“The Switch” Is More Than Just A “Transgender Comedy”

Trans representation has always been a tricky subject. With growing trans visibility, it’s sad so many portrayals rely on tropes that are patronizing, condescending, and downright eww, eww, and eww. But while outside portrayals of the trans community remain outdated and stale, trans artists, musicians, and actors have been stepping forward with fresh takes on trans people and lives.

Enter the Switch, a ‘magical-surrealist transgender comedy’ that promises to be the first show to cast all trans characters with trans people. Last week, they launched a Kickstarter, and creator Amy Fox was recently interviewed by Bustle. The pilot is running for free on Youtube.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sGHmzLeugs8

It centers around Sü, played by Julie Vu. Sü is a Vancouver centered software developer. Or was, because she’s coincidentally laid off the day she comes out. Making matters worse, her landlord decides to sublet her apartment and double her rent. Construction workers come in, and her (and all her stuff) go out.

But just when you think you know where it’s going, the story turns. Sü ends up crashing with her “ex” Chris (Fox), an extreme eco-terrorist, in his condemned studio. Things are further complicated by trans* hacker Zoey, Chris’ boss/landlord Toni, and Sü’s hippie/electrologist friend Sam, who may or may not be a demon. Sam also knows Toni and Chris somehow.

What emerges is a series feels less like a ‘transgender comedy’ and more like a distinctive TV show that just has a bunch of trans casting. And while aspects of transition are covered, they occupy a more background role. For instance, Sam and Sü discussing living plans over black market electrolysis, or a shot of mail-order hormones.

It also means there’s zero exposition on trans issues. The audience is either expected to know it already or be able to brush it aside. But, while something like that might make it seem inaccessible, it also means that the show can focus on the characters themselves. So, sure, I don’t know if Toni is trans, but I’m really more interested in how Toni and Sam know each other. It has something for trans and non trans audiences. The latter can enjoy the Odd Couple relationship between Sü and Chris, and the former can snicker at the blink and you miss it Silence of the Lambs reference.

The most obvious influence is The Guild, with the cast of colorful characters and the ostensible subject working more as a springboard for character development. Sü even uses a web journal as a framing device, and there’s an accompanying music video by Kieran Strange, called “Tear Down the Wall.” “Tear Down the Wall” is also the name of an associated website, which details in part the cast and crew’s LGBTQ activist work, both in Vancouver and elsewhere.

Of course, I’m not entirely without criticism. Sü’s coming out speech raised an eyebrow. Zoey’s character feels more undercooked than mysterious. I’m now regretting my love of the no trans exposition, because I basically have no pronoun reference for anyone but Sü (it’s she, by the way).

And I wonder if there isn’t a Girls-style critique to be made: a show so rooted in gentrification and housing as a plot device not talking about Chinese-Canadian segregation in the city. Especially since some Chinese-Canadian communities have been a noticeable presence in the fight against LGBTQ rights in Vancouver.

But that’s a conversation for another article, with people way more qualified than me. And most of this criticism can be summed up as ‘more’ (more character/issues/stuff). And if I’m asking for more, it means I like what I’ve gotten so far. And I wouldn’t be typing and retyping all this if I didn’t think the Switch had something unique to offer, both as a magical realist transgender comedy, and as a comedy.

Julie Vu is a welcome addition to the trans women of color who’ve been gaining prominence in the past few years. Amy Fox shines as Chris. And altogether, the show does something wholly unique. It shows trans people existing outside of a trans-specific context. These characters feel like living breathing people. I’ve lived with people like Chris, dated people like Zoey. I’ve felt Sü’s dilemma about going back into the closet and living as a man.

I’ll be honest, I thought it would be decades before I saw something like this. The fact that it’s here, and it’s funny, and it’s less than a few thousand dollars from getting fully actualized. It’s good to know that. “Switch up” metaphor here.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y7DjgdcY1fI

What’s Happening For CA’s Trans Students? Unpacking the Clusterf*ck Of AB 1266

Search the hashtag #AB1266 on Twitter, and you’ll see what I mean by clusterfuck. It’s a mixture of conservatives, LGBT groups, names of California counties, statistics, and conflicting reports of what’s happened, and what’s next.

