Gender Failure

by Ivan E. Coyote

  After that show in London, I had an interview with some folks from a local LGBT paper in England. One of their questions was, “Do you play music to get the ladies?” I just laughed and didn’t respond. Of course I dated female-identified people, but that had never been the reason why I had taken up the guitar. Back when I learned my first chords, I was hoping to become a Christian contemporary music star. But now I was so far from wanting to be a Christian singer that I preferred not to put any limitations on the future. I could have said I was a gay man to be contrary, but I knew it wasn’t a representation of my identity either.

  Many Moons

  Six weeks post top surgery, I flew to California to teach memoir writing for a week in a summer arts program. My nipples were healed well into the safety zone, my scars were smiling pink, and I could lift my suitcase on my own, albeit carefully. I had agreed to the gig when the course coordinator had asked me the previous fall, mostly because one of the other instructors was a writing hero of mine whom I really wanted to work with: Lidia Yuknavitch, the author of the heart-busting memoir The Chronology of Water.

  Because of availability and scheduling, I ended up teaching for the first week of the program, and Lidia was slotted for the second week. We were only going to have one night where our calendars crossed. She was to arrive late on the Sunday afternoon and I was flying out first thing on Monday morning. This was disappointing for a couple of reasons: the first one being that I really had been looking forward to teaching alongside a writer who could write so beautifully from inside the blood and guts of it all like Lidia could. And then there was the swimming thing.

  Lidia’s book was about healing from trauma and pain and loss by swimming through it and surfacing for air, partly cleansed and wholly reinvented. She writes about literally plunging into water as a means of reclaiming one’s body from the people and things that took it from you.

  I had not yet been swimming in this new body. Hadn’t felt the water streaming over my flat and scarred chest. Who better to swim with for the first time than her? If anyone could understand the freedom, the release, the significance of that first submersion, it would be Lidia. I had originally dreamed of a midnight jump into the ocean, a fantasy I quickly edited on my first day in Monterey when I ran down to the Pacific Ocean and saw all the warning signs for undertows and deadly currents, and then stripped and let the waves crash into me waist-deep and icy cold, even for a Yukon kid. My fantasy hadn’t included renting a neck-to-toe wetsuit, or drowning unceremoniously in the dark. It was all about the naked. The skin. The water on me, over me, around me. The outdoor pool on campus closed at four p.m., and Lidia didn’t arrive until six. I was going to have to improvise something. I began to formulate my covert plan.

  First I had to meet her, and see if she would be game.

  We were both scheduled to attend a faculty dinner, in a hotel ballroom with circa 1987 carpeting and a view of the city and ocean, complete with a piano player and buffet dinner. I wore a shirt and tie and herringbone jacket, and she was in a lovely summer dress.

  I introduced myself, feeling uncharacteristically wet-palmed and dry-mouthed. She shook my hand, and immediately confessed that she was kind of nervous about meeting me.

  “Me too,” I admitted. “Seriously. I am a pretty big fan of your work.”

  “No, really. I’m a fan of your work,” she said solemnly.

  “No, seriously,” I repeated. “I even teach your work in my classes.”

  “I teach yours, too.” She looked me directly in the eye, and then promptly spilled a large dollop of pasta sauce that somehow got into her long hair and onto the white tablecloth.

  That is exactly when I knew she would be game.

  Three complimentary glasses of wine later, we had sketched out the plan. Kimberly, fellow author and our course coordinator, was going to come along as well. I had explained to her that what two of her staff were about to do was illegal and possibly dangerous, and that for her to allow us to attempt said crime without supervision would be reckless and irresponsible.

  I had printed up a map of the campus before leaving home, and for some reason had slipped a small but potent flashlight into my briefcase. I took this as a sign that the universe was smiling down on our plan.

  It was just before midnight when we crept across the field next to the pool, Kimberly’s flip flops slip-slapping at her heels, and the slim but sharp beam of the flashlight bouncing on the sand and grass in front of us. Betowelled and giggling, we had to leave the car parked outside the locked gate of the parking lot next to the pool. A bit of a heat score, and I knew this, but filed it away in the back of my mind under “Deal with this later.”

