Gender Identity: Beyond Cis and Trans, but still clueless.

I've been calling myself cis because my analysis on gender identity has been so much more superficial than my thoughts on my own relationship to gender stereotypes. I basically thought about how I would feel if I were born male; I have no doubt I would be transgendered since I would be unable to go without the trappings of physical femininity. It was enough, when I was young, to make me supportive of the choices of transgendered people, to choose to do pro bono work for their rights, etc. Identifying as cis seemed a natural corollary to that, a statement that my gender isn't something that should be assumed by my birth, but something that was a clear separate identity that just happened to coincide with it.

Yet on the other hand, I've had a second thread of androgyny running through the non-physical aspects of my self. The young girl who played with trucks a *lot* and fought with Kevin over who got to be Skeletor and had no trouble with mom's ban on Barbie dolls, and who named her Cabbage Patch doll Gangrene since being weird came more naturally than being maternal, and who had a silhouette gun target complete with bullet holes* hanging next to her pink gingham canopy bed because she saw it in the FBI gift shop and thought it was cool. (I'm starting to realize my parents & grandmother had a decidedly uncommon approach to letting children be themselves....)

I prefer L.T. to Laura specifically because it's androgynous, brattily insisted on a bachelor party with my male friends (in addition to my coed yet gynodominated bachelorette) and feel completely at home at a cigar bar discussing business. I tried to be understanding, but utterly could not relate to, the woman's group at law school who protested that the process was designed around the way men learned, since it was the most well-suited learning atmosphere I'd ever experienced.

So maybe it's time I start thinking about what that means in relation to that long list of categories between cis and trans, those identities I'd never bothered with. It's not as important to me as those whose identities impact their lives, mental health, legal rights, careers, and social acceptance, but that doesn't mean it can't be an interesting intellectual exercise. So if you see my status change to genderqueer or somesuch, don't think I'm taking my Doc Martins and fedoras too seriously, or think I know what others' struggles are like. Just realize it's all that stuff Vinny and his colleagues research on stereotypes (in those moments he's not cooking for me or I'm not busy with power tools fixing the apartment) in a small way bleeding into issues of identity.

*By the time I was in 7th grade, I knew they were made by wad cutters, and knew the difference between these, blanks, and regular bullets. It would be 15 more years before I would hold or fire a gun, but I read a lot.

I live in bizarro world

I grew up in the suburbs, so I can relate to every bratty story around here. I've had my fair share of screaming kids in restaurants, although delightfully my mother usually gives them a piece of her mind. They don't get to tell her she doesn't understand because she's not a parent, she gets to tell them that she controlled 35 kids as a teacher so they can control one. I hate visiting my parents in the suburbs, because it means the sounds of loud screeching coming from the playground, breaking glass from the neighbor kid who thinks throwing bottles into the street is playing.and enough parents bellowing trendy surnames-as-names to give me permanent eyeroll.

But when I go home, everything changes. The only sounds coming from the playground is laughter. Kids walk up to me and politely ask if they can pet my bulldog before holding their hand out so he can sniff it. They hold doors for me without being told to by their parents. Kids as young as 12 are sometimes trusted to walk to school or the park with their friends, so I'm guessing there is a lack of helicopter parenting, but the strains of piano and voilin practice that drift in through my window tell me the alternative is closer to tiger mom status than simply slacker moms.

I'm guessing it might be that my neighborhood is partly immigrant, not dominated by any race or ethnicity. It's affordable and not trendy. It's urban and right near the subway, but has enough people gathering daily in the parks to lose that anonymous feeling that often comes with city life. It's got plenty of blue collar workers parking taxi cabs and plumbing trucks in the streets, and plenty of suits streaming to the subway during commuter hours. It's a little bit of everything. Perhaps the people who choose such a place are the kind of people who share childrearing philosophies with one another?

Today I caught, out of the corner of my eye, my 9 year old neighbor waiting for the elevator with her back to me. A minute later, I arrived at the elevator to find her standing in the hallway, holding the door open for me. Which means she was not only polite enough to hold the elevator and door for me, but perceptive enough to hear me locking the door and realize I would need it soon. I was a bit surprised that someone her age was heading out alone, but she only went as far as the lobby so I'm guessing she meets up with someone else before heading out.

I'm certaainly enjoying the niceties of living in such an enjoyable place in teh here and now - the peace and quiet, the politeness, the frienliness. But it's also giving me hope for the future. Between the skill of the music I hear and the packed bus heading to Bronx science each day, I have no doubt that these kids are headed for a lot more than door-holding.

I am thoroughly uncool.

So much of who I am is who I decided to be.  Well, at least partly.  I could write a long tangent about the unseen forces that made me want to be this way in the first place.

