Trans/Autism

I might be gay for autism, y’all—for realz.

I’ve had an interest in the subject of autism for about as long as it’s been part of my knowledge bank. I’ve questioned at times whether I might have autism myself, however high functioning, or not, I might appear. Many of the symptoms of autism, ADHD, PTSD and bipolar disorder (I’ve been diagnosed with the last two) can blend into one when a person is trying to self diagnose. Interestingly, I’ve never had a doctor take seriously any question I’ve had about autism. I wonder if it’s because I’m Black. Like all Black people are assumed by many physicians to have high blood pressure: maybe there’s a bias in the medical profession that Black people can’t be autistic. It wouldn’t surprise me. I’ll save the inherent racism in the medical industrial complex for another post.

I recently had a date with a person who divulged their autism to me. By that point in the conversation it did not come as a surprise. It was becoming so common among significant partners of mine. I’ll honor people’s privacy and not count out the names. It’s a lot. Here was another. I waited until we were done and I asked this person was anything about me that would be attractive to people who have autism? He answered me.

“Most cis-women laugh in my face.” The answer came flat. It made me angry. This person—cis-man, likely Native American—was beautiful by my estimate. I believed them and it didn’t even surprise me (what’s that about). The scene it evoked was pretty revolting that someone had elected that response to anyone. It was . Their teeth were asymmetrical. It was cute. We talked about his dating history for a while and then we talked about Tarot and animal spirits.

I recognize, as the common denominator, it’s more likely that I’m the one who is somehow attracted to certain characteristics and there’s possibly a way of behaving I might simply be associating with autistic. I’m conflicted in it coming up as a subject. It’s emerging as a pattern. The one person I questioned had a prepared answer. I start making connections. Had he really just said trans girls were easier? It’s fraught with problems. I wasn’t, fortunately, the first to consider it. Searching the internet, I found a number of interesting articles and related content. A YouTube creator with autism listed reasons they believed someone might find their autism, and the behaviors that go with it, attractive.

I’m not gonna summarize what others have said. My evidence is enough to keep me curious. What it boils down to for me is how does this person engage with my body, which includes the thoughts and words my body produces. How does the person get consent, even in the heat of passions? I’m interested in attention to detail. I want clear communication. People with autism often make a study of human interaction as a matter of survival. It should have been expected between rounds one and two (people with autism can be particularly obsessive around what interest them) when my partner so politely asked, “May I finger you some more?” Before plunging back in.

—Notorious Pink

Insult to Independence

This Independence Day is an insult, y’all — for realz!

So, you got a day off. In the system of wage labor we live in, here in the USA, a day without what we call work, is reason enough to celebrate. I get it’s a traditional day of outdoor gathering and food binging. With so many of my friends—including one who is a neuroscientist—experiencing food insecurity, the gluttony of yet another holiday is ever more triggering. It feels like exaggerating until I open my own refrigerator and see that it is not. Like many Americans, I’ll be choosing from among expenses for travel, family, food, healthcare, utilities and housing costs. Not all of those will be paid.

I don’t feel free. I feel engaged in a struggle for freedom. I think about the State attacks on my body—direct attacks veiled as protecting people. I imagine the various political teams huddled like the high school football team, congratulating themselves on having flexed their political muscle. I don’t imagine the specifics of these wins matter at all to them. I don’t back these teams I am losing patience with those who back these teams and oppose others as if any of this garbage is meaningful.

This July 4th, I am going to reflect on my experience as a US citizen who has been the target of violence in, and by my own country. Under that consistency of violent action, I’ve been advised that the best way to change the system is to participate. Those bits of wisdom land on me like [TRIGGER WARNING] as if I were a rape victim, under the attack, screaming for assistance. and being told I have to follow the process. The idea of stopping my attacker never seems to rate as the right way to protest.

We Americans (US citizens) must be a contemptible bunch of people that we are held in such low regard by our trusted servants. That’s the real conversation. How have we earned the contempt that makes our well-being so low a priority, and what is being prioritized instead? I’ve lost track of what any of this being part of a society, being part of a nation, is even about. I need a crash course im what The United States of America stands for. I need a reset.

I know I’m not free. I know I am in danger. My Blackness placed my liberty in question. Being trans limits my freedom. I won’t curse America, or judge those who choose to celebrate the country today. I won’t join you. I won’t wave flags. I will be silent for the parade. I may harness that gathering spirit and host friends. It will be more of a wake. I’m waiting for requiems to the day that will resonate. You will not see flesh on my grill. I hope I find some peace today. I’m all out of patriotism.

—Notorious Pink

Dick Pic Apologist

Sometimes, putting up with d*cks is just part of it, y’all—for realz!

I’ve tapped my roots in erotica (having published several erotic stories in the 90’s) and now I’m making erotic content which I ultimately post on social media with a content warning. Some people would just call it pornography. I’d label myself an exhibitionist, and you’d likely agree. I’m okay with the labels people need to use, it allows me to defy their expectations and, hopefully, liberate the labeler from their own limited thinking. I share it here as the backdrop of a story that might have occurred in any arena, but the story centers around an erect penis and could benefit from some context.

I get hit up a fair amount by people who want to make content with me. Most of the time, they are looking for an excuse to chat about sex with false pretense. I’ll certainly checkout their profile and if I like what I see we can have a conversation. It will usually go to some video platform and sometimes an in-person meet over coffee. It’s usually obvious if it’s gonna happen. When it works, I can get a few posts out of a single collaboration. It means, though, I get a lot of pictures sent of people’s body parts, mostly phalluses.

A guy hits me up. He offers praise on my content (a recent post had topped 3K views in about a week). I’m susceptible to flattery and [TRIGGER WARNING] I’m a slut. It turned out they were local, so I wanted to see what they had on offer. I asked them to share their feed, and they said “No.” Then they added they were trying to get with me sexually, in language that would get this post flagged. I sent back an interrogation mark. He sends a video clip near angle of his massive tool, brandishing. I had to squint from the glare. I complained how many erect penises I review daily, and how they all start to blur. I came close to lecturing.

He responded, and rightfully, that I’d asked to see their stuff. I had. As tedious as it is, I signed up for looking at people’s jewels. I certainly subject the world to mine. I established a space of body positivity and here I was judging his body, however isolated the part. I had intentionally body shamed this person, even though I feel my reaction was justified. Still it’s a human being and I don’t know his story. I don’t know what it took for that person to make and send a video. That might have been his best interpretation of what he thought I wanted. I have doubts, but I don’t know and it’s a little arrogant of me to be setting expectations on people without their permission.

I apologized and sent what I hope were clear instructions.

