A Travellerspoint blog

Happy Transgender Day of Visibility

My experience going to a gathering for trans, nonbinary, gender-nonconforming peoples, and allies—and what it taught me.

There is something wonderful and nearly-indescribably comfortable about a homecoming: when you’ve been gone for days or weeks and you finally return home to your own house and you realize “Oh, so that’s what my house smells like.” You get to turn on your own lights without looking for the switch; you get to return to your own bed; you sit on your own couch, with the dent that perfectly matches the shape of your own ass; you get to shit in your own bathroom. A homecoming wraps you in a safe blanket of familiarity, stitched with threads of time and habit.

. . .

I sat cross-legged on the floor and listened to rapid, Chilean Spanish (which is to say, nearly incomprehensible, gargled Spanish that, like some algorithmic, linguistic equation, subtracts the “d” and the “s” and adds a “po,”). It was spoken in voices foreign to me—foreign but not strange. Some were deeper and softer, tentative to speak and quieted slightly by dainty hands that rested fingertips on lips or twisted hair. They were voices that squeaked with newfound depth, that had an artificially injected kind of confidence—one that comes from months or years of practice. They were voices that referred to “us,” “we,” the group as “nosotres”—not “nosotros” or “nosotras.”

We sat on the floor for the duration of the 90-minute meeting. By the end, my back ached. Others in the room were surely feeling a similar discomfort: hips and backs that ached from sitting, feet tired from walking all day, legs falling asleep from being crossed one over the other, a tiredness of eyes behind glasses, a discomfort from a body part tucked away, an uncomfortable tightness, the cake of makeup keeping skin from breathing, or the pull and pinch of straps, buttons, fastens, holding something up, or down, or on.

I sat across the circle from a beautiful woman. Her hair fell in black ringlets around her face, like the tight spirals of shaved chocolate on an ornately-decorated desert. She had winged eyeliner that flipped out dramatically, applied with precision and the flick of the wrist of a girl who has applied it a million times over, almost always in solitude. She was thin, almost worryingly so. She sat with her legs tucked underneath her, her long-fingered hands regally resting on her knees. She laughed when others made jokes, but it was a laugh that chimed daintily, not bellowing with the freedom of an un-sequestered belly laugh. When she spoke, it was soft. She smiled as she shared with the group, shaking her head from side to side as if to apologize for having started the story at all.

She shared the fact that she is now “Mara” at school. On her desk, that was what the nameplate had said. She had also gone to lunch with a friend, dressed exactly how she was: a dress, black tights, flat shoes with small beads and gems sewn to look like flowers, red lipstick, a confidence of shoulders up, back, and down, a polite, feminine, apologetic smile, worried eyes with subtle, shimmery gold eyeshadow.

We talked for a while in the circle about changing names. Well, some talked; I listened. We talked about how last year a historic law was passed in Chile that allows trans people over the age of fourteen to change their legal name and gender marker. But, after the meeting, my new friend Alex explained that “That isn’t really how it works.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, if you’re over eighteen, you can do whatever you want. But for kids, like minors, you have to have parental consent.”

“Do most parents not want to give consent?”

“Well it depends…this is Latin America”

. . .

The meeting ended with a brief speech from the discussion leader. We had been talking about transphobic attacks, especially in bathrooms or on the streets at night. He wrapped up the meeting by advising that “The best method for keeping yourself safe is to leave the situation as quickly as possible. Go with a friend, if you can. But don’t try to pick fights you have no chance of winning.”

When his speech was over, we all applauded. After the applause, there was a beat—just a few seconds where nobody moved or said anything. We just sat in a brief silence, feeling safe. The discomfort of the room: of the elastic bands of pantyhose digging into hips or the heat of layers over layers—it was welcome in that moment. We had wrapped ourselves in our blanket of familiarity there, in that small room of the “Cultural Center.” Nobody wanted to leave it.

One by one we broke away from the group. Mara went to the bathroom. She took a while and came out wearing different clothes: a black hoodie, black pants, tennis shoes. Her makeup had been wiped away, but her hair still fell in beautiful ringlets that bounced with each step. She didn’t look into anyone’s eyes, as we stood and waited, letting each person take their turn in the bathroom—the only gender-neutral bathroom any of us would likely encounter before arriving home—before we all walked toward the metro station.

