Can’t get into too much detail right now but I’ve had quite some milestones in the last year or so…
For starters, here is an article I was featured in by PBS regarding my contributions to gender-affirming care.
Here is the updated resource guide for gender-affirming providers, please distribute and use as you wish.
And here is a quick Instagram post of me coming out of my social media break to say hello, I’m doing great, and lots of new prospects are on the horizon both professionally and personally.
That being said, given how blurry professional and personal lines get when doing the work I do in the communities I am a part of and, well, for as long as I’ve been in the field, please remember that I have to maintain these boundaries out of ethical responsibility. I cannot advertise here my new endeavors nor would I wish to, but I also am aware of how highly visible and accessible my information is in the world. If you happen to find my personal contact info from searching, please use your discretion as to whether it is appropriate to use that channel to reach me. Otherwise, just do a bit more searching and maybe you’ll find a better method to get in touch.
Be well, choose love, and never stop fighting,
Avery
PS: A little edit…I got the all-clear to disclose where I’m working now and my email. I am a full-time therapist for the LGBTQ+ community at CogniCare Psychological Services and can be reached at aheimann@cognicarepsych.com for inquiries about that.
So I like, wrote an op-ed. And I’m gonna be like, interviewed for something else. And there’s been a lot of developments and awards and events over the last year, I don’t really want to do an update. But it was suggested to me to copypasta the rough draft of what I had written for that op-ed article because so much of my voice is in it and it’s all messy and rambly and has its own timbre within the composure so fuck it. Here goes:
The discussions around gender-affirming healthcare as it pertains to Pride, human rights, policy, and empathy have been increasingly polarizing. This narrative, however, does not need to be an either/or, but rather a both/and. Political developments and barriers around gender-affirming healthcare are horrifying, to say the least. They entail a landscape of doom and gloom. They illustrate how personal intolerance and bigotry can be both overtly and insidiously invested into actions that actively harm our communities on all ends of the spectrum. AND we still have the capacity to love, to understand, and to celebrate our differences as part of what makes our world brighter, more colorful, and more uplifting. In my 15 years of advocacy for the LGBTQ+ community and its individuals, whether through education, mental health, or healthcare, I have learned the many ways in which mutual support grows from ongoing interpersonal connections and broader recognition of the historical efforts to fight for the safety and well-being of our people. “Fight” is the operative word here for sure, as it is a struggle, a push, and a movement.
When I teach people about the LGBTQ+ acronym, I am often asked why the “T” is included in an otherwise sexual orientation-related assortment of letters when it stands for a gender identity. The explanation is both simple AND complex: it is the T, the transgender piece of that umbrella that has been fundamental in the fight for LGBTQ+ rights, yet simultaneously the letter representing a community that is constantly rendered less visible, less accepted, and more of a subject for debate rather than an acknowledgement of transgender humanity. Transgender people are not a concept, or a philosophy, or a debate. We are people who deserve basic dignity and respect just like anyone else. People who deserve not just to survive in a world seemingly so hellbent on making survival impossible, we are people who deserve to thrive. You might think that survival is a basic need, but there is a reason both of the following expressions circulate with equal fervor during the month of June: “Love is love,” and “Pride started as a riot.” Love and anger are not mutually exclusive, and as the great lesbian poet Audre Lorde once said regarding anger, “Focused with precision it can become a powerful source of energy serving progress and change… Anger is a source of empowerment we must not fear to tap for energy rather than guilt.”
Gender-affirming healthcare would never have been a reality if not for the efforts from Black and Brown transgender individuals over fifty years ago. With figures like Stormé DeLarverie helping set the 1969 Stonewall Riots in motion in New York City, Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera forming Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries to care for unhoused transgender youth, sex workers, and formerly incarcerated people, and Miss Major Griffin-Gracy’s creation of the Transgender Gender-Variant & Intersex Justice Project in San Francisco, we must honor and respect the shoulders who lifted up the possibility for gender-affirming healthcare to exist at all. The very first Pride itself was a celebration of the one-year anniversary of Stonewall and everything it set forth to protect the LGBTQ+ community.
