Five Questions With… Doug McKeown

doug mckeownDouglas McKeown is the facilitator of the Queer Stories workshop – one of the results of which was the book Queer Stories for Boys. Doug has worked as a teacher, actor, writer, scenic designer, and a director of stage and screen; his low-budget sci-fi/horror movie The Deadly Spawn [1983], has been restored and released on DVD [2004]).
< one of Doug McKeown’s childhood costumes. For more photos, check the Queer Stories for Boys website.
1) With both Brokeback Mountain and Transamerica getting nominations all over the place, it’s like The Year for Mainstreaming LGBT Lives. Why now, do you think? How do you feel about straight actors getting all the good gay roles?
Well, exactly how many out gay actors are there in the upper echelons? I mean, considering that the answer to that has to be “precious few,” doesn’t one just want to cast the actor who best suits the character? Did McMurtry know or care about Heath Ledger’s sex life when he turned to Ossana during a screening of “Monster’s Ball” and whispered, “That’s our Ennis?” (Uh-oh, I’m answering with questions. Let me get my declaratives lined up.) As for why now, I have no idea. I could guess. It may be that people in this country in general (unconsciously?) have simply had it with the national bullshit of the last several years — in entertainment as well as politics — and are craving the strongest possible dose of truth and humanity (unconsciously?), especially if it shocks their systems. Like a bracing shower. Well, that may be wishful thinking. I really don’t know the answer.
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Guest Author: Betty

Betty posted this to her blog, but I wanted everyone to see it.

The Wolves, The Pit & The Play

In which I try to formulate some kind of rational response to the last few months of being intimately involved with old family (adopted) and complete strangers in the context of doing a really cool play in New York City.

…as a – drumroll – transperson. A tranny. A T in the LGB.
Cheers! Well done! You’re so brave!
Slow down.
I didn’t think any of it through. I never imagined just how weird it would be on a level I hadn’t even remotely imagined. And believe me, I liked the script so much I’d already done a great deal of imagining, just not enough.
I just really liked the play and the part. And I was right. It was a really great play. And I’d never worked with a playwright before.
I don’t think I’ve ever had a more, gulp, acting-as-religion, put-your-fist-in-the-air, let-your-eyes-weep, imagination-rocks!!!, moment in all my years doing theatre. There are a couple of moments I shared with people that just defy explanation. And yes, one of them was with a lovely woman who happened to go from hardcore-green to faded greenish-yellow, to well, “normal” colored – whatever that means. The acting, for me, was really quite rewarding.
I did my first scene shirtless, covered in dirt, a loose bag made out of fishnet over one shoulder, a wicker basket for holding water creatures over the other, hair pulled back in a disheveled ponytail, wearing big giant rubber boots and pants that were this close to falling apart.
Shirtless.
See! I wasn’t kidding when I said I wasn’t on hormones!
And yes, that’s a weird thing to type. It’s weird to be very much trans but have to tell people I’m not on hormones. Not because I don’t think about it – I do – but that people already think I am. Weird also because it means I have to ask myself, “Just what are people seeing?” And, “Have I changed that much already?”
I sometimes feel like if I was more invested in the common stories – the myths – of the transexperience I wouldn’t even be writing this. You know, “People already think I’m a girl! WhaaHoo!!!”
Grr.
Because you’re just you, you know? Jason, the actor at the Cocteau who had a nifty little run for a while there. Right. Him. Right, yes, well you know he’s also known as Betty and is a transwhatchamacalit and well folks should know that because it’s just a reality and he’s also a really good actor and well, don’t worry about it. Wait ’til you meet him.
Which, actually, I’m kind of OK with. People know you for how you were when you were around them and it’s like kicking yourself in the mental nuts to pretend anything different. I tend to think that you earn the words that people call you and arbitrarily saying, “Hi, I used to be Jason but now I want to be called Fucknut” doesn’t tend to endear you to people who are already predisposed to like you. I’m not wrong on this, really. I say “Fucknot” partly because as far as I know, I made it up, and because when you tell someone with your baritone acting voice, “Call me Betty” you might as well have said, “Call me Fucknut.”
So yeah, to my acting family I’m Jason.
Jason, who’s also known as Betty and will answer all of your emails using that name as well. Betty.
And they’re really quite lovely, decent people who are like, “Yeah, cool. We like and treasure you, you can call yourself whatever you want, it’s ok. It’s cool.”
And you’re playing a poor fisherman who sees something wondrous and believes in it. But in the world that is the play, he really needs to be a man. Because, um, the character is one. And no matter what everyone else knows about you, on the stage, for the purposes of this play: you really must be a man.
Man. Grr.
How ’bout just drawing on all the years of my existence? That’s easy. And yes, it is. I’m good at some of the guy stuff. Quite good, actually. Most of it I never asked for, but I’d be an idiot to deny the fact that it’s there and has been for a goodly long time.
But I’m so out about my transness and my, sigh, life as Betty and it’s all become so utterly intertwined with who I am in the world – not in my head, in the world (that’s what happens when you appear on the cover of a book: be warned) – that in a very real way, I am Betty.
And doing art with people you’ve known for so long you consider them as family – one of them presided over your marriage! – the shift from Jason to Jason/Betty (or Jasabeth as a wise person coined me a few years ago) is jarring. Well it is to me.
I’ll explain more. Promise.

