Brain Vomit.
I’ve grown tired of this body. A cumbersome and heavy body… ~mother mother
Growing up in ghetto not-so-suburbs of Michigan has put a lot of perspective into play when it comes to art and trauma. The metro Detroit area has been brutal til this point. Now everyone and their polish grandmother is sprucing up the place like an inexpensive children’s hands-on museum. Beauty and art don’t always go hand in hand but when they do, it’s often by the survivors of this beautifully tragic city.
But one thing that has never changed is the freedom of self expression. Or the lack thereof. Since before any living being can recall, people have never been the same to one another. Not once in existance. Now who’s to say it’s impossible to be more different than usual. The natives of America had two-spirited peoples. They didn’t have labels like gender or skin color or hair type or even who you’re supposed to love. The two-spirited weren’t viewed as female or male. Only what they grew to achive. Only for who they were as people.
Now this is where my opinion will be attacked. This is where you all say I’m stupid or ridiculous. Transgender people are amazing and brave. However, those of you without diagnosed dysphoria calling yourselves trans while still displaying your birth gender obviously. Transtrenders.
Is it so hard to just be androgynous? Personally, I was never subject to feminine things. My mother is a punkrock gypsy pinup demon chick. My sperm doner (dad) was goth, and insane so he wasn’t there. Not important. Step dad was a ska punk. So super fem things weren’t my life. I wore camo pants with more pockets than needed. Little black shirts with band names and signatures from concerts at 5 years old. Getting kissed by the (drag)queens of the city. Being hugged by the most wretched and tormented, yet beautiful souls.
Now you’re wondering, what the fuck was that whole trans thing above? Because in this city we have nitty gritty start of self expression. And that started with one woman expressing herself. Then two. Then the confidence came to Detroit. Women were walking holding hands. Men were wearing their best sailor uniforms and gel their hair up real nice to make Detroit the rainbow puke clusterfuck of hatecrimes and freelance artists.
The reason I have such a tiff with transtrenders is because not only are they disrespecting the ones who gave them the idea, but I feel they’re disrespecting the art. Being strong is an art form. It’s the one art that anyone with a soul has tried. Not everyone masters it.
You can walk around Detroit and take pictures of the decaying buildings and the burnt houses and overgrown lawns, but you’ll never know why. You’ll say it’s beautiful and dark, but that’s about as soulful as putting #deep in the title.
You can cut your hair and dye it blue, but that doesn’t make you a guy. You can change your social media name to Jay (this isn’t directed toward one person, there are many who do this), or Ryan, but that won’t make you a boy. Especially not if you still wear dresses and tights and cute girly makeup and high heels. If you wanna be a dude, throw out the dresses and the heels, and go to a thrift store and get some clothes in the men’s section. I still identify as a she and I shop in the men’s section so what’s the issue?
I feel like I have to take this generation by the shoulders and shake them while shouting YOURE ALLOWED TO LOOK HOWEVER YOU WANT AND LIKE WHOMEVER AS WELL. YOU DONT HAVE TO SAY YOURE A DUDE! You’re allowed to be a girl, look boyish, and like girls. You’re allowed to be a guy and look like a girl while liking other guys! Most drag queens are gay, but they are still men! It’s not a hard concept to go to a doctor, and get diagnosed with gender dysphoria if you really feel that you were BORN the wrong gender. Just because it’s a new era of freedom and you think you can walk around Detroit -one of the world’s most notorious places for getting killed for no reason other than walking in the wrong neighborhood or wearing a certain color- skipping around in a rainbow dress with makeup and your hair freshly shaved on the sides, calling yourself a boy, you look like that one scabby kid in class who says their aunt can erase their memories of their ex.
One of these abominable hegirls ruined my life, because of the power we gave them. People gave her their respect, called her by what she wanted to be called. She posed as an artist in Detroit going around in their g wagon taking pictures from the window with a Nikon. She started a rumour that my boyfriend (the best one I had in my life) cheated. And everyone came to me saying it happened. So, being that we are children in school, we break up, he denies anything happened, she gets him, she harasses and threatens me, he does nothing but be a silent victim, for three years. She spread a lot of other things around to the teachers as well, and had me transfer schools because even the teachers were harassing me and calling me names. And from there came the blackout panic attacks that made me drop out. So I guess you could say I’ve turned a personal experience into a bigger thing. But here’s what I’m getting at…
Be. You. Because you can’t be anyone else. Trends are temporary. You’re only you for your whole life. And don’t be an asshole. It makes the experience worth it. Respect history, and those who made your expression possible. Respect the city you had no part in. It’s not beautiful and dark. It’s terrifying and soulful. Just be you. Don’t be the person you think would get the most attention. I should know, I’m a nobody with the talent comparable to Amy Winehouse and Lauren Hill. Nobody that matters ever pretended they had power til they got it. But who’d want to watch a tiny white girl named Winter do anything but strip?
I don’t care what I’m called. He/she/they/it, I don’t give a shit. I’ve got an ass and legs, that’s what counts. I hate my body. But if I wanted to, I could have a removable attachment to feel more manly. I can taper down my mushy stelactites and wear baggy clothes. But I can also wear fishnets and heels and frilly dresses that accentuate my body, and I can wear makeup like a damned artist. I’ve got the best of both worlds, honey and guess what! I’m still a girl! I get to wake up and decide what I look like that day. I get to decide what gender I’m fucking that day. Boy, girl, alien, whatever.
But what I am is a white girl from Detroit. I respect the history, the danger, and the grimey soul it has.
I can sit here all day and listen to my aunt Jenn’s recalls of terrible times in bad neighborhoods, and the literal torture she endured. But in the same line, she will reiterate how much she loves the city. From her experience with White Boy Rick, to working with warped tour and mothering Jeffree Star, to being shoulder bumped by Ryan Gosling in Ride. I’ll listen at the edge of my seat, feasting on her amazing life.
I’ll read untilmy eyes turn into raisins, all of my trans friend’s stories. I’ll read and listen to stories about Detroit until my brain implodes. And I’ll put myself out there artistically to be a canvas of other’s pain until I die.
I’ll never fake my life to perfection.
Can you say the same?
