Gloria Fenton takes us on a meandering journey with a thoughtful message. She returns later with yearbook memories.
Diane Frank learns self-defense, gets hot with trans hip-hop, reframes a resurrected Michael Bailey, participates in a trans art exhibition, and points us to a local journalist's sympathetic take on the Larry Craig affair.
Inner View: What could a blurry photograph of a balding, middle-aged man wearing a black bra teach us about physical beauty?
Art: CDs and their seemingly insatiable appetite for high heels. An avid reader pointed me to these delectable creations.
Colorology: What this year's must have color says about you.
Last Laugh: Corseting your way to holiday happiness.
A spot has been cleared on the dining room table--which is where I do most of my writing--as I prepare to create another newsletter article. It’s a little after 5:00 am and the coffee pot is dripping away as it brews water and coffee beans to produce the life-giving nectar that my body craves. Getting paper and pen, I set them at my work area, and I also place a coaster for my coffee cup which is at the ready near the coffee pot. Lastly, I place an ashtray at my work zone along with a lighter and a pack of smokes.
Now, before your criticize my smoking, keep in mind that in many ways I am only doing a public service. I make no claim that smoking is healthy for me; however, if I didn’t smoke and pay the unfair and oppressive “sin” tax, then non-smokers would have to pay more taxes. So, I am helping to reduce the tax burden on non-smokers and support the wasteful spending of local, state, and federal governments.
Once everybody quits smoking--and I hope they do--there will be a huge reduction in tax revenue to build sports stadiums, fund the arts, and pay for other programs that can’t seem to be funded any other way. I suggest the government consider a tax on tea.
But I digress and I apologize. The coffee is done now. I rush to fill my cup and savor the first sip of the dark brew. Pausing, I ponder whom it was that first thought about taking a coffee bean, roasting it, grinding it, and then brewing that grist with hot water to create a cup of coffee. Without that original thought and action happening there would be no Starbucks. The “Beat Generation” would have had no coffee houses for poetry readings and folk music, and what other liquids would people have been forced to dunk their donuts in?
Why, without a cup of coffee, even the sale of milk, half and half, cream, sugar, and sugar substitutes would be devastated. Even a certain fast food establishment wouldn’t have iced coffee to market without that first cup of coffee ever being brewed.
Again I have digressed and again I apologize. I’m finally ready to sit at the dining room table to write a newsletter article that will enthrall the masses of people who read it. Filled with excitement of creating literary genius, I lift my pen. Personally, I have a preference for click-type retractable, ball-point pens, instead of stick pens that you have to keep putting the cap back onto when you are not writing with it. I keep losing the caps for some reason, and then there is just no good way to keep a stick pen in your shirt pocket without it falling out or getting ink all over your shirt.
I suppose I could use a pocket protector, but then only nerds use pocket protectors. Besides most of my tops and blouses don’t have pockets anyway. Fountain pens always seem to leak at just the wrong moment, and twist type pens require too much exercise to twist them, and I never remember which way to twist them. Luckily, somebody invented the click type pen for people like me.
As I write my first word though, I realize I'd made a terrible mistake. In my rush to let words flow, I have chosen a pen with the wrong color ink. Instead of the black ink that I prefer, somehow I’m holding a pen with purple ink. That just will not do. Luckily it wasn’t red ink or I might have gotten some sort of complex. Quickly I retrieve another pen and verify it has black ink.
Carefully, I trace in black over the word I wrote in purple ink. After that, though, I find myself just staring at the paper before me. It is nearly impossible to believe that the paper I see used to be a tree. Since I have written about 400 articles over the years, it makes one think about the trees that have been sacrificed just so I can enthrall readers with my wit and wisdom. Then, too, there is the paper used when I print out a newsletter.
That reminds me that I have heard that so much paper is wasted, and wasted paper is wasted trees. Why is it that when you print out something that so many times you get a last page with only one or two lines of words on it? If the computer, and those who wrote the programs, are so smart, then why is a sheet of paper wasted for one or two lines of words that could have been put on the previous page? Just imagine the number of trees that could be saved if computers didn’t waste paper like they do. But then I guess a lot of people might say the same thing about the paper I write my newsletter articles on.
