A month or so ago, I found out that there's a new version of Our Bodies, Our Selves in the works, through their blog. They wanted to be sure that they included some LGBT perspective, so I filled out their questionnaire. I figured I should do my part to have gay and genderqueer women represented in the puberty/women's health bible.
Then I found this. Awesomeness upon awesomeness. It's a resource guide of the Our Bodies, Our Selves variety, put together by a completely different team of people, and focused completely on trans and genderqueer issues. Identity, body stuff, legal stuff, it will all be in there. And that's amazing. If I had found a book like that at a library when I was fifteen it probably would have clarified a lot of things for me. I'm so happy that someone is finally putting something like this together. I added my two cents to the survey, and I'll probably submit cameos to
a few of the chapters as well.
The fact that a book like this can even be conceived is a sign that genderqueer people are actually beginning to be recognized as people now. The demographic is recognizable and extant and has purchasing power. This makes me incredibly glad.
Showing posts with label gender. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gender. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
What Sex is Your Brain?
Today, salon.com posted an article about brain sex, including a link to a quiz powered by the BBC. Naturally curious, I took the quiz to determine whether or not my brain is male or female.
The quiz consists of six sections, each of which is supposed to determine a different aspect of your brain's gender. Part one of the test measures your ability to match different angles, generally considered to be a more male ability. Part two asks you to clasp your hands together and then indicate which thumb is on top, which theoretically tells you which side of the brain is dominant. Part three test your ability to "empathise and systemize," and part four tests your ability to recognize emotions based on pictures of peoples' eyes. Part four asks you to measure your fingers, part five asks you to compare different faces for overall attractiveness, and part six asks you to rotate 3D shapes in your mind.
My result? Completely gender neutral. Big surprise. Behold: I'm smack dab in the middle.
While I'm gratified to find that there's semi-scientific evidence that backs up my general feelings of genderfuck, I have to question certain aspects of the test. The segments testing the ability to recognize angles and mentally rotate complex objects are fairly straightforward and standard, and the word association section is badly designed but otherwise not problematic.
Some of the other sections, though, are pretty dubious. Mainly I have to question two: the finger length and the attractiveness scale tests. Finger length definitely says something about prenatal hormones: most straight men and lesbians have a longer ring fingeer than index finger, and most straight women and gay men have longer index fingers than ring fingers. I certainly have classic lesbian fingers, and I can see the value in looking at finger length as part of overall gender development. But I question the place of finger measurements in what is otherwise an almost wholly cognitive test. Likewise I question the right-side/ left-side dominance test as determined by which thumbs you cross. It doesn't seem to take into account right- and left-handedness, which to the best of my knowledge are evenly distributed between the genders.
Beyond the finger tests, I have to question the attractiveness test. In this test, the subject is asked to differentiate between several similar faces and indicate which one they find most attractive. According to the results, I prefer more "feminine" features. Well enough. But through that whole section, I was thinking that none of the people photographed were people I'd be likely to ask on a date. And because the pictures were photoshopped to emphasize or de-emphasize certain features (to be more "masculine" or "feminine," though I don't know how they define those terms), I generally found the photos that had been tinkered with the least to be the most attractive. So the data may be skewed.
I do find gender differences fascinating. And I would love to see a more in-depth and expansive study or self-quiz to determine how peoples' brains are gendered. As salon says, this is your average Cosmo-type quize, only with a dash of science thrown in. When they come up with a quiz that's more science and less Cosmo, I'll be very interested to see the results.
The quiz consists of six sections, each of which is supposed to determine a different aspect of your brain's gender. Part one of the test measures your ability to match different angles, generally considered to be a more male ability. Part two asks you to clasp your hands together and then indicate which thumb is on top, which theoretically tells you which side of the brain is dominant. Part three test your ability to "empathise and systemize," and part four tests your ability to recognize emotions based on pictures of peoples' eyes. Part four asks you to measure your fingers, part five asks you to compare different faces for overall attractiveness, and part six asks you to rotate 3D shapes in your mind.
My result? Completely gender neutral. Big surprise. Behold: I'm smack dab in the middle.
While I'm gratified to find that there's semi-scientific evidence that backs up my general feelings of genderfuck, I have to question certain aspects of the test. The segments testing the ability to recognize angles and mentally rotate complex objects are fairly straightforward and standard, and the word association section is badly designed but otherwise not problematic.
Some of the other sections, though, are pretty dubious. Mainly I have to question two: the finger length and the attractiveness scale tests. Finger length definitely says something about prenatal hormones: most straight men and lesbians have a longer ring fingeer than index finger, and most straight women and gay men have longer index fingers than ring fingers. I certainly have classic lesbian fingers, and I can see the value in looking at finger length as part of overall gender development. But I question the place of finger measurements in what is otherwise an almost wholly cognitive test. Likewise I question the right-side/ left-side dominance test as determined by which thumbs you cross. It doesn't seem to take into account right- and left-handedness, which to the best of my knowledge are evenly distributed between the genders.
Beyond the finger tests, I have to question the attractiveness test. In this test, the subject is asked to differentiate between several similar faces and indicate which one they find most attractive. According to the results, I prefer more "feminine" features. Well enough. But through that whole section, I was thinking that none of the people photographed were people I'd be likely to ask on a date. And because the pictures were photoshopped to emphasize or de-emphasize certain features (to be more "masculine" or "feminine," though I don't know how they define those terms), I generally found the photos that had been tinkered with the least to be the most attractive. So the data may be skewed.
I do find gender differences fascinating. And I would love to see a more in-depth and expansive study or self-quiz to determine how peoples' brains are gendered. As salon says, this is your average Cosmo-type quize, only with a dash of science thrown in. When they come up with a quiz that's more science and less Cosmo, I'll be very interested to see the results.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Teaching Computer Skills to an Ageing DC Debutante
I had an experience today so bizarre that it has to be shared. At dance class today I was approached by another dancer, a stick-thin, platinum blonde senior citizen who asked me, via a long and rambling monologue, to teach her how to use the internet. I guess she figured that I looked young, intelligent, and broke enough to be up for it, and she was right. After briefly checking my credentials ("how old are you--where did you go to college--What was your major--Ok I guess you must be smart--") she packed me into her sky blue convertible and drove me to her place, all the while telling me that she didn't invite people to her house very often, it was a really nice place, one of the nicest in the city, very impressive, and she hoped I wouldn't be intimidated.
I wasn't intimidated. But still.
Her home is a big brick mansion, looking out over a park. It has a sweeping marble staircase with wrought-iron rails at its center, and the floors are all marble or wood parquet. The coat closet is nearly as big as my current rented room. The dining room walls have hand-painted frescoes. Bits of neoclassical statuary are scattered throughout. It looks like a colonial baronage crossed with an Italian villa, with a few dashes of upscale design magazines thrown in for good measure. It's the kind of house I assumed only diplomats had, a setting where elegant cocktail parties featuring $500 bottles of champagne would not seem out of place. I, in my sweaty dance clothes and jeans, most certainly did not look like I belonged.
