Being Amber Rhea

melissa:

rkb:

You lose a lot by not being anonymous, and maybe the only thing you gain is the freedom from worrying about being outed. I’m with Melissa in that I’m not sure what Emily wrote is something I necessarily want to avoid. I’m still figuring all this out, and probably always will be. I don’t know that you can ever fully manage your online persona (or offline), because at the end of the day, whether you say everything or nothing or opt for somewhere in between, there will always be haters, there will always be misinterpretations, there will always be someone who’s uncomfortable with what you’ve said.

Also with Rachel here: I want to talk less about “oversharing” and more about the gutter. “Oversharing” has jumped the theoretical shark. In academia, we’d say the term and the way its deployed is overdetermined, but this is the Internet, and so, sharks it is. Chomp. We need better tools to take this thing apart. Using “oversharing” as our analytic lens is like using Gawker commenters to issue a Human Rights Declaration. And what I mean by the “gutter” is what Scott McCloud nailed in Understanding Comics — that we have been trained as readers to fill in the gaps between images (read also: blog posts, Twitter updates, News Feed items). This is where we as readers/users engage a text as authors (little “a,” Barthes bear with me). This is where the people formerly known as the audience get a front seat in our own lives, as writers, producers, creatives, insert overplayed word you’re too scared to apply to yourself and your work here. Plus all the connotations of the gutter are perfect for what we’re really pointing at here: body/bawdy talk, cum and tears, love and loss. Look at the examples Susan and Viviane pulled for their talk: girl, sex, blog.

This is my initial list. Rusty might have other things to add that are important to him.

• Energy efficient - So our power bill won’t be exorbitant (this is probably my #1 priority)
• Good plumbing, wiring, etc.
• Room for a permanent pole
• Two bathrooms - It’s very important to me to have my own bathroom.
• Inside the Perimeter
• Not too big - I don’t want to accumulate a lot of crap just for the sake of filling up space; and anyway, big houses don’t feel “homey” to me.
• Small/low-maintenance yard (plant a few shrubs, pay somebody to cut the grass every one in a while, and you’re done) OR a patio home
• Hardwood floors - Not a dealbreaker, but a very strong preference. Carpet isn’t as hygienic or as aesthetically pleasing.

I downloaded Little Earthquakes tonight. I have the cassette somewhere, but I’m not going to take the time to find it and then try to import it to my computer somehow. Lots of memories coming back… it’s weird (and it sounds cliché and emo to say) how music can hold so many visceral memories, much like certain scents.

He said you’re really an ugly girl
But I like the way you play
And I died
But I thanked him
Can you believe that
Sick, sick
Holding on to his picture
Dressing up every day

I got something to say you know
But nothing comes
Yes I know what you think of me
You never shut up
Yeah I can hear that

But what if I’m a mermaid
In these jeans of his
With her name still on it
Hey but I don’t care
‘Cause sometimes
I said sometimes
I hear my voice
And it’s been here
Silent all these years

As I said on Twitter, all day I’ve been feeling like I should write something, but I don’t know what.

I could post the letter I wrote to CBS urging them not to cancel Swingtown; I could write any number of screeds on any number of topics I’m passionate about; but it just feels a little fake at this point. As if doing so would deny - or at the very least, fail to acknowledge - everything that’s been going on behind the scenes, behind my eyes (not to get too emo-poetic about it).

In my last post, I said: “And all of this has made me feel like I can do it, must do it, write for my life…” But I’m not sure I know what that means, “write for my life.” Maybe it just means stream of consciousness babble and pretending no one is reading.

They (yes, they!) say that the death of a friend or family member naturally makes the surviving friends/relatives consider their own mortality. The truth is, I was terrified of death already. I know that on some level, sure, most people are “scared of death,” but I don’t think most people feel the terror and panic of it the way I often do. I’m hoping that’ll go away, or at least mellow, as I get older. But I guess it’s really just a fear of the unknown or the unexpected. Something can happen at any moment, you never know when. That is what scares me. That I could lose my whole world in just an instant. Plus, I’m bothered by the concept of history and permanence and record-keeping anyway, and when I even begin to think along those lines, it’s really down the rabbit hole.

