#pride thoughts

i remember thinking i was bi - then i was like well i like more than just men and women - then i decided i hated labels, then i realized that i’m very into transsexual people, trans people, nonbinary, feminine men, masculine women, the whole spectrum of what someone could identify as, were born as, or just are i am into. so happy pride to those that hate labels, to those still slipping between the cracks of gender non-conformity, to those that love chicks with dicks and dudes with a pussy.

Being transfeminine is seen as a fetish in transphobic discourse. This comes from how ordinary misogyny sexualizes women, being a woman is seen as a sexual thing. In the application of this misogyny to transfeminine people as transmisogyny, the narrative becomes that transfeminine people actively choosing to be a woman or feminine must be a fetish.

I don’t know how it is for others, but in my experience this is a major negative if not outright traumatizing part of transfeminine experience in our society. Any hint of transfeminine sexuality becomes evidence of that the trans person in question is a fetishistic predator, and this is often internalized in the form of brain worms. It’s a specifically transmisogynistic form of slutshaming, except the madonna part of the madonna-whore dichotomy is often denied us, because we are seen as inherently fetishists. (Granted, there is sometimes a transmisogynistic equivalent of the madonna figure, in the form of “The Good Transsexual” who is often cis-passing and straight and demurely doesn’t insist on her rights. She is put in opposition to the usually lesbian/bi/gnc bad fetishistic trans woman, but that’s a whole other essay in itself.)

Transphobes don’t want trans people to exist in public places and this “being transfeminine is actually a fetish” idea is often used to justify that. It’s specifically common in the terf variety of transphobia. Their argument is that “being a trans woman is a fetish, thus trans women being in public spaces wearing feminine clothes is actually a sexual act, one that other people doesn’t consent to”

Now the obvious counter-argument is that being trans is not a fetish. We basically know that the reasons for people being trans are not sexual due to the scientific research. And in general people don’t go on hormones and transition just for some sexual thrill considering it often makes you a pariah due to transphobia. I could go on, but the arguments for considering being transgender a thing we should respect are well-established at this point. Really no need to reiterate them here, and if you want to argue them the fact is that I have vanishingly small desire to argue my right to exist with anyone.

Now all that is attacking the explicitly transmisogynistic part of this argument. There is a second premise, which is not explicitly transphobic but worthy of thinking critically about.

It is that if someone wears clothes in a public place that they find sexy or even clothes that other people might deem to be uncomfortably sexual, you have forced someone to participate in a sexual act without their consent.

And this argument is at the bottom of most “kink at pride” discourse. It’s actually mostly a “kinkwear at pride” discourse. Many of those who are very “no kink at pride” would be aghast at me associating them with terfs, and argue it’s just guilt by association. It would be, except the argument rests on dubious grounds.

I don’t think the borders between what is sexual/a fetish or non-sexual can’t be clearly drawn, because it’s a nuanced question.

Furries for example, a relevant group in a pride at kink discussion since like 80% of them are not straight. There are undeniably sexual elements to being a furry for most of them, but it’s more than that, it’s a hobby, a community and an identity. I’ve seen fursuits in public criticized for being “kink in public” but the vast majority of them aren’t sexual in the least (because fursuits are objectively terrible for sex for various reasons). And even if the wearer has drawn erotic art with his fursona, their fursona is still often a non-sexual form of expression.

So a person can wear catears to simultaneously look cute in the sense of sexy and cute in the sense of adorable and express an affinity with cats, it can be all three at once.

We don’t even have to go to unusual clothes to make that point. Dressing well to look good and dressing up to look sexy is often the same thing.

And when we are talking about fetish wear, the thing is that almost everything is someone’s fetish, including things others see as normal and non-sexual, that’s kind of part of the definition of the fetish. Kink can also be non-sexual, contrary to popular beliefs and people who are ace participate in it.

The flow of clothes goes in the other direction too. Fetish-wear also frequently becomes everyday fashion, collars and chains and leather boots have become common and unremarkable.

So I don’t think a hard line can be drawn between clothes that are worn for pure non-sexual reasons and clothes that are worn for filthy sexual reasons. It can be both, or literally on someone’s reasons for wearing it. It’s almost literally in the eye of the beholder. There is no firm rule that can be set that won’t be so vague as to be open for massive abuse. The eye of the beholder is fundamentally arbitrary.

