Calliope
05-19-2008, 08:57 PM
The beautiful city of Solla Sollew,
on the banks of the beautiful River Wahoo,
where they never have troubles
~ or at least, very few.
With the exception of a little grunge in my Communities article,* I've pretty well sung rhapsodic about my utopian adventure. Now, as I approach my 6-month anniversary here as a provisional member, I will find out whether or not the community (voting in a "poll") has accepted me as a full member. This missive will address some of the heretofore unmentioned less-than-rhapsodic experiences I've encountered.
* I'll be relieved when the next issue comes out. I'm beyond the mainstream terminology employed in "Transgendered at Twin Oaks," and I regret the concession made to convention. This is especially salient when visitors and guests of Twin Oaks come up to me and comment about my piece. Often these individuals come on like tourists, gushing forth with overly familiar observations and questions. Sigh, that's what I get for being a publicity ****.
Is it transphobia yet?
Most of the women at Twin Oaks have embraced me warmly ~ and authentically. There are a few, alas, that treat me too kindly ~ that is, they condescendingly applaud my "outness" and "queerness" and, despite my requests to retire T terminology, speak of and to me like I am a fascination, a specimen, a figurehead, a token. Boring ~ and unwarranted. I'll be happy to have others wave "the flag," whatever that is; just don't try to define mine, ladies. I am not a "gender****er," I am not gay, I am not queer. I am a woman with too much testosterone. Period. And permit me to add: I do not wish to receive "lessons," "advice" or "tips" on how to "act" more "female." Am I your freakshow? Maybe you're mine.
I do occasion to receive some "feminist feedback." On the eve of my poll, I was asked to sit down with a member to get an earful of what womanhood "really is." This from someone 25 years my junior. "As a strong woman breaking gender stereotypes, I'm uncomfortable with your implication cooking, laundry and fabric work are 'girl jobs'." I'm sorry, dear, when I grew up in the Sixties, that's what they were; it was a very gendered world ~ and I spent my entire life on the wrong side of that world craving it, missing it. Unlike you ~ born in the Eighties ~ I didn't have the opportunity you take for granted of rebelling against these "gender stereotypes." All I got was empty space. Maybe I'll be "strong woman" after I get my girlhood first.
A few of the guys here, admittedly, are covert and creepy. There's still a few dickheads who "he" me. Speaking of whom, one guy is so politically feminist correct (when he's not busy wolfing college-age female visitors) he lobbied the community to ban my perfume; he wishes I would stop being "stereotypically feminine" and even suggests I eschew wearing makeup. Not to make me vulnerable, it's just he wants to "break gender barriers." Maybe he should shave off his beard. And there's guys who oogle me, even flirt me up, then direct their attentions to the "real" girls. Freaky, skirt-wearing, free-lovin' communards ~ all afraid, if they pursue me, they'll be considered, what, fags. Fine by me, I'll always have Craigslist if I need a "real" man.
And, sure, there's a couple of folks who object to me bringing dates to Twin Oaks. Not like there's any shortage of off-the-farm paramours, acquaintances, friends-of-a-friend, who-knows-who's and verifiable substance abusers hanging out and sleeping over at Twin Oaks, often for days on end. But, we all know, my guests are different, they're undoubtedly dangerous perverts. After all, who else would want to have dinner and a drink with someone like me? "I'm uncomfortable," "you're putting the community at risk" and "concern about outsiders in my home." PC code. Silence of the Lambs. One person told me, "we don't want to have any scenes with guys abusing you in the dining hall." Are you for real?
Speaking of abuse, here's the kicker.
Just the other night, as I anxiously awaited the results of my full member poll, someone I dine with almost every night regaled me with this: "Well, you might think you're a woman, Calliope, but I know you're just a gay man with a princess complex. I've met crossdressers before, and I know you're mentally ill. Anorexic, too.* We all know, though ~ word has it you've got the biggest penis here on the farm." I told her, "That's the most offensive thing I ever heard in my life; please stop." She riffed a bit more, then informed me she could change her positive vote for my membership to a negative one. I don't know if she was high, or decompensated, but, wtf, I came to utopia ... to receive the clocking of a lifetime?
* Sure enough, this from someone over 200 lbs. Don't take it out on me because you've had seconds on chocolate cake for 30 years, bitch. Guess what? Hunger is normal. Most people inhabiting this planet throughout history have been hungry most the time. The same goes for the majority of people alive right now. Hunger is a socio-historical baseline for humanity; it's fat ****s who are the anomaly.
Don't misunderstood me. I love this place. I love the idea, the structure, the land and most of the citizens. I've put a lot of effort into being here. But I reserve the right to follow Twin Oaks' founder Kat Kinkade's example of intermittent reaction and debunking (as illustrated by her many passages in Is It Utopia Yet?). I'm, occasionally, a cranky old broad. I've worked my ass off for 6 months, I've left a lot behind, I've paid some dues for sure, all the while hearing everyone refer to Twin Oaks as "their home." Isn't it time it gets to be "my home," too?
