By b. binaohan
Bored with interpreting one more trans/gender one hundred and one totally established round white humans and their normative narratives? bored with feeling such as you needs to be _this_ tall to be trans adequate to belong within the ~community~? bored with feeling just like the white trans neighborhood is erasing your experiences?
having gender feels yet now not knowing how they healthy into the present white hegemonic discourse on gender?
decolonizing trans/gender one zero one is a brief, available (and non-academic) critique of a number of the primary innovations in white trans/gender idea and discourse. written for the indigenous and/or individual of color attempting to know how their gender is/has been impacted through whiteness and colonialism.
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Extra info for decolonizing trans/gender 101
Or forget everything, including Zana Broko, and go to Valencia. That’s what I was thinking about that evening in May when the Plaza de España was more beautiful than ever and I wanted to escape the suffering of the world, and I couldn’t. Translated from the French by Luise von Flotow plaza de espan˜a 13 ▼ THE SHEARS Mira Meks¸ i (Albania) of course, this story would never have come back to me if one rainy afternoon in a park I hadn’t seen a pair of gardening shears lying beside the broken branch of a rosebush.
He didn’t just want to steal the dresses, but your mother too, whom I . . ” I started, as if waking from a nightmare and ran for the door. Madame Ephtiqui’s raving voice followed me: “He lost an eye, but he didn’t turn me in. . ” My legs carried me, I don’t know how, to the rose garden. I had great trouble opening the little rotted-out garden gate. I rushed out into the lane facing the door of the condemned church. Translated from the French by Ryan Fraser mira meks¸i 18 ▼ THE DANCER IN THE WINDOW Sanja Lovren cˇ i c´ (Croatia) i still enjoy writing letters.
And what is happiness after all? ” I imagined the two of them, Zana and the stranger, kissing on the beach in the twilight. The setting sun was gilding their tanned shoulders. . Pablo Garcia was in Sarajevo. He was ﬁlming the moments when children died, and at the same time, his brain cells, so many sources of enthusiasm, were dying in clusters, forever. I saw him hasten along in the spray of shrapnel, laughing and trying to avoid it in order to stay alive. I suffered from not being able to run through the cruel snow too, through the cruel winter, with the soles of my feet bloody, in that distressed line of women, terrorized, spurned, covered in spit, stumbling into the damp trunks of trees, the hostile stones in the road, those distant ice-covered roads that led to the Croatian border.
decolonizing trans/gender 101 by b. binaohan