[44] Your dad’s just human, too, kiddo.

My brother and his girlfriend just co-called me at ten minutes to midnight to inform me that, while house-sitting for my father, they’d discovered his gentleman’s reading material under the bed.

Seeing as I thought they were calling to tell me one of them had accidentally stabbed the other one in the brain, or something, what with it being midnight, I’m somewhat relieved.

And amused.

Really, really amused.

For a bit of context, my father is a stand-up guy: military-tough, strong, dependable, sweet as all get-out when the mood strikes him–

And, as it turns out, apparently kind of vanilla.

I know it’s something of a theme for butches to aquire the basics of Manly Life Lessons from their dads (it’s up to the butch whether they’re mirroring, or not repeating that shit), but in this case I think I’m just going to laugh and laugh and laugh…

[37] In the trenches.

I’m experiencing enforced femininity via work uniform.

Sort of.

I’m an in-house carer, which grants me three uniform options: a nurse’s tunic, a male nurse’s tunic, or a good old-fashioned polo shirt. With my former company I just wore jeans and a polo shirt and didn’t worry about it, but my new company doesn’t allow jeans. Too scruffy.

Women’s black work trousers, the only kind that look even halfway decent on me, what with my habit of wearing my waistband just above ‘completely indecent’ levels, have no pockets. You cannot do this job without pockets, so that’s the androgynous polo shirt gone.

The male nurse tunic was my next option. It’s smart, masculine, pocket-containing, and by a happy quirk of fate, the only uniform they had in my size when I needed a tunic. So they gave me one, no questions asked. (Have I mentioned I love my job?) But that high collar is hot, and the straight up-and-down fit is a little constricting, even when I’m shaped pretty straight up-and-down in a binder, which is problematic when you need to do a lot of bending. And the gender-confusion with clients was rife. (Not something I mind in regular life so much, but definitely an issue when I’ve shown up at 7am to assist poor frail Muriel — who’s, say, partially blind and somewhat deaf — to shower.)

So. The nurse’s tunic.

It’s, well, figure hugging is about the only way to describe it. Even strapped up in a binder, I still have breasts. And hips. And something resembling an ass. And the tunic flaunts them. With one shirt change I go from a strapping young fella with long eyelashes to a perfect hourglass with a slightly delicate face. I look pretty. And curvy. And feminine.

It’s bizarre.

I haven’t yet had a crushing moment of gender-dysphoria, thankfully. I’ve had moments of dropping entirely out of reality to stare at myself in reflective surfaces, and weird contemplations of how much easier my regular life is when I’m identifiable as ‘visibly female’ with one glance, and utterly unnerving instances of middle-aged men hitting on me. I’ve been able to use public bathrooms in peace. And gotten yanked into ‘girlie’ chats at work with the other carers. I’ve been told I’ve lost weight, that I have shape, that I should get my eyebrows done.

Yeek.

The weirdest moments, though, are when confrontations happen. I’m still myself: calm, polite, collected. But underneath I’m much more of a seething mass of vulnerabilities, anxieties, and easily-gouged places. Like all my armour has been yanked off and replaced with pale blue cotton. Nice to look at, useless otherwise. Even in my own ears, my voice sounds a little lighter. My hands gesture more. Today, absent-mindedly, I sat with my legs crossed at the knee.

Possibly, all this is just because I’ve been hanging out in the company of almost exclusively feminine women and I’m absorbing behaviours. Possibly I’m just having an unusally ‘female’ month. Possibly some survival mechanism has kicked in to ease my work transition, and I’m unconsciously trying to fit in more.

Much more likely, though, I think, is that all this female behaviour is programmed in so deeply that a constant visual, tactile, full-body reminder of my original DNA structure is doing things to my brain.

I’m almost considering that eyebrow thing.

—
(If anyone wants to suggest, by the way, that a butch identity does not mean the exclusion of all things feminine and I’m allowed to feel as girlie as I want while still being a hunky young stud, I’d like to warmly advise you cram it down your throat. It’s true for a lot of butches, I’m sure, but not me. Not right now.)

[31] Kick a man in his internet.

So, it turns out my address doesn’t exist.

Only my life, man. I swear to God.

