The Private Life of a Public Freak

I'm out and proud, you betcha!

But what's it like inside? What's it like to be a transsexual queer activist in a world (including much of the 'gay' world) that's certain sex = gender and the only options are male and female? What kind of dues am I paying for being out and proud as 'other?'

There's the obvious. Some people stare at me and talk about me and obviously disapprove of me and avoid me. But you know what? I prefer that to feeling that my house of cards would tumble down 'if anyone knew.'

I get interesting email and phone calls from all over. If you're struggling with gender identity issues, there aren't a whole lot of people on this planet you can feel safe talking with. I'm one of them, and I think that's really cool.

Though I'm probably not what some people expect, because I've thought a lot of things through, and I don't follow anyone's party line. In fact, I hate lines, I don't see any lines out there at all; I believe all the lines we think we see as separating people are artifacts of human neural processing. The lines do not exist in the world, we can get beyond this stage of thinking if we try.

I know who my friends are. I've been pleasantly surprised by how many truly decent people there are in this world, people who do not slap a label on me and reject me, but take the trouble and the risk to get to know who I am.

Sexuality? There isn't even a word for my sexual orientation, or for that of any potential partner of mine. I'm too female to be attractive to het women, and too male to be attractive to lesbian women. I march to the beat of a truly different drummer, and it's a damned lonely path a lot of the time.

But lonely paths need not be barren paths, and solitude need never be empty. I may be alone in this world, but I'm not alone in the universe. Faith transcends knowledge and belief, and I've got faith.

Heros and role models? Too many to list. Get to know people, really know people, and you'll lack for neither. There are martyrs and saints and mystics on every block, if you'll just open your eyes and ears!

I use poetry when rational prose cannot contain my feelings. This poem is another way of talking about being out as queer in this culture:

The hate rolls in,
glances that turn to stares,
looks that measure me up and down,
snorts of disgust:
"What was that?"
followed by laughter.

I read what people say about me
in the newspaper, almost every day;
as do my friends and my family:
freak,
pervert,
filth,
abomination,
aberrant,
depraved,
slut,
hideous,
detestable,
unnatural.

The hate rolls in, fills me up;
with nowhere else to go,
the hate comes right back out,
at you.

Those hate words were all taken from letters either sent to me personally, or published in response to letters or articles I have had published. (My poetry is meant to be read aloud; try it. Smile and embrace your audience when you read the final line.)

So is it worth it, being an activist? As the saying goes, if you have to ask, the price is too high for you to pay. Being an activist is not a choice, it is a calling.

[Published in the fall 1998 "National Coming Out Days" issue of Q-News at Michigan State University.]