Everything's Trash, But It's Okay

by Phoebe Robinson

  With an estimated 26.4 deaths for every 100,000 live births in 2015, America has the highest maternal mortality rate of all industrialized countries—by several times over . . . More women die of childbirth-related causes in the US than they do in Iran (20.8), Lebanon (15.3), Turkey (15.8), Puerto Rico (15.1), China (17.7), and many more.

  Clearly, we are amid troubling times. Women’s lives and health simply aren’t valued. Our very lives are disregarded and viewed as an irritation. I mean, how else do we explain why politicians have no qualms about rolling back Medicaid, which would affect millions of low-income women, or that the medical industry hasn’t fully acknowledged suicide as a leading cause of death for women under sixty years old as anything but a national crisis? No sufficient answer exists because this is categorically unacceptable. But if cis women think they have it bad, let’s take a second to think about what trans women go through.

  I’ll be the first to admit I hadn’t really, fully, and intentionally thought about the ins and outs of what a trans person’s life could be like until I interviewed trans activist, public speaker, and former adult film star Buck Angel. Prior to speaking with him, I knew the grim, broad strokes: Trans people are more likely to be unemployed, harassed, sexually assaulted, homeless, and murdered. And when you throw race into the mix, it’s grimmer. I also know that nontrans people have an unhealthy preoccupation with the anatomy of trans people. And, finally, I know that folks such as Janet Mock, Trace Lysette, Munroe Bergdorf, Chaz Bono, Laverne Cox, and countless others are inspiring everyone, not just transgender people, to live bolder, more well-informed, and compassionate lives. However, I was clueless about a whole list of things, including the medical industry’s lack of research when it comes to hormone replacement therapy.

  Turns out no one, including doctors, knows what the long-term effects of HRT are. Trans people, who made the vital decision to live their lives as authentically as possible, could be at risk because medical professionals don’t deem it necessary to figure out if the hormones they are prescribing will cause harmful effects down the line. As Diana Tourjée wrote in an Out magazine article entitled “Hormone Therapy is Lifesaving—But Why Is No One Studying Its Long-Term Effects?”:

  The medications trans women use to suppress their testosterone have not been designed for that purpose. Spironolactone is a diuretic, used to treat high blood pressure . . . There have been few studies looking at the long-term effects of HRT. While observational studies have retrospectively reviewed trans populations and declared hormonal transition to be safe, trans medicine has not had the kind of clinical research that is typically conducted for lifesaving medicine.

  Wow. And while this is downright shocking to me, many in the trans community like Angel have been vocal about the fact that trans health being poorly researched is indicative of American culture not prioritizing the health and safety of trans people. Is it perhaps naive of me to think that the US medical industry would be any less biased than society when it comes trans people? Perhaps, but at least I’m not anymore. This information, just like what I listed earlier about women’s depression, breast cancer, and maternal deaths, is all out there, begging to be consumed and then used to help dismantle the systems in place.

  I write all this not to scare anyone. Well, maybe I do want to scare people. I want to jolt them. I want them to feel what I feel, which is rage. I want everyone to move through the world constantly arming themselves with knowledge that can benefit their lives and, more importantly, can help change the life of someone else. Like Mr. Rogers said his mother told him, “Always look for the helpers. There’s always someone who’s trying to help.” There’s more helpers than we think. Look for them. I’m one of them. And so are countless others.

  I’m sure this is not unique to my industry, but it really burned my toast when I was confused for a guy’s significant other when I showed up to work at a comedy club. It doesn’t happen much to me these days, but when I was starting out? All the time. For those not in the know, when you start out doing stand-up, you make your friends, often traveling in packs to open mics so you can practice your material or perform on proper shows. It’s common to see a group of four or five guys arrive at a club. Same for a group of women itching to test out their new material. However, when it’s a mixed gaggle of folks, sexism often rears its ugly head.

