Slurs, body-slams and the blessing of being a BEAST!
I'd like to thank the deadshits in the beat-up Holden... I hope I make y'all uncomfortable.
I was navigating the narrow, crowded paths in New Farm Park last week. The Saturday markets are a marvel to me, teeming with a wild assortment that never fails to overwhelm. The aging woman, decked in all white who’s seeking only the freshest produce using the time-honoured tradition of fondling the goods. The gaggle of bronzed beauties clad in only the most expensive active wear, pastel lycra and ponytails so tight they’re giving themselves DIY eyelifts. The heavily tattooed middle-aged goth woman being dragged by their expensive hipster dog so it can cavort in the fenced off area ‘til it vomits with exertion and glee (this one is actually me I’m talking about… the goth lady, not the vomiting dog).
I love it and hate it in equal measure.
The glorious cornucopia of humanity pressing into me. The children and puppies and hawkers spruiking the last punnet of strawberries they cannot seem to shift. The political candidates pressing the flesh, some progressive, some pretending to be. That father/son saxophone duo that never fails to bust out a blazing instrumental of ‘Careless Whisper’. Oh, and we can’t forget the middle aged men choosing to go for their jog at the peak foot-traffic time. Those sorts of men who wake up, gaze down from their property-developer-white apartments to the bustling streets below. Streets that are packed with people. And these men, above it all think, “yes… this moment is the perfect time for a jog”.
It was one such man that shoved past me on the footpath sandwiched between the fence and the market stalls. “Move, lady!” he snarled and spat at me as he tried in vain not to break the precious stride of his casual jog through a crowd of a few hundred people. Every muscle in my body tensed. The years of roller derby training activated in the lizard portion of my brain and it took all my willpower not to lock down, firm up and catch his momentum in a body slam that would have delivered him squarely into the panel van full of fresh produce next to me. This must be what it feels like for sleeper agents? This must be the sensation that courses through your veins at the speed of thought when the government-implanted code word activates: KILL-MODE-ALPHA. Something reptilian coiled inside me and I opened my mouth to berate his retreating back for his audacity…
“Oh my god? Did he just gender me correctly?!?”
What on earth is happening to me? Why am I not more bothered? It makes me think of those surreal moments when standing by the side of the road, waiting to cross. Those moments when you wouldn’t notice until the beat up Holden was already speeding past, deadshits hanging out the window yelling “oi, slut!” at you instead of the usual “oi, faggot!” that was so familiar from my youth.
“Me? Oh my god! Thank you! Yes, I am a MASSIVE slut and it’s wonderful to be recognised and acknowledged in this way. Thank you for seeing me and validating my gender expression. Your sad attempts at abuse via that lens are truly a gift!”
Hang on… when did that change happen? When did I go from being an “oi, faggot!” to an “oi, slut!”? Like most queer folk I’ve grown up with slurs hurled from moving vehicles (and eggs and cans etc). This familiar yet unfamiliar territory that queer folk share with women. I shouldn’t feel good about this.
I should feel terrible.
And I do… but it also feels great? Just like with deadshits hanging out of cars, being shoved and called “lady” as a pejorative felt wonderful?
This is probably what saved that jogger from the surprise of his life when he pushed me out of his way. I imagine that if I wasn’t so delighted by the novelty of being gendered correctly by an obnoxious man in a public space I would have demonstrated how little wilting-wall-flower-like I am. You see, for years I trained in the exquisite brutality of roller-derby. The delicate art of using ones own body as a cudgel to knock a person to the ground.
Not so for most women.
Despite all the misery this body so often brings me I’m lucky to have been the one he decided to knock into to maintain his oh-so-important jog. There may have been a very different outcome had I not been this big-boned, weight-lifting trans woman. Had I possessed the body I wished to have I likely would’ve been knocked to the ground by this man’s carelessness, by his entitlement to occupy any space he desires in any way he desires.
In this rare instance the body I detest is a blessing and I get to make jokes about it all.
So, thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you to the cowards who are only brave enough to yell slurs while they’re traveling away from you doing 60kph. Thank you to the entitled men who choose to keep running after their discourtesy. I am delighted that I’m in your way and your displeasure at my presence nourishes me in a way you cannot fathom.
–S