I wrote some stuff here, but mostly Meg has some great insights, thoughts, questions. When we each stop procrastinating from our PhDs, actually hand in the work we have due, and take a break, I hope we write more about this together. I think it would be really super if DUDE had an issue on sexual violence at some point in the future. There’s so much to say, to ask, to interrogate…
Tag Archives: transboi feminism
check out my interview with Art about acquiring surgery not testosterone on DUDE 2 EXTENDED:
I like to think I don’t care which pronouns people use. But…I do. I guess I just like to be open about which pronouns people use because I don’t like stability, or being boxed in to something rigid. But the thing that disconcerts me is the reasons people use she/her/hers pronouns for me. Because if it’s just that they decide I am “female-bodied” – that’s not really cool. It’s true that I use and prefer he/him/his pronouns. And that my friends use them to describe me. But I do want to be cool with people using feminine pronouns. But I want to know what their reasons are for doing so. Leslie Feinberg is pretty awesome at being cool with people using different pronouns, so long as they’re in context:
Leslie Feinberg: For me, pronouns are always placed within context. I am female-bodied, I am a butch lesbian, a transgender lesbian – referring to me as “she/her” is appropriate, particularly in a non-trans setting in which referring to me as “he” would appear to resolve the social contradiction between my birth sex and gender expression and render my transgender expression invisible. I like the gender neutral pronoun “ze/hir” because it makes it impossible to hold on to gender/sex/sexuality assumptions about a person you’re about to meet or you’ve just met. And in an all trans setting, referring to me as “he/him” honors my gender expression in the same way that referring to my sister drag queens as “she/her” does.
I think for me right now, this is not the case: “referring to me as “he” would appear to resolve the social contradiction between my birth sex and gender expression and render my transgender expression invisible.” In fact, the opposite is true. But it does depend where I am. I grew up in a small town where strangers have pretty much always, and continue to, gender me as male and use masculine pronouns for me. I think this is because they don’t realise queer people, or specifically butch dykes, exist. That is, they’re not recognised. But in Melbourne, especially the kinds of places I hang out, I often don’t look male. So for me, Feinberg’s point would work when people use masculine pronouns for me – which I’m into.
I guess I feel my genderqueerness is unintelligible and that’s really tiring.
Judith Butler: To find that you are fundamentally unintelligible (indeed, that the laws of culture and of language find you to be an impossibility) is to find that you have not yet achieved access to the human, to find yourself speaking only and always as if you were human, but with the sense that you are not, to find that your language is hollow, that no recognition is forthcoming because the norms by which recognition takes place are not in your favor.
I lack the recognition (often but not always) to be intelligibly male.
Also I’m often in places where it’s clear I’m not a teenager (universities, clubs), so I don’t get gendered as a teenage boy, which is the way I am most often read by non-trans strangers outside of these contexts. And as I’ve said before, I think one of the reasons people are so quick to gender me female and use feminine pronouns for me is because of the snaps from male-looking dykes offended at being called ‘he’ (which is fair enough, but also results in this kind of confusion.) So, seriously: ask what pronouns someone prefers. And just as seriously, don’t be offended by someone asking.
I went home for the holidays, and my parents, as well as many of my old friends, use feminine pronouns for me. I don’t want to ‘correct’ them. That seems wrong, because I don’t feel like I have some essential male being or something; that they’re wrong. But I do want them to know I prefer masculine pronouns, because I think they’d feel embarassed to know that was the case and I just didn’t tell them.
I guess I’d want to ask why people used feminine pronouns for me. And if their reasoning is: “You’re a girl”, “You look like a girl” or “Well I always have,” I don’t think that’s good enough. But I also recognise it’s up to me to tell them otherwise. But like, I’m tired.
Dean Spade: there is no innocence nor insignificance to the mistake of ‘she’ for ‘he’ when referring to a person who has chosen to take on a ‘wrong’ pronoun. even if it is done thoughtlessly, that thoughtlessness comes from and supports the two cardinal rules of gender: that all people must look like the gender (one out of a possible two) they are called by, and that gender is fixed and cannot be changed. each time this burden shifting occurs, the non-trans person affirms these gender rules, playing by them and letting me know that they will not do the work to see the world outside of these rules.
