Sexual Harassment - Not Time to Back Off

In the past few weeks I have heard remarks from other women related to sexual harassment that deeply concern me. Each time the speaker somewhat jokingly, somewhat flippantly, commented on how they had better not do some particular action, lest they be accused of sexual harassment. In light of the upsurge in sexual harassment allegations and revelations, I would appreciate the concern around the issue, except that the comments were expressed in such a tone as to make light of the issue. They gave the impression that they found the whole thing overblown to the point of being ridiculous.

I do not understand how any woman could find this issue overblown. I see the growing pushback against the charges raised against powerful men as a serious threat to the limited progress made in addressing a grave issue. For women to make light of the problem undermines the effort to hold men (and, in fewer but equally important cases, women) accountable for their actions. How many women have so thoroughly imbibed the kool-aid of male power and privilege that they will side with the accused rather than supporting the credibility of the accusers? I certainly think there must be a process to assess and evaluate the charges raised. Unfortunately, we cannot count on the courts or systems of arbitration to act without bias, because the history of our society is one of silencing and discounting the voices of women. (A history that extends well before our country was formed.) The simple fact is that, when placed side-by-side, our culture will give more weight to the voice of a man than a woman. The playing field is not level.

The power in this dynamic between the harasser and the harassed lies primarily with the harasser, particular when that person is male, as is the case in the majority of incidences. The system works to silence the voice of the accuser in order to protect the status quo, which means to protect the power and privilege of men. Sara Ahmed, in her excellent book Living a Feminist Life, reminds us:

“Sexual harassment works—as does bullying more generally—by increasing the costs of fighting against something, making it easier to accept something than to struggle against something, even if that acceptance is itself the site of your own diminishment.” (141)

When a woman makes light of sexual harassment issues, she chooses to accept the status quo and, in consequence, contributes not only to her own diminishment, but to the continued diminishment and silencing of women across the board.

This is not an easy problem to solve, because the solution lies in a fundamental transformation in how people view and treat one another. More specifically, it involves a radical transformation in how men perceive and treat women. In the contexts in which the comments referenced above were made, the concern was whether what many would consider an innocuous gesture would be classified as sexual harassment. As I think of the question, my response would be that it depends on the context and the power dynamic, and would be integrally related to the issue of consent. In my work environment, or in any other environment in which I am interacting, an unsolicited touch or embrace from a man would be unwelcome. At the very least, I would prefer that he ask me if he could offer a hug, or other physical contact. Casually touching me would be most unwelcome and I would consider it inappropriate and harassing.

At the same time, I would respond differently were the individual a woman. In general, I am open to the type of physical contact women most often share in their interactions: a hug, or a gentle touch on the arm or shoulder. I can see how, in certain contexts, this too could be harassment. Context is vital, as is an awareness of the relational dynamic (including the power differential at play in the environment.)

I have had to become more aware and sensitive of my own behavior in this regard. I am, by nature, very physical. I like to give and receive hugs and always have. I express my interest, care and concern with a hug or a light touch on the shoulder or arm, and do not mind when other women do the same with me. For me, it establishes a connection. When I was in college, I used to give hugs to everyone I knew when I would run into them on campus (and it was a small campus, so you frequently ran into your friends.) Looking back on that, I realize that I was not being sensitive to whether the other people welcomed my hugs. I rather forced them upon people. I understand know that this was inappropriate of me and am ashamed of my past behavior. Now, when I want to offer a hug, I will ask or in some way indicate that I would like to offer a hug, and wait to see whether it is welcome. With my closest friends, I don’t always do this because we have established the connection that says this is, or isn’t, welcome. I know, for example, that one of my coworkers does not like being hugged and I have trained myself to respect that boundary. I cannot be offended when my offer of an embrace is declined. Some of my friends welcome them sometimes but not always. Other friends freely welcome and offer them in return. Each individual is different and respect for each person requires me to honor our mutual boundaries.

Which brings me back to the topic of sexual harassment. The painful truth is that too many men (specifically) do not recognize or honor the boundaries women establish. They act as though they have the right to treat women as they please and that women should consider themselves honored to receive their attention. The power and prerogative rests with the men. This must change. We, as women, can push for change by refusing to remain silent in the face of harassment. We can support one another in voicing our stories. We can demand justice, and even more we can demand that men change how they perceive and treat us. Because all the laws in the world won’t mean much until men actually begin to see us as fully human, fully equal and fully worthy of the same respect and dignity they demand for themselves. We women cannot afford to uphold the status quo by silencing the voices of other women, or by making light of sexual harassment as a serious issue. Our voices are just beginning to be heard. It’s not time to quiet them. It’s time to get louder still. 

Finding My Way to Hope

Sometimes it feels like the picture can’t get any bleaker. I think in particular of the shit show that is our national (and state!) political situation, with elected representatives disregarding the interests of the majority of their constituents and the needs of the poorest, most marginalized members of our society. At times like these, hope begins to fade.

Christmas, or more inclusively the winter holiday season, has always resonated for me with the message of hope. The last couple winters I didn’t feel much hope and even less joy. This year, despite the pervasive gloom in society, I am finding my way back to hope. I no longer locate that hope in the person of a baby ostensibly born on Christmas night. I find it in the hearts of the many amazing people in my life; in the friends who have supported and cared for me over the past couple years of my journey; in the people I know in my community who refuse to concede to the voices of hatred and discrimination. I see it in the lives of those who pour out their time and energy to make the world a better place for others. I don’t look outside of this world to save it. I look at what we bring, at what we can – and must – do, if we want a world in which peace and justice prevail.

I am grateful that my life is filled with ambassadors of hope. We are not unaware of the obstacles confronting us. We recognize that we face a relentless struggle. Yet we do not give in to despair – though it tempts us strongly at times. I’m realistic enough to acknowledge the darkness that seems to deepen all around. I’m pessimistic enough to wonder at times whether the struggle is worth it. But I remain optimistic enough to believe that the goodness I see around me can and will prevail, though it may do so at great cost. I hold on to hope. As we were reminded in last year’s blockbuster film Rogue One: Rebellions are built on hope.