I should explain. My new (shiny! awesome!) apartment is number 17a. The tattoo shop below me? Also number 17a. Which’d explain why I’ve been getting all their mail. But they are the 17a officially registered with the Post Office, which means they legally own the right to that address.

I, on the other hand, cannot get a phone line installed because BT — British Telecommunications, holder of all phone lines — goes by the addresses registered with the Post Office, and refuse to install anything in an unregistered house.

Ergo, I cannot get a phone line.

Ergo, I cannot get an internet connection.

Ergo, I am losing my mind.

I’m stealing a friend’s internet right now. Between work, couch-surfing, dog-sitting, and my friend’s father being rushed to hospital after a bout of vomiting, collapsing, and seizing (seizing, because this month sucks), I’ve slept exactly one night in my own bed this week. I’ve spent the last few days at my friend’s place, providing moral support and generally getting underfoot. (I’ve been very helpfully picking raspberries, buying flowers, and hugging people a lot. I also called the ambulance and stayed relatively un-panicked while everyone else — except the nurse!daughter– worked themselves up into an understandable lather.)

(I’ll admit, I panicked a bit later. But quietly and on my own.)

(I should also mention: it looks like the father is going to be fine. He’s still in hospital, but hasn’t had a seizure in a few days, and all his heart tests have come back clean. We’re waiting on blood tests and CT scan results. The current theory is Addison’s disease, which’d be brilliant because it’s manageable with drugs and non-fatal. Scarier theories include mini-strokes — he’s had three already — and other neurological awfulness. We’re holding out for Addison’s disease.)

Randomly, I went to Pink Picnic today, which is Huddersfield’s version of a pride parade, except without the parade. Basically, a whole bunch of stalls and tents set themselves up in a field for a day, along with a stage and a few fairground rides, and everybody has Pride. It’s kind of sweet and soggy and pathetic and very, very British. There were also a few fabulous drag queen acts, including one lady who got up on stage dressed in a black PVC mini-dress and a pair of enormous red feather wings and sang ‘Stand By Your Man’*. I went with one pansexual, polyamourous friend who wore a giant rainbow flag-cape and rainbow cowboy hat all day, and a kinky MtF transgender acquaintance who wore a PVC stretch top, rubber face-gag, and a giant leather-pride flag-cape.

We got stared at like you wouldn’t believe.

Still, it was lots of fun. I went in jeans, a military shirt, and bought a pride ribbon and a rainbow bracelet. Mostly I got cruised by gay guys. I also saw the most drop-dead gorgeous butch in a grey shirt and low-slung jeans; I’m still kicking myself that I didn’t have the guts to talk to her. I just sort of… admired her from a distance.

I had to work this evening, so I didn’t get to go to the after-picnic party. But I did find out about a new (ish?) gay club that’s within walking distance of my place, and apparently pretty awesome. I plan to acquire a backbone and check it out. As soon as I remember the name, anyway.

And, while I’m on a roll, tomorrow looks to be exciting. I have to call my landlord (again) and shout at him about renting me an existential apartment; I have to call my garage (again) and yell at them about not calling me back; I have to pick up a mystery package I didn’t order from the post office; and I have to dog-sit for my dad.

Note to self: purchase throat-sweets.

(Okay, I’m kidding about the shouting. I don’t shout if I can avoid it. I speak firmly, with conviction, and stay excrutiatingly polite until they realize I’m also being entirely inflexible. It’s amazing how well that works.)

Oh, I forgot to mention: There were absolutely no butch!pride things at the picnic — which wasn’t terribly surprising — but they did have bear pride things, so I figured what the hell, it’s close enough, and bought a keychain/bottle opener. It’s sleek, made of steel, decorated in the bear!rainbow — lots of browns and tans — and has a little black pawprint in the corner. Sterling! Manly! Tough! Supportive of body hair! I like it, even if it does keep poking me in the hip.

—
* She advised people to sing along with the lyrics of their own choosing, which included ‘Stand On Your Man’, ‘Sit On Your Hand’, and if you were a straight man, ‘You’re In The Wrong Field, Buddy’. I adored her.

[29] Bra me up, Scotty.

I dislike bra shopping. Shocking, I know.

I don’t hate it, let’s get that clear. I just dislike it. Like brushing my teeth, or washing the car, or taxes. Necessary, but still a pain in the ass. I’ve gotten good at mixing efficiency with a kind of blasé armour, like: Yes, I am looking at lingerie, and now you are blocking my light. Please move.