I’ve been lucky, in some ways. I’ve made it to 28 and this is the first death I’ve experienced of someone who was really close to me, in one way or another. Both my paternal grandparents died several years ago, but I’d only met them once in my life (when I was three), so while it was sad, it was more of that detached sadness you feel when learning that anyone died.

I don’t know if I can write about all of this without sounding emo-poetic-angsty.

Crap, that reminds me (don’t know why)… I still need to contact my dad’s other children. I need to write them a letter, and weirdly, now that he’s gone, I don’t feel so conflicted about including the stuff about how even though I completely understand if they feel resentful toward me, things weren’t always peachy for me growing up. Here’s hoping they’ll get it… the only address I have is from about four years ago, no idea if it’s still current. Google wasn’t much help.

A lot of people were very nice last week, and I want to write about that. Some other people were inappropriate, and I want to write about that, too; but the niceness, in a way that tripped me up a little, is what I want to focus on first. If I can sort out my thoughts, of course.

My great-aunt Faye (whom I hadn’t seen in nearly ten years) hugged me tightly after the funeral service, and she even used the word “selfish,” but for some reason when she said it, it was comforting, just as she’d intended; even though Jenny was quick to assure me I’m not selfish. ;) But that’s another story.

Another thought I’ve had: what will happen when bloggers start dying? I know some already have, obviously; but I mean on a larger scale, like 40-50 years from now? I guess the larger question is what will blogs - or even the Internet as a whole - even look like at that point, and there’s no way to know; but I always find it sad and and a little unsettling when I come across a blog that hasn’t been updated in months or years, with no explanation - even if the truth is just that the blogger got tired of updating. It feels like there’s a missing chapter, no closure.

But I know, real life doesn’t have nice neat chapters and endings and such. Still, an abrupt cut-off just leaves me feeling unsettled.

I realize I haven’t put up a real blog post in a week. In a way that feels like ages ago, in another way it feels like mere minutes ago. Same as always; I won’t go off on the tired old babbling about the subjective, convoluted nature of time.

So much to say but I don’t even know where to start. I’ve had trouble falling asleep all week, and many nights I’ve written ridiculously long blog posts in my head as I lay awake in the dark. I’ve also been drinking too much sweet tea over the past few days, left over from Tuesday’s delicious catering from Wife Saver; but I know my fitful sleep is attributable to far more than just extra caffeine.

If I’d had any forethought (but how could I have?) I would’ve brought my old-school paper journal with me to Chicago, meaning I’d have it here with me now, and I could be scribbling in it whenever the spirit moves. I know I’ll be doing a fair amount of that when I get home. And I also know I need to do more writing here, and it needs to come from the gut, without a filter; I guess death always makes you reassess things and realize, starkly, how short and fleeting life can be. So I need to write here for the reason I started this blog: for ME. I need to write in MY style, which admittedly others won’t always grok. But that’s okay. Because it’s not about them. And all of this has made me feel like I can do it, must do it, write for my life, without worrying about who I might piss off or what some nebulous “they” might think.

It feels weird to know that I’m going home tomorrow. It’s been over a week since I’ve been home, slept in my own bed, seen my finches, watched my Tivo, sat at my desk… it’s been over two weeks since I’ve been to work. I know getting back into the swing of things will feel good. But like I said, it also just feels weird. Everything has felt so surreal this week. I feel like things are in a state of suspended animation and I’m moving in slow motion… that’s the best way I can describe it, and even that is not totally accurate. I don’t know when I’ll come out of this state. I do know that the old truism about never knowing how a traumatic event will affect you until you’re actually dealing with it is right on.

I’ve had nightmares almost every night I’ve been here (when I’ve been able to remember my dreams at all, that is). And yet I’ve stayed in bed until late morning whenever possible, until my back hurts and my shoulders are screaming for a massage, because the lethargy is just too great to overcome. Really the only thing that forces me out of bed is having to pee.

One weird thing that’s happened while I was here: my mom’s AC literally froze. As in, the AC repair guy came out to look at it and said it had turned into a block of ice. We ran the fan for a full day in order to thaw it out (it’s back to normal now). I’d never heard of anything like that!