The Wolfpit Surprise (Revealed)

I didn’t want to give it away until Wolfpit closed, but I can finally explain, because it’s closing night: the big surprise Betty didn’t tell me about is that (s)he is bare-chested for the first act of Wolfpit.
Imagine my surprise – I mean, I hardly get to see that chest at home! But I suppose this puts an end to the hormones rumors, at last.
& Of course I couldn’t help but think, damn, my husband is hot! Betty even said I don’t have to feel guilty. Whew.

Our Other Animals

As many of you know, Betty and I not only have two grey cats & one orange, we also have two gray fish and & one orange. It was all quite an accident, but it was still kind of Twilight Zone eerie when we realized it.
But the fish were once two grey fish (well really they’re silver & black sharks) and two orange, but we lost Eugene of the black stripes when we were on our honeymoon. We were novice fish owners then, and lost him out of ignorance.
But now our Miss Emma is sick, upside down sick, and it doesn’t look very good for her. We’re doing everything we can – including trying to manually feed her green peas – but so far no luck. She’s still fighting, though – she tries to wrestle herself to an upright position for a while, then gets tired and rests, and then goes back to trying to right herself.
It may seem silly to be worried about a fish, especially when you have three cats you feed salmon and tuna to almost daily. But Emma is part of the family. We’ve had her longer than the cats, and we’re very used to walking into our orange bedroom to see the little patch of orange in the tank wave her silky orange fins at us. I call her our Disney fish, because she really does just need eyelashes to look like an orange femme fatale.
So while Betty is out at a Phoenix Theatre Ensemble fundraiser, I watch the hospital tank we have Emma in, and hope for the best.

Wolfpit Shows Left

Since it’s already a couple of weeks into Wolfpit‘s short run, I thought I’d post a reminder that you should get tickets now!

The remaining shows are:
April 20, 21, 22, 27, 28, 29 at 8pm
April 16, 23, 30 @ 3pm (Sunday shows are the only matinees)
May 4, 5, 6 at 8pm

So do buy your tickets now.
If you need more convincing, there’s the NY Sun’s good review, Gothamist’s expectations of a good play, and another good review from www.nytheatre.com.

More Writing Life…

… and then there’s that other issue with writing, and that’s being friends with other writers. I had a writing professor who used to say that he preferred friendships with painters. Because when your painter friend asked you to see his new work, you could spend an hour, and go. But with writer friends, you have to read the whole book, and you have to say something intelligent about it, not just in general, but with some detail, to prove you read it and that you were paying attention at the time.
On top of that, they often have questions: Did that metaphor at the beginning of Chapter 3 work for you? Do you think most people know what Borg means, or do I just know a lot of geeks? Do you think I need to footnote who Dagny Taggart was?*
Annoyances, the lot of ’em.
Thanks to my friends, who for all these years have answered my annoying questions, and read drafts of mss., and second drafts, and then even finals, to see if I made it not suck in the end.
* Coming soon, to a theatre near you.

Wolfpit Opened

Last night I got in on a 5:18 train from Philly and went straight to the theatre where Wolfpit was opening. Everybody else was dressed up; I was in traveling clothes (which yesterday meant jeans, button down, sweater, DMs. I was going to go buy a tie at Macy’s to dress it up a little but decided against it when I realized I had my luggage to lug around.)
Donna, Joanne, Caprice and her wife all came, and it was lovely to see all four of them. As Donna has mentioned elsewhere, Betty had a little surprise in store for me, but I can’t tell anyone what it is. It was a very nice surprise for me, that’s for sure. If you do go, let me just say that you’ll see a side of Betty that you’re not expecting to see (and that no one in the trans community has ever seen before, I don’t think).
The irony of course is that I’d just spent three days alone at IFGE with trannies aplenty, and had the bizarre moment of realizing every dark-haired girl who passed by was turning my head – yet another twist in the ongoing unexpectedness that is my life these days. But there are some very beautiful transwomen and crossdressers out there; some days I think for the good of all I should be polygamous.
Anyhoo, more on IFGE when I get around to that, but for now, I just wanted to recommend that anyone locally go see Wolfpit – it’s a bizarre and wonderful and disturbing play, with beautiful language and a really well-chosen cast.

