Homeschooling? What’s that?

Sometimes things happen fast around here.

For years now, we've been dedicated unschoolers, basing our educational philosophy on the work of John Holt, Alfie Kohn, John Taylor Gatto, and Marshall Rosenberg. Unschooling has its challenges, of course, but we made the sacrifices necessary to accommodate them gladly, and everything went well. Sam reads way above grade level. Trin's knows science stuff that most adults don't know. The boys' friends trotted off to their various schools a week or two back, and it seemed we were all set for another year of homeschooling.

Then, last week, Kristin told me that she desired more structure in our lives, including in regards to their unschooling.

Be careful what you ask for. Desire is prayer.

Tuesday, I came home to find Kristin and the boys in deep discussion. Sam had asked to go to school.

Well, our intent in unschooling was to give the boys the best education we could, without coercion. We've told them from the start that they could go to school if they want to, but so far, they've resisted – particularly Trinidad, who did NOT enjoy Waldorf kindergarten. Not that we could afford private school, anyway.

Wednesday, I came home and before she even greeted me, Kristin said, "Come here, look at this!" and showed me the Family School website. It's one of our groovy local alternative public charter schools, and shares much of our educational philosophy: Multi-age classrooms. A cooperative, child-centered learning environment. A garden. Parents are integrated into the school, and can participate as much as they want. It's one of few local schools that composts its food waste. Of course, there are downsides, like the idiotic standardized testing they'll have to endure, and getting up early, but there are downsides to unschooling, too. Besides, as I mentioned, it's also one of our groovy schools that always has a long waiting list; the chances of getting in this year are slim, and the lottery for school choice ended way back in March or something and won't happen again until next year. Still, Kristin and I agreed that she should visit the school and check it out.

Thursday evening, as we sat down to dinner, my ears filled with the story of Kristin's and the boys' visit to the school. They liked what they saw. Even Trin wanted to go. The teachers had mentioned that they were looking to add a couple students, but didn't know what grade level they were looking for – they'd have to meet and decide. The discussion wandered to getting on the waiting list, and wondering how long it was, but both of us felt completely unworried. We both knew that if it was the right thing, they'd get in – if not, no way – regardless of evidence. Then the phone rang. Strange number, so we almost didn't answer, but at the last moment Kristin picked up the phone.

It was the head teacher at the Family School. They'd met. They offered the boys a spot. Both of them, different classes.

Like that.

The boys start their new educational adventure Monday. My homeschooling co-worker is going to be shocked. Shocked! I thought back to my post from just a few weeks ago, and I laughed. "I have to blog about this!"

Eating crow?

Nah. Just sliding along on the path of least resistance. No way is unschooling off the plate. Their educations are still in the boys' hands.

Because nobody can take responsibility for your education, except yourself.

Party Day and Pride

I've been busy this year, building an addition on our house so that I'll have my own room. And an office, and a second bathroom, and a big-ass shop/storage room where Kristin can store her harvest – row upon row of neatly labeled ball jars filled with goodies from our garden and every stray fruit tree in a 14-block radius. This means I'm working four ten-hour days at work (I love the flexibility at my job!), and spending three-day weekends working on the house. The trusses are finally up, and the roof sheathing is going on. Needless to say, not much time for blogging, hence the erratic and rare nature of my posts. It also means that Kristin has taken over almost all domestic chores, including even doubling up on watching the kids.

Yesterday, however, two events coincided to give me a day off. A day of relaxation – what a concept!

First, it was our local PRIDE day – a party not to be missed. And, second, it was the day that one of my girlfriend's daughter had a birthday party at Skate World. I don't get to see my friend often enough because of our work schedules and the different circles our children usually travel in, so that was a must-go for me, too. Bonus – B isn't Kristin's friend, and Pride isn't Kristin's thing (though she did enjoy it later on), so she got a much-deserved day without kids.

I balanced it all by taking the kids to Pride for its opening two hours, then going to the birthday party, then back to Pride where I was supposed to meet Kristin and she'd take the kids so I could help out for awhile at the Human Rights Commission table – though when I got back, the table was gone and Kristin ended up spending the rest of the time with us there.

It was a good day for the boys. They plucked free candy from nearly every bowl at the festival, and then we found the Balloon Man! An artist with balloons with a big rainbow hat made of them, he rapidly blew up and twisted long, skinny balloons into fantastic shapes. Trin got a fish on a pole, Sam a jester's hat, along with others. Other kids got an alien, or a monkey with a gun or a peeled banana. At Skate World they got to exercise their roller blades and eat a cake shaped like a hamburger; and then back to Pride where we ended up joining Kristin and going around as a family. I got to relax, chat with friends, play with my kids, and reload for another strenuous day on the roof.