This week two buds of hope blossomed in my personal garden. The first snuck up on me unexpectedly one evening this week, when I felt the inclination to play holiday music for the first time in two years. I pulled up one of my favorite holiday albums and let the music wash over me. In the days since then I have found myself adding other albums to my playlist and letting it accompany me as I go about my daily tasks. This is a small, but very significant step for me.

The second bud blossomed yesterday, nourished by the same spirit of hope that renewed my desire to enjoy seasonal music. I began the day by hanging holiday lights around my carport, and finished the evening hanging lights in my living room and kitchen with the help of a dear friend. I love the way it brightens the dark nights of December. Even if they aren’t as dark in Southern Arizona as they were in Northern Russia, I love the symbolism and significance of lights shining in the darkness. Now as much as any time in my life, I need that symbol.

I’m still reshaping and reowning what these holidays mean for me. I’m still not entirely comfortable with tying it all to Christmas, with the strong religious association that has for me. I may well adopt the Festivus label for my holiday! I’m only beginning to recreate what this holiday season looks like and means to me. I am glad that I can take the first steps to reclaim it this year, embracing the message of hope and the symbolism of light shining in the darkness. We are that light. As the christian bible reminds us: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

Not What I Had Planned

After I shared earlier this week about my mixed emotions surrounding Thanksgiving, I set my mind to embracing the day with whatever it brought. The universe must have taken that as a challenge and decided to test me.

I had planned to spend the afternoon at a Thanksgiving dinner for the transgender community. Beforehand I yielded to my son’s invitation and stopped by my parent’s church to join them for a small bite before what I intended to be my main meal of the day. By this point, however, the headache I had awoken with had worsened to the point that my right eye felt like it wanted to pop out of my head, awakening memories of how I felt when I had shingles in my left eye a few years ago. I had tried all morning to ignore it, hoping that it was just a bad headache. But when I mentioned it to my parents at lunch, they insisted I needed to go to a clinic.

Hence I found myself sitting in Urgent Care on the afternoon of Thanksgiving day. Not exactly what I had planned. Although there was no rash nor other visible indicators of shingles, the NP on duty agreed that it was better to start treatment sooner rather than wait to see what might develop. Shingles in the eye can cause lasting damage. By late afternoon I was back home with a bottle of medication, comforted by the prospect of feeling better.

My Thanksgiving was far from wonderful. I certainly would have preferred to spend it doing something besides visiting Urgent Care and sitting alone of my sofa watching Netflix. Nonetheless, it gave me opportunity to reflect on many of the reasons I have to be thankful. I’m thankful for medical practitioners who agree to work on a holiday so others can have the care they need. I’m thankful for my parents and my son who encouraged me to seek treatment and supported me in doing so. I’m thankful for those who welcomed me at my parent’s church, and for my transgender siblings who responded with compassion when I informed them why I wouldn’t be able to join them for the afternoon. I’m thankful for friends who expressed their concern and support, and for Leigh, who generously brought by apple pie and other Thanksgiving leftovers on Friday so I wouldn’t go without some taste of the holiday.

It’s been a difficult year for many of us. I’ve shared some of my struggles and challenges in this blog. Each of you has faced your own trials and difficulties as well. Sometimes it feels overwhelming, and sometimes the tears need to flow freely (they do that often enough still!). But when I reflect on where I’m at in life, when I consider the friends who surround me and enrich my life in so many ways, when I think about how full my life is with meaning, purpose, joy and connection, I cannot help but be grateful. I’m not ignoring the challenges that exist in my life. I’m not oblivious to the problems in the world. But I find the energy to engage with them by making room for gratitude and joy, as well as pain, grief and sorrow. I find strength and encouragement from the community of wonderful people around me who believe and hope and work to make the world a better place. I receive comfort and support from caring friends who are there for me regardless of where I’m at emotionally. Things may not always work out the way I had hoped or planned, but I can always find reason to hope and reason to be grateful. I leave you with these words from Brené Brown in her latest book Braving the Wilderness:

“A wild heart is awake to the pain in the world, but does not diminish its own pain. A wild heart can beat with gratitude and lean in to pure joy without denying the struggle in the world. We hold that tension with the spirit of the wilderness. It’s not always easy or comfortable—sometimes we struggle with the weight of the pull—but what makes it possible is a front made of love and a back built of courage.”

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year?

I lay in bed this morning pondering why I don’t particularly care for Thanksgiving. I hate the societal expectations loaded on it; the images of happy families gathered together for a massive feast; the pressure to prepare a certain type of meal in overabundance; the expectation that we need to feel or behave a certain way because, after all, it’s Thanksgiving. I have also come to rebel against the cultural narrative accompanying the holiday – the one that portrays the pilgrims as harmoniously coexisting with the native population, which is a key part of our national myth that denies the exploitation and abuse the native peoples suffered and continue to suffer at the hands of the white colonizers. But no one likes to be reminded of that, especially at Thanksgiving.

My own malaise with the holiday lies most of all at a personal level. Rather than leaving me with feelings of warmth and connection, it leaves me feeling cold and isolated. Growing up, we always celebrated Thanksgiving, but I don’t recall it being a big family gathering. We may have joined with extended family occasionally, but if so, I have no distinct memories of it. My parents would often include a couple or individual they knew who did not have a place to celebrate, and I admire that. Our meal was adequate, but not elaborate. Cooking was never really my mom’s thing.

