To give light to Transgender Awareness Week, read with me a chapter of Julia Serano’s Whipping Girl, one of the most acclaimed “transfeminist” books. A foundational text in understanding transgenderism, hailed in both transfeminist and intersectional spaces.
I chose this book specifically because it is celebrated and was written by a trans “woman.” Before the bad faith accusations, let me preface: Indeed, the broader book discusses transmisogyny theory. But that theory is built on understanding womanhood through this pornographic lens. You can’t separate them when Serano doesn’t separate them.
“WHEN I WAS A CHILD, I was sexually assaulted, but not by any particular person. It was my culture that had his way with me. And when he was through, he carved his name in my side so that I’d always have something to remember him by. It’s the scar that marks the spot where my self-esteem was ripped right out of me. And now all that’s left is a submissive streak that’s as wide and as deep as the Grand Canyon.
And maybe I was born transgender—my brain preprogrammed to see myself as female despite the male body I was given at birth—but like every child, I turned to the rest of the world to figure out who I was and what I was worth. And like a 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗯𝗼𝘆, I picked up on all of the not-so-subliminal messages that surrounded me. TV shows where Father knows best and a woman’s place is in the home; fairy tales where helpless girls await their handsome princes; cartoon supermen who always save the damsel in distress; plus schoolyard taunts like “sissy” and “fairy” and “pussy” all taught me to see “feminine” as a synonym for “weakness.” And nobody needed to tell me that I should hate myself for wanting to be what was so obviously the lesser sex.
When I hit puberty, my newly found attraction to women spilled into my dreams of becoming a girl. For me, sexuality became a strange combination of jealousy, self-loathing, and lust. Because when you isolate an impressionable transgender teen and bombard her with billboard ads baring bikini-clad women and boys’ locker room trash talk about this girl’s tits and that girl’s ass, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘀𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗮 𝗳𝗲𝘁𝗶𝘀𝗵.
So without ever having seen pulp fiction or hardcore porn, my thirteen-year-old brain started concocting scenarios straight out of SM handbooks. Most of my fantasies began with my abduction: I’d turn to putty in the hands of some twisted man who would turn me into a woman as part of his evil plan. It’s called forced feminization, and it’s not really about sex. It is about turning the humiliation you feel into pleasure, 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝗮𝗹𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗴𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿.
While I never really believed the cliché about 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴, I found that that sentiment kept creeping into my fantasies. In my late teens, I would 𝗶𝗺𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗲 𝗺𝘆𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗼𝗹𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗲𝘅 𝘀𝗹𝗮𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 and having strange men take advantage of me. It wasn’t so much that I was attracted to men, but that movies and magazines made it seem that 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗲𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗲 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆 𝗺𝗲𝗻. In my mind, I’ve been pinned down by bodies so large that they dwarfed me, felt the ghost pains that accompanied the unwanted groping of body parts that did not yet belong to me, experienced the helplessness of having some faceless john stick his cock into the cunt that I hated myself for wishing that I had. And with each make-believe thrust, I felt simultaneous ecstasy and shame. 𝗠𝘆 𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗲 𝗳𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝗖𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗶𝗰 𝘀𝗮𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀, as I absolved myself of guilt by combining my desire to be female with self-inflicted penance and punishment.
In my twenties, I discovered role-playing relationships: placing personal ads in the “wild side” sections of weekly papers, conducting phone interviews with potential tops who got off on the idea of dominating a small and “passable” crossdresser. For them, I wore skimpy outfits and four-inch heels, not because I thought it made me more of a woman, but because I spent so much of my life guarded and making myself invisible 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗮 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝗵𝗶𝗯𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘃𝘂𝗹𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲. 𝗜 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗱 to be their 𝘀𝗲𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 or 𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹𝘀, roles that had as much to do with class as they did with gender and sex. We were creating fantasy worlds out of real-life meanings and symbols, 𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗹𝘃𝗲𝘀 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲𝘀 of a culture that denies its own infatuation with hierarchies and pecking orders.
Sometimes the line between fantasy and reality would blur, like the time I had a top who refused to stop for safe words.1 When I finally thwarted his advances, he guilt-tripped me with fucked-up lines about how I had led him on and how it was all my fault for being such a tease. When I got home, I sat in the shower for almost an hour, but I still felt dirty and diseased. And I didn’t dare tell a soul because, on a subconscious level, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had deserved what happened to me.
