What a dreamboat.
Latin@ FTM kinky queer filmmaker & performance artist, Ramses Rodstein
I fucking love this.
I’m not even sure what to say about this. My response to trauma as an adult has been to shake uncontrollably for five minutes, get angry, and then become amused. Literally 10 minutes after this incident I was singing Katy Perry at the top of my lungs.
A man just threatened me with a gun. He did this after I expressed my anger at him when he drove around me at a stop sign. I honked at him and then cut him off on the next road. He drove up beside me, and I flipped him off. When I looked over he was pointing a gun at me. I braked, and he passed me before reversing, which is when I slammed on the gas to drive around him and onto another road. He chased me for about 2 minutes while I tried to dial 911. My hands were shaking so much that it took me three tries.
The 911 operator was rude and completely unhelpful. Finally the guy turned down a side street and I parked. When I asked the operator what I should do she said, “I don’t know. I guess you can wait for the police if you want.” I didn’t. He drove by and I hung up on her and chased him. He got away. I’m glad he did, because that was incredibly foolish of me. I was just so outraged that he was going to get away with threatening people’s lives over traffic issues. I kept thinking, “if he does this over a little rude driving how is he going to treat the next person who stands up to him?” I was so fucking mad that this man, and so many men, think they can take the lives of others or threaten to whenever they feel slighted, and it’s inextricably linked to their need to prove their masculinity.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my motivations for IDing as FTM. It’s mostly about trying to keep myself accountable regarding my male privilege. I cringe every time I’m referred to as male. I fucking hate it, but I don’t feel female. Last night, while watching a trailer for the all poc remake of Steel Magnolias I thought, “I’m proof that being trans isn’t a choice. I was blessed to be born a black woman, but it just wasn’t me.” I am trans, genderqueer, non-binary, but it’s getting to the point that IDing as male is making me feel like ripping my fucking skin off.
I will always receive male privilege as long as people read me as male and I use he/his/him pronouns, but, for now, I’m done trying to make FTM fit me.
I love hearing about folks sordid drag pasts! Tell us moreeeeee
I will. In bullet form:
- I regularly made a shirt out of flash paper and set it on fire during a number, and I only singed my facial hair once. Still, I’d advise against it.
- I got to know some amazing performers who paved the way for queer and trans folk in the south, including my drag mother. Charlie goes by Mr. Charlie Brown because when she began performing in 1970 there was a law in Atlanta that required drag queens to add “Mr.” to their name to ensure that they weren’t trying to trick anyone. She keeps the Mr. so we won’t forget where we came from.
- I won $2,000 in a drag competition called Drag Idol. That amount of money all at once was like winning the fucking lottery.
- I was told by many, including judges in competitions, that I needed to change my way of performing because being feminine is easy for a person with a vagina, which is offensive on so many levels.
- For my last show I did my favorite number, even though I knew it was my least popular. These young ass kids don’t know what the fuck Dr. Frank-N-Furter is:
Oh, sorry broski, I didn’t realize that my behavior was unbecoming of a butterfly.
Listen motherfucker, let me get serious with you for a second. You found and reblogged a picture of a human. That human had badass style, a chiseled face, doughy abs, scars on their chest, deep brown eyes, and a half smile that makes a challenging image(and existence) seem like a walk on the fucking beach it’s that goddamn pretty. You reblogged this picture, and you said, in part,
I deal with so many survivors or current patients that this depresses me … :/ lopping off your body parts is still losing a piece of you.
You pushed down that part of you that is able to actually empathize with people other than you, and you ran your mouth. When called out by someone else, you gritted your teeth and defended yourself and your emptiness, and now, you write to me, even though you now know that you are part of a majority of people who participate and fuel an often violent and deadly hostility toward trans people and trans bodies, you condescend to me once more.
If you can’t get through your day without reblogging pictures of strangers on the internet so you can tell everyone what you think about their bodies, that’s on you.
But darling, this gurl’s got shit to do.
It’s time for you to go.
modeling the outfit I curated for conference cruising
featuring lace-top shirt (thrifted men’s shirt w/ top front + back replaced by black lace), disco day shorts, and sock garters I made, plus a thrifted bolo tie & pair of shoes
This image is only to be viewed with Beyonce’s If I Were a Boy playing in the background.