. . .

Alex is twenty-three but he could be eighteen—or fifteen if he removed his lip ring. He walks with the confidence of someone who knows what he is doing, where he is going, and what he’ll say if someone tries to question him. He walks with the confidence of someone who knows that his ability to pass while walking alone on the street is dependent upon said confidence. He performs as he walks: he speaks loudly; he shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket and pulls the fabric strategically; he stands tall and walks quickly. He knows that if he shows hesitation, any fear or uncertainty, the men around him will notice in an instant. On the streets of Santiago, fear is female. Uncertainty is feminine. It doesn’t matter if you are trans or cis. Here, even the dimly lit streets are the easy places for predators to search for prey—they sense “womanhood” like a shark smells blood in the water.

. . .

I said goodbye to my new friends at the metro platform. We gave hugs, I kissed Mara on the cheek, and I asked for Alex’s phone number. I rode the train home with a person from the meeting whose voice I hadn’t heard. They said that they had lived in the US for multiple years, so we spoke to each other in English.

“Right, well I am back because I am getting my doctorate.”

“Really? How old are you?”

“I’m thirty. My girlfriend convinced me to start coming to these meetings because I get so lonely. It is really hard to meet Queer people in Santiago sometimes. Well, especially trans people.”

As we spoke these words, I was unsurprised. Here we stood, no “out and proud” pins, no pronoun patches, no visible indicator that we were a part of any group. And, at the exact same time, on a metro train zooming to the opposite end of the city, there sat a girl in a hoodie, pants, and tennis shoes, probably still smiling apologetically. And, next to her, there was a guy performing, and doing it well—no one around him would know that he would be getting a mastectomy in ten days. Nobody would think anything of either of the two of them. They were seemingly just riding the train, one carefully self-policing and one in disguise.

. . .

“Well, I met this really cool group of people,” I told my most mother.

She was cupping a mug of coffee and milk. The steam was slightly fogging the bottom half of her glasses, as she took small sips. Her eyes were tired, but the skin folded softly in the corners as she smiled kindly.

“Bueno.”

We sat at the table, having our after-dinner coffee. I wondered if I should tell her about what we talked about at the meeting; I didn’t know if she would understand.

“I didn’t really talk that much when I was there, though,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I guess because my Spanish isn’t very good. I was just afraid I would mess up with a pronoun or something and hurt someone’s feelings.”

She pushed her glasses up into her hair with her pink-manicured fingers.

“It is like I’ve told you and like I always told my sons,” she said, pausing to drink the last of her coffee. “Nobody should let anybody else hurt their feelings. You can’t let other people have power over you. You have to be independent. If you’re walking one way on the street with a group of friends and you want to go the opposite direction, then you go—even if you go alone.”

“Right, I just mean that, like, this group uses gender-neutral language. I haven’t really ever practiced using that in Spanish before.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like in a group, we are not ‘nosotros,’ we are ‘nosotres.’”

“So they change the ‘o’ or the ‘a’ to an ‘e’?”

“Right.”

“Well, they don’t need to. In Spanish, if it is a group of women, you say “nosotras.” If it is a group of men you say “nosotros.” If it is a mixed group, you say “nosotros” also.”

“Right, which is what I’m used to. But they say ‘nosotres’ to be more inclusive.”

“Inclusive of whom?”

“Everyone. Like, maybe people who don’t identify as a man or as a woman. Or just because the language is a little sexist.”

“It isn’t sexist. It’s gender neutral.”

“But I think they are arguing that using a ‘masculine’ ending for something that is supposed to be neutral is inherently sexist.”

“Right, but it isn’t.”

Her platform wedges clicked as she got up from the table and brought our mugs to the sink.

Posted by Tad Kaufman 19:46 Archived in Chile Tagged chile safety gender lgbt usac lgbtq+ queer_and_abroad trans_day_of_visibility Comments (0)

Vanetine’s Gay

While studying abroad in Santiago, Chile, I went to a gay club for the first time ever.

sunny 34 °C

I would say I’ve done a halfway decent job of being gay. Other than the fact that I am currently dating a woman, I’ve got all the stereotypical stuff down: I talk with my hands, I’m a vegetarian, I know the entire discography of most Broadway musicals, etc. (I still haven’t developed the lisp but I am sure it will come eventually). But because I am nineteen, and I don’t drink, and I live in The-Middle-of-Nowhere central Indiana, I haven’t had many opportunities to join the Gay Bar/Gay Club Scene.

