Gender Fraud: a fiction (the first few chapters)
You can do this, she told herself as she sprinted—well, as she ran as fast as she could—along the road toward the curve in the distance. Heart thundering, lungs heaving, she made it to the curve, rounded it, and saw an intersection in the distance. You can do this, she kept telling herself, as she kept moving, getting closer and closer to the intersection … Yes, she was over sixty, just a tad over sixty, but she’d been running since she was thirteen, since she’d entered high school and discovered something called ‘cross-country’. She’d done track in grades seven and eight, but— They ran through the forest! Or at least through the wooded parks on the edge of the city, which was, back then, the closest thing to forest she knew. She fell in love with it. The beauty. The quiet. The solitude. The rhythm. The distance. Between practices, she ran through her neighbourhood. Every day, further.
So she could do this. She’d been surprised to discover there wasn’t a women’s team at university, so she joined the men’s team. But then discovered that women weren’t allowed to run the long distances. It was the 70s. At all the cross-country meets, women did just three miles. Men did five. At the track meets, women couldn’t run even the 5,000, let alone the 10,000; the longest event for them was the 3,000. But she kept running further, and further. On her own. She didn’t know she was ready for a marathon in her late twenties. There was no internet. She couldn’t just google. She’d thought she’d have to be running twenty miles several times a week. Which is what she did. Which is why she was always tearing this or that.
Even so, she told herself, now trotting along a sidewalk, you can do this. It wasn’t until her forties that she’d discovered that a total of fifty miles a week was sufficient preparation as long as she ran something over ten miles once a week. And by her forties, she’d been doing that for almost twenty years. So she ran her first marathon. At forty-five. Finished in under four hours.
As she approached the intersection, she could feel her heart still pounding, her lungs still straining. Okay, so you don’t have the cardiovascular anymore, and you definitely don’t have the flexibility, you’ll be the tin man for days, but you’ve still got the strength. And the stamina. Because even at sixty, she’d been walking ten to fifteen miles every day, through the forest behind her cabin. You just have to get to forest, she told herself, you just have to lose whatever vehicles will be following you, and then you can walk. She stopped briefly to read the street signs, got her bearings, and was relieved to find herself at the south end of the city. She headed left. She could cut through the Walmart parking lot, then it was just a short bit to Seymour, which was the first exit, if you were coming from the south. She was jogging now. Limping, actually. It had been years since she’d run on sidewalk, on pavement. She was going to have shin splints. For the rest of her life if she didn’t get into forest soon. Scrub bush, at least.
But she would be. Soon. There was forest on both sides of the highway all the way from her cabin to North Bay. Ergo, she grinned, all the way from North Bay to her cabin. It was 80km by highway. Probably more if she stuck to the forested edges. She could do 20km a day. She’d be home in four days. She could find safe places to sleep along the way … Thank god it wasn’t winter. The bear would be hibernating, but there would be wolves, and coyotes had moved up from the south … Though, now that she thought about it, they were unlikely to live, or hunt, this close to the highway.
A year ago, she would’ve just hitch-hiked. A year ago, she was stupid. Out of step. Behind the times. Now, she understood that there was a good chance that anyone who stopped to pick her up would report her. Unless it was a woman who stopped. But, she grimaced, it could be illegal for women to drive now. It suddenly occurred to her that an unescorted woman might attract attention. Especially a sixty-year-old woman who was running. Even if she had been dressed for it. She abruptly slowed to a walk, her knees screaming.
And then it occurred to her that she couldn’t go home. That would be the first place they looked. Well, she could set up some sort of alarm system, prepare an escape route … into the crawl space, maybe. No, wait! Sam had turned his little cottage into a year-round rental, then decided it was too much trouble, to manage the renting of it. She still had the key he’d given her when she’d confessed that she often stopped at his place on her way back, having paddled the ten mile stretch of river past the end of the lake, to sit and watch the sunset. “Have a beer while you’re here,” he’d said. “Make yourself at home.” Okay, she would, yes. She ventured a small smile.
You can do this, she told herself again.
It had happened so quickly. One day, she was walking along the dirt lane, as she did every day, along the fifty metres from her cabin to the path that led deep into the forest, dressed as she always was, sweatshirt over a tshirt, baggy cotton cargo pants, thick socks, and track shoes. She had a small pack belted around her waist, that held her ID, a small pad of paper and a pen, an alarm and, in case that didn’t work, bear spray, and a flashlight if she did something stupid and took longer to get out. Bug spray in season. Earplugs for Thursdays when the gun club had their get-togethers, a shot every six seconds, echoing for miles and miles. Once when they’d started early, it had been sheer hell for the hour it took to get back inside her cabin, windows closed, music on.
She hadn’t had to use the bear spray. A bear did catch her by surprise one day, as she no doubt did it, but it just growled and took off running. She’d also come across a momma bear and its two cubs, but they were far enough away that she noticed in time to stop. They were on the path ahead of her, the only way out, so she just stood there, patiently, to let them go where and when they wanted. Tassi had been so good, content to be held in her arms—they must’ve been upwind and too far away for her canine nose and eyes to notice them. After a while, she carried on, talking in a singsong voice to let Momma know where she was and, hopefully, to convey her harmlessness. That had always worked with the dogs who’d come charging at her on her long-distance runs. Back when.
She’d also met a wolf one day. A juvenile by the way it was moving, so easily. It had been trotting along the path toward her, oh what a wonderful day—she’d been thinking pretty much the same thing—and when they rounded the curve to find themselves suddenly face to face, they both came to a sudden and complete halt. Astonished. As for her, also delighted. The creature was absolutely gorgeous, its coat a mix of cream, tan, and chestnut. It considered her, then simply turned around and trotted back the way it had come.
The only other animal she’d come across—aside from the numerous, though decreasing numbers of, squirrels, rabbits, and grouse—was a young moose. Like the bear, it too had just taken off when it heard her.
The day it happened, she was a few feet from the path when a car coming down the hill pulled up next to her. Was a time she’d’ve waited, ready to be helpful, to offer directions, to tell the driver ‘No, you can’t get to the highway from here, it’s a dead end, you have to go back—’
“Are you Kat Jones?” The uniformed man in the passenger seat had quickly gotten out to stand before her, blocking her way onto the path. He was young—that is to say, under forty—and clean-cut.
“Yes.” So?
“Would you come with us, please?”
What? “Why?”
The uniformed man in the driver’s seat was also out. And standing behind her.
“We’ve received reports.”
This wasn’t making any sense. “Reports of what?”
He flashed a badge. “You are hereby under arrest for Fraudulent Identity.”
“Under arrest? For what?”
“Fraudulent Identity. Section 380(1) of the Criminal Code. Subsection 4(a). Gender Fraud.”
