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raybearSo I'm breaking my own recently conceived rule of no internet in the first couple hours of work so I can get work done. Partly because I have enough deadlines today to motivate me. And my horoscope said I'm in for a rude awakening but then I'll be surprised at how everything comes together. Which is pretty much the story of my life when it comes to projects -- that 10th hour panic attack of believing it won't get done, the 11th hour manic rush, and the 12th hour rush of adrenaline about how much I rock for completing everything and doing so with a flourish.
Last night was pretty exhausting: mentally physically and emotionally. I had good post-work discussions with Sparky, though they were a little intense. Then I went to a farewell dinner for Buckner!Fan which was bittersweet, though I didn't dwell too much on her leaving and instead focused my attention on sitting at the end of the table and reconnecting with an old friend who was one of my absolute favorite people at Borders. We exchanged numbers and made promises to go out for beers or food at Le Sabre, one of my favorite diners that's also near his home.
After dinner I had a rather unfortunate run-in with the Chicago Police Department. I mean, unfortunate is a relative term -- in the grand scheme of things and people's encounters with them, it was positively peachy. The good-cop who was issuing me the citation for smoking on the CTA platform (don't try this at home, kids) was suprisingly good-looking and fairly friendly during his illegal search and questioning of me. The bad-cop was scruffy and annoying and lame in his attempts to catch me in things I haven't done. He didn't believe me when I said I'd never been arrested or had any prior tickets -- hello, I was wearing a sweater vest and khakis and big plastic glasses. What part of nerd don't you see? He also asked dumb questions like "what are you doing up here?" after I told him I lived at Belmont. Um, okay, this isn't a different city -- it's Edgewater. Aren't people allowed to hang out in other neighborhoods? Then he made some disparaging comments about not having any interest in ever eating Ethiopian food, which I rolled my eyes at (after he turned his back). There were several time my brain was screaming "you're not allowed to do/ask that!" but decided to play it super cool and friendly and accomodating since I wasn't really in the mood to find myself facedown on the platform getting cuffed. No matter how cute good-cop was.
All was going smoothly until right after Bad-cop asked me where I worked and what I did (I love telling cops I work for a legal organization), when Good-cop stopped writing the citation, looked at my license, looked at me, then said, "um, are you male or female?" Ah, the age-old question.
"I'm transgender."
They both look at me blankly. Idiot hum is resonating from both their gaping mouths.
"That means I was born female but I live as a male now."
Bad-cop averts his eyes and after several beats, slowly walks away from us down the platform. Good-cop does a half-nod. "I was just asking because the license says 'female' and I didn't know if it was a mistake." I talk a bit more about how I need a court order to change it and haven't done it yet, lest he think I was just trying to trick him. Experience has taught me cops like to get mad at people for tricking them about their gender.
Good-cop asks me to sign the form. He's still being friendly and informative, explaining that I have to go to court and where and what to expect -- they might just give me probation since I have no priors or it might be a fine that he estimated at 10 or 15 dollars. He thanked me, and I almost thanked him back out of sheer habit, but instead said, "yeah, have a good night."
As they walked away and I saw the train coming down the tracks, I've never wanted to light up a cigarette so bad in my entire life.
And the extra punchline to this story? My court date is four weeks from yesterday. Which is my birthday. Happy birthday to me.
I got home and considered crawling into bed to mope and belatedly freak out about the whole coming out to the cops thing, but instead I went out for drinks with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dommeyourass with a group of folks including Mistress Minax & Co. Even though I got really tired after the first hour and a half or so, I'm glad I went so I could end the evening on a more positive note.
At home, I was completely overwhelmed and exhausted and really only craved one thing. Which, luckily, I got, even though it was already nearly 2 am. They'll be plenty time for sleeping when I'm dead.
I'm at a point in my transition and identity where I constantly get comments from friends and loved ones about how they forget that I'm trans or that I wasn't born male. Mostly from people who's only known me as Raymond, but sometimes these comments even come from people who knew me before. Hell, even I rewrite my history and forget -- I picture a teenage boy sometimes when I tell stories of high school, even if the photos would contradict it. But still, I'm not sure I ever forget at any given second of the day that I'm trans. Mostly because it's just so permanently hard-wired into my experience and identity. But last night it was less about how I've been culturally conditioned and more about realizing how much at risk I can be. I mean, nothing happened. The cops were fine. They said nothing disparaging, they didn't really change their behavior towards me, I didn't get harassed or beat up or killed. But it's almost like I could suddenly see the line where my safety and freedom ended and I had no control over what side of the line I was going to be standing at any given minute. I was alone on a platform with two agents of the state who are most likely armed and definitely bigger than me in a non-queer friendly neighborhood with pretty much no hope of a good samaritan advocate and nowhere to run except for the train tracks themselves.
During the incident, I was remarkably docile and relaxed and jovial. Even right after they walked away I was just grinning at my stupidity for smoking and also the ridiculousness of cops in general. But when the train arrived and things started to sink in, my mind wouldn't stop playing the "what-if" game, so my feelings of fear and anger and resentment got bigger and crawled up the back of my throat, leaving the inevitable bad taste in your mouth, the strange mix of metallic like blood and burning like acid bile.