After telling the maid imperiously to bring up some refreshments, my hostess led me to the computer room, as meticulously decorated as the rest of the house. For the next hour and a half, I guided her through the basics. This is how you turn the computer on. You want an email account? Let's set one up. Here's how you send an email. Ok, let's try it again. After several iterations, we moved on to google. Her first search? Designer clothes, of course.
I found it all fascinating, not so much the lessons I was giving, but the context. What happens when a 1950s debutante has to confront the modern world? Underneath her makeup and wealthy manners, I detected a very real fear. The knowledge that, were it not for her gilded surroundings and the husband who provides them, she would not be able to survive. She told me that when she was in high school her teachers said that because she was pretty she should take home ec. She hated it, she told me. She said no one ever encouraged her to do anything academic. But what she did not say was also eloquent. She didn't actually try. At seventy, she's still attractive enough that I can see the beauty queen she must have been in her youth. She may have wanted something more than a good marriage, but she didn't have the will to pursue a path outside of her prescribed societal role. Now she's trying to learn a new skill, and she's afraid of it. There's a big, scary world out there, and she knows she's not prepared. I'll do the best I can to teach her. It will be very interesting to see how well she can learn.
I wasn't intimidated. But still.
Her home is a big brick mansion, looking out over a park. It has a sweeping marble staircase with wrought-iron rails at its center, and the floors are all marble or wood parquet. The coat closet is nearly as big as my current rented room. The dining room walls have hand-painted frescoes. Bits of neoclassical statuary are scattered throughout. It looks like a colonial baronage crossed with an Italian villa, with a few dashes of upscale design magazines thrown in for good measure. It's the kind of house I assumed only diplomats had, a setting where elegant cocktail parties featuring $500 bottles of champagne would not seem out of place. I, in my sweaty dance clothes and jeans, most certainly did not look like I belonged.
After telling the maid imperiously to bring up some refreshments, my hostess led me to the computer room, as meticulously decorated as the rest of the house. For the next hour and a half, I guided her through the basics. This is how you turn the computer on. You want an email account? Let's set one up. Here's how you send an email. Ok, let's try it again. After several iterations, we moved on to google. Her first search? Designer clothes, of course.
I found it all fascinating, not so much the lessons I was giving, but the context. What happens when a 1950s debutante has to confront the modern world? Underneath her makeup and wealthy manners, I detected a very real fear. The knowledge that, were it not for her gilded surroundings and the husband who provides them, she would not be able to survive. She told me that when she was in high school her teachers said that because she was pretty she should take home ec. She hated it, she told me. She said no one ever encouraged her to do anything academic. But what she did not say was also eloquent. She didn't actually try. At seventy, she's still attractive enough that I can see the beauty queen she must have been in her youth. She may have wanted something more than a good marriage, but she didn't have the will to pursue a path outside of her prescribed societal role. Now she's trying to learn a new skill, and she's afraid of it. There's a big, scary world out there, and she knows she's not prepared. I'll do the best I can to teach her. It will be very interesting to see how well she can learn.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Strange Conversations in Mongolia
This morning I arrived in Ulaan Baator. Mongolia is one of my favorite places, and the local guide here is one of my favorite people on the road. Very friendly, very cheerful, very educated. We get on quite well in a travelers' camaraderie sort of way, but we've never had a terribly serious conversation about anything outside of tourism. So I was taken aback this morning when, at 7am, he asked me about homosexuality.
"You know, the last group that came here, there were a lot of people who were..."(vaguely illustrative wrist flaps)"...gays."
"Oh?"
"Yes," he continued, "there were five of them. I think it is a record for one trip."
"I see." I wasn't sure where this was going but I was fairly sure the conversation would become awkward for me very quickly. I was right.
In an outburst he suddenly said, "what makes them become like this, these homosexuals? How can they...why do they...What makes them become gay?"
I didn't quite know what to answer. Delicate subjects are best discussed at times other than 7am-post-overnight-train-pre-breakfast. I started to answer with an "um," but he continued.
"I think they are very ugly. I think maybe they're so ugly that no woman would have them. That's why they look at each other. And lesbians? I think maybe they always fought with their fathers. Maybe their first boyfriends were bad. That's why they don't like men."
I had to answer something, however unpopular the response.
"Actually...I think it's biology."
He looked shocked.
"Biology? No, there is no reason for it to be biology." His expression of shock grew as the idea expanded in his mind. "If it was biology...that would mean there would be gay people here...Mongolian people...no, it can't be."
He was clearly at a loss.
I said something about it being ten percent of the population worldwide, and he answered with a hmph and a change of subject. I thought it was just as well. It was a strange way to start the morning.
In some ways his question surprised me. Not so much the question itself, but the fact that it came from him. He knows a lot about Mongolia, its culture and its history, much more so than the average citizen. He knows that in shamanism here hermaphrodites were once considered sacred. (I know this because the subject came up in somebody's joke once and he didn't understand the English word. When the term had been explained he said yes, people like these used to be special shamans). Given that he knew this, I'm surprised that he considered the possibility of homosexuality in Mongolia shocking. But maybe he thinks that's all in the past. Nothing continues today.
Later in the afternoon, I saw part of the movie "V for Vendetta" dubbed in Mongolian, playing on the tv in the hotel lobby. It was the part of the film where Evey is in prison, receiving messages from the cell next door. The life and loves of Valerie were there onscreen, a lesbian narrative dubbed in Mongolian, and I have to assume the translation was accurate. But none of the hotel staff seemed to be paying attention. I wished that the local guide was there to see the movie. I don't know if it would have helped. But I think that the main thing that makes homosexuality scary for people is its unfamiliarity. The guide asked in his outburst about gay people, why they didn't want "another half, a partner." I didn't get a chance to say that they do want those things, just in a different form. But I think if more people were exposed to homosexuality they would realize it's simply a relationship composed in a different way.
And with that thought, I'm going to finally go to sleep and end my obscenely long day.
"You know, the last group that came here, there were a lot of people who were..."(vaguely illustrative wrist flaps)"...gays."
"Oh?"
"Yes," he continued, "there were five of them. I think it is a record for one trip."
"I see." I wasn't sure where this was going but I was fairly sure the conversation would become awkward for me very quickly. I was right.
In an outburst he suddenly said, "what makes them become like this, these homosexuals? How can they...why do they...What makes them become gay?"
I didn't quite know what to answer. Delicate subjects are best discussed at times other than 7am-post-overnight-train-pre-breakfast. I started to answer with an "um," but he continued.
"I think they are very ugly. I think maybe they're so ugly that no woman would have them. That's why they look at each other. And lesbians? I think maybe they always fought with their fathers. Maybe their first boyfriends were bad. That's why they don't like men."
I had to answer something, however unpopular the response.
"Actually...I think it's biology."
He looked shocked.
"Biology? No, there is no reason for it to be biology." His expression of shock grew as the idea expanded in his mind. "If it was biology...that would mean there would be gay people here...Mongolian people...no, it can't be."
He was clearly at a loss.
I said something about it being ten percent of the population worldwide, and he answered with a hmph and a change of subject. I thought it was just as well. It was a strange way to start the morning.
