1.26.2013

'We are bound by the secrets we share.'


I've been doing some mental pacing lately, that sort of restless, twitchy sense you get when you're about to start something, but aren't quite sure what that something is yet because the little machines are still whirring away in your subconscious mind piecing it all together. You just know, soon. So you flip through mindless TV channels, and ponder the fluctuating number of followers on your Twitter feed, and try to keep up with the discordant, ambiguous excitement about that thing you can't quite place your finger on while tossing what if ideas at friends and family who very tolerantly pat you on the head and say very good, little magpie.

Recently my magpie tendencies have turned from merely collecting insignificant nuggets of information to the shiniest of the shines: stories. In truth, it was inevitable, and likely the true aim, given a background fostered in occupying various spaces while accounts were told of particular events that in reality lasted only perhaps minutes, but took three or four times longer to tell with diversions into this history or that, indulgences to side-stories and explanations, interrelated and not. What little magpie nurtured on such detailed personal accounts could possibly resist the allure of finding more? 

Not this one, which is, perhaps, the only answer that matters, because this is the magpie in question. Fascinated with collecting stories, and slightly amazed that it took this long and travelling so much distance to realise that. The subject of my loosely-defined future Ph.D. will revolve around this, there is a collaborative art project in the works for potentially (hopefully) next year, but none of that is quite immediate enough for the restless, pacing mental creature anxious to get his twitchy little hands on something tangible. 

I intend to make a mobile of secrets. 

But I need help. I need your secrets. 

The idea is to get as many people as possible to send me their secrets - good, bad, things you hope for, things you're afraid of, things you're ashamed of, those little thoughts you have but never say, wish you'd said, wish you hadn't said - by post, because I'm a big believer that we leave little pieces of ourselves with everything we touch, and I like the idea of (literally) tying strangers together in something real and solid, outside the detached sterility of this internet world. And I like getting mail. (Who doesn't?)

Then all those pieces of paper with things written on them will be folded into various things, probably related to themes or tones, because I like patterns and symmetry like that, and hung on a dreamcatcher-esque styled mobile. I have more vague concepts about doing something with the actual words themselves, but if the secrets are shared, they'll be shared anonymously so no one will know it's yours except you, and me. 

I'm not one to ask for something for nothing, though, so if you share with me, I'll send you a story back. By post. Because you know you like getting mail, too. 

To join in, drop me an email at sashdrak@gmail.com and I'll give you more specifics on what to do. And share. There's no limit to the number of people who can join in. Besides, what better way to meet new people than passing a few secrets back and forth? 

1.21.2013

Double-Consciousness and Identity

I've reached one of those phases of thought where there are too many things running parallel and not enough outlets to get them all out. I keep coming back, though, to a quote from W.E.B. Du Bois, though:
It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one's self through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.
 
I've been reading his work lately, one of those things I always thought I should read that, and then through the fortune of university reading lists, I actually did. There are a lot of great quotes in Du Bois writing, a lot of relevant quotes, but his perspective on living with a sense of double-consciousness, double-identity, of being The Other and Not-Other at the same time, resonated in particular with me. Much of my life has been spent on a fairly haphazard quest of finding a place to fit. I've found a few that come close, a few that I could make myself comfortable if need be, but in the end there is always that nagging sense of displacement and not-belonging that tumbles my life back into suitcases.

I am most wholly American when I am nowhere near America, most likely, I think, because my audience lacks a side-by-side comparison so by virtue of accent and birth, the lable sticks unquestioned. As an expat I get told frequently that my actions, ideas and perceptions are "very American"; in my own country, however, I am more often accused of being "un-American". In truth, inside or outside it, I always feel like an outsider. The longer I spend away, the more I want to go "home" (a very loose term that is only used to the extent of "that place I came from"). The longer I'm there, the more I realise the truth that everyone who has ever left home and gone back knows: the act of leaving irrevocably detaches you, changes you, and even if you return for good, you will still be one who has left and gone back, not one who has simply stayed. After spending nearly half my life wandering across the Atlantic, both and neither feel like home; the only time I have ever felt that sense of "going home" that's usually associated with childhood haunts and fond memories is stepping into an airport terminal. If there were a way to live poised somewhere over the Atlantic, that would probably be the place for me.

