My roommate watched Harlan County, USA for a class the other day and it reminded me of something I’ve thought about before – the rural working class of Appalachia is largely responsible for the labor movement and the progress it produced and has now almost entirely shifted heavily right-wing. Appalachia has almost universally shifted from a strong Democratic to a Republican stronghold.
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Illustration by me of a vial of “Activator” from the film The Substance with small green hand prints.
The Substance is easily my favorite horror film to come out this year, and probably my favorite film regardless of genre to come out of 2024. It executes common horror tropes beautifully while offering a combination of fresh new ideas that haven’t felt explored in the specific way Coralie Fargeat, the director, addresses them. The film’s plot and general message are also incredibly relevant to politics of Desire and how physical attractiveness is measured among different groups of people.
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Since before I started medical transition over a year and a half ago, gaining testosterone-linked physical traits through HRT has been a goal of mine. And recently having the ability to “pass” as cisgender has been such a wild ride in a very gender-affirming way (though I still haven’t gotten used to times when I am perceived and treated as cis male in a social context, such as getting pulled in for a strong dap up after finishing a group project).
One thing that I have always been excited about was my “passability” opening up new avenues for me to explore queering my gender presentation. There was always something appealing to me about presenting physically masculine with more body hair and a deeper voice while having the freedom to wear whatever I wanted, like skirts with boots, and feeling confident wearing tight shirts without getting dysphoric about my chest. The physical traits I display are also helpful with decoding patterns of comportment and taking up space that I grew up socialized into as a “girl,” because now instead of fearing gender dysphoria from expressing emotions and being particular about the way my body moves, I feel like I am actively participating in throwing off binary norms, rather than taking up as much space as possible and acting closed off and invulnerable as embodied “masculine” stereotypes often go.
I recognize of course that presenting my gender the queer way I do is something that I have a privilege to do, as I am able to safely be out as transmasculine; I believe not every single trans person should be required to revolutionize trans embodiment and destroy gender norms whenever they can possibly be perceived. No one should be held to that standard, and critiquing those who can find safety within the gender binary is unproductive to the goal of universally embracing trans embodiments.
I believe my medical transition and performed gender, and the euphoria I experience in my trans body, demonstrate Susan Stone’s theory on the transsexual body’s ability to “generate new and unpredictable dissonances which implicate entire spectra of desire” (“The ‘Empire’ Strikes Back”). Her and Judith Butler’s description of the erotic dissonance of the butch lesbian is something I find strong connection to, especially after coming back around to identifying as a lesbian in how inherently queer and “everyone-but-cis-masculinities” my sexuality has been throughout my 8 years of being out. Butch identity and my transmasculine body just feel like they go hand in hand now, and doing what I call “coming home to lesbianism” has been such a euphoric experience for me recently, one that I feel comfortable describing as transsexual gender euphoria.
A quick self-portrait doodle I did today that describes my feelings regarding the ever-increasing presence tech has in our lives.
A nih.gov article from 2013 states that an ideal amount of screen time for the average adult should be no more than 2 hours per day. That figure just 11 years later feels completely impossible to achieve, almost like a funny joke. I could hit those 2 hours, 4 times over just working on one school assignment. I have a much more robust and stable social circle online compared to any friendships I’ve managed to foster in real life. My new car’s speedometer and tacometer are both on a digital screen. I can’t even lower my daily screen time when I’m driving. Something about that is kind of terrifying to me.
Continue readingI miss ballet. I miss Irish dance. I miss being comfortable moving my body. The best I felt was when I danced like no one was watching which is pretty silly, but true. I used to love the feeling of having a good practice. I was in such a comfortable environment and space I had grown up with. Now it’s all changed. There’s no way for me to go back to how it was completely but I still wish to experience the joy that dancing gave me. I feel like a light has gone out in my heart and I don’t know how to get it back. If I did kind of know, I am too scared to act on it. I wish there was a space to dance for people like me.
Recent Reflection: Being Called “African, Not Black
I migrated to the U.S. from Ghana in my teenage years, and the transition was enveloped in opportunities for growth and connectivity with new communities. I have grown to appreciate the rich layers of my identity shaped by my Ghanaian roots and those fostered while living here. But there’s one experience that has followed me for many years: being referred to as “African, not Black.
