ferenguli

[ferenguli]

Manifesto of The Blind, Transgender and Wild

Six hours of sleep and I wake up feeling like I ran a marathon and then got beaten up. I haven’t even opened my eyes but my muscles are already seizing up as I think about the deadline and the zoom meeting and the email from the gallery and the hottie who hasn’t texted back. I tap the screen of my iPhone and the little girl robot voice informs me that my accountant is still useless, that the curator doesn’t want me to feel pressured but can we please have a talk today, that only 100 people since last night have liked my newest painting on instagram and that some dude I have no chat history with wanted to come over at 6 AM.

I’m trying to relax, sipping tea in the bath and the hottie says, finally, that yes, let’s go out tonight. I’ve been trying out being more chill and more vague and less insistent with him than I can be, and it’s working. We have never met and he doesn’t sound very interesting and he doesn’t want anything serious with me. But he uses actual sentences when we text and sometimes he sounds cheerful and, so far, he hasn’t asked me if I have rape fantasies or tried to pressure me into consenting to let him tie me up or slap me. That means he already seems better than 99% of the dudes who approach me online. So I get all excited, like an idiot. And Facebook tells me that it was 10 years ago today that I revealed to the world the first paintings I made after going blind. I scroll through some of the titles, revisiting each raw, punky painting in my head and catch myself smiling. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I try to let my awesomeness sink in and think about everything I’ve done in those years. But my smile widens, giving me pain on my temples from clenching my jaw all night and I’m running late.

I’m idly fingering my stack of blank papers, wondering what I will paint on them and waiting for my coffee to be ready, when the curator texts that he really respects the space my process requires, but that he would really, really like, and it would be the most strategic decision, to open my exhibition 11 months sooner than I said I could. And that, no rush, but he’s wondering if he can see the works already and that he’s really excited because he trusts that whatever I paint is going to be the absolute best work that I have ever made, but no pressure. My hands shake as I tell myself I’ll respond to him after I am done reading this article that just came out where, yet another journalist asks me, yet again, how I paint, rather than why I paint what I paint. And where he says, in so many words, that I am transgender while still misgendering me, that I became blind from HIV without mentioning that my government denied me access to HIV medicine and that I still paint, even though I’m blind. It’s been a whole fucking decade, but I still get art idiots who ask me the same questions over and over and who don’t understand the difference between Transgender and Transvestite and who think that my paintings appear out of thin air when I snap my fingers and who claim to admire me for my work but don’t put 10 seconds into analizing it.

I am still annoyed the fuck out of, plus freshly stood up by my date, as I sip my alcohol-free beer at the bar, when a girl starts telling me about this dude she’s gonna see tonight and how great he is. She’s excited to see him because he’s so smart and funny and aware and open and amazing in bed. And she’s reticent, but she is starting to feel like she’s finally met a guy whom she can allow herself to trust, after several years of being hurt by men. I think about the men who cannot come to the club with me because expecting them to stick to a plan is asking for too much commitment, the men who want me but won’t come to a club with me lest their friends may see us together, the men who talk down to me when they didn’t use to before my transition, the men who assume they understand my work better than I do, the men who show up with kebab breath or don’t show up at all after I’ve spent four hours making myself beautiful, the men who spit on my face during sex without asking, the men who have used my blindness to steal from me and the men who have taken advantage of the fact that I can’t defend myself from them to have sex with me when I don’t want to, as I tell her that, girl, I feel her. She asks if I’ve had bad experiences with men too. My anger bubbles, loneliness prickling behind my eyes at the thought that tonight, I simply wanted to meet this dude and dance and fuck in the dark room. My bar has been forced low. But I just say yes and try to wash it all down with beer. Her dude arrives, a hunk of charm. They both say it’s unbelievable how any man could possibly stand me up. I want to tell them that most of them do if it involves being seen with a trans person, but I don’t want to sound bitter. They are both nice enough people, but don’t sound extraordinary in any way. And they seem to like each other, but they don’t seem extraordinarily well matched. They met online, same place where I don’t meet anybody good, ever. They just have it so easy, I tell myself and tell them that I’m happy for them. The girl goes to the toilet and the dude tells me I’m gorgeous. I tell him I know. He says I’m seriously the most beautiful woman here tonight as he places his big hand on my arm and caresses me. He steps closer, his chest smells like heaven. He says he really wants to make out with me. Me too, but I tell him he is here on a date with this girl and he should stick by her. They’re not like a couple or anything, according to him, which is not the impression I got earlier hearing it from her. To my surprise, he doesn’t stop flirting with me but merely tones it down as the girl sits back down next to me. He insists that maybe he can kiss me, to make up for the loser who stood me up and the girl says she would be ok with it if it’s only kissing. I put on a smile and refuse his generosity and try to swallow the knot in my throat. Then he goes to the toilet. And the girl now sounds weary and rather sad as she says that she wants to thank me. That she can tell the guy is coming on to me and that I am not giving in. She thanks me for my female solidarity. I am honestly moved. I feel like I want to hug her but I’m afraid one of us might cry if I do. We stay quiet for a while, the silence heavy with the shared knowledge that dealing with men means being constantly disrespected, constantly disappointed, constantly hurt and constantly afraid for our safety. Then they go home together, to have good, intimate sex together and wake up together and do more normal things together that they just take for granted. And I stay, alone, sipping my beer and trying to at least look good.

