting next to me if it is a terrible thing to admit that there are times when I view myself, as well as other trans* people, as less than human. His chilling empathy is a reminder that the internalization of salient public stigma transfers the ownership of our bodies to the spirit of the times.
This pervasive attitude has profound repercussions, as fifty percent of us will have attempted suicide by our twentieth birthdays. I often ask myself if this means that the trans* community is half full, or half empty.
This is why when, in an attempt to bridge that gap between our lives and deaths, I don’t want to talk about Tyler Clementi, homophobia, or gay rights. Let us not launch these discussions under the LGB banner.
Instead, recognize what the murder of Eyricka Morgan means to us as trans* people.
Monday, September 30, 2013
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Letter To My Doctor Regarding the Treatment of Trans* Patients
Dear Dr. **********,
It is my duty to preface by saying that the services you provide trans* patients are indispensable. I am deeply aware of this. I see you as an advocate on our behalf, and it is precisely because I value you in this capacity that I must discuss the manner in which these services are provided.
To be completely honest, I walked away from my most recent appointment with you deeply upset. When you said that you knew a good therapist who could completely eliminate my female speech patterns, tears automatically sprung to my eyes, not because I felt emasculated (since I transitioned to become closer to myself and not closer to the emulation of male stereotypes), but because I felt so pressured by the expectations of a cisgendered person.
You said that you felt you were only doing your job, but it is not your place to establish how someone should express their gender, nor to suggest that some element of their gender expression should be "corrected."
I identify as male but my gender expression is fluid. One day I want to dress like a British school boy; the next, I wear my old girl jeans and belly shirts. I adore makeup and love wearing eyeliner. I'm in a queer fraternity whose members venerate drag artists and collect heels.
Throughout my transition, I have had to censor from several doctors the elements of my gender identity that society does not categorize as male out of fear that they would rescind their necessary support. The medical community is not kind to people whose gender experiences do not fit into binary concepts. Unfortunately, we are forced to assimilate in order to access the care that we so desperately need. For example, I made sure I saw one of the best endocrinologists in Manhattan not because I needed an approval letter from him, but solely because I didn't want to start taking testosterone until I knew that I was completely healthy, and I wanted a second opinion. All I wanted was for him to do things like check my thyroid, and he proceeded to asking me really intrusive and unnecessary questions about things like my sex life/sexual preferences and what role I adopted or saw myself assuming in bed.
So please understand that the current paradigm of transgender health oppresses trans* people. When medical and mental health practitioners police our gender expression, our bodies cease to belong to us. When my (stereotypically) male business casual attire elicited your approval or when you told my friend that his haircut was "appropriate" and insinuated that his clothing choice satisfied the supposed requirements of his gender, I felt as though we were being appraised rather than complimented. Understand that on a daily basis, we are subjected not only to these institutionalized methods of observation, but also to the scrutiny of society. For example, I am used to hearing from a lot of people that I am "convincing" or being asked if I had "the surgery." The constant barrage of intrusive questions and unsolicited praise creates a cultural context in which a trans* person feels as though his or her body constitutes public domain.
At the end of the day, what makes a person who is assigned female at birth male or a person who is assigned male at birth female is our word. Our interests are secondary. Our behaviors are secondary. The way we dress or style our hair is secondary. I do not agree that these things are important or even worth addressing. I think that the medical community needs to accommodate our core sense of self, rather than the other way around. After all, cisgendered women don't have to justify to their doctors why they want a breast augmentation. We are the only group of people whose medical autonomy has little instrumental value on its own.
Also, I am empathetic to the fact that pronouns can be difficult to master, especially when you are juggling many trans* people in your head at once. Even I have slipped when addressing fellow trans* friends. All the same, I have to inform you that the way in which you handled the situation in my friend's case should not be repeated. In the future, if you use the wrong pronoun, an apology will suffice. When you turned to me and said that I am easier to work with because of where I am visually, your use of words implied that my friend looks less biologically male, which is the opposite of what he would want to hear. It is not acceptable to justify your instance of misgendering by using my friend's appearance as a scapegoat.
Finally, over the course of my transition, you have consistently reminded me of how bad my acne is and how greatly the testosterone had exacerbated it, even though I have been very clear about not wanting to focus on my face. On several occasions, I have firmly rejected the offer for acne medication and made my aversion to the topic clear. There is a reason why I insist on keeping the conversations medically relevant and less focused on my appearance. The eating disorder that flared up this summer was certainly not the first one I have struggled with. When you told me that my skin looked a lot better, in spite of there still being a little bit of acne on the right side of my face...which you pointed out...it made me feel uglier when I looked in the mirror. Eating disorder histories, as well as patient requests to abstain from topics surrounding body image, should be appreciated and taken into account when dispensing advice. Because honestly, every time you fixate on what is wrong with me, or even on my appearance in general, I don't want to eat. I never want to talk about my acne again.
