The director gave me a smile and pointed with her head over to the tenor side of the line I straddle, indicating that I should sing with them. She had decided to put all the altos on descant, and caught my eye just as this was going into effect. Glancing over the notes, a good quarter of them were below a D3. Not that I could hit those notes, but it felt pretty comfortable to pretend. Some days it feels great to soar around in my whistle register just because that's what my voice is able to do... but some days it catches up with me, that feeling of strangeness and disorientation that tells me something's very off. Hey, if she's gonna actually put me on the tenor part, I'm going to take her up on it. I sneak over in that direction in secret all the time anyways.
It's not the first time she's forgotten that I don't have the same range as Jess. Jess has been around for two decades and has put a lot of work into her voice in that time, but she tends not to jump up to the soprano register - she was once a bass. Perhaps it just gets lost on our poor overbusy director that FTM and MTF spectrum people have entirely different places they're coming from, vocally. It feels strange to be plunked in the same third-gender box as a trans woman, but if I've gotta be in a box, at least it's a better one to take than the conventional two.
Friday, May 22, 2015
I'd Rather Be On The Risers
"Chamber women on the floor, chamber men on the risers."
Sometimes I sing with the women, sometimes I sing with the men. When they're separate pieces, I sing both. Caught in awkward hesitation, I catch the eye of a fiercely lovely fellow Alto 2, one of the epic femmes that love the shit out of their lower registers. She gives me a sympathetic smirk, and I shrug, moving not a muscle as the "men" regroup around me and the "women" shuffle off. It ended up being one of the songs that I sing with the women. So I wormed myself back out again.
Huffing something about the stupidity of the gender binary, I slip back into my "woman" spot in front of the extremely bi girl that frequently plays with my hair for the entirety of rehearsal and flirts like mad. She gives a little laugh and - I dunno, squeezes my arm or something. Someone validated me. We sang awhile, I joined the men. The "men." I didn't know where to stand, again, and a half-closeted trans girl in the baritone section pulled me up next to her with a smile. Oh, how freeing it is to sing next to other queer folk.
It's weird feeling so heard - that everyone seems to understand that the binary is unnecessary and doesn't work - and yet nothing changes. Everyone understands why the status quo exists, so the status quo remains. And I'm pacified by the fact that I'm not being traumatized by the vicious transphobia and heteronormativity suffocating me with every turn, so I don't fight it either. It's better not to fight. I don't like to fight. Especially in choir. Especially in my own family.
A few days ago I had to leave rehearsal for upwards of twenty minutes to compose myself after becoming simply overloaded by the dysphoria. There are all these unnecessary gender-related thoughts: your voice is so high, you sound like all the other girls. Do you think you can sneak over for just this part? Will anyone notice if you take a break to sing with the tenors? Your tone isn't blending, you make such a pathetic little guy! Insert random internalized sexist feeling! No, Adriaan, common, focus on the music. Shit, that means I have to choose a part. Will anyone notice if I stop singing entirely? I could just mouth the words. God, this is stupid. Breathe, Adriaan. Just sing. Ah - Nope. Nope nope nope. It'll be okay, no one will notice, I'll only be gone for a moment...
I just didn't want to think about it. I wanted to tell my brain to shut up and sing, but - well, sometimes that works, and sometimes it just doesn't. When it doesn't, I flee the binary choir for the binary restroom, where at least a door locks and I can be alone. The irony doesn't escape me for a minute. Even conventional safe spaces are overcomplicated.
The hope is live in me that choir could be the only necessary safe space. I long to someday make it one.
Sometimes I sing with the women, sometimes I sing with the men. When they're separate pieces, I sing both. Caught in awkward hesitation, I catch the eye of a fiercely lovely fellow Alto 2, one of the epic femmes that love the shit out of their lower registers. She gives me a sympathetic smirk, and I shrug, moving not a muscle as the "men" regroup around me and the "women" shuffle off. It ended up being one of the songs that I sing with the women. So I wormed myself back out again.
Huffing something about the stupidity of the gender binary, I slip back into my "woman" spot in front of the extremely bi girl that frequently plays with my hair for the entirety of rehearsal and flirts like mad. She gives a little laugh and - I dunno, squeezes my arm or something. Someone validated me. We sang awhile, I joined the men. The "men." I didn't know where to stand, again, and a half-closeted trans girl in the baritone section pulled me up next to her with a smile. Oh, how freeing it is to sing next to other queer folk.