Just like the narrative around LGBTQ+ rights and Pride as a “both/and,” gender-affirming healthcare addresses both a patient’s mind AND body as it relates to their overall sense of wellness. Broadly defined, gender-affirming healthcare is healthcare, period. For the purposes of what type of healthcare can be provided for trans and gender diverse patients, it includes things like STI testing, cancer screenings, hormone therapy, regular lab testing, surgical procedures, and linking people with additional services like mental health, just to name a few. Gender-affirming care is all-encompassing and holistic: it takes into account the obstacles many trans and gender diverse folks have had to face or are currently facing to access medical means to help them feel more affirmed in their identity.
To be clear, these obstacles are fueled by hatred on both personal and political levels of federal, state, and local policies. In 2023 alone, a record-breaking 543 and counting anti-transgender bills have been introduced in 49 states preventing and prohibiting gender-affirming care of all kinds. To put this in perspective of the magnitude regarding anti-transgender policy expansions, 2023’s anti-transgender legislation almost doubles the combined bills introduced in 2020, 2021, and 2022. These bills attack everything from transgender youth’s access to safe bathrooms in schools to gender-affirming medical professionals being charged with a felony for providing hormonal treatment to mitigate the distressing and dangerous symptoms of gender dysphoria. Most recently, as of May 17th, Florida governor Ron DeSantis signed into law the ability for the state to forcibly remove children from the custody of their families if they are receiving any form of gender-affirming care. The most daunting task of writing this article is knowing that by the time it is published, these policies will increase in both quantity and severity with consequences of incomprehensible harm to the community.
Audre Lorde also once said “Your silence will not protect you.” Anger and love are both kinetic energies that amplify our abilities to break through silence, whether that is having tender discussions with our families about what we can do to help, writing to our local legislators about what they can do to help, speaking up at work meetings, cheering on drag queens at brunch, or singing in joy at Pride parades. It is that liminal space of silence that breeds fear, stagnation, helplessness, confusion, and loss. Love, anger, understanding, and support are just some of the antidotes we can use in our own ways. What will you do to keep the momentum going? What are your intentions to break through this silence, no matter how big or small you feel they might be?
Alright so we are fully mercury in retrograde and I’m in an all-or-nothing/catastrophizing headspace, so it’s entirely likely I might lose this post into the ether of technology or just get so mad at the keys for every typo I make until I begin screaming at the top of my lungs. Today was a stressful day. It was expected to be; Pride month has started and we’re in the middle of a major IT overhaul at the hospital, but just like when everything in my life overlaps in terms of what I do and who I am, it can overlap in some really shitty ways too. Like, the work situation is extremely frustrating in terms of my learning disability and my desire to finally grow into the roles I am clearly qualified and passionate about…but that’s a conversation for my therapist.
I guess I’ll start this post with a brief update, maybe throw in a thematic review or something, whatever. That’s the flow I have pictured in my mind as I’ve been clinging so hard to structure over the last few years and I fear I might have squeezed it to death. I graduated with my MSW in May, academic honors, an award for Service to Community Recognition for Rutgers’s Center for Social Justice and LGBT Education Rainbow Graduation, lots of certificates to frame and hang, possible teaching opportunities in the next few semesters thanks to my amazing mentors at Rutgers…I’m also like 99% sure my picture is going to be featured on Somerville’s little walkway billboard thing for Pride as a resident of the town and hospital employee yadda yadda…our class speaker, Marleina Ubel, named me and highlighted my commitments during her speech in the entire graduation ceremony, I’m on my own trading card, people are reaching out left and right to consult with me for several projects.
I lost my shit when Marleina said my name.
There’s been so much affirming, validating energy in my life over the last few months reminding me that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be in my trajectory. The pace at which I lived my life over the last two years was so full and so rigid that although I was in Stress City, I could rely and lean back on knowing that there were distinct time frames to which I could dedicate my work and specific time frames when I knew I needed to take off that hat (even though I still find that transition damn near impossible). Pretty much every area of my life is informed and informing my work, whether that’s just hanging around town outside Retro Classics while engaging in random conversations about LGBTQ+ opportunities and causes, playing Overwatch with my queer online community, checking in with fellow bloggers, watching movies with classmates, shit, even talking with my therapist still directly links to career brain.
