Transecology

Transgender Perspectives on Environment and Nature

Douglas A. Vakoch, Douglas Vakoch

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2020
• ISBN:
  9780429657115
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Biological Sciences
• Subtopic: Ecology
• Index: Biological Sciences

There is a growing recognition of the importance of transgender perspectives about the environment. Unlike more established approaches in the environmental humanities and queer studies, transecology is a nascent inquiry whose significance and scope are only just being articulated. Drawing upon the fields of gender studies and ecological studies, contributors to this volume engage major concepts widely used in both fields as they explore the role of identity, exclusion, connection, intimacy, and emplacement to understand our relationship to nature and environment.

The theorists and ideas examined across multiple chapters include Stacy Alaimo's notion of "trans-corporeality" as a "contact zone" between humans and the environment, Timothy Morton's concept of "mesh" to explore the interconnectedness of all beings, Susan Stryker's notion of trans identity as "ontologically inescapable, " Catriona Mortimer-Sandilands and Bruce Erickson's history of the development of queer rural spaces, Judith Butler's analysis of gender as "performative"—with those who are not "properly gendered" being seen as "abjects"—and Julia Serano's contrasting rejection of gender as performance.

Transecology: Transgender Perspectives on Environment and Nature will be of great interest to scholars, graduate students, and advanced undergraduates in transgender studies, gender studies, ecocriticism, and environmental humanities.

1 “The bog is in me”

Transecology and The Danish Girl

Elizabeth Parker

David Ebershoff’s novel The Danish Girl (2000) tells the story of an enchanting, beautiful individual intertwined with Nature. “He was born on a bog,” we are told of the text’s protagonist, “a little girl born as a boy on the bog” (200).

With recent years, as our relationship as a species to the Earth grows ever more precarious, we have witnessed a huge increase in both scholarship and general interest in the so-called “nonhuman turn.” The ostensibly neat and even sacrosanct divisions of “human” and “Nature” are proving to be no longer satisfactory, as our very definitions of each of these terms—especially when construed as binary opposites—seem now perennially in question. More and more we encounter rejections of established thought which views humans as distinct, singular, and closed beings—and find instead overdue and necessary emphases on humans’ interconnectedness, plurality, and openness with and to the nonhuman world (see, e.g., Gaard 2010; Giffney and Hird 2008; Anderson et al. 2012). The widening discussion about the dangers and interrelations among neoliberalism, individualism, and environmental crisis has been coupled with a growing recognition of the essentiality of intersectionality and interdisciplinarity. In a time when the co-existence of the human and nonhuman is in many ways catastrophic, it is essential that we continue to expand and nuance this conversation, as we must seek to question and explore—on many different fronts—the ways in which we think about these two constructs.¹ In short, we must queer the interrelations between them.

Queer Ecology—a relatively nascent intersectional and interdisciplinary field—is one area in which such research is thriving. It explores the numerous and varied connections that can be made between Queer Studies and Environmental Studies, all the while stressing the importance of “rethinking” (Giffney and Hird 2008, 10) our understandings of the human/nonhuman, as it critiques “normative anthropocentrism” (3). Although the bringing together of Queer and Environmental Studies is in some ways a quite new (and to some surprising and perhaps even contradictory (Azzarello 2008, 138)) innovation, the two in fact have a considerable amount in common. Both, essentially, center on interrogating ideas of “constructedness” and “naturalness”—exploring and deconstructing, for example, such meta- terms as “gender” and “Nature”—and together can create a “productive disturbance” (Azzarello 2008, 140). Queer Ecology brings such ideas together, with a specifically “queer” lens, examining their interconnections. Enormous amounts of research exist, of course, on the interrelations between heteronormative, binary genders and the natural world—think, for example, of our associations between “masculinity” and ordered, cultivated Nature (Roberts 2008), and “femininity” with either wild, untamed nature or with sanitized maternal imagery (Scharff 2003)—but there is much less on the potential intersections between queerness, in its infinite forms, and Nature. Most relevantly to this collection, despite the wealth of research into “the environment” and “masculinity”/“femininity,” there is very little indeed on the potential interconnections between “the environment” and specifically “trans-”² experiences.

