Uncategorized

This is Partly a Story About a Dress

            This is partly the story about a dress. The dress was a color reminiscent of orange sherbet, with little flowers, the color of which I don’t remember. It was made of a heavy, coarse material. It was itchy and hot and the skirt kept getting wrapped around my waist, making sitting uncomfortable and fidgeting inevitable. This annoyed my parents, who were trying to watch my brother’s eighth grade graduation in peace and didn’t need my fidgeting beside them. I didn’t mean to steal their focus, but it was partially their fault for making me wear the damn thing in the first place. At least, for once, my mother had not tried to curl my long, thin hair, which had never once held a curl for longer than a half hour, despite her best efforts. She simply held it back from my face with a barrette. Those little plastic teeth couldn’t hold on for long, however, and would eventually start to slide down my hair and be of no use whatsoever.

I remember when my brother’s name was called I clapped loudly and longer than anyone, not just because I was proud of him, but because I knew that meant that my torture was soon coming to an end. However, being that our last name is in the middle of the alphabet, we couldn’t leave just yet. Learning that was annoying. Afterwards, my mother admonished me again for fidgeting so much. I answered her by declaring, “I will never wear a dress again for as long as I live.” My mother, a consummate slacks wearer from way back, replied, “Okay.” It was 1981, I was eight years old, and I have kept that promise for the last forty years.

Last Friday, I set in the office of an endocrinologist to ask questions about whether or not, given my current medical situation, I would be able to take testosterone, should I decide that was something I wanted to do. I was there for medical reasons. Instead of just answering my questions and telling me the medical risks, she informed me that I would need to undergo psychiatric counseling so that I could be diagnosed with gender dysphoria. This is not actually the law in Illinois. She also proceeded to ask me stupid, insulting questions. When she asked, “So, how long have you been dressing like a man?” I wasn’t sure if I should be more insulted or be concerned about her state of intelligence, to say nothing about her compassion. My answer to her question was, “I haven’t been dressing like a man, but I have been dressing like me for over twenty years.”

I mean, honestly, when does she want me to start counting from? From the time I was eight and stood up for my right not to have to wear a dress? My clothing after that was pretty neutral, from then until high school graduation. Jeans, tee-shirts, Polo shirts. Did those clothes have a gender? What about the cutesy pullovers my mother would buy me that would match hers because she said, “If I like it, I know she will?” What was their gender? Or mine, for that matter, considering I would sometimes wear them? What about later, in college, after I starting dating a woman and my wardrobe slowly but surely started to mimic that of my butch girlfriend? Was I dressing like a man or like the butch I was trying so hard to be?

Also, the idea of having to go to a doctor and have them give me a diagnosis like being nonbinary or trans or anything different from the norm is a disease. Just one more thing the normies are trying to cure. Like someone took that Sesame Street song too seriously. You know what? One of these things may not be like the other, but it still fucking belongs.

This is also the story about gender. This is the story of not trying to fit in. This is the story of being normal. Because, despite antiquated gender norms, or other people’s expectations, I’m still me. I still belong, wherever I want to be and whatever I want to wear. Ask me again and I’ll tell you the same. What’s my gender? Irrelevant. I’d rather you ask me my name.

Happy Nonbinary Awareness Week everyone!

Pride-iversary

A little over two weeks from now, on July 12th, marks the 24th anniversary of my coming out. I still think of that day often, as well as the person who held the door open for me and made space for me to say out loud what I had spent the first 24 years of my life hiding. I had grown up in a town of 5000 people, a town where there was only one out person I knew of, and I never saw anyone treat her with respect. A town where gays and POC, if they were mentioned at all, were done so with derision and words you shouldn’t say in public. Going to college, though it was also nestled in another small town about the same size as my hometown, was necessary for me to become who I was supposed to have been all along. There weren’t a lot of out gay people on that campus at that time, but there was at least one brave man, and I wish I could thank him for having the courage to go first. But the person who held the door open for me wasn’t from that small town, nor did she go to that school…she was from Chicago, four hours to the north of me. She was the bff from back home of one of my friends who came to campus when our mutual friend graduated, 1.5 years before I did. She and I became fast friends, but I didn’t come out to her until 2.5 months after that graduation. We talked all night under the stars and she opened up the world to me. I remember at one point she even said, “There’s more to the world than small towns.” With her encouragement, I started coming out to my friends: first our mutual friend, then others. They all took it well. I came out to the rest of the campus while I was giving my part of a debate in Ethics class on the topic of gay marriage. I made no big announcement, but as I casually pulled my Pride rings, which I had been secretly wearing under my shirt for months, out for all to see, I saw nods of acknowledgement and smiles of encouragement from those who knew what it meant and knew what I had just done. It would be more than a year before I told my family. I had recently graduated, the girl I had come out to and I had been broken up for months but were still friends. They knew her and loved her. They accepted me and after that the next two relationships, they accepted them too. When my mother died and I went to clean out her apartment I found the pictures of the children of one my ex’s I had sent her. That ex and I had been broken up for seven years by that time and she had never met them because we lived out of state, but she still kept their picture, I’m guessing because they had once been a part of my life.