The first time someone said it to me, I didn’t know how to feel. At the same time as I was proud of my African heritage and the rich culture that grew me up, I felt this strange alienation. Growing up in Ghana, I loved the celebrations, the music, and the sense of community that were at the core of my childhood. It was as though my experiences living in the U.S. and navigating life as a Black person here were being invalidated. The reality is, moving to the States didn’t erase the color of my skin or the assumptions that came with it. I’ve faced racial profiling, microaggressions, and moments where I’ve felt the weight of systemic racism. These experiences made me realize that my identity as a Black person isn’t separate from my identity as an African it’s an expansion of it.
But looking back, I can see how I began to internalize some of these comments. I started feeling like I didn’t fully belong to either group-as if I wasn’t “Black enough” because I didn’t grow up in the U.S. or “African enough” because I’d embraced parts of life here. I even found myself hesitating to speak about my experiences, unsure of where they fit into the larger narratives of either identity.
It is a beauty I have learned lately: holding multiple identities. I have learnt that I don’t have to choose between African and Black because they coexist. Each single one of them is valid; together, they speak for me.
Now, if I’m told, “African, not Black,” the justification isn’t really necessary anymore; it is a reflection of how far I have come to accept the full range of my experiences. My identity is not dictated by one else’s perception, but rather shaped from where I come from, through the challenges faced, and the connections made on the way.
Ultimately, I’ve learned that identity is personal and multifaceted. It’s okay for it to feel messy or complex it’s what makes it beautiful. And for me, being both African and Black is a source of strength, pride, and belonging.
Being in a larger body and wanting to participate in fashion trends and overall fell good about the body your in can be challenging.Majority of the styles and fashions you may want to wear may come with an high price tag or be from a fast fashion company that has unethical business practices that many in your everyday life or online community spaces may not agree with (shein, temu etc).
The body positivity movement, gained popularity in the middle to late 2010s. It embraced the notion that all bodies, regardless of size, shape, or impairments all bodies are beautiful in its natural state.From this movement I saw society move into a positive direction from beauty brands such a Fenty beauty being released that had over 50 foundation from fair to dark. Or other major brands like Nike, Old Navy, Yitty, and Target, who used plus-size models in their advertising campaigns and had plus size mannequins in all there stores and offered size-inclusive apparel lines often going up to an 5xl or 6xl. Those in plus size and fat bodies had options and could shop, browse ,window shop and enjoy the in store shopping experience that weren’t out of dated stores like Torrid, Ashley Steward and Lane Bryant .It was such a beautiful thing to enjoy the in store shopping experience without asking a sales associate if you had an 2xl or 3xl in the back or having to see if your size was available online.
However I’ve notice a shift happened in the last year or two both with major brands and certain social media trends as the body positivity movement in a way faded from the mainstream fewer plus-size models in advertising for plus size clothing , reduced availability of extended sizes, and a lack of representation in physical stores. Some brands that once championed inclusivity have quietly phased out size-inclusive options, even on there websites which left me and many plus size shoppers frustrated and disappointed.It feels like we took such a huge step backward especially with the “unbig” and “big back trends” on social media.Some of the videos are actually funny as its people talking about times were they indulge in a food they like or get themselves a sweet treat but when people began to stuff pillows and bedding under there clothes is were I fell like it crosses the line and becomes fatphobic and harmful.
The universe moves me so I can move others.