Pride is an interesting event. (In the past, certain groups would come to protest – ironically, usually protesting abortion more than homosexuality. For the last two years, they didn't show up. I guess they finally put one-and-one together and got two: I can think of no female demographic less likely to have an unwanted pregnancy than lesbians. But I digress.) There are people of all ages, from tiny babies to bent old folks with walkers or wheelchairs. People of all colors – often brilliant colors dyed into hair or tattooed into skin. Camp and music and grace and vulgarity and humor and talent, and men and women holding hands and kissing their partners with freedom not found in most of society. There is a sense of freedom, joy, almost family. Here, for one day of the year, we are free to be who we are. Tomorrow, we will go back to disguising our relationships, to restraining ourselves, to modifying our behavior to deflect the sneers, the slurs, the abuse, and simply to avoid offending our neighbors, many of whom violently object to the reality of our existence – and especially to any public display of affection, no matter that they smile indulgently to see the same behavior exhibited by other-sex couples with far less monogamy and history than many of the couples at Pride share.

This is the attraction for me. It is an oasis of openness, of truth, where the stress of the need to hide is gone. Here, people do not need to indulge the social conventions that all too often oppress rather than liberate. Yet there is restraint. This is a family event. It is a chance to see that we, and our families, especially our children, are not alone, and that the people with whom we share our conditions are typically honorable, interesting, witty, fun, intelligent, often talented, and widely diverse. It is a place for peace, honesty – far more honesty than I see in most of the circles of those who condemn us – and yes, pride. We are more than okay. We are good.

Trans Woman Abroad #2 – The Funeral

Earlier I wrote about the trip back to Wyoming, but that story did not include the climax of the matter – the memorial service.

My mom and I arrived early. We brought a couple of picture boards from Jenny's life, and wanted them to be displayed by the time everyone else arrived. I'm glad we did.

The chapel setup was beautiful. Two of Jenny's best horse paintings flanked several bouquets of flowers – enough, but not too much. The photo of Jenny that my brother Frank took, which was displayed in a national show, took center stage, along with the portrait my great-grandfather did of her.* As I got close enough to see everything, it hit me – the reality and finality of loss. I collapsed in tears. My mom hugged me close, and for the first time in probably 40 years, I cried on her breast while she comforted me.

When the flood abated, we went out to the lobby. Our old friends, Linda and Doug Nelson, joined us, and my cousins. My nieces, nephews, and brother and sister-in-law arrived, along with 2-year-old Tyler, my great-niece. I got to play with her while guests started to arrive. She had a great time exploring the fountain and getting everything wet while healing my heart, and soon the lobby swarmed with mourners.

Now, things have changed a bit for me since the last time I was home. These are the folks who knew me when I was a teenager and in the years since, when I desperately tried to compensate for the deeply ingrained sense of Not-a-Man by trying to be as macho as possible – which wasn't all that much, because macho just doesn't come natural to me. At all. Only this time, my hair was French-braided, and I wore a long black skirt and dark tunic. I did not look at all like the FN (Former Name) they used to know. Most people didn't recognize me, which was fine. I didn't go out of my way to introduce myself.

I did not, however, go unnoticed. Many people gave me curious looks. And when a large crowd had gathered in the lobby, I finally did approach someone, a close friend of my mom and my brother's former best friend – who greeted me with a loud "[FN]." A gentle correction led to, "You're still [FN] to me!"

Oh. Well, so it goes.

Without getting into too much detail, yes, that little exchange sucked.

I didn't cry during the service, which surprised me, given the way I collapsed before it. However, I was sitting up in the front, and felt the weight of eyes on my back too intensely to relax. It wasn't until after, during the reception in the lobby, that I once again collapsed, and cried on my cousin's shoulder for awhile. Jon has a pretty awesome shoulder for crying on. He's about 6'3", over 200#, former football player. Oh, yeah. His siblings nicknamed him "Herc," short for Hercules.

And then interesting things started happening. An old friend, a former rancher, realized who I was and rushed across the lobby and gave me a big hug. He was all smiles, and happy to see me. The fundamentalist Christian who adopted my youngest nephew following Jenny's car accident initiated a conversation with me, and we spoke pleasantly for several minutes. Raised eyebrows became smiles. The mom of the man who gave me that awkward moment before the service introduced her sister, hugged me warmly, and chatted for some time.**

* Art runs in the family. Jenny was a talented artist. My niece just graduated from grad school at the Chicago Art Institute. And I trace back professional artists on both sides of the family.

