I don't want to be transphobic

Some friends were discussing the fracturing of the Women’s March and the tendency for the Left to cannibalize itself. I was reminded of a recent episode of Vanderpump Rules, which left me feeling uneasy and divided between two “progressive” standpoints.

I’d like to think I’m not transphobic—I have several transgender friends.

Is that like saying “I have Black friends” in a misguided effort to prove you’re not racist?

You tell me and we can discuss later. This one isn’t about race. Everyone on Vanderpump Rules is white. So…

I was watching Vanderpump Rules—a guilty pleasure, no doubt. It’s a standardly vapid reality show about the staff at SUR, a Beverly Hills restaurant run by Real Housewife of Beverly Hills, Lisa Vanderpump. I could write a whole essay on my profound interest in reality television (the same essay could be written about my interest in baseball) but that’s not what this is about.

There’s this skittish Brit named James Kennedy who DJs at SUR every Tuesday night (his weekly residency is called See You Next Tuesday, which is slang for C-U-N-T). Putting that completely aside, James does not do well under the influence of alcohol and has a history of turning into an unhinged, misogynistic asshole when he drinks. Naturally, there are women who want to “take James Kennedy down.” On Pride Day, one of these said women tells James’s girlfriend that James has been cheating on her and when James is confronted by his girlfriend, he starts lashing out at everyone—not just the girls who are trying to sabotage him but anyone and everyone who tries to wrangle him in. He calls Kristin a slut. He calls LaLa a whore. And he calls Katie fat. He goes on to tell Katie she shouldn’t be wearing shorts and ought to lost some weight, which is fucked up on its own, but it’s especially fucked up because Katie was hospitalized after falling through a roof and she gained a significant amount of weight since then but is on the tail end of a journey to self-love.

So later, Katie tells Lisa Vanderpump about the James incident and she ends up giving Lisa an ultimatum. She says she doesn’t want to work at a place that turns a blind eye to James’s disgusting language and behavior. She says she shouldn’t have to worry about getting fat-shamed at work. She’s all like: It’s me or James. You choose.

Lisa, who I fucking love and tolerates zero bullshit and zero disrespect, decides to fire James. James is shattered. He swears he’ll never drink again. He apologizes. But it’s to no avail. At least not for now.

Then the co-owners of the restaurant are like, Lisa, James made Tuesday night our busiest night (a hard thing to do), you can’t fire him, we’re losing money! And then Lisa calls a staff meeting where James’s firing becomes a topic of heated discussion. Some of the waitresses and bartenders are like, finally, the kid got what was coming for him, James got himself fired. And then some are like honestly, if you don’t like James, just don’t work on Tuesday nights. He brings in a ton of money. At the end of the meeting, nothing changes. James is still fired, but sides seem to become more polarized.

Billie Lee, one of the hostesses at SUR, comes to James’s defense. Then in the preview for next week’s episode, it seems that Billie Lee has a private meeting with Lisa Vanderpump where she says “if Katie pulls the fat card, I will pull my trans card,” then going on to say, if Katie doesn’t want to be fat, “she can put down the food.”

And at first I didn’t really know what she meant by this, I was just shocked because I kind of assumed that, as someone who is not transphobic, I would agree with Billie Lee on all social issues, but perhaps it’s actually transphobic of me to assume that, you know? It’s like just because you’re gay doesn’t mean you are a Democrat (I have met a handful of “log cabin Republicans”).

Well I thought about it some more and I think the gist of what Billie Lee is saying is: it’s way harder to be trans than it is to be fat and because fat-shaming is nothing compared to transphobia, Katie’s just using the “I don’t feel comfortable working here” card as a way of getting rid of someone she simply doesn’t like.

Still, this screamed misogyny to me. But screaming misogyny at a trans-woman also screamed transphobic to me, as if calling a trans-woman misogynistic is the same thing as calling her a man. A trans-woman is and has always been a woman, regardless of her physical body/transition. And I see Billie Lee’s point: trans people’s lives are at far greater risk due to transphobia than fat people’s lives are at risk due to fat-shaming. Nonetheless, belittling the perpetuated struggle for cis-women to feel valuable at any weight is misogyny. Just how belittling a trans-woman’s struggle to both feel valuable and be healthy is transphobic (and misogynistic, too). Point is: the cis-woman’s experience of misogyny does not disqualify the trans-woman’s experience of misogyny, or vice versa. Thanks to our white-hetero-male-dominated society, all women (both cis and trans) get to suffer the emotional, psychological, and physical consequences of body image dysmorphia. Let’s not also do men’s bidding.

