LGBTQ

Pomp and Circumstances

/ Christina Holzhauser / Leave a comment

In 1997, I was unabashedly enjoying the resurgence of swing music, dealing with the nuclear family fall-out of being gay, and trying to apply to college. 

My parents stopped at a high school education, and we were all at sea about how to apply, what forms to fill out for scholarships, and all that horrible stuff. We also weren’t getting along…because I’d come out. Not “getting along” is a very nice way of saying that they threatened to kick me out, told me I was going to hell, sent me to a therapist to fix me, so we barely spoke and when we did it was shouting. I cried every day. I stayed in my room and tried to work a shift at the video store whenever I wasn’t doing some school activity. Before my gayness reared its head, I was hoping for softball scholarships. (Yes, I see the humor now).  I remember several Missouri colleges calling me with offers, but those phone calls lasted less than a minute. I’d say I’d already made up my mind on going to Houston and I’d hang up that rotary phone before they finished their pitch (pun intended). I knew I had to leave Missouri. I had to get to a big city. I had to be with my girlfriend. And all of the other people like us, or at least the people who didn’t care. 

My parents were prepared to pay if I went somewhere in Missouri, somewhere close to them, but I ordered an application from the University of Houston and had it sent to my friend’s address. I filled it out secretly at school and secretly mailed it back. When my acceptance letter came, that started another huge fight, but I was 18 and I could do whatever I damn well pleased, I told them. 

After a lot of screaming, they agreed to pay for my education despite their disdain for me. U of H was very affordable, comparatively, so that helped my argument. 

But, because I lived off campus and did not want to rely on my parents for anything more than tuition, I had a full time job. I worked 32-40 hours every week, alternating long days at school with long days selling hiking boots. I went to some of my classes most of the time. I never missed a class in anthropology or anything pertaining to literature, since I actually cared about those things. I was a terrible student, really. I barely passed a stats course and had to hire a tutor for logic. I made it out with a D and was so proud that I had proven I knew more than half of what was taught. Like most students, I stayed up all night pounding out some poorly formatted papers about literature, history, and even science. I did this on a diet of angel hair pasta, butter, and garlic powder and while living in apartments infested with mold, flying Texan roaches, and gaps so large between the window and frame that I’d stuffed them with rugby socks. 

College was a great mystery to me, like it is to most first generation college students. What I knew about it came from movies and my girlfriend–who had just started a graduate program. (I had never heard the term before).  No one forced me or expected me to go. I wouldn’t be letting anyone down if I didn’t.  It was a strange and foreign idea in a far off land. And, as one who’d always wanted to see the world, I knew I had to find my way there. 

I had an advisor as an undergrad, but he was more interested in talking about gay things with me. I know it might seem strange to younger people, but there weren’t that many out queers around unless you were in a gay bar. I managed to figure out which classes I had to take, how to register, how to pass, how to find my way across the city, across the campus, how to use the computer lab and the library and how to refill my printing card. I had to figure out how to sleep at night with sirens and music vibrating my bedroom windows and where to go if I didn’t want to see any other humans.  

One of the toughest parts was figuring out who I was when no one knew me as that Holzhauser who played sports. And no one cared. 

I managed it all, somehow. And I managed to graduate in three years. 

My college graduation was May 13, 2001. I remember because I didn’t go. And my parents were pissed because they wanted to see me walk across that stage. I had to work that day. I mean, of course they would’ve let me off, but I didn’t ask. I was trying out this new idea my very smart girlfriend had told me about a college degree really not mattering. She said, you know, when you get your masters, then you should walk. 

Honestly, I don’t remember if that’s what she said. Or if that’s just what it felt like. Or if, after learning about the possibility of next steps, I’d come to that idea all by myself. 

I told my parents I’d walk for my masters. And I did in 2007 when I got an MFA in Fairbanks, and they came to Alaska, but, for some reason, that’s not what this is about. 

—-

It was the year of our Lord 2020, when we bought a house, I had breast cancer, the pandemic hit, and I was also accepted into a PhD program. I was 40 years old. 

For the first year and half (or maybe two) I worked full time, at home, with a teenager and a 10 year old, trying to persuade them to “go to school” on their computers and iPads. There were times we were all in the same room doing school work or attending classes or I was working my actual job. Those were very long days followed by even more time together since we were under lockdown. It felt endless and I wondered if anyone could survive it. We did, though. 

Last year after the pandemic died down and the vaccines were everywhere, I yearned for more time outside, to myself, for myself. The only reason I was able to go to grad school this time was because my job paid for 75% of my tuition, which means I had to keep working, of course. To get the Ph.D., which I’ve wanted to do since I’d first heard the letters, would’ve taken me many, many more years. So, I decided to stop, to spend time with myself and my family. To not spend so much time in my head, wondering what I was going to do with that Ph.D or what I was even going to research and write about for the next three years. 

After deciding to stop at my masters, I was haunted by dreams of being a failure. And a quitter. And a lot of sports metaphors you can come up with on your own. I wanted to be called Dr. Holzhauser. I wanted to be the first Portland kid to do something like that. I wanted to be known for something other than my last name or my queerness. I wanted to prove myself. To whom, I never quite understood.

Despite not making it to a Ph.D., a few weeks ago, I put on my old square hat and wizard robe and walked across the stage to hear my name in a microphone and for people to clap at me. It’s not what I was hoping for when I started this journey three years ago, or even when I started college. I wanted the roundish hat and velvet striped sleeves and for someone to say, “Please recognize Dr. Holzhauser.” But I walked anyway.  I did it so our kids could see that learning isn’t just something we do in our youth. I did it for my parents who are so very proud of me.  

I also walked for myself. Not necessarily for me, right now. Not for 43 year old Christina with a loving partner and family, stable job and support system, but for 18 year old Christina. The one with the shaved head and baggy pants. The one who grew up eating squirrels. For the one who felt out of place in the country and the city at the same time. For the one who had to navigate it all alone. You figured it out. You kept learning, despite and because of it all. 

You did it. 

I did it. 

I don’t want to pay for the actual picture, so here’s one of me, there in the white hood.

Here’s a pic my mom took at my defense.

At the Very Least

/ Christina Holzhauser / 2 Comments

There is a yearning I have as a queer person to be seen. Not noticed or ogled or stared at the way a person does when my androgyny makes them uncomfortable. Really seen–in the way that you see other people, acknowledge their humanity, and then go about your day. I want to be ignored like the rest of you.