My former spouse’s first Thanksgiving with my family was a cultural shock for her. She was used to a very large affair with extended family and a wide assortment of tasty dishes. After we started living near my parents, she quickly assumed responsibility for the meal and significantly improved it, though at the cost of a fair amount of stress to herself as she tried to meet her own expectations. Then we moved overseas, where we did our best to celebrate the holiday, trying valiantly to obtain the traditional ingredients and improvising when necessary, which was often. Finding a turkey was always the most difficult aspect. It turns out that not every culture routinely eats turkey. In Tajikistan we often obtained turkey from Turkey (poetically appropriate), except they would be the frozen, unsold units from the previous Christmas and New Year’s period in Turkey. Not the most tender birds ever, and brutally expensive – but we had to have a turkey, right?

For the last couple years Thanksgiving has been a particularly difficult time for me. In 2015 I had just come out to my former spouse and the tension between us as a result made for an emotionally intense and difficulty day, even as we were helping serve the meal at the church we attended at the time. My coming out was not yet public, even to my parents, and she wanted to maintain as “normal” a holiday as possible, which was damn near impossible given that our lives were crumbling around us.  

I have limited memories of Thanksgiving last year. I’m sure I had dinner with my parents and my son, and probably with my sister and her family, but the day is shrouded in a gray mist. I remember that I really wanted to disappear for the day, to go away somewhere and forget the hurt and pain of no longer celebrating the day with the one I had shared the day with for so long. As much as I adore my parents and enjoy being with them, on that day I felt very isolated and alone. Which is the feeling I associate with the holiday at this point. I wrestle with the internal tension, as I do have parents who love me and welcome me at any time, but when I see people sharing about their robust holiday gatherings and all the great memories they share and will renew, I feel empty and disconnected. I feel the loneliness of being a single adult in this world.

Part of me says I shouldn’t feel these emotions, but emotions don’t really respond to should and shouldn’t, nor do I think that we can compel them to do so. Telling me that I shouldn’t feel a certain way certainly doesn’t help me feel better or shake off those feelings. I envy those for whom Thanksgiving is a special day. I wish it could be for me.

It’s not that I am ungrateful for all the positive aspects of my life. My life is rich with relationships and purpose. I strive to cultivate and express gratitude for these on a daily basis. But I struggle to focus on those things on the day we set aside particularly to express thanks. On that day I sense the absence, the voids in my life, more than on most days.

I hesitate to share my thoughts on this. I feel that there is little space for people who don’t fully embrace the holiday spirit that begins with Thanksgiving and is supposed to carry us through the end of the year. I don’t sense that people want their festive spirits disrupted by those of us who, for whatever reason, are not experiencing that joy. So we go through the season doing our best to play along, trying not to detract from the enjoyment of those around us. We slip quietly into the background and, when asked about our holiday plans, offer some evasive response. 

I am hopeful that this holiday season will be better than the last. But if I had my preferences, I’d just jump ahead to the New Year, or at least to the 29^th, when my daughter arrives for a visit. That’s something I can get excited about. Until that time, I will try to carry my melancholy as unobtrusively as possible and seek to embrace joy as much as I can. I’m not without hope. I’m not alone.

She Persisted

As I waited for the show to begin, I felt the familiar nervousness, this time accentuated by the fact that I would host the show, a new role for me. I was excited, but anxious. I had even prepared notes for myself as host, so that I wouldn’t forget anything important. Not that long ago I would have laughed had anyone suggested I would host a show of storytellers, much less get on stage and share some of my most vulnerable stories. I was too afraid to be open, bold, and fearless. I didn’t acknowledge my own strength. I didn’t recognize my own gifts of storytelling and empowering others in telling their stories.

I recently wrote about Female Storytellers (FST!), a wonderful monthly show in which women share personal stories related to a selected theme. If you have not had a chance to attend and live in Tucson, you’re missing out. This month’s theme was “She Persisted,” appropriate one year after the black day on which a sizable portion of this country’s citizens voted for a misogynistic, abusive, manipulative man who has demonstrated repeatedly since then that he is uniquely unqualified to represent or lead this diverse country.

Perhaps surprisingly, none of the stories in the show were explicitly about politics. But they were intense, each in its own way. I wish I could share them all with you, but they are not mine to share. I can say that they combined to make one of the most powerful shows that I have seen in my time attending and participating in FST!. I felt such honor to host the five other women with whom I shared the stage that evening. We have a bond that I cherish, and I look forward to seeing them all again. (I hope to hear all of them tell more stories as well!)

My own story was the most intensely personal of all that I have shared to date, even, in its own way, more so than my first story about coming into my true identity. Rather than talk about it in writing, I offer you, thanks to the fantastic FST! team, the opportunity to hear it for yourself. I hope you find it stirring and motivating, though it will speak to each one in a different way. I hope that, listening to it, you will be empowered to share your own stories, whether on stage in a public storytelling show like FST!, or simply to your friends, families and communities. We all have stories to share. Our stories have value, especially those of us whose voices have been silence for too long. I am so glad that I found the strength and courage to use my voice. I hope you will as well.

Namaste

Grateful for Community

I took the step at the beginning of last month of writing about my need to undergo gender confirmation surgery, a step which took me outside of my comfort zone, as I shared at the time. It’s not easy to make oneself that vulnerable. Informing you of that decision made me uncomfortable. Asking you to help make it possible made me even more so. I don’t find it easy to ask for help. I want to be a strong, independent, self-sufficient woman. I want to give to others, not need them to give to me. My family upbringing inculcated this in me, as did my background in American cultural with the value it places on rugged individualism. We’re not supposed to need help. We’re supposed to do it all ourselves. I even had a woman in the local transgender community call me out for asking for help, saying that this was a private matter I should take care of myself.

I passionately disagree.

This past month showed me (again!) the amazing strength of community. As I have opened up about my need, you have all amazed me by your words and actions of support. You have given money toward my surgery, and I am profoundly grateful for every contribution. I still have a long way to go, but believe I will reach my goal. But it’s not just about the money. It’s about the powerful reminder that I am part of a community that cares for me, that loves me, that is there for me when I need help. Last Saturday I enjoyed an evening of dance with many of you. With others, it’s lunch together, a phone call, or even just a text message or a note on Facebook. These connections sustain me, more than you may realize.