I'm an American, an expatriate, a Southerner (which could be said is almost a "national" identity in itself), and, according to a joke between a friend and I, even an alien (a joke inherited from my father, ironically, since it drove me crazy when he said it, but also a play on the no-longer-PC term). But do any of these things actually say anything about my identity as a human being? I remember, several years ago, driving to work and being stopped at a light behind a car that had a bumper sticker that read: "Be American! Stand up for America!" For the five minutes or so I sat behind this car, I pondered what that meant, and by the time I reached work, I still didn't have any conclusions. So I asked my boss, who is a fairly intelligent and knowledgeable man, though he didn't have any better ideas. To this day, I'm still not entirely sure what the writer of that bumper sticker really intended to convey. In my mind, all you have to do to be an American is be born there. The make-up of that country is so fluid and diverse, pinning it down to anything more specific inevitably results in huge chunks of the population falling well outside the pale.

At the same time, while acknowledging and accepting my national identity as an American, I also have to acknowledge that I am not American. I can't be. By virtue of some of the other labels ascribed to me, I am not equal to other Americans. I'm not entitled to the same legal protections or level of healthcare. I don't have the same assurance of safety from harassment and discrimination when it comes to civil rights, employment, or even walking on the street or into a shop. So how can I be an American if I am also told that I must complacently accept that I am inherently less?

This is by no means solely the arena of the queer community. It's not a matter of queer vs. not-queer because the L, G, B, T and Q can't seem to thoroughly unite themselves, and have their own forms of isolation and discrimination. Even those groups who have attained legal equality still find themselves shoved back by persistent social inequality, whether it's their race, religion, sex/gender, or something else entirely. It amazes me sometimes how thoroughly determined humanity is to fracture itself into so many divisive little groups, instigating hate and fear over some of the most ridiculous and inconsequential traits. It amazes me quite often how determined humanity is to hate, to be angry and spiteful, and to take great pride in that.

I suppose this peculiar sensation of double-consciousness is one of the things that makes me wary of - okay, stubbornly opposed to - attaching labels to myself. Why should I accept a label that will not accept me back, or will only accept me under certain conditions? More importantly, why should I endorse a viewpoint that will only perpetuate the reduction of my self to a single word, a broad generalisation that chafes and pinches in all the wrong places and dilutes the right ones to a bland homogeny? Why should anyone?

1.15.2013

The Language of Hate

I'd intended to write a post about what exactly "free speech" means. I started it. I had quotes from the EU Charter, and all sorts of very carefully thought out points and good intentions of sharing knowledge with the world at large. But then I realised: there are more of you than there are of me, and I ran out of steam.

I love information. I love facts and trivia and just knowing things. The most exciting thing in the world is stumbling across a trove of information about a subject I didn't know anything about before, or meeting with someone who holds a completely different perspective who can speak about it rationally and intelligently. My friends and family, at times, get annoyed by this quest for information, the barrage of questions that comes when I'm faced with something I don't understand. New friendships go through a teething period where I have to explain: I just want to understand. Most established friendships have reached the point where they know they have to say: Too much information, Sashi.

I forget that not everyone is like this. Some people are told a particular thing, and they're happy with that explanation. They feel no need to investigate further and break it down to it's smallest parts. That's not a criticism of those people. It's not saying that mentality is less than mine. I don't understand it, but I'm sure there are many out there who don't understand how I can get completely lost in researching the minutiae of the evolution of spiders (as an example).

My first reaction when confronted with an opposing viewpoint is to evaluate it for credibility. Is it stated in a clear manner? Are there facts to back up that position? Are those facts verified by unbiased sources? If the answer to any of those questions is "no", I ask questions. Hell, I ask questions, anyway, but that's besides the point. If I find weaknesses or flaws in the argument, I point them out, and usually have a handful of resources to pass on, because that's my way of being helpful. If I wrote something littered with inaccurate information, I would hope that some kindly person would come along and say so. If they offered resources, all the better. More information for the magpie!