A few months ago, I watched the show “Heartstopper” on Netflix. It’s about two high school boys (who play rugby!) entering into a romantic relationship. When I finished all of the episodes, I was a heap of shivering tears and snot. It wasn’t necessarily because I was happy for them. I mean, yeah, of course I was. It took me some distance and kleenex before I realized that through the entire show, I was just on edge waiting for The Bad Thing to happen. I mean, they get bullied, but they (and others) stand up for them and are ultimately okay. Eventually, they’re both out to everyone in their high school. The last episode, one of the boys came out to his mom. I started crying when he tried to start the conversation. I knew what was going to happen: yelling, tears, accusations, being told he couldn’t live there anymore. But. The mom was totally fine with it. She even told him she loved him and asked questions about the other boy. The Bad Thing never happened, but every time I recognized a possible situation for The Bad Thing, my body reacted to the perceived threat.

That’s when I really fucking lost it.

In my 25 years of being out, I’ve seen movies and shows which portray caricatures, stereotypes, and ultimately, queer people through a heteronormative lens. Ask any gay and they’ll tell you if you’re watching a show with a lesbian she will die at the end, and if she’s dating a bi girl, the girl will leave her for a cis man. There are websites which discuss the trope of “burying your gays” in film and television. When I was first out, I had to search hard to find movies with queer characters. When I did find myself in those films what I saw was me being raped, killed, ostracized, ignored, mocked, and maybe worst of all, utterly unhappy at the end (if I didn’t die in the second act). Queers generally aren’t allowed a happy ending. And our stories are fraught with trauma: getting kicked out of the house, verbal abuse, physical abuse, sexual abuse. Secrets. Lies. Closets.

This entire series of this show I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for The Bad Thing I’ve grown accustomed to seeing happen to queer people in television happen to these poor, cute little rugby boys. There is a time in the show when their relationship is secret, and the out kid has to be okay with seeing the other closeted kid. I was triggered. Not in the way that assholes use the word, but actually.

To me, being the one who is “out” in the relationship or situationship or whatever, means pain. When I was 21 my girlfriend wasn’t out to her friends. On her birthday, I brought her flowers, and we planned on spending the evening together-painting, watching The Big Lebowski, and drinking Red Stripe. But. Her friends called to tell her they were coming over. She told me I had to leave. At the time I had a shaved head and was wearing men’s tank tops and raggedy, long denim shorts I bought from Value Village. I mean, there was no way I was passing for straight. I should also mention the year was 2000. I pleaded with her to let me stay and just pretend to be her friend. She looked me up and down and said, “they’d know.” I said, “they’ll know about me, but they don’t have to know about you.”

“They’ll know,” she said.

So, she handed me the bouquet of flowers, and I sneaked out the back fire escape from her third floor apartment while they came in through the front.

I’m not lying to you.

In-between my marriage to the Awful One and my other very serious partnership, there was someone. You didn’t know. You couldn’t know. She came from money. And status. And a Baptist family. She went to the best schools. She’d never dated a girl before, but she’d always known, the way all of us know. I promised myself when I was younger that I’d never be with anyone again who wasn’t out. The best laid plans… And. Well. I loved her. And she loved me. But it was all in secret.

One day she flew back from visiting a friend and told me it was over (this was the final time; she’d tried to break it off at least 7 times before that). Because, you know, she just couldn’t anymore. She told me she’d never tell her parents because it would hurt them too much. She’d never tell her friends because it was hard. I was devastated. I mean, utterly gone. I had panic attacks. I became depressed. There was no one to talk to because no one really knew, except the one friend who did know and told me to get a therapist. What still haunts me about that woman is I was merely a ghost passing through her life, and I remain a character who lingers unnamed in her poetry.

This show, though, is utterly joyful. And when I found myself a confused mess at the end, I realized all the trauma that still exists for me. I realized at every turn I expected the worst for these kids because I’d experienced some of it, had heard most of it from friends I’ve met along the way, and I’ve seen the rest reflected back to me on the big screen.

That’s what you’ve seen, too, right? How many happy queer characters exist? How many queer characters do you know where their queerness ISN’T EVEN DISCUSSED because it’s normal and no one cares? When I see something like that, my brain misfires. How many queer characters do you know who do more than just act gay in the show?

As queer people, we have learned to hide. Some of us can shape-shift in circumstances which require it. Some of us don’t have that luxury. Even as someone who has been out for so long, I still find times when I try to make myself smaller to make others more comfortable. I’m still morphing into the person I am–each day moving farther away from who I was told I was, or who I pretended to be. I quit wearing dresses over a decade ago, but finally quit wearing women’s dress shirts when I lost my boobs. Those shirts, and some of the accompanying lady dress pants were a costume I put on so people wouldn’t automatically assume I was “the man.” By becoming who I am, I’m just getting sexier all the time. A lot of queer people in your life are wearing costumes. They are hiding behind clothes, hair, maybe some personality traits that aren’t fully theirs.

As queer people we are raised hearing things like: Don’t be proud of your gayness because it’s embarrassing. Don’t make people uncomfortable by saying it. When someone calls your wife or partner your “friend,” don’t you dare correct them because at least they’re not yelling homophobic slurs at you. At least you’re being tolerated. At least your grandpa isn’t alive to see this.

We are out here, being the least for you. The least likely to say how we’re feeling. The least likely to dress how we want. The least likely to show up to a family dinner because of the looks we get.

The least likely to survive our childhood.

We are the least. Yet, we are told we’re still asking for too much.

Untitled (is literally the title)

/ Christina Holzhauser / 2 Comments

I started watching Seinfeld recently. It debuted when I was only nine, so I just caught a few episodes here and there. Plus, I think we only had one channel at the time and whatever channel it was on, was not the one. The thing is: this show is so dated. The jokes are mostly sexist or related to men and women and all those old tropes. The jokes are also racist. The jokes are also homophobic. I keep watching because I like pop culture. I mean, I want to know the inside jokes of my generation. I want to get it. But. This show is not nostalgic for me. It just plays like an old show.

______________________________________________________

On Saturday, I went to the only official gay bar in town. I haven’t done that in many, many years. I arrived too early because I’m not good at going out. And I like to go to sleep at nine. So, it was 8:30, and I was there with 6 queer dudes and a lady bartender. It wasn’t terrible. People started showing up for karaoke, which started at 9:00.