It's weird feeling so heard - that everyone seems to understand that the binary is unnecessary and doesn't work - and yet nothing changes. Everyone understands why the status quo exists, so the status quo remains. And I'm pacified by the fact that I'm not being traumatized by the vicious transphobia and heteronormativity suffocating me with every turn, so I don't fight it either. It's better not to fight. I don't like to fight. Especially in choir. Especially in my own family.
A few days ago I had to leave rehearsal for upwards of twenty minutes to compose myself after becoming simply overloaded by the dysphoria. There are all these unnecessary gender-related thoughts: your voice is so high, you sound like all the other girls. Do you think you can sneak over for just this part? Will anyone notice if you take a break to sing with the tenors? Your tone isn't blending, you make such a pathetic little guy! Insert random internalized sexist feeling! No, Adriaan, common, focus on the music. Shit, that means I have to choose a part. Will anyone notice if I stop singing entirely? I could just mouth the words. God, this is stupid. Breathe, Adriaan. Just sing. Ah - Nope. Nope nope nope. It'll be okay, no one will notice, I'll only be gone for a moment...
I just didn't want to think about it. I wanted to tell my brain to shut up and sing, but - well, sometimes that works, and sometimes it just doesn't. When it doesn't, I flee the binary choir for the binary restroom, where at least a door locks and I can be alone. The irony doesn't escape me for a minute. Even conventional safe spaces are overcomplicated.
The hope is live in me that choir could be the only necessary safe space. I long to someday make it one.
Gender - Like, Gender Identity
On the first day of my stats class, there was maybe half an hour of lecture before we took turns introducing ourselves: name, year, major, something interesting about yourself. At the end of my list of facts, I added a note about my pronouns and said that it'd be great if the class could please use them to refer to me. My professor nodded enthusiastically and said "Oh - yeah, uh huh." People continued introducing themselves and then she went back to the lecture: explaining how to study different types of variables.
Peculiarly, "gender" was suddenly no longer simply gender when she was looking for some stock dependent variable. This time, it was "gender identity, like how people identify, like within the binary, and also, well, otherwise, because, you know, things aren't that simple anymore, but people thought it was binary, so sometimes we treat it that way in this class, because traditionally gender was just male and female - so...yeah. Gender identity." It was hard to keep my laugh. She was so sincere. Awkward, but also beautiful in a weird way. It's a sigh of relief when people at least try.
She messed up my pronouns twice the first week, but the second time she seemed really apologetic and backtracked. She hasn't used any pronouns for me since - she manages to avoid to. I can respect that.
A couple days ago, she used the masculine pronoun to refer to a peer of mine, but then backtracked and covered up the pronoun with something more generic, the way she seemed to have done for me when she's needed to use pronouns. The person in question is someone I'd read pretty strongly as the Token Urban White Cis Gay Guy That Actually Is Socially Progressive Like For Real Despite His Homonormativity. He'd even brought up transgender suicide rates as an example of a social problem with a large dark figure, so obvs big brownie points with the genderfuck kid in the room, and in other classes I've had with him he's seemed uniformly intelligent, well-informed, and passionate about liberal politics. He really didn't seem nonbinary to me, but then I don't either. I checked myself and bookmarked it, telling myself I could ask about it later.
We were standing around the literal water cooler the next day at break, and I mentioned the professor's hesitation. "Nah," he says, "I kind of wondered about that too. I definitely identify as 100% male, but like, go inclusivity, I guess?"
I distributed a survey for this same class that gave five options for gender: cis/trans female/male and nonbinary. Four responses were nonbinary, something exciting to me. I know who two are and have strong suspicions for one more - they sit behind me in class and queercode as clearly as they possibly could, but haven't said anything explicit about being queer - but I'm enjoying the process of entertaining whether the other queermo's another classmate in hiding.
