faithfulimage: A photograph of a button displaying a symbol of queer women—namely, an inverted black triangle. (Default)
To: "Chicago Dyke March Organizers" <dykemarchchicago@gmail.com>

Chicago Dyke March Organizers,

I am writing in response to what the Chicago Dyke March Collective (CDMC) called in a rare moment of forthrightness the “transmisogynistic violence” it has perpetrated against me. My purpose in writing is to explain why I plan to begin fasting on November 24 and what it will take for me to avoid or stop fasting.

My Restatement of Grievances

I remember expressing concern in May of 2009, shortly after I became a member of CDMC—I was the only transsexual woman who was a member at that time—because the collective had received a complaint that performers at Dyke March 2008 used a sexist, cissexist* slur in the context of a cheer that fetishized women who face multiple oppressions. The other members could have acted swiftly to address the problem. Instead they dragged their feet.

I remember making myself vulnerable to members who were using CDMC’s private e-mail discussion group, confiding that I had heard the aforementioned performers use the same slur at Dyke March as far back as 2005. The other CDMC members could have—indeed, as self-declared allies, should have—respected my privacy. Instead a CDMC member forwarded my message, including my name and e-mail address, to the parties who were responsible for using the slur; other members were aware of this but did not tell me.

I remember calling out the cisgender members of CDMC for their inertia. They could have taken the opportunity to educate themselves and grow as activists. Instead they responded with fear-mongering, tone-policing, derailing, and gaslighting.

I remember deciding that avoiding Dyke March 2009 would be safer than attending. CDMC members could have recognized the tragedy in excluding a trans, queer woman from attending Dyke March on the weekend of the fortieth anniversary of the Stonewall riots and held a moment of silence for me and the other transgender people who had been silenced over the previous forty years, as I had suggested. Instead they held a celebratory “moment of noise”, making what should have been a weekend of pride a weekend of shame—Shame Weekend, as I have come to call it.

I remember contacting CDMC members, trying to find a win–win solution to problems they and other members caused before, during, and after Shame Weekend. They could have taken the opportunity to organize with me to find a mutually satisfactory resolution. Instead they failed to maintain contact with me, if not failing to respond altogether.

I remember sitting down to talk about Shame Weekend and surrounding events with two CDMC members on 2011 May 25—one day short of being two years after the collective received the complaint about the slur. CDMC could have used the following months to make good on the agreement the collective’s representatives made with me. Instead the collective resumed foot-dragging.

I remember discovering in August that CDMC had once again shown disregard for my privacy and writing to the collective about this and another concern, expressing that I wanted another opportunity to talk to CDMC members. CDMC could have taken the minimally decent step of listening. Instead the collective has not so much as replied.

Since the events leading up to Shame Weekend, I have for the most part avoided queer spaces, as I have no way of knowing whether the people I was snitched out to are seeking revenge or what Chicago Dyke March organizers will do to hurt me next. Because I contacted CDMC for the first time on the day I came out to myself as a woman, CDMC has effectively robbed me of queer women’s community before I ever found it. I did recently find something in the way of queer community, an organization that was initially attractive in part because no CDMC members were in it, but a member of the collective has entered this space as well. When allies fuck up, they tend to concede space to the oppressed people they have hurt. CDMC, on the other hand, has not so much as given me the opportunity to talk to its members about boundaries.

In the two and a half years that have followed my initial attempt to organize with CDMC it has failed to take an approach that is survivor-centered or focused on the oppressed. CDMC has taken advantage of the fact that because I am a trans, queer woman, I am already prone to being pathologized as a “narcissist”, putting that much more pressure on me to remain passive rather than assertive in the face of oppression. While the intersection of sexism and cissexism is a matter that concerns my well-being and even my life, it is a matter that CDMC, as an institution, has been able to treat as less than urgent or even ignore with little consequence.

This ends now.

My Direct Action

I have designated November 24 to be the day I begin a fast, which I will avoid or end only when Chicago Dyke March organizers meet my demands. These can be found in the following statement:

Demands for Reduced Harm

The survivor, Veronika Boundless, issues these demands. In this context Chicago Dyke March organizers means everyone who has the privilege of voting or participating in deliberative decision-making at Chicago Dyke March organizing meetings and everyone who has served as a marshal at a previous Chicago Dyke March and intends to serve as a marshal at a future Chicago Dyke March.

1. Because Chicago Dyke March organizers have not made a clean break from past violence, they will at least give other organizations fair warning. Thus, they will not collectively partner with another organization or join a coalition that another organization is a part of without first disclosing to the organization that over a period of at least two and a half years the Chicago Dyke March Collective perpetrated violence against a trans woman.

2. Further, Chicago Dyke March organizers will do less preaching of what the Chicago Dyke March Collective has failed to practice. Specifically, no one will, while remaining a Chicago Dyke March organizer, serve as guest speakers or authorities at forums organized to discuss verbal abuse, emotional abuse, or sexual assault.

3. Further, Chicago Dyke March organizers will concede some space to survivors of violence. Specifically, no one will, while remaining a Chicago Dyke March organizer, join or remain a member of another group other than CDMC, if it is part of the group’s primary mission to end verbal abuse, emotional abuse, or sexual assault or offer support to survivors of verbal abuse, emotional abuse, or sexual assault.

4. Because no one deserves to join Chicago Dyke March organizing without knowing what they are in for, Chicago Dyke March organizers will make these demands accessible to every person who attends an organizing meeting.

5. Chicago Dyke March organizers will acknowledge the violence against trans women found in their history using at least two of the following four media: Chicago Dyke March organizers’ most widely read public Facebook group, Chicago Dyke March organizers’ most widely read public blog, the Chicago Indymedia web site, or a full-page ad in the Windy City Times; this acknowledgment will be in no way cisnormative, reductionist, minimizing, or survivor-blaming.

6. Using the same two media that Chicago Dyke March organizers select while conceding Demand 5, they will explicitly concede these demands.

7. Chicago Dyke March organizers will honor these demands until they or their representatives meet with the survivor on her terms and reach a mutual agreement with her or until 2019 September 1, whichever comes first.

I am writing now to give you plenty of notice; I am not confident the body of someone who has my health problems will hold up as long during a fast as the body of someone who does not. Even so, I am prepared to carry out this fast to the end, whatever form the end might take.

