Wednesday, August 31, 2005

#343: BEING FIVE AND THE OTHER THING

Let's all say we love Genesis P-Orridge together (or at least this one documentary short that Genesis P-Orridge is in):

"Yob: A Manicure with Genesis P-Orridge"

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The Fiery One and I watched "Southern Comfort" last night, which is a documentary about the love and family that surround a terminally ill man who was born in a female body. Early on in the film, the requisite photographs of Robert as a young girl in dresses and holding dolls came on as stills behind a monologue he delivered about the pain of being forced into what felt like drag for him as a child. I had to stop the DVD, because it made me remember how horrible it was before I hit puberty and was allowed more control of what I chose to wear.

My mother, like most parents of gender dysphoric children, I am sure, had no idea that the dresses and hair curling she imposed on special occasions was anything greater than an annoyance for me. How was she to know? My grimaces and pulling away were taken to be fussing, but in truth, I felt at the time that I, the me that I knew was standing right there, was being wilfully ignored.

One occasion stands out particularly in my mind. It may have been my birthday, or it may have been Easter. I'm not sure what the occasion was, but I do know that my parents wanted it to be special, because I was alone with them in the house. When we were without my multiply handicapped older brother, I knew that our time together as a family-minus-one was considered "special". This always put me on edge before my younger brother came along, because it meant that I would be the focus of my parents' attention. It made me feel squirmy and vulnerable, as though there were different behavioural rules that I should be adhering to as the situationally only child.

I remember my parents standing in our dining room. I must have been five or six years old. They were smiling at me expectantly. They told me that I had a present hidden somewhere in the house, and they wanted me to play Hot Or Cold in order to find it. Games like that made me feel even squirmier, because they meant that I would be watched, and that I would have to willingly allow myself to be lead along like a fool to a prize that everyone else already had access to. I was a serious child, and to me, that sort of game could only be fun for those who held the power.

Being a kid, though, meant that the promise of a present was enough for me to capitulate, and I grudgingly muttered hot or cold, narrowing down my present's location until I reached their bed. I reached underneath and pulled out a plain white box. A plain white box, shallow and rectangular in shape with collapsible corners, could only mean that there was clothing inside. This is a grand disappointment for most children, because pretending things with craft supplies or toys is far more fun than pretending things with a turtleneck.

My problem was that my mother was predictable. It was a special occasion of some sort, and special occasions meant dress-up dresses. Since I had not already been made to wear a dress-up dress, I knew that there was some kind of dress-up dress in that plain white box, and I wanted to cry.

It felt like like they were trying to dress me up as somebody else, and I thought that they loved that somebody else more than they did me.

The dress had an empire waist, the kind that rests just below the chest. The bodice was of a sheer, white material littered with blue and yellow and pink flowers, and the skirt was of a stiff, cranberry velvet that descended to my ankles. It will soften up the more you wear it, my mother said, and then you'll like it more. My displeasure about the ruffles around the neck and arms was obvious. But you look so pretty in that dress, she said.

Later, I cried, because I could not be that other girl, the one who liked being pretty in that way that I did not. I could not be that little girl they were trying to dress up like a little girl who wore dress-up dresses. I could not be the kind of pretty that they waited to see me become with every new dress-up outfit they had me put on. I couldn't, I wouldn't, I wasn't.

I did not have the words or the concepts to cover what I was going through. I just knew that the things that were most essential to who I was kept me separated from the things that were expected of and desired for me by the adults that populated my world. In a very simple way, I knew that even then.

I was not the wanted or the expected thing.

---

I was driving home when the polar ice caps melted,
leveling first the laundried tenements,
then claiming paneled rec-rooms as water lapped
my bumpers. Pirouetting on one wheel once,
I rode a tin-canned swell above the sharks
that swept in packs upon the sculpted gardens.
I floated on the former continent,
the car aflutter with pigeons bereft of eaves.

- excerpt from "Again by Flood" by Mark Featherstone

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4 comments:  Koan "Southern Comfort" has been shown on UK television twice, I think - the first time I missed it completely, the second time I caught the last twenty minutes or so. The insanity of the situation (that Robert needlessly died from cancer because the doctors refused to treat him, because he was transgendered) - has haunte me ever since. Does a camera have a place at times of such grief? In that story, and for those people... hell, yeah. And your story about the party dress - and your statement "I was not the wanted or the expected thing" - I understand. I do. I can't say words to make it better, or change the pain of those memories. Maybe you're being unfair to yourself, and your parents, though, to an extent - if they (or you) did not know, at that point, how you felt inside, it doesn't mean that they would not have loved you for who you were, rather than who they *thought* you were. I was 38 before I could explain to my Mum who *I* was - and she loves me just as much now as she ever did... if she'd known then what she knows now, I kno she would have wanted me as much, and wanted me to be happy as much. Thank you for sharing that memory.    schmutzie It is difficult to talk about the childhood memories without sounding like I am being harsh regarding my parents. I don't mean to. There was no way for them to have known who I was back then and no way that I would have been able to tell them. I made an effort not to use blaming sentences when I wrote this post, but I found that it was difficult to write about the emotional pain of the situation without sounding like I was pointing fingers. I found "Southern Comfort" to be such a powerful documentary. I have never watched a film before and then felt so thankful for the honesty and respect and care shown to the subjects of the film.    roo I'll echo Koan and thank you for sharing this memory. I feel like I understand some of what you experienced, though my difficulties with my mother and clothing were different. I dreamed of long braids and ruffles while my hair was cut short and I was dressed in brown corduroy. I was a little girl, but I was called "young man," and I always felt ashamed for it. Now, after years of studying costume design and working with clothes, I still don't know how to dress in a way that shows who I really am. I know what you mean when you talk about how hard it is to discuss your childhood hurts without seeming hard on your parents. For me, no matter how much I reason with myself about how my memories and my feelings are my own, I feel disloyal when I talk about how my parents hurt me. I'm afraid that by talking about those things I'll lead people to believe I don't love my parents, or think they deserve respect. Your post touched a chord with me. Thank you for some beautiful writing.    sassy I used to think that I was a boy, and that everyone was trying to trick me into thinking I was a girl. Seriously. For years. I know it sounds silly, and it makes fun conversation, causing laughter at parties, but the truth is that it frecking messed up my head as a child. Thank you for writing about that in such a serious way. It's touching, and brave. I'm glad to have stumbled into your blog, have added you to my blogrll, and will be back. Very nice to meetcha Schmutzie. (:   blog comment guidelines post a comment ~ Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom] ~ main page