The basics: Assembly Bill 1266, the School Success and Opportunity Act, is a California law which allows access to programs and facilities based on gender identity. Over the fall, a coalition called Privacy for all Students has been trying to put a referendum on the law on the 2014 ballot. Their argument: AB 1266 is so broad it would allow high school boys to invade women’s privacy. That’s not what Tom Amiano had in mind when he authored the bill last February. His communications director, Carlos Alcala, said that the bill was meant to be a clarification of existing law.

Specifically, what the bill does is add 38 words to Section 221.5 of the Education Code:

(f) A pupil shall be permitted to participate in sex-segregated school programs and activities, including athletic teams and competitions, and use facilities consistent with his or her gender identity, irrespective of the gender listed on the pupil’s records.

Most California students already go to school districts with similar policies. And there’s already a statewide policy against discrimination based on gender identity. However, there were times, Alcala said, when it seemed that districts didn’t know what that entailed. A pointed example came from Arcadia Unified School District. They required a trans middle schooler to use the nurse’s office to change and use the restroom. When he went on an overnight field trip, he was forced to sleep in a separate cabin with his father. In 2011, he filed a complaint with the Departments of Education and Justice based on discrimination under Title IX. This year, an agreement was reached where Arcadia agreed to implement a broad trans* rights policy. (And, as an aside, the actual agreement reads like trans* tumblr.)

Also, if you do this in real life, you get sued.

AB 1266 is what you’d call no brainer legislation. It clarifies state law to avoid legal challenges. It implements a policy that most districts already follow. It incurs no cost, and saves the legal fees of lawsuits like Arcadia.

What could go wrong?

As it turns out, everything. The bill came along at a time when the political climate was becoming gay friendly. It meant that anti-gay groups like NOM and One Million Moms were struggling for relevancy and cash. However, while attitudes towards trans people have improved, there’s still a lack of knowledge about transgender issues. Like Arcadia, most people supported trans rights, but didn’t know what that entailed.

According to GOP strategists, that leaves an opening for political gain (no really, that’s literally what they’ve said). Over the last year, right wing groups have started to shift their focus from protecting children from gay marriage to protecting children from trans children. AB 1266 provided the perfect opportunity. Without looking into any of the context for the bill (or what it even did), right wing media repeatedly attacked it.

Less than a month later, Privacy for All Students was formed. As if to highlight the connection to the marriage debate, they soon garnered the support of Prop 8 architect Frank Schubert and NOM. By October, they were asking for donations to get signatures for a referendum.

What they hoped to accomplish was a little less clear. Says Cristan Williams of the Transadvocate, “If AB 1266 went away tomorrow, these [policies] will still be in place because they were already in place prior to AB 1266.” Still they received hundreds of thousands in donations. Including hedge fund manager Sean Feiler and Henry Rowland, chairman of the Jelly Belly corporation.

I hate you for making me hate your delicious, hate-sponsoring candy. (via nycprowler)

In November, they submitted 620,000 signatures for review, of which 504,000 needed to be valid. Over the winter, anywhere from 500 to 2,000 signatures from each county were checked for their validity. Results trickled in as #AB1266 gave way to speculation about the petition’s fate. On January 8th, Secretary of State Susan Bowen said the estimates didn’t yield enough valid signatures to qualify for the ballot. However, the number was high enough to call for a full count of signatures, to be completed by February 24th.

What happens next is anyone’s guess. Williams points out that they ‘barely reached the 95% validity rate from the random sample spot check’. Of course, the estimates aren’t an exact science either. There’s no telling until February 24th, when the results of the full count are due. If it does go to a ballot, Privacy for All Students will be well funded to make their case. Even if overturning this law accomplishes nothing, the publicity around it would be a ‘win’ for the coalition. What’s more, Privacy for All Students has the funds to potentially make their presence national.

In an interview with the National Review last October, Shubert said, “I hope we can qualify for the referendum, reengage the faith community in California to take a stand, win a victory, and reenergize the pro-family movement.”

As for the bill itself? It’s been in force since the New Year (despite conservative claims). Because the status of the referendum hasn’t been determined, Amiano’s office is unable to defend the bill, or even answer PFAS’s claims. Doing so would risk using their office for electoral purposes.