We need connection. Even the most introverted of us (which does not describe me) needs connection with other people. We are not meant to live in isolation. Without diminishing the importance of taking ownership of our individual lives, I am convinced that we are meant to live interconnected with others. We are meant to need one another, to help one another, to be there for each other. We suffer when we don’t have that community. When we need help and don’t ask for it, we rob our friends of the opportunity to express their love for us. It’s not selfish to ask for help. It’s human.

I could not take this journey I am on without my friends. I could not. I would not have the strength to see it through. One of my fears, as I have confided to a couple friends, is facing the actual surgery and recovery time alone. They have assured me that this will not happen. How can I adequately express my gratitude for friends who promise to be by my side through such a life-changing transformation?

I can do this: I can pay it forward. I can be there for others, even as they are here for me. I’m not just in this to receive. I’m here to give, whatever I am able at any particular time. I trust that my friends know I will be there for them, just as they are there for me when I need them. What that looks like will vary depending on the situation. But I’m connected in community, and being in community means supporting one another. I am SO grateful for everyone who is supporting me, not just on this particular step of my journey, but in my life. I am a very, very blessed woman.

My Complicated Relationship with Halloween

I didn’t bother with a Halloween costume this year. I spent the day traveling to Phoenix and back for a luncheon, at which Halloween costumes would have been most out of place. I spent the evening at home, making dinner and waiting for the kids to come around trick-or-treating. (I had 9 total visitors. Ours is not a high-traffic neighborhood.)

Only once as an adult have I really put together a Halloween costume. For most of my adulthood, as a devout Christian family, we didn’t celebrate Halloween. We didn’t find it compatible with our beliefs. In addition, leaving in cultures that do not observe Halloween made it unnecessary, though some of our fellow Americans would sometimes organize a “Harvest party” around this time of year so our kids could enjoy the Christianized version of Halloween. (When I was teaching, I had a student who had put together a costume for her church’s “Reformation Day” party, which struck me as both a sad and creative way to Christianize Halloween.)

Because Halloween wasn’t a part of our family or religious tradition, it’s not that significant to me, even though the religious objections no longer hold any significance for me. I’m just too lazy, cheap, or uncreative to bother with creating a costume. Not to mention that I have issues with putting lots of make up on. I did pull together a costume a few years ago, before I came out publicly. I borrowed a friend’s tutu – the pancake style flat tutu – and paired it with a leotard I had bought. I also borrowed her pointe shoes, which unfortunately were too small to wear, so I tied them together over my shoulder. I added a tiara to complete my ballerina costume, something I had longed dreamed of being. It was the first time the real me poked out of the closet, and the response I received convinced me that the world was not ready to accept me. I sidestepped the negative and inquisitive comments I received in person (we helped at our church’s Harvest day party and later to my parent’s dance studio) and online (where I actually posted a couple pictures.) I claimed I was just having fun for Halloween. But the truth, which I hadn’t fully admitted to myself yet, is that Halloween gave the perfect excuse to express what was inside without too great a risk. That is often the case for closeted transgender people. I could fully and openly express what was really inside but minimize the pushback by claiming that it was just a Halloween costume.

Maybe that’s the reason I don’t feel a strong inclination to put on costumes for Halloween. Having hidden for so long, having pretended to be someone I wasn’t, I don’t want to pretend anymore, even if it’s just for fun. On the other hand, I can definitely think of some costumes I would really have fun dressing up in. Maybe next year.

The Power of Storytelling

“The ability to tell your own story, in words or images, is already a victory, already a revolt.”

Rebecca Solnit in Men Explain Things to Me

In April I wrote about sharing my story on stage, an experience that was both terrifying and incredibly empowering. Since then I have shared stories two more times with the same show and once with another, each one of them, as Rebecca Solnit describes it, a victory. I only became aware of storytelling as a form of expression in February, when I heard some women share stories as part of the first annual Women’s Comedy Festival in my city. That encounter led me to check out the regular show of Female Storytellers, a fantastic group of badass feminists who have been gathering once a month to share their stories for over five years. My storytelling experience in April was my first time on stage at FST!, as we affectionately refer to it (pronounced like “fist” – one you tell a story you become part of the FSTerhood. It’s awesome.)

FST! has become a standard part of my monthly routine. Whether I am on stage or not, I want to be there the second Wednesday evening each month. Every show I hear five or six powerful stories from women around a particular theme: one month it was “Choices,” another it was “Act Your Age.” Next month’s theme is “She Persisted.” The theme gives some focus to the stories, but each one is unique, coming from the lived experience of the storyteller. Some will have you laughing. Others will bring you to tears. Many do both. Each storyteller has her own style and rhythm. The audience is incredibly affirming and supportive, and each in their own way is drawn in and connects with the story differently.

FST! forms a community in which women are empowered to use their voices. In a society that has always marginalized and silenced women, and which seems currently to be regressing in what limited progress it had made toward equality (and not just for women), creating space where women can tell their stories is, to again quote Solnit, “already a victory, already a revolt.” As we share our stories, particularly those who share the stage, but including those who listen, we establish a bond that makes connection possible.

Telling our stories is also therapeutic. There are many types and degrees of trauma, and not everyone should be addressed by telling one’s story publicly. But in certain situations, the very act of sharing one’s story can be a step of healing, as well as potentially offering hope to someone else. I often experience a moment while listening to other’s stories, when I feel “Me too” – the recognition that I am not alone in my experience. Our stories are unique, but the commonalities between them are strong as well. Solnit expresses it in these words:

“To tell a story and have it and the teller recognized and respected is still one of the best methods we have of overcoming trauma.”

