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Semantic hegemony, if you know what I mean

  • Posted on July 5, 2012 at 11:38 pm

Sometimes things collide and I feel a small blog coming on. This one involves the proposition that, if gender had never been defined as strictly binary, and anyone could live anywhere in the spectrum they wished, would fewer people feel the need for a solely binary solution to their own gender identity?

A paper (‘Psychotherapy for Gender Identity Disorders’) by Az Hakeem was noted today, which proposed a form of group therapy to reduce gender dysphoria, where the author suggests that a body/mind disagreement can as equally be resolved by treating the mind or perception. His thesis that trans* people are more gender binary than cis folk is somewhat disingenuous of course, but he also proposes that sex is scientifically verifiable, whereas gender is a social construct.

Then a friend was enquiring about implications for reversing transition (which some do; it is why full transition is taken so cautiously and painfully slowly). Let’s face it, the road is very rough and the hatred and bigotry one meets requires an enormous resilience. Which is why I reckon I have never seen such generosity and such strength as I have among trans* people.

And then a relative (I have a very small extended family) that I was keeping in touch with over my own transition revealed a depth of bigotry such as I had not as yet encountered. One email a few months ago (no reply), then a helpful follow up yesterday, evoked thinly disguised hatred (or fear, I suspect) and a very commanding last word between us forever.

Finally, New Zealand is adding to the list of countries including a third gender on passports (Mx or X is used), which immediately presents non-binary or transitioning people as ‘other’, which, unless you are out and proud, and everyone is freely using a third gender in the day-to-day, is really not what you want.

And it’s all about semantics. Shared meaning and understanding.

As my last blog, words are everything when communicating. Lewis Carroll plays with this a lot in Alice in Wonderland (and Through the Looking Glass). Here is Humpty Dumpty:

‘When I use a word,’ Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, ‘it means just what I choose it to mean – neither more nor less.’

‘The question is,’ said Alice, ‘whether you can make words mean so many different things.’

‘The question is,’ said Humpty Dumpty, ‘which is to be master – that’s all.’

So when we talk about gender (sorry, I do, rather a lot because it’s a conundrum to me too – I had much the same education as you) we fall immediately into what the user of the word means. All words are made up, so the problem arises when different people don’t agree about the meaning or definition of a word, and whether complimentary terms are absolute or relative (eg, black/white versus light/dark). The result is that for me to really mean ‘dark’ I might feel obliged to use the term ‘black’ (or vice versa if I want to be less absolute).

Male and female are the chief cultural terms for gender, and the rest are constructs (andro-gynous; gender-neutral/queer etc.) so it is rather difficult if you are comfortable in the middle (non-binary) but have to fill in forms with M/F. And then you ask why the telecomms company actually needs to know, or the DVLA (are we really all gender-stereotypical drivers?). And then you ask what gender is anyway (covered in earlier posts here). The etymology of the term isn’t helpful, but meaning ‘kind’ (ie, distinguishing men and women) goes back to about the 14th century, but only came to be really useful when the term ‘sex’ started to get embarrassingly common in the 20th century in terms of activity. So it isn’t really very specific.

Who wins, Humpty?

You could be heading for a fall when the egg-heads disagree with little Alice. Is it an academic thing, defined by researchers? Or is it a colloquialism? And oh dear, when you prefix it with ‘trans’ you really stir things up, because what one trans* person claims it for is not the same for another. So the construct of gender is not so much a mental or psychological status as a social consensus on behaviour and presentation.

So back to our little coincidence of events today. How can we decide whether gender dysphoria, that feeling of mismatch between an assigned binary term (absolutist male or female) is a mental disorder, a physical disorder, or simply over-prescription of the need to associate sex-identification (physiological) with gender identification (social – no, not psychological!)? Tricky ground, and one that elsewhere has created very strong feelings. Is there a disorder at all, or is it just that because we don’t accommodate the non-binary or ambiguous or mixed presentation and behaviour, we artificially create a problem that need not exist?