** There is immense power in being out. When people see you, the stereotypes they've accepted crumble before the reality of our common humanity.

Time Capsule

Back when I was a kid, my dad owned an old 1947 two-ton truck with a beet body. In 1977, when we moved from the ranch at Laramie to the ranch at Sundance, he loaded up the ’47 with stuff, covered it with a tarp, and drove it north. He parked it in the ranch driveway, and there it sat for 32 years, while trees grew up through the bumpers and running boards, and the tarpaulin slowly rotted. For 30 years, until the day he died, he refused to allow any effort to open it up and see if anything was worth saving.

When my family gathered to celebrate Jenny’s life and mourn her passing, my nephew Ray (Jenny’s son, now a fine, strapping 6’3”, 200# man – how time flies!) looked out the window and said, “We should unpack that old truck.”

“What,” my brother Sam replied, “the Time Capsule?”

That’s what it was – a time capsule from 1977. Without Pa to restrain us, we trooped out, pulled off the old bungy cords, and folded back the tarp.

No surprise, much of the stuff was ruined. Boxes of clothes that had rotted, books with pages that had molded together into a solid mass of moldy paper, an old mandolin so rotted that it fell to dust at a touch. We found that my dad had thrown stuff in with random disregard for value or meaning. Family heirlooms sat next to bundles of old newspapers. Valuable antiques huddled with a bag of used, empty toothpaste tubes. (I’m not kidding. He really packed that and moved it, rather than tossing it in the garbage.) And sitting in a box with kid art and a bag of buttons, I found a roll of 35 mm negatives. The date, carefully printed in my mother’s hand, was “Oct.-Nov. 1960.”

That’s right. My very first baby pictures, miraculously preserved for 32 years in the back of an old truck, protected from broiling sun and freezing winter, from rain and snow and drought, by one thin layer of canvas.

It was the one prize I took from the stuff that wasn’t wrecked. And it was enough.

Sweetness

'Scuse me? Nixon??!!! Ouch!

You'll never find my kids dressed like this...

Sleepy time!

My sibs - Frank, Jenny, and Sam

This one reminds me of my Trinidad, all snuggled in his sling. Sweet, sweet boy. (Trin, not me.)

"Where's that nipple?!"

The best picture of my mom - darn it!

Disorientation Redux

Since my sister's death, I've felt rather discombobulated. I intended to post the further story of my trip back to Wyoming, but have not yet finished it. Instead I started to explore this discombobulation I'm experiencing, and found it related to the human need for orientation I blogged about earlier.

We all orient our lives around the people who are important to us, and siblings form one of the basic foundations of our psychological orientation, especially when they are close in age, as Jenny was. I don't know if that relates to my grief, but I'm sure it relates to my discombobulation. My world has turned sideways again. I imagine it is really strong for parents, also; we orient around our children, mothers even more than fathers as the intense importance of those first days, of nursing, feeding your baby and keeping her alive with the milk of your body, must form a bond so deep and permanent and beautiful. How can no sense of orientation arise?

I imagine that the change in my gender presentation affects that need for orientation in others – not only for my family, but for everyone else! I wonder; do people who have a firm basis of psychological orientation find it easier to accept and integrate things like my transition, while for someone who orients around fundamentalist religion and the binary gender myth, gender transitions are very threatening as they challenge that orientation? Perhaps it is the nature of one's orientation that makes it harder for some than others. For instance, an orientation to Christian Science doesn't take much of a hit; the body, and gender, are mortal concepts, and the person, the spiritual idea, is intact and immortal. As my mom said when I came out to her, "Your identity is intact, and it doesn't depend on gender." On the other hand, for someone who orients around a strict brand of Christianity that holds rigid barriers between classifications of man and woman, it must be very disorienting, and alarming – it shifts the layout of their psychological map, as if you were to go to a place in your neighborhood and find that the street you'd traveled a thousand times was no longer there and had never existed. It threatens the fabric of their world, as they understand it; there is no room for acceptance, because to do so would be to change the entire orientation, to change the psychological landscape as much as, and as frightening as, to change one's understanding of the physical landscape. The order of nature has been reversed. The creek no longer appears to flow downhill; it seems to flow up – and never mind that they are finally seeing reality. But someone who orients around the science of observed phenomena might think my transition is really cool. "Wow! Look at that! How beautiful! Something new under the sun." I've seen that reaction from people. Some people seem hardly affected by my transition, but many have either a strong positive or a strong negative reaction.