I have certainly found this to be true.

The first time I attended a FST! show, I went alone. I sat in the only chair available by the time I arrived, which happened to be isolated from all others in a row by itself, accentuating that feeling of being alone. Nonetheless, I was glad I went. By the next month I was on stage myself, and I’ve never looked back. After 8 months of attending and participating in FST! shows, I’ve connected with this community of women (men are welcome to attend as well) to the extent that, whether I go to a show alone or not, I know I won’t remain alone, because I am sure to run into friends whom I’ve met at FST!. I’ve formed friendships with women I might never have crossed paths with otherwise, who enrich my life and fill my world with energy and color. I look forward to interacting with them both at and outside of the FST! shows.

I’ve had friends from the FST! community who have moved away from here for various reasons. Invariably one of the things they miss is this powerful community of female storytellers. I think every community would benefit from a group like this. I’d love to see a growing movement of circles of women telling their stories publicly, empowering themselves and others to not remain silent in a world that keeps trying to silence them.

And if you live in Tucson and haven’t checked out a FST! show, you most definitely should. I’d love to see you on the second Wednesday of the month at the Flycatcher on 4^th. Check out the Female Storytellers website at www.fstorytellers.com

Don't Erase Me

Recently a friend shared a report on Facebook highlighting disturbing trends related to sexually transmitted diseases. This person introduced the report with the statement: “If you are sexually active (and I hope you are)…,” which immediately gave me pause. I think their intentions were entirely positive, but the addition of the phrase “and I hope you are” displayed a common misperception about sexuality: healthy people are sexually active. This comment erased an entire group of people – those who are asexual. It erased me and my experience, because I am asexual.

We live in a culture with an underlying assumption that all healthy people are sexually attracted to someone else, and that satisfying that attraction is a natural and essential part of being human. That sexual orientation may be heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, pansexual, or some other form, but it involves a basic inclination towards sex. Asexual people, however, do not experience sexual attraction. It doesn’t compel them, draw them to particular individuals or motivate their decisions and actions. To tell an asexual person that you hope they are sexually active is to tell them that you hope they are acting against their natural orientation, which I would define as fundamentally unhealthy.

Yet asexual people are routinely erased from the picture of sexual orientations, because people assume that everyone is sexually attracted to someone and if they are not, then something is wrong with them. It’s time to recognize that this is neither true nor accurate.

Asexuality is a healthy, normal, natural sexual orientation.

Being asexual doesn’t mean I’m not interested in relationships. Far from it. I love connecting with others. But I am not attracted to others sexually. I can admire another woman, find her very attractive (not only physically), but the attraction is not primarily a sexual one. I am not aromantic, which is another identity that exists in this complex world. Aromantic people do not experience romantic attraction. Someone who is asexual can also be aromantic. A person can be aromantic and not asexual. The two aspects of identity are distinct, though related. (The two are often referred to in shorthand as “ace” and “aro”.)

I’ve hesitated to publicly acknowledge that I am asexual. I have thought about this long and hard before affirming it for myself. I have several friends who pushed me to reflect carefully on my sexual orientation in light of my transition. They did not want me to prematurely draw conclusions about my sexual identity and cut off what they understood to be an important part of human experience. I appreciate their care and their desire to help me understand myself well. I also appreciate that in the end, they accepted my conclusion that I am, indeed, asexual. I didn’t decide this lightly, or quickly. It may seem ironic to some, given that I was married for almost 25 years and have two biological children. But being ace doesn’t mean you will never have sex, or even that you don’t enjoy it when you do. It just means that sex is not what attracts you to a person nor connects you in a relationship. In retrospect, this was a significant issue in my marriage, though I didn’t recognize it at the time.

I hesitated to share this publicly because I fear that people will confuse being asexual with a lack of interest in intimate relationship. Or, conversely, they might think that they would never want to enter into an intimate relationship with an asexual person because, well, what about the sex? Refer to the previous paragraph: for me, at least, being asexual doesn’t entirely preclude sex. It just means that sex is not what attracts me to another person and not how I’m going to feel connected and fulfilled in a relationship. Asexual people are capable of meaningful, deep, intimate relationships with allosexuals (those who have any sexual orientation other than asexual). They just have to figure out together how to express intimacy in a way that meets the needs and desires of both. And isn’t that what a healthy relationship is about anyway?

I share this now because I’m tired of being erased from the picture of human sexuality. I’m tired of feeling like I’m inadequate or abnormal because I don’t experience sexual attraction. I’m tired of being a hidden minority. I want people to understand that being asexual is not a problem to be fixed, just as being transgender isn’t. I affirm my sexual orientation as a basic part of who I am.

If you want to learn more about asexuality, I recommend the website of the Asexual Visibility and Education Network: www.asexuality.org. It’s a good starting point. I am open to questions as well about what it means to be asexual, though of course I cannot speak for everyone who is ace.   

Things that Make Me Happy

Things that make me happy (in no particular order):

• Talking with a friend
• Listening to my cat purr
• Lying in bed on Sunday morning listening to the silence in the house
• Saturday morning ballet class
• Evening sunshine on the mountains
• Crisp autumn mornings
• Lunch with a friend
• Investing my time and energy in the welfare of my community
• Reading a good book while curled up on the couch (or anywhere, really)
• Working on my cross stitch
• Petting my cats
• Watching a ballet performance
• A beautiful flower
• Seeing others happy
• A pretty dress
• Listening to a favorite song
• Dinner with a friend
• Listening to the empowering stories of other women
• A clean bathroom (not so much the process of getting it clean)
• Watching the fish swim in my aquarium
• Monday evening lyrical dance class
• Visiting my hair salon (and talking with my amazing stylist!)
• Going out with a friend
• Anything with a friend
• Breathing
• Moving
• Being alive

Taking the Next Step

October is a special month for me. Not only does it mark my physical birthday, it also marks my birthday as myself. This year I celebrate the second year of my open and full life. Looking back, the transformation I have undergone in the past two years amazes me. Just the changes in the last year astound me. I look at my life right now and have so much to be grateful for. I have a stable job with great co-workers, doing good in our community. I have good health and enjoy being active. Many wonderful people enrich my life. I invest my time in energy in people and causes that matter to me. My life matters (as many of you have kindly reminded me!) I am a rich woman.