Well, I have met enough different people to think that there are firm clinical and/or genetic roots for real ‘gender dysphoria’ at a profound physiological level – a clear awareness that the body does not fulfill the needs and expression of the psyche in terms of sex-differentiation. But also enough to feel that trans-binarism is not the only answer, and is entirely unsuitable for others. Women behave and dress as men frequently, but we go ape when a man dresses and behaves as a woman (even well, so let’s leave out the bizarre) – this is not, in my mind, a clear case of gender dysphoria, but social and cultural dysfunction. People should be free, but not obliged, to identify as non-binary, and free to live anywhere else in the spectrum they feel most appropriate, and that should be respected.

When someone undertakes the real life experience of their preferred (non-assigned) gender they really are finding out what it would be like to always be ‘the opposite’, and it may not fit well enough. And for others, even full transition with complete surgery is not enough for them to overcome feelings that they were ‘born wrong’. So freedom to identify in a fluid way is the socially mature way to regard gender. And finally, if we can sort out the use of ‘gender’ and ‘transgender’ flexibly enough through not needing to be prescriptive, we need to discard absolutism.

The case of my family member (‘relative’ seems strangely appropriate now), in all likelihood, is seated in religion. God made man and created them male and female. Well, did god create me? So whose fault in quality assurance am I? Old Testament absolutism is so riddled with fallacy that I shan’t discuss it here, except to say that the world’s major religions are founded on peace and love, and those who betray that ideal on spurious interpretations of ancient literature, may have to choose whether or not to shake my hand at the pearly gates as Saint Peter (and god) look on! What if they do, what if they don’t … ?

Food for love

  • Posted on July 1, 2012 at 8:04 am

How many words are there in the Inuit language, really, for snow? The myth is something like 400. But no, really there are no more terms than in English. [reference] It is a fond fancy that words separate things in degrees of sophistication, thus we evolve from ‘ug’ to: ‘that is very gracious of you, indeed generous, and I am grateful to avail myself of your munificence’ because we need to know what ‘ug’ really means. Maybe it’s the gruff acknowledgement of a morning cup of tea before we’re ready to be awake, maybe it’s the careful response to something that seems too good to be true, or the only thing a person can say after rescue from a fallen building. It needs interpreatation.

The state of snow does matter. Maybe not to me, but if I lived in it and with it all the time and my life depended on it, I would want to say a bit more than ‘it’s snowing!’. Words can over-prescribe, and words can lead us astray.

Words for love

It is as well known that in the New Testament, in the common Greek language of the time, there are four words for ‘love’. C S Lewis wrote a book in 1960 called The Four Loves, with his own Christian perspective on this, though of course they are not religious words in any sense, it’s just where most of us might come up against koine (common) Greek of the time. Are these any different from words we use, that are not translated into just one word in another language? The four terms are:

  • storge (pr. stor-gay), described as affection or fondness
  • philia, familial or friendship
  • eros, from which we derive erotic, including romance
  • agape (pr. a-ga-pay), meaning unconditional love

These are nouns, names for love relationships. Where are the verbs? That is where the problems begin linguistically.

We, in modern English, of course understate our love, because we fear to imply too much. ‘I love these biscuits’ is not the same as looking into another’s eyes and saying ‘I love you’. And when we make vows in marriage or promises in partnership, we do not mean unconditional love, any more than having sex because you both want it means a lifelong commitment! We have friends to whom we sign ‘love’ in an email, but are even cautious saying it out loud to a sibling. And there is as much power in saying the opposite. ‘I don’t love these biscuits’ means not terribly fond of them. But to say ‘I don’t love you’ is a warning, an assertion of a not-feeling. Thus to stop saying ‘I love you’ is a withdrawal that can leave just as powerful a message, and can say too much.

Muesli

And so it is that the word ‘love’ can mean anything or nothing, and we are afraid to use it, and when we do, afraid it means something different to the receiver, inviting something we do not want. Why are we afraid of the meanings of love? Are they as simple as four Greek roots? Do the words dictate what we can say or do or mean? Are they mutually exclusive terms? Of course not. I was musing on love described by analogy rather than semantics. What if we describe love of people differently (leaving biscuits out of it for a moment):

  • bread and water love: basic sustenance that keeps someone alive. We give it a lot, in many ways.
  • sugar love: high energy, fast-acting, exciting and with short effect. We give it in the moment, but don’t store it for long.
  • bagel love: we put a comforting ring around another and feed them, but we avoid the centre. Some personal space is reserved, but we recognise it is there.
  • muesli love: everything is in here, richness, variety, lasting nourishment, commitment to digesting it, and yet energy too. In a way it includes all the others.

