(What follows is bound to be drier than that opener may indicate. Just a warning.)

OK, first of all,

gender: 1. A set of two or more categories, as masculine, feminine, and neuter, into which words are divided according to sex, animation, psychological association, or other characteristic that govern agreement with or the selection of modifiers, referents, or grammatical forms. 2. Classification of sex.

sex: [We ain't talkin' the verb, here.] 1. (a.) The property or quality by which many living things are classified according to their reproductive functions. (b.) One of the two divisions, either male or female, of this classification. 2. Males or females as a group. 3. The genitalia.

That's what Webster tells me, anyway.

Just wanted to clarify that, semantically and socially, there is a huge difference between sex and gender; the former term more often used in the biological /scientific aspect, the latter in the anthropological/social aspect. Both entirely valid, but not to be used interchangeably without consideration.

So I was perusing the website of one of my heroines, Inga Muscio, author of “Cunt” (which I can’t mention without urging you to READ IT), who encourages every person in the world to write a Womanifesto. I want to write one. I need one. Firstly, because I love and frequently use the word “manifesto.” Secondly, because I adore creative feminist literature, and the thought of writing my own personal piece rather turns me on.

I have never felt such an absolute NEED to write something. Actually, until falling into the time-sucking abyss that is Diaryland, I didn't write at all, outside of funky emails and academic papers. In fact, creative writing scared the living motherfucking crap out of me. I feel that any creative writing that isn't honest and intimate, based on the writer’s own truth, is basically garbage. So, that's scary. I'm an actor, a sometimes-illustrator, a singer: all largely interpretive arts. Yeah, one draws from oneself in any form of artistic expression, but it's easier, in my chosen mediums, to pretend to hide behind "the piece," "the work," "the language of the author," etcetera.

It is quite a different thing to be “the author.” You write, they are your words. Your own. To be plopped down, raw, and put at the interpretive mercies of others. Tell me that’s not terrifying.

Also, it takes a certain confidence in one's thoughts, a certain admirable arrogance that what one has to say is worth reading, for one to claim the title of "writer." Or, at least, that's what I thought.

I've recently started writing frequently (duh), which still terrifies me, and while I by no means claim that I am a WRITER, the act of writing is not as difficult or torturous as I thought it would be; on the contrary, it brings me joy. There are many who would argue that the lack of agony when I write indicates that I’m not a writer. Hell, maybe they’re right. I, for one, don’t believe that passion has to be painful, but there are many who do, and produce brilliant art from the bowels of their demons. I tried for years to create demons of my own, and succeeded. It didn’t make me more creative or passionate, it only wore down my tooth enamel and gave me fierce insight into the regurgitability of various food items. How’s that for creative process? Blah. That's behind me (almost).

Sorry. It’s dreadfully boring to read about another's "process", and dreadfully insulting to any readers out there for me to continue to write about how I’m not a writer. So I'll stop this.

BACK to the womanifesto.

So, now I’m thinking, what would I write about? I’m pretty good at recognizing my personhood, my Kellyhood, but what about my womanhood? What makes me a woman, other than my vagina and uteris? If I were to have a double-mastectomy, a hysterectomy, and have endured some dreadful accident that mutilated my cervix and labia, or if I had (god forbid) been subjected to a clitoridectomy, would I still be a woman, having lost all characteristics of sex? Well, yes, because I’ve been raised a woman by gender. But, it’s not always so cut-and-dry.

The following stories are true.

Once upon a time, a baby was born with both a penis and a vagina. In order to avoid controversy or conflict or confusion, the baby’s somewhat-understandably-freaked-out parents chose to have the baby’s penis lopped off, and the baby was raised as a girl. Hormones, dollies, therapy, and all.

Apparently, as the kid matured, it became evident that the wrong organ was chopped. (EVERYBODY CRINGE!) Kid never fit with her assigned gender. Never liked the dollies or the dresses, never looked feminine, never felt comfortable with the other little girls. Instead, the child naturally leaned towards all the stereotypically “male” pastimes and forms of expressions, such as sports and GI Joe, despite all efforts (biological and social) to push her towards the opposite stereotypes.

When the kid’s parents eventually let her in on the fact that she was born a hermaphrodite, her lifelong gender-identity struggle finally made sense. He (prounoun change!) decided to have a sex-change operation, and is now a happily married, well-adjusted man.

That is not to say, however, that his love of baseball and his square jawline were what prevented him from being “well-adjusted” as a female. There must’ve been something else that made him identify more closely with “manhood.” Ultimately, it was his choice.