I’m gonna save the preachy stuff and say that offering the apology made me feel like the Goddess I am—it makes me feel good. It fills me with a sense of grace. I get taller than my near seven feet. I walk away in gratitude. I may have even paved the road for something worthwhile, or even lifted someone else with a touch of my own humility. I still don’t like disembodied penises in my inbox. I have the right to have boundaries and to respect them even when I can’t articulate why, when it comes to what I want and/or allow in my space. It has me lifted, in addition to seeing my own work to be done.

— Notorious Pink

Youth Pride, Inc.

LGBTQ+ youth are under attack, y’all — for realz!

I’m not even gonna bother into the depths of the wrongness of ongoing attacks on all sides, strategically divided along women’s issues, race issues, LGBTQ issues, always targeting the vulnerable. They make bodily attacks—relegating certain bodies to public domain, expressing those bodies as dangers to the public and otherwise of concern. Abortion is framed as a murder. Being queer is conflated with criminal child abuse. Too dark skin justifies self defense. The latest and sickening new strategy is to codify LGBTQ+ (period) as a matter unsuitable for children.

I’m not going in. If you care, you already know. If you didn’t care, you would have stopped reading at sentence one. If I’m wrong, make a note to look up “Don’t Say Gay” laws. I’m gonna use this week’s soap box to plug a group that is doing the work alongside queer youth of all ilk and their allies in Rhode Island. Youth Pride, Inc., a 501(c)3 based in Providence, is dedicated to meeting the unique needs of youth and young adults impacted by sexual orientation and gender identity/expression while working to end the homophobic and transphobic environments in which they live, work, and play.

Pre-COVID, I MC’d a benefit for Youth Pride. It was held in a local, family-run bar/restaurant. The place was all the ambiance of an Irish pub, furnished surplus from a pizza joint. Maybe you had to see it. It wasn’t a dive, but sure not fancy. The benefit was attended mostly by the regular clientele. Most people didn’t know it was even a benefit and a fair number among the folks were watching whatever game was on. A few were even rowdy, likely already drunk. Put plainly, I had low expectations.

The director of the organization showed up and that meant a lot to me. People often generously offer to “throw a benefit” and inadvertently make more work for the organization they are trying to support. It showed dedication on their, the director’s, part. I asked what they intended to raise and got a shrug. They didn’t know these people any better than me. I used my role as MC, putting it to the crowd—this crowd of mostly strangers—how much they thought we could raise.

The first to pipe up was the mother of a trans youth who was a regular at the center.

“Five Thousand Dollars!” She yelled in her heavy New England accent. The reaction in the room made it very clear that this was a pipe dream and the group decided to aim much lower. I had totes brushed that mother off and I regretted it.

On the next song (it was Karaoke), I said sorry to her and the group for underestimating them. That mother’s child, and her by extension, valued Youth Pride, Inc. at five K. Who was I to naysay?

We raised six thousand.

I’m returning to the Fountain Street Grill (that’s the name of the place) in Pawtucket, RI, for another chance to support Youth Pride, Inc. This year I’d like to see them raise even more. Please check out their donation link and help make their week.

— Notorious Pink

• Update post benefit. We raised another 3K.

Master and Slave Goddess?

This Goddess aspired to be a slave, y’all — for realz!

I should have prolly started this one with a trigger warning. That’s some charged ass language to be hurling at people in a western context. Even if one is to make exceptional the chattel slavery practiced in the United States, which rendered humans as subhuman property, slavery is generally a raw deal and certainly not an aspiration. Historically slavery has not been a favored position, which begs questioning the presence of the Master/slave dynamic in forms playful to violently coercive that still exists, appearing in many guises. It’s a challenge to discuss slavery as a form of kink—a way to ring one’s bell with the help of a willing Master. If you can stomach that, proceed.

Over the past few years, I’ve entertained several people’s offers to be Master to me as their slave. I will note as curious considering context that all were male identified and White-passing. I leant each of them enough time to hear their pitch and (usually) discover they were findoms (people who extort money as a form of kink, sometimes using blackmail). The findom sub (the finsub?) gives money to the Dom(me) as tribute. The sub quite often elects to be in that role, though a Dom(me) may bullly or threaten the sub without consent. I got threatened by a spurned Master to blow up my life if I didn’t pay up. I was all, “Been there, done that!” I’ve deprived posterity the opportunity to reveal its revenge porn on this Goddess.

When I met Master Prime on OKCupid it felt different. I didn’t even realize he was a Dom, even though the name should have given it away. right away I just thought kink-friendly. He was pretty transparent though, so I had an idea pretty quick. He came on so black velvet charming. He’s a dark-skinned athletic tall cis male with a bass thick and deep as tar. He was sympathetic when I complained of other Masters demanding money. He didn’t ask me to sign-up for any platforms (a hassle usually demanded as proof of commitment). He was also on FetLife. He seemed genuine enough. He seemed a potential fit and I gave him a shot. Within an hour he knew pretty much all there was to know about me, including where I lived. Within 24 hours, I’d made the first of many tribute payments, and continued tithing to the tune of let’s say an amount for which I felt financial impact. See my Patreon.

I’m an addict. It’s a lifelong process if recovery, and I understand that about myself. I gamble on people by allowing them across my boundaries (which likely is a way in which I am crossing theirs). I get off on relinquishing my power. I’m a Goddess, for heaven sakes. I’m only now, in my fifties, stepping into my near seven feet of feminine power, yet find myself aroused by my Master sending me “good slave.” I am thrilled (and thrill-seeking is a common activity for me) at the idea of being compelled. Lavishing this Black man with servitude, and elevating him defied a history of Black debasement. It was re-dignifying for shame my father and brothers lived. Ego tripping, I make him a Titan (if I’m a Goddess, he’d have to be, right?) Loving of Master Prime as a one-women George Floyd protestation. There certainly was a resemblance. I wonder if anyone else thinks their love can do that.

Two months after giving myself to Master Prime, I came to my senses and broke it off, secure enough that the person would respect my position. That might have been foolishness on my part. I don’t feel exactly disappointed by the experience. Master Prime communicated by video and I have the collection as keep sakes. He did keep up much of his end by challenging me as a sub. I did feel urged past my soft limits (even though it crossed hard boundaries). We never had a face to face session together, but talked on the phone, and left many sexy recorded messages. I was ordered to check in daily to regale my Master with sexual escapades, for which I was rewarded with praise and promises. It was cute being slave goddess pink, other than he couldn’t keep out my pocketbook.

Now, I’m putting out a call to serious applicants only. I’m letting go of Master in preference for a regular Dom(me). Any Ds out there? Get in my DMs!

— Notorious Pink

Good For Nothing Sex

Good at sex ain’t all good for nothing, y’all — for realz!