Why I'm Leaving the IFGE Conference Earlier Than Planned

Wolfpit – by Glyn Maxwell
A World Premiere of an Unforgettable Play With A Post Show Discussion, Catered Reception and Opening Night Cast Party
Please Join Us For This Opening Night Gala Event
Theatre Three, 311 West 43rd Street, (between 8th and 9th Ave.)
Friday, April 7, 2006
Curtain 8:00 PM, Tickets $60
Tickets Now On Sale Click Here
Or call 212-352-3101
pte
(To buy tickets for other performances of the play, click here instead.)

Walking Gender

So Andrea got me thinking about what I feel like when I feel attractive.
And the answer is Sting. Or Adam Ant. Some days, Buster Keaton. On groovier days, Terence Trent D’Arby (anyone remember him?).
I’m not copying a look. God knows I can’t walk around looking like Adam Ant; I haven’t got the cash or the innate sense of style he’s got. It’s more this sense of walking and having this sense that I feel like what he feels like when he’s out walking. Or what I imagine him to feel like feeling like.
Except the funny thing about it is that until hanging out with trannies, I never thought of any of it as gendered. I always admired a kind of cocksure attitude, and I’ve always liked suits, and white cuffs, and cufflinks. When Betty and I watch Raiders of the Lost Ark – which we do sometimes – and that scene comes on toward the end when Indy and Marion on are the steps of the Federal Building, and he’s natty in that 40s suit (and fedora) and she’s wearing that great women’s suit, we both know what the other is thinking. I wanna look like Indy, and Betty wants to look like Marion.
But I don’t want to be a man, don’t feel like a man, know that I won’t look like Indy. It’s more a sense of admiration I have for the person, in a role model kind of way, a sense of self that I’ve internalized, and that yes – is symbolically indicated by a suit. And a suit worn with attitude. Ditto for leather pants.
When I was a kid, my brother had these really cool red Levi’s. And I wanted a pair just like them. Eventually I got a pair, but by then I had hit puberty, and I had hips. And when I put them on, I felt really disappointed that I didn’t look like him in them.
I know, I know: everyone’s thinking she’s trans again. It’s hard to explain why I’m not, when I have all this evidence of both gender non-conformity (in general) and what you could call “cross dressing” piling up. But not looking like my brother didn’t make me think I should wrap my hips in ace bandages. It was more that I wanted the jeans to look the same way they did on him – not for me to look like him. If it makes any sense, it was more that my hips were ruining the lines of the jeans; my hips weren’t ruining my sense of self.
I don’t know or care what people actually SEE. It’s this internal rhythm, or internal rightness. I don’t feel disappointed when I look in a mirror & notice I’m *not* wearing spats or that I’m way hippier in suits than any man would ever be. In a sense, it has nothing to do with the way I look, but entirely to do with how I feel.
It doesn’t bother me that people don’t necessarily see what I’m feeling. Some days I think they must see something – a gleam in my eye, perhaps.
Basically, I know I’m not trans because it never occurred to me to want to be a man, and I certainly never thought I was one. I just thought I liked a certain kind of clothes that most girls didn’t like. But you know, most guys don’t like the kind of clothes I like, either. And I never felt like a man walking around in them, and still don’t. When I feel like Adam Ant, or Sting, or Buster Keaton, it’s because I feel a certain way, a certain kind of confidence, or cockiness, or jauntiness, or something like that. Something bookish, and antique, and wearing a good suit.
I just don’t think of myself as a gendered thing. There is nothing odd to me about liking men’s suits. Granted, I’ve got kind of foppy taste in men anyway. (If I were to add anyone else to my list, it’d be Oscar Wilde, but that comes with so much of a sense that I need be clever as well as well-dressed that it’s not a mood I strike very often.)
I was thinking that I don’t experience myself as a gender. Certainly not as male or female. If I were pressed, I might say “Masculine Woman.” (Recently I’ve been using “Phallic Female” because I think the “phallic” bit connotes far more of what I’m after.) But “masculine woman” conjures up: big, blue collar, maybe mean, undereducated, Bertha-type Diesel dyke. German athletes and jokes about women with mustaches, too. No matter what Katherine Hepburn did, or even Marlene Dietrich, we don’t hear “masculine woman” and think “natty dresser.”
Some days I think “feminine man” has better connotations, since it does point at some remarkable femme-y gay men, like the aforementioned Mr. Wilde, or Quentin Crisp.
And then, in an interview in Curve magazine (the same one I’m in) with the new actress of “The L Word, ” Daniela Sea, I find this exchange:

DS: I definitely identify as a tomboy … that’s the first thing that anybody teased me for when I was like 6.
DAM: Some people will interpret that as a lesbian experience and some interpret that as a typical trans experience.

And I think: I must not be alone. I can’t be the only woman who isn’t a lesbian and who isn’t trans who just happens to like men’s suits and feel like Sting when I’m walking down the street on a brisk Fall day.