As I was walking down the highstreet today, feeling another little flutter of femme-loathing, it occurred to me to wonder whether there is possibly an element of jealousy mixed up in my hugely emotional reaction to extravagant femininity.
If I was female-identified, I would almost certainly put that down to poor body-image, low self esteem or something in that area. I'm not convinced that there isn't a little bit of that going on, but I don't think it's the main cause.
I think that some part of me believes that I am not allowed femme*. I think that, in my brain, identifying as male/masculine/boy means that I can't embody anything femme without compromising that identity in some way. I have noticed this in the past, particularly, for some reason, when I'm dressing more formally. I have rejected wearing a dress to a formal occasion, choosing instead a more traditionally masculine ensemble of shirt/tie, not because I thought I'd be more comfortable in those clothes but because I felt pressure to present the gender I had announced rather than the gender I had been assigned. This has only been the case since I've been more open in more places about my gender identity. I don't want to undermine myself.
On a more rational level, I don't believe wearing a dress (for example) detracts from my masculinity or my boy-ness one bit. And to that end, I am going to try and do those things more often. I've no doubt that this will confuse people, and maybe they will ask me questions about it, and maybe I will say, "You know what? Today I'm a boy in a dress".
*That sounds grammatically incorrect, but I mean it to encompass all the things I'm not allowed: to be femme, to wear femme things, to have femme traits, to walk, talk, feel, breathe femme. Perhaps that doesn't actually make my meaning any clearer. And perhaps it is feeding into a false narrative of what femme even is - perhaps there will have to be more thoughts on this later.
Monday, 6 February 2012
Porn
I was watching Masterchef on iPlayer last week, and found myself groaning out loud at some of the descriptions and images of food. I was about to comment to C that this was like 'food porn', but I never got around to saying the words because I got distracted, in my head, by thinking about the ways that we use the word 'porn' when we're not talking about the kind of porn embodied by explicit magazines, DVDs with poorly-punning titles, and 90% of the internet.
The two examples that I can think of are 'food porn' and 'torture porn'. Actual porn, 'regular' porn, doesn't need the word 'sex' in front of it to distinguish it from these other types of porn, because porn is about sex. More explicitly, it is about desire, arousal. Chambers dictionary has 'pornography' as: "books, magazines, films, etc dealing with or depicting sexual acts, in a more or less explicit way, intended to arouse sexual excitement; description or portrayal of prostitutes and prostitution." (source) The modern colloquial use of 'food porn' usually refers to images of food, often on TV cooking programmes, or, occasionally, to Nigella Lawson, who seems for many to embody traits of both regular and food porn. The images of food which give rise to the phrase 'food porn' evidently arouse some kind of desire in the person who describes them as such, and this surely isn't surprising, as sexual desire is often described as a kind of hunger. There's not such a big stretch between having your 'want' aroused by images of sex or by images of food. 'Torture porn' is usually used to refer to (specifically) films which include graphic and frequent torture. The Saw films are often described as torture porn, as well as things like The Human Centipede. Often the main purpose of these kinds of films seems to be to disgust the viewer - impel them to make that face - the wrinkled-nose, stretched-mouth, furrowed-forehead face.
Both 'food porn' and 'torture porn' are used to imply a value judgement. In the case of 'torture porn', the judgement is harsh: it's often accompanied by a sneering face and a profession of innocence of that kind of taste. Those kinds of film are lowbrow, they are for stupid people, they are contributing to our culture of violence. Criticisms usually stop short of accusing people who enjoy that kind of film of being freakish, sadistic menaces to society. But the judgement - and the implication, however subtle - is there. The phrase 'food porn' is much more lighthearted in tone. This doesn't mean, however, that there isn't a value judgement implicit in its use. Take Nigella Lawson, for example. She is popular as, and famous for being, a sexy cook. Not a cook, but a sexy cook. And the same judgement is, I think, applied to food. The implication is that it is not as inherently worthy as other kinds of food - that it is somehow less highbrow.
