Egg discourse
There seem to be two "egg discourse" things going right now, namely
Is it ever okay to help someone crack their egg vs. the "egg prime directive"
Can the term "egg cracking" apply to anything other than transfeminine
My feelings on #1 have been perfectly encapsulated by this post that I just reblogged, namely that it's important to be supportive of people through their gender journey without insisting to someone what they must be.
And for #2, well, the "egg cracking is because chicks come from eggs" is a pure fiction. This is apparently the origin of the term, via the lovely Nanoraptor:
Self Portrait, July 2010 or: Rebirth Until the point I transitioned in my mid 20s in Nineteen Mumblesomething, I lived my life as the little microraptor in an egg. I was the shell, showed the world only the shell, and it was all anyone saw. I knew who I was on the inside and what I wanted when I was five, eight, ten, sixteen, twenty one. I have firm dateable memories from those times of needing to change, needing to transition, needing to struggle, and break out of the egg. And then one December I laid on my bed in the summer heat, life going nowhere, and I let those thoughts come up again, the deepest most comfortable *knowing* who I am. I planned, and remembered, and searched for info. I made the phonecalls. The gender programs, the gender centre in Sydney, the options, the hormones. I cracked. I knew no-one else transsexual at the time barring a few celebrities. I don't know if I could even say I was directly inspired by any. Carlotta, Bernadette, Chi-Chi, Dame Edna. All showgirls, all nothing like me, but all paved the way to make what's honestly a pretty conservative and bogan culture in this country kind of accepting, despite its heavy stereotypical masculinity. I weighed up whether it was better to be seen as a kindly joke and get to be more me, or stay within and regret. I cracked. Once an egg cracks, there's no going back. There's a hole and you can breathe. There's a hole and a few lucky people close to me get to see in and see I am her. Every step after that is confronting. Scary to keep on breathing through, but easy to do as you tumbles out of the shell. The being inside, she needs nourishment like the air she can now breathe. My egg may have cracked in the 90s, but last year on another hot December day on the evening of the 8th, it happened again. Well over a decade past transition with HRT and surgeries behind me, depression and anxiety were still clinging to me as common visitors, and something clicked. I've never been able to describe it as anything less than a few moments of complete joy, all-encompassing happiness in a bright flash of light that I knew I'd created myself. It hasn't stopped. I just had to know I could create my own joy, my own mood, and like the first time around, once it started it didn't stop. I haven't been depressed since, haven't suffered that hell since. That's this image. The microraptor whose egg cracked, grew stronger, and then became tough enough to be reborn. A total fuckup of mixed metaphors pulled out of my arse but gods, it suits. (Edit: Since then I've helped crack a few more eggs. When you go through hell and come out the other side, you you learn to recognise the same in other people. Those shells are thinner than you think, and only needed me to be a different inspiration than some glammed up showgirl. I could just be the quiet artist, the nerd who's unsure of herself, the flannelette-wearing dyke, the ordinary jeans & tshirt girl who just tells a friend "Hey it's not like I was supremely confident and went into it guns blazing and out and proud from day one. One day I just looked a few things up, took steps after that, and it turned into the best thing I ever did..."
It has nothing to do with bad gender-normative puns.
