Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Why transgender and transracial is not the same or please don't ask me serious questions at bedtime.

The other night as The Boy and I were laying in bed cue sexy music, he turned to look at me as if to say „I love you more than anything else and I promise to do all the dishes in our new apartment“ and yet what he actually said went something like this: If being transgender is socially acceptable, why isn't being transracial accepted? Because it's the same thing if gender and race are constructs.

I can only assume that this sentence was either due to a spontaneous and quickly-remified speech impediment and that he will actually be in charge of dish washing in our new place, or a sly torture attempt to ruin any chances I had at getting a good night's sleep. I'm going to assume the former – but it has played on my mind since then and so I will answer his question as best I can.

Because white people.


Ok maybe that wasn't a complete answer– but that is what it comes down to. Now I know some people are going to get up in arms over this and just trust me, I will explain myself – just let me get to that.

First up: Transracial has traditionally been used to describe children whose race doesn't align with that of their adoptive parents. however– which is to the Oxford or Cambridge dictionary as WebMD is to a doctor – defines it as „involving or between two or more racial groups.“ So, depending how strictly we view race and how far you are willing to look back: Almost everyone could count themselves as transracial by that definition.

However, that didn't answer our question. In order to explain why transgender and transracial are not the same thing to The Boy, I used basic feminist (oooh the F word!) theory, as did he: Gender and race are constructs. What he forgot to add is that a construct needs a central point, something to compare everything to. For gender – men are this central point and women, transgender people and people who don't identify with any particular gender are therefore 'the others.' For race, white people make up this central point, meaning anyone that is less than white cannot be considered white.

Enough theory for today!

So let's put this into perspective with some examples from both sides of the argument:
  1. Children born to parents of two different racial backgrounds will never be considered white even if one of their parents is and they identify as such. Obama is an excellent example of this. He was raised by his two white grandparents and white mother and had little contact to his Kenyan father – and yet his main claim to fame in years to come will probably be as the first black president.
  2. On the other hand, many children of native people all throughout the world were stolen from their homes during the 19th and 20th centuries in order to re-educate and raise them in an anglicized environment – in other words – to make them white. But this didn't actually make them white, these children would not grow up to be recognised by society as white, even if they personally saw themselves that way.
  3. Michael Jackson: Vitiligo (a disease which causes skin depigmentation) and dangerous amount of surgery or not, Michael Jackson was never considered white, even when he was so pale he made my foundation look like bronzer.

And yet Rachel Dolezal (Google her) only had to get a fake tan and a perm to be accepted as black, which comes back to my point about white people. Transracialism as The Boy believes to exist, is a one-way street. White people can choose to identify with their immigrant forefathers at any time and yet maintain their privileges (Ooh the P word!) but people of any other skin colour or race cannot gain white privileges even if they identify as white. What Rachel Dolezal did is not being transracial. It is being racially manipulative and using her privilege to deceive people. She didn't grow up being black and share their experiences, she could (have) wipe(d) off the fake tan at any moment and go(ne) back to her life as a white American woman and yet she chose to be black, or possibly she truly felt black, but the point is that whilst the privilege of choosing a race was afforded to her as a white person, it is not afforded to people of other races.

Transgender is aligning your gender identity (rather than your assigned gender) with your outer appearance and behaviour among other things. Options for transitioning vary according to country and culture but in countries currently more accepting of transgender people we see people from diverse racial backgrounds transitioning. It is a two-way street, not a fair street admittedly, one side definitely has a lot more traffic lights and road blocks – but at least there are two lanes.

Transracialism doesn't offer that, if race is measured by a group's differentiation from the central point then everything is measured by whiteness. White people are therefore the default that get to choose where 'the others' land on their manufactured scale. When white people have this privileged position of choosing who goes where, they can also choose where they want to go - but when the others don't get the same opportunity (which they don't), then it is not this utopian idea of transracialism where you go to a build-a-race workshop and pick out what works best for you as an individual being compared to transgenderism, but rather white people identifying as whatever they want, no matter how tenuous the link (I'm looking at you 14th generation American Irish people!) and yet forcing their own racial views and identities onto 'the others' and this cannot be compared to the transgender movement.

Like I said, white people.

Hope all is well.

Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Hotdogs - Life's reward for surviving IKEA

You know what's not fun? Furniture shopping. Two words that strike fear into the heart of any man, woman or child who has ever entered the misleadingly friendly-looking doors of their local IKEA.

Furniture shopping is awful. Everything about it, from deciding how much you want to spend, to being disappointed that 200€ won't cover six chairs, let alone a table that doesn't pose a health risk is a nightmare. I feel my skin crawl just thinking about how many more visits The Boy and I will have to make to various hell h
oles before our new apartment is fully furnished. I don't know what it is about furniture stores that press all my murder buttons, but as soon as I walk in that door and The Boy says „what should we look at first?“ I want to bring up every petty, little thing that he does or has done wrong over the course of our three-year relationship and (verbally) skewer him for it. I'm sure this is a natural response seeing as IKEA is a well-known relationship killer and the hotdogs are only available at the end of the shopping trip (probably as an incentive not to rip each other to pieces until the end) and I can see why it tests relationships. I thought furniture shopping would be fun or possibly romantic, picking out the couch we'll watch TV on, looking at the cutlery I may or may not use to stab him if he doesn't let me get the mattress I want, but it's not. You constantly realise that the other person wants to put ugly, useless things in your home. For instance: I do not need a coffee table, a coffee table is only there to stub your toes on and collect junk mail, beyond that it has absolutely no purpose. The Boy however, needs a coffee table. I tried to explain to him that the floor holds drinks just as well as a toe killer, but he requires one and I, being the awesome girlfriend I am, compromised – all I need is for it to have a drawer to store the toes I will inevitably lose to the table's sharp corners in. But The Boy doesn't want a drawer, he also doesn't want glass and needs it to be a certain height – knee height, so I can kiss my knee caps goodbye as well. I said it has to be higher - he said lower, I liked an oval-shaped one – he wants a rectangular table, I specified a certain colour - he wants a different colour, and so on and so forth until I lay on what was almost certainly the designated break-up couch, howling about how I regret signing the lease and watching him kick the drawers of a coffee table I can't have because it has drawers.

This is what furniture stores do to people. You know why the restaurant in IKEA is in the middle of the trip? It's so you can take time to apologise for all the awful things you have said and done, before you say and do a few more awful things on the way to the hotdog point. Everyone warns you that furniture shopping is awful but no one says why. It's not just because you have different tastes, it's not because it is a lot of money and stress and a big life change. It's because it is so banal that if it weren't for the soap opera, you would realise that you are spending precious minutes of your life deciding whether to get a 20l bin or go for the 30l. That, mixed with the rage chemicals they spray on you as you enter those misleadingly friendly-looking doors is the ultimate test of a relationship. The hotdog point is the reward (also where they give you the antidote for the rage chemicals – never skip the hotdog).

Luckily, we now have the internet and we can buy everything our home needs without ever setting foot in a furniture store. At first, The Boy suggested we go in and look at the stuff before we order it, but he has since come around. The less time you spend standing in a furniture store wondering whether you should get the blue bath mat or the brown one the better, because ultimately – you just want to live together - and that can't happen if you are forced to abandon your partner before the hotdog finish line in order to get the blue bath mat that you both know will go better with your decor.

Hope all is well.

Sunday, March 8, 2015

Who's your mama?

As I am writing this, it is still International Women's Day. A lot of people won't know this, won't care or possibly both...if you belong to either of the latter categories, I advise you to stop reading.

I am a feminist, an international dirty word. I have never understood the anti-feminist movement. How can someone proudly and  publicly declare that they are against equality? Sure, most of them say they are against if that were the aim of feminism. The rest question why it is called feminism, when it calls for gender equality. "Why isn't is called humanism?"  you'll hear people ask. And you know why? Because women are still paid less, because one woman a week dies (in Australia alone) due to domestic violence, because in 31 US states, rapists have access to the children they father through rape. Those are just three reasons feminism is called feminism and not humanism - because if women were even close to equality, there wouldn't be such disgust at them asking for it. 

