Month: March 2018

What Happened at Program 1

Trans program 1 happened today at the Alford Auditorium at MFA Boston.

I had an amazing time. The program went over well: every film hit the mark, though I was surprised at the reactions to some of the individual movies.

People loved Calamity. It was funny, deeply awkward, and pithy. I love that movie, but I was worried no one else would. Beyond the representation issues (see original post with my comments here) it’s an edgy comedy. I didn’t know how my audience would react to it. I needn’t have worried.

The biggest surprise to me was The Real Thing. There were very few dry eyes in that house at the end of that movie.

I put my favorite movie at the end of the program, and that one didn’t impact the audience nearly as much as I had thought it would. The last couple of minutes of that film are just amazing. Alex Trahan’s wordless performance in that two minutes are the whole film for me, and they make it the best one. But it may have been too delicate a moment for a show-ender.

I will acknowledge that I was freaking out quietly in the front row about something unrelated, so some of the subdued audience reaction may have been my fault. I’ve learned my lesson; I’ll sit in the back from now on.

If I had needed to shorten this program for some reason, the two films I would have taken out got the best reactions. How about that? I can’t tell you what a rush it is to be in an audience full of people sniffling while the next film spools up.

Wicked Queer: The Boston LGBTQ Film Festival, Trans Program #2 and Sundry Addenda

By Saturday night I was screaming in pain…

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Spring has sprung, I think, in the last couple of days. We had the fizzle Nor’Easter, a few crappy cold days, and then, all of a sudden yesterday, things warmed up and the feeling of this place changed. When New England decides the next season needs to begin, it can be quite definite about it, sometimes spectacularly so. This time, it was like flipping a switch. No production, no fuss, just, “OK, it’s Spring now.”

I saw snowdrops today. They made me so happy. There was a big-ass pile of snow over them last week, and I thought we’d lost them for this year. But today, I saw them in the gloaming as I was walking home from the bus. The pile of white crap (well, black crap, really: this being Eastern Mass) had melted back some to reveal a small patch of them near the tree they grow under.

They’re so lovely.

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So, the thing. The thing with the dentist and the wrestling. Where to begin?

On Thursday, a tooth I had been neglecting started smarting a bit. So I called the oral surgeon I had been avoiding, and made an appointment for the following Monday.

About the middle of the day on Friday, with the pain beginning to crescendo, I remembered that this was an infection, and that having an infection when going for oral surgery was not the best notion. I called my regular dentist and asked him to prescribe me an antibiotic. The last time he had done so, he had given me these Penicillin horse pills, like 875mg or something. They knocked down my infection to nothing in a matter of hours. This time, he prescribed me 250mg. I looked at them a bit askance, but I took them, figuring they would work, since my dentist had prescribed them.

By Saturday morning, the infection seemed to be going down, but it was still raging. By Saturday night I was screaming in pain. I went to the emergency room. They prescribed me a different antibiotic in capsules the size of the horse pill penicillin and a pain reliever, and sent me home.

I took my pills, and slipped into blissful sleep. I slept for eight solid hours. Thank you painkillers. The next morning the pain was less and the swelling was going down. By Monday morning it was still bad, but not nearly as bad. I had no appetite: I really don’t like painkillers that much, lucky me, but I was taking them. I showed up to the appointment, was greeted cheerfully and without judgment, and a half an hour later, after the alluded-to wrestling, I emerged sans #19 molar.

From Friday until Monday, while I was waiting for my appointment, I was on my couch in the living room. I didn’t do much of anything but watch TV and look at Facebook.

I’m feeling better now, thanks, but I’ve got some healing to do.
And that’s why this week’s blog post is two days late.

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Suggested activity: Go back and read my first post on this blog. I’ll wait.

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So as you can see, I have some issues with executive function. No sense denying it. In fact, one of the main purposes of this blog is to help me develop a structured approach to writing:, with an assignment to meet every week. I set the posts in advance and the challenge is to never put up a late or empty post.

Oops.

But it won’t happen again.

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Enough of my dithering: let’s literally get on with the show.

Trans Program #2: Untitled

Pink Tiffany (44 min) (US) Nepali with Subtitles, English with Subtitles

I don’t know if this is an obvious thing to say or not, but the thing that makes a documentary work for me is a beating heart. This movie has one. Her name is Laxsmi, and she is principal subject Meghna Lama’s mother. Her inner beauty and love for her daughter come through so clearly on screen. I love Meghna too. She is this movie’s second beating heart. She is beautiful (Miss Trans Nepal), a committed trans activist (runs a trans activist organization called Pink Tiffany), and rides her scooter around Merrakech, She’s funny, and direct, and such a queen. Wicked Queer is the first US festival to show this film, and I am so excited that we are doing so

I Am They (58 min) (UK) English, Icelandic with subtitles.

