Sex Change
Neither Elliot or I could think of a reason to say no. We are both agreeable in a manner that suggests we are open to chance encounters that might result in new friendship or polite acquaintanceship. So X joined us in our booth at the California Clipper. I noticed them on the dance floor, but I wasn’t sure if I should say hello. They never responded to my last message; I pretended not to notice them and focused intently on Brie, who was explaining that she has a crush on her rock climbing instructor. The gist of her story was that she has a praise kink, which I thought was unremarkable because I am constantly begging for praise, through my writing, dance, appearance, cooking, interior decor, thoughtful messages, etc. I guess I’m just looking for someone to tell me, You’re so talented!! Someone who will marvel with me at my singularity.
X crossed the dance floor and hovered near Brie and I. I wasn’t sure if X recognized me. I looked different, fishier; I was wearing a black silk halter dress that revealed my back tattoo and my makeup was heavier, more elaborate. My nipples were visible through the fabric, a fact a man at the bar generously pointed out after offering to buy me a drink. I accepted the drink, a $6 Modelo, and tried to ignore him staring at me from across the bar the rest of the night while secretly enjoying the attention. We were connected by his desire for me and my desire to be watched but never touched. I guess that makes me a cock tease. Bummer. How awful to see myself so clearly.
I met X the week prior at No Nation. They sat beside Ava, Nomi, and I on the couch and pointed out a bug that kept flying in front of the projector beam. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought they shared an uncanny resemblance to Becky’s boyfriend, mainly the sleek, virgin hair that fell just below their chin and the ADHD fidgeting. I nursed a mercurial crush. A common habit of mine. I enjoy fantasizing about the shape of a romance with odd men, curious what kind of lovers we might be together—tenacious, freewheeling, melancholic, meteoric. But I bored quickly, more drawn to chatting with Ava and Nomi. Mostly because there is a sibling-shaped hole at the center of my adult life. And here are two women I consider my sisters. For now at least. As long as we’ll have each other. We make an odd trio. Like mismatched kittens sired by different tomcats but born from the same mother.
Hesam asked the audience to think of a difficulty in our lives and tie a knot in a length of rope they carry around the room. X tied their knot and I fumbled with mine, forgetting to think of an emotional predicament to bestow on the rope. Hesam played a Buddhist chant and invited people to join them in untying the knots. Mar went up, along with a few others, while the rest of us watch them untie dozens of knots. It is intended to be a collective release. I love this about performance. The invitation. One of my favorite memories—Erika performing at No Nation, plying us all with wine, creating a sense of closeness among more than 30 people. Sometimes, all it takes is someone telling you, drink. And we all raised our glasses. Salud!
X fidgeted with their water bottle and told me that they took a class on Buddhism in undergrad. I explained that I know very little about Buddhism. Actually, I know very little about religions beyond my Protestant upbringing. Even Catholics are an oddity to me.Though, I kind of fuck with Catholic guilt as someone who always feels I must apologize whenever I enter a room. Our conversation died immediately. But X cornered Ava and I to ask for our Instagram handles.
As soon as they were out of earshot, I asked Ava: chaser, or egg? Maybe both, we concluded. I messaged them the next day while sitting at Consignment Lounge, sipping an espresso martini on an empty stomach. I entertained the idea of being their trans mother, accompanying them to their first HRT appointment. They apologized if they came off as “creepy,” hedging that it was an unfortunate reality of their current gender presentation. I contemplated a series of leading questions and then opted for a blunt approach instead, Are you transitioning?
I’ve thought about it. But I don’t know if my dysphoria is bad enough or if I would ever be able to pass, X replied. I smiled, incredulous, remembering their faerie-like face, their neat, upturned nose and glassy skin. They already could be mistaken for a woman. They would have an easier time than I did, for sure. When I offered to share more about my own experience, they stopped responding. But I could see they read my message. I am not upset because I remember how terrified I was when I first contemplated starting HRT, and I never spoke to another trans girl beforehand, wanting the experience to be wholly mine, a period of discovery where I would learn only through impulsive, unresearched decisions. Some decisions can only be made in private, without outside influence.
At the California Clipper, X half-listened to Elliot and I complaining about our respectively easy lives. They fidgeted, touched their nose occasionally, and Shazamed each song. I considered telling them my roommate is the DJ so I could just ask her for the playlist, but they seemed to find it relaxing, pressing the button and waiting for the track’s name to appear. And it makes me feel motherly, as if I am in the company of a toddler I’ve plied with rattle toys so that they might occupy themself while I attend to my adult responsibilities. Occasionally, they leave the table to dance. They asked if either of us read Paul B. Preciado’s Testo Junkie. I said yes too quickly. A bad habit of mine. And I’m too embarrassed to correct myself and explain that I’ve read An Apartment on Venus. But I couldn’t make it past the first few pages of Testo Junkie. I hate when intellectuals invent nonsensical words that sound like they’ve never been said aloud and try to coax the rest of us into adopting it into our vernacular—like pharmacopornographic. Get real. Neither Elliot nor I understood X’s interpretation of Preciado, whether it means they are planning to start HRT or not. Although, they teared up a little when thinking through the mechanics of it.
Hmm, you need to read some books by trans women, I suggested. Elliot and I both think and in almost perfect synchronicity suggest Hannah Baer’s Trans Girls Suicide Museum. Start there. And maybe just try a sex change.
Image: Alice Neel, Pregnant Julie and Algis, 1967.
Current obsession: I have been thinking a lot about the late Cecilia Gentili, her brilliant memoir Faltas: Letters to Everyone in My Hometown Who Isn’t My Rapist, and this quote that I saw circulated on Instagram after her death, “I’m asking all my trans people in the room, please, always, always terrorize cis people. Sometimes it doesn’t take much, you just have to show up!” It feels potent, at least for now, this desire to be an agitating force, to stop letting my anger and belittlement go unnoticed, to make cis people quake in their boots.