There are going to be SO MANY BEETS this year.
For a month so saturated with Rainbow Capitalism, a time when I usually enjoy blasting the shit out of marketing and media for inundating people with performativity, I feel like I’ve already hit my limit in terms of queer discourse. I know it’s inextricable: the closest thing I have to self-care is digging into the dirt of my garden and even that feels like queer culture sometimes…but I just, I just don’t know how this all fits together right now. And I know maybe it’s supposed to be messy, but I’m still riding the momentum of this degree and my certification in Child and Adolescent Well-Being with a concentration in LGBTQ+ Advocacy, thinking “Okay, what now,” chomping at the bit for any morsel of direction or promise. And I still have to study for the damn LSW exam by the end of June which again, overlaps in a not-so-comforting way.
I’m struggling at work with the new system because of my dyscalculia, and I’ve failed all my practice exams for the very same reason. I struggle with taking tests. Not necessarily the hints, strategies, key words, mnemonics, or acronyms, but simply the format of multiple choice. I’ve gone from writing 25 page single-spaced strategic plans on opening a hypothetical pleasure-focused resource center by and for the Asbury Park community to now facing a 4-hour exam which determines the next major steps of my life.
My “elevator pitch” from my Program and Strategic Planning class…a dream I’ve had for over a decade.
So I guess for just right now, focusing on the present, I was faced with some options as I got out of work this afternoon and almost began hyperventilating. I could either fumble around for something to do, riding out my caffeine binge and likely cleaning frantically or getting salty in videogames, I could study for the LSW exam, or I could write. I’m still in the mentality of needing to create something, and I figured conjuring up some semblance of a blog post could scratch that kinetic itch in a way that disrupts my feelings of inadequacy on the work front.
TL;DR… Life has been great and super gay, but the transition post-graduation has been really rough on how I determine where I spend my time and energy.
I’ve gotten SO many new toys since my last blog post; I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I got a Jollet Thrust, a Number One Laboratory Amethyst Geode, a Lovense Ferri, a Blush Nocturnal that blows the old We-Vibe Tango out of the water, a Crystal Delights plug, a Lovehoney Galaxy Super Soft Silicone Dildo…just so much good stuff. But for today I wanted to bring up a couple of custom pieces I recently got. Customs mean many things to me in terms of feeling connected to makers, feeling validated when I get a product that comes out exactly how I wanted it to (almost akin to the feeling of helping create my own tattoo design), and that overall collaborative effect when supporting crafters and how that ripples into a bigger picture of increasing visibility. I’ve talked about customs before and what that process has been like, whether that’s a personal message from the artist checking in to update me with developments or even sending extra goodies in the package.
Two major customs I’ve received in the last few months have come from TheCottageCoreWhore and EroGeisha. Both reflect my geeky side, but also reflect a lot of the friendships I have made in the last year. I’ve been seeing someone who runs a videogame store downtown…the one-year anniversary of my back surgery in June is also when we first officially started connecting as I watched his Twitch streams while recuperating in the Poconos with my parents. Mind you, I had my eyes on this dude for years after seeing him at various cons, so when I moved to Somerville, I crushed even harder. One thing led to another and not only did I end up becoming a part of his life, but became really close with a lot of his amazing friends. Like there are no words for how amazing his friends are. My friends are. These people. Whatever. It’s just this lovely mix of humans from all different walks of life who bond over nerdy shit with traditions like Eight on the BreakTuesdays, fighting game Thursdays, and Monster Movie Sundays. I never dreamed I’d be such a huge Godzilla (ahem Mothra is bae) fan, and I feel like I’ve learned so much from them.
We hella cute, ngl.
Two of Cameron’s (that’s his name) best friends joked with me that I should get a custom Pac-Man dildo made since it’s one of Cam’s favorite games, and I reached out to TheCottageCoreWhore on IG to see if it was possible. Sure as shit, this thing came to fruition, and it sits atop Cam’s cabinet of Pac-Man memorabilia in a way that brings together both of our collector mentalities; it’s super fucking corny and adorable and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Like I said, it’s been a year of abundance, and being with someone who never had previous exposure to sex toys and consistently provides feedback for me every time we use one is a joy of theory meeting practice in a really affirming way.