It is this value-judgement that interests me. The accusation levelled at films which are described as 'torture porn' is not levelled at films which have similar content such as Casino Royale, which shows Bond strapped naked to a bottomless chair and having his penis and testicles whipped from below. The accusation is to do with the apparent desire to create some kind of arousal, and, importantly, only that kind of arousal. The torture scene in Casino Royale is one scene among many, so it can be viewed as one part of a bigger project, whose intent is not solely to arouse one particular emotion. Saw, on the other hand, is seen by many as appealing solely to that instinct for disgust (which, of course, is 'bad' because people are choosing to feel that disgust by going to see the film rather than, for example, being 'righteously' disgusted by a piece of news featuring torture).
I think the value-judgement is to do with choice and desire. People are judged more for seeking to be aroused than they are for naturally being aroused. And media that caters to a desire for arousal, of whatever kind, is judged negatively for that reason. This extends to weepy films, too - films like The Notebook are often criticised for (apparently) being deliberately manipulative of the viewer's emotions. For some reason it is seen as embarrassing in some way to seek out, or to be seen to seek out, arousal, and similarly the media which caters to such desires is somehow less worthy than other media. There is a hierarchy, of course: food porn and weepy films are merely silly, but torture porn is disturbing at best, and sexual porn - well, it is all things to all people (silly, embarrassing, disturbing, damaging, stunting, ruinous).
As a final thought, not because I've finished thinking about this but because I'm bored of writing it - isn't it interesting that the 'lesser', 'silly' forms of manipulative media (food porn and weepies) are gendered female in some way, whilst the 'worse' forms are usually seen as being of interest only to men and boys?
The two examples that I can think of are 'food porn' and 'torture porn'. Actual porn, 'regular' porn, doesn't need the word 'sex' in front of it to distinguish it from these other types of porn, because porn is about sex. More explicitly, it is about desire, arousal. Chambers dictionary has 'pornography' as: "books, magazines, films, etc dealing with or depicting sexual acts, in a more or less explicit way, intended to arouse sexual excitement; description or portrayal of prostitutes and prostitution." (source) The modern colloquial use of 'food porn' usually refers to images of food, often on TV cooking programmes, or, occasionally, to Nigella Lawson, who seems for many to embody traits of both regular and food porn. The images of food which give rise to the phrase 'food porn' evidently arouse some kind of desire in the person who describes them as such, and this surely isn't surprising, as sexual desire is often described as a kind of hunger. There's not such a big stretch between having your 'want' aroused by images of sex or by images of food. 'Torture porn' is usually used to refer to (specifically) films which include graphic and frequent torture. The Saw films are often described as torture porn, as well as things like The Human Centipede. Often the main purpose of these kinds of films seems to be to disgust the viewer - impel them to make that face - the wrinkled-nose, stretched-mouth, furrowed-forehead face.
Both 'food porn' and 'torture porn' are used to imply a value judgement. In the case of 'torture porn', the judgement is harsh: it's often accompanied by a sneering face and a profession of innocence of that kind of taste. Those kinds of film are lowbrow, they are for stupid people, they are contributing to our culture of violence. Criticisms usually stop short of accusing people who enjoy that kind of film of being freakish, sadistic menaces to society. But the judgement - and the implication, however subtle - is there. The phrase 'food porn' is much more lighthearted in tone. This doesn't mean, however, that there isn't a value judgement implicit in its use. Take Nigella Lawson, for example. She is popular as, and famous for being, a sexy cook. Not a cook, but a sexy cook. And the same judgement is, I think, applied to food. The implication is that it is not as inherently worthy as other kinds of food - that it is somehow less highbrow.
It is this value-judgement that interests me. The accusation levelled at films which are described as 'torture porn' is not levelled at films which have similar content such as Casino Royale, which shows Bond strapped naked to a bottomless chair and having his penis and testicles whipped from below. The accusation is to do with the apparent desire to create some kind of arousal, and, importantly, only that kind of arousal. The torture scene in Casino Royale is one scene among many, so it can be viewed as one part of a bigger project, whose intent is not solely to arouse one particular emotion. Saw, on the other hand, is seen by many as appealing solely to that instinct for disgust (which, of course, is 'bad' because people are choosing to feel that disgust by going to see the film rather than, for example, being 'righteously' disgusted by a piece of news featuring torture).