This comparative dearth of work on trans-/environmental connections—on transecology—is surprising for several reasons. First, one of the central ideas in the nonhuman turn is that of “trans-corporeality” (Alaimo 2010): a term which of course literally includes “trans-” and so is likely to evoke a number of related connotations.³ Essentially, trans-corporeality refers to the idea that our bodies are porous and perennially intermeshed with the nonhuman, meaning that we are never “separate” from the environment in which we live and are always more-than-human. It firmly underlines interconnectedness. Although Alaimo’s use of the prefix “trans-” is not explicitly linked to Queer Studies, the term “trans-corporeality,” as Seymour (2017, 255) argues, is “conceptually aligned with transgender studies”: it is not only nonbinary but non-boundary, always “moving” and “crossing” (2014, 2). Moreover, just as trans-corporeality brings together the human and nonhuman, erasing or at least blurring the boundaries, some have argued that there is a naturally closer relationship between trans- individuals and the nonhuman world. For example, trans-singer Anohni speaks of a “feral, empathic connection with the world,” theorizing that it is in the “nature of the transgender person” to have “an increased sensitivity to their environment.” Furthermore, it is reasonable to assume that a field entitled Queer Ecology is interested in representing all elements of the LGBTQIA+ acronym, including, of course, the “T” for “trans-.” Indeed, a further connection that might occur between “trans-” and “ecology” is the fact that both the “trans-” from LGBTQIA+ and “Nature” have a history of being backgrounded to more “mainstream” human activity. We must, as Gaard asserts, “tackle ecophobia and erotophobia alike” (2010, 116). Finally, if Queer Ecology—which simultaneously “queers” the nonhuman and “greens” the queer (O’Rourke 2008, 8)—is about challenging fixed ideas and embracing openness, then the very ideas associated with “trans-,” which is “multivalent” (Seymour 2014, 2), surely have a rightful place within Queer Ecology.

This chapter seeks to explore some of the interconnections involved in transecology, actively bringing to the foreground both “trans-” and “Nature” through a close and “transecological” reading of a popular fictional text especially suited to these themes: David Ebershoff’s bestselling novel The Danish Girl (2000), with some reference to Tom Hooper’s Oscar-winning film adaptation of the same name. It should be noted that this chapter will focus predominantly on the novel and is indebted to Ebershoff, not only for the text but also for kindly agreeing to be interviewed for this collection. Ebershoff’s novel, which centers on trans woman Lili Elbe, interweaves her story with multilayered images and experiences of the natural world. As such, it lends itself to transecological interpretation, as ideas of “trans-” and the “nonhuman” are intermeshed and brought squarely into the foreground. The text fits in with emerging notions of Queer Ecology, since it serves indeed as a queer reframing of human–environmental relations. Themes of “naturalness,” “trans-corporeality,” and the very question of what constitutes the “human/nonhuman” resound throughout.

***

The Danish Girl was inspired by real people and real events. It is based on the historical couple Einar and Gerda Wegener (portrayed respectively by Eddie Redmayne and Alicia Vikander in the film version), two successful Danish painters in the early twentieth century. Einar went on to become one of the world’s most famous trans women—Lili Ilse Elvenes, more commonly known as Lili Elbe—recognized as a “trans pioneer” (Ebershoff 2000, 315) not only for the fact that she was one of the first individuals to undergo sex reassignment surgery but also for her semi-fictionalized account of her life, which she co-wrote with Niels Hoyer. Published posthumously in 1933, Man into Woman is regarded as the earliest autobiographical account of trans- experience and is now a classic in transgender literature (Stone 1992, 224). Although Ebershoff told me that he conducted extensive research into the real-life counterparts of his characters and drew considerable inspiration from Man into Woman, The Danish Girl is, by his own admission, a largely invented account of the predominantly imagined lives of these individuals. He keeps many of the historical facts the same, but also makes some significant alterations: for instance, Gerda, who in reality was a Danish woman who identified as lesbian, becomes Greta, reimagined as a heterosexual American woman devoted to her husband. In addition, some of Ebershoff’s more periphery characters, such as Hans, Einar’s childhood friend who he meets again in adulthood, are entirely Ebershoff’s own creation. Similarly, while largely faithful to the novel, Hooper also makes use of artistic license in the film version, presenting Elbe, inaccurately, as the very first trans woman to have sex reassignment surgery.⁴ It is important to note at this stage that this chapter is concerned with the character (as opposed to the historical individual) of Einar Wegener/Lili Elbe and specifically with the ways in which the trans- experience is interconnected in The Danish Girl with narratives of the nonhuman. It is important to note that the author, director, and actors involved in the creation and adaptation of “Lili” in both the novel and film do not themselves identify as trans- and are all presenting fictionalized, artistic interpretations of the real-life individual. Although Einar and Lili are not of course two distinct individuals, I choose to echo the language used in both the novel and film throughout this chapter, primarily for reasons of clarity: the name Einar, along with the accompanying male pronouns, is used for the protagonist, while “he” identifies and is seen as a man, and the name Lili, along with the accompanying female pronouns, is used for the protagonist when “she” identifies and is seen as a woman. Such language—inspired in part by the title of the historical work Man into Woman (1933)—serves to underline and follow the evolution of the transition of the main character both on-page and on-screen.

