jauneflowers

[jauneflowers]

Queer-er than thou

The last few weeks, I’ve considered the direction I wanted to take with my writing. As usual, in an act of cathartic therapy, I try to reflect on the thoughts that plague me. Unpack them, step back out of them and see them for what they really are. One particular one I’d like to write about today is one that has always sort-of followed me around, but was ignited in my mind fully by an encounter last summer. I think about that encounter a lot. In this piece I want to touch on gatekeeping around queer identity, what a queer identity ‘is’ and how this event impacted me. I’ve always feared rejection in queer circles, an internalised transphobia or perhaps biphobia that made me worry that others would take an aspect of my life, deem it unqueer and cast me out because of it. I want to unpack this event and how the words of strangers stick to us and exclude us from being part of the community. If you do not wish to read about awkward situations, defining queerness and musings about identity. I suggest you stop reading now!

First of all, I want you to think of queer identity. Picture it in your head. Put symbols and images to the thought. Perhaps consider what you have pictured. Why that? What made you think of those things? Why is that queer to you? Do you think other people would have thought about what you thought about? This is the intangible essence of queerness that is integral to its very idea, or non-idea. Anyone that knows me knows I spend a lot of time thinking about what queer means, which is a funny idea in itself. I’ve done academic work around queerness where I have attempted to capture the meaning of queer in a very subjective way, perhaps by using other people’s works or- in the example of my Dissertation- the definitions created by queer people participating as research subjects. I don’t think queer has a definition, I came to that decision through life experience nevermind my research. I do, however, think Queer has an essence. There are things that you look at and you know they’re queer, but it’s not always for the obvious reasons. There are things that share a common trait, and then share a queer element to them. It is not black and white. I want to start here because I think it illustrates a point I wish to make, as well as the aforementioned situation I experienced last summer. 

It’s July 2019. You’re me, thrilled at the prospect that you are going to Pride with friends. A friend I’d had through my teenage years invited me back to Bristol to go to Pride there. We’d done it the year before, but this year they were going with a bigger group of friends and wanted me to tag along too. It was a sweet gesture and, since I’d just gotten out of an extremely rocky breakup, I wanted to let my hair down and have fun! I booked a coach, packed my bags and trundled down to Victoria to get there. The coach was packed, containing some other pride dwellers, but I had managed to snag a window seat. As the coach filled, someone with a very cool lobster bag came to sit next to me. They had blue hair, a friendly smile and a wicked outfit, and I couldn’t help but compliment their bag as they sat down. The lobster was extremely cute and glittery, it was great. We chatted for a bit. They got their bag from Tiger, I expressed that I loved my rainbow bag from Tiger and that it felt nice to have something that represented my identity. They asked if I was going to Pride in Bristol and we found out we had a similar destination, it was nice. However, things soon took a turn for the worst. I complimented their hair and expressed excitement that I was currently saving my money to dye my hair a “nice, queer pink”, referring to the liberation symbol and the colour of a LGBTQ+ Studies module I’d taken that year.

 It all went downhill from there, with what they said in reply. 

“See, I don’t have to dye my hair for people to know I’m queer. You however… Yeah, I don’t think anyone would believe you’re queer.” 

Oh. 

My cheeks burned and my face fell. In all honesty, I can’t completely recall if that’s what they said, because I knew where the sentence was going and I already was starting to tune out. What could’ve been a potential friend exposed themselves all too quickly to be someone who was the ‘perfect queer’. Everything I spoke about, even when they asked me for ideas, was wrong. I didn’t want top surgery, so I wasn’t queer. Even if I did want it, I couldn’t afford it so I wasn’t queer. I’d recently had a boyfriend, so I wasn’t queer. I had long hair, so I definitely wasn’t nonbinary, never mind queer. Every moment of the conversation was riddled with their queer-er than thou state of mind. There was an idea of queerness that they had, and because I didn’t fit it… well. I wasn’t queer. 

