A Biblical Surprise

I love the 139^th Psalm, verses 1-18, with its lyrical assurance of God's everpresent Love. Sometimes I turn to it for comfort, for a reminder that I can never, not for one second, anywhere, be separated from the love of God. But this morning, as I turned the tattered pages of my Bible in search of it, something from the 142^nd caught my eye. I stopped to read it.

Then I read it again.

I read it a third time.

I never expected a three thousand year old man hiding in a cave to write my own prayer – the prayer of a trans woman. Because that's what it was. What it is. A mirror of the desperation that drove me to transition, of the faith that, though not couched in any religion, led me to take that irrevocable step across gender lines.

~*~

Psalm 142
Maschil of David; A Prayer when he was in the cave

I cried unto the Lord with my voice; with my voice unto the Lord did I make my supplication. I poured out my complaint before him; I shewed before him my trouble. When my spirit was overwhelmed within me, then thou knewest my path. In the way wherein I walked have they privily laid a snare for me. I looked on my right hand, and beheld, but there was no man that would know me: refuge failed me; no man cared for my soul. I cried unto thee, O Lord: I said, Thou art my refuge and my portion in the land of the living. Attend unto my cry; for I am brought very low: deliver me from my persecutors; for they are stronger than I. Bring my soul out of prison, that I may praise thy name: the righteous shall compass me about; for thou shalt deal bountifully with me.

~*~

But wait, you say, your family loved you! They cared deeply for you.

No. They did not know me. They cared deeply for the man they thought I was. But I was lying to them; my soul was deep in prison, and they cared not for me, because they could not know me. I lived then in a cave of my own making, a prison that seemed to have no door. But when the desolation of loneliness overwhelmed me, I cried out to the Universe; the door opened, and my path was shown; can I say that it was shown by other than divine Love? I had tried all others; religion, therapy, the Marine Corps, marriage, drunkenness, fantasy, adventure. Nothing opened the door until I surrendered to the one path that could bring my soul out of that prison.

And I am compassed with loving, open arms – friends, family, neighbors, co-workers and colleagues. The Lord has dealt bountifully with me.

He will deliver me from my persecutors; for if they are stronger than I, they are certainly not stronger than Him.

Labels

I'm a member of the Diversity Committee where I work, and to celebrate Transgender Awareness Week (TAW) and International Transgender Day of Awareness (TDOR), we prepared a display that illustrates some of the gender-variant people through history, profiles of individual transpeople and their accomplishments, and a few of the people who've been killed over the last year because of their perceived gender-variance. The display will be put up in my building, and it turns out that, for some of my co-workers, it's controversial. They ask why we need to label people, why we can't just accept people for who they are without the labels.

And which label is it that offends them?

Turns out the display includes the word, "transgender," and a few of my coworkers don't want to be exposed to that word, and they don't want their children exposed to that word.

There's no doubt that labels can be limiting and destructive; that they can make pain and add to prejudice. But I'm not sure how you can have a display celebrating trans people for TAW without including the word "transgender." It would be kind of like celebrating Independence Day, but removing the word, "Independence." What makes that day different? What is it about these people that is different from others?

It's human nature to compartmentalize things, to label them for ease of understanding. There's great danger in that, as mis-labeling is common, and judging solely by label is guaranteed to result in misunderstanding and ignorance. Nevertheless, we cannot escape labels – and labels do have their place. They do differentiate according to individual characteristics. The error is in making assumptions regarding the person that go beyond the label. Assuming that because someone is a woman, she's weak and emotional. Assuming that because someone is a black man, he likes watermelon and fried chicken. Assuming that because someone is a Christian, she's a Republican. The label is accurate and impersonal, but that's all you know about the person; the assumption may or may not be accurate, and accepting it as truth perpetuates ignorance and violence.

In our building, we've also got a poster up called "Women at Work," illustrated with various women performing a variety of jobs, to show that women are capable workers. No one I've ever heard about has objected to it. We regularly put up notices regarding "Asian Celebration," or "Black History Month," or "Women's History Month", or "Hispanic Festival," or "Disability Etiquette." No one objects. If folks make assumptions regarding the people behind the labels, they keep those assumptions to themselves. The labels are accurate and impersonal, and important to place the announcement in context, to give it meaning. If you take that label away, you erase a part of that person's identity; you remove the person or the event from context, and make it meaningless. We are men, women, black, white, Native American, Asian – it's who we are, part of what makes us individuals, an aspect of our personhood that defines who we are in relation to those around us, that gives us our individuality within our common humanity. The label does not represent who we are – but who we are is not complete without it.

