clubbing

Amsterdam is not much like what I expected—but I don’t mean that in a bad way. In reality, I did very little research on The Netherlands before I flew over here; I hardly even thought about how different Dutch culture was going to be. I pictured Amsterdam to be a loud and bustling city, alive with prostitutes milling about fish markets amidst clouds of marijuana smoke—but the picture was admittedly quite fuzzy. My most concrete expectation of the city was that of a thriving and pride-filled queer community; with gay flags, pride parades, same-sex-couple-hand-holding, and a least a handful of happy trans people (whose entire transition (hormone therapy and sex reassignment surgery) was covered by their insurance). I thought that since gay marriage had already been legal for eleven years, there would just be tons of gay people everywhere celebrating their sexuality.

this is what it actually looks like

Well surprise-surprise, my total lack of preparatory research had not gotten me very far when it came to my knowledge of Amsterdam’s gay community. In fact, Amsterdam doesn’t really have a terribly strong gay community—which is not to say that the Amsterdam-gays are lazy or unfriendly or unorganized or anything like that—they just don’t need a “gay community” as much as us queer Americans do, because they aren’t as marginalized. From what I can see, gays are not made out to be such an “other” as they often times have been in American culture—when it comes to trans folk, however, that’s a different story. Allow me to explain…

My best friend in Amsterdam is an American grad student and self-described queer individual. Several weeks ago she invited me out to Amstel 54, a small bar off of Rembrantplein, for the Universitat Van Amsterdam’s queer student group’s bi-weekly drinking night. Twice a month on Wednesdays the organization, ASV-GAY, invites all of its members out to the bar for discounted drinks and various activities and merriment. My friend told me that the classmate who had invited her had informed her that the theme of this particular Wednesday outing was speed dating, although it was unclear whether the evening would consist of actual date-dates or just friend-dates, or frates as I like to call them. We discussed which type of dates the night might include with my friend’s partner over dinner before going out, and she joking asked me to keep an eye on her girlfriend in the case that they were date-dates. Then we made our way to the infamous Wednesday-night affair….

is this a date?

Having survived the slightly-tipsy bike ride in the dark, we locked up our metal steeds by the canal and headed for the bar. We ran into my friend’s classmate on the way over and she introduced us on the way in. Once inside we were introduced to more of my friend’s classmate’s friends, and so we congregated by a small table and started to chat. I learned that these girls were regular members of ASV-GAY and had been to the Wednesday-night outings before. We chatted about school and work and where we were all from; all the normal introductory stuff. I myself always have a hard time concentrating on conversation when there is loud music on, especially when I’ve had a few beers and the music just happens to be 90’s American-pop-R&B—you know what I mean, Beyonce, Spice Girls etc… I just can’t help myself, I have to dance. #gettingofftopic But the thing about the people who are out in the clubs in Amsterdam, is that they don’t really dance. I have heard from locals that people will dance sometimes, but not really until after 3 or 4am. And lemmetellyou, I like to be in bed far before that. Speaking of dancing and Amsterdam clubs and gay people, I feel like this is the appropriate time to get sidetracked and describe my first trip out to a gay bar in Amsterdam: #flashbackharp.

So the first time I went out to a bar was with this same friend. We almost didn’t make it out actually, because like me, she prefers to be in bed before too late. We had a lovely dinner at her place, but around nine-thirty or ten I started to get sleepy and tried sneak in a nap. BUT ANYWAYS, we made it out, biked to Rembrantplein, and went entered what I had been told was a lesbian bar. We each had a drink, and we tried to just stand and talk, but like I said, I’m just powerless in the face of easily-danceable pop music; “Bootylicious”, “Call Me Maybe”, I mean how could everyone else NOT be dancing?? And my friend and I were the only ones moving to the music. Let me just tell you, I have not been mean-mugged by so many lesbians ever in my life, and I was a bit scared. Amazed by how inactive the crowd was I turned to my friend and remarked, “what is everyone in here doing? Other than judging us…?” At one point later in the evening a girl near us started to dance, but when I said “look! She’s dancing too!” my friend just shook her head in despair; “No no, she was making fun of you…”

Oh.

Well then.

So, the moral of the story is, most Amsterdam-ers are much too hip to dance, and those who do let loose don’t do so until very late. Or very early, rather. Perhaps they were just too hard-core for me, but honestly, when there’s only eight hours of sunlight a day, I tend to want to be awake for the majority of it.

i'm too cool for you guys anyway

Back to the story: when we left I was trying very hard to converse with new acquaintances and get a bit of dancing in at the same time. My friend’s classmate assured us that the evening would consist of only friendly dates. She then informed us that her goal for the night was to find the love of her life anyway. When she declared my friend as her wing-woman, I inquired, “hey, what about me?”

“Oh,” she replied, “Well I mean, I’m interested in girls, so she can help me out, but I assume you’re into guys?”

“Well, I’m actually trans, not gay.”

“OH, so you’re…heterosexual?”

“Um, yeah, I guess.”

“So you just came to accompany her? How nice of you!”

 Um.

Wait.

No, not how nice of me. I mean, not to say that I wasn’t being nice, but I wasn’t doing anyone a favor. I had come for me as much as for my friend, as I was under the impression that this was an LGBTQ organization, and I was just as bit as queer as anyone else in the bar. #lgbTq

After a few awkward minutes, it was time for the speed-friend-dating to begin. From what I gathered, the leaders of the club stood up on the table at the back of the bar and explained how the whole ordeal was going to work. My friend’s classmate translated for me, and I learned that the new-comers would be given a card with someone’s name on it, and that they would have to find the person with the corresponding partner, like John and Yoko or Hanzel and Grettle. The idea was that this would give the new incoming members a chance to get acquainted with the older members. Thankfully each little card included not only my name but also my partner’s name; otherwise I never would have been able to find Fukke as Sukke. The first two rounds of frating were not particularly good or bad. I met two female Dutch students who were working on their masters at UVA and had helped to start the group a couple of years back. We talked about our respective programs of study and where we were from etc. etc.