I have been told (over and over and over, actually) that traveling is about “having new experiences.” So at the time that I am writing this, I’m planning my trip to a gay bar in Santiago...

. . .

Valentine’s Day: It hadn’t occurred to me that people outside of the US might celebrate this day; it seemed too uniquely consumerist to be anything other than a good ol’ ‘Mercian celebration. However, Valentine’s Day seems to, in fact, be celebrated here in much the same way that it’s celebrated in the States. People use the day as an opportunity to show their love, brag to their friends, feel sorry for themselves, eat overpriced chocolates, and get laid on a Thursday.

During the metro ride home from school, I observed many hopeless romantics holding meretricious displays of love, mass-produced by factories in the interest of commodifying romance. Everywhere I looked, people walked carrying large plastic balloons on small plastic straws, boxes of chocolates, bottles of wine, and cheap white roses with petals dyed bright colors: greens, blues, yellows (the colors of love)—the same roses sold year-round at gas stations for $1.99 each.

On the train, I watched as a man and woman boarded and sat next to one another, the woman holding a fake, fabric-covered rose. The two weren’t politely holding hands, nor were they sensually licking the far sides of one another’s tongues (as is customary on Chilean subways); in fact, they were not publicly displaying their physical affection at all. Instead, the woman was repeatedly lifting the fake rose to her face with her aggressively-pink manicured fingers, as if she was trying to smell the natural perfume of the synthetic fiber, hoping that, eventually, she would smell a polleny sweetness. She sniffed with such regularity that everyone in the train car likely noticed—a fact I am quite certain would not have upset her to have known.

As we screeched to our stop at Manuel Montt, I exited the train and nearly bumped into a very short woman who surely has been nearly bumped into many times in her life. She was half-hidden behind a large balloon bouquet. Her hair was cut short and fell like a football helmet around her round head. She had a smattering of makeup on her face, and her lashes seemed to be laboring under the glitter and mascara. When I apologized, she smiled at me and said nothing. Instead, she simply walked on, continuing to hold her balloons out in front of her, preparing to board the next train. As I walked up the stairs to exit the station, I thought to myself: Why in the world would she go through the trouble of buying those here? The same balloon bouquets were being sold at every street corner in Santiago. She easily could have waited, buying them after the metro ride to avoid the hassle of bringing them with her.

However, I was missing the point. For if she had not taken them on the metro, how would anyone have seen that she had them? How would onlookers know that someone was very, very in love with her and she was very, very in love with them?

. . .

On the walk home, I grew homesick. It was the first time since getting here that I had missed the oatmealy-thick air of Indiana. Up until that point, everything about Santiago had been diametrically opposed to my previous town. The newness of the city meant I was too interested in exploring to waste my time thinking about what I had left behind. However, as I watched vendors of “romantic” products and services (ice cream shops, perfume stores, chocolatiers, wineries, restaurants offering candle-lit dinners for two) hike up their prices, I was reminded of the good, old-fashioned American Capitalism I had been missing.

I didn’t want to walk straight home, the empty apartment waiting for me was threatening to crush me with that unique, Valentine’s day, feel-bad-for-yourself loneliness. Instead, I wandered through a bookstore, a plant shop, a vegan/health food store, and eventually stumbled upon a store, the sign for which featured a muscular man in a rainbow-patterned jockstrap and “4Men” written in blocky lettering.

There was one employee in the one-car-garage-sized store. When I walked in, he was busy talking with two women about a vibrator. Trying not to be too nosy or make anyone uncomfortable, I busied myself with looking at the products on the walls. The names were all in Spanish, which made them seem less sexual and more ridiculous to my English-reading brain. A few of them had an English translation of the product name, which had clearly been the result of an employee putting the words directly into google translate:

-Erotic Bread of Life

-Hot Sex Chocolate

-Special Gel for Penis

I was debating whether or not I should ask if I could try some of the “Chocolate Covered Banana” lube when the women left the store and the sales attendant turned to me.