I think the value-judgement is to do with choice and desire. People are judged more for seeking to be aroused than they are for naturally being aroused. And media that caters to a desire for arousal, of whatever kind, is judged negatively for that reason. This extends to weepy films, too - films like The Notebook are often criticised for (apparently) being deliberately manipulative of the viewer's emotions. For some reason it is seen as embarrassing in some way to seek out, or to be seen to seek out, arousal, and similarly the media which caters to such desires is somehow less worthy than other media. There is a hierarchy, of course: food porn and weepy films are merely silly, but torture porn is disturbing at best, and sexual porn - well, it is all things to all people (silly, embarrassing, disturbing, damaging, stunting, ruinous).
As a final thought, not because I've finished thinking about this but because I'm bored of writing it - isn't it interesting that the 'lesser', 'silly' forms of manipulative media (food porn and weepies) are gendered female in some way, whilst the 'worse' forms are usually seen as being of interest only to men and boys?
Friday, 27 January 2012
Sadness
Today I am feeling sad. The only thing I have done is been on a date, and although the date was good, I came home feeling deflated and helpless. So I think maybe the time has come to scribble down some thoughts on sadness. My own sadness, not sadness in general. This will be a bit unstructured, I imagine, but then it's not like any of my posts are shining examples of structuredness.
I was sort of hoping I wouldn't get sad this term. I blamed the overarching sadness of last term on my living situation - I was working almost full time, including 5 evenings a week, and C was working 3 days a week. C would leave the flat at about 7am, and I wouldn't get back until 11:30pm, so we saw very little of each other. I had only just started my PhD, and occasionally I met with my supervisor or attended a session at the Graduate Training School. I went to the library, and once a week I saw a student I was (am) mentoring for an hour. That seems like plenty to be getting on with. But somehow I was in the flat, on my own, all the time.
It's not like I didn't have things to do at home. There were household tasks to be completed, for a start, and let's not forget the fact that I was supposed to be making a start on my PhD. Instead, what I did at home was sit in my chair, with my laptop on my lap, and do nothing. Well, not nothing. I read blogs, and refreshed Facebook, and had fitful, mundane conversations with people on Skype. I ate, compulsively, constantly. I wasn't hungry once last term - I didn't have the chance to be. I didn't even try to work - when I looked at my neat pile of books I felt plenty of things, but motivation wasn't one of them. I felt fear and hatred and desperation and fraudulence. I left for work at 4, and sat on the train with my teeth clenched, gouging holes in my forearms with my nails. I tried not to cry as I walked from the tube station to work. Most days I succeeded.
Eventually I stopped staying at home during the day. I arranged to meet friends before work, and stretched the getting-ready period so it filled the time before I had to leave the flat. When I didn't have time to do any work on my PhD, I felt better. I felt like I could mention the fact that I was doing one to people who asked, and then make a wry face and say something conventional about how busy life was, and how hard it was to find time to do paid work and academic work. People were sympathetic, and sometimes impressed.
I retreated further. I waited impatiently, desperately, for the time when I would see C. I asked hir to meet me at the train station and walk me home. Ecstatic to see hir, I would cling to hir all the way home, and then struggle to find anything to say when we arrived. That was ok, though, because it was always late and we were always tired, and that's a good excuse not to talk. We emailed all day while C was at work, so it looked like we talked plenty. It's frighteningly easy to talk about nothing via email. On the days when C wasn't at work, ze sat at the table and worked while I sat on my chair, with my laptop on my lap, and did nothing. C was quite happy to join me in not working - we ate lunch and played Scrabble, and ze was sympathetic and supportive when I said I wasn't getting anywhere with my work. I felt like a liar.
Then I went home for December, and decided in advance that I wasn't going to do any PhD work until I was back in Reading. My December job was right next door to the local library, so I visited there and read random works of fiction instead of anything remotely resembling my so-called studies. I went out after work a lot, and in the mornings I slept in and watched recorded TV. When people asked me what I did the rest of the year, I told them I was studying for a PhD but was taking a break for Christmas, and would get stuck in when I returned to Reading in January.