I become what I value.  I want to be the kind of person who listens to opera and classical music, who reads a lot of books, who doesn't watch much TV but when she does it's documentaries.  I decided to become a geek, who reads Watchmen and X-Men comics and loves Star Trek (indeed, the appeal of those folks inspired me to start watching science fiction in the first place). I want to be a childfree person who is open about her status.  I want to lead a life guided by ethics, even if that leads to non-mainstream behavior such as eating vegan and not shopping at Walmart.  You get the (pretentious) picture.

Yet there is one part of me that has never been a decision, that I can't reason out with some image of myself I endeavor toward.  Doggies.  It doesn't clash with my ideal self, but it doesn't stem from it either.  It is the one part of my person who just is.  It dissolves the rational intellectual self and detracts from the selected maturity until I am a mushy pile of ohhhh that's cuuuute.

So, in true L.T. fashion, I create a retroactive justification.  I find qualities in dogs that I admire, and just secretly love them because of the wrinkles and underbites and delightful fuzziness.

And the one thing I really, truly admire in dogs?  They are not cool.

I mean this not in the "neat" or "positive" way some tend to use the word, but rather in the meaning that inspired such use.  James Dean. Nothing affects him.  He doesn't get giddy or furious.  He's just . . . cool.  And while that reaction has a time in place, I think we overuse it terribly in our society.

I didn't play it cool when I had a crush on Vinny.  I told him he had a nice butt, told him he was hot, and flirted so shamelessly even he (eventually) got the hint. If it had taken him too long, or if I had been an actual adult and not an 18 year old girl, I would have asked him out directly (instead, it was simply mutual).  When we broke up, I didn't play it cool.  I told him I still loved him, and wanted to get back together often enough that he always knew it was true (but not often enough to be creepy stalker girl, I think).  And yadda yadda yadda, we're happily married.

I don't play it cool with my enthusiasms.  I think that's a big part of being a geek - getting really excited about something and letting the world know it.  How boring life would be if I had to affect a blase air about the latest Star Trek movie premiere.  If I had to pretend in that video of Maho Beach that having a 747 fly right over my head wasn't awesome (it was the utter dorkiness of me in that video that inspired this post). 

So I will be like puppies.  I will tell those I like that I like them, and let me friends know there are very specific and strong reasons that I keep them in my life.  I will share my delight in books, or music, or whatever it is I'm crazy about this week.  And I will embrace all my uncool friends who do likewise, feeding off of each other's geekhood until life is just how I want it to be.

And I will always, always, get down on the floor and play with your dog, even if you thought up to that point that I was a mature professional.  Because there are some parts of myself I cannot, and should not hide.

Kinda, sorta, mostly vegan.

I once knew a 'vegetarian' who ate duck.  (Now, this isn't like one of those faux vegetarians who eat fish, and go around leading everyone to believe that some vegetarians eat fish.  I hate those people.  You don't get to change the definition of vegetarian just because you feel like using the label.)  He was a health-food devotee who found that, on a daily basis, eating vegetarian was the best way to stay healthy.  However, since it wasn't an ethical decision, he made exceptions on rare occasions, especially to try something he has never eaten before, such as duck.  Although he wasn't an actual vegetarian, on a daily basis the label was the best way to get fed what he wanted to eat. 

In some ways, this is the way I use the label vegan.  You see, in my ethical framework, the dairy and egg industries contribute to too much animal suffering, environmental damage, and water waste to make me feel comfortable eating them.  If I had a private chef, I would be vegan all the live-long day.  Yet while I try to be an ethical being, I am only willing to put up with so much inconvenience before I say screw it and chow down on airplane ravioli.  Most of the time this can be avoided with planning (bringing snacks on the plane) or minor sacrifice (skipping dessert).  However, sometimes it can't, and sometimes I just really want that free cookie.

So I describe myself as vegan mostly because it is the best way to get what I plan to eat.  I'm a strict vegetarian, I'd gag if I tried to eat an omelet, and I need soy milk for my coffee, please.  But I'm not pure.  I guess the best way to describe it is I cheat, but only sometimes, and only with some things (or on vacation).

That being said, I am starting to wonder whether the day to day sacrifice is becoming more of a headache than it is worth.  I have taken to going to special sources to get those things that I crave, and are hard to find vegan.  Cookies.  Doughnuts.  Macaroons.  Cupcakes.  Sweet, non-bitter chocolate.  I had made a habit of special-ordering these things, or eating them only while I was near a special shop in Manhattan.