I put up with the grueling last hours of this coach ride with this constant invalidation, too sad to say shut the fuck up. The idea of my invalid queerness was drilled into me during that coach ride. And it didn’t stop when I left the coach and said goodbye. It didn’t stop when I spent time with my friends at Pride. It didn’t stop when I got back on the coach and went home. It definitely didn’t stop. I still think about it, even today. I think about you. The person who said this to me, and the way you must view the world. Sometimes I wonder if you dwell on what you said to me as often as I do. When you choose clothes for the day, do you dress wondering if LGBT+ strangers will tell you you’re not one of them? When you dye your hair, do you have an almost ritualistic moment where you think of the irony of what you said to me that day? Do you fear kinship with other queer people, because you’re scared they won’t see you as queer? I do all of these things. You struck a match and could’ve lit a candle, but you burned me instead. 

I wish I hadn’t complimented your fucking lobster bag. 

I digress… 

So what do we learn from this experience? Well. We learn the effect of what a solidified queer idea can do to other people. When you pen queerness into a box, look desperately for labels and things to define it with, you cut out actual, real queer people. Queerness, at its at its dictionary definition is:

 “The quality or characteristic of having a sexual or gender identity that does not correspond to established ideas of sexuality and gender, especially heterosexual norms.”

And even then, that dictionary definition is very, extremely broad in the long term. I don’t tend to stick to it too closely with my own queerness. When we behave queer-er than thou, to place our own queerness high above the definitions and conceptions of others, we tell them they’re not worth it, not good. They don’t fit in, they’re not right. In this case, how are we any better than those who use queer as a slur? Queer, if you choose it as an identity lable, is an intangible identity made up of concepts, ideas, physical things (I know I said intangible, but you get what I mean) and actions. To gate keep and to define and, to wax on about what queerness MUST be means we exclude and take away. Of course, the irony of me writing this piece is not lost on me. However, I hope this reflection helps myself and other queer people to be concscious of how we approach queerness in the world, how we hold it. Is it a choke hold or an embrace? Is it black and white, or shades of grey? What do you think? 

[jauneflowers]

Birthdays and Being Known

This blog post starts as my previous one did. With an inciting incident and a large, wacky realization. How exciting.

Thursday I got a parcel in the post. That has been a little more of a regular occurrence recently due to the fact that it was my birthday! Exciting, right? For anyone, a birthday is an excellent time to reflect, but this birthday in particular marks a rather large gender milestone for me. This I will delve into shortly, but back to what started this post, the post.

This particular postal arrival was significant because it had a cowboy boot on the front. A green, marker-drawn pointed toe boot with the classic cowpoke embellishments and denoted me as the ‘birthday babe’. I could not, for the life of me, think who this was from as the return address was not one I recognised. So, like any normal person, I opened it right away! Inside was a pink tote (hell yes) with a cowpoke print (hell yes!) and various little cowpoke goodies (hell yes!!!!!!). The items were by Morewenna Farrell (You can find Morwenna on Instagram as @morwennafarrell_illustrations, or through her etsy https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/MorwennaFarrell). After some reading I realised it was sent on behalf of a dear friend!! Now you’re probably thinking, “Wow Jayne, this is very nice and all, but why are you telling me, the reader, about this moment?” Well. To receive a gift like this was wonderful. I love cowpoke aesthetics and the colour pink, so the two together was a real combination of these. It made me feel like the brilliant friend that had sent me this really knew me well and it made me realise how birthdays we really tied up in being known. Furthermore, it made me realise how birthdays are also tied up, for me, in aspects and symbols of my Non-binary identity, such as the aesthetics you hold dear to yourself- for me this would be Cowpoke/Western regalia. The mental gymnastics of which I will take you through a little further in just a moment, but for now I want to delve a little further into topics around my birthday. If that, or discussion of Alcoholism, gender and being closeted is not your cup of tea, stop reading now!