—

Chicago, Tuesday, July 17th, around 9:00 p.m.: phone call from my mom. I had been waiting for a call and I knew it wouldn’t be good. And I guess maybe part of me knew exactly how not good (or good, depending on how you look at it; he was suffering a lot, after all) it would be. Dacia and I were walking down Belmont looking for food. I stepped into an alleyway so I could hear my mom better. She sounded quiet and deflated, like she had been crying but wasn’t crying at that moment.

“Hi Amber. Well… Dad died.”

What could I say but, after a big gulp of air, “Okay. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

We talked for a few more minutes. I don’t remember what all she said. I do remember he passed away at 8:20 p.m., and about six people were in the room with him at the time.

I told Dacia. We hugged. We stood there. She asked me what I wanted to do. I said, “I know it sounds bad, but I want to eat dinner.”

She rubbed my back and said, “That’s what you do when you’re alive. You eat.”

—

Thanks, Dorie, for looking after our finches.

More posting to come, either really soon or not.

Originally posted as a comment on Octogalore’s thread by the same name.

• I am really starting to hate the word “privilege.” Not the concept, not the legitimate analysis; but the way it’s so often tossed around as an insult and a shield. The way even saying this makes me sound like the right-wing assholes I loathe. Big ol’ FAIL stamp to all that.
• Whenever someones says something about a “soul-sucking corporate job” as if this is a generally-understood, universally-loathed thing, I bristle.
• I think people who talk about doing what you love and the money will come, or it’s more important to do something for love, passion, commitment, dreams, ideals, etc. than money, have never really known what’s it’s like not to have a safety net (or never had a circumstance come up where they had to realize they don’t have one).
• When people ask - no, expect - me to do “pro bono” web development work, it REALLY offends me. It makes me feel like they don’t appreciate my work or value my time. It comes off as them saying their time is more valuable than mine.
• I love Starbucks. Same as last year’s confession!

Go on over to Octo’s post and leave your own!

From Just A Girl:

I find spaces that aren’t feminist or feminist-friendly to be hostile. I find them uncomfortable. I find that they are not woman-friendly, and I find that they aren’t receptive to discussions about changing this.

That’s not to say that feminist spaces aren’t hostile, or uncomfortable, or not woman-friendly, or not receptive to discussion about those things: they can be. I’ve found them to be. There are some so-called feminist spaces that I would never take part in, because I know that I’d both feel and be unwelcome.

But any space- even a “progressive” or “liberal” one- that isn’t, at the very least, welcoming to the idea of feminism could never be the space for me in which to freely discuss ideas and reactions.

It’s the ugly jokes- about women, about rape, about women’s issues. It’s the ugly assumptions (while we’re all guilty of naive or even stupid, thoughtless assumptions, there are some truly ugly ones out there that I am unprepared or simply not in the mood to fight). It’s the man-as-default setting where it all takes place.

In the comments on my “write the book that scares you” post, Miss Nomered said:

My boyfriend is trans (he’s an FTM), but the thing is, we got together when he was already transitioning. That, and we met at a queer group - that and I’m pretty fluid and somewhat atypical in my sexuality.

Now, before I go any further, I want to apologize to Miss Nomered for using her comment as a jumping-off point. I don’t believe she meant it in the way it sounded (or rather, in the way that it reminded me of other, previous comments by other people) - a subsequent comment by her confirmed what was already my suspicion. So, Miss Nomered, this isn’t about you or your comment; simply, your comment triggered memories of other exchanges that I want to address.

This was something else I heard frequently, always with that not-so-subtly concealed tone of judgment. “Well, it was easier for us to stay together, because I’m bi anyway.” Or sometimes, even: “I don’t love people based on their gender alone.” No subtlety at all, there.

This is why I had to start the SOTS Forum message board. So bullshit like that would not impede our recovery process. And for anyone who already has a tendency to turn anger and distress inward (raises hand), that was the last damn thing they would need to hear.

Yes, if only you could be more open-minded, more sexually progressive, there would be no problem here at all! Because that’s what it’s all about, not wanting to diddle a girl.

“How fucking stupid are you??” I wanted to scream.

It was never just about the sexuality issue, although that was obviously part of it. But it was never about, “OMG someone might think I’m a lesbian, and I just can’t handle that, because Teh Gheys are ew gross icky, and I am so totally not gay!”

Not even close.

Not in the same ballpark. Or on the same planet.

