Body Talk

by Kelly Jensen

  I was born with my disability, so my mother always blamed herself for my low vision. She had a lot of trouble communicating her emotions to me effectively, so I didn’t understand her feelings about my eyes until I was much older. She would mainly lash out with physical and emotional abuse and make amends later. She wouldn’t apologize, exactly — my mother expressed her love through sales and intense clearance-rack browsing. After days when things had been particularly tense with us, she would arrive home late, carting big bags full of clothes from Citi Trends or Marshalls. She always lived by the mentality that life was miserable anyway, so she might as well do what she wanted — even if it meant being a working-class shopaholic. She never asked me what sort of clothes I was into, so I often ended up dressing like a mini version of her.

  I liked the clothes at first. They made me feel shiny and important. I gained a sense of confidence from their loudness. I loved pink, orange, and bright red. I loved the barrettes and the sparkles. Dressing this way made me feel like I didn’t have to shrink myself for being different. But eventually I realized my mom’s way of dressing wasn’t for me. She liked traditionally feminine clothes: bedazzled jeans, pink tracksuits, flowery tops, and eccentric wedges. She liked glittery lip gloss and flashy impractical purses with sharp gold zippers that cut my hand and pockets that weren’t big enough for my books. The clothes flattered my body but not my spirit.

  At the time, I was getting into rock music—Pixies, Modest Mouse, Hole. The angst in the music matched my own. I could cry to the music or wail. I was also getting into women. I would develop crushes on my female friends and had no clue what to do about it. I realized that I was bisexual at the same time that I realized I loved rock music, but my clothes didn’t reflect my desires or my interests. I was a queer punk riot grrrl in the clothes of a high femme straight girl. But why make myself more different than I already was? Pressing myself into a straight femme box was a way of closeting myself. I would try to counter my internal desires by presenting as a very straitlaced “normal girl” on the outside.

  My real self kept spilling out, though, mainly in the stories I wrote. I wrote about teen lovers, rock stars, strippers, and rebellious artists. I wrote about sex and passion and anger. I wrote wild things that I would rarely show to anyone except a few close friends and the like-minded moody teens in my message board community. We talked about the kind of lives we’d like to lead when we were older. I also got close to my younger brother—he would share records with me and introduce me to even more bands. He stopped letting our mom dress him before I did, and I ended up following his lead. It was around that time that I began my ’90s-rock T-shirt collection. Later, when I was in college, he taught me how to stretch my earlobes and encouraged me to get facial piercings. I didn’t take him up on that until much later. I have a medusa piercing right in the middle of my face. I love it.

  Still, there are times when I wonder if my rock style is a new kind of shield—a way to make myself feel less vulnerable. When I wear dresses and heels for important events, that is when I feel most exposed. For me, it’s easy to feel comfortable in a giant PJ Harvey T-shirt and much scarier to put on a sparkly dress. A body-con dress says, “I want to be seen!” Sometimes I worry what parts of myself become exposed with that vulnerability. There’s a lot of internal drama that comes with being noticed.

  One morning in high school, when my vision teacher suggested I buy a cane as a marker so that strangers would know that I was blind, I flatly declined. I wanted to look as normal as possible. I wore designer bifocals, as if the fashion logo would distract everyone from the fact that I had four lenses instead of two. (When people called me “four-eyes,” I would laugh — they weren’t looking hard enough.)

  Now, in my late twenties, I’m invisible the way I always wanted to be. No one seems to know how bad my vision is, no matter how much I talk about it. Acquaintances whisper about me having an attitude for not speaking to them (forgetting the fact that I probably couldn’t see them). When I’m walking and looking at my phone, strangers get angry at me, not knowing that I’m using the navigation to guide me — not browsing the web. In a way, my caneless existence has worked too well.

  At this point, I realize that whether I buy a cane or not is irrelevant. I can’t change the way people see me. The only thing that I can do is embrace being comfortable with myself. It’s easier said than done. I know the ache of wanting others to like you and the pain that comes with rejection. But I also know that many of the people who rejected me then look up to me now. Another bitter victory. I was a poor blind kid, and I made it all the way to New York City with the help of friends and family who understand me. I can’t control the people who are always going to have a bad reaction to my eyes. All I can control is how I move in the world.

  These days, I dress for myself. With my piercings, shaved head, fishnet stockings, and band T-shirts, I feel like the real me. Sometimes I even post photos that show my eyes looking in different directions. I know I can’t like myself all the time, but sometimes is enough for me.

  How Anyone Can Help Trans People in Their Lives, Written from the Perspective of a Trans Man

  by Gavin Grimm

  •  Believe them.

  If a trans person tells you what their truth is, it is not up for debate, interpretation, or analysis. It is a statement of fact, and trans people are not required to prove, explain, or quantify their identities or expressions. There is, after all, no wrong way to be trans.

  Additionally, even if it seems sudden to you or isn’t obvious based on your perception of gender—which was influenced by a binary, trans-exclusionary society—I promise that a trans person has a much better handle on their feelings and identity than anyone could possibly have from an external point of view. Believe them.

