Kindness
Be Kind? Be Serious...
Sometimes I’m nasty online. I’ll leave a comment underneath a video calling somebody a motherfucker, or a bald idiot, or something far, far worse. I’ll usually receive a notification just before my comment posts, warning me that it’s been flagged as offensive - and that, if I want, there’s still time to change it. To take it back. I usually ignore that message, being that it’s automatically generated by an A.I that has no sophisticated awareness whatsoever to know why somebody like me might want to say something like that.
My comments, nasty as they are, will get replies. Those replies, common as they are, are always of a similar bent. Whatever happened to ‘be kind’? I thought you lot were all about acceptance and love? I always find it unusual that people assume, just because I’m trans, that I’m a proponent of unregulated, unconditional kindness. I’ve never personally done anything to earn that reputation. My time at school taught me that words were powerful, seeing as I sure as hell couldn’t fight. Witnessing my mum die in our living room helped cultivate a dark sense of humour, too - which might make others uncomfortable, but does wonders to ease you through adversity.
Later, in my years of doing stand up comedy, I’d develop a thick skin - sometimes reveling in the combative nature of an audience that changes every night, and often, consists of a fair few loud mouthed, drunken idiots. ‘Kindness’ does not get you through it. Now that I don’t do stand up anymore, I have no proper outlet. I’ve got this reserve of pent up venom that needs to come out somewhere, or else it’ll eat away at me.
I’ve tried reading books on Buddhism. I’ve attempted meditation and breathing exercises, and read more books on philosophy than I can count. They work for a little while - give me something to think about. But the day after, another piece of news will chill me and I’ll feel that all too familiar goblin at my back.The only way to appease it is to get amongst the noise. To, in some small way, take the opportunity to have my 2 cents, even when I know it isn’t worth anything.
When I got banned from Twitter, and then later Threads, I was elated. It meant that somebody had been so annoyed by something I’d said that they went to the effort of reporting me for it. In some strange way it was a ‘win’. I didn’t want to be on Twitter anyway. It was a cesspool, and I was just matching the vibe. I had won, because I was able to out-Twitter the Twitter. Except, now I had no outlet. The ghouls were free to ghoul among themselves, without interference.
When Charlie Kirk got assassinated, I felt nothing. Actually, that isn’t true. After the novelty wore off, I felt disappointed to be seeing so many of my enemies so emotional. So dignified, and solemn. So respectful of the sanctity of life. So in favour of ‘good taste’. Didn’t they truly believe in his philosophy of cruelty? Wasn’t it fair-game? Weren’t they, just a few days ago, misgendering and drawing crude caricatures of recently murdered trans kids? What ever happened to ‘be cruel’?
It made me realise that so many of these people are simply dressing up. They’re playing the part of somebody with conviction. Someone who cares about things. What they like is the reactions they get, but they have nothing meaningful at stake. So when it permeates into their own reality, they don’t know how to react. We, on the other hand, have everything to lose.
It’s rare, but when a trans person lashes back out - does something stupid and life altering… something they can’t reverse… it sets us back. We have allies and respected trans celebrities come out to admonish their actions, and rightfully so. However, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sometimes relate to how those bad-actors felt.
Shortly before quitting stand up, I had this bit I was doing which was getting big, cathartic laughs every single time I did it. It’s hard to translate material into writing; there being no energy to it, but the gist of it was that - after the Supreme Court ruling - I now empathised with terrorists. I’d make reference to blowing myself up - imply that I wanted to kill prominent members of government, who I would name. Audiences ate it up. They’d come up to me afterwards to tell me how much they needed to hear something like that from a trans person. Of course, I was joking. Context is everything, and I was in a comedy club. Except, I wasn’t completely joking…
One of the reasons I felt I had to step away from stand up comedy was because I wasn’t really writing jokes anymore. I was therapizing; expressing my darkest thoughts on stage, and getting validation back for them. I had nothing positive to say. In a medium where joy is sort of implied, I simply didn’t feel as though I could convincingly give that to people anymore. Yes, audiences were laughing, but I didn’t want them to. I wanted them to be as angry as me.
I started to question my very participation in the art form. I think, to be successful at stand up, you have to want to make people laugh. It should always be the end goal. I simply no longer had any desire to do that. In a way, I didn’t think they deserved to be happy. Not while I was suffering, anyway.
Presenting ‘the funny side of being trans’ no longer felt do-able. To me, there wasn’t anything funny about it. Things were simply too imbalanced to justify it anymore.
Today though, I’m not in quite the same headspace. I haven’t gone back to stand up, and doubt I ever will - but I’ve found other creative outlets that speak to me better. I don’t engage in arguments so much online anymore, choosing to ‘block’ rather than ‘debate’. I’ll even sometimes reconsider posting that nasty comment when the A.I warning pops up - because I’ve come to realise that getting yourself banned is exactly what they want you to do. As is getting yourself put in prison. As is getting yourself blown up.
I will, though, still allow myself a little bit of well earned schadenfreude when somebody I deeply dislike, who did everything in their power to try and make my life unnecessarily more difficult, dies. If I couldn’t do that, I don’t know what I’d do.
Hey, by the way - my short film ‘Transsexual Psycho Bitch Murder Party’ premieres this Saturday night at 8pm (GMT), over on my Youtube channel. Here’s the link if you’d like to check it out. Thank you.
Also, also: I have started uploading to my old Youtube channel again - just for casual little personal interest videos. Go and subscribe if you’re into that sorta thing.
MEMOIRS OF AN EVIL, HORRIBLE TRANNY is written by Jen Ives.
If you’d like to read more of my writing, you can do so by subscribing at lobotomyworld.substack.com
Follow me on Instagram at: https://instagram.com/imjenives
Second account for visual art: https://instagram.com/secondjenives
You can download my serialised dystopian satirical novellas ‘Good Trans News’ over on my Ko-fi, for FREE, here: www.ko-fi.com/jeniveswriter
You can get a physical/ebook copy of my compilation of short stories ‘Jump Doggy’ on Amazon here: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0GHPTF5CJ
Follow me on Patreon: www.patreon.com/lobotomyworld
Weird stuff on my website: www.jenives.net
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@lobotomyworld
For work/enquiries, please contact me at jeniveswriter@gmail.com. I am currently seeking representation as a writer. Thank you.
What I like about everything you write here, is how it suggests that when you actually *act kindly*, you are then *really really* meaning it. Few people seem ever to do it on a level this authentic. Most apparent kindness operates in some degree out of shame, repression, violent fear—basically out of social conditioning or norms—so that it is rarely *truly* "free". For who is really kind does it without any expectation of anything in return.
Looking at me know, I realize how often my 'kindness' is actually sort of forced, *fake*—operating out of bondage to my depressed self seeking by all means some kind of reassurance and fleeting connection in this world that in effect, *fundamentally scares the shit out of me*.
Your realness is a mirror to my ugly self. But I love the opportunity it offers. I love daring to look at its reflection. Perhaps, what I actually love even more is *the quiet peace* that eventually settles in when I stop lying to myself, when I stop fighting the truth of whatever I am made of.
Thanks for writing.