So when things like Julie Burchill's article come along, I find myself profoundly baffled. (You can read my my response to the article in a previous post.) I don't generally understand hate, particularly impersonal hate. (This is another trait that often tests the patience of friends and family; I can't count the number of times I've heard how can you defend that person? - simple: I don't have enough information to judge.) Hate, I think, takes an awful lot of energy. It also doesn't seem particularly productive. So to see so much hatred crammed into so few words temporarily short-circuited the language centres in my brain. I just couldn't process it. So I went back and tried to ferret out the purpose of the article. I tried to find some reason in it.

I couldn't.

Apparently neither could a lot of other people, and the article has since been taken down. Now Twitter is awash with cries of injustice and the infringement of free speech, the oppression of journalists, etc. ad nauseam. Again, I spent several hours watching the Twitter feed throw up claim after claim that Burchill is completely within her right to express her opinion, trying to wrap my head around the fact that a very essential fact was being overlooked: freedom of speech is not a limitless pass to say whatever you please in whatever form you wish. The issues was not in Burchill's opinion, but in her language. There are many, many ways she could have addressed what she felt was an injustice to Suzanne Moore in a composed and dignified manner, without reducing a very wide and diverse community to the cheapest insults. In fact, many of the people targeted by her article addressed her in just such a composed and dignified manner.

Freedom of speech does not protect you against libel, slander or sedition (among other things). Beyond that fact, however, is the matter of personal responsibility. Even if hate-speech were protected under freedom of speech (it's not; countered by the rights to dignity, safety, and protection from discrimination), and even if her article hadn't been littered with factual inaccuracies about the transgendered community, where is the personal responsibility involved in dredging up and perpetuating so many stereotypes that a highly discriminated against minority (and its allies) have fought long and hard to try to correct?

But, enough of that. Burchill is not the only culprit, and the fact is: I'm tired. I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired that I have to fight. I'm tired of scrambling to make my voice heard among the cacophony of anger, hatred and ignorance that just feed each other. I am tired of wanting to shut myself away from the world because everyone is screaming and no one is listening.

I'm an American. I live in the UK. If I criticise the British (though I tend to specify 'English' because those are the people I'm around), I am brushed off, ridiculed, or slapped with the label "insert negative adjective American". Sometimes all I have to do is ask why they do a particular thing here to get the same result. At the same time, I hear a constant barrage of criticisms and derogatory statements about Americans with varying levels of legitimacy. I'm not allowed to contradict these statements, either, though, because again I'm just being a "insert negative adjective American". I have one lecturer who somehow manages to include at least one derogatory statement about Americans per lecture - I'm actually a bit amazed at her ability to slip these in considering the lectures have nothing to do with Americans or the United States. No one speaks up. I don't even speak up. Why? Because I have been taught that pointing out that something is offensive is wrong.

We've all been taught that. If you're offended by someone's statement, you're minimised and illegitimised. You're told that you're just "too sensitive"; others are told that you're "throwing a tantrum" or "having a hissy fit". At best, you are patronised and pandered to, if not out and out attacked.

Back home, guns are a big topic at the moment. Every time there's a school shooting, guns are a big topic. Except. Is anyone talking about the propensity in American society for individuals to take guns into public places and shoot people they don't know for no particularly identifiable reason? No. Everyone is screaming "Don't take my guns away!" because it was mentioned that part of solving this quandary of public shootings might be examining the gun control regulations already in place. The real issue - why this happens so frequently in our country - is completely ignored.

What does that have to do with hate? Well, my dears, it's very simple. It becomes a form of hate. Meme posts depicting liberals as illiterate idiots for wanting stricter gun control laws, sensationalist articles written on both sides to further their agenda, two camps of people screaming bile at each other and no one bothering to listen.

Pick any topic and you'll see it - over and over these cycles of animosity impeding the channels of reasonable discussion, impeding progress and resolution, impeding acceptance and peace.

Don't you ever want it to just stop? Don't you get tired of it?

When are we going to stop reducing each other to impersonal labels and accept that we are all human? We are all vulnerable. We are all flawed. We all want the same things - safety, health, happiness. The rest doesn't matter. Strip us down to the barest principles and we are all the same. Why can't we talk to each other? Why can't we come together and work towards finding practical solutions to the issues - whether it's the issue of a journalist who abuses her role or the vast number of people without food or ensuring everyone has access to adequate health or - dear god there are so many problems to fix in this world, why are we wasting so much time slinging childish insults back and forth?