In some ways his question surprised me. Not so much the question itself, but the fact that it came from him. He knows a lot about Mongolia, its culture and its history, much more so than the average citizen. He knows that in shamanism here hermaphrodites were once considered sacred. (I know this because the subject came up in somebody's joke once and he didn't understand the English word. When the term had been explained he said yes, people like these used to be special shamans). Given that he knew this, I'm surprised that he considered the possibility of homosexuality in Mongolia shocking. But maybe he thinks that's all in the past. Nothing continues today.
Later in the afternoon, I saw part of the movie "V for Vendetta" dubbed in Mongolian, playing on the tv in the hotel lobby. It was the part of the film where Evey is in prison, receiving messages from the cell next door. The life and loves of Valerie were there onscreen, a lesbian narrative dubbed in Mongolian, and I have to assume the translation was accurate. But none of the hotel staff seemed to be paying attention. I wished that the local guide was there to see the movie. I don't know if it would have helped. But I think that the main thing that makes homosexuality scary for people is its unfamiliarity. The guide asked in his outburst about gay people, why they didn't want "another half, a partner." I didn't get a chance to say that they do want those things, just in a different form. But I think if more people were exposed to homosexuality they would realize it's simply a relationship composed in a different way.
And with that thought, I'm going to finally go to sleep and end my obscenely long day.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
And...nyet
A few minutes ago I was talking to my Russian housemate over tea, and she mentioned a male friend of hers whose wife had just given birth. Apparently it was a difficult delivery. She said it made her feel scared.
I asked her if she wanted children, and she matter-of-factly said "of course," as though it weren't even a question that needed to be asked. Then she suddenly looked at me with an expression of dawning horror and asked me, "don't you?"
When I admitted that no, in fact, I don't want kids she looked completely shocked. "Why not," she asked.
"Because I don't. I never have. It's just not something that I want."
She continued to look shocked, so I told her that I do like kids as long as I can give them back to someone else after an hour or two. That didn't really seem to help.
"You surprise me," she said finally. Then she got up to go do work.
Well then. Nyet.
It's ironic. This woman is probably my best friend in Russia. We get along really well, we go to dance classes together, we share meals, we drink tea. I was actually debating coming out to her, because I thought that she might be open minded, might possibly understand. I'm glad we had this conversation first before I thought about it too much more. The level of shock she showed at my not wanting kids probably indicates that the reaction would be seismic if I revealed that I also don't want a man.
I just don't understand why it's a big deal. I wasn't put on earth to fulfill some biological imperative, or to follow anyone's agenda other than my own. I don't see why it's shocking that a woman wouldn't want a husband or kids. Regardless of whether she's gay or straight.
I'm glad that I'm leaving Russia soon. I love this country in many ways. But I need to be in a place where my way of life is unremarkable. Where no one gives a damn if I date a woman and don't want kids.
I asked her if she wanted children, and she matter-of-factly said "of course," as though it weren't even a question that needed to be asked. Then she suddenly looked at me with an expression of dawning horror and asked me, "don't you?"
When I admitted that no, in fact, I don't want kids she looked completely shocked. "Why not," she asked.
"Because I don't. I never have. It's just not something that I want."
She continued to look shocked, so I told her that I do like kids as long as I can give them back to someone else after an hour or two. That didn't really seem to help.
"You surprise me," she said finally. Then she got up to go do work.
Well then. Nyet.
It's ironic. This woman is probably my best friend in Russia. We get along really well, we go to dance classes together, we share meals, we drink tea. I was actually debating coming out to her, because I thought that she might be open minded, might possibly understand. I'm glad we had this conversation first before I thought about it too much more. The level of shock she showed at my not wanting kids probably indicates that the reaction would be seismic if I revealed that I also don't want a man.
I just don't understand why it's a big deal. I wasn't put on earth to fulfill some biological imperative, or to follow anyone's agenda other than my own. I don't see why it's shocking that a woman wouldn't want a husband or kids. Regardless of whether she's gay or straight.
I'm glad that I'm leaving Russia soon. I love this country in many ways. But I need to be in a place where my way of life is unremarkable. Where no one gives a damn if I date a woman and don't want kids.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
The Word of the Day is "Androgyny"
The other day, my Russian housemate showed me a ballet video online.
It's a very interesting piece of modern choreography. I like it from a dance perspective, because they do some unusual things and the fast pointe work is incredible. But it's also interesting from a gender perspective, because it explores relationships. Different people dance together in different ways, and at one point, two female dancers are dressed as men. Before that point, though, during what I thought was a more conventional scene, my housemate asked me a strange question: "Is that dancer a man or a women?"
I told her it was a woman, because the likelihood of a man doing such intricate pointe work is almost nil. (I have seen men on pointe, in the "ballet trocadero," but I have to say that the pointe work was pretty blunt. In my experience, most male dancers don't pursue pointe training at all, so would not be able to perform it with such a high degree of skill). So I told her that the dancer was a woman, but the woman was androgynous.
"How you call this? An-dro-gyn-ous?"
"Yes. Androgynous."
It led me to think about dance in general, how girls from an early age are taught to move in an exceedingly light and delicate mannner, feminine to the extreme. They are also taught to starve their bodies, so that they don't develop a shape with many feminine attributes. Therefore...when a female dancer ceases to move in the typically stylized "feminine" manner traditional to ballet, if she begins to move with force and strength, she automatically becomes androgynous, because neither her movements nor her shape indicate "female." This phenomenon is completely unrelated to her own gender identity. It's simply a matter of gender presentation, which normally goes one way and confuses people when it goes another.
I also find it interesting that of all words I should be teaching people in Russia, "androgynous" is one of the first. I'm not out here and I'm not planning on coming out, but gender is something that seems to follow me. I'm one of the people who notices gender ambiguity in the world, and this means that I end up talking about it to unexpected people, even if I don't talk about its relevance to my personal life.
We didn't talk any more about androgyny, my housemate and I, we just watched the ballet. But I'm happy that one person in Russia now knows the English word for ambiguity in gender.
It's a very interesting piece of modern choreography. I like it from a dance perspective, because they do some unusual things and the fast pointe work is incredible. But it's also interesting from a gender perspective, because it explores relationships. Different people dance together in different ways, and at one point, two female dancers are dressed as men. Before that point, though, during what I thought was a more conventional scene, my housemate asked me a strange question: "Is that dancer a man or a women?"
I told her it was a woman, because the likelihood of a man doing such intricate pointe work is almost nil. (I have seen men on pointe, in the "ballet trocadero," but I have to say that the pointe work was pretty blunt. In my experience, most male dancers don't pursue pointe training at all, so would not be able to perform it with such a high degree of skill). So I told her that the dancer was a woman, but the woman was androgynous.
"How you call this? An-dro-gyn-ous?"
"Yes. Androgynous."
It led me to think about dance in general, how girls from an early age are taught to move in an exceedingly light and delicate mannner, feminine to the extreme. They are also taught to starve their bodies, so that they don't develop a shape with many feminine attributes. Therefore...when a female dancer ceases to move in the typically stylized "feminine" manner traditional to ballet, if she begins to move with force and strength, she automatically becomes androgynous, because neither her movements nor her shape indicate "female." This phenomenon is completely unrelated to her own gender identity. It's simply a matter of gender presentation, which normally goes one way and confuses people when it goes another.
