Body Politic

Chapter 1: Just a Matter of Public Policy

"Hey Jack, you see we got the fiery dyke back again for another week," I heard the voice behind me and knew without looking it was the sweaty guy from the local paper with the big gut and the comb over. I could just sense the way he was sprawled out in the press room, his sweaty arms hung over the chairs on either side of him, looking smug and fat.

Since I could already see the walrus, I chose not to look at him. I kept my eyes to the front of the room where the dais was located, waiting for the Mayor's Communication Director, or maybe even the Mayor herself, to arrive and begin the press conference. Nonetheless, I felt my fingers grasp my pen a little tighter and noticed my heart beating a little faster. A whole week in town and I was still the object of derision, it would seem.

"Well lucky us," Jack, a reporter from the state capital said and the clucked his tongue, "Now I hate to correct you there Pete, but while our new colleague is certainly fiery, I mean right down to her hair, I don't know if dyke is the correct word. I think they call the manly ones dykes. This one, I am guessing she is a lipstick lesbian, better known as 'a true shame.' She's about worth trying to convert. Though, if she had a girlfriend around, I wouldn't mind watchin'. With that said, I hope she grills the mayor's people again on the gay marriage ordinance. I feel like that dead horse could use a couple more whacks." Pete and Jack, the good ol' boys just covering local politics, laughed together, knowing that I could hear them. I knew that there wasn't anything I could do that would be constructive; they were just trying to be trolls. But a week of this had been enough. I turned quickly while they were laughing.

"The term for what I am is not 'Lipstick Lesbian' you stupid fuck. I think the crude, shame-inducing slur you're looking for is 'Shemale.' So why don't you shut up so I can prepare my questions on the gay marriage ordinance for the mayor." I said and I turned around quickly, not waiting to see the looks on their faces.

I already knew what the face looked like. As an attractive non-operative transwoman who was extremely open about my identity, I had seen the complex mix of confusion, disgust, and arousal before. Oh, just so we are clear here, when I write that I am attractive, I am not (just) tooting my own horn, I am trying to explain why my identity is so troubling to queer-bashing men.

I am relatively short at 5'5 and I only weigh about 110lbs. I have very long dark red hair (I was 28 at the time and I had been growing it continuously since I was 18) that I wear in a long ponytail down my back. I have wide green eyes, very thick lips (the lower one pierced on the left side), small ears, an upturned nose (with a stud), and a light complexion. I wear a 32-B bra, have a tight, compact body (with a belly button piercing), lithe legs, and very small feet. I have thin arms, the right one has a sleeve of vaguely floral tattoos (I also have a tattoo on my left thigh of a butterfly and a honey bee on my left foot). I guess I look like the slightly skanky bad girl that the straight-laced type of guys fantasize about when they are alone. I guess when then realize that I also have a 5-inch cock (also with a stud) it sort of messes with their minds. Although that day (and every day for the past week) I was dressed conservatively with a gray pencil skirt a red blouse, and a gray jacket that covered up most of my arm tattoo.

"Well I guess you hope the ordinance passes now," I heard Pete say, "then you can go about converting the shemale." He started laughing

"Fuck off," Jack said, a little discomfort in his voice now, which I was happy to have implanted. I wasn't here to make people comfortable. In fact, the two local rubes were right about one thing, I was here to talk about the "gay marriage ordinance." Although, that characterization was, at best, misleading. I had left L.A. a week and a half earlier to cover a local ordinance that would require employers to provide the same benefits they provided to married employees to employees who had completed same-sex commitment ceremonies (verified by notarized certificate). (I won't tell you the city, let's just say it isn't big enough to have professional sports teams but it is big enough that everyone in America has at least heard of it).

At the time I was working for a website that covered news stories important to the LGBTQ community. When I'd heard that the city in question was considering this ordinance I was intrigued. Then I heard that four of the ten members of City Council were solid yeses, three others were on the fence leaning yes (including a Republican) and that the Republican mayor was threatening to veto the measure. I knew I had to be there and cover it.

