Embracing Two-Spiritedness : The Fuck Me Pumps

This post is in response to an article I read in the Gay Spiritual Visions pamphlet:

Talking with Dandelion helped me understand that drag is a way that a man can honor the feminine in himself and, from
a magical perspective, honor the sacred feminine. I saw him expressing the caring/mother side of femininity. This impressed me greatly. He was not just aware that he had feminine aspects; he was embracing it and showing the world.

-Stephen “The Judgment of Drag Queens” (pg. 11):

Dear Stephen,

The entire article hit home with me, but more so because I remember in the fall of 2007, after trying drag for a couple of times with some high heeled boots, I remember drunkenly crying to my friend that I’m not a trannie. Perhaps the appropriate word for what Patrique does is transvestitism. Think Eddie Izzard. He’s heterosexual, but dabbles in the arts of wearing womens clothing. Don’t worry, I’m a card carrying member of The Gays.

I created my alter ego of Patrique based on the feminine and masculine aspects within me. I consider this alter ego(and writers name) not bound to only male or female, but embracing the Native American concept of two spirit.

More so, the reason this article stuck out is because I went to a friend’s birthday party last night. It was the first time I had been out in a couple of weeks, and usually  in social situations I’m stricken with social anxiety. I painted my toenails and wore some black open toed pumps. The Fuck Me Pumps. It was important for me because I realized one of the reasons I like pumps is because I’m short. I’m only 5′5, and wearing heels puts me at eye level with most people. Putting on heels helps to take away my own social anxiety, not only because of the height difference but because of esteem issues.

Admittedly I’m a bit neurotic, and prone to thinking everyone is looking at me when I’m in a social situation, like at a party. Putting on the heels not only gives me the added height but also diffusing those neurotic narcissistic tendencies. It is a way for me to take control of the situation; if I think everyone is looking at me, at least I can direct the attention. There’s inherent psychological issues at play there (the quote from Roxie in Chicago about most performers never feeling loved enough as a child comes to mind.) My dear friends Chris and Lola MacLean even gave me the blessing to wear heels to their wedding, especially considering I was a groomsman. For a while we debated on groomsman, bridesman, but I digress. And choose the side of the groom.

I’ve learned to recognize my own fears based on how I project my fears onto others. Drag queens are a case in point, because growing up I didn’t like drag queens either. Over time, I’ve realized it’s an inner dialogue with myself of “why do they get to do that and I don’t?” And then the realization hit me with the first pair of heeled boots, that I can do what they do if I want to. Over time, the reasons for wearing heels has gone from wanting to draw attention to myself, to something I do because it makes me comfortable. I’m not required to justify my reasons, and they are allowed to change over time.

That fall of 2007, I had gotten over my fear and anger towards men in drag, and why they could do it and I couldn’t. Instead, the anger was channeled towards those who don’t repsect the feminine ideal. Camp drag, to me, simply isn’t appealling. To me, it is like a white person putting on black face. Unless done for satire, like Robert Downey Jr in Tropic Thunder. I can respect camp drag when it has a purpose, such as raising awareness for different causes.

With my own alter ego of Patrique, I’ve no desire to become a campy character. Then again, as I age this may change. Instead, I model my affliction for wearing heels and corset, the occasional gloss, and whatever accoutrements as a representation of two-spiritedness: embracing both sides of masculinity and femininity, and respects them both in how I dress. My reasons are usually practical: painting my toenails because they look like crap, carrying a small clutch because I’m horrible with money, hating having a million things in my pockets and need something to hold my phone, loose change, and a pen or pencil for writing when the spirit hits me. The idea of the corset comes from developing a bit of gynecomastia, due to hormonal imbalances. I don’t have full gynecomastia, but my nipples are large. Sometimes I’m embarrassed. All these little perceived imperfections I try and deal with in a logical and sane way that releases my neurotic tendencies.

I am comfortable with the nurturer within me as well as the leader. The hunter and the gatherer. The god and goddess within. And besides, my legs look damn fine. We will see how the corset goes when I eventually get there. As for the party, I was proud of myself because I finally left the house after holing myself up for two plus weeks. And I was proud because I didn’t need to drink.  I was mindful of the situation and present in the moment. Putting on the heels gave me a boost of confidence and I was able to be more assertive, like how Beyonce converts to Sasha Fierce whenever she is performing. But I’ll address multiple egos in another letter.

Fighting with the Shadows in Your Head …

Dear Bogeyman,

This is harder than I thought. NaNoWriMo, that is. I’m terribly behind in my word count, but hopefully will be able to make some good distance tonight. I never really enjoyed cross country. And I’m having to pull double duty of clearing my subconscious daily in my journal so there’s creative space to write. Now that my parents made it back safely from Hawaii the anxiety has decreased, but still have to readjust to them being back home.

Tonight my dad walked me through the house, pointing out the things he’d like us to keep in the event something were to happen to him. God forbid. But it’s better to say too much, than never say what you need to say. In talking with my dad, about worst case scenarios, we reached a new level of understanding. For the past week, my number one fear was that something would happen to them while they were gone. And it was their fear as well. My mom and I talked about it on the phone earlier in the week. When my mom left on Friday, it felt like I was at DEFCON 1.