With a fiery love for every trans woman and transfeminine person,
Veronika Boundless

*Cissexism is prejudice against transgender people plus the power cisgender people—that is, people who are not transgender—have over us.

faithfulimage: A photograph of a button displaying a symbol of queer women—namely, an inverted black triangle. (Default)
Dear Transgender Sibling,

I have noticed that today you found my blog after using this search query:
transgender “why go on living”
There are a lot of reasons someone might input this search phrase, but I am going to risk erring and assume you are a transgender person who is asking yourself a question I have asked myself countless times before: “Why go on living?”

I do not know about the specifics of your situation, but I can tell you a bit about mine. When I first told my mother that I was a girl, I encountered hostility, and that was only a preview of things to come. When I came out to the family member I thought was the most likely to be supportive, she ended all communication with me. I have survived abuse at the hands of a partner who used misgendering as an instrument of pain. I recently had a painful reminder that even a close friend and ally can fuck up in an inexcusable way. I am currently worried that I will lose a source of income once I come out to an institution that has in the past paid me for my work. If it seems that I am trying to make this all about me, I am sorry. That is not my intention. Rather the point I want to make is that when I say, “I know being transgender is hard,” I am not (entirely) full of shit. I know being transgender is hard.

So why go on living? I am not presumptuous enough to know what the answer is for you, but I can tell you what it is for me: Love. I do not mean the love cisgender people have for me. Perhaps you can relate when I say that cisgender people’s love is elusive, and it seems it is always on vacation when I am at my lowest. I also do not mean the love of other transgender people. There are a number of factors, including the structures in the cissexist society we live in, that have by and large kept me from establishing close relationships with other transgender people. When I say that love is the answer for me, I mean my love for transgender people. Looking back, I can say without hyperbole that the people who have inspired me the most over the past few years have all been transgender. More importantly, I love transgender people for the resilience we show when we refuse to deny our gender identities and our gender expressions when most of society or even our very bodies seem to mock us for it—resilience that you no doubt understand, my transgender sibling. I seldom say this, especially here, because I created this blog in part as an act of resistance against people who thrust me into the position of being the person who is transgender above all else, when quite often what I want to do is organize around women’s issues or queer issues. But when it comes to women’s issues, I am most passionate about the issues that affect transgender women, and when it comes to queer issues, I am most passionate about the issues that affect transgender queer people. The cisgender people I love most know that if they ever lose sight of the fact that they are your and my oppressors, they will lose whatever place of significance they have in my life. No matter what I do transgender people are never far from my mind.

If I were to off myself today, I would no longer be able to play a role in preserving a record of the contributions transgender people have made. I would no longer be able to talk about Sketch, the Chicago artist I had the privilege of meeting shortly before ze died in 2005 and who is often frequently misgendered and misnamed in cisgender people’s accounts of hir life. I would no longer be able to call out the cisgender feminists who say that transgender women have no place in conversations about reproductive rights and remind them that it was a transgender woman—namely, Kinsey AKA Genderbitch—who gave us one of the most cogent and widely-known defenses of the pro-choice stance. I would no longer be able to commemorate the transgender people of Stellar—people who surmounted a number of personal challenges to resist the Chicago Dyke March Collective’s cissexism in 2010. Cisgender people, especially those who are actively involved in our oppression, typically do not record our history for us. Like it or not, if we want these memories preserved, we will have to be the archivists.

Sometimes my love for transgender people manifests itself as rage—rage for the people who hate us or hurt us. There are people who say that nothing constructive can come from anger. I say, “Fuck them.” Many people have channeled their anger into constructive outcomes. And why this sweeping dismissal of everything that is destructive? The society we live in has a wide array of irredeemably cissexist structures that are unworthy of nothing more than being smashed to bits. There are people who say anger is a negative emotion. I say, “Fuck them.” If in my anger you, my dear transgender sibling, are the only person who sees that there is someone in this fucked up world who gives a damn, no emotion has ever served me better.

I go on living so that I can go on fighting. I fight to help build a world where no transgender person has to die in a hate crime or has to feel that they have nothing to live for. And don’t think for a moment this doesn’t include you. The first time I went to a Transgender Day of Remembrance vigil I was still pre-ho (i.e. still infused with emotion-suppressing testosterone), but I nevertheless fell into inconsolable sobbing when the names were read—names of people I had never had the opportunity to meet. The next time I read that a transgender person has committed suicide, I will likely respond in much the same way. It is not at all unusual for people who believe they have no influence in their lives to affect people profoundly in their deaths.

I cannot tell you why you should go on living. This is something you will need to figure out for yourself. As I said, I can only tell you why I go on living. I hope that you find something of value in what I have said. If you should want me to clarify or expand on anything I have written, please write to me.

Yours in the struggle,
Veronika

E-mail: faithfulimage@gmail.com

2011–09-18 Edit: Comments on this post will be screened and will remain private.
faithfulimage: A photograph of a button displaying a symbol of queer women—namely, an inverted black triangle. (Default)
A number of bloggers have recently shared their experiences or the experiences other people had at a Chicago Alternative Policing Strategy (CAPS) meeting that was held in Boystown on Wednesday. I believe their accounts raise vital questions about the sort of “safety” the police officers of the 23rd district and “concerned Lakeview residents” would bring us, if they were given the opportunity to do so.
Gender JUST youth leaders respond to increased policing and profiling, racist attacks, and harassment after recent incidents violence in Boystown/Lakeview
Among other concerns Gender JUST writes about the racist and classist rhetoric employed by some people at the meeting. (Full disclosure: Though I did not contribute in any way to this press release, I am a member of Gender JUST.)

How to Report an Oriental Criminal
The Angry Asian Man writes about racist language used in a publication distributed by the Chicago Police Department at the meeting.

White Lakeview Residents Turn Out in Droves to Claim Their Territory
thecuntcrusader writes about her experience of the meeting, including being assaulted.

faithfulimage: A photograph of a button displaying a symbol of queer women—namely, an inverted black triangle. (Default)
Recently members of Gender JUST protested a “positive loitering” organized by people whose stated aim was to “take back Boystown”. (Full disclosure: Though I was not present at this event, I am a member of Gender JUST.) The reason for the protest was that members of Gender JUST saw it as the latest in a series of efforts to intimidate working class queer and transgender youth of color who come to Boystown. According to Kate Sosin of the Windy City Times several members of the “Take Back Boystown” page have blamed youth of color for recent criminal activity in posts that make claims like the following:
These trannys are bringing their homey G boyfriends into the neighborhood courtesy of The Center on Halsted. You can tell who they are by the way they act.
According to Sosin, Rob Sall, the organizer of the “positive loitering” event, conceded that the Facebook page “is extremely racially charged”. The racist, classist, ageist, cissexist rhetoric is not new. On 2009 September 2 the Windy City Times published a letter by someone identified only as “a concerned Lakeview resident”, who blamed “Center on Halsted youth clients” and “transsexual prostitutes” for Lakeview’s “crime issues”.