It wasn’t until my third frate that I outed myself again. Luckily for me, this girl was very sensitive and intelligent and we actually had a very nice conversation about sexuality and gender. She asked how my transition was going this far and whether I’d gotten many negative reactions, and I explained that I was very fortunate to have an exceptional family and wonderful friends and that the only problems had been the occasional off-color comment from acquaintances or strangers. She told me that she too was fortunate to have accepting parents; “My mom is gay,” she explained, “So is my dad. My parents are divorced…” When the bell rang to signal the switching dates, I was in high spirits. It was getting late, but now that I was having such a nice time I thought why not stay for just one more?

Sigh.

Ok, let’s pause for a minute here. We’ve all had this thought: just one more. Whether it’s one more date, one more dive off the rocks, one more jump off the swings, one more helping of mac and cheese, it’s always that last one that gets you into trouble. Or at least, that’s how it has historically been for me. Whenever I catch myself thinking, one more, I say to myself “Stop self! This is it! You’re done!!” because it always turns out to be one too many. How did my oldest friend break his wrist skateboarding in fifth grade? He decided to drop in at the skate park one more time. How did my sister almost break her back on the swing in the back yard? She decided to jump off the ladder propped up against our tree just one last time after dad asked us to take it down. Why did I throw up in the backseat of my friend’s car on my nineteenth birthday and spend my birthday money on having her car detailed? Because I thought several times over the course of the night that it would be ok to have one more drink.

WELL YOU THOUGHT WRONG, CRABTREE!!

too much of anything is always a bad thing

I know I’ve gone a tad off-topic, but this is one of the most important life lessons I have learned in my existence thus far. You don’t need that one more time. Don’t risk it, don’t throw the dice, because now you’re just being greedy and unreasonable and you should walk away from the craps table with the cash you have instead of trying to double your money.

Anyways, as you can probably gather, my last friend date was less than enjoyable. It started off normally, but then she asked me if I was gay, and after I told her I was trans it all went down hill.

“Oh, so you’re not gay?”

“Nope.”

“So you’re a transgender?”

“Well, yes.” (Transgender, is not a noun. No one is a transgender, but some people are transgender humans/individuals.)

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Well, I mean, I’ve always felt this way.”

“Have you had surgery and everything?”

“I’ve just started hormone therapy this summer.”

“But are you going to have the surgeries? So that you can be a real man? That’s what you want, right? To be a real man?” #barfight #justkidding #butisortofwantedtohither

stop, you're making a GIANT ASS of yourself.

“Um, well…I’m thinking about chest surgery for next summer…”

“Oh but it’s going to hurt so much isn’t it? And it’s so expensive. That sucks.”

“Yeah…Um, are there usually many trans people at the ASV-GAY functions?”

“No, I’ve never met a transgender before. I mean, it is called ASV-GAY, so it’s really more for gay students.”

“Oh, I thought it was just for queer students.”

“Well, I think that gay people and transgenders are really just different. They just don’t really belong together.”

I then excused myself to go to the bathroom.

So obviously there were several things wrong with this conversation. First of all, she tried to use the word transgender as a noun several times, and this upsets me not only because of my OCD tendencies when it comes to incorrect grammar usage, but also because you don’t just go and call people, “transgenders.” That’s offensive in my opinion, and I know that other transgender individuals, feel the same way. We’re humans, people, individuals, just like you, just like everyone else in this world. Also, labeling is a dangerous, unnecessary, and altogether foolish practice. So please, refrain from calling anyone, “a transgender.”

Next, she implied not only that I “wasn’t a real man,” but also that I would have to acquire surgery to become one. First of all, what did she even mean by “real man”? From what I could gather, she assumes that a “real man” is defined by his physical body, and not his gender identity. I’ve always been real, and I don’t need to conform to her, or anyone else’s, standards in order to be so. If I didn’t feel--and hadn’t felt for my entire like--like I was really man on the inside, then why would I be subjecting myself to the stress and pain of transitioning? Surgery will not make me any more “real” than I already am, thank you very much, it will just make me happier and more comfortable. I am not pursuing surgery so that I will fit in with what the rest of the world defines as a man. There are many transgender individuals who cannot afford or do not want surgery, and this does not make them any “less trans,” or “less real” than the rest of us. An individual is the only person that can define their gender identity, and no one else has the right to require “proof” of someone else’s gender identity.

Then, she said that “gay people and transgenders are really just different.” Wow, thanks for that, lady. First of all, we’re all technically different from each other, right? No two people are exactly the same; I think we can all agree on that point. Secondly, why would you categorize people in these two different groups and then say that they don’t belong together?? Yes, we’re all different, but as far as homosexual people and transgender people go, we are queer, and I thought that the point of this group was to celebrate that particular similarity.

the same, yet different

People in minorities need to stick together, for support and understanding that is not always available from the majority. You, lady, are what is wrong with much of the world. Never try to declare that two different groups of people just don’t belong together, for chrissake this is how wars are started. #dramatic

Anyways, I don’t want to bash this girl too hard; she probably wasn’t trying to be super offensive, and she DEFINITELY does not represent the Dutch Queer community as a whole. BUT, she certainly put a sour taste in my mouth for the rest of the night, and so I thought I would use her ignorant statements as an example of what not to say when you meet a transgender person.

Remember, we’re all people. Transgender individuals, gay people, bi/queer/straight/asexual/blue/purple/tall/fat/rich/poor/fuzzy humans are ALL PEOPLE. #kumbaFREAKINya

And we all deserve to be treated as such.