I saw an old student of mine. Somehow in the conversation we discussed musicals and theatre and musical theatre. You see, when I taught him, I was teaching “Introduction to Theatre.” As we were talking about music and things, he said, “You introduced me to Hedwig. It changed me. And, I introduced so many others to it.” Since I was so moved and unable to express my emotions, I just said, “OMG shut up.” He went on to say that because of me, so many queers were exposed to something they otherwise might not have known.

When that movie came out, I was 21. It blew my mind. Except for Rocky Horror and the trans women I saw at the gay bar in Houston (though we did not say trans and we did not openly discuss women like this), this was one of my first exposures to, well, differently gendered people. The musical made a huge impact on me.

Of course, 20 years later, I can see how it can be problematic. Is Hedwig a trans woman or a gay man who gave up “a piece of oneself” in order to escape East Berlin?

_______________________________

The episode of Seinfeld I’m watching right now is called, “The Subway.” One of the sub stories is that Elaine is going to a “lesbian wedding.” Costanza asks at the diner, “so who is the groom or the bride? Do they just flip a coin?” Elaine responds sarcastically, but there is no more dialogue about it. At the moment I started writing this, she was on the subway getting into a conversation with and older woman. Elaine says the present she’s holding is for a wedding. The older woman asks too many questions and Elaine finally says, “there is no man. It’s a lesbian wedding and I’m the best man.” The older woman scoffs and then moves away from Elaine. Elaine calls after her, “Wait! I’m not a lesbian! I hate men, but I’m not a lesbian!”

_______________________________

So, while I’m at the bar talking to my student I ask him if he likes boys. He says he does, but he also likes girls. I say, you know, it just doesn’t matter these days and that’s awesome. I’m positive that me asking this personal question made him feel comfortable to ask me, “are you going by different pronouns now?” I laughed and said no. And pointed to my chest. I had cancer, I tell him, so, I don’t have those anymore. He says I look great. He says I look younger than when I taught him. That was about eight years ago, I figure. I weighed maybe 15 pounds more. I was sadder then, too. I tell him I’m a girl, but that I don’t really care anymore. My gender is not important. I’ve been saying that a lot recently. I had a conversation with a friend the other day about this. He is a boy. I am maybe a girl. We dress the same. We walk and talk the same. I tell him, you know, I don’t know if I’m a girl, but I do know that I’m not a boy. He says the same for him. He doesn’t know, but he knows he’s not a girl.

It doesn’t matter. I mean, it doesn’t matter to people who belong in your life. It does matter to those other people, though. You know who I’m talking about.

_______________________________

I’ve been gender bending for a long time whether I meant to or not. I’ve been kicked out of and stared at long and hard in bathrooms. I had a shaved head 25 pounds ago and wore baggy pants. Now I have short hair, wear “boy” clothes, and don’t have boobs. In fact, the other day, an older man opened the door for me and while I was saying thank you, I saw his eyes move up and down my body. I could see that he was questioning his decision about if he should’ve opened the door or not. I laughed behind my pandemic mask. On another occasion recently, I felt someone coming up behind me. I hear, “excuse me……..” I knew the long pause was meant for my gender. He couldn’t decide on sir or ma’am. It didn’t bother him, though. You can just tell these things. I helped him find his way across campus.

______________________________

Toward the end of my night out, as a friend and I were heading home, some queer man stopped me to ask my name. I told him, “Christina.” He said he hadn’t seen me there before. I said I don’t really go out much these days. And then I said, “Well, I’m an old Soco gal. I went there a lot around 2002.” He looked at me, paused, and said, “Gal…so you’re not a gal now?” I laughed, “I’m still a gal.” But then this guy looks blatantly at my chest and says, “Sorry. It’s just that you don’t have any boobs.”

When anyone says the word “boob” to me or I say the word in reference to the parts of my body that were, I always sort of swipe my hand into the void of where they were. I said, “I had cancer.” He tripped over some words or some syllables and I saw his friend behind him and the embarrassment on his face that he felt for his friend’s mistake. The behind friend said, “congratulations on your survival” or something equally as awkward. I said goodnight.

And I thought about that interaction on the way home.

____________________________________

Remember my friend who dresses like me? The one who’s anything but a girl? There have been several occasions when he and I are hanging out and servers at restaurants assume we’re together. I mean, really together. I’ve noticed, though, these servers are, like, 21 at the most. I’ve never been so happy to be mistakenly someone’s love interest. Here we are, two very queer looking people. And these young servers aren’t assuming I’m a big ‘ole dyke. Because, you know why? They really don’t care. They have seen all sorts of people with all other sorts of people.

I think back to my 21 year old self. Christina at that age wanted to be seen as a lesbian. She wanted people to recognize she was a woman who was romantically and sexually interested in other women. It felt good. I felt like I was doing my part to be seen and have others be seen.

Christina at 41 is much different. I don’t care if you can’t figure out my gender. Hell, half the time I can’t either. I don’t care if you think I’m sleeping with my much younger dude-ish friend.

I’ve said a few times recently that if I would’ve “known” about non binary people when I was a kid, I probably would identify that way. Or genderqueer. Or anything other than woman that isn’t “man.”

Isn’t it ridiculous to believe there are only men and women and they can only have sex with each other and only one person until they die? It’s utter insanity.

I mean, I’ve asked this before, and no one has really answered, but, what does it mean to be a woman? What does it mean to be a man? I honestly can’t tell you. I just know that I’m probably neither.

_______________________________

I call myself queer now because it’s a reclaimed word and it encompasses everything about me: my sexuality, my gender identity, my androgynous appearance. I am queer just means, I’m not about that 2 gender 1 sexuality type thing that this society seems to be so fond of.

I know I’ve said it a million times, but I wish we didn’t have to talk about this. I wish people could just say their pronouns, people would say, “nice to meet you,” and we’d all just fucking move on with our lives. But. We can’t.

It’s still important that queer people speak up and that we are seen and that we have allies who help us when we’re too tired to do all of this work.

But saying, “I don’t care who you sleep with, as long as you don’t flaunt it” is sort of like saying, “I don’t see color.” It’s important to see and acknowledge black people and their experiences. And on this, Indigenous People’s day, it’s important to see and acknowledge the indigenous people whose ancestors lived here long before most of us. I want to be clear that I’m not equating being queer with being a racial minority; I want only to say that we must still, because of our past, acknowledge the struggles that others endure.

