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Ars Erotica
June 2004 Buildings & Bridges My first big solo public speaking gig: The UC Santa Cruz Take Back the Night rally. Until then, I was a second-class feminist, always throwing down for my sisters but watching my back in case I had to defend myself, as if Taking Back the Night was unnecessary for transwomen. The preparations for my remarks, of course, revealed a very different truth. Statistics on violence against transfolk were just beginning to emerge then, and the numbers were discouraging. The narratives were horrifying. We needed to take back nights and days. With all the feminist rallying and marching I'd done up until then, I had always allowed myself to take a back seat. Of course, there were rarely other transwomen at most such events, and getting my ass beat down by one of my sisters at Take Back The Night seemed counterproductive. So I marched for my homegirls until I was asked to speak. That day was amazing. The crowd -- hundreds of folks -- were scattered across the rolling hills of the campus, and the PA echoed off the buildings. I was sharing the stage with legendary educators and activists. And what had I done to deserve this -- stick my neck out? My turn came, rather quickly, and suddenly I was holding a microphone and gazing out across a sea of listening people. My remarks included reading syndicated news stories of the heartsickeningly hateful things that had been done to transsexual and transgender persons. And amazingly, the crowd was hanging on my words. I read the story of Tyra Hunter, a Washington DC transwoman who died after EMTs pulled her from a car wreck and discovered that her genitals were not what they expected. Tyra's mother was later able to successfully sue the city and medical personnel in a wrongful death suit, but the facts of case remained frightening. We transfolk couldn't even trust the paramedics to save our lives. So I read this story verbatim from the wire, and I came to the point where the EMT snipped away Tyra's clothing to discover her "secret". My tongue tripped, and I said "firefarter" instead of "firefighter." Of course, I've never intended, now or then, to make light of Tyra's case. But the misspoken word shattered the tension, which was thicker than I could have imagined. I assume that for many folks that day, many had never heard or seen a real live tranny speaking, much less about things so dire as the kinds of violence we can face. Especially in the urban centers, and when we are poor, and when we are sex workers, and when we are young and isolated, and especially when we are transwomen of color. I've often said about that moment that it was when I lost my fear of public speaking entirely. It really doesn't get much more embarrassing than that. It was a fortunate mistake, because after we shared a mortified laugh at my expense, I hastened through the remainder of my remarks, and left the stage feeling entirely empowered, as if something had finally changed. * * * Like many folks, I had my feminist consciousness raised in college. As I've said elsewhere, the need for feminism seemed obvious. But I was presenting some indeterminate gender then, and for all anyone cared I was still male. It didn't seem to matter that I favored the feminisms of Sonia Johnson and Valerie Solanas over Gloria Steinem; my place as a feminist was insecure. There were still debates about whether men were even capable of being feminists. My earliest feminist coursework was undeniably white-washed, and so it was quite a revelation when I began to encounter the work of Barbara Smith and Pat Parker and June Jordan. It seemed like every article I read by Audre Lorde would peel away another layer of social consciousness. And then I was assigned to read This Bridge Called My Back, published in 1984 and edited by Gloria Anzaldúa and Cherrie Moraga. Little did I know then how much this book would transform me and my thinking; how it would be the first book of my feminist education to call in question the white bias in feminist and queer activisms; biases which are still troubling. I had no idea then that Gloria's La Frontera/Borderlands would have such immense impact on my thinking about how I understood my own trans gender. I didn't even realize then that I would live for many years in Santa Cruz, some of Gloria's own stomping grounds. Of course, I had to do a degree of reading between the lines to find myself in the texts of This Bridge, but I was certainly not alone in having done so. Many of the essays included in 2002's enormous followup anthology, this bridge called my home, include dozens testimonies of those who had to read between the lines of the literature of liberation - and these include many of the voices of trans folk. Finally, after years of being refused voice by those who could know better, we were invited to speak at the table of a woman who could always be counted on to actually change the world. It took some days for the news of Gloria's death in May to sink in; in midst of a career and a home transition, I'd been casually poking through some of the articles in the new anthology. I re-read her contributions to the book, and yearned for my storage-unit-imprisoned copies of her earlier work. Gloria opens and closes this bridge called my home with pieces which carefully trace Santa Cruz geography, linking herself inextricably with the land that I will always think of as home. I regret that I never had the opportunity to meet her in person, to thank her for her amazing, loving groundwork. We should all hope to leave such a mark on this world as she managed to do. Thank you, Gloria. I'll miss you. * * * Look for Rahne Alexander's remarks at the Washington DC Dyke March on her website at www.xantippe.com. Return to Ars Erotica Index |