I’m trying but just not there yet. I know dismantling sex phobia, body shame and Puritan “values” is crucial work. It doesn’t liberate me from these ills. I’ve released explicit content in a social self-immolation, protesting the very fear I experience in the act itself. I hate being afraid of my body—of what can befall me if/when my body is presented against unwritten but explicit rules of conduct. At every turn I’m reminded that my body is a traitor—certainly an affront. This is not to be confused with being un attractive. A body can be found attractive and still be despised. This trans girl’s been the target of that contradiction many times.

Sex is an integral part of my life, as others have hobbies, past times, favorite shows, all kinds of ways to indulge themselves. Sex is a healthy and inexpensive way to stay active and raise my heart rate. It’s social. It’s connection. It’s adult play. I get that there’s nothing inherently wrong with sex. It just doesn’t seem to garner much respect, for something so many people have in common. There are plenty of awards for people who are good at sex, but they don’t become household names. People who engage in sex for a living are outlawed. In the few industries where open sexuality are legal, the material and access are relegated to stigmatized spaces in undesirable locations, and that’s if you can find them.

I have internalized messaging that says being good at sex is a no value proposition. I imagine it an insult to insinuate someone’s only talent might lay in the area of sex and things sensual. People known for the sexuality are controversial. Women known primarily for their sexuality are sluts. It’s a joke to consider a young person wanting to grow up to be on the pole. Condescendingly that child would be told “I’m sure you’re worth more than that.

We know sex is power. We envy people we think of as naturally having sex appeal, but only when it’s a bonus. You better be good at something else. One reason sex is good for nothing is that one cannot earn a living being good at sex (not legally in most places), so sex can’t be valuable if it doesn’t put food on the table (legally). Of course that it’s illegal means that those who would even try to make an occupation of sex must do it under dangerous circumstances. Sure, a few sex workers demand high fees, but that is a matter of their access to people with disposable income and the cost will never be more than the client in that case is willing to pay.

I’m calling bullshit. Being good at sex is a great talent to have. Anyone who has had the experience of a capable lover, knows that it is a skill that is to be much honored. I certainly have come to understand that if I want to have a satisfying time in bed (or in the park), I have to choose a lover who has put in the time to understand how different bodies work and to learn to listen deeply to what their partners’ bodies might be telling them. I also know that sex is more enjoyable when I bring my own experience, care, intuition, stamina and all the skills I’ve learned over a lifetime of serious sex (sex with a commitment to mutual satisfaction). It’s not bragging, since I won’t be getting any awards. In the current climate my sexual prowess is more likely to get me ostracized, than congratulated. Still, I am proud of it.

—Notorious Pink

How To Tuck My Six

The struggle around how to tuck my six (er eight) is fact, y’all — for realz!

This is about my penis, so if that bothers you or requires a trigger warning, you may have to miss this one, ‘cause it is all about the lower-case “d” in my panties. There’s tucking involved, but this is way more about the attention, frustration, and general usage of the genitals I was born with—genitals that have led to much confusion, however way more delight. I struggle to talk about my dick. I struggle about what to call it. Is it really a dick, or is it something else now that the Spiro (Spironolactone , the testosterone blocker I take twice daily) has made it basically a giant clitoris, serving no function but to bring me pleasure from correct stimulation. I was taught my “pee-pee” was a “boy’s” thing. Other boys were willing to see past my Weiner dog, pretending I was girl friend in the bushes (or the bathroom or the closet). It’s been a mixed bag. As I consider the possibility of having it removed, I weigh the past pros and cons of having a penis.

My penis does feel very good. The sensitive cluster of nerves are a turbo boost to my arousal. Since HRT (hormone replacement therapy), I’ve experienced increased sensitivity, especially the underside, close to the tip. I don’t always want it handled by other people. Sometimes, I prefer to keep the touching of my magic stick to myself. I want my lower privates touched precisely and gently. I want them touched like a flower, not like a club. I’ve had some concern I’d lose that fun feeling in my reformed “wee-wee” after genital reconstruction (a vaginoplasty). I don’t fear that anymore. I have faith my surgeon will do their best to make sure to give me a vagina that works as expected. For my own pleasure alone, it’s either a wash—both options will feel good—or benefits line up in favor of a vagina for the gender affirming impact.

The idea of castration being affirming runs counter to non-binary theory. Women have penises. I know this because I am one of them. It shouldn’t matter that I don’t have a vagina. I could opt to work internally through therapy or other psychological approach, to embrace my dick. I might even succeed. That exercise doesn’t sound nearly as fun as looking down and having what I see between my legs tell a more traditional story—one that requires much less explanation. The body is not an apology and requires no explanation. Requests come along with accompanying interrogation , and fielding all of that is emotional labor I’d be relieved to put down (or try).

Most of the men—I sleep with a lot of people, I’m a proud slut—but the men, for the most part, identify as straight, while at the same time expressing a preference for putting my penis in their mouths, or other opening of theirs. It’s a popular meme these days—men who want to be “pegged” or have the urge to suck trans girl fore-genitalia. These men would be disappointed, or surely less engaged, if I lost that extra something . I myself have developed a taste for play with Dom tops who coax me into a pegging session where I get to pound them. I would miss that kind of sexual novelty as a girl with one.

It’s not all about the sex. My gender is barely linked to who I like to have sex with. Even fantasizing about sex with a woman, I envision a woman (me) engaged intimately with another woman (usually with me in the sub role). One of my current relationships is with a trans femme. I don’t “play man” when I’m with her/xe, nor does ze express a desire for me to do so. The sex is important. I’m not certain I’m ready to surgically correct for sexual gratification alone, but I am tempted to auction off first crack at penetrating my brand new snatch to the highest bidder. That’d be a boss f-ing move. It’ll probably cover the cost of the procedure.

—Notorious Pink

The Whore Babbles On

Me being a slut ain’t for your entertainment, y’all — for realz!

I’m launching a lean startup of a brothel business idea I’ve been brewing in my cauldron. From dusk until dawn (DM for details) my home will become a house of “ill-repute.” It will be a minimum viable production of something that will likely be a sex workers cooperative. People who know my background in worker cooperative development in NYC, know I’m serious and know that I am capable of making it work. I may even walk patrons and would be working sluts through a clothing optional business model canvas as a kind of focus group exercise. Free hand pleasuring for all participants. I sure AF know I’ll make a great Madam.

This seeming fascination and deep dive I have been taking into the sexual realm has a lot of people dizzy wondering what happened to that smiling, loving, Disney character that used to raise a ruckus about all things social justice. I’m out there with nude photos and video clips of myself engaged in graphic sexual acts. Now, I’m talking about running a whore house. You’d think I didn’t get enough attention.  You’d think perhaps at some point modesty would kick in and I’d start “behaving” a number of people have questioned my morals and even more have questioned my sanity.