Alas, I digressed once more and it is now almost 8:00 am. There is only one word on my paper, and I can’t even seem to remember what it was that I was going to write about. I will save the paper, though, for the next time I sit down to write a newsletter article.
Gloria Sue Fenton
[Epilogue] As I have said before, there is nothing easy about writing something for our newsletter. It takes time and effort, and the willingness to put in the time and effort in order to express your thoughts and feelings for others. But then, that was why I was up at 5:00 am in the first place.
If something is important to you, make the time, and make the effort to do it.
(Want to read more from Gloria? Click on the "author index" link in upper left-hand column of this newsletter.)
Self-Defense Seminar
Back at the August Transfamily meeting, a couple of out, gay police officers gave a short workshop on self-defense. What follows are my notes. Please be aware that these notes are in no way recommendations for you to follow. Take from them what you will, at your own risk.
* The first and most important point about self defense is prevention -- that’s environmental awareness and self-awareness.
* Check area crime stats on google before you go some place.
* Don’t appear to be a victim.
* Don’t flash money.
* Don’t avoid eye contact, looking down to right.
* Make eye contact, then let go, looking up to left.
(the eye contact advice applies to men and women)
* Let local people see you around at different times of the day.
* Carry your keys between your fingers when going to the car.
* Don’t slouch, walk upright and confidently.
* Make yourself feel at home by envisioning the environment you grew up in.
* Don’t let people get close to you bumming a cigarette or a light.
* Go out with a buddy.
* Better to be tried by 12 than carried by 6.
* If you must talk to a stranger, be aware of who is behind you. Don’t glance over your shoulder, but turn all the way around, taking in everything.
* Carry pepper spray. (change out your pepper spray once a year)
* If you’re going to be a victim, be an expensive victim.
* Keys at the eyes.
* Box ears.
* Yell, have a police whistle, make noise.
* Run!
* Don’t sneak up on people.
* Have cell phone in hand.
* How to deal with Police: Don’t be “in contempt of cop.”
There were physical demonstrations about what to do if grabbed, but rather than repeat them, I suggest you take a self-defense course and practice.
C-Space and Trans Hip-Hop
While I was looking for venues for Helen Boyd to talk, C-Space was recommended to us. It didn’t work out, but when I saw an event posted where two FtM young men were going to rap, I had to check the place out…and educate myself about live rap. C-Space is definitely counter-culture friendly. It has adjacent parking, and isn’t in the greatest part of town.
Concert featuring: Team Gina - a dynamic dance duo; political, queer & anti-oppression. Katz - poetry with a kick in the a$$; using his poetry to entertain & inform trans gendered issues are one of his hot topics! Katastrophe - alternative/hip hop, using his struggle as a trans man and his contested place in contemporary queer and hip hop culture as a springboard to express issues of community, space, privilege, sex and self-worth.
Sponsored by the Lesbian Gay Bi-Sexual Transgender Community Center of Greater Cleveland.
Team Gina is a pair of young women who rap from a lesbian feminist perspective. Katz and Katastrophe are the FtMs. I really can’t tell you whether this was good rap, bad rap or whatever. What I learned about rap is that rap is to traditional poetry as tap dance is to the ballroom dance. Classical poetry has a constant meter. Ballroom dance has a constant rhythm. Tap dance changes rythms, and so does rap. Sometimes it seems that the percussive effect is more important than the words or their literal meaning.
Oh, be aware that C-Space is a store front with no air conditioning. I’m glad I wore very lightweight clothing that evening.
Old Bailey Strikes - Again!