This is probably where I want to be:
Dean Spade: if comfort was my goal, i could probably have found a smoother path than the one i’m on, right? i haven’t chosen this word ‘he’ because it means something true to me, or it feels all homey and delicious. no pronoun feels personal to me. i’ve chosen it because the act of saying it, of looking at the body i’m in and the way that my gender has been identified since birth and then calling me ‘he,’ disrupts oppressive processes that fix everyone’s gender as ‘real,’ immutable, and determinative of your station in life. i’m not hoping that people will see that i’m different, paste a fake smile on their faces and force themselves to say some word about me with no thought process. i’m hoping that they will feel implicated, that it will make them think about the realness of everyone’s gender, that it will make them feel more like they can do whatever they want with their gender, or at least cause a pause where one normally would not exist. quite likely, this will be uncomfortable for all of us, but i believe that becoming uncomfortable with the oppressive system of rigid gender assignment is a great step toward undoing it.
On Vampirism Part 2, On Daddy Power Part 3
In the opening scene of the third Twilight film (Eclipse), vampire Edward is trying to convince human Bella to marry him:
“Marry me,” he says.
“Change me,” she replies.
“Hmm, I’ll change you…if you marry me. It’s called a…compromise.”
“That’s called coercion,” she astutely responds. Kissing him, they smile at each other.
Coercion here appears to be set up at odds with “love.” That is, because these two people love each other, even the possibility of coercion makes no sense: it’s a lark. But a closer reading of the text reveals that really love (or the façade of such) figures as precisely the basis on which sexual coercion takes place, and takes place repeatedly with almost all of characters and most of their relationships.
Even the title “Eclipse” can be seen as a veiled reference to coercion; meaning figuratively ‘loss of power or significance’ or, as a verb, ‘to deprive.’ This idea of deprivation makes little sense to the plot: the conflict surrounding Bella’s transformation into a vampire (being deprived of her human life) is deferred to the following installment (Breaking Dawn), and the deprivation that makes up Edward and Bella’s sex life is a constant theme in the entire series.
Rather, the main plot thrust of Eclipse is a territorial one: Victoria vs the Forks community/ Bella, the werevolves vs the vampires and, of course, Edward vs werewolf Jacob. The focus is very much on possessiveness and control, aspects of relationships which are at best unseemly, and at worst abusive.
In this way, the idea of ‘deprivation’ can be read as a comment on power and the interplay of the ways in which persuasion moves to coercion, and the differences between pressure, coercion, harassment and abuse.
Throughout Eclipse, all three of the main characters: Edward, Bella and Jacob exert force – whether physical or emotional – over each other in ways which are coercive. That is,
- Coercion: the practice of forcing another party to behave in an involuntary manner (whether through action or inaction) by use of threats, intimidation, trickery, or some other form of pressure or force. Such actions are used as leverage, to force the victim to act in the desired way.
Jacob to Bella: The most obvious example of Jacob’s use of coercion takes place after he discovers Bella’s engagement to Edward: he threatens her with his own life (that he will endanger himself unless she “gives him a reason to stay”) and none of her pleas that she loves him and doesn’t want to lose him suffice. He wants her physically, and clearly cares more about getting what he wants then the fact that it’s not what she wants.
This is exacerbated by the narrative cornerstone that Bella loves both Edward and Jacob (but Edward more), and that Jacob knows she loves him, while she ‘refuses to admit it.’ This works to reaffirm the adage that women don’t know what they want (which in itself suggests that when women say no they mean yes).
Sexual ‘misconduct’ is hinted at when he kisses her after she has told him explicitly to “stop.” This occurrence problematically attempts to differentiate “actual sexual assault” (visible and unacceptable) from “sexual coercion” (invisible and acceptable); while their first kiss is “wrong,” their second kiss is somehow less so.
Edward to Bella: As the opening of this article – and the film – suggests, Edward’s proposal to Bella is, at least in part, coercive. Throughout the film, and even after she agrees to marry him, it is implied that he will still refuse to turn her into a vampire.
Furthermore, Edward’s stalking is a fairly classic way of exerting control over another, and one which much has been said about.
That this way of behaving is diagetically justified further represents control and coercion as acceptable. His stalking results in his “saving her” twice (Twilight) from situations in which we are lead to believe she would not have been able to protect herself (from a car crash and a group of young men).
Bella to Edward: Bella’s initial pitch to Edward as to why they should have sex seems an argument in persuasion rather than coercion: she reminds him that after she becomes a vampire she’ll want blood more than him. Perhaps because we are so used to seeing teenage boys pressuring teenage girls into sex, it seems as though the reverse is impossible. But Edward makes it clear that he doesn’t want to have sex with Bella, and that doesn’t stop her from trying to coerce him into it.
