Confessions of the new girl
RBW 7
“Confessions of the new girl.”
Okay… I recently had
a “come-uppance” from a dearly cherished big sister, Alex.
I’ve been developing a TV dramedy series based on my book,
“Getting Back To Me – from girl to boy to
woman in just fifty years,” with the amazing and fabulous Valerie C. Woods.
Through Grace (I don’t believe in luck, per
se) and dear friends, we are blessed to have the best of the best to sign
on to play the character based on me. The incomparable Alexandra Billings.
The great news is, we started to become friends before I
even approached her about the script. We both share being married to the most
amazing women on the planet for over twenty years. And tho’ the divine Ms.
Billings transitioned when she was in her 20s, we also share an uncompromising
world view of the preciousness of this life—lives that just wouldn’t be denied
despite everything we tried. Something Alexandra calls the “gift.”
I’m telling you this to point this week’s spotlight at a
subtle, yet tenuous phenomenon that I’m not sure I’m alone in experiencing, but
have yet to see anyone discuss. And that phenom is this:
Where do I allow my attention, my awareness to rest? And for
how long?
That’s a very sterile version of the words banging inside my
brainpan, but I am forcing myself to be clear.
The above line is a fundamental question for students of yoga (guilty as
charged), but I realized that I’m stuck on the superficial level of that
question with good reason. Now that the constant despair of dysphoria that used
to rule my life is a thing of the past, I have available bandwidth to use to
witness the molecular re-wiring of my psyche. But it has an urgency that
someone described in one of the reviews of my book:
“Ms. Madden’s unflinching honesty makes me ask myself, “What will you do with the gift of your left
life?”
About once a day, that phrase (thanks Jen!) stops me in my
tracks. It’s why I wrote my book in two months of solid fourteen-hour days.
It’s why I am relentless in my other writing religiously, continuing a work
ethic that used to come to an “all stop” on weekends. But it’s also why I take
the extra time to make sure I’m looking my best. Now that I’m here, I will not
waste a moment.
True, it can be a gnarly schedule to maintain—If not
physically, then at least mentally; but for sure spiritually. There has to be
balance in order to maintain… balance.
To this end, I had truly intended to try to lighten-up a bit
this week and write something a little on the frivolous side. I’ve been keeping
a notebook for just such an occasion and was planning on taking a stab at one
of these themes (cue montage music as graphics slide on and off with dramatic
flair and savoir-faire):
*“The Physics of a
woman’s purse” — no matter how small,
you still can lose not only your favorite lipstick, but also that gigantic ring
of keys and your rusa-frasin’ cell phone even while it’s ringing! I swear, I once lost a family of four for
three days in my “sac.”
*“Everyday Super powers”
—Marcy hates my seemingly superhuman
ability to put lipstick on once and have it stay all day, whereas hers is gone
as soon as she puts the cap back on. Also why can some women go sleeveless in a
snowstorm? How do some women wear heels all day?
*“Yes, but can’t I
like just a little bit of sexism?” —I
know I’m supposed to not like it when I get called “darlin’” or ‘hun,” but at
least they got the gender right.
.
“Geezus, I AM
shrinking!” — the never ending comedy
as hormones continue to sculpt a woman out of fifty-year-old flesh. Giving up
traditional jobs around the house (opening jars, carrying the heavy stuff) when
upper body strength fades away.
“Like hell, we
Glisten” or “How come I get no sympathy when sweat destroys the bangs I just
spent thirty minutes straightening?” From the beauty is not for wimps files,
Scottie’s misadventures with eye shadow primer, liquid eyeliner and that
dreaded mirror.
The music swells to a
comical climax as…
*“Why is it surprising
that I know what shoes go with which skirt?” Or… “You don’t look half bad.”
— this one explores the madcap reactions
that Scottie, as the new girl, gets at most adult gatherings. The shock and awe
that a girl raised by wolves could even look presentable in polite company is
offset by her own unintended, self-outing. Comedy ensues.
As I've said a number of times (in various ways), the everyday
life of anyone in the transgender community is not all anything. We are
not the clichés that TV and film portray. Some days our stories are horrifying—that's
why you are hearing them. Everyday, ordinary, "gee they're just like
normal people" stories aren't worth repeating, aren't really interesting,
except when they break down stereotypes that even we inside the community begin
to believe ourselves.
My book is groundbreaking in that I didn’t have “a hell to
leave.” And my transition, so far, has been relatively painless, if you don’t
count being disowned by my baby sister, oh, and that being not hired since I
came out thingy! Light, laughter & love have lit the way for Mylove and me,
Joy is our daily experience.
But the thread of this blog, since it first dropped way back
in July, has been a tad on the heavy, if not heady side of things. So who could blame me if I wanted to let off
a little creative steam “rife with comedic possibilities” that are also a part
of my everyday navigating through this girl’s life?
Apparently… me.
But it’s a me who’s ears are still ringing from my
come-uppance with my big sis Alexandra.