Once upon a quite different time, there was a man and a woman who fell in love and were married. Fifteen years into their marriage, the man confessed to his wife that while he had no doubt as to his attraction to and love for her, in his very soul he believed himself to be a woman. There were tears, of course, and much discussion, but under all that, there was love. With his wife’s support, the man underwent a sex-change operation, and the heterosexual husband and wife became a committed lesbian couple.

There are many who respond to this story, saying “WHAT??? So, the dude underwent a sex change to become a LESBIAN???? That doesn’t make any SENSE!!!!”

Bullshit.

What doesn’t make sense? I think it’s one of the only accounts of unconditional true love that I’ve ever heard. A love without labels. To say that it doesn’t “make sense” is to argue that women who love other women are not truly women at all, and that is something I staunchly dispute.

So, sex does not equal gender, and gender does not equal sex.

I still don’t know what makes me a woman. I’ve always quite easily identified with my gender. I like to kiss boys, I like to wear skirts, I like to be hospitable, I like to look pretty.

Who better to discuss gender with, really, than someone whose self-identified gender is different than the sex he/she (no pun or offense intended on the slash-separation ... I still mean "he" as one, separate, referential pronoun, and "she" as another) was assigned at birth?

Seriously. I know plenty of gay men who are femmer than femme, and lesbians who are butcher than butch; despite the fact that they may not be the representatives deemed "typical," or even "appropriate" (yeuchhhh) for their genders, the femmes identify themselves as MEN and the butches, as WOMEN. Where is the difference? What makes people ultimately decide that theirs is the correctly or incorrectly bestowed genitalia? It seems rather a crapshoot, all things sussed. And it’s more than genitalia.

That’s why I wish I knew some transsexual folks. I could have a little panel discussion on gender, and they could tell me how they knew what gender they TRULY were supposed to be. I can’t fathom how difficult it must be to have to grapple with that.

Alas, I know nary a tranny, and am left to hash out my womanhood by myself.

So … where does Kellyhood end and Womanhood begin? If I were male, I think I’d have most of the same fundamental characteristics. I’d like most of the same things and have most of the same friends, although having been raised as a representative of a different gender would obviously have had some effects on me. I may have remained a jock instead of turning theatre-freak. Probably wouldn’t own as much pink. Shit like that.

My core, though, that intangible thing that is mine alone and that I can’t put into words, I believe that would remain the same.

The fact that I

- like pink,

- like flowers,

- like chocolate, especially as a therapeutic drug,

- kiss boys,

- wear makeup,

- shave my pits, legs, etc.,

- like dresses,

- emote freely,

- I am not violent,

they do not make me a woman, and if they were flipped, they would not make me a man.

Neither do those facts make me a crappy feminist. I fully embrace my girliness, my femininity, my yin. But, that is all a part of my Kellyness, not necessarily my womanhood. I went through many anti-makeup, anti-Lady Remington periods, each time founded in heartfelt principle against the objectification of women, but bottom line, I like to look pretty and I don’t like having shaggy pits. For me, it is not necessarily a question of “Why do women wear makeup?” Rather, it is a question of “Why doesn’t everyone wear makeup?”

What makes me a woman?

My first tendency is to focus on the negative: I am a woman because I have something to say for women. I am a woman because I’m afraid to walk outside alone at night, and that fear makes me angry. I am a woman because every time I hear them, the terms “rape” and “domestic abuse” make my temples tighten and my stomach clench itself into a fist of fury.

But no, those aren’t the reasons I identify myself as a woman, either. They are the reasons I identify myself as a feminist.

I guess I’ve answered a crapload of nothing. I should just write a humanifesto.

Perhaps my womanhood is a part of that intangible core that I mentioned. Perhaps it is a small chunk of my Kellyness. Perhaps I’m making this far more complicated than it needs to be. Woman … Man … Sex … Gender … What’s the big bloody deal?

I think most of the Big Deal comes from women being able to give birth; but not all women can, and they are no less womanly. It’s not our doing that we can have children, and it is not men’s fault that they can’t.

I’m so confused. I’m proud to be a woman, but I hope that if I were a man in any sense of the word, I’d be proud of that, too. Everyone should celebrate their everything. Then, celebrate their opposites immediately afterwards.

I’m telling you, I should be Goddess of All. You’d love me.

UPDATE: SEPTEMBER 8, 2003 ...

Hey, folks.

Just to let you know, I asked the lovely Ms. Leslie to offer her insight into this issue, and I must say, she did a fabulous job. Go right to the source, I say.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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