Maybe you can think of more. But by analogies we avoid the false attachments of what we give to family, casual friends, ‘lovers’ and life partners. It also dissociates love from mode. You don’t have to see ‘sex’ in ‘eros’, or ‘tendencies’ in ‘~philia’.

Hung up on love

Love grows and love changes. We may start by offering bread and water, and see it develop into bagel love for a lifetime. We may be bagel people who comfort passing friends frequently and freely. Sugar love may be great to begin with and become less important as time goes by. Maybe your kind of muesli isn’t as sweet as mine, or needs a particular balance of fruit and nuts. For many people, what started with sugar love grows and matures into muesli love. Or bread and water starts to feel better with jam, or bagels that never connect with the middle become too inadequate an offering.

If you gave me four boxes, each containing one of those first Greek loves, and asked me to choose, I would want more than one from anyone who really shared my life deeply. If you countered my choice by saying, ‘Oh, sorry, I meant to say, girls can’t have that one’ I would feel hurt. Similarly, if one day you turned up with a choice of one instead of all, I would feel quite rejected: why stop saying you love me if you don’t mean something very significant? Well, we have all broken up with a boyfriend or girlfriend, and this is what happens. Un-loving someone hurts, even at the bread and jam stage.

But if we thought of the analogies instead, would we explain ourselves better? If my muesli love, developed after many years through commitment and deep giving, had fewer nuts, that might be a better option than being downgraded to bagel love, whatever the filling. And by dissociating love from sex, might enable different kinds of intimacy, free from the guilt of our mental and social conditioning. Taking muesli off the shelf because it has ‘the wrong kind of nuts’ is a very radical thing to do, and bagels do leave a big hole in the middle.

Yes, my discussion is quite transparent, because it affects so many couples with long partnerships, where one has gender dysphoria. Their love may have become very rich over time, but because the gender nuts in the muesli love are wrong, over-dependency on sex-difference forces the whole pack from the shelf. Muesli love enables you, or empowers you, to say ‘I love you’. Bagel love is very cautious. ‘Love’ implies too much, and ‘I love you’ is withdrawn. ‘We can still be friends’ has been uttered so many times by girls and boys trying to break up nicely, and we all know it can be true; but really it means bread and water for you from now on.

It isn’t an argument or a persuasion, it is just what I experience in becoming forbidden to love and show love with muesli. I understand completely that being revealed as female means I would never have been chosen that way. My role was husband, it’s just that no-one noticed I was running in girls’ shoes. But I was chosen and, I hoped, chosen for myself, not just my nuts. The muesli love has been good. Why is it now so bad, having had decades to prove its value? Is it because a box marked ‘eros’ is forbidden between females? Why is it so feared or disliked? Did I not do eros sincerely? Why are the nuts now so bitter just because their true colour is revealed?

Most of us never have to face this. Life is simple when boys are boys and girls are girls, and eros has a very particular place. It becomes a base for intimacy, it becomes synonymous. For those of us in a less simplistic place, eros takes intimacy with it, muesli is off the shelf, and we are in a very lonely place – often for the rest of our lives. I just want love to be rich, unbound by the ‘serving suggestion’ on the outside that says it should be taken a particular way. I don’t want it to be all or nothing, based on my bits. I don’t want to throw away something very good, tested, proven over half a lifetime and sustaining, just because ‘I’m not the kind of girl who does that’. I want love not to be about sex, but about trust and vulnerability, where touch is genuine expression, not invasion of privacy, where the next kiss after ten thousand is meant and received the same as it always was. I want love to be something treasured because of what it has come to mean, because it is mature and rich. I want muesli, not two out of four boxes of Greek love. I want to be loved for myself, not my nuts.

And I want to be able to offer my bowl of muesli as welcome nourishment too, not to find it is always ‘the wrong sort’.