I'd flown in the week before and been desperately trying to get answers to my questions ever since I got there. The first week, things had not gone well. Initially, they'd refused to give me a press credential, claiming that the site I worked for was not a legitimate news outfit. After threatening a lawsuit, I was finally allowed into the press conference where various local elected officials pretended that I wasn't raising my hand when it came time for questions. On top of that indignity, there were the Jack's and Pete's of the world. I'd taken the weekend to relax in my hotel room (a suite no less, if in a part of town that rolled up the streets at 5:05) and now it was the start of a new week and I felt my hurt pride adding to the righteous indignation I'd already felt as soon as I'd heard about this story.

"Alright, the Mayor will be arriving shortly. She will be taking questions for no more than 15-minutes, Thank you," My head shot up as I heard the voice. It was the communication's director. This was good, I'd only been allowed into one press conference last week when the Mayor had actually taken questions. She hadn't called on me, but I figured: another day, another chance. I folded my lip ring into my mouth, hoping to prevent her from seeing it, maybe making her more amenable to hearing what I had to say. I grabbed my notebook with my handful of scrawled notes and felt my adrenaline start to rush.

In a few moments, the door behind the podium opened up. The first person through the door was someone I recognized. It was the Mayor's personal assistant or aide or whatever, her name was Hena something. Hena Dutta I believe. I was always surprised when I saw her walking near the Mayor. One does not often associate the Republican Party with beautiful, young, Indian college girls, but that was what Hena was. She was a tall girl, maybe 5'9 and very slim. I write girl, but she was probably 21 or so. She had long dark hair and the most beautiful, even, dusky-colored skin I'd ever seen. She had enormous almond colored and shaped eyes and perfect teeth. She looked like a Bollywood star, complete with medium-sized perky breasts, a tight butt, and long legs (though those were particularly obscured by the unimaginative pants suits she wore every day).

After Hena entered the room she sort of shuffled off to the side behind the podium and looked out at crowd. After a moment, the Mayor appeared in the doorway. Mayor Sara Barker was every bit the youngish Republican, female pol. I mean, if you looked at her on the street, the first thing you would think would be "that chick voted for George W. Bush twice and is still proud of it." She was blonde (of course) with incredible blue eyes, perfect teeth, and flawless white skin. She was a college cheerleader and it was clear that she put a lot of time and effort in maintaining her youthful looks even if she was now 42 years old. Her breasts were exceptionally large, but the rest of her body was very slim. She was short in person at around 5'4 but she looked taller on camera. She always wore snappy red or blue dresses that accentuate her still youthful curves and her round ass. I wondered if the fact that she had her husband (a real estate developer) had never had any kids explained how she kept it so tight. Hey, she might've been the enemy, but credit where credit was due.

"Okay everyone," she said in her breathy, sunny voice, "Thanks for making it to the Monday morning press conference. I have meetings today about development on the Johnson Street corridor and another with some local girl scouts, so I only have about 15 minutes. I don't have anything in particular I want to talk about, but I am ready for questions." My hand shot into the air.

"Yeah Pete," she said pointing to my old friend. I knew she always called on a local guy first, but I had to raise my hand anyway.

"Do you think that the permitting situation for the Johnson Street development can be handled by the Mayor's office or will you be coordinating with Public Works?" Pete asked and I rolled my eyes. Heavy-hitting, investigative stuff wasn't really Pete's deal. He'd asked once last week why the mayor had such a good rapport with voters. Seriously: what a tool.

"Well as you know, I abhor government red tape, I think we can solve this in a way that involves government as little as possible, with that said, the issue does not so much involve the Public Works department as it does..." by now I could barely stand to hear what she was saying anymore. I just listened to her drone, waiting for a break in the mundane details of city management to raise my hand again.

