Tag Archive | agender

Gender/Sexual Identity as Commodity

I’m trying to come up with an idea for a macrophilia tattoo that might be recognizable to another macrophile should they see me with it. I’m also trying to come up with a symbol that the rest of the community might find useful to use, seeing as how it’s exploded in size and activity over the past 4-5 years for reasons that are beyond me.

I want the symbol to be simple, versatile, and visually striking, and I want it to be able to play well with other symbols, like the LGBT rainbow or BDSM triskele do. And in reacquainting myself with the various pride flags so that I can do up some comps and make sure that it really will work just as well with the ace pride colors as it would with the trans pride ones (because there are a lot of aces in the “G/t fandom”, as folks are calling it), I do a little googling. And of course googling “pride flags” will invariably bring you to tumblr.

Specifically, tumblr blogs like this.

And it’s sort of vaguely interesting to me at first – I’m fascinating by worldbuilding in fictional storytelling, and I see a lot of parallels here. The thought that Tolkien put into designing his heraldic devices and war banners is eerily similar to the thesis-quality trains of thought that go into picking a specifically avocado green over an apple green.

But then the fascination turns to apathy, turns to morbid curiosity – I’ve moved from having one foot in that world to having none, now suddenly an outsider – and I wonder just what is it that people do with this glut of pride flags? Abstract representations for the way you lose interest in someone after getting to know them; for the inexplicable way you’ve been conditioned to want to kiss people who wear make-up and whose underwear never tent; for why you gravitate toward toward commodified, airbrushed, sex-on-demand instead of other people. I’ve even seen countless requests for pride flags signifying confusion and indecision. (How about this: use a goddamn question mark.)

What purpose do pride flags actually serve in a world coked up on advertisements, capitalism, identity-as-iPhone-color, identity-as-operating-system, identity-as-tumblr-aesthetic, identity-as-who-am-I-in-this-cartoon-that-exists-to-sell-me-shit?

If pride flags are born on tumblr, then etsy is where they go to die.

Etsy pride peddlers have knick-knacks (whose constituent parts are made by near-slave labor overseas – what colors is the sweatshopsexual pride flag?) of the likes you didn’t even know you needed. Here’s a greeting card that will do the coming out for you if you’re genderqueer. Here are some sexuality pride blobs made of environmentally irresponsible plastic nurdles if you happen to want them in the shape of a computer mouse. (Talk about capitalizing on a niche market.) Here’s some resin in a bottle done up to look like the aromantic flag. Here’s a beanie made from oil so that you can tell the world that you’ve pinned down your otherwise difficult-to-pin-down sexuality. Here’s a bar of soap that will make you smell like a straight ally. (C’mon people, allies are a totally untapped market here – straights have money too! Get on it!)

Me? I’ve actually given up with trying to figure out “what gender am I”. Somewhere along the line I became vaguely aware of what I was really trying to do: I was trying to brand myself, adopt an aesthetic, and turn myself into a commodity. I was setting myself up for something pretty spectacularly depressing: an identity and lifestyle propped up entirely by the clothes that I wore, the media I consumed, what fictional representations I saw when I looked in the mirror (“am I more BMO or Salem the Cat today?”), how I walked, talked, and even occupied a chair while sitting. I was looking into a pattern of behavior and trying to project forward from it, into the future. I called it ‘being descriptive’, but I was being prescriptive instead. And once I realized that my sexuality could be played like a fiddle depending on what medications I was taking, that my gender could change depending on how much I liked myself that day and how much money I had in the bank, when I started recognizing myself in a number of definitions of “different” “genders”, I didn’t want another label to slap on it like duct tape holding together something rapidly falling apart. I was sick and tired of trying to find a neat, tidy, abstract representation of my lived experience. I was done.

Crimethinc. has a booklet out what serves as a pretty decent introduction to anarchism, called To Change EverythingAnd it has a really nice section outlining why representation in all its myriad forms – whether governmental representation in the form of laws or elected officials, or media representation – does no service to autonomy and the project of liberation:

You can only have power by wielding it; you can only learn what your interests are by acting on them. When every effort to exert leverage on the world must be channeled through the mediation of representatives or translated into the protocol of institutions, we become alienated from each other and our own potential. Every aspect of our agency that we yield reappears as something unrecognizable and hostile to us. The politicians who always disappoint us only show how much power we have given up over our own lives; the violence of the police is the dark consequence of our desire to avoid personal responsibility for what happens in our neighborhoods.

