Image description: Cherry blossoms against a blue sky. The frame is vignetted and dark at the edges. Photo credit: cocoparisienne, Pixabay.
This is a guest post by Dulcinea Lapis, a pan, polyam, woman of trans experience, writing from a position of colonizer privilege. This is the first in a year-long series of posts that Dulcinea and I will be curating, in challenge and dissatisfaction with International Women’s Day. To quote Dulcinea, “Fuck this grim caterwauling celebration of mediocre white femininity.” Every month, on the 7th, we’ll post something. If you are trans, Black or Indigenous, a person of colour, disabled, fat, poor, a sex worker, or any of the other host of identities excluded from International Women’s Day, and you would like to contribute to this project, get in touch! Dulcinea named our project: Feminism from the Margins.
The Places You’ll Never Go
When I was young, I heard about the places I’d go. About the person I’d get to be. The great things I’d do. What I never heard about were the places I can never go, because of what people would do to the person I choose to be.
Moving through the world with an Othered identity is a violent experience. Picking and choosing what parts of us to honor and what needs to be cut away. I can only speak to the parts of me that aren’t welcome in the mainstream, as a Trans woman without passing privilege, and a queer person who is out and public. I am shielded from much by being white, not being of a marginalized faith and by not having a visible disability. It’s important to note being othered further would mean there was even less of a much too small world to see.
I would love to go to the Women’s March. To stand in solidarity with others and refuse to be silenced and boxed in. Wear a tank top with an inflammatory slogan and take part in the cathartic rejection of patriarchy. I would love to, but I never will. A quick perusing of the Facebook event disabuses me of that notion. Every post on their Facebook page about how including Trans-voices is silencing women for men, the failure of their moderation showing how comfortable they are with every barbed-wire post, every poison-pill comment made in false good-faith. The moderation comes too late, they belatedly reach out to Trans-women for organization…but at this point how can I trust I’ll be welcome? Why take the risk? It’s fine. I’ll make a slit and out comes the part of me that wants to go to these public events, cut out of myself like my wish to travel. I won’t even notice.
The World Shrinks.
I would love to go to a ladies night at a games cafe. To share my love of games and my favourite hobby with others in a space free of toxic competitiveness and masculine posturing. An evening spent with the simple affirming company of women with the same interest. I never will again. Once was enough and it sticks with me.
I drop by the store to scope it out, it’s entirely white women. I get glares, as I pretend to peruse the products on offer, a hostility that I can feel in my bones, like a storm on the horizon. To them I’m not woman enough to be here, and a cute dress and makeup won’t change anything. As I leave I can hear a mutter: “I was worried he’d stay and we’d have to put up with another one.” I get rid of this need as well. It stings as I slice this out and I can feel something missing, but at least I can move on before something happens.
The World Shrinks.
It’s affirming and pleasurable to wear skirts and dresses, tanks and leggings, clothing and makeup and those things I missed out on for so long. Early forays made with friends, their guidance and presence a reassuring balm against the gnawing anxiety under my skin. Of course going back alone is like wandering through brambles, tearing and cutting away at me. Leaving me bloody. Places that tout body positivity and inclusion still have flamboyant men who glare at me when I ask questions about eye shadow and women who are so stunned at my knowledge of makeup foundation that they won’t make conversation. Glares as I ask for sizes range from skeptical to hostile. I’ll make sure to shop online, or where my friends work, from now on.
The World Shrinks.
There are already so many places that come with such added risks that they’re almost a punchline. What washroom do I use? Use the women’s and risk a confrontation? Use the men’s and risk a beating? How do I go to a Gym where there’s even more exposure? It doesn’t matter that these spaces have been made safer for women; being the wrong sort of woman is just as likely to end in violence as it ever has. I’ll just ignore it, what’s a little bladder infection against a loud, public confrontation, where – at best – so many feminists will just look away, and even (privately) be glad to see me gone. Once more I take parts of myself away. I’m carving deep now and getting rid of things recently hard won, experiences lustrous and new. A loss that’s worth it though. It’s not like I have any option or way to make these spaces mine.
The World Shrinks
I’ve got my home. A place of refuge. I can post on the internet about my politics, even if I’m not welcome to display them alongside allies. Surely that’s good enough right? I can play games online, invite trusted friends with years of history over and get my craving for companionship that way. I’ll order clothes from websites, hope that they fit, and make do when there’s places too tight or too loose. Make do with the makeup I have, wait until it runs out and then book time off for when I know a friendly face is on-shift at my ever-dwindling list of shops. I’ll just use the washroom at home, train my body to need it less. Avoid food and water when possible. I’ll find a space at home and work out there, if someone else from my building comes in I’ll wrap up and leave. Why take the chance? I’m safe here. I’ve cut and snipped and taken out so much of myself, it feels like almost nothing is left. Everything reminds me of what I’ve had to gouge out so as not to transgress spaces not meant for me. Maybe I can ignore the number of Trans-Women that are killed in their homes, doxxed and stripped naked to a hostile world already too small.
Could the world shrink any further? Could I?
Tiffany Sostar is a self-care and narrative coach, offering one-on-one and group coaching, both in person on Treaty 7 land/Calgary and online. Coaching is available in single-session, package, or yearlong formats. Get in touch to book some time! They also offer regular online courses, workshops, and other events. You can find them on Facebook, and you can support their work on Patreon. They have a double BA (hons) in English and Women’s Studies, with a focus on how marginalized communities write new narratives for themselves, and they are currently enrolled in the Master of Narrative Therapy and Community Work program at the Dulwich Centre and the University of Melbourne.
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