Once, there was a voice of reason on one of the “Transsexuals (And Partners, Yeah Yeah Whatever)” message boards: “Your sexual orientation is not up for debate.”

It was sad that this even needed to be said. Sad that I wanted to fall down at her virtual feet with a weepy thank you. (Of course, I wasn’t exactly in the most calm and composed state in general, so a little melodrama* would probably be in order no matter what.)

* Dammit, self. No. Not melodrama. It was the biggest crisis of my life. The way I acted throughout was fucking appropriate.

Each is relevant for a different reason, and viscerally reminiscent of a particular time in my life.

“Chopsticks” - Liz Phair

I met him at a party and he told me how to drive him home
He said he liked to do it backwards
I said, “That’s just fine with me,
That way we can fuck and watch TV.”

It was four a.m. and the light was gray, like it always is in paperbacks
He asked if I liked playing jacks
I told him that I was good to sixes
But all hell broke loose after that

I told him that I knew Julia Roberts when I was twelve at summer camp
We didn’t say anything after that
I dropped him off and I drove on home
‘Cause secretly I’m timid

“Fool’s Gold” - Bree Sharp

My head is heavy and bent like a crane
The wrecking ball blues are coming again
And Latham says, “Babe, you know life is a ride”
But living’s no fun when you’re dead inside.

I pierce myself to wake up my veins
I’d pierce my heart if I thought things would change
I’m just like a skin that’s been stung and restung
The campfire songs that are sung and resung
For a girl of my age why am I so numb?

I’ve been chasing a lie I was sold
Running down thieves and fool’s gold
These Christmas dreams are just painted coal

I’ve been swallowed up by greed, I’ve been spat upon by lust
If they ain’t playing with your money, they’re playing with your trust
And I’m trying so hard to stop sitting still
To gather the juice that’s been spent or been spilled
Find a spark in myself that hasn’t been killed
‘Cause if death doesn’t get you, then life surely will.

I’ve been chasing a lie I was sold
Running down thieves and fool’s gold
And these Christmas dreams are just painted–

We’ve been chasing a lie we were sold
We’re running down thieves and fool’s gold
And these Christmas dreams are just painted
Just painted, just painted, just painted
Coal

Talk about an early frost.

(Couldn’t find a video for this one.)

Carry on.

At WAM!, in the book proposals session, Courtney E. Martin said, “Write the book that scares you. Write the book that you needed to read.” When I heard that, my heart leapt to my throat. Her words have been resonating in my head ever since.

My comments at the time, in my liveblog, were:

Eeeek… that’s why I started the SOTS Forum site… but of course, I recently shut it down (though I plan to restart it as a Google group; a lot of that was because I broke it and couldn’t figure out how to fix it). But also, it just started feeling too detrimental to be hanging out in that place that I had passed. Maybe that sounds selfish… but that is how I felt.

Maybe one day I will feel like writing that book. I don’t know.

One of the other panelists in that session (don’t remember who, and apparently I didn’t liveblog it) said she firmly believed that everyone in the session has a great book in them. I don’t doubt that I do. It’s the getting it out part that’s terrifying. And not just because of this part (another quote from my liveblog), though that’s certainly part of it - and a passable excuse, if nothing else:

A lot of people talk a lot about writing a book, but actually doing it is a huge sacrifice of a lot of other activities. You have to spend a lot of time just sitting in a chair, writing.

And, last relevant liveblog quote for now:

Courtney: “The book that’s inside of you may be the book you don’t want to write.” It may be the thing that feels too painful, or pisses you off, or is too real or too personal.

She wrote a book about body image. She says she never wanted to write it, because dealing w/ body image issues had been so painful for her.

I can relate… more than a few people have said I should write a book about significant others of transgender people. And I don’t disagree… I mean, I *could* write a good book about it, and from a perspective that hasn’t been done thus far. But I just don’t know if I want to. That stuff, even though I’m “over it” in some ways, in other ways I just want to leave in the past and not think about.

Okay, now I think I’ve sufficiently set this thing up.

As mentioned above, I started the SOTS Forum site in December 2003, and ran the support forum there until earlier this year. Part of the reason for shutting down the forum was that I did something stupid one night while mucking around with FTP, shell access, and god knows what else, and basically deleted the entire database (or at least the message board front-end interface; I still don’t really know). But partly, just like the line about sitting in a chair and writing, that was a convenient excuse. Don’t get me wrong - it’s very true, I don’t have the time, necessary technical prowess in this particular area, nor the disposable income to pay someone what they would deserve in order to fix my fuck-up. But I’ll be honest: I had been thinking of shutting down the board for a while.