  •  Make an effort with your language.

  Make sure you are making a conscious effort to use the correct name, pronouns, and language with any trans person in your life. Is a trans man standing beside three women? Then ladies is not an appropriate grouping term. Has a trans person told you that words like dude or bro feel uncomfortably masculine? Then stop using it for their sake, and don’t argue that they’re wrong. Apologize, modify your language, and move on.

  •  Ask them what they need.

  Ask your trans friend, coworker, child, whoever it is, what it is you can do to support them. Many times, trans people will be clear about the language they prefer, but not always. When in doubt, it’s best to never assume. You risk embarrassing or even endangering that person. Sometimes people are out in some circles, but not in others.

  •  Be careful with their information.

  If you know someone who is trans, then you may also know other private details about them. This might include the name they were given at birth (also called a “dead name”) if they decided to change their name (and not every trans person does), or you may have or know about photos of the person before their transition. Remember that this information is private and personal and can cause harm if it is spread around. Do not disclose someone’s private information, including their trans status, to anyone else. It is not OK, and it is not your place, unless you have clear and explicit permission from the trans person.

  •  Do not ask inappropriate questions.

  Because I am a trans person, confused non-trans (or cis) people often ask me invasive, inappropriate, or otherwise unnecessary questions about trans bodies and lives. Don’t be that person. It is inappropriate to ask trans people what medical steps they have or have not taken to transition. It is personal information. It is inappropriate to ask trans people what is in their pants. It is personal information. It is inappropriate to ask trans people things like what their dead name was. It is all personal information. If a trans person wants to share any of these details, they will do so when they feel safe. Some trans people don’t share these kinds of things, and some trans people do. Ultimately you are not entitl
ed to know any of it.

  •  Do not burden the trans people in your life with your quest for education.

  In our society, it is up to every individual to learn about the people we may encounter as we move through our beautiful world. This includes trans people. It is a duty for each of us to have at least a basic education in gender diversity. It can seem tempting to go to the nearest trans person and ask them all your burning questions, but trans people are often already unfairly burdened every day with explaining themselves to cis people. So take it upon yourself to learn, but use resources intended for that education, not your trans coworker. There are endless supplies of resources made by trans people for cis people that can be found for free on the internet and can answer many questions you may have.

  Additionally, there are trans people doing this educational work at conferences, events, schools, workplaces, and so on. These people may do this education for free, though often it’s a means of income. If you are a cis person, it is a wonderful show of allyship to pay a trans person for the education they are providing for you. Paid lessons or seminars by trans people not only are informative but also financially support a community that is historically low income or financially insecure due to transphobia making jobs harder to find and harder to do for trans people.

  •  Do not burden trans people with depictions of community violence.

  You’re on Facebook. You see a news story. “Trans Person Murdered.” You might think that it’s horrible and that you should send it to [trans friend] right away because [trans friend] is trans, and wouldn’t they like to hear the news?

  Don’t. Not every trans person is plugged in 24/7 to the latest community news, but many are. And those who aren’t often abstain for personal reasons, like mental health. Those who are already know. Even if they haven’t heard about this specific instance, they know they are at an exponentially higher risk for violence than their cis peers. There is no need to point out additional trauma in the trans community if you are not a trans person. You can of course share such posts, share your own personal thoughts on your own personal Facebook page, but do not burden the trans people in your life with this trauma. It is not the job of cis people to remind trans people that our lives are in danger.

  •  Do not bring trans people into situations that can be dangerous for them.

  Is there a family gathering where conservative members of the family will be present? Don’t force a trans kid to make nice with people who openly and regularly decry the community. If a trans kid says they aren’t comfortable around certain people, respect their wishes. It’s not about not wanting to be with family or not wanting to be social; it’s about safety and self-preservation.

  Are you hanging out with your trans friend and considering inviting another friend, who happens to be notoriously transphobic, to join you? Don’t! The safety of the trans person in your life is infinitely more important than your desire to hang out with your transphobic friend.

  •  Do not police a trans person’s expression.

  What society deems as “for men” or “for women” is, at best, a marketing scheme. It’s not an evolutionary construct for men to like Axe body spray and cropped hair and for women to like flowers and dresses. Just like cis men and cis women, trans people are allowed to express their gender identities in whatever way they want, period. Trans men are allowed to have interests or expressions that society considers feminine. Trans women are allowed to have interests or expressions that society considers masculine. And nonbinary people are allowed to like whatever they like and express themselves however they want without casting an alliance to the binary of boy or girl.

  Again, just believe trans people. Believe we know how we want to present ourselves to the world and are capable of doing that, because we do and we are. Don’t warn a trans boy that if he wears a really cute pair of earrings, he is going to get misgendered. He knows that. He doesn’t care; he likes those earrings, and being misgendered doesn’t mean he isn’t a boy.

