I’m That Angry Queer

So, it dawned on me recently that I think I’ve been, like, subconsciously going back into the closet…

Over the past two months I have been dressing less and less femme, I’ve been very sporadically wearing bras (when I had previously been wearing them every day), I’m not shaving very often (going weeks with stubble), my blogging frequency has slipped, and my self-confidence has been at the lowest it has been in… fuck, a while.

When I pick out my own clothes recently I tend to grab basic t-shirts and sweats or shorts. Then when people still inevitably stare at me I almost always turn to my partner Falon and say things like “why are they staring? I’m not even wearing anything femme…” or “I don’t even look that queer today, do I?” and my spoons quickly deplete. Still, dressing in pretty andro clothes, not shaving, and not wearing a bra, has made walking around town MUCH easier. I’ve been blending in a bit again.

And you know what? The street harassment HAS been way, way less over the last few months too. I haven’t had anything thrown at me from a car in a while, no transphobic/homophobic slurs yelled at me from some dudes in their pick-up truck, nobody following me and recording me on their phone (like with the Walmart or Mac’s Convenience incidents), nobody cornering me outside and screaming at me to get out of town (like at my bank last summer), just not a lot of harassment at all really.

Then two days ago, while standing in the kitchen doing some dishes, Falon could tell that I was really low on energy so said that they would finish doing them for now. “Go sit down, it’s okay,” they said. “You don’t have the spoons right now, but I do, so I can finish up what’s left.”

So, off I went to dry off my hands and without any forewarning I just fucking broke down crying. Hard.

Like, I’m talking full on hyperventilating, body shaking crying for nearly half-an-hour. And ever since then all I can think about is how absolutely, completely shitty that I’ve been to myself for the last 59 days.

This is the first selfie that I’ve shared on my Facebook page with friends and peers, since March 30th.


Between then and now I have spent the vast majority of my energy berating myself, bullying myself, invalidating myself, tone policing myself, gaslighting myself. I have let every single shitty, transphobic thing I’ve read on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, news articles, etc. over the past few years get under my skin and burrow deep.

All the YouTube videos with casual transphobic and transmisogynistic jokes thrown in for a laugh at our expense. The movies making fun of us, the public figures profiting off of our abuse and oppression, the Milo Y’s of the world calling us a cancer on society and advocating for us to be socially, politically, and financially quelled. The posts after posts after posts of people, both cis and trans, demeaning and degrading non-binary folk as liars, fakers, tricksters, and general nuisances to all. The cruelty of our families degrading and disowning us. The centering of capitalism, pinkwashing, tone policing, respectability politics, ally theater, and conformity by the organizations that purport to be “for us”.

It was all in there bubbling under the surface and until today I didn’t realize how much it had just been rotting and festering away inside me… making me feel sick, and sad, and worthless, and scared.

I deserve better, Falon deserves better, and my queer and trans readers, followers, and friends deserve better too.

Our anger, our frustration at the constant transphobia that we are forced to endure every single fucking day, those are valid emotions. Marginalized people are constantly  shut down and told by others for decades to be quiet, to be nice, to calm down, to not yell, to be patient, to educate people.

Yet over and over and over and over again people say and do transphobic things. Often the same people. Over and over again TV shows, YouTube vids, movies, news broadcasters, reporters, talk show hosts, etc. say and do transphobic things. Over and over again politicians, religious leaders, public figures, celebrities, teachers, professors, say and do transphobic things. Over and over again “allies” say and do transphobic things, then get angry when you bring it up.

And we’re expected to just not burden those around us with any of it. We’re expected to take all the forms of harassment from them every single day and to deal with it ourselves, in quiet. Stop complaining, it’s not so bad, say those who just don’t fucking want to hear it.

We’re expected to not be upset by any of it. To stop being angry, to stop being so sensitive, to not take things personally, to not rock the boat, to “pick our battles” (but not actually fight them TOO loudly), and to respect and hear out the abuses from others as “opinions”. Further, we’re expected to then generally listen to our abusers and softly, calmly, patiently, and politely teach them. Don’t alienate your allies. Don’t alienate ignorant politicians. Don’t alienate the abusive police system. Be nice and be quiet.

So for the last few months I’ve internalized thing after thing after thing.

I’ve subconsciously punished myself for my anger. I’ve isolated. I’ve stopped posting publicly about most things. I’ve stopped openly sharing my self-care and empowerment selfies. My “friends” list has shrunk exponentially with each passing month. I’ve worked quite subversively to quell my emotions and NOT be that angry queer that everybody berates as an “oversensitive”, “triggered”, an “SJW”.

But you know what, I’m queer and I’m angry.

Don’t like it? Go fuck yourself. I’m bouncing back and I’mma be LOUD.

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Closets, Sex, and Closet Sex

My heart pounded in my chest as he leaned past me to close his closet door. We sat on our bent legs, facing each other, so that our eyes were level. He was excited, and so was I.

“You be the girl, okay?” he said.

I felt his hands slide around my waist, pulling both himself and me forward so that we were sitting upright on our knees.

“Okay.” I said, just as our bodies touched and his lips pressed against mine.

I closed my eyes. His grip tightened around my waist. My arms moved on their own, instinctively draping over his shoulders. Both of us shuddered. A mix of nervousness and excitement washed over me as I melted against him.


 

Looking back on it, I think that it is hilarious that one of the most defining queer moments of my life literally happened IN a closet.

*Ben [name has been changed to protect identity] was my childhood friend. We spent a lot of time together and though I can never quite remember the exact timeline of our experimentation with each other, the details of that closet kiss have really stuck with me to this day.

I recently wrote a piece for the Crash Pad Series blog called “How Learning About Queer Sex Taught Me Self-Love“, which allowed me the opportunity to think back to my friendship with Ben and reflect a little bit on the significance of my experiences with him. How I felt when he kissed me, when he held me, when he touched me, shattered my little, uninformed universe.