Regardless, a death in the family is going to disorient the survivors. I believe that the feeling of grief is related to a need for orientation unmet. And until I get completely oriented to a world without my sister, I'm going to remain discombobulated.

Trans Woman Abroad: Part I – traveling and family

I didn't know what to expect. It's the first time I've traveled back to Wyoming since my transition, and many people here know me by my former name; none as Seda. And this is the heart of Bush country. (Okay, maybe not the heart, but the last time a Democrat won in Wyoming was probably before FDR.)

The first surprise came in the process of getting there. I took the train to Portland, then the bus to the airport, then a stop in Denver until finally renting a car in Rapid City. I met and spoke with a lot of people, and I only got "sir'd" once during travel, at security on the way home – and then the TSA employee right behind him immediately and pointedly called me "ma'am." And only once did I get the repeated double take that means someone wasn't sure and was trying to figure out if he was talking to a genetic male. That's not to say I was passing almost flawlessly – I don't know how many people clocked me and just didn't care.

At ten o'clock that evening I arrived at the ranch to warm embraces. I sat down at the kitchen table in the old ranchhouse with my family; my mom, my brother and sister-in-law, my nephew, my niece. I ate leftovers from their dinner while we shared laughter and tears, catching up on the events of recent days and months. It wasn't even awkward. My gender wasn't an issue.

The next day, last before the memorial service, I met my nephew who was adopted by a fundamentalist Christian family following Jenny's accident. His embrace was tentative, but I opened to him, and he soon warmed up. His girlfriend embraced me warmly. My niece and I drove to town to do some shopping, and, again, no one blinked an eye. It was "you ladies" and "ma'am," and everything felt natural. At home, the whole bunch of us younger folks worked to help put my mom's yard in order.

On the day of the memorial, my cousins arrived from the Bay Area. It's a pattern that developed with my brother's death in 2001: since then, seems like we only meet at funerals. Frank's, then my uncle's, then my dad's, and now Jenny's. Nevertheless, it's always good to see them – and there's never enough time. And the Nelson's, close family friends for 40 years, whom I haven't seen for ages, also arrived, bringing our gathering to considerable size.

There was so much warmth, so much love, in the gathering of extended family and friends. I am rich and richly blessed.

Soon, I'll write about the memorial service, where I encountered all the old neighbors and friends of my sister and family.

Jenny

A few weeks ago, I got a feeling that it was time for me to go back to Wyoming. However, I didn't see how I could justify it. We're just starting an addition and remodel of our house, which we're doing mostly ourselves since we don't have much money. I've maxed out vacation time from work to accommodate that, and financially it just didn't seem possible, or reasonable. Still, it's been three years since I've been back, and I wanted Jenny to meet Seda.

It seems that the Universe had other plans.

Last night my sister died.

Jenny fought off many hardships in her life, but the last seven years were the hardest. In February of 2002, she was in a car accident, and she almost died. She had head injuries, and her back was broken in six places. She was in a coma for three months. The doctors said it was a miracle she survived at all, and that she probably would never regain much cognitive ability. Yet she did. Physically confined to the care only a nursing home could provide, she regained much of her language, memory, and thought processes. Though dealing with periodic medical crises and depression, her sense of humor and willingness to live made her popular among the residents.

Recently another crisis came. She stopped eating, and last night she slipped away.

Jenny was my older sister, two grades ahead of me in school. She first taught me to read when I was maybe five or six years old, and, when I started school, she protected me on the playground. I didn't fit in with the other kids, and I did not easily make friends. Her presence there was a blessing. After she graduated to junior high, my last two years in elementary school were miserable.

We were close as children, but somehow grew apart as adults. Not that we didn't get along – we did – but contact and communication became less frequent. Jenny moved out, and later on got married. She had two children. The young family struggled to get by, and her husband became abusive to the kids and eventually abandoned her, leaving her with two children and no means of support. Her next husband was worse, and a third child came into the world. Jenny dealt with bouts of poverty and abuse, and, in her mid-thirties, finally began to really get her life together. She worked her way through college. She tended bar, she logged, she got a job with the forest service and worked as an archeologist and wildland fire fighter. Finally, just a few years before her accident, she met a responsible, quiet man, and they got married. She had a fourth child after her 40^th birthday, and worked for her local power company. But just as it seemed that things had turned for the best, disaster struck. My brother died in a logging accident on Oct. 4, 2001. Jenny and Frank had always been close, and they had grown closer over the years. His loss hit her hard. Four months later, she was in the accident that changed everything.