I have to be a slut. In a world where someone is sexually assaulted and questioned on their choice of attire, I have to be a slut. In a world where people can be sexualized without their own  consent and without any recrimination for the person objectifying, me shaking my ass is a must. Where being naked is a crime, I need to walk tits and any other parts swinging free. To counter the body tyranny, sexual repression, and erasure of so many bodies (mostly black, brown and femme), I have to become a pornographer.

It terrifies me. I’m terrified at the idea I may lose the respect of my colleagues (though I feel nothing but support from those who choose to share feedback). The thought I won’t be able to support young people because my identity makes me unfit for children (and if that seems an exaggeration visit my NSFW twitter and see how much content has been labeled sensitive. Sex is a dangerous topic. Acknowledging oneself as a sexual being is a radical act. Demonstrating one’s sexuality explicitly in public or revealing one’s genitalia is considered indecent exposure. Collecting money for the use of one’s body in a sexual manner is a crime.

Sex is bad. Our bodies are bad. Our thoughts and urges are bad. The Only accepted manifestation of sexuality is what can be purchased at the mall, and only if it has the correct label. It’s ridiculous how such an essential part of our humanity (perhaps the most essential aspect of our humanity) is treated as such a taboo. I was right there to shake my head when Vanessa William’s nude photos lost her the Miss America title. I was outraged by the Presidents semen on that interns blue dress. When the Madonna Sex book dropped, I thought “what a ho!”

Today, I understand that my body is the last frontier and that my body is up for grabs. Please make the connection between any embarrassment you experience, or confusion about open sexuality and the chipping away of liberties. There can only be the overturning of Roe v Wade in a society that believes she should have kept her legs closed. Black bodies can be shot and killed by the police because they are the bodies of out of control savages and are best kept as property and in cages. Trans and other LGBTQ+ folks don’t deserve rights because they engage in abominable acts of depravity. FU is so common a way to tell someone to drop dead. Our own sexuality has been weaponized against us.

So, yes, I am a slut and I will use my body in ways that shock and offend. While those troubled feelings are stirring, ask yourself, when did your body become the enemy?

—Notorious Pink

More Thoughts on Berlin, May 2022

A Berlín 10 vs a US I don’t even know, y’all — for realz!

I take responsibility for putting off a lot of sexual energy. It’s me. Add cleavage and you get a perfect storm of visual impact on the Straßes of West Berlin. People were very direct. I got kissed a lot. There was tongue involved.There were uncompromising moments when a goddess learned a few new things her body can do. I received some said instruction at the hands of an accomplished musician who paid great attention to detail. If I hadn’t considered bottom surgery before, I consider it now.

It wasn’t all being a sex pot either. Berlin seemed thoroughly impressed with your girl. I imagine James Baldwin getting such a response (romantic and otherwise) when he was in Paris. Reading his novel “Another Country” awakened so much in me when I first read it in my twenties. I get why Nina Simone, Josephine Baker, James B., and other Black figures became and continue to become ex-pats. I don’t know if I was experiencing a positive reaction, or simply failing to detect familiar energies of racism and oppression of the flavor ever-present living in the US. It is not that I do not feel seen in the US. I am under constant surveillance.

I’m conflicted. I felt abroad that my work was embraced both on its merit (the workshop received a standing ovation), but also somehow as an achievement in spite of opposition to my existence. I mean, like people took for granted that life is a struggle for people like me and honor that I am thriving in spite of living in a constant ideological war zone with grave material effects. The festival provided space where my existence went unquestioned. It may have just been the novelty of new place, but I felt like Berlin got me. However I presented myself, I felt I blended in to a background of individuals who had opted to do this human thing a little differently. That’s in many ways the history of this city where even the Nazis came to let their hair down (or at least where the presence of the Nazis did not put a damper on the free expression that Berlin was able to maintain.

Do I need to join the ranks of so many of my idols who came before and leave the US in order to find out who the hell Notorious Pink really is? Do I get to come back to the country of my birth once I have figured these things out? My fear is that once I left, I might never return to the United States. The USA is a pretty toxic place to live these days if you’re a woman or trans person who wants agency over their own body. Maybe the message the powers that be are sending is “go away, we don’t want you here.” I’m imagining a country of nothing but straight cis white men and the people who serve them. The rest of us may have to disperse.

I look forward to being back in Berlin. I’d need more than a week to get a reasonable sense of the place—perhaps a year. Berlin is intoxicating, but drugs lose their potency and reality slips in. I’d also benefit from time out of Berlin, seeing parts of Germany where me all dolled up might not be as warmly received. The rose color of the place might very well fade, and I could discover Berlin as an oasis in the midst of as repressive a society as the one I’m living in currently. Repressive to me at least. People who live in the United States free of dread on a day-to-day wondering when it will be against the law to be who they are, are lucky and privileged and I envy you. Others should be so lucky. Yeah, Berlin is looking real good.

— Notorious Pink

Blame the Homeless

It’s gotta be the fault of homeless people, y’all—for realz!

I get a similar knee-jerk reaction when I see homeless people, or anyone I perceive as having failed to maintain a sustainable existence for themselves. As close as I’ve hovered to homelessness—likely due to a lifetime of undiagnosed mental illness—you’d think I knew better. If not for the fortune of having had access my whole life to resources that mitigate my outright ineptitude when it comes to managing my time, my health, my finances and relationships, it is very unlikely I’d be alive, much less the holder of a couple of fine arts degrees.

I jumped to judgement with an almost ferocity when I saw Kiki shuffling past me. I had heard them coming for several minutes. I recoiled from this person who showed signs of overexposure to the elements. When the dark-skinned being (perhaps of age thirty), reeking to me of destitution, tripped on a potted plant at the entrance of the coffee shop—The Red Hook on Agnes—and then entered abruptly, I was prepared for a scene about being injured and lawsuits.

I was still in judgement when Kiki came from the place holding a sixteen-ounce container of milk. I may have held my breath when the person started by me in the direction from which they had plodded. It was when Kiki sat on the bench directly across the pavement from the small metal table and chairs where I’d laid claim, that I defied my jerking knees and said “hello”. Kiki replied, pitched sweetly. Tuning into them even to greet open end me to the cuddly nature of this person on whom a flash before I’d been focusing hostility.

I learn Kiki was from Battle Creek, Michigan, the birthplace of Kellogg’s. Kiki’s mother had moved to Detroit to live with a boyfriend, and Kiki had followed. Within two years the home had been lost and Kiki had become a self-described homeless person. We talked: I shared about myself. We talked about the state of the world. Kiki was optimistic. The conversation felt like a blessing and I would categorize Kiki as a Goddess, probably of the ilk of Dhumavati, The one who teaches of the fleeting nature of material existence, but also helps us to recognize abundance and, ultimately teaches us that these are illusions.

