Southern

The Writing’s on the Wall

/ Christina Holzhauser / 2 Comments

I have been in many romantic and sexual relationships with women during my tenure on this planet, and that has afforded me a unique position that I think most men in romantic relationships with women might not get. Women talk to other women. They talk about sexual abuse and assault because women believe you, and ALL women have experienced some sort of sexual assault, whether they are willing to admit it or not. Whether they call it sexual assault or not. The issue is, most women don’t like to call what has happened to them assault because we are always comparing our trauma to someone else’s. It goes like this, “yeah, he coerced me into having sex and I asked him to stop, but I said yes, and it’s not like he hit me, so I guess it’s not like So-and-So’s experience, so it isn’t really rape/sexual assault.” And since so many women have that story, they just call it sex. When I say this has happened to many women, I really mean most. I mean, actually, everyone. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.

Here are some very upsetting numbers:

Nearly half of the women I’ve been with have been raped. And, no, not the “man jumping out from behind the bushes” kind of rape, but the “I know this guy” kind of rape. And it fucking happens all of the time, you guys. ALL. OF. THE. TIME.

In fact, I’ve never heard a story from a woman who has been sexually assaulted or abused by some guy she didn’t know. It’s always her “boyfriend” or her “friend,” or, you know, someone else’s friend at the party. Or the guy from class who’s just been trying to get her to go out with him. And these women I have loved blame themselves. Or they don’t use the “R” word for reasons I mentioned above. They don’t think their story is the worst, so they are ashamed to even say anything happened. They have been socialized to understand this is what it means to be a woman.

Growing up, I understood that a girl losing her virginity happened under this circumstance: the boy begs and begs and begs and begs until the girl finally says okay. The boy will hurt you. The boy will not understand that you are capable of feeling pleasure. If he does understand, he will not care. The boy will tell his friends. You will be called a slut. He will be called a hero. You are expected to do it again and again.

This is how it happened with most of my friends. This is the story I was told. This is the narrative I was expected to live, too. I was supposed to be okay with this, the way some of the women I’ve loved were supposed to be okay with this. And they were. They were so okay with this, that most don’t even tell this story any more. They are so used to how all of this happens, it doesn’t even seem like something worth mentioning. Because. It’s happened to all of us.

Endure this. This is what it means to be a woman.

This abuse is so embedded in our culture that unless I’ve been penetrated by a man, I’m not even considered a woman. Or, not a real woman. I’m something less, unless a man has touched me.  I know this because friends used to get confused about my virginity. “…but you’ve never had sex with a guy….”

Here’s another number:

1/4 of the women I’ve known and loved have had an abortion. The reasons are variable. One was 15 and it was her boyfriend. One was 17 and in a relationship with some fucking asshole. One was something around 20 and stuck in an abusive relationship. They all knew they were lesbians, but you know, lived in a world where they were forced to be with men. You can’t even know what that feels like. You can argue that they knew what they were doing, that they could’ve just not had sex. That they could’ve been more careful. They only knew that they were doing what they were told they should do by society. They were enduring womanhood. You can go ahead and blame the girl for a society that tells her that men’s sexuality is more important than women’s. That it is completely her fault that she begged and begged him not to. That she at least asked him to wear a condom. That he pulled it off without her knowing. That if she really loved him, she’d just do it.

1/4 of the women I’ve known and loved told me about their abortion. Which leads me to believe there are more. There are always more.

This also leads me to understand that more than 25% of women out there in the world have had one, too. My friends, if it is you, I’m proud of you for a making the choice that was best for you. No matter why you were pregnant in the first place.

Of course, not all abortions come from rape or abuse. Some come from failed birth control (which is blamed on the woman). Some come from a total lack of birth control (which is also only the woman’s fault). Some come from wanted and loved pregnancies that are not viable (the woman’s fault). Some come from life or death situations for the mother (the woman’s fault).

Most women don’t even know they’re pregnant at 8 weeks. That’s just one missed period. That’s also her fault.

After enduring womanhood and hearing countless stories from partners and friends, it doesn’t seem like much of a stretch to imagine most unwanted pregnancies come from a trauma associated with how the woman became pregnant. No person should be forced to carry the fetus of a rapist.

Consider this: trans men can also be pregnant. They can also be raped. And I apologize for not tackling this immense topic right now.

