I spent yesterday morning making clothes. I've been doing this a lot lately. I'm not sure why, exactly. Partly, I just like making things. But it seems more loaded than that for me. I can't think of any other form of material and/or symbolic cultural that is more closely tied to identity and power than clothing. It is the primary way in which we materially express gender, sexuality, class, and in many cases ethnicity as well. And for someone like me, whose body doesn't match their desired sexual and gender expressions, clothing/ style is one of the few ways to do it, unambiguously.
Like other forms of artistic performance, the clothes we wear are
highly charged sites of political conflict, no less so because they are so ordinary. I have had guns
pulled on me, by law enforcement and civilians, only because of what
I was wearing. I have been subject to threats, harassment, and
physical violence because of something as seemingly innocuous as the clothes I wear. I've been reported to police for being a "man in a dress" at a school. And so on. This has been a
daily reality for me since I was teenager. I have lost track of how
many incidents of violence and humiliation getting dressed has created in my life.
A few months ago I went out drinking and dancing. When I got home,
there was no food in the house, so I went to bed a bit drunk and
very hungry. The following morning I went to the grocery still
wearing my outfit from the night before: a see-through dress, a
push-up bra, and some showy panties of my own design. I threw on a
jacket, just to cover up a bit.
I walked the block or so to my grocery store, thinking about the
cuties and music from the night before. I bought some fresh bread
and some fruit. And as I walked towards the register, I saw a
super cute black bra/ teddy in my size. It was like 100 pesos, so I
grabbed it, impulsively. At the register, the lady looked at me a
little awkwardly, and said: “you'll have to go by customer service
for them to remove the sensor from your, um, purchase.”
I paid and walked over to the counter. No one was there. I was
grumpy, hungry, and really just wanted to get home. Plus it was hot.
So I took of my jacket as I waited there, under the fluorescent
tubes, last night's eye-liner smeared down my cheeks.
I got impatient and went looking for someone to take the sensor off.
They told me to just wait. I was scanning everyone who walked by,
looking for a uniform. And then this woman, slightly older than me,
started walking straight towards me. I thought, at last I can go
eat. And then she looked me up and down. I thought, that's a little
weird. And then she smiled a huge, happy, eye-twinkling smile. I
thought, how strange, she must really love her job. But then I
noticed that she was wearing normal clothes. I mustered up a smile of my own.
She walked right up to me and said, “Hermana, eres mexicana?”
I was unprepared for that question. But I answered, “yes.”
“I just wanted you to know that I love people who are brave enough
to be themselves.”
This was not what I was expecting. “Me too,” I stammered.
“You look wonderful. And it makes me so happy to see you here.”
It didn't occur to me to ask why. To wonder if she had a gender
non-conforming loved one, a child maybe. I said, “thank-you,” and
smiled sweetly.
I noticed that her eyes were watering. She said, “can I hug you?”
“Of course,” I said.
She was crying a bit as she left. And still I didn't think to ask her about herself.
The whole thing happened so fast. As I walked back home nibbling on a
chocolatin, the obvious thing occurred to me. This city can be a
dreadful place to be trans or queer, and surely she must have been
reminded of the violence someone she loves (or worse, loved) has had to endure.
I was getting ready to go swimming this morning. And I was trying on
some of the new clothes I had recently made, negotiating with the
reality that whatever I wore, I would have to change into and out of
at the gym, in front of straight men's locker-room-talk, straight men teasing each other, cracking jokes about
blow jobs, putos, anal-sex..., negotiating with the reality that between my
house and the spaces where it would feel safe to dress however I
wanted, there were spaces where violence was not unlikely.
Tonight, I am clinging to the memory of that woman at the grocery.
A couple of hours ago, I went to the store. I was dressed, I thought,
pretty butch. No see through anything. No cute bra sticking out anywhere. I was wearing a black t-shirt and black skirt, arm warmers
and knee socks, 'cause it's a bit cold.
In the few blocks round trip between my house and the grocery store,
four different men and women made homophobic or transphobic remarks
either to me or to their partners. I can't count the number of
aggressive or threatening stares.
While waiting for the baguette I was buying, I hear some chuckles and
murmuring from a group of young men I had already noticed. I always
notice. I am always looking for the next threat. And so I half turn
to see what was up. They're pointing at me. And talking to each
other. I don't feel afraid. I don't know why. I figure it's a
brightly lit crowded grocery store, how bad could things get?
I am trying not to look threatening. I don't look them in the eyes.
But I want them to know that I'm aware. I look. And I look away. Listening.
They're a few meters from me. I make out a few words. Like: ¿Qué
pedo con ese puto? [What's up with that faggot?]. I'm glad I hear
this. The ambiguity of always thinking that people are out to get me,
or laughing at me, or whatever, is exhausting.
I turn my back on the woman wrapping up my bread. I face them. And I grab the neck of a bottle in my grocery basket, thinking this will be better than pulling my knife. I know that there are cops at the entrance to the store. Legally, I think, this will be better.
I turn my back on the woman wrapping up my bread. I face them. And I grab the neck of a bottle in my grocery basket, thinking this will be better than pulling my knife. I know that there are cops at the entrance to the store. Legally, I think, this will be better.
I think, good thing I am not wearing heels.
Then I remember what a trainer told me about fighting against groups
when you can't get away. Stay on your feet and cause as much damage
as quickly possible to as many as possible so the rest reconsider
what they're doing. I am determined to hospitalize the first one to come at me.
My next thought is the stupidest thing in the world. If they beat me, if I fall, my
skirt's so short everyone will see the black lace panties I have on.
And then nothing happens.
I don't feel anything at all until I get home. And then I start to
cry.