I didn’t really want to shut it down, wholesale. I wanted to pass it onto someone else who would take over as admin, webmistress, etc. Except nobody was stepping up. And I had been distancing myself from the board for a long time: posting only occasionally, and mainly just taking care of behind-the-scenes issues like combating spam. The reason - and even though I know, logically, it’s not “selfish,” it still feels that way and I feel guilty - was, to use a phrase previously used by a cisgendered* partner of a FTM in California who was a lifesaver of support for me in the first few days following my discovery: “It was getting too detrimental to wallow in other people’s pain.”

I was glad the board was there - hell, I created it specifically because of the glaring lack of support resources for SOs at the time when I needed it - but every time a new member would join and describe her (it was, 99% of the time, her) pain and agony, it was like I was reliving all of that misery, yet again.

I created the board because nothing like it existed. I created it to be the support forum I needed. And now, should I “write the book that [I] needed to read”?

Let’s face it, that book still does not exist. First of all, there are only a handful of books out there by SOs of trans people at all (some are mentioned here, and even with that list, I was reaching); and the ones that do exist are mainly of the “my partner transitioned but I stayed with them and it was tough and here’s how we did it” variety.

Which is great, and those books serve a purpose, and speak to the people who need it. But what I always got from those books’ existence, and more significantly the lack of books by the partners who didn’t stay?

Well, it was the same thing I got from the online support forums “for transsexuals and their partners” (the “and their partners” glommed on as a superficially-inclusive afterthought):

“If you really loved her**, you’d stay with her.”

In so many words, and not. I got it both ways.

And, too:

“Think about how she must be feeling! It’s so much worse for her!”

This is when I truly learned the importance of safe spaces.

The board - especially the “SOs only” area, visible only to those to whom I granted access - was sacrosanct. There was no accusatory language, no projecting, no trying to turn someone’s life falling apart into a teachable moment. There was no judgment. If you decided not to stay with your transitioning partner, it wasn’t because you didn’t love them enough, or you were transphobic (that was the accusation that always galled me the most), or you weren’t willing to stick it out through hard times (Religious Right anti-divorce rhetoric, anyone?) - it was because you were doing what was right for you. What a concept.

I wish the board existed, now, in book form. I want the details spelled out - the process of going through the five stages of grief (because in many ways, it is like mourning a death), trying to keep up external appearances while your world crumbles from the inside, the self-doubt and self-loathing and self-hatred and second-guessing and all the rest of it. I want the affirmation spelled out in all caps, underlined, italicized, bold:

You are not a bad person for not staying in a relationship with your trans partner!!!

I want that book to exist. I know the ability to write it is in me. Part of me wants to, but part of me feels resentful that someone else hasn’t already done it.

And, anyway: I think I’m still too scared.

—

* We never used that term on the board; I guess because no one knew it?
** A big no-no: using female pronouns when I’M NOT READY TO HEAR THEM. Hello, my life crisis is NOT political; do NOT make it about YOU.

Lately, Melissa keeps writing stuff that feels like something piercing my gut and brings a tear to my eye, and then I struggle to put into words what is resonating so deeply and why. Here’s the latest installment. And my rambling commences after the cut.
Read the full post »

What if I just wrote what I was thinking, in spite of those voices that tell me I’m being selfish or silly or self-centered or navel-gazing or it’s not important.

I love reading the writing of people who do this, so I think I should try it, too. And if people come around and tell me I’m preoccupied with things that don’t matter… well, at least I won’t be surprised, since that’s what part of me is already telling myself, anyway.

I’m supposed to be working on my as-yet-nonexistent AlterNet piece, but instead I’m sitting here typing this. I know I’m making it out to be a way bigger deal than it is. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if I’m all like, “Ooh, AlterNet, big-time internet publication, wowee, zowee, I’d be famous and stuff!” I don’t know if I was ever that particular brand of naive. But for some reason I got a bug up my ass and decided I wanted to try and write something about feminist choices, and how to define them, for a broader audience (insert questionable joke here: “…not just an audience of broads - ha ha ha!!1!”) So I emailed Jill, who is awesome and who also happens to be an AlterNet editor, and asked if they’d be interested; and she said yes, and I said I’d send her something in a few days.