Consider this: I have been told by men what my body should and shouldn’t look like my whole life. I’ve been told by men how I’m supposed to have sex. I’ve been told by men that I am not officially a woman without having sex with them. I’ve been exploited by men who see my sexuality as an extension of their fantasies. Women are shamed into sex. They are shamed into complying. They are shamed into pregnancy. They are shamed for, finally, making a decision about their own bodies.

Everyone listen closely: you know someone who has been raped. You know someone who has had an abortion.

We need to start using the “r” word. We need to start talking about abortion, too. About real numbers. About how it’s saved more lives than it’s destroyed.

You need to understand that when a woman shares with you the intimate details of her body, she has thought long and hard about what she’s saying. She has broken through the social barrier we’ve put in place to keep her silent. She has weighed the consequences and decided that she’s willing to fight the onslaught of judgement about her “choices.”

You need to listen.

You need to listen and believe what has happened.

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Pride and Prejudice

/ Christina Holzhauser / Leave a comment

It’s pride month. So, let me remind you that I’m a homosexual. I’ve been aware of myself and out for 21 years. In that time, society has changed drastically, but not enough.

Maybe it’s because of my age or the people I hang out with, but it’s very rare that someone asks me “when did you know you were gay?” or “who’s the man?”  It’s such a relief.

This is the time I dreamed of when I was 17 and sitting in that therapist’s office and he was trying to tell me that being gay was going to be so hard and weird and maybe I should reconsider. As he would go on about all of the challenges of being gay, I would try to imagine the day when I just lived without anyone caring if I was. Today is that day.

I’m so grateful to feel so much safer than I did 21 years ago.

That doesn’t mean that everyone is safe, though, or that things are just fine.

My fitbit app updated the other day to include “female health.” It’s a nifty period/ovulation tracker. I pushed the button to allow it to ask me a series of questions. They included what type of birth control I use. I clicked none. And felt judged. Now that that portion of the app is set up, I can go in and track things in my life like: sex, unprotected sex, and the morning after pill. Obviously, these things don’t apply to me.

And I really hate that my fitbit thinks I have sex with men. My fitbit has made an assumption about me based on the fact that I clicked “female” at some point in time. At least I’m a cisgender female. Think of those others who have clicked the same and then been faced with a menstruation app that doesn’t apply to them. I’m sure all of this seems like the stuff that makes your conservative uncle want to say something like, “all of these gotdamn people wanting everything to be sooooo POLITICALLY CORRECT.” But, if the people making the fitbit app update were a little more diverse, I bet this wouldn’t happen. Someone in that room would’ve said, like, wait not all women have sex with men or have a period. And they would’ve designed a separate button that says, like, “click here if you have sex with women.” I would’ve felt so included. I would’ve happily clicked the shit out of that button. I wouldn’t known that someone out there was looking out for me. Instead, I feel a little sad. Instead, I have to stare at those options of clicking protected or unprotected sex.

Speaking of sex.

I’ve had this skin problem on my right hand for years. In the past, it went away and came back. I would have a few months with no outbreak. But now, it’s been here since October. It’s eczema, I think. These tiny bubbles form under my skin that leak fluid. My hand itches like a sonuvabich. More specifically, my thumb, middle, and pinky finger and no where else. It never goes away. Something as simple as water can make it flare up. It’s the fucking worst.

But here is what is worse than the worst: this is, essentially, my penis.

I’ve been to the dermatologist and allergist. I’ve had patches stuck to my back. I’ve been prescribed some insanely expensive steroid cream (which only makes my skin crack and bleed). I’m not telling you all of this for a diagnosis. I’m telling you this because, as I mentioned before, things are better for queers, but not the best.

I had to suck up my feelings and tell the dermatologist that my partner is a woman. That my right hand is vital to my sex life. She smiled, but didn’t seem to care.

The allergist, when I told her, at least showed sympathy and said, “oh, my, this must really be affecting your quality of life.” I said it was. And I felt heard. Or nearly understood.

But yet. Here I am, still suffering with this stuff. Now, before you all start messaging me with other ways to be sexually active without my right hand, believe me, I know them. I’ve been having sex with women for 20 years.

