Decidedly Obscure Human Complaints.

This semester has been crazy busy. So busy that I have a whole slew of gobblity gook I can’t wait to blog about. Oooooh has it accumulated. 

At long last, my Spring Break has begun. So am I breaking it up in Portland at a vegan strip club? Am I off in a secluded cabin somewhere? Am I at a beach party trying to escape a prehistoric mutant piranha blood bath?! Well, close… but no cigar. I’m getting school stuff done.

Ugh. See, here’s the problem. My academically warped sense of reality compels me to see this “break” as an opportunity to get stuff done. For example, tomorrow I’ll be working on submitting my summer research idea for IRB approval - which is a board that exists to make sure research involving human participants is ethical or not. What fun. 

My riveting research topic, by the way, is belief in a just world and attitudes toward hate crime based on gender expression. A little while back I came across something called the “just-world hypothesis”, which was developed by a feller named Lerner back in the 1960’s. A bit after Milgram had dabbled in his studies on human obedience to authority figures, Lerner wondered about what other factors contribute to people supporting cruel regimes or social norms that cause suffering. He noticed a tendency for observers to blame victims for their own suffering - like how his students would consistently blame the poor for their own plight, instead of structural factors that contribute to poverty. 

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… trying to figure out how I can pay for the required texts. Even with the privilege of not worrying about food or shelter, living with my parents, it is still a daunting challenge. Most semesters I’ve been able to find ways to work it out and some semesters I couldn’t. The semesters where I literally couldn’t afford my books made it very difficult to keep up and do well in class.

I use a variety of strategies to figure out this book shindig, including checking out older editions from a the library, renting, finding used books or even online versions of old, outdated editions. This semester I’ve dug and clawed and whimpered and journeyed far to find any way I could possibly get out of spending at least $600. And alas - it ain’t happin’n.

Situations like this really make it difficult to ignore how I feel about the way academia operates in the United States. Students work harder and take on more debt to get degrees whose value is open to question. Meanwhile, colleges are the pawns of corporate interests who price gouge a captive student body. You are “free”. Free to buy this text, at this price, with this online code which expires after this semester. The same information is, of course, readily available from hundreds or thousands of inexpensive sources. But, for some reason your class must use this incredibly expensive source with all lower cost options made as inaccessible as possible. Really? Seriously?

In other industrialised countries, they have awesome student unions and progressive governments who consider higher education a universal right. It is not a privilege reserved only for those who can afford it. In the U.S. the cost of college rises at an annual rate 2.3% faster than the rate of inflation (DSA). Whoa.

The whole thing feels like a game of Wipe Out. It all begins with a whole bundle of enthusiastic, bright eyed and bushy tailed contestants (i.e. freshman who are all excited about learning). Round after round contestants are weeded out. Inevitably, every one gets whacked with massive rubber balls or have to swim through mud. They myth is that only the “best and brightest” make through it to the end. But, even the cream of the crop end up like veterans of a brutal war left paralysed with injuries and PTSD. Left behind are the majority, the “failures,” left with damaged self-esteem and bitter resentment towards education.

The result is a population where the majority seriously believe the Earth was created in a puff of magic and is only a few thousand years old.

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… pondering deeply about such things like what position I’d prefer to be in if I ended up in The Human Centipede, when I will go buy more wet food for Evilbunny (my cat) and a bleach pen for the white Hanes© shirts I wear every day, getting mula for school books, and whatnot - eventually the realisation of how seriously lucky I am in the tranny department comes creeping in.

Prior to starting hormone therapy a few years ago, I had literally resolved to stop dating. Zilch, done, ~fin~. It was just, too painful and triggering. Every attempt was an incredibly potent reminder of how I was trapped in a body that felt disconnected and uncomfortable. It wasn’t worth crying every single time and spiralling into weeks of hopelessness. Without intimacy, I could bind and never look at myself in the nude. Easy peasy. Solution foreva!

But, the idea of hormones sounded almost as awful. Losing my androgyny and looking like a boring ol’ greasy cisgender dude? Eff no. Heading down a path that insurance companies and numerous doctors explicitly exclude? Uh, no. Increasing my testosterone levels that are associated with shaving years off one’s life, increasing cancer risk, liver damage, increased cholesterol, acne, etc.? No, no, and no.

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… is synonymous with trauma.

The corner of queer-ville I’ve resided in for these past 29 years has not been the host of many weddings. I think a total of… oh, three? None of which included my being invited to a bachelorette party - until Friday night.

My adorable friend, Nicole, recently took a trip to New York to marry her same-sex partner. They had a ceremony shindig there. Then another shindig of some romantic sort in Phoenix with family. And then a reception with friends here last night, in Utah.

But, before said reception, a bachelorette party was planned for Nicole. A bachelorette party including her male + female bridesmaids, queers galore with oh, maybe two heterosexual-identified? Anyway, this party included a male stripper - in a police outfit which very swiftly became a tiny thong g-string situation. Given the fact that Nicole is as queer as they come, watching her sweat and grimace under the wrath of a grinding male stripper had me smiling, laughing and hooting for an hour straight. My throat and face still hurt (which could also be partially attributed to waking up on the slightly sick side of the coughy phlegmy bed).

The fun and games didn’t last forever. As the whirlwind of male strippage ensued and he had people laying on their backs beneath him with strawberries in mouths and whipped cream (vegan, of course), someone started to chant my name. “Dexter! Dexter!”. Nicole hopped on the band wagon fast, and next thing I knew there I was on my back on the hard, wooden floor with a strawberry in my mouth.