I did. Apart from a week away to do a different job, I have been back here since January 3rd, and I have done some work. I have spent most of my days sitting in my chair, reading and taking notes. I have written the beginnings of some promising work. I have seen my supervisor and been inspired, and I have attended seminars and been motivated. I have looked forward to the time when C will arrive home from work, and we can cook supper while we catch up with each other, and then eat at our little table or in front of a film. I have felt happier. I have felt happy.
So I'm not entirely sure what has gone wrong today. I haven't spent the whole day at home, which I think was definitely a contributing factor to my sadness last term. I did some PhD-related reading on the train on the way to my date, so it's probably not PhD-related guilt. I had a lovely time with a lovely person while I was in London, and was honest about myself, so I doubt it's the 'loneliness' which I felt so often last term, while I was trekking back and forth between being alone and being surrounded by people, and not feeling like there was any difference between the two. I don't know what it is. But I know that, for a while, I was back to the desperation, and the hopelessness, and the treacle-like thickness of my own mind.
However. The glimmer of an idea that I had before I began writing this - the idea that writing this might help - seems now to have some truth in it. I am, in fact, feeling a little less lethargic. A bit full, perhaps (I have eaten an entire packet of tomatoes and a bag of cashew nuts), but definitely less hopeless. A bit like I might get up and tidy the flat, or take the recycling out, or put some music on. Who knows - I might even do some work.
I was sort of hoping I wouldn't get sad this term. I blamed the overarching sadness of last term on my living situation - I was working almost full time, including 5 evenings a week, and C was working 3 days a week. C would leave the flat at about 7am, and I wouldn't get back until 11:30pm, so we saw very little of each other. I had only just started my PhD, and occasionally I met with my supervisor or attended a session at the Graduate Training School. I went to the library, and once a week I saw a student I was (am) mentoring for an hour. That seems like plenty to be getting on with. But somehow I was in the flat, on my own, all the time.
It's not like I didn't have things to do at home. There were household tasks to be completed, for a start, and let's not forget the fact that I was supposed to be making a start on my PhD. Instead, what I did at home was sit in my chair, with my laptop on my lap, and do nothing. Well, not nothing. I read blogs, and refreshed Facebook, and had fitful, mundane conversations with people on Skype. I ate, compulsively, constantly. I wasn't hungry once last term - I didn't have the chance to be. I didn't even try to work - when I looked at my neat pile of books I felt plenty of things, but motivation wasn't one of them. I felt fear and hatred and desperation and fraudulence. I left for work at 4, and sat on the train with my teeth clenched, gouging holes in my forearms with my nails. I tried not to cry as I walked from the tube station to work. Most days I succeeded.
Eventually I stopped staying at home during the day. I arranged to meet friends before work, and stretched the getting-ready period so it filled the time before I had to leave the flat. When I didn't have time to do any work on my PhD, I felt better. I felt like I could mention the fact that I was doing one to people who asked, and then make a wry face and say something conventional about how busy life was, and how hard it was to find time to do paid work and academic work. People were sympathetic, and sometimes impressed.
I retreated further. I waited impatiently, desperately, for the time when I would see C. I asked hir to meet me at the train station and walk me home. Ecstatic to see hir, I would cling to hir all the way home, and then struggle to find anything to say when we arrived. That was ok, though, because it was always late and we were always tired, and that's a good excuse not to talk. We emailed all day while C was at work, so it looked like we talked plenty. It's frighteningly easy to talk about nothing via email. On the days when C wasn't at work, ze sat at the table and worked while I sat on my chair, with my laptop on my lap, and did nothing. C was quite happy to join me in not working - we ate lunch and played Scrabble, and ze was sympathetic and supportive when I said I wasn't getting anywhere with my work. I felt like a liar.
Then I went home for December, and decided in advance that I wasn't going to do any PhD work until I was back in Reading. My December job was right next door to the local library, so I visited there and read random works of fiction instead of anything remotely resembling my so-called studies. I went out after work a lot, and in the mornings I slept in and watched recorded TV. When people asked me what I did the rest of the year, I told them I was studying for a PhD but was taking a break for Christmas, and would get stuck in when I returned to Reading in January.