I didn’t really sleep for a full 36 hours. My little brother and I just stayed in the house mostly; in hindsight I don’t think I could have handled driving anywhere. I can function under high anxiety, but I don’t have to like it. Then after I heard everyone had landed safely, I finally relaxed. And slept. The only other anxiety was making sure my brother was up on time to get to school and picking him up. Then the end of the week quickly approached, and that meant my parents would be traveling again. Of course, my anxiety kicks into high gear. The only reason I fell asleep  at 4:30 AM on Friday was out of sheer exhaustion from staying up. Their plane was supposed to land at 6 AM, and my dad should have been home by 8 AM. Me and my hypersensitive nervous system listened under a light sleep for the sound of his footsteps coming in the door, as confirmation they made it in. Finally, my mom made it in later that night, after spending the rest of the day in Atlanta with her friends.

Separation anxiety is a psychological condition in which an individual has excessive anxiety regarding separation from home or from people to whom the individual has a strong emotional attachment

I have it in spades.Symptoms include:

To change your mind and PMS like a bitch, I would know…

Dear Patrick

I’ve noticed we’ve both been visibly absent, from the blog and from reality. However, I think it is safe to say we have pleasantly crashed back into both. Well, more so reality than the blog, but with the waning full moon I think it is safe to say we’ve made it across the threshold for the season. Pourqoui, you may ask? My leg did not shake tonight. In fact, I daresay I reveled in the spotlight. Perhaps I should send a blind copy of this letter to Honesty as well; she has much to do with this.

To begin, I woke up this morning around 8 AM. Now, normally we’re both in the habit of waking up around 10 AM – 1 PM, depending on sunlight, thoughts weighing on the mind, etc. I woke up at eight this morning, petrified of the upcoming reading. Serious, debilitating petrification. I try using the bathroom, but my stomach only thinks it has to go because of my nerves. I immediately went out for a smoke, to help calm my nerves, but nicotine and a high level of adrenaline do not mix. I was at the back wall, beginning to hyperventilate.

Mon Dieu et Mon Droit: Entheogens

Seeing as how the top three search terms for my site are ‘drugs, black men, charmed,’ – and I’ve no idea what to say about that combination – I do have a fairly strong interest in talking about the matter. What if we legalized drugs?  Even if they’re legal or not, people are going to use them. Though legalization of a few would probably increase public coffers and take a lot of people out of jail, not to mention create new jobs. But that is not the focus. I don’t work for NORML.

I ran across this article, What if we legalized drugs? I thought first about the legalization, but then my thoughts turned to the effects of drugs, why people use them and what they can learn from drugs. Some have wonderful lessons to offer, if practiced with care and guidance.

I do write about drugs quite often, admittedly. Hence the reason why the number one search for my site (to my chagrin) is drugs. Also black men and charmed. Go figure. First, I should define what I think a drug is. When I think of drugs, I think of mood altering substances. Alcohol, nicotine, caffeine, and marijuana. I also lump in psilocybin and LSD. In the words of Baudelaire and Leary : Get Drunk (Enivrez-vous). Light up. And Tune Out.  Albeit slightly changed. (Fully- Turn on, tune in, drop out.)

I sat down to write a post until it turned into multiple, multiple pages. Hence the decision to break it into series. Look, I have a lot of time here in my office, and when I’m not busy dancing to “Get Me Bodied” , “Proud Mary” or “Livin Your Life,” I write. But I digress.

I’ve no idea how to structure this series, so I’ll do my best as I learn along the way. Here is my take on drugs viewed under the perspective of an entheogen:

ENIVREZ-VOUS; to use the drugs and have a vague understanding of their effects. Get drunk on wine and every pharmaceutical delight

LIGHT UP;  to take what one has learned and find it within oneself. Get drunk on poetry, or in other words get drunk on life.

And finally, to TUNE OUT; To master the drugs within while enhanced with the drugs from outside. Get drunk on virtue and the pursuit of self idealization.

:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::

Listen To The Voice That Speaks Inside…

Dear “Uncle Shelby”

In the same manner that ‘Gabo’ gives me inspiration on how to write surrealistically, you manage to give me inspiration on mindset. More specifically, the mindset of a child. Maclean always talks about how little kids are a lot like drunk adults and crochety old people: both know exactly what they want and when (usually now), sometimes mess their clothes, and have a different way of viewing the world. I view your poems in this same light. As though they tell me ‘It’s perfectly fine to pretend one is grown up and adult, but the truth is no one ever really grows up.’

I’m prone to neuroticism, and sometimes the antidote lies in simplicity. Like the British Romantics wishing for a simpler time, songs of innocence and experience. Your poetry is written from the vein of experience to the innocent. Maybe innocent is the wrong word, but the Peter Pans and Marie Antoinettes of the world. There’s nothing wrong with growing up, but you can turn back at any point. Your poems remind me of really old people, like your one about the little boy and old man. Those silent type of old people who watch the world, being passed by busy people with their places to go, people to see and things to know. The old people sit and watch, taking in everything. When someone finally stops to take notice they end up passing on words of wisdom, generally without meaning to.

 

I think dreamers, children, college children drunk and high, and old people all share similarities in that they have a different way of looking at the world. They happen to enjoy each moment.

 

 

 

 

Signed,

Patrique

These are a few of my favorite poems :

Whatif

The Little Boy and the Old Man

Where the Sidewalk Ends