I fundamentally don’t trust who is probably going to be the beholder. Our patriarchal society favours the cis gaze and the male gaze. That’s why women are so often scrutinized for wearing “sexy” clothes and it’s taken as an invitation for assault. It’s why trans women are seen as depraved fetishists just for existing in a public space. This is no theoretical abstraction for me, because it’s something cis people won’t let me forget; they will remind me who is subject and object in this society by staring with disgust at me in public.

You can still get them, of course, but they don’t seem to be in as widespread use as they were back then. I remember my girlfriend at the time used to braid hers into her hair.

It still felt like a somewhat radical act to openly wear such things at the time. Being able to be out at all was still a novelty to me at that point. I’d been aware I wasn’t straight from the age of 12 but you couldn’t come out in highschool in the 80s. By the 90s things were just starting to change; the community was becoming visible in a way it hadn’t really been before. 

My orientation never bothered me. I was lucky to be raised by very liberal parents (one of whom was also bi, though I didn’t know that till decades later), and it’s not like I’d ever been any kind of “normal”. One more thing that made me different wasn’t going to matter very much, to my way of thinking. 

I’ve also known I was nonbinary since I was about 12, but there was no language available to me to describe that until I was well into adulthood, so I didn’t really know what to do with that set of feelings. It was just a general, vague discomfort with being classified as strictly female that changed in intensity at various times, and a strong identification with the few characters I found in fiction whose lived experiences seemed to match. 

So when pride posts are about romantic love, it's beautiful and all, but not very relatable for me. But my love for women is something that shapes my life every day. The very majority of my meaningful connections in life are with women and women aligned people. The men I love are men that respect and appreciate my orientation and will never make me feel unsafe with them (generally and in terms of romantic feelings). I choose to find my joy and fulfillment in friendships and other relationships. I'm willing to build a future based on my close relationship to my sister and her family, possibly living with them in the future. I can imagine finding a friend I share a mutual platonic relationship so deep that we can build a life together. I don't close myself off to the idea of one day falling in love with a woman and her falling in love with me.

then there are times where you know the whirlwind of your life has seen you bleed and you plant your hands and feet into the sweat-stained tear-soaked mulch and you growl like the dog they’ve made you into and tell them you will not back down after surviving so much shit now.

and then there follows the sense of empowerment where you scoop up the strands of grass soaked in your blood and you ball it into a fist as you stand up for what must be the millionth time. there, you don’t have to say anything because everything you ever were is in your veins. it’s inside you.

so the punches come, the scars, the bruises, and the torture. all because they don’t want you to be you. and that’s all it ever is. now you feel a new fire in your soul wondering why they didn’t just abandon you on day one.

but wasting time on what could have happened is meaningless in effort when you are still being wounded. so you pick up what you can and you leave. you shut doors and lock windows and tie up loose ends or burn the threads so they cannot slip back into your shoes and trip you up.

all in the name of self care.

but who’s self are you protecting? is it your own, or what you think they’ve wanted you to be all along? are you proud of yourself?

likewise, sometimes the world feels big; where the sheer expanse of what could be and what may go wrong can consume every fiber of your being to the point where you no longer live a life but pursue protecting the hollow shell of what you think is living.

then there are times where the facade comes crashing down and you realize you are nowhere near where you want to be but every step is so new and so, so uncertain that you look back on your past to try and salvage a new foundation.

and then there follows the realization that you don’t have to be your only grounding point. in this great big world of ours, what are the chances you will never meet someone to trust?

so the meetups come, as do the protests, the shame, and the severance of ties long held sacred. all to fuel this bonfire of mistrust that screams to the world how different you truly have become.

but wasting time on who could have been good is meaningless when you know damn well you could have been better. you remember faces and write down names and tell yourself it doesn’t end here. how could it?

all in the name of a pride you hold in sweaty, bruised hands.

but who’s pride do you hold? is it your own, or what has been sold to you by corporate liars on pedestals of wealth? are you truly free?

the end of this is to find yourself. whether you drag yourself through ashes of your past life; whether you pull yourself through a torturous home; whether you stumble into the crowd and finally feel peace despite not knowing a thing; it becomes more than that.

If you're going to Pride, you should feel pride for the people there, a kinship brought on by a struggle greater than all of us.

Then just have a buuuuuuunch of good dudes, trans and cis alike, who do moral shit all day everyday. Really "follow the words of Jesus Christ even if you're not personally a christian" type shit.