When are we going to stop hating?

1.14.2013

Open Letter to Julie Burchill


(In response to the article Transsexuals should cut it out)

I am a twenty-nine year old university student, writer and editor, and I am transgendered. There are a number of situations that fall under that category, but in my case it means that I am male, but happened to be born physically female. There was never a moment when it “occurred” to me that I was male; I always knew it. I was confused for a long time about why I wasn’t treated like the other boys as a child, and around sixteen there was the realisation that I wasn’t the only person to experience this, but that’s probably the closest I’ve come to any sort of “revelation”. For the past eleven years, I’ve undergone HRT, surgery, and jumped through every single hoop that’s been placed in front of me with an acceptance, strength and grace that most people never have to discover they possess. You, Ms Burchill, I’m sure have never had to discover the depths of those traits in yourself, because if you had, you would know how to present yourself better.

The language in your article is beyond inappropriate, and displays a level of ignorance, bigotry and unprofessionalism that anyone speaking in a public forum should be ashamed to exhibit.

The term “tranny” is not just “wrong”; it is a derogatory term at the same level as calling someone a “fag”, “nigger”, or any other slur meant to demean and degrade a particular group. The term “cis” is an abbreviation for “cisgendered”, which means a person’s self-perceived gender identity matches their sex. “Cis” itself comes from Latin and means “on the same side”.

Transwomen are not “imagined” women. They aren’t less than any other woman (or man), and the problems they face are certainly not any less trivial. The sheer amount of strength and bravery it takes a transwoman to walk out her door every day and live her life knowing full well that every day she does that may be the day someone ridicules her, assaults her, or even kills her is something that should be commended and respected. Could you be that brave? Every. Single. Day. For the rest of your life. Quite possibly without your family or a strong support network to stand behind you. Knowing that if something does happen, and you report it, there’s a good chance the authorities won’t even take you seriously. Could you do that?

I come from a working class background, raised by a single mother in an area of the United States where the career prospects were Wal-Mart, telemarketing or working at the sawmill. I have been discriminated against for being female, for being male, for being transgendered and my sexuality by men, women, gay, straight, employers, healthcare providers, police, bartenders – the list goes on. I had one family member ask me to pretend I had a twin sister so she wouldn’t have to explain what transgendered means to her children. I had two police officers laugh in my face the night my ex almost killed me because, while they could just barely hold a straight face for a domestic between two “fags” (and yes, they used that word), there was no way they could take a fag and a tranny seriously. I had one employer who tried to refuse to hire me on the basis that he perceived I was gay; I had the Human Resources manager at another employer refuse to recognise the name and gender of another transgendered employee, even though legally it’s required. The first person I spoke to about being transgendered called me a demon. One of my ex’s parents referred to me simply as “it” and “that thing”. I have lost friends because they couldn’t accept it. I have been belittled, discriminated against, rejected, harassed and abused solely because of something I was born with. I have had to fight tooth and nail every step of the way just so I can walk out my door every day and have a “normal” life. In the United States, insurance companies can – and do – deny me health coverage because I have a “pre-existing condition”; here in the UK, I’ve been on a waiting list for three years to treat a hormonal imbalance that should be simple to solve with access to an endocrinologist because gender clinics don’t have enough funding and GPs don’t have enough experience. I’ve experienced a lifetime of PMT and sexual harassment to boot, so look me in the eye and tell me I don’t know what it is to struggle.

I’ll tell you – all of that – I’m one of the lucky ones. I’ve had it easy, by comparison. I’m androgynous enough that most people have no idea that I’m transgendered. I haven’t been disowned by (most) of my family. I haven’t been raped. I haven’t been beaten beyond recognition. I haven’t been killed. I haven’t killed myself. I walk out my door every day knowing exactly the risks I face – that day might be the day the wrong person finally cops on, and anything could happen. But I do it, and I don’t ask for anything more than any other person in the world – to be treated with respect. I don’t resort to name-calling when confronted with people I don’t agree with, or people I just don’t understand. I treat other people the way I expect to be treated. Maybe you should try it.

