Gender Failure

by Ivan E. Coyote

  “Thanks for the hand-me-downs! It’s not fucking easy finding a good queer-sized button-down.”

  Jessie and I have since done a photo shoot together, wearing nothing but our vests and neckties, our blood-filled surgical drains dangling and pinned to our hips, like gun holsters. We text or call each other almost every day, with excited updates and nipple questions and crusty and scabby complaints. I bring him vitamins and offer unsolicited and possibly non-consensual dating advice. I am twice his age, almost exactly.

  A couple of days ago, Jessie sent me a picture of himself taken a few years back, with his birth father in Toronto, wearing one of the shirts I had given his mother on the street that day. His father looks, well, about my age, and Jessie looks impossibly young, and sweet, and handsome. And from the shape of his jaw in the photograph, it looks like he had not yet started taking testosterone. I don’t know if he ever identified as butch before he transitioned. He hasn’t ever asked me if I still do. Funny enough, it hasn’t even come up.

  YouTube Gender

  In January of 2008, I heard about a new website that allowed people to post videos of themselves online for the world to see. I was feeling a bit cut off from my own world because at the time I was living in a small town in Germany. I decided to record a video of myself singing in my share house and upload it to YouTube. In the video my hair was in an untamed mullet because I didn’t know how to speak German, and I was too nervous to go to the only salon in town because its name was Hair Killer. I was wearing oversize wire-framed glasses from the 1970s, and there was a rack of my laundry drying behind me. I performed an acoustic version of a brand new song I had written called “Come On Forest Fire Burn the Disco Down,” about the ongoing colonialism in Canada. The song is a series of questions asked of people who, like myself, fall in the category of benefiting vastly from the history of Canada being a colony. I was nervous about the song and had rewritten it over fifty times. I thought that posting it would get me some valuable feedback from the public. The video appeared with the description: “Acoustic version of new song recorded in Weimar, Germany, January 2008.”

  I had always been an independent musician and for the most part sheltered from public opinion about myself due to my lack of mainstream media attention. I knew that I didn’t project the typical image of a male-identified musician, but I thought that performers like Prince had paved the way for my high-pitched voice decades earlier. To my surprise, there was an unexpected landslide of opinions posted about my video. What follows is a list of all the comments that viewers posted that had anything to do with my gender, appearance, or voice. Some of them are hidden from public view because they got too many thumbs down on the site. I think that taken together, they read as a poem of sorts about gender expectations in the music industry.

  “boy or girl? :)”

  “are you a chick?”

  “Rae Spoon has a vagina.”

  “Hello Mr. Rae Spoon, will you marry me? :) I wanna live in Weimar with you. <3 Much love!!!”

  “are you a boy or a girl?”

  “i think he is a boy..but he or she is very ugly”

  “nice voice but what is up with your hair”

  “For a canadian transgender, Rae Spoon is an amazing singer/songwriter.”

  “androgyny sessions.”

  “Guy or girl...”

  “did he make this song?? Its really good. i like his voice as well!”

  “dude that was fucking remarkable you remind me of a young Neil Young”

  “wow man! that is really great! you have tons of talent!”

  “wtf u sound like a girl .. ==”

  “awkward....... I think she is.......”

  “even more awkward...he’s not...”

  “wow you are like a new Fiest or something you make me think of fiest mixed with amy milan broken social scene should pick you up haha nice work watch out for too much vibratto, by the way”

  “HOLY SHIT DUDE YOU’RE A CHICK!!!!”

  “I’m a young man and I know you probably love women but I would like to lay in a bed and just talk with you, you seem amazing , lovelovelove”

  “at first i thought this was a joke and then you started to sing. i would like to say this song is really good. did you write it yourself?”

  “you are a guy or a girl?”

  “you have a great voice but grow out your hair and lose the glasses and you’ll look much better =]”

  “yeah, someone’s gender and sexuality is their own business, the song is amazing you said that, everything else is pointless.”

  “girl right?”

  “I’m just pretending it’s a girl the voice is great anyways, and the guy/gal is pretty cute :]”

  “a bird or a lad? who knows? Awful haircut anyway.”

  “you look the dude from into the wild if he were to make it another month or so, but sound kinda like laura veirs”

  “Wholy SHIT woman! Your voice is BEAUTIFUL, move over Kerry Underword, ect.”

  “good song. but i just dont see you on tv. you look like someone from wonder years. but hey youre still awesome! peace.”

  “Great voice girl, you have to look more like a girl if you want to succed. Thats how the world is :-/”

  “A GIRL???? i know LOL. I was wondering the same thing myself”

  “was expecting myself to laugh at this video, but this is pretty good :o”

  “Dude-wtf? He’s so hot. Not everyone has to look the same.”

  “well she’s a girl”

  “wow, is this original? you could go far ... granted if you changed your hair and got contacts. (:”

  “Yeah , it sounds great! Like the woman of the cranberries ∧∧”

  “are you a dude or a chick?”

  “youre the first person ive seen who has a mullet and large glasses and some how pulls it off. ...thats a compliment. sweet song”

  “a woman, or very geeky man?”

