Ethnic bees and actors

Sometimes, I feel vague ethical twinges about submitting actors for parts. I get a bit media-deterministic in my wilder moments, and I figure it can't be good that every TV/corporate training/film role requires a stereotype.

Also - gems like these, that you find in almost every casting breakdown -

"actor should have neutral accent" - they mean RP, tinged with Estuary English, but not enough to terrify. They don't say that, because they mean That's How I Talk, So It Must Be Neutral, The Default Human Is The London Yuppie, Yah Boo Sucks To You Scum.

"actor can be white or ethnic" - this means I Have Absorbed That Blatant Tokenism Will Get Me A Cool Grand From The Arts Council, But Sadly, I Am A Racist, Illiterate Fuckwit.

(Incidentally, when my friend D beekept, which is now a word, somebody said to him "These are ethnic bees. They are from Africa". I'm assuming that that person didn't mean it in a beautiful, Alice-Walker-esque, Africa-is-the-mother-of-us-all way).

Far, far worse ones are common - we just haven't had any in recently, so I can't source current examples.

Yes, I am having a boring day.

My friend Ed told me last night that he is looking for a sheep. If you happen to have a spare one, please do tell me.

I got cornered, and told off (by someone I don't know) on Saturday, because she learned that I was changing my name. She kept repeating "But (old name) is such a pretty name!" with a look in her eyes that said I Will Eat Your Soul.

Hagrid bore my oh-so-decidedly unpretty self away, laughing at my expression of utter puzzlement. "Well, that's you told" he said.

This is vaguely applicable.

The Sad Tale of Bob

In this tale of woe, there are two main characters. Let us call one Bob, and the other Arseholeface - OK, let's not, let's call him Fred (those who know me will be aware that I often give the name Bob to characters with whom I am sympathetic, but I've made an attempt to remove some naming bias, at least).

Bob is fairly sociable, and extremely wealthy. So, it was natural that, come his 50th birthday, he decided to hold a bloody massive party.

OK, now everyone in the world knows who Bob is, as I know very few extremely wealthy 50-year-old people... never mind. Let's plough on.

The party was held in a giant marquee in his back garden. There were 120 guests, plus some caterers, a DJ, and some Portaloo operatives. It was a most excellent party - I ate, drank, and was merry - danced, and improved my not-so-mad Mario Kart skillz (there were a lot of kids, so Bob was prepared).

Now, Bob and his wife, whom we will also call Bob (this is why I can't GM) are friendly, lovable, accepting people - and a cynic with my upbringing understands that these are rare qualities among the very rich. Where Bob and Bob went wrong, then (as did their children, Bob, Bob and Bob) was to hold their party in their Dead Posh Neighbourhood.

What would the average person, in the average neighbourhood, do if their neighbour was having a fairly loud party? Remember, this is a posh neighbourhood, so the houses are very, very far apart - closing your window would be the technical solution to the problem of what noise was left.

Also, the residents immediately on both sides of Bob's were all at the party.

Finally, all the neighbours had been sent a letter informing them of said party.

However, Fred did not like that his Very Important Evening was being disturbed by what, by the time it got to his house, was a small amount of noise - noise he'd been warned about a week in advance, noise that he knew would last an entire hour more.

Instead of using the double-glazing that I'm certain he could afford, or, y'know, joining in the party (there were a couple of happy gatecrashers), or engaging in any behaviour that might be attributed to a normal person, ever...

He turned up and started shouting in Bob's face.

Bob asked him to be less aggressive. He became... more aggressive.

Bob pushed him out of the garden.

He fell, humourously, upon his bottom.

Bob walked back in, and reminded the DJ that he must finish up by the time Bob had promised in the letter. Which the DJ did.

However, the next thing he knew, Bob had been arrested for assault, and carted off to the police station - where the police did have the decency to look a bit sheepish as they fingerprinted him and gave him a caution (!)

It emerged later that Fred had been yelling at them, too.

Can I take a straw poll, here? Would you, yes, you, phone the police if someone pushed you off his property?

Would you phone the police even if someone, irritated at your trespassing, had punched you one?

Would you then shout at the police until they administered the harshest possible punishment to whoever pushed you?

Would you assume that the police have nothing better to do, and they're just sitting belching the alphabet until your call?

