The Fanstastic Ms. Fox

This "post" is actually here so that I can retrieve it at school and print it out.
Our assignment is a top-10 word association with Sex and Gender, each rated from -10 to +10.

***this post, like others, is specially filtered and not visible to everyone on my friendslist - relay it only if you feel confident in what you're doing***
[edit - this is no longer filtered]


I feel sorry for the shrinks: they have to rebuild their gender disorder checklist every ten years: not like good old depression, anxiety and schizophrenia. Reliable malfunctions. I think that our generation is pitching in like few before: we're producing all these damn "androgynous transsexuals." That's gotta weird them out.

I suppose it's a matter of conforming to gender roles, just more "enlightened" ones.

Oh they're (we're?) out there. And they're at meetings like I am, and they're looking over at the stone-butch-to-biker-dude, and keeping and ear cocked at the married-but-closeted-high-femme-cookies-and-pink-male-to-female and they're shaking their heads and going are they wrong, or am I?

Are they wrong or am I? This is the biggest obstacle for me. I know that the solution is "the question is presumptuous," but I want clear answers, and I'm frustrated and angry and scared when they don't come.

Questioning my gender has been like a wave, or a cloud of dust: it moves with great force and leaves its mark on everything. More and more thoughts are now slipping outside of old bounds. I think of how I define myself and the female pronouns keep slipping in there. It's even started to intrude on old memories: I look back on something that happened years ago and stop and think, hold on, that can't be right... I was a guy then... and now too I guess. Wow. Scary. Nuts. No, not a wave, or cloud: it's an avalanche - it's only picking up and incorporating pieces and gathering momentum. For a moment, I wish it would stop. Then I wish that the storm will keep going, and tear the land to pieces, then maybe it slows down a bit, but the strongest damage is done.

This is what I have been and still am afraid to say. The problem for me is this: I feel like a dyke; an soft-androgynous dyke. I don't look like one. I'm not weighted like one. (I think some guys are pretty cute, but that's another story). I sure don't sound like one. I look in the mirror, and it's a slap in the face. But there it is: here I am: Lipstick and cargo pants; army boots and a dress - and that's just me using clothing as a metaphor: it goes a lot deeper than that.

If you were here now, if you heard me say that to myself before I wrote it, you would have heard it whispered, then you'd've heard me jump up and scream "FUCK!" Then shake my head and say something along the lines of "who the hell ever heard of a male-to-tomboy transsexual?" as I stomped down the hallway, then back again to type, edit and think.

Mmm. You're dealt the hand you're played. I mean, you play the hand you're dealt.
So Here we are: secrets spoken; fear faced down; silence eroded in chunks; deafening knowledge sonic-booming past, leaving me shell-shocked.
It's a good place to be.