Things have been weird in general in that class, perhaps compounded by the professor's obvious apologetic benevolence. The data sets we've been running tests on for practice just so happen to be from weird ultra-conservative populations, 57% of whom believe "homosexuality" is "always wrong" and 7% of whom believe it is "always right." She discussed this in detail, though she prefaced her explanations with a disclaimer that these results obviously did not reflect her views, but skipped over the data set showing a correlation between homeownership and race. This seemed to be because she felt that it might be uncomfortable, or exclusive, or triggering, or something, to recognize verbally that black people are less likely to be homeowners than white people... Simply strange, given that black people's comparatively low rates of homeownership is the factual systematic output of discrimination, while homophobia is itself raw discrimination. What would it be like to study a question that yielded a 57% "always wrong" response to a question that inquired into the right of black Americans to own homes at all?
Whelp. Whatever. I really can't blame her, at least she's really trying.
There was a kid in that class - one I've read as Genuinely Progressive Cis Gay Guy Number Two - that used my pronoun last week in a totally normal context, without hesitation or correction or any reference to gender whatsoever. He has no idea how rare that is and how disorienting it was to actively feel included in such a cis-dominant space (read: public).
To him: thank you. I kind of hope you're not the other nonbinary person, because I love to think that there are more cis people like you out there learning to grow.
Peculiarly, "gender" was suddenly no longer simply gender when she was looking for some stock dependent variable. This time, it was "gender identity, like how people identify, like within the binary, and also, well, otherwise, because, you know, things aren't that simple anymore, but people thought it was binary, so sometimes we treat it that way in this class, because traditionally gender was just male and female - so...yeah. Gender identity." It was hard to keep my laugh. She was so sincere. Awkward, but also beautiful in a weird way. It's a sigh of relief when people at least try.
She messed up my pronouns twice the first week, but the second time she seemed really apologetic and backtracked. She hasn't used any pronouns for me since - she manages to avoid to. I can respect that.
A couple days ago, she used the masculine pronoun to refer to a peer of mine, but then backtracked and covered up the pronoun with something more generic, the way she seemed to have done for me when she's needed to use pronouns. The person in question is someone I'd read pretty strongly as the Token Urban White Cis Gay Guy That Actually Is Socially Progressive Like For Real Despite His Homonormativity. He'd even brought up transgender suicide rates as an example of a social problem with a large dark figure, so obvs big brownie points with the genderfuck kid in the room, and in other classes I've had with him he's seemed uniformly intelligent, well-informed, and passionate about liberal politics. He really didn't seem nonbinary to me, but then I don't either. I checked myself and bookmarked it, telling myself I could ask about it later.
We were standing around the literal water cooler the next day at break, and I mentioned the professor's hesitation. "Nah," he says, "I kind of wondered about that too. I definitely identify as 100% male, but like, go inclusivity, I guess?"
I distributed a survey for this same class that gave five options for gender: cis/trans female/male and nonbinary. Four responses were nonbinary, something exciting to me. I know who two are and have strong suspicions for one more - they sit behind me in class and queercode as clearly as they possibly could, but haven't said anything explicit about being queer - but I'm enjoying the process of entertaining whether the other queermo's another classmate in hiding.
Things have been weird in general in that class, perhaps compounded by the professor's obvious apologetic benevolence. The data sets we've been running tests on for practice just so happen to be from weird ultra-conservative populations, 57% of whom believe "homosexuality" is "always wrong" and 7% of whom believe it is "always right." She discussed this in detail, though she prefaced her explanations with a disclaimer that these results obviously did not reflect her views, but skipped over the data set showing a correlation between homeownership and race. This seemed to be because she felt that it might be uncomfortable, or exclusive, or triggering, or something, to recognize verbally that black people are less likely to be homeowners than white people... Simply strange, given that black people's comparatively low rates of homeownership is the factual systematic output of discrimination, while homophobia is itself raw discrimination. What would it be like to study a question that yielded a 57% "always wrong" response to a question that inquired into the right of black Americans to own homes at all?
Whelp. Whatever. I really can't blame her, at least she's really trying.
There was a kid in that class - one I've read as Genuinely Progressive Cis Gay Guy Number Two - that used my pronoun last week in a totally normal context, without hesitation or correction or any reference to gender whatsoever. He has no idea how rare that is and how disorienting it was to actively feel included in such a cis-dominant space (read: public).