  Slowly the fence around the pool emerged from the black night outside my flashlight beam. It was twelve feet high, and apparently we were not the first to consider climbing it, because there was also a kind of a mesh tarp zap-strapped tight as a skin on the outside of the chain-link, to foil any possible toe and finger holds.

  “I’m a big girl,” Kimberly half whispered. “There are at least twelve reasons I can think of right now why I can’t climb that thing.”

  Lidia nodded.

  I let out a sigh, then took a deep breath. “Let’s just walk the perimeter,” I insisted. “Check all the gates.”

  They followed, but I could feel the wind in their sails sagging a little.

  All the gates were locked, of course, and the locking mechanisms were attached to black pads that used identification cards for entry, all of which flashed red for no-go in the night.

  All except for the gate at the very back, right next to the maintenance shed. It only had a locked door. The deadbolt stuck out a bit like a tongue before it entered the latch hole, like it was egging me on.

  “Who has a credit card on them?” I whispered, and the clouds parted a little to let the full moon shine down on us, like another sign.

  “I do,” laughed Lidia. “But it’s maxed right out. If it works, that will be all it’s good for. Jimmying locks.”

  She passed it to me, and I slipped it between the posts and nudged the bolt of the lock with it, praying that if I dropped it, it would land on our side of the fence, as her name was embossed right on it. Heat score number two.

  The bolt slid aside with a smooth snick, and the gate swung open. We all stood there for a minute, faces split with wide grins, and then slipped inside.

  There is always a chance that when you really build up an event in your head beforehand, that reality will pale by comparison. This was not one of those times.

  The steam danced and swirled under our hands as we pulled back a corner of the pool covering. The full-the-next-night moon hung like a high beam right above us as we stripped and shivered a little, and then all jumped in as one. The water was warmer than I imagined it would be, and my heart pounded joy under its thin layer of healing skin. We swam and laughed and swam, coming together for one triple, treading-water hug. Just three bodies, unencumbered and uncovered.

  I floated on my back for a long while, and felt one thousand remembered swims flood back into my body. A twelve-year-old body. An eight-year-old body. My five-year-old, flat-chested frame, tiny cold-numbed fingers on a sun-weathered dock. The smell of coconut-scented lotion and hot dogs and red Kool Aid and bug dope. Scratchy towels off the clothesline. Campfire heat on my sunburned face. All those swims in my before body.

  After about twenty minutes, my spidey senses started to hum. “I think we better get out soon. The campus cops are bound to drive by and see the car parked outside the gate. Where else could we be but right where we are?”

  We climbed out and dressed, quiet now and close to reverent. For some reason I put my tie back around my neck and tightened the half-Windsor under my chin, completing my costume.

  Sure enough, a cop car pulled up and stopped when we were twenty feet away from escaping into Kimberly’s car, and I heard a large pop as the officer focused a blinding handheld spotlight on us. My hands squeezed my wet towel, which I hel
d dripping behind my back.

  “What are you doing here?” a deep voice demanded from inside the solar flare.

  I cleared my throat. “I was just taking these ladies out for an evening stroll. After the faculty dinner. Just heading back to the dorm right now.” Paused to swallow. “You have a good night, officer.”

  The spotlight popped off, and the face that belonged to the voice appeared as my pupils dilated. Brush cut. Biceps. Both of them. They stared silent at us for a minute, and then rolled on.

  I waited until the cop car was a block away before I turned to look at my co-conspirators. They both had long, sopping wet hair, and they both still had their towels around their necks. Two long-haired, dripping wet heat scores.

  We laughed all the way back to my dorm room, where we sipped bourbon from a flask, only the sand between our toes and the smell of chlorine on our skin remaining as evidence.