For those of you who bother with these things, Professor Michael Bailey (writer of The Man Who Would Be Queen:) is back in the news. The overboard efforts to discredit Bailey by some women of transsexual history have, as we would have predicted, backfired. Alice Dreger, an academic whose speciality is intessexual issues has written a history of the whole affair and it does not reflect well on the anti-Bailey faction, even if it doesn’t totally exonerate Bailey, especially with regards to Anjelica Kieltyka. You can read her piece on-line here: [Alice Dreger pdf]
What concerns me in all this is the framing of Bailey as a victim and the loss of ability to criticize his work or understanding of things. Dreger has erroneously concluded that the work by Blanchard that Bailey draws has been replicated by others. Her citations, for example of the work of Cohen-Kettenis is improper. Suffice it to say that I have it on the strongest authority that Cohen-Kettenis’ does not replicate Blanchard’s work and what work they have done and their clinical practice do not support Blanchard’s uber-theory of autogynephilia. It is clear from my personal investigations of this that there is fear and intimidation on all sides and authoritative public comment on the facts of these matters will not come forth until everything settles down a bit.
Transgender Art Show
Last Saturday, September 1st, a transgender art show (assembled by two Cleveland area CDs--Glenda and Jamie) opened at Bela Dubby Art Gallery & Cafe - a community watering hole on the west side. Bela Dubby is a comfortable place where people of all sorts hang out, browse the web and drink the beverage of their choice. It's not the conventional bar, even if beer is served.
It’s my belief that art has transformative power, not only for the audience but the aspiring artist. Encouraging people to share their creative work in a public setting is a fine way for us to generate a good image for the various communities of people under the transgender umbrella. So, I contributed some of my poetry. Maybe I’ll read some at an AO meeting some time.
From Bela's website:
What is Bela Dubby, you ask? We are an art/coffee house in Lakewood. We serve Phoenix brand Fair-Trade roasted
coffees and a great selection of microbrews. Brooklyn Beer exclusively on tap. Art shows every month. Live music.
Free WiFi, kid friendly and non-smoking. Comfy vintage kitchen tables, chairs and couches. Great place to read a book, run the home office, check yer email, drink coffee or have a beer and order from a local pizzaria for delivery
right to Bela Dubby.
Erin O'Brien
Erin, who wrote Dress Blues (an article about various aspects the trans-communities in Cleveland), sent me a note about her comments on the affair-de-Craig, the Idaho Senator (or former Idaho Senator) embroiled in a scandal about soliciting sex from an undercover vice office in an airport men's room. Links to her two blog posts:
Erin's commentary has some unusual sympathy for Craig. (Assuming the allegations about him are true.) Her point is that eventually the pressure to be yourself becomes too much and it boils over--whether for Craig, or people like us. I'll add that closeted conservative gay men have few places to turn.
For people dealing with crossdressing, regardless of ideology, The Alpha Omega Society does offer a safe, secure venue to let the steam out of the pressure cooker on a regular basis, for those in need of such.
(Want to read more from Diane? Click on the "author index" link in upper left-hand column of this newsletter.)
[Inner View] BEAUTY WEARS A BLACK BRA AND A CLOSE SHAVE
Toronto Star - May 11, 2007
By Emily Mathieu
What could a blurry photograph of a balding, middle-aged man wearing a black bra teach a person about physical beauty?
This particular Toronto treasure was found amidst a stack of hundreds of private photos in a cardboard box in Kensington Market. They were just sitting for sale under a row of card tables piled with picture frames, used eyeglasses and trays of gold-toned women's watches so impossibly small they'd hang off the wrist of a child.
The photo is part of a series documenting the transformation of a fairly nondescript male into a figure best described as a chemically enhanced June Cleaver, pink polyester separates and all.
So what clues can an unidentified drag queen – or perhaps pre-operative transsexual, but we'll never actually know – offer when it comes to deciphering the mystery and minefield of beauty?
It's clear that, for him, attaining the particular version of feminine beauty that fills him with confidence is a complicated process. After the bra we see him don makeup, pull on nylons, add false breasts, a dress and finally a blonde wig. But during that moment, without even getting past the first quarter of his transformation, his eyes tell you he's already there.
Is he basking under the gaze of an adoring lover behind the lens? Is it just a moment caught by a photographer? Is he acting? Is he being paid?