I did. Apart from a week away to do a different job, I have been back here since January 3rd, and I have done some work. I have spent most of my days sitting in my chair, reading and taking notes. I have written the beginnings of some promising work. I have seen my supervisor and been inspired, and I have attended seminars and been motivated. I have looked forward to the time when C will arrive home from work, and we can cook supper while we catch up with each other, and then eat at our little table or in front of a film. I have felt happier. I have felt happy.
So I'm not entirely sure what has gone wrong today. I haven't spent the whole day at home, which I think was definitely a contributing factor to my sadness last term. I did some PhD-related reading on the train on the way to my date, so it's probably not PhD-related guilt. I had a lovely time with a lovely person while I was in London, and was honest about myself, so I doubt it's the 'loneliness' which I felt so often last term, while I was trekking back and forth between being alone and being surrounded by people, and not feeling like there was any difference between the two. I don't know what it is. But I know that, for a while, I was back to the desperation, and the hopelessness, and the treacle-like thickness of my own mind.
However. The glimmer of an idea that I had before I began writing this - the idea that writing this might help - seems now to have some truth in it. I am, in fact, feeling a little less lethargic. A bit full, perhaps (I have eaten an entire packet of tomatoes and a bag of cashew nuts), but definitely less hopeless. A bit like I might get up and tidy the flat, or take the recycling out, or put some music on. Who knows - I might even do some work.
Surgery
Having recently 'come out' once again in another of my social circles, I had to endure a whole new bunch of people navigating my identity, apologising for getting my name wrong, and asking well-meaning questions. On the whole, it went well, and there were no ill-effects (although at some point I will want to write about the minefield that is 'people getting your name wrong'). In many ways, it was wonderful! Inevitably, however, there were a few sticky moments. The most irritating comment came from someone who I didn't know all that well, having worked with him once a few years before but not seen him since. One night at the pub after rehearsal, he said to me "So, I guess you're sick of people asking you this, but are you going to go all the way towards, you know, actually becoming a man?"
So, I guess I should get used to people asking me about surgery.
To be fair, they do it in a variety of innovative ways - rarely does anybody actually use the word 'surgery'. My favourite one came from someone who had just met me, having heard all about me from a mutual friend. Having told me that I was 'not what she expected' and that I looked 'like a gay girl', she asked, in all sincerity, 'will you stay with C afterwards?'
The levels of offensiveness in those three phrases hit me right in the heart. I actually couldn't speak for a moment or two. We were at a party and there were other people around, so after spluttering briefly I think I evaded the question and we moved on. But that was 6 months ago and it's still bothering me now. It's not that I want particularly to be what someone expects, or that I'm offended that I look like a gay girl. In all honesty I might take that as a compliment - it's nice to be visibly queer, even if it's not quite the right kind of queerness that people see. But that final question was too far. Quite apart from the rudeness of it, it enraged me to have my relationship with C taken so lightly. Even assuming I were to transition surgically, hormonally and socially, why should anyone think that might change my feelings towards my partner of over two years? C was there with me at the party, and we were our normal tactile and loving selves, so it's not like this woman thought I had C hidden away at home, unaware of or unhappy with the situation.
But most of all, it's that little word 'afterwards'. There's no need to wonder what she meant by 'afterwards', right? After you change. After you actually become a boy. After the surgery. At no point had we discussed my having surgery. We were not friends. We had just met. The punch was the casual assumption that a) I was not a boy yet, b) I would be a boy once I had surgery, and c) there was no other way to be a boy. And despite all my knowledge to the contrary, despite my conviction that this is simply not true, and despite the plethora of knowledgeable and compassionate people, internet-based and otherwise, who are right there with me in my conviction, somehow it's these tiny, casual, curious remarks which make the most impression on me. I guess this is what they call a 'microaggression'? It doesn't feel very 'micro' to me. Still, I guess I'd better get used to it!
So, I guess I should get used to people asking me about surgery.