Consider this: maybe a male friend you know has confided in his doctor (and you) that his penis has tiny, itchy bubbles, that it is constantly burning and flaring, that the skin cracks and bleeds. Would you offer him other ways to have sex or would you want to help him find a solution? Don’t you think the doctor would do everything in their power to help this poor guy?

So, why am I sharing with you these intimate details of my life? Easy. I want you to know that homophobia, or even lack of awareness of homosexuals, affects my life in a lot of strange ways. Several times a week, maybe even every day, I’m reminded by others that I’m not the status quo, that I’m not still fully included. And I’m white and cisgender. Just imagine how trans people feel. How people of color feel. How immigrants feel. How differently-abled people feel. How someone who is all of those must feel.

This is why inclusion and diversity are so important.

Your conservative uncle might also get annoyed with all the pride talk this month and all the rainbow flags. He might ask, “who cares if they’re gay? Why do they have to run around waving flags?”

Because. Every other day of the year is straight, white man day. And though there is no specific flag for that (though some might argue stars and bars), I see it everywhere, all the time. And I’m reminded, even when I look at my phone or visit my doctor, that I am still an outsider.

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Pants Envy

/ Christina Holzhauser / 1 Comment

Tonight I took Cyrus to get fitted for a suit; he’s the ring bearer in my cousin’s wedding in a few months. There were so many cool vests and shoes. Two tables of a rainbow assortment of ties. The man who helped us had on a bow tie and shoes I wanted on my own feet. We also happened to have the same haircut. Was I attracted to him or did I just want to dress like him? I struggle with this sometimes.

I’ve always felt comfortable and uncomfortable in the men’s section of stores. If you know me, you’ve noticed I tend to wear men’s shorts, sometimes jeans. Women’s shorts are always way too short or full of weird ass-pocket designs. Except when I had blue hair and combat boots, I’ve dressed functionally. I wear band t-shirts most of the time, though I’ve purchased a few women’s sweaters and t’s in recent years. Women’s shirts seem too thin or cleavagey. I sometimes have trouble fitting my broad shoulders, too. But there’s something unsettling about shopping in the boy section when you’re a queer woman like myself; I become incredibly self-conscious. I feel like everyone is looking at me and judging. Like everyone is making assumptions about who I am, what I like, how I have sex. This is one of the big reasons I hate shopping. I do most online. If someone from across the country is judging me as she packs my box of clothes, fine, at least she’s not eyeballing me over a rack of  men’s sweaters.

Wearing men’s pants doesn’t mean I’m a man or that I want to be one. Who I am and what body I was born into are both fine with me. This also doesn’t mean that all lesbians dress the same, either. Please do not start assuming those things. It also doesn’t mean that I think every woman should dress like me. Sexuality and my gender are two separate things. There are straight women out there who also don’t feel comfortable in dresses. Wear what makes you feel like yourself. That is all we can do.

 

When I was in Kindergarten, Mom put me in sun dresses for school. Since it was 1985, those dresses came with yellow, flowery, ruffly bloomers. Sometime during the day I’d go to the bathroom and tuck my dress into my bloomers, you know, because they were more like shorts. I’d get off the bus and Mom would be waiting for me with some look of horror and amusement. I didn’t care. I felt so much better.

Of course, as I grew and was forced to dress up for events, I started wearing pants whenever I could, fighting with Mom about when it was okay and when it wasn’t. Proms were an awful time, too, trying to figure out what kind of dress was okay and cool for me to wear. I was never excited about picking out a prom dress.  For high school graduation, I was told girls had to wear dresses and guys could wear pants. Total bullshit, obviously, so I just put on some boxers and a tank top under my gown and threw on some heels (to be discussed later). It was my final fuck you to the principal who glared at me any time we met in the halls.

When I teach, I sometimes wear ties or bow-ties. But always pants and a button-down shirt. That’s how I dress up.

But really, I honestly always try to picture myself in survival situations. If suddenly the zombie apocalypse happened and I was stuck in a fucking dress and heels, how could I possibly survive? If a tornado ripped through and I had to dig for my loved ones among the wreckage, what use would I be if I weren’t wearing pants? If I were on a plane in a skirt, and it crashed, what hope would I have of making it more than a week in that climate?

There have been time when I’ve felt sexy in a dress, though. For a friend’s wedding, I had to buy a black dress. I complained, but I enjoyed it. I felt good in it because I got to choose it. I even grew my hair because I wanted to. It’s fun to play with gender sometimes, isn’t it?