But I’m stressed out about it the way that having a column in my high school newspaper stressed me out. It seemed like a good idea in theory, but when I had to actually get down to it and write something, it was like pulling teeth with myself. I think I ended up only writing two actual columns senior year, and they were both pretty contrived.

And yet I could go home and write ’til my wrist was cramped (and it took at lot more to do that back in the late 90s!) in my journal, scrawl poetry of various levels of emo-ness in my notebooks, type long rambling paragraphs of Opinion in a SimpleText file I kept on my Mac desktop; when I was younger than that, in elementary school, I could fill notebook upon notebook with stories and even what could arguably be called novels (at my parents’ house there are stacks of boxes labeled “Amber’s books she wrote”); and before I could actually write, I was dictating stories to my grandmother at age four.

I guess it’s that I don’t like feeling like I have to follow rules imposed by others? (And yet I’m a stickler for grammar! Ah, I am nothing if not self-contradictory. [I mean, just look at my fondness for parentheses!])

Hence the “I speak my own language” tag you see employed here frequently.

When I was in 4th grade, I won a creative writing contest and they wrote a little blurb about it in the local newspaper. I was quoted as saying, “When I grow up, I want to be a famous author.” It was cute at the time, because I was nine.

…

I don’t want to have to recant on Jill but I think I might. I think maybe this just isn’t the write right (ha, typo!) time for me to try to write something for somewhere other than my blog. I’m sure I’ll try again one day and it’ll come a lot more naturally.

For example, it came pretty naturally with the (never published) op-ed I wrote for the AJC - although I won’t lie, I spent an entire afternoon agonizing about every word and phrase, wanting to get everything right. But the result was, I think I did a bang-up job! Too bad the AJC, apparently, did not agree, but my feelings weren’t hurt; I wasn’t surprised, after all.

…

Tonight I read this post by Melissa, and it brought tears to my eyes. Silly, right? Well, I’ve always been highly emotional and sensitive, so that’s how it goes with me. No making fun.

I’m not sure what, exactly, about the post struck such a deep chord with me - but something obviously did.

I don’t care (that’s a lie; I do care, in spite of the other half of my brain telling me not to - I just try to pretend I don’t [fake it 'til you make it, right?]) what anybody else says; I think there is value in “life-blogging,” living your life online, whatever you want to call it. I might not be able to articulate exactly what that value is, but maybe that’s simply because there aren’t words for some things. But I feel it intuitively, which is how I experience a lot of things… it’s not popular and won’t get people to really believe you, and it sounds like a lot of hippie shit (note the tag), and yet that’s another characteristic I’ve always had: there are things I “just know,” even if I can’t say why.

This kind of writing - and thus blogging - comes naturally to me. The introspection is a huge part, definitely; introspection is kind of a thing of mine, and I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. I am an INFJ to the core. As a side note - this is why it bothers me SO MUCH when, on threads like the latest pushing-200-comments installation at Feministe, people are so free w/ their assumptions that if you haven’t come to the same conclusions as them, then you must not have examined properly. So go, forthwith, and examine your desires! Because obviously you haven’t, otherwise you would realize how bad and wrong they are, and you would sublimate, sublimate dammit! because it’s the right thing to do, otherwise you’re just pleasing the Patriarchy, because that’s all it can ever be about, really; it can’t be about you.

But back to Melissa’s post. -Well, hmm, what do I want to say about Melissa’s post? Actually, I don’t know; but it got me started typing all this.

More to come, perhaps. I think I need to send Jill an email now and apologize for wasting her time.

Hitting “Publish” now.

…of the kind of stuff mentioned here.

This morning I was pulling one of my favorite shirts (seen here) out of the closet, and then I thought, “Oh, I have to go to the creepy eye doctor today; I shouldn’t wear this, he might look down my shirt.”

And then I caught myself.

Because there I was, yet again, as I’ve been taught as a woman, making his potential bad behavior my responsibility.

So I said, “Fuck that, I’m going to wear what I want to wear.”

Everyday sexism, example #787,346,245,986,090.