I’m sitting with my back against the bar, in what I hope at least has the semblance of of cool relaxedness, even though it takes considerable effort to keep my thigh muscles looking firm with my legs crossed like this and I am sucking in my already quite flat stomach. I breathe in the warm fog of smoke and booze and sweat. It’s delicious. I remind myself this is good. I do love this club. I do love being here. I’ve come very fucking far in life to bring me here. I still have myself to take me out and I close my eyes as a slow smile spreads across my face. But then some chick takes my hand andasks me if I’m ok. I try not to sound annoyed when I ask her what she means. She says she noticed that I’m blind, like that explains her question, and asks, even though I’m literally just sitting here having a drink, if I need to go anywhere. I muster all my friendliness as I explain that I am indeed alright and it is indeed fine to just leave me alone, that I would prefer it, in fact and she finally leaves. I breathe deep and tell myself she meant well. Next, some dude takes my hand. Just from the shape of his hand I can tell he probably has a nice dick, which is not a rule, but I’m usually right about these things. I grin and he takes this as a cue to kiss me. A deep, hot, wet kiss. My nipples buzz, my rectum twitches. But I pull back and ask if he knows that I’m transgender. He asks if so I’m a man. My smile turned into a scowl,I tell him that no, I am transgender. He leans closer to tell me he would love to fuck me but he can’t. We have exchanged less than five sentences and he already acts from the assumption that I would have sex with him. I should tell him to fuck off, but, instead, I ask him why not. In all likelihood, he is an unemployed barista/aspiring DJ ketamine junkie and I fucking am Me, but this piece of shit explains that it wouldn’t be respectable for him to be seen by his friends with someone like me. I call him a coward and tell him to fuck off, which he does, but not before groping my left tit.

I’m shaking it, all of it, off. I am right on the beat, feeling the techno rumble up my legs and my hips to my diaphragm, charging me up, pumping me clean. Here I am, independent, tallented, healthy, sober, successful and looking stunning and I am going to give myself a good time. But someone interrupts my dancing to ask if I’m really blind and who is taking care of me and tells me this must be such an experience for me and then goes on to not shut up about how he wants to hear everything about how I experience this and why I became blind and what a special experience for him it is to meet a blind person and can he show me to his friends, like he’s found a new exotic pet. Later on, I’m leaning back against a speaker, literally just chilling and sipping another alcohol-free, when someone else asks me if I’m ok. And I want to just fucking scream. Then the dude who stood me up texts that he wasn’t feeling like going out but do I wanna come to his place and suck his cock.

I spend 8 hours at the club, where, same as every time. I get a bunch more dudes approach me only to rudely reject me when I tell them I’m transgender and who act like I did something wrong to them. And where, same as every time, I have a dozen people grab my white cane or my wrist without asking when trying to explain where something is, or interrupt my dancing to inform me that I’m safe, or call me sweetie when they ask me if this is my first time here, like I’m a little idiot who just happen to wander into the club I frequent as much as they do. Except this time I’m not feeling electric and powerful through it all. This time it’s just really getting to me.

Suddenly,I feel myself slow down, I feel my lower lip begin to tremble and my throat goes tight. No. No, no, no, no, no. There is no fucking way I’m going to let any of them see me cry. And I don’t. I don’t cry as I collect my clothes and bag from wardrobe. And I don’t cry as the taxi driver asks me if I had fun and if I am married. I don’t cry, even when I realize it’s, again, only my own arms around me.

I am still holding it all in as I close the door behind me and take off my shoes and then my clothes. I reek of the underworld, my legs are shaking. I sit down, but it makes me sad, so I immediately get up again. I am shuddering, chugging water and my head is killing me. I rest my forehead against the wall. My eyes fill with tears, but they cannot see them fall to the floor anyway. I tell myself not to be weak, I tell myself to stop. My teeth are shut tight but a long, spluttering wail manages to escape my mouth. How did it affect me? I’m full-on sobbing now. If only I’d not been stood up, or if only I wasn’t so fragile. If only I wasn’t me. I feel this same old presence in my head tell me that maybe I scared the dude, every dude, off. That maybe I texted him too much or didn’t text him enough. That maybe I’m alone because I’m ugly and stupid and mean and old. She sounds like a man as she tells me that this is how it’s always going to feel, that maybe if I haven’t had it any better, it means I don’t deserve any better. She tells me it’s my fault I feel this way, standing alone in my panties, hugging myself. But no. No, no, no, no, no, wait a second. Bullshit. Stop it right there. It’s not me, it’s them. I did nothing wrong. Not in my work, not to the dudes, not to the people who just can’t deal. And I did, I do, put myself out there and bring myself back up every time. I do keep myself healthy and I do paint these paintings. I catch myself slowing down, my fingers tracing the shape of my nose, my cheekbones, my mouth. something inside me starts kissing my fingers, kissing my hands, caressing me slowly. And I hear me tell myself that it’s ok, baby, that I got this. I hear myself Thank me and I hear myself say I love me, for what feels like the first time.

The tears roll slowly now. The entrance to my studio right there, gaping at me. A cavern. My career, the responsibility, the canvases, the paint, the blank papers again. The viewer. And these hands that take me far, these hands I kiss today, they put paint to paper, they begin again. And, with this paint on paper, I grab the viewer, tell him he’s been very stupid. I slap the viewer and spit on his face, without asking. And I say to him “I forgive you” and “You’re welcome”. And I forgive me too, for feeling this way. It’s not easy being blind, Transgender and wild.