 

The strangeness of memory

  • Posted on June 29, 2012 at 11:27 pm

What was it I said?

Yesterday does not exist, tomorrow does not exist. There is only now.
For yesterday is just our interpretations and tomorrow is just our imaginings.

Something like that. And we all know that memories are not photographic, but filtered by meaning, so that we remember in a way tempered by significance and emotion, and that false memories can be evoked. This is why memories can sometimes be echoes: memories of memories. Do I really remember lying alone in a pram? The braiding around the hood? Or do I remember recalling this, albeit at a very early age? And it is why memories can still hurt for a lifetime. We remember the pain with the memory, and never reinterpret it. Maybe the real purpose of memory is not to have a nice mental photo album or video diary, but to retain significance as an advantage for survival. So a bird can return to its nest after migration, and an eel or a salmon its spawning ground, or a penguin find its partner after a season at sea. If so, memory is complex, involving not just the obvious cues such as visual and olfactory, but other things, such as the subtle patterns of magnetic fields. The bee’s waggle dance that directs its fellows to nectar is not exactly a satnav, but much more subtle. Indeed there are possible clues of awareness of quantum fields (read here if you want to know the mathematical trail).

So what we store, how and where, when we create memories is very interesting indeed, and anything but a simple recording of events.

Memory and time

One of the strange effects I have felt in recent months is my own memories of self, but whether it demonstrates the reliability of memory or its unreliability, I’m really not sure. Someone came up to me this week, said a very bright ‘hello!’ and shook my hand, and launched into conversation. Which was fine, except they hadn’t see me as a woman before, hadn’t been told, and showed no flicker of strangeness, despite not having seen each other for a few years. OK, I am recognisable, to the extent that I got away with a new passport photo without needing a new witness to it. The eyes, nose, mouth alignments are, of course exactly as they were. No, I wasn’t disappointed not to be complimented on my new look (and certainly not to get the usual ‘goodness, you are brave!’). Really it reminded me of my own memories of self.

Just a few months ago I was still presenting a male persona at least half of the time, and I wrote about the odd experience one day, looking at myself in the usual trousers and shirt, and thinking: ‘why am I wearing someone else’s clothes?’ That was a point at which cross-dressing meant wearing male clothes. Now, it seems my memories, like a sponge, are soaking back my feminine awareness and resolution, such that it is actually hard to recall what it felt like to ‘be a man’. It is as if I have always been this, so I expect my memories to be the memories of a woman. Certainly there is no memory of it being very different, only that the struggle has gone from those memories. Everything that felt wrong, now has meaning and a place to be. Everything that I remember of me now comes from me, not from the façade I lived behind. The little ways I was ‘different’, the inner intentions I always had, as well as the yearnings and sense of displacement or not belonging, have become rooted in my female self where they always belonged, and it is the male persona that is becoming detached. My past is becoming my past, not to change it, but to own it properly, as if it never really belonged to ‘him’ – who no longer has a purpose, served well in the circumstances, but now has long retired, remaining only in memory as a fact.

Significance

I rather like this rediscovery of self. It explains so much and takes away the crisis of becoming something new in front of everyone I know. It also means that I don’t disown my past, I don’t feel guilty, and there is no severance of self. Of course this isn’t how everyone else sees it. For the caterpillar lovers, this butterfly is strange indeed, and will be a curiosity for a while to come. It is new, previously unknown. And so they don’t know that it was me all along, beneath the male façade, that this was who was living, loving, giving, working, playing the music and painting the days. And which is why my deepest grief is that, having put matters right, having arrived at this understanding, this realisation of where I have always been coming from – I am met with lack of recognition, and all my access codes are denied, sometimes in the places that matter most.

All my memories are mine (ever bought a new computer and transferred all your creative writing, and felt the sense of relief at it all being there?). I really was there! But I was there, and now I know who I was all along. That is something I guess you can never quite know in the same way, and so to some, I am different and ‘he’ was another person. But I have the easier explanation, in which no-one dies. When Copernicus asserted that the Earth went around the Sun, he simply made the explanation, the mathematics, very easy. You can do the maths based on geocentricity, but it’s awfully complex stuff! I’m glad to leave the complexity behind, but I recognise Copernicus had a hard time of it too.

