Not Angry, Just Disappointed; September 1 2019

Content warning: mass shooting mention.

I’m not going to write about mass shootings again.

Nope. Not gonna.

Yet again, there were multiple mass shootings in the United States in one day. That was a thing that happened. Sure was. But I’m not gonna talk about it.

This blog is called ‘the irritable queer’, and this does not make me irritable. I am defeated and I’m sad and I’m done, but not angry. Maybe anger will come later. I sure hope so, because outrage implies that I expect better. Right now, North America is a hopeless cesspool, so why should I think the government would start valuing lives now?

Exactly. Not gonna happen. So, I’m gonna write about internalized transphobia and inappropriate behaviour from trans men.

I was on this informational panel, once. The only femme-presenting trans male amidst two other trans men, and one trans woman. Now, this will not come as a shock to people who didn’t know, but trans men are not immune to being misogynistic. At every opportunity, my fellow men cut off the woman while she was speaking, talked right over, or stepped in to answer questions that she was more qualified to answer.

This angered me, but didn’t shock me. Just like I wasn’t surprised that, despite the fact that I was moderating/leading this panel, a ‘more trans’ trans man steamrolled over my attempts to guide the conversation. (More trans here meaning, he looked more masculine and has been privileged enough to afford HRT, which somehow made him more qualified?)

What shut me down with anger was the moment this man reached into his pants and pulled out his packer to show the audience.

This was not an 18+ audience. This was not an audience who consented to seeing genitalia, be it flesh or otherwise.

“But Red, how is that the same as a man flashing people his junk?”

Well, random reader at the back of the class, I don’t think I should have to explain how that’s innocuously transphobic, but I’m going to because I don’t think it occurs to people how messed up that is. This man pulled out his penis to show a crowd, and the only argument that could possibly be made as to why that might be acceptable is ‘it’s not a real penis’.

Yes, it is. It’s a trans man’s penis. One on level, a packer is a tool to alleviate dysphoria, but on another... It’s a penis. To argue that it isn’t a ‘real penis’ is a step from saying that a trans man isn’t a ‘real man’.

It might not offend everyone to see a packer pulled out of a guy’s pants, but it sure as hell offended me. I had no desire to see this guy’s package. The audience hadn’t consented to seeing it, and he hadn’t asked beforehand. It would have been one thing to bring along a packer, unused, and let the audience know that we had one if they wanted to come up after the presentation to see it. This crossed a line.

Think before you show people your genitals, people.

Now, in my desperate attempt to keep myself from thinking about children being shot in the face in America... I’ll write some story!

“... ‘Everything’ is a lot to be wrong about. Could you narrow it down to the parts that involve me?”

I was, generously put, disinclined to be part of a conversation that didn’t include an apology. Leander had never wronged me directly – no more than anyone else in town – but I wasn’t in the mood to hear someone stew in self-centred regret.

“I have a lot of questions. A lot of new ideas, in my brain,” Leander said. “You’re the only person around who might have answers.”

“Because of the speaking-to-the-goddesses-thing?”

“Because of the speaking-to-the-goddesses-thing,” he confirmed. “But, this goes beyond seeking knowledge. I want to know, before anything else, how I can make things right with you.”

I arched an eyebrow.

“This entire town has treated you wrongly,” Leander said, seemingly into his coffee cup. Maybe he was addressing the beverage. “I can’t imagine what it was like to never have anyone believe you. What can I do to start setting things right?”