In the last 24 years I’ve had to learn to accept myself as different aspects of my identity have revealed themselves to me. There is more to my identity than I had always thought, and it can’t be summed up so easily with a word or two. I’m in my late 40s and my identity still continues to evolve. My parents are gone, so I can’t share this part of my journey with them. I have no idea how they would feel about the next steps I’m taking. They might be appalled, unforgiving, unaccepting…or they might be ok with it, as long as I’m happy. The little girl whose hair my mother always tried to get to hold a curl and to wear a dress once in a while, never really existed, though I tried to be her for a while. When I was eight and made to wear a dress to my brother’s 8th grade graduation, I made a declaration afterwards that I would never wear a dress again, and my mother, never into dresses and skirts herself, accepted my decision without protest. Forty years and counting, still haven’t worn one again. It feels like an accomplishment.

By this time next year, I hope that there is a different name on my state ID, and I’m able to wear button-up shirts with ease. Other changes may still be ahead for me, as things continue to evolve. I’m just glad that I have more people on this journey with me than I had before. Twenty-four years ago there were a lot of lonely times. For me, it did get better, and I’m glad to say it continues to do so. Happy Pride everyone.

Announcement

Well, I don’t have a publication date yet, that will be set later. I’ll keep you all updated. Meanwhile, here’s the blurb for my new novel, Reset. Enjoy. 🙂

Have you ever made a choice you later regret? Or witnessed an experience you wish you had the power to change? What if there was a company that promised you could go back and change things? Such a company does exist, however, there is a catch: once you go back you have to stay there and live your life from that point forward, regardless of the outcome. And you can only do it once. Three individuals make this journey back in time, two by choice, one sentenced to by the court. Each one has their reasons for making this choice, unique to themselves, and all varying in virtue. They are all guided and worried over on this journey by a dutiful man who works for the company which holds the technology to make it all possible. Our three narrators, Roxy, Yuri, and Kam, each continue on their own separate journeys, all hoping for a positive outcome. The question is: will they all succeed?

A Chicago History Vignette

I keep telling myself that someday I’m going to write a book about Chicago gay history, and maybe I will. But I keep getting mixed up in my head about my own experiences there that and my own memories, that I can’t separate the two. I have tried to tell both of these stories many times in many different ways. I have written academic papers on the history, and I have written poems about my gay experiences. I have also rewritten a novel at least four times that intermingles all of the above with my first romance and her later suicide. I find it hard to fictionalize the novel enough so that it doesn’t still come out like someone else’s life story I shouldn’t be writing. And it’s never good enough. How can I reproduce a real person who had real struggles, whom I dearly and completely loved? How can I put that on a page and make it be at all legitimate? And who do I think I am, anyway?

            I can’t separate them because they were always enmeshed for me. She took me to my first gay bar, and she showed me around Boystown, and she introduced me to the man who would later write the best book on Chicago gay history. And so many other things. I went to my first International Mister Leather with her, which was held in a swanky hotel just off Michigan Avenue. I went to my first Pride Parade with her. And her girlfriend, the one she broke up with me for. But that’s lesbian culture for you. She was my first kiss, my first love, and my first broken heart. And I grieve her still.

            That’s the other problem, every time I try to write about gay Chicago, it turns into something about her, whether a poem, a blog, or a novel that I will completely love while I’m writing it but hate immediately once it’s finished. I think I have a problem. I also keep telling myself that someday I WILL write a book about her, whether fiction or non that I will be happy with and will be able to release to the world. But I probably won’t. Maybe she’s best left to the realms of poetry. At least there I’m not bound to reality, just the truth.

            The problem is that she was such an awesome person that I want others to know of her, know about her, know she existed and what she meant to me. She is my Nora Barnacle, and she is in everything I write. You can call her Joker. In fact, she would insist on it.

It Started Small: A tale of emotional abuse

It started small. It started with the placement of the bathroom rug. He (at that time he wasn’t using that pronoun, but pronoun usage is retroactive) used to mildly complain that I had replaced the bathroom rug incorrectly after my shower. When I went in to see what he was talking about I noticed that the rug wasn’t in perfect alignment with the stool and the shower and had started to bunch up in places. It was either a simple mistake on my part or something the cats could have done. Either way, it was my mistake and I needed to fix it. I would invariably do so, thinking he was overreacting a bit over something so small, but I otherwise thought nothing of it.