The second one reached for her arm before she had time to process— Certainly before she had time to get out her bear spray.
“You’re presenting as male,” the first one explained, “when, in fact, you’re female. That’s fraud. And a criminal offence.”
The second one pulled her arms behind her, bound her hands together with one of those black plastic zip ties she’d often used around her cabin, then forced her into the back seat. Just like that. Her world ended.
It hadn’t even occurred to her to make a run for it.
She never did find out who had reported her. It could have been Chuck, who lived down the lane. Nancy’s husband. When she’d left a print-out in their mailbox, informing them of the toxicity of the smoke that blew her way every time they burned their leaves—something they often did, forcing her inside—and there was no reason they couldn’t simply rake them into a corner of their one-acre lot and leave them to decompose—which was actually better, ecologically, than burning them—he’d been enraged. He’d knocked on her door and when she’d opened it—foolish, yes—he’d stepped inside without invitation and proceeded to yell at her, thrusting out his massive ex-footballer chest and punctuating his words with a jabbing finger. When she’d tried to respond, to engage in a civil conversation, he’d screamed at her to “Just Shut Up and Listen!” and a few moments later concluded his tantrum by calling her a cunt.
Or it could have been Mike, the guy who owned the property across the cove. When he started cutting down the trees along the shoreline, she’d called the Ministry to ask whether there were any by-laws against that. So the next time he saw her, he too screamed at her. Gave her a shove and called her a bitch. And kicked Tassi.
Or it could have been Alfred. He’d wanted to hire her to clean his house; she’d declined. She already had a job, with a company in Princeton, writing logical reasoning and critical reading questions for the GRE. He hadn’t known that. And why would he? It’s not like she walked around proclaiming it to the ’hood, and no one had ever invited her to dinner or whatever. She didn’t … fit. He’d just assumed: she was a middle-aged woman, ergo.
Or it could have been Don, who owned the cottage two lots down from her and the empty lot next to her. She’d told him, thirty years ago, when she’d bought her cabin—a cabin on a lake in a forest!—that if he ever wanted to sell the empty lot, she’d buy it. The previous summer, she’d had occasion to speak to him because he kept letting his dog crash his way through her fence—admittedly a sorry affair of chicken wire strung from tree to tree—but it did the job, which was to keep Tassi safe inside—with the added bonus of being virtually invisible. His dog was big and young and unruly, whereas Tassi was relatively small and, by then, elderly. And although the dog’s intent was to play, Tassi would’ve been hurt if Kat hadn’t intervened. Three days after she’d asked Don—yes, with some vehemence—to keep his dog on his own property, a ‘For Sale’ appeared on the empty lot, and when she’d called to make an offer, he said he had no intention of ever selling it to her. She’d been anxious for weeks, knowing that she’d have to move, give up her little paradise, if someone bought the lot for a permanent residence. They’d be too close: her solitude would be forever ruined. Even if they’d bought it just for seasonal use … If they had screaming kids or ATVs or snowmobiles or late night parties or used a generator instead of paying for an electrical hook-up … The sign eventually disappeared, and a year later someone told her he’d had no intention of selling it; he’d just wanted to upset her.
Or it could have been the guy who’d called out at her from his fume-belching ATV, when she was picking up the litter along the trail—as she often did, partly just to do her bit to keep the trails clean, but, eventually, mainly because she liked it better without the beer cans and the fast food containers and the cigarette butts—that it was ‘Good to see she was good for somethin’!’ She hadn’t understood the comment until it was explained it to her: the man had probably thought she was a lesbian and so, since she wasn’t any good for sex …
Yes, she lived in what she privately called ‘a hostile neighbourhood.’ But to be honest, she wasn’t convinced it was just her neighbourhood. Men everywhere seemed to take offense when a woman spoke up, challenged them in some way. Or when she didn’t at least pretend to be sexually available to them. Women weren’t much better, either treating her like a kid, presumably because she wasn’t married with kids of her own, or treating her like she was, in some way, off-putting. She didn’t understand it. And yes, she was hurt by it.
So yes, she’d become a hermit. At sixty, she’d had enough, quite enough, of her uneducated, thick-skulled, and downright dangerous neighbours. And as for the world beyond, she found kin online. Sites like I Blame the Patriarchy and Feminist Current became her community. They were frequented by intelligent women who offered insightful discussion. Women much like her, she imagined. Radfem, for the most part. Probably over forty, for the most part.
And she was content. To live so alone. Though, actually, she didn’t live alone. Well, hadn’t lived alone until just recently. Tassi, her sole and constant companion, the love of her life, had died after fourteen years of happy, fourteen years of … sheer joy. A tumour had developed in her urethra. Malignant, aggressive, inoperable. Two months later, at the end of an absolutely wonderful day together, Kat had had her euthanized, to spare her the last stages of transitional cell carcinoma. And she was still … convalescing.
Maybe that’s why she hadn’t really noticed the car until it had pulled up beside her.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, after the initial shock had worn off. They were on the highway, heading north. The nearest police detachment was south, in Burks Falls. But at least they weren’t headed to Barrie or Toronto, two and three hours away. Already her shoulder was hurting. She should have asked them to bind her hands in front rather than behind. Thirty years of kayaking and snow shovelling had done something rather permanent to her rotator cuff.
“North Bay. You’ll appear before a Justice of the Peace by end of business today.”
“And then? How do I get back home?”
The responded with silence. And maybe a hint of laughter.
An hour later, the officer behind the wheel pulled into an underground lot that led into to a secured entrance area. The other one helped her out of the back seat and, holding firmly onto her arm, then led her through one, then another, set of doors into what was obviously some sort of processing area. He handed some paperwork to the officer behind the counter, then left.
The processing officer took her photograph, fingerprints, and a DNA sample, then led her to an adjoining room that had benches along three walls.
“Have a seat,” he said. “It may be a while.”
“Wait—”
He turned.
“Can you undo these ties? Or at least bring them to the front?”
“Sorry, no can do.”
“But—”
He locked the door behind him.
A few hours later, it looked like she’d be spending the night. Surely if her case hadn’t been called by what she guessed was around five o’clock, it wouldn’t be called until the next day.
“Excuse me,” she called out to the officer who had relieved the day shift.
He looked up from the other side of the reception counter. It was the limit of his acknowledgement. Of her existence.
“Could you please undo these ties. I’ve lost almost all circulation, and by morning, you may have to amputate both arms. I’m serious.”
He merely grunted. But he did snip the ties. She almost screamed as the blood rushed back into her arms, setting her nerves on fire.
She’d missed supper. But she wasn’t hungry.
