Tag Archives: queer

Orlando

When I first found out about Orlando, all I could think was, “It’s happening again.” There was no shock at the fact the murders happened. They happen, on a smaller scale, every day. Dread, yes. Crushing grief, yes. Fear, and a sense of how frail any perceived security is in the face of everyday hate, yes.

As the day has gone on, however, that fear and grief have strengthened, and with them has come anger and exhaustion. Every day, violence hits minorities in our communities. This senseless act of hate was inspired by nothing more than sexuality and race.

How many more tomorrows like this must hit before we learn to accept those who are different than us? How many more body bags will be filled with gay and POC and trans lives? How long until a body bag closes over my own head?

Still, I will shine. I will shine for the lights that were cut short in Orlando. I will shine for my dead brothers and sisters of every hate crime. I will sparkle so fucking bright that all the people who follow me into the bathrooms with threats and fists will be blinded. I will shine with the fierce love we all deserve, until the whole world shines along with me.

But it still won’t bring the dead back.

Why I Bought You Flowers

www.public-domain-image.com (public domain image)

We’ve been dating for a while but I’m not in love. I won’t be, beyond friendship or admiration, but still, when I show up at your house today, there’s a bouquet of flowers held in my hands.

A confused look on fills your face when you see the flowers, and I know why. You’ve known from the beginning I won’t fall in love, can’t feel the romance you do, but still, my hands smell of the tulips I bought for you. What is this if it isn’t romance? What is this if it isn’t love?

But it is love. Not the crash-landing into your arms kind, not the speeding heartbeat or butterflies dancing their way through my stomach, more a closeness and comfort and true, deep friendship. It is love, a solid closeness that’s only made stronger by the force of attraction and the nights we’ve shared together. It’s love, but it isn’t romance.

It’s me searching for your smile.

I know classes have been eating your time, and work tearing at your soul, and I care about you in the kind of way that seeing your smile brings my own, especially when I’ve found the way to help it roll its joyous way across your face. I don’t bring these flowers because the candlelit dinners soothe my soul, and the gestures don’t bring me nearly as much comfort. I do this for you.

And at last, that beautiful smile rolls across your face, and I know you understand.

How I Chose My Name (And Why You Should Use It)

final rainbow

Every name has a story.

I was born with a different name than the one I carry now, in an Ohio suburb that I only vaguely remember. Growing up wild and mischievous, the intensely feminine name that I had been given made me uncomfortable. It never felt right.

That wrongness was something I thought about more and more over the years. I don’t think my parents ever noticed the discomfort, but then again, I don’t think I ever talked about it. It was just one of those things that there weren’t set words for, or at least words I knew how to express. I’m only finding them now, at 25, sitting at the computer in a body that often feels like it belongs to someone else.

As I got into high school, I started thinking very seriously about what name I’d pick, if I only got the choice. It was a hard battle, hampered by unacknowledged discomforts with my body and orientation, and I didn’t manage to settle on anything concrete during those four tumultuous years.

Time continued to pass, and what the right name for me (the one I just hadn’t found yet) was remained a mystery. Then, in this past year, I began intensive research on what two names would label my soul in a concrete, accurate way. I couldn’t keep walking in a name that made me cringe. It was bad enough being trapped in this body when the dysphoria hit. A false start or two later, I finally settled on James Avery.

James, to me, has always been confident, extroverted, and a little mischievous. James can stride into a room and join a conversation without fear. James radiates calm and humor. James is the best parts of me and the things I want most to be. James is me at my fullest potential. Every time I am called James, I am reminded of my best self and pushed to continue striving for it.

Is it any wonder I chose the name?

How about Avery, then? I like Avery because it reminds me where I came from, and to never forget the inequality women face. As a gender-neutral name, it reinforces the message that though I am leaving behind my birth sex, I shouldn’t forget what I have been through, and what women go through every day. It also keeps me from forgetting that I don’t have to always be masculine to be male.

When I pick a name with that much meaning, is it strange that I want to be called by it? And yet every day I get comments like, “You’ll always be [deadname] to me,” or “I’m sorry, but you don’t look like a James.” Yet if I had gotten married and changed my last name, there would be very little problem.

Why do some people refuse to call someone by a name that has meaning to them and instead insist on one arbitrarily assigned at birth? It takes people time to get used to a new name, but why do some completely reject a person’s right to define their own identity?

I think it’s because, unconsciously or consciously, the people who insist upon misnaming others realize that calling someone by a name that they chose, a name that means something to them and describes them, requires you to acknowledge their humanity. Misnaming is a way of denying someone’s personhood, and that is the worst kind of crime.

Man

From Gasoline and Winter

I became a man the day I stopped being a boy,
not the day I first bound my breasts to ease the ache inside.
It wasn’t when testosterone hit like hope,
or the first time I kissed a girl.

I became a man the day I stopped being a boy.

I’m not a freak or fairy or a lesser man
because my body differs from yours.
My name is James, not “Miss” or girl.
I became a man the day I stopped being a boy.

How to Respond When Someone Tells You Their Body is Not Their Gender

  1. Thank them for trusting you. It isn’t an easy thing to talk about. It takes people a long time to come to terms with gender, and it’s often dangerous to bring up. Even when it isn’t, people are scared of the reactions of others.
  2. Respect their gender identity. Call them by the gender and gender pronoun they prefer, and ask them what they are.
  3. Do not tell anyone they have not given you permission to about their gender. Not only is it a betrayal of trust, but it can, again, be dangerous. Along with this you should ask if there are people who don’t know, and how you should refer to the person confiding in you when those who don’t know are around.
  4. Realize that everyone’s experience with their gender identity is different, and remember it is not the same thing as sexuality. Not everyone wants to transition, and not everyone views male and female the same way. Some people may act in “typically masculine” ways and still be female, and the reverse is true as well. And then there’s the difference between gender and sexuality. Gender is the gender of the person. Sexuality relates to the gender of the person they are attracted to. Don’t assume they are interrelated in any way.
  5. Treat them the same. They didn’t become a three-armed monster bent on destroying the world when they told you about their gender. They didn’t change who they were, either. They just let you get to know them better. Same person = same treatment, outside of respecting pronouns.
It’s as simple as that.

If you wonder why this is so important, read this survey’s results. (Since replaced with this 2015 version)

If you wonder how I came up with this specific method, it is an aggregate of the best reactions I’ve had, the best reactions a number of people I’ve surveyed have had, and this post.

Call Me Gentleman

final rainbow

My little brother was the first to call me a gentleman, and my eyes lit up like electricity. I’d just discovered that I liked male pronouns, but I hadn’t yet realized what a powerful word gentleman could be. It’s more than just a word for a man. It’s praise.

My gender is still up in the air, but there’s something undoubtedly delightful about the combination of “gentle” and “man”. It implies that the typically underrated quality of gentleness in males is in fact something to aspire to, not mock. And the way it feels in the mouth as my tongue rolls out the word… It’s beautiful.

It has such exquisite meaning, too. It brings to mind holding open doors and pulling out chairs and taking the time to listen. I can’t say I’m a perfect listener, but these are things I desire to be.

Perhaps, after all, gentleman is simply an ideal that leaves us striving to better ourselves, and isn’t that why we are here? I want to be a gentleman in the fullest sense of the word: not just on Tuesdays, or with someone I love, but always.

Call me a gentleman only when I’ve earned it, but call me a gentleman.