Although it’s not my favorite dil, the Pac-Man custom proves, yet again like many of my pieces, that a toy doesn’t need to serve a certain prescriptive function in order to fulfill their value and purpose in my collection. I have a ton of toys I don’t necessarily physically enjoy but still represent something precious to me…kind of a “pleasure of the text” situation in phallic form. The Pac-Man is a custom 6 inch dildo, not really my ideal length or girth, and it has a scrotum that doesn’t really hold firmly enough to the shaft for me to use it as a grip when thrusting. There’s no flared extension at the base even though I know there were options for it, so it’s just not the most easy-to-maneuver toy but also not completely cumbersome.
I love it nonetheless, as each character is suspended perfectly in clear silicone, even placed with the intentionality of having the ghosts chase Pac-Man up the shaft to the tip. It’s comical, a conversation-starter, and done really well by a maker who was just starting their business at the time. I feel tickled I was able to support them with my purchase and really glad that I can write about them here. In addition to customs, TheCottageCoreWhore also puts out drops in their IG stories here and there, so if you’re following them you might see some products up for grabs at awesome discounted prices. I got a really cool unicorn horn from them made up of extra silicone pours they had from previous projects. A few colors had glitter and glow-in-the-dark elements, and I’ve always wanted a unicorn horn as many makers offer them. So for forty bucks and a completely unique product…you just can’t beat it.
The second custom fell into my lap by providence divine (okay it was actually a Twitter post), modeled after a Ramune bottle. Anyone who knows me knows how much I love Ramune, whether my old college days where I created a wire wrap necklace with one of its marbles or my ongoing quest to find as many flavors as possible. I had been eyeing EroGeisha’s products for a while, especially their Takoyaki tentacle-inspired dildo. When I saw their post about the Ramune dildo, I knew what had to be done.
This process was full of great surprises, from finding out that EroGeisha could actually implant a rattle inside the dildo to make it sound like an authentic bottle, the fact they could make it with rainbow tie-dye colors, the extra merch that came with the package, and the overall usability of it. Let me tell you, that rattle is NO gimmick. I remember always wanting a FunFactory Bouncer because of its novelty and great reviews but not really wanting to shell out that much money for something I was unsure if I’d like. With the Ramune dildo, I figured that even if the rattle wasn’t for me, I’d at least have a really kitschy piece in my collection.
But holy cats, that rattle RESONATES. DEEPLY. Like I can actually feel it clack against my G-spot during thrusts and it was such a delightful bonus. Another element of this dildo which I never considered until actual use was how the firmness of the silicone and the texture would feel. It’s not a G-spot dildo and yet it stimulates it with the ridges along where the cap would be. The little lip separating the “cap” from the rest of the bottle feels amazing during initial entry and just generally sitting inside of me. I still can’t wrap my brain around how one tiny rim of texture can make such an impact but I’m so cheesed that it does.
And although the bottle doesn’t have a base, it doesn’t really require a lot of deep thrusts in order to feel full, so I can use the lower half of it for an easy grip. The drag of the silicone surface also helps when I’m clenching onto it…Cam agreed it was notably easy for him to use on me even when I wriggle around. And if you’ve read my blog before, you know how much I love those times when a toy affects me unexpectedly. Whether that’s a squishy textured corncob or an unusually rounded pumpkin plug, that moment where I realize a toy offers so much more than I visually anticipated is a really grounding reminder to hold space for the variability of pleasure in whatever form it takes along time and space.
So yeah, two great customs, unique in their own ways, wonderful additions to my collection, made by folx who clearly put a lot of thought and care into what they create. June is going to be jam-packed with companies promoting rainbow products, some for really great causes and some just to cash in on the season…so if you’ve been overwhelmed by the heavy promotion or maybe even already own your fair share of LGBTQ+ inspired toys and are looking for something a little different, I absolutely recommend both TheCottageCoreWhore and EroGeisha. If you’re still looking to get your hands on something Pride-themed, you can always check out this post for a presentation and YouTube clips about the companies I endorse (will never stop singing my praises for Blush, though 😉). We’re in a weird time of colorful recursion, which is saying the least. But we can still show up and be here for one another however we can in that moment. For me, today’s moment was a blog post. Tomorrow who knows. Maybe I’ll finally get around to studying for the LSW.
