I love my trannies! Let’s just throw PC-ness out the window for a minute – or maybe longer, depending on how long you stay on this blog. Basic lingo 101: “Tranny” is the politically incorrect name for a transexual, someone who has undergone a sex-change operation, or a transvestite, someone who dresses as the opposite sex. While all drag queens are not trannies and all trannies are not drag queens, the two are often wrongly lumped together in the general public’s eye as trannies.
Tranny has also become a casual slang term for flamboyant. This is inherently bad for society because it spreads ignorance, but a very large part of the population has caught onto something: phonetically, it’s really fun to say. Tranny. Tranny! TRANNY! Can you argue? As far as my circles go, it’s used as a term of endearment. I didn’t invent this stuff, I’m just telling you how it is. Nothing on earth is a greater compliment than when my gay bestie Michael calls me a tranny. “Awww, that’s my tranny!” Music to my God-given vagina.
What’s in a name? Sometimes Anna Conda, sometimes Wilma Fingerdu. But in the end… it’s not what you call it, it’s how you feel about it.
I have the utmost respect and undying love for anyone, EVERYONE in the LGBTQ community, by default. I probably have more gay friends than straight friends, which I hereby declare does not make me an expert on the subject. While there is such a broad range in sexuality that exists on the spectrum of LGBTQ, there is one strong, unifying factor: Society says they should be one way, but they know they’re another. And they live it. I stand in absolute awe of anyone courageous enough to recognize a desire burning so deeply inside that they actually go and surgically change their body parts. It is beyond my comprehension what that experience must be like. Mad respect.
Truth be told, sexual identity aside, I think I’m just a big ol’ tranny at heart. Someone who loves dress-up, flamboyancy and changing appearance to suit the ego. Living la tranny loca… Make your own rules, forget what society says is right… just have fun, love one another, and love your damn self.
I have been really thrown for a loop lately, and like I said, I stopped wearing my fro for a while. I didn’t – and still don’t – know which way is up. I’ve been getting a serious education beyond my wildest imagination, and have been feeling so awful and confused about the whole thing that I let both my black AND blond fros collect dust in the corner for seven full days. It was a sad, sad, week.
But my birthday was coming up, and I knew in my heart I would not be complete without my fro.
Now, I respect your words and comments beyond measure. Please realize they are very mixed in sentiment and concern, so forgive me if I have not addressed your particular feelings about it just yet. One of the opinions made very clear, though, is that context is everything. So, I needed to change the context.
In a world of political uncertainty, on my birthday I knew there was at least one safe haven where I’d be free to fro it out without any shame. A place where YOU DO YOU couldn’t be truer. A place where everyone’s making a political statement, so nobody is: Markko Donto’s Wolf Night at Le Souk.
And guess who shares my birthday? Markko Donto.
Happy birfday to me.
Every Tuesday night Le Souk is off the handle for Wolf Night, but for Markko’s big night it was EXTRA glossy. Oh man. Endless champagne and sparklers. Dancers popping up for mini-shows throughout the night, pushing erotic boundaries with flexibility and class. A performance by Markko Donto herself. A camera crew to catch the entire night on film.
IT WAS BANANAS.
The night started out with a delicious Le Souk middle eastern dinner with twenty of my closest friends… at the same tables that would later be covered in bottles, birthday cake and beautiful dancers.
“It’s your birthday,” the manager said to me when the party got bumping around one AM. “You should dance.”
I smiled, and he cleared off half the bar. I’m no stranger to dancing on bars, but as he wiped down my stage, I started to look at this invitation a bit differently. I’m no longer some intoxicated 21-year-old who hops up, wiggles around, and jumps back down. This was going to be a performance.
No, better yet, an audition!
And so, I auditioned for the part of Michelle Joni.
Yoga and stretching are always my guiding dancing forces. In order to nab the role, I knew I had to incorporate all of this.
Feeeeel that slight stretching sensation.
I took this opportunity of having a private elevated stage to dance horizontally. To strengthen my core, and to do the occasional down dog. After an hour or so of this, I felt stretched and rejuvenated. And I had a few fans.
My sister Jessica joined me after a little while, the Pepa to my Salt. We both learned the hard way, through years and years of dance classes and musicals, that neither of us are particularly good at choreographed numbers. Eight-count, what? But… what we do know, we know how to feel liberated.
This brought back memories of when we used to choreograph our own “shows” and perform them for our parents in the living room. Oh, how proud they were! I’m sure we’re making mommy and daddy pretty proud right now too.
So tranny me up, I think I got the part! And darling, don’t you dare say a word about my hair.