Old disabled White transwoman adventure, chapter three
If I were to set the title of this piece in order of public perception, it would probably say instead, “White disabled old transwoman adventure.” Whiteness is very much in play when a person like me, an Irish-German-Jew-Scot, comes into town. Look at my face, O citizens of charming little Bucerias, and you already know that I am likely culturally clueless, that I have access to hard currency, that I am looking to enjoy some recreation here for a short while, and that I will as likely leave within the month. All of which is more or less correct.
So, we’re talking privilege. Example One: I arrive at the boarding ramp with its odor of disinfectants and old rubber, and look for my miraculous electric folding wheelchair, among the wheelchairs available for the arriving passengers. Instead I see a young man, working for tips, holding a sign that says “Thers MITCHELL” and gamely offering a battered manual chair, with which he intends to transport me to Customs, for a tip. Since I am lazy and privileged, I have not bothered to learn much Spanish, and it takes a moment in both languages to convey that I am waiting for mi propio wheelchair and that no, this won’t do.
Meanwhile my fellow privileged Whites get off the plane and pass me with no face covering, because they know they can ignore the sincere pleas of the air stewards to wear legally mandated masks in this Mexico airport. I am inextricably a part of this crowd of insufferable fools, and of course this situation colors my insistent and perplexing request for my wheelchair.
The half-dozen aides are looking me over, wondering what my problem is and why I won’t just get in the chair they offer, and of course this turns out to be sufficient time for them to see that I am transgender, and my pronoun changes irrevocably to “Sir” — no more “ma’am” from them. And no electric wheelchair, what is that monstrua talking about?
And before you get mad at them for misgendering me, remember the context. I am shitting on them doubly, first by being mysterious and difficult, and secondly by pretending that as a man in a dress I deserve to be addressed as a female even though they can see through my disguise, the gig is up, how ridiculous! There is sharp laughter now from the aides, and quieter calls to God to witness this bizarre asshole leaning on his cane and spluttering.
Finally, just as I am beginning to think that the damned thing was left at my connecting terminal in San Francisco, a man arrives up the stairs to the boarding ramp, carrying the fifty-pound wheelchair over his head in a ridiculously macho style. The problem is that I am using the wrong word to ask for the chair: it is a “scooter.” I express my gratitude, but they can already see that I am red in the face from stress and humiliation. I power up the chair and roll off, no tip for them. Relief: the pinche cabron and his scooter are gone. A story to tell at home.
There are other aides, though, and a college student intercepts us and offers to push a chair for my partner Ani, who is overwhelmed with asthma. We are whisked to Customs, and our visas are stamped with a smile. We are escorted through the gauntlet of time-share sellers and into the car of mi suegra — my mother-in-law, and her partner, and air conditioning. Sweet, sweet air conditioning.
And the student gets the tip; all is well.
So, there in the photo above, you can see me in our bedroom at Casa Tranquila, owned by mi suegra and her partner, a six-room garden paradise a block from the bay (Bahia Banderas). And you can see, on my arm, a twenty-year-old tattoo clumsily based on the character that long graced the front page of El Mercurio, a cartoon by the genius Posada, who invented among other things the lengthened teeth on a calavera that indicates motion, age, and laughter in one gesture.
This calavera was originally in reference to the arrogant and racist actions of a finca owner, who attacked his unfortunate serfs with a machete, but El Mercurio has long transformed the violent bastard into a symbol not unlike Mercury, the messenger god, the god of news; so I replaced his sword with a microphone, and he represents my decades-long efforts on community radio to tell “The News You’re Not Supposed To Know.” This tattoo pisses some people off to be seen on a White, but I tell all comers the truth, that it is there from respect. Respect, and frankly the fact that twenty years ago I didn’t think it would ever be perceived otherwise.
And there is my cane, which helps me to stand and lean over for the mirror, which is placed for people not so freakishly tall. And there’s the faux pre-columbian art; I’ll zoom in here:
The legs are a vulpine but anthropomorphized face. I doubt the original looked this misshapen, but the effect is there. I like this bowl — it says ‘Bucerias’ to me, beautiful funky Bucerias with its erupting condos and polite inhabitants, who will greet me kindly even when I am walking down a dark alley hours after sunset.
Bucerias is around the bay from Puerto Vallarta, a progressive town chock-full of vacationing queer gringos. Obviously a fair number are complete jerks. Some of us are good people. Some have become Mexican citizens, too.
I plan to travel North through the countryside, me and my broken body and clockable voice and face, and who knows how that will turn out? But that is later, and right now I am going to go to the farmacía and get some antibiotics for the Proteus Mirabilis that is building nasty little stone castles in my kidneys. No prescription is needed; this is Mexico.