Various minor characters, too, work to focus the narrative on possibilities of sexual coercion: Jasper’s origin story reveals that he was turned into a vampire after being deceptively sexually enticed; Rosalie’s flashback depicts the exertion of social pressure by her fiancé, which quickly turns to rape and murder; and Riley is clearly sexually coerced by Victoria into creating and organizing her army through promises of her love.
As I said in my last post, the way in which vampire violence is justified comments on how we think about power (and its abuse). The depiction of coercion (a type of violence though it fails to be portrayed as such) in Eclipse is troubling because it is well and truly tolerated, justified and, rather straightforwardly, accepted.
Suffice to say, sexual coercion should really not be a part of the way we relate and communicate with each other, and especially not with people we love.
Extended version available at The Scavenger/Sexual-coercion-abounds-in-Twilight
Paper presented at the Next Wave Risk Talkers Forum
Down & Dirty: Sex/Gender/Media,
Melbourne, Sunday May 23, 2010.
Vision is always a question of the power to see — and perhaps of the violence implicit in our visualizing practices. With whose blood were my eyes crafted? Donna Haraway1
What I’m interested in is the hostility with which gender ambiguous bodies are stared at, the actuality of violence against those bodies, and the ways visual – and performative – arts subvert, reinforce or simply avoid these real life threats that trans and gender ambiguous people live with.
To transgender studies, the photographic portrait provides a crucial argument for visibility and the centrality of corporeality [the body] to that discipline and ontology. As trans theorist Susan Stryker proclaims: ‘[Transgender studies] helps correct an all-too-common critical failure to recognize “the body” not as one (already constituted) object of knowledge among others, but rather as the contingent ground of all our knowledge, and of all our knowing.’2 That is, that our bodies tell (our) stories.
Transgender bodies disrupt expectations of sex and gender, and their photographic (re)presentations can be seen as damaging to, and damaged by, the ‘proper’ order of gender. Explicit gender ambiguity in queer portraiture troubles dominant concepts of sex and gender as stable and biologically determined, challenging the reader to (re)consider the immutability and safety of their own gender. Or at least that’s the idea.
The figuration of the transgender as powerfully subversive was asserted by Judith Butler in Gender Trouble, where she used transgender subjectivities to show how gender is performatively (re)produced, thus rendering queer a gay and lesbian overlap through cross-gendered identifications.3 Butler went on in Bodies That Matter to suggest that while transgenderism was queering, it was in transsexuality that queer found its limit: bodily alterations that seek to (re)establish sexed stability or coherence reinforce gender normativity.4 That is, Butler argues that sex reassignment surgery (SRS) is not queer.
Trans theorist Jay Prosser critiques this theorisation of transsexual bodies – and I agree with him – arguing that Butler undermines the queer potential of SRS and marks out as transgressive that which makes the subject’s real life most unsafe [gender ambiguity].5 And it’s this risk that I think we need to take note of.
While portraits of gender ambiguous bodies confront us with the mutability of that which is supposedly stable [gender], there is a danger in idolising images of transgender bodies which place subversive power on instability and fragmentation. Transsexual portraits of bodies (re)made whole can emphasise integrity and cohesion while maintaining subversively queer force in their relation to technologies and the subject’s defiance of expectations of gender and sex as biologically determined. That is, I’m arguing for the consideration, rather than exclusion, of transsexual – transitioned – bodies in queer art.
Photographs are always and only fragments – moments past (dead) – and this is particularly salient to trans portraiture, where figurative violence is decidedly more likely to be(come) literal. In order to create sustainable images of queer ontologies, there needs to be value and pride re-established on images of queer bodies which emphasise unity and solidity, and recognition and appreciation of the queer power of transsexed bodies, as well as transgender bodies.
The common tendency for trans theorists and writers to include photographic portraits in their work highlights the centrality of the body in trans story-telling, redressing histories of invisibility and concealment, as well as the potential violence of ‘revelation’.6 The text is, by definition, disembodied and the inclusion of photographs attempts to reify this disjuncture. Portraiture serves to unify this ambivalent subject and ‘insist[s] on continuity in spite of change.’7 Transsexuality, afterall, both relies on and defies calls to visibility. Pictures of passing transsexuals that call attention to their transsexual history (in title or series context), draw attention to the need for visibility even for those who are invisible (who “pass”).