Reviewing the Number One Laboratory’s Amethyst Geode Silicone dildo and discuss the problems with companies like Chakrubs who sell “crystal” dildos sourced from areas they won’t disclose their relationships with, the overall unethical sales of crystal regarding mining labor, cultural appropriation, the fact that many times it’s just glass, the porosity, and the ridiculous upcharge. But alas, I have yet to try the Number One Labs dil.
Talking about my newest tattoo on my pubic bone of onion and garlic, what those foods have historically meant to me culture-wise, health-wise, and dysphoria-wise and how getting that tattoo was a way of reclaiming my body odor. Talking about tattoos in general, how I stay away from cover-ups because I want to honor each tattoo for its respective time in my life no matter how ridiculous it seems now, also that I want to be accountable for these marks, allusions to SI scars and how every part of my body is a palimpsest of decisions.
Talking about my experiences at S.L.A.M conferences and what it feels like to sit inside of performativity for as much as I wriggle to call it out, what it feels like to be among other white folx where conferences are centering BIPOC folx and how and when to be in that space. How inevitably I will be bringing my shit in no matter my participation and it will always need examination before, during, after, and simultaneously I also need to be present in those moments to actually internalize (and compensate for) the work BIPOC individuals and communities are doing.
Getting back to my punk roots, Ska Against Transphobia, DIY ethics, the battle vest, the importance of groundwork and sustained communication outside of social media, talking about SESTA/FOSTA, censorship, terms of (dis)service and how existing in a world before cellphones and internet as a young punk teen taught me the value of knowing the work is out there and the motivation to seek and promote it.
I don’t know, y’all…the last semester of my (hopefully) final degree in Social Work is coming up, as are the overlapping themes, which tend to be the impetus for me to write, or sometimes they get so tangled into each other that I just want to spit at the screen. I don’t give up. I’ll never give up. Productivity is white supremacy, my value and your value and OUR value isn’t determined by how much I create but fuck no I will never stop engaging in these discussions with a mindset that learning and loving is an eternal fire. I guess I just wanted to plop these here as means to keep the embers burning. For now. And I know academia is a pyramid scheme, I am now understanding more and more that lots of people hide behind their values (myself included), and intentions don’t mean shit if the outcomes are dehumanized. I’ll pause for now. This just needed to exist somewhere.
This isn’t going to be so much a post as like, a two second update. I have no memory of making that last post. Memory is kind of eluding me these days. Time is blurring for everyone, shit is shitty for everyone. So that last post could have been referencing literally anything and it’s valid all the same. I’m still here. I think about putting up a review or two here and there…I think about just doing one of these rambly little blurbs maybe with an update maybe just to spill out my head. When it happens, it’ll happen. I’m still a blogger. I’m still an educator. I’m still me. Battling the imposter syndrome measurements of what it means to be productive in a world where there is little humanity in production. Words are obsolete, all pithy venting aside. I’m still here. I say that a lot when I post, because I do so infrequently. There are things to celebrate. Little victories, well-written papers, new relationships, good food, a shot at Cali sobriety. But we’ll just end this here. For now.
Content Note: Broad and ranty discussions of eating disorders, body dysmorphia, gender dysphoria, death, abuse, and mental illness.
The following post is likely going to be extremely triggering. I left out a lot of perseverating details in how my disorder manifests, ways that are particularly personal in method and thought. I still included the specific process of how this post came to be on this very night, so please take care of yourself should you continue to read. I say take care of yourself when this subject is about my own self-care hypocrisy, so I can only hope I don’t create unbearable pain if you read on.
It’s National Eating Disorder Awareness Week. I don’t think I was ever really aware this week existed, or maybe I was and deliberately stuffed it away like I do with everything eating disorder related. I’m dreading writing this. I’ve been thinking about this week for months now, seeing how it lines up with my Clinical Assessment and Diagnosis module for Eating and Eliminating Disorders which just happens to coincide with this week as well as every other fucked up triggering thing related to food and body image, all perfectly enmeshed with Mercury in Retrograde which, yes, I believe in fully. I’m not editing this. I’ll probably reread it once, post it, and try to forget it exists. I’ll promote it once on Twitter and regret it instantly (I already regret it).