But usually I don’t like dresses. It’s more than that, though. It’s the way I feel when I’m in one. I feel like I’m in drag, mostly because of the attitude people have when they see me in one. People laugh. Or they feel just fine commenting on my body. It’s the same, but less, during the few times a year when I decide to wear make-up. “OHMYGOD are you wearing mascara!? Ooooh.”  These reactions, I’ll have you know, mean I’ll wear it less and less. Because. In middle school my friends thought it was fun and funny to dress me up. Haha. Christina’s in a dress. She looks hilarious.

You might as well put a costume on your cat.

When I wear a dress, it’s not just funny Christina in a dress; it forces me to change who I am. I can’t sit like I usually do, with my legs spread. I have to walk differently, too,  in order not to look like a dude in a dress. I’m more aware of how and how much I move my body, like my arms, when I’m speaking. I can’t wrap my arms around the back of chairs and give sideways smiles. I have to sit straight with my legs crossed. I have no idea how to do this. And all of this change directly affects how I act. I become quiet and people ask if I’m okay because I’m not acting normal. Of course when you wear a dress, there’s going to be some shoe that’s too narrow and has a heel. Maybe it’s only 2 inches, but that’s two times more than I’m used to. I can’t walk in those shoes. I’m not trying to make you laugh when I say that. My body doesn’t have that skill.  In order to survive wearing all of this, I have to think of it as a cultural costume. Something my culture requires me to wear at certain times, like, weddings.

I guess it’s here that I mention I’m a bridesmaid in this wedding in a few months.

I’ve been a bridesmaid before. In three of my best friends’ weddings, most recently. I wore dresses for all of them. One wedding was even two women, one of which wore a pant suit. (For others, I’ve been asked to grow out my hair. Wear make-up. Not dye it some strange color.) I felt okay wearing the dresses when I did. Or. Like a polite southern girl, didn’t want to rock the boat by asking to wear something else. Maybe I didn’t want to be the lesbian wearing a suit at the wedding. I was already the awkward androgynous lesbian in a dress. I’ve been asked enough to “tone it down” for holidays. I’ve been given the side-eye for saying “lesbian” at family gatherings. Like we discussed at the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival last weekend in New Orleans, some things are okay until you give them a name. And it’s impolite to bring up topics that make people uncomfortable. (Shame on me. I’ve been so quiet for years). I’ve been asked countless times if I’m “the man” in my relationship because my hair is shorter and my body language bigger.

And, for the record, telling me you can’t even tell I’m gay when I’m wearing a dress and make-up doesn’t make me feel better. At all.

I have a dress hanging in my closest for the wedding. I have shoes, too, that are nothing that I’d ever wear. The dress is cute, if you wear dresses, but after the wedding, it will remain in my closet in that plastic bag. After tonight, I really want to wear a suit. I’d feel like myself in a suit, or, some cute pants with suspenders. Possibly a vest.  I’d feel sexy in that. Instead, I’ll be the one with a mostly shaved head and an Elvis-eque slicked back do. I will take off the shoes as soon as I can because my feet and ankles will be sore. I will writhe and tug at the garment like Idgie Threadgoode and run to my tree house to throw all the damn things to the ground as soon as I can.

Guys, imagine you’ve been asked to wear a dress to a friend’s wedding. Ladies, imagine you’re going to wear a suit and tie.

I know some guys are out there like, “well, I feel awful wearing all that to a wedding, too.” Sure. It sucks to have to dress up if it’s not something you enjoy. But you’re not being asked to wear an article of clothing you’ve never put on in your life, or just a few times for giggles. It’s still just a pair of pants. Some women might be thinking, “well, I hate dresses, too, but it’s not a big deal.” If it changes your entire personality for the day, it most certainly is. It is if you feel like you’re wearing a clown costume and everyone is looking at you.

All of this is not to say anything mean about the wedding or my cousin, the bride. I hold myself accountable for not saying that I’m not comfortable in a dress. Maybe when she asked, I felt okay about it, or just didn’t think too far in the future. But please, everyone, know how hard that is for me to say because of all the implications and the derogatory words I’ve heard from family over the years. Know that there are so many others out there who are afraid to speak-up. Who love you and want to do what they’ve been told to do. I might have even said to you, “I don’t want to be the lesbian in the suit.” But what I meant was, “I want to rock that fucking suit. But I don’t want anyone here to talk about me, make assumptions, or judge me.”