I am an American. I am white. I am middle-aged. I am a mother – and a father. I'm a writer. I'm a designer. I am an ex-Marine. I am a carpenter. I am an activist. I'm a feminist. I am free. I am a human. I am a woman. Most important of all, I am spiritual, a child of God. And I am transgendered.

Labels. I claim each one, I wear it with pride. This is who I am. Just as you label yourself, in whatever way you do, with whatever pride or shame you have about that aspect of who you are. Some of those labels I wear by choice – designer, writer, feminist, free. Others have been assigned to me by accident of birth, by fate, or by God – human, American, white, child of God. Transgender.

I don't have any choice about it. I was just as much a transgendered woman when I wore a beard, a man's name, and man's clothing, as I am now. I was just invisible, isolated, and desperately, suicidally miserable.

So when I hear that some of my own colleagues are so offended by who I am that they not only don't want to be confronted with my identity, that they don't even want their children to know of my existence; when I see that they want to bury my identity, erase it, make me invisible – it hurts.

It hurts not only because an important part of my identity is being dismissed. Making that label of such paramount importance that it must be hidden or erased, actually makes it more visible, even as it makes me invisible. The attempt to remove the label isolates it, so that it then becomes the definer of my individuality. It reduces me, and every trans person, to less than fully human, to only transgender. It perpetuates ignorance, prejudice, and fear, and smoothes the way for violence.

This is why we need the display so damned much in the first place.

Ain’t I a Woman?

The other day I pointed out Lynn Conway's website and photo to a friend for some reason. At first he thought she was cisgendered, and then he said something like, "She doesn't look trans." So I clicked on her Successful Transitions site, to kind of point out that she's not the only one, by a long shot. He thought just about everyone on the page looked like she was trans, and said, "Most of them would have a hard time finding someone who would put up with that."

Ouch.

My friend Tobi might call it "transmisogyny."

It's things like this that make me wish I were a lesbian. Women just don't seem to have that obsession with the physical bodies of their lovers – the personality, the inner beauty, seems more important than the physical. I know it's true for me. I sometimes feel quite attracted to guys who are not very physically attractive, because I like their personhood – their passion, their intellect, their generosity, humor, whatever. Characteristics other than physical beauty can be very sexy.

But apparently not to men. My friend is educated, liberal, accepting of gays, lesbians, and trans people. Yet his abhorrence of the idea of a man finding a woman like me attractive purely dripped from his words. And despite their obvious femininity, they all seemed like men to him. Any guy readers out there, does this resonate with you?

Why?

Many of these are beautiful women, with successful, interesting lives. Why should a man have to "put up with it" at all? Why can't men just see us for who we are? Why not celebrate it? Why this focus on birth gender?

What does it say about our culture, that the bodies of women are considered of so much more importance than their persons?

As Sojourner Truth might say, "And ain't I a woman?"

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.

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.

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.

Seda’s Theory of Gender

A couple of events recently got me to thinking about gender, and inspired me to come up with a revision of the concept of gender. First, reading Whipping Girl, by Julia Serano, introduced me to the concept of "subconscious sex," which makes so much more sense to me than "gender identity." And then at an LGBTQQIA panel (how's that for alphabet soup? More letters than people on the panel) recently, a feminist lesbian with a rather masculine gender presentation commented that gender is a "social construct," not inherent in individuals but created by culture. As a trans woman who has experienced both male and female hormone balances, I do not believe that is true. So, here is my personal understanding and belief of gender and the relationship between sex and gender.

To begin with, different aspects of sex and gender exist on a number of different continua. Nothing original here.

First there is biological sex, which includes several different aspects. Everyone has a genetic sex – most people have one of the two most common chromosomal combinations, XX or XY. A few fall in between, with XXY, XYY, or other combinations. Then there is body morphology – most people clearly exhibit primary and secondary sex characteristics, such as penis, testicles, broad shoulders, big feet, and hairy faces and torsos in males and vagina, ovaries, uterus, wide hips and breasts in females. Again, some fall in between, as intersexed people with ambiguous genitalia and people with AIS.

