by Shannon Wyss
| Janice Raymond.
For those of us who are transgendered or allies of the trans community, the name often evokes knee-jerk reactions of animosity. Raymond, a radical lesbian feminist, writes in “The Transsexual Empire: The Making of the She-Male” that transpeople are destroying the feminist movement. She reserves special vitriol for male-to-female transsexuals, whom she accuses of sapping women’s energy, ruining the lesbian community, and (I am not making this up) raping women (although, to be fair, she means that figuratively). Her impact on the feminist view of transgender has undoubtedly been negative and, as Ricki Anne Wilchins (in Read My Lips: Sexual Subversion and the End of Gender) has written, Raymond’s writings have proven destructive for the psychological well being of transpeople themselves. As a strong ally of the Trans community and a pro-sex, Generation X, queer feminist, I have been a critic of Raymond since I first encountered her essays and books in 1997. Needless to say, I was therefore stunned to learn that she had stopped by the Women’s Studies Program office one day in January -- and only a few hours after I had been there myself! It was a Raymond near miss! The fact that I was so close to actually crossing paths with someone whose beliefs I find so objectionable sent me to wondering exactly what I would have said had I met her. I am generally not one for confrontation, particularly with people I don’t know well (or know at all, as would have been the case here). I know myself well enough to be sure that I probably would not have confronted her about her anti-trans views. While I’m quite vocal in classes and with friends, I find it moredifficult to claim my voice in a situation where I’m not around people with whom I’m comfortable. I have unspeakable admiration for those who are able to confront the sexist, racist, and homophobic comments of complete strangers. Opinionated as I am, I’m not very talented with Speaking Truth to Power. And yet how could I have not said anything? Could I have remained silent in the face of someone who represents at least some of that against which I fight so vigorously? What sort of ally would I have been had I let that opportunity go? I’m certainly not harboring any illusions that I would have changed Raymond’s mind. And yet changing someone’s mind is certainly not the only reason to (figuratively) raise one’s voice. Would I have found within me the courage to say something? Would my anger at her writings have overcome my normal shyness, my reluctance to contradict what strangers say? What, exactly, would I have said to my fellow feminist, this woman with whom I disagree so vehemently? Three months later, these are still questions with which I’m struggling. It disturbs me greatly that I likely would have just seethed silently and left, still voiceless. Silence = complicity. Where within me do I find the courage to confront strangers whose beliefs I find offensive? Where is my Queer Feminist Voice in such situations? This series of questions is certainly not just about Janice Raymond. But her visit to Women’s Studies this winter has pushed me to revisit the issue of how to (re)claim my Voice. I have to dig up from within me the courage to Say Something, no matter to whom I am speaking, when I am compelled by my beliefs to do so. Yet another step on my Feminist Journey....
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Ever since my fateful
encounter withLeslie Feinberg's Stone Butch Blues in 1996, I have immersed
myself in transgender thought and literature. These readings have opened
up to me a whole new world, a world of multiple and consensual genders,
a world where each of us defines our own identities, a world where no one
is forced to be anything s/he doesn't want to be. Well, now the chickens
have come home to roost.
Over the past six months, I have moved from identifying solidly as a woman into a place where I feel that I’m not a woman. Or a man. Or transgendered. Gender is not connected to what's between one's legs or what flavor chromosomes a person has. Gender identity comes from how each of us feels inside about who we are and what roles we (want to) fill in society. I have certainly never been a "good woman" in the Phyllis Schlafly sense of the word. I've worn relatively androgynous clothing for as long as I can remember. I started identifying as a feminist in sixth grade. I stopped shaving my legs and armpits in high school. In the ensuing years, I came out as a dyke. Then in 1998 I started shaving my head. I often get stared at on the street -- the look that says, "Is it a boy or a girl?" Half the children that I volunteer with are convinced I’m a boy; most of the others aren't sure. I even get "sir'd" on occasion. This is what sociologists call "other-imposed definitions." The gender that I am (or, as I prefer to see it, the gender that I do) isn't what most people consider "woman." I'm falling off their radar screens. Then there's how I perceive myself. What does being a woman feel like? This is certainly something that, based upon my female genitalia, I’m supposed to automatically know. But I don't think that anyone can really answer that question. I know I’ve never wanted to be or be seen as a boy. And I’ve never wanted to change my body to a man's shape; I’m comfortable in my own skin. But I’m no longer feeling like I have as much in common with women. Or men. There's something "different" about me now -- and it's not just my queer sexual orientation. My exposure to trans culture, people, and writing has convinced me that there are as many genders as there are human beings. Lots of us don't fit the given categories. So I exist outside the boxes. Neither woman nor man. I'm something for which the English language has no word. I call myself "genderqueer," and I want to help explode constricting, restricting, oppressive, compulsory gender categories. How exactly to do this and, more immediately, how to live in this world and refuse placement in either "M" or "F" is still something I’m puzzling out. That question has been the most difficult part of this journey because my gender identity takes me out of social existence. Our current world still insists that I be either man or woman, boy or girl. But I refuse. So I struggle to find my place -- anyplace -- in this society. Somewhere where I don't feel everyday like I’m "the only one." Somewhere where people don't give me a blank stare when I talk about being outside the binary sex/gender system. Until we reach that ideal world, though, I have nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of, and nothing to conceal. What's that you say? I can't exist? Well, guess what? I do. And I know I’m not the only one. Because I’ve met lots of other genderqueers. So don't assume that everyone you meet is either a man or a woman. You just might be wrong. To paraphrase a popular movement slogan: "We're here. We're queer. Do our genders cause you fear?" If so, maybe it's time to look at why each of us is so invested in a system that tries to force us to conform to a paradigm in which only some of us can exist. There's a brave new world out there. Come help me build it. |