Tonight as I watched Cyrus put on that tiny suit jacket and get himself measured, I wondered if there’d ever be a time when I’d have the balls to say to that cute guy in the bow-tie, the guy who looked suspiciously like me,  “I’d like to be fitted, too.”

 

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Homeward and Bound

/ Christina Holzhauser / 5 Comments

I want you all to know that I just had an amazing weekend. I was in Decatur, GA for the Decatur Book Festival. I was there to sit on a panel about the new anthology I’m in: Crooked Letter I. During my stay, I met the most amazing people. Writers. And I was reminded who I am, who I want to be, who I’ve always been.

When I landed at the St. Louis airport today, Mom texted me to remind me that the Mokane World’s Fair was happening. If you’re not from around those parts, Mokane is a town of 247; it’s where I went to school. K-12. And this fair, of course, is small, but growing up, it was a big deal to go there and kiss my 8th grade boyfriend in the dark, beneath the ferris wheel lights while all the parents played bingo.

Today was the “Old Time Fiddler’s Contest.” It’s held every year, and people from around the state come to compete. There is a Junior division. That means kids of, like, 7 or 8 fiddle, too. I drove straight there from the airport because Cyrus loves music and fiddles, and Mindy was taking him to see them.

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“You ain’t nuttin’ til you eat mutton”

It was in the middle of this fiddling, in the 95 degree sweat rolling down the small of my back, that I became moved. In my head, I was writing a piece about white culture. You see, I told my girlfriend this weekend, who is Venezuelan-American, after having met so many talented women of color at the festival, that I wasn’t anything. That I was just white. And she said to me, “Your color is white and it is beautiful. You challenge the cultural conception.” It was a sweet thing to say. I love her. So I sat there watching this small child with a German last name play her fiddle while wearing a cowboy hat and Wranglers. I thought to myself as I looked around at all the older people enjoying the music, this is where I’m from-this is a culture worth something. I was composing an essay, finally, praising my upbringing. We are a people of German heritage and kindness and fiddles and biscuits and gravy. I come from a people who work hard, who don’t mind sitting out in the heat to listen to a child play “She’ll Be Comin’ ‘Round the Mountain” at varying speeds. Old men in their bib-overalls and work boots. The women fanning themselves and smiling.

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Fiddlin contest

This, I thought, this is me. This is home. 

And then.

Cyrus became bored with the fiddles, as a five year old does. We walked out of the pavilion and sat with my dad and a distant cousin of mine. The cousin pulled out his phone, “Isn’t this girl your twin?” He said. The girl in the picture was white and had a lip piercing. She wore a backward baseball hat. “I look like her because we’re both lesbians, right?” He said something about how she was also attracted to him. My mind drifted. Then he started in on a story that I couldn’t quite follow…”then we were down on Broadway, you know, where all the niggers are…”

I write this word in its entirety because it is the way I hear it. Loud. Grating. Awful.

With this I said, “No. We’re done,” and walked off.

I circled the fiddle contest area, running my hands through my already greasy and sweaty hair. White privilege means a lot of things and this is one of them: this fucked up privilege–this assumption that, because I’m white and from a small town, this word is okay to say in front of me, that I feel the same way, or that this is just what we say.  I felt bad for walking away because my dad was stuck there, listening to the rest of the story or apologizing/explaining why I walked away mid sentence. But I couldn’t stay. I never can.

So I calmed down and went to get another Bud heavy.

I came back, only after I’d made sure he was gone, to stand with my parents and my aunt.

And then.

A woman walked up to us, apparently a friend or coworker of my mom and my aunt. They joked she looked so nice since she wasn’t soaked in sweat. Mom introduced her to me, “she worked out at the state hospital, too.” I said hi. The woman started in with, “well, I’m not sure how long I’m gonna work there; there’s a lotta stupid people out there now.”  I nodded my head and sipped my beer.

And then.

“All those damn foreigners can’t speak any gotdamn English…”

I said, rather loudly, “I have to leave now.”

I walked off, choking back tears. I heard my parents say good-bye, and I gave them a wave without turning around. All the warm feelings I had earlier, about the fiddles and old men in overalls, all those washed away. Or were sweated out. Or were soaked up by the sun. Something about heat.