I also find it interesting that of all words I should be teaching people in Russia, "androgynous" is one of the first. I'm not out here and I'm not planning on coming out, but gender is something that seems to follow me. I'm one of the people who notices gender ambiguity in the world, and this means that I end up talking about it to unexpected people, even if I don't talk about its relevance to my personal life.
We didn't talk any more about androgyny, my housemate and I, we just watched the ballet. But I'm happy that one person in Russia now knows the English word for ambiguity in gender.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
New Country, New Norms
I arrived in Russia a few days ago, and already I'm beginning to notice the gender norms of the place. Women walk around tottering on high heels as they walk over cobblestones. Their outfits hover between understated fashion and over-the-top uberclothing (think hot pink tights and black miniskirts--I only saw one outfit like this, but it was memorable). In general, there's an emphasis on looking good. Men don't seem to pay as much attention to their own appearance. They generally look dressed down, with the occasional suit and tie amongst the older generation.
More than fashion, I'm noticing that people here have less in the way of personal space issues than we do over in the US. I've seen lots of girls holding hands or walking arm in arm, and while they're obviously just friends and nothing more it still makes me happy. The phobia of touch is something that I don't entirely uderstand about my own culture, even though it's something in which I tend to participate. I like my personal space, but I also enjoy being affectionate with close friends. In the US, it seems as though most physical contact is construed as being in some way sexual, so no touch is permitted unless it's with someone you actually want to have sex with. I've found in most of Europe that this social taboo is much less prevalent, and consequently friends don't need the twelve-inch personal space bubble that we require in the US.
More than fashion, I'm noticing that people here have less in the way of personal space issues than we do over in the US. I've seen lots of girls holding hands or walking arm in arm, and while they're obviously just friends and nothing more it still makes me happy. The phobia of touch is something that I don't entirely uderstand about my own culture, even though it's something in which I tend to participate. I like my personal space, but I also enjoy being affectionate with close friends. In the US, it seems as though most physical contact is construed as being in some way sexual, so no touch is permitted unless it's with someone you actually want to have sex with. I've found in most of Europe that this social taboo is much less prevalent, and consequently friends don't need the twelve-inch personal space bubble that we require in the US.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Klein Grid
A while ago (as in, a few weeks ago), I took a short version of the Klein test for sexual orientation, out of curiosity to see if a somewhat standard test would give results in line with my own self-perception.
It came out more bisexual than I think is really accurate, largely because for the set of questions about who I'd been hanging out with for the past year (not dating, just people I spent time with) I had to answer "mostly male." This was more out of necessity than actual choice; who you hang out with has a lot to do with who's available, and most of the people I knew in Morocco were men. In general I think I'm about 80% gay, but it's not even really as simple as that. I'm attracted to people who fall outside gender norms. So if the pool of people I could potentially date was set at ten, seven would be female, one would be male, and two would be so completely androgynous that no one who wasn't dating them would be able to tell. And all of them would be androgynous to some degree. I think that tests of this nature fall short of accuracy because they fail to take into account that gender itself is not a binary. There isn't just a spectrum of gender-orientation, there's a full spectrum of gender-identity. But no one in research circles is likely to try to quantify that fact for at least another ten years.
It came out more bisexual than I think is really accurate, largely because for the set of questions about who I'd been hanging out with for the past year (not dating, just people I spent time with) I had to answer "mostly male." This was more out of necessity than actual choice; who you hang out with has a lot to do with who's available, and most of the people I knew in Morocco were men. In general I think I'm about 80% gay, but it's not even really as simple as that. I'm attracted to people who fall outside gender norms. So if the pool of people I could potentially date was set at ten, seven would be female, one would be male, and two would be so completely androgynous that no one who wasn't dating them would be able to tell. And all of them would be androgynous to some degree. I think that tests of this nature fall short of accuracy because they fail to take into account that gender itself is not a binary. There isn't just a spectrum of gender-orientation, there's a full spectrum of gender-identity. But no one in research circles is likely to try to quantify that fact for at least another ten years.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
More Good News (and questions of language)
Huzzah! We now officially have four states in which it's legal for same-sex couples to get married, now that Vermont has joined the team. And our nation's capital has taken the unexpectedly enlightened step of recognizing same-sex unions performed elsewhere, even if not allowing same-sex unions of its own. Hamdulilah, life is becoming good.
On a completely different note, one I'd planned to blog about before I got the celebratory news of increased legality, I'd like to talk about language. Ever since I started learning foreign languages, I've always been fascinated by the idea of gendered words. From the obvious and inane middle-school jokes about "how can you tell if this pencil's a boy or a girl?" to more evolved questions in high school and college, gendered words have always held questions. Why, for example, is the moon in Europe almost always considered feminine and the sun masculine? Why is it reversed in Japan? Who came up with gendered language in the first place? And does it actually affect how we think about the words themselves? I've had several people scoff at this last question, but a researcher at Stanford has now decided to look at this question as well. Her findings? People do indeed think differently about differently gendered words.
When you think of a bridge, how would you describe it?
Which of these sets of descriptions would you describe as more masculine or feminine?
As it turns out, the set of more "masculine" attributes--"strong, sturdy, towering, etc." was chosen by people whose primary language is Spanish, in which "bridge" is a masculine word. The set of more "feminine" attributes was chosen by people whose main language is German, in which "bridge" is a feminine word.
So does gendered language affect peoples' perceptions of objects? I think so. The question now becomes, what do speakers of an ungendered language like English have to say?
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=102518565&ft=1&f=1007
On a completely different note, one I'd planned to blog about before I got the celebratory news of increased legality, I'd like to talk about language. Ever since I started learning foreign languages, I've always been fascinated by the idea of gendered words. From the obvious and inane middle-school jokes about "how can you tell if this pencil's a boy or a girl?" to more evolved questions in high school and college, gendered words have always held questions. Why, for example, is the moon in Europe almost always considered feminine and the sun masculine? Why is it reversed in Japan? Who came up with gendered language in the first place? And does it actually affect how we think about the words themselves? I've had several people scoff at this last question, but a researcher at Stanford has now decided to look at this question as well. Her findings? People do indeed think differently about differently gendered words.
When you think of a bridge, how would you describe it?
Which of these sets of descriptions would you describe as more masculine or feminine?
As it turns out, the set of more "masculine" attributes--"strong, sturdy, towering, etc." was chosen by people whose primary language is Spanish, in which "bridge" is a masculine word. The set of more "feminine" attributes was chosen by people whose main language is German, in which "bridge" is a feminine word.
So does gendered language affect peoples' perceptions of objects? I think so. The question now becomes, what do speakers of an ungendered language like English have to say?
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=102518565&ft=1&f=1007
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Aerial Dance and Gender Stereotypes
Earlier today I took an aerial dance class, my second one so far. It's the most fun I've had in a while, in terms of physical activity; my four-times-a-week yoga classes are good for getting back in shape, but not really what I would call "fun".(Too structured, always the same poses, more emphasis on staying in the postures than in the joy of movement). Aerial, on the other hand, is a form of dance, which means that joy in movement is integral. Doing amazing feats and making them look effortless and pretty...that's what movement is about.