I have been a Fox Fisher fan for a long time and seeing their film show up in WQ’s submissions was very exciting for me. I was not as familiar with Owl Fisher (so I probably need to catch up on a few videos, heh.) They are Fox’s partner in this film, as in life. Fox and Owl run one of my very favorite Youtube channels, My Genderation, and they are crack documentarians.

Fox is nonbinary transmasculine, and Owl is nonbinary transfeminine, and as the title suggests, this movie is about their experiences as nonbinary and as a couple. They both talk to the camera in an adapted vloggish style, but they are in control of their message top to bottom and this doc is very fast-paced, though not rushed. They cover a surprising amount of territory in less than an hour. The film shows a very strong documentary voice!

This program runs at 2 PM on Sunday the 8th of April at the Brattle.

Wicked Queer: The Boston LGBTQ Film Festival, Trans Program #1

As a programmer for Wicked Queer: The Boston LGBTQ Film Festival, it’s my great pleasure to curate short film programs of trans-themed movies. This year I put together 2. This week, I will blog about the first of them. I’ll follow up with comments about the second program next week.

Here are the films I’ve included, in program sequence:

Different: (2 min) narrative short, in French w/ subtitles.
A brief, narrated pace-setter, this film serves the purpose of a thematic overture for the whole program, encapsulating the issues that will come up throughout the set of films.

She: (14 min) Documentary, in English.
Often what attracts me to a documentary is the hit of personality I get from the film’s subjects. Tanesh Nutall, whom I grew to admire more and more over the course of the film, is an activist working in San Francisco. The first section of the film presents a view of her life there — her work, her relationships. In the second half of the film, we go with Tanesh to her family reunion in Rahway, NJ, a home she fled decades before to be able to transition her gender away from her conservative religious family. What kind of reception should she expect to receive?

In My Mother’s Closet: (13 min) narrative short, in English.
It’s a musical! There are a number of musicals in the festival this year, and I am proud to be presenting one as part of this sequence. A young woman invokes her mother’s strong presence in a phone conversation with a friend, whom she is trying to convince to come support a performance she is preparing to give.

Calamity: (23 min) narrative short, in French with subtitles.
Awkward, nearly to the point of horrifyingly so, but with a deft, light touch, this Belgian comedy caught my eye because of all of the strange visual juxtapositions and gags. It’s edgy stuff, but manages to give and preserve each of its characters’ dignity throughout. Note the role of Cléo/Calamity is played by François Maquet, a cis man. Generally, I avoid booking such films, but this one is so well done, I had to book it.

¿FAMILIA?: (15 min) narrative short, Spanish with subtitles.
A woman bears the burden of family in many different ways. Where Calamity has an almost sitcom-like feel, ¿FAMILIA? is gritty and carries notes of desperation. This familia is not on any picnic.

The Real Thing: (7 min) narrative short, in English
This film presents a nice twist on a very familiar current pop culture trope. Simple, sweet, and direct, I got the same heart warming feeling that the soldier’s homecoming trope has ceased to provide for me otherwise.

Umbrella: (16 min) documentary short, in English
Tells the story of four trans community activists/leaders. I found the inclusion of Mara Keisling, director of NCTE (National Center for Transgender Equality) exciting, as I’m familiar with her work. I hadn’t known the other three subjects of the film, but they are all compelling figures: inspiring and strong.

Pre-Drink (23 min) narrative short, French with subtitles
I’m so impressed with this film. Funny, sexy, emotional and intimate — it’s a stellar addition to our festival. The two actors give nuanced, engaging performances. Alex Trahan especially takes us to a place we haven’t seen before in filmed stories about trans folk. All through this film, we feel that underneath the snarky banter there is a world of feeling that never quite makes it to the surface.

This first program, which is entitled Family? will screen at the MFA on Saturday, March 31st at 1 PM. I hope to see you there!

Flaws and Forgiveness

What can we be forgiven for? What, specifically, is that line that, if it were to be crossed, there could be no redemption, ever? Kevin Spacey comes to mind in this regard. Evidently, he victimized under-aged boys, and did so for decades. People in the industry knew this about Spacey. Considered, until recently, one of the greatest actors of our time by many, a few knew him to be a monster: a predator. Can he ever find forgiveness? Can those who knew but never spoke be forgiven?