To be fair, they do it in a variety of innovative ways - rarely does anybody actually use the word 'surgery'. My favourite one came from someone who had just met me, having heard all about me from a mutual friend. Having told me that I was 'not what she expected' and that I looked 'like a gay girl', she asked, in all sincerity, 'will you stay with C afterwards?'
The levels of offensiveness in those three phrases hit me right in the heart. I actually couldn't speak for a moment or two. We were at a party and there were other people around, so after spluttering briefly I think I evaded the question and we moved on. But that was 6 months ago and it's still bothering me now. It's not that I want particularly to be what someone expects, or that I'm offended that I look like a gay girl. In all honesty I might take that as a compliment - it's nice to be visibly queer, even if it's not quite the right kind of queerness that people see. But that final question was too far. Quite apart from the rudeness of it, it enraged me to have my relationship with C taken so lightly. Even assuming I were to transition surgically, hormonally and socially, why should anyone think that might change my feelings towards my partner of over two years? C was there with me at the party, and we were our normal tactile and loving selves, so it's not like this woman thought I had C hidden away at home, unaware of or unhappy with the situation.
But most of all, it's that little word 'afterwards'. There's no need to wonder what she meant by 'afterwards', right? After you change. After you actually become a boy. After the surgery. At no point had we discussed my having surgery. We were not friends. We had just met. The punch was the casual assumption that a) I was not a boy yet, b) I would be a boy once I had surgery, and c) there was no other way to be a boy. And despite all my knowledge to the contrary, despite my conviction that this is simply not true, and despite the plethora of knowledgeable and compassionate people, internet-based and otherwise, who are right there with me in my conviction, somehow it's these tiny, casual, curious remarks which make the most impression on me. I guess this is what they call a 'microaggression'? It doesn't feel very 'micro' to me. Still, I guess I'd better get used to it!
Monday, 23 January 2012
Ticking Boxes
I just came across this entry in my notebook, dated 17/6/11. It seemed appropriate.
Having filled in four pages - no, six pages - of questions about my experience traveling with London Midland today, I rebelled only on the final section. I had been generous with my answers, despite frequent disappointments regarding lateness, slow-running services, and entire service cancellations seemingly at random. I had been generous. But I lost patience when I got to the end, where it asked whether my gender was Male (M) or Female (F).
Needless to say, I didn't answer. Then it asked for my name, and I didn't answer that either. My reasoning went something like this: my gender is not something I can limit to male (m) or female (f), so I won't answer. My name, whilst to me signifying little more than a convenient way of attracting my attention, may well be used by well-meaning data-inputters as a way of gendering me. They would probably assume I had accidentally missed the gender question, and fill it in for me. My email address would prompt the same response. So, no personal information for you, London Midland.
Which brings me to the real question: why do they need personal information? What could it add to their data to know my gender, my name, my email or my address? I suffered a slight twinge of guilt, thinking "perhaps they won't be able to use my form, since I didn't fill it in fully." Then I thought, "if that's the case, fuck 'em." Serves them right. That'll teach them.
A minor rebellion, but true and mine own.
Having filled in four pages - no, six pages - of questions about my experience traveling with London Midland today, I rebelled only on the final section. I had been generous with my answers, despite frequent disappointments regarding lateness, slow-running services, and entire service cancellations seemingly at random. I had been generous. But I lost patience when I got to the end, where it asked whether my gender was Male (M) or Female (F).
Needless to say, I didn't answer. Then it asked for my name, and I didn't answer that either. My reasoning went something like this: my gender is not something I can limit to male (m) or female (f), so I won't answer. My name, whilst to me signifying little more than a convenient way of attracting my attention, may well be used by well-meaning data-inputters as a way of gendering me. They would probably assume I had accidentally missed the gender question, and fill it in for me. My email address would prompt the same response. So, no personal information for you, London Midland.
Which brings me to the real question: why do they need personal information? What could it add to their data to know my gender, my name, my email or my address? I suffered a slight twinge of guilt, thinking "perhaps they won't be able to use my form, since I didn't fill it in fully." Then I thought, "if that's the case, fuck 'em." Serves them right. That'll teach them.
A minor rebellion, but true and mine own.
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