What she was, was tired. Dead tired. Her body wasn’t used to this kind of stress. So when she stretched out on the bench, she actually fell asleep.
Next morning, she could barely move for the pain and stiffness in her neck, her shoulders, her hips.
But move she did, led from the holding cell, along several hallways, into an elevator (yes, thank you!) (though a few flights of stairs might have loosened her up a bit), up to the third floor. Down a hall to a row of chairs outside Courtroom #5.
“Wait here,” she was told. “Your lawyer will come get you.”
Her lawyer?
The Courthouse in North Bay was not terribly imposing. She’d driven by it several times. But it was, nevertheless, official, and after a while, an armed guard came out of the room.
“Ms. Jones?”
“Yes.”
“Come with me, please.”
She was led into the dead-quiet room, up the centre aisle, to one of the two tables facing the Judge. A young woman at the table, smartly dressed in an ivory skirt and tailored jacket over a pale pink blouse, glanced at her and nodded.
“All rise. Justice Richard Meyers presiding. Court is now in session.”
The young woman stood, then pulled Kat to her feet beside her.
“The Court calls Katherine Elizabeth Jones.”
Confused, Kat stayed on her feet. Beside, presumably, her lawyer.
“Cynthia Seder, Your Honour, representing Katherine Elizabeth Jones.”
The Justice nodded, and the Clerk continued.
“Katherine Elizabeth Jones, you are charged with Gender Fraud, pursuant to The Criminal Code of Canada, Section 380(1), revised, Subsection 4(a). How do you plead?”
What? Already? She glanced over at the young woman. Who nodded again, ambiguously. But they hadn’t had a chance to speak. Well, she supposed her plea didn’t need any discussion.
“Not guilty.”
The Justice looked up at her in surprise.
“Do you dispute the facts in evidence? To wit,” he read the record of arrest, “that you were, are,” he looked at her, pointedly, “wearing men’s clothing, that you are not wearing make-up, that your hair is short and undone, that you are not wearing any jewelry, that you are unmarried, that you do not have any children, that you have had your breasts removed, that you have had your reproductive capacity nullified via tubal cauterization, and that you have pursued an advanced academic degree?”
She was stunned. How had he gotten all that information about her? And why? And when? It must have taken a while … Which meant …
“In Philosophy, no less.”
And if she were a man, that advanced academic degree, in Philosophy no less, would be evidence in favour of—well, anything.
“No,” she said, trying desperately to get up to speed, “I dispute the interpretation of the facts. Your Honour. I was, am, not intending to defraud anyone. I am not intending to deceive anyone about my identity.” She stared at her lawyer. Her absolutely useless lawyer.
“You are female, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then absent intent to deceive, your appearance and demeanour would be feminine.”
What?
“And it is not. The court orders six months treatment in a psychiatric facility.”
“Wait, what?”
The Judge banged his gavel, and the bailiff called the next case.
“I don’t understand,” Kat turned to the young woman, as two officers of the court approached her. “I’m being committed? Not just fined or …”
“Conditions justifying involuntary commitment to a psychiatric facility include gender dysphoria,” she explained, “and gender fraud is considered conclusive evidence of gender dysphoria.”
What?
“Can’t we appeal? Prove my mental capacity?” Because she could surely do that. GRE and all that.
“That would apply in the case of danger to oneself or inability to care for oneself. But in the case of Gender Fraud, you’re considered a danger to others.”
What?
“How so?”
The young woman didn’t answer.
“Wait—” Kat said as one of the officers gripped her arm and began to lead her away.
“Trust me,” the young woman assured her, “you’d rather be incarcerated in a psychiatric facility than in a prison.”
“Are you sure?” Kat said, looking over her shoulder.
“We’ll appeal, of course, but … that’ll take time. Good luck!”
What??
Kat was escorted—pulled and shoved actually, as her hands were zip-tied again, but at least in front this time—out of the room through a different doorway, into another elevator that descended one, two, three, four floors, then opened into an underground parking lot. This couldn’t be happening, she thought. When she was able to think at all.
She was forced into the back of a transport van. Two women sat on a bench along the left side of the van, their hands, similarly shackled, in their lap. Kat was directed to the bench along the right. The door was closed. And locked.
“Either one of you know what the fuck is going on?” Kat asked. Absurdly. Why would they know about her case?
One of the women was sobbing, the other looked drugged. Neither one responded.
Half an hour later, another woman was brought into the van. Then another. And another. Only one was able to speak, and she seemed as stunned as Kat.
Six was apparently maximum capacity. “That’s it!” she heard someone call out. The back panel of the van was slapped a couple times—why did guys do that?—and a minute later, it was moving. Presumably toward the psychiatric facility. What the fuck.
What happened next, when she arrived at the psychiatric facility as a court-ordered admission, was pretty much what she’d expected. She was taken into a small room. She was asked to empty her pockets, but everything she’d had with her was in her waist pack, which had already been taken. Next, she was subjected to a body cavity search, followed by a chemical shower. Probably for lice and what have you. She was given a paper gown to wear. Then a DNA swab was taken. And a blood sample. Presumably to test for contagious diseases such as HIV. She was photographed. And fingerprinted.
“If you’ll just wait here for a few moments,” the woman said, smiling—god knows why, “your counsellor is on her way.”
“My what?”
“Every resident is assigned a counsellor. In addition to the psychiatrist you’ll see once a week.”
After a few moments, a woman appeared in the doorway. She looked like she was in her thirties, but she also looked like she’d been born in the 20s. Because she looked exactly like her mother had looked, in the 50s. The hairdo, the lipstick and rouge, the plucked-quizzical eyebrows, the tasteful earrings (as her mother would have called them), the string of pearls, the belted dress with a full skirt … She even wore an apron. It was all so very … odd.
“Hello, Katherine?” She smiled. Of course she did.
“Kat.”
“But Katherine is such a pretty name.”
“It may be, but I prefer Kat.”
The woman made a note on the pad of paper she took from the pocket of her apron, then introduced herself. “I’m Mary-Anne, and I’ll be your counsellor.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means I’m the one who will help you adjust,” she smiled. “On a daily basis. You’ll also be seeing Dr. Gagnon, weekly.”
“Adjust to what?”
“To life here and,” she waved her hand, “out there. Eventually. We hope.”
“But I was adjusted. To life … out there.” She resisted the temptation to wave her hand.
“Well, no,” Mary-Anne said gently, “you were living like a man. And you’re a woman. That’s what I’m here to help you with. Living like a woman.”
Oh god, what rabbit hole had she fallen into?
“If you’ll come with me,” she said cheerfully, no doubt because permanent cheer was surely part of living like a woman, “we’ll get your physical out of the way first. I don’t imagine you’ll want to walk through the facility in a paper gown, so I’ve brought you some clothes. Tomorrow you can take some time to pick out your wardrobe.”
