Platform: Shoes - A Declaration of Advocacy

I have 99 transgender problems, and shoes make up about a dozen of them.

For every (rare) day I decide to wear an outfit, I begin with shoe selection and build around them. Every ensemble I lovingly critique, I start with choice of heels. I perk up at the sound of clicks on tile or sidewalk, then swivel around to see if the shoes (and the person filling them) are as attractive to me as they sound. My Pinterest board “Well Heeled” overflows with a seemingly redundant conveyance of every shoe I could ever dream to wear.

(If you’re curious, please feel free to drop by: https://www.pinterest.com/hollicherise/ ...y'know, if you want.)

Shameless cry for attention. So, so shameless.

I suppose, then, it would be no surprise to anyone that high heels were the first definitive form of feminine apparel I tried on as a child. How old was I? 6 or 7, perhaps? Crazy, how the culmination of three events led to that moment: my mother leaving me in the car so she could run into the grocery store to cash a check; a pair of red, strappy heels left in the backseat; my mounting curiosity about what it would feel like to wear such beautiful things. Seizing the moment, I put them on my feet, one at a time. I was shorter than my mother, but - a bit startling - they fit very well. And then… I buckled the straps around my ankles, hands trembling ever so slightly… sitting in place, feet together, feeling the spikes press up, forcing the arch, commanding my sitting posture, redefining my very character….

And then I opened the car door. And then I stepped out. I touched the pavement, gingerly. The sensation of solid ground under my newly-shod sole communicated to me a novelty, how different things were now, as I took that first step. Two feet on the ground now. I stood up. Perhaps I wobbled, but just a little. I looked around to assure myself just how alone I was, unobtrusive between all the parked cars. I took a few steps.

Electrifying. Exulting. Transformative.

Addicted!

It would only escalate from that point on.

It’s always been as though I was born to wear heels. I don’t get women who complain about them, their discomfort, how they exist to merely objectify the body, their suspicion that this is all part of the male agenda to subjugate women (forgetting that men were wearing heels before women appropriated them). On the contrary, I find they make me feel sexier, more capable, and somewhat special whenever I wear them.

In my opinion, if heels are worn strictly for the pleasure of admirers, then you’re doing it wrong. Like lipstick, clothes, jewelry or perfume, it’s down to choice, which is an expression of self, no matter how you dress it up. High heels are the essence of dramatic interpretation, or costume theater if you will, as much a part of feminine exotica as an alluring smokey eye or elaborate gown.

No, heels aren’t the end-all/be-all of forward footwear fashion.

Yes, they make you less likely to escape from a charging tyrannosaur.

No, you aren’t less of a woman if you don’t wear heels.

Yes, I'm a little partial in my appeal for high heel celebration. Then again, I don't get to wear them very often, so I'm not the one destroying my knees in them every single day. (Then again, nobody should be that cruel to themselves. "All things in moderation," as the old adage goes.)

"Stop trying so hard to stand out, Susan!"
is probably a less-popular axiom.
(But no less valid.)

In conclusion: Life is short. Go climb that mountain. Eat the chocolate mousse pie. Wear the heels. (Just, not all at the same time.)

-- HCP

A Bite Out of Reality

One summer, six years ago, I told myself that I needed to face reality for a little while. So I left blogging. I abandoned chat rooms, message boards, and emailing strangers from far off places who shared my frustrating passion for self-discovery as an unconventional woman. I left a vague indication that I was alright, that this sort of thing happens all the time to online dreamers, and for the most part I didn't feel I was missing much anyway.

"Funny, I don't FEEL more like myself. Hello? Is this thing on??"

Reality was marriage. Reality was my job, my church, my friends, the yard animals that keep digging under my shed. Also, there's been my other passion for self-expression, through ink, paint, and other artistic mediums. I chose to make time for this kind of actualization, admitting that my female identity had no place in the real world. No regrets; I've been doing well, on my feet, getting things done with the energy I used to reserve for lengthy declarations regarding the finer points of my personal femininity.

But I'm not right, either. I haven't been right in forever. The kind of right that's not about being correct, but feeling well-adjusted, or in place. I do have a life, sure, and it will always need my attention, but the part of me who is woman (and it doesn't have to be a physical part, not really) is wholly unsatisfied with her role in all of this. Feeling denied, perhaps. Feeling less than actualized. Wanting to do something about it, even if I'm reluctant.