So. Technique. You step up to the low trapeze, wrap your hands around it, and hang your weight down, making sure to protect your neck. Explore moving while hanging from the bar, see how it feels, that's the first step. Next step is to get up. Hold on to the bar, drop your weight down, and kick your feet up to place them between your hands. Hook your knees over the bar. Let go with your hands and arch your back. Now swing yourself back up to hold on to the bar with your hands, and walk your hands up the rope to pull yourself up to a sitting position. Ready to move on? Disengage your right leg from the bar and extend it down. Slide your left knee to one corner of the bar, and brace your right shoulder blade against the opposite rope. It will hold you, despite what you may think. Disengage your shoulder blade from the rope, hook your left elbow over the bar, and extend yoru right arm. You should be hanging from your left knee and your left elbow, with your body in a straight line extended below the bar. For something even more advanced, straighten your left leg and hook your foot aorund the rope. Bring your right hand up to the bar and let go with your left hand. You're now hanging below the bar with one wrist and one ankle. Had enough? Now you can get down. From the hanging position, just bring both hands up to hold the bar as you kick your feet down to land gracefully below.
We practice like this for an hour and a half. As a beginner, the wooden bar hurts my hands, I get rope burns on my palms, my triceps aren't strong enough to hold my full weight for very long, and my graceful landings are often more like thuds. By the end of class, my arms want to fall off. But it's fun, and I'm enjoying it. I look forward to getting stronger muscles and bigger calluses so I can stay up longer. I can't wait to develop more technique and artistic skill.
After class today, I struck up a conversation with an older woman who was tyring the class out. Fortysomething and built like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, she understandably had a bit of trouble. But she seemed nice enough, so we chatted a bit. She said that her arms hurt, and I said that was to be expected. After my first class I could barely lift grocery bags for the next several days. Then she said she didn't want calluses on her hands, because those look bad on women, and people would think badly of her. I suggested athletic tape as protection, but then...
"Defy gender stereotypes," I said, as I often do when confronted with the idea that there are things that women shouldn't do.
"What?" she responded, as though she must have misheard what I'd said.
"Defy gender stereotypes. Go against them. They're bad."
The dawn of horrified comprehension appeared. With a look of the most righteous possible indignation, she primly said "I believe in them very strongly." Her tone brooked no argument.
Oh. Oops.
Now, I admittedly self-select the people I hang out with. Most of my friends are queer or queer-friendly or just don't give a damn one way or the other what conventional wisdom says about how they should behave. I know boys who sew and girls who fix plumbing, and they're all quite comfortable with their gender identities. Even my friends who do partake in "stereotypical" activities will fight tooth and nail to say and show that they can do other things as well. Never have I ever in my life talked to someone, a woman no less, who "belives very strongly" in a system designed to keep us all rigidly in our (subordinate) place.
This woman won't do anything that will give her bruises, cuts, scrapes, blisters, calluses, or any other blemish. She's had five babies (which is worse for your body than most other activities I can think of that would result in bruising). She likes to pamper herself. (I could be uncharitable and say that this combination probably directly contributes to her Pillsbury shape, but that would be mean and unfair so I'll desist). She proceeded to tell me, in the most patronizing way possible, that I might think differently while I'm young and foolish but as I get older my opinions will change and I'll realize, like her, that the stereotypes are true.
Not bloody likely, I thought, but did not say. I bid her a polite goodbye. I doubt that I'll see her again. Aerial dance is not for the fainthearted, and if you're afraid of a few blisters you'll never get far. (That's true of most things, after all). As for me, I take pride in my bruises. I take pride in my calluses, scratches, and scars. They show what I've done, where I've been, what I've accomplished. From ballet feet to rope-burned palms, I have it all, and I'm not ashamed. So if you're looking for a nice, pretty, scarless girl to cook and clean and have babies, don't wait up for me.
I'll be on the trapeze.
Trapeze artist Emily Schadel
So. Technique. You step up to the low trapeze, wrap your hands around it, and hang your weight down, making sure to protect your neck. Explore moving while hanging from the bar, see how it feels, that's the first step. Next step is to get up. Hold on to the bar, drop your weight down, and kick your feet up to place them between your hands. Hook your knees over the bar. Let go with your hands and arch your back. Now swing yourself back up to hold on to the bar with your hands, and walk your hands up the rope to pull yourself up to a sitting position. Ready to move on? Disengage your right leg from the bar and extend it down. Slide your left knee to one corner of the bar, and brace your right shoulder blade against the opposite rope. It will hold you, despite what you may think. Disengage your shoulder blade from the rope, hook your left elbow over the bar, and extend yoru right arm. You should be hanging from your left knee and your left elbow, with your body in a straight line extended below the bar. For something even more advanced, straighten your left leg and hook your foot aorund the rope. Bring your right hand up to the bar and let go with your left hand. You're now hanging below the bar with one wrist and one ankle. Had enough? Now you can get down. From the hanging position, just bring both hands up to hold the bar as you kick your feet down to land gracefully below.
We practice like this for an hour and a half. As a beginner, the wooden bar hurts my hands, I get rope burns on my palms, my triceps aren't strong enough to hold my full weight for very long, and my graceful landings are often more like thuds. By the end of class, my arms want to fall off. But it's fun, and I'm enjoying it. I look forward to getting stronger muscles and bigger calluses so I can stay up longer. I can't wait to develop more technique and artistic skill.
After class today, I struck up a conversation with an older woman who was tyring the class out. Fortysomething and built like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, she understandably had a bit of trouble. But she seemed nice enough, so we chatted a bit. She said that her arms hurt, and I said that was to be expected. After my first class I could barely lift grocery bags for the next several days. Then she said she didn't want calluses on her hands, because those look bad on women, and people would think badly of her. I suggested athletic tape as protection, but then...
"Defy gender stereotypes," I said, as I often do when confronted with the idea that there are things that women shouldn't do.
"What?" she responded, as though she must have misheard what I'd said.
"Defy gender stereotypes. Go against them. They're bad."
The dawn of horrified comprehension appeared. With a look of the most righteous possible indignation, she primly said "I believe in them very strongly." Her tone brooked no argument.
Oh. Oops.
Now, I admittedly self-select the people I hang out with. Most of my friends are queer or queer-friendly or just don't give a damn one way or the other what conventional wisdom says about how they should behave. I know boys who sew and girls who fix plumbing, and they're all quite comfortable with their gender identities. Even my friends who do partake in "stereotypical" activities will fight tooth and nail to say and show that they can do other things as well. Never have I ever in my life talked to someone, a woman no less, who "belives very strongly" in a system designed to keep us all rigidly in our (subordinate) place.
This woman won't do anything that will give her bruises, cuts, scrapes, blisters, calluses, or any other blemish. She's had five babies (which is worse for your body than most other activities I can think of that would result in bruising). She likes to pamper herself. (I could be uncharitable and say that this combination probably directly contributes to her Pillsbury shape, but that would be mean and unfair so I'll desist). She proceeded to tell me, in the most patronizing way possible, that I might think differently while I'm young and foolish but as I get older my opinions will change and I'll realize, like her, that the stereotypes are true.
