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So excited to be hosting center stage at Denver Pridefest today!!

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The first round of voting for the 2016 Emmy’s began today. There is a new category this year: Outstanding Short From Drama or Comedy. Basically, web series.

Her Story is a long shot. We don’t have any celebrities attached, nor studio backing, nor a marketing budget, all of which is how most “indie” content gets noticed. What we do have, I believe, is a great story, well told, and AMAZING fans.

So I’m here to ask, once again, that you beautiful people take a moment to reblog, watch our “for your consideration” video, like our episodes, follow us on social media, and share our content.

We believe just getting a nomination would greatly increase our chance of being picked up as a full series (we’re pitching a 10, 30-minute, episode season).

And how great would it be to have a show full of, and made by, diverse queer & trans folks? Hollywood only cares about content like this if we can prove there’s an audience. So please help us do that.

And if you are an Emmy voter, or know one, or even think you might know someone who knows one, please spread the word!

Love you all.

xo

Jen

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The Happiest Place on Earth

I’m still a person. At least I think I am.  When I look down, I see arms, legs, a couple of breasts.  I see toenails painted in a deep purple shellac that I probably need to trim.  I see that shitty tattoo I got when I was 18 in an abandoned store front by a guy who had been up for three days drinking Everclear.

I look in the mirror and see a person looking back at me every day, a person I didn’t necessarily think I’d ever see.  I like that person.  I genuinely like that person.  I like the way she holds herself.  I like the confidence you can see behind her muted green eyes. She has seen me at my worst and she has seen me at my best.  She is a person that makes me happy and I am so thrilled I get to spend the rest of my life with her.

I wish everyone could look into that mirror.

Over the past half-decade or so, I’ve noticed a disturbing trend with people.  These people who were all born, these people who will all die. These people who came into this world with a blank slate of a brain and learned and grew and evolved into the people they are now.  These people who neglect to see that the 7 billion other people on the world are just that... other people.  But there are those who don’t see that, those who can’t see that, those who won’t see that.  

Before I came out as transgender, I was one of those people.  While I knew deep down in my heart of hearts I wasn’t, I presented myself as a straight, cisgender male.  I had privilege, but I didn’t know it.  It was so deeply engrained in me, I took it for granted until I pried my terrified hands off of the coat hangers in the metaphorical closet, got the hell out of there and slammed the door shut, never looking back.  During this time, I knew members of the LGBTQ community but I didn’t know them.  I assumed they had their own world to live in and I was not and may never be a part of it.  I kept my distance, I wish I hadn’t.

You see, the reason I stayed in the closet most of my life was due to fear.  I saw how gay people, how transgender people, how non-binary people were treated and it scared the hell out of me.  I always thought that because I wasn’t strong enough to come out of the closet, I would not be strong enough to survive what would happen if I did. We live in a world where we fear, almost instinctively, to be ourselves because of the potential ramifications. This is a world that should not exist.

This weekend, 50 people who found the courage to be themselves lost their lives to someone who did not believe they had that right.  50 people who wanted to celebrate pride month, a time of the year where the LGBTQ celebrate the triumphs of overcoming adversity and the need to be themselves.  50 people who were in a “safe space”, a place where they didn’t have to be afraid.  And because one person was “disgusted” by two men kissing, the world now suffers even more than it has been.

I didn’t just find myself when I came out, I found the world I want to live in.  I’ve seen the bond that the LGBTQ community has, the same bond based in the violence and hatred against us we’ve all experienced.  We celebrate ourselves and we celebrate the freedom to be ourselves.  We see hate every day whether it is on the news, on social media or simply walking down the street.  This will not destroy us, this will not disintegrate our compassion.  This makes us stronger, people outside of our community – our straight and cis allies – will see that and provide us shoulders to stand on and shout from.

The world is facing tragedy right now.  Let us not let the beauty of human resilience fade but grow.  Be a friend, be an ally, be educated, be informed.

Be human.