To him: thank you. I kind of hope you're not the other nonbinary person, because I love to think that there are more cis people like you out there learning to grow.
Monday, May 11, 2015
The Woman I Wish I Could Be
This was a comment on this video regarding fleeting reflections about detransitioning.
I'm almost two years into (nonbinary) social transition, though I'm planning on T/top surgery within the year. Still dealing with family, still passing exclusively as a (mostly "pretty"/straight) girl in public. I and my friends/partners are good about seeing past that, but there are moments - days, even - where I look in the mirror and am pleasantly surprised to see the attractive young woman everyone else sees right there. Staring back at me. Like she's been here all along.
Especially being the huge gynephile that I am, I can't help but think to myself, "Common, Adriaan! Why would you give this up? Have you even totally realized that you could BE that person? She's so pretty. And strong. And genuine. And feminist. That girl is the same person that's done all of this personal growth and liberation and stuff you've been doing since you came out. Think how much cooler it would be for a girl to be the beneficiary of all this work you've put into yourself. That's within your reach, it's your birthright, you're 100% free to do it, you're liberated and beautiful now... Okay, it'd be hard, but you're powerful enough to handle it. Dysphoria's just another problem, you're totally tough enough to suck it up and deal with it. Lots of women have body issues. Oh my god, this must be what all the girls in my life feel when they hit feminism! I could do that, I could be like them!
"Plus, think about it, it'd take a lot less time & money & bullshit than this whole transition thing. No freaking out your family, no more financial anxiety, you could use your transition fund on grad school, or paying for your own apartment... That makes a lot of economical sense. Is this what it feels like to be a cis person? That's a great idea, no wonder so many people are cis. Eureka! Adriaan, why haven't you considered this before? You could totally pull it off!"
...But after x amount of time getting high on excitement, I realize how hilariously dissociated that whole thought process is, how unsustainable it is to live off of transphobic internal pep talks. I can't be someone I'm not. I can lose myself in the fantasy of this woman I wish I were as much as the rest of the world seems to, but it feels like some kind of ridiculous imagination game, this 24/7 real-life RPG thing. I can't help that I'm ... just me.
And the person I ACTUALLY AM - really, truly, authentically - has gotta be more beautiful than any fantasy.
I'm almost two years into (nonbinary) social transition, though I'm planning on T/top surgery within the year. Still dealing with family, still passing exclusively as a (mostly "pretty"/straight) girl in public. I and my friends/partners are good about seeing past that, but there are moments - days, even - where I look in the mirror and am pleasantly surprised to see the attractive young woman everyone else sees right there. Staring back at me. Like she's been here all along.
Especially being the huge gynephile that I am, I can't help but think to myself, "Common, Adriaan! Why would you give this up? Have you even totally realized that you could BE that person? She's so pretty. And strong. And genuine. And feminist. That girl is the same person that's done all of this personal growth and liberation and stuff you've been doing since you came out. Think how much cooler it would be for a girl to be the beneficiary of all this work you've put into yourself. That's within your reach, it's your birthright, you're 100% free to do it, you're liberated and beautiful now... Okay, it'd be hard, but you're powerful enough to handle it. Dysphoria's just another problem, you're totally tough enough to suck it up and deal with it. Lots of women have body issues. Oh my god, this must be what all the girls in my life feel when they hit feminism! I could do that, I could be like them!
"Plus, think about it, it'd take a lot less time & money & bullshit than this whole transition thing. No freaking out your family, no more financial anxiety, you could use your transition fund on grad school, or paying for your own apartment... That makes a lot of economical sense. Is this what it feels like to be a cis person? That's a great idea, no wonder so many people are cis. Eureka! Adriaan, why haven't you considered this before? You could totally pull it off!"
...But after x amount of time getting high on excitement, I realize how hilariously dissociated that whole thought process is, how unsustainable it is to live off of transphobic internal pep talks. I can't be someone I'm not. I can lose myself in the fantasy of this woman I wish I were as much as the rest of the world seems to, but it feels like some kind of ridiculous imagination game, this 24/7 real-life RPG thing. I can't help that I'm ... just me.
And the person I ACTUALLY AM - really, truly, authentically - has gotta be more beautiful than any fantasy.