  •  Do not apply a pressure to “pass” to any trans person.

  Passing is the concept of being visually read as the gender with which you identify. This concept is one that means survival for many trans people, but it is also a concept composed almost entirely of a binary, cis-centric stereotype in society. For that reason, many trans people do not want to, or cannot, fit into the narrow box society determines is an acceptable man or woman. This means that trans people who are gender nonconforming, nonbinary, or are limited in their transitional options or desires may often fall outside of these categories visually.

  A trans man might prefer not to, or be unable to, bind his chest. A trans woman might prefer not to, or be unable to, shave her face. A nonbinary person might appear outwardly and from a stereotypical perspective to be more masculine or feminine aligned, but may prefer gender-neutral pronouns and language, or language different from what people may expect.

  A trans person, above all, is never required to meet a cis-dictated gold standard of femininity or masculinity or neutrality to be considered valid.

  •  Let the trans people in your life lead the way.

  Just like cis people, trans people know themselves. And just like cis people, a trans person’s identity and personal perception or presentation might evolve over the course of their journey. There is nothing wrong with that, as there are so few permanent states of being. Let trans people explore themselves and their identities, whether they are static from day one or they try out many different labels as they find what fits. Allow the trans people in your life to tell you what language honors them and how best to support them. Raise your voice as a cis person when you see transphobia occurring. Learn how to spot it.

  Believe trans people and follow their lead. Being trans is joyful. It can be scary, and it can be hard. But above all, it is beautiful, and seldom the most interesting thing about a person.

  My Back-Brace Year: How I Learned to Stand Tall, Even While Hunched

  by Kate Bigam Kaput

  The room is silent aside from regular classroom sounds: pencils scribbling furiously against lined notebook paper, backpacks zipping and unzipping as their owners rummage through them, the occasional sniffle or sneeze from a fellow student.

  Our homeroom, led by the strict and humorless sixth-grade science teacher Mr. Reilly, is made up of all the students at the start of the alphabet—last names Adama through Cravitz—and I am right in the middle, Bigam. Our classmates with last names D to Z are luckier than we are; they’re allowed to talk in their homerooms, or they watch movies or play games. Per Mr. Reilly’s rules, though, we’re not allowed to do anything in our homeroom except work or read. Silently.

  Our homeroom is almost entirely quiet—except for me.

  I can’t help that my plastic back brace sometimes squeaks when I breathe—seemingly at random times. Creaaaaaaak in, creaaaaaaak out, over and over and over. I try to hold my breath. I try to breathe more slowly, more quietly. I try to steady my brace and muffle the squeaks by putting my hands on the hard, warm plastic. I try everything I can think of, but still, I squeak. And I think Mr. Reilly assumes I’m doing it on purpose.

  Because when I start to squeak, my classmates start to giggle. Sometimes they giggle before the squeaking even begins, wondering if it’ll happen today. In a homeroom as boring as ours, the weird, shrill noises coming from my torso are, to my humiliation, one of the only exciting things to happen in the forty-five minutes spent in Mr. Reilly’s homeroom each day. They give my classmates something to pay attention to, something to laugh at—and they give me something to stress about. Will today be one of the days I squeak?

  There’s a small storage room attached to our homeroom, and sometimes, when he’s feeling nice, Mr. Reilly lets me go in there and take off my brace. I rip open the loud Velcro fasteners that keep it closed tight around my hips and back, then I slide it out from under my T-shirt and leave it
in the storage room until the bell rings, when I slip back into the brace before heading outside to catch the bus home. These days are such a relief: no squeaking, no sweating under the plastic, no physical difference between me and anyone else.

  Most of the time, though, when I ask if I can take off my brace, Mr. Reilly says no. He’s not being mean, not really; he just knows the rules, and if there’s one thing Mr. Reilly loves, it’s rules. He knows as well as I do that I’m supposed to wear the brace for twenty-three hours a day, removing it only to shower. The more I wear it, the more likely it is to help straighten my crooked spine as I grow. That’s the hope, anyway.

  Some days, inexplicably, Mr. Reilly says no, sending me into the storage room to work by myself so my squeaks won’t disrupt the class. Outwardly, I try to take it in stride, but nothing feels more alienating than being separated from my classmates so that I can squeak in silence, stewing over the way this stupid back brace is ruining my life.

  I am eleven years old, and I got the brace two months before I started sixth grade. I went to the doctor’s office to see whether I had my usual bout of seasonal bronchitis—and I did, but that was more easily treatable than the other condition that my X-ray revealed. My pediatrician diagnosed me with severe adolescent idiopathic scoliosis, otherwise known as a curvature of the spine, and sent me to an orthopedic specialist the very next week. By the end of the month, I was being fitted for a back brace.

  It all happened so quickly that there wasn’t even time for me to feel horrified or embarrassed or afraid. It was kind of like reading a book about someone else’s life, in which the plot points move forward, the story progresses quickly, and it all wraps up with a neat, tidy ending: me, in a back brace.