I should explain. I am now gendered as male by the average person about 97% of the time. That gets into your head after a while — so much so that I’m shocked, really truly shocked, if someone calls me ‘Ma’am’, or ‘love’, or ‘sweetheart’, or anything remotely feminine. I triple-take. I get flustered. I fall over my own feet if someone opens a door for me. I got female-gendered at a fast food joint the other day and spent the next half hour hissing “What did she see?” at the friend eating with me. True to form, my friend just laughed.

Anyway, getting back to bras. I haven’t bought a new one in at least a year, probably more. I’ve been putting it off as long as possible. Hell, binders work just as well anyway — and better, even, if you team them up with the still-passable imitation of the underthing you should have thrown away months ago. Binders are brilliant. Bras are the final, uncomfortable, exclusively-female piece of clothing I still have to wear if I don’t want to injure myself while running.

Buying a bra when everyone in the store thinks you’re a man is a whole new experience. You get looks. And I don’t just mean ‘Gosh, that person is doing something a little strange’ looks. I mean ‘Holy crap, what is that pervert doing, somebody get a pitchfork’ looks.

Men, as it turns out, are not allowed to eye woman’s underthings speculatively in public. It is Not Done. Particularly if he then proceeds to leaf through the variety of underthings on sale, blatantly checking out the sizing, before rubbing the material between his fingers in a thoughtful way.

Seriously. I got the kind of looks you’d normally need peanut butter, feathers, and a full strip tease in front of the Houses of Parliament to achieve. It was like I’d lit my trousers on fire, donned a plucked turkey as a hat, and whistled Pretty Lady through a vibrator. In front of the Queen.

Okay, I may be exaggerating slightly, but it felt like that.

The strangest part, though, was turning around with my hands full of delicate lacy things and catching sight of this disgruntled man-face on the other side of the aisle. Y’know, half a nanosecond before realizing that was my own reflection.

This transgressive-gender thing, it makes life weird.

[27] Bite-sized religion.

“Hello! We’ve brought you a message from the bible.”

“Oh. Uh, lovely.”

“Are you familiar with the bible?”

“Mostly as a concept. Which religion?”

“Jehovah’s Witnesses. Would it be alright if we came inside for a quick chat?”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t want to chat to me, mate.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, I’m gay and transgender. Organized religion generally doesn’t like me.”

“… oh.”

I’ve never seen two grown men wilt so fast. Credit to them, they did hang about and give me a five-minute monologue on how God is very accepting and it’s totally okay to have free will, but there was a definite sense of fleeing-in-slow-motion as they edged backwards down the garden path.

[25] Dissertations and blogging. Sing it proud, boy.

I smell of Old Spice and cigarette smoke today, like an authentic butch stereotype.

I’m not sure about the Old Spice, actually. It was an impulse buy from a chemists while I was getting bandages (I sprained my ankle this week by jogging on the spot, because I’m just that cool). I had no idea chemists carried Old Spice, but hey, why not? It’s an odd sort of scent, the original; a little bit sweet, kind of woodsy. I can’t decide if I like it. Though this advert makes me want to wear it anyway, just because.

This week has been so weird. Remember the dissertation I was talking about? The one about butch gender? (The official title was “(L)Earned Masculinity: A Literature Review on Butch Gender”.) Well I got the mark back. In the UK, a first is the grade you want; that’s like graduating summa cum laude. Basically it’s an ‘A’. And they start at 70%, which is bloody hard to get. I’ve been managing As so far this year, by dint of last-minute procrastination and a lot of bullshit, but I was nervous about the dissertation. It was rushed, non-conventional, and there’s not a whole lot of literature out there (I pulled a fair amount from blogs, actually, which was a lot of fun). Anyway, I was nervous. 40% of my grade is riding on it. Three years of university, £27,000 in student loans, all that time I could have spent slacking off from other things…

I got 92%.

Ninety-two per cent.

Ninety! Two! Per! Cent!

Honestly, I thought there’d been a glitch. You can’t get 92%. The highest mark I’ve ever gotten ever at uni was 85%, and I thought that was a glitch. 92% is ballistic. Unbelievable! Brilliant! My lecturers want me to do a Master’s degree in research. They suggested I get my dissertation published, in journals. My second favourite lecturer called it “superlative”.