That brief summary does not do justice to Jenny's life – to her endurance, her sometimes biting humor, her joy-of-life, her toughness, her love, her generosity, her courage. I don't know how to do justice to that, and there isn't space here anyway. I'm just glad she's my sister. I love you, Jenny, wherever you are, I love you. And I so hope and believe you are at peace.

After Jenny's accident, I felt helpless. I did what I could for my mom, but with two small children and a family to care for, I had to make them my priority. What could I do for my sister? I found something in July, 2004. I started writing her letters. Every Saturday morning from then until last week, I made it a priority to write a letter to her – keeping her abreast of my life, explaining my transition, encouraging her, sharing my thoughts and my fears, my hopes and my love. The communication was one-way – Jenny no longer had the ability to return it – yet in some small way, it connected us. During my last visit, in 2006, she said that she didn't think she could have gone on without them.

Last Saturday, I forgot to write. I forgot to write the letter that she never would have received.

Oh, Jenny, my heart is breaking. I love you. Goodbye for now, sweet sister. We will meet again, on the other side.

Be well. Be happy. Be Love.

Damaging My Children?

In a brief discussion on another blog, someone who calls himself "Eutychus" made this comment: "Divorce damages our children. Are you telling me that (as in your own case) that telling your children that their dad is now their mom, won't?" I've already addressed the first sentence of this comment (which can be summed up as: usually it does, sometimes it doesn't – it depends on the individual family dynamic. Sometimes it saves their lives.) Now, I'll address the second.

Damaging my children was in fact my greatest fear as I started transition. It was also an impetus to "do it now," as I feared the damage and difficulty that might accrue if I managed somehow to make it to their adolescent years presenting as a man, only to transition during their most vulnerable time. (Though that is probably moot, as I doubt that I would be alive now, or still involved with my children, had I not transitioned.)

To my surprise, I found that that fear was completely ungrounded. Instead, all evidence indicates that my transition has only benefited them. They are happy and thriving. They are well-connected with their friends and with both parents. They have not missed their "father" – indeed, Trinidad has more than once expressed his preference for his "Maddy," and both boys share a positive and close relationship with Kristin's partner. They also have close relationships with one of their friend's dad and with their uncle.

Our relationship has deepened and become closer and more meaningful. I think kids instinctively know when you're lying; they sense it, even if they can't articulate it or know it on a conscious level, and it affects trust. They trust me more now. They know I'm authentic, that I share with them the truth of who I am. And I'm more emotionally available and fun; I'm not depressed all the time. They know that they have my unconditional love.

Further, their family is still intact. Kristin's and my partnership continues even as it has changed. We are no longer sexual partners, but we remain parenting, economic, and household partners, and best friends. Through the great care we took, and the deep communication we shared during transition, our friendship and understanding have deepened and become even richer and more meaningful, and we have both grown.

This is not to say that transition does not damage children in all instances. It takes care, love, communication, and honesty. And anyway, all parents make mistakes that damage their children in some way; the point is to limit the damage, to repair it, to build a foundation relationship that can absorb and heal what damage accrues, regardless of the nature, gender, or orientation of the parent. The issue is the same for divorce. An amicable and communicative separation, placing the children at the center of care, is more likely to benefit the children than a bitter, cold, intact family where the adults' needs are so unmet they cannot interact positively with their children. Like most things, one size does not fit all, and blanket statements seeking social uniformity are bound to so many exceptions as to be more harmful than useful. We must learn to be true to ourselves. We must learn to discover what our real needs are, and to find ways to meet them. And, if we are parents, we must find ways to keep the care of our children at the center of our attention. Then, regardless of life circumstances, we can create and maintain meaning, purpose, connection, and love, and give our children the support they need and deserve.

How Beautiful My Children Are!

There is this thing – two, actually – that give me such joy in my life. They are my sons, and every morning when they arise they light my day. In fact, Trin is in my lap right now, helping me write this.

Studying
One of the many advantages of unschooling at home is that kids can choose their own desks and learn in comfort!

Reading
Sometimes Sam reads to me. At 6 1/2 years old, he reads at the 8th or 9th grade level. Another advantage to unschooling!

Working
Trin helping with the remodel. The boys are here every day, helping when they can, watching, learning the processes of construction. They're learning all the time. We could send them to school, I suppose, but I really don't want to slow them down that much.

Well, I started this post planning on just talking about how much I love my kids, how much joy they give me, how much meaning they give to my life, and so on, and it somehow turned into a celebration of unschooling! But then, I guess they really are connnected.