Anyway, I was distraught about this because I felt like I was being torn in two directions. The way Billie Lee phrased it (or at least the way the editor’s aired it) made it seem like I had to choose between being a trans ally and condemning fat-shaming. Fat-shaming, heck, body-shaming, is detrimental to both individuals and to our community. And as a trans-ally, you should listen to and amplify voices of the trans-community. I feared that disagreeing with Billie Lee somehow meant I was failing to be an ally (and if you’re a feminist but you’re not in alliance with trans-women then you’re essentially a TERF, which I do not identify as, nor want to). If I’m guilty of any offense, it is thinking I can’t disagree with a transgendered person without invalidating their gender-identity, and well, I guess that is a bit transphobic.

I felt jealous today

and I’m not ready to talk about it. What I will instead do, is share the following the dialogue I overheard at a cafe between two men who work for a record label. The content of their conversation turned out to be of ZERO interest. Still I wrote it down pretty much verbatim because one of the guys was British and seemed to be the boss of this thing and I thought that if I did this, I might begin to understand the national case of Stockholm syndrome Americans have with Brits. How about you guess which one of these guys is British and let me know your thoughts:

 I think that the main substantive point is I just want to get insights so that we can [inaudible mumbling] give exciting information, give ourselves information. 

One thing like, I want to make sure I do , like next week, or maybe not next week but

I haven’t seen this particular one. Is this the [inaudible mumbling] she was talking about?

I’ve put a request in to the team…but yeah sorry…just a side tangent to say I agree with you…and I think that’s a part of what you’re asking [inaudible mumbling] isn’t what’s working…cuz I think everybody wants [inaudible mumbling]

Well even like Kelly sent me something this morning, one of the country’s…[inaudible mumbling]…the data point wasn’t certain but it looked like it had a million unique users

I need to know every playlist every station [inaudible mumbling] followers, how often they come back, what is the position on our playlist what is it doing and then [inaudible mumbling] and station language

[inaudible mumbling] and automatic tracking to move forward

Yeah well, actually no. The other issue is small [inaudible mumbling]…how do we deal with that. That’s the other piece of it. [inaudible mumbling] that’s coming from…[inaudible mumbling]

Bear in mind that these guys are talking Spotify [inaudible mumbling] billions of streams [inaudible mumbling] but it actually isn’t nothing [inaudible mumbling]

Any artist in the world…would be delighted…and then I would also like…[inaudible mumbling]…and I would dial down some of the country stuff…[inaudible mumbling]…rotation…[inaudible mumbling]…representative of where we’re trying to go…

That’s where…[inaudible mumbling]….safest bets…but in the long run…[inaudible mumbling]…is not exactly cutting it per se .

Yeah. Yeah.

But we do that…[inaudible mumbling] but not…

Mm. Yeah.

All…[inaudible mumbling] …is the conversation to get across…[inaudible mumbling]…will move us…[inaudible mumbling]…one last stand…[inaudible mumbling]…which we’re getting there…not a natural… [inaudible mumbling]

A couple. If you like couple. Presumably...[inaudible mumbling]…not every single time. Today this is…[inaudible mumbling]…and so is that. Like maybe. Here’s the opportunity for you. Just a recap. You get this by doing this. You get this by doing that.

I was surprised he said that

The other thing that…[inaudible mumbling]… goes back to is the initial point of having an analyst. Maybe there’s a way of us…uh…uh.. eventually getting to the point where we’re not only telling cool stuff about music and how it’s performing and insights…but also information like…[inaudible mumbling] with a view of..

Accounts?

Thats what I was going to say.

If you ask in advance.

Hey whats the… [inaudible mumbling]…[and they’d be all over…[inaudible mumbling]…like how do we change that?