Tapestry

  • Posted on June 19, 2012 at 10:03 am

For something we see so little of, the tapestry is a rich source of imagery and metaphor. Once the rich man’s insulating wallpaper, now we tend to see them in dark rooms, faded or disintegrating, protected from the light, their rich colours gone. And yet ‘all part of life’s rich tapestry’ and ideas of crimson threads through the picture remind us that life is a painstaking picture full of many juxtapositions, characters, journeys.

It’s there in the continuity of the stitches, the first use of the pixel or picture element, long predating pointillism too. I hope I have a long canvas left still to be stitched, but what I am seeing so far is a lot of completed journey, a band of work in progress, and a need for a lot more thread. Crimson or otherwise. In graphic design we talk of ‘graduated tints’ where one colour blends into another seamlessly, and I love the way Dru Marland uses natural skies at dawn or dusk as such backgrounds to her illustrations. You have to stand back from old tapestries a bit to see it, but they did their best with the treads they had.

My tapestry has such a graduated tint in its background. We could stereotype it from blue to pink I guess, but that only helps explain what I mean rather than being the colours I would choose. But I see it as a dawn sky rather than a dusk, as light arriving rather than fading, and the continuous whole has a dawning meaning too, a realisation of how the picture is.

Tapestries of course were very expensive, and therefore they got reused, sometimes in parts if the whole was damaged. So you can come across captured scenes in smaller, rebordered tapestries, that are just a glimpse of the whole picture, and which can be very misleading! I imagine the rescued parts made a pleasing picture, and sometimes it might have been a way of losing the bit that was never liked, or keeping the bit that was special.

To some people, it appears I have two tapestries. One that was cut short and a new one started, using ideas of the first, but so different it is a piece on its own. Some people never saw the beginning part in all its freshness, and it is a dim and incomprehensible picture. So the question as always is: wherein lies the continuity? New friends would be very surprised to have the early work interpreted, but I know they wouldn’t ask it to be cut away. I don’t disown it either – it is my story (his story if you want the pun). Some so liked the old, before the dawning light that they would rather cut it off and keep it, as a story ended. And as I stitch away, pixel by pixel, some watch with fascination as the picture emerges, while others ‘rather liked his early work – shame about the new, I really wouldn’t have that on my wall!’

But my tapestry, incomplete as it is, has a beauty of its own, as a unique journey, maybe as my insulation against the winds of life, here in this blog as an illustration for others to see and appreciate (or otherwise). And it is one complete whole. The figure in the top left corner, the character in each vignette (woops! an anachronism for tapestry!) is me. If you cut away the bit you liked you are making a statement about tapestries and how they may be used or reused, but you are also destroying my picture, making my integrity impossible to see or hold.

I like Carol King and have listened to her since my teens. I remember the words of her classic ‘Tapestry’ very well (in full here) including:

My life has been a tapestry of rich and royal hue
An everlasting vision of the everchanging view
A wondrous woven magic in bits of blue and gold
A tapestry to feel and see, impossible to hold

I’m not saying it’s my story, I just like it! And for those who click to the lyrics, or rememebr – I have not turned into a toad.

First Fathers’ Day

  • Posted on June 17, 2012 at 7:58 am
This poem celebrates those who find a way to be both trans* and a parent. It is based on something I heard last year, which was lovely. This year is my first such day, and I hope one day I might read it as my own.

I couldn’t find a card
so I drew this flower instead
and wondered if we should
switch to Mothers’ Day.

No. You’re Dad, this is yours and
I never knew your breasts.
Which I still can’t understand
but I do like your dress.

Shall we go out then?
It’s your day, not any day
and I still love you and nothing
changes me from daughter.

Let’s just remember I’m your girl.
Let’s play Daughter’s Day to celebrate
the one who fathered, nurtured, cared
and loved me into who I am.

That’s what we are.
What we always shall be.
Here, I bought you this necklace.
It’s very pretty, don’t you think?

2012 © Andie Davidson

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