As is normal, I started the conversation by apologizing for my Spanish and he responded by lying to me and saying it was good. He then proceeded to ask me what I was looking for. I wasn’t quite sure how to answer the question. What was I looking for? Why had I meandered into a gay sex shop and waited for fifteen minutes?

I told him that I was just looking around. He pointed to each of the walls and told me how the products were organized. I tried not to seem as uncomfortable as I was while he spent quite a while lingering over a certain vibrating cone hanging on the “for anus” wall. At the end of the tiny tour, he held up a pair of light-blue briefs with little rainbows patterned all over them, asking me if I wanted to try them on—and assuring me he would give me a discount. I turned them down.

Looking around the store, I was starting to realize that maybe this was what I had been missing. Since arriving in Chile, I had interacted very little (that I knew of) with other LGBTQ+ people. In the states, I was used to spending time with Queer friends, going to Queer events, and hosting a weekly club meeting all about being Queer. I was suddenly feeling a hunger that only a room full of dancing gay men could satisfy.

I asked if he knew of any gay bars or clubs in Santiago that were safe for me to go to. His response tickled me: “Oh, I’m not gay.”

When he said it, his eyebrows arched in surprise, as if nobody had ever assumed that the man peddling vibrating anal cones, discounted rainbow briefs, and assorted flavored lubes might be homosexual. What would make a straight man choose to work in a gay sex shop? He was decently attractive—large, stalky, a good beard, the hands of someone who probably could hold power tools or file documents—so why work in a sex shop—especially a sex shop that had a wall of hats and tank tops with the words “Queen Bey” printed across the front in hot pink and shorts that read “Power Bottom” across the ass?

I was just about to apologize for my assumption when a man’s voice interrupted me, saying: “I’m gay” (the first English I had heard that afternoon). I turned to see him peeking his head out from a red curtain, one which I had previously thought to be dividing the “employees only” section of the store from the rest but that I now realized was a changing room. He was half-heartedly covering his lower half but it was evident that he was trying on jockstraps.

Was that all I had to do? Ask for a gay person and they would appear, like Beetlejuice or Bloody Mary? I tried to look at his face—both because I wanted to figure out if this man had some magical, godly powers and also because I was trying to look away from his rainbow-clad junk.

I asked Jockstrap if he knew of any clubs in the city that were LGBTQ+friendly, safe, and relatively tame. He offered me a few, some for “if you want somewhere sleazy” and “Soda, if you want somewhere normal”. He spelled it out for me X-o-d-a (which I later came to find out was really just spelled “Soda”). I wrote it in my school notebook, right between the page of notes about Criollismo and the literary Vanguardian movement.

After that, I thanked Jockstrap and the sales attendant, and I walked out of the shop without buying anything or tasting the lube.

. . .

February 15th: The study abroad program in which I am participating allows me to interact with a lovely group of Chilean students that have signed themselves up to be the American students’ unofficial best friends for the semester. The girl in charge of this group, Tamy, invited all of the foreign students to attend her Valentine’s Day-themed 21st birthday party.

When I arrived at the event (a tasteful two hours late), I approximate that about three gallons of vodka had already been consumed in total by the group of 20-somethings in the room. Tamy came to greet me when I arrived, and then she instructed me to go get alcohol from her father inside. Let me tell you, there is something incredibly unnerving about being a nineteen-year-old and having to deny pisco from someone’s father...twice—especially when it’s followed by me asking about where I could find ice for my glass of water. But other people seemed to be generally unaffected by the situation.

Past the makeshift, card-table bar, the room was covered in pink and red decorations: streamers, paper hearts, and shiny silver balloons that read “FELIZ CUMPLEAÑOS, TAMY!” About two dozen or more young adults were dancing to salsa music and a few were outside smoking cigarettes. Other than Tamy’s father, I doubt anyone else in the room was over 23 years old. Where the hell am I? I thought to myself.

. . .

As the night at Tamy’s wore on, the students from my program showed the charm that only a group of wasted 21-year-olds excited to show off their bachata moves can have. The decorations seemed to drip from the walls, as they were either pulled down or had begun peeling from the humidity in the sweaty room.