“Why can’t I just wear my own clothes? I mean, this isn’t a prison, right?” No need for the bright orange jumpsuit. Though, truthfully, she would’ve been relatively happy with that.
Mary-Anne just smiled, and handed her a medium-sized gift bag. Kat looked inside. And saw a dress. Oh god. She hadn’t worn a dress since grade ten. With knee socks, she’d always felt so exposed, but wearing leotards was worse, they were so clingy and forever twisting on her legs. When she was in grade eleven, the school allowed girls to wear jeans. Most wore Levis, which were close-fitting on the thigh and a little flared at the bottom, but fortunately ‘painter pants’ made by Lee were also in style, offering a loose, baggy fit in a lighter denim. Kat loved her painter pants.
She gingerly pulled out the dress—a lavender flower print, no less—and then saw the bra that had been tucked underneath. She burst out laughing. For one, not since university. She was small, and her twice weekly work-outs in the weight room, along with her gymnastics coaching, had kept her pecs in good shape. Even as she aged, snow shovelling and kayaking … And for two—
“Did I get the size wrong?” Mary-Anne asked.
“I don’t know,” Kat finally said, still holding the dress. “I don’t actually know what size I am.” Because—who cared? Mary-Anne made another note. In grade ten, Kat had worn a size twelve. Which was why, when she’d started hearing her students—in her forties, she’d become an sessional at Nipissing University and could finally say good-bye to the precarious patchwork of part-time jobs— When she’d started hearing her students say they were a size four or a size two, she thought surely that can’t be right. Even with anorexia. When they started saying they were trying to become a size zero, she laughed. What was next, a negative size? Yes! Agree to become invisible! Agree to actual female erasure! Young women were such idiots. Kat was often admonished, on feminist blogs open to comments, for her lack of solidarity, but she was having none of that. Once you hit your late teens, you should be thinking for yourself, and while she didn’t expect anyone to ‘wake up’ overnight, she had no patience for fools of either sex.
She looked at the label on the dress. Her painter pants had been a 28/30, then a 30/30, and her cargo pants, a 32/30. A few months ago, she’d started wearing 30/30 again; she’d lost fifteen pounds from the moment of Tassi’s diagnosis to her death and another ten since. Her t-shirts and sweatshirts were generally a large. No help there.
“Well, why don’t you try everything on and see?”
“Do you have any other outfits? Just a simple pair of pants and a … top?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Everything we do here is intended to help you.”
“Help me … how?”
Mary-Anne didn’t respond. Except to make another note.
If you wanted to help me, Kat thought, you’d let me wear comfortable clothes.
“Well, I don’t need the bra.” She stood up then, faced Mary-Anne, and shrugged the paper gown off her shoulders.
Mary-Anne gasped. “Oh. I didn’t— Have you already had bottom surgery as well?”
“What?” Kat was momentarily confused. “I didn’t get top surgery! I mean, I did, I guess, but— I’m not transsexual. It was a bilateral mastectomy. For breast cancer. Stage zero.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. We can get you a mastectomy bra.”
“Isn’t that a bit of an oxymoron?” she asked.
Mary-Anne didn’t understand.
“Since I’ve had a mastectomy, I don’t need a bra,” Kat explained.
“But—” Mary-Anne stuttered, “of course you need a bra! Back in a minute—” She hurried out of the room.
Kat just sat there. Her mind racing. And stuck. At the same time.
Mary-Anne rushed back into the room. “Here you go!”
It was a bra with built-in falsies.
“Seriously? You expect me to wear this? Why?”
Mary-Anne couldn’t say.
Kat could. “You want to sexualize me. And why do you want to do that?”
Mary-Anne couldn’t say.
Kat could. “Because sexualizing women is a way to subordinate them. And why do you want to do that?”
Mary-Anne couldn’t say.
Kat could. “Because men’s power, men’s privilege, depends on it. Well, fuck that.”
Mary-Anne gasped. And made a note.
Kat tossed the bra onto the chair. “I’m not wearing it.”
“But— You … you have to.”
Was it so incomprehensible? A woman not performing femininity? Apparently.
“No. I don’t have to. The fact that I haven’t been doing so for decades is proof of that.”
“I mean— Please. It’s for your own good. I’m just trying to help.”
Kat was tired. Suddenly very tired. If it meant she could get on with the intake, get to her room, get into a bed … She put on the clothes. What choice did she have? She felt ridiculous. She felt like she was going to a Hallowe’en party. Though actually, she recalled, for the only Hallowe’en party she’d ever gone to, back in university, she’d simply put on a flannel shirt with her jeans, added a cowboy hat, and called it a day. Her friend was not impressed. But even as a kid, playing dress-up had so not appealed to her. She just couldn’t— She felt so strange being, appearing to be, someone other than herself.
She was so not going to make it out of here.
Mary-Anne handed her another bag. “Some shoes,” she said.
Kat opened the bag. Of course. A pair of high heels. Again, she sighed, not since grade ten, and even then, low heels. Penny loafers, for the most part. Saddle shoes for a while when they made a comeback.
“I can’t walk in these.”
“Sure you can!”
“No. I can’t. I’ve never worn heels.”
Another note.
“And at sixty, I’m not about to start. I’ll twist an ankle or something.”
“Well …” Mary-Anne was thinking, “I suppose a pair of ballet slippers would do.”
“No, they don’t have any cushioning. My feet have taken a lot of pounding over the years, and now unless I have some sort of shock absorption …” About ten years ago, when she’d had to slam on the brakes, a piercing pain shot up through her leg. Her physician ruled out muscle, ligament, and tendon issues—and Kat concurred, as she’d experienced all three and this had been something quite different—and suggested that maybe the sheath of one of her nerves had simply worn thin. It would explain the occasional, out-of-the-blue pain that started happening not only when she had to slam on the brakes, but whenever she stepped on her right foot the ‘wrong’ way. That’s why she had wall-to-wall carpeting in her cabin and why she always wore thick socks. She’d tried slippers, but didn’t like the … confinement. As for outdoors, track shoes. Good track shoes. Always.
She stared at the thin soles of the high heels. No shock absorption whatsoever. And the facility probably had hard tile flooring everywhere … She suddenly had an idea. “How about a pair of nurse’s shoes?”
“Well, there might be some available,” Mary-Anne said, “but at least for now, I’m afraid you’ll just have to try …” As if Kat simply wasn’t making the effort. As if women who didn’t wear make-up, who didn’t at least try to look good, were lazy. Kat sighed. It was an attitude she recognized.