Coming out is a strategic move, yet by announcing one’s transsexuality (or trans history) the person ‘undoes the realness’ that is the ‘aim of transition’.8 The tension between ‘revelation and concealment,’ between in/visibility, is complex: ‘[the portrait’s] primary function is to expose the transsexual body; yet how to achieve this when transsexuality on the body is that which by definition is to be concealed?’9
Photographer Sara Davidmann argues that trans portraiture, particularly of naked bodies, provides a safe visibility for trans people, and that photographs of private atypical visualisations of gender taken into the public realm [exhibited] constitute an intervention that facilitates a questioning of pre-conceptions of gender and of the body, contesting the boundaries of these binaries, and presents a challenge to the gender system.10
Trans theorist Jay Prosser asserts that trans portraits always force us to question our own gendered state of being, as he asks: How is our reading of the transsexual invested in and produced by our own gendered and sexual subject positioning, our own identifications and desires? Photographs of the transsexual, particularly of the transsexual in transition, push us up against the limits of gendered representation: the limits of what gender we can consign to representation, of what we can process as identity in the visual.11
For Prosser ‘we can only look at the transsexual, then, if we look at how we look.’ While the trans portrait forces us to consider the nuances of gender, I am arguing that it does not necessarily follow that the reader will focus this attention on themselves.12 What guarantees that the image will provoke such a self-reflection? It is painfully possible that it will in fact have the opposite effect: the reader re-establishing the stability of their own gender and their own body in its appropriateness up against the inappropriate freakishness of the portrait they stare at.
Catherine Opie‘s 1991 series Being and Having contests the centrality of the power of the viewer to gaze unscrupulated at the portrait. Jake stares down at us, head tilted back as if to say ‘who the fuck do you think you are to look at me?’ confronting us with our own ability to slip out of the ordered and ‘proper’ categories of ‘man’ or ‘woman.’
Queer theorist Jack Halberstam argues that: The power of the gaze in an Opie portrait always and literally rests with the image: the perpetual stare challenges the spectator’s own sense of gender congruity, and even self, and it does indeed replicate with a difference the hostile stares that the model probably faces everyday in the street.13
Visibility for trans people is desperately important, but the fetishisation of our bodies is just as concerning. Just as the objectification of women’s bodies in photography has been analysed as double (by the male gaze and the camera), so too is the transgender body objectified and othered in dominant discourse.14 In seeking out the curve of the jawline, the broadness of the shoulders, the thickness of the neck, trans portraits expose our investments in these distinctions (and their stability). To Opie’s photographs, Halberstam argues that the royal colouring of the backgrounds forces the stare of the spectator to be ‘admiring and appreciative rather than simply objectifying and voyeuristic.’15 But really, we can only hope.
In Butler’s formulation of the transgender, and in Prosser and Halberstam’s readings of it: the image of the transsexual is set up in opposition to both nontransgender gender normativity [the normative male or female] and transgender gender ambiguity [the genderqueer]. This serves to create a clear hierarchy which values transgender identities more highly and ‘locates transgressive value in that which makes the subject’s real life most unsafe.’16 In this way the nontranssexed body is privileged eroding the queer potential of sex reassignment surgery.17 SRS becomes a tool of gender conformity and normativity: a not so queer moment. And it is this marking out of subversion to exclude transsexual bodies that I’m arguing against.
This idealisation of ‘gender incongruence assumes one has the luxury to take on the gender order.’18 The ability to exist in a ambiguously gendered state in a tenuous one at best, more often it is simply an impossibility.
We are all taught that those of us who are most visibly different will encounter discrimination, hostility and violence.19 Violence against transgender people is not only frequent but underreported and anti-trans sentiment is institutionalised within the system of law enforcement. Social sanctioning acts to preserve the boundaries of gender and cultural pressures are often at the forefront of our internalized anxieties about gender ambiguity; individuals are punished or rewarded according to our adhesion to social expectations of gender.20 And ‘[w]e’re taught to pay attention to humiliation, because it can be enforced by violence.’21 The GenderPAC Survey of Transgender Violence reinforces this statistically, finding that over 60% of respondents had experienced assault, and that harassment and violence were often manifested in schools, churches, police and health care professionals.22
The threat of violence is a devastating and constant consideration in trans lives. By placing subversive value on that which puts us at the highest risk of violence, we – artists – risk overwriting the reality of violence to such an existence.