What do I have to say about this?

On the day of my first direct action in 2004 it was not youth of color in Boystown who arrested three queer rights activists, kicked one of them, and called him a “faggot”. It was one of the officers policing the pride parade.

It is not youth of color in Boystown who have been making transmisogynistic comments in letters to the editor or on Facebook. It is the people who have been scapegoating them.

I have been sexually assaulted twice in Boystown. I do not have a single young person, a single person of color, or a single transgender person to lay the blame on for either of these incidents.

“Concerned Lakeview residents”, if you want Boystown to be safe, stop threatening the safety of young people. Stop theatening the safety of people of color. Stop threatening the safety of transgender people. Stop trying to “take back” Boystown from working class queer folks, when Boystown was the community of working class queer folks before the businesses and the middle class gays moved in. If you want Boystown to be safe, stop threatening the safety of me and my friends.

2011–07-07 Edit: I have substituted the word assaulted for the less accurate term accosted.
faithfulimage: A photograph of a button displaying a symbol of queer women—namely, an inverted black triangle. (Default)
Having been one of the participants of Dyke March 2011, which took place yesterday, I thought I would write about two aspects of the march that no news source has yet reported on, so far as I have seen—the presence of the Trans United Contingent and the apology issued by the Chicago Dyke March Collective.

Along with other community groups, such as SWOP Chicago, Invisible to Invincible, Genderqueer Chicago, and Gender JUST, participants in the Trans United Contingent congregated at the start of the route and joined the Dyke March. (Full disclosure: I was in the Trans United Contingent, and my membership in Gender JUST is pending.) As I remember it, everyone in the contingent was in high spirits. Personally, I was quite pleased by the number of transfeminine people present; I cannot remember being at a public event where I strongly felt my identities as a trans person and a dyke affirmed. The Trans United Contingent invigorated many of the other march participants, who could not help but join in our chants of, “Trans people united will never be divided,” and, “Hey hey, ho ho / Transphobia has got to go.” (My new voice got quite a workout; I had to remain silent for most of the last 15 minutes or so of the march.) Considering the passion of another contingent that had a significant number of transgender people, Gender JUST’s contingent, I believe Dyke March would have been impoverished, had there been no trans folks present.

This brings me to the other topic of this post. In the rally after the march Mika Muñoz read an apology in which the collective said that I, “Veronika Boundless”, had “experienced . . . transmisogynistic violence”* at the hands of the Chicago Dyke March Collective (CDMC) in 2009. Mika went on to say, “We acknowledge this occurred and commit to the process of responding to what happened and to doing all we can to make sure nothing like it happens again.”** One of the other march participants asked me what I thought of CDMC’s apology. I said, “It’s a start.” According to the participant apologies are easy and make a collective look good; the real test will be to see what actions follow.

*Because I had difficulty making out what Mika read (as did, I am surmising, the vast majority of the people who stayed for the rally), I am relying on an electronic draft of the apology that I was privy to before the march. As far as I know, what was actually read did not differ (significantly) from the electronic version.

**In the electronic draft the word and is emphasized.
faithfulimage: A photograph of a button displaying a symbol of queer women—namely, an inverted black triangle. (Default)
This is an account of some of the experiences I had while trying to organize with the Chicago Dyke March Collective (CDMC) in 2009. The main reason I am writing this now is the same reason that I participate in trans activism: I want to see the day when no new names are read at Transgender Day of Remembrance vigils. During my brief stint in CDMC I survived a number of instances of transphobia and misogyny, including the decision of one of the members to put me in a potentially life-threatening situation. Whatever else might be said about CDMC, I do not know any member of the collective who would deny this. Indeed a member of CDMC recently sent me an apology on the behalf of the collective. Even so, if anyone were to have visited CDMC’s web presence at any point during the nearly two years that passed before CDMC so much as apologized, they could have been excused for thinking not only that CDMC welcomed all trans people but also that trans people were part of the collective’s decision-making process. If CDMC’s words are not a narrative, they at least implicate a narrative—a narrative that has no room for a trans woman who was effectively driven from the collective and has yet to see justice. As long as trans people are at risk of entering CDMC unaware of its history, I cannot afford to remain silent.

My story begins on April 14, 2009. If this date seems familiar to you, faithful reader, it may be that you remember it as the day I came out to myself as a woman. On that day everything fell into place for me. The reason I had long felt inclined to call myself a lesbian was that I was a lesbian or, as I prefer to say now, a queer woman. Feeling celebratory, I wanted to find other queer women to express my pride with. The Dyke March was by far my favorite part of Pride Weekend (the weekend when ITAPBLGQ folks in Chicago and many other cities around the world commemorate the Stonewall riots, which mark the beginning of the modern queer rights movement), so I felt I would be a good match for the collective. I was not naïve, however. I knew that there had been a history of transphobia in Dyke Marches in general and the Chicago Dyke March in particular. So I decided to look at CDMC’s web site, hoping to find its policy regarding trans people. This is what I found on its Myspace page (and what can still be found on CDMC’s Facebook page and Wordpress blog):

Chicago Dyke March is a grassroots mobilization and celebration of dyke, queer, and transgender resilience.
Though I found this encouraging at the time, it was perhaps my first clue that CDMC had a structural problem. I might have just come out to myself as a woman, but I had known for more than four years that I was not a man, and so I had already long been involved in queer and trans activism. On at least one occasion the Queer and Trans Caucus of the Chicagoland Anarchist Network, one of the groups I worked with, had had a very visible presence in Dyke March. Despite this I had never once known a CDMC member to invite members of the groups I worked with to help with the planning. Indeed it seemed to me that the general perception among the activists I worked with was that the collective was only open to dykes. But with hindsight being better than foresight I quickly sent the collective an e-mail, asking to be involved.

Trouble arose almost immediately. The less severe of the two problems I had when I had first joined CDMC was that, well, I had not joined CDMC. Though my e-mail address was on CDMC’s listserv, available for all thirty or so subscribers to see, no one ever told me when meetings were held. The only reason I was able to attend my first CDMC meeting was that someone outside the collective told me the meeting time. So I went to the meeting, informed the members who were present of the problem, and I gave one of them my cell phone number. After this I continued to miss a number of meetings, because as before no one was telling me when they were being held.