  “WHAT GENDER ARE YOU?!?!?!?! pretty good vid though btw. thumbs up.”

  “Is this ... a man? A woman?”

  “Why did you steal my grandfather’s glasses?”

  “Are you a girl?”

  “Who are you?”

  Dear Family

  July 8, 2013

  My Dearest Family:

  I have been thinking about writing this letter for over a month now, so here I finally go.

  On June 3rd I had a radical double mastectomy. I am fine, and healthy, and to allay your worst fears, I do not have cancer. I chose this, after over twenty years of thinking about it and considering all the implications. I am now five weeks post-operative, and I go in for my latest check-up this Thursday, where I expect the surgeon will tell me more of what he has been telling me so far: that I am healing very well, and that there have been no complications.

  Maybe some of you are wondering, “So what?” or thinking, “Whoa, too much information,” and I must admit I did consider keeping this news to myself, but after thinking carefully and at length about it, I have decided to be as honest and open about it as I can possibly be, mostly because I love you and I want to include you in the important things in my life, and this decision counts as a life-changing one for me.

  Remember way back in the late eighties when I appeared on the evening news sliding down a flag pole, after replacing the Canadian flag with a rainbow flag, into the waiting arms of the Vancouver Police Department? That was how I came out of the closet to a lot of you, and I feel bad about that to this day. I regret that I was too young and silly to have taken the time to sit down with you all one by one and respectfully and thoughtfully come out to you, and tell you about my life, and give you the respect and space you deserved to ask me questions and process it all. It is easy enough to blame that on the folly of youth, but now, at nearly forty-four years of age, I think I can do better by you.

  So here goes: It is probably not much of a surprise to any of you that I possess a not-so-typical gender identity. I am not currently taking nor do I plan to take tes
tosterone and “transition” to male, but for many years I have been living with an increasing amount of discomfort in my body, specifically around the ever-increasing size of my breasts. You guys, like most of the world, don’t know this about me, because I was binding them down for the last nineteen years, but I was a size 42D. That is not a typo. 42D. Suffice it to say I did not take after the Daws side of the family in the boobs department. Binding them down was increasingly uncomfortable and unhealthy, especially during the summer and at the gym, or choir practice, and while playing the saxophone, and as of the last three years or so I have been experiencing numbness and tingling in three fingers on my left hand, and suffering from pain in my neck and shoulders. It was time. Even though I am still recovering, and stiff and sore and only starting to regain my energy levels, I can say already that it was the right decision for me. I am happier in my body than I remember being since I was twelve years old or so, and I have taken to calling my clothes closet The Joy Factory. I feel lighter. About six pounds lighter, as it turns out.

  As I write this, I can’t believe I am talking about my tits to my uncles and aunts and cousins and parents and grandmother. But I don’t want any of you to find out through Facebook, or rumour, or in my next book, or to see me in person and wonder but not know for sure, and for any of you to think that I don’t love or trust you enough to be honest and if you will pardon the pun, keep you abreast of this development. I want you to know that you are receiving this letter because you are important to me and I am taking this as my second chance to come out to you.

  I know this may be hard for some of you to understand. It took me years to come to this decision, and to make it right in my own head and heart. If you have any questions or thoughts, please feel free to share them with me. I promise to answer them with all of the compassion and understanding you have always blessed me with.

  I love you always.

  Ivan

  • • •

  I sent this letter to my entire huge family, those with Internet access, anyway, at about 5 o’clock on a Tuesday night, I think it was. As soon as I hit send, I felt a little nauseous. I know my family, and they are good people, but still. I am, as far as I know, the first trans person any of them know up close and personal. Most of what they know was probably gleaned from Jerry Springer, or something of the like. The first email response arrived in my inbox about two hours later, from my grandmother, typing away on her iPad from the couch, probably wearing a flowered house dress with her legs tucked up under her bum like she does. She is ninety-four years old, and her email was two lines long, with the single word “boobs” in the subject line. It read:

  I wish I could get rid of mine. You could wave goodbye with them.

  Love, see you soon

  Grandma Pat

  Then came this, from my one of my aunts:

  It’s always good to hear from you. Thanks for being so open about your surgery, I’m sure you did a lot of soul-searching before making that big decision. Remember that Uncle Rob and I are very proud of you and the choices that you have made in your life and know it hasn’t always been easy for you. We love you and will always respect any decisions that you and Zena make. I hope you are feeling happy and healthy now. Take care and give each other a big hug and kiss from us.

  Love you both! Love, Aunt Cathy and Uncle Rob

  Then this from my cousin who was too young to understand how much I botched my original coming out:

  Nobody has ever shared with me how you came out, I never asked and nobody ever had to tell me. I suppose this is because I have only ever known you as Ivan and questions weren’t necessary. I have always loved you for you. I had a gulp in my throat while reading your letter, thank you for sharing your experience with me. xo Lindsey

  I got this missive from another of my cousins, sent from the backstage of the nightclub where she is currently working as a dancer, at least until she can finish her dental hygienist’s program at night school:

  Hi hunny, that was a very surprising email, and to be honest with you, I wish I read it at a more appropriate time, as I’m working and wish I could give you a more lengthy response about how amazing I think you are. I will tomorrow. But for now ... I’ll thank you soo much for being so brave and honest with all of us. And I respect any decision you need to make for YOUR life. I never judged you before, and I never will. You are one of the most influential people in my life, whether you know it or not, and I love you soo much. I have to get going, but will check in with you tomorrow. I love you and I know you will be ok.