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
Do You Climb Trees?
Sitting at a table outside a sandwich shop, hands tucked between my legs, legs crossed on another metal chair across from me. I was waiting for Jess to grab some dinner, and so watching the crowd for her face. I love people watching on sunny days on the Hill. It's like all the weird seeps out of the cracks and we're all more able to realize that normal is weird and weird is normal here. What is weird? What is normal?
A cluster of people came down the sidewalk that day: two femme-ish woman-ish looking people with a stroller (lesbians?) and another person tagging along behind them (poly family? friends?).
They had shoulder-length muddy brownish hair pulled up into some kind of messy half-ponytail. Blue jeans, rolled up to the ankles, well-worn, grass stains. Bare, dirty feet. Light purple backpack. Worn over a grey T-shirt with some kind of eco-something print on it. Piercing blue eyes. They surveyed me - at that time in all-black concert attire, a vest and collared shirt - and made eye contact again. A smile escaped me. They grinned back.
The group passed, and I allowed myself a laugh. I was so drawn to them. Not sexually - there was just something about them. Should I look back? Nah, that'd be awkward. Oh, common. It's been long enough. They're going to be out of sight soon. I looked back and was met with a reciprocal smirk and probably two full seconds of eye contact. They kind of skip-tripped trying to walk while looking backward. I laughed out loud, hugged myself, and giggled. I love people watching on sunny days on the Hill.
A couple minutes passed, and I heard steps behind me. Bluejeans stepped out in front of me and in this strange gutsy-nervous way, said, simply, "Hey, I have to meet you."
"Yeah, absolutely! Adriaan. You?" I offered my hand and they shook it warmly.
They returned with their name. "Do you climb trees?"
"........Yeah! I haven't found any around here. Do you - I mean, have you found a good one in the park or something?"
"Common, I'll show you."
It was a big tree with knots up the trunk for about ten feet before the first big branches. "How do you get up there?" I spoke with the awe and adventure of a kid. Like they were going to teach me how to go to a magic world. I remember when I used to take other kids into the woods and show them magic worlds you had to be really good to climb into. A decade or so might have passed since.
"You just - these knots are pretty good for - and then you just - " they scampered up the trunk and grabbed onto the huge branch - a foot and a half in diameter, maybe - with both hands, wrapping their legs around it sloth-style and pulling themself up with just upper body strength. I was taking off my concert shoes and fancy socks, leaving them in a pile with my vest on a nice patch of grass at the base of the tree.
"What? How do you... Huh." I was having some trouble getting up.
"Yeah, testosterone helped."
"I just can't - ugh." I dropped back to the ground.
"Need a hand?"
"Nah, I think I got - " dropped again. "I swear, it's been years since I haven't been able to get into a tree."
"It's alright. I mean if..."
"No, I'm gonna - " I managed to grab hold of the stump of a thinner branch that'd been broken off and found a well of adrenaline somewhere in me to keep from letting go as I slipped, hanging by just my hands from the branch. After a few seconds of struggling, I finally pulled myself up, grinning to myself.
"Yeah, I bet T helped. How long've you been?"
"Two years."
"I'm supposed to have my appointment in... 26 days?"
"Nice, congrats."
"Family, though. I'm gonna have to postpone a little."
"Yeah, my parents freaked out for awhile. They love me, though. They're conservative Christians and all, but they love me, and things are okay now. I see them every few weeks."
"That's not bad. Where'd you grow up?"
We talked about where we're from, about our parents, about our majors and where we're going to school. I talked about choir, they talked about anthropology. They dropped down for a few seconds to retrieve a blue and green blown glass pipe from the purple backpack and packed some pot into it.
"Woah, your foot's bleeding," they said. I'd noticed, but there wasn't much to do about it. "I don't think I have anything in here to help with that, sorry."
"That's fine. Yeah, my hand is, too, but I'll be okay." They pulled themself back on top of the branch and pulled the little pipe out of their pocket, handing it to me with a lighter.
"Sure." My hands were still shaking from the adrenaline. "Wind doesn't help."
"Here - " I got it lit, passed it to them.
"I've gotten stupider since I started smoking."
"Yeah?"