"Thanks that helps," Pete said, making some notes. My hand shot into the air again. This time she called on someone from a national news network and I prayed that he would ask about the ordinance, something I could piggyback on. I was disappointed when he asked about something related to a local university's football team. I looked down at my watch, seeing the second tick away. She said 15 minutes, and we were already 10 minutes into the conference and she'd answered two questions. I began to strategize about what I'd do if I couldn't ask her questions today. But none of my options seemed right. I realized I was too busy being worried about time and started listening to the mayor again

"And I think that Coach Cruz made an excellent point in his press conference yesterday. If that woman did not want to have group sex with the offensive line, why was she in the locker room to begin with?" she asked with a hint of disgust. Ah sports! Wholesome fun it seemed. Wonder why I never got into it?

"I believe she was just an 18 year old and an athletic trainer. Her doctors said..." The reporter pressed. The mayor clearly didn't want anything to do with this toxic line of questioning and I saw her look about frantically.

"Any other questions?" I knew it was now or never. She was off balance and would respond to anything that wasn't related to the football team. I didn't raise my hand this time; I just stood up and started asking questions.

"Mayor Barker, Heidi Drake from QueerWire," I said and I saw her actually wince, "In light of the wide support for Resolution B in the public at large, how do you justify your continued insistence to veto the measure if passed by the city council." Mayor Barker gave me a look that indicated she knew she'd jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

"Well, beyond the obvious moral issue," she said, making my teeth grate, "I think this is a financial issue. Our city is not exactly swimming in tax revenue and increased benefits..."

"We are not talking about increased benefits. We are talking about extending the same benefits to everyone," I interrupted. I wasn't going to let her create these sort of false-rational arguments.

"Please let me finish my answers," the mayor said coldly. She gave me an injured looked and I could feel some of the local reporters reflexively sympathize. Our pretty lady mayor is being bullied by the big city outsider. I didn't care, "The point I was trying to make is that it really is a moral issue. I strongly believe that God designed men to be the head of a household and that a wife should be his helper. Now, that can take different forms in a modern marriage, but those are the essential pieces. But, even if that weren't the case, I would still oppose this measure because doing so saves the taxpayers money." She said and acted as though that were an actual policy argument. She turned to ask someone else for a question. But that wasn't nearly enough, I spoke again.

"But several polls show that the taxpayers in this city believe that their dollars should go to benefits for same-sex couples. So really, it isn't about protecting the taxpayers. It is about enforcing your moral code on everyone else," I said.

"Again with the interruptions," the Mayor said, shaking her head, "Listen, I explained my position very calmly and politely. It seems that you don't like to play by the rules. Which I suppose is typical. You work for a 'publication' called QueerWire, so you apparently believe that rules, whether set by man or by God, do not apply to you. And that is fine; you don't have to believe that, it is a free country. But the citizens of this city elected me for two reasons. One, because they wanted the city's fiscal house put in order after 8 years of Mayor Carter and two, because they believe in my strong moral convictions. On this particular issue I feel that I get to prove to the voters that they made the right choice on both counts. Thank you for your questions."

"Stop trying to be cagey and answer the goddamn questions I ask," I said, feeling the adrenaline running in my veins and my heart pounding like a hammer. I knew even as the words came out of my mouth that they were a mistake. There was a little bit of a murmur in the room and the Mayor shot me a look like I'd fucked her dog or something.

"I will not dignify such behavior with a response," the Mayor said after a moment. She sounded almost like her feelings were actually hurt. I could feel sympathy waving out to her in the room. I had been so gung-ho to start asking questions that I hadn't even really been prepared for her obvious head fakes. Now I looked like an asshole. I had to salvage something.

"But..." I started. But I felt someone tapping on my shoulder. I looked over and saw the Mayor aide, Hena, standing next to me. She quickly hissed into my ear.

"You failed to follow the proper protocol. The Mayor will no longer be answering your questions today. If you interrupt again, a police officer will escort you from the press room and you will not be permitted to attend any more press conferences," Hena said. She gave me a stern look that seemed to indicate that while she was young and foolish, someone with real power was putting words into her mouth. I shot her an evil glare, but I closed my mouth and sat down. They weren't going to get rid of me that easily.

But at that moment, the mayor finished her answer to another softball question and then turned and left. And just like that they were rid of me, easily.