And what of Thomas Jefferson? What of many of the founding fathers, who owned slaves and/or stole the land of the indigenous people of this land often over their dead bodies. Look around, Americans. You live in the society Jefferson and his colleagues devised. Can our own founding fathers be forgiven? Since he’s been dead for 192 years now, Is Jefferson beyond the need for forgiveness? I wonder who that mercy might benefit, if given. Perhaps no one?

And what about me? What about you? What infractions against the general welfare might cause any of us be in need of forgiveness? Do we need forgiveness before we are found out? Or are we only sorry if we are caught? Should any of us be forgiven? What good is forgiveness? What payment to society in recompense for our transgressions is too extreme? At what point does the administration of supposed justice cross the line and become a crime in and of itself? Is revenge ever a good thing? Can it return us to balance, as it claims to intend?

Can we ever forgive ourselves? For whatever crimes, known or unknown, that we have on our spiritual ledgers, can we offer grace to our own troubled minds? Can we show ourselves mercy?

And having absolved ourselves, what shall we do then? Do we simply go on with our lives? Do we remember the cost of our transgressions? Do we deserve our own forgiveness? Will we disappoint even ourselves?

I have disappointed myself many times. Do I deserve forgiveness? I have trouble forgiving myself. In small dark nook in my heart, I have not yet done so. I see how not forgiving myself holds me back. But forgiving myself is very hard to do.

I want to believe them. They’re probably right. But it’s hard.

Can I forgive my betrayers? Can I forgive those who have deliberately wounded my dignity? Can I forgive those who have broken my heart? I want to. I am a romantic, a utopian. I want everyone to understand each other and be friends. But too often, I have been misunderstood. I must not be very good at explaining myself, or perhaps I am strange.

Because I can forgive almost anyone else, but I can never seem to forgive myself.

Writing Challenge: A Blog Post About Poop

Poop.
Human waste.
Brown-25.
Shit.

Everybody poops. Pooping is proof of life.

Poop is disgusting. It’s alive with bacteria. It stinks, powerfully. Poop is terrible. I do hope that you wash your hands after you poop, for your sake as well as mine.

I can count on the fingers of my left hand the number of serious conversations that I remember having about it. I am aware that this is because I have never had kids.

There are people who find poop funny. I’m not that person, and haven’t been since I was 6 or so. I’m not here to make poop jokes. I’m here to talk about this defining subject that hardly anyone ever talks about. There are people who find poop sexy. I am definitely not that girl. Human excreta is so not my thing. More power to you if it’s yours. I don’t judge.

Punk scourge GG Allin was into poop. He once got himself banned from a well-known rock venue in Cambridge, MA for pooping on stage. I have a friend who tells me GG used to eat a whole bar of Ex-Lax™ before a show. He also told me that GG went to the emergency room with blood poisoning more than once, because he would also cut himself as part of a show, and then roll around in his own excrement. I kind of liked GG’s first single, but… like I said: not my thing.

Is poop important? It would be difficult to answer that question in the affirmative. But it is, arguably, the single thing humans produce in greatest abundance. It’s been observed that (healthy) humans produce about an ounce of poop per day for each 10 pounds one weighs: a person weighing 160 pounds will produce almost a pound of the stuff every day. It should be fairly easy, then, to do the math for the estimated 7.4 billion people on the planet, if we consider 160 pounds to be the average weight of a human being.

The disposal of human waste is of great import, because of the very real dangers of not getting rid of it. 2.8 billion of us live in impoverished places where there is inadequate human waste disposal. This is of major concern for both humanitarian and world health reasons. The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation is working to develop technologies for processing human waste as close to the source as possible, which should considerably reduce the cost and difficulty of dealing with the amount of  human excreta produced in cities in poor countries where getting rid of feces and urine is most challenging and therefore most threatening to general human well-being.

75% of poop is water. What’s left is half bacteria and half undigested fat, fiber, and carbs.  It’s what’s left after virtually everything of value has been extracted from what we take in.

But poop is not entirely bereft of meaning. In a laboratory, scatologists can study feces and determine many things about the being who produced a particular sample, such as what it eats, where it’s been, whether it has certain health issues.

Poop can be a metaphor. In this blog post, though, it’s not being used as one: here, poop is just poop.