I almost feel bad for them. This was, by and large, routine legislation. A cursory glance of the bill’s analysis shows just how ingrained trans* inclusion is in California policy. And, really, it’s policy nationwide. The trans population is so small that it just isn’t an issue for administrators.

That is, until now.

Thanks to Transadvocate and Daily Bulletin for additional reporting.

“It Was Personal”: Why I Don’t Take Part in the Trans Day of Remembrance

In the beginning, the Trans Day of Remembrance (TDoR) had only one name. Rita Hester.

She was a well-known figure in Boston’s trans community. On November 28, 1998, she was found in her apartment, brutally stabbed to death. The news sent shockwaves among the local community. Exacerbated by the thoughtless news coverage and the inaction of the police, people sprang into action.

On December 3rd, 50 members of the Lesbian Avengers and Queer Riot protested the offices of the Bay Windows and Boston Herald. The next day, a week after Hester was found, a candlelight vigil was held. It drew 250 people, both inside and outside the trans community.

Charito Suarez, who attended the event, said,”It was personal. I’m not talking just about another transgender person. I’m talking about a person I actually knew. I knew her character and I knew her heart. I’m doing it for her. We must speak for her.”

It’s considered a turning point for trans rights in Boston and the US. The next year, San Fransisco activists began the “Remembering Our Dead” project, which morphed into the Trans Day of Remembrance.

Hester’s killing remains unsolved.

Let me save you some time.

I don’t participate in the Trans Day of Remembrance because in 2011 I read a pair of essays by Morgan M. Page and Alyssa Caparas.

The basic gist: TDoR appropriates the narratives of poor trans women of color. It exploits them to create a culture of fear and advance a political agenda that will do nothing for the people named.

In short, the dead aren’t ours to remember.

That’s what I’m arguing. There’s also names. People. Some are trans women, some aren’t. Some were killed, some weren’t. Some have their names on the TDoR website, some don’t.

Who’s who is complicated.

In October, Miguel Inostroz was sentenced to 112 years for the murder of Lucie Parkin, a Bay Area trans woman.

This wasn’t justice. Inostroz had attacked Parkin, an acquaintance, over a debt. One of Parkin’s friends intervened, and in the ensuing scuffle, Inostroz’s gun went off, killing Parkin.

The prosecution knew this, but still charged Inosroz with second degree murder. His sentence is based on California’s third strike rule.

Parkin’s name isn’t on the TDoR website. A couple of local organizations held side memorials for those who knew her to pay their respects.

Rita Hester’s personal connection to her community was central to her memorial. It’s what drove people to organize like never before.

Just over a decade later, and that personal connection was a side piece. It’d been replaced by an official memorial, full of names of people they’d never known until that day.

But not Parkin. The TDoR is for people who are considered to be the victims of ‘anti-trans’ violence.

So, what does it mean to be killed by transphobia? We can think about it by looking at Matthew Shepard, maybe.

His murder was a lightning rod for the LGBTQ community. It was the catalyst for hate crimes laws. It renewed interest in the Brandon Teena story, resulting in the movie Boys Don’t Cry. The disparity of the coverage between Shepard’s murder and Rita Hester’s sparked the protests that became the TDoR.

Since then, Shepard’s murder has been reenacted, either directly or not. And, I suspect, it’s become the archetypal anti-LGBTQ hate crime, the standard by which all other crimes are judged.

This year, Steve Jimenez came out with a book claiming our account of it was wrong. Matthew Shepard, Jimenez claimed, was a meth user and dealer, who’d had sex with one of his killers. He was killed because of drugs, not sexual orientation.

There’s been considerable debate around whether or not these claims are true, partially true, etc. I don’t know enough to offer an opinion.

Honestly, though, I wouldn’t be surprised either way.

Criminality is part of the queer/trans* community. It’s a way to earn a living when you’ve been pushed out of the workforce. There’s fewer barriers to entry, so it’s easier to circumvent discrimination.

But it comes with extra dangers, including being targeted by people who know you won’t – can’t – go to the police. That’s what police suspect happened to Tyrell Jackson and 3 other ‘transvestite prostitutes’, who were all robbed at gunpoint on April 4, 2012. Jackson was shot trying to flee, and died.