Yeah well it wasn’t that last one.  I’m talking about…[inaudible mumbling]…maybe its a one or two pager…[inaudible mumbling]….where the plays are coming from…[inaudible mumbling]….what the cumulative revenue count looks like…

Maybe I’ll use her as the model but I’d love to …[inaudible mumbling]…sometimes it’s hard to correlate…[inaudible mumbling]….and where the change is coming from…[inaudible mumbling]….a number of things but…[inaudible mumbling]….I’d love to…[inaudible mumbling]….and here’s everything

Right, totally.

Totally

Exactly exactly yeah. That’s something Columbia does a lot. [inaudible mumbling]

I’d love to...[inaudible mumbling]…a minimum…[inaudible mumbling] per year…a group of three labels…but even for…to what degree...they want to branch out...but yeah I’d love to figure out some sort of template for [inaudible mumbling]

Yeah the thing i’m worrying about besides [inaudible mumbling] …is how it’s housed or how it’s accessible. I'm definitely concerned. They ask a question even…a specific…[inaudible mumbling] that has no flexibility to it at all. Cuz that is not the way good business works…[inaudible mumbling] well that’s working.. Now lets look at that...It isn’t always about [inaudible mumbling]

Totally.

Let’s look at these competitors. Slice and dice it.

I’ll be honest…I sometimes….[inaudible mumbling]…but like barely…[inaudible mumbling]…and then it kind of comes in later…But…every time you’re…[inaudible mumbling]…you don’t even have to think about that part of it…so yeah again…to your point. I think we can…

Would you mind doing me a quick favor and send me a quick email with names of the attendees for the evening

They’re in the body…

Oh, thanks

So…

Okay…

They are…

Okay…

This one…

Okay…

They have their own…

Yeah.

Few labels…

tracks…

okay…

Labels…

Distribution level…

group…

One of those three…

right…

Three tiers…

kay…

And that’s…

I saw them in august and they… [inaudible mumbling]

really?

yeah…

And as far as relationships go…they are I mean you’ll see they’re amicable and...[inaudible mumbling]…we have had a hard time getting a lot of things across the line…

I think we’re getting there

Huge presentation

hundred

Good names

That was the thing

Oh oh 

And…

no…

okay…

that’s…yeah…

okay…

We’re gonna…

I do, yeah…overall there are around… I have to check………………….2% overall

Ugh..

But dude…once you see the numbers it’s…[inaudible mumbling]….1%

How long would it take

for me to convince you that we were having the same dreams? I mean I’d have to do it really slowly, and seemingly organically or you’d think I was just fucking with you. I’d have to wait for you to tell me your dreams by chance and then cooly play the role of surprised. Like dude! I had that exact dream last night, as the same time as you! You’d think it was just a coincidence. That’s crazy you’d say. But would believe we were really having the same dreams? How could I prove it to you? It’s not like I can blow your mind by reminding you of the details of your dreams. I don’t know them, and even if I did—you only remember like four things about any given dream and you would have already told me what it is you remember. I suppose I could never convince you we were having the same dreams. Not even in a drawn out hypothetical…

Today I feel

remarkably dissatisfied. Like I’m standing on the edge of a dock, watching my whimsy drift away, disappearing in the chop before getting very far.

Why I compromise

Those who can be disappointed will be disappointed.

Those who love me so much, they want to inject their desires into my time and my decisions are as undeserving of my love as those who do not love me at all.

I live for me,

not for those

who allege to

like that about me.

If you do not see

me for how

wonderful I am,

good riddance.

If you do not see

that I already do

what’s best for me,

good riddance.

And if you see

me, well, good

riddance all the same.

Make a list of the people you cannot live without.

Now get over it, because sooner or later, you will and you will be fine. You will be better. I don’t wish death upon anybody. I certainly don’t want to live without the people I cannot live without. But they are the people with the power to hold me back. Those for whom I may compromise. Those by whom I am compromised.

Question: Why compromise for someone I can live or learn to live without?

Answer: Love (obviously).

Love is

not good.

Love is

divine,

as in

god-like.

And god,

like love,

does not

only

create.

Like god,

love, too,

destroys.

And that’s

how I

know that

love is

sublime:

it heals

as much

as it

infects.

And that,

my love,

is the

only

reason

why I compromise.

How to measure excellence

One of the reasons I love Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels is the urgency of her prose.

I am currently on page 259 (of 469) in The Story of a New Name.