Our conversation was interrupted by a female- and Black-presenting perdón who politely asked that Kiki please move down the street so as not to be so close to the cafe. The person balked at my suggestion they perhaps buy Kiki some food and then try their request. They balked at anything that might have required them to recognize Kiki as a human of agency, including confirming Kiki’s pronoun. The excuse the concerned person gave was that Kiki was bringing down property values and that Kiki made Black people look bad.

Kiki shared a belief that most people are good and that only a few loud busy disrupters make a mess of so much of life. I left Kiki to what way might be made, surviving as part of the same chain. The universe is holding us.

— Notorious Pink

Berlin, April 2022

Berlin is lit, y’all — for realz!

Berlin wasn’t on my bucket list, but when I found out I had an opportunity to go, my trans girl spider senses started tingling and I had to say yes. It was a scary prospect too, of course. It may have been my fear of going that sealed the deal. I refuse to be ruled by fear. With war ensuing, and despite alarming pandemic numbers in Germany, I put on my Sally Bowles heels and proceeded to the Stretch Festival, a three-Day gathering of gay, queer and trans folks on the spectrum from male to non-binary, offered three times a year by The Village Berlin, a community center serving the queer community.

Literal stretching of yoga and other movement practices joined participatory sessions on informed consent, defining gender, and ways to non-violently and sensually interact. I attended a very thoughtful workshop on kissing where dental dams were offered. A cuddle-puddle near the lunchroom was consistently occupied with bodies knitted to one another like adult nap time.

The festival party, which happened after day two, was a second-story flat. A huge kitchen served dance floor and cocktails by an outdoor terrace. I wore a silver halter jumpsuit, fed champagne in a coffee mug. I trolled the room for weed and marriage proposals. Only one of those requests was met. When the police raided (noise complaint), I was on a mattress, spooned before and behind by a dozen bodies, playing unicorn to a couple from Frankfurt. I’d locked myself from my rental and been offered a place to sleep. The raid cleared all but me and a sleeping Parisian.

The following day, with still no access to my Airbnb, I donned a black t-shirt borrowed from my host and an Indonesian scarf tied around my waist and headed unshoweted to Tanzfabrik for the final day of the festival and to give my workshop. I presented on gender/body oppression to a group of eighty lgbtqia+ folks, primarily trans, a third of whom identifying as non-cis. The same facilitators for whom I’d been swooning over two days taking their sessions, were also there, as they’d spent the previous days warning me they would. Everyone was generous. The session flew by. Goddess got a standing ovation. I’ll probably get asked back.

The implications of this big trans girl in the birthplace of the Nazi party (Germany, not Berlin…Berlin was even lit back then) were too much for one post. I’ll include more musings from Berlin next time.

—Notorious Pink

Trans Might Be Lethal

Being trans could be the death of me, y’all — for realz!

According to the urban legends I was raised on, me leaving my house, making it to my destination via public routes and arriving safely, is risky proposition. One would think life for a trans person were like a game of Frogger, where the non-conforming being must jump from safe base to shelter, dodging would-be assailants at every turn. Cis people: stop telling trans people how “worried” you are about them. Your chance to speak up on the matter was over the course of your life every time someone made a lgbtqiaplus-phobia comment that you let slide. It’s way too easy to worry about me while you quietly help to maintain the status quo.

The fact is, regardless of the danger I know I am in, the joy of living truthfully—fully—outweighs any potential threat. Living my life at the level alert some allies expect, would keep me shrouded in my house, curtains drawn and lights out. It’s as if I’d be warned to play down my Black cultural identity, my queerness, my height or any other aspect of myself that might make me a target. All that work is the work of society to change, not me. Certainly, I have to live in the world, but I can live in the world secure that the problem lies beyond my influence and not with me.

Of course I’m at risk. I stand out. Standing out is terrifying regardless the manner. I receive what might be categorized as unwanted attention. I get cat called. I get lewd remarks. These intrusions relate to my being this particular (tall) trans body. I got similar intrusions in the guise of a queer man. I got rudely propositioned regularly. Then it was done in whispers and under breath. The attention I get now happens out loud and in the open. At least now I’m in on it. Men and women talk about my body as a thing of consumption. At least now they are consuming (or seeking to) what I am packaging and marketing, as opposed to a product that I never was (a basketball player, an athlete, a stud, a threat).

Still, I get there are levels. My “performance” of female, though it flows as naturally for me as breathing, might be construed as reinforcing stereotypes of femininity that have oppressed women (and femmes). My power is my ability to wield myself as a means to fend for myself. I refuse to see it as a lessening, or a cheapening of who I am. I sure as sugar honey ice tea won’t de-claw myself or otherwise neutralize myself as a matter of security. That’s nonsense. Being a sexy out loud visible trans woman without the privilege of “passing” is mine to wield. If that’s a danger and/or a threat, so be it.

You Deduce Like a Little Girl!

A six year old girl May be smarter than all of y’all — for realz!

Juliet is the daughter of my downstairs neighbors. She likes hot wheels and the color pink. I’ve known her for easily half her life. She’s known me only as the tall person who sometimes appears at the entrance to her building when her dad is taking her to, or bringing her home from, school. I’m memorable to her, likely, as the tallest human she has ever seen in her short time on earth.

Juliet’s dad is mostly stay at home and I run into them often. It had been at least a year since I’d seen him last and likely only twice since the dawn of the pandemic. I couldn’t get mad when a brief conversation in which we made overtures to getting together soon ended with him misgendering me. He was being cute and calling me Mister Giant or something of the sort.

“That’s Miss Giant to you,” I replied without pause, but I don’t think he really heard me.

When we got the invite for drinks, I was hasty to accept. It required walking downstairs and knocking. They must have been as starved for guests as most people I encounter. It must be even harder for them to spend time with friends with a child to consider. Juliet is the curious age where being left alone can mean disaster. Visiting them felt like a good deed, even if it meant correcting them on my pronouns several times over the course of the evening.

The conversation, mostly about being a substitute teacher in public school, was interesting enough. Juliet’s parents were both nice enough and liberal enough that I didn’t feel tension. Her mom dead-named me and I gently corrected her. The conversation was suddenly turning to “How Many Trans People We Know” and I put a stop to it changing the subject. I got the sense that, although liberal, there was no real deep analysis of the various systems of oppression I see as the guiding force of our society. I felt real real radical in there.

I was relieved when Juliet grabbed my attention to show me the collection of toys she had brought to the coffee table where the adults sat snacking and sipping various wines.

“It’s a Hot Wheel!”

