September 1, 2014
Kate Bornstein is very candid when discussing the prospect of gender fluidity. Her book, Gender Outlaw, is a place where she is able to express her thoughts without viewing the reaction of her audience immediately. This offers an unusual comfort that she does not receive when walking about in society. People look at Bornstein and judge her for not conforming to a gender binary. This discrimination is derived from a natural fear of the unknown—her gender status promotes curiosity as transsexuals are a people society is not used to dealing with. How does one behave around a transsexual? Does one treat them as the gender which they appear to gravitate towards? In Gender Outlaw, Bornstein describes the behavior of gender attribution, that is, “[When] we look at somebody and say, ‘that’s a man,’ or ‘that’s a woman.’” (p. 26) Perhaps looking at someone is not the only telltale sign of gender binaries. Other features can give this
away such as voice, name, and even handwriting. Voices can be deeper versus quaint. Certain first names are gender fluid but most are gender polar. Handwriting that is more careful and consistent is marked as feminine. These features have created gender stereotypes that are hard to stray from. These stereotypes have defined the functionality of our society.
What does it take to break through this boundary? Bornstein introduces the idea of gender fluidity. A being with ambiguous gender can shift at will between the binaries using costume and behavior with the exception of their naked body image. This presents an interesting position in terms of feminism and equality. When Bornstein changed her body image, she was treated in the complete opposite manner in which she was treated prior to her operation. A man known as Old Fred flirted with her at a government office where he worked until he saw her official name and then started questioning her. Such power has been embedded in gender stereotypes that it is difficult to know how to deal with a gender fluid or transsexual individual. Bornstein had trouble comfortably attending a lesbian community gathering because “The reaction was very much, ‘Well that’s a man for you!’” (p. 42) Our association with men as power figures overshadows thoughts of equality among the gender spectrum.
The fact that such a spectrum exists is evidence that there are no real men and women. Yes, there are two types of reproductive organs and humans are born with either one or the other, but gender is a completely different issue. It is felt in the purest sense of what it means to feel. This natural feeling is ever clouded and challenged by societal gender norms. What does it take to change these norms? It seems people disregard transsexuals and prospective transsexuals because there are so few that present themselves to society. Those that do present themselves are brave. It takes a certain confidence to go against the grain of what is seen as normal. Bornstein knows this and lets her readers know forthright that she is acting as the voice of her fellow transsexuals simply because she has the bravery to speak.
“It’s a time when we’ve begun to put down the cultural baggage.” (p. 13) What does she mean by the word baggage? Could baggage be stereotypes? No, for often we are unaware of stereotypes that we carry but all too aware of baggage for it is heavy and obtrusive. The word itself lends connotations to weight and obtrusiveness. Then perhaps Bornstein is focusing more on the action of putting down the weight than the weight itself. In her eyes, popular culture has been moving about far too incessantly between issues of gender without stopping for a moment to reassess—to ask questions. Questions are, after all, the greatest catalyst for tolerance and subsequent paradigm shifts. When Bornstein is asked a question about her gender, sexuality, or lifestyle, she answers in a very blunt yet comical fashion. One such answer is stated: “Yah, the plumbing works and so does the electricity.” (p. 31) This sort of answer brings her and her inquirer to the same level. If they had been separated by
some intangible barrier of sexual naivety, this light sarcasm has more or less fluffed up the situation. Someone who may have been intimidated to ask Bornstein a question now feels empowered. It is this sense of empowerment that enables further questioning. What it takes to defeat stereotypical barriers is comfort in asking what is unknown. Society must not fear gender ambiguity, but take it by the horns and stare it in the face. Only then can the fear be broken down into open discussion leading to tolerance.
The gender spectrum is infinitely broad, therefore, fluidity is highly possible if not unavoidable. Bornstein uses her book as a form of expression much in the way she uses her gender as an accessory. By breaking down the fear of ambiguity with electrically witty answers, she has enabled the inquirer to ask questions about gender fluidity and transsexuality with the result of gaining tolerance and understanding. Her book is not an attempt at integration of non-binary genders just as Maurice Berger’s book White Lies is not an attempt at integration of Blacks. These works are attempts at analyzing the current status of society and recognizing the naivety of its people. Only once knowledge and understanding of such subjects is gained can they be understood and therefore loved among the rest.
Written for Dr. Beth Schachter’s Performing Identities in my first semester at Muhlenberg College. Exact date unknown.
School
April 17, 2013
Whilst thee mutual exchange of intellectual conceptions so gaily transpired, many a pungent potato of thought were heartily unearthed. Even though half the class did not speak, those who had had discovered the beautiful nugget that is perspective. Said is set up as this awful, treacherous, inhuman piece of rubbish left to wander the streets with a vendetta after his release from incarceration. As the reader, one experiences an influx of emotional gravity towards him as the novel progresses. He is, after all, a human being, and our protagonist. He appears externally cold, yet intrinsically compassionate. This is evident in the numerous ventures of his past whereupon he aims to court Nabawiyya. I conjured the notion of the two having never been in love at all, for it was mere infatuation that brought them together under the symbolic, overseeing tree.
Nur… Nur is a different story. She greatly contributes to the tragedy that is Said’s life by giving it color. The kind prostitute is beautifully portrayed as hospitable, loyal, and mysterious. The mysteriousness is the kicker, for her absence is of greater metaphorical and psychological value than her presence. Said ponders many a time over his concealed love for Nur while he sits alone in her apartment. This period of reflection is a direct comparison to the trials of Sisyphus, which we read of in a previous class. Sisyphus’s endurance is challenged more so mentally than physically, which is also true for Said. He cannot handle being alone for so long because he is left to lament the loss of his daughter, his unsuccessful attempts at revenge, and his unconfessed love for Nur. In the end, the class did not come to a conclusion about his death. It is not outwardly stated whether or not he dies, but it is safe to assume so.