It wasn’t the first time I had seen him lose his temper over nothing, but those times had been directed at his family, and I figured I didn’t know enough about his past to be troubled by it. Maybe there was some bad history between them that had facilitated his anger, and therefore nothing for me to worry about. After all, we had a great relationship. I had taken to calling him (based on a 90s cartoon character) Katy Kaboom when he got like this. It was a way to push it aside and make it seem like nothing.

That is, until the winter months of 2010. We had been together 2.5 years at that time, married (though not legally) since the previous summer. We had just bought a house together and were sharing it with a friend of mine. My ex’s anger against me started slow, with that rug. As his bursts of anger became more frequent, I realized, much as I hate to admit this, that I was glad our roommate was there. Because it was to him my ex directed most of his anger. The roommate became the fall guy, the one who my ex found fault with everything he did. Please understand, I was not aware, at that time, of being culpable in the abuse of our roommate. Eventually, the roommate had enough and moved out just under a year after we moved into the house. This left us in dire straights financially, as we were dependent on his income to help make ends meet.

Not long after the roommate moved out my ex lost his job. He had been in line for another one, but had bad-mouthed his current employer during the interview and they decided they didn’t want to take the risk of hiring him. He had already put in his resignation and felt too humiliated to ask for his job back. With bills mounting (many of them related to household repairs we were still paying on) I began to donate plasma to supplement my income, as I was the only one working.

We went through two more roommates, both of whom also got tired of my ex, before we lost the house in August 2012. No more roommates, it was just us, living on my student loan money (during this time I had gone back to school), plus food stamps, plasma money, and whatever I could get from foodbanks. I went to several of them. He, meanwhile, was not working, was going to school online, and made no money. He was also getting angrier.

Our fighting began to increase. He now yelled at me for nothing, and I was slowly but surely starting to hate him. The yelling matches would last hours, with him screaming in my face, calling me names, telling me I was worthless, that I was ruining his life. Why did this one start? Because I had brought him a fork instead of a spoon. Or I said something that he didn’t understand, so he accused me of using my intelligence against him. Or any number of infinitesimal reasons. We lived in an apartment, and I know the neighbors heard us. We were loud. Yes, I said “we”. Sometimes, I yelled back. Other times, I stayed stoic as long as I could, until I realized there was nothing I could do, and that was frustrating, so I cried while he screamed at me for three hours straight. Then, when the screaming was over and he was calm again, he spoke for at least another hour trying to make me see the error of my ways and made me apologize. I would agree with whatever he said just to get it over with.

Not one time did I believe anything he said of me. Not one time did it sink in that maybe he was right, and I was the reason his life hadn’t gone as planned. All his screaming ever did was solidify and strengthen my hatred for him. That has not gone away.

We ended our relationship on May 1st, 2016, but we continued to share the apartment because of financial reasons, thinking that we could make it as roommates. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment, so I moved out of our shared room. After enduring the last six years of screaming, I had found how powerful it was to simply be able to walk away and close a door between us, a door he never tried to breech. Because the fighting continued, but now I felt no obligation to endure it.

We officially parted ways the weekend before Trump was elected. He moved out of the apartment and in with his parents. A situation I knew wasn’t going to be ideal for him, but he was no longer my problem. I moved in with a friend in Illinois. It’s the same place I live now after going back to Oklahoma for a year and COVID made it impossible to keep my apartment. While I was in Oklahoma this last time, I saw him one time. It was cordial, but not a day I wanted to repeat.

He left me with a small pile of debt, which I have since paid off, a bad credit rating, which I’m working on, a bankruptcy, which won’t fall off until September of 2022, and some residual emotional scars that probably have psychological names that haven’t been diagnosed yet.

It started small, as it always does. It ended even smaller.

It Takes One to Know One: My journey from fear of erasure to acceptance of my own nonbinary identity

I have been an out and proud member of the LGBT+ community for nearly twenty-four years. When I came out in the 90s the community was still entrenched in the butch/femme dynamic wars. The androgyny wave that swept in with second-wave feminism, wherein butch lesbians were pushed to the side and marginalized, made to feel that if they didn’t change their ways they were as bad as heterosexual men, i.e. oppressors of women, hit lesbians full force. Some butches decided to transition, feeling safer hiding behind testosterone, than walking the streets as misunderstood butch women loving women. While others kept on and forged ahead, doing their best to get along in a world that no longer seemed to want them. Then, when the 90s hit somehow, unbeknownst to me (I was in high school at the time and not paying attention) butches were back and they had femme girlfriends who loved them and they were visibly sexy on the covers of magazines (i.e. k.d lang on the cover of Rolling Stone with Cindy Crawford) and in music videos (anything Melissa Etheridge) and eventually in tv shows (Queer as Folk and The L Word). It was now safe to be butch in the streets again. It was even sexy. What it wasn’t cool to do…have a butch girlfriend if you were butch. The hetero dynamic was once again in place, and lesbians who veered off the path (unless they were both femmes) were seen as the other.