How does a man with a cheap pot of eye shadow, clearly bent on bending his gender, get to be so comfortable in his own skin?
Judging by the deep lines on his face and dated decor it's pretty likely he'd pulled on his last pair of support hose and oversized heels by the time his private moment came up for sale in the form of the photos.
There's nothing overly special about the room he sits in. Thanks to the other photos, we know it's bare save for a bed and a bureau, cluttered only by a wig stand, a few bits of makeup and a friendly looking framed photograph of this particular gent and a middle aged woman. Whether it's the last happy image of a soon-to-be shell-shocked wife, or that of a satisfied woman who irons her life partner's dress just outside the frame, is anyone's guess.
“True beauty really is just in the eye of the beholder and we're all free to look for it in any fashion we choose.”
Typically it takes a lot of work, physical and emotional, before the average woman can feel absolutely confident in her appearance. No matter the investment, there's still no guarantee of the desired return.
Anyone who has walked Yonge St., sticky with wax and bowlegged, their bikini line bruised beyond recognition by an overzealous esthetician, can tell you certain standards of beauty do not come easy. At roughly $45 a shot, plus tip and the cost of a bag of frozen peas to reduce the swelling, that particular service sure isn't cheap. Which is why the image of a half naked, older man with a smile on his face as mysterious and calm as the Mona Lisa's is so confusing.
A person might guess that he knows, no matter how much money or time he pours into his appearance, he'll never create the illusion of a beautiful woman without a rock-solid base.
There were photos of women sitting in the pile. Images of voluptuous figures dancing behind thin curtains of white gauze and lanky teenage girls in cotton dresses perched listless and beautiful in window frames. As well an oddly beguiling shot of a woman sitting naked and smoking on a child's tricycle.
Then a man smiling and sitting in a bra on a bed.
Still, something about him takes the viewer beyond the shabby room, his wrinkles, even his gender and the cheap dress.
If his eyes tell us anything it's that he understands all the props, creams, polyester and plucking are just window dressing.
True beauty really is just in the eye of the beholder and we're all free to look for it in any fashion we choose.
Kathy passes on this housewifely hint that originally came from The Receipt Book of Harriott Pickney Horry:
Take a weak lye such as is used for washing clothes. Wash the stockings in it cold very clean with soap, then soap them well, put them in clean lye and boil them ‘till all the old blue comes out. Then chop up some soap and put it into a pint of lye. Put it on the fire and let it boil till the soap is melted, then take it off and add to it 2 large spoonfuls of liquid blue, strain it and put in the stockings, while it is scalding hot. Rub them well in it, then take them out and rub them again well with the hands, then let them hang in the shade ‘till about half day, then mangle (smooth) them.
A pint of Lye with 2 spoonfuls of blue will do about 4 or 5 pair of stockings.
It’s amazing what you find in old cookbooks which is part of the reason I enjoy them!
Kathy
Harriott Pinckney Horry began her receipt book more than two hundred years ago in 1770, two years after her marriage to Daniel Horry. The daughter of a prominent South Carolina family and the wife of a Huguenot planter, Harriott maintained a notebook of recipes and household formulas built on a small collection given to her by her mother. Harriott's masterpiece is still available! [click here] Selections are reprinted in many other cookbooks as well.
It’s violets anew as designers tap into the allure of the color purple
There was no mistaking the inspiration behind Stefano Pilati's spring (2007) collection for Yves Saint Laurent. A soft amethyst light bathed the Grand Palais, where purple cushions softened the stark bleacher seating. And in their towering heels, his models negotiated a flower bed of a runway, packed with fresh violets.
"The violet symbolizes modesty, fragility and virginity," Pilati says. "It was relevant for the message of femininity I wanted to convey." That message started with buffalo checks in deep eggplant and evolved into the full-blown romance of gentle dresses sprinkled with printed and appliquéd blooms.