But, quelle beast, they're expensive.  Vegan Cuts offers are often $20 for six cookies, or a small chocolate selection.  And more often than not they're gluten-free, raw, sugar-free, soy-free, taste-free.  I get that we all should be eating healthier, but why have so many vegan companies adopted the idea that every last vegan is some precious, allergy-ridden health freak?  I don't need maca in my chocolate, I don't need superfoods in my cookie.  I just want a cookie, made as delicious as possible without crossing my ethical boundaries.  Not everything I eat has to be crazy good for me.  I'll get that in my smoothies, in my tofu scramble.  If I am having a piece of chocolate, it's a rare treat, not sustinence.

Not only does this result in veganism being more expensive and less tasty, but it makes me feel like I'm the only vegan on the planet who doesn't follow every last health fad.  If some celebrity in Hollywood is talking about her latest gluten-free kick, suddenly my favorite wheat-based cookie is being discontinued.  Vague talks about soy mimicking estrogen?  There goes my favorite soy ice cream from the local shelves (thank god coconut milk ice cream is actually tasty). 

So not only is it less convenient to be a vegan, but I'm starting to really hate anything and everything involved in the vegan food industry.  It's a cause for constant frustration every time I shop.  It seems a silly reason to ponder giving up on veganism, but all this stress can't be healthy.  Right?

I know I won't start pouring milk over my morning cereal or chomping down on Hagen-Daz anytime soon.  Those substitutes are sold at my corner market, affordable and delicious.  Ditto with sour cream, cream cheese, butter, yoghurt, and anything made at home with cheddar and mozzarella.  But what to do about those occasional sweets I crave?  Intellectually I know I can just do without, but when that crave strikes, there I go searching again for a vegan alternative.  And there I go again stuck in the midst of health freaks and faddists.  And so the cycle continues. . .

What should I do?  Keep in mind that I'm unlikely to change my mind about the basic ethics, unless you've done even more research than I have about the egg and dairy industries, and have miraculous new information about them. 

The rerun queen.

I have a hard time getting into new shows, and will watch TNG for the 7th time rather than shows I've never seen like Breaking Bad, Dr. Who, Babylon 5, and Battlestar Galactica.  The only exceptions recently are Walking Dead and Copper, which I got into instantly, and I pretty much spend all my time watching documentaries. 

Am I just too impatient?  Keep in mind I don't have cable, but rather watch everything on Netflix streaming, so I have the benefit of watching a whole season at a time if I so choose.  I have the same problem with books, but since reading a book feels like an 'accomplishment' I push my way through until I get invested.  With, again, the exception of good nonfiction which keeps me page flipping from the beginning.  Exceptions here are Snow Flower and the Secret Fan and the Hunger Games, which made me drop everything and finish them overnight after I got hooked three paragraphs in.

Peer pressure seems to help, a lot.  When Beth sat me down and watched Downton Abbey, or Amanda brought over Firefly, or the awesome folks at my last project keep asking where I was in the Game of Thrones books (You're still not on book 3?  But it gets so awesome.  Hurry up so we can discuss it) I have zero trouble concentrating on something new.  Ditto with book clubs (I WILL finish Peony this weekend) and library books that have to go back (except I usually have out 12 at a time, so there's still a triage situation there). 

I listed a few shows here that I am often told I will love, so I wonder if my lack of patience is making me miss out.  On the other hand, maybe I should just leave my focus where it is, on books, and let TV serve its function - lulling me to sleep at night when my eyes grow tired, chasing my thoughts away with an episode of Law and Order that works like a radio play but I know so well it never keeps me up.  I have to admit that my new laptop purchase was partially fueled by an HDMI port that will make sure I never again have to suffer through commercials and a long search for something soothing, only to end up watching the Weather channel every time I'm in a hotel.

At the end of the day, I'm never bored with a Kindle in my hand.  If my aim is to be entertained, and I know how to accomplish that, does it really matter if I'm missing out?

Happy Fathers' Day

I'm not going to wish my dad a happy father's day here, since of course he's not on Facebook. I will share some stories, though.

The man who taught me how to program in Basic on a Commodore 64 somehow managed to creep back into the norms of his age group. He does check e-mail every few days. I managed to convince him to text message, but when his autocorrect sent me a message that just said "L.T. run." Once I calmed down and found out what happened, I figured maybe just talking in person was a better idea.

My dad was a pool hustler who never bet on himself. Instead he just hung out in a pool hall on Main Street in Flushing, besting all challengers while his friends cashed in on side bets and bought all his drinks as a thank you.

My dad was a bouncer in a dance club when he met my mom. With his nerdy 60s glasses (I now have the same pair, thank you hipsters) and novel in hand, my mom figured out pretty quickly that he wasn't your average street tough. He made money off his size (6'3") and strength, but underneath was the kind of mind that could do almost anything.

My mom, however, wasn't really interested in marrying a college dropout. She talked him into going back to college, and between Fordham and Queens college he got his bachelors, then his Masters, and certification to teach high school math.