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Shows for June/July! Dates in Denver, Boulder (CO), Ft Collins (CO) & Chicago (IL)

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Come see me chat about comedy stuff and trans stuff and other stuff for free this Thursday at Mutiny Info Cafe (Denver)! Live podcast recording

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Come to a show this month! For more details, visit www.comedianjordan.com

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I’ll be in Toronto this weekend for SheDot Comedy Festival - an all-female lineup! There are at least 3 trans comics (including myself) + an LBT specific show. See you there! More info: www.shedotfestival.com

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From my friend and fellow comedian, Jordan Wieleba. She is an excellent writer as well, check out her work at @wieleblog when you have a sec.

But before you do, please help us go collect the trash in Denver. Their apology is passive voice bullshit shifting the blame to an employee, with the word sorry sprinkled in the middle.

Not ok.

@facebooksexism

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Show schedule through June in a sweet screen grab of my website because I'm lazy. Come laugh!

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Denver! I'm headlining X-Bar on April 1st. It's a popular gay bar. I'm an X-something so we'll have fun. 8pm

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(Not) Celebrity Skin

This piece was originally written and performed for The Narrators’ “DIY or Die”

I was 15 the first time I wore make up.  The excitement had been bubbling inside of me all week long, like shaking a can of soda but not knowing how big the explosion would be.  I was not allowed to own or wear any make up even though my sisters could, and I was jealous.  I wanted a caboodle full Dr Pepper Lip Smackers, Urban Decay’s Heavy Metal eyeliner, a bottle of CK1 and butterfly hairclips. I wanted to look like Rayanne from My So Called Life or at least an extra character somewhere in the background.

I was waiting until Saturday for my teenage makeover.  I knew my mom was spending the day shopping and running errands so she wouldn’t be home for a good long while. My sisters were both staying with friends for the weekend and my dad was at work, I had the whole house to myself.  An opportunity like that was rare, so my plan was so meticulous you would’ve thought I was a supervillain with a brilliant plan to take over the world.  No, I just wanted to try lipstick.

I sat on the couch in the living room, watching whatever schlock was on tv in the mid-90s, before we had 500 channels to choose from and still be bored.  Waiting for my family to leave, my mom asked what my plans were for the day.  “Probably nothing,” I said, feigning a yawn.  “Just some homework then I dunno.”

“Ok,” she said, “we won’t be back for a while, make sure you eat dinner.”

“I will.”  I heard the garage door close and as I saw the minivan pull away through the window, I let out a half-excited, half-nervous squeal.  I tip-toed upstairs as if there were unseen people still in the house tracking my moves only to report to my parents when they got home.  I put on some comfy sweatpants and a loose tshirt and was ready to beautify.

I shared a bathroom with my sisters so I knew where they kept their kits.  I opened their makeup drawer, which to me was as scared and dangerous as opening the arc of the covenant.  But instead of being met with angry, vengeful biblical spirits, I was greeted to a bounty of lipsticks and eyeshadows and mascaras along with jars and containers of cosmetics that I didn’t even know what they were for.

I dug through the products like an unsupervised child – which I essentially was – until I found some colors I thought were cool.  I opened up a palate of Maybelline eyeshadows, picked up the little brush that came with it and just stared at it.  I had no idea how to do my own make up. Not a clue.  I had seen it done on television and movies and even in my own house hundreds of times, but how do you start? This was 1995, there were no YouTube tutorials, I couldn’t text a friend, this was all guess work.  Couldn’t be that hard, right? I had learned how to use a toilet and ride a bike, how was this different?

I could waste time so I just dove in.  Have you ever wondered what it would look like if Ronald McDonald and a spirogram had a kid? It was awful.  I looked awful.  Green eyeshadow with a glittery blue base, black eyeliner so think I could’ve robbed a bank, deep purple lipstick not even hooker would wear.  I looked like a toddler had gotten into a box of permanent markers, but nowhere near as cute.  I even gave myself a little mole with an eyebrow pencil because the boys at high school thought Cindy Crawford was hot. I thought I looked damn good though.  I struck poses in the mirror, maybe did a little vogueing, of course did the kissy face.  Then I heard the garage door open. The few minutes after that are still kind of a blur.  I threw a towel over my head and ran to my bedroom as I heard my mom come in and yell from downstairs “I forgot my purse, can you bring it downstairs please?”