When I was finally added to CDMC’s listserv, it seemed that I had hurdled the obstacles to my involvement just in time. A discussion arose about the Radical Cheerleaders, who had been unfurling an unwelcome mat for trans women and transfeminine people by various means, including the use of the slur chicks with dicks in one of its cheers. Though some red flags were raised during our initial conversation, I left the following meeting feeling that, if nothing else, everyone who had been present at the meeting understood that it is only for trans women and transfeminine people to reclaim transphobic, misogynistic epithets. What I did not know at the time was that one of the members present at the meeting—I will call her Rose—had already forwarded the entire listserv discussion about instances of transphobia at Dyke March, including my name and e-mail address, to two cisgender members of the Radical Cheerleaders. It would be weeks before I knew the extent to which my initiation into Dyke March was a baptism of fire.

Even while Rose hid her indiscretion, it quickly became apparent that problems remained. It turned out that the inaction I encountered when I had tried to join CDMC was not isolated. Any time a trans woman contacted CDMC turn-around time was slow. I developed a strategy for those occasions when a trans woman reached out to us: I asked the other members what the collective’s policy was regarding the issue at hand, waited twenty-four hours for a response (which I would never receive), and then act unilaterally to address the problem. But when I was the trans woman with a concern, who was there to help me? Finally I called out various members for their cissexism; backlash ensued. After reading the content of Rose’s response I felt the need to point out to her that tranny was a transphobic, misogynistic slur, even though I had already done so not long before. I went to the next meeting thinking that we would discuss cissexism, but the double-than-usual turn-out was more interested in discussing me. Instead of taking advantage of the opportunity to disclose that she had betrayed me, Rose talked about the cis woman tears she had shed. It was in this gaslit setting that I agreed to take a step back from criticizing members of the group. If I have only one regret from my time with CDMC, it was that in that moment I sewed shut the lips of the only member of the collective who was transgender and the only member of the collective who had consistently taken initiative in confronting cissexism and sexism.

After the meeting a week passed before Rose finally disclosed her betrayal. The revelation was not to be found in an apology or in an expression of sorrow but in a message to the collective’s listserv in which Rose blithely announced that the Radical Cheerleaders had found a replacement for the term chicks with dicks—namely, tranny chicks. Only one member bothered to respond; she proposed that the matter of the privacy violation be dealt with in a closed committee meeting where neither I nor any other transgender person would be present. Out of concern for my safety I left CDMC.

I have seen some stellar displays of solidarity since Chicago Dyke March 2009. However, other Chicago activists have distinguished themselves by supporting CDMC, even after it had repeatedly shown that it was more interested in being actively involved in trans people’s oppression than in our liberation. Affinity allowed CDMC to use its space to prepare for Chicago Dyke March 2010. Since then the Creative Justice Coalition has had a fund-raising event for CDMC. I wrote to a prominent member of Affinity on March 23, 2009 to inform her of the threat CDMC posed to trans people’s safety; I never heard back from her. I wanted to ask members of the Creative Justice Coalition why they were enabling my oppressors, but an extensive search for any contact information the group might have has left me empty-handed. I can only conclude that many Chicago activists have a long way to go before they can rightly call themselves allies to trans people.

As for CDMC, it remains to be seen whether the collective’s actions will follow its words. Fortunately not everyone in Chicago has been content to wait two years for justice. This is another story that needs to be told.

faithfulimage: A photograph of a button displaying a symbol of queer women—namely, an inverted black triangle. (Default)
I just spent a lot of time composing a reply to a post entitled Dyke March Diaries: Coming Out on the IMPACT Program’s blog before realizing that it does not allow comments. So I thought I would post my comment here instead:
This is a very well-edited video, and the people in it are so inspiring! I am glad you and other folks are doing the vital work of recording the experiences of people in our community.

If I were to add anything, I would highlight the adversity that some people aligned with the T faced at Dyke March in 2010. In 2009 I, a transsexual woman, had tried to be involved in the Chicago Dyke March Collective (CDMC) and found the collective to be hostile towards trans people, especially those of us who are women or who have a feminine presentation. In response to this a number of trans folks, trans-questioning folks, and allies joined me in going to Dyke March to both celebrate our pride and resist CDMC’s marginalization of trans people. It is excruciatingly difficult to find queer “community” after facing rejection from mainstream society, only to find out that the “community” rejects us well. Despite this and a number of personal hardships, the other members of Stellar took a stand in 2010 and showed me what real community looked like. If Dyke March is a safer place for trans people this year, we will be indebted to the people who have been standing with us all along. Thank you, trans folks, trans-questioning folks, and allies, for the amazing demonstration of resilience!

I will be posting more about Stellar in the next month or two. For anyone whose interest I may have piqued I will at this time just link to a press release we sent before last year’s Dyke March:

Stellar calls for resistance on two fronts at Dyke March

faithfulimage: A photograph of a button displaying a symbol of queer women—namely, an inverted black triangle. (Default)
I recently wrote a post about cis feminists who misgender trans women (and more generally about feminists who marginalize women). This post is for cis people who say they understand trans people and in all likelihood sincerely believe that they understand trans people, but after talking to them for a while I have to wonder if they understand trans people.

When I enter a space I consider to be relatively safe, I am usually quick to disclose that I am a queer woman. Upon the disclosure cis people tend to respond in one of two ways. First, some cis people respond by asking creepy questions about my experiences as a trans person. They ask all about my sex life or, more commonly, my genitalia. They want to know if I am going to have “the surgery”. Offhandedly I can think of eight surgeries a trans woman might want as part of her transition, so I am put off when cis people make the surgery a homophoric reference to the one that involves a penis. But I digress. Other cis people respond by asking non-creepy questions about my experiences as a trans person. For example, they might ask me whether I have encountered discrimination on account of my trans status. There is nothing inherently wrong with this. In these situations my problem is not with the questions that are asked but with the questions that are not asked.

Can you, dear reader, guess what the lacuna is in cis people’s responses? What sort of question do you suppose I would hope to hear upon my disclosure that I am a queer woman? If I disclose that I am disabled or working class, do you suppose that I expect to hear people ask, “What is it like to be trans?”

There are two questions cis people do not ask me:

  1. What is it like to be a woman?
  2. What is it like to be queer?
If someone wants to argue that these are overly broad questions that no one would ask a cis queer woman, I would concede the point. But the trouble is that cis people do not even ask me more specific questions like, “Do you encounter sexism at such and such a place?” or, “Do you encounter heterosexism at that other place?” Cis people do not ask me, “Do you think our organization is falling short of meeting the needs of women?” even while soliciting my feedback on how well the organization is meeting the needs of trans people. Cis lesbians do not ask me specifically, “Doesn’t a woman seem so much hotter when you find out she’s queer?” even though I have known them to ask this question in other situations.