Jackson is on the TDoR website.

In her article, Morgan Page quotes Mirha-Soleil Ross saying that if trans activists factored sex work into the Trans Day of Remembrance, the list would lose half its names. She also talks about how the names are used to advance a culture of fear for political purposes.

I think about those comments when I see the argument of anti-trans violence. Say this, do that, and you’re Just As Bad as the people who kill trans people on the street.

More than the culture of fear being used for politics, the politics of fear has become the main justification for our existence.

And it’s a problem.

It’s a problem because it inherently removes the complexity of the people whose names we call. And it’s a problem because it removes the nuance of transphobia.

Because, yes, sometimes it is what you’d expect. But it’s also not being able to get a job because you have no legal ID. It’s your soon-to-be-ex trying to get ‘incriminating’ pictures of you so they can take the kids. It’s the government not recognizing your new family like they did the old one. Sometimes, yes, it’s sex work and dealing. Or, it’s getting a temp job in a warehouse and saving pennies for an out of pocket surgery.

It’s rough. And sometimes it’s violent. But it’s more complex than the perpetrator-victim model. And when we reduce it to that, it distorts how we organize against transphobia.

On January 8th, The New Statesman published Suzanne Moore’s contribution to Red, the Waterstone’s Anthology. It contained an oblique reference to the “Brazilian transsexual” ideal.

She was questioned about it, a fight erupted, and, on January 11th, she left Twitter.

On January 13th, her friend Julie Burchill published a defense of Moore in The Observer, using every transphobic term she could think of.

It unleashed a torrent of criticism from the online feminist community. Hundreds wrote to the Press Complaints Commission, saying that Burchill’s words were personally threatening to them. On January 14th, The Observer removed the piece and issued an apology.

That same day, The New Statesman published a story about one Lucy Meadows.

She was a primary school teacher who’d made the difficult decision to transition between the Fall and Spring semesters. In response, a couple of parents went to the papers, decrying the situation.

The papers ran with the story. Richard Littlejohn issued his own transphobic op-ed calling for Lucy to leave her job. Papers suppressed the accounts of supportive parents. Reporters were camped in front of Meadows’ door.

She’d filed her own report with the Press Complaints Commission. This, incidentally, is the type of behavior they were meant to police: when journalists invade privacy, target non-public figures, suppress parts of a story.

But hers was the only complaint filed. There was no one to protest the Daily Mail, or the other papers involved. No one to organize supportive neighbors into filing more complaints. People were busy protesting Julie Burchill for threatening the trans community.

Three months later, Meadows committed suicide. Posthumous complaints poured in. But by then it was too late. Littlejohn’s op-ed was removed, but he kept his job.

Just to recap: everyone who wrote to the PCC saying how Burchill’s writing threatened them is still alive. Lucy Meadows is not.

Incidentally, Suzanne Moore’s piece is still on The New Statesman. It still says “Brazilian transsexual”.

Lucy Meadows is not on the TDoR.

Suicides aren’t included. You can be hunted by the press to the point of despair, but if you kill yourself, it doesn’t count. If you overdose, it doesn’t count. If you go in for unlicensed injections and get pneumonia, it doesn’t count. If you die from complications because a doctor refuses to treat you, it only counts if you die that night.

There are a thousand ways to die from being trans. But they’re only included if they can be made as sensationalist as possible. Nevermind that all these things kill you just the same. Never mind that self harm, substance abuse, and suicide are some of the biggest killers of trans women around. Nevermind that there’s a whole generation of us relying solely on black market medicine, potentially creating a host of medical issues.

Nevermind the reality of the trans community, as long as it makes a good story to browbeat someone with.

What, exactly, is being remembered? And what isn’t?

A couple of weeks before the TDoR, some members of the local queer community held a small, public memorial. It commemorated the lives of queer/trans* friends lost in the last year.

The list was small, and the cause of deaths weren’t dramatic (one died in a car accident). The memorial wasn’t widely attended. Its record wasn’t widely shared.

But if I had to choose, that would be the memorial I’d attend.