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If you’re wondering about the Seinfeld episode, well, Elaine gets stuck on the subway and misses the wedding. She has to, I guess, since the whole episode is about the four friends and their separate, but comical misadventures on the subway. But, the three male characters have fuller story lines in this episode. And it was 1991. I was 11. That’s how old Cyrus is now. I probably didn’t know the word “lesbian.” I would’ve gathered, however, that lesbians are different and bad and something to laugh about. I mean, I learned that eventually. Somehow, though no one ever said it directly to me, I knew. The same way you learned. That we’ve all been taught. Somehow.

___________________________

Here ends this year’s “coming out” post. Maybe you’re wondering, did Christina come out as non-binary?” What is she saying? Is it still she? What do I call her? I mean they!??

Let me make your anxiety even worse: I don’t know. I don’t care. Who fucking knows. It doesn’t matter. Probably still she.

And, call me whatever you want, just don’t call me late for dinner.

ba-dum ching

Just look how comfortable I was in this dress when I was 15 and Jesus looking over my shoulder.

Venmo: @molepoet

Photo Bomb

/ Christina Holzhauser / Leave a comment

There’s something that’s been on my mind since it happened to me on Saturday:

I was at my hometown bar when someone I know but don’t really know started telling me about her cousin ( a girl) and her girlfriend. I didn’t ask, by the way, but I sat and listened as she shouted over the music that they live in another state and the girlfriend is a real bitch and do I want to see a picture of her cousin? I don’t care, so I say, “uhhh.” But, it’s too late. She’s scrolled to a picture of this girl. She awaits my response. So, I say, “okay.”

Maybe thirty minutes later I’m dancing with Cyrus and I see my mom trying to take a picture. I can see that it’s not her phone, but I don’t think a lot about it. Of course, I just flip her off because I am me.

Not too long after, I’m talking with my aunt, and I turn to say something to Cyrus. I see this massive phone right in my face, held by the person I know but don’t know. I say, “what the fuck are you doing?” She says, “I’m taking your picture.” Rudely, I ask, “why!?” And she says, “Don’t be hateful. I just want a picture of you.” Again I ask why. This time, she instructs me to stand up, smile, and she takes a selfie.

Queer people: You KNOW what this was about and why it bothers me.

NOT queer people: You can sit with this one and think on it until you find the answer.

Just a few weeks ago, I had to explain to someone I’ve known for many years what a micro-aggression is after this person revealed that they aren’t really an ally and can’t decide if they want to be. No. I didn’t have to explain. I chose to. I chose, once again in my fucking life, to educate someone.

I have been an out queer now for 24 years. The first year, I was out in Callaway County, Missouri. I think (correct me if I’m wrong) I was the first queer person to come out in my high school. You’ve all read or heard about that year by now, so I won’t repeat it. It was bad.

But, at the time, I had a very special thing going for me: Youth. I was excited to discover gayness and learn all the terms and wear rainbows and pink triangles. I was happy to have found that I wasn’t alone. I had the time to explain to you that, no, no one is “the man” in the relationship. I was so hopeful, friends, that because I was so blessed to be from such a small community, everyone would realize I was still just the same person they loved previously. That wasn’t the case.

It’s still not the case.

After 24 years of explaining to you and you and you that I am just a human person like everyone else, I am exhausted. I can no longer expend this energy to help you understand. It’s not really my job in the first place.

This photo incident got me really worked up. The thing is, I’ve been me for so long, I no longer think about how I look or how others look at me. I have short hair, I don’t wear dresses, and now I don’t have any boobs. I’m androgynous as fuck. And I look good. And I forget that people out there might be somehow upset or excited by this….this non-gendered expression. Some people, with large phones, might even see me as a spectacle…one they can just secretly photograph.

As I’ve been relaying this Photo Incident story to friends, one queer friend asked, “are there really people out there who’ve never considered their gender and sexuality?” And, I bet some of you reading this haven’t. You haven’t needed to in order to justify your own existence. You’ve never had to convince people that your relationship is just as valid as theirs. That your intimate relationships are not their business just like theirs aren’t yours. What a privilege to never have anyone ask you intrusive questions about your sex life, to assume things about how you feel toward your partners, and for someone to feel totally comfortable asking you about what parts you do and do not have.

There are an infinite number of genders and sexualities and ways to have intimate relationships with other age-appropriate human beings.

I once posted a meme that said, “to choose to be visually queer is to choose your happiness over your safety.”

Today I said to two “straight passing” queer friends, “my androgyny is a burden on me.” People see me and make a lot of assumptions about who I am. And they base their interactions on those assumptions. If I wanted to, I could grow my hair, swish my hips, and learn to contour my make-up. Boom. I’m not queer-looking. And maybe people would treat me differently.

-Of course, when I write about these things, I’m never just talking about the LGBTQIA+ community, I’m talking about other minorities, too. Those who face different prejudices and have been forced to educate others since the day they were born.-

I come out to someone, somehow, every single day of my life. I live in a world built for cisgender straight people for cisgender straight people, which means I’m bombarded by micro-aggressions every single day. Sometimes, a Jeep full of frat boys call me a fag as they speed by me. Sometimes, people refer to my very serious partner of many, many years as my “friend.”

And sometimes, well, they just want me to shut-up and hold still so they can take my picture.

Venmo: @molepoet

You Can Never Go Home Again: Part II

/ Christina Holzhauser / 2 Comments

This whole story isn’t really about being queer. My life isn’t supposed to be about being queer the same way yours isn’t meant to be about your romantic and sexual relationships. That’s not who you are in your core. You don’t “identify” as straight. You don’t describe yourself that way. I don’t want to describe myself by my relationships, either. But I have to. Time and again. Why? Because it matters to cis-gender straight people for some strange reason.

I moved to Houston sometime in late summer of 1998 after I graduated high school. Why Houston? Because my girlfriend, an educated, polite, and successful Texan happened to be from there. (The story of how we met is detailed in the coming out anthology if you want to read it some time. It’s romantic as hell and even includes writing letters and making mixtapes featuring The Cure, Depeche Mode, and George Strait.) I had plans of softball scholarships and Mizzou, but I secretly applied to the University of Houston and made my escape.