But nothing happened. That's what I keep telling myself. And I'm not alone in these incidents. That's how I reassure myself when I feel ashamed and alone. And even if something more severe had occured, I'd be okay and would get through it. Right?
Right?
Last night was pretty exhausting: mentally physically and emotionally. I had good post-work discussions with Sparky, though they were a little intense. Then I went to a farewell dinner for Buckner!Fan which was bittersweet, though I didn't dwell too much on her leaving and instead focused my attention on sitting at the end of the table and reconnecting with an old friend who was one of my absolute favorite people at Borders. We exchanged numbers and made promises to go out for beers or food at Le Sabre, one of my favorite diners that's also near his home.
After dinner I had a rather unfortunate run-in with the Chicago Police Department. I mean, unfortunate is a relative term -- in the grand scheme of things and people's encounters with them, it was positively peachy. The good-cop who was issuing me the citation for smoking on the CTA platform (don't try this at home, kids) was suprisingly good-looking and fairly friendly during his illegal search and questioning of me. The bad-cop was scruffy and annoying and lame in his attempts to catch me in things I haven't done. He didn't believe me when I said I'd never been arrested or had any prior tickets -- hello, I was wearing a sweater vest and khakis and big plastic glasses. What part of nerd don't you see? He also asked dumb questions like "what are you doing up here?" after I told him I lived at Belmont. Um, okay, this isn't a different city -- it's Edgewater. Aren't people allowed to hang out in other neighborhoods? Then he made some disparaging comments about not having any interest in ever eating Ethiopian food, which I rolled my eyes at (after he turned his back). There were several time my brain was screaming "you're not allowed to do/ask that!" but decided to play it super cool and friendly and accomodating since I wasn't really in the mood to find myself facedown on the platform getting cuffed. No matter how cute good-cop was.
All was going smoothly until right after Bad-cop asked me where I worked and what I did (I love telling cops I work for a legal organization), when Good-cop stopped writing the citation, looked at my license, looked at me, then said, "um, are you male or female?" Ah, the age-old question.
"I'm transgender."
They both look at me blankly. Idiot hum is resonating from both their gaping mouths.
"That means I was born female but I live as a male now."
Bad-cop averts his eyes and after several beats, slowly walks away from us down the platform. Good-cop does a half-nod. "I was just asking because the license says 'female' and I didn't know if it was a mistake." I talk a bit more about how I need a court order to change it and haven't done it yet, lest he think I was just trying to trick him. Experience has taught me cops like to get mad at people for tricking them about their gender.
Good-cop asks me to sign the form. He's still being friendly and informative, explaining that I have to go to court and where and what to expect -- they might just give me probation since I have no priors or it might be a fine that he estimated at 10 or 15 dollars. He thanked me, and I almost thanked him back out of sheer habit, but instead said, "yeah, have a good night."
As they walked away and I saw the train coming down the tracks, I've never wanted to light up a cigarette so bad in my entire life.
And the extra punchline to this story? My court date is four weeks from yesterday. Which is my birthday. Happy birthday to me.
I got home and considered crawling into bed to mope and belatedly freak out about the whole coming out to the cops thing, but instead I went out for drinks with
dommeyourass with a group of folks including Mistress Minax & Co. Even though I got really tired after the first hour and a half or so, I'm glad I went so I could end the evening on a more positive note. At home, I was completely overwhelmed and exhausted and really only craved one thing. Which, luckily, I got, even though it was already nearly 2 am. They'll be plenty time for sleeping when I'm dead.
I'm at a point in my transition and identity where I constantly get comments from friends and loved ones about how they forget that I'm trans or that I wasn't born male. Mostly from people who's only known me as Raymond, but sometimes these comments even come from people who knew me before. Hell, even I rewrite my history and forget -- I picture a teenage boy sometimes when I tell stories of high school, even if the photos would contradict it. But still, I'm not sure I ever forget at any given second of the day that I'm trans. Mostly because it's just so permanently hard-wired into my experience and identity. But last night it was less about how I've been culturally conditioned and more about realizing how much at risk I can be. I mean, nothing happened. The cops were fine. They said nothing disparaging, they didn't really change their behavior towards me, I didn't get harassed or beat up or killed. But it's almost like I could suddenly see the line where my safety and freedom ended and I had no control over what side of the line I was going to be standing at any given minute. I was alone on a platform with two agents of the state who are most likely armed and definitely bigger than me in a non-queer friendly neighborhood with pretty much no hope of a good samaritan advocate and nowhere to run except for the train tracks themselves.
During the incident, I was remarkably docile and relaxed and jovial. Even right after they walked away I was just grinning at my stupidity for smoking and also the ridiculousness of cops in general. But when the train arrived and things started to sink in, my mind wouldn't stop playing the "what-if" game, so my feelings of fear and anger and resentment got bigger and crawled up the back of my throat, leaving the inevitable bad taste in your mouth, the strange mix of metallic like blood and burning like acid bile.
But nothing happened. That's what I keep telling myself. And I'm not alone in these incidents. That's how I reassure myself when I feel ashamed and alone. And even if something more severe had occured, I'd be okay and would get through it. Right?
Right?
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no subject
Date: 2003-05-30 10:25 am (UTC)If it makes you feel any better, New York is getting re-Guiliani-fied too. Yesterday, they issued a ticket to an 18-year-old pregnant woman for sitting down on the subway stairs. Grr.