Not bloody likely, I thought, but did not say. I bid her a polite goodbye. I doubt that I'll see her again. Aerial dance is not for the fainthearted, and if you're afraid of a few blisters you'll never get far. (That's true of most things, after all). As for me, I take pride in my bruises. I take pride in my calluses, scratches, and scars. They show what I've done, where I've been, what I've accomplished. From ballet feet to rope-burned palms, I have it all, and I'm not ashamed. So if you're looking for a nice, pretty, scarless girl to cook and clean and have babies, don't wait up for me.
I'll be on the trapeze.
Trapeze artist Emily Schadel
Friday, January 16, 2009
Straight Privilege
My girlfriend and I are about to embark on a road trip up to Massachusetts this weekend. The last time we embarked on such an event, she was a new Teach for America recruit, and we passed the time driving by reading aloud all the required materials. A lot of the TFA materials talked about "unpacking privilege," generally with regards to race and class. Things like racial privilege being able to see movies featuring stars of your own race and find barbie dolls of your ethnic background and other things like that.
Someone then created a list of things that constituted "straight privilege," which was largely identical, only with a few words changed. The ability to see gay movie stars, etc. We thought that their straight privilege list was incomplete and rather silly, so we filled it in with a few instances from our own experience.
Straight privilege is being able to hold hands and otherwise show affection in public without worrying about what other people think.
Straight privilege is being able to kiss your partner at home in front of the windows without first pulling closed the blinds.
It is being able to kiss goodbye at the airport when you know you won't see each other for months.
It is going to a hotel and not having to clarify that you want a double bed.
It is having no question whatsoever about your rights to marry, adopt, or share benefits.
And here I was intending this to be a lighthearted entry...
...because at the time we were creating this list we were actually laughing about it all. Because there's something slightly ridiculous about "unpacking your straight privilege" when driving with your girlfriend from Northampton to Provincetown, the two gayest cities in the US. The two places where, for once, the privilege actually turns the other way.
Someone then created a list of things that constituted "straight privilege," which was largely identical, only with a few words changed. The ability to see gay movie stars, etc. We thought that their straight privilege list was incomplete and rather silly, so we filled it in with a few instances from our own experience.
Straight privilege is being able to hold hands and otherwise show affection in public without worrying about what other people think.
Straight privilege is being able to kiss your partner at home in front of the windows without first pulling closed the blinds.
It is being able to kiss goodbye at the airport when you know you won't see each other for months.
It is going to a hotel and not having to clarify that you want a double bed.
It is having no question whatsoever about your rights to marry, adopt, or share benefits.
And here I was intending this to be a lighthearted entry...
...because at the time we were creating this list we were actually laughing about it all. Because there's something slightly ridiculous about "unpacking your straight privilege" when driving with your girlfriend from Northampton to Provincetown, the two gayest cities in the US. The two places where, for once, the privilege actually turns the other way.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Gay's the Word
In London, there is only one single Gay bookstore. I expected more, in a city this size, but one is better than nothing. I found the shop this evening and was initially put off by the rather, well...male focus of most of the merchandise. The lesbian section is small and in the back. But it's there. I bought a couple volumes of secondhand fiction (can't afford new books as the pound is too strong vis-a-vis the dollar, can't afford anything too obvious since I'm going back to Morocco). I would have liked to talk to the proprietor, but he was busy for most of the time that I was there. Still, it was nice. A place with a nice, obvious title emblazoned outside. The simple idea of being out in the open and having it not be a big deal. I'm inclined to think that it's really not a big deal, it's simply outsiders who make it one.
I figured out my sexuality in an environment where people are people, women or womyn or boys or bois are pretty much exactly the same, and who you date doesn't make much difference to anyone else. As a result, I tend to look at it all in a matter-of-fact sort of way. You're transsexual and dating a drag queen? No problem. I'm female and dating someone completely androgynous? Who cares? Problem is, very few other people see it that way. The fact that four states have just banned gay marriage, including my home state of Florida, illustrates that fact. I've never been one to be terribly political, and I'm not inclined to be publicly Out and Proud when, as I've said, the notion of who's dating whom is really no big deal to me. But when it comes to people's rights being taken away...I get mad. I was born in the States. I don't live there now, but it's a country I want to be able to come back to. And when I come back, I want to have the same rights as everybody else. I don't care about getting married. I don't care about a ceremony or a pretty white dress. But I want to know that if anything happened to me my girlfriend could come visit in the hospital. I want to know that if we were victims of a hate crime we wouldn't also face discrimination from the police. I want to know that no one else would be able to put their politics or their religion into our relationship, because our relationship is between us and only us.
This is the reason why, even though I'm not political, I think it's important to have a visible presence. Everyone on Marchmost street knows that there's a gay bookstore there. No one really seems to care. I'm sure that they've had tough times, but they've been there for years and gained acceptance. And that's just the point. People fear what they don't understand. People fear the unknown. And the only way to get over the fear of the unknown is to make it known. When people stop thinking of the Big Scary Homosexual Agenda and realize that gays are people too, it won't be such a big deal anymore. And that's the way it should be.
I figured out my sexuality in an environment where people are people, women or womyn or boys or bois are pretty much exactly the same, and who you date doesn't make much difference to anyone else. As a result, I tend to look at it all in a matter-of-fact sort of way. You're transsexual and dating a drag queen? No problem. I'm female and dating someone completely androgynous? Who cares? Problem is, very few other people see it that way. The fact that four states have just banned gay marriage, including my home state of Florida, illustrates that fact. I've never been one to be terribly political, and I'm not inclined to be publicly Out and Proud when, as I've said, the notion of who's dating whom is really no big deal to me. But when it comes to people's rights being taken away...I get mad. I was born in the States. I don't live there now, but it's a country I want to be able to come back to. And when I come back, I want to have the same rights as everybody else. I don't care about getting married. I don't care about a ceremony or a pretty white dress. But I want to know that if anything happened to me my girlfriend could come visit in the hospital. I want to know that if we were victims of a hate crime we wouldn't also face discrimination from the police. I want to know that no one else would be able to put their politics or their religion into our relationship, because our relationship is between us and only us.
This is the reason why, even though I'm not political, I think it's important to have a visible presence. Everyone on Marchmost street knows that there's a gay bookstore there. No one really seems to care. I'm sure that they've had tough times, but they've been there for years and gained acceptance. And that's just the point. People fear what they don't understand. People fear the unknown. And the only way to get over the fear of the unknown is to make it known. When people stop thinking of the Big Scary Homosexual Agenda and realize that gays are people too, it won't be such a big deal anymore. And that's the way it should be.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
The God of Small Things (Retroactive Post)
The God of Small Things. The God of Loss. The ones who make and break the Love Laws. The things I think about after reading this book.
How the rules of society determine who is able and allowed to love whom. How the desire to fix these ideas in stone creates pain for all transgressors who are not truly transgressors, who are simply the forerunners of those things that are still taboo but which will someday (inshallah soon) be accepted. Caste and Race and Family Ties. The established network of each.