In the digital age, when every person must continually serve as his own secretary to manage his public image, our very reputations have become external, like vampires feeding on us. If we weren’t isolated from each other, competing to sell ourselves on so many professional and social markets, would we invest so much time and energy in these profiles, golden calves made in our own image?

We are irreducible. Neither delegates nor abstractions can stand in for us. In reducing human beings to demographics and raw experience to data, we lose sight of everything that is precious and unique in the world. We need presence, immediacy, direct contact with each other, direct control over our lives—things no representative or representation can deliver.

Is it really any surprise that the ancients had no real words for homosexuality, for asexuality, for non-cis identities, but we do now? We have nothing else but capitalism and the Enlightenment to thank for that. And I don’t know about you, but that’s not a legacy I want to reinforce when I get dressed every morning.

I had my hysterectomy: it’s what I needed, though even now language fails to explain how and why that is, fails to convey the peace I feel now. But it’s really not my responsibility to explain, is it? Or language’s responsibility to be adequate enough, abstract enough, to neatly convey my innermost thoughts and emotions? I don’t want a word for how it makes me feel to not have a uterus or cervix. Words are cheap.

And pride flags are too.

So let’s not forget what they really are: branding. Commodification. They’re no different than wearing a Star Wars shirt or a pair of Nikes. The desire to wear these things is the desire to be acknowledged as a demographic and a market. Someone to be sold and sold to.

And that’s exactly what I’m doing with the macrophilia symbol. I would say that we’re unmarketable, like most of BDSM or polyamory or any number of other forms of expressing intimacy that our current system has no means to capitalize on, but I’d be flat-out lying if I said that. Macrophilia is almost entirely a product of capitalism: the early-childhood imprinting that most of us have experienced came from some piece of media or another – from television or a video game. Sometimes it comes from a book, and even rarer still does it come from an actual, physical experience. Either way, it all has the same effect: we crave the impossible, the fantastic. We crave something in the abstract, and that’s something only capitalism can really deliver.

So for now, I’ll make the pride symbols. Because why not? We’re all already far down the rabbit hole, and we might as well try and make the best of it.

But in the meantime I will continue to envision a world without pride symbols, without gracelessly strung-together Greek words to try and describe something that maybe doesn’t need describing. That maybe only contributes to the world in the same way as clean needles contribute to the well-being of a drug addict. In other words: I’m interested in people who recognize that the drugs, the glut of genders and orientations, are a reactionary symptom and not in any way a meaningful solution to the bigger problem of mass misery and alienation.

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My Gender Hasn’t Changed– Language Is Just Playing Catch-Up

[ March 2016 note: I’m no longer in the same place as I was when I wrote this. I no longer identify with the term “epicene” either, as I’ve come to find that any word that attempts to approximate a gender, either as a goal, space, flavor of embodiment, or social role, is insufficient and irrelevant to me. Even words like “genderless” are too much like soundbites to me and encapsulate nothing about my lived experience, which I actually do get into a bit here otherwise. Also, now that I’ve had my hysterectomy, and am off medications, I no longer want any more surgeries, let alone colpocleisis. ]

I’ve always had a pretty decent understanding of what the “inert nothingness” feels like within the context of myself; it’s just finding words to describe that experience that’s always been sucky. It’s made engaging with trans* spaces sucky.

But a word caught my eye the other day (two, actually, from different places, and they are related in a way): epicene. You can google it to get the jist of how it’s generally used. But it has this quality to it that really interests me. For one, it doesn’t have the word “gender” or “sexual” in it. And that is a HUGE bonus, seeing as how I’ve recently referred to myself as being not quite transgender, not quite transsexual, and not quite cis; over the course of about a month those words suddenly ceased to have any meaning for me, like a house of cards come tumbling quietly down. It wasn’t an identity crisis at all; I’d just become allergic to that sort of language almost overnight without having gone through anaphylactic shock. It was time for me to move on.

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Moving Away From the Transgender Label

It’s only been like, 2 years since discovering that I might be trans*, and already I feel myself drifting away from the label.