It’s a me who typed the above quote, “And…what will you do with the gift of your left life?”
It’s a me who thought she wanted a day off (heck everyone
else gets labor day off, what’s with me?) and thought she could slide by with a
piece of fluffy “cake” in the form a silly blog about the tropes of the trans
experience— “oh, isn’t that funny, she’ll
have to learn to walk all over again in high heels… a ha ha ha hah… or let’s
watch as she gets all aflutter when she gets to buy a new dress! Isn’t it
sweet? Isn’t ‘she’ cute?”
But it’s also a me who is trying to walk a razor’s edge
between life and obsession, between accurately articulating my corner of the
human experience as it’s happening, and self-absorption.
Confessing out loud that I really am excited, really do get
thrilled with the little things that I’m discovering (first hand) about being a
woman in today’s society is
dangerous because it calls my credibility into question. If I am voice worth
listening to in the community, then why am I talking about lipstick? Shouldn't
I use this moment in the reader's life to enlighten or illumine?
But sometimes my "one little victories" of
everyday life have been heard as interesting to some, as they are to me. As
much as it may inspire some in my life to look anew at the little things in
their lives, I am, at the end of the day, an artist and media professional. I
have disciplined myself to make every moment, every opportunity, count. I have
disciplined myself to make every moment, every opportunity, count. It’s what
made me a royal pain-in-the-tookas with some of the shows I’ve produced in the
past. It’s why I shot an entire Comanche “drum” to bless the “noodlin’ season” for
the premiere of “HillBilly Handfishin.’”
(A drum is a term that refers to a mini pow wow, in this case it was 15
drummers/chanters and 30 dancers in full costume, two real tipis, and a bonfire.)
Admittedly a tad “overkill” for a “cartoon” of a reality
show that followed the antics of Okies and city slickers using their feet as
bait to catch the catfish unfortunate enough to be born in the Red River. But I
just couldn’t back down. As silly as the concept was, it still had a heart and
a humanity that was a way better story about an aspect of this corner of our
country’s culture than the network or the production company believed possible.
And, of course, the network killed “the drum,” using only a
few shots of the funnier faces lit by firelight under the credits. This was
just one more fumble to go along with the continuing lunacy in relations with
Native Americans. And it really hurt to be party to it. And it also illustrates just how far this
girl goes to not let herself take
mediocre or “good enough,” or worse, “it’s justa…” for an answer.
So that’s why I got my come-uppance from Alexandra. When my
producing partner, Valerie, and I were talking about our new show with
Alexandra, she said, “Scottie, don’t waste any one’s time talking about the
same old tired crap. You have to dig deep, girl, and write about the stuff that
terrifies you!”
Now, I am smart enough to keep her words in perspective.
Especially with a drama in this Golden Age of Television, she’s absolutely
right. Our work together has to be the stuff of brilliance. There’s too much on
the line to waste an opportunity like a television series. Valerie reminded me
that “the biggest room in the world is the room for improvement.”
But I will take my Big sis’s words to heart. I promise to
also keep this blog in perspective—which is why I shifted gears as I sat down
to write today. The constant mental tug-of-war between the trivial and the
substantive that has become this posting is the perfect example of life
imitating art. This is, I believe, worth talking about. I must thread the
needle between obsession and focus, between questioning and query, with every
thought that comes from a maturing mind recognizing that is maturing. Which it
should be doing, right? It gets interesting, however, when you factor in the
effects of transitioning (including hormones and the effects they have on the
body and mind) and the ever-changing horizon of my worldview.
This constant shifting of mental impressions can be disorienting
at the least. It comes from the constant evolution of a now unfettered psyche, ad
it’s picking up speed every day. So yeah, swinging back and forth from the
superficial, “gee, this color does look good on my nails,” to the deeper
questions of who am I and how will my femininity shine in this world, can be
dizzying…
And all of this is, at age 54… okay, mind-blowing. A lot of this (the blown part) stems from the realization
that the reallocation of my mental bandwidth (which has just returned home from
a fifty-year-old war) could be this tangible. And that’s even before we get to
what this reallocated mind is coming up with. That, in turn, becomes mind-blowing
after my years of running with the wolves with whom I was raised. These
changes, and this evolution, as subtle as they both are, do shake me. Like that
sudden knowledge that I know the way to do something has suddenly, without
warning, given way to caring more that whatever is done, gets done to
everyone’s benefit. I would never have confessed this out loud before. In the
wolf pack, admitting weakness is usually never a good idea. In the world of
women, admitting a weakness is not a weakness but a strength. A clear
assessment of a situation. And nothing more or less.
Maybe that’s the gift that Alexandra speaks of—being able to
see all sides and have the confidence, experience, skill and desire to make
sure that all sides benefit.
I guess what she’s challenging me to understand is that just
because it’s a gift, it doesn’t make it my
gift. It’s not mine to hold onto, and it’s not mine to keep.
So… what will I do with the gift of my left life?
Share it.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t do it in my favorite lipstick.
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