My tits hurt. They’re swollen from my weight gain, they hang heavy on my bloated body and I’m nowhere near my period. I have nothing to blame it on hormonally and I’ve been off Testosterone for months. I’m sucking the sugar from my teeth still left over from the half of a Kings Cake I polished off before my shower, making sure to rub extra lotion on my belly and breasts to reduce potential stretch marks from these last few pounds. What the fuck am I doing writing this? I’ve been dreading writing this more than I’ve ever dreaded writing anything in my life. More than hundred-page curriculums, more than painful revisitations of abuse and trauma, more than writing about dead best friends or relationship nightmares still alive and unwell. This is the last skeleton in my closet, and it hangs there because I simply don’t know how it will fall apart once it hits the sunlight. I don’t understand my eating disorder. Okay, fuck it, moving on, digging in.
I put on makeup before writing this post, like I always do when I am about to do something tear-jerky and the risk of ruining my mascara or eyeliner is supposed to protect me from falling apart into water. But I’m going to cry. I’m inevitably, and possibly at this very moment, going to cry. I can spend hours in therapy pouring my brain out, content that might make another person cry but just comes into analysis and feeling without a saline breakdown. I don’t talk about my eating disorder often. To anyone. My loved ones, my therapist, anyone. Or maybe I do and I just don’t remember because my trauma brain is really good at erasing things. Maybe I stuff those away, too. But I’d like to think I’m a pretty open and vulnerable person, and this, this I just cannot touch.
I don’t want to touch it. It is ugly and uncomfortable and triggering as fuck for me and so many people around me. It is poison and I don’t know what to fucking do with it. My new therapist says this is what we are going to unpack from now on. And every time we talk about it, a new closet opens, more bones exposed, a reality that this skeleton belongs not to one body but many, many ugly morphs of dysmorphia from which I don’t understand their birth or origins, creatures I cannot name. When I talk about my ED to my therapist, even for just a moment, I am reduced to tears, completely out of control.
I need you to understand I have an eating disorder, but mostly, I myself need to hold a better understanding of this eating disorder. My heart and all its SVT quirks is palpitating right now, appropriately so. I am horrified. “This eating disorder.” “MY eating disorder…” all thoughts I had when anticipating this post…would it be a history when I have no linear conception of how and why this has manifested throughout the entirety of my life? Do I get generational and write about friends and family for their own past contributions and how I see it cycling through their own lives to this day? How I know we all suffer and how lonely it must be? Do I get cultural and talk about what a fucked up world we live in, where even someone like me who claims to be a sex-positive person can feel so much hatred toward my physicality? How my idea of “body positivity” applies to every other human I see but myself? How it relates to gender feelings, how I’ve always felt ugly, how my sexuality has been a crutch, a shield, a transaction, a mirror to understand myself in reflection of how others see me, want me, use me? How once I start to pick apart the bones, I have no idea which ones will crumble to dust and disappear or which ones will stab me and splinter, how this weight piles onto my chest to the point where I’ve forgotten to breathe?
I have an eating disorder. I am deeply ashamed of it. I am ashamed of how hard I try not to have one, how I know I’ll live with this for the rest of my life just as I have lived with it thus far. When can it transform? When will it mutate? When do I get the chance to shift this from a burden to another disability, something that can define me but in enlightening ways? My therapist wants to focus on this from now on. I feel terrible for him. I feel terrible for everyone and anyone who reads this. I told two other people in my life that I was considering writing this post. Coming out, so to speak, after years of feeling unworthy of the diagnosis and simultaneously drowning in it. These people have seen me in it. They’ve seen the suffering and they’ve suffered with me.
I’m sick. I’m addicted. I have an eating disorder, and I’m hoping by typing it over and over, by naming it, by putting it naked and exposed to the universe and saying “something’s gotta give” that I can’t hide it anymore. That no matter how much I exercise or eat “clean” or cook fresh meals, I will always see these as punishments, remedies to “fix” how I look. Food is decadence, it is decay, it is hedonistic and lush and sexualized and immoral in all these contradictory ways that make zero sense to me, even theoretically. My body is not my own and never was. I don’t know if it ever will be, even when I try to reclaim it through a vector of sublimated sexual autonomy. If one day, I’ll be able to massage lotion onto my belly and actually feel my hands touch my skin.