If you want to fix the TDoR, I only have a small piece of advice: don’t read the name of someone you don’t know. I don’t care how they died, or when they died, or if they were an asshole. But know them.

If you don’t have a name, wonderful! Great! Be there for the people who do. Make it about the trans community as a place of support, not suffering.

If the person talking isn’t trans, okay. As long as the person they’re talking about is trans. Transphobia doesn’t just affect trans people, but also their lovers, family, friends. Have this be a place they can go to, and share the stories of the people they knew and loved.

And, maybe, don’t call it the Trans Day of Remembrance. Maybe have it be its own thing.

We have a need to grieve. We’re human.

And in the queer community, that need is often taken away from us. We’re denied access to our loved ones. Legal families disrespect their identity in services.

It’s why people fought so hard for gay marriage. They wanted the chance to mourn those who died in the AIDS crisis. They couldn’t stand being torn away from their loved ones’ beds any more.

To some extent, the Trans Day of Remembrance can be a conduit for that mourning. But it can also be a barrier to it.

But more than the TDoR, our mourning needs to be for us. Trans people and allies, who do share in a lot of the same trials and tribulations. It shouldn’t be about building the narrative. It should be about listening to know what the narrative is.

On November 20th, a trans woman was found at the base of a bridge. It was deemed a suicide. She was a Youtube personality, and fellow trans Youtubers delivered a tearful eulogy, and shared on an online support. The rest of us took turn offering condolences.

Yes, I know it’s online. And you wouldn’t have to do much work to find out who this is. All the same, I don’t feel comfortable sharing it here. It’s personal.

A Muslim RuPaul At The Dawn Of Islam: Tuwais and the Mukhannathun

A mukhannath who had dyed his hands and feet with henna was brought to the Prophet. He asked: What is the matter with this man? He was told: Apostle of Allah! He affects women’s get-up. So he ordered regarding him, and he was banished to an-Naqi’. The people said: Apostle of Allah! Should we not kill him? He said: I have been prohibited from killing people who pray. Abu Usamah said: Naqi’ is a region near Medina and not a Baqi (in other words not referring toJannat al-Baqi’ cemetery.) 

Sunan Abu-Dawud, Book 41, Number 4910: Narrated (by) Abu Hurayrah

In the translated news services from the Muslim world, there are periodic reports of mass arrests of LGBTQ people. Some of these reports refer to “gay men,” others say “gay men and trans women.” Sometimes, buried deep, is the word “mukhannathun.”

Mukhannathun – and singular mukhannath – has been translated as “gay,” “queer,” even “third gender,” and none of these are wrong, per se. However, there’s a history behind the word that’s much richer.

It all starts with hadith.

Part I: The Hadith

So, Islam 101: Muslims are commanded to follow both Allah (Arabic for “the God”) and the Prophet Muhammad (P)*. Easy enough when someone’s alive, but how do you follow someone after their death? That’s when you turn to hadith.

A hadith, simply put, is an account of something the Prophet Muhammad (P) did , said, or approved/disapproved of. It can be anywhere from a single sentence or several pages. I’ve even included one at the top of the article.

Oh, and the plural of hadith is hadith. So, it’s “a hadith” singular, “these hadith” plural, etc.

Like the Gospels, only the Book of Luke is several volumes long and grouped by subject matter. (via wordyou.ru)

Anyway – while these hadith were initially circulated by word-of-mouth (as was the Muslim holy book, the Qu’ran), over time, they were collected and written down. Scholars would spend decades travelling across the Muslim world, listening to as many hadith as they could, before finally writing them down. There are literally dozens of these collections. Each one contains thousands of hadith.

These collections aren’t monolithic, either. Some are considered more reliable than others (same goes for individual hadith). Also, some sects of Islam will only follow certain collections.

But, together, these collections make up the backbone of Muslim law. Just about all opinions by scholars rely on hadith in one form or another.

It’s almost impossible not to, considering their breadth and scope. While hadith are tightly focused, they cover a broad range of subjects. In these collections you see accounts of the Final Days, milestones in Islamic history, even snippets of the day to day like of Muslims at the time.

You also see mukhannathun.