At some point, all of us who identify as female have to come face-to-face with our own internalized misogyny. And when people ask me what has been the hardest part of being a transsexual, expecting me to say that it was coming out to my family or the growing pains of going through a second puberty, I tell them that the hardest part, by far, has been unlearning lessons that were etched into my psyche before I ever set foot in kindergarten. The hardest part has been learning how to take myself seriously when the entire world is constantly telling me that femininity is always inferior to masculinity.
These days, I am an outspoken feminist and transgender activist. And most days, I dress like a tomboy in striped shirts, jeans, and Chuck Taylors. To most people, I probably seem pretty self-confident, but that’s only because they can’t see my submissive streak. It’s like a scar I keep hidden up my sleeve, a scar that still sometimes opens up and bleeds. Like a shark bite, it literally tore me apart when it was first happening to me. But these days, 𝗺𝘆 𝘀𝘂𝗯𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗜 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝘃𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗱.” Julia Serano, Whipping Girl (2007)
I highlighted parts that reflect how transgenderism is merely a male constructing womanhood through sexual fetish. While the male may live what he thinks is “being a woman”, he experiences his malehood all the time. This is not misinterpretation, this is how a large part of the male population understands womanhood, through porn fetish, and the male gaze. This extends to trans identified males. Cherry picking is not choosing to overlook the blatant misogyny and this is what the trans community constantly practices. Yet it is undeniable, even in transfeminist staple texts, trans women like Serano explain themselves to be a part of a community that cannot be divorced from porn, identity consumerism, and incelhood. Constantly rebranding fetish as identity, porn as exploration, and misogyny as gender euphoria.
There are accounts on Reddit of trans women talking about their Nazi phases before they “cracked” the egg. But before that, there are “euphoria boners”, sissy porn, and BDSM, not condemned but rebranded as essential in their “liberation.” Which is why the fight of women and the fight of the trans community will always be in tension, a middle ground is impossible. And while I advocate against trans hate crime, the oppression they are suffering from should never be weaponized to evade critiquing of the roots of their ideology, or from what they call, identity.
I have read Pageboy before by Paige and while, I found it mediocre both in form and substance, it was arguably an experience with the discomfort from expectations of femininity, different from Serano’s autobiography that eroticizes misogyny, introducing it as radical, “going beyond” and expelling binaries. An intellectualization of incel culture is not progressive. Either women can name sex-based oppression, or gender identity supersedes it, the manipulation of language without political and social change will only leave women deprived of the language for their resistance.
Meanwhile, I recognize the legitimacy of gender dysphoria but it cannot be addressed by the medicalization of gender. Women convinced that the only way to live authentically is by the modification of their bodies is a feminist nightmare, a misogynistic dream come true for patriarchy that has convinced them to hate their bodies for centuries. There is no fixed way of living for a woman. Everyone who convinces women otherwise is lying to them.
The Right treats us like cattle, the Left treats us as costumes. Thus, it is radical to treat ourselves as who we are, human beings deserving of a life of dignity away from the constant tokenism, false allyship, and weaponization against our fellow women.
Let us reflect on what is being omitted from every “transfeminist” text that uses Beauvoir: Beauvoir’s “One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman.” is a critique of the philosophizing of women’s subordination as natural, that being born female entails a life of being “naturally” passive, nurturing, and inferior. Not the trans inversion that “woman” is socially constructed, thus, everyone can become a woman.
We need to double-think, to hesitate, and to assess ourselves all the time of the biases that are of patriarchal conditioning. If women cannot define their experiences, men will. Symbolic matricide has occurred to feminist figures throughout history. The trans community’s negation of women’s meanings to appropriate it for their own political fights is an omen of an ongoing femicide against feminist analysis. The discomfort we derive from gender is not an affirmation that we are the other gender, it’s an affirmation that gender is an oppressive structure that must be abolished. Thus, the reasonable path is to denounce the system instead of pathologizing what should be addressed politically. No child is a trans child. Puberty is not a disease.