It is not for a lack of opportunity. There are people who have visited this blog, undoubtedly seeing the subtitle “A Queer Woman’s Blog”, and still only want to engage me in conversation about my trans status. There are often situations in which I find it natural to ask cis women about their experiences as women or cis queer folks about their experiences as queer folks, and they do not hesitate to answer. But they do not follow up by asking, “And what is your experience?” When an opportunity to ask me what it is like to be a queer woman presents itself, cis people are silent, and that silence speaks volumes.

Some cis folks might say, “Oh, Veronika, I do get that you are a woman. It is just that your experiences as a woman are so different that I do not know what to ask you.” I don’t buy it. Most cis folks know a cis woman who has to shave her facial hair, who does not menstruate, or who does not have noticeable breasts, and they still find a way to talk about their experiences of gender. Also, if it is a lack of common ground that keeps cis folks from talking about my gender, how is it that they have no difficulty asking me questions about my experience as a trans person—an experience that by definition no cis person has had? As I said before, a non-creepy question that involves my trans status is not bothersome in and of itself. So why don’t cis people ask, “What is it like to be a woman, when everyone around you insists you are a man?” or, “What is it like to be a queer woman, when everyone around you insists you are a straight man?” If they did, they might uncover differences that would help them better approach topics of gender and sexual orientation with me. Or they might find out I am not so different from cis queer women after all. Either way, they will have learned something about my experience as a queer woman.

And, yes, I am generalizing. There have been times when conversation naturally led to talk about my experiences as a woman or as a queer person; I do not remember now if these situations began with questions, but I felt that the other parties got it, so I will count them as exceptions. Also I do recognize when cis folks get it, even when they are simply making a statement. I was recently at a party where someone turned to me and said, “It is hard being a woman,” and I knew from her delivery that she was not saying this to inform me but because she knew I would understand. I get teary-eyed just thinking about this—this moment that would have been unremarkable, had I been a cis woman—because for me moments like this are so few and far between.

As you have probably guessed, if a cis person comments on this post merely to ask, “What is it like to be a woman?” or, “What is it like to be queer?” I will not answer. After all the point is not to take just one moment to ask a trans person a couple of questions, never to engage them on the matters ever again. My hope is that the cis folks who read this will make a continued conscious effort to recognize when they fail to seek input from trans folks, when they would seek the same input from other cis folks. I will believe cis folks are sensitive to me as a trans person, when they treat me the way they do other people who share my gender or sexual orientation. I will believe cis folks are sensitive to me as a queer woman, when they understand that they cannot know about every queer woman’s experience without asking me about mine.

faithfulimage: A photograph of a button displaying a symbol of queer women—namely, an inverted black triangle. (Default)
I have resolved to use a new initialism, ITAPBLGQ, to stand for intersex, transgender, asexual, polysexual or pansexual, bisexual, lesbian, gay, queer or questioning. This replaces my previous abbreviation of choice, TBLGQ. (I am continuing my original practice of placing identities that are excluded or marginalized first.) Of course some readers will now have a question for me: Why have I waited so long to include the I, the A, and the P?

When it came to the P, I considered that people who are polysexual or pansexual are attracted to people of more than two genders, and I thought that queer expressed this adequately. In hindsight this was a terrible decision on my part. No one would ever include the P and the B while excluding the L and the G and justify it by saying that lesbian and gay folks can just identify as queer. The reason for this is that polysexual, pansexual, and bisexual folks are in many respects more marginalized, and this is precisely why we need to explicitly include them. Another problem with leaving out the P is that it plays into the view that there are only two genders or sexes. I now realize that I cannot justify excluding polysexual and pansexual people, and I am hoping the P remedies the situation.

My thoughts on the I and the A were a little different. Some intersex and asexual folks do not want to be lumped together with people who are oppressed because of their sexual orientations. Asexuality is related to sexual orientation only insofar as colorlessness is related to color. Intersexuality has even less to do with sexual orientation, if such a thing is possible. As someone who is sensitive to the way trans people—even straight trans people—are often lumped together with queer folks (even though I am queer and trans), I do not want to be guilty of reinforcing associations that intersex and asexual folks are trying to distance themselves from. However, in the end I decided that it was important to acknowledge the intersex and asexual folks who do want to be included and resist the efforts of some gay and lesbian folks in the mainstream who deny that intersex and asexual folks have common cause with those of us who are gay, lesbian, or queer.

What is our common cause? We are all in some way dominated by the heterosexual hegemony, the system that enforces the following dogmas:

  1. There are only two proper sexes—male and female.

  2. Everyone should be assigned to one of the two proper sexes.

  3. The two proper sexes are discrete.

  4. The two proper sexes are readily identifiable at birth.

  5. Males should be attracted to females and females only, and females should be attracted to males and males only.

  6. Females should be subordinate to males.
In one way or another each identity represented by ITAPBLGQ challenges the dogmas of heterosexual hegemony. Our oppressors know that if one dogma fails, the entire system falls, and so they fight to defend each one. This is why we need to work together.

Before I close I would like to point out that I have deliberately left allies out of our alphabet soup. I do this, even though I have seen variations such as LGBTA with the A representing allies and even though I have known queer folks who want to expand the definition of queer to include allies. The problem is that there will always be a difference between those of us who are oppressed by the heterosexual hegemony and the people who benefit from it. ITAPBLGQ folks have insight into the system that no one else does, because our lives depend on it. Therefore we cannot raise a banner that is equally inviting to our own and self-declared allies and must instead take an active role in identifying our allies. True allies understand that they already occupy a privileged position, thanks to the heterosexual hegemony, and will not attempt to gain prominence by assuming a false queer identity.

faithfulimage: A photograph of a button displaying a symbol of queer women—namely, an inverted black triangle. (Default)
Most people who know I am a queer woman will assume that I am ecstatic about recent legislation: The bill approved by the Illinois General Assembly making civil unions legal and the bill approved by the US Congress repealing Don’t Ask Don’t Tell (DADT). However, people who have known me for some time might wonder. You see, I first delved into queer rights activism on Pride Day of 2004, when I joined a number of queer anarchists and allies in entering the Pride Parade, which we saw as a corporate sell-out, without a permit. A number of us commented on marriage, characterizing it as an oppressive institution. I do not remember whether we specifically addressed the issue of queer folks in the military, but people who saw the banner that read, “No war but class war,” might have inferred what the majority of us believed. We were not interested in reforming marriage or the military, we wanted to abolish them both.