That is where I come from, though it’s not where I fit. Like everyone, my whole life I’ve been searching. I’m adopted. I’m queer. I’m white. I’m a writer. I’m an athlete. I’m from the smallest town on the planet.

This weekend though, among the writers, I felt snugly in place. But the woman and modest mid-westerner and Southern way of putting myself last always creeps back. Among Jamaican-American, Palestinian-American, Japanese-American, African-American women, what could I possibly say that is different or worthy?

My name is Christina. I’m no different but different from you. I’m starting here.

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The drive home.

Flying Flags, Burning Bridges

/ Christina Holzhauser / Leave a comment

I grew up in a town of 150 people (1980 Census, now 85 people) in the middle of Missouri. Where I’m from, the stars and bars are everywhere: t-shirts, bandannas, bumper stickers, flags on porches, wallets, belt buckles. I grew up here, but not ever have I worn this flag to display my proud white heritage. I’ll tell you why.

To me, the confederate flag means bad things. It means hate. When I see a confederate flag, I go the opposite direction. Why? Because some of those wearing that flag called me a dyke, a pussy eater, a fucking faggot. Because those were the people in school who called black people niggers and said a lot of other, awful, ignorant and racist things. Because they beat up said black people for being alive. Because people wearing that symbol harassed the one person in our school who happened to be black. And. Well, really, I think that’s enough.

Now, am I basing my judgement of something on only a few people? No. Not a few, but thousands, as this was my experience from ages 0-35. I’m basing this opinion on a lifetime of negative experiences because I have never met one person in my life who wore a confederate flag with the words, “the south will rise again!” (or had one tattooed on their chests, or taped to their truck, or painted on his belt buckle) and wanted to discuss the richness of southern cuisine, dialects, fashion, sense of family or faith, or community. If that person exists, I’m very, very interested in speaking with him or her.

Of course, there’s the rainbow flag, too. Which, to me, used to mean I was accepted and welcome. The first one I saw was above the Peace Nook here in Columbia. The year was 1997 and someone had to tell me what the rainbow meant. I became fascinated and began to look for rainbows everywhere. It meant there were more people out there like me who held some of the same beliefs, who, if they saw me wearing a rainbow, could immediately identify me as one of them. But as I’ve grown older and have experienced people harassing me because of it (yes, some of those people were wearing that other flag), people who were sexually aggressive (so much that I had to run), people who told me I was going to burn in hell, I avoid rainbow flags and necklaces and bumper stickers. Because it just makes me an easier target.

I also realize that the rainbow flag, to some people, reminds them of dildos or drag queens dancing to club music. Which they may not like. But, hey, at least those are fun and inclusive.

Any flag or symbol helps to identify and make one feel a part of something bigger than themselves, but it also makes one a target. Yes, for all groups.

Having grown up in Missouri, I’ve heard arguments on both sides whether or not my state is southern. If you know me, you know I argue that it is based on food, slang, and political views and affiliations. Based on social conservatism and that fact that coming out meant some of my friends and family treated me with Bible verses, derogatory names, and utter silence.

That’s southern.

So what’s the difference between flying these two flags? One stands for something that has passed, for a country that struggled to exist, whose ideas were already antiquated and strove to keep millions enslaved, and one stands for new ideas, for hope to come for a group of oppressed millions. I’ve seen southerners fly a rainbow flag, but never gay southerners (who are very proud to be southern) fly a confederate flag.

Taking down the stars and bars doesn’t immediately change the racism rampant in our country, and it does’t mean that Americans aren’t appreciative of southern culture. Raising a rainbow doesn’t change homophobic opinions or ensure the safety of LGBTQ people.  It also doesn’t mean gays are running the world.

I’m not proud to be a white southerner. I’m not proud to be gay. I’m proud to be Christina-who happens to be a white girl from the south and who happens to be attracted to women. I’m proud to be a world citizen who now, finally has some of the same rights you have always had: the right to marry, on paper, someone I love.

So, gentle reader, until the confederate flag is the symbol of sweet tea and gramma’s fried chicken at a Sunday meal, and no one calling my significant other my “friend,” and without anyone saying “(insert any racist term here),”  then I just can’t get behind it.

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