Gender Story #? There Are So Many

I was at work yesterday and had to go to the bathroom (something Judith Halberstam refers to as the bathroom problem for us ambiguously gendered women). I was in a good mood. A great mood, actually. I was at the sink cleaning up and I heard the door open. During the 2.5 seconds it took for the woman to see me, I went through a thought process.

Should I glance in the mirror to see the confusion on her face that I knew would come? Or should I just see what happens? Try to pick up on her inner dialogue. I decided to look in the mirror to see what would happen. I'm not usually so confident that I will get a reaction.

For some reason, though, I knew something fun would ensue. Just as our eyes met, I looked back down to the sink in order to release her from her hell. She stopped, turned around, and opened the door to leave, at which point I'm assuming she looked at the door. When she realized she was, in fact, in the correct bathroom, she came back in, embarrassed, perhaps. Who cares? Once she was in the stall, a faint smile crossed my lips. I enjoyed this gender encounter.After all, I was in a great mood.  This morning I wasn't in a great mood. I woke up dizzy. Who wakes up dizzy? I opened my eyes, and my head was spinning. I was still prone. I remained in bed for 20 minutes, hoping the sensation would pass. When I finally sat up, my eyes were still tripping. But I got up anyway. Maybe I should eat something. So I ate a piece of coffee cake that this chick in my class gave me yesterday. I got ready to go very slowly. My eyes were no longer bothering me. My head was no longer spinning. But I was tired. I have not gotten more than four and a half hours of sleep for the past five days. Maybe that has something to do with it. Every waking minute I spend thinking about my thesis proposal, my statement of purpose, my papers for the end of the semester, the two essays due in each of the next two weeks, and the GRE, which I have to take on December 13th. Not to mention all the reading I have left for my three classes. I feel as though I shouldn't sleep, because I should be doing something about one of the aforementioned tasks. And yet, I'm pent up. Still. I can't write. Still. I feel that my thoughts are flat and worthless. But I need to sleep. I can't do any of this if I don't sleep. But this isn't what I was planning to go off on. I wasn't in a good mood this morning as a result of my eye-trip. Plus, I was just pissed off. At what, I'm not sure. Well, yes I am. But it doesn't matter to the point of the story I'm about to tell. I got on the train and opened my copy of Nella Larsen's Passing. I don't have to read that for a couple of weeks yet, but I'm writing a paper on it, for my race and gender class, which is going to also be my writing sample for CUNY. So I read a page or two and, as my eyes were tired and I was feeling great, I closed the book and my eyes. A stop or two later, a man and his son got on. Latinos I'd say if I had to tell. Why is this important if I'm so into post-identity? Because it is. The boy sat right next to me even though there was another seat available, which would have left one between us. Our knees were touching. I didn't mind. He was a cutie. Probably about 10 years old. I could probably play basketball with him. At one point, I noticed we were even sitting in the same way: legs spread, hands clasped together in front. Before this, though, I was leaning to my right with my arm up on the not-really-an-arm-rest thingy. My hand was over my eyes and I remained this way for a while. I took my hand away at one point and looked across the aisle to see this kid's dad glaring at me. He was in a full stare. I had not the energy to stare back so I just put my hand back over my eyes. Sucks I freak you out, huh? I caught him looking a couple of times and simply rolled my eyes. I was in a bad mood, remember, so this really got to me. I felt aggressive. But wait, it gets better.  After a while, someone else got on the train. I didn't have my glasses on, but I could tell she was a fella butch. She sat right next to dad. What a morning for him. This chick was short (a definite napoleon complex I could tell), about my skin color, a close fade on the head (Tim Duncan-ish -- why did he sprain his ankle and why in the hell are the Spurs losing??????), and a big ol' lined flannel jacket. It was cool, but I wouldn't wear it. She was probably 40 or so. The roughness of her face gave her age away.  All right. Someone to identify with. Bratheren. Cool, right? Nope. To hide her breasts in her performance, she was leaning over with her elbows resting on her knees. I still had my hand over my face, but decided to remove it. I looked up. She was glaring at me. Bent over, staring straight in my face, glaring at me. As if I had gone into her bedroom and physically removed a woman from her bed, she was glaring at me. No nods. No moment of recognition. Just anger. Homophobia. I was so pissed off. I wondered what it was she was trying to prove. What I really wanted to do was stand up next to her. That would have really pissed her off. But unfortunately, she got one stop before me. After she got off, I noticed the dad motion to his kid to move away from me. All I did was wake up.  My writing class went out tonight. Somehow, out of 15 people, I ended up next to Squeaky. But I didn't talk to him. I pretty much limited my conversation to Anna. She's cool. And I had a good discussion with Suzanne about identity. She told me tonight she wished I hadn't given up on my desire to destroy identity. She was referring to what I said in the thesis meeting. This stuff is always on my mind. And how can it not be when I get glared at on subways by Latinos and butches and everything in between, and when people have to double-check the signs on bathroom doors?  Another random piece of information. Erin and I are hanging out in a week and a half. She's been great by talking to me while I've been in this space. She suggested we spend a day together. So that's what we're going to do. She's doing well in school and otherwise. I'm happy for her. She and Megan are really happy. They're getting an apartment together in May. I don't think that was a secret. Back to me: By Sunday, the essay due next week will be done. By the end of next Friday (which will probably be Saturday morning at 6:30 like last weekend), I will have worked through a good portion of my statement of purpose. By that Sunday evening, I will have the essay due that week finished. I will have a tight thesis proposal ready by the following Wednesday, so I can show it to potential advisors. Also by that Wednesday, I will have topics chosen for my race and gender class as well as my sixties class. No one but me needs to know this but it helps to write it down. I'll only go to sleep tonight (eventually) thinking about it. Oh yeah, I also have to apply to Routledge Press for an internship for next spring, but I'm not sure by when because the Web site isn't working right now. There are other, much more interesting, things going on in my head right now, believe it or not. I'm wondering about one's art. I'm wondering about Plato's myth regarding people finding their other halves. Does that exist? It's the same myth on which Hedwig is based on. I'm wondering what I'm going to talk to Elizabeth about tomorrow. So much is wrong, but I don't have time to think about it. My eyes are straining again. But am I going to sleep? No. I'm going to go write in my journal. The good thing is that I was in a good mood on Monday. A great mood.