A girl was very angry that a guy had stolen someone’s red hat; a different girl wanted someone to tell her how “absolutely crazy” it would be for her to eat the peaches out of the empty sangria bowl; a guy who had brought his own rum and did shots with anyone who asked was, unsurprisingly, was being force-fed chips and glasses of water; a different guy took off his shirt in the kitchen after having a drink spilled on him; people were complaining about not having someone to kiss; people were complaining about running out of alcohol; people started planning to go to a club, taking a head count; I called an Uber with my friends and we made our way to McDonald’s.

. . .

It was at the McDonald’s, about 3:00 AM, while eating fries without ketchup (because for some reason I didn’t know enough Spanish to understand, I wasn’t allowed to have sauce packets if I was staying in the restaurant) my friends and I talked about our plans for Saturday.

A few tables away, sat a group of gay men having a similar post-party snack. One of them had a shirt with the phrase “Get used to it,” printed across the back in rainbow lettering. Another seemed to still be wearing the remains of poorly-removed drag makeup.

“Have you guys ever been to a gay club?” I asked.

“No,” said one friend. “I’ve always been too young in the US...and then, when I wasn’t, I was too scared.”

“We should go,” I said, popping a fry into my mouth.

“Do you know where one is?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“I know a guy.”

. . .


February 16th: So I have now been to a gay bar.

I managed to enter the building with my school ID. It’s a red piece of laminated cardstock with my picture, my name, and my school’s logo on it. Nowhere does it say my age, date of birth, height, weight, hair/eye color, or anything else you would typically expect from an ID. But, nevertheless, the doorman winked at my two friends and me and ushered us into the club.

The club was dark and the bass boomed through the floor. All around me there were gay couples dancing, drinking, smoking, kissing, and standing in line for the bathroom. I imagine it was a lot like what a non-gay club might be like, but with a little less body hair.

The night was beach-themed. One of the bar attendants was shirtless and wearing an inflatable life-jacket. A drag queen who was pushing 6’6” was walking around spraying people with a water gun. The drinks were overpriced, but I bought a Sprite so that I could be holding something.

One of the two girls from my program that I went to the club with smokes cigarettes, so she had her lighter with her. I have made a mental note to bring a lighter with me everywhere I go from now on, as it seems to be the key to making friends. I met a lesbian couple from Venezuela, who wanted me to know (very aggressively) that I was “F****** adorable!” There was another man with breath that smelled like rotting fruit, who told us that he dropped his beer outside, so he had “no choice but to drink pisco.” There was a group of short, skinny gay men who were very interested in grinding with my other female friend to “Bad Romance” by Lady Gaga. And there was a man dressed in all yellow who danced behind me with his hands on my hips for a solid two minutes, not one second of which could’ve been considered on-beat.

By the end of the night, I had danced with at least 20 strangers; one of my friends had made out on the dance floor; we were offered choripene by some cat-callers on the street; I got the Instagram handles of the two yelling lesbians; and my friend stole one of the pool inflatables that had been hanging as a decoration on the wall.

Nothing spectacular or unforgettable happened during the course of the night. I left the bar covered in my own sweat, the sweat of others, and at least two alcohols—neither of which I had been drinking. But, nevertheless, I felt comforted. Something about seeing Queer people expressing themselves had refreshed me. I felt lighter after watching my female friends grind with men without worrying about their safety. I felt calmer knowing that the music of Lady Gaga transcends borders. I felt sense of camaraderie, of friendship, of validation, and of love.

I left the club without any souvenirs. The only thing we took with us was the pool inflatable my friend stole from the wall. It wasn’t a heart-shaped balloon on a straw, or a bouquet of flowers, or a box of chocolates but it was the best Chilean Valentine’s Day present a Queer kid could’ve gotten.

Posted by Tad Kaufman 04:48 Tagged club santiago lgbt gilman usac lgbtq+ vantine’s_day Comments (0)

I’m Here! I’m Queer! My Boxers are Stained!

My flights from Indiana to Chile and my first day in the country

sunny 32 °C

I took my first proper step toward adulthood when I was thirteen; my mom dropped me off at the grocery store with a list, and she told me she would be back in twenty. In my mother’s handwriting, along with the other items on the list was “1 watermelon.”

I remember making my way through the store to the watermelons and carefully observing the old lady in front of me choosing one. She picked it up, held it to her ear, and tapped on it. Now, nobody had informed me that there was a Melon Etiquette. Not at all. But I could tell that, clearly, there are Good Melons and Bad Melons in this world, and there is a way to know the difference. I just had to figure it out.