There is something that is uniquely scathing about being subjected to the judgments and values of people in positions of authority; please recognize that because you are the one who decides upon the provision of hormonal treatment and who gives the diagnosis, someone else is at your mercy. I know that you are try so hard to be helpful, and that effort is greatly, truly, appreciated. We need advocates like you and we do not take that for granted. But please be aware at every moment that the practices and protocols under which you operate are the product of a system that was assembled for trans* people, and not by trans* people.
Sincerely,
Jordan Pollak
It is my duty to preface by saying that the services you provide trans* patients are indispensable. I am deeply aware of this. I see you as an advocate on our behalf, and it is precisely because I value you in this capacity that I must discuss the manner in which these services are provided.
To be completely honest, I walked away from my most recent appointment with you deeply upset. When you said that you knew a good therapist who could completely eliminate my female speech patterns, tears automatically sprung to my eyes, not because I felt emasculated (since I transitioned to become closer to myself and not closer to the emulation of male stereotypes), but because I felt so pressured by the expectations of a cisgendered person.
You said that you felt you were only doing your job, but it is not your place to establish how someone should express their gender, nor to suggest that some element of their gender expression should be "corrected."
I identify as male but my gender expression is fluid. One day I want to dress like a British school boy; the next, I wear my old girl jeans and belly shirts. I adore makeup and love wearing eyeliner. I'm in a queer fraternity whose members venerate drag artists and collect heels.
Throughout my transition, I have had to censor from several doctors the elements of my gender identity that society does not categorize as male out of fear that they would rescind their necessary support. The medical community is not kind to people whose gender experiences do not fit into binary concepts. Unfortunately, we are forced to assimilate in order to access the care that we so desperately need. For example, I made sure I saw one of the best endocrinologists in Manhattan not because I needed an approval letter from him, but solely because I didn't want to start taking testosterone until I knew that I was completely healthy, and I wanted a second opinion. All I wanted was for him to do things like check my thyroid, and he proceeded to asking me really intrusive and unnecessary questions about things like my sex life/sexual preferences and what role I adopted or saw myself assuming in bed.
So please understand that the current paradigm of transgender health oppresses trans* people. When medical and mental health practitioners police our gender expression, our bodies cease to belong to us. When my (stereotypically) male business casual attire elicited your approval or when you told my friend that his haircut was "appropriate" and insinuated that his clothing choice satisfied the supposed requirements of his gender, I felt as though we were being appraised rather than complimented. Understand that on a daily basis, we are subjected not only to these institutionalized methods of observation, but also to the scrutiny of society. For example, I am used to hearing from a lot of people that I am "convincing" or being asked if I had "the surgery." The constant barrage of intrusive questions and unsolicited praise creates a cultural context in which a trans* person feels as though his or her body constitutes public domain.
At the end of the day, what makes a person who is assigned female at birth male or a person who is assigned male at birth female is our word. Our interests are secondary. Our behaviors are secondary. The way we dress or style our hair is secondary. I do not agree that these things are important or even worth addressing. I think that the medical community needs to accommodate our core sense of self, rather than the other way around. After all, cisgendered women don't have to justify to their doctors why they want a breast augmentation. We are the only group of people whose medical autonomy has little instrumental value on its own.
Also, I am empathetic to the fact that pronouns can be difficult to master, especially when you are juggling many trans* people in your head at once. Even I have slipped when addressing fellow trans* friends. All the same, I have to inform you that the way in which you handled the situation in my friend's case should not be repeated. In the future, if you use the wrong pronoun, an apology will suffice. When you turned to me and said that I am easier to work with because of where I am visually, your use of words implied that my friend looks less biologically male, which is the opposite of what he would want to hear. It is not acceptable to justify your instance of misgendering by using my friend's appearance as a scapegoat.