“I can’t right now!” I shouted, trying to mask the panic in my voice.  I heard my mom come upstairs and then she knocked on my door.  

“Can you come out here for a second please?” she said.

“No, I can’t,” I stammered, desperately trying to scrub the chunks of color off my face.

“Yes,” she said, sternly.  “Right now.”

“Please, no.  I really can’t.  Please don’t make me” I begged.  I started to cry.

“Open this door right now”

I opened the door.  The mascara was running, the lipstick was smeared, I was bawling, my mom slack jawed.

“Why are you wearing make up?” she finally asked.

“I.. I just wanted to see how it would look.” I managed to get out between sniffles of my ugly cry.

She stared at me.  “But... boys don’t wear makeup.”

Every fiber in my being wanted to scream “I’m not a boy” at her.  At myself.  At life.  But the words never came.  Even that night when my parents sat me down and asked me flat out if I wanted to be a girl.  I denied it, I had already been in the mindset I was going through this, these feelings, alone.  I’d been facing this confusion by myself for years.  Everything I feared and everything I wanted, so badly, I would have to do myself.  I was preparing to be alone or die trying to simply live.

I wish I had seen my parents support that night. I wish I had told them.  I wish I had asked for her help doing my makeup.  But I do see now, 20 years later, that do-it-yourself or die was never the option, but having others and living was.

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Free storytelling show this Wednesday at Buntport Theater in Denver w/ comedians, theater mavens and a Flobot. Join us!

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I was incredibly apprehensive about this, but at this point I feel like I don't have another choice. I started a GoFundMe fundraising campaign for my gender confirmation surgery. Those close to me know I've been through hell trying to secure finances to no avail. I hate asking people for money, but I don't see it happening on my own anytime in the near future. It is incredibly necessary for my own well being and mental health to the point where I'd even sacrifice my comedy "career" if it meant being a complete person for the first time in my life. Feel free to give any little amount or share this post or the page itself. Thanks friends ❤️❤️❤️

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My debut album is available totally for FREE!! Download it for the trans or cis comedy fan in your life, or just to freak out squares. Visit www.comedianjordan.com

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Out.

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed in the upstairs guest room, staring at a wall as blank as my mind.  I feel empty.  It’s a strange feeling, to be completely devoid of any emotion, motivation or mental hangups that make you human.  Should I be feeling anything? Regret? Remorse? Guilt? Sadness? Loss? Hungry? No, I just ate.  I start to get light-headed as little sparks of white flash in front of my eyes.  I mash my palms on my face and put my head between my legs and try to concentrate on breathing.  One breath... good.  Two breaths... doing better.  Three breaths... lay down.  This bed smells like Vick’s Vapo-Rub.  I run to the bathroom and throw up my spaghetti dinner.

I lay back down on the bed and fiddle with a crocheted flower on the blanket that my grandmother must have purchased at a mid-west garage sale. “Who made this blanket?” I wonder to myself.  “What was the purpose? Was it made with love or out of necessity? Is it for decoration? I don’t think this would keep anyone warm.”  My mind trails off.  Why am I thinking about this piece of fabric? My wife just asked me for a divorce.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew this was coming.  In marriage, communication and attentiveness are key which neither of us really provided each other.  To sound excruciatingly cliche, I loved my wife, but I wasn’t in love with her.  Also, brewing alongside the potential notion of divorce in the darkest depths of my mind was the reason I got married in the first place: fear.  Not the usual fear that can grip someone in their late 20s of never settling down or never starting a family or being forever alone.   This was a fear that had been gestating in a cocoon of worry and anxiety for the better part of 30 years.  After my wedding, I had promised myself that, if this marriage would fail and end in divorce, I would face the truth that I was transgender and come out.  The day came and I had to face the fear of becoming myself.

Breathe.