Here is where I get a bit inarticulate with rage... D'you think that, if Fred had been poorer, or had his skin had contained a bit more melanin... would the cops have acquiesced to his shouted demands? Or would they have locked him up for Wasting Police Time in the Most Fucking Major Way Ever?

(I never saw Fred. If you think that my assumption that he's white is uncalled for, I say - no, he would never call the police otherwise. Not in the city where I grew up, at least. I also say, ha, you're a fool).

So... Bob now has a criminal record.

And I've got yet another model of masculinity to avoid - that which is "manly" enough to go around shouting the odds, but runs to Mummy in the form of the nanny state when things don't go entirely his way.

Levels of disaster...

Once we've done all the DIY that I ought to be doing right now, rather than writing crap on the interblag, and the house is thus suitable, we're going to get... a KITTEH!

KITTEH KITTEH KITTEH KITTEH. In about a month's time.

Also, KITTEH.

What shall we call it?

Incidentally, KITTEH.

Today, I saw my cousin Helaina in an ITV documentary about living with her disabilities. It was excellent - none of that bollocks that documentaries are crammed with nowadays - no overly loud music, no "interesting" camerawork, no THIS IS THE GREATEST DISASTER EVAR!!!11 O NOES!!!11111 WE MUST PITY THEM! I CAN'T HEAR YOUR PITY YET! CRY, BITCHES! kind of stuff.

I'd give you a link to what I assume is clips from it, but I can't watch and check; ITV's website refuses to play videos unless you are the willing bitch of Microsoft.

Hagrid's looking over my shoulder and saying INSULT MICROSOFT MORE! Microshaft Microshaft Micro$oft! but I'm struggling to summon up the energy to care - aren't I supposed to be stuffed with political principle? Never mind.

Anyway, I'm in awe of Helaina's parents - not in the "Oh, the burden of a crippled child! Why didn't they just shoot her?" kind of way that is still worryingly acceptable, but simply in awe of all their hard work over the years, both to help their own child and for other people's children.

Now, I'm autistic, and my grasp of social nuances is about as great as Microsoft's love for free software, but...

Why, when people use the wrong name/pronoun for trans people, can't they just say "Whoops, sorry" or "BobFUCKRoberta" (my name is permanently E-fuck-Oliver for one person, whose memory is filled to capacity with D&D rules)?

Why do they say "Oh, but it's so hard to get it right"? I sort of understand that they're trying to say "I really didn't mean to do that, I'm sorry, it's not because I'm a bigot of any variety, I just forgot". But the whiny tone - exactly like the one I just used when reminded that I ought to be painting a door! - alters our perception of the statement.

We want to respond with "And it's super-easy to be trans" then list the latest murder stats for people like us, or simply just discuss the smaller, daily incidences of annoyance and insult.

If you've... learned to walk, passed an examination, gotten over an illness, brought up a child, done a job, cooked a meal... done many things... you're surely capable of using a word without much difficulty.

Or do they mean emotionally difficult? Because the patience of the less adorable trans person ends here - we're back to "It's super-easy to navigate the world when your existence is offensive" again.

Do they mean "It's easy to forget something, it'll take time to remember consistently" - 'cause that would be rather more reassuring.

I'm not attacking anybody in particular here - we were just discussing on the interblag why on earth "but it's so hard" is the most common response.

I've just come to the conclusion that if people are gonna be so tactless, they can't complain when I do it. Fellow auties - we get a free pass!

Incidentally, I'm living a double life at the moment - my grandma knows nothing, so no-one is using my new name in front of her. Of course, she's deaf as a post - I could say "I'm a Nazi warlord who eats babies!" and she'd say "Ahh, that's nice."

But she might learn to lip-read...

Finally, I'm incredibly glad that I live in the UK. The concept of all the North Americans going "Bugger me, it's hurricane season again... better evacuate," with the same resignation that we'd use to say "It's drizzling," is crazy.

I hope everyone gets out safely. If I was the praying type, that's what I'd do.

In which we learn that trans people can't use mattocks

I'm trying to write an email to my supervisor at uni, so that I can go full time trans-wise in my department – and also so I can get help with the stupid name thing; I guess if the staff know me as Oliver, the bureaucrats will be more likely to accept it.

I tell a lie – it says that they might accept a letter from a GIC, if no GRC exists.

Incidentally, what's the waiting list for a first appointment at the GIC I could be referred to? More specifically, how long is the waiting list in years?

At least two, is the answer.

But that is, in fact, beside the point.