Part II: Takan/Mukhannath/Mukhannathun

The word mukhannathun is tricky. It translates, roughly, to ‘men with the qualities of women.’ Conversely, you can refer to the ‘quality’ itself, and say someone has takan (think ‘swag’). And, to answer your question, its FAAB equivalent is mutarijjalun: women with the qualities of men. It’s commonly translated as ‘tomboy’.

This of course, raises more questions than answers. How do you define men? Women? Qualities? For Muslims, these aren’t thought exercises. As I said before, hadith are the backbone of Muslim law. Even a single word can drastically change opinions and attitudes.

It’s also difficult to interpret the Prophet’s (P) opinion of them. The hadith I quoted is a perfect example. I‘ve heard Muslims cite it as proof of Prophet Muhammad (P) ridding Islam of gay influence. Other Muslims claim it shows the Prophet Muhammad (P) saving the life of a queer Muslim while setting up a safe space.

Sigh. There are entire universities that do nothing but debate and interpret hadith. At this point, your interpretation will only say more about your own biases than those of the Prophet (P).

Instead of looking at intentions, it’s much more useful to look at the effects. For example: whether or not an-Naqi’ was intended as a safe haven, it sure functioned as one. It allowed mukhannathun to live and work without fear of reprisal.

Also, according to hadith, falsely accusations are a punishable offense. This includes mukhannathun.

Now, we can go back and forth about whether this constitutes a ban on homophobia or proof that takan is so bad it’s not to be taken lightly. But it is interesting how these words have developed as opposed to say, ‘gay’ or ‘queer’. While the latter have been used to derisively against all forms of deviance and non-conformity, mukhannath only refers to someone male-assigned and feminine. It’s certainly used derisively, but it’s a very specific insult.

“Out of smokes? That’s so takhan.” – said no one ever. (via iappsofts.com)


As we’ll see, this has had a dramatic impact on trans* rights throughout Muslim history. In fact, you can see these effects only a generation later.

Femen vs. Muslimah Pride: Fighting for the Voices (and Bodies) of Muslim Women

It starts on October 2011. Egyptian blogger Alia Magda Elmahdy pohsts a photo of herself nude, along with a barrage of nude artwork and a message:

“Put on trial the artists’ models who posed nude for art schools until the early 70s, hide the art books and destroy the nude statues of antiquity, then undress and stand before a mirror and burn your bodies that you despise to forever rid yourselves of your sexual hangups before you direct your humiliation and chauvinism and dare to try to deny me my freedom UPof expression.”

At the time, street harassment was at a fever pitch, the military was forcing “virginity tests” on female dissidents, and there was no organizing around it.

What she did was comparable to the actions of Mohamed Bouazizi, the man whose self-immolation in Tunisia a year earlier started Arab Spring. Both used their bodies to shock society out of complacency and towards change. After Elmahdy’s statement, Egyptians began holding rallies against sexual violence, and demanding greater accountability. Virginity tests are now over.

However, while Bouazizi has been lionized across the Muslim and Arab world, Elmahdy was vilified (even by liberal secularists), received death threats, and was forced to leave the country. Egypt still has a long way to go with women’s rights.

Let me be frank: I’m a first generation Egyptian-American. My entire extended family lives in Egypt, including aunts, cousins, nieces, and in-laws. The issue of how women in Egypt are treated is a very personal one. Because of this, I supported Aliaa Elmahdy, and hated the craven way Egyptian liberals disavowed her in a cheap bid for votes. I may never live to see her get her due in Egypt, and that’s shameful.

The following year, she joined Femen, a Ukraine-based feminist organization, which specializes in “sextremism” as a means of political action. And, earlier this year, Amina Tyler, a Femen activist in Tunisia, posted a nude photo of herself online, with the message “My body belongs to me, and is not a source of anyone’s honor,” on her chest.

There’s been growing anxiety about the rise of (often violent) jihadism in Tunisia, as well as the increasing censorship of the Islamist government. Like Elmahdy, Tyler also received death threats, while a leading cleric called for her to be flogged and stoned.

A solidarity protest was called for April 4. Femen declared it Topless Jihad Day. Activists posted topless pictures of themselves from around the world to Femen’s facebook, and held topless rallies across Europe.

In response to Femen, Muslim women created a Facebook page called Muslimah Pride Day, and Muslim women sent pictures of themselves holding up index cards with a simple message.