Nonetheless, I need to take another step in my journey. I hesitate to share this step, because it strikes me as intensely personal, surprisingly so, given that I have strived to be very open and vulnerable in my writing and my life. I think this step feels more personal because it has to do with my body, and in particular with the parts of the body that I was raised not to talk about – the private parts, as we always said.

It’s also hard to talk about my body because to do so is to focus on the part of me that still brings shame, that I want to hide, that embarrasses me and makes me uncomfortable every time I stand in front of a mirror. Although I know I am a woman and that my anatomy doesn’t define that, I also feel an internal disconnect (dysmorphia) between who I am and a basic part of my physical appearance.

I need to address this dysmorphia. I need to reshape my body so that it does not cause me shame and distress. I need to undergo surgery -- specifically, gender confirmation surgery (in my case, often referred to as “bottom surgery.”)

I have thought about this for some time now. I’ve talked about it with a few friends. Recently I had a consultation with a well-regarded surgeon who has done many of these operations. Before I left her office I knew that this was the step I need to take now.

My goal is to have the operation in February. If you want to know more about the procedure, you may search online to find information. I prefer not to go into details here. I am thankful for the friends I have spoken with about this who have been very supportive. They have affirmed my decision and expressed their willingness and desire to walk with me through the process. I know I do not take this step alone, and that brings me great comfort.

Unfortunately, this operation will not be inexpensive. Although I have health insurance through my employer, I do not yet know how much, if any, of the procedure it will cover. At best I will still be left with a substantial bill, which I must pay in advance. But I know this is the right step for me now and I believe that the money will be there. I will move forward in that confidence. I would appreciate any support you can provide to make this happen. I have set up a GoFundMe account, or you may contact me directly if you would like to help. In the next couple months I will be organizing some fundraisers if you happen to live nearby. I’ll share about them on my Facebook page and here in my blog.

I look forward to the day I wake up to a body that doesn’t fill me with shame.

Stepping Out

I did something last week that I haven’t done in the nearly two years since I came out: I took a personal vacation and left my home town. In the past two years I have left my city only twice: once to visit Bisbee with my daughter, and once to travel to Yuma with my co-workers for a meeting. Both were day trips. Last week I left my city for four days – three nights away from my home, my bed, and the relative security of the community I know and love.

I hadn’t traveled sooner in part because I felt anxious about visiting new locations, uncertain how I would be received and whether I would feel comfortable and safe there. This may strike you as an irrational fear. Irrational it may be, but it is a valid fear nonetheless when you are a transgender woman. Our country is not currently an overall friendly, welcoming environment for the transgender community, and I live in a largely conservative state. There are places in my state I would strongly hesitate to visit alone. I’ve reached the point I am relatively relaxed in my home city, but the prospect of being in a new environment definitely generated some anxiety. If you cannot understand this, welcome to cisgender privilege. I did choose to visit a couple cities in my state that are considered to be more progressively minded  -- Flagstaff and Tempe --  which lessened my concern. However, I could not go with full confidence that I would be welcome and safe. Thankfully, my anxieties were allayed in both cities, which boosts my courage to eventually venture into other new locations. Each new foray is a growth step for me.

This trip also marked a milestone for me because I traveled solo for the first time since my divorce. Those who know me well know that I am a very social person. I like being with friends. After 25 years of marriage, I am also not used to taking trips alone. Sure, I made the occasional business trip by myself, but for 25 years I never took a leisure trip alone. I’m used to having someone accompany me. I would have welcomed a friend joining me on this trip, but none were available, so I decided to explore the world for myself. And I had a wonderful time.

I received a number of suggestions and recommendations for things to see and do in Flagstaff. After all, it’s a charming mountain town, not so far from the Grand Canyon and a number of other interesting sites. On this trip, I chose to remain local. I arrived in town on Thursday afternoon, parked my car, and didn’t drive it again until I left town on Saturday afternoon. I didn’t set an agenda for myself. I did have breakfast with a friend one morning, and I spent some time visiting with some people at the university, but most of the time I passed in solitude, even when surrounded by people. I read a lot, worked on my cross stitch, took a walk in the forest, and just relaxed. It was one of the best vacations I’ve had.

On my way home I stopped in Tempe to see another friend, one of the most beautiful souls I know, whom I have missed since she left town earlier this summer. Between my time in Flagstaff and my visit with her I returned home with a heart filled to overflowing with contentment, peace and joy. I need to do this more often. I may not always be able to go somewhere else to find it, but I want to make sure to create space for reflection, solitude and stillness. As a social person, I forget that my soul needs these as well. It doesn’t require going somewhere exotic, which isn’t a possibility for me at this time in my life anyway. It may mean taking an evening and heading to a quiet coffee shop (better yet, a tea house), where I can read or journal, or maybe create artwork. The thing is to make that time.

I've always been Andrea

A friend reached out to me after reading my most recent blog post. She asked how I would like my friends who knew me before my transition to talk about our shared experiences prior to that time. Since she and I, along with her husband a several others, had spent a summer traveling in Europe during college, we have a lot of shared memories, along with a number of pictures to accompany them. When the two of them see those pictures, or reflect on some aspect of that trip (or other experiences we shared over the years), they find it difficult to think of me as anyone other than the person they knew at the time, even though they have been fully supportive of my journey.