It took half an hour to get to the infirmary. Which was just down the hall and around the corner. Kat didn’t want to take any chances. And yes, she exaggerated her difficulty a little. She hugged the wall, trailing one hand along it for balance, and for each step, lifted her foot straight up so as not to catch the heel and then put it down full weight so as not to teeter.
“Try putting one foot directly in front of the other,” Mary-Anne had encouraged. “You want to walk in a straight line.”
“No, I do not. Want to walk in a straight line.” What was next, practising with a book balanced on her head?
Mary-Anne surely made another note.
The institution was clean, Kat was happy to see. But very white. Winters were long in the north, and a few years prior, she’d become so tired of nothing but white and dark green and grey and white and dark green and white and grey that she’d bought some diffraction sheets to hang in her cabin windows so when she looked out, she saw rainbow streaks. She discovered, with delight, that she could buy a pair of clip-ons for her glasses that did the same thing, and she often wore them while walking through the winter wonderland forest. Because her cabin was tucked in a cove, she couldn’t see the sunset—a great disappointment, though the privacy of her location was good compensation and, at least for six months of the year, she could make sure she was out on the lake at sunset. So, and, she filled her cabin with orange and magenta and fuchsia—the carpeting, her bedding, the covers on her couch and her tv lounge chair—the only pieces of furniture other than her desk and its chair … God, she missed her cabin already. How was she going to get through this? Not being able to see the sparkling water all day— Not being able to go kayaking or walking every afternoon, all afternoon— It was going to send her into some sort of withdrawal.
They passed several offices and various rooms of all sizes—recreational areas?
“All of the residential rooms are on the upper floors,” Mary-Anne said, in a perky tour guide voice. “On the ground floor, we have our administrative offices, the infirmary, the cafeteria, a few on-site services, and the classrooms.”
Classrooms?
The infirmary, she saw once they got there, was impressive. Clean. Spacious. Staffed. Supplied. Perhaps they’d spent so much effort on that in order to minimize the need for patients, residents, to go off-site. She wondered what the mentioned ‘on-site services’ included.
Kat was given a clipboard on which there was a five-page questionnaire to fill out. She checked most of the ‘no’ boxes and listed her few surgeries: as a child, she’d had her tonsils removed; in her twenties, she’d broken her elbow when a car hit her motorcycle, requiring the insertion, and later the removal, of a pin; at thirty, she’d gotten herself sterilized—neutered, as she liked to think of it; and in her early fifties, she had the bilateral mastectomy. She’d had no illnesses to speak of, she wasn’t taking any medications …
“No medications at all?” the nurse asked when she scanned her questionnaire. “You’re … sixty-one.”
“Yes. No. Just a multi-vitamin, one of those eye tablets when I think of it—”
“You mean the AREDS formulation? For macular degeneration?”
“That’s it.”
“You’ve been diagnosed?”
“No, it’s just a precaution.” Because if she ever became unable to read, to see … “I understand it’s recommended for people over fifty.”
“It is. Good for you. Anything else?”
“Vitamin C, especially in the winter, when my fruit consumption decreases, and B12 when my back acts up.”
“Your back?”
She explained. She’d gotten shingles—she’d thought she’d just been scratched when she’d had to negotiate her way through a dense tangle of bushes and trees to get to Tassi, who was stupidly, dangerously, challenging a raccoon, but over the weekend it got worse, not better, eventually feeling like someone had slashed her back with a knife. When she went to her doctor on the Monday, she was told it was shingles—and that she’d missed the 48-hour window during which medication would have almost guaranteed no permanent nerve damage. So now, every now and then, the nerves on the left side of her back started to tingle, but, fortunately, if she took a large dose of B12 right away, the tingling went away. And, so far, never developed into the searing pain that can apparently occur with permanent nerve damage.
“Ah. Your doctor recommended that?”
“No, I googled. And I’ve since been told it’s common among baseball players with nerve damage in their shoulders. My doctor recommended the shingles vaccination, because you can get it twice, so I went ahead with that as well.”
“Yes, good. Any other vaccinations? When was your last tetanus shot?”
“I have no idea. I went to Europe, oh, twenty years ago, and had some sort of package vaccination then, against hepatitis and some other stuff, I think. Had to get one shot, then go back, and get another. I’m now covered for life, I think.”
“Probably Twinrix.”
“Yes, that sounds familiar.”
She looked again at the form Kat had filled out.
“You’re not taking estrogen? A woman of your age?”
“No.”
“But— Surely your physician recommended that you do so. There are many health benefits—”
“Actually, she didn’t.” It was, after all, ten years ago. When things were … so very different.
“But every woman past menopause should be on estrogen. To compensate for the reduced production …”
“No thank you.”
The nurse made a note.
Did they interpret a refusal to take estrogen as a sign of gender dysphoria, a sign of illness?
“All right then,” she put down the clipboard, “I’d like to update your tetanus and give you a broad-based antibiotic. We keep our residents pretty healthy, but living in close quarters with so many people … we want to be proactive.”
With some reluctance, aware of the spiralling downside of antibiotics, Kat gave her consent. Though, truthfully, it wasn’t clear the nurse was asking for it.
“And can I keep up with the AREDS? And the vitamins?”
“Yes, I’ll make a note in your file and issue you some of each. You can keep them in your room. Other meds will have to be controlled by the dispensary, you understand.”
Kat nodded.
The nurse proceeded with a brief physical, pronounced her pulse and blood pressure to be excellent, took several vials of blood, gave her a couple injections, and then indicated that she was good to go.
“Feel free to make an appointment whenever you feel you need to. We don’t often see seniors in as good a condition as you,” she smiled, “and we want to keep you that way!”
Then let me the fuck out of here, Kat wanted to reply.
“Now, are you hungry?” Mary-Anne had been waiting for her in the outer room. “It’s past dinner, but I can get you something to eat.”
She hadn’t eaten since … yesterday morning. She usually had half a sticky bun or a small piece of tiropita, a Greek pastry she’d discovered when she’d lived in Toronto, for breakfast. After her hike, she had some fruit, and then later some stir-fried veggies or a slice of pizza. And then a bit of snacking through the evening. Raisins in peanut butter or a handful of chocolate-covered pecans.
But she wasn’t hungry. Must be the stress, she thought. The shock of it all.
“No, thanks.”
“Okay, then, here’s your welcome package,” she handed her a thin file folder. “In it, you’ll find our list of Rules and Responsibilities, which we expect you to follow. There’s also a map of the facility. Meals are in the cafeteria at the stipulated times. Eventually, we hope that you’ll become part of our Kitchen Team.”
Not fucking likely, Kat thought. She didn’t even have a kitchen. She had a kitchen counter. A sink and a fridge. She’d gotten rid of the oven to put in a doggy door. The counter held a microwave, a toaster oven, a hotplate, and a kettle. It was all she needed.