When I tell someone who has already finished the series what part I am up to, I realize how much is happening. In under twenty pages, Ferrante gives you a hundred pages worth of information. She doesn’t rush but she definitely doesn’t linger. Each moment is a sentence, a paragraph only long enough to communicate the feeling or progression of a moment.

I believe that those who find Elena Ferrante’s writing to be slow have not yet passed the half-way mark in her first book. I often get restless reading the first half of any book. You need time with the characters to sync up with the rhythm of their stories. Same goes for the first twenty minutes of movie. Or the first episode of a show. Once I gave Elena Ferrante my full attention, I was completely blown away by the pace of the writing.

To call her writing simple is a reduction. Besides, the excellence of a dish is measured by its simplicity. (I heard that in an episode of Chef’s Table and it really stuck with me). It applies equally to a piece of writing. She is concise. To the point. Her words are at once selective and complete.

My only complaint is that I find her writing so compulsively readable that once I am more than adequately inspired, I struggle to put down the book when I ought to be picking up on my own work.

I need this book right now because writing the second half of my novel has been torment. Slow-going because I am worrying too much about description when all I need to do is TELL THE GOD DAMN STORY.

Write first.

Judge later.

What I'm reading this week and why

Death in Venice (1912) by Thomas Mann - I first read Death in Venice in college—one of Mary Gordon’s “Writers of the 20th Century” courses. Professor Mary Gordon taught me to love reading. (My high school English teacher, Daniel Weinstein taught me to love writing) I digress. I am re-visiting Death in Venice for its concise, vivid description of a simultaneously frantic and romantic city . I’m using Mann’s depiction of the corners and characters of a scene in a town square as inspiration for the prom scene in my novel. Like the narrator’s depiction of Venice, high school prom is an overly idealized setting, full of promise and unprecedented beauty, which must combat the realities of bad weather, putrid odors, poor health, and painful social interactions.

The Tragedy of Othello, Moor of Venice (c. 1601–1604) by William Shakespeare - I’ve never read Othello actually. But I’ve been skimming Shakespeare ever since I came across the term “gobbet titles”: titles which are quotes from other works of literature (often poems, plays, the King James Bible). I’m always jotting down possible titles (for this novel, for future novels, etc). Since many of my favorite titles are rhythmic, gobbet titles (Catcher in the Rye, Infinite Jest, The Sun Also Rises), and Shakespeare’s works are all metered, I’ve taken to reading Shakespeare in search of some title inspiration. Maybe I’ll do another post on this because I’ve written down a ton of gobbet titles from various Shakespeare plays that I probably won’t use. The point here is, in my search for a title, I have found that Othello is relevant in more ways than just title inspiration.

In Joan Didion’s novel, Play it as it Lays, the protagonist, Maria, opens the first chapter asking, “What makes Iago evil?” Iago, being one of the characters in Othello. It’s a rhetorical question. Maria doesn’t actually care to know the answer (hence the title: she doesn’t look for answers to anything, she just plays things as they lay). But then I started wondering, well, what does make Iago evil? Unlike jaded Maria in Play it as it Lays, my protagonist, a fourteen-year-old girl, wants answers for everything. One of the questions she seeks an answer to: are women are evil?

The Story of a New Name (Book 2 of the Neapolitan Novels) (2012) by Elena Ferrante - Just picked this back up after New Year’s. Needed something easy to get back into my workflow and I absolutely love this series of novels (I also finished watching season 1 of the HBO show My Brilliant Friend and want to finish book 2 before season 2 comes out). As always seems to be the case, this was exactly the book I needed to be reading. An inspiring reminder that:

  1. You don’t need to describe everything. Sometimes you can just fucking tell the story and keep going without dwelling at all.

  2. Female friends often engage in a silent competition with one another.

  3. Across generations, there are men with a compulsive need to spout the information they have compulsively acquired.

Making small talk about making small talk

When did small talk get boring? That’s a rhetorical question.

Small talk is a past time. A litmus test to identify the people with whom we want to engage in deeper conversation. Prolonged relationships. I am referencing Games People Play, a dry but compelling (and socially-paralyzing) piece of literature by Eric Berne, who dissects human interaction and renders it into geometry.

I am not about to summarize the research. At least not on this post. Besides, discussion of the work is much better suited for a cocktail party where I like to imbue small talk with subjects of actual interest, which brings me back to my original point.