I want to start off by saying that birthdays have been historically and notoriously bad for me. Why? Well, when it is annually ruined by parental alcoholism and trauma, you come to expect the worst from your birthday. For a large portion of my teenage birthdays, what I really wanted, more than any gift, event or frilly whatevers was to have an anxiety-free day. To see the passage of time go by where I didn’t have to worry about wine or humiliation, that I could speak to the person I loved the most and spend time with her knowing she would be sober, happy and lucid. With this in mind, my first, memorable, wonderful birthday was my 18th. The actual day itself, admittedly, was shit. I remember sobbing and feeling like the most ungrateful child in the world as I begged for sobriety from my mother and she, in turn, told me I was spoilt. In complete contrast, a few days later, I had dinner with my friends at a local restaurant to celebrate the milestone. I wore clothes that made me extremely gender euphoric, I got to eat food that I loved and spent the time with people that I cherished. The true moment of the night is when a cake was presented to me, baked by two of my nearest and dearest. It was shaped like a geode and, inside, the cake slices were lemon flavoured and rainbow coloured it was several of my favourite things all at once.

 At the time I had gotten increasingly into collecting crystals and had shared my delight at seeing a cake that was made to look like a geode (a particular favourite gem of mine) a month or so prior to my birthday. At the time I was also owning my gay identity more openly and proudly everyday, and having my friends recognise these two parts of me really touched me. I remember crying. I’m crying while writing this! I remember repeating over and over, “You know me! You really know me!” I’m not sure if any of them knew about my horrible past with birthdays, but in that moment I felt listened to, seen and known. I felt loved. There is extreme healing value in having these integral factors of yourself recognised by others. To feel this amount of love from everyone around me made me feel like the current home climate I was living in could be escaped. Even more so, it helped me start to relate having birthdays with feeling like those around me truly cared, and knew me in a way no one else could.

Jump forward to 22.

As mentioned, earlier in the week I had received that lovely cowboy bundle from one of the masterminds behind the gorgeous geode cake. Cowboys are especially important to me because I feel the aesthetics are somewhat relational to my gender identity, but that is a whole other blog post in itself! To the point, in the weekend to follow I was treated to a delightful day (appropriately socially distanced) by my closest circle. I got to pick American Cereal (I’m a lowkey expert in the stuff, dontchaknow, this is thanks to the Empty Bowl, which I listen to get to sleep. You can listen to them at www.bowl.rest ). If you’re wondering, I chose Trix Fruity Shapes as pictured, I had to see what all the fuss was about.

 My friends took me to a Barbie capsule collection (pictured) and I got myself the most tacky and wonderful Cowgirl Barbie shirt and they treated me to a wonderful ‘experience’ ice cream. 

The trip was topped off by my partner cooking a yummy dinner and the whole day I did not have to worry about a thing- not where I was going, what I would be eating or who I would be seeing. My gorgeous, fantastic, intelligent friends sorted that for me. The key to all of this was how every moment was spectacularly tailored to me, esspecially since all of the days experiences were markers of how I liked to establish my Nonbinary identity. As mentioned, cowboys have a special place in the abstract concept that is my gender, so does Barbie. It’s a lot of gender nonsense, there’s no need to get it completely.  However, in acknowledging these things as a part of my interests, my friends also acknowledged parts of my gender identity too. All of these fun to-do items might have seemed vastly unrelated to do in a day, but grouping them together had a symbolic nature to it that I don’t think they even realised it had.  During a pandemic, I would of course have just been happy if I had ended up with a digital well wish here and there, but the effort and time put together to craft a whole day with me in mind really sealed my thoughts on being seen, known, as well as having my gender (or lack thereof) recognised.

I’ve come to realise that, in the strangest way possible, my gender is tied up with my birthday, beyond the usual malarkey around a baby’s sex and birth. Birthdays are about celebrating a person, giving them well-wishes because you’re thinking of them. You may give them things they like because you know them enough to know what they’d want. The structure is inherently built on the idea of being known. In my opinion, being known and having your interests highlighted by others has an intrinsic link to transness, even further so to Nonbinary identity. A lot of the interests and aesthetics I enjoy are wrapped up in the conceptualisation of my gender. Cowpokes. American cereal. Ice-cream. They become abstract concepts that others see and connect to me, and they (and many others) are themes and aesthetics I consider markers of gender. Due to Nonbinary identity being incredibly personal to the individual, these things being celebrated with me, by my friends, was also a recognition of my identity as a whole.