Mike peeks his head into the living room as I write this. He knew I was going to try, but he didn’t know when. I’ve got the lo-fi beats on the TV and a cat curled up next to me; I’m pantsless and in tears. He doesn’t ask if I AM okay. He knows I’m not okay. He knows what I’m doing, he doesn’t need to ask. He just simply says “I love you.” I love you, too. I love all of you and any of you that trudge through this mess in whatever way you do, I admire you for existing even if I don’t know you. This shit is fucking hard. I have an eating disorder. It still doesn’t feel real. Maybe this will help and maybe it won’t. But the work has to be done; life is too fucking short to pretend a huge chunk of it doesn’t exist. So here it is. Guts and all.
Ah yes, that time of the year, when scorpio season ends and mercury gets the fuck out of regrtrograde, thinkfeeldoers moult from their inertia into a confettied celebration of DO THE THING DO ALL THE THINGS because the energy is explosive and contagious and I found myself rehearsing the intro to this blog post on the toilet the same way I rehearse how I’m going to begin a session with my therapist on the car ride there like “Yes! This sounds so good, let’s not forget it!” and I recite it over and over in my head until it’s reduced to phrases that make absolutely no sense but sounded poetic in my head. And then I plop it all somewhere or forget it with regretful intentional amnesia because would it have been authentic anyway? And I can’t shake Cameron’s most recent Sex Ed in Color podcast about how not being ready is a shitty, lazy, excuse and part of me immediately kneejerked into an anxiety maelstrom about ablism and feeling shamed, part of me was like, is this an unapologetic call to action to get out of my funk? and what the hell is the funk anyway? I’ve been writing papers nonstop HOORAY finals and midterms, working my ass off at HiTOPS and doing Masakhane stuff, spending the lull hours at PROUD researching articles about pleasure based LGBTQ inclusive sex ed policy, and experimenting with a batch of new toys I want to review but also don’t know where to begin. From bullets to buttplugs, a thrusting toy I hated but Mike graciously rehomed into his collection, an oak paddle that basically embodies my entire identity, a g-spot toy in transgender colors that actually feels good on my post-testosterone nethers…I don’t know. There’s just so much. I’ve neglected blogging, even within my identity, still habitually comparing myself to the dedicated action of fellow bloggers and grappling with the idea that I am not defined by what I create, and how capitalist white supremacy makes me feel obligated to curate content towards demand and appeal when really I just want to write. if it makes sense, wahtever, if there’s spelling errors, whatever. it’s a glorified livejournal with dildos and politics, which I think, if lj still existed, would have been what mine looked like anyway. what an evolution that would have been, from taking quizzes about WHICH L WORD CHARACTER ARE YOU to talking about the empowerment of identifying with toys. I have an entry I want to write about with regards to punk and ska, how adolescence in the late 90’s/early 2000’s taught me so much about finding community, actively putting your heart on your sleeve, using your body to exist weirdly in weird spaces, doing it yourself but knowing when, wehre, and how to ask for support. how a break from the pit sitting on dirty stairs and sharing a bottle of water with a total stranger could look like self-care. how screaming lyrics with a middle finger in the air in a sea of middle fingers, shouting about fuck the man, fuck authority, don’t judge us, don’t give up could look like activism. how finding bands on mp3.com but understanding the importance of buying the whole cd and hanging around merch booths could look like supporting local creators. how teaching someone that getting a leg up to crowdsurf to the front was an easy way to get out of the pit if they started feeling exhausted was a skillshare, and that tapping the people around you with the universal “up” gesture as they lowered their two hands for your foot could look like consent communication. how a circle pit of skanking kids organically choreographed so nobody accidentally swung into each other could look like a ritual dance. how pissing in the boys bathroom without a second glance could look like gender euphoria. it all makes so much sense now. I know my sexuality was always fucking weird, gender too. I knew I was just weird in general. but I wonder how much of me identified as punk before identifying as queer. or maybe, as language evolved, I was always those things and will always be. how there was so much power in this little jersey scene, and when I wear my battle vest, I am making a call for recognition but also alliance and reflection. I rarely tell people how I chose my affirming name back in 2008. there was a band in the scene, one I actually helped book at my local church, called avery. there were a few bands back in the local scene with girls, but avery stood out so much to me. I felt right at home with my brothers, but avery extended a new possiblity I had never considered outside of the riot grrl scene and a few female-fronted punk bands from the west coast. avery showed me what local diy looked lke from a girl’s perspective, and even though I never really identified, something inside of me resonated so strongly with the confidence to represent themselves, to own their shit and have fun on the ride. I reached out to nina saporta recently from avery after binging many, MANY episodes of mike doyle’s this was the scene podcast where steve from lwl was talking about his stint in avery and how he ended up naming his little girl after the band. it looked like this:
Subject: in a nostalgia hole, thanking you for it.