And it was indeed. She had a collection of the tiny cars and several other figures—a couple of trolls and two puzzle cubes. She held out the cube and asked if I wanted to try it. I accepted, thrilled to be engaged by this soul. I’m rusty with these puzzles, but remember being able to solve them as a kid. I went at the small box of revolving sides and soon had turned one of its ends solid red.

Juliet thrilled when I handed back the cube with my progress. She held it up to show her parents, who were engaged with my spouse in chat on a topic for which I was fine having missed. Her parents gave a halfhearted round of approvals and “good jobs.” Juliet drew the cube back and pointed at me with her free hand.

“She did it.” Juliet blurted my correct pronoun uninstructed as to my preference. She had put together a slew of context clues (my skirt, my hair, the pink hair tie) and found that evidence enough to be understood as a girl.

If a six year old can accept me as a woman, that makes her more sophisticated than 99 of a hundred adults I meet and with whom I interact daily, making one little girl a genius in my eyes, or those who can’t get it some other kind of ignorant. If you catch me telling someone “You deduce like a little girl!” You’ll know what I mean.

— Notorious Pink

Walk Like a Goddess

When I walk with Goddess energy, look out, y’all — for realz!

My hands are shaking as I write this morning from Seven Stars Bakery in the Federal Hill area of Providence, Rhode Island. Where matters. I’m on display. I’m wearing a figure-revealing sweater and I feel every curve of this thicc body undulating as I breathe trying to settle my nervous system. My pants would have once been considered tight. Clothing intended for men hide them most of the time. Clothing made for women put our bodies on trial.

Sometimes the Goddess insists on visibility. I evoke her constantly and open myself to what messages are encoded in my Goddess DNA. I am beautiful. Of all the admissions I can make, that one never loses its kick. Accepting the gift of beauty, physical, personality and abundance always feels like arrogance. I says it’s humility. Knowing I’m beautiful—utter acceptance that I cause a riot of excitement in people—prepares me to be of service.

It’s not even about me. I often say “I look like Tickle Me Elmo” and I have felt that way. Now I see a precocious little girl peeking back at me when I look in the mirror, when I allow her to look out the window of me, that is. The glimmer of beauty that emanates is the energy of the Goddess alive. To avoid sounding esoteric and mystical (not that those things are innately bad, just harder to swallow) I’ll be practical and say, my ancestors were beautiful people. They were resilient people. They were people who managed to retain their ability to love through hardship, violence and cruelty directed at them on a world scale. Who could survive the legacy of America and not be heroic?

My beauty serves the world. I am evidence that a being like me can move through the world and illicit joy. With every step and each person I meet the Goddess let’s me know the work is working. Hard-faced strangers enact kindness towards me. People I have never laid eyes upon, express gratitude for my existence. I’m a one-person real life We’re Here. My being makes it safe for other beings to follow and by the end of the day I am confident I have blazed a trail. I have tested the waters for trans safety (and when I walk I walk as trans, ain’t no hiding that sh*t), and determined that the water is getting closer to fine.

—Notorious Pink

You Don’t Care About Me

Y’all just don’t give a [bleep], and that’s amazing, y’all — for realz!

Swallow your kidneys, children. Goddess isn’t here to chastise, but to, instead, celebrate the community of people who are basically, y’all. If you’re reading this, it’s you. Even if you can’t stand my Black ass, and you are hate-reading this right now, it is you too. Get it clear, ‘cause knowing your complicity is essential in understanding what follows. You did this.

I have shown my ass for the last two years. Truly, I have. I carry not an ounce of animosity towards anyone who thinks of me—first for thinking of me—for thinking I’m come unhinged. I have come unhinged, but more in the sense of reimagining myself as having more options than simply to be hinged or not. I hope my work is more intentional than the ravings of an unstable person (I’ll do a story one day on life at 40mg of Fluoxetine). My motto has become, “Do you wanna know me, or do you wanna feel comfortable?” Knowing me is a boon, y’all, because this bitch is magick.

F*ck it! I walk around challenged AF about the work I have put out into the world. I insist on explicitly revealing myself as sexually relevant, engaged, and enthusiastic. It’s a process and it’s triggering. I work with people’s kids, for goddess sake. When I consider it, however, I’ve sent nude body parts to strangers who might use them to any purpose they might. I’m not concerned to the extent I think I’ll be ostracized or anything. I’m not afraid. It’s annoying to think of myself being categorized as fringe for bringing sex and sexual expression to the center. I hope people will give the work more thought than that. I refuse to be relegated to anyone’s Mammy, unless it’s part of a kink fantasy. Still, I guess I still want to consider myself mainstream, and I have to accept that I am not at all mainstream. I’m still in recovery after all.

The main idea—the takeaway [inside reference intended—it’s okay to feel some type of way] is that none of you care. I’m convinced of it and the evidence points to it as my reality. You just don’t give a good Goddess damn it all.

And that is amazing!

I’ve attracted a community around myself that refuses to be phased (in the negative sense of the term, meaning shocked) by me. I’m new to this intentional striving to follow my joy. I’m still waiting for someone to reveal this has all been a sting operation and the game is up—imposter syndrome. My PTSD flares and the FBI is breaking down my door. That happens to the innocent with sometimes fatal results. But, it ain’t happened to me yet (go figure) and I’m still amazed and grateful.

Apologies for the clickbait lead-in. I couldn’t have people not getting some praise today. Praise you and bless you and the Goddess watch over you. The safety, which I do put to test often, is essential for healing from trauma. Living in relative assurance that one is accepted, and under the protection of a stable community, is prerequisite of a well-functioning nervous system. To become, one has to trust that their environment will sustain them with relative assurance. Otherwise, we devolve. The goal is [r]evolution. Thanks for helping me find a new radical edge. Get on my stuff y’all — for realz.

—Notorious Pink

Sex is for Professionals

If you want something done right, y’all, hire a professional — for realz!

Pleasure activism has carried me into spaces most fear to tread. Sometimes, I’m discovering a guide is required to navigate certain landscapes both external and internalized. When it comes to my sexuality, my body is a field of emotional and psychological land mines. Though I possess a hefty sexual appetite, past traumas have left me often unable to distinguish between my own sexual urges and desires, and messages about myself and my body that were left behind by past abuse. I don’t know how to ask for what I want. My throat closes when a lover whispers a request. For most of my life, I have been “checked out” (in primitive “freeze” mode) during sex.

Stepping into alignment with my experienced gender, relieved much of my body shame. I’m happy with the tools nature gave me (with help from Henry Ford Hospital) for use in sexual encounters. What I still lack is the know-how to achieve the sexual pleasure that’s possible (and that I deserve). I know very well how to please a lover. I’m a fast learner, and an obedient sex partner. Most people like that. For my own pleasure, I fear asking for what I want, and I’m often out of tune with my body to perceive what feels good.