The question is not when did small talk become boring, but rather when did small talk become intolerable?

They say life is about human connection. To connect with other humans we often start with small talk. Metals must first approach each other before finding out whether or not they are magnetic.

Being spellbound by the potential for unimaginable conversations, I recognize that small talk is a necessary evil. A foreplay that I must make the best of, right? And it’s never as bad as I think it’s going to be.

Eh, then again, sometimes it is.

Sometimes it’s worse. Sometimes I’m at a party or a bar and every single person I talk to is someone I’d prefer to never speak to again. It isn’t it even because our conversation was offensive but that they expect me to do all of the work. Those people can go fuck themselves.

And then sometimes I am with someone with whom I already have a relationship and we’re making small talk!

I guess that’s the gamble.

In the (sometimes passive) pursuit of both new and sustained human connection, we risk feeling intolerably alone.

Effortless Discipline

My routine has been broken. I’ve sunk deep into the couch, into television, into chalk pastel and day-long cooking projects. I haven’t stopped moving so you might think I’ve been productive but the truth is I have been only as productive as a hamster on a wheel. Going to task on projects that don’t matter is an old habit of mine.

“Don’t bother being mad at yourself,” a confidante says to me, “it was the holidays , you’re allowed to take a break. You’ll get back on it.”

I am not mad at myself. It’s not like I forgot to stay focused. I told myself it’s okay to relax on the holidays and I chose to believe it because I wanted to relax. I craved entertainment. I craved lighthearted socialization like a high school senior craves a Juul. I took the hit. Spent each day getting high on frivolity. Now, two weeks later, I pay the price.

Fear. I am not mad at myself for doing what I wanted. I am afraid of starting up again. Afraid that it will take days—but probably weeks—of failure and frustration to finally get back into a steady, productive workflow. Daily routine. Obligated focus. Effortless discipline. Making time to stretch. Making sure I write at least 1000 words a day.

My fear of starting up again is the product of denial. Denial, by definition, could not exist without unwanted truth. I don’t want it to be true, what I know and knew all along: I am setting myself back.

I have set myself back.

I will always be the person who sets myself back.

I am not mad at myself

because I have made peace with myself and the with the reason I make the decisions I make:

I always underestimate the poignancy of self-loathing.

Language and Imagery from Carmen Maria Machado's "Mothers"

I also have a couple interpretations of this short story. Perhaps I will share that another time, on another post. That is not what this post is about though. This post is simply a log of the lines I underlined while reading the short story, “Mothers” in Her Body and Other Parties by Carmen Maria Machado.

a crack that passes through her lip like she is dirt that never known rain

wide eyes that shimmer like Japanese beetles

a one-beer-deep feeling

The hard pears roll, and the overripe ones splat.

Identical tears slide down eye to ear on each side of her face, like a picture of a baby crying and not a baby at all.

A sea of hats and veils covered up women's updos, as per request of the couple.

a woman in a cummerbund swept by me. I became very conscious of the way I chewed.

something inside of my cracked open, and I let her step inside.

This baby's head is bothering me because it's like a piece of fruit gone bad. I understand that, now, in the middle of this endless desert of sound. It's like the soft spot on the peach that you can just plunge your thumb into, with no questions asked, with not so much as a how-do-you-do.

packing a glass bowl as she straddled me, poking the weed gently with her finger

the smoke crawled out of her mouth one limb at a time; an animal.

filling my lungs with a heady smoke

as we languished there, I felt my whole self loosening, my mind retreating to a place somewhere around my left ear

we drifted in water warm as soup

my legs gently scissored through the water

I felt like she was seared into my timeline, unchangeable as Pompeii

I would look over her smooth pale skin, the pink shock of her labia, and kiss her mouth in a way that sent quakes straight to my fault lines, and think, Thank god we cannot make a baby.

wiping soft little gnocchi pieces from the gabbling chin of a baby, of our baby.

in the good bed, as she slid her hand into me, and I pulled and she gave and I opened and she came without touching herself and I responded by losing all speech, I thought, Thank god we cannot make a baby.