Then there is subconscious or instinctive sex, often (erroneously, in my opinion) termed "gender identity" – again on a continuum from hyper-male to hyper-female, with two-spirit or genderqueer in the middle. Subconscious sex is how the instinctive, primitive brain understands your body to be. In my case, my subconscious brain, or self, or whatever, has always thought I have a female body. When I first learned to throw, I threw "like a girl." The relationships I seek and treasure are female in nature. My sexual instincts are female, and in sexual situations the contrast between my instincts and desires and the nature of my body is sharp, intense, and painful. Everyone has a subconscious sex, though most people go through life unaware of it, as there is no conflict and no reason to access it consciously if your subconscious sex aligns with your biological sex.

The next continuum is gender expression. This is the natural inclination one has in expressing one's masculinity, femininity, or androgyny, and again, the continuum is related to the first two but independent of it. Someone might be male-bodied and male-gendered (in the subconscious sex sense of gender), and yet adopt feminine dress and mannerisms. Frequently folks refer to people who express gender strongly as "butch" or "femme," depending on which direction they are expressing. This is what people talk about when they speak of gender roles; it's what I believe feminists refer to when they say that gender is socially constructed. However, everyone has innate gender. I firmly believe, based on my study of philosophy, science, gender, and my own experience of both male and female sex hormones, that gender is innate – and that it is also influenced by society and social constructs.

The last one in my list is sexual orientation, reflecting one's innate attraction to one of the two primary sexes, both, all, or whatever.

So for each individual, there are four aspects of gender or sexuality, and each of these aspects is expressed somewhere on one of four corresponding continua. Each of these continua can be described as a double bell distribution curve, with the typical binary genders (male and female) each representing roughly equal "humps" and the rest spread out in between or way out on the fringes.

Female ------------------------ Male

(Imagine four of these, each separate and unique)

A typical man, for instance, would land in the center of the male hump (no pun intended) in all three internally-focused continua (genetic/body morphology, subconscious sex, and gender expression), and in the center of the female hump on the sexual orientation continuum, while a typical woman would land in the corresponding and opposite humps. My personal distribution used to be: a. center of the male genetic/biology hump; b. center of the female subconscious sex hump; c. extreme side of the male gender expression hump; and (on a conscious level – there was definitely serious subconscious conflict going on!) d. somewhere on the female side of the trough between the sexual orientation humps. Now, I've moved into the trough on the body morphology continuum (genetics are the same, but I've grown breasts and lost body hair, which puts me in that androgynous place in the middle), and my growing awareness of my real heterosexual orientation has moved me to the male side of the trough on the sexual orientation continuum.

Now, add the influence of our patriarchal culture and social constructs, including and especially the gender binary that says there is only one scale – the heterosexual male/female, opposite-sex dichotomy – and here's what you get:

Female--------------------------------Male

(Only one of these – where on the line do you fall? Chances are you don't)

Is it any wonder that feminists think of gender as socially constructed, and not innate? Especially since women have traditionally been given the short end of every opposite/binary stick (weak, irrational, emotional, etc.), they intensely feel the restrictions and limitations of cramming everyone onto one curve and making the curve a straight line. But it also hurts men. It hurts everyone. Gender is innate and natural, but society warps it into a cruel travesty.

The opposite-sex gender binary that supports patriarchy is wrong. It is limiting, harmful, inaccurate and untrue, and it's past time to bury it in an unmourned, unmarked grave. Everyone deserves the birthright to find their own places on the multiple levels of their own respective gender continua, and the respect of society to be recognized and honored there.

(Okay, I got off the theory and into my personal rant. Sorry, but it seems important.)

Being Special

One of my girlfriends recently commented on how I tend to gush about how cool it is to be a woman. It seems like that's given her more appreciation for it, which his great, but her comment made me more aware of my attitude and led me to question it.

It's true that I'm thoroughly enjoying the freedom to explore my own femininity and sexuality. I do enjoy every aspect of womanhood I am able to participate in (except the tendency of some people to objectify, sexualize, or ignore me). But as I consider it, I think the real thing I'm finding joy in is being myself, in being connected with myself and others. It isn't femininity and womanhood per se, but the integrity, beauty, connection, autonomy, clarity, and sovereignty of my own life as a woman that are so rewarding. In my inner life, it's having hormones that correspond with my subconscious sex, so that my mind feels integrated instead of semi-schitzophrenic, and beginning to enjoy my body and my breasts and the way I look in the mirror.