But purple has numerous connotations beyond delicacy; it also represents wisdom, magic, sadness and courage. And it has a well-known imperial association. Despite seemingly humble origins as an ink found in tiny marine mollusks, purple was actually a costly pigment to make long ago because those mollusks were difficult to harvest. Since only the upper classes could afford it, the color became a symbol of wealth and royalty. "It shares with gold the glory of the triumph," Pliny the Elder wrote in the first century.
Two millennia later, it still intrigues. For spring, Miuccia Prada delivered Forties glam with a touch of exotica, casting her Prada show space in deep purple as a backdrop for jewel-toned satin pinup charmers. And Jun Takahashi of Undercover was so taken with the color's seductive qualities, his show invitation promised "purple" in cursive script. "I wanted to bring this sexy mood in," he explains. "If I were to describe 'sexy' in a color, it would be in purple."
On the other hand, Anna Sui, a longtime purple aficionado, loves its rock' n' roll links, like Jimi Hendrix's "Purple Haze." "Every season I have to fight myself from making the collection purple," she says. For spring, Sui allowed splashes, in a bright magenta frock and an indigo-print peasant dress. Then again, she can always go home for that purple fix; her bedroom walls are painted mauve. But perhaps no designer tipped her hat to this hue better than Donatella Versace without even indulging in it on the runway. The guest of honor at her show and after-party? None other than Prince, he of the purple reign.
A few days ago I happened to look through a couple of school yearbooks that belonged to my brother who recently passed away. The yearbooks were from his freshman and junior years in high school. Some of his friends had written notes. In his freshman yearbook was a note from Sandy who was also a freshman that year.
As I looked through the pictures from his freshman year, I paused on those my brother was in, and also those that Sandy was in. I was a junior in high school that year, and though Sandy was a friend of my brother, I did not know her personally, yet. I have no idea if Sandy was aware of me either. Seeing the pictures Sandy was in, it was ironic to think that two years later Sandy would be my girlfriend, and that Sandy would willingly let me wear her clothing. I didn’t recognize anything that I saw Sandy wearing in those early yearbook pictures; and I doubt that Sandy, at that time, had any though of letting a boy share her things and let him dress as a woman like her.
Looking through his junior yearbook I again found the pictures of my brother and Sandy. By then Sandy was my girlfriend. I was aware that the pictures that included Sandy were taken just before the time frame that I began to wear her clothes. In fact, the dress I saw Sandy wearing in several pictures was the very first dress of her’s that I ever wore. It was the first dress that ever really fit me. It was like I could remember exactly how that dress fit me, and how it felt to wear Sandy’s panties, pantyhose, girdle, and bra under that dress. I used to love knowing that I could dress exactly like Sandy and have my body look like hers.
Seeing the pictures, I remembered I had many times been dressed exactly like Sandy was the day of the pictures. Ironically, as I looked at the other girls who were in the pictures with Sandy, I wondered if any of them ever let a boy share their things, as Sandy did. A picture truly can be worth a thousand words.
(Want to read more from Gloria? Click on the "author index" link in upper left-hand column of this newsletter.)
Hoping to reclaim her waist for Christmas, Vanessa realizes she is too late for liposuction, so tries out bondage corsetry instead.
Absolutely the saddest moment in Gone With the Wind is when Scarlett O’Hara measures her tiny waist after having a baby, and finds it isn’t. Tiny any more, I mean. God, how I sympathise. After I had monster baby Rollo I did all the exercises, but my waist had just thickened. And my ribcage.
It wasn’t too bad because my waist was tiny in the first place, and I could always get something in M&S’s Firm Control range to wear under really tight dresses. But I’ve suddenly discovered that I can’t get into my Christmas party wardrobe. It must be because I sacked Warren, my personal trainer, weeks and weeks ago. I realised it was exercise that was bursting all those tiny veins on my cheeks. Obviously, if you go bright red in the face and huff and puff with all the strain (God, I hate exercise), something’s got to give. So I haven’t been working out at all. But I have been filling out. Panic! My lovely Vivienne Westwood suit, my amazing Galliano jacket, my skin-tight Donna Karan LBD — all too tight. Of course, with Christmas practically here, there isn’t enough time for liposuction, and I’m certainly not having a couple of ribs taken out, like some celebs.
