GYNX is a darkly comedic stage play
by award-winning writer Alicen Grey.
A homeless teen lesbian, a prostituted girl, an underground abortionist and a former child porn victim are recruited into a rapist castration plot by a mysterious woman named Gynx. Men go into hiding, women take over the streets, and their operation makes global headlines. But when Gynx takes things too far, the group is forced to question whether they are truly on the side of justice.
REASONS TO SUPPORT GYNX:
GYNX is written by a young woman of color (hi!), the five main characters are female, the script explicitly calls for ethnically diverse actors, and the main character is a lesbian. Women, people of color, and lesbians are all demographics that are barely (and unfairly) represented in theater. With this play, I hope to give opportunities to actors from marginalized communities.
GYNX educates the audience about feminist…
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I got my letter to start hormones after two visits and I got it even though I told my therapist that my mom had killed herself a few months earlier. I started testosterone about three months after my mom’s suicide. The therapist I was seeing expressed some concerns but decided to go ahead and let me start hormones because I’d already been living as a guy for about two years at that point, had always felt “masculine” and had been identifying as some kind of trans for five years. I’d already decided I wanted to transition before my mom killed herself. As far as I know, my therapist made no connection between my trans identity and the trauma of experiencing my mom’s depression and death. I think she was more concerned with how transitioning is a major life change that can be hard enough to handle without having to deal…
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Once upon a time, long ago, there lived an old woman in a forest. She had lived in the forest for a very long time, with her husband, who was a forest gnome. They were very happy together. She had a magic kitchen and he decorated the trees in the fall, and magicked the house so that the trees would remember not to fall on it.
But after many years, the woman’s gnome husband died, after a long illness. She had never felt quite this alone before. It was scary.
But, she made do, because that’s what she was made of. She made pictures of his death, and of the others from the gnome world coming to gently take him away. And she gave away all his paints to the neighbors, and tried to keep out from under the trees.
Sometimes, she would go out and talk to the trees. “I know my gnome husband is no longer here, and I do not speak tree very well,” she’d say. Or she would say, “My, but you’re looking lovely today.”
One day, one of her other friends in the forest, a very fat short woman almost as old as she was, came to her with a terrible tale. Her husband had left her and her sons had betrayed her, and her husband was coming to kill her. She knew not what to do.
The old woman said “Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out.” And then they talked for a long time, and made a few phone calls. And before you knew it, the very short fat woman was going to be on her way to another place far, far away from these terrible men.
The two women were so excited that they couldn’t sleep. When dawn came, they had finished packing all the very short woman’s books and clothes, all her magic herbs, and her stash of silver to fund her on her trip. But before she left, they both took a walk into the center of the forest to the magic stream, so that the very fat short woman could say goodbye to her home from the center.
When they returned, however, they couldn’t get into the house. The very short fat woman’s husband had returned and changed all the locks.
The old woman called into the house. “Please, you may have the house. The very fat short woman is leaving. We won’t put up a fight. Please, may we at least have the books?”
They heard a roaring grumble inside the house. A book came flying out the window and landed in a clump of moss.
The old woman sighed and looked at the sky, up at the trees towering all around the house. How she wished her gnome husband was still here to talk to these terrible men!
As she gazed, the sky changed imperceptibly. A light breeze blew up, and rapidly grew stronger. The sky darkened and the wind started howling.
The two women stood cowering in awe. They backed over and crouched down into low spot. And as they watched the trees bowing in the gale, one of them, an elderly, enormous tree, uprooted herself and fell directly across the very fat short woman’s house, crushing it.
Just as miraculously as they had come, the winds left and the sky cleared. The two women got up out of the gully and walked hesitantly towards the house. The roof was all broken and they could see in some.
The man was dead, his back crushed by a roof beam. Nearby, the very short fat woman’s boxes of books and clothing and magical herbs lay a little scattered by the wind, but were otherwise in good shape.
The two women looked at each other in amazement. And smiled.
The very short fat woman travelled safely to her new home, and the old woman stayed on in the forest. And no man ever fucked with her unto the day she died.
Regarding this article:
“And in an age of gender fluidity, the word (sex) is hard to define.” It’s defined as “not gender.”
“The new interpretation has some science to back it up.” No. It doesn’t.
“Call it prudishness, if you like, but such modesty is common.” I call it “living in a rape culture.”
“But we have to ask whether physical modesty is tantamount to racism.” Like hell we do.
“A transgender girl may go to the girls’ sex-ed class.” Which this boy needs to do exactly why?
“The guidelines largely extend to sports teams as well.” Even when boys are bigger than girls. Thanks a lot.
“The agencies may have walked themselves into a legal contradiction.” Doesn’t that suggest to you that maybe there is a problem with all of this?
“The girls have sincere moral or religious beliefs that they must practice modesty.” This is irrelevant.
“A student who did nothing more than act like a typical girl.” A typical stalker, you mean.
“Religious pluralism requires accommodation of the demure.” Stop trying to make this be about religion.
“Transgender individuals have more reason to worry about violence.” Prostituted TW of color do, otherwise it’s women and girls who win this unfortunate lottery.
“Switching from one sex to the other” Body mods do not change your sex.
Yesterday, working in a colleague’s clinic, I saw a transgender patient (male to female) who came in for a refill of his estrogen and testing for sexually transmitted infections, which he said he did every six months “just in case.” As I asked and discussed with the patient issues such as risk factors for sexually transmitted disease, existence of new signs or symptoms, length of time on estrogen and if a specialist oversaw this medication, if the patient understood the possible risks (such as breast cancer, even in a “natal male”) of taking estrogen, it became clear that the patient did not understand these issues, and even seemed to believe that what constituted a vagina for him was exactly the same as the vagina of a “natal female.” I later found out that this patient has a congenital condition (genetic) that, among other traits, impairs his cognitive abilities. This scenario…
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When a transgirl throws around some dangerous lies about brain sex so that everyone nods and agrees to her cry for validation about trans periods. No. Just stop your fucking noise. This. This right here is what feminists have been fighting against for CENTURIES. And now to be nice we’re supposed to nod and agree that all of us have a sexed brain in utero. No. You can call your synthetic hormonal cycle whatever you like, I have no possessive attachment to period.
Period. You know that thing inflicted on me as a girl, regular like clockwork period 4 sociology right after lunch every 4 weeks without fail. The most intense pain I’d ever experienced, fresh again every four weeks. Feeling grateful I knew it was coming so there wouldn’t be blood coming through my school uniform when I had to be excused from class, walking past all the staring…
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When I was but a child, I lived down the street from a grocery store. I would go to the liquor department to buy candy, because that’s where the candy was.
The kindly old clerk would save me old pennies he found in the change. I got interested in coin collecting. He found me some fairly scarce ones. It was nice to have this grown-up friend.
When I was ten we moved away. When I was thirteen I came back to visit my stepfather, and managed to make my way back to the grocery store to see if the clerk was still there.
He still was! I was so delighted to see him.
After I greeted him and reminded him of who I was, he reached out and groped my breast. He looked away. Then he handed me a chocolate-covered cherry and waved me out of the store.
He’d remembered they were my favorites.
What I remember from this was being so disappointed in him.