I mentioned a gender milestone earlier in this text. That is because it has now been 10 years since I found the right language to describe my gender. I say that, instead of any alternative, because I personally believe describing it any other way is disingenuous and plays into cisnormative nonsense that I’m not that interested in. It is relevant to these ideas around being known and birthdays, because up until that 18th birthday I often concealed true interests or facets of my identity because I had been put into a setting where those that needed to care didn’t and I worried that lifting the lid on even the most tangentially related idea relating to my gender might result in transphobia and social punishment. In turn, birthdays where everyone turned the spotlight on me were incredibly nerve wracking and part of a cisnormative pantomime, because I didn’t feel comfortable telling people my real interests. To get to 22 and instead have a whole day where I can feel gender euphoric and comfortable in my own skin makes my birthday very special indeed.

This current birthday was great, but not just because I received material goods. 21 and 22’s birthdays were ones to remember because I got to spend it with people I love and feel their love, even through the digital glow of a screen due to Covid. I mention my 21st birthday because I think that is where the seed, planted at age 18, of birthdays and gender really started to sprout, but it didn’t flower until 22. I wonder what would have happened and how I would have turned out if this idea of Nonbinary identity and birthdays had been planted at age 12? If society let me feel safe enough to be myself? Would I have had more positive birthdays, despite my home situation? Speculation does not help my 12 year old self, so I will save myself from fretting on the topic.

Instead, I like to think about what I would say to my 12 year old self, now that I have this realisation. First of all, I think I’d give them whatever obscure anime cosplay their little heart had desired, and lectured them on safe binding. But on a more serious note, I think I would want to look into their eyes and say, “22 does happen. Things are a different type of terrible, but you are free and that is important. The overwhelming feeling is you are known, and you are loved by people you intensely love back. Your friends are great now, but don’t lose touch with reality about how you treat them. Treasure the friendships you have at 18, they will be some of your greatest friends. Oh. I also love you a lot. I know you’re waiting for someone to say that to you and mean it. And I do. I do mean it. You’re Nonbinary and great and loved and birthdays get way cooler.”

Phew. All of this aside, I think more stock needs to be put into the abstracts and concepts that make up Nonbinary identity. In the future, I hope to write a little more about the ‘things’ that make up my Nonbinary identity, such as music, fashion, art prints, mugs… In turn, I’d like you to think beyond boring regular language around gender and consider what makes you the gender you are. I have come to 22 with a large, abstract idea of my gender, collected from 12 onwards… and I hope to keep collecting until my last birthday.

[jauneflowers]

Coming Out

I had been thinking about how to launch this blog for months. I considered the fact that my first post would say everything about the tone of this blog, what I wanted to achieve and who I am as a writer. Deciding this narrowed down my subject matter somewhat, but still left me staring blankly at finished writing unconvinced that this was the way to debut my work. Sitting at the computer to curate something new felt forced, and my brain felt drained of drive. Over the months of preparation, I felt my creative brain waste away and be left with a husk unable to deal with writing from the heart. That was, until, a small mundane event told me exactly what I needed to write. Something personal, something about being Trans. As Pride Month comes to a close, I would like to tell you my most recent coming out story. My name is Jayne Oscar Michael Flowers, I am Non-binary, I am Trans, with these things I am also Queer. At the age of 21, after being out socially for almost 10 years, I decided to come out to my mother as trans, and I would like to tell you this story. 

The inciting incident for realising I’d like to put pen to paper- or rather, fingers to keys- was when a poster fell from my wall. My room is littered with artefacts that are symbols of my queerness and icons of my identity I hold dear. My collection of Bee Illustrates posters (you should support her work here: https://www.beeillustrates.com/), a postcard of Marilyn Monroe from Gays The Word, a print of Travis Alabanza (you should support their work here: http://travisalabanza.co.uk/) face each other as totems of what I deem important as my inspirations. Under the poster of Travis Alabanza is a coming-out letter. On these hot summer nights, nothing seems to stick, and when I woke this morning I found the letter scattered to the floor. When I picked it up, I thought fondly of when I got it. It’s an A3 poster of the coming-out letter by the character Mouse in the book More Tales of the City, authored by Armistead Maupin. It’s even signed by Maupin, too, as it’s based off of his own coming out letter. I bought it at an event called “An Evening with Armistead Maupin” at the Southbank Centre. I had gone by myself, a nervous wreck throughout the whole experience, and had bought this poster as a reminder to do something important for my growth later. Tales of the City had always been a role model to me, an example of moves to take for myself. After all, the series Tales of the City came to me in a very interesting time of my life. I had just broken up from an incredibly unhealthy relationship and lost a lot because of it. I was growing up very fast due to how that relationship had kept me infantilized, working a job that I had to bury myself so far into the closet with, in fear of what might happen when I did come out and was realising some of my personal friendships were changing beyond repair. Things were not as I knew them for the last 2 years and Tales of the City gave me some neon signposts to follow when I did not know where to take myself next. 