Seven years have passed, and I am happy to learn about both pieces of recent legislation. Even so, I am not ecstatic. Though I am no longer an anarchist, I am still a radical. Marriage and the military have long been the primary concerns of white, cisgender, middle class gays and lesbians. Meanwhile organizations that have been in touch with the needs of working class queer and trans youth of color—organizations like Chicago’s Gender JUST—have tended to focus more on the systemic discrimination that is not codified into law, such as bullying in schools and the inequitable distribution of funding for AIDS prevention. When it comes to queer liberation, some of us have a longer way to go than the mainstream gay and lesbian rights organizations let on.

I am sincerely happy for the TBLGQ folks in Illinois who will no longer face institutional discrimination, but what about the problems it leaves unresolved? Even though the level of domestic violence in same-sex relationships is similar to the level of violence in straight relationships, the former is a lot more likely to be neglected. As the recent discourse regarding the accusations against Julian Assange shows, a ridiculously narrow definition of rape dominates in our sexist society, making it even more difficult for bisexual and queer women to be taken seriously. Considering that Illinois law formalizes a narrower definition of rape for victims whose perpetrators are their spouses, how attractive an option is marriage for those of us who survived sexual assault in same-sex relationships? As a trans woman who suffered abuse, including sexual abuse, at the hands of a transphobic woman who was my partner, I can tell you my personal perspective: The idea of being married is terrifying.

It is good that Congress has repealed DADT. Considering the rate at which black women were discharged under DADT, it was not only a heterosexist policy but also a racist and a sexist policy. However, repealing DADT will have no direct bearing on the fact that members of same-sex households are disproportionately more likely to serve. And why have they served? So that the US could destabilize Iraq to the point that it is arguably the worst country for TBLGQ people to be in? So that the party that is purported to be the party of “family values” could initiate a war in Afghanistan that has led to the daily death of 850 children? How does DADT—or any other legislation proposed by the mainstream gay and lesbian rights organizations—address the fact that it is straight folks’ war and queer folks’ fight?

If I could go back and relive my first day of activism, there is little I would change about my message. If I were to spend less time speaking out against marriage and the military, I would use the time I gained to speak out about the mainstream gay and lesbian community’s complacency when it comes to domestic violence and war. In the real world Illinois does not yet have equal marriage. Future generations will judge us based not only on our approval of reforms that would change this but also on whether we let focus on these reforms divert our attention from the plight of the most vulnerable members of our community.

You Belong

2010-10-10 12:17 pm
faithfulimage: A photograph of a button displaying a symbol of queer women—namely, an inverted black triangle. (Default)
In the wake of tragedy an ad campaign has been launched to tell TBLGQ youth, “It gets better.” I think others (see Lisa Harney’s remarks at Questioning Transphobia, for example) have already done a good job elucidating what’s wrong with the ads. I will simply say that however well-intentioned the campaign may be, it would not have helped me when I was close to suicide, because I would not have believed that my situation would ever get better.

So why go on living? For me it comes down to this: I belong. I don’t mean that I’ve regularly had people close to me who tell me I belong—quite often I haven’t. And I certainly don’t mean that I find belonging in the cissexist, heterosexist society I’ve been forced to live in. What I mean is that I find belonging through the shared experience of being trans or queer. No matter how painful it becomes, there are people who know exactly what I’m feeling.

Have you ever felt so dysphoric in the body of the wrong sex that you thought it would be better to be dead? I’ve been there.

Have you ever felt so guilty about your same-gender attraction that you thought it would be better to be dismembered? I’ve been there.

Have you ever come out to a family member you thought would be understanding, only to find yourself estranged from that family member? I’ve been there.

Have you ever been in an abusive relationship and remained silent because there seemed to be no resources available to someone of your trans status or sexual orientation? I’ve been there.

Have you ever felt marginalized, even among oppressed people, because you’re queer or trans? I’ve been there.

Have you ever felt marginalized, even among other TBLGQ people, because you face oppressions apart from being queer or trans? I’ve been there.

Have you ever had a painful experience that seemed so typical of the trans or queer experience that you said nothing out of fear that people would say it was cliché? I’ve been there.

Have you ever had a painful experience that seemed so atypical of the trans or queer experience that you said nothing out of fear that no one else would understand? I’ve been there.

In saying this I don’t mean to suggest that any of the people who recently committed suicide are to blame for not understanding that they were not alone. It isn’t often that we’re told that we’re not alone. And perhaps they did know, but it wasn’t enough. Who are we to judge? There won’t be progress until we stop pointing fingers at the victims and start asking ourselves, “What could we be doing differently?”

I also don’t mean to suggest that the message I offer here is new or the solution to all the problems we face. I have no idea how helpful it will be in the grand scheme of things. However, it is something that has helped me, and it is something that I can say to you with all sincerity. You are not alone. You belong.
faithfulimage: A photograph of a button displaying a symbol of queer women—namely, an inverted black triangle. (Default)
I came out to myself as a woman on April 14, 2009, and when that happened all my confusion about my sexual orientation ended, and I realized I was queer. I came out to my friends two days later. By the time I came out I was already a feminist and a queer rights activist. I knew I would encounter sexism and heterosexism, but I figured I wouldn’t encounter much until I had started to take hormones and “pass” as a woman. Now that I’m on the verge of taking estrogen for the first time (I hope to have it on the 19th), I thought it would be a good time to write about how wrong I was.

One reason I was taken by surprise was that I failed to appreciate how much my social interactions were mediated by the Internet. In cyberspace nobody knows my trans status unless I tell them, so even people who would otherwise dispute my gender identity see me as a woman. This was most noticeable when I joined lesbian chat rooms. Upon entering I was inundated with private messages from men who were soliciting sex. Some of them didn’t even bother to pose as women. All I wanted was to find a supportive environment where I could talk about the struggles we face as queer women, but even when I devised ways to block private solicitations, there was little I could do about men’s disruptions in the chat room. I ended up giving up on using chat as a way to network with queer women.

Women also contributed to the problem. When I made the switch from the m4w to the w4w personals in the “Strictly Platonic” section of Craigslist, the homophobia came at me like a punch in the face. A number of women had posted ads that said, “No lesbians,” (if they weren’t using epithets) or, “Straight women only.” As far as I’m concerned, this isn’t a manifestation of heterosexism alone. If you take issue with women who form intimate, supportive relationships with other women, you are engaging in sexist behavior. The one small comfort I took from this was that I was unlikely to meet anyone who secretly hated me on account of my sexual orientation.