"I dunno why. I guess it's dependency, not addiction, but... yeah. I don't know why I keep it."
"Mm. People talk a lot about addiction. Even if that doesn't exist chemically, it makes sense that it'd do something to you."
"Yeah."
"You said you're graduating this year?"
"Yeah, had a job lined up, but turns out it's only for students, so it's not going to work out."
"That sucks. I don't know exactly where I'm headed, either, but I'm getting there. You seem like you'd be more at home in environmental studies than in anthro, to be honest."
"Probably. I only discovered it recently. At least I have the minor."
The wind was still whipping through the leaves above me. I always used to have the best conversations with childhood friends in the tree I grew up in. There's something communal about climbing trees, something conversational about the way the breeze moves through them.
"I love how big this tree is. I bet people sleep up here."
"Yeah, probably. It's a good tree."
"You hungry? I probably need to go meet up with Jess at some point."
"Oh yeah. Forgot about that."
"Wanna come with me, meet her?"
"I should go catch up with my friends."
"Alright. Let's see if I can get down from here."
I managed with surprising elegance. Gravity makes it much easier getting down than up, even with a bleeding foot. "Ha."
"You have a phone number to give me?"
"Facebook's easier - my phone's bust. But here, I'll put my info into yours."
"Alright, Adriaan."
"I'll see you soon."
They showed up at the concert I was singing in the next day. I don't know if they knew other people in the choir, but they didn't stay to talk to anyone else. I went up to greet them and to introduce them to Jess, and the first thing she did was to give them a big hug, as she does. They said they'd met her before, and that she was a fairy. Perhaps they'd confused her for someone else, but I love to imagine that she is one. Someone had suggested about them after hearing my story that they'd been an angel. I like that we can seem otherworldly to each other. I love that we can discover otherworldliness right here.
A cluster of people came down the sidewalk that day: two femme-ish woman-ish looking people with a stroller (lesbians?) and another person tagging along behind them (poly family? friends?).
They had shoulder-length muddy brownish hair pulled up into some kind of messy half-ponytail. Blue jeans, rolled up to the ankles, well-worn, grass stains. Bare, dirty feet. Light purple backpack. Worn over a grey T-shirt with some kind of eco-something print on it. Piercing blue eyes. They surveyed me - at that time in all-black concert attire, a vest and collared shirt - and made eye contact again. A smile escaped me. They grinned back.
The group passed, and I allowed myself a laugh. I was so drawn to them. Not sexually - there was just something about them. Should I look back? Nah, that'd be awkward. Oh, common. It's been long enough. They're going to be out of sight soon. I looked back and was met with a reciprocal smirk and probably two full seconds of eye contact. They kind of skip-tripped trying to walk while looking backward. I laughed out loud, hugged myself, and giggled. I love people watching on sunny days on the Hill.
A couple minutes passed, and I heard steps behind me. Bluejeans stepped out in front of me and in this strange gutsy-nervous way, said, simply, "Hey, I have to meet you."
"Yeah, absolutely! Adriaan. You?" I offered my hand and they shook it warmly.
They returned with their name. "Do you climb trees?"
"........Yeah! I haven't found any around here. Do you - I mean, have you found a good one in the park or something?"
"Common, I'll show you."
It was a big tree with knots up the trunk for about ten feet before the first big branches. "How do you get up there?" I spoke with the awe and adventure of a kid. Like they were going to teach me how to go to a magic world. I remember when I used to take other kids into the woods and show them magic worlds you had to be really good to climb into. A decade or so might have passed since.
"You just - these knots are pretty good for - and then you just - " they scampered up the trunk and grabbed onto the huge branch - a foot and a half in diameter, maybe - with both hands, wrapping their legs around it sloth-style and pulling themself up with just upper body strength. I was taking off my concert shoes and fancy socks, leaving them in a pile with my vest on a nice patch of grass at the base of the tree.
"What? How do you... Huh." I was having some trouble getting up.
"Yeah, testosterone helped."
"I just can't - ugh." I dropped back to the ground.
"Need a hand?"
"Nah, I think I got - " dropped again. "I swear, it's been years since I haven't been able to get into a tree."
"It's alright. I mean if..."