Message: So I don’t know how I hadn’t discovered This Was the Scene, but I’ve been binging episodes and just hit the one with Steve from LWL. He starts off talking about your band, his stint, how he named his daughter after it. My legal birth name is Amanda. I helped the boys from Something 2 Say/The Consequence organize that show with the Bank Robbers and Socratic at my old church in Roseland, Our Lady of the Blessed Sacrament. Also volunteered at EPOCH at the Madison YMCA when one of my co-volunteer babes first introduced me to your sound.
Growing up a little punk in the early 00’s scene, being perceived as a girl, queer girl, whatever, in a mess of dudes, it was so empowering to discover yr band. I saw you at Bloomfield Ave Cafe, a few other places… When I transitioned and came out as genderqueer in 2007, I chose Avery as my new name. Folx asked me why, and I always included you guys in the rationale. I’m just grateful, so fucking grateful to have had such a supportive environment as a teenager…I don’t think I would have ever held my identity so close if not for the NJ scene. Thank you for being a part of what makes me me.
And the response…
Re: Form Submission – Nina Saporta website contact form – in a nostalgia hole, thanking you for it.
Wow, this message really stopped me in my tracks. I’m so grateful that you took the time to share this incredible experience with me. The thought that we could have empowered you in any way is so moving. Janet and I had been going to shows for a while (ALL DUDE BANDS) and it didn’t even occur to us that we could have our own band until we saw a band called Pillow at the Summit Christ Church, who had a frontwoman. It blew our minds. We had to see it happen before we could have even imagined that we could do it. To hear that we then were able to empower someone else in that sort of way is pretty amazing. And I’m going to guess that you have empowered someone else along your journey as well.
I really get your appreciation of our scene- it was so utterly transformative to have a purpose and space outside of school to come into our own. I’m so happy to hear that you felt supported during that time, and hopefully as you transitioned. I love that you chose Avery as your name!!! If we play another reunion show (we did 2 this summer!) please come!! I’d love to give you a shirt and some stickers with your name on it, and get to give you a hug.
Again, thank you so much for articulating and sharing all of this with me. We often tend to keep these experiences to ourselves, and miss out on the chance to connect in these really deep, meaningful ways. I appreciate your vulnerability and am so happy to know you!
Have a wonderful day AVERY!!
Love,
Nina
It just sealed it for me, sent it straight home into the feel center of my heart. The ethics of the punk scene in NJ were always so damn accessible. You could walk up to any band, any person at a show and just get into these amazing conversations about literally fucking anything. It didn’t have to be music, or punk, it could be about wombats, or cutty sark, or what fucking ever and it was still valid and usable. it taught us as kids the merit of interaction, of taking that risk of saying hi, grabbing a free sticker, offering a handshake or a “great set dude” and the reward of feeling seen, appreciated. it was all reciprocal, full of fucking gratitude and passion, and it’s something that imprints on us forever. it’s a payphone-using, wayne firehouse loitering, having 5 extra bucks for disco fries at peterpank diner after the show once youve found your missing shoe, stub-collecting tribe of fucking weirdos and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Well shit. I guess I just wrote the blog post anwyay. unedited. spelling mistakes and all. because fuck it. thanks cameron. needed that fire under my ass. <3
