Have the Games Begun?

Today I saw my evaluation report. It was good, though it could have been better. In a way, though, I'm not upset: I'm doing the best I can by my students, and most of them appreciate that. I once had an excellent evaluation when I taught one of the worst classes I taught in my life (I'm talking about my own performance, not the students.) and, at another school, I got trashed when I did a good, if not great, class.

I also received my schedule for next semester. I'm not happy with it: I really think the coordinator tried to make it as untenable as she possibly could for me. She seems to have designed it so that I have no useful blocks of time to do the extracurricular work I've been doing, sometimes in conjunction with her as well as other department members.No one else in the department has anything like it.

I haven't talked to her at length this semester, or spent any other significant amount of time around her. However, the couple of times I've seen her, it seemed that she didn't even want to look my way. She used to be rather friendly toward me, and she was happy that I participated in Women's History month events.

Maybe she's upset with me for having the operation. I haven't talked to her about it, and I never told her I was having it. But I'm sure she's heard about it from other people. And I always suspected she was an Andrea Dworkin acolyte.

It figures that there would be somebody like that. At least I was warned. But I don't understand how someone could have liked me when I was in transition, but not now.

Oh well. At least I haven't, in a long time, lived by the illusion that education makes people more tolerant or accepting. After all, I lost two friends during my transition. And both of them had PhDs--one of them in gender studies!

In a way, though, I guess I can't judge them, or anyone else, too much. I had long suspected that going through my transition and surgery would cause me to re-evaluate, or at least re-think, some things in my life. Maybe that coordinator is doing the same thing with me. I always suspected she was a feminist along the lines of Robin Morgan, who hates transgender women because, well, we have that little "M" on our birth certificates.

It's really odd, to me, that someone can like, or at least tolerate someone like me when we're in transition but not after we start living full-time or having our operations. I guess when we're in transition, they can patronize us, which is to say that instead of covering themselves in white hoods and sheets, they wear the masks of toleration.

Also, I think that coordinator liked me better when I was teaching only part-time in the department. I noticed that she cooled somewhat toward me after I became a full-timer. But I don't think she even acknowledged my existence this semester until she made up that schedule.

Things might be getting interesting right about now.

Gender Studies Is For Faggots; Why's a White Tranny Woman Teaching Hip-Hop?

Don't ask how we got on the subject. But Dominick asked an interesting question: Since I began living as Justine, have I ever entered a men's bathroom by mistake.?

Actually, I haven't. I can confidently say that because if I did, I'd probably remember even though I wouldn't want to. Ironically enough, I can recall times when I accidentally (Yes, I'm telling you the truth!) entered women's bathrooms while I was in boy-drag. Some might argue that my subconscious was guiding me; I wouldn't argue. However, bathrooms for either gender, or both genders, never had any great appeal to me. Why would anyone want to be amid the filth and smell of most bathrooms for any other reason than to do what one needs to do? I mean, I never saw the appeal of "peeping" or having sex in bathrooms.

So what have I "accidentally"done since beginning my transition? Well, early in my life as Justine, I signed documents (including a newly-issued ATM card) and answered the telephone with my old name. Then again, I've always had lapses: I now recall the time early in my sobriety when I signed up for a workshop and gave a telephone number I hadn't had since I was twelve years old. Funny, I can recall it now: 212-435-0470. However, that number--or whatever phone number is assigned to that house--begins with "718" instead of "212" becuase it's in Brooklyn.

Wow! That alone is enough to date me: I can remember when all five boroughs of New York City used the "212" area code.

Anyway...Now that I think of it, I haven't really had many instances of gender spasmosis, if you will. At least not in logistical matters, anyway. But I've found myself lapsing into old ways
of thought and expression, and of acting on attitudes I'd absorbed, as Nick, by osmosis.

Why don't I want to teach that course called "The Poetics and Rhetoric of Hip-Hop?" Well, for one thing, I got into it accidentally. (No, I'm not one of those people who thinks everything happens for a reason.) But more important, I'm exactly what some hip-hoppers despise: I'm a white professional and I'm a woman. But not just any bitch or 'ho: I'm one who used to be a dude, at least on the outside.

Now, I know that not all hip-hop expresses misogyny or homophobia. And hateful ideas don't necessarily make for bad art. (cf. Pound, Celine and goddess-knows-how-many-others) However, knowing that a number of rappers have expressed their disdain or outright disgust for me and my sisters, it's still odd for me to be the one who will not only present the music, but also help students build bridges between it and all those books written by dead white men and taught to me by old white men who are most likely, by now, dead white men.

Oh...So that's why I'm having trouble getting published? I'm not a dead white man. Nor will I ever be. Instead, one day, I'll be a dead white woman. Or tranny-girl.

So I'm all wrong for that course I've designed. That means I'm also wrong for the course I planned to take: Literature, Gender and Sexuality. I've always been wary of gender studies. I don't want to be just another LGBT person with a certificate or degree in gender studies. For one thing, I suspect it would close many more doors than it would open. Haven't you heard: Gender Studies is for faggots. The latter term doesn' t necessarily gay or effeminate men. Instead, it means people, usually men, who wimp out on commitments, or who just generally shrink away from life.

All of this could lead me to what I've been avoiding for so long: becoming a scholar, becoming the enemy, accidentally. I already feel as if I've become one of them, though I'm still not convinced that I could do much in the way of theoretical work.

Yet everyone tells me I'm going to do fine. I must be absolutely amazing and fabulous if I can inspire that kind of confidence when I'm abut to do things for which I have absolutely no aptitude, inclinaton or desire.

So what would I be doing in a class for faggots or about people who despise them? It's a matter of pure, dumb luck.