Written for a high school class.
The Thief and the Dogs by Naguib Mahfouz
School
September 28, 2012
It loomed ahead. Baldy was glorious. It was vulnerable to the whims of nature, yet it towered over nature itself. Spiraling rows of lush green halted at a distinct point, where, seen from miles away, it transitioned to stone. Only the very top had peaked over the horizon, catching the cold glimpse of medusa and branding its name—Mount Baldy. It was immense, it was all-powerful, and it was ours. The journey up its veins–its small, winding footpaths–was strenuous. The incline accrued almost exponentially. Though others had been with me at the time, my crew of eight, the expedition had been extremely solitary. Each of us had within our own motives to reach the summit. It had been an expensive trip, yes, but the feelings it evoked were priceless.
Every human being should have the natural right to experience the world in all its glory. That morning, my crew had awoken at the crack of dawn—four o’clock AM. Though the darkness was thick, a deep and celestial purple seeped through the sky above. Our headlamps cut through the frigid air. The artificial light reflected off a stream adjacent to the stony trail we would follow until daybreak. After few breaks for water and photographs, we happened upon an endless grass field of ethereal beauty. Its splendor was hidden in its simplicity at the base of what appeared to be the top of Mount Baldy. A small gap in the trees had opened a portal to this unimaginable realm of wonder. From afar, we had only seen a linear transition from green vegetation to orangey stone. This secret field was exclusive to those who had persevered this far up the mountain. It was veiled by the courage and endurance needed to reach the field itself. A photograph would not do it justice.
Being in its presence had been godly. I was one with the clouds. I had slowly taken off my backpack while attempting to soak in what I had been completely and unexpectedly exposed to. I was astounded—feeling like a small child thrown into water learning to swim. At first the child is overwhelmed, but the only escape is to flail one’s legs about and be propelled forward… and that’s exactly what I did. I had taken to the fields with full force. The horizon was a gazelle, and I a lion. Once my breath had escaped me, I kneeled down to regain it. Now I was truly on my own. The others had taken to their own coping with nature’s sheer power. At that moment, I looked up and saw the moon. It was humongous and genial, a gentle giant resting on his expansive throne of the sky. At that time I had not realized this amicable stranger was the same I spied on through my bedroom window. This simple fact had not occurred to me. There is only one Luna.
The sky was now a glossy blue. Out there in the Rockies, light pollution did not exist. The menial glow of a hiker’s flashlight did not disturb the heavens as did the towering epicenters of the city. This gave the stars great respect and granted them the power to humbly shine even in the midst of the morning as they had that day. Moments later, the group had reassembled. This time, we were on the other side of the field. A distinct line separated the ambrosial greens against the lifeless, cold sea of rocks. This sea was far from any sea one would consider normal. It was inert, though rippled with the carefully placed footstep of each man. Being an able young man, I raced to the top. Though I struggled as everyone else, I had hiking poles, wide eyes, and a rush of adrenaline propelling me forward. Only later did I feel bad for not aiding my crew advisor, Jeff Pritchet, on the undoubtedly hardest part of the journey. Though this was not his first time up Baldy, he deserved to relive
its greatness on every ascent. He had helped us traverse eighty miles up to this point in the week, and at the climax of pure adventure, his knees were giving out. How selfish had I been to gaze out above everyone and everything, only to notice the stumbling Mister Pritchet and not do a thing.
I stood as Captain Morgan on a feeble, proletariat rock, and absorbed the sun’s ample rays with great pride. The light was unadulterated and raw. No clouds stood in its path. The atmosphere was substantially thin, but psychologically massive. Every soul to have ever lain a boot on this pedestal of the cosmos is instantly and utterly devoured by something greater than himself. Questions of one’s place in the universe and one’s relative size and importance as a cog in the machine tumble about in the mind. Baldy was certainly unique—it had a dual summit. This camel back shape is not easily distinguished from afar. The two peaks are within a stone’s throw. I tramped upon them both with stark blitheness and fascination. Until now I had forgotten the frivolous stone that rested in my pocket for the length of the ascension. There existed a silly tradition on that mountain dubbed rebuilding Baldy. The goal had been for every hiker to carry a rock from the base to the very tip. It
only took a glance to spot the tiny mountain upon a mountain. Though they were still rocks, they differed greatly from the rest. Each held the story of its bearer. My fingers fumbled around my pants pocket until they clasped around it. My crew members had gathered around and pulled theirs out as well. This gathering was almost sacred. We were monks as we each set our stone atop the pile and watched it tumble down until it found its place.
In a way, we were akin to that which we contributed to the pile. That day, we had hiked Mount Baldy, as did the rock. We had each had our chance to bask in nature’s glory on the top of the mountain, as did the rock. Later, we too would tumble down the mountain until we found our place amongst the rest of the world. We would question our placement there, yes, and we would sometimes be unhappy that we fell where we had between the other rocks. This is so, yet at the end of the day, the rock is content. It has a place, a unique place, and without it, that tiny mountain would crumble. As I took in my last sights before the descent, I thought of my size compared to Baldy. I thought of Baldy compared to New Mexico and New Mexico compared to the world. And I thought of that tiny rock I brought with me to the top, that tiny action that could change the world.
Written for a high school class.
School
April Littrell