The relationship of queer embodiment to physical violence and death creates queer and trans portraits as powerfully defiant. In this way, the presentation of the trans body in photography – or other visual or performance arts – lays bare the strength of trans subjects as we face death in violating the social order of gender and sex.
To photographic theorist Roland Barthes, every photograph contains this ‘catastrophe‘ of Time; a tension between preservation and the coming of death.23 While the subject of a photograph may or may not be dead, the moment in which the picture was captured is past – dead – and draws attention to the passage of Time as the nearing of death. This notion of the photograph’s ‘that-has-been,’ interrupts any contemplation of the picture’s narrative with the catastrophe ‘that is dead and that is going to die’,24 and this seizes us to rethink the text.
This interruption Barthes names the photograph’s punctum, that which breaks or punctuates its narrative content. Barthes infers that punctum is necessarily that which leads to the contemplation of something else, that cannot be named and makes him linger on the photograph: ‘the punctum has, more or less potentially, a power of expansion. This power is very often metonymic.’25
Here, Time is an ever present punctum.
The notion of the image as referencing death renders the photograph as both damaged and damaging thing, confronting the reader with hir own impending death. What I am arguing is that this reference to death takes on a new and poignant meaning in queer portraiture, where the subject’s real life is threatened with the knowledge of anti-trans violence.
Integrity and Subversion: A Queer Conundrum?
The queer fixation with transgender ambiguity and disorder has eroded the appreciation and consideration of transsexual bodies as unified subjectivities and still powerfully subversive. Kael T. Block‘s series xx boys resists this postulation by focusing instead on pride forged through integrity. As its description declares: ‘[an xx boy is] F2M, [a] Gender Pirate, [o]ne whose genre capsizes the binary, one who creates his own beauty and body, one who created his identity without paying conventions from a sovereign gender system.’26 Although the gender system cannot be thrown aside, Block’s intentions to capture images of transmen without stringent, or preconceived, borders of who that might include indulges this consideration of queer subversion as potentially transsexual or gender ambiguous.
In this self-portrait, Block exhibits (his) maleness not as invisibility but as alterity. His body is resolutely masculine and male. It is only in/on the site of his top surgery scars, and in the reader’s ability to recognise them as such, that his transsexual ontology (and history) is made apparent; that is, a queer punctum. Halberstam suggests that it is this relationship to technology which is (subversively) significant: ‘[the] body situated in an immediate and visceral relation to the technologies – guns, scalpels, cars, paintbrushes – that have marked, hurt, changed, imprinted, and brutally reconstructed it.’27 Though his maleness and masculinity is not in question or dislocation, rather his relationship to technology marks/makes his body transgressive. In blending his body into the background through the matching designs of his tattoos and the wallpaper, Block presents a resolute image of wholeness, strength and integrity. Block represents (his) transsexual ontology as precisely not fragmented, yet the presentation of his surgery scars mark him explicitly as queer in his refusal to be bound by the limitations of his assigned (at birth) sex and the feminist and queer discourses which dismiss the transgressive potential of SRS.
The series as a whole serves to redress the delineation of transsexual from transgendered, as to Block xx boys are who they say they are, sometimes with surgery scars and sometimes without. Block’s emphasis on beauty through pride demands a strength and self-esteem of a subject intact.
By idolising images of ruptured and dislocated bodies we risk idealising our own fragmentation and disintegration. Rather, we need images which point to our potential to stick together, that reaffirm our desires for our bodies as mutable and whole. The potential of a project like Block’s shows us that queer subversion on the body can be transsexed or transgender. While images of ‘gender incongruous’ transgender bodies present queer punctum as the nuances of gender-crossing, images of transsexed bodies are able to interrupt understandings of sex-determined gender through the relationships to technology which mark the body.
So I have said 2 things:
- that there is a danger in glorifying gender ambiguity (in art) without consideration for the real-life threats that gender ambiguous people live with.
- And that by limiting what we consider to be transgressive to the exclusion of transsexual bodies and lives, we invalidate the suffering and subversive force of those lives.
While transsexual and transgender bodies have the potential to queer understandings of seeing and being seen, as well as concepts of gender and the body, we need to remember that ‘[t]hese are claims on people’s lives.’28
These are things which we – as young artists, and especially as artists of “the body” – need to be thinking about.
Reference as: Attitude, Max. “Risk, Subversion and/or Death in Queer Portraiture.” Paper presented at Down and Dirty, Next Wave Festival, Melbourne, May 23, 2010. https://maxattitude.wordpress.com.