My favourite lecturer mocked me at length, but that’s because he’s an arse and I love him.

Two days after this, I sprained the aforementioned ankle and had an argument with my brother, because the universe likes to keep my ego in check. Probably a good thing, but still. Ninety! Two! Per! Cent! The ankle’s still sore and the brother’s not speaking to me, but life goes on. I’d forgotten how impressive my brother is when he sulks, actually — we’re over a week already and nada, not a whisker of communication. (I’m maintaining the moral high ground because our argument was over the treatment of his last girlfriend/fuckbuddy. He was an arse, I told him so, he disagreed. If I’ve learned anything from three waves of feminism, I win this argument on account of possessing ovaries*.)

NINETY! TWO! PER! CENT!

On butch gender.

That’s my favourite part. That I got the highest grade on my most important paper, and that paper was about butch. I got to splash around in my own identity for 8000 words, read my most favourite authors, cite my favourite arguments, pick holes in the definitions of academia — it was beautiful. I got to defend blogging as an academic source. Blogging! Because we are the experts, by definition of experience and knowledge, and we peer-review each other. Because you can graft a whole lot of truth out of eighteen different people all saying different-yet-related weirdness. We’re the primary sources. The front-runners, and the poor bastards in the trenches. We matter. And I said that, and it was glorious, and it won me a first.

Old Spice and cigarette smoke and oh, this week is brilliant.

—

*Kidding, kidding!

Okay, mostly kidding.

[22] Playing catch-up.

*whistles softly*

Man, have I been out of the loop. It’s been almost a month since my last post, and, after reading around, it looks like half the internet blew up and put itself back together. Particularly the gender-blogging side of things — I’m seeing good news and bad news and tough conversations and awesome make-overs and happy anniversaries and one-step-forward-two-steps-back changes, and the ever-present, always appreciated, brilliantly written navel-gazing. Oh, yes.

Kind of makes me want to go around with party balloons and hugs and maybe a straight jacket or two. (Or three. Why does gender-blogging always bring out the extra crazy?)

…

So. After a couple minutes of thought and a scrapped picture or two, it turns out there’s no way to transition smoothly from ‘THE INTERNET IS BUSY AND ALSO CRAZY’ to ‘HERE’S WHAT I’VE BEEN DOING’.

Actually, that worked pretty well.

First off, I GOT MY DISSERTATION FINISHED. My dissertation written about butch gender, in fact (though, if I’m totally honest, it was a literature review and mostly I was reviewing butch authors, but that still counts). I wrote it in about a week, lost two nights of sleep, and wrote the word “gender” so much it might literally be seared onto the backs of my retinas. BUT DESPITE THAT, I got to rhapsodize at length about the validity of butch blogs (or hell, any kind of gender blog) being included as an academic source. Because seriously, if the criteria are only “must be written by an expert”, “must be published”, and “must be peer-reviewed”, THEN ALLOW ME TO REDEFINE YOUR TERMS.

(Also, note to self: writing all in caps is extremely entertaining. Must remember to inflect it on people do it more often.)

I also had a good friend, Ki, come stay with me for two weeks, which involved a lot of touristing, a lot of travelling, and much general walking-up-and-down-the-country-and-taking-lots-of-photos. I’m footsore, noticeably reduced around the waistline, slightly sunburned, and very de-stressed. It was brilliant. Also, she made me curry.

Funny thing, actually: seeing as Ki is cissexual, straight, and Mormon, conventional odds would tilt our spending much time together in the same room towards the side of catastrophe. Epic catastrophe, even. And I wish that was just bigoted, narrow-minded thinking on my part, because I know religion and Teh Gay are not mutually exclusive (just ask Nezu, who attends an awesome gay church down in San Francisco, or JB, who attends another gay-friendly house of religiosity in the same region), but man, as peaceful coexistence goes, Mormon and queer are not what you’d traditionally think of as on speaking terms. Just look at all that Mormon funding for Prop 8.

And Ki is really Mormon. (And also possibly not speaking to me, after this introduction. *laughs* I’ll have to post up an anecdote about myself falling down a flight of stairs, or something, to make up for it. Or send her a fruit basket.)