A Very Special Relationship

It's a joy working with Kristin on our new house addition.

Last Saturday the boys went off with friends and Ken left for a wedding gig and to do his schoolwork (he's earning a math certificate to add to his music teaching certs), and we spent the whole day working together. I don't think our jaws stopped yapping for more than a minute! We talked about everything from Roman and Viking history to relationships to kids to how we can best contribute to the world and society to how to take care of our bodies, etc., etc.

Our relationship has developed into something unique and incredible. We know each other like the paths of our own mind, and work together like music. There is a depth of spiritual intimacy and honesty that was not there (especially for me) when I was faking life. Now we are like sisters, but closer than sisters. We are partners and teammates. We are coparents who share in the nurture, guidance, and education of our children. It is this holistic female partnership that feels complete, even without the sexual relationship of spouses; and complete in a way that is hard to image a spousal relationship. Even now, two years past our spiritual divorce, there is a strong possibility that we'll stay together for the rest of our lives. Our love is that strong. Our respect and admiration for each other's strengths is that sincere.

I love her.

Up All Night

Yesterday was Sam's birthday. He turned six, and his desire was to have fun all day, and then stay up all night and play. He got his wish. I went to bed – I choose to work today – but Kristin and the boys stayed up. They watched Star Wars Episode 1 and The Black Stallion Returns. They turned the Eagles on loud and danced. The played Pokemon. And that's just the stuff I know about. It wasn't the most restful night I've experienced.

He did it, but just barely. When I got up at 5 a.m., Sam was starting to fade. Kristin said she felt like she was in an airport. Trin, on the other hand, had gained his second wind and said he was wide awake. As Kristin carried Sam into the bedroom to watch the Making of Star Wars, he said, "Wake me up when we get in there."

Homeschooling is an incredible gift we give our children. Perhaps the most valuable gift we give them. We have no curriculum. We prioritize dreaming, following our interests, domestic arts, respect for self and others, fun and play outdoors, exploration, community service, natural and social sciences, reading and math, and music. The math they learn is meaningful, connected to what they're doing. The reading is, too, and mostly they teach themselves. They help us grow our own food and preserve it. They are an integrated part of our economic unit as a family. Their childhood is embodied freedom and responsibility, and they are thriving.

And one of the side effects is that a six-year-old boy can have his birthday wish and stay up all night, without losing a single minute of school.

Pokemon

Lately my kids have gotten interested (I refuse to use the word "obsessed") with Pokemon cards. They bought some, then traded with a neighbor for more, and in only a week or two have accumulated a pack of about a hundred cards, which they play with frequently. They're so enthusiastic they managed to talk me into a game, and taught me how to play. They even checked a Pokemon comic book out from the library.

I wish I could be more enthusiastic, but the game left me cold. At first glance, it seems too ambiguous. (Funny for me, the queen of ambiguity!) Or maybe just arbitrary. Or I have trouble discerning the pattern of it, which I find disturbing. But I think most of all it's the level of implied violence.

This came into much clearer focus when I read the comic to them. The premise was that a strong criminal was stealing Pokemon from a group of peaceful kids, led by an old man, who kept their Pokemon from battle. The peaceful Pokemon thus could not evolve, and the peaceful peopole were helpless victims of violence. A kid who got his Pokemon into frequent battles comes along, and through a series of adventures nearly gets killed, and his Pokemon nearly gets killed with him. But this level of violence stimulates the kid's Pokemon to "evolve" to a bigger, badder, more violent … creature. The Pokemon saves the kid's life, and together they go back and kill the strongman and his Pokemon.

It is this concept that violence is necessary for improvement, and that the most violent, brutal creature is the most evolved creature, that I find so disturbing. From my own Christian background, raised to emulate the peaceful example of Jesus, to my deep admiration for Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King, and Julia Butterfly Hill, to my current nonreligious spiritual efforts and imperfect study of Nonviolent Communication, this is antithetical to every value I hold dear, and to my own concept and philosophy of what is useful and healthy in life. When I see the concept of violence embodied in Pokemon, I fear that the generation of children we are raising will be unduly influenced toward the habits, philosophies, and mindsets that that have caused so much grief and pain in our world.

It is a test of faith, I suppose. I'm not willing to tell my kids they can't have them. The need for choice is too strong, and I would rather risk the influence of this insidious philosophy than provide an example of violent force by taking it away from them. I find instead, that I must trust – not only them, but the parenting that Kristin and I provide, and the Universal Love that inspires every human heart. I must trust that, given the example and comparison of these competing philosophies – that the most violent is the most evolved vs. that the most nonviolent is the most evolved – my children will choose the path that I hold dear. And if they don't, at least I have given them the freedom to make that choice.