The shock of going from a quiet town along a river to a huge, stinky city near the gulf was immense. I could read a map, but I’d never driven anywhere larger than Columbia. I didn’t really know how to cook or wash my clothes. I didn’t know what raves were. Until I did. I hated cilantro and avocado and I’d never had Indian food. I went to class and came home to the house we shared with my girlfriend’s best friend. I was a terrible roommate. I don’t think I cleaned once. I’m sorry to both of you. After a few months I felt myself slip away; I realized I’d never been where no one knew me. Around my part of the world it was always, “Aren’t you that Holzhauser girl?” The anonymity of the city helped teach me I wasn’t as special as my parents had led me to believe. It was a tough lesson to learn, but it was also a huge relief. I had to remind myself constantly that was a big reason I had to leave.

Being queer isn’t a lifestyle. It’s not like subsistence fishing. It’s not deciding to live in a van and travel the U.S. like Steinbeck. I did a lot of queer things in Houston, though. I had a friend who sneaked me into “the gay bar.” (It was called “Chances” or “The Barn”) There were plenty of gay bars, but only one I ever really went to. It was divided into three areas: The front was a classic American diner where the trans ladies and drag queens hung out. The middle was what we called, “prom.” That was the area for dancing to Madonna or whatever was new. Then, in the back, that was where you could two-step. I went other places, too. Rich’s was a men’s bar that looked like something from all of those films I watched about cities. There were almost-naked men everywhere. Some wore make-up. Some wore mesh shirts. Some danced in cages. All of them smiled at me in a way that told me I could belong and not belong at the same time.

No one tells you how uncomfortable it is to watch so many same sex couples and other queers dance and kiss like straight people. When you’ve never seen it, even if you’re one of them, it’s disorienting. And I’m not talking about gross stuff. I’m just talking about people acting like people do when they’re out on a Saturday. I was embarrassed that I had to get used to it. In my world, there were no queer people in movies or in tv shows. I wasn’t used to seeing myself anywhere other than my own mirror.

I was taken to a pride parade without understanding the concept. I mean, when you’re queer, no one teaches you history or anything, they just expect you to know or figure it out. So, there I was, walking down the sidewalk taking in the parade, when some dudes are walking backwards, holding signs and chanting, “God hates fags!” They accidentally bump into me. One dude turns around, you know, instinctively, and apologizes sincerely. I look at him for a moment as he looks at me in a white tank top, baggy men’s jeans, and Birkenstocks, my chain wallet glistening in the sunlight. I say nothing as I wait for him to see the irony of what’s just transpired.

I shaved my head and dressed more masculine. Then, I grew out my hair and tried out leather pants and no bra. I learned to drink Shiner Bock and Lonestar while I danced with older women who’d bought them for me. I learned to play rugby, what an arthouse theatre was, where to go around the city, how to drive anywhere, how to shut up with my former judgmental shit and learn about new people. I learned how to live in a city. I got so good that no one who met me would guess where I came from. By looking at me, you’d think I was some sort of rave kid or alternative street kid.

I lived in the queer part of town. Westheimer. People were very weird there, so I was nothing. I didn’t stick out. No one gave me the looks. I blended in and found my people at the job I worked which was an outdoor/camping supply store in the area. This is where I unlearned all of the prejudices I’d amassed growing up and where I became cultured. I was schooled in music: Tito Puente, Bob Marley, and Shakira. I learned what vegans and vegetarians were. Oh, the food I learned and learned to eat! I learned that abortion isn’t the murdering of babies. That not all brown people are from Mexico. That not everyone grows up eating squirrel. And, I was shocked to find out that not everyone was Christian. I learned that people can be bad. That people can be very, very wonderful and accepting. I learned there that I was not alone. That we are all different and the same. I grew and grew into myself.

More and more frequently I found myself in spaces where my whiteness was the minority, and sometimes unwelcome. Some huge and very bright light bulbs started flashing above my head.

In that growth and that swarming mass of beautiful and strange people, I started to see my hometown as an awful, backward place. Only white Christians lived there. Only straight people lived there. I had to consider all of the racist shit I’d heard growing up. Did I remember correctly that my relatives said these things? There was a whirlpool of bigotry that my younger self felt but couldn’t name. Most people there had never really left. Had they tried to? Were they stuck there? I felt like I was the only one who knew I had the choice to leave.

Not many people from my family reached out to me the four years I lived in Houston. I mean, of course my parents did, and I even made trips home for holiday gatherings. At the time, my relationship with my parents was still very strained, but they were getting better. The distance helped, of course. Only one aunt sent me a letter. I can’t remember what it said, exactly, but it was something along the lines of “I don’t understand your lifestyle, but I still love you.” As a 19 year old, it pissed me off. Now I see it was an attempt at reaching out, maybe apologizing. I still carry the guilt of not responding to that letter.

At that time, I was ashamed of where I’d grown up. I was embarrassed to be so ignorant. I felt deprived of a life I could’ve had if only I’d been raised in an urban place.

The first panic attack I ever had was at an Indian restaurant after I bit into a samosa. The flavor was too much, too unfamiliar. There were so many people in the restaurant and so many cars whizzing by. And my new girlfriend who couldn’t figure out why I’d freak out over such a delicious place to eat. I had to leave. I wanted to be by myself. But in a city that large, it was impossible. I tried to think of a place to go. I pictured parks with trees-full of people. Museums-full of people. There was no where. So, I sat and cried in my basement efficiency apartment.

Each night when I tried to sleep, with all of the sirens blaring, and cars with their vibrating trunks and Tejano music, the occasional screams, the upstairs neighbors stomping about, I put a pillow over my head and tried to think of home. I just needed one night of peace, of an open window and cool breeze. Of frogs and cicadas. Just one day in the woods alone to quiet my thoughts.

My only options for an existence seemed to be to stay in the city that was wonderfully ambivalent toward me but was constantly noisy and busy, or go home to the peace of my river where people stared through me and talked about me behind my back. Back to the country where people had opinions about groups of people they’d never even met. Back to a place that no one could seem to leave.

Portland, my hometown, was suffocating though I could get lost in the woods. Houston taught me how to feel alone without ever letting me be alone.

I was 22 when I felt like I knew too much and not enough. I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere.

For the first time in my life, I felt like an orphan.

Age 21. Somewhere in Texas Hill Country.