All of these are miracles of wonder to me, but they are hardly unique, and they really don't indicate that being a woman is any more special than being a man. My trans men friends all report feeling the same way, just going in a different direction. For them, the joy is all in masculinity and manhood. (I know, I don't get it.)

The real meaning beneath the joy I find in my womanhood is found in the Bard's immortal statement: "To thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man." As Dr. Irene says (in a different context that makes this one no less true), "Allowing someone else to define who we are, we lose our ability to discover and grow inwardly. We no longer are able to discern a truth from a lie. For many of us, we have accepted lies for so long, that finding out what is true takes time. Having done this very thing, I know how difficult the journey to self-discovery can be."

It's as if Dr. Irene were talking about trans people, instead of survivors of abuse. I relate completely. For the first time in my life, I am being true to my own self. And that feels damn good.

Transconnection

A week or two ago, I rode my bike past a neighbor's house and saw a friend of mine, who happens to be a trans man. We got to talking, one thing led to another, and the next thing I know I'm shooting off an email to several other trans people friends of mine, saying we all ought to gather for a social event. NOT a support group. I'm talking fun, food, etc. A flurry of emails later, and fourteen or fifteen of us gather at the Q Center for pot luck.

(Here, I can't resist a dig at the DSM-IV: By their criteria, there should be 2.5 trans men in my area; in fact, at least eight of them were present today, and I know of several others; there should be 8.5 trans women in this area, and nearly all of them were present – despite the fact that I can think of at least seven who weren't there. Not only that, but the description the DSM has of us is almost unrecognizable in any meaningful way by anyone present, and it's downright rude and disrespectful the way they use the wrong pronouns throughout.)

To get an idea of the people gathered, one is a polyamorous sex worker (who has been nominated for best feminist porn film). Another is an ordained, celibate Buddhist monk. At least two live in two worlds, gendered female in one and male in the other, switching pronouns depending on company and situation. Several of us are parents. One is the son of a preacher. No one wore a skirt. And the food was pretty damn good.

For over four hours, the conversation never lagged. We caught up with old friends, made new ones, commiserated on the pains and foibles of transition, celebrated honesty and friendship, bashed hypocrites, and laughed – and laughed – and laughed. Genders mixed in a delightful medley as we all allowed our expression free rein.

There is something both validating and empowering in sharing with people who understand your issues, and something wonderfully refreshing in talking with people who (almost) always get your pronouns right. It is a comradeship, a shared experience, a common understanding. In our society, being where you can completely let down your guard, and be yourself in a crowd, for a while makes the world just right. I relaxed. I let myself be, without fear. And it was fun.

Thank you, all my trans friends. Thank you for gathering. And thank you for being you. You are real, and deeply valued.

Girlfriends

Last night I was listening to a song by Mana. I closed my eyes and picked out the various parts – two acoustic guitars, keyboard, bass, drums and percussion – hearing how they played off each other and blended into this incredible beauty of sound. I thought of how Kristin and the boys are learning music, and often play together both with Ken, their teacher, and with each other in practice. I thought how much fun it would be to join with them, though I've been resisting for some time now because I just don't have the time to learn music. Then I reflected on the many times I've tried to learn to play an instrument – drums, guitar, banjo, jews harp, harmonica. I never learned any of them, and thinking back, it seems to me the reason is I never played with anyone else. I never got lessons, never played with peers. For me, like everything else, learning music was a solitary experience.

Then I got to thinking about why that might be. Part of it – maybe most of it – is because I never had friends I could share that with. I noticed that my entire life, I could make only the most shallow friendships, because my primary goal in any relationship was to protect myself – to avoid revealing who I really am, to keep my deepest thoughts and desires secret to myself alone.

The overriding reason I wanted to keep myself private was shame.

I was so deeply ashamed of myself for those thoughts, desires, and experiences that reflect who I am. I was ashamed because I saw that my own experience was so different from everyone else's; because I simply could not relate those thoughts, desires, and experiences to the male role models in my life – at least, not in a deep, personal, and gendered way.