In some ways I too transgress these laws. I love a woman, and an androgynous one at that. It’s not so bad these days as it was in the past. I’m quite happy that I didn’t live in the 1950s, when I would probably have been forced or felt pressured by society to marry some nice decent chap and had 2.5 kids and would have probably never even acknowledged to myself that women are more beautiful to my eyes than men.
On the other hand, my current life presents its own set of problems. I’m a lesbian living in Morocco. My girlfriend is afraid to come visit because she thinks that we’ll get lynched. I think we’d be alright, but nothing is certain, no matter what country we’re in. And given that she comes from an activist background and has seen all the bad things that can potentially happen, I have to respect her fears.
One thing that struck me in the book is how characters who seem on the surface to be very minor actually wield great power. Baby Kochamma seems like just a petty old biddy, and indeed that’s exactly what she is. But she manipulates the stories that people hear and that they believe to dramatically alter the outcome of events. But for her manipulations, Velutha might have lived longer and died differently. Ammu would have survived longer as well. The twins would have grown up together and not gone mostly mad. All these lives that could have gone on happily and indefinitely were ended or altered irreparably. By someone who appeared only to play a peripheral part.
I wonder, in my life, if there are people in the background that I’m not aware of, people who pull strings to manipulate thoughts as she did. I shudder to think of it. I wonder, if I continue to live in countries that are more traditional, what will happen if I flout custom to too great a degree. I want to tear down all the walls and barriers that exist, but doing so would probably bring all of them down onto my own head. So I’ll tread cautiously. And I’ll pray to the Gods of Things Small and Large to keep me safe as I walk the tightrope of customs, cultures, and beliefs.
2 July 2008
How the rules of society determine who is able and allowed to love whom. How the desire to fix these ideas in stone creates pain for all transgressors who are not truly transgressors, who are simply the forerunners of those things that are still taboo but which will someday (inshallah soon) be accepted. Caste and Race and Family Ties. The established network of each.
In some ways I too transgress these laws. I love a woman, and an androgynous one at that. It’s not so bad these days as it was in the past. I’m quite happy that I didn’t live in the 1950s, when I would probably have been forced or felt pressured by society to marry some nice decent chap and had 2.5 kids and would have probably never even acknowledged to myself that women are more beautiful to my eyes than men.
On the other hand, my current life presents its own set of problems. I’m a lesbian living in Morocco. My girlfriend is afraid to come visit because she thinks that we’ll get lynched. I think we’d be alright, but nothing is certain, no matter what country we’re in. And given that she comes from an activist background and has seen all the bad things that can potentially happen, I have to respect her fears.
One thing that struck me in the book is how characters who seem on the surface to be very minor actually wield great power. Baby Kochamma seems like just a petty old biddy, and indeed that’s exactly what she is. But she manipulates the stories that people hear and that they believe to dramatically alter the outcome of events. But for her manipulations, Velutha might have lived longer and died differently. Ammu would have survived longer as well. The twins would have grown up together and not gone mostly mad. All these lives that could have gone on happily and indefinitely were ended or altered irreparably. By someone who appeared only to play a peripheral part.
I wonder, in my life, if there are people in the background that I’m not aware of, people who pull strings to manipulate thoughts as she did. I shudder to think of it. I wonder, if I continue to live in countries that are more traditional, what will happen if I flout custom to too great a degree. I want to tear down all the walls and barriers that exist, but doing so would probably bring all of them down onto my own head. So I’ll tread cautiously. And I’ll pray to the Gods of Things Small and Large to keep me safe as I walk the tightrope of customs, cultures, and beliefs.
2 July 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
Midnight in Todra Gorge
Midnight, that time when dreams are shattered, when waking and sleeping are nothing but myths. When boys that you once thought of as brothers try to take your hands and hold you under the starlight, which might be romantic if it weren’t so wrong.
I wish that there were some way of saying that there’s not a snowflake’s chance in the hottest hell that I would ever get together with any guy here. I can’t believe that Mohammed of all people tried to pick me up. I’ve told him that I have a "boyfriend". He asked about my "boyfriend" when he saw me today, right when I came in. So he knows that I’m with someone, even if he doesn’t know the whole truth about that person. Why should it matter if they’re half a world away? My heart belongs to someone else, and that’s the important thing.
There are bugs flying around my room in Taborihte, where I lie on the bed in my underwear to avoid the heat, smelling of rosewater and frustration. After Mohammed tried to hold me on the terrace I fled (meaning that I calmly said that I needed to leave now), and then I went to the terrace in the new part of the hotel, where I stood on the unfinished roof and railed against the universe for making these boys a recurring theme in my life.
Why do men fall in love with me? Or rather, why are they attracted to me, since I can’t very well call whatever they’re feeling “love”. I don’t know why, I just know that they constantly do so, and it ruins what could be perfectly nice friendships when people try to bring sex or romance into the mix. I don’t like boys. I don’t even really like girls either. I like androgyny, which is difficult to find and hard to explain. I might describe myself as a lesbian or bisexual, but they’re simplistic labels for something more complex. I like people who fall into the middle of the gender spectrum. In general I prefer them to be female bodied. I have found some male bodied people to be attractive, but attraction is as far as it’s ever gone. My partner is female on the outside (except when in drag) and genderqueer on the inside, which is how I like it. I like people to be complex.
A while ago there was a night in the desert much like this one. Mubarak took me on a walk in the Sahara at night, wanted to get together. When it became clear that nothing was going to happen he said in frustration that he didn’t understand what was so complicated. “You’re a pretty girl,” he said, as though it was as simple as that, as though the simple fact that we were male and female in the moonlit Sahara should make me fall into his arms and swear that I would be forever his. As though a queer American female with a liberal arts education and literary ambitions and a straight Moroccan Berber man who lives as a semiliterate nomad in the desert should suddenly be perfectly compatible. As though our differences must suddenly make no difference at all. And it’s not that I don’t respect him as a person or think that he doesn’t have value. We could have immense amounts to teach one another. The problem is that he wants it to be in the context of love or lust. And, as many men in Morocco are coming to find out, I’m really a heartless bitch when it comes to men. They throw themselves at me and they mean nothing to me, so I toy with them without meaning to. I’ve probably broken several hearts. I’m really not entirely displeased. It’s retribution in kind for angst.
I wish that there were some way of saying that there’s not a snowflake’s chance in the hottest hell that I would ever get together with any guy here. I can’t believe that Mohammed of all people tried to pick me up. I’ve told him that I have a "boyfriend". He asked about my "boyfriend" when he saw me today, right when I came in. So he knows that I’m with someone, even if he doesn’t know the whole truth about that person. Why should it matter if they’re half a world away? My heart belongs to someone else, and that’s the important thing.
There are bugs flying around my room in Taborihte, where I lie on the bed in my underwear to avoid the heat, smelling of rosewater and frustration. After Mohammed tried to hold me on the terrace I fled (meaning that I calmly said that I needed to leave now), and then I went to the terrace in the new part of the hotel, where I stood on the unfinished roof and railed against the universe for making these boys a recurring theme in my life.