  I’d show up to the comedy club with a couple of buddies, and the dudes running the open mics (shows in which comics workshop their material in front of each other) or real shows would ask some variation of “Hey, man, this your girlfriend?” That’s right, they wouldn’t address me, but ask the guy next to me to explain why I was there. “No,” I’d chime in, “I do stand-up.” Then the guy would stutter and be like, “Oh, yeah, right, right.” Rinse and repeat because this garbage would go down frequently.

  Hey, fellas, here’s a two-part idea to prevent you from Hugh Grant stammering your way through a conversation with me or any other woman in a professional setting: First, quit behaving as if the only justifiable reason for a woman to show up at a place of employment is because she’s boning somebody. We work just like the fellas do, kick ass like the fellas do, so get used to it and step the fuck aside. Second, and more importantly, stop assuming every woman you meet is straight. I know you’ve been lied to and told the world revolves around you so all ladies must be into your Jimmy Dean peen, but guess what? For some women, the mere thought of a dong makes their vajeens let out the driest of coughs. #WheresTheRicola.

  The concept of the walk of shame. I’m not going to even go into a whole diatribe at this point because we all know it’s ludicrous that women face a “walk of shame” after boning someone they’re not in a relationship with, yet men are freaking heroes for hooking up with some strange or familiar strange. Truth is, no matter who it is, if you got it in last night and are in these streets the following morning looking disheveled, you should be doing forward rolls into yoga mountain poses that are met with rousing applause à la Willy Wonka when he made his grand entrance at his chocolate factory. Congratu-fuckin’-lations on going to the Bone Zone.

  * * *

  Dear reader, that’s it! Well, it’s not. I mean I could go on and on and on about the ignorance women put up with nearly every day of their lives, but then this book would be the length of every Judd Apatow movie combined. Hey-O! Don’t get me wrong, I love his films. I’m just saying, homeboy hasn’t met an ending that he didn’t put a chloroform rag on and go, “That’ll do, pig,” and then carry on for another thirty-five minutes. Anyway! If you’re a lady reading my frustrations, I hope you served Civil Rights realness aka yelled a bunch of “Amen”s and stomped in black patent leather, square-toed heels. If you’re a man, I’m optimistic that maybe you learned a thing or two about the female experience (okay, the whole head-hair-caught-in-a-butt-crack thing may not be lady-specific, but I’m pretty sure Michael Jordan’s bald-headed self never had to deal with this and miss a jump shot because of an irritating rogue hair squatting in his bum like a hippie in an abandoned house). But honestly, it doesn’t matter who you are, we all are now up to speed on at least thirteen things, big and small, that are the banes of many women’s existences. Let’s get to work eliminating this trash because I don’t know about you, but my complaint attaché case is feeling a little heavy. So help a sister out, cool?

  Some Thoughts on Interracial Dating from Someone Who Is a Motherflippin’ Pro at It

  Full disclosure: I’ve been single for two years. And while there are tons of pluses to singledom—I can do what I want when I want, traveling the world solo is empowering, and rocking Nature’s Long Johns (aka leg hair that’s as long as Kenny Loggins’s hair during the seventies) keeps me warm during winter—I would be lying if I didn’t admit it’s sometimes difficult to be out in these dating streets in my early thirts. For one, my eggs are dying. Now, when I say that, people are quick with the “No! You have time!” Totes preesh the positivi
ty, folks, but let’s get real. My eggs are dying. That’s just a biological fact. Sure, it’s not over for me. Not by a long shot. I’m thirty-four. However, let’s not pretend I’m walking around with farm-fresh eggs. They ain’t. My insides are like a leftover frittata from Sunday brunch that has been chilling in my fridge, so I sniff it, am on the fence about whether I should eat it, but then I remember how good it was when I first had it three days ago, so I tell myself, “Fuck it. I don’t need to see how The Handmaid’s Tale ends,” roll the dice, and eat it anyway. Point is, what’s in my fallopes is pretty much a delicious Barefoot Contessa dish. And I’m more than fine with that since I’m not planning on having kids. But just because motherhood isn’t on the foreseeable horizon doesn’t mean I’m not open to the possibility of my mind changing in the future. I am, so I would be a fool if I weren’t at least aware of the countdown on my biological clock. But that’s not the only crummy part of being single right now.