The plot of The Danish Girl is relatively simple. Essentially, we follow the story of Einar’s transition into Lili, and its various consequences. The story begins around the time when Lili is ostensibly first “awakened” in Einar and unfolds as she is given increasing expression. We observe as Einar begins to dress as and slowly “become” Lili, and witness her subsequent, increasingly desperate desire to undergo sex reassignment surgery. Although this physical transformation is ultimately achieved, it is clear at the end of the novel that Lili is about to die as a result of it—and in the film we are shown her death.⁵ Throughout the linear narrative we are also given access, intermittently, to the protagonist’s past. Significantly, we are immersed in childhood memories of the ambient landscapes of a small place in Denmark called Bluetooth in Jutland. Here, as a child, the protagonist first experiences the feelings of both love and sensuality with the young Hans, but these are forcibly suppressed. We discover increasingly that both Einar and Lili somehow derive and decline—they are both “born” (18) and “buried” (112)—in the bogs of this terrain. The novel features several intriguing and ambiguous allusions to “bones in the bog” (207): a transecological equivalent, perhaps, to skeletons in the closet.

The nonhuman in its various forms—from the sprawling landscapes of Jutland to the various flora and fauna of both real and imagined spaces—has a firmly palpable presence throughout the novel. It is bound, most significantly, to Einar’s transition into Lili. Extending beyond mere projections of pathetic fallacy, the nonhuman in this text seems not only to reflect but also at times to actively inform the protagonist’s transforming relationships to and transitions between the constructions of “masculine” and “feminine. There is a sense of related fluidity between masculine and feminine, and the human and nonhuman. This ties in with Seymour’s understanding of “trans-” as defined by its non-stasis and this further relates rather interestingly to Ebershoff’s own views on transecology. When in interview I introduced him to this term, he responded with enthusiasm, immediately drawing connections between trans- identities and the natural world. He highlighted the constant if incremental movement of evolution, relating this fluidity to his ideas of trans- experiences:

Evolution especially speaks to transgender themes—the idea that a species must adapt in order to thrive. The idea that there is no future without transformation. A compelling example: the idea that a creature—a cat, a gazelle, a dragonfly—knows innately what it is. No one can tell the cat that he/she is a dragonfly. The cat acts on instinct. Outside pressure, bias, or ignorance cannot undo the cat’s understanding of who he/she is. I believe knowing oneself innately is central to the experience of being transgender.

Whether or not one agrees here with Ebershoff’s ideas, they of course hold true inside the fictionalized realm of The Danish Girl. Here, when she eventually fully emerges, Lili indeed knows “innately” who she is, and just as Ebershoff draws upon nonhuman examples above to illustrate his point, her self-knowledge is deeply grounded, somewhat literally, in the nonhuman world.