"No, I'm gonna - " I managed to grab hold of the stump of a thinner branch that'd been broken off and found a well of adrenaline somewhere in me to keep from letting go as I slipped, hanging by just my hands from the branch. After a few seconds of struggling, I finally pulled myself up, grinning to myself.
"Yeah, I bet T helped. How long've you been?"
"Two years."
"I'm supposed to have my appointment in... 26 days?"
"Nice, congrats."
"Family, though. I'm gonna have to postpone a little."
"Yeah, my parents freaked out for awhile. They love me, though. They're conservative Christians and all, but they love me, and things are okay now. I see them every few weeks."
"That's not bad. Where'd you grow up?"
We talked about where we're from, about our parents, about our majors and where we're going to school. I talked about choir, they talked about anthropology. They dropped down for a few seconds to retrieve a blue and green blown glass pipe from the purple backpack and packed some pot into it.
"Woah, your foot's bleeding," they said. I'd noticed, but there wasn't much to do about it. "I don't think I have anything in here to help with that, sorry."
"That's fine. Yeah, my hand is, too, but I'll be okay." They pulled themself back on top of the branch and pulled the little pipe out of their pocket, handing it to me with a lighter.
"Sure." My hands were still shaking from the adrenaline. "Wind doesn't help."
"Here - " I got it lit, passed it to them.
"I've gotten stupider since I started smoking."
"Yeah?"
"I dunno why. I guess it's dependency, not addiction, but... yeah. I don't know why I keep it."
"Mm. People talk a lot about addiction. Even if that doesn't exist chemically, it makes sense that it'd do something to you."
"Yeah."
"You said you're graduating this year?"
"Yeah, had a job lined up, but turns out it's only for students, so it's not going to work out."
"That sucks. I don't know exactly where I'm headed, either, but I'm getting there. You seem like you'd be more at home in environmental studies than in anthro, to be honest."
"Probably. I only discovered it recently. At least I have the minor."
The wind was still whipping through the leaves above me. I always used to have the best conversations with childhood friends in the tree I grew up in. There's something communal about climbing trees, something conversational about the way the breeze moves through them.
"I love how big this tree is. I bet people sleep up here."
"Yeah, probably. It's a good tree."
"You hungry? I probably need to go meet up with Jess at some point."
"Oh yeah. Forgot about that."
"Wanna come with me, meet her?"
"I should go catch up with my friends."
"Alright. Let's see if I can get down from here."
I managed with surprising elegance. Gravity makes it much easier getting down than up, even with a bleeding foot. "Ha."
"You have a phone number to give me?"
"Facebook's easier - my phone's bust. But here, I'll put my info into yours."
"Alright, Adriaan."
"I'll see you soon."
They showed up at the concert I was singing in the next day. I don't know if they knew other people in the choir, but they didn't stay to talk to anyone else. I went up to greet them and to introduce them to Jess, and the first thing she did was to give them a big hug, as she does. They said they'd met her before, and that she was a fairy. Perhaps they'd confused her for someone else, but I love to imagine that she is one. Someone had suggested about them after hearing my story that they'd been an angel. I like that we can seem otherworldly to each other. I love that we can discover otherworldliness right here.
The Counteralto
Walking up to the risers, I noticed that one of the tenors I usually stand next to is way further over into the alto section than usual. As cautious as I am about straddling the line between altos and tenors, I put a daily effort toward making sure I'm right in between the two sections.
Don't want to confuse anyone. Don't want to throw anyone off of their part. Just want to sing. I just want to sing. Deep breath. Lose yourself in the music. Let it all float away.
I danced around him awkwardly trying to figure out which side to stand on. Look, if he's trying to be on the alto side, I'm not exactly going to fight him over pushing me closer to the middle of the tenor section. It's kind of absurd the way my brain maps things, but simple physical proximity feels like a simple pleasure, a victory. Not because I particularly love the tenors, or because I dislike the altos. It just makes me feel less self-conscious.
People often start in the wrong section for social reasons - they're talking and laughing with a friend or another. At least it seems to be for social reasons. It seemed that way today.