Maybe it’s because I can’t seem to be able to tolerate very many transgender people when I get to know them even the tiniest bit. Maybe it’s because the trans* movement is white-washed and racist as shit. Maybe because nobody talks about what I want to talk about. Maybe because I’m not supposed to be using the asterisk anymore.

Those are all reasons, but the main one is that my experience of embodiment is very different than most it seems, and the result is that I’m alienated from pretty much all trans* narratives, solutions, activisms, and coping mechanisms. That’s what the asterisk represented for me, and the more that I think about the hubub surrounding it, the more useless I realize it was in the first place. The asterisk is by and large claimed by AFAB nonbinary people seeking a more masculine presentation and way of living. That’s… not me at all either, and I don’t want to be read that way by other transgender people.

Truth be told, ever since I started anti-depressants my dysphoria and dysmorphia have slowly fizzled away, leaving a pleasant sort of nothingness. Not “nothingness” as in something akin to the feeling of being cis, a lack of being trans*, but a nothingness where my physicality should be. It’s different than presentation, it’s different than sex/genital configuration, it’s different than hormone profiles, it’s different than assignment, it’s different than what my internal sense of gender is– it’s literally how I experience my own physical self. My sense of embodiment. How I occupy both my body and the space my body is situated in.

So I’m exploring labels that swap the “gender” prefix and suffix for “body/bodied” instead.

Bodyqueer.

Bodyfluid.

Bodyflux.

Aliabodied.

Transbodied.

This is definitely an “other” category way off in the boonies. This is something that is giving a name to my experiences of disembodiment, OBEs, and BIID. I don’t expect this to catch on at all, except maybe among a few in the BIID community. If I ever go to a gender conference, I guess I could make up informational pamphlets to hand out, though.

Anyways, this is where my thoughts are headed, I think. For now, I may start calling myself a cis agender person since I’m becoming less and less dysphoric by the day. (Or I may stop caring about what label I identify as altogether since the whole construct is meaningless to me anyways.) But the body thing… I might have more to say on that.

Do These Pants Make My Identity Look Big?

For the May 2013 Carnival of Aces prompt.

My three primary internal identities are all bound up in ways that I’ve found to have made them grow into more or less a single, unified identity. I have no word for this singular identity (other than, I guess, “me”, if I want to be corny and completely useless about it), but it can be approximated by terms like “pet” and “cute”. But it makes absolute, perfect, seamless sense to me in my head, and I found myself having to describe it in words for the first time the other day when my husband, in a bout of confusion and frustration, asked me to explain how my gender presentation could have so little impact on, well… the rest of the stuff. (He’s cis and hetero and is struggling to embrace my desire to sometimes pass as male or just be masculine-of-center.)

It was then that I realized just how much my identities have been informed over the course of my adolescent development by the visual language of cartoons and children’s media. It’s more than just this, I discovered: the visual language to describe those kinds of characters and those kinds of realities has an enormous impact on how I see myself and how I interact with the world around me. Growing up, I identified with a lot of girl characters, sure–and none of what I’m saying here is based on anything I consciously understood at the time, or anything I affirmed to myself, but are rather based on gut feelings I remember having, inclinations and fascinations towards certain character archetypes and narratives–but what I can recall feeling towards them was markedly different than how I identified with animal/non-human characters that exist, for the most part, without gender being part of their list of character traits.

(I know this sounds like it’s going to be a post about gender and not asexuality thus far but like I said, these things are all one in the same for me.)

How I felt toward girl characters (and human characters I strongly identified with in general), in retrospect, probably had a lot to do with my attempts to figure out how I wanted the world to see me. I never had a very good grasp of the concept of gender growing up (I still haven’t internalized a lot, but now I celebrate it instead of try to cover it up by mimicry!), so presentation was an all or nothing thing to me. During the times that it mattered immensely, I’m sure that what I was feeling was social dysphoria and wanted to fit into the world in a way that was suitable to me and my self-image. But during the times that it didn’t matter, I think I could say that I felt more in-tune with something that ran way deeper than presentation, and those were the times that I most strongly identified with genderless characters.