I think they will make the choice I would prefer, ultimately. They're aware that Pokemon is a game, and that even the comic book is just fantasy, albeit a fantasy that I find profoundly disturbing and abhorrent. In the atmosphere of this family, and the unconditional love that nature and their parents provide, they are thriving.

But I'm not going to read that comic book again.

How Good Life Is

In my last post, I spoke about dysphoria – how bad life is. It's dangerous to do that. Sometimes people think that's what your life is, and when you recount your problems, it can look pretty bad. Kinda like when you look at a rose. If all you focus on is the aphids, you can miss the blossoms altogether.

This is a post about blossoms.

For starters, my job is fun and challenging, and I'm valued and supported in it, not only by management and co-workers, but by my union. I work with interesting and diverse people. My pay is fair and adequate (barely) to support my family on one income. And I get to make a positive contribution to the well-being of my community. Yep, you guessed it – I'm a bureaucrat!

I live in a place that is incredibly blessed by nature. It is so beautiful here – mountains rising high to snow-capped peaks in the east, lush forested hills to the west and south, the ocean just a couple of hours away. Even in winter, when the rains pour down day after day, the world looks green. Mushrooms grow profusely in the fall (did I tell you I love hunting mushrooms?). My own backyard is filled with fruit trees and wildflowers, and sometimes we hear raccoons walk across the roof at night, or see them in the early morning, picking snails off the greens, smacking them on the deck to break the shells, then delicately gobbling them up with both hands.

And my neighborhood is a delight. There are lots of kids, next door and down the block, to play with mine. When I came out to them, everyone embraced me, and everyone supports me. My next door neighbors are from Silverton, Oregon, where they just elected the first openly transgendered mayor in the nation. If we run out of eggs or ace bandages, a quick walk up the block gives us a choice of half a dozen or more families who will be glad to share – and they know they're welcome to come to us when they need something.

Last post I talked about what's wrong with my body, but there's probably more right about it than wrong. I'm healthy. My mind is healthy, and I can't tell you how good that feels! I can walk and run and grasp and see and hear and taste and smell and feel – both pain and pleasure. I ride my bike to work nearly every day, and I have a pretty awesome health insurance package (except it doesn't include full transgender care).

Then there are my friends. Oh, joyous, wondrous friends! How grateful I am for you all. Incredibly – or perhaps naturally – my friendships have blossomed and deepened and multiplied since coming out and living as I am, as a woman. How delicious, to share support with you, to learn and teach, to grow, to connect, to dream, to share. Oh, yes, I am blessed.

Even better, my family. Kristin, my best friend and co-parent, and my boys. How rich is the love in which I reside. How varied and interesting and connected my life is because of them.

Best of all, my life is rich with meaning and purpose. Participation in a citizen's committee that works to make our city a better place. Letters to my sister that buoy her in her challenge, which is far more difficult than mine. Connection and sharing with friends and family. My novel, a work eight years in the process, still growing and getting better. All the skills and knowledge I've acquired in my life, and all I'm still learning and have yet to begin. This blog, where I reach out to people, friends, family, and total strangers, across our nation and the world, and the blogs of others, where I try to create peace and to support and defend my LGBT people. And nature, that wondrous web of life that fills every corner, that intricate, delicate, and persistent web of Life that is Mother Earth, that nurtures and embraces us all as close and loving as a mother the baby in her womb.

Don't get me wrong. Gender dysphoria sucks, and it hurts. It has stolen many experiences and relationships that I miss deeply. But bridging the gap between male and female has its blessings. It is precious in its own right, a creation of Universal Love as real and rich as twilight, which bridges the gap between day and night. Even that – my biggest challenge, my greatest pain, my nemesis – bears surprising insights, experiences, and relationships that form and enrich my life.

Yes, I'll be back, bitching about my body again. You can bet on it. But keep it in perspective. I certainly intend to.

A Couple of Good Ones from Kristin...

Whenever I run out of good material, I just link to Kristin's blog. She's always got something good...

Things to Be Grateful For...

180 posts - today.

This quote from Martin Luther King, Jr.:

"Here is the true meaning and value of compassion and nonviolence, when it helps us to see the enemy's point of view, to hear his questions, to know his assessment of ourselves. For from his view we may indeed see the basic weakness of our own condition, and if we are mature, we may learn and grow and profit from the wisdom of the brothers who are called the opposition."