“Femen does not represent me. I don’t need liberating.”

The page was covered by al Jazeera. Pamela Geller denounced it. And it was supported by countless Muslims, including many queer and progressive Muslims.

Including me.

Unpacking this issue relies on understanding one thing: Muslims are not monolithic. Muslims in the West (Europe, Canada, America) face a different set of challenges than those in the Middle East. And hence, they’re going to react differently to those circumstances. You know, just like everyone else.

In the West, neither Muslim nor non-Muslim women would face what Amina Tyler has. Nudity is, at most, considered a misdemeanor.

However, there’s also a strain of Western culture which sexualizes Islam and Muslim women. It dates back centuries, with exotic (and often fictional) accounts of the ‘sensuous Orient’.

In modern times, it revolves around the Muslim clothing, specifically, the hijab, nikab and burqa. Wearing any exposes one to harassment, even by law enforcement. Bans on burqas and hijabs have been proposed – and enacted – by Western and Western backed governments in the Middle East. And where there aren’t laws, there’s culture. The “naked burqa” trope (where traditionally Muslim women’s clothing is sexualized), is very

very,

very,

very,

common in the West.

And you can add Femen’s recent topless activism to that list. Context matters. You can’t disconnect actions from the longstanding cultural environment it came from. When Elmahdy and Tyler went naked, they were protesting specific groups dictating policy in their home countries. Activists in the West don’t have that context. Railing against Islamists here means attacking an immigrant group while reinforcing centuries’ old prejudices. And when you use Islamic symbols as part of your protest art, you put them out of reach for non-traditional Muslims.

The adoption of Islamic symbols in non-traditional contexts is an integral part of queer Muslim activism. Last year, I painted a crescent moon on a rainbow flag: a way of asserting both my faith and queerness. However, as proud as I am of that flag, I’m reluctant to bring it in public anymore. I’m worried it would be too associated with Femen. That’s what happens when your activism gets co-opted: you lose a means of expressing yourself.

And it’s not just queer Muslims. Femen’s activism fails to understand Western Muslims as distinct from their Middle Eastern counterparts. And the result is that Western Muslim women found themselves silenced. Muslimah Pride was a means of re-asserting that voice, if only in a cursory way.

Yet, for all of my vitriol at Femen, my initial enthusiasm for Muslimah Pride has faded.

Muslimah Pride was a Western Muslim women response to a Western protest. Fair enough, but their back and forth with Femen offered, at best, a cursory mention of the circumstances that led Elmahdy and Tyler to do what they did. It’s wrong to imply that Alia Elmahdy somehow went wrong by joining Femen. Femen’s tactics are absolutely necessary in the Middle East, and its support there is growing

And no, I don’t need liberating. But Amina Tyler does. She’s currently begging for political asylum, and worried about her safety. What is Muslimah Pride doing to organize on her behalf? What Muslim organization is? If Muslims can’t protect one of their own, how can we have indignant pride?

The sad truth is that the people sidelined are the ones putting their bodies, and lives, on the line. I’d hoped the Arab Spring would bring more attention to Middle Eastern voices. Instead, Western voices have appropriated that identity as their own, and continued to ignore them. Elmahdy’s blog is still active, and it’s amazing trove of information and artwork. And no one, either in the press or the dozens of opinion pieces about this, has linked to it.

Well I am, as well as the Facebook page for Femen Egypt & Femen Tunisia. Go to these sites and hear the voices of these women for yourself.

After all, it’s what we’re fighting for.

UPDATE: At the time this article was written, Amina Tyler was being forcibly held by members of her family, in relation to her pictures. Since then, she has managed to escape, and is, by all accounts, safe. You can hear about her ordeal here.

About the author: Miriam lives and works in Texas, and currently blogs for I Am Not Haraam. She’s not very good with bios.

On Faith And Gender, Or Why I Dress Like A Man On Fridays

TRANS*SCRIBE ILLUSTRATION © ROSA MIDDLETON, 2013

click here for more trans*scribe

Hello, my name is Miriam. I’m a 30 year old trans woman living in Texas. And, because it’s Friday, I’m dressed like a man right now.