While there are many activities in life that are not gendered – woodworking, chess, gardening, the list goes on forever – there are no relationships that are not gendered. I relate differently depending on who I'm relating with, and gender is part of that relation. Even my relationship with myself is gendered. Women relate differently when they are in a women only group vs. mixed company, men do the same. Mostly, I think, people accept these differences for granted, perhaps don't even notice them. For me, they dominated every social experience.

Because I was so deeply ashamed of who I was, I tried to relate to people according to my sex, and because doing so meant I could not relate in a genuinely gendered way, I could not reveal enough of who I was, even with my most intimate friends, to share real intimacy.

In short, I never learned how to be a friend. Others related with me in the fullness of who they are, and I responded with a deep reserve and definite deception. I related with a mask, an assumed persona I'd pieced together to disguise my real self.

As I reflected on my current life, this became very clear, because I am finally learning how to be, and what it means to be, a friend. It's a matter of baby-steps, of stumbling in the dusk. I still don't have the basic skills of friendship down, by any means. However, I am relating in the wholeness of who I am, and that is bringing incredible changes.

I have real women friends now. These are the people most responsible for my new growth. This is the growing richness of my life. Girlfriends. I am finally welcomed into the social role where I belong. No longer am I isolated, an outsider in every social situation, an interloper who feels out of place. I can be myself, and people actually like me.

I cannot relate to you how incredibly beautiful that is, to belong, to be myself, to relate to others as fully human. This is the best thing, for me, about my transition. Women friends. Honesty. Relating fully, no longer isolated and alone, no longer a square peg in a round hole, but real, comfortable. I am just me. I cannot find words to express the sense of wholeness I have found. It is a pearl of great price.

To the extent that my body does not match my gender, it affects how people relate to me. But the need for human, intimate connection is so great and so basic to our humanity, to feeling and expressing love, so essential to our development and survival, that I will change my body as much as I possibly can to achieve that fullness of social connection. I cannot do otherwise. I am amazed that I stayed alive for so long without that intimacy. Kristin is responsible, of course. I was able to forge a relationship, cobbled together out of my deceptive persona and elements of my real self, with her that was sufficiently intimate to survive, and her love sustained me for 15 years. Yet there is no doubt in my mind that if I had not transitioned, I would now be dead. I simply could not survive in that vacuum of my own soul, in that social and personal isolation, much longer.

There are still a lot of aspects of being transgendered that suck. I hate parts of my body. They betray me. They are completely dysfunctional to who I am. Every day, throughout the day, they rear up and show me how still incomplete are my social relations. The pain of them is constant and unremitting. God, how I wish I could change them! But they do not dominate my life. I have hope. I have meaning. I have girlfriends.

More on Coming Out

Recently Fannie (of Fannie's Room) kindly invited me to share my coming out story, as part of her "Coming Out" series of guest posts. (The link above is to Part II, because she starts with a link to Part I and Part I doesn't link back.)

I give kudo's to Fannie for the idea, and for following through with it, of publishing a series of coming out stories. As I've said before, there is great power in coming out. I believe it is the most powerful assurance LGBT people have of creating acceptance and the embrace of society, and, ultimately, equality. More than the courts, more than anything. Honesty is - well, honorable. And it makes a difference. Fannie's doing her part, and her willingness to publish a wide variety of coming out stories, including those of lesbians, gays, transpeople, and even straight people, is deeply appreciated.

The Power of Coming Out

Since beginning transition, at least four different people have contacted me with their own transgendered dilemmas. Three of them were completely or almost completely in the closet, while all sought connection and common ground. I have been able to share with them my experience and understanding, and that in turn has, I believe, moved each to some degree, relieving loneliness, anxiety, and isolation. My visibility has provided comfort for other lonely souls.

Gender dysphoria is an incredibly lonely condition. I remember when I was a kid, the great aching loneliness that filled my days. I was afraid to share with anyone – even the closest members of my family, my parents and siblings – who I was, my deepest desires, my aspirations, my own character. Not only did I fear the ridicule that I would have received, I didn't understand why I was so different from everyone else – why I wanted so much to do girl things, why it was so hard to connect with boys, why I didn't like what they liked. I just knew I didn't fit in – anywhere. Forming my presentation around a model of gender that was completely extrinsic, I could not relate to people as I was, and so I developed my skill at deception – and that disguised my own loneliness and inadequacy in a vain attempt to fit in, which only left me lonelier than ever.