Ultimately I cannot control how others speak about me outside of my presence, but I appreciate their desire to respect who I am, even when I am not present. Her question also helped me express some thoughts I have ruminated on concerning how I perceive and speak of my own past. Initially, it felt like that was someone else’s life, one disconnected from my current life. This feeling still persists at times. But the more I have thought about it, the more I’ve come to understand that everything that has happened in my past was my life, Andrea’s life. It wasn’t the life of some stranger. It was Andrea’s life, unfortunately lived without recognizing herself and unable to truly express herself. I’ve been Andrea all my life. I’ve only recently had the opportunity to acknowledge that.

When pictures enter the conversation, things become more challenging, because it’s harder to look at old pictures of myself and see Andrea. But it is Andrea in those pictures, just forced to live in a very different shell. In time that may help me look at old pictures of myself more freely. In the meantime, it helped my friends view those old pictures differently as well. They can recognize that they took that trip with Andrea. She just looked a lot different back then.

Such a simple thought, but such a powerful change in perspective: I’ve always been Andrea. I don’t have to think of my life so much as a before and after. I’m the same person. Only now I finally get to be a whole person.

Reclaiming my past

I received my college diploma yesterday, 21 years after I earned it. To be more accurate, I received an updated diploma yesterday, because I did receive one when I completed the degree. But that diploma no longer fit me. It did not correctly identify the person who had earned that degree, and who is proud of having done so. I buried that old one in a box and never looked at it. But I wanted to be able to affirm my accomplishments from my life prior to transition, so I finally took the plunge and ordered a new one.

The process was surprisingly easy. Last year, when I was looking for employment, I had contacted the university about updating my academic records. The university’s website had indicated that no changes to names on academic records were allowed, until I saw the fine print that made an exception for those making a gender transition. Yes! A couple phone calls and a copy of my court order and doctor’s letter later, and I had an updated transcript with my proper name. At the time I didn’t have the extra money to order a new diploma, so I let that rest. Until now.

Reclaiming the past is an ongoing process for me. I’ve written about this earlier this year. Deciding what to do about academic records, employment history, accounts established under my former name, all of this takes time and energy, more so than one might think. The most difficult aspect I encountered was when I needed to update my resume and references while looking for work last year. Because I hadn’t worked locally for a long time, I needed to use the references from my teaching work and my overseas work, all of which involved Christian organizations. I couldn’t list them as references without informing them of my transition, in case a potential employer contacted them. Those were some awkward conversations, though they went better than I had anticipated (other than the one co-teacher who insisted on trying to convince me that I was making a very unhealthy decision and a former supervisor who never returned my message asking him to be a reference.) The reality is, one doesn’t just “come out” one time. It’s an on-going process. Maybe someday I’ll be done with it. Maybe.

My new diploma now hangs for all to see on the wall of my office. It’s a small thing, in a way. But for me it’s a big thing, because it’s another step in reclaiming my past. Just because I lived it under a different name and another identity that wasn’t truly me, doesn’t me that I didn’t live it. Those are still my accomplishments and memories.

And for those who take issue with the university I earned my degree at, I’m not ashamed of it. If I can find the courage and confidence to live openly as myself, I can also confidently acknowledge my Sun Devil roots, even here in Wildcat land. I think for many of my friends this part of my identity is probably a bigger issue than my being transgender! (And in my defense, I include this picture of me wearing my Arizona Wildcat scarf at the Arizona Wildcat soccer stadium cheering on the womens’ soccer team. When it comes to Wildcats and Sun Devils I am definitely non-binary.)

Back from Camp -- Oh what a weekend!

I left for camp on Friday excited but anxious. This evening, freshly returned from camp, I am exhausted physically and drained emotionally, but my heart overflows with such love and joy after this amazing weekend.

(Out of respect for the privacy of camp families, I will not post pictures of them. I did take a selfie each morning to commemorate my weekend.)

Saturday morning

My wordsmithing skills encounter their limits as I try to express all that I felt and experienced this weekend, and all the emotions, memories and thoughts that continue to run through my mind even now. I had worried whether I would successfully connect with the children and youth. As so many of you assured me, my worries were unfounded. I thoroughly enjoyed interacting with them during activities, over meals, hanging out on the patio. These are great kids, and I am so glad they are now part of my life.

Sunday morning

I went wanting to give to the families attending camp. I received way more than I gave. I found a welcoming, diverse, supportive family, a community of families of many different designs united above all by the desire to create a society in which their children – transgender, non-binary and gender creative – can safely and fully express their unique identities. As they work toward this, they face many challenges from outside – restrictive laws, unsupportive schools, hostile relatives – as well as the challenges of developing home environments in which all siblings feel loved, valued and supported, and offer that to one another. As someone with children of her own, I am familiar with that challenge. As someone who is herself transgender, I am painfully familiar with many of the challenges their children face.

I applaud these parents. They are fierce warriors for their children. They are also so warm and welcoming. Their support for one another and their passionate love for their children (ALL of them, and that was very apparent) inspire me. I also particularly admired the siblings I met at camp, who despite the usual inter-sibling issues, fiercely supported their gender diverse sibling(s). Among the many enjoyable conversations I had over the weekend, some of the most insightful were those with these siblings as we talked about what their own journey and experience has been.

I went into camp knowing that it would be tiring. The returning staff warned me of that from the first planning meeting. They weren’t lying, though knowing that didn’t fully prepare me for the level of tired I felt by the end of each day. I think that feeling was intensified because I didn’t fully anticipate the extent to which camp would also be emotionally exhausting. I shed many, many tears during the weekend. A lot of them flowed as my own tender spots and not-so-old wounds were touched at various times. Each time someone, usually multiple someones, would wrap me in a warm hug and speak to me of how loved I am. There is no better tonic for the soul.