But, but, but — here is where it’s awesome. Because not only is Ki really Mormon, she’s also really cool, and amazingly unfussed about either Teh Gay or Teh Butch. Two key examples: she invited me to Sunday church with her and didn’t bat an eye when I threw on a suit and tie, instead she got all aw-shucks-pleased when I pointed out that my tie matched her very pretty new dress, and then complimented my new dress shoes. (Also, Mormon church is bizarrely enjoyable. There’s a very warm-and-friendly atmosphere, much like a village bakesale and gossip, rather than the high grandeur and severe sense of You Are Doing It Wrong that the Catholic church nails you with.) Second example: I’ve spent the last few weeks using gender-neutral disabled bathrooms instead of doing the awkward knees-clenched dance between male/female, and lemme tell you, disabled bathrooms rock; there’s space to stretch your legs, set your rucksack down, adjust your binder if necessary, and do your business in absolute peace, all without the tension of worrying about what’s waiting on the other side of the stall door*. Totally flaw-proof system, right up until you hit a place without an easily accessible disabled bathroom, such as the Imperial War Museum in London (y’know, hypothetically), and really have to pee. Particularly if the Museum is about two hours away from your safe and gender-free hotel room, and you can’t think of any other more appealing bathrooms in-between, what with it being London and you suddenly being a severe coward.

Seriously, it’s amazing how out of practice you can get with gendered public bathrooms in a few weeks. It’s like all that armour just melts back into your skin, and you are soft and quivery and easily-stabbed all over again.

So, there’s me, hovering awkwardly by the door to the ladies (which is about a mile away from the mens’ room, and two floors below the disabled) and trying to decide whether I really need to piss that badly, or if I can just hold it — and there goes Ki, striding past without a word, to check out the whole bathroom and then flash me a grin and an “All clear!” with a reassuring thumbs up, like someone gave her a manual entitled How To Make Your Gender-Bizarre Friends Go Wobbly At The Knees With Gratitude.

I can’t actually remember if I told her thank you at the time; I was too busy sprinting for the stall. But oh, I meant to, possibly in poetry.

It’s a funny thing, really, I’ve known Ki for… jeez, two years online? More than that? We’re writing partners and moderaters on a community over on Insanejournal (great site, awful base coding), and spend waaaaay too much time meddling about in the lives and loves of fictional gay ninja (seriously, and it is awesome. Also, have I mentioned that I’m a ginormous geek?), but I still expected her to be a little dicey with everything when she came over. Not much, but just a little, in a background, slightly-awkward sort of way. Because there’s a difference in knowing someone is weird/different/liberal/gender-bizarre/insert-adjective-here abstractly, and knowing it because you’ve just met them face to face and now you have to spend two weeks sharing a room together, eep.

Of course, seeing as half our family and friends expected one of us to seduce the other, I reckon we managed to hit the middle ground pretty well.

Man, this is a rambly post. So, yeah, internet asplody, dissertation finished, Mormon friend awesome, what else?

- I have amazing Wolverine hair today. It’s kind of accidentally awesome, all slicked down on the sides and whoosh on top, like my hair gel has a world-saving agenda and just neglected to tell me.

- I’ve rediscovered my love for boxers recently, specifically the really cheap kind you can buy at the supermarket. Y’know, the £3 for a set of three kind, which sit comfortably on your hips and loosely everywhere else, and go great with a plain t-shirt if you just need to laze around the house for a day.

- Bear S. Bergman has a livejournal blog, and it is just as fantabulous as you’d expect. (Also, Bear and his husband had a son recently, and there is just not enough aww in the world, folks. In the world.)

There’s a whole lot more to write about (when is there not?) but this post is becoming ridiculous-sized, so I’ll call it quits for tonight. Or, y’know, the next thirty seconds. But hey, baby Bearlets is a pretty excellent place to finish, don’t you reckon?

—

*Though occasionally you do catch a funny look from people trying to parse out how, exactly, you’re disabled. I’m often tempted to walk out and collapse dramatically on my face, just so they can have an ‘… ah’ moment.

[17] Play me some work, Bubba.

Helluva day.