The other day, I went out with a single girlfriend of mine. She was chatting up guys and having a great time - at one point, a guy who was super into her asked his friend to chat me up, so that I'd stop looking like a fish out of water. It was a karaoke bar, like all classy establishments are on weekdays, and girls were belting out Taylor Swift's Shake it off - so naturally he asked me if I was a fan. Ok, not naturally - I was bopping along and singing too... #noregrets. So he asked me if I was a fan and I said "Of course, who doesn't love a girl who is obsessed with cats and comes out as a feminist  after admitting she'd been mislead by what the movement stood for for so long?" 

Cue eyes glazing over.

The answer? People who are allergic to cats.

Why do people get so up in arms about feminism? Do you feel this way about the civil rights movement? About LGBT rights? What is so strange about a woman not wanting to be harassed by drunk men in cars as she walks home alone at night? About her wanting to be paid the same as the men she works with? About her wanting to be able to choose whether she becomes an astronaut, a housewife, an engineer, a nurse, a lawyer, an actress - without a stigma? What's weird about men expecting the same thing? - How many male nurse jokes are made? How many men don't want their wives to be bringing in the bacon, for fear of being emasculated? And how many people really care whether a job is performed by a man or a woman? And seriously: Why do men slow the car down, cat-call or wolf-whistle and run - what was achieved by doing that? 

Enough questions yet?

In the words of the great Ice Cube "you better check yo self before you wreck yo self" ( ).. Ask yourself why you feel this way, ask where your feelings stem from and whether or not you could be wrong. 

I'll leave you to your pondering, and I promise not to get so serious on you next time.

Just remember that International Women's Day is a time to celebrate the achievements of women now and throughout history, achievements that are just as great as those of their male counterparts - so why not be equal in actions as well as words - then maybe we can discuss this humanism name change... 

Hope all is well.

Friday, February 13, 2015

If photosynthesis is good enough for them, it's good enough for me.

Can we talk semantics for a moment?

Real. Just as I dislike the incorrect use of the word 'literally', I strongly disapprove of the incorrect use of the word 'real'. Let me paint you a picture:

All over the world, places like New York and Melbourne are currently being hijacked by paleo-proud, green smoothie drinking hipsters and health nuts alike. I have no problem with people wanting to be healthy - all power to you - but do you have to tell Every. Single. Person. About. It? I know you see avocado and spinach as being superfoods, that will somehow magically help you grow a unicorn horn and defeat Voldemort, but does that really mean that you have to blend them together with every other healthy food you can get your cave man hands on? I mean, I like cucumber, but I don't put it in my tea every morning just for a vitamin boost. Also, the paleo diet? I understand that the cave men had it hard, only eating mammoths when they could take one down and otherwise having to eat berries and whatever else they could find for nourishment. Thankfully, we are now lucky enough to have supermarkets - and evolution has done its job, so that our bodies can now digest a smorgasbord of delicious treats – do we really have to deny evolution everything it has worked so hard to achieve?
Whilst I'm at it, let's discuss treats. Not every food needs to be a treat. It doesn't need to be you being naughty/cheeky or some other terribly misused adjective. It is food: put it in your mouth, chew and swallow - and then be grateful that the food was available to you in the first place. I don't need to hear about its protein contents, or about how much green tea you drink a day to keep your metabolism as speedy as the little mouse Gonzalez. Eat and remember, it has not been that long since our own forefathers endured subsistence living and if that doesn't bring it home to you – maybe you need to volunteer your time and smoothies to someone for whom food is not just a treat.

Back to semantics: Real. The Oxford dictionary describes 'real' as being: Actually existing as a thing or occurring in fact; not imagined or supposed. So following this clearly defined linguistic blueprint, we can safely assume that any form of movement, edible substance and human condition is, in fact – 'real'. Real exercise, real food and real life (respectively). In fact, putting the adjective (or in some cases adverb) 'real' in front of things, that already existed before you added an unnecessary describing word to them, is more likely to make people question whether you just escaped the Matrix, than make them want to change their lifestyle. Harping on about how amazing all those real superfoods are, just makes people think you really need a cheeseburger and telling people to get real - to jump into real life? I must have missed my own birth there, silly me, let me just hop to it then!

I am not advocating junk food for breakfast, lunch and tea of course, or any particular diet/exercise regime for that matter - even if I did finish off last night's schnitzel for brekky. In spite of my own opinions, I do not intend to get in anyone's way. So go ahead, blend those chia seeds into every meal, suck down a questionably coloured smoothie and pay your respects to your neanderthal ancestors.

