A few words for context: a friend is working on a documentary about transsexuals. It’s a topic I really didn’t know much about, admittedly. But I helped him out on the shoot, and he was gracious and patient as I asked my questions beforehand. Maybe it’s a sign of the times, but when entering a new community, as I was about to do working on this movie, my biggest concern is not to offend. Then again, I’m a Libra, so I tend to like to be liked, so there’s that. I enjoyed helping out. I learned a lot. And I’m glad to say that I think the doc will turn out pretty nicely. Check out the movie’s kickstarter campaign if you are interested, but come back if you want to find why it’s made me confused–more so than usual.
It’s been about three weeks since the shoot, but a question has arisen for me more than once while walking the streets of San Fran: how many of the women I am seeing are actually women? And to make things more interesting still, what do I mean when I say, “actually”?
If I learned anything about the transsexual community, it’s that the whole distinction between real and not-real is not as real as I once thought, or at least, the standards by which I define real and not real may not be as steady as most of us like to think they are. The women on the movie–post operation or pre–are women. They see themselves that way. They live their lives that way. So they are women. And then again…I say this and I hear the voice of one of the producers of the doc who in private admitted that though he would never want to disrespect the individuals he was filming–i.e., he would refer to them as women to their faces–he didn’t really think they were. I think this is where my conservative friends would jump in with a nod and say, “yup, just ’cause you call yourself something, doesn’t make you that thing.” You probably can hear those voices chiming in, using the argument by extension: “if someone said he was a llama, and ate like a llama and hung out with llamas, would that person be a llama?” My flip answer would be, if a person could have an operation in which he was transformed to look like a llama and have sex like a llama, then, I’d probably be willing to think of that man as a llama.
But let me go back to the producer and his point because though I don’t want to agree with him, I do find myself having some sympathy for what he said. Maybe sympathy is the wrong word. But here’s the thing, I have another friend who kind of got into this movement called, transhumanism, which pushes the idea that eventually, humans will incorporate robotics into their bodies, thus erasing the human-computer divide. Generally, I think that’s creepy, and I don’t want to accept the premise that me and my Apple will soon be indistinguishable–though I do love my Apple, it should be said.
So, why is it that I can accept that a person who has an operation to erase the gender divide is ok, but not so much for the guy who wants to become bionic? Isn’t kind of the same thing?
The only difference I can come up with is that in the case of the transsexual, there is this heartbreaking idea of being born into the wrong body. I cannot imagine being a physical man who feels he should have been a woman, or vice versa. Maybe the transhumanist thinks her body is not right without some kind of robotic thing inserted into it, but those people seem a little more cold and clinical, as in the sense that they feel their bodies should be more perfect and can only be so with some computer chip swimming around their bloodstream. In one case, the operation points at being happier and humaner; in the case of the transhuman, the goal seems to be to become less human. Of course, this is probably my bias.
And so, as long as we are referring to biases, let me add another to the list. Because for all my talk of acceptance, I find myself wondering about this one women I see almost every day. She makes my awful espresso at the local Starbucks. I don’t know why I suspect her of being transsexual. I don’t know why I care. Maybe I don’t really. I don’t know what it is I feel. Is it rude for me to think of a person who feels like she is born in the wrong body as a misfit? I count myself in that club. I have always felt that way, but the misfittedness that I feel is more internal, and I know how to cover it up. Its dumb. I’m probably an asshole. But there is a part of me that wants to break down the covering-up that I am doing and that I think she is doing and get up on a faux-rickety table while the faux jazz plays at my Starbucks, and powered by my faux espresso, I want to reach out and tell this person that I am one of the club, that I feel the pain of not fitting in.
Of course, I am not part of the club. Not her club. She may not even have a club. She may not see herself as being anything but a she. She may have been a she since birth for all I know. So, I guess it all boils down to me. I’m the misfit, and that’s really all I know. Now what?
running in circles 