Finally, over the course of my transition, you have consistently reminded me of how bad my acne is and how greatly the testosterone had exacerbated it, even though I have been very clear about not wanting to focus on my face. On several occasions, I have firmly rejected the offer for acne medication and made my aversion to the topic clear. There is a reason why I insist on keeping the conversations medically relevant and less focused on my appearance. The eating disorder that flared up this summer was certainly not the first one I have struggled with. When you told me that my skin looked a lot better, in spite of there still being a little bit of acne on the right side of my face...which you pointed out...it made me feel uglier when I looked in the mirror. Eating disorder histories, as well as patient requests to abstain from topics surrounding body image, should be appreciated and taken into account when dispensing advice. Because honestly, every time you fixate on what is wrong with me, or even on my appearance in general, I don't want to eat. I never want to talk about my acne again.
There is something that is uniquely scathing about being subjected to the judgments and values of people in positions of authority; please recognize that because you are the one who decides upon the provision of hormonal treatment and who gives the diagnosis, someone else is at your mercy. I know that you are try so hard to be helpful, and that effort is greatly, truly, appreciated. We need advocates like you and we do not take that for granted. But please be aware at every moment that the practices and protocols under which you operate are the product of a system that was assembled for trans* people, and not by trans* people.
Sincerely,
Jordan Pollak
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
My Fight Against (Psychiatric) Ableism
Every night, I slip my fingers into a prison jumpsuit. The undertone of duty is flimsy and revealing and dispenses hard slabs that will improve my character.
Orange, the color of the bottle, the color of being corrected, sends the signal that I am off-limits. It communicates that I am stable but no longer desirable. The only "package" that I have is a set of behaviors that are associated with prudes and prohibitionists, neither of which I identify even remotely as.
Prescriptions are not flattering, and neither are the lifestyle changes that accompany them. I believe that I now have the complexion of a cobblestone path, bumpy and full of imperfections. There isn't a lot of makeup available in this institutional setting, so I do not have the luxury of looking my absolute best each day.
I thought that the stigma inherent in being bipolar with psychotic features, in addition to having PTSD from verbal/physical/sexual abuse, was something that I could turn my back on. Instead, I feel nearly as devalued for my current state of well being because this status is conditional.
For seven years, I was chronically suicidal and couldn't even walk down the street or perform day-to-day activities without great difficulty because a much more terrifying reality was constantly being superimposed on me. Ironically, it is only by experiencing optimal mental health (thanks to medication) and engaging in the practices that are necessary in order to maintain it that I have come to realize how ablest our culture actually is.
As a sopping hippie, I have absolutely no objectives to participating in a society that fully celebrates sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. Those are actually some of my favorite things in the world, at least, conceptually. But I cannot embrace them with open arms as my contemporary counterparts might, and as much as I would love to.
Everything serves as a potential trigger. When you possess brain chemistry that is being held up by stilts, or when you have an extensive history of abuse, eating disorders, drug abuse/dependency, and self-harm, the Roaring Twenties can come crashing down in the blink of an eye.
I feel alienated from the conversations that I cannot partake in, lest they be triggering. I cannot go to parties or even small gatherings because the overwhelming majority involve alcohol and put me at risk of either relapsing or re-experiencing trauma. The one and only drug that has actually been highly beneficial to me (marijuana) and offers a cornucopia of therapeutic application potential for enhancing my mental health is demonized by society and invites even more stigma. I fear the ubiquitous displays of sexuality because they symbolize what happened in my past, even though I desperately crave safe intimacy with another human being.
I can't enjoy the cornerstones of college life, such as caffeine and late night excursions, or other things that either make my medication less effective or make me more susceptible to relapse. I sometimes feel as though companionship will be rescinded as a result. It is lonely.
I cannot, under any circumstances, pull all-nighters unless I want to run the risk of being hospitalized or having a huge breakdown. Being excessively sleep deprived is enough to plunge me into despondency and crippling paranoia.
And in spite of how well my treatment is working, I cannot help but feel like compliance bars me from the rest of my community. It's like having a curfew on the most important New Year's Eve of the decade. Everything is on ice-champagne, vodka, dancing, and one night stands. It is a culture in which everything with a...spin is critically acclaimed.
I know in my heart that I am much better off taking care of myself.
But also in my heart, I want to be culturally attuned. I do not want to miss out on history. I want to be one of the writers.
So what can be done to overcome this sense of inferiority, this sense of being estranged from your own chronological age?
It is difficult when you are up against cultural staples. I will be working to neutralize the corrosive effects of the media and the messages that it promulgates until the day I die. Every school shooting rains acid on my parade. I wake up in the aftermath of a tragedy to find social media outlets facilitating the derogatory statements that are made about all people with mental health issues-namely, those who experience either psychosis or elements of it. It is a phenomenon that is highly misunderstood by the general public.