It is that effort to hide one's self, based on needs for safety and connection, that makes transgendered people so lonely, so socially isolated. It is different for me now. Sure, I'm cut off from some people – those who don't understand, or who think that their God really hates people like me and so they should, too, or whatever – but I'm fully connected with so many more. I no longer spend my time developing and perfecting deception. I live openly and honestly, and that honesty has penetrated to every aspect of my life. Where I used to act in minor dishonest ways, lying or cheating or even stealing, I now rebel against those temptations, and really don't even find them tempting. Dishonesty now feels not like something natural and integral in my life, but like a desecration of it.

So the greatest value of transition for me is the redemption of my own character. And, close behind it, is my ability to connect with community, with other people – an end to loneliness. People see that, and respond to it. And other lonely souls, suffering from gender dysphoria, find connection and, I think, comfort.

There is power in coming out. It is social power – and it is also spiritual power.

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.

Dysphoria

For the last few days I've been feeling some pretty intense body dysphoria. I look at my skinny hips and tiny butt and I hate them, because they don't fit my clothes and they look so ugly. I look at my genitals, and I hate them, because they prevent the intimacy I so desire. I look at my massive chest and wide shoulders, and I hate them, because they are so unfeminine.

But then last night I dreamed that I was confined in a wheelchair. It was very vivid. I rolled down a curb cutout, and because I wasn't used to the chair I lost control and fell off into the street, and I was helpless to get back into the chair. It was so real that when I awoke, it took me a moment to remember that I really can use my legs.

And I thought, maybe this body isn't so bad.

It could be a lot worse.

On the other hand, maybe the dream reflects the reality that, in a sense, I am disabled – even though my arms and legs move like water.

Some people believe that our bodies reflect who we are; that we are our bodies. This is so not true. Ask any transperson. Ask Steven Hawking. Ask Helen Keller (okay, she's dead; so channel her through a medium). The soul, the person, that spark of life that resides behind the eyes or in the heart, that animates the body and moves it from place to place, is independent of and separate from the body, and if your body reflects who you really are, that is just luck. My body is no part of me. It doesn't even belong to me. It's somebody else's, and I don't know how I ended up in it. It's just the vessel that carries me from place to place, in which I am trapped.

Friends and a Far Way

Last night my mother-in-law came to visit, and Kristin and I left her with the kids and went to a play put on by our local high school. One of the actors was formerly Kristin's student, and we enjoyed watching him perform. In the years since he was a troubled pre-schooler under Kristin's tutelage he's become a big, talented sophomore. He yelled out when he saw Kristin after the show, hugged her, then turned to me – and hugged me, too. I was accepted and embraced by all at this performance, including the significant crowd of women who mobbed the ladies' room during intermission.

Later on in the evening, after spending a crazy hour at home, I lay in bed and thought about my life. I gave thanks. And I thought about what I want.

I am most comfortable when I forget my body and feel myself completely female and socially embraced as such, in whatever social role or event that might be. There is something jarring and profoundly disturbing about becoming aware of my body as a male part of me. This is a measure of how the extent that my body and my soul/mind integrate. To the extent that I perceive my body as male, I cannot integrate at all; I am faced with an unresolvable incongruity, and this incongruity rocks the foundations of my identity, my self, my world. It is completely disorienting, perhaps like it would be to live in a world without gravity. For years I lived a coward's life, trying to resolve the incongruity by forcing my mind to accept – tolerate – the role that was expected – that I expected – of my body. All it did was drive me to within the thought of its effect on Kristin and my children away from suicide.

One of the transwomen I admire the most is my friend Tobi. She appears to be completely comfortable in her skin. She makes no effort at all to hide the butch side of her, nor the fact that her body is genetically male. She even lets a dusting of whiskers stay on her chin. As far as I can see, she has integrated her body and soul, resolving the conundrum by recognizing her male body as female.

Be patient. I'm working my way to a point.

The performance we saw last night was Rent. One of the most memorable lines, for me, was from Angel, who is described as a "gay drag queen." My perception from the acting was that she was transgendered – not necessarily transsexual, but certainly female gendered, and as such, I didn't have the sense that she would be gay, even with a male lover. Anyway, the line was given as the characters mourned her death, and one of them mentioned her going up to a "skinhead" who was harassing her and saying, "I'm more of a man than you'll ever be, and I'm more of a woman than you'll ever get."

Those words resonate with me.

