There is a lot of anger. A lot. The people around me see it as exuberance sometimes, sometimes as overwhelming quiet. They wonder, no they are convinced, that I am bipolar. There is so much anger. There are so many masks.
There are so many beautiful things to being ‘trans’. But there are so many beautiful things to just being. When the first question you countenance everyday is about this very being you are flummoxed, EVERYDAY. But it doesn’t matter, these questions: the stares, the balks, the condescending grins, the unwelcome touch brushed away as caused because you present yourself as ‘different from what you are supposed to be’, the open laughter, the bullying, the…
But it is not the anger, it is not the questions, it is not…no, it is not what occupies my mind today. Because the anger has lost meaning and the questions…well, the questions I now know can neither be swept under the carpet, nor completely answered. Today I am just left wondering, almost devastated, about the validity of my experiences. Today I got called first a boy and then a girl and ultimately I got asked ‘what are you?’ I stared, glared and the person who asked me the question was unfazed. So I hung my head down and walked away. Ah! the joy of certainty, the joy of knowing ‘what’ you are.
There is no place to go back to. You walk back with the unfazed glare of that person imprinted in every pore of your vision, and talk to people who care, who know and you realise, they have not understood. You know that when you realise that you are not talking, you are merely informing. An experience is never informed; it is talked about, it is validated, it is deconstructed. An experience is not information. And when you have, with the power of your own words, learned to reduce your experiences to ‘information’ you are forced to wonder about their validity, their place in your own life. How numb have you become?
How numb have the people around you, unable to grasp ‘what’ you are (not) – partially because they know ‘what’ they are – let you become? Standpoint seems vacuous. Because you know these people love you, accept you. But they also don’t know you. Standpoint seems vacuous indeed. If they, those very people who you hold close, who you are sure construct you, don’t know you, then really ‘what’ are you?
It is irksome then when upon ‘disseminating the information’ you receive blank stares, angry fits, or worse still silence. It is irksome when upon disseminating the information’ of violence, you receive a hug and an i love you. It is irksome not because the intent of the persons is being questioned. It is irksome because everything is so numb. It is irksome because you know they have not understood. It is irksome because you know they never will. It is irksome because you don’t know either. And your experience is no experience anymore.
You learn to let it go. You learn to transmute it into information. You read it to yourself like news. You don’t care if it is phobia, curiosity, or direct violence. It is all just a day’s news. You have disseminated it. And if you don’t throw a fit about it the people around you will remain thankful to you and never talk about it ever again. And you don’t wonder why you are not throwing a fit. You are not valid anymore. A slow process of erasure. Recorded erasure. Even the anger.