_________________
May 19th arrives, it's sunny and mild. Birds are chirping, strawberries are growing.
I get up and into my hotshit New Religion jeans with a pink rock&roll tank ~ I look fabulous. A woman inhabits my mirror. And it's evident ~ the gals fixing their breakfasts in Llano are scoping me out, Suede (a total cutie) compliments my "cute outfit" and Tom (TO's total Lotherio) nearly stumbles down the stairs checking me out. A cup of instant coffee, a handrolled smoke and a couple of blasting Britney tunes in Compost Cafe later, I'm ready for my big day.
Even though it's my "day off," I vacuum the hammock shop, clean the Product Office potty, get some Commie Clothes going and finish off the Aurora prep. Looking good. I keep up with my business.
I notice Claire wearing one of my CC display outfits, which is gratifying. Hanging up laundry, Pam approaches me to compliment me on my attempts to keep guests out of CC; wow, Pam, previously my loudest detractor, what an auspicious indication I've made my place here. And I so want this to be my place ~ especially after Mala showed me the winter 2003 Bust article about Twin Oaks (the "Feminist Ecovillage") entitled "Exile in Girlville."
Girlville.
As I type these words, Hawina (Memeber Team honcho, and my guardian angel throughout my visitor program/prospective membership tribulations) appears by my side and gives me the thumbs up.* All I can do is breathe out, shoulder slumping with unrestrained relief. She hugs me, quickly disappears and I continue typing. 10 months after getting kicked, penniless and humiliated, out of a 10-year divorce, I have landed on my feet. I found a home. Not utopia yet ~ but sure as hell worth fighting for.
* The official results were 44 for membership, 2 against. One was the lady who clocked me severely, she sure made good on her threat. OK, double karma. The other person was, and this is fascinating, this member Sam. Sam and I have have some late-night intellectual conversations, and maybe, I thought, meow, he's kinda cute. Sam once confided in me about his inability to find a girlfriend at Twin Oaks. All the gals here reject him. "Problem solved," I replied, "I'll be proud to be your girl." Nope, he said, he saw me as a, well, you know. Big sigh, too bad. Anyway, he voted ~ vigorously and vociferously ~ to not accept me as a member. Hmmm, Sam didn't want me as his lover but got to **** me anyway. (Burning bridges is one way to quash temptation, I suppose.)
So, here I am.
Now my troubles are going to have trouble with me.
on the banks of the beautiful River Wahoo,
where they never have troubles
~ or at least, very few.
With the exception of a little grunge in my Communities article,* I've pretty well sung rhapsodic about my utopian adventure. Now, as I approach my 6-month anniversary here as a provisional member, I will find out whether or not the community (voting in a "poll") has accepted me as a full member. This missive will address some of the heretofore unmentioned less-than-rhapsodic experiences I've encountered.
* I'll be relieved when the next issue comes out. I'm beyond the mainstream terminology employed in "Transgendered at Twin Oaks," and I regret the concession made to convention. This is especially salient when visitors and guests of Twin Oaks come up to me and comment about my piece. Often these individuals come on like tourists, gushing forth with overly familiar observations and questions. Sigh, that's what I get for being a publicity ****.
Is it transphobia yet?
Most of the women at Twin Oaks have embraced me warmly ~ and authentically. There are a few, alas, that treat me too kindly ~ that is, they condescendingly applaud my "outness" and "queerness" and, despite my requests to retire T terminology, speak of and to me like I am a fascination, a specimen, a figurehead, a token. Boring ~ and unwarranted. I'll be happy to have others wave "the flag," whatever that is; just don't try to define mine, ladies. I am not a "gender****er," I am not gay, I am not queer. I am a woman with too much testosterone. Period. And permit me to add: I do not wish to receive "lessons," "advice" or "tips" on how to "act" more "female." Am I your freakshow? Maybe you're mine.
I do occasion to receive some "feminist feedback." On the eve of my poll, I was asked to sit down with a member to get an earful of what womanhood "really is." This from someone 25 years my junior. "As a strong woman breaking gender stereotypes, I'm uncomfortable with your implication cooking, laundry and fabric work are 'girl jobs'." I'm sorry, dear, when I grew up in the Sixties, that's what they were; it was a very gendered world ~ and I spent my entire life on the wrong side of that world craving it, missing it. Unlike you ~ born in the Eighties ~ I didn't have the opportunity you take for granted of rebelling against these "gender stereotypes." All I got was empty space. Maybe I'll be "strong woman" after I get my girlhood first.
