This is a guest post by BW reader Jack Kaulfus, who also blogs at www.jackkaulfus.com and teaches writing in Austin, Texas:


I’m out there somewhere on the trans spectrum, socially and politically (by "trans," I mean one who self-identifies as transgender, transsexual, or gender variant).  But I've always felt more inclined to identify myself as a woman--even if it means coming out to everybody in a 100 yard radius when the soccer referee insists that my coed team needs another woman on the field to continue the game.  This past Tuesday, I was reduced to screaming "I'm a GIRL!" down the field after a short but excruciating "Who’s On First" set between my team captain and the ref.  My name is Jack, so that complicates things further. 

Every time there is a public misgendering in which I am ultimately perceived as a woman,  I sit in the middle of a heated exchange between the proud, transmasculine-identified me (TM) and the proud, queer woman-identified me (QM).  The internal dialogue goes something like this:

TM: You’re passing!  Awesome.  But you aren't really a girl, so you just kind of lied.

QW:  That was embarrassing.  No one else has to prove she belongs on the field.  Maybe you should start a fight.

TM:  Well, what did you expect?  You have a low voice and a bit of facial hair.  The other girls have ponytails.  People don’t like to be confused.

QW:  F**k other people’s confusion.  You don’t have to have a ponytail to be a woman.  You’re not trying to deceive anybody.

TM:  BTW, studly, this particular binding/uniform shirt combo is really working for you tonight.

QW: You need to talk to that ref after the game--educate her about how to deal with situations like these.  You need to explain that policing gender at a sporting event is insulting to every woman here.

TM:  It’s her job to make sure people follow the rules.  One of which you’re probably breaking because you have more testosterone coursing through your system than some of the guys on the other team.  You should transition all the way.  Quit waffling.  Take responsibility for your own identity.

QW: Yeah.  Assuming that mantle of white male privilege is going to be a terrible responsibility.  Make sure you’re prepared for the raise in pay and automatic deference to your opinion...

TM: Not all men are alike.  You are not like other men.

QW:  Not all women are alike.  You are not like other women.

TM and QW:  I’m glad there will be beer after this game.

The next time the ref was down my way, she apologized.  I was prepared to just let it go (like I always do), but then she added that everybody was calling me Jack, so she was confused.  I told her that Jack is my name, and then the ball came barreling toward us.   Conversation over.  

At times like these, authenticity feels like a tiresome luxury.  I’m not quite prepared to give it up, but it requires living in a state of near-constant personal revelation.  I find myself needing to be prepared to answer for my gender in the strangest places and situations. 

I’ve been told many times that it just doesn’t matter--or that it really only matters to me, because I think about it too much.  Gender is a social construct.   Gender is all in my head.   If I could only get past this pesky gender hang-up and live freely as Just Jack, I’d be happier.  

But so often, identifying and embodying one easily recognizable gender identity becomes the reason other people feel they should treat me with respect: I’m a girl for my co-ed soccer team, a guy walking through a deserted parking garage, a trans writer who can write with authority about girlhood in America.  I could really get behind the idea that it just "doesn’t matter" if I weren’t constantly being asked to make a decision about how my identity fits into the paradigm du jour.


BW note: Thanks to Jack for this great article, as well as Guest Post #3.  Read more of Jack's writing at www.jackkaulfus.com.  If you're interested in writing a guest post for Butch Wonders, email me here.

Some of the search terms that brought people to Butch Wonders in May were downright rad.  Here are my favorites:

• "lesbians get a free toaster for converting straight girls"  (Actually, they've changed that.  Now we get our choice of one of those USB drive/keychain combos, or a $5 Starbucks gift card.  Stupid economy.)
  
• "why do lesbians wear white is it a ceremony"  (Yes.  It is a ceremony.)
• "open face panini sex"  (I prefer finger sandwiches, but to each her own.)
• "will wearing short board shorts with bikini top make my butt bigger"  (Yes.  It will swell your buttocks at least 40%.  This is irreversible, so be careful.)
• "why dont gay guys get with butch women"  (Look carefully: you may have just answered your own question.)
• "what percentage of lesbians like soft butches"  (67.83%)
• "what is the name of the homosexual demon"  (Frederick Aloysius Nicholas Finkelstein Bergdoll.)
• "what does susan mikula do"  (She's an artist and Rachel Maddow's gf.  Seriously, can you imagine a better life than being an artist who gets busy with Rachel Maddow?  Answer: no you can't.)
• "what color swim shorts should men get"  (Lavender.)
• "super gay desktop backgrounds"  (This may be the gayest picture in existence.  Use it if you really want to up the gay.)
• "should i have sex with a butch lesbian if im a straight guy"  (Hell, why not?  But, um... chances are, you're going to need to do some convincing.)
• "why dress butch"  (Because it titillates the straight men.)