Until I heard him warming up with the altos, an octave up from my tenor. Side by side, eyes forward, hands to our sides. We must both have heard the other. I guess he wouldn't've been surprised to hear me in the range he was assigned, but I could not help but let a wave of joy and community move through my body. But I kept my eyes on the conductor, held tight to the smile forcing its way to my lips. The lips, the teeth, the tip of the tongue, the lips, the teeth, the tip...
I'm really skeptical about the fact that so many queerish people seem to gravitate around the alto-tenor divide. Confirmation bias? Maybe. A desire to fabricate for myself community? Maybe. A conflation of sex and gender? Sigh, I don't know. I've always admired this guy's energy: youthful, bright, energetic, proud, something slightly spunky and femme I might call tomboyish if it weren't for his assignment. I was so jealous that one day when the sopranos just could not figure out how to soar up to their high G and he popped up there to show them how shit's done. Maybe that wasn't jealousy. It was some kind of longing. Some kind of pride. Some kind of solidarity. Some kind of wish that I didn't feel the energy in the room that suggested more than a few had been startled by his unironic willingness to sing their note.
I have to wonder how he'd feel about singing it more often.
Don't want to confuse anyone. Don't want to throw anyone off of their part. Just want to sing. I just want to sing. Deep breath. Lose yourself in the music. Let it all float away.
I danced around him awkwardly trying to figure out which side to stand on. Look, if he's trying to be on the alto side, I'm not exactly going to fight him over pushing me closer to the middle of the tenor section. It's kind of absurd the way my brain maps things, but simple physical proximity feels like a simple pleasure, a victory. Not because I particularly love the tenors, or because I dislike the altos. It just makes me feel less self-conscious.
People often start in the wrong section for social reasons - they're talking and laughing with a friend or another. At least it seems to be for social reasons. It seemed that way today.
Until I heard him warming up with the altos, an octave up from my tenor. Side by side, eyes forward, hands to our sides. We must both have heard the other. I guess he wouldn't've been surprised to hear me in the range he was assigned, but I could not help but let a wave of joy and community move through my body. But I kept my eyes on the conductor, held tight to the smile forcing its way to my lips. The lips, the teeth, the tip of the tongue, the lips, the teeth, the tip...
I'm really skeptical about the fact that so many queerish people seem to gravitate around the alto-tenor divide. Confirmation bias? Maybe. A desire to fabricate for myself community? Maybe. A conflation of sex and gender? Sigh, I don't know. I've always admired this guy's energy: youthful, bright, energetic, proud, something slightly spunky and femme I might call tomboyish if it weren't for his assignment. I was so jealous that one day when the sopranos just could not figure out how to soar up to their high G and he popped up there to show them how shit's done. Maybe that wasn't jealousy. It was some kind of longing. Some kind of pride. Some kind of solidarity. Some kind of wish that I didn't feel the energy in the room that suggested more than a few had been startled by his unironic willingness to sing their note.
I have to wonder how he'd feel about singing it more often.
Blue Box, Pink Box
It's time to distribute envelopes full of tickets to the choir talent show all students are responsible for selling. Section by section is called out to sign off on them: each member has their own bunch, sorted by name into one of two boxes.
I approach them and try to figure out which to reach into.
"How are they...?" I ask of the tenor handing me a clipboard from behind the table.
".....They're binary," he says though a bit of a grimace. I smile at his reluctance and apology, reaching for the pink box.
"Actually, the... here, the blue one."
"....I thought you said it was binary?
"Yeah, but blue is the women, pink is the men."
I laugh. "Common, if you're going to make things arbitrarily binary, at least do it right," I quip sarcastically. Part of it is that there's something validating about being able to joke with cis people about gender. But something in me is actually thrown off for a second - I'm so used to guarding myself that I'm actually surprised to see something out of place.
He seemed to pick up on that, because he remarked, slightly taken aback in the same half-joking tone, "Adriaan, pink isn't a girl color, blue isn't a boy color."
"A- ah." I giggle. There's something even more validating than sarcastic jokes about cis people telling you off on your cisnormative expectations.
"Rachelanne did the sorting. She's been doing it that way for years."
"Yeah," an alto pipes up, "I think she just wants to fuck with the system. No reason for it to be that way, right?"
The tenor smiles. "I like pink, anyways."
The tenor smiles. "I like pink, anyways."
I sign off on my tickets. "Fuck yeah."
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