Next time you want to speak about a group of people, educate yourself first, and then try to act like an adult. 

1.10.2013

Esse Est Percipi

I used to have a friend who hated his job, his economic situation... Most of the things about his life when it comes right down to it. He wanted to be alternative. He wanted to be an artist. He wanted normal, mainstream society to accept him exactly as he was. Bitterness, resentment and the general "unfairness" were pretty common themes in the frequent monologues about how his civil liberties were infringed upon because they wanted him to dress a certain way. He wanted all of these things for his life, but he lacked the one very vital part of achievement: doing something about it.

We're not friends anymore more or less because I pointed out this very thing. You are not a helpless bystander in your life. If you want something, you have to get off your ass and go after it. Apparently that's not a nice thing to say, but we all live and learn.

Or not, because I'm going to say the exact same thing to all of you. (Yeah, I was the kid who had to get burned five times before I learned the lesson about hot things; in my defense they were all different hot things.)

This is something I've been thinking about quite a bit lately, particularly coming to the end of my degree and going through the process of applying to start another one. I watch people quite a lot - though this is actually a misnomer. People-watching is usually more people-listening because strangers do not like it when you stare at them for too long.

"No one appreciates me."

Of course they don't. Why should they? How are they supposed to know you even exist? I know quite a few artists (henceforth a collective term for anyone doing anything relating to the arts, not just visual), so this complaint comes up a lot. I know some exceptional artists who bust their asses putting themselves out there, networking, jumping through all the hoops, and get maybe a tenth of the attention they actually deserve based on talent. I know some meh-to-mediocre artists who do all the same things with the same amount of effort put into selling themselves, and get about the same results.

But that's not fair! the masses (who remain largely unnoticed because they make themselves noticed) cry out. Well. Fuck fair. No one is going to see your poetry/paintings/videos/songs/photography/etc. if you only put it on Facebook for your friends to see. No one is going to seek you out and help you succeed. I don't know how many times I've heard I'd love to be published (usually immediately following the mention that something I've done is appearing somewhere, because people are nice like that), and every time I do, I think (and, yes, usually say): so do something about it.

Yes, yes, before you all start screaming at me that it's not that easy, I know. Being a published writer is fucking difficult and has quite a bit to do with luck and self-marketing, but it's damn near impossible if you don't put yourself out there to begin with. You don't get to whine about it not happening if you aren't trying to make it happen.

The same thing applies to just about anything you want in life. Being a good person isn't going to ensure you get rewarded. (Neither does being a bad person, contrary to popular belief, though this group does seem to have less guilt associated with self-promotion so I'm sure that doesn't hurt.) Being talented, intelligent, or whathaveyou isn't going to do it either. You've got to get out there and work your ass off for it, and even then there's no guarantee you'll be as successful as you want to be. I don't know if you've noticed, but there are a hell of a lot of people hanging around on this planet, and every single one of them has some big ambition or aspiration. It might not be exactly the same as yours, but I'm sure there's enough out there to give you some competition. And those people might be better, smarter, more talented, more charismatic, wealthier... Or they might not be. If you never step outside your comfort zone, it won't matter. They've already beaten you.

Some people get very bitter about all of this. Somewhere along the line, they've gotten it into their heads that society owes them something because... I don't know. Inflated sense of self-importance, maybe? I don't know. I suppose if you really see it that way, it would be fairly easy to resent people who do succeed.

That person I mentioned earlier? Used to expression envy towards me quite a bit, and go on about how lucky I am to have the opportunities I have. And every time I said: it's not luck, it's work. You could do exactly the same things. There are plenty of people who put in the same amount of work and have all the same opportunities I do. Hell, there are plenty of people who put in way more effort and get even more opportunities. And it hasn't been easy. It's meant starting over in a new place more times than I might have liked, turning down social activities to stay home and work. I rang in the new year by frantically doing some last minute (literally) edits to Trinity before sending it off to meet a deadline, as a matter of fact. I have no idea if anything will even come of that, but I did it, because you can be damn sure nothing would have come of not doing it.

The world doesn't owe me anything. If I don't succeed, it's because someone else worked harder for it. If I do, I can look at the sacrifices I've made and the work I've done, and actually be proud of my efforts. And I'm okay with that.