This is weird.  I’ve never had to be myself.  I had always been hiding under the thin veil of masculinity, being so very careful not to expose the threat of my own femininity to friends or family.  Oh, but it was hard. The seeds of feeling you don’t belong to your own body being planted at the earliest signs you could comprehend the difference between baby blue and light pink.  Then the seeds bloom into the flowers of disappointment, resent, and jealousy. “A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet”.  Nope, they smell fucking gross, those Dysphoria Lillies.  Let’s do some gardening.

I can hear my wife in our basement bedroom below me talking to somebody.  Probably her mother.  I wonder if they’re talking about me.  I got along with her family but I always felt out of place around them.  Like when you’re younger and can’t quite grasp which shoe goes on what foot and you walk around all day with Chuck Taylor’s signature on the inside.  Except your sneakers are when the men are talking sports, the women are talking fashion and you’re stuck wondering if you’ll feel this way every Rosh Hashanah.

She’s laughing now.  Ugh, what the fuck?

I press a pillow over my face hard enough to make it difficult to breathe.  What if I just end it? Can you smother yourself? Would that be easier? What would happen if my wife found me asphyxiated the morning after she asked for a divorce? Would she blame me or herself? Would it result in a Lifetime movie? I lightly punch myself in the face through the pillow.  Don’t be stupid, Jordan. You’re not 15 anymore.  Anyways, you PROMISED.  You need to close this book of your life.  Start writing a new one.  Maybe go throw up again.

Thinking about all those times I when I wanted to come out but didn’t haunt my soul.  Like there was some invisible sign that was always within sight that read “Don’t Come Out, Severe Esteem Damage”.  I remember when I was around 12 or 13, one day my mom left the house to run errands, leaving me to help myself to her counter full of makeup. I practiced bringing out my cheekbones and finding that right shade of eyeshadow to make my eyes pop.  When I looked in the mirror, I saw myself for the first time.  It was as though the girl looking back at me was saying “it’s ok” and smiling with her eyes, eyes that had seen a life that should have been lived.  Then I heard a knock at the front door and my mom calling my name.  My heart almost exploded as I tried scrubbing the makeup off in the most intense panic I had ever felt.   What was she doing home!? Why won’t the makeup come off!? Damn you, waterproof mascara!! You’re making me look like Tammy Faye Baker! The knocks were getting louder and I could hear my mom getting impatient.  So I wrapped a towel around my face and let her in.

Immediately suspicious, my mom asked “Why are you covering your face?” I made up some pre-teen excuse and ran to my room and locked the door.  Had I known then what I know now, excuses don’t work and within seconds my mom got me to open the door only to see her tear-stained child begging her not to please, please don’t be mad.  Later that night, my parents sat me down to talk to me.  They had never done that before, especially with such a look of caution and worry strewn across their faces.  My parents traded stories of embarrassing moments from their childhood and it eased me out the dark and fearful mood I was in.  Then my mom asked plain and simple, “Jordan, do you want to be a girl?”

I go throw up again.   Those eight words have plagued me for over twenty years, but not as much as the fact I said “no.”  Why? Why on earth would I say that when I knew and HAD known that yes, yes with every fiber of my fragile and weak-willed being that I did want to be a girl, i was SUPPOSED to be a girl and I needed it to happen?  My parents were just worried about me, they wanted me to be happy and any issues I was having with self-identity could have been resolved on that night.

But I said no.

I lean my back up against the bathroom door as my cat stands on my lap and licks the tears rolling down my cheeks.  I actually crack a smile when I realize that even though I’ve hated exercise, I’ve been running my whole life.  Stupid joke, but it made me feel better.  I kissed my cat on the nose and brought him back to the bed.  

All the worry about what my family would think, what my friends would think, what other comedians would think became that pre-cable, late night channel that was scrambled and blurry but if you looked close enough you could make out a face.  I couldn’t make out the anxiety anymore and I didn’t care.  32 years of squinting through static just to see a tiny fragment of what others might think of you just didn’t matter anymore.

I don’t feel empty anymore.  I feel renewed.  I feel excited.  I lay back down on the bed and my cat curls up next to me.  “It’s ok,” I tell him.  “I’m going to be ok.” I smile and close my eyes, finally ready to keep the promise I made to myself. 

Also, no more spaghetti.