forgive the rudery, but i love the concept.
First, a short digression for those without geekery in their make-up. The original schrodinger’s cat was a thought experiment meant to illustrate the nature of quantum events. Place a cat in a sealed box with a radioactive isotope for which the chance of emitting a lethal dose of radiation was 50% and…there was a 50/50 chance that the cat would be alive when you opened the box.
However, being a smart-ass physicist, schrodinger claimed that until you actually open the box, the cat is neither alive nor dead, but exists in a sort of probabilistic haze of uncertainty. Hmmm. When last seen, Herr schrodinger was dabbing iodine on what looked suspiciously like cat scratches – which goes to show he might know loads about physics, but bugger all about matters feline.
Still, i then encountered the above phrase in the mouth of a comedian (not necessarily pro-trans) but quite liked the allusion it opened up. First, because when it comes to trans genitals, it sort of sums up the dilemma. Or issue.
The world and its wife appears obsessed with what trans folk keep in their pants. Trans women particularly. Why? A large part, i suspect, is prurience. And also the fear of maybe being tainted by the idea of being thought gay, if male.
But as far as most trans women are concerned, tis no-one’s business but their own. What i have inside my knickers is my concern and yes: since i write about my transition publically, others probably do have an idea. But if i were someone who chose not to write…then the only people entitled to know would be those for whom the issue was pertinent. Medical professionals. Partners. Lovers.
And for everyone else? Well, as far as i am concerned, for everyone else, there is no right to know…no right to ask, unless the conversation leads to a place where it is proper to do so. If you meet a trans anyone, you may assume merely that they may or may not have male or female genitals. But frankly, that’s not for you to know and your best assumption, schrodinger-like, is both, neither, male, female, whatever.
Sounds, to be honest, like ordinary politeness.
This week, however, the phrase has taken on a new significance. Cause post-op is not quite post-op. Not immediately, anyway. Cause post-op you are swathed and bandaged about the waist like some modern mummy. Pulled in tight, you have no sense whatsoever of what you yourself now have between your legs.
Intellectually, you know: unless the hospital is running a most ingenious scam, your genital geometry has changed. But you don’t feel it yet. Must, in fact, wait a few more days until the moment, on sunday, when all is unwrapped, the packing is removed, and you find out whether the pussy is alive or dead.