My day begins with an exam. No midterms, no true or false nor multiple choice. Instead, I grapple with truths and falsehoods.
Yes, I was born a man.
Yes, I have broad shoulders and thick limbs.
No, my body does not define who I want to be.
Yes, I’m sure this is what I want.
No, I don’t care what you think.
Am I cisgendered, transgender, delusional or all of the above?
Sometimes the questions don’t make sense.
But I’m more scared of questions that do exist and I cannot answer.
My day starts in my throat. It jumps out of my mouth and proclaims to the world my exuberant confidence, bordering on arrogance. Like a queer Avatar, my day can navigate all elements. A good day becomes earth when I harden my mind and body against the prying eyes of Upper Sproul. A good day becomes fire when I am misgendered or invalidated. A good day becomes air when I find a gale force motivation to attend all my classes. A good day becomes water when I spill myself out of cups and vases to demonstrate that I am constantly in motion, in any shape I please, not one I am bottled into.
Sometimes my day is a lump in my throat that should be swallowed.
I’m a recluse.
I’m Boo Radley without the heroism.
I’m Stonewall Inn without the pride.
I’m “Brokeback Mountain” where Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger fuck in a tent in Montana and then are lynched by homophobic mobs.
I’m “Brokeback Mountain” where cisgendered, heterosexual men such as Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger wear the skin of queer corpses that litter sidewalks, childhood bedrooms and brothels.
I am the lamb from Jodie Foster’s childhood sent to slaughter in “Silence of the Lambs.”
Painfully, I’ll never look like Jodie Foster. But at least she’s a lesbian.
Around 6:30 p.m., someone walks up to me after my political science lecture and tells me that they liked my column and thought my anecdote was heartfelt and empowering. I start to worry that I’ve made my stories too accessible. Here I am again, rambling on with my stories. I publish them in a column that’s read by people I’ve never met. I wonder how many of my readers would stare at me if I saw them on the street. I want to count how many of my stories have become low resolution screenshots from Tumblr. If I see you share these on Facebook, I’ll react with the angry emoji but I probably won’t confront you because maybe anyone sharing my story is a good thing.
Exposure and discourse are paramount to political and legislative success, so maybe I should let my stories become ammunition in a political war. If my stories are bullets in the war for gender-neutral bathrooms, more accessible hormone therapy and workplace protections, then I’m the transgender Rosie the Riveter, contributing to the war effort. But I’m not sure I agreed to make bullets and bombs, I’m not sure I agreed to be Rosie the Riveter when I just wanted to be Rosie.
People want me to tell stories. They attempt to coax them out with lots of questions through which I could insert a concise, tear-jerking anecdote. They know violence against the queer is historical fact, and they want my stories as primary sources.
They ask or interrogate, “What did your parents first say when you mentioned you were transgender? Did they flip out? Were they angry? Were you scared?”
They want to hear queer stories but maybe not my stories. They want to hear stories that they know, that they expect. Stories of oppression, of violence, of martyrdom. After all, an angry mob lynches Jake Gyllenhaal in “Brokeback Mountain.” After all, that is what’s so moving about the queer experience right? That is what galvanizes political movements after all.
Harvey Milk was openly gay, and I’m sure he told his share of stories. Later, he ran for office and became a martyr. Now his name floats on the intersection of Market and Castro streets as Harvey Milk Plaza. I’m not sure I like the idea of spending my time in the afterlife as a plaza, as a historical monument. Imagine how many thousands of tourists walk all over that plaza without knowing who he is, only that he died for queer rights. Imagine how many politicians — who’ve never treated queer people as anything more than soundbites — give stump speeches at that plaza.
My day ends because I’m alive, because my heart still beats, because I need to sleep, to rest. I brush my teeth and go to bed because I wasn’t turned into a martyr. I close my eyes and drift off because, for now, I don’t need to tell stories, to fire shots, to fight. I sleep because I’m a human being. I’m a person, with limbs that ache, a heart that feels and a brain that thinks. My day ends because I’m not just a sad story to agonize over, a nightmare that never ends.
My day begins again because my stories don’t end.
J Jung writes the Wednesday blog on genderqueerness and transitioning. Contact her at jjung@dailycal.org.