I would really like to integrate to the point that I can look at and feel the "male" aspects of my body and yet perceive them as female – as part of me, and not this separate entity that has nothing to do with me at all except that it's an inadequate vessel that carries me from place to place. Ideally, everyone around me would perceive the same thing – not that I have a male body, or even that I'm trans, but just that I'm a woman with a mildly misshapen body. I want to live the deep, connected friendships that are unique among women.

I think it's possible. I've had a few glimpses over the last week, when I almost get the sense that my penis is a female part, or when I just melt into my role as a woman.

And I have friends. Oh, I have friends. My own mother-in-law has embraced me, and likes Seda better than her former son-in-law. Anne, and Davin, and Ilana, and Kristin, all have embraced me into that magical circle of feminine friendship. It will happen with others. It appears to be more difficult with people who knew me before transition, which isn't surprising.

And rising from the ashes of that fake male persona I used to wear, is the phoenix of something new, something precious – a deep, fierce pride in who I am. In being a transwoman. (See Angel's words, above.)

I do not deny who I am. No, I embrace it.

So far I have come. I'm on a path, creating a life that is, as I am, beautiful.

And if that's a paradox – well, shit, my whole life is a paradox!

Dysphoria

One of the best things about blogs is that you can put anything you want to on your blog. I just wrote a poem, so I’m gonna post it because I feel like it. Then you can experience one of the best things about poetry (mine, anyway), which is that you don’t have to read it. I have some great links down below on the left…

Dysphoria

This psychic itch leaves no peace.
It aches when lovers hold hands, snuggle close and touch lips; a hand on her butt, the little arch of a woman’s head leaning close.

There is no scratching it, reaching under a turtleneck, or behind my back where my bra fastens and my fingers don’t reach. The only way to overcome the itch move my brain away from my body, sex, now to esoteric, spiritual, material and not connected to me.

It itches in the ladies' room, strong now, can’t ignore it.
Still can’t scratch it.
Forget it. Focus on not my face not my hands on chocolate.

Chocolate is the same in any body, melts in the mouth to forget.

Beautiful woman and the itch goes deep that could be me could be not not not Look away, the sun is shining, blue sky smiles.

And that cute guy, the itch reaches deep deep a hollow
in the belly dancer deeper no escape.

No nails, no fingers can scratch this itch, no, it takes a scalpel.
Just want to scratch.

Make it stop.

The Traditional Values Coalition

For some reason, there are a number of groups willing to commit lots of resources to prevent transpeople from getting legal protection from discrimination. I'm not sure why they care one way or another, except it seems that they fear the existence of transpeople threatens to expose their particular interpretation of sacred texts as erroneous. One of these is the Traditional Values Coalition, which published this report.

I don't want to waste a lot of time deconstructing this article (which is not attributed to any author), but there were a couple of things that popped out at me when I read this. The first:

"The promotion of 'sex changes,' and the normalizing of severe gender identity disorders by radical feminists, pro-same-sex attraction disorder activists, and sexual revolutionaries is part of their larger agenda—namely the destabilization of the categories of sex and gender."

Actually, my agenda is truth and freedom. I have no desire to destabilize anything, except the domination culture that is unsustainable anyway. I do desire to expand the awareness of the limitations placed on people by stereotypical gender roles, so that people who choose to follow them may do so mindfully and consciously.

O'Leary notes that radicals and medical professionals who promote sex change operations are operating under the delusion that one's gender is changeable. One cannot change into a different sex. It is genetically and medically impossible. Gender confused individuals need long-term counseling, not approval for what is clearly a mental disturbance.

O'Leary is obviously mistaking sex and gender as being the same thing. Sex is your body; gender is your soul. It's true that gender is unchangeable, and that's the point. That's why sex reassignment surgery is recommended as a last resort. And you don't get it without long-term counseling.

A boy who has developed a Gender Identity Disorder such as homosexuality or transvestism, typically comes from a home where the mother is smothering in her love and where the father is passive and feels powerless to overcome his wife's dominance in the family.

Gee. That doesn't match my own family's dynamic at all, nor does it account for the normality of my siblings. Studies have also found physical difference in brain structure between cisgendered and transgendered individuals.

According to these activists, a person can self-identify and be whatever he or she wishes to be sexually.

How can anyone identify another? The only real identity is self-identity, because the only person you can really know completely is yourself (though most people don't even know that).