I also learned that while my male body might keep me from some encounters with sexism, it guarantees I’ll have others. Shortly after I came out as a woman I joined the Chicago Dyke March Collective (CDMC). Apart from a few insensitive but ambiguous remarks I saw no sign of a pervasive tendency to regard me as something other than a “real” woman. On the contrary, the more time I spent in the collective the more I felt self-conscious about being a woman. I raised some concerns about how trans people were being treated in Dyke March, and I wasn’t the only trans person to raise such concerns. What became obvious almost immediately is that if anyone perceived that transmasculine people were being marginalized, the other members were quick to step in. It also seemed that trans men were the barometer by which other members of CDMC determined that they were doing okay in regards to trans people. But when I talked about the concerns of transfeminine people, trying to engage other members in dialogue was like pulling teeth from a badger. In 2009 the Chicago Dyke March Collective would have been more welcoming to trans straight men than it was to trans dykes. Considering that CDMC members have gone back on their promises to work with me and other trans people to improve the situation, I doubt much has changed since then.

I could mention other times I’ve encountered sexism and heterosexism, but I think I’ve made my point: Being a trans woman, even one who looks “pre-transition”, does not save me from being the target of sexism. Sexism hurts all women, as well as people who don’t fit in the gender binary. Heterosexism hurts all queer people. If we want progress, we need to stop fighting over who is more oppressed, and work to abolish the systems that oppress us all.
faithfulimage: A photograph of a button displaying a symbol of queer women—namely, an inverted black triangle. (Default)
What should we do when people in the mainstream media spend inordinate amounts of time talking about parts of a woman’s anatomy? Should we refrain from pointing out the sexism at the root of the focus? Or should we call the responsible parties out on their sexism, knowing that it will pique the curiosity of some readers who might not have otherwise heard about the ordeal? I’ve decided that the latter is the lesser of the two evils, but if you don’t want to read further, I certainly don’t blame you.

If you haven’t heard yet, a music video featuring Katy Perry and Elmo from Sesame Street was released to YouTube, and Perry’s cleavage is visible in the video. In the wake of this conservative parents in the US have howled words of protest, and entertainment news reporters (I’m looking at you, Access Hollywood) have engaged in the sort of snickering I grew out of before I entered my freshman year of high school. And, yes, I did say that this is conservative outcry. No, I will not be silenced by people shrieking, “Won’t somebody please think of the children?” There were breasts, and they were jiggling. That’s what happens to breasts when people who have them run, and it doesn’t take a physicist to explain why they move that way. There is nothing inherently erotic about this. Despite what patriarchal culture tells us it is not the case that we cover breasts because they are erotic. Rather, breasts are erotic because we cover them. In some societies women routinely go topless, and people don’t find them especially arousing. In other societies people blush when they see a woman in a sleeveless shirt, because they’re not used to seeing bare arms. If sensible people were interested in keeping erotic images of breasts from appearing on television, encouraging Katy Perry to keep her breasts covered would be the last thing they would do.

Yes, I’m sure there are people who eroticize Perry’s breasts in the video. But there are people who eroticize everything. Parents, if your kids are prepubescent, they’re not going to be all that interested in Perry’s cleavage. And if they are pubescent and wired to like women, there aren’t enough layers of clothing that will keep them from becoming aroused. In fact, when I hit puberty one of my first vivid sex dreams was about a woman who appeared regularly on Sesame Street. (Talk about the day my childhood died; the street just wasn’t the same after that.) It had nothing to do with the way she dressed—she always dressed conservatively, if my memory serves correctly—and probably the most titillating thing she ever did was announce that the day’s episode was brought by the letter O. But my newly hormone-infused body responded all the same, because I was a healthy, young queer girl.

As much as the uproar angers me as a woman, it absolutely infuriates me as a queer person. Why? Well, it wasn’t too long ago that Katy Perry appeared in another music video. In this video she showed a lot more skin, and one of the aims of the video really was to titillate the audience. I’m talking of course about the music video for “I Kissed a Girl”. Was there outcry then? Well, actually there was, and it came from the queer community. The video features a woman (Perry) who is presumably straight, singing about trying on same-gender intimacy for her own temporary gratification. In other words she plays the trope of temporary lesbianism entirely straight (no pun intended), abjectly failing to respect the many women for whom same-gender attraction is not a choice. Were children hurt by this? Well, the target demographic of music videos is adolescent youth, and as someone who was once a queer girl, I imagine this depiction of girls’ kissing would have left me wondering if the first girl I kissed would be using me as a disposable means of pleasure. Even if we set aside the fact that some of the fathers who now complain were all too happy to see Perry gyrate to music and sing about kissing girls—even if we set aside the fact that some of the mothers who now complain were all too happy to imitate Perry and try on lesbianism to make the men in their life horny—the current outrage is infuriating, because our society, dominated as it is by straight men, has given Perry a free pass until now. If the mainstream media is our guide, when the potential injured parties are queer youth and the people who object are also queer, it doesn’t deserve nearly as much attention.

So what do I think of Perry? I understand that our sexist society holds women in entertainment to a double standard and expects them to appeal to men in a way men are never expected to appeal to women. But it’s not like her producer was putting a gun to her head, so I don’t think she can be excused for her role in exoticizing queer women in the “I Kissed a Girl” video. Even so, none of this excuses the attention the same sexist society is now giving her and her body—not the least bit. As I can’t emphasize enough, it’s awful that I should feel the need to address this topic at all. Really can anyone honestly tell me that one one third of a cis man’s breasts has never been visible during children’s programming?
faithfulimage: A photograph of a button displaying a symbol of queer women—namely, an inverted black triangle. (Default)
Mainstream entertainment almost never depicts trans women who are unambiguously queer. A work might present a woman who begins transition while already married to a cis woman, but if anything is said about preferences, it will be that the two women have a love that transcends sexual orientation. After all, this is a message that will be more palatable to cis straight audiences. The only movie I know of that has a trans queer woman as a fictional character is Better than Chocolate, an independent film.

Why don’t we see more trans queer women in the media? I think we find the answer when we consider a couple of tropes that are common in our day. I’ll call the first Lesbians as Straight Men’s Fetish. This is pretty straightforward. If lesbianism is depicted, it is as a service to straight men. It is often the case that within a production there will be a man watching, acting as the surrogate viewer. And in an obvious case of fantasy wish fulfillment the lesbianism is temporary or superficial so that men in the audience can see lesbians who end up in committed relationships with men. (The possibility that the characters are bisexual women is never explored.) Lesbians in the media are prime examples of fetishization—objects of desire that exist for people who have absolutely no regard for the desires of the objects.