Chapter 2: An Applied Tutorial on Power

"Listen, I am not trying to tell you that you're bad at your job or something," said a reporter, Kent, from a prestigious national newspaper (if there is such a thing anymore), "I am saying that you are going about it the wrong way. You can hit them hard on the page, but if you go into their arena, the place where they are in control, and try to take the fight to them on their terms, especially with a tiny outfit like QueerWire behind you, you are going to get smacked down."

I was in a bar about three blocks from the city hall. After the fiasco at the press conference, two other out-of-town reporters had invited me out for drinks. Kent was a middle-aged male reporter from D.C. who seemed full of conventional wisdom. The other was an almost-elderly woman from New York named Carol. It was apparent that they knew each other from way back and seemed comfortable together. They both seemed nice enough and were trying to help. But I was on my third drink and no longer in the mood for it.

"Well, with all due respect, I think you both have forgotten what this is all about," I said, noticing that I was slurring a bit. I wasn't much of a drinker, especially for a reporter.

"And what is that?" Kent asked, downing another shot. His face was red and it was clear he was not unused to drinks on a Monday night.

"It's about, you know, tipping things over. It's about making the comfortable uncomfortable and all of that. I mean, at least today, I tried to do that," I said. Oh yeah, when I drink I get self-righteous.

"Well you certainly did that," Carol said dryly.

"What do you mean?" I asked defensively. Carol spoke less than Kent, but when she did, it went right to the heart of things.

"I mean that you stomped in there like an elephant and made sure that everyone knew that you were there to do it. I mean you left your damned punk lip ring in for God's sake." I tongued my lip ring and wondered if she was right. Had I made tactical mistakes? But I had to bluster now, couldn't let her see that I knew she was right.

"Well someone has to. All of you other reporters, you were just happy to be stenographers, to write down whatever anyone said and just take it. I don't regret not doing that."

"Hey kid, I like you, but go to Hell," Kent said and then laughed. He clearly wasn't overly offended, but it was obvious he thought I was an idealistic kid, off base, not correct about the situation.

"You just think that because your right and you know it that if you spray it all out there people will just agree with you. That the power of your logic is like the gravity of the sun," Carol said, "But you're full of shit." She looked over at the bartender and ordered another glass of wine.

"If people get all the facts, they make the right decision," I said, "People who love one another deserve to be together. When people see injustice, they react."

"False," Kent said.

"People react to power. That's what you don't understand. What did you do today? You played into the mayor's hands. She got to show all of the people who already support her that she is a victim, she got to show those on the fence that the other side is rude and demanding, and she got to make you the sneering face of the opposition, and she can now use you against your allies. And you made her a bunch of money, because she is going to use your little exchange to raise money from the religious right. You might've spoke truth to power, but power doesn't care. You don't win by getting to the truth. You win by having more raw power and using it better. That is what you don't get," Carol said. I was starting to get annoyed and my well-lubricated sense of righteousness led me to squawk back. Again.

"What the Hell do you know about it?" I asked, "I've read some of your stuff. You write well, but you don't seem to be interested in winning or losing anything, you just write what you think will get eyeballs."

"Well there Edward R. Murrow, that happens to be the job," Kent said, reveling in my anger. It was clear he was just stirring the shit at this point.

"You are an activist-journalist," Carol said, not coming back at me with the same anger I did, "I don't think that ever works. Kent is right. Writing is the job, that's what I do. I am not telling you how to do my job. I don't give a damn about any policy in particular. I am too damn old to care about gay rights or anything else. I mean, I don't dislike gays in particular either. Based on who you work for, I assume you are gay," she stated.

"I..." I started to let her know I was transgendered pansexual (as I always did, got to fly the flag) but she put up her hand.

"And I don't care. That's not what I am in this for. For these sorts of issues and talking about 'people' and all that nonsense. But you clearly are. And I am telling you, I have seen activist-journalists before. If you keep running out there full-flame you are going to burn yourself out. And you won't accomplish anything. I am just trying to provide a word to the wise from someone who has seen it all."