The most central nonhuman conceit of the text, as intimated in the title of this chapter, is of course the protagonist’s childhood landscape, which is known simply as “the bog” throughout. The bog is primarily seen in visualizations and flashbacks, but nonetheless steadily permeates the narrative. It serves as the most obvious example of the fluidity and interconnection of the human—and moreover, the specifically trans- human—with the nonhuman world, as this landscape is intimately intertwined with the protagonist’s transitional experience. In line with the deliberate emphasis in Queer Ecology on openness (O’Rourke 2008, xx), the bog is described as a vast, unenclosed, seemingly endless landscape. It is a beautiful, freeing space in which “anything could happen” (198), and so it definitely carries obvious potential for positive symbolism. However, the “open, bubbling mud” also threatens as something unknown and dangerous into which one can “fall” and “slip neatly away” (35). The bog predominantly signifies the struggles involved in the protagonist’s repression and burying of the “natural” self within. It stands as a fitting image for Einar and Lili’s “muddied” origins as well as for the promise and threat of secrets, with their capacity to either free or drown, which lie hidden beneath the surface.

Both Einar and Lili are closely linked with the wetlands of Jutland. There is an increasingly apparent, if complicated, symbiosis between Einar/Lili and the environment, as the two indeed are presented as somehow inside of each other: the protagonist, we are told on numerous occasions, is “in” the bog, “born” in it and “buried” inside; and simultaneously, this terrain somehow resides within the protagonist, as exemplified in the line from the film “the bog is in me.” Although the bog is bound to the past, it also haunts the present. Although geographically left behind, the environment of his childhood follows Einar into adulthood: this “landscape of the mind” (Melbye 2010, 2) manifests psychically as the near-spectral reflection, if not embodiment of Lili, hidden beneath.

It is in these flashbacks to childhood that we encounter the most detailed and significant description of the protagonist’s relationship to the landscape, in which this natural setting’s substitution for the trans- self is most plainly revealed. As a boy, Einar plays a game of make-believe with his childhood friend Hans, in which they take the parts of “mummy” and “daddy” respectively, with Einar “dressed up” in an apron to denote femininity. The two children kiss, and within moments Einar’s father, enraged, discovers them in this act. Hans manages to escape out into the open landscape, but Einar is caught in the house and beaten. Deeply ashamed of the event, Einar later takes the apron worn in the game, along with various crockery from the kitchen in which the scene played out, and throws it into the depths of the bog, in which it “drowns” (291). This scene is hugely important in its conflation of character and environment. The items, comprising women’s clothing and kitchenware, signify gendered ideas of feminine domesticity. Furthermore, they more specifically represent Lili herself as well as her first emergence. The fact that they are so personified—they do not sink, but “drown”—emphasizes her forced submergence. The landscape, therefore, thus becomes such a site of secrets: a graveyard of sorts, concealing the “bones in the bog” that wait to be found. Moreover, the fact that the protagonist’s biological sex is conveyed in conjunction with images of emergence, submergence, and landscape echoes Ah-King and Hayward’s (2013, 1) sentiments that “sex might be better understood as a dynamic emergence with environment, habitat, and ecosystem.” There is the intimation, too, that it is not only the protagonist’s gender but also sexuality that is repressed in this formative episode: it is the kiss as much as the attire that marks the memory. This idea that the protagonist’s sexual desires have been similarly buried is supported much later on in a scene where we see Lili’s sexual awakening as an adult female. Here, when she performs fellatio on a strang...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Series Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Table of Contents
• List of figures
• Notes on contributors
• Foreword
• Preface
• Introduction: transecology—(re)claiming the natural, belonging, intimacy, and impurity
• 1 “The bog is in me”: transecology and The Danish Girl
• 2 Coming out, camping out: Transparent’s eco-ethical approach to gender
• 3 Posthuman ecological intimacy, waste, and the trans body in Nånting måste gå sönder (2014)
• 4 A journey through eco-apocalypse and gender transformations: new perspectives on Angela Carter’s The Passion of New Eve
• 5 Chinese literature, ecofeminism, and transgender studies
• 6 Gendercrossing at the frontier: Annemarie Schwarzenbach’s transgender memoirs in the Alborz Mountains
• 7 Transplacement: nature and place in Carter Sickels’ “Saving” and “Bittersweet”
• 8 Sexuate ecologies and the landmarking of transgender cultural heritage in Australian schools
• 9 Transgender: an expanded view of the ecological self
• 10 “Good animals”: the past, present, and futures of trans ecology
• Afterword: You’d be home—meditations on transecologies
• Index