  Drag Failure

  If there is one thing I have failed at as hugely as the gender binary, it’s drag. In the beginning, my motivation to try drag was for an elaborate prank I wanted to pull on the music industry. A friend of mine wanted to make a music video for one of my songs, and we were exploring funding options. A certain music video grant came up and I joked that I was probably eligible, but that to be safe we should send a picture of a female model instead of me. I had been told by some people in the same organization that my image wasn’t “commercial” enough for that type of funding. I have always found it hard to present as commercial in an industry that has very few accepted models for women, let alone for trans folks. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was my appearance that was a large part of the problem. This conversation with my friend then turned into joking. What if we sent a picture of me in drag as a woman to the organization funding this music video grant? That was a good one. I hadn’t been in a dress for longer than I could remember. We laughed ourselves silly, drank more coffee, and then hatched a more elaborate plan. What if I recorded the same album twice and released it first as myself, but then as another persona that was me in drag? My friend could then film a documentary about it. And that is how Cocolene, my female-impersonating drag persona, was born.

  The idea of the prank made me giddy and I got to work on a group of songs that could be recorded by both a trans indie folk singer and a female powerhouse pop singer. (That’s how most of the material for my album Love Is A Hunter was conceived.) As I worked, I tried to envision how I would pull off being in drag. I had never even worn earrings, as I had always resisted the peer pressure to take a trip to the mall with friends to get my ears pierced. I decided that this would be my first step, but that I only wanted to do one ear at time in case I didn’t like it. I decided on a fake diamond stud at a piercing parlour in downtown Montreal. But when I looked in the mirror after it was done, I thought I looked more like a gay man than a fancy lady. Still, I figured I could go back and get the other ear done after I got used to the first one.

  Next, I wanted to try to learn how to walk in heels, so I borrowed a pair from a friend with the same shoe size, but unfortunately I was over-confident and chose the highest ones she owned. When I put them on, I found myself barely able to stand, and I had to clutch at the wall of my kitchen. After the click of my first brave step, I heard the scrabbling sound of claws from the other side of the loft. Suddenly my roommate’s chihuahua came out of nowhere and attacked my feet. Apparently the small dog had experienced some trauma around heels, but as I tried to calm him down without falling over, I felt it wasn’t a very good omen as far as my efforts at female impersonation were concerned.

  I decided I needed more help. I told Kaleb, one of my best friends, about my plan to do drag. Kaleb lived in Toronto. He was the best drag queen I’d ever seen, pulling off fabulous stunts and wowing crowds as Miss Fluffy Soufflé. He was also trans, and I knew he would appreciate the nuances needed to impersonate the gender we were striving not to be read as in day-to-day life. Besides, who better than one of my best friends to help me be reborn as Cocolene? Kaleb and I decided that the best way for him to show me the ropes was for us to start our own fake band. We would do a photo shoot, perhaps write some songs together, and see where it went. He knew a great photographer that we could work with who had taken some photos of Fluffy. Luckily, Kaleb’s partner Andrya happened to be the same dress and shoe size as I was, so I didn’t have to buy myself a whole new wardrobe. It all fell into place just like it was meant to be.

  During my next trip to Toronto, I hastily tried on a few of Andrya’s heels and dresses, as well as a couple of Kaleb’s wigs. We then all jumped in a cab to the Village for the photo shoot. I was gripped with excitement. The photographer was a kind gay man whose partner did amazing bear drag. He did slip and refer to me as “she” a couple of times while he did Kaleb’s makeup, but I wasn’t going to let that stop Cocolene’s big moment. I changed into my dress while I waited, and then he went to work on my makeup. All of the powders and eyeliners and brushes were so new to me. Two minutes in, my face stopped smelling like it was my own. When he was done, he stood back and looked at me with a surprised look, saying, “Wow! You really look like a man with makeup on.” I took this as a compliment and blushed. I wasn’t sure if I should feel more masculine, more feminine, or both.

  Then it was on to the shoot. Kaleb had a lot of great advice as we posed together, such as “Smile like you’re biting into a hamburger!” I listened closely because he was the best, and at first I was cordial. I didn’t mind photo shoots. I was into it, and I was trying really hard. But then I started to feel ... something. It felt as though a fire alarm was going off three buildings over, or as if I’d left my oven on in Montreal. Something was definitely wrong. I looked around, wondering what it could be, before slowly focusing my eyes down at myself. It was the heels and the dress! It was Cocolene! It felt like someone was pinching my arm, the kind of pain that’s easy to endure at first but eventually wears a person down.