Just don't tell me about it.

Hope all is well.

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Don't be a Douchebag.

Ok so I need to write something on a slightly serious note - if only to get my feelings out so that I can get back to studying.

I study in Germany, and whilst it is difficult to keep up sometimes and incredibly frustrating that I can't express myself as succinctly as I would be able to in English, I still manage. But I can't describe the frustration I feel when people tell me how "cute" my German is - as if I were a 7 year-old at a dance recital or something - or worse, they repeat what I said, trying to copy my accent. I specifically have problems pronouncing 'R' and I feel a certain sense of shame when I have to repeat a word several times before anyone seems to understand what I am trying to say. I know that no one means to offend me and that it is really just my pride getting to me, but none the less I have this to say:

I fully believe that foreigners should learn the language of any country they choose to move to. It's a sign of respect and will also make their lives a lot easier. But by the same token, their host nation needs to respect how difficult it is to learn a new language, how terrible it is to have to wonder if the person you are talking to is understanding anything you are saying or how frustrating it is to know you're making mistakes all over the place, but knowing you have to bash through anyway in the hope of achieving fluidity if not complete fluency. Native speakers of all languages (I'm not singling Germans or English-speakers out here) need to put themselves in the foreigner's shoes - which I can assume most people should be able to do - after all, Europeans are forced to learn English at school and we in Australia are also required to learn a foreign language. I'm not saying that you can't have a giggle if someone asks for "Nasenpapier" because they don't know the word for tissue, or when they directly translate something which has a completely different connotation/meaning in your language ('gib mir Fuenf' is high five in German - not 'I need another five minutes'), but consider how embarrassed and uncomfortable they are probably feeling and how much effort they are going to in order to learn your language.

I still feel embarrassed every time that I have to speak German, it certainly doesn't stop me speaking it, or from learning other languages, but it does make my pride scream for mercy. I don't intend for you to read this as a 'Giorgia's pride got hurt and now she's ranting' kind of thing, but by all means take it as that if you will. To be honest, I think my pride has well and truly been swallowed by now, but if nothing else just do me a favour - think before you call anyone cute.

Hope all is well.

Sunday, November 17, 2013

Passions - urgh, the word makes my skin crawl.

I study history and slavistic - which is basically a mix of slavic languages, things that happened in the past and extremely limited job opportunities in the future. I love history though. I've loved it ever since I picked up my first Horrible histories book and have secretly wanted to study it ever since I saw Ms Grenache desperately trying to talk people into taking history as an elective rather than choosing sports science like everyone was planning, she had a powerpoint and I could name every historical figure and date on it - it was then I decided my olympic shotput career was going to have to be put on hold: History was calling. I love learning about things that happened 100 years ago that have since been completely forgotten by all but a few - a few who have then decided to dedicate their careers to studying some obscure event most have never heard of - let alone care to learn about...but mostly I like history because I'm good at it. I remember dates and I have a knack for boring people with obscure facts that they could really have survived without.

But I had other hobbies (I'd say 'passions' but it's inaccurate and it's one of those words (like 'moist') that makes my skin crawl) growing up, mostly I've dumped them to allow time for drinking and spending far too much time on trains, but at least I tried.

1. I used to do tap, jazz and ballet. I know it's hard to imagine that this talented dancer took lessons for around 8 years - but I did. Mostly mum bribed me into going to dance class with horse riding lessons and shiny swarovski things - she had to - I hated the costumes, the teachers, the other girls and most of all I hated dancing. I was rubbish at it too, I can't think of a single time I was in the front row - and considering I was always the shortest.... Krystal and I set the dance room on fire once. Well, almost - sparks were flying. Some irresponsible adult left frayed electrical cords dangling right next to a socket...what were two seven year olds supposed to do? Lose out on an opportunity to cause fireworks and possibly cancel dance class? Never. So I dared Krystal to shove the cords in the socket and she did...the lights went out and sprayed sparks everywhere - our teacher made a strangled squeal and rushed us al out of the room - success! Krystal's parents later asked her if she'd jumped off a cliff because I told her to - answer? Probably, but only if it meant Ms. Lombardo would have to give up on ballet lessons for the week and send us all home early (she sent Krys and I away with the dance school's first ever strike - "strike two and you're out!") Luckily, my electrical safety skills have greatly improved since then - my dance skills however - have not.