I thought all about this when I held that poster this morning, thought about how I came so far in a short amount of time, and was only seeing it go backwards now.  I thought about how this poster held so much importance. I had to make tangible a coming-out experience that really has changed me as a person and the reaction that rehashed a lot of trauma. What follows next is some background, and what I wrote exactly. It also speaks on alcoholism and abuse, so if that is not what you wish to read, turn back now. 

You see, when I say I bought this poster for my own growth, I meant it. The coming out letter was written by Mouse, within fiction, to tell his parents he is gay. I found myself in a similar situation to Mouse. He’s an adult, living independently, finding the path for him in a world that shells a lot of shit his way. He’s out, proud, vocal, and yet he hasn’t come out to his parents. I am also an adult, I am also living independently, I am also getting shelled a lot of shit my way, I am also out, proud, vocal and yet I also haven’t told my only parent I am trans. In his situation, Mouse decides to write them a letter. He could have picked up the phone, visited, but he knew this was the right way to convey himself. I knew I wanted to do the same. 

I worried when writing this that someone would call the act of writing a letter, and this kind of fictional inspiration, “useless drama”. Why not just call my mother? Why not just text? Visit? Well. I want to start with that I had not spoken to my mother in a while when I made this decision. I changed my last name, to cut ties with abuse and to cut ties with a family name that made me feel dysphoric, and I had decided to do the right thing and tell her what I intended to do, before it was done. When I told her over the phone of my intention, she told me it was fine but then proceeded not to speak to me for weeks. When I did hear from her, try to call her, text her, I’d often get cryptic messages, no response or an answer like the one shown here.

To go back even further, to understand why I couldn’t just pull up my socks and call her anyway, you must also understand that my mother is an alcoholic. A binge drinker. Something that I had had to be exposed to since before I was a teen. I learned very quickly that texting was out of the question because her responses often weren’t as lucid as what is shown here, calling was no good because not only could she just not answer or put the phone down, I did not want to talk to a drunk person on the phone about my gender. For once, I wanted to be in control about the way I came out, have control over this facet of my life. So, I thought about Mouse and decided I would write her a letter. One she could not ignore, that also allowed me to explain myself and write from the heart, if I could find the words. 

I remember sitting alone in my flat, agonizing over what to write. I wrote draft after draft and nothing was good. The longer I took to put pen to paper, the longer it had been since we talked, and I had begun not fielding her random texts or calls in fear of her drunkenness. I realised it was not fair to go so long without communication, and I turned to the only inspiration I had: Mouse’s letter. It was a late evening as I sat with a pen, some paper and the poster on the table, reading over what Mouse wrote. I tried not to lift it word for word, but it often said it better than I could have. Do I think it was cheesy? Do I think I could have thought of something better if I agonized over it for a few more days? Yes and yes. But time was not on my side and sometimes cheese is all you’ve got. 

“Dear Mum,

I'm sorry it's taken me so long to contact you properly. Every time I try I realize I’m not telling you the truth. I realize that some of my life decisions may have upset you or seemed foolish because you haven’t really met me. That would be ok if I loved you any less than I do, but you are still my parent and I am still your child. 

If I'm honest, I'm scared to write this letter. These words on page have been waiting to be actualized. Said to you in some form since I was 12. They were withheld, not because I think you are hateful, because you loved and accepted me when I came out as gay. They were withheld because I hate the unknown. If you know me at all, you will know the fear of the unknown crushes me every day.

