It’s two and a half years since I ended this blog. A lot has happened since – so much in fact, that I started a new one yesterday. New stuff, old stuff, the same old myself. Visit me there if you like!
Hope you’re all doing fine ❤
This is the last post in this blog.
When I started the blog in 2012, my life was totally different from today. I was starting to come to terms with my then newfound gender identity (or lack thereof), learning what it meant to be genderqueer or transgender in a society that denies the existence of other genders than the Two. I didn’t know I knew people who I knew would share my experience, and so, I had nobody to speak to about what it felt like, who could really know what I meant. So, I started to write about it, which turned out to be really, really good for me.
And gradually, things have changed. Today, meeting other non-binary people, gender doesn’t always have to be on the list. I’m finishing a master’s thesis about genderqueer people, and I’m starting out on another adventure, that of tackling the Trans Unit in order to reach… well, I don’t even know yet! But anyway, there’s loads and loads of thinking of gender in my life right now, so much, that writing about it in my free time just doesn’t feel as important anymore.
And as I sit in a comfy chair at therapy, finding out so much about myself that isn’t the way it seems to have been, my non-normative gender identity (usually) isn’t a problem to be solved any more. It’s a part of myself that I already know rather well, from having thought about it so much – and as such, it is (in its flowing, fluctuating way) a rather stable part of me, around which I can position my new findings about myself. For a change, it feels good to be genderqueer, and it feels good to be me.
Thank you, everybody, for reading and commenting, for the support and love. All the best,
The first tune that I heard on the radio this morning – and so, this year – was Toto’s Africa. In the heard-them-a thousand-times lyrics, there were three lines I think would be a perfect motto for this year.
Hoping to find some old forgotten words or ancient melodies
Studying music isn’t what I thought it would be. It turned out not to be (only) about learning to do what others have done before; this first autumn has, for me, been mostly about learning who I am. There’s a lot inside me that I haven’t known the value of, or even realized it’s there. My teachers have encouraged me to look not only to others, but also to myself for inspiration. The tradition of music, unaccompanied unison singing, that I’ve grown up in, is for my teachers not something to be a little ashamed of, or to put aside for to be able to learn “real” music. For them, that is what I already am, and so, there’s little need to become anything.
Like one of my teachers said one day, when you are inside the music, there is no evaluating, no better of worse choices. There’s really not even a choice – just a path leading deeper. Zen and the art of double bass?
I know that I must do what’s right
Growing up has meant, for me, trying to see other colors besides black and white. I’ve been forced to face my fear of losing my idealism and becoming too comfortable to want to change the world any more. But maybe the two aren’t mutually exclusive. If there isn’t a solid, definite “right” and “wrong” in the world, and everything depends on our what we value in life – why should it mean that we can’t work for a world that would be better in our eyes?
Maybe – really, maybe – admitting that all we can build on are values and not objective truths, will make us see that that’s what other people are doing too. If there’s no right and wrong, then there’s no good and evil. And that means there doesn’t have to be us and them. Even those people whose life choices I really can’t understand, they’re just people. Patriarchy would have us think that those people, they are our enemies. We can’t have that, if we want a better world.
Gonna take some time to do the things we never have
This new year’s day, I’m about to start a new life. It’s a life without the safety of knowing what a person will say and do in nearly any situation, because that person always works the same way.
That person is myself.
Last year, and the year before that, have been full of big, big changes in my life. That’s not about to end, even though it would be so much easier that way. But what’s different is that now I know there will be unexpected stuff coming to me, things I can’t, I really can’t prepare myself for. I’ve tried to hide from change. I’ve been like a child that tries to protect a sand castle from the waves when it’s really built too near the water. This year, instead of shouting angrily at the sea, I’ll try my best to enjoy the waves as they come.
I had my nose pierced recently. It was the first piercing I’ve had (excluding those on my earlobes), and I was a bit nervous beforehand.
But oh! What a feeling! In some inexplicable way, the tiny stud going through my skin above the left nostril made me feel more connected to my body than ever before. It was like an axle around which my (previously a little wobbly) self could start spinning. Something undeniably stable and safe.
Before this morning, I don’t remember the last time I cried. I mean, cried without a specific situation. I always cry at weddings and funerals. (And in April this year, I did cry one night, when I’d had two beers and sauna’d for hours, and there was somebody there that I trust.)