“I’ll take you to your room then!”
Good. Kat wanted very much to be left alone. She’d interacted with more people in the last two days than she usually did in two months. This was going to be hard. Very hard.
As Mary-Anne led the way out of the infirmary, down the hall, toward the stairs, Kat followed. Tried to follow. Fell off the heels. The file folder went flying.
“Damn it!”
Mary-Anne sucked in her breath. “No swearing, please.” She bent to help Kat pick up the scattered sheets.
“Well, I’m going to twist an ankle wearing these things.”
“Are they the wrong size?”
“No, they’re the wrong height. I told you, I’ve never worn heels before. I haven’t mastered walking on mini-stilts.”
“You’ve—you’ve neverworn heels before?” She made another note. Then resumed leading the way.
“No, so just slow the fuck down!”
“Please, Katherine, language!”
“Don’t tell me how to talk! I can use whatever language I want!” She sounded like a child. She knew it. But.
“Well, I guess you can, but you’ll rack up so many demerit points, you’ll never get out of here! Is that what you want?”
Kat was so busy trying to walk, Mary-Anne’s words didn’t quite register.
“You’ll be sharing with Holly,” she said pleasantly as she started up the stairs.
Oh. No.
“I don’t mind being by myself,” she said. Lightly. She hoped.
“But we do, I’m afraid.”
Did they consider her a suicide risk? No, more likely, they thought women were supposed to be social. Maybe she could get the earplugs that had been in her waist pack. Maybe she could get herself committed to solitary. Did that happen in psychiatric institutions?
As they neared the room, her room-mate’s name registered. Could Holly be Holly? How many people named Holly lived in North Bay? Assuming that this facility would be filled first, or mostly, with those nearest. And that Holly had moved back. They’d fallen out of touch when she’d married and moved to Ottawa. Though probably it was the marriage more than the move that had led to the dissolution of their friendship. Kat hadn’t accepted Holly’s invitation to the wedding. She couldn’t, given her views about marriage. Simply put, as far as Kat was concerned, it was institutionalized sexism. Being a wife—well, frankly, she’d been flabbergasted when Holly had announced that she was getting married. She wasn’t the type. At all. She’d thought. And since Kat thought it was a grave mistake, she couldn’t possibly support it by attending the wedding. But, as Holly had pointed out, the wedding was important to her and as a friend— But if it was so important to her— Holly hadn’t even introduced her to Darryl. It was all very strange.
The last time Kat had seen Holly was during a quick visit outside on the campus of the university; Kat was a sessional by then, teaching a few courses, Applied Ethics of one kind or another and Critical Thinking, and Holly was finishing up her Master’s degree. She’d just gotten a dog, and Kat had wanted to meet it. (Okay, conceded, she hadn’t actually asked to meet Darryl.) It was a delightful pup, whom Holly had jokingly said she was going to name ‘Gun’. It took Kat a second, but she burst out with a laugh.
Kat had tried to maintain the friendship. But after a few weeks, her emails went unanswered. She’d been especially concerned when she’d asked Holly if she could email a completed screenplay—she’d had aspirations at the time, justified in that what she enjoyed writing most was dialogue, and was, she thought, good at it, but naïve in that getting a screenplay produced was all but impossible even if one had connections. She wasn’t asking Holly to read it; she was just asking if she could send it in order to establish a sort of copyright—the email would be dated, so if she ever had to prove that the screenplay was hers, was written in such and such a year … Holly had refused. Why? Darryl had advised her to. Why? She didn’t say.
In fact, it was Holly who’d provided the idea for the screenplay. She’d been trying to become a firefighter for years, and although she was amazingly fit, working out every day, and a very likely candidate, as she’d been a volunteer for Search and Rescue for years, she kept failing the physical test. As she’d explained, with great anger, the test favored men of a certain height and weight. First, the push-ups and sit-ups requirement. Push-ups favor bodies with a high center of gravity. For the most part, male bodies rather than female bodies. Sit-ups, on the other hand, favored bodies with a lower center of gravity. Female bodies. Applicants had to do fifty push-ups, but only thirty sit-ups. Second, the timed test for getting a folded hose off the rack and carrying it twenty feet. The rack was about five and a half feet off the ground. Shoulder height if you were over six feet tall. If you were five-four, it was over your head. Shoulder height was nice if that’s where your center of gravity was. Hip height would be nice for women. Around three feet off the ground. No matter how hard Holly tried— To lift the hose off the rack and keep her balance, she’d have to stand with her feet apart and her knees bent. But then she wouldn’t be able to reach it. To reach the hose, she’d have to stand on her tippy-toes, feet together. Which meant she’d topple over as soon as she got it off the rack. Third, running an eight-minute mile fully equipped. The smallest heavy coat was still too big, she’d told Kat. It flapped around her ankles. And the boots. It was like wearing clown shoes. So of course she kept tripping. Of course it took more than eight minutes. And climbing ten flights of stairs, let alone a ladder—so equipped— Out of the question.
All of which, Holly had pointed out, was stupid. There was no reason they couldn’t put racks at different heights. No reason they couldn’t make the coat and boots (and gloves) in women’s sizes. And every reason to do that. Yes, a firefighter crew needs the brute force bodies. They could hold up the roof when it was collapsing and move the heavy stuff that had fallen on top of people. But it also needs small, yet flexible and strong, bodies to crawl under and behind, to rescue hidden and terrified kids.
Had Holly gotten pregnant? Was that the reason for the sudden and uncharacteristic decision to get married? Kat had considered the possibility. But no, that would have been even more puzzling. First, Holly would’ve been on contraception. Second, if the contraception had failed, she would’ve gotten an abortion. As far as Kat knew, Holly didn’t want kids. She was so not the nurturing type.
Which was another reason Kat had lamented the loss of her friendship. Women who were mothers seemed to become … someone else. Over the years, having kids, more often than getting married, seemed the reason for Kat’s shrinking social circle.
As soon as she entered the room, she saw that it was indeed Holly. Fifteen years older, of course, and not in her usual sweats and track shoes, but— Kat broke into a smile. A nervous smile.
“Holly, this is Katherine, your new roommate,” Mary-Anne said.
Holly glanced at Kat, then stared, surprise and what might have been dismay, seeping across her face.
“Holly, I trust you’ll provide an orientation for our new guest,” Mary-Anne said cheerfully.
“Yes, of course!” Holly responded. As cheerfully. It was eerie.
“Well then, I’ll leave you two girls to get acquainted!”
Both of them winced at the word.
After Mary-Anne’s departure, they faced each other awkwardly. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, a moment’s deliberation, Holly flicked her head ever so slightly to an upper corner of the room where, Kat saw, there was a camera. Probably with a microphone.