I'm also mates with our very LGBT-friendly students' union president – I wonder if he can pull strings. I'll be extremely nice to him, shall I? Though I think the nicest thing I could do would be to relieve him of the presidency somehow (he's a freelance creative genius normally, and not really cut out for a 9-to-5).

Anywho, what shall I say to my supervisor? I've done nothing but stress him out over the past year, mainly because I spent a lot of it ill in bed, failing to reach deadlines; I'm not sure that I'm imagining the look of slight horror whenever he sees me. AND I'll need help with my coursework from him soon. By “help” I mean that I'd like the whole thing to have a single reference: “Steve Roskhams, pers comm”. I'm sort of stuck.

If I was a cynic, I would list the few things he might be pleased to hear: he's turned me into a nascent Marxist archaeologist (he's an established one)? I recently read one of his books, and thought it was awesome? The way he wields a mattock makes me jealous (him: Str18/Dex17, me: Str7/Dex9, an extra -2 to mattocking owing to back problem)?

As does his ability to have millions of biological children without going through hell (he's rarely seen without some small carbon copies of himself – and, see, that's trans-related!)?

Nah. I think I'd just better say O HALP HALP. Again.

Thoughts

Just an FYI to Hagrid, here, in writing; my name is NOT Oliver Aragorn F-P. That's your only contribution so far to the Great Middle Name Debate, and hopeful repetition of it does not increase my liking any.

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My facebook status has, for weeks, been "Oliver is in the doldrums" and "Oliver is still in the doldrums". The feelings of inadequacy that keep me there are not likely to depart. I was with two friends yesterday, whose conversations are able to go, with no bending of the truth, like this:

"What about when you were living with a Pygmy tribe and you caught that weird tropical disease?"

Me: "Wait - you lived with a Pygmy tribe?"

"Well, yes, because I have experience in jungles, so my friend wanted me to come along as a guide."

I have known this man for a YEAR. He always tells the truth. He has never, ever mentioned this vast body of jungle experience. He's mentioned other cool shit, like his music PhD and his farm, but always in an offhand manner as if the listener's life must be far more interesting.

The other friend has had equally awesome experiences, but my personal favourite is:

"You know when you were hired to train all the Alton Towers staff in how to talk like a pirate?"

See, if I had had an interesting experience, it would be shouted from the rooftops. HELLO, NICE TO MEET YOU, DID YOU KNOW THAT I HAVE EXPERIENCE IN JUNGLES? YES, REAL JUNGLES! I KNOW ALL THE SECRETS OF THEIR NATIVE INHABITANTS, SO I CAN DO SOME PRETTY AWESOME SHIT, AND INCIDENTALLY, I ONCE WON A WRESTLING MATCH WITH AN ELEPHANT.

Is this just me?

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You know when things are so incredibly dreadful, your only options are to laugh, or to cry forever?

Hagrid thinks we should make leaflets to hand out in the street. They would suggest to the average Joe that he shouldn't murder any trans women. That day, at least.

They would explain that, if he meets a trans woman, or has sexual intercourse of any variety with one, the logical next step is not *necessarily* to kill her.

Some men do seem to treat it as an ordinary, ethically neutral action, like eating lunch or combing their hair.

Our courts, like the American courts (I don't know enough about the justice system of any other country) treat it the same way.

I can't deal with this shit any more. I mean, what can I do? Does anyone have any suggestions? Does anyone actually care?

I'm beginning to think that handing out those leaflets would probably help.

Secret Name?

I'm taking a 20-minute break from work before my brain liquefies.

Does anyone care to explain where, precisely, mine and Gareth's £50 each to the Deed Poll people, and £72 each to the passport people, and all the other fees that we haven't found out about yet, will actually fucking go?

There's no way we can afford that right now!

I think Gareth needs to change his full name too, or else he's getting even less value for money than I am (we're both hyphenating our surnames).

He needs a secret name, like people have in some fantasy settings, that he can't tell to anyone or else they can cast eeevil spells on him...

With my ever so middle-class forenames, and double-barrelled surname, I sound just like one of the aforementioned Hooray Henrys at my university. That's amusing.

An incident from a few months ago has just come back to me - myself, some other bi/gay guys, a couple of lesbian women and a transfeminine genderqueer person are all sitting in my college bar (we're a collegiate university - I'm assuming it's to attract posh folk) after an interminable LGBT meeting. The only noise is its unpredictable sound system, which likes to go VERY LOUD or very quiet at odd intervals, making everyone jump in unison.