  Hi again! I’m back, I have some time and re-read ur email. I must also say, on a lighter note, 42 D?!!!! WTF ... It’s a little funny to me, that what I paid $8000 for 3 different times, you wanted nothing to do with! Lol!! This just proves that everything has a different importance and meaning to every individual. And seriously

  GOOD for you for being so upfront, this really saves from the not so subtle, questioning, sometimes judgmental looks I sometimes receive! Haha!! Good!!! And I feel you on the weight and back problems! It takes a toll that’s for sure!! Well ... You have been through an amazing journey and I’m proud of you!! You are truly a remarkable person!! Love you again!!

  Racheal

  And this, from another of my many cousins:

  Got your email. Happy for you. Glad you’re healthy and happy. Can you eat Vietnamese chicken wings any faster now? Just wondering.

  Ryan

  My dad called me on the phone, after his wife had read him my letter, in keeping with his “Why would I want to learn how to use a computer?” approach to life. He said, and I do quote: “First of all, I just have to say that if I had to strap my nuts down to go out of the house, they’d have been gone years ago.” He paused for me to laugh, like a seasoned stand-up would. “And I guess it’s pretty brave to write everybody, but you didn’t have to. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all none of their fucking business. It’s your body. If I wanted to cut my dick off, I shouldn’t have to answer to anyone for that. My dick, my decision. I mean, there would be a lot of disappointed females out there, but that wouldn’t be my responsibility.”

  So. That all went even better than I had hoped.

  Little girl about four years old in the elevator asks me: “Why you have tattoos all over yourself? You look like a mean man.” I smile at her. “Oh, okay,” she adds, “not when you are smiling. Guess what? We are having pizza for dinner. Guess why? Because Daddy can only cook breakfast things.” Her mom and I then crack right up.

  How to Be a Transgender Indie Rocker

  I was walking down the dark streets of Weimar in Germany. I had only been there for a couple of days after joining my girlfriend who was just starting an art school program there. We were on our way to a venue called Planbar to meet some students from the art school. I could hear our footsteps echoing off of the tall sandstone buildings with graffiti and broken windows as I tried to verify with my girlfriend that the people we were about to meet knew that I was trans.

  “Yeah. I told them that you’re trans and to call you ‘he.’ They seemed to understand,” she replied. “We’ll see.”

  I didn’t know very many people in Weimar, let alone in Germany. I had recently quit drinking for the second time and was not feeling as numb to wrong pronouns as I had been when I could have a couple of drinks. Also, I didn’t really know the first thing about professional art. I had even thought that the shortening of the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan, MoMA, was a French word when my girlfriend had once told me to meet her there. I was probably going to end up offending some of the art people as much as they offended me.

  Here goes nothing, I thought to myself as I pushed open the heavy old door of the bar, wondering if I’d made a huge mistake moving to a new continent for love. A few students were already there, gathered around a large wooden table, so we pulled up aluminum chairs and joined them.

  After the introductions, I settled back with my cola and let the first few wrong pronouns wash over me. I wasn�
��t feeling like I wanted to correct anyone, and I tried to remain as quiet as possible. It was loud, and the smoke in the room grew thick as more students joined us. The person to my left was introduced as Alex, a partner of one of the other students. That was the first thing we had in common. I shifted my posture to face him a little more.

  “What do you do?” I asked him while others at the table started talking about art stuff.

  “I run music programs for youth, and sometimes sound installations for galleries,” he replied. “And you?”

  “I’m a folk singer,” I said.

  “What is that?” he asked, looking at me like he was genuinely interested.

  “Well.” I paused. “I suppose that folk music is the music of the people. The expression of organic songs indicative of the time. Ummm. Actually, maybe hip hop is folk music now too ... Never mind. I guess I play the acoustic guitar and sing country music.”

  “Interesting,” he replied. “Based on that description, I think that the folk music right now in Germany must be techno.”

  “Really?” I asked. I wondered to myself: Wasn’t techno a dead-sounding, repetitive, computer-generated genre? What was so hard about making music on the computer? It couldn’t involve as much skill as learning to, say, sing or play the guitar.

  “Yes,” Alex replied, more passionately than I’d expected. “It was something that was just getting big when I was a teenager. The techno rave scene. Most German teenagers were expressing themselves with electronic music in the 1990s instead of electric guitars. It was a sound that just grew out of nowhere. Right where we lived. I went to music school in Liverpool when I was older. People at my school would be showing off playing guitar solos by leaping from fret to fret while I invented my own instruments and made music by doing the tiniest movements. I tried to learn how to play electric guitar like one of the Beatles, but it was the small ticks of minimal techno that really stuck with me. Maybe it will wear off on you being here?”