a collection of six dozen mugs that we have found beautiful or ironic over the years,

a collection of glass jars, the labels peeled away

Two glass containers of milk, one good, one sour, a carton of half-and-half, birth control from the age of men that I still haven't thrown away, a near-black eggplant, a jar of horseradish the shape of a bar of soap, olives, sweet Italian peppers tense as hearts, soy sauce, bloody steaks hidden away in the dry fold of paper, leaking shamefully, a cheese drawer with balls of fresh mozzarella floating in their own milky-water broth, and salami with a dusty white tubing

In the freezer, cracked plastic ice trays with cubes swollen past their banks

shallots the size of fists

sesame oil whose glass bottle never seems to lose the greasy sheen on its outside no matter how many times it is wiped clean

a nightstand that, when opened reveals--shut that, please.

in the bathroom, a mirror flecked with mascara from when Bad leans in close, the amoeba of her breath growing and shrinking.

In the tangle of branches, baby birds--the gray and pink of half-cooked shrimp and with bones like dried spaghetti--scream for their mothers."

In the winter, the ground more exposed than we thought possible.

inside, parched and itchy skin, cool lotion whorled onto backs

holding each other in a pocket of warmth beneath the quilts

shoving aside Tupperware with velvety leftovers, a can wrapped in tinfoil

the smell of baby is replaced by something red-hot, like the burner of an electric stove with nothing on it.

I am a continent but I will not hold

she awkwardly addressed it in the hallway that afternoon, her hands twisting around the cap of a ballpoint pent...She accidentally flipped the cap out of her hands, and it went skittering down the long hallway.

Even as she vanished around the corner, I was still nodding.

I slept the kind of sleep where you wake up and know that you didn't flop around like a fucking hooked fish…

the bodies around me, rumpled and stale, do not react appreciatively to the silence or angrily to the sound, for which I am grateful

Here's a fucked up idea for an animated series

TV Guide is calling it “the most fucked up show on earth!”

Variety says “It’s both inaccurate and insensitive.”

Say hello to the most passive protagonist on television!

Rosemary!

Yes, that’s right. It’s 1941 and poor, lobotomized, Rosemary Kennedy, bound to her wheelchair and unable to communicate, is still managing to disobey her father as her cursed younger siblings take her with them on life-threatening adventures around the world.

“Goddamnit Rosemary, would you be more careful? You’re gonna get your brother killed!”

The key to loving yourself

is fascinating yourself.

But is fascinating yourself the same thing as entertaining yourself?

No:

Entertaining yourself

is fascinating yourself

without loving yourself.

Passing the time isn’t

the same thing as craving it.

[<-think on this] often means delete

An exact excerpt from the first draft of chapter 22. CJ whips Gerry on the calf with a saber at fencing practice:

You know when you’re little and your mom tells you that when a boy is mean to you, it means he likes you? Well, that’s garbage. Don’t take that shit from anyone. [<-think on this]

In the first draft of chapter 22, I wrote [<-think on this] because the sentence felt stale and unoriginal as I wrote it. When I went back to it, I realized that [<-think on this] was a note from my subconscious-editor-self to my future self, editing. A coded way of flagging what my gut already knew was self-righteousness,” produced by the Automated Writer in my head. I needed an example of what Maggie Nelson calls the “flimsy comebacks” that litter her first drafts before she edits them and this is one of them. “Don't take that shit from anyone,” is self-righteous garbage. I’m writing a novel, not a self-help book.

The Automated Writer in my head takes over my brain when I am tired, uninspired, or trying to write in vain. It digs the shallowest holes, picks the lowest hanging fruit, and is literally the voice of my "writer’s block.” Luckily though, even when my Automated Writer is dominant, my true, passionate, insatiable self is not completely dormant. She is whispering. She is arguing. She is telling me not to even bother writing at all. In that regard, I ignore her. Better to write and hate the garbage you wrote than to not write and lament the progress you could have made.

What I’m getting out now is: you need time. Time alone. Time to suck. Time to write in vain so that the next time you write is time to recognize. To re-think. Some people know exactly what they want to say and how without needing to work through any alternate iterations. In some parts of the novel, this is the case with me. But sometimes I need to write down the things I’m not trying to say in order to start saying the things I am.

It’s all the more reason why Maggie Nelson’s personal philosophy on social media rings true. She burns through flimsy comebacks, self-righteous platitudes so that her book can “keep thinking further.” She knows where she wants to go as a writer and that social media doesn’t enable the writing pattern for what she is trying to create.