Kat turned her glance into a full appraisal of the room. Each side was identical. A bed. A closet that was bigger than she’d need, and a desk that was smaller than she’d like. No windows. No bookcases.
“Mine?” she nodded to one of the beds. It was hard to tell because they were both made up so neatly. So unslept in. Well, not for long, that.
“Yeah.”
Kat sat down heavily. Sighing, she kicked off her damned shoes. One hit the wall above her bed, the other narrowly missed Holly.
“Hey!”
“Sorry.” She lay back then, rolled over, and curled into a fetal position.
“Yeah.” Holly repeated. “We’ll chat in the morning.” Or not.
But Kat didn’t fall asleep. Couldn’t. Her mind was racing, trying to catch up. She was incarcerated in a psychiatric institution. For six months. Simply because she wasn’t feminine. It was insane.
Okay, first things first. Her cabin. She hadn’t left any appliances on, she hadn’t left any windows open, the furnace wasn’t on, but it wasn’t winter, so the pipes wouldn’t freeze … All of her bills were on automatic payment, and she had enough in her account for the next six months. And then— Hopefully before then, hopefully well before then— There had to be a way …
The door to her cabin was unlocked though. She never locked it when she went into the forest. Truth be told, she didn’t lock it when she drove into town either. Her car would be in the driveway though, so things would seem— No, someone could notice that her lights never came on. But who could she call? The police? They were responsible to grabbing her off the road … On second thought, better to leave it unlocked. If anyone wanted to rob the place—though who would be interested in books and classical music?—she didn’t even have a flat-screen tv yet, because as long as the old one was working—then at least they wouldn’t have to break her windows. Her precious, gorgeous, five by five windows looking out at the water …
Thank god Tassi was no more. When Kat thought of what might have happened if she’d still been alive— She would’ve been taken to some kennel, as there was no one Kat knew who would look after her for six months, and she wouldn’t have understood— She would’ve waited and waited, dying slowly of a broken heart, abandoned by the one she loved …
GenJen: Hey, ThinkAboutIt, I’ve been going through your archive—great stuff!! I especially like your piece on all the Gender Recognition Acts, back when.
↳ ThinkAboutIt: Thank you!
Youngun: What are Gender Recognition Acts?
GenJen: In the UK, The Gender Recognition Act allowed adults to officially register a change to the gender assigned at birth. But as ThinkAboutIt points out, gender isn’t assigned at birth. Sex is. And you can’t change sex. You can’t go from XY chromosomes to XX chromosomes. You can get plastic surgery and take hormone injections, and that’ll affect your secondary sexual characteristics, but that doesn’t change your sex. Your secondary sexual characteristics change anyway through your life; before puberty and after menopause, males and females are more similar than they are during the 35 years in between, just half of their lives, of sexual maturity. According to the Act, applicants had to “provide psychiatric assessments and proof of living for two years in the gender they wish to be officially recognised”. That doesn’t make sense. Whoever wrote that must have meant sex, not gender. We’ve never officially recognized people for being feminine or masculine.
ExAcademe: California’s Gender Recognition Act said one could request that the gender marker on a California birth certificate be listed as “male,” “female,” or “nonbinary.” Again (and again and again), gender is not sex! And except for intersexual people, sex is binary. Biological fact. ‘Nonbinary’ refers to gender; it indicates that one prefers to be neither exclusively masculine nor feminine. And that has no place on a birthcertificate, since one is not born with gender.
RiseUp: In Canada, the Canadian Human Rights Act was amended to add “gender identity or expression” as a prohibited ground of discrimination, so it became illegal to deny services, employment, accommodation, and what have you because of a person’s gender identity or gender expression. At least within a federally regulated industry. And that would have been great. About time, actually. No more firing female airline attendants if they don’t wear make-up, to name but one example (assuming airlines are a federally regulated industry). If only they’d interpreted the amendment correctly!!
BigRed: Yeah, it was seriously messed up.
↳ LovesSarcasm: But a shining example of international harmony!
ThinkAboutIt: Yeah, interesting phenomenon. I still haven’t figured out how so many countries—half! worldwide!—so quickly adopted legislation that (1) used the wrong word, and (2) allowed people to officially change their sex, (3) just on their say so.
Word: The gender recognition acts weren’t the first to make that mistake. Years prior, forms started changing, didn’t you notice? Instead of asking you for your SEX, with boxes for Male and Female, they started asking for your GENDER—same two boxes. I always corrected the form.
↳ LovesSarcasm: I always wrote ‘My favorite color is none of your business!’
Word: The problem (well, a problem) is, if gender means sex, what word do we use to refer to gender? And if we don’t have a word for something …
↳ BigRed: The same thing is happening with ‘vagina’. It now means female crotch or groin. Apparently. Because I’m reading about women who shave their vagina. WTF? You do NOT want to stick a razor blade up your vagina!! Quite apart from there’s NO HAIR in there!
↳ Word: Yes! And so what word do we use to refer to the tunnel to the uterus through which semen can reach our eggs and result in pregnancy? I mean, if the word for that has disappeared, then how do we get pregnant?
↳ LoveSarcasm: Immaculate conception.
↳ GenJen: It boggles the mind.
RiseUp: I think a partial explanation can be found in the desire to be tolerant. (Or at least the desire to be seento be tolerant.) Respect for other people’s opinions is considered a sign of maturity. In the 60s and 70s, ‘we’ started ‘accepting’ gays, lesbians, and bisexuals. After a while, transsexuals were added: LGB became LGBT.
↳ Word: A category mistake if there ever was one! ‘LGB’ refers to one’s sexual orientation, to which sex one was sexually attracted to. ‘T’ refers to—well, that’s part of the problem. A big part of the problem. ‘Transsexual’ got changed to ‘transgender’ somehow. Regardless, it doesn’t refer to sexual orientation.
↳ BigRed: Weren’t they initially called transvestites? Men who dressed in women’s clothing. Big deal.
↳ Word: Yes, we also had a word for women who dressed in men’s clothing: tomboys. The word has (or at least had) less stigma attached.
↳ BigRed: You’re right! Interesting … about the relative stigma. But it wasn’t just (or completely) about dressing in men’s clothing. Tomboys were simply girls who didn’t embrace all the feminine shit.
↳ Carol33: But weren’t transvestites the same? Wasn’t clothing just part of it for them too?
