Dispatches From Tanganyika

So tomorrow I have an appointment with a new urologist. No problems; just need ongoing care and a new testosterone script. I took my mother to this guy last summer when she was making the rounds of Every Damn Doctor in New Orleans, and he had tons of offbeat art on his walls, a glass case full of antique taxidermed birds, and a display of archaic medical instruments. I'm hoping he is enough of a weirdo himself to treat me as a patient rather than a novelty, which was how my last trans-related doctor seemed to see me.

Today is the last day of my Etsy testosterone fundraiser. Enter coupon code TSHOT at checkout for 20% off any item at NolaLooks (my handmade jewelry; vintage clothing and accessories) or 40% off any item at PZBART (my original artwork and signed prints). Thanks for looking.

http://www.etsy.com/shop/NolaLooks

http://www.etsy.com/shop/PZBART

When I hear about the recent controversy surrounding Michelle Shocked -- whose music I've not listened to, but who used to live in New Orleans and was reportedly a fan of my books -- I can't help but think of my former friend Thing. She was never particularly comfortable with sexuality or gender labels, but she was female-assigned at birth, identified primarily as female, and had dated several women. She'd lived a very hard life: serious illness, depression, abuse by parents from a fundie cult background. She'd converted to Catholicism a few years back, but so did I, and it didn't make me any less queer/trans/tolerant; she seemed to take a similar nonjudgmental outlook. She hated the place where she was then living, and loved New Orleans more than anywhere else in the world. She had given me a lot of emotional support in my own hard times and I thought she deserved some happiness, so I helped her to move here by letting her stay with me while she found a house and lending her money for a deposit.

Everything was fine until I started testosterone in 2011. She'd known I was FTM and had previously been supportive of my decisions, but once I actually got on T, she just didn't seem to like me anymore. Maybe my sense of humor got cruder. Maybe I seemed more aggressive. I was definitely trying out a lot of new things, and hey, nobody has to like me. It made me sad that she didn't, but I could live with it. What I couldn't live with was the stunt she pulled while I was in Amsterdam that summer. I was relaxing, getting high, taking a vacation from pain, and most definitely not checking my e-mail ... until Thing sent me a text saying, essentially, "Are you mad about that e-mail I sent you?" Well, I logged on and found this MULTIPAGE SCREED about what an asshole I'd turned into, how it was a terrible idea for me to be taking testosterone, how she'd had another FTM friend who started on T and subsequently committed suicide, so I was probably going to kill myself pretty soon too, and gee, she'd just hate to see that happen, and also I smoked too much pot, and by the way, she had taken it upon herself to speak to my mother about all these things. Yes, while I was out of the country, she went to my 73-year-old mom and told her testosterone was probably going to make me kill myself. What a pal, right?

We didn't talk much after that, but since she was living in the neighborhood, I still saw her quite a bit. I also saw her car, which now sported two new bumper stickers: I LOVE MY "GERMAN SHEPHERD" POPE BENEDICT and YOUR MAMA WAS PRO-LIFE, DAWLIN'. There were always groups of people around her house with similar stickers on their cars. The last time I saw her, they appeared to be helping her move out of her house, and she was wearing a T-shirt that said I ♥CHIK-FIL-A. (This was at the height of that chain's push against marriage equality.)

I couldn't bring myself to speak, but I still couldn't hate her either. She'd tried to kill herself twice, she'd had enough misfortune in her life to drive any ten people crazy, and it was obvious to me that her main problem was self-hatred. More than anything else, it's sad to see people flailing away at their own identities like that. The religious right often refers to trans folk as "those poor confused people," but I'll take my kind of confusion over Thing's brand of certainty any day.

At the Lords of Leather Ball last night, between being called "sir" several times and having a friend I hadn't seen in a year do a massive double take at me, I realized that -- in this default-queer setting, anyway -- I was passing completely. Which led to the following conversation later:

ME: I just hope cisgendered people take a moment every now and then to appreciate being seen for what they are -- every day -- without having to think about it. Because it's so great.

GREY: Actually, I disagree. Because I've known a lot of effeminate men who were mistaken for women, and a lot of masculine women who --

ME (affecting great crankiness): GOD, you people JUST CAN'T DO IT, can you? You just can't let a trans person talk about being misgendered without going "WELL WELL WELL, it happens to us TOO!!!"

GREY: But it does happen --

ME (raving): I'm sure it does, but I have NEVER EVER heard a SINGLE INSTANCE of a trans person discussing misgendering without some cis person popping up to say "I got called sir/ma'am one time, so I TOTALLY GET IT!!!"

GREY (affecting smugness): Actually, I don't like the term "cisgendered." I prefer "gender-comfortable."

ME: AAARRGBLLHGFHTFHBBQ I AM FILLING OUT A BINGO CARD ON YOU MOTHERFUCKER

Which all made me realize anew: I don't know if it's down to testosterone, getting laid on a regular basis, or just having a partner who can effectively puncture my vapors and pomposities, but I am so much less angry than I used to be. That seems like a counterintuitive effect of testosterone, but maybe if my body chemistry is finally getting closer to what it was always supposed to be ... Come to think of it, most of the FTM guys I've met, both in real life and virtually, have seemed pretty easygoing.

I used to be able to write conclusions, but I can't anymore, so I'm just going to leave this here.