Why do men fall in love with me? Or rather, why are they attracted to me, since I can’t very well call whatever they’re feeling “love”. I don’t know why, I just know that they constantly do so, and it ruins what could be perfectly nice friendships when people try to bring sex or romance into the mix. I don’t like boys. I don’t even really like girls either. I like androgyny, which is difficult to find and hard to explain. I might describe myself as a lesbian or bisexual, but they’re simplistic labels for something more complex. I like people who fall into the middle of the gender spectrum. In general I prefer them to be female bodied. I have found some male bodied people to be attractive, but attraction is as far as it’s ever gone. My partner is female on the outside (except when in drag) and genderqueer on the inside, which is how I like it. I like people to be complex.
A while ago there was a night in the desert much like this one. Mubarak took me on a walk in the Sahara at night, wanted to get together. When it became clear that nothing was going to happen he said in frustration that he didn’t understand what was so complicated. “You’re a pretty girl,” he said, as though it was as simple as that, as though the simple fact that we were male and female in the moonlit Sahara should make me fall into his arms and swear that I would be forever his. As though a queer American female with a liberal arts education and literary ambitions and a straight Moroccan Berber man who lives as a semiliterate nomad in the desert should suddenly be perfectly compatible. As though our differences must suddenly make no difference at all. And it’s not that I don’t respect him as a person or think that he doesn’t have value. We could have immense amounts to teach one another. The problem is that he wants it to be in the context of love or lust. And, as many men in Morocco are coming to find out, I’m really a heartless bitch when it comes to men. They throw themselves at me and they mean nothing to me, so I toy with them without meaning to. I’ve probably broken several hearts. I’m really not entirely displeased. It’s retribution in kind for angst.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Coming Out
As of this afternoon, I am officially out to one person in Morocco. It’s quite a relief, really. I’d been thinking that I would burst, keeping the weight of it inside. There were days when I wanted to run down the streets, screaming “I’m a lesbian!” to the disapproving world. I realized, of course, that that would be a bad idea. But that didn’t stop me from thinking about it.
This afternoon, I had lunch with a friend at Café des Épices, overlooking the spice souks of Marrakech, near djema al fna square. We sat there and chatted for hours, about any number of things. She’d told me in the past of her ill-fated relationship with a Moroccan man. I told her about my long-distance relationship with my girlfriend of two years. She, being an American and an anthropologist and a generally cool person, was fine with it, as I knew she would be. And it’s such a relief to come out.
I realized, after my recent visit to the States, just how tense I’d been over here. And I’ve decided to be more relaxed about a lot of things. I'm not necessarily planning to come out at work or to wear rainbows and pink triangles everywhere. But it's nice to know that there's at least one person in this country that I can talk to without worrying about always keeping gender-neutral language when I talk about the person I love.
This afternoon, I had lunch with a friend at Café des Épices, overlooking the spice souks of Marrakech, near djema al fna square. We sat there and chatted for hours, about any number of things. She’d told me in the past of her ill-fated relationship with a Moroccan man. I told her about my long-distance relationship with my girlfriend of two years. She, being an American and an anthropologist and a generally cool person, was fine with it, as I knew she would be. And it’s such a relief to come out.
I realized, after my recent visit to the States, just how tense I’d been over here. And I’ve decided to be more relaxed about a lot of things. I'm not necessarily planning to come out at work or to wear rainbows and pink triangles everywhere. But it's nice to know that there's at least one person in this country that I can talk to without worrying about always keeping gender-neutral language when I talk about the person I love.
Monday, June 16, 2008
An Afternoon with H.
So. I’m going to recount now my experience of this afternoon, which is typical of all my relationships with Moroccan men.
I’ve known Hafid for a while. He runs a babouche shop in Essaouira and works nights in a hotel. We’ve had a few conversations, and they’ve all been fairly low key. So when I ran into him on the way out to the beach, and we’d both planned to take a walk down to Diabat, it made sense for us to walk together.
The way out was easy. We chatted about inconsequential things: weather, our families, business in Morocco. I waded barefoot in the water as is my custom, and I laughed when he soaked the hems of his jeans in the surf.
The way back was harder. Somewhere he got the bright idea to tell me “tu me plait,” (literally, “you please me”). I laughed and said that was nice of him to say. But he started insisting, “no, really, I like you a lot, you’re very nice…”etc. Which, if you’re a guy, is exactly the wrong thing to say to me. Because it’s always the start of something awkward.
He continued to tell me that he wanted a relationship with me, a nice, honest relationship. And I told him, honestly, that I only wanted a lighthearted friendship, and none of this relationship stuff. And he wouldn’t accept that. He kept asking why, and I kept saying that there are lots of reasons, none of which really bear discussion at this point. And I danced my verbal dance around him, and he knew I was dancing and evading the question, and he wouldn’t accept that I wouldn’t answer. He wanted to know the main reason. But the main reason is one that I can’t tell. Because “I’m not heterosexual” is not an answer that he would be able to hear.
I’ve known Hafid for a while. He runs a babouche shop in Essaouira and works nights in a hotel. We’ve had a few conversations, and they’ve all been fairly low key. So when I ran into him on the way out to the beach, and we’d both planned to take a walk down to Diabat, it made sense for us to walk together.
The way out was easy. We chatted about inconsequential things: weather, our families, business in Morocco. I waded barefoot in the water as is my custom, and I laughed when he soaked the hems of his jeans in the surf.
The way back was harder. Somewhere he got the bright idea to tell me “tu me plait,” (literally, “you please me”). I laughed and said that was nice of him to say. But he started insisting, “no, really, I like you a lot, you’re very nice…”etc. Which, if you’re a guy, is exactly the wrong thing to say to me. Because it’s always the start of something awkward.
He continued to tell me that he wanted a relationship with me, a nice, honest relationship. And I told him, honestly, that I only wanted a lighthearted friendship, and none of this relationship stuff. And he wouldn’t accept that. He kept asking why, and I kept saying that there are lots of reasons, none of which really bear discussion at this point. And I danced my verbal dance around him, and he knew I was dancing and evading the question, and he wouldn’t accept that I wouldn’t answer. He wanted to know the main reason. But the main reason is one that I can’t tell. Because “I’m not heterosexual” is not an answer that he would be able to hear.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
An Introduction
So. This is the beginning.
I’ve been living in Morocco for about five months now, and living in a male-dominated heteronormative society is starting to drive me nuts. I’m starting this blog as an outlet for my feminist lesbian angst. You can expect semiregular posts here about gender and sexuality, women’s rights, and society and religion in general. I may eventually branch out into the best places for a lesbian to hang out in Morocco, but I have to find some places first. Wish me luck with that.
I’ve been living in Morocco for about five months now, and living in a male-dominated heteronormative society is starting to drive me nuts. I’m starting this blog as an outlet for my feminist lesbian angst. You can expect semiregular posts here about gender and sexuality, women’s rights, and society and religion in general. I may eventually branch out into the best places for a lesbian to hang out in Morocco, but I have to find some places first. Wish me luck with that.
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