Laypeople frantically view you through the lens of LSD. You are seen as a caricature of the brain, a mockery of an organ.
Legislation approaches you as an archaeological find instead of a living, breathing member of an ecosystem. Your body can be understood and tolerated, but it is never meant to participate in contemporary, earthly matters.
I still don't have an answer. I am still fighting to assert an identity that defies the Hedonist/Puritanical dichotomy. I am lost in a world of synonyms and antonyms. All I know is that it will take more than a crossword puzzle clue to figure out what label I have an affinity for, and into which spaces I can fit.
Orange, the color of the bottle, the color of being corrected, sends the signal that I am off-limits. It communicates that I am stable but no longer desirable. The only "package" that I have is a set of behaviors that are associated with prudes and prohibitionists, neither of which I identify even remotely as.
Prescriptions are not flattering, and neither are the lifestyle changes that accompany them. I believe that I now have the complexion of a cobblestone path, bumpy and full of imperfections. There isn't a lot of makeup available in this institutional setting, so I do not have the luxury of looking my absolute best each day.
I thought that the stigma inherent in being bipolar with psychotic features, in addition to having PTSD from verbal/physical/sexual abuse, was something that I could turn my back on. Instead, I feel nearly as devalued for my current state of well being because this status is conditional.
For seven years, I was chronically suicidal and couldn't even walk down the street or perform day-to-day activities without great difficulty because a much more terrifying reality was constantly being superimposed on me. Ironically, it is only by experiencing optimal mental health (thanks to medication) and engaging in the practices that are necessary in order to maintain it that I have come to realize how ablest our culture actually is.
As a sopping hippie, I have absolutely no objectives to participating in a society that fully celebrates sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. Those are actually some of my favorite things in the world, at least, conceptually. But I cannot embrace them with open arms as my contemporary counterparts might, and as much as I would love to.
Everything serves as a potential trigger. When you possess brain chemistry that is being held up by stilts, or when you have an extensive history of abuse, eating disorders, drug abuse/dependency, and self-harm, the Roaring Twenties can come crashing down in the blink of an eye.
I feel alienated from the conversations that I cannot partake in, lest they be triggering. I cannot go to parties or even small gatherings because the overwhelming majority involve alcohol and put me at risk of either relapsing or re-experiencing trauma. The one and only drug that has actually been highly beneficial to me (marijuana) and offers a cornucopia of therapeutic application potential for enhancing my mental health is demonized by society and invites even more stigma. I fear the ubiquitous displays of sexuality because they symbolize what happened in my past, even though I desperately crave safe intimacy with another human being.
I can't enjoy the cornerstones of college life, such as caffeine and late night excursions, or other things that either make my medication less effective or make me more susceptible to relapse. I sometimes feel as though companionship will be rescinded as a result. It is lonely.
I cannot, under any circumstances, pull all-nighters unless I want to run the risk of being hospitalized or having a huge breakdown. Being excessively sleep deprived is enough to plunge me into despondency and crippling paranoia.
And in spite of how well my treatment is working, I cannot help but feel like compliance bars me from the rest of my community. It's like having a curfew on the most important New Year's Eve of the decade. Everything is on ice-champagne, vodka, dancing, and one night stands. It is a culture in which everything with a...spin is critically acclaimed.
I know in my heart that I am much better off taking care of myself.
But also in my heart, I want to be culturally attuned. I do not want to miss out on history. I want to be one of the writers.
So what can be done to overcome this sense of inferiority, this sense of being estranged from your own chronological age?
It is difficult when you are up against cultural staples. I will be working to neutralize the corrosive effects of the media and the messages that it promulgates until the day I die. Every school shooting rains acid on my parade. I wake up in the aftermath of a tragedy to find social media outlets facilitating the derogatory statements that are made about all people with mental health issues-namely, those who experience either psychosis or elements of it. It is a phenomenon that is highly misunderstood by the general public.
Laypeople frantically view you through the lens of LSD. You are seen as a caricature of the brain, a mockery of an organ.
Legislation approaches you as an archaeological find instead of a living, breathing member of an ecosystem. Your body can be understood and tolerated, but it is never meant to participate in contemporary, earthly matters.
I still don't have an answer. I am still fighting to assert an identity that defies the Hedonist/Puritanical dichotomy. I am lost in a world of synonyms and antonyms. All I know is that it will take more than a crossword puzzle clue to figure out what label I have an affinity for, and into which spaces I can fit.
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