  Other things that suck about being single? Holidays can be a little depressing. There’s no one to split bills with, which is a financial burden that’s felt more deeply in expensive-ass New York City than in other cities. When something really cool happens career-wise, I don’t have that special person to share in my success. Loneliness. And this is a biggie: lack of on-demand physical affection. I mean, I would be lying if I didn’t admit that fantasizing about riding Michael B. Jordan’s D like it’s a toboggan down the French Alps has gotten me through many a cold night. Unfortch, being boo’d up with MBJ is not my reality; my reality is late-night jam sessions where I change the words to Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ “Free Fallin’” to “Free Wallin’,” which is about me forgetting to bring underwear to the gym, so after I shower, my lady walls are unprotected in my jeans. #DisrespectfulToThePettyEstateAndMyLevis. Back to the matter at hand. Being single is rough stuff on occasion, and the worst thing about it is other people. More specifically, getting to know other people is the true bummer in the summer.

  You know when you can’t find your remote so you’re like, “I guess I’m just going to watch this Supernatural marathon until my butt cheeks go numb”? That’s kind of what being single is like for me. I’d rather just chill then get up and get out there. Five percent of that is because I’m lazy, but the rest of my inertia is legit. Getting to know another person can be nerve-racking because I’m worried if my small talk is up to snuff, if we like each other equally or at all, and if my butt is going to sound like the opening twenty minutes of Saving Private Ryan all because I forgot to “sneak take” Gas-X at the table before digging into the meat-and-cheese platter, etc. Simply put, there’s a lot of anxiety that goes into finding a romantic partner, and while some of it is self-inflicted (I should just eat a damn burger on a date if I want to!), some of it is because I’m older, which means I’m much more aware of red flags, and when you’re more aware of red flags, your dating pool shrinks significantly.

  When you’re in your twenties, red flags are like the Microsoft Word paper clip that pops up on your computer screen, asking if you need help, yet you click the X immediately with an “I got this, boo” confidence because you think you can and should be able to date anybody and you’ll walk away unscathed and in slow motion like George Clooney did from the car bomb explosion in Syriana. However, by the time you hit your thirties, it’s different. You. Take. Dem. Red. Flags. To. SeriousTown. Suddenly, you and your friends become Woodward and Bernstein, fact-checking, calling on sources who shall not be named, going over all the evidence any time the person you have designs on does the smallest questionable thing, like not calling when they said they would. It might be a sign of the person’s flakiness, but usually it is just an honest mistake and falls under the category of red flag false alarm. But then there are situations that are so bad that not only does a red flag appear, but it’s accompanied by “Ironside,” the siren song Uma Thurman hears in Kill Bill right before she fucks some shit up.

  A dude being secretive about the little things? “Ironside.” A gal being hella rude to her parents for no damn reason? “Ironside.” Your current beau cheated on their previous partner . . . with you. “Iron”-motherfreakin’-”side.” Meeting a white dude on a dating app and his idea of making conversation with me is asking for my Ancestry.com family tree chart in hopes that I’m mixed? “Ironside” with a dash of “Go die in a fire; I’ll bring the marshmallows” because that’s something that happened to me when I joined Tinder, and if you’re thinking, “Well, Pheebs, joining Tinder shoulda been your red flag, LOL times infinity,” you can shaddup. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and at that point, your girl was hella desp. Let me set the scene.