Venmo: @molepoet

You Can Never Go Home Again: Part I

/ Christina Holzhauser / Leave a comment

When I came out at the age of 17, I knew my family would never look at me the same again. From the beginning, I was called pretty and beautiful. My mom kept my hair very, very long, and it was given a lot of attention and praise. I was enrolled in kid beauty pageants and put into dance classes. I was made to wear sun dresses and Easter dresses and I had those damn lace collared socks. I hated all of it. Well, I didn’t mind the tap and gymnastics portions of dance class. I knew then, when I was 5, that I was different from the people around me. Most of those feelings I dismissed because I was adopted. I figured, you know, adopted kids just feel a little out of place no matter how much their family loves them.

There were times when I wondered if I was supposed to be a boy. There were times when I wished I could be. There were times I cried about all of those feelings in that tiny overhang of bluff by the river. Of course, this was in the ’80s. In my part of the world, there was no such thing as gay people. And there was definitely no such thing as trans people, or any alternative gender. In case you’re getting excited about my own gender reveal, calm down. I’m not saying anything, really. I’m a girl. Probably. I guess. I just don’t care. I am just me. But more than enough people have called me sir. Or stared me down in a bathroom. Or looked at me with that look you’ve never known unless you’re gender-bending in some way.

Anyway, you know that coming out in Callaway County was hard. I don’t want to sound tough about it anymore; it was traumatizing. Someone keyed “dyke” into my gym locker. I told some teachers, but guess what, nothing happened. There were rumors that I was kissing random people at the softball field. There were people who straight-up told me that their parents wouldn’t let them hang out with me anymore. That I was going to hell.

When I went to basketball camp, only one person would be my roommate. She endured some teasing and a lot of questions from the others wondering how she could possibly be comfortable sleeping in the same room with me.

My basketball coach was so rude to me the first few days of practice, I quit. The previous year, I was MVP and won Best Female Athlete. When I handed him my uniform, all he said was, “okay.” Yes, you know him. And yes, you know his wife was also my fifth grade teacher and is currently a MO state senator. And yes, when my ex-wife was pregnant and I introduced her, she literally looked past us and said nothing.

My parents sent me to therapy. Not to help me in the sense we might think about it now, but to help me get back to being straight.

I saw someone in a gas station a few years after I graduated and he was like, “heyyyyy, how are you?” In that kind of voice that says something was really wrong with me. I asked, “what do you mean?” He said, “You know, all of that stuff you went through in high school?” I said, “you mean coming out?” And he was like, “no, all the drugs and stuff?” I was like, what the fuck are you even talking about? I was a total narc in high school. I hated drugs. I hated alcohol. I judged anyone who used them. I went to two parties; at one, I had three sips of Boone’s Farm and drove my friend home. I felt guilty about that for years. Maybe you’re wondering about the other party? My friend got high and drunk and started puking. Luckily, she came with someone else, so I wasn’t responsible for her. But there was so much hetero making out, I had to leave. I arrived sober and left even more sober. Anyway, I yelled at that guy in gas station, “I’m just fucking gay!” and left.

And then there was the sexual harassment, luckily all verbal, interspersed with lewd sexual questions and suggestions. There were threats of corrective rape.

So, being 17 and gay in a tiny ass, rural, southern town in 1997 wasn’t just hard; it was hardening.

Those obvious abuses were awful and plentiful. The worst things, though, were the looks and the utter silence. This came from the principal, who scowled at me any time I walked by. This came from most of the teachers and students. Most importantly, it came from my family.

That was surprising and the most damaging. I was doted on since I was little and even up until the point I was outted. I was the smart, pretty athlete they were all so proud of. Then suddenly, I was no longer beautiful; I was a wretched disgusting creature unworthy of words. No one really spoke to me. About anything. When they did, they didn’t meet my eyes. I had hoped that my family’s love for me would help them understand that gay people are just people. I believed that if they really knew a gay person, they’d learn that it wasn’t sinful or bad or whatever they thought. At the time, I wanted them to ask questions because I had the strength to teach them. There were no allies to do the emotional lifting for me. I was ready. But. It was just a year of silence. And those looks. How does one describe them to someone who has lived such a life as not to experience them?

Well, it is the face of someone right before they vomit. It is pale and disoriented. It is the face of someone seeing a mugshot of a pedophile on the news- that sick sonuvabitch. It is the face of someone as they draw up their nose at the first hint of skunk. It is the face of someone who has been betrayed.

It is the face of your parents and cousins and aunts and uncles. It is one of those dreams when you realize you’ve gone somewhere naked.

Yes, that’s it. You’re naked. But you can never wake up.

I was out just a few months when this was taken. Yes. It’s my senior picture.

Venmo: @molepoet

17.

/ Christina Holzhauser / Leave a comment

I’m obsessed with a Sharon Van Etten song: Seventeen . You see, I’m not really sure if she’s writing it for a younger person, or her younger self. For me, it’s for my younger self. “I used to be free. I used to be seventeen…”I used to be seventeen. Now you’re just like me.”

You really have to listen to it. There’s a melancholic repetition of notes that never really resolves. It makes the song feel, I dunno, epic. Or just too sad. Or too correct.

I’m nearly feeling like myself again, after the surgery. I’m back to my household chores: laundry and vacuuming.

I’m becoming more comfortable in my body. I’ve been feeling really good about myself.

And then I took a shower tonight.

I still have steri-strips on my sutures. Or my suture areas. It’s not over yet, you know. I still don’t have range of motion in my shoulders. I still have some kinda gross scabs where my drains were. Fuck. It was only a week and a half ago that I lost my breasts.

I just happened to be listening to this song before I got in the shower. I was singing it to myself while looking down at my scars. I kept thinking, you know, seventeen year old Christina realized she was gay. She came out. And it was fucking hard. Of the most traumatic things to ever happen to me, it still ranks among the top 3. For years, it was the worst thing I ever experienced. And I kept thinking, you know, if I could talk to my 17 year old self, what would I say? I would say: It gets better… as far as the sexuality stuff goes. But. It also gets worse. You’ll have a tiny baby. You’ll finally get boobs when you’re 27 (after eating and drinking too much in Alaska) and then lose them when you’re 40.

As if 40 isn’t a hard age, anyway. I’m literally half way through my life. If I’m lucky. If I would’ve never met my biological mother, I would’ve never known to go to the doctor to get the ole’ boobies checked out. Being me, I would’ve never gone until something felt really wrong. And then, who knows. But I can’t really think like that because, here I am, in this reality.