Enter Klyde, a ex-porn actor, now sex-Worker in New England. I’d had a particularly bad experience with a “stud” who had made many promises (over several weeks) regarding his ability to satisfy me. He never even got it up. Instead of sex, I helped him assemble his shattered ego, and put him out with “better luck next time.” Still, my body was ready, I was triggered, turned on, and suddenly on the hunt. I never seriously considered a hustler, even though I have several friends who regularly work with pros to get their rocks off. Talking to Klyde, learning what he did, and realizing that it would cost about the same as an expert mani/pedi, I gave up a trip to the salon to engage a professional intimacy partner.

We met just to talk. I paid him for his time at the outset, and was explicit I wasn’t expecting sex from him. I was curious about what went into being a person who engaged in sex for money (which in 2022 is still illegal in most places). He shared his CV and samples of his work. He shared a few personal details, was forthright, and projected a sense of a kind, principled person. He was courteous. He was friendly. His customer service game was strong. I was satisfied, ready to thank him and say goodnight when he requested a little head. I obliged.

Since meeting Klyde, I’ve had the most satisfying orgasms of my life. The kind I didn’t know possible. The first time he made me climax, it may as well have been my first ever. Klyde, has a preference for trans women. He didn’t need any instructions. He’s a pretty good coach, teaching me a trick or two of my own. He does great after care as well, sticking around long enough for me to reset myself. He’ll even do it again, if it’s within our agreed appointment timeframe. Mostly, I’m learning what I like, what I don’t, and how to communicate better with a partner.

I’m not suggesting everyone go out and hire a sex worker, even though we should have such a world where doing so didn’t come fraught with stigma and risk of an arrest. Being a 6’ 7” woman mitigates chances I’ll be assaulted by anyone. I do think everyone should get to choose the way the engage their own body, with whom and under what agreements. I know that’s idealistic of me, and that some will be appalled at my choice to pay for sex. Their loss.

—Notorious Pink

Danger: Cis-Men!

Men are dangerous, y’all — for realz!

Get mad, cis-guys. I don’t care about your egos at the moment. Screw your posturing. I’m talking to cis-men because it is all of you. If you were raised culturally as a man, you are an explosive device ready to go off at the second. It’s also an unstable contraption—this constructed masculinity—as its entire underlying framework and foundation are made out of air. It’s all shell and no substance. That’s not good when you’re fashioning a weapon (and, frankly, that is what we do—we weaponized men). I don’t blame men individually for being scarred by dominant social messaging that castrates emotional intelligence. Men are routinely conditioned to suppress any feeling that isn’t “manly.” We live in a society of fatal levels of misogyny, femme-phobia, and all-around terror of being queer. Unfortunately most of us are a little queer, walking among these land-mines—one of which I came close to detonating.

I’ve talked about the triggering attention I receive, as a trans woman, from cis-men who identify as straight (we gotta come up with a more appropriate term, as that one assumes hetero- as the norm and suggests that any other orientation is crooked). Some of these men know the ropes and Can discuss their sexual preferences plainly. It’s actually a thrill learning the secret language that men who are open to dating trans women use to maintain an affirming space, and kudos to the trans women out their who have been teaching these variety cis-men how to act right.

Other men are really curious and use their swipe right as a chance to encounter a real live trans girl. In many cases, I am the first trans woman a man has approached as a potential sex partner. Lucky for me, I am usually learning that in the first several messages on Tinder. I’ll explicitly ask them if they understand that I am a trans woman? They usually are aware. Then I ask if I am the first trans woman they have dated. The heads up is intended to avoid confusion (danger) later when pants come off and the truth comes out anyway. On one occasion, I’d failed to disclose as intended (people always know, right?). I also failed to check the person’s experience with trans people.

We agreed to meet at a hotel (never my home or theirs). When he arrived he was excited—normal, yet still triggering. He spoke loudly and quickly. He thought he knew more about me than he could possibly have known. I took it for nervous chatter, but as he went on I could see he was struggling. This self-described blue-collar cis-man from an empoverished household, found himself about to embark on a new venture and he was terrified of me. I can’t say how I knew, but I could sense it in the air between us. He was a tight moderate frame, and I was sure I could overpower him if it came to that—and like that I was strategizing how I would escape this man when (not if) he decided to blow. I saw how easily someone, with no intention of violence or harm, but aware of their own violent proclivities, as this person openly disclosed (a disclosure that would’ve been more helpful before making the appointment).

I managed to calm him. He went from being reactive(fight, flight or freeze mode) to being responsive. We agreed that sex was not a good idea and he left. I was fine with that. When a sub called later to come for a quick pickup session, I was not in the mood. I had learned a grave lesson and needed to sit with it. I slept instead. The sleep of the dead. Had I not been trained in mediation and armed with anti-oppression techniques and gifted with healing hands, you might be reading a different story—likely one written by someone else. This time I got off (or, in this case, did not get off) having been warned. I hope it helps someone else avoid the same mistake.

— Notorious Pink

The Pink Imposter

People don’t believe who I am, y’all — for realz!

Getting excepted as a woman has been way easier than I ever imagined. People are more progressive minded than I gave credit. I’m talking the average people. Gender aside, it appears the difficulty is in the rest of my identity—like all this beauty and sex appeal can’t go with all the brains, creativity and accomplishment. It’s not exactly frustrating. Individually, heaven bless them, these people (ones who question my credentials) don’t register more than a blip. The pattern is, however, absurd (which is not to be confused with funny).

“On Tinder you told me you were something else.”

The subject was Barry, whose name I remember because my partner, Goddex, has a 15-pound Maine Coon named Barry. Barry’s complaint was I’d given two answers across two platforms to the question of my vocation. I could not blame Barry for the limits of his experience, and for being convinced humans can only do one thing for a living. I offered Barry a link to my website which included my Curriculum Vitae.

“You should be honest with people about who you are!” His advice read to me as endearingly righteous. I started to explain and insist he look me up, then I came to my senses, deleted the text and unmatched with Barry from two different apps. Barry’s loss.

It wasn’t the first time.

I appreciate skepticism on these “dating” apps. People are sketchy, which is why I try to be fully transparent, with template answers to questions I get regularly as a crazy queer Black radical trans woman. These include, where are you from? (Yes, bitches be assuming I am a foreign national); How long have you been single? What meds do you take? Do you ever dress up? Are you really 6’ 7”? How long is your clit? The way my identity gets questioned is routine AF. I can say that objectively. Taken individually, these interrogations amount to little. The puzzle is whether these isolated events reflect real beliefs in the real world of people who wield power. How many potential employers have looked at me with that suspicion?

