The Book That Made Me Trans: Losing the Stealth Life
I am a single man in my late thirties, which is code for I’m lonely. Lonely enough to join a bunch of queer groups in an effort to grow my social life. Book club meets monthly, which means there’s less steady socialising. We meet, discuss books, and bail. It’s awesome, but it’s less likely that I’ll form any connections that may turn into deeper relationships simply due to lack of exposure. Choir, on the other hand, is weekly, and I have high hopes that it might lead to something more, socially speaking.
The Book That Made Me Trans: The World of the You
When I was invited to be a part of this festival, I felt a good deal of imposter syndrome. There was a nagging voice in my head asking over and over: Am I trans enough? To some degree I take shelter and safety in the privilege of being more or less invisible—readily perceived as a good Asian girl; a representative of either the model minority; or the Chinese virus; or, more recently, talked about by white warm-water drinking influencers who declare, I’m in a very Chinese time of my life.
The Book That Made Me Trans: A Reflection in Oz
Reading widely as a child is travel without a map. You stick mostly to familiar streets, yet sometimes you stumble into an alley that is not exactly forbidden, but not exactly safe either. Thus I remember my deep regret after sneaking a peek inside Stephen King’s Skeleton Crew at an age too tender for auto-cannibalism. In my defence, there was a toy monkey on the cover.
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