Well, that sort of conflict can get out of hand, especially since, more and more, I don't feel the need to consult with outsiders like I've felt was necessary in the past. I want to be woman in the presence of loved ones, to be loved in return as Holli. I've always wanted acknowledgement, to be the "she" when someone points to indicate they're talking about me, to be the "girl!" in their friendly greetings without the slightest twang of irony. I don't get to experience these things, and may never, but suddenly I've decided to clear out a bit of room and let my girlside just exist.

Fine, I've said, with the heart of St. Compromise, the Practical. I won't drag my loved ones into the places they're uncomfortable. But I will be, for the sake of my soul, in one form or another.

I'm the sort who can eventually accept compromise, given enough time, but I'm also blessed with imagination. Those who tell me "you can't" soon realize that I've discovered fine print at the bottom of their airtight reasoning. Reality insists that we must abide by its wishes; it often neglects to point out the escape clauses.

It's really so simple: I never said I can't come back to this.

And so, I am. Just like that.

I plan to write. I plan to answer questions, even if I have to ask them myself. This is the new plan, see, where I don’t rely on people to help patronize me (even though sometimes that’s all I desperately wish for). I refuse to be the helpless maiden in the tower, as it were, awaiting rescue. So, chat with me, if you like. Invite me to enjoy something. Show me your own world. Let’s become acquainted in that limited yet indulgent way the internet affords us.

I’ll be honest. I promise.

I won’t be punctual, but I’ll be frequent.

Maybe I’ll write stories, and let you get involved with the telling.

I don’t really know what I’ll write next. But I need this. Voice. Presence. A sort-of reality in its own right, a peculiar sort. A universe where I am me, you are you, and we are (somewhat) together.

Hopefully yours,

-- HCP

"Rapunzel doesn't know how good she had it!
... God, grant me a long enough ladder."

Semi-Charmed Kind of Life

This is one of those "I don't even know where to begin" kind of posts, so bear with me.  Those of you still paying me attention.

April was when last I wrote anything about anything femme. I have always had a lot to say, and I often have this undeniable desire to spill out my soul in the best way I know how, and I was doing such a great job, I like to think.  But something happened back there.  Summer time, perhaps.  End of school.  A whole different kind of busy.  A lack of wind in the bosom of my sails.  Yeah, more like that.  But I also think it was something a bit more typical - throwing my hands into the air and backing away, because venting and chatting and bitching and casting about the empty reaches of the internet gets old, real old, real fast.  Because when all you really want in the world is someone you love (who has a face, no offense, O People of the Internet) to see your true form and love you back, nothing else takes the shape of that.  Dressing up doesn't work.  Browsing the message boards doesn't work.  Online window shopping is torture, given my infinitesimal budget.  In fact, trying to reach out online just doesn't work.  Because you can't build relationships with people you have no intention of spending time with.  I'm sorry, my few-and-far-between followers, but it's true.  I have a mate who can't deal, and I don't believe in putting my needs above others, especially when I am central to that other person's needs.  And, seriously, I happened to utter some simple yet powerful vows with more than a little sincerity on the day we tethered our mortal souls together.  This makes me responsible.

However, it doesn't leave me without options.  I simply don't know how to identify the good ones.

I'm back again to see if I can find some actual satisfaction.  And I'm willing to use my nicest words.

If there's anything that I've ever been good at, it's that I'm a creative little minx.  I do enjoy letting others pleasure me with story and song, but as whorish as that sounds it only means that I have an eye and an ear for art.  Much of the beauty which art encompasses revolves around the feminine.  I crave it relentlessly. And if no one is ever going to allow me to grow as the beautiful, energetic feminine soul that lies dormant within, than I shall have to forgo the dependence I so craved to become, in a sense, my own woman.  A work of art in and of myself.

I want to write.  I want to draw.  I want to cram the amp plug into Holli Cherise Pewtersmyth and let the ensuing wave of sound flow.  I want something more than reflections.  I want to touch and be touched emotionally.  And I want other people to want this from me as well.

So.......

......

How will I do it?  How can I serve?  How can I bind myself to the whims of an an appreciative audience?  These questions and answers (and more questions, likely) to follow...

~HCP