I get it, I’m a remarkable person, but on a world scale, my material accomplishments (things generally accepted as markers for success like wealth, notoriety, and body counts), are not that impressive. To people who don’t know me, or people outside of my network of industry, I’m not all that. To those people my height, or other externals denote celebrity. Mind you, these are people who want to eat me for lunch. I guess it’s unsettling for anybody when your food not only talks, but can do it in three languages (one you never even knew existed).

Is a Black trans woman who knows what she wants sexually, and dresses like a stripper, not also allowed to be a college professor? Can’t she travel internationally to speak at conferences and perform at festivals AND wanna have great sex? Can I be comfortable (and slutty) enough to film myself giving the most amazingly sloppy deep-throat BJ and then follow it up with a Tarot reading and political talk? Can I play “baby” to a Daddy, and then share my opinions on modern child rearing? Does my sexuality, in the moment I am being sexual, disqualify me from all my aspirations. Does Blackness? Does my existence as an endangered species (read the statistics for violence against trans women of color), mean I can’t live my life as an expression of joy, liberation and self-love?

I don’t experience much resistance to my being this 6’ 7” bombshell, who loves to make a fashion plate of herself. People enjoy my sexy walk, talk and presentation. I am definitely a Goddess in the bed room (or dungeon room). The resistance is when I am those things and then demand acknowledgment of my whole personhood. Being authentic, the invisible limits become all too clear, and the gilded cage proves its purpose. I choose to brave the cold. Maybe my IQ as moderately gifted is just way to much to swallow, even for the one with a mouthful of me.

— Notorious Pink

My Original “G” Spot

Finding my G spot at 55 is lit, y’all — for realz!

The G spot, formally Gräfenberg spot, is part of a whole clitoral network, of which the clitoris itself is the literal tip of a submerged “iceberg.” It’s touted as the key to a titanic orgasm if you, or a partner, can get hands (or mouth, or other penetrative object) on it. It was discovered by a lady doctor named Whipple. She found it the way many do—by accident and exploration. In spite of Dr. Whipple’s success, and the experiences of countless individuals, science and medicine still find the idea of a spot on a woman’s (or trans-masculine) body that is intended for her (their, hir, Judy’s, or his) pleasure.

I’ve talked about my non-dysphoria when it comes to my body vis-à-vis my gender alignment. Some find it odd to hear me say that, especially when I am taking steps to more traditionally “feminize” myself. In truth I have always had an issue with my face. I don’t like the effects testosterone has had on my face over the years. Body-wise, I kind of already had the boobs and have always felt very feminine in what I forwarded to the world as a “man’s” body. Once I started living as a woman, my body as-was, made a lot more sense than I ever experienced as a so-called man.

Still, nature managed one particular feat on me that had cause me a little stress, especially recently—I was born with a penis. I was born with a very desireable penis. I’m not bragging. I’m not particularly proud of it. I’ve never even measured it with any care that the information mattered. I’m speaking based on a lifetime of reviews. Regardless of how cavalierly I may touch on the subject (titter), I am a woman with a large member to steward. This bothered me.

“How big is your clit?”

When I got the question the first time, I assumed the guy (a straight man—most of the men who swipe me right are straight now days) was talking about my butt hole, and whether I could handle a substantial tool. It did not take long to figure out they were not talking about my anus, but were actually being physiologically accurate. As we all start as girls, and then some of us continue in metamorphosis with the internal clitoris eventually developing into the external penis, the dick is actually an overgrown (and outgrown) version of what is known as the female sex organ (which some refuse to believe exists).

It appears to be a thing among straight men who embrace trans women as women, and therefore a different sex than their own. I’m pretty blown away that such affirming language exist where chivalry once threw down its cape over the mud for ladies to walk over. Real talk: a lot of these men who pet name my genitalia to fit their cognitive resonance are pigs. They want to see a picture of it. They want to get “pegged” by it (pegging is sex where the assumed woman dons a strap-on dildo and penetrates the partner who is generally assumed male). In other words, these are straight men who like cock.

Regardless, there’s been something comforting about embracing this pound of flesh between my legs as an expression of uber-femininity. I like having a clitoris, even if it is the size of a Tall Slim. If everybody in the room can feel affirmed in their gender and orientation by making that little cognitive sign change, more power to everyone in the room. I wonder now most what my cis-female friends think about it, and if somehow this equates to genital blackface. I hope my long ass clit doesn’t offend anyone. Regardless, it seemed like the kind of experience of living out, and trans, that would be of both interest and potentially of use (especially if you are trying to get up under this Goddess’ skirts. Goddess starts with G.

— Notorious Pink

Decolonizing My Big Mouth

I am not close to decolonizing this big mouth of mine, y’all — for realz!

I don’t use the term woke about myself, nor others, frequently. There’s something self-congratulatory in it. Who told me I was woke enough to know who the flip was freaking woke? Do you get a certificate for it? Woke or not, my shit can drift far from on point. I flock things daily and maladies escape me, reminding me how hard it is to weed the mind’s internalized supremacies (not just White).

Reflecting on a class discussion, I mentioned perhaps breaking off to powwow in our groups about a number of items. As I went on, the room quieted. A student (I believe the only White-passing cis-male in the cohort) gently spoke up, informing me the group didn’t use that term as a casual reference to so sacred a Native American cultural tradition. It took a moment to register what was being said. I was blank and asked what term he meant.

“Powwow,” he repeated, almost in apology he bore the explanation.

I was mortified.

I’ve been called-in around that word many times. I study Ojibwe culture and the language. I fully understand the significance of powwow (niimi'idiwag in Aniishinaabe). It didn’t stop that word escaping my lips and falling flatly on wide-eyed MFAs, that included at least one Native American person. I was dumbfounded, but accepted what had transpired, aware I had to make immediate amends. I spew-sprayed words that felt like excuses, finally simplifying, “I’m sorry.”

I could have let it go, but it felt so wrong suddenly to even be before these brilliant eager young people who’d leant me space to instruct them. Just like that I was the student, I’d gotten a wrong answer, and my perfectionist reared and mocked me. My near seven-foot frame shrank to nothing.

My flavor mental illness registers small things (it was an innocent error) life-threatening disasters. I can actually handle disaster. (See recent posts on my mountain car accident). Still, I gotta wonder why that word won’t get out of my vocabulary. I see how it triggers. I resist. I resent I have to consider it. I resent ever being imprinted with it.

We collectively navigated that awkward moment (for me, Earthshaking), and ultimately, the group accomplished amazing work (We devised a 20-scene Cinderella in about twenty minutes with no one directing). They gave beautiful feedback. I felt I had been of service. Perhaps writing about it, will help me move beyond it. Maybe this is my version of White Girl Tears (which is also offensive). I’m gonna put my ego on ice and try this again next time.

— Notorious Pink