I had an interesting gender moment earlier. I was on a training course for my weekend job — domiciliary carer; we were doing stroke awareness and Parkinson’s — and got in twenty minutes late because traffic was a bitch.

You ever have that moment when you walk into a room and everything goes pin-drop silent? Yeah. Twenty-eight pairs of staring eyes and everyone’s obviously female except for the trainer, who’s obviously male, and I don’t know any of them.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say, all smiling teeth and leather jacket and body language that yells ohshit. “Traffic.”

The trainer nods at me. “No problem. Grab a seat.”

The room is tiny. There’s one seat in the house and it’s right next to the instructor. I settle in and realize they were right in the middle of a Q&A because the instructor swings around and asks, “And what visible symptoms of a stroke do you know, young man?”

Young man.

Ohshit.

It’s the leather jacket; I love it, but damn does it get me into trouble sometimes. The black button-down beneath it probably isn’t helping, either. Or the recent haircut.

Dilemma: I’m stuck with these people for the next five hours, at work. Do I correct the trainer (with what? “Well, technically I have ovaries, but I’m actually going by male pronouns right now, so thanks,”) and embarrass the hell out of him, or do I drop my voice and play male for the next few hours and hope I never have to run a joint-shift with any of the other carers in the room?

Some of them have already made me: I can see it in their faces.

Added problem. I don’t want to be called ‘young lady’ for the next five hours. But I’m also twenty paces away from the main office and they sure know I’m estrogen based — and they’re prone to dropping in.

I have all these thoughts in about a quarter of a second, then open my mouth and say, “Slurred speech, paralysis, confusion.”

I can relate.

The trainer grins, relief all over his face, and I can see his thoughts: Thank god, one other guy in this sea of women. And look, a guy with a brain.

Oh dude, if only you knew. I can already feel heat in my face — I was always a crappy liar; worse with an audience — and none of this is going to end happy.

He uses me as his young-man-example for the next hour and a half (“Strokes are more common in men than women — sorry, buddy!”), and at least three if the woman are eyeing my throat like they want to cut it open and check for an Adam’s apple.

I don’t take off my leather jacket; I’m not binding today because I didn’t want to cause confusion at work, and that’s an irony that stings because now I want a flat chest like I want fresh air. I sit with my legs spread and my shoulders crowded down, claiming space and ducked low all at once, uncomfortable and obvious.

Then we take a break. I go get lunch.

When I come back, it’s just the instructor and two women in the room, and the instructor’s looking at the sign-in sheet. I slide back into my chair, more settled now that I’ve had the chance to get out and breathe for a minute. He comes over, looking slightly strange, and points at my name.

“That’s not a boy’s name.”

“Nope,” I agree. I should say more: I want to educate him about butch and transmasculine and Bear-freakin’-Bergman; I want to load his arms with textbooks and his head with knowledge, and lead him gently by the hand around the internet. I want to give him Boys Like Her wrapped up in a ribbon. I want to say, ‘Hey, I’m still your mate, and incidentally if you follow me into the car park later and try to start anything, I’m well-prepared to kick your ass across an acre of tarmac — but in a friendly way, and we can get beers after’.

I really want to not fail this course.

So I say one word, steady-voiced, and watch him calmly. He blinks.

“Jeez, I’m sorry,” he says, and rubs the back of his neck.

I shrug. “No big deal; happens all the time.” And I like it normally, dammit.

The rest of the group comes back in. The lady next to me leans over and greets me with my name. Asks me how I’ve been, if I remember working with her. I don’t — I’ve always been bad with faces — but at least now I know why she’s been staring at my jugular for the last two hours.

“I’m good,” I say slowly, wondering if she’s going to mention the fact that half the class still think I’m a guy, the teacher is bright red, and the morning’s basically been weird.

“That’s nice.”

Apparently not.

The trainer calls me ‘young man’ again ten minutes later, like a reflex; then he trips over his words, drops a slide, and goes even redder. I smile, call him ‘dude’, hand his slide back, and take off my leather jacket.

We learn about Parkinson’s, and on the way out one of the ladies hits on me.

This afternoon I gave blood for the second time ever, bought a multi-tool, and found a check for $200 from my clinically-insane-but-lately-endearing mother waiting in a card on the doormat. Apparently “blessed Easter” is the time to give money.

And I passed the course.

Like I said, helluva day.