Not one of my prouder moments.

No, this isn’t part of some gender fuck art protest. In fact, my reasons are very old fashioned. You see, I’m a Muslim, and in order to enter a mosque, I have to do so as a man.

Mosques, unlike churches, are gender segregated. It comes from Bedouin tradition dating back to long before Islam. In modern times, it’s justified (like all gender segregation) as a way to free straight, cisgendered people of sexual temptation.

In practical terms, it means that gender presentation determines whether you enter the men’s or women’s area. Overall society is already wary of trans* inclusion into women’s spaces. You can imagine what orthodox/ultra-orthodox mosques would say, especially when you factor in my being queer.

They would tell me to leave and never come back.

And you have to enter a mosque. Group prayer is major part of Islam. Aside from Friday service, there are funerals, weddings, and holidays. And those are just the required times. It boils down to a simple decision: dress like a man, or lose part of my faith.

That scares me. To say Islam is important to me is an understatement. Islam is life. It’s saved my life countless times, and allows me to embrace life as it is. It’s as integral to my well-being as my transition. And it’s not like I harbor any personal conflict between being queer, trans*, and Muslim. God made me these things, all praise be to God. But Islam is not an island, and my personal peace doesn’t erase the conflict with the greater community.

The consequences of that extend far beyond the few hours a week I’m in the monkey suit. For starters, having to pass as male means I have to keep an androgynous appearance at all times. Even something as simple as getting my eyebrows done could raise suspicions. And I’m deathly afraid of a judge finding out and declaring that I’m not “really” full time.

Which is would be silly. Transition is almost never a straight line from one gender or another. It’s full of lapses, de-transitions, and a lot of ambiguity. In that sense, this could be seen as the last vestiges of manhood before I fully come into my own. But many trans* narratives also involve trans women forced to live their lives in the closet. These Fridays could be my life. Not that I wouldn’t (again, nothing I wouldn’t do for my faith).

So why not fight back? Why not change mosques? Try to pass as cis- and enter the women’s area? Find some other queer Muslims and hold our own Prayer? Simply demand my right to pray without having to crossdress?

But fighting back isn’t as easy as it sounds. For starters, the local community is too tight knit and knows me too well for me to pass undetected. It would only take one person to say something. It’s also the problem with establishing a queer Muslim community. Queer Muslims, the ones who don’t simply walk away, are forced in the closet as much as possible. I can count the number of Muslims I’ve met post-transition with one hand in my pocket.

As for fighting for my rights: well, for starters you need leverage to push back. And then there’s Islamophobia.

Screw you, Microsoft, Islamophobia is a real word. And it’s not partisan, either. There’s more than enough people in the queer community perfectly willing to disparage Islam for their own purposes. I don’t want my narrative to be used against my community, and I know that once I start protesting, I’m not sure who would get involved.

Because it’s not as if America’s Islamic community is categorically homo-/trans*phobic. Being a religious minority means learning to be non-judgemental. Keith Ellison is the vice-chair of the LGBT Equality Caucus. Then again, I’m not sure if I’d be allowed in his mosque.

Mosques are beautiful places. You see such a deep expression of faith there: Muslims who haven’t prayed in years picking up right where they left off. Reverts finding their first conscious taste of Islam through these doors. Mosques accept everyone from rich professionals to skinheads with earplugs.

And, truth be told, I’m not particularly out to judge my fellow Muslims, either. I may think that gender segregation is bullshit, but I’m not interested in trampling someone else’s right to it. It would simply be nice to have a way of opting out of it without leaving the mosque.

Until then, I’m just going to be here in a tank top, doing my best impersonation of The Aggressives.

And praying.

PS: I just want to note that Daniel Pipes, Michael Lucas, Pamela Gellar, Newt Gingrich, and pretty much anyone featured here and here can pre-emptively go fuck themselves.

About the author: Miriam lives and works in Texas, and currently blogs for I Am Not Haraam. She’s not very good with bios.

Special Note: Autostraddle’s “First Person” personal essays do not necessarily reflect the ideals of Autostraddle or its editors, nor do any First Person writers intend to speak on behalf of anyone other than themselves. First Person writers are simply speaking honestly from their own hearts.