I’ll call the second trope Trans Women as Inauthentic. As many before me have pointed out, trans women are often depicted as stealthy deceivers or as comic want-to-be women. If a trans woman easily “passes”, it is because she is trying to trick a man. (In horrifying examples of life imitating art some cis straight men have killed their trans lovers and escaped murder charges by claiming that they’d been duped.) On the other hand if a trans woman is harmless, the production team will play up her masculinity or maleness in an attempt to get laughs. Because, you know, failing to blend with cis women in a society where trans women are singled out for violence is comedy gold. One way or another movies and television must say that trans women aren’t real women.

Trans queer women can’t be depicted in popular culture, because we challenge the heterosexism and the cissexism that are so deeply ingrained in our society. The target audience simply would not react the same way if a trans woman duped a queer woman or failed miserably at convincing a queer woman of her womanhood. Even if it did, presenting a woman as a deceiver or a failure would undermine attempts at titillation. If the mainstream media depicted trans queer women, something would break.

But this is not a lamentation, it is an exhortation. Let’s break things. Let’s create representations of trans queer women and put them where they can’t be ignored. Of course care should be taken when depicting trans queer women, just as it should be taken when depicting all members of oppressed groups. We don’t want to substitute new harmful tropes for the old harmful tropes. But I don’t think the possibility of getting things wrong should deter us from trying something that could go wonderfully right. For far too long we’ve been letting cissexist, heterosexist institutions tell us how to view trans women and queer women. Now is the time for us to stop viewing worlds we can’t relate to and start making a better world.
faithfulimage: A photograph of a button displaying a symbol of queer women—namely, an inverted black triangle. (Default)
According to the subtitle I chose this is a “Queer Woman’s Blog”, but why? Even when looking only at the forty-one years since Stonewall, it’s apparent that lesbian and queer women have used many designations, and we’re far from finding a consensus on which one is best. This isn’t to say we’re embroiled in internal conflicts over which term is “right”, but it does mean queer women have a wide variety—perhaps even a bewildering variety—of choices when it comes to deciding which label to wear. I will not attempt to prescribe a label for other women, but I will try to explain what led to my decision.

The word lesbian is perhaps the most obvious alternative to queer woman. While I don’t find it significantly worse than queer, I do find it problematic. For one thing I generally take lesbian to mean woman who is attracted to women, whereas I am attracted not only to women but also to people who are genderqueer or intersex. More than that, I want to express solidarity with everyone who isn’t straight, regardless of gender. But the biggest problem I have with the term is that I associate it with the mainstream gay and lesbian rights movement. A movement that prioritizes giving queer people the opportunity to die in combat over giving queer youth the opportunity to receive an education in an environment free of bullying is not a movement I want to be a part of. As the protest chant goes, “Queer liberation—not assimilation!”

What other words might I use? A lot of women still use gay. I don’t begrudge them for it. Indeed I still feel a flutter when I think of the issue of Time with Ellen Degeneres and the words Yep, I’m Gay on the cover. Even so, most of my criticisms of lesbian apply to gay as well. Also, I associate gay with a time when women in our movement were less visible. Then there’s dyke. Like queer it often accompanies more radical politics, and on occasion I’ve called myself a dyke. However, I know some dykes identify as such to say something not only about their sexual orientation but also their gender identity—namely, that they were female-assigned at birth but are more male or masculine than that might suggest. I think it’s great that dykes can express themselves this way; the problem is that when it comes to me this meaning doesn’t apply. With the drawbacks of these other words queer takes the lead.

It is, however, a very narrow lead. One glaring problem with queer (and for that matter dyke) is that it was—and often still is—an epithet spoken out of prejudice. I understand that in the early 90s queer activists started to use the word to empower themselves. But after twenty years some bi, lesbian, and gay folks still get hurt when they hear the word. I sometimes hear, “It’s mostly the older generation that gets offended by the word.” However, mostly doesn’t mean only, and in any case the older generation is as much a part of our community as the younger generation. So why not abandon the use of the word altogether? Oddly enough, there is a virtue to be found in the fact that epithets hurled out of prejudice are hurled indiscriminately—namely, the word has a very inclusive meaning. It is a word for those of us who feel left out by lesbian and gay. If I may misquote Winston Churchill, I chose queer, because it was the worst word except for all the others I might have tried.

Before I close I’d like to mention a matter that was not a consideration for my use of queer. Here and throughout my blog I use queer to indicate a person’s sexual orientation, but some people use it in a broader sense to indicate sexual orientation or trans status. Though it might seem paradoxical, considering my previous comments on inclusion, I generally avoid using queer in this sense. It’s not that I’m worried people will think I’m trans; as a matter of fact I am trans, and I’m quite vocal about it when I’m in queer spaces. The trouble is that a lot of cis people (that is, people who are not trans) use the word without any attempt to disambiguate. So they might refer to a straight trans woman as queer, giving others the impression that she is not straight; this is a problem, because straight trans women are forever having to explain that their attraction to men makes them straight and not gay. Another problem I’ve observed is that cis folks will assume trans people will come to their events, simply because they’ve said, “Queer people are welcome.” If we feel the term applies to us at all, we know it’s ambiguous. Because some cis gay and lesbian spaces are very unsafe for trans people, we can’t test the ambiguity by showing up and seeing what happens. If people want trans folks to feel welcome, I recommend they say, “Queer and trans,” or, “TBLGQ.”
faithfulimage: A photograph of a button displaying a symbol of queer women—namely, an inverted black triangle. (Default)
There are many queer women with blogs. I just happen to be the only one who has this blog.

Being a woman, I will use this blog to write about my experiences as a woman. Being queer, I will use this blog to write about my experiences as a woman who is attracted to people other than men. In accordance with who I am I will write about my desire for women’s liberation (I’m a feminist) and queer liberation. I will also detail my love of women’s culture and queer culture, writing everything from analysis to praise of movies I enjoy.

Though my primary purpose is to write about being a queer woman, I cannot be reduced to a single adjective and a single noun. So I will also describe what it’s like to be transsexual, disabled, and working class. Some people have tried to convince me that talk of this sort is a distraction from women’s issue, but I’ve noticed that society expects women to step aside and let the men talk about issues related to trans status, disability, and class. For this reason I see speaking out on these matters to be not only part of the struggles for transsexual, disabled, and working class equality but also an act of feminist resistance.

This is the place where I will share my thoughts, unrestrained. Welcome.

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faithfulimage: A photograph of a button displaying a symbol of queer women—namely, an inverted black triangle. (Default)
Veronika Boundless

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