***

I’m still in pain, but I pretend I’m not. My chest aches constantly. I mean, it’s not a sharp pain, just a constant, dull ache.  There is a lump of skin that now exists in my armpits where it didn’t before. My arms rub against it on both sides. I can’t feel half of my right armpit because a nerve was cut. I can’t really feel most of my chest, especially around the sutures. I’ll never get that back. It feels weird to shave my armpits. I can’t really tell where the razor is. My body is changed forever in so many ways.

But. It’s okay.

This is me now:

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Bathroom selfie!

I look good. I look fit. When I look at myself now, I can’t even picture what boobs look like on my body. What are they, anyway?

***

Tonight I went through my bras. I kept three sports bras. I don’t really know why. I guess my drawer just looks too empty without them. I’ll never need to buy an expensive, tight fitting one for rugby. I am keeping a few thin ones for swimming, and some other, cotton ones for an occasion that I can’t imagine yet. Maybe tank tops?

I’ve been out in the world to buy groceries and eat dinner. Without a bra. There are times I reach up to scratch my shoulder and notice there’s no bra there. I’m like, that’s sexxxxyyyyy. And then, I’m like. no. There’s nothing on my back, either.  No racer back sports bra. I feel…free. I feel naughty. I feel… I don’t know. I just feel different. I feel lighter. I can’t wait for summer and to feel less sweaty.

Another weird thing is my sternum is really out there. I’m not used to anything really touching that part of my chest, but now, when I hug, it’s the first thing to hit someone else’s body. It’s such a strange sensation. And there are divots in my chest where my breast tissue was. It’s just ribs and skin. That’s the void I keep talking about.

***

I guess that’s it for now. I’m doing good. I feel okay except when I listen to Sharon Van Etten, but that was true before all of this, too.

If you’re not into that kind of music, here’s a nice, new-ish country song to let you know my feelings.  Some days you just breathe in. Just tryin’ to break even. 

So, seventeen year old Christina: it gets better, but harder in different ways. And so much better in different ways.

It will all be worth it.

Some days you’re livin’/like you’ll never die.

 

 

 

 

Venmo: @molepoet

The Healing: 6 days without

/ Christina Holzhauser / Leave a comment

hi.

I’m bored. But I don’t have enough energy to actually do anything.  Two days ago I left the house with Gaby. I walked a few blocks downtown, and then came home to sit some more.

Yesterday was lovely outside, but I didn’t really feel like going out. I opened the window for a while, though. Even going down stairs to eat some lunch is pretty exhausting. I’ve been napping after lunch for several hours every day since surgery. I feel lazy, but I think this is what I’m supposed to do.

If you’re like me, you wonder what I look like. So, here it is:

Photo from Christina

It’s pretty hard to look at. As you might be able to tell, I’m not so sure how confident I am about this new body. I’ll be fine, though. The most awful part right now are the drains, which are the tubes you see right there. They’re moving gross fluid away from my wounds, but those goddamn tubes are held into my skin with just one stitch. They are sore. They itch. They are annoying. I’m hoping they’ll get taken out tomorrow. After that, I’ll probably feel a lot better.

There’s really no sensation in my chest. There are areas around my armpits where it feels like I was numb, but it’s starting to wake up. My understanding is that I could feel like that for the rest of my life.

Since I last wrote, I’ve cried. There are a lot of reasons why. You can guess most of them, I’m sure. I don’t regret my decision, but hey, it’s been just a few days, so I’m giving myself some time to deal. It’s a lot to see my body change so drastically. To contemplate what it means to live without breasts for the rest of my life. They were literally just here and now they’re gone. I went to sleep with them and woke up without them. And now I just have to sit around waiting to feel better. All I have is time to think. And though pre-surgery Christina would give one million dollars for alone time in her house, post-surgery Christina feels lonely and sometimes pathetic. That doesn’t necessarily mean I want visitors, though. I don’t know what I want or how to feel. I want these drains out. I want to have enough energy to ride my bike. I want my life back.

One thing I didn’t think about is my inability to hug. Gaby and I are trying more, but it feels weird to me and my sensation-less chest. Maybe it hurts. I can’t really tell.

One very good thing that has happened to me is “The Healing Chair.” Someone told me about it just a few weeks before surgery. It’s a non-profit organization that lends out to breast cancer patients a recliner with an automatic up and down button. I’ve slept in the chair since surgery, and I spend almost all of my day in it. It’s been lovely, but I’m ready to move around some more. And I don’t like the label “cancer patient.”

I am just Christina. Who happens to suddenly be without breasts. Who will be back in the saddle in maybe a week.

 

 

 

Venmo: @molepoet

Into the Void: Two Days Without

/ Christina Holzhauser / Leave a comment

Surprise, motherfuckers. I’m back.

It was a long day at the hospital on Wednesday for everyone except me since I got to sleep through most of it. The WHOLE surgery team was made of women, so that made me feel super awesome right until the moment they knocked me out.

For the two weeks leading up to surgery, my fitbit recorded how my resting heartrate when from 58 to 100 on the day of. Today, it’s finally back down to a relatively normal 61. I can’t tell you how relieved I feel to have the surgery finally done. I was able to leave the hospital just a few hours after I woke up, so I’ve had some nice time at home to rest and heal.

Am I in pain? Kind of. My chest feels tight and my muscles sore, but it just feels like the soreness after working out super hard. I’ve felt worse after rugby games, honestly. The most annoying pain is caused by the drains on both sides of my chest. I’m hoping those can come out relatively soon. After that, well, I can pretty much do whatever I want. I’ve been practicing raising my arms so my shoulders don’t get stiff.

But what about my mental health? I feel great, actually. But there are moments of strangeness. Last night I was holding a mug. And ladies, you know how you bring your arms in and hold mugs to your breast? (Or maybe you don’t know because I didn’t realize until last night) Well, I did that, but my arms never touched my chest. So, I used my hand to reach for where a breast should be, to test my emotions. When my hand got to where it should have felt something, and I kept moving it closer to my body, well, it just felt like my hand fell into a black hole. I don’t quite know how to describe it. There’s a void or negative space where my breasts once were. It’s like my hand fell through time.

As you can see, I get to wear this cute, pink bra thing. It holds my drains so they don’t get tugged on, and it keeps my bandages in place, too. The next big step will be taking off the bra and bandages to really have a look inside. I’m not ready for that yet, but the time will come. And rest assured, you’re going to see it whether you want to or not.