Earlier today, my DXH ("dear ex-husband") asked if I remembered trying to kick him out of bed several years ago.  Indeed, I do.  Here's what happened:

        We were going to sleep, and I was super mad at him for some reason I can no longer remember (I'm suuuure he was at fault, though).  I told him to go sleep on the couch.  He replied, "No." 
        "No?" I asked, incredulous.  "You can't just say no." 
        "Why should I be the one who sleeps on the couch?"
        "Because you're the man.  I'm the woman and I get to banish you to the couch if I want to."
        "What about gender equality?"
        At this point, having no good argument, I began physically trying to push him out of bed.  He was a lot bigger (and stronger) than me, so this was completely futile.  I tried with all my might, to the point of grunting loudly.  The scenario soon struck us both as so absurd that we started cracking up.  And it's hard to be mad when you're laughing.

Remembering this made me think about what kinds of things we do when we get mad.  My attempt to push my DXH out of bed was silly, but in the moment, it felt totally justifiable. 

As a kid, I had a temper.  (In high school, I even punched a hole in a door once.)  My anger was usually directed at myself: a mistake I'd made or a situation that felt unsolvable.  Somewhere along the way, 95% of my temper disappeared.  Vanished.  Kaput.  I'm usually good at diffusing my own anger before it gets directed at anyone else. 

But I have a confession to make: I am a leaver.  On the rare occasions I do get mad, my first impulse is to get the heck out of the house.  I become single-minded about getting in the car and driving as far away as I can.  Sometimes this clears my head within a few minutes, but usually it takes longer.  But for my DGF, walking out is the functional equivalent of saying, "I don't love you anymore."  And that's the last thing I want to say, even when I'm mad.  So without really thinking about it, I've found other ways to deal with being mad, and I thought I'd share some of them.

• Force yourself to say, "I love you."  Even if you don't feel like you mean it in the moment.  Because as soon as you say it, it is likely to change the mood and give everything at least some perspective.
• If you feel things getting heated, say something like, "I can feel myself getting mad and I need some time to think."  This way, you're taking control of your emotions and actually reflecting on them rather than just reacting. 
  
• Go into your office (or some other space that's yours alone), close the door, and put Tool (or some other angry music) on your headphones.  Listen to it on full blast until the volume starts to get annoying, at which point you'll be able to think clearly again.
  
• Go for a run.  Better yet, lift weights.
• Cry.  It's okay to cry.  Sometimes anger expresses itself through tears.  If you don't want anyone to see you, go into the bathroom.
• Pet the dog while taking deep breaths.  Dogs love you no matter what.  How can you stay angry when you're holding your dog?

What do you and your DGF do when you get mad?  What helps?  What do you wish you (or she) didn't do?

This is a guest post by BW reader Jack Kaulfus, who also blogs at www.jackkaulfus.com and teaches writing in Austin, Texas.  In this post, Jack writes about the experience of passing--and not passing--as a Texan man.

I discovered the term "transgender" in the late ‘90s, and since then I have cultivated a complex, contentious relationship with my gender identity.  I’m pretty visible as a butch woman, but over the past few years, I’ve been taking a low dose of testosterone in an effort to bring my physical body more in line with how I have always wanted to look.  As of this writing, I don’t plan to ever fully transition to male, but walking this androgynous line has offered me perspective I never thought I’d experience.

I am 35 and I live in Austin, Texas, where queerness is usually celebrated in the community at large.  I’m lucky to be here where I can walk this line in relative safety, without excess fear of physical violence or verbal harassment.  I should add that I’m white-skinned, educated, and from a middle class background.  That has a lot to do with my relative safety as well, especially in the south.

The places where I pass as male are typically the more dangerous places to be seen as queer--small towns and suburbs of bigger cities.  I think I’m usually shunted into a default category of male because my hair is short, and I’m usually with my long-haired partner and her two kids.  I’m always surprised when I pass for longer than a few seconds, but if I do, I am offered a tiny peek at what it might be like to walk the world as a white Texan guy with a pretty wife at his side.  It’s very different from the way it feels to walk around as a visible queer with a pretty wife at her side.  Here’s what I notice I get when I’m out in public, passing as a cisgendered male:

1. Eye contact.  Friendly men make eye contact.  Friendly women make eye contact.  People talk TO me instead of around me or to someone else altogether.
2. Physical contact.  Friendly men shake my hand.  Friendly women touch me on the arm.
3. Addressed with strange familiarity.  How you doin’, Boss?  Chief.  Amigo.
4. Small talk (not initiated by me) about how old my kids are, who I think will win a sports event, or why I’m buying so much brisket.
5. Helped first (especially if I am dressed nicely).
6. The check at the end of the meal.
7. Asked for help or directions.
8. Harassment-free access to public bathrooms.
   

I don't pass every time, but I pass often enough to feel the absence of those small privileges when they are not extended.  I have come to believe that walking around my life as a visible butch woman requires a certain resignation to public invisibility on the whole.  I’m here, I’m queer, and you probably don’t want to a) sleep with me,  b) invite me to play on your ultimate frisbee team, or c) flirt with me in hopes of a large tip.  I am recognizable as a human form--not necessarily ignored--but I definitely don’t register the same way a white, straight, cisgendered male does.

I don’t have a vested interest in becoming that which I am not, but poking around in places where I am comfortably welcomed and valued (either as a butch woman or as a cisgendered male) definitely heightens my awareness of the privileges I take for granted every day.

BW note: You can read more of Jack's writing at www.jackkaulfus.com.  If you're interested in writing a guest post for Butch Wonders, email me here.