  It was like the beginning of every Yelp review ever: It was Monday night and it was raining. I was at the crib, sipping wine, scrolling through Debra Messing’s Instagram, and started liking all her pics. This is not how a thirty-one-year-old should spend her evening! I should be parkouring around all the sweet, sweet D being tossed my way. Instead, I was looking at a pic of Messing* and fellow actress Catherine Keener wearing scarves and saying aloud to no one in my apartment, “Yaaaaaaaas!!!” I knew it was time to take the plunge. I signed up for Tins and immediately started judging people solely on a couple of photos and a short bio that is supposed to summarize an entire life. This is a flawed system, but it’s a system nonetheless. Before I go any further, I should explain Tinder for the readers lucky enough to not have experienced it.

  Tinder is basically for people who, on some level, want to be like Ruth Bader Ginsburg and judge the hell out of others even though they’re barely equipped to judge a chili cook-off. That might be fun for a while but, eventually, being on Tinder can feel kind of like a rock-bottom moment; however, because I was using the app on my iPhone, I still felt like I was #Winning instead of like that old black dude from that infamous crelling (combo of crying and yelling) scene on Intervention. Anyway, once you set up the profile, you get to swipe left (hard pass) or swipe right (I’m interested), and if you both swipe right on each other, you can start messaging. Aaaaaaaaaaaand this is where things pretty much fall apart. I’m not sure what it’s like for men, but women get lots of variations on “Wanna hook up?”; dick pics (none for me yet, thank goodness); a lowercase “sup,” which is universal for “Me horny, you a warm body, let’s. Do. Dis.”; awful answers to innocuous questions like “Hey, I’m on vacation with a bunch of girlfriends. What cool things should I get into while in town?,” which elicited this response from an upstanding citizen: “Me, probably.” HOW, SWAY, HOW?! #ReferenceOnlyPOCsAndMillennialsWillGet.

  How am I supposed to get inside you, dude? Like what is the science on that? I can’t even stop my laptop from overheating after using it for too long, but I’m just supposed to hit up Ms. Frizzle, borrow her magic school bus, and waste that shape-shifting technology all so I can shoot up your urethra? Listen, if you just stated something that would make Education Secretary Betsy DeVos in her faux folksy voice go, “That makes a whole heck of a lot of sense to me,” then what you said is literally such a crime against the English language and humanity that retired human rights activist Desmond Tutu must dust off his bishop robes and get to work to save us from you.

  Then there are those bros that make the above seem like amateurs because this next type of fella sees no opening yet still attempts to shove his square peg self into a round hole, like this dude, who, after I told him earlier in the evening I was celebrating a career achievement with some girlfriends (my podcast 2 Dope Queens hitting number 1 on iTunes worldwide), took a few hours to workshop his response with his sauseege before sending the following three messages within the span of one minute at 1:13 A.M.:

  “I’m Home Chillen”

  “Should have came here”

  “1 mile away?”

  Firstly. MOTHERFUCKER, I CAN’T EVEN GET A “GRATS”?! I wasn’t even expecting or asking for the full word at tha
t point. That’s how low my standards are in this disappointing and commitment-averse dating world. I’m aware that a stranger sending another stranger “congratulations” is akin to Tom Cruise telling Renée Zellweger, “You complete me,” at the end of Jerry Maguire. It’s far too early for a moment of sincerity. But, dude, put in some effort and be a little bit more like fictional serial killer Patrick Bateman . . . which is something that I never, ever thought I would write. I, of course, don’t mean the criminal part of him, but rather the part where he played the long game. He wasn’t like, “Down to get fucked and chopped into tiny pieces?” No, he feigned interest like a gahtdamn gentleman for two point two seconds and engaged in what people were saying to him. Just pretend you’re happy for me so the conversation can continue. Is that too much to ask? I thinketh not.

  Secondly. “Should have came here.” “Should have came here.” “SHOULD. HAVE. CAME. HERE.” You had one job! Just get the damn verb tense correct. If you’re unsure, use a Who Wants to Be a Millionaire lifeline or something. I wouldn’t judge your journey. But to be this sloppy makes my vajeen and I quote the great scholar of our time, music producer/American Idol judge Randy Jackson: “It’s gonna be a ‘no’ from me, dawg.”