But suddenly, I had a brain wave. Scarlett O’Hara. Corsets. Of course. Mammy pulling away at the laces — “Harder, Mammy, harder.” Corsets mean you can skip surgery.
I’ve got lots of pretty corsets already, but they don’t do much serious squeezing, so I rang all sorts of grown-up underwear places asking for a real, old-fashioned Victorian corset. Rigby & Peller were a bit chilly. A woman at Agent Provocateur told me their corsets only reduce your waist by up to 2 in; they don’t do what she called “extreme corsets.”
Extreme! That’s what I wanted. And something about the way she said the word made me realise what I needed were the ruder bits of the internet.
I soon realised that the word corset is practically code for bondage, and found myself visiting some far-out cyber boutiques full of rubber and control corsets for cross-dressing men. Lurid pictures, men in scary Hannibal Lecter-like masks. I like bondage chic up to a point, but some of it is simply silly. And all that sweaty rubber. Even our surfing wetsuits in Cornwall were horribly smelly.
Still, there were some serious corsets among all the gothic tat. And, while I’d really like to have one made for me by the ultimate corset-maker, Mr Pearl of the 18in waist in Brighton, he needs lots and lots of fittings, and there are hardly any corset-fitting days left before Christmas. So it had to be off the peg.
In the end, I decided on Fairygothmother — intriguing website and interestingly dodgy name, but not that far away, in Camden Lock. They were quite sweet on the phone, and said they could reduce my waist by up to 4 in. Brilliant.
Actually, I have had this done before, at school. We were doing a Victorian play, and a dotty St Mary’s old girl had a collection of genuine Victorian dresses. She lent us the lot, with original corsets to go with them. These were yellowing-white and hideous — unlike the pretty, lacy ones at Fairygothmother.
Once you’re in one, with all the hooks and eyes done up and your bosom adjusted upwards, you can just shut your eyes and think beautiful, while someone starts tightening.
It’s amazing. Suddenly, your ribs are narrow and fragile, your bosom sculpted, your waist unbelievably slender. It feels great. Like being touched all over. Firmly. Masterfully.
I damn nearly did get to minus 4 in, but I decided to stop just short. There’s no point in overdoing it.
Obviously, your ribcage gets squashed (God knows what happens to your insides), and you can take only shallow breaths from the top of your compressed lungs, giving you that exciting feeling of faintness. But the sense of poise — chin up, back straight, careful movements — is so thrilling, it’s worth it. Being controlled and controlling all at once.
Proper corsets really are quite sexy — the bondage crowd isn’t completely daft. And you don’t need scalpels or drugs. Instant solution: I can now get into absolutely anything in my wardrobe. Must ring Mr. Pearl in the new year.
Group Information
The Alpha Omega Society is a non-profit social support group for heterosexual crossdressers and their wives or partners. We primarily serve Cleveland and nearby Northeast Ohio communities.
Publication Information
This newsletter is copyright 2007 by The Alpha Omega Society. All rights reserved. Articles and information contained in this newsletter may be reprinted by other non-profit crossdresser organizations with advance permission of the author and provided that proper credit is given to author and source. The opinions or statements contained in this newsletter are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of Alpha Omega.
Contributions of articles are welcomed, but may be altered in the editing process, with the author’s intent retained, or may be rejected, whether solicited or not. We will exchange newsletters with any other similar group.
But suddenly, I had a brain wave. Scarlett O’Hara. Corsets. Of course. Mammy pulling away at the laces — “Harder, Mammy, harder.” Corsets mean you can skip surgery.
"The violet symbolizes modesty, fragility and virginity," Pilati says. "It was relevant for the message of femininity I wanted to convey." That message started with buffalo checks in deep eggplant and evolved into the full-blown romance of gentle dresses sprinkled with printed and appliquéd blooms.
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