Then, a large group of those interchangeable posh boys turn up, with a crowd of admiring interchangeable posh women (reverse-classist? Me? Fuck off or I'll nut yer). They are dressed as Palaeolithic people... OK, "cave men". I'd say they were aiming for the Lower/Middle Paleolithic look, as there's really no room for them in Homo Sapiens.

They are also VERY LOUD, and occupy lots of space, and shove the one poor soul at the bar out of the way.

Now, everyone in our group starts to complain. Lesbians: "Oh GOD, they're so arrogant. And are those girls trying to look ATTRACTIVE? Put it away!"

Lesbians and myself: "And they're rather a disgrace to feminism - there's no need to act quite that stupidly."

Other gay/bi men, transfeminine genderqueer, and myself: "Those guys are so arrogant. Oh GOD, my burning eyes. Are they trying to look ATTRACTIVE? Put it away!"

We all stare at our shoes with embarrassment, and there is a pause, which I use efficaciously to purloin someone's chips.

Transfeminine genderqueer: "We're jealous, aren't we?"

Gay guy: "Of THEM? THEM??? Yes."

Other gay guy: "Because we don't fit effortlessly into socially acceptable courtship rituals."

Transfeminine genderqueer: "And they're absolute fuckwits, and they do."

Me: "And below the neck, they are actually attractive. It's all the gym time."

Everyone: "Yup."

Gay guy: "This is like high school."

It's not really like my high school, because no-one's thought it necessary to put up signs declaiming that there's no safe place to stab someone, but I can sort of see his point.

What's my own, particular jealous thought?

"The facial hair. Those guys can grow facial hair. Why can't I grow facial hair? Posh twats with their facial hair. Hirsute posh twats. Them and their beard-opportunities."

I keep that to myself, however. Everyone already thinks I talk about the world of facial fuzz too much.

I have, honestly, no idea why I just recounted that.

Might as well post it.

Gee, Olly, calm down!

Yes! More passive-agressive blog posts that serve no useful purpose!

Edit: I has had apology. Now I feel embarrassed for being so upset. One really can't have everything...

So... my friend behaves like a complete arse, and ruins my day.

I get upset with him, and leave the building he is in, because ONE MORE SECOND of his presence and he will be seriously injured.

Later, he apologises to me - more a "I'm sorry you feel that way" apology than an "I'm sorry I behaved like that" one, but hell, that's all you ever get from him.

Because I'm aware that he will just *never understand* why his behaviour was upsetting, or even which part was upsetting, I decide to be polite, and I say something like "It's probably partially me, I haven't been feeling so good lately".

Throughout the next day, he makes "hilarious" comments about how irrational I am, and implying that he is the Great God of Magnanimity to forgive my existence.

Erm... NO, I was being NICE. I don't actually like upsetting him, so didn't want to say something like "So you should be! Your behaviour was absolutely terrible! I know the other guys are more relaxed about it than I am. This is because I am clinically depressed. I think I have hormonal problems because my brain knows that my body shouldn't be female. I think my friends should, incidentally, be supporting me when I'm very depressed. Also, I have more emotional investment in you behaving decently, because I am a closer friend than, say, that other guy over there, whom you just bewilder."

Also, he calls me *my old name* throughout the two days (everyone else now calls me "*my old name*ImeanOlli", which I don't mind*).

He then complains that we're not giving him a lift home! Which is eleven miles out of our way.

I've waited in vain for the grovelling apology for a week (Gareth just hasn't been waiting, because he spends less time on the metaphotical m00n than I do), so I'll show him this. If we don't get an apology then, I might keep his birthday present :-D

Now, feminists know about the fashionable C19th malady that was hysteria, yes? We know that the arguments of females can still be shattered with one well-placed "irrational" or "shrill". Women have no chance when that's coupled with their socialisation into hilariously polite individuals.

So... next time, I'm going to follow the other socialisation, the kind I'd have gone through had I not been trans. The guy kind.

I'll nut whoever it is in the face, because I reckon my skull's got to be more durable than the majority of noses. And I'll use the line "It's not me, it's you" a lot.

It can be a social experiment, if you like.



*apart from the Mr Bewildered, who has Stan Laurel hair and says "Gee, Olly," at every available opportunity, and some that aren't really opportunities at all.