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Recreations for a Girl’s Beard #1: A Communiqué
This morning I awoke with certain excitement.
Adelaide: You are not getting the best of me today, beard!
Beard: Ho hum!
Opting to head straight to work, I sauntered across the room to my computer without first running to the bathroom for my usual morning routine of dull razor against persistent facial hair.
Adelaide: Yea, keep growing. It will only ensure your doom!
Beard: Ho hum!
Little did beard know that I had procured, via impulse buy, a box of hair removal wax whose specialty was course stubble. How did I not think of this before? Lasers are so passé (huh), I mean I need to honour my do-it-yourself spirit.
I enlisted my roommate to help and they soon called down the stairs for me. Shortly thereafter I came a running the small pot of wax in hand.
To melt wax: Fill a shallow pan half with water and bring to a slow boil with the smaller wax pot in the middle. When the wax reaches a honey like consistency turn off heat and bring the whole pan near your hair removal station (in my case the kitchen) carefully. When wax hardens, repeat.
At first, I tried applying the wax on my own but submitted to the help of my roommate after the wax strings dripped and pulled like taffy on my fingers. They spread the wax on my face, mimicking the model on the box.
Adelaide: OK, beard this is it. This is where we part. (at least for a short while).
Beard: Ho hum!
The rip I expected to be painful, I wanted it to be painful. I wanted to see the small strip of wax covered in skin and blood and a forest of hairs, the roots dangling helplessly to and fro, my beard no longer but a collection of follicles. Bastard follicles.
Instead, the wax collected a nice mold of my pours and left a refreshing and artificial scent that would be called sea breeze (or such).
Now beard is not the gloating type, as previously mentioned they are persistent, a genetic trait I also bear. Long after my roommate had taken off for other activities I sat applying wax to my face, sitting in the kitchen, desperate.
And all the while, I cooked lunch, and here is what I made:
Sweet Potato and Mushroom Stir Fry with Red Lentil Gravy over Brown Rice
And here is how you make it:
Begin to prepare brown rice (you can figure this out).
Cut up sweet potatoes (thinly), mushrooms, garlic, kale or whatever you got.
Fill a pan with a layer of oil and put on a medium heat. Add the sweet potatoes. Stir frequently.
Adelaide: Oh Yes! I got a few hairs on my chin.
In another pot, boil the red lentils with water and a dash of salt to a two to one ratio or less if you care to add a bit of soy or nut milk later. Stir every couple minutes.
Once the sweet potatoes seem mostly done add the mushrooms and garlic. At this point I like to add some cayenne and a bit of salt as well.
Adelaide: This is not working for my upper lip. Why is that?
The red lentils cook fairly quickly and they will soon boil down into a thick stew. Now the question is: How do you like your gravy? For me, I add a bit of soy or nut milk here to make it creamy along with a quarter cup of nutritional yeast and a couple dashes of basil then salt and pepper to taste.
The sweet potatoes and other veggies should be pretty sizzling. I enjoy my kale not over cooked, so turn off the heat and add the kale, letting the steam do the work.
Adelaide: Maybe I will just do my eyebrows and bikini line. Not in the kitchen.
On a plate throw down your rice and your stir-fry and slop gravy all over it: There is your damn wonderful meal.
Beard: Ho hum!
By the end I had collected about 15 hairs from my face (roots and all) amidst the larger pile of wax and made a delicious/ nutritious meal.
When defeated and ashamed it is best to eat lunch by yourself in your room after having freshly shaven your sweaty, fresh smelling face with a dull razor.
Fin.
The following is a piece I wrote when the trial of Angie Zapata’s murder was first commencing. Recently, Allen Andrade was found guilty of first degree murder and sentenced to life without parole.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/23/us/23transgend.html
Did anyone ever call me it?
This is the question that crosses through my head as I search through the interactions that I let roll off me, or perhaps through me. Yes, someone certainly has called me it before.
When you become an object you inherently become an it: an unnatural piece of the surroundings; curtains that do not match the sofa so you light them ablaze.
It was what Angie Zapata’s murderer referred to her as. She was murdered last August when a man who she met on the internet discovered she was a transsexual. He murdered her and called her it.
The media did not call her it, just made implications. They told her birth name and birth assigned gender and did not validate the murder, but did not invalidate it. They never said it was an invitation, but they never said it was not her fault. This made her an object, a confused-looking vase in the corner no one quite knew how to feel about.
The fact I am a performer dressed all in yellow, acting as a statue is not the most significant aspect of my being, just the most obvious. When people sneak close, eyes poised for any movement, a blink or a breath, they take in more than they bargained for. This yellow statue is quite androgynous. Everyone seems to notice in their own distinct ways, for the most part the whimsy is not spoiled. Yet, there are the moments where arguments break out, a college boy making passes at me, a religious fanatic condemns me by reading the bible to me for an hour, and I am examined for body hair. This performance was not intended to be so challenging or, daresay, political.
Any unique body tends to attract such attention though, like a shiny new toy or a car crash.
No, the mainstream’s media did not blame Angie Zapata for her own murder unless you cared to read between the lines. Bringing up her past, deliberately using the wrong pronouns, and other actions taken to undermine her female identity mark her as a deceiver. When you question whether or not this was a hate crime, you are questioning the victims validity. This is the cycle that allow an it to be created, manifested in the imagination of normal.
Myself as a statue was a reversal of my usual interactions with people around gender. I am called it and other name under breathes instead of to my face. People search for clues out of peripheral vision as opposed to inches from skin. It is clear that I am a performer from the start when painted yellow, but I am not painted transgender and this is not a performance. It is assumed to be so it often becomes one.
Normalcy is defined as much: by what it is not as opposed to what it is.
This is why people feel entitled to examine my androgynous body whether performing on the streets or going about my day in public. Becoming the gaudy ceramic elephant in the room that eyes can not seem to turn away from. And this sparks discomfort and fear that leads to being taunted, threatened, and followed. And while I never intentionally set myself among their objects, they will barge their way into body, a battering ram.
And he called her it.
portrait of Angie Zapata painted in public the week of Transgender Remembrance Day 2008 along with the portraits of other transpeople murdered in the past year.
Modern Day Pinnochio at Midway Cafe Boston
A Stick and a Stone at the Albany Free School
Adelaide Windsome @ Red Emma’s
Thanks to everyone who helped spread the word and came out our shows across the Northeast.
You can more photos here: http://www.flickr.com/photo/29638148@N04/
I must say, it is a special time to traverse the Northeast when the landscape is slowly being over taken with green and all the creatures start to venture out of their homes.
On the other end of this spectrum, if you missed our show and still desperately want to see us, well then there are a few options now:
Did you know that the Tranny Roadshow will be touring the Northeast in under a week? Gasp! www.trannyroadshow.com
You can keep a close eye on Trans-Genre.net for videos and recordings of our performances, including interviews and secret cover songs.
A Stick and a Stone and Adelaide Windsome will be touring again in the fall and praticularly looking for performances at colleges and universities (though not exclusively). For booking contact: haberdasherium@gmail.com