I think there’s definitely some underlying subtext about the trope of the genderless, asexual animal sidekick character that I think can be summed up by a single, really strong word: dehumanization. I mean, just look at how negatively charged the pronoun “it” is. To not have a discernible gender entails Otherness and a certain lacking of humanity (and the respect that goes with that). To take a quote from a tumblr post I saw this morning that really made me think about this subject:

Read as queer, read as straight, read as cis or as visibly trans. It doesn’t much matter for me because the cane, the visible disability erases all of that and replaces it with a sexless, genderless, romance less, loveless blob of personal medical questions, hallmark looks and sad faces from others over my “sorry state”

(Emphasis mine.)

The subtext that I’m talking about is made super plain here. Being agender, asexual, and aromantic strips you of your perceived humanity, right to autonomy, and right to respect in the eyes of other people. Being thought of as these things (when you aren’t them) is a soul-crushing and enraging experience because you’re being viewed as subhuman. This isn’t something that I wish on anyone.

But at the same time… I’ve thought of myself as a blob before. And a thing. And pretty casually, too.

So what does this say about me? I don’t hate myself, I don’t see myself as subhuman and inherently unworthy of respect, love, friendship, happiness, et cetera. In fact, I think I’m a pretty rad person that has some interesting things to say and some nice art to offer the world. But at the same time, too, I see myself as pretty darned Other and that my identity isn’t something that can be recognized at a glance, let alone understood by, well… pretty much everyone I will ever meet.

In my marriage, I fill the role of “cute one” way better than I do “wife” or “domestic partner” or whatever. In bed, I am “cute one”. Out and about, holding hands, I am the “cute one” still. Like a beloved pet, I am sexless, genderless, and even ageless to a degree.  I’m his best friend and staunchest ally. I get a lot of enjoyment and fulfillment playing the role of sexual partner and wife, and it’s something I want to do for the rest of my days, but at my core I’m… a lot less than that? More? Something else entirely?

Basically how it all fits together is this: I am a blob. A cute, funny, talented blob that has ups and downs, joys and sorrows, dreams and aspirations. I know what it’s like to get mistaken for a gender, but I don’t know what it’s like to be one– I play at gender like a child plays doctor. Gender and sexuality are also projected onto me. Statistically speaking, this is always nonconsensual, aside from a single anomalous presence in my life, which is my husband. In the surreal cartoon-speak of my mindscape, my husband is hyper-gendered in comparison to myself, is steeped in that extra dimension of reality so thoroughly that he can see right through me when I pretend to be a gendered person because I lack a certain intrinsic quality that I can’t even begin to fathom. My play is encouraged, entertained, but always however mocked and derided. In the world of BDSM, humiliation sometimes has an enormously cathartic effect on the subject of the humiliation scene; I’ve heard that being made fun of for being something that you aren’t is an incredibly empowering and cleansing experience, and it’s something that has sometimes been present in my aromantic, asexual fantasy relationships. Another aspect is that my “blobness”, that which makes me inherently subhuman to the rest of the world (and is an absolutely negative experience for the vast majority of people) is ultimately celebrated. Acknowledging my lack of gender (and sexuality) and my inability to pretend to be a gender (or to be sexual) is celebrated as that which makes me special and worthy of love and care. In this dynamic, which has essentially reached the level of archetype in my own head, I am constantly being validated for being something they can’t know, which allows me to engage them in a way that I don’t truly understand either but they do and need.

The concept of smallness and physical diminutiveness obviously permeates this entire conception, but that’s a whole different essay on its own, to be honest, and it’s a theme I’ve touched on in previous essays concerning macrophilia.

But I guess I’ve yet to answer the prompt questions: What does my appearance have to do with my asexuality? My presentation? My physical looks?

And the best I can really do to answer them is to say “everything and nothing”. Playing with the concept of Otherness through my presentation gets me one step closer to making my self-image a reality, as nebulous and impossible as it may be. The further I distance myself from common conceptions of “normal human”, the more genderless and sexless I become, and the less social dysphoria I feel even at the potential expense of my right to respect and autonomy. When I am gendered, though, my sexuality unfortunately becomes a public concern. If I look like a tomboy, I’m obviously a lesbian. If I perform normative femininity, I’m obviously straight. There is no looking like an asexual, an agendered person, a non-libidoist, a macrophile, a BDSM pet and bottom.

I can, however, look cute.