Growing up, my parents put me in every sport imaginable. If my school provided it, I did it. Baseball, basketball, soccer, you name it. And I HATED IT. Running back and forth on the field/court, winning, losing—it all sucked. But there was one sport (yes, it’s a sport. Fight me.) that I actually looked forward to every week, and that was dance. I’ve been dancing since 2 years old. My mom put me in ballet just like every other little girl, and when I tell you I absolutely LIT UP on stage. There are videos of me as a toddler convincing my classmates with stage fright to get on stage and perform. After ballet, I did Irish dance for 7 years. Not my favorite (it was too stiff and strict for me) but I stuck with it so I could take what I learned from class and teach it to my friends at school. At the same time, I did hip hop for 5 years, and that’s where I really started to come to life. I had the most attitude of any 3rd grader on that stage. It inspired me to start choreographing my own dances for me and a couple of my dancer friends to perform and film as part of our own little variety show. Then came tap and jazz class, then musical theater. My love of dance continued through middle school and high school, where I began choreographing for my schools’ musicals. Even in college, I still go back to my middle school to teach kids the dances for their school productions. Every car ride is spent looking out the window, choreographing new dances in my mind. It is a core part of my being. And every step I have taken in my dance journey came with bringing others the joy of dance. It has taken me years to recognize that I was meant to help others move. I live to light up on stage and allow others to do the same. Watching their faces when they finally get a step right that they have been struggling with. Seeing them get excited when they come up with their own choreography and run up to me to show off their new dance. Hearing them telling their parents that their favorite part of rehearsal was dance class. It all makes me feel like I have a place in the world. As Kimerer Lamothe said, “Every movement a human makes animate potentials that them become who that human is—one who made that movement. One who can make that movement again” (Lamothe 127). I was given movement from my teachers from my childhood, and I became the teacher for my friends and students, and they will become teachers for their circle, and on and on. Dance is who I am. It always will be, even if I don’t dance every day anymore. I will never separate that part of me. And that is what I believe I was put on this planet to do. Move others.
Last year, I took one of my favorite classes I’ve taken for my major – the anthropology of adornment. The class covered the diversity of changes that humans make to their bodies, both permanent and non-permanent, and covered the cultural reasons as to why people adorn their bodies in specific ways, and for what reasons. I took that class with a few friends of mine, one with stretched lobes, a septum, and a myriad of other piercings, and the other, who had been working on her patch sleeve for years at that point, and who seemed to have a new tattoo every month. Sitting next to them during class I looked rather unadorned. I feel a little silly, looking as plain as I do. I keep telling myself that one day I’m going to dye my hair, or get my septum pierced, or get a small tattoo somewhere on my body, anything to differentiate myself from the crowd.
That class got me thinking about what I do to adorn myself. Despite being a transgender man, I tend to fit the gender binary when it comes to what is expected out of a masculine person. I’ve worked hard to pass as cisgender, for many reasons. As it is, there’s a lot of misinformation and prejudice against the trans community, and I try to work against that by being open about my transmasculinity – despite how “normal” I may look to a cisgender audience – so that cis people can learn and grow to accept trans people as a regular aspect of everyday life. In a way, my lack of any obvious adornment is an act of adornment in its own right, complete with its own cultural and political reasonings and justifications.
Despite my reasoning, is conforming to cisgender notions of masculinity for the sake of cisgender comfort an effective strategy to increase acceptance of transgender people? I can’t help but be envious of trans people who feel as if they are able to express themselves outside of the strict cisgender notion of what is masculine and what is feminine. Hell, even my friends from that anthropology class (who both happen to identify as cisgender) feel as if they can adorn themselves with piercings and tattoos, so why should I be any different? No matter what I do to conform to the gender binary, cis people as a whole would rather that transgender people didn’t exist, rather than accept our existence.
Honestly this blog post is probably just going to be my inner monologue for the past week because I needed to get it out so it might be a little jumbled but I hope it makes some sense to whoever reads this.
You know I thought I had it all figured out by senior year of High School before I came to this PWI but now that I’m here it seems I still have so much more to figure out. Me coming probably was my best and worst mistake I could’ve made due to me starting to have that feeling like I don’t belong again because of the way I talk or the way I dress I feel like everywhere I go there are small criticisms being made of me and sometimes it comes from the people I consider friends here. Joke or not it really open up my eyes to how different everyone can grow up and how different everyone really is but do I deserve to be called a “thug” because I’m comfortable with sagging my pants or because I come from a all black area. And the answer is of course no I don’t deserve that.
But I’m not going to bash this school that much because if I would’ve never went to a PWI I would’ve never truly understood some of my thought processes, like I just came to a realization recently that I have become someone that little me would’ve never wanted me to be and it’s sad but without the people that I met this year and those “thug” comments I would’ve never been able to look at myself from a outer view.
So, now I truly am starting to understand it even if the healing process hurts but I am who I am and there’s nothing wrong with it and everyone will have their own perceptions of me but that’s ok as long as I don’t lose sight of me again I’ll be ok.
Unruly Bodies 