  My whole concept for the album was in jeopardy. In one last effort, I decided that if I could go out as Cocolene in public, then I could stand to spend a couple of years living as her, releasing an album as her, and touring as her across the country. I had promised a couple of my friends in Montreal that we would all dress up and go out to the drag bar in the gay village. So one night I put on a wig, a dress, and heels, and one of my friends who did makeup helped me put on some lipstick and blue eyeshadow. We took a bus downtown. At first I was holding it together, but before we got to the bar I started getting the same weird feeling that I’d had at the photo shoot. I almost picked a fight with a guy who looked at me funny on the street, shouting, “What are you looking at?”

  I was wearing a huge blonde wig with over-the-top makeup. If it had been light enough for me to see myself in the reflection of a downtown window, I could have observed the answer to my own question. One of my friends called me Courtney Love because of it, and I took it the wrong way. By the time we made it to the drag bar, I was really angry at whoever it was who was making me feel so bad. A quiet moment in the ladies’ washroom helped me think clearly. It was me who was the culprit. It was being Cocolene. I reflected on how I had been forced to wear dresses to church every Sunday until I was sixteen. I could see where some of the rage was coming from, and there was a limitless supply. There was only one thing to do. No more drag. And, definitely, no more Cocolene.

  These days, Cocolene is gone. Sometimes I tell my friends that she went on a long trip. I’m glad I tried drag, even though it made me so uncomfortable. Not every trans person can be Fluffy Soufflé. I’m just not as fabulous.

  Do I Still Call Myself a Butch?

  Yes. Of course I still do.

  Today at the market, I spotted a wicked handsome silver fox of an older butch. She caught me looking at her, twice, so while we were standing next to the yogurt section together, I took a deep breath and said: “I don’t mean this in a weird way or anything, but I am in a butch choir, and we are a fairly dapper lot, and there are like, twe
nty of us, and even still, you are the handsomest thing I have seen all week. “Then I panicked a little inside, I mean, what if she didn’t like the word butch? What if she was straight? I mean, she was wearing her post office uniform, but even still, you never know, right? But she smiled at me, showed the wrinkles around her eyes, laughed low and then said: “Handsome? Well, thank you for that. You just made my day.” She even had dimples. Fucking dimples kill me.

  How I Got to “They”

  The first time I heard the pronoun “they” used for a single person, I was in Montreal, and I was being corrected on how I was referring to someone.

  “Do you know any good guitar players around? I just moved here and I’m looking for people to play music with,” I asked a guy I had just met.

  “Do you know Jen?” he asked.

  “Yeah, does she live here?” I inquired.

  “Yeah, but actually Jen goes by the pronoun ‘they,’” he responded.

  I was stunned. Correcting pronouns was something I was used to being on the opposite end of, and I hadn’t perceived the person as trans at all. I thought that a traditional female name or femme presentation automatically denoted that an individual was a woman. I had spent ten years trying to convince people to refer to me as “he,” which was the same number of years as the person using “they” was younger than me.

  “I don’t know about that,” I said dismissively.

  “What?” the correcting party asked.

  My stomach churned. I felt weak, like I wanted to yell and swing at the air. “I mean, I think it would be pretty hard to get people to actually call you that outside of the queer community,” I said, and changed the subject.

  But the interaction stayed with me and replayed itself over and over. The ten years of being out as a trans man went through my mind, along with all of the repetitive explaining and requesting of the “he” pronoun, and the distance that not being accepted as male put between me and most others. All of the places I stole away to whenever people who had known me for years slipped up or refused to change. The invisibility of not even being considered trans at all by some members of the trans community because I had not changed my body with hormones or surgery. I had been fighting to cross over to the other side of the gender binary, and this person was just going to sit out of it altogether? A disregard for the gender binary felt like my experience was being taken from me. Yet, I knew my response had put me on the side of those who refused or dismissed other people’s identities. Treating people like they had to earn their gender was the very thing I had been fighting against. I couldn’t shrug off the feeling. I couldn’t understand it fully, but I wanted to try. I had asked that of so many people myself.