While in grad school, he earned money working for Howard Hughes. He was a paralegal, and worked the overnight shift at Hughes' law office, manning a phone line that only Howard had the number to. You see, that was the only way the reclusive magnate could avoid ever getting a busy signal. He did speak to the man several times. He would get home from work in the middle of the night, at 4 or 5 AM. Newly married, he lived with my mom in a tiny apartment in Jackson Heights. At the time, the neighborhood was so dangerous that he would call her from a payphone in the subway so she could watch him walk home, ready to call 911 if anything happened.

He then spent decades as a rather unconventional math teacher. His students knew him as brilliant, tough, and hilarious. He cracked jokes constantly, but his strict classroom manner meant that few students ever guessed of his colorful Queens past.

Adventures in Dogsitting

Although Vinny and I both adore dogs, we're not in a position to get our own. Vinny's dissertation is enough stress, without having to worry about finding dogsitters, cleaning messes, and taking walks. Our compromise has been to sign up as dogsitters on DogVacay* and sit for dogs for weekends (and once, over two weeks).

After sitting for Butterbar for a cumulative year and a half, I've developed a particular affection for bulldogs. Since Butterbar loved to play with other bullies on the street, I got to know all the ones in the neighborhood, and noticed that they had the same overt friendliness and affection towards people that she has. Vinny needed no convincing, as he was already a big fan of the breed.

So when I got an inquiry on DogVacay to sit for a bulldog, I pounced. When they called and said they were in the neighborhood, I eagerly told them to drop by, leaving poor Vinny ten minutes to clean the apartment with me. He was just as ebullient and affectionate as the other bullies I knew, and immediately began jumping on me playfully. Of course, that's a trait I would train out of my own dog, but I happen to enjoy it when I encounter it.

I counted down the days. Vinny good natured-ly put up with my "30 hours 13 minutes, 19 hours 4 minutes, etc. countdown that I mercilessly kept out loud for the days before he arrived. Finally, Porky was here, as jumpy and playful as ever. His owners left, and he settled down to sleep in the dining room.

When he woke up, he looked dazed. He looked around, confused. I approached him and sat a few feet away, inching toward him, recognizing his wariness. When I got close enough to reach out my hand - snap! - he chomped his teeth threateningly and growled at me. Uh-oh. We had never sat for an aggressive dog before. I reviewed all the techniques. I tried to put a leash on him, figuring a walk would make him feel better. Vinny warned me not to approach him. Snap! Growl. Vinny was right. I conceded Vin as the official dog body language interpreter, and spent what was left of the evening (about half an hour) throwing treats in his direction and inching slowly toward him as long as Vin said it was OK.

We resumed the following day. More snaps, more growls. I wasn't too afraid, since the snaps were clearly a warning. If he wanted to bite me, he would have. Our sympathies went out to this dog. We both agreed that it was a scary situation, waking up in a strange house with people you don't remember. That sweet pup was in there somewhere, under the fear. I hadn't initially contacted the owners, figuring that there wasn't much they could do from out of the country. After a morning of this, though, I texted them, hoping they might have someone nearby Porky would recognize and feel safer.

In the meantime, we kept on. We moved the chairs so he could make a den under the table. We approached him in the living room, but he needed to know he had his own space where no one would bother him. He retreated under there, and we patiently waited until he was ready to come out. This cycle repeated. We jazzed up his breakfast with wet food and warm water, and he finally dug in. Appetite whetted, he finally started nibbling at the treats we had tossed. I made him a peanut butter Kong, and after a while he ate it. Vinny fished it back to us with his cane (which he no longer needs, thank goodness) and I refilled it. I held it, inching closer. I back up when he growled. I kept this up for over an hour.

Finally, tentatively, he licked the Kong. Progress! It slowly built from there. After hours of patient work, he ate a treat from my hand. A few hours later, he licked my hand. We kept working until we knew it was his turn. We left his dining room and walked carefully into the living room. He approached us. Another hour of slow work and he let us pet him, just a little, on the side of his mouth. I brought out a squeaky toy (that he ignored the night before) and could read his friendly body language at once. Tug of War. He eased into a play-bow, and we tugged and tossed our Kong Wubba for hours into the night. He kept progressing until he let us scratch his head. Finally, at close to 9PM, I got close enough to put his leash on him. We went for an uneventful walk in which he stayed close and didn't even pull. By the time we heard back from his owners, all was well. We Skyped, me still sweaty from the walk(run).

Success. Since then we have been cuddling, scratching, getting licked, leaned on, playing, etc. He is back to his old friendly self again. I am sorry he had to go through that, but feel great that we were able to make him feel safe again.

*You can get $10 off using the password Ciaccio