I cried from shock a few years ago, after a (not serious) car crash that the other party blamed on me, and I couldn’t say I knew it was their fault. I remember crying when I was maybe ten, it was in a school break, a child from a parallel class pushed me into a staircase railing so my teeth hit the iron. When I was eight, a new kid came to our class; during lunch, I had the habit of saying a little prayer before starting to eat. The new kid noticed it and said loudly, “So you’re some kind of believer?” And I knew I couldn’t pray in public any more, and after school, I may have cried, and I certainly stopped praying at all. I think I cried a lot as a kid, when I was lost or hurt. What happened then?
This and last year have been a time of my becoming aware of myself. Of gender things and sexuality things, and those are what this blog was to be about when I began it nearly a year ago. But also of weaknesses and limitations, of strengths, and of things that make me happy. This summer, I found that I couldn’t cry. I would get to a point where I wanted nothing more than to let go, but even when I thought of it, I pulled back. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t not control myself. It’s maybe two months since I realized this.
And, like so often, with becoming aware of the problem, the solution is already there. When I let myself admit it, the first step was taken. Not very long after, there started to be tears. Just a few, with no apparent reason. When I noticed them, I tried to loosen my control and still couldn’t.
When I first realized that it’s hard for me to let go, I started hoping for a storm of cleansing tears, like the climax of a film where the protagonist finally is freed from themself. I waited for it, tried to get my thoughts in a shape that could fit such a change… And while I was waiting, slowly, the tears fell, a couple of them at a time. One day, I found the corners of my mouth twitching downward, then staying there for minutes at a time; last week I sat on a bus on the way home looking like a sad smiley without knowing it, and that was good, I wouldn’t have dared to if I had. I had rediscovered an expression I had forgotten even existed.
On a discussion forum I read every now and then, there’s a quote in somebody’s signature: A water drop hollows a stone. I’d thought of it as a good reminder to work steadily at whatever I do. Now, I have another meaning for it.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll take my suitcase and my viola and head for the railway station, off to my summer holidays. The first week I’ll spend at a cabin on the seaside in Western Finland, together with my chosen family, just the three of us and the dog. On the second week, I’ve planned to go to my grandparent’s place, to pick the remaining blackcurrants and basically do nothing after that. At the beginning of the third week, I might turn on the phone again.
This is what I’ll try to leave home:
– my master’s thesis and anything to do with studying
– gender worries and saving the world
– most if not all “shoulds”, “oughts” and “coulds”
– perfectionism (which is why I’m taking the viola)
Instead of these, I’ll try to take with me a deep thought expressed in this song. “Jos voisin joskus olla niin kuin hän jota rakastan – – katsoisin järvenselkää ilman kynää ja paperia.”*
Every waking moment doesn’t need to be productive. Every action doesn’t have to lead somewhere. Every choice doesn’t have to affect my whole life. It is like the Preacher says, in the Old Testament: “I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live.” (Ecc. 3:12)
While we live – not before living, longing for a future that always slips from our grasp, and certainly not after we’ve lived. If I keep saving my present time in hope of enjoying its fruit in the future, I’ll end up losing my whole life, making it a chain of pasts left to spoil.
* Rough translation: “If sometime I could be like the one I love, — I’d watch the lake without a pen and paper.”
A year ago on this day, my life as a man ended.
Today, I mourn that which was and won’t return; rejoice of what is now; and wait for that which will come.
Yesterday’s “aha! experience”:
A band is playing on a stage. The musicians are technically brilliant, the music is deep and thoughtful – and still, I’m not touched by the performance at all. I even feel that I’d rather be elsewhere.
Half an hour before:
A different band is playing on the stage. The musicians play with a fierce joy visible on their faces. The tune is a little naive, it’s easy to learn by ear, and before long, everybody’s singing with the people on the stage. I feel safe and comfortable with myself and my voice, I feel deeply privileged to be here, to be invited by the musicians’ smiles to share the moment. One of the people on the stage makes “a mistake”, plays a discordant note, looks at us, and smiles even more deeply – taking pride in what they do.
I hadn’t realized how the power relations of subjects and objects are at work even in the world of performing arts. In the first example, the performer is the subject of the concert, an active shaper of the moment, while the audience is passive, acted upon, an object of the performer’s art. But in the second example, the power of subjectivity is shared by everybody. It’s not Me anymore, doing something to Them, but Me meeting You to become Us. In the act of opening ourselves, We become the subject and Reality the object, that we can shape with the power of sharing, the power of Love.