✍ = 中文翻譯“What if I am truly crazy? What if I’m just good at fooling myself, and everyone around me? They say sociopaths are some the most successful people in the world.” I reflect on this notion as I sip a cup of African redbush rooibos tea.
It’s an inexplicable feeling to read works diagnosing myself, and those like me, as incompetent members of society who would be better off in a mental institution than on a red carpet, in a fashion show or on the cover of a magazine. Not to say I’ve never seriously considered the idea. I’ve tried searching for that traumatic moment that “made me like this”. Did Mum smother me too much? Was it the lack of a father? Was it the war that caused my family and me to flee from the former Yugoslavia? And why didn’t this happen to my brother? Why is he so butch and I’m so not? Am I fooling myself with the pills I’ve taken since I was 14, and the surgery I’ve had, imitating some idea of “womanity”, at best? Was it because I needed to feel different, special?
It’s 1am; my windows are rattling with a cold winter’s breeze that sends air through the small cracks in the wall around the windowsills, an unavoidable feature of a downtown Manhattan pre-war era building. I’m lying on my bed, dressed in a tracksuit onesie (a total fashion crime), reading a 2014 New Yorker article by Michelle Goldberg titled What is a woman?. I stumbled upon her work because my friend had texted me about the screaming match between Rose McGowan and a trans activist at a book signing. The article analyses the battle between radical feminism and transgenderism, a phenomenon brought to light by the above incident.
Ever since Donald Trump’s victory in the US election, I’ve been trying to expand my scope to understand the thought processes of people who don’t see the world, or humanity, as I do. It seems like an unlikely occurrence, but radical feminists and right-wing zealots are finding common ground in their assertions that transgender individuals are insane, and that societal acceptance is only supporting our delusion. It’s not my first time being introduced to these concepts. After I completed my first couture runway as a bride, the headlines read: “Behold! Fashion’s biggest insult to women.”
Recently, I felt it necessary to write in defence of myself, and my place in fashion, in response to an attack by a famous fashion blogger who, in 2012, thanked God that “there aren’t that many of them”, referring to people like me. I won’t name her here, because while she should’ve known better, she probably didn’t.
I’ve given up trying to convince the world about the authenticity of my femininity. In fact, I don’t even know what femininity means any more, or gender or sex. In the end, it all seems so intertwined, nuanced and fluid, like all things in nature, yet we try to make it so mechanical, categorical and divided. We place so much value in norms, even in the smallest and least significant aspects of life. It’s like trying to add pieces to a puzzle that is already solved, muddling the otherwise pure picture with each new attempt. What’s the point? To demand that people find their assigned narrow corridors of culture, or ethnicity, or gender, expecting people to forevermore stay in that lane, is to limit our human potential. It’s oppressive.
I get up, walk through the open-plan apartment to my kitchen, and refill the cup with fresh hot water. I like my tea scalding hot.
“Well, then, why did you have to do the pretty drastic things you’ve done?” is the natural next question. All I can say is it’s a real thing that did happen. It’s been there from my earliest memory, since before I knew words, or names, or the difference between apples and oranges. I can best describe it as a twirl of nature, a disorderly fusion of yin and yang. I did some stuff about it that made me feel a hell of a lot better, that got my energy flowing in the right direction. And, now I can get on with my life as Andreja, whatever that even means.
One thing I’m certain of is that I’m human. If you cut me, I’ll bleed. If you’re mean to me, you’ll make me sad; if you hug me, I might cry or smile; if you buy me white roses, I’ll really like you; if you’re good in bed, I’ll have an orgasm. I laugh, I breathe and I search for love, happiness and meaning, just like you do. I question life, society and sadness, as I have no doubt you all do, too. Instead of thinking about the many different ways of politicising my transition, my body and the other secondary aspects of my identity and life, I like to lie in bed looking into the cold night, pondering bigger ideas. I’m doing it right now; it’s a full moon tonight.
Meanings that connect humanity, that explore the true essence of existence, of love, the past, the present and the future are what interest me. The poetry of Pablo Neruda and Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre come to mind. Also, the political science of Rosa Luxemburg, the paintings of Frida Kahlo, the sounds of Igor Stravinsky, the prose of Leo Tolstoy, the designs of Elsa Schiaparelli, a performance by Jeanne Eagels, and the voice of Nina Simone. You might be thinking why I bother spending time reading or addressing backwardness? It’s because, to me, like-minded discourse is simply not as fun.
Nonetheless, I Google myself almost every day, not because I’m self-obsessed. Well, probably somewhat because of that. But I do it mainly because I can’t believe I’ve actually made it this far. This world that we are in, the world of beauty and fashion, thrives, to a certain extent, on feeding into people’s insecurities so that they will buy more and we can all get paid. That’s not to say there isn’t a lot of creativity, innovation and fun in this industry as well, but it’s an industry like all other industries. In our capitalistic society, it must deliver profits, and attacking people’s confidence, sprinkled with the worship of luxury, is often part of that equation.
The fact that my body is presented as an unrealistic ideal of ‘beauty’ to the world doesn’t stop me, or most other models, from feeling unsure about ourselves. Think about it: if we are at the centre of the production of unrealistic ideals, we have even less ability to turn our backs on the superficialities; adding to this is the fact that I am also a trans person, a war refugee, and that my long-lost father doesn’t drive a Rolls-Royce and my mother is not a former Hollywood actress with status and fame. In light of this, I have plenty of reasons to wonder: “How the fuck did I get here?”
I Google myself for an unapologetic ego boost that keeps the demons at bay, or at least subdued underneath my fury Miu Miu kitten heels. I see the GQ cover, my American Vogue feature, the Marc Jacobs runway show, David Bowie’s last music video, bless his soul. Soon, what will come up is my long awaited Australian Vogue cover, which I share with three other Australian beauties, each of us from different walks of life. The idea is simple, but clear and important: we’re all different, but still the same. I thank Edwina McCann, Ford Models, the wonderful team on set and my luck for that magical photo shoot.
I finish my second herbal tea of the night, turn off the lights, close my laptop, and relax into my silk-covered pillow. I read somewhere that sleeping on silk gives you less wrinkles. “I’m not crazy, I’m just a little crazy” was my last thought before I drifted into the fourth dimension.
Ideally, you’ll show my words to your father, your husband, your grandparents. Who knows, you might even want to read this out at your next family gathering. But maybe skip the orgasm part, and possibly dessert.
來源: vogue.au