↳ Abby8: I’m okay with transvestites. It’s fine if a guy wants to dress in women’s clothes. As Word implies, women have been dressing in men’s clothes forever. I’m even okay with transsexuals—it’s an extreme body modification, and can only be partial, but it’s on the spectrum: tattoos and piercings on one end, bigger boobs in the middle, penis turned inside out on the other end. But transgenders? Why do we even need a word for it? I’ll tell you. Because cowardly men started thinking they had to change sex in order to change gender. And because they were stupid as well, they used the word ‘gender’ instead of ‘sex’. Or maybe because they thought of themselves as such special snowflakes, they wanted a word, a new word—’transgender’—just for them. And they chose badly.
↳ RiseUp: Yes! Let’s legitimize men’s actions by reference to what women do! ’Bout time!
↳ LovesScience: I’m not okay with transsexuals. They too are using the wrong word. Since you can’t change your chromosomes, you can’t change your sex. So calling themselves transsexual is lying.
↳ GenJen: And transsexuals take hormones. That might put their body modifications onto a different spectrum.
↳ LoveSarcasm: The one with guys who take steroids?
↳ Shazaam: Transgendered men are nothing other than male tomboys. They should’ve just called themselves bettygirls.
↳ Word: Oh, I like that!
↳ Abby8: Except that tomboys typically don’t get surgery or take hormones.
↳ LovesScience: Because they understand that you don’t have to change your sex in order to change your gender.
↳ OffTopic: Remember drag queens? What were they? Transvestites? Transsexual wannabes? Transgenders? Just opportunistic homosexuals?
↳ SeeJaneScream: Whatever, they mocked the straitjacket of femininity those of us who are born female have to contend with, one way or another. Except they mocked, by overstatement, by exaggeration, not the straitjacket, but us. It was as if they were ridiculing us, making fun of the shit so many of us have to do to get by. As women. Not realizing that if we didn’t, we’d be ostracized, not hired, sometimes fired. Their ignorance alone was an insult. It’s like a white man singing Al Jolson in blackface, blissfully, shamefully, completely unaware of racism. More here[1] on the radfem analysis of drag queens.
ExAcademe: I think another explanation for the widespread embrace of transgenderism was the postmodernism fad in university programs. According to postmodernism, there is no truth. There is only your truth and my truth. We constructreality.
↳ LovesSarcasm: Click your heels together three times and say ‘There is no gravity.’
↳ RiseUp: Yes! It’s like they think how one feels is more important than any physical reality. Subjectivity trumps objectivity.
↳ ExAcademe: It’s not quite that subjectivity trumps objectivity. Post-modernism says objectivity is impossible.
↳ GenJen: Either way, it’s very compatible with the princess/entitled male phenomena: me, me, me, I’m the center of the universe.
ThinkAboutIt: Interesting comments … But I wonder whether postmodernism created all those special little snowflakes or whether snowflakes created postmodernism.
ExAcademe: I think second-wave feminists, especially those who didn’t stay in academia, forget that third-wave feminists became feminists largely because of their university studies—Women’s Studies, then Gender Studies.
GenJen: Or at least have been influenced by the material in those programs.
DrWho: On that note—the post-modernism note, not the third-wave feminist note—there’s been a serious decline in critical thinking. (Pity it’s not a mandatory course in first year.) That’s probably another reason for the blanket adoption of Gender Recognition Acts. To be critical is considered a flaw! People criticize me all the time for being judgmental.
↳ LovesSarcasm: The irony.
DrWho: Indeed. And the two are related, of course: if one is to tolerate everything, accept everything, then who needscritical thinking? Who needs to know how to judge, how to evaluate, how to determine whether X is right or wrong, whether Y is better or worse than Z …
ThinkAboutIt: And again, I wonder whether the increase in tolerance led to a decline in critical thinking or whether a decline in critical thinking led to the increase in tolerance.
SeeJaneScream: No doubt the opportunists among us—i.e., men—saw the cult of tolerance as a good thing: if everyone tolerates everything, everyone can ‘get away’ with everything. No doubt they also endorse the lack of critical thinking: no standards of judgment means no passing judgment. Yippee.
BigRed: I agree. This whole ‘inclusive’ shit is just Tolerance 2.0. What’s so good about including everything and everyone? What’s so wrong about excluding some things and some people?
Word: Yes! When the word ‘discrimination’ entered the popular vocabulary, people understood it to be negative, they thought that all discrimination was bad, instead of recognizing that sometimes discrimination is justified. The designated parking spaces closest to buildings for people using wheelchairs is discrimination, but few people object to them because they’re justified! Classic overgeneralization, that mistaken understanding of ‘discrimination’. Symptomatic of lesser minds.
Carol33: The problem with tolerance is that it doesn’t discriminate, it makes no judgments. Maybe that’s why it’s so popular, in a world full of people unable to make judgements, incapableof critical thinking.
ExAcademe: And it’ll take us, of course, into an amoral world, one in which there is no right or wrong, no good or bad, because everything’s okay. Do you really want to live in that world? Fine. Let me hire unqualified people. Because otherwise, I’m being exclusionary.
↳ LovesSarcasm: Will you hire me to be a pilot? Because I really feel like I could be good at it.
RiseUp: But let’s not forget all the irrational, emotional causes. Tolerance and post-modernism and the embrace of transgenderism became fashionable, even contagious(viral) thanks to social media. And legislators are not immune to either, emotion and social media, directly and/or indirectly.
ExAcademe: Yes, that’s another thing second-wavers forget to include in their analyses. The old ‘peer pressure’ is nothing—nothing—compared to the power of social media.
GenJen: I read an article that suggested that there was a pattern in girls’ schools, where they were ‘transitioning’ in clusters. One girl decided she was a boy and got to wear pants instead of skirts, then two or three others decided they were boys and so got to wear pants too.
↳ LovesSarcasm: Yeah, much better to change your sex than lobby to change the uniform.
Shazaam: And like a lot of immature people, transpeople—at least some of them—and why shouldn’t they have the option of being immature, just like the rest of us—want the attention that comes when you do something extreme. It has nothing to do with gender or sex per se. Look at all the press they got back when it all started. Bruce Jenner crowned Woman of the Year. Puh-lease!
↳ BigRed: Though that might have been the ‘freak factor’ at work.
↳ Shazaam: True, but restroom laws changed. For what, less than one percent of the population?
↳ SeeJaneScream: Less than half of one percent!
↳ ExAcademe: Because, as RiseUp pointed out, it’s a fashion fueled by social media. And fashions fueled by social media take off more quickly and more than fashions fueled by face-to-face social interaction. Things go viral. That’s the difference, the power, of social media.
↳ RiseUp: Too bad we haven’t harnessed that power for good.
↳ ThinkAboutIt: Oh but we have. At least, people are working on that. Political movements. Health movements. Disease vectors. So much more is possible now. If only …
↳ Word: Yeah. If only.
__________
*
(free download of the complete novel at pegtittle.com)