I stood there watching as adult after adult, with their business suits, and mortgages, and tensions with the in-laws, and bad credit scores, and solid grasps on what constitutes acceptable produce, performed their own personal melon rituals: smacking them, tapping them, lifting them up, shaking them, scratching the rinds and sniffing them—a bizarre amalgamation of suburban ceremonial behaviors.

I wasn’t sure which of these fine specimen had discovered the best melon-choosing ritual. So I chose to go with the Tap then Shake Method™️, as it seemed the least ostentatious. I wasn’t sure (and still am not sure) what a “good” melon should sound or feel like. But insofar that I can remember, the one I chose that day was acceptable, and I have used the same melon-picking method ever since.

. . .

Boarding the plane to fly from Indiana to Georgia (the first leg of my trip to Santiago) was the first time I had set foot on an airplane. It was a dinky, economy-class flight of maybe twenty people. I was informed after the trip that the skies had been abnormally turbulent, which is great to know—I thought planes were always just…like that. The shaking and bumping of the turbulence seemed to fit the ambiance. With the curved walls and clouds passing by out the window, it truly never managed to slip my mind that I was in a metal tube rocketing through the sky.

About 20 minutes into the flight, the attendant came by offering drinks from a cart. She asked if I would like coffee. Apparently, the altitude up there at 35,000 feet had affected my ability to foresee the problems that might arise when you combine the variables of a very bumpy plane and a hot cup of coffee.

“Yes, I would love one. Thank you.”

“Cream or sugar?”

“Just sugar, please.”

The man sitting beside me got his cup first, and he took a sip nonchalantly, no problems whatsoever. Then I reached for my cup, promptly spilling a third of it into my lap during the handoff. I continued to spill it as the plane shook and I tried to use the little square napkin to wipe myself off (with little success). I smiled at the attendant and said “thank you,” wanting nothing more than to find a parachute with which I could jump from the plane.

For the rest of the flight, I sat with hot coffee slowly seeping its way into the boxers I would then have to continue wearing for 20 more hours. Is this what traveling is going to be like? I thought. Me having pubes that smell like stale Starbucks ‘We Proudly Serve’ Pikes Place Roast® while the strangers around me have seemingly gyroscopic grips on their cups?

However, with time, I have come to appreciate that plane ride. At no point in Santiago have I felt quite so low as when I wet my pants immediately after a flight attendant wet my pants for me on what was supposed to be the first “best day” of a string of the 116 Best Days of My Life.

The second flight seemed much more like the airplane rides I had seen in the movies: overly-friendly flight attendants, weird food in impossibly asinine packaging, little TV screens on the backs of the chairs, etc. I did find myself wondering, while we were flying over the Pacific, if they would give me some of the free champagne if I asked for it. (Because at what point in the air, really, did we leave the 21-and-over law of the US and start following Chile’s 18-and-over?) And I was terrified of flushing the toilets. But other than that, it felt relatively “normal.”

When we landed, I went through something like the five stages of grief in reverse order, ending in complete denial that I, some queer little Hoosier, from a college in the middle of nowhere, with $0.00 of local currency and a never-before-stamped passport, could be 5000 miles away from home, trying to explain in broken Spanish to my host mom that I don’t like milk and that I didn’t bring a towel.

That first night, she took me to the grocery store to by some food for the next couple of days. I was still wearing my coffee boxers, and I didn’t understand why all the soups were sold in bags instead of cans.

We went to the produce section and my host mom pointed to a honeydew.

“¿Te gusta el melón?”

“Uhhh..sí, sí. Me gusta. Sí. Es muy bien. Uh-huh.”

She then proceeded to sniff the melon before shaking it a little. Thank goodness. It was the first familiar thing I had seen, the melon ritual. So, while standing in the middle of a grocery story in the metropolitan region of Santiago, with no money, no memory of how to talk in Spanish in the future tense, and with no soup cans in sight, I thought to myself: Okay. Well, at least I’ll be able to choose a melon.

Posted by Tad Kaufman 15:40 Archived in Chile Tagged planes chile santiago flights lgbt gilman usac lgbtq+ queer_and_abroad Comments (1)

(Entries 1 - 3 of 3) Page [1]