IMG-20200227-WA0001

At this very moment, I feel awesome. I can’t wait to get theses drains out and move on with my life. The most amazing thing is it’s almost Spring. Having this done during the winter would’ve really sucked, but the thought of little tiny flowers poking through and a slightly warmer sun is really powering me through. I can’t wait to ride my bike again. Or grill a huge steak while drinking too many shitty beers. Or, maybe I should work on making my stomach as flat as my chest. That’s one of the disadvantages of being flat; there’s nothing up top to balance out what’s below.

Maybe in a few days when the reality of what’s happened hits me, I won’t seem so fucking chipper.

HOLY SHIT THE SUN JUST CAME OUT!

But. Maybe this is just me now.

Thank you to everyone for sending messages to Gaby and me, and especially those who’ve helped us with my drains and bandages.

Also, the doc said it might be a few days before I got my appetite back. Puh-lease. I had several pounds cut off my body, but I already weigh more than when I went in. HA.

Alright. Now. Back to Netflix and snax.

Venmo: @molepoet

No boobs ≠ boy: 15 hours

/ Christina Holzhauser / 1 Comment

I’ve never really cared about my boobs. There are very few occasions I remember trying to shown them off, and I’ve never tried to hide them. They aren’t big enough to cause problems like back pain or the dreaded male gaze. They aren’t small enough for anyone to have commented on their smallness. Usually one sports bra is enough for rugby, and regular bras off the rack seem to fit just fine. I’ve never yearned for more or less of them. I’ve been pleased with them this whole time and never really knew. Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone…

As a cis-woman who’s only slept with other cis-women, my adult life has been full of breasts of all shapes and sizes. It would be incorrect to say that I don’t sexualize them, because, you know, I’m queer, but I’ve never stared at them on strangers or cared about their size or shape on my partners. I’ve always joked that boobs are just fine, but I have some, too, so they aren’t as exciting. In comparison to the way cis-men seem to lose their minds over them, I am not like that at all. They are demystified when they also belong to you. And when you’ve worked in a histology lab where your job is to throw out the cut-off breasts (and other samples) every week.

During my consultation with the surgeon, I asked if she could save my nipples and maybe give me a male chest. She said that she knows a great plastic surgeon who’s done FTM (female to male) transitions. But that would take some time and I’d have to talk to that surgeon first to see if I was a good candidate and all that. Then, my brain was like…Stop. I tried to imagine taking off my shirt to see a male chest in my mirror on my body. And it seemed, really, really wrong. I halted that conversation with the surgeon and was like, no, not really, sorry. Just cut them off and leave the scars.

Then a million things came to me at once (or, at least, what felt like a million things):

I am totally a woman.

Trans men might feel some sort of relief if they were in my situation.

Trans women might be pissed that I’m so apathetic about my breasts.

When I look at my new chest without breasts, will I then, maybe, in the tiniest amount, feel what trans people have felt their whole lives? Like my body doesn’t match my brain. Or, like, something is missing.

Of course, boobs do not a woman make. Really, I have no idea what it means to be a man or a woman or non-binary. I mean, I know a million genders exist, but I have no way of classifying them. I do know I’m a girl. Again, I don’t really know what that means.

As the sporty little kid who played with all the boys, there were times when I was little where I wondered if I was supposed to be a boy. Like, maybe the all powerful creator, or whatever, messed up just a little bit. I loved “boy” things, but I was told that was wrong. I asked for GI Joe’s one year for Christmas and got a cabbage patch doll. I was bombarded with Barbies any time there was an occasion to give me a gift. In fact, I had this massive, hand made Barbie house. When other girls would come over to play, they’d lose their minds at this thing and all the accessories: corvette, bubble bath, horse, hair twister, make-up barbie, two kens! My mom wouldn’t let me cut my hair, instead it grew down to my ass. I just wanted short hair and a 49ers jersey, pants, and helmet. It didn’t seem too much to ask.

As I grew, I realized none of that made me a boy; it made me a kick-ass girl. So, I played sports as hard as I could. I was told I could throw a ball like a boy (that’s a lie; my form was better than most boys’) And I loved it. But the one sport I wanted to play, football, was always out of reach. It “wasn’t for girls,” and there wasn’t even a team close to where I grew up.

Then I came out. And you’ve probably heard most of these before, in other writings and rantings, but here’s a summary:

-So, you want to be a man?

-So, you’re/who’s the man in the relationship?

-Who’s on top?

-Okay, but why can’t you dress like a girl?

-Why are you trying to look like a man?

-Why would you date a woman who looks like man?

-And, of course, very obscene comments/questions/threats about my sex life

Alas, after all of that, I am still not a man. I don’t want to be a man.

Here I am. A cis-woman in love with another cis-woman. Which, honestly, I’m tired of writing about and reminding you of. But this is really relevant right now because, you see, Gaby’s partner is loosing her breasts. Gaby is going to have to watch me go through this. Gaby will have to run the house for three weeks while I cry and complain and try to move around too much.

And all of you have cheered me on these last few weeks, but you’ve all forgotten the silent victim of this cancer; it’s Gaby.

I don’t know what it’s like to watch my partner lose her breasts. I won’t know the sadness of seeing her take of her shirt and find nothing there but angry, smirking scars where something beautiful once was. I don’t know the pain of having to put on a smile when people say, “this is great because you caught it early!” Or, “thank God she’ll survive.”

Yes, I will be alive. But perhaps a part of me dies, if just for a little while.

* * *

In all the papers I’ve been reading about lesbian vs. straight women choosing bilateral mastectomy, lesbian women deal much better. Why? They have a more supportive partner. Their sex life does not suffer, but straight girls have problems. Lesbians care less about the stigma of having no breasts because they’ve fucking dealt with society’s bullshit their entire lives. But, and this is the part I love, they find no benefit in having cancer and going through the experience. Straight girls do. Why? Because they’ve never had to examine their lives so much before.

I’m thankful to be a queer woman. I’m thankful this cancer is as tiny and stupid as it is. I’m very thankful to have Gaby as my partner.

Tomorrow is the big day. See you on the other side.

 

 

 

And now, the final stop on their farewell tour: rugby practice.

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Fuck football. Rugby has fewer pads and more tackling. And the coolest fucking people I’ve ever met. (also, 35 degrees and wet)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Venmo: @molepoet