I might have never told you the following, if it were not for your radio silence after I said I’d be changing the rest of my name. I almost didn't tell you that, either. I told you many reasons for changing my name. Professionalism. Uniqueness. These are true, but the most important reason is because I am Transgender. More specifically, I am a Non-Binary person. Which is to mean am not a man. Not a woman. I am a person who lives in between those binaries. I use they/them pronouns. So, when people refer to me they may say, “This is Jayne, they study sociology.” 

I’m sorry. Not for who I am, being Non-Binary, but for how you must feel right now. I won’t put words in your mouth or project an idea onto you, but I want you to know. This is not a phase. This is who I have always been. And, if you want to love or loath me, at least love or loath your queer, Non-binary child; 

Jayne Oscar Michael Flowers. 

London has made me feel safer. I have people who are like me, who use the correct pronouns, who treasure me and see me as Non-binary. London never made me queer but it sure did queer me. I can do what I truly want here. But that didn’t ease the ache in my heart when you soured at a new change to me. I know that you may have been happier if I had just come out and said the damn thing. For that, I am sorry. 

There’s not much else to say, except that you know me so much better now. I have never done anything consciously to hurt you. I never will. 

Please don’t feel you have to answer right away. It’s enough, for now, to no longer lie to someone who has taught me to value the truth. Anna Madrigal once said, “There is only the truth.” 

People here send their love.

Your child, 

Jayne Oscar Michael Flowers”

I want to finish the story by telling you what happened next. I made the poor decision to tell my mother I’d sent a letter. Why was it poor? Because she spent a week insulting me, bombarding me with texts asking what it was, and if I couldn’t say it on the phone it wasn’t important. It didn’t matter to her how I explained my reasons for choosing a letter, because she didn’t accept it as an answer. Allegedly the letter didn’t arrive, and I had to go through the pain of writing and sending another, it taking even longer to reach her, and her finally receiving it. The two weeks this spanned across were hell for me. 

I wish the call about the letter had happened over text, because in my mind it just turns sour so fast. I was already on edge, vulnerable and angry, due to the situation and the weeks leading up to it. My mother told me she accepted ‘what’ I was, and spoke about me as if I was a thing, an item, a creature. At least, that is how I felt. With a somewhat positive outcome, despite her words, I expressed wanting to try and fix our relationship and address her alcoholism now that I was fully out to her. It had driven an irreparable wedge between us, and if I was on a streak of being honest, I wanted to let it continue. As you can imagine, that did not go down well. I will not delve too deeply into conversations after this to save her some privacy. However, it is needless to say they were not positive ones. The true breaking point was when these conversations turned into her insisting I was only angry because of my coming out, because of my own transness. Not, you know, her alcohol abuse or the decade-long emotional abuse and trauma caused by it. My coming out was weaponized against me on several occasions, used almost as a tool of doublethink whenever I brought up any actual issues. 

I supposed writing this was as cathartic as it was a cautionary tale. I came out, but at what price? With the other factors that adorned my relationship with my mother, would this have happened anyway? Was the familial estrangement that happened a month later, which I will recall on another occasion, worth my own gender freedom? If you come out of the closet for sexuality, do you crawl out of the cupboard under the stairs for gender? I had clambered out of said closet and ended up in that cupboard, and I know I am always better for opening the door again, even if it only adds to my trauma. 

When I finished writing this, I took up the note from Mouse again to read over it once more, comparing it to my own. A thought struck me, and I suppose hindsight is 20/20, which is why I wear reading glasses. Mouse did not continue his coming out journey completely unscathed. His parents had a very similar reaction, so perhaps I should have seen this all coming. There are lots of things you don’t see until you need to see them. Like, as I thumbed over the paper of this poster, I realised after owning this for all this time I had never noticed there was an image of San Francisco impressed onto the page. It made me smile because I feel like I couldn’t see it until now, until writing this. I hope through writing this and sharing it as I begin a wider writing journey, new truths about coming out and living my life authentically will be revealed to me, too. And I hope after reading this the same can be done for you, too. My name is Jayne Oscar Michael Flowers, I am Non-binary, I am Trans, with these things I am also Queer. At the age of 21, I chose no longer to lie about who I am to those I cared about. This was my coming out story.