So, Pride weekend in San Francisco has just passed. The queer film festival, Trans March, Dyke March (or as a friend puts it, The Dyke Stroll), the after parties, the Pride Parade, all in the books. And, it’s been such an impactful weekend for me, causing me to reflect on my place(s) in this fabulous, wounded, and complex community. The weekend, and some of the film festival days before it, had the seemingly mandatory dose of dyke drama, as I was hoping to avoid running into an ex. As I spoke about my recent heartbreak with friends in the community, it was refreshing, and wryly amusing, to hear that that was a “thing” for people, that Pride is filled with these sticky emotional complications, and that “claiming space” is sometimes not so easy where the personal, political, and sexual all intersect so intimately.
I am walking up to the trans gathering in Dolores Park Friday afternoon otherwise known as The Trans March. I pass what appears to be a homeless, unkempt, somewhat intoxicated looking white guy. He starts to call out to me, saying something like “Sir,” and then “Ma’am” as I walk by. I feel an immediate flash of anger at being misgendered (“really, here at the fucking trans march??”), and before I can think, turn around, and give him the finger. These moments of not “passing,” being perceived and then named by another as not a woman, but as a transgender person, or even worse, as a man, still happen to me, 16 or so years into my transition. They sometimes don’t happen for months at a time, and so, when they do, I am caught by surprise, and often don’t know how to respond. Sometimes it doesn’t bother me, because one of the freeing things for me about transitioning to my female gender identity from the anatomically male body I was born into, is that “all bets are off,” and I sometimes like playing with the line between feminine and masculine, between female and male. Given that I identify as a queer woman, and am deeply drawn to other femme of center queer women, I have often found it to my advantage to play up, or emphasize the more masculine parts of my female persona; essentially, it’s helped me get laid more. Anyway, this time, it hurts and i feel embarrassed at having this happen in front of other transfolk, though it was so quick that I don’t think anyone else even sees it.
I make my way up the hill, exploring some of the booths. I am both looking around, and trying not to look, hoping to not see the aforementioned ex. It’s a bit of a contortion to both look and not look, a post intimacy/wreckage magic trick, and somehow, I pull it off. I do end up running into a former client, probably one of many here, and a woman who I have known tangentially for years through trans community stuff; someone who used to work with me on a project. It feels really good to see her. I had always enjoyed her spirit, fierceness, beauty, and voice. There is something unique, I think, about trans female beauty. There are many trans women who, particularly if they transition early in life, pass completely as female. I salute, support, and affirm them, and if I was starting out now as a trans teen, would perhaps be joining them in medical transition before aspects of my ‘maleness’ became more pronounced, and harder to undo. I can be attracted to these women as I am attracted to other cis-women. But a woman who is more obviously trans has something extra (and no, I don’t mean the obvious possible extra of a penis in the trappings of female beauty). I mean an energy, or essence, that, while completely female, is to me ‘female plus.’ Plus what? I don’t know. Plus a silent history that I can relate to, that is so so painful, that we have (with no guarantees at all at the start) survived? Plus some relics in the body, the skeleton, the musculature, of male? I think there are some trans women who have maybe come to an ease with that, are not afraid of or repulsed by that, because it is not at all front and center, and so wear it as a warrior might wear a beautiful, multi-colored banner. It’s not the warrior, it’s the other thing, this startling attractive thing that causes one to look, and notice the warrior in the first place.
Anyway, I am touched and happy that she is thrilled to see me, and we start talking about work and life. At some point, a strange thing happens. Mid conversation, she stops, takes a step back, and blurts out, “You look amazing!” Wow, really? I always thought she looked amazing. And, I can feel that I am looking pretty amazing these days. I’ve recently lost some weight, and my body has tightened up through my brutal gym workouts (the one obvious upside of grief). Because I can never get enough of this shit, I laugh and ask, “What’s amazing?” She takes a moment, looks me over, and says, with a flutter of her arm, “Everything. You!” Soon thereafter, we hug and part. I feel filled up, sated, at ease. I have the rare experience of being in acceptance of myself.
As I turn to walk away, I reflect on the weirdness of being painfully misgendered, and then told I look beautiful, all in the span of about an hour. I feel struck by the strangeness of my life, this queer/trans/womyn life, full of such yearning, heartbreak, loss, friendship, affirmation, courage, fear, the whole odd mysteriousness of it all. Slowly, I take in everything before me; the queer people sitting on blankets in gaudy, playful outfits, the gently rolling hills, the blue cloud spotted sky above, and then, the grass, and the blades of grass, each one adorned in a fine green suit of color. I think about what some zen master said when asked to describe enlightenment. He said “the hills get hillier.” I can feel the green getting greener, and something calm and peaceful enters and emanates from me, one breath in, one breath out. “Why can’t I access this place of ease more often?” I wonder. At that moment, I hear in the distance the clankity clank of the J Church streetcar wending it’s way down the hill towards me, and go “Oh, Shit!” and start to race in a mad dash through the park and down the street to catch the train, taking me back to my busy, crowded, hyper downtown office, to see the last few clients of the week.
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