The Story Continues…

Sometimes, I think I have great ideas. Sometimes, I actually do have great ideas. I think.

Sometimes, I have conversations with people where I share my ideas and start to lose the need to argue them to make the other person see my way. Because sometimes, my way becomes their way. And their way becomes mine.

Sometimes, I have this deep longing to bring a very specific subset of a subset of a subset of humanity all together in one place and define our identity. Sometimes, I want to erase all of the labels and categories in favor of collaborating with everyone who faces common struggles and threats.

Sometimes, I wonder just how close to erasure my identity as a trans person really is. Sometimes, I read posts and articles filled with fear and anger and desperation and calls to arms and S.O.S.s. Sometimes, I get caught up in discussions that sometimes feel angry and dividing, only to realize that we are trying to understand the same thing from different backgrounds and experiences.

Sometimes, I wonder if I need to write into the existence of transness because I happen to be trans. Sometimes, I wonder if I need to abandon my transness in favor of an intersectionality so extensive that all labels and need for segregated subcommunities vanishes.

Sometimes, I think my perspective is that of a trans woman, even when I feel like I don’t understand trans women at all. Sometimes, I forget that I grew up as a Christian, that I existed in the gay community for several years, and that I have been to both university and vocational school. Sometimes, I think that my current identifying focus imbues myopia and I fall asleep in a tunnel.

Sometimes, I question the validity of trans women’s entrance into sex-segregated space because I read articles by feminists with valid arguments and legitimate fears. Sometimes, I question the true basis of those arguments and fears and wonder if they really just don’t want to accept us because we threaten the work they’ve done and the struggles they face. Sometimes, I say fuck both of those things and let’s discuss a revision of the narrative of womanhood. Sometimes, I wonder if my existence is in itself a revision of the narrative of womanhood, one that some feminists reject because anyone who has or had a penis must be invading with the sole purpose of usurpation.

Sometimes, I remember that I shared a couple of articles that highlighted incidents of racism on my Facebook wall and assumed that I was doing something helpful. Sometimes, I remember that I get judgmental when people say that they’re going to vote blue on Nov 6 and they assume that they are doing something helpful.

Sometimes, I get scared and angry and yell about the potential systemic erasure of my identity. Sometimes, I wonder if that’s exactly what they want me to do. Sometimes, I have to admonish myself for having paid scant attention to the potential systemic erasure of immigrants in our country.

Sometimes, I write a lot of words about myself and feel like people will read them and think I’m so great. Sometimes, I write a lot of words about myself and feel like no one will read them. Sometimes, I hope no one will read them because that hope is too self-absorbed for my idealistic mind to accommodate. Sometimes, I wonder if my idealistic mind is too self-absorbed for my hope to accommodate.

Sometimes, I am a trans female person. Sometimes, I am a female person.

Sometimes, I am just a person.

A person that is both full of wisdom and full of shit. A person that holds grudges for years and lets things go in a minute. A person that is afraid for their life and is unabashedly brave. A person that sees and a person that is blind. A person that learns and a person that fails. A person that hates. A person that lives.

But always.

Always.

Is.