Hair getting longer.

Wow! Kristin. My best friend. My wisest councilor. My inspired co-parent. My staunchest support. Chocolate cream pie and pumpkin pie - made from scratch.

Trinidad. Creativity unleashed. Sensitivity. Passion. Fascination with nature.

Sam. Unbridled joy. Patience. Laughter. Brilliance. And an unwavering dedication to Star Wars.

You know what?

Life is good. And it's beautiful. And today, I'm happy - and grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Education

Lately I've been reading a book called "Learning All the Time," by John Holt. At the same time, I've been loving watching my children blossom. Their curiosity, their enthusiasm, their pure joy in learning and doing is remarkable. Yesterday Sam, 5 ½ years old, started reading "Brighty of the Grand Canyon" aloud to his grandmother and me. Outside of correcting his pronunciation from time to time, he did fine. ("An- jel, not an-gul") It's just challenging enough to be interesting, as he reads slowly but steadily, only stopping to sound out a word every third or fourth line or so. Trin isn't interested in reading yet, and he doesn't do it very well; but he and Sam have worked out a symbiotic reading relationship, and you can often see them sitting together, with Sam reading aloud. Every time he gets stuck on a word, having trouble sounding it out the right way, Trin jumps in and helps him with the correct pronunciation. It's beautiful, it's teamwork it's each learning from the other.

With this background, juxtaposing Kristin's recent blogs on Unschooling and School leaves me with mixed feelings. On the one hand, wonder and joy at the freedom and self-paced progress of my own children; on the other, a deep sadness that so many children experience school in a way that is painful, oppressive, and dreadfully boring and confusing. I know that was my experience of school.

On a macro scale, the universal "big picture," this oppressive and ineffective schooling is unnecessary.

On a micro scale, within the context of the economy, culture, and society we have created, I'm not so sure. Many people I know really don't have that choice – they're two-earner families, and school, as affordable child care, is an economic necessity. Others are single parents. Others are overwhelmed and unable to relax into the role of unschooling family without more help and appreciation from society. Still others are sincerely convinced that children would not learn what they need to learn without school, and send their children off with conviction that they are doing what is best for the child.

It's clear to me that schools are not doing the job they're "supposed to do" very effectively. It seems to me that what schools do best is to indoctrinate children with values of obedience to authority and suppression of their own and others' needs, and prepare them for a life of mediocrity. Not that I came to this conclusion by myself. It is simply my own experience and observation, coupled with reading the works of John Holt, John Taylor Gatto, and Alfie Kohn.

As usual this election cycle, there are school bonds on the ballot. I'll probably vote for them. If a kid's going to be schooled, she should get the best schooling available. But I have real doubts that the current system can be reformed. I think maybe we should just scrap it and start over.

And the first place to start is to make school a choice.

Leadership

Judging by this measure of leadership, Barack Obama should be our next president. NOT John McCain.

Harvest

Okay, it's true Kristin just wrote a blog by this title, and it's also true that this is a celebration that I want to honor, too.

All from our little suburban farm.

What can be better than that?

Frank

In Memory of Frank Robert Collier

Jan. 31, 1958 - Oct. 4, 2001

Today is the 7th anniversary of my brother's death. It seems like a long time ago, but almost yesterday. Time and space have mellowed my grief, and softened it to a rich sadness that doesn't usually touch me day-to-day, yet still he is here. It seems surreal to have the presence of someone you loved and grew with together reduced to a few grainy photographs.

The Alchemists

Yesterday we extracted honey. Kristin and I took three boxes off the two beehives in our backyard, brought them into the house, and cranked the wood stove so that the honey would pour more easily. It's always a sticky mess, but joyful, too, with kids licking up every spill of the sweet stuff. The dog lay down with her head under a dripping honeycomb. Ick! Laughter and sweat and fingers sticking to everything.

As I carefully peeled the caps off a frame of golden honeycomb, it occurred to me who the real alchemists are. The bees. They make pure, liquid gold from air and earth and water, and oh! how beautiful is that gold! Far more so than the metal, and more useful. The wax and the propolis will go into Kristin's homemade salves and cosmetics. Other wax would make candles and furniture polish; other propolis would go into medicines and tonics. The honey itself will be a sweet treat, a flavoring, food, and medicine as well – we typically slather a little honey onto a bandaid to hasten the healing of a cut, and almost never use things like Neosporin. Honey works as well if not better, and it's sitting right there in the jar.