2. I played the violin for a while. I sounded like I was strangling a cat for about six months there - but in the two years that I played I'd like to think I got better - then I switched to the trumpet for a week, then to the oboe, then back to the violin before settling for singing because well, my friends were doing it and I was not immune to peer pressure.

3. Singing. I was much better at that. Although how good is difficult to say: I once got a last minute audition with the Australian youth opera - sounds more impressive than it was. I forgot to put in a request for an audition because I thought they were open and I only got one by default when another girl cancelled - shows my dedication really. I learned my song that day, wandered into the waiting room and immediately realised I was out of my depth. I was surrounded by prissy, pretentious prima donnas practising their scales. I kind of coughed a bit, prayed for the best and waddled into the audition room trying to look prim. Unfortunately I was so concentrated on trying not to look like a lost child in a school uniform among a sea of girls in formal dresses with their hair and makeup done, that I forgot to sing. Luckily, the old dude running the auditions forgave me and let me mess up the song a further three times before he started to interview me. He asked me my name, I asked him his - the whole audition board laughed hysterically...that old guy? Richard Gill - Head of Opera Australia. My bad. He then asked me about my favourite operas and singers - I'd never seen an opera and my knowledge of opera singers was limited to Pavarotti - and by that I mean I knew his name...So I told the truth. I told him that I didn't listen to opera and I didn't really plan on starting. I told him that I was listening to the Presets and System of a down on the way to the audition and that I really liked Rise Against's new album. Needless to say, he was a little confused.

Somehow I didn't get into the youth opera...probably for the best.

Hope all is well.

Thursday, November 14, 2013

Life's necessities.

Pascal and I have been together for over a year now, the honeymoon period is over and we are beginning to notice some of each other's stranger habits. The list of Pascal's weirdness goes on and  on: he is the CatMan. Cats love him in a sick and unnatural way - even Bubba who is quite possibly the hatiest kitty ever throws himself at him. Pascal eats like a machine and always keeps a periodic table on him - Then there's his chest hair: it's Batman-symbol shaped - he's extremely proud of that... but for now, he'd like me to focus on my oddities - so here they are:

1. I must sleep with my ears covered. I'm not quite sure why, I assume it's because growing up, I was a little obsessesed with this short-lived TV show "Animorphs," ( ) where a bunch of teenagers met some friendly aliens (for no apparent reason) and were given superpowers which allowed them to transform into any animal that they focussed upon. These powers then helped them save the world from the evil aliens who'd put mind-control slugs into people's ears whilst they slept...icky right? So now, 14 years later I still think about that at night and have to keep my ears hidden between pillows, doona and hair. Pascal thinks it's amusing to uncover my ears whilst I sleep, therefore leaving me vulnerable to alien slug attack. Ass.

2. I am still afraid of the dark. So much so that I double check my closet is tightly shut at night and run to my bed once the lights are off in order to hide under the doona for a bit (till I think the coast is clear). I'd say this is embarrassing but it could be worse. I cried in front of a bunch of ten-year olds last year at Christmas because I was cold. Sure I was 18 at the time and was wearing four pairs of thermal socks and two whole ski suits over one another (I looked like Frosty the snowman) - but my toes were sore from the cold and those kids looked far too hardy to be 10...I regret nothing.

3. Anything that is to be eaten with a spoon will be done so with a teaspoon. I don't like big spoons. They're plotting something. Just like people who don't drink and those who prefer riding a bike to walking/catching a bus.

4. There is nothing creepier than the intro to EA Games - the one where it's all a bit too quiet and then some horrible voodoo group chant EA GAMES before a hellish voice comes out of nowhere and whispers "Challenge everything." ( ) It's the stuff of nightmares I swear. I used to turn on my playstation and then leave the room until I felt the intro had passed - in fact I still leave the room if I feel there is any risk of hearing that...

There's more but I feel I've written enough about myself for today. So I'll leave you with a completely inaccurate joke:

How many redheads does it take to change a lightbulb?
None. They prefer to sit in the dark.

As long as that dark isn't infested with monsters, mind-control slugs or gamers.

Hope all is well.