A few of the guys here, admittedly, are covert and creepy. There's still a few dickheads who "he" me. Speaking of whom, one guy is so politically feminist correct (when he's not busy wolfing college-age female visitors) he lobbied the community to ban my perfume; he wishes I would stop being "stereotypically feminine" and even suggests I eschew wearing makeup. Not to make me vulnerable, it's just he wants to "break gender barriers." Maybe he should shave off his beard. And there's guys who oogle me, even flirt me up, then direct their attentions to the "real" girls. Freaky, skirt-wearing, free-lovin' communards ~ all afraid, if they pursue me, they'll be considered, what, fags. Fine by me, I'll always have Craigslist if I need a "real" man.
And, sure, there's a couple of folks who object to me bringing dates to Twin Oaks. Not like there's any shortage of off-the-farm paramours, acquaintances, friends-of-a-friend, who-knows-who's and verifiable substance abusers hanging out and sleeping over at Twin Oaks, often for days on end. But, we all know, my guests are different, they're undoubtedly dangerous perverts. After all, who else would want to have dinner and a drink with someone like me? "I'm uncomfortable," "you're putting the community at risk" and "concern about outsiders in my home." PC code. Silence of the Lambs. One person told me, "we don't want to have any scenes with guys abusing you in the dining hall." Are you for real?
Speaking of abuse, here's the kicker.
Just the other night, as I anxiously awaited the results of my full member poll, someone I dine with almost every night regaled me with this: "Well, you might think you're a woman, Calliope, but I know you're just a gay man with a princess complex. I've met crossdressers before, and I know you're mentally ill. Anorexic, too.* We all know, though ~ word has it you've got the biggest penis here on the farm." I told her, "That's the most offensive thing I ever heard in my life; please stop." She riffed a bit more, then informed me she could change her positive vote for my membership to a negative one. I don't know if she was high, or decompensated, but, wtf, I came to utopia ... to receive the clocking of a lifetime?
* Sure enough, this from someone over 200 lbs. Don't take it out on me because you've had seconds on chocolate cake for 30 years, bitch. Guess what? Hunger is normal. Most people inhabiting this planet throughout history have been hungry most the time. The same goes for the majority of people alive right now. Hunger is a socio-historical baseline for humanity; it's fat ****s who are the anomaly.
Don't misunderstood me. I love this place. I love the idea, the structure, the land and most of the citizens. I've put a lot of effort into being here. But I reserve the right to follow Twin Oaks' founder Kat Kinkade's example of intermittent reaction and debunking (as illustrated by her many passages in Is It Utopia Yet?). I'm, occasionally, a cranky old broad. I've worked my ass off for 6 months, I've left a lot behind, I've paid some dues for sure, all the while hearing everyone refer to Twin Oaks as "their home." Isn't it time it gets to be "my home," too?
_________________
May 19th arrives, it's sunny and mild. Birds are chirping, strawberries are growing.
I get up and into my hotshit New Religion jeans with a pink rock&roll tank ~ I look fabulous. A woman inhabits my mirror. And it's evident ~ the gals fixing their breakfasts in Llano are scoping me out, Suede (a total cutie) compliments my "cute outfit" and Tom (TO's total Lotherio) nearly stumbles down the stairs checking me out. A cup of instant coffee, a handrolled smoke and a couple of blasting Britney tunes in Compost Cafe later, I'm ready for my big day.
Even though it's my "day off," I vacuum the hammock shop, clean the Product Office potty, get some Commie Clothes going and finish off the Aurora prep. Looking good. I keep up with my business.
I notice Claire wearing one of my CC display outfits, which is gratifying. Hanging up laundry, Pam approaches me to compliment me on my attempts to keep guests out of CC; wow, Pam, previously my loudest detractor, what an auspicious indication I've made my place here. And I so want this to be my place ~ especially after Mala showed me the winter 2003 Bust article about Twin Oaks (the "Feminist Ecovillage") entitled "Exile in Girlville."
Girlville.
As I type these words, Hawina (Memeber Team honcho, and my guardian angel throughout my visitor program/prospective membership tribulations) appears by my side and gives me the thumbs up.* All I can do is breathe out, shoulder slumping with unrestrained relief. She hugs me, quickly disappears and I continue typing. 10 months after getting kicked, penniless and humiliated, out of a 10-year divorce, I have landed on my feet. I found a home. Not utopia yet ~ but sure as hell worth fighting for.
* The official results were 44 for membership, 2 against. One was the lady who clocked me severely, she sure made good on her threat. OK, double karma. The other person was, and this is fascinating, this member Sam. Sam and I have have some late-night intellectual conversations, and maybe, I thought, meow, he's kinda cute. Sam once confided in me about his inability to find a girlfriend at Twin Oaks. All the gals here reject him. "Problem solved," I replied, "I'll be proud to be your girl." Nope, he said, he saw me as a, well, you know. Big sigh, too bad. Anyway, he voted ~ vigorously and vociferously ~ to not accept me as a member. Hmmm, Sam didn't want me as his lover but got to **** me anyway. (Burning bridges is one way to quash temptation, I suppose.)
So, here I am.
Now my troubles are going to have trouble with me.