This is the dilemma constitutive of bourgeois literature. A bourgeois life brings relative freedom from pain. I transitioned late after securing a comfortable life.
I’m white, middle-class by origin, with a good education, living in an apartment my partner and I own. If this is our shared story, why do I need you to tell it so that I can write it? Because of things we don’t have in common. It’s hilarious that we both fucked that other trans girl – she sure gets around. I’m sorry you got harassed on the subway. Once our server is out of earshot, we dish. Yay for girls like us! We’re at the bar at Mood Ring. What makes me think I know anything about you? And what makes what I think I know something I can put in a piece of writing to which I own the rights?Īs it happens, I’m a trans woman too. Maybe you are central to it, or maybe incidental. I say she because you are a trans woman, and it’s something about trans women that I’m writing. Will you recognise this version of you, as you? I hope so. Will you like this version of you? Maybe not.