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The other day my perceived dude gender got me into trouble. So there I sat, all studious-like, in my Psychology class as my professor rambled on aboot noticeably observable gender differences in toddlers something another.

As she lectured, I reminisced about my own toddlerhood and how I can’t recall noticing any extreme physical differences until the land o’ adolescent puberty. In my case, by the time I entered junior high school, I was all kinds of tall and awkward while all of the cisgender boys were itty bitty things scurrying around. There were numerous girls who were taller than the boys, having hit puberty earlier. Knowing that this had 95.6% to do with pubertal differences, I wanted to ask about what, biologically, accounted for the much more subtle observable differences pre-puberty in toddlers.

So I raised my hand and said: “I remember junior high, when there were all of these tall awkward girls who had hit puberty before boys…” , and, suddenly, a flurry of whispers and outcry and ooo’s happened. I finished my sentence, confused about what I’d said that had caused so much offence.

Turns out, it was from a perception that I had said there’s something awkward or “wrong” about tall women. Ohmygawd! In my past life, if I’d said the exact same thing it would’ve just been a given that, “Oh, hey, she was a tall girl in junior high. That must’ve been an awkward experience at the time!”, instead of, “How dare that douche dude say tall girls are awkward!”.

Oy vey.

Student land and selfish post-surgery running aboot celebration have connived to prevent me from blogging as I should! I will also upload pictures of my epic healing nipples at some point in the near future here. They are currently pink and scabbed, with my right one healing faster than the left. Why? I dunno. But, they’re both pink, alive, and resting upon muscle instead of boob.

Today was the first day I’ve bicycled to school since my surgery on August 11th. I technically could have bicycled after I was given the go exercise! green flag by my surgeon, Cori Agarwal, last Friday (the 9th) - but I’ve been sick. Apparently recovering from surgery, math phobia stress, and going back to a college campus germ cesspool are a perfect combo for such things. So for about two weeks now I’ve been congested, coughing, tired, and slowly getting better. Wah.

Even though I could barely breathe peddling along this morning and coughed galore, it was absolutely amazing. It was the most liberating feeling to just throw on a shirt, hop on my bicycle, and peddle. I could feel the wind blowing down the collar of my shirt and on to my chest. I had absolutely no acid reflux (caused by binding), no heat exhaustion… just pure, comfortable, anxiety-free peddling.

Similar to the lack of modesty post I made earlier, I can’t resist lounging around topless as.much.as.possible or occasionally showing off to friends. Earlier today, for example, I even enthusiastically allowed my blind and deaf friend to “see” my chest by running her finger along the incision line and along my crusty scabby healing nipple. I’m sure she loved that part.

Had my first and second day of classes Wednesday and Thursday! The lessons I’ve learned so far?

1. It’s hard to carry books less than 2 weeks after surgery. 
2. Sweating in a compression vest is itchier than in a binder.
3. Nipple grafts freak me out. Today I see my surgeon and find out if my tissue is livin’ or dyin’! Yay!
4. Statistics = intimidating.

I also endured a lot of hugs. But fortunately, most everyone who wants to hug me also reads my blog - and know to do so side ways, gently, and semi-awkwardly.

I foresee this being a good semester.

In other news, not riding a bicycle SLAYS ME. I feel like a chubby little lump on a recliner chair. Which I am, but seriously… I absolutely can not wait to peddle furiously in sweaty booblessness celebration!

After working from home on a recliner chair in jammies for a week, I returned to the office yesterday. Wee!

I’d predicted that the worst case scenario would involve my being an idiot and trying to lift shit when I shouldn’t - but, that didn’t happen. Instead, the worst case scenario turned out to be the bro shake. I hadn’t realized how often this happens in my world… or maybe just on a college campus (and elsewhere?), but there’s a LOT of grab-hand-hard-and-shake-arm-or-fist-bump-or-variations-of-this going on. To which I’d whimper and respond, “Ooo, careful. I just had surgery.”

This happened about five painful times. “Hey! Haven’t seen you around in a while! How have you been??” *hand flies out towards mine, grab, firm swing while my hand flops around like a flaccid fish*.

There was one feller who bounced in to the office while I was in there with a couple other student government peeps. He was in student government last year and I shared a class with him. When he went in for the bro shake I diverted with, “Just had surgery. No shaking for me.” He of course asked, “Surgery? What for?”

Me: “Chest…”

Him: “Chest? Did they operate on your heart or something?”

Me: “No, no! Top surgery.”

Him: “Top surgery?”

Me: “Yes. To get rid of my breasts! So relieved!”

With this, he was clearly caught off-guard. His mouth literally fell agape and his brow furrowed as he tried to process my response. Meanwhile, in my neck of the woods, I replied with, ya know, the honest reason that I couldn’t shake his hand. If I’d dislocated my shoulder skating along a sidewalk or something, I would’ve blurted that out instead. But, when it’s presumed that I’m a cisgender feller and I reply, “My boobs are gone!”, clearly there’s a whaaaaa puzzle pieces clicking cognitive disconnect going on. 

Fortunately, instead of feeling compelled to elaborate and before he had a chance to respond, we were interrupted by someone else in the office asking me questions about something on the H:\ drive something another. And then he had to run off.

a.w.k.w.a.r.d.