And the years that followed were pretty intense.

There were the years of secretly dressing in femme clothes, terrified of somebody finding out and confused about why I felt so amazing when I put them on. The years of frustration and overwhelming anxiety while crushing on classmates of all genders. The years of sneaking out of my house to suck a stranger’s cock in their car, completely ignorant to the dangers of those random hook-ups. The years of deeply destructive self-hatred and shame, that nearly destroyed me completely. And, most recently, the year’s of healing, acceptance, understanding, and devoting myself to practicing self-love.

Today, I am out as a mega-queer, non-monogamous, andro-babe who is looking at starting hormone replacement therapy in the very near future and is currently on track to begin a career in the field of sex education and blogging.

Did Ben identify as queer? Did he ever come out? Were his experiences with me as transformative as my experiences with him were? Did he experiment with more people with penises after me? Was I his first in a long string of queer sex encounters and love affairs? Did he ever talk about me to new romantic or sexual partners?

Did he struggle with his gender too?

Who is he today?

I was curious. So, a couple of days ago I looked him up on Facebook; which was a little difficult because he has one of those names that a lot of people have with ever so slightly different spelling variations. But I knew I had the right person as soon as I saw his face.

It was his eyes; and that grin. Both were exactly as I had remembered.

It didn’t take me long scrolling through his wall though to see just how different our experiences were. In fact, aside form a mutual interest in comic books we really didn’t have anything in common. But he looked fulfilled, and that was pretty awesome to see.

So, that’s it really. Sometimes you don’t get the answers you’re looking for because in the end they’re just not necessary. I didn’t need to know what I meant to him, or the details of his life’s journey. What happened between us happened, but he’s not obligated to feel the same way about it that I do. Maybe I was just an experience for him. A distant and hazy memory of radical self-exploration.

Whatever he remembers, or doesn’t, it’s all good. He looks happy.


 

Ben, you’ll probably never see this (especially since you never knew me as Nillin), but thank you for the memorable sleepovers and make-out practice. Glad to see that you’re still a lifetime Ninja Turtles fan. I am too.

Love, Nillin

NOTE: Thursday updates will be re-posts from mxnillin.wordpress.com, which was permanently suspended by WordPress for due to their anti-porn and anti-sex work policies. This post was originally published on August 30, 2016. Please read the announcement post to learn more.

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When EVERY day is “Coming Out Day”

So, it’s National Coming Out Day 2016 and everybody is sharing their coming out stories and celebrating being out with friends, family, and followers on social media. Which is all good, of course, but the day is not without it’s privileges. While quite a few people are out and living their lives to the best of their abilities, many have lost everything since coming out.

They’ve lost their home, their job, their place in their community, their friends, family, possible even their marriage or any other relationships. Some lost their lives, either from a hate crime or death by suicide. Many queer and trans POC face profound amounts of aggression, intimidation, and violence from all aspects of society; all while also being ignored, invalidated, minimized, and pushed aside by  LGBTQ+ organizations and “communities” that seem aggressively unwilling to address racism in any form whatsoever.

Due to all of that, and more, COUNTLESS simply cannot come out at all because it would be emotionally, psychologically, financially, professionally, socially, and/or physically unsafe for them to do so.

So, while celebrating coming out day please ensure that you take the time to check yourself and acknowledge that there is a LOT of work to be done for vulnerable queer peeps all over.

Personally, the day isn’t all that significant to me because as a visibly queer, non-binary trans, and non-monogamous person who defies most everybody’s expectations of gender and sexuality in my small, highly conservative town… I’ve never stopped coming out. In fact, I come out literally every single day, often multiple times a day.

 

I come out every time I go to the mall and literally everybody’s head turns as I walk by.

I come out every time a kid asks me “are you a boy or a girl?” [seriously, daily]

I come out ever single time that same kid’s parents pull them away from me, physically force them to look away, scoff at me, or tell them I’m “just confused” or “sick”.

I come out every time a bus driver, drive thru worker, gas station attendant, retail salesperson, server, barista, etc. misgenders me numerous times throughout our brief interaction despite me politely correcting them. [again, daily]

I come out every time I need to go to the bathroom in public and strangers intensely stare me down for daring to even consider approaching either door.

I come out every time I go clothes shopping and staff doesn’t know what their “policy is” on people like me trying on clothes.

I come out every time somebody walks into my place of employment and sees me behind my desk wearing a dress, skirt, blouse, etc.

I come out every time somebody throws something at me from their car, screams a slur at me, follows me around as I walk down the street, or corners me outside a building.

I come out every time somebody asks my partner if she’s married.

I come out every time I meet somebody new and have to introduce myself for the first time.

I come out every time I walk into a party or social gathering and everybody stops talking.

I come out every time I’m not perfectly clean shaven, or their is any visible hair on my arms, legs, or chest.

I come out every time somebody’s eyes go wide as they notice my D-cup tits.

I come out every time somebody can’t stop glaring down at my crotch.

 

And so on and so forth. Ultimately, I don’t think any of us ever fully stops “coming out” and, unfortunately, I don’t think that is going to change any time soon. Yes, you and I know that queer people have been around for literally thousands of years, throughout all of recorded history, but, most everybody else doesn’t seem to get that yet. We’re still an enormous conundrum to politicians, leaders, lawmakers, policy makers, and society as a whole. Which is super fucking frustrating and sucks ass on the best of days.

All that being said, if you are out I supposed it is worth taking a moment to acknowledge the gigantic “fuck you” that you’re giving everybody by simply existing outside arbitrary social roles and expectations. Because fuck that shit, am I right!?

*Feature image from Aloys Neil Mark Fleischmann

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