This was bad luck for me, as being a butch attracted to other butches, however, I did eventually get a girlfriend. While those around us treated us well, there still wasn’t representation about our type of coupling anywhere to be seen. And trust me, I looked for it. I looked for it in movies and I looked for it in novels and short story erotica. The latter was the only place I really found that representation. This would go a long way in later years to determine the types of stories I would write. I wanted to see more representation of people like me. Since I couldn’t find it, I decided to write it.

That being said, this was the environment I “grew up” in. What can I say? Marginalization breeds contempt. That’s not an excuse, but it is the reality. Trans rights were still in their infancy in the 90s. The gay community, as a whole, were more focused on AIDS research and marriage equality, job stability and striking down antiquated sodomy laws. So, the trans community was pushed aside to start a movement on their own. When they did start to stand up and be counted and have their voices heard, many in the lesbian community took umbrage. I can’t speak for how the femmes felt or why they felt it, as that was not my experience, but I can say that many of us butches felt that we were once again being pushed to the side. That our way of being queer was going to soon be passe. I have written about this academically before and referred to it as “the fear of erasure,” because that’s what it was. The fear of being irrelevant, forgotten, thrown away. The thought that we must assimilate or be left behind, and that eventually there would be no more butches left. This was how I, along with many others, felt for quite some time. Many still feel this way. I’m glad to say that this is no longer a fear I suffer from. I don’t say that proudly, as it’s nothing to be proud of. But rather, shame-facedly for ever feeling like that in the first place.

My change of heart? mind? spirt? was simple: in 2005 or so, the person I was dating at the time (for three years at that point) told me they wanted to transition to male. I was surprised, as it seemed to come up sudden like, but upon reflection, it made since for who I knew him to be. I accepted this news and we stayed together for another two years. What finally broke us up was something completely different and was not related to his transness. During those two years, however, while he was taking the steps he needed to feel at home in his body, I was reading, I was meeting trans people. He would hand me books to read and introduce me to friends of his from the trans community. I got to know them and heard their stories, realized that they weren’t the other to be feared.

My next relationship followed a similar trajectory: a few years in, my spouse made the same announcement as my ex and suddenly I had to learn a new word: husband. I now had a husband instead of a wife. By this time, however, my process was shorter, thanks to what I had learned, about myself, as well as trans folks, in my previous relationship. By then I was counselling the girlfriends of other young trans guys, telling them that their feelings were valid and telling the young trans guys not to get lost in themselves during this process of transition, to take her feelings into consideration. But also, that they can both get through it if they try. When asked how I had been able to come to terms so easily, I told them that it wasn’t so easy, that it took time, and it took learning more about transgenderism and talking to more transgender people.

Cut to five years later. Despite my stubbornness and occasional reluctance to adapt, I had finally admitted that I fit into the category of “nonbinary”. I had always felt this way, that I didn’t fit into the parameters of male or female, but I just did the best with the F because that was my legal gender and I also knew I wasn’t male. It was just easier for practical purposes. Being able to finally accept, to find a term that defined me, was very liberating. Along with this new identity, I also realized that it was okay to say I had never liked my given name, that it forced a gender upon me by its very connotations that I never asked for, never approved of, and never wanted. I didn’t have to keep it; I could change it. Finally, one day in the Fall of 2019, I decided to tell the world that I now wanted to be known as Samuel, though my best friend replied, “I’m going to call you Sam,” and thus I became and thus I am. Though, I would still like it if someone would call me Samuel.

My point in writing all this self-confession is a simple one: people can change. We can have some pretty backward, messed up ways of thinking, but once we educate ourselves on the things we don’t know and bring in the human factor, we expand ourselves and open ourselves up to wonderful people and things. It takes time, it doesn’t happen overnight. Don’t expect immediate change from your loved ones, or any change in some cases. But it’s possible, anything’s possible.

New Author Page

Just wanted to announce that I have created a new author page on Facebook for all books that I publish under Sam McAuliff. I’ll make sure to still update here, but it might be easier to keep up with announcements on Facebook. For you and for me. Either way, I’m happy no matter where you might seek me out, and I hope you read something you enjoy today. 🙂

The Dragonfly House, reviewed

Here’s a great review of The Dragonfly House from The Lesbian Review. Check it out!

The Kindle ebook of my new book is up for pre-order right now on Amazon, the paperback will be up soon.

Announcement:

My new book, The Dragonfly House is up for preorder on Amazon right now! Yes, I said, right now! Go get yourself a copy. Buy someone else a copy. Tell your friends. 🙂