Yet, the reality is that no person can actually change into a different sex. Maleness and femaleness are in the DNA and are unchangeable. A man who has his sex organ removed and takes hormone treatments to grow female breasts is still genetically a male.

Well, duh.

No rational person would claim that he or she has the "right" to define his own gender.

How can any rational person abdicate their right to define themselves to someone else? Who else possibly can have that right?

Transgenders Are Mentally Disordered. The American Psychiatric Association (APA) still lists Transsexualism and Transvestism as paraphilias or mental disorders in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM-IV-TR).

Yet they've got a 0% cure rate via psychological or psychiatric care, and 98% satisfaction via medical treatment allowing life in one's 'chosen' gender. If it's a mental disorder, why do they recommend medical procedures and non-psychiatric drugs to treat it?

These are deeply troubled individuals who need professional help, not societal approval or affirmation.

Then why are we suicidal before transition, and happy, productive members of society after? Why does professional help guide us into transition, even while acting as our gatekeepers?

It's amazing how much we've eroded our society.

Ah. The crux of the matter. It's all about fear. They are scared. Scared of the unknown; of things that go bump in the night. I wish I could ease their fears for them. It's okay. We won't hurt you. We won't call down the wrath of God on you. And God won't hurt you if you let us be.

Schroer Decision!

Way back in June, I blogged about Diane Schroer and the discrimination she experienced in trying to get a job. Well, a decision has finally been handed down, and the Federal District Court for the District of Columbia found in her favor. Very cool.

One thing I found interesting about the case was the statement below, taken from Dr. Weiss's blog post:

"Charlotte Preece, the decisonmaker, admitted that when she viewed the photographs of Schroer in traditionally feminine attire, with a feminine hairstyle and makeup, she saw a man in women's clothing. In conversations Preece had with colleagues at the Library after her lunch with Schroer, she repeatedly mentioned these photographs. Preece testified that her difficulty comprehending Schroer's decision to undergo a gender transition was heightened because she viewed David Schroer not just as a man, but, in light of her Special Forces background, as a particularly masculine kind of man. Preece's perception of David Schroer as especially masculine made it all the more difficult for her to visualize Diane Schroer as anyone other than a man in a dress. Preece admitted that she believed that others at CRS, as well as Members of Congress and their staffs, would not take Diane Schroer seriously
because they, too, would view her as a man in women's clothing."

I find this cultural assumption that your body defines who you are incredibly painful. It virtually makes me invisible. If you look at me and see a man in woman's clothing, you don't see me, you don't understand me, you don't believe in me. And that hurts.

I'm a woman in a man's body. That is very different. My clothing tells you that's who I am, as well as every other signifier I can come up with. Yeah, I know it's not perfect. It's like a big birthmark all over my face, or a hunchback. There's only so much I can change. And I'm very grateful that so many people see me for who I am, including one friend who didn't realize I could donate sperm for a possible pregnancy until she thought about it for a minute.

But I'm off the subject. I just want to take a minute to celebrate this landmark decision – another step forward for equal rights.

A Conundrum

I love this quote from Jan Morris's autobiography, Conundrum:

"I never did think that my own conundrum was a matter either of science or social convention. I thought it was a matter of the spirit, a kind of divine allegory, and that explanations of it were not very important anyway. What was important was the liberty of us all to live as we wished to live, to love however we wanted to love, and to know ourselves, however peculiar, disconcerting, or unclassifiable, at one with the gods and angels."

I think she really gets to the heart of our whole situation with this statement. Does it really matter whether being gay or transgendered is genetic or hormonal, or if it's just "sin?" What matters is that we live free, that we can define our own lives according to what seems most ethical and natural to us, whoever we may be. We don't live in science, we live in the mystery of our own minds, and though we live in community with connections to the people we love or live with, ultimately the only person you have to live with is yourself.

We are all alone with god.

Curiosity

So I'm going down the sidewalk, and a woman standing with two guys and a baby carriage smiles at me and says, "Hi!"

I smile back. "Hello."

"Two bucks to let us see up your skirt."

And I wonder:

Do genetic women have to deal with comments like this?

I'm guessing that they do, but what gives me pause with this comment is that it came from another woman – who was also wearing a skirt. Would she make that offer to someone she was sure was a genetic woman?

I kind of doubt it.