Monday morning

Other tears flowed as I observed the beauty of the community I had the privilege to be part of. I truly wish everyone could experience this for themselves. I think the world would be a better place. In this diverse, open community I encountered a lot of love, a lot of willingness and effort to understand, to communicate, and to hold space for different experiences. We were not all cut from a single mold, nor were we trying to fit each other into any particular model. We were a group of people struggling together to create a world that is more just, inclusive, open and welcoming of diversity.

Last weekend I felt overwhelmed with a sense of despair in light of the forces working against those of us who believe in an inclusive, welcoming society. This weekend renewed my hope. There is goodness in this world. The families and staff of Camp Born This Way demonstrated this so powerfully. I’m so glad I went and so honored to be a part of this community. I know where I will be at this time next year. I wouldn’t miss it.

Heading to Camp

In a couple hours I will depart for Camp Born This Way. This amazing camp, now in its sixth year, provides a safe camp environment for transgender children and youth, along with their siblings and parents. I’m excited to be part of the camp staff, but to be fully open with you, I’m nervous too.

As camp weekend has drawn closer, I’ve thought quite a bit about why I feel anxious. One factor arises from my lack of experience as camp staff. The last time I helped at a youth camp, I was still a teenager myself. Yeah, that’s a few years ago. Another stems from my desire to connect with these youth. I’m one of only a couple new staff. The others have interacted with these youth in monthly groups and previous camps, so they have a head start. I’ve had to remind myself to just be myself and not worry about trying to impress anyone. When I relax and let my personality radiate, it will speak for itself. Besides, I’ve raised two young adults who still speak with me, so I have some degree of ability to relate to youth.

I’m also experiencing my usual anxiety before any trip. When I used to travel somewhat regularly for my work, I would always feel some stress right up to departure time, as I checked and rechecked my packing list, trying valiantly to make sure I didn’t forget anything. This anxiety generally decreases once I depart, because at that point what’s done is done.

Last night I identified a couple other triggers that touch my identity. This will be my first camping experience as a recognized woman. It seems almost insignificant, but I’ve never had to pack for any trip since coming out, much less for a 3-day camp experience. I’ve had to stop and think differently about what I want and need to bring. Since I came out, I have slept away from my home only one night, when I stayed overnight at a friend’s. I’m not used to waking up in a space that is not my own, where I am familiar and comfortable with my surroundings and know exactly where everything I want is located.

Even more, I realized that this will be the first time I’ve shared common lodging and restroom space with others since coming out. Yes, I’ve used the toilet countless times (and that, especially initially, was very frightening), but that’s not the same as using showers and getting ready in public. It may sound trivial to you, but for me, who has always been rather discrete about my body anyway, this is quite significant. Once I thought about this, I understood why this causes me a great deal of anxiety. I’m still coming to terms with my body, and being in a place where that body will, to some extent at least, be viewed by others, stresses me. This will be a good environment in which to take this step, given the focus of this camp, but it forces me to take a step in my own growth nonetheless.

Now that my bag is packed, all that remains is to wait for my ride to arrive. I’m going to focus on the anticipation and the connections that will develop this weekend. What a fantastic opportunity for these families, and for me to share my own journey with them. I trust that on Monday, looking back at the weekend, I’ll have so many great memories and these worries I have now will have vanished. But at this moment, I need to acknowledge that they are real for me. Pretending they don’t trouble me violates my goal of living authentically and wholeheartedly. So here I sit, for the moment, with my anxieties, so that by sitting with them I can move past them.

Facing the Darkness

Twice this weekend I sat down to write about the dark cloud of racism and discrimination that is increasingly shadowing my country. Twice I could not bring myself to post what I had written, because the words were just too hard to share. The heaviness I felt in my spirit over the weekend could not be lifted by any of my usual practices of self-care.

The actions of the current administration and the words of the pseudo-president communicate loud and clear that justice for all is most certainly not the goal or concern of this government. They will support the forces of racism, exclusion and discrimination. The America they envision as great is a white, patriarchal, heteronormative state, run primarily by wealthy, powerful white men, and perhaps a smattering of others whom they deem worthy of including in their little club. Anyone outside of a narrowly defined “normal” has no place here. Our civil rights are not the concern of this unjust state.

How does someone like me, a member of a marginalized community that is currently the focus of numerous attacks, live in such an environment? This question has troubled me for days. Despair lurked at the edge of my mind. Is there a future for my country as a place where diversity is welcome, celebrated and recognized as a key source of our strength as a nation? Is there a future for me? I expect that I experience these threats more personally than some of my friends, because my community is one of those facing the brunt of the outpouring of hate that our illustrious “leader” is fostering. How can I not take it personally?

The darkness has lifted somewhat today. Not because the threat has passed. The threat is just as real as ever. The power elite in government and their supporters have not changed their tune or their behavior. I feel no more confident of my safety and well-being today than I did yesterday. But I hold on to hope, because I also remember that I am fortunate enough to live in a community that says “This is not our America. This is not the America we believe in or want. This is not an America we are willing to accept.” I think of my friends and the leaders I know in my community, and in my mind I see numerous faces of people who work every day in their jobs and in their personal lives to create a community in which all people can live safely regardless of race, ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation or gender identity. We’re not a perfect community but we, like many other communities around this country (I have to believe!) represent the future of America. The storm will likely get worse before it’s over, and in the moments when hope flickers, I will reach out to my friends and be reminded that I need not fear. There is light in the darkness. I am reminded of a verse from the Christian Bible: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

To all my friends who stand for a community that is open, diverse, inclusive and just, who reassure me regularly of your support and care, thank you. Your light helps keep mine burning.

Insecurities

As I lay down to sleep the other evening, a familiar message played in my mind. The message tells me that no one would notice if I just disappeared, if I were no longer here (in the fullest sense of that phrase). The message says that I don’t matter enough to any one for them to miss me. And it hurts deeply, because it touches my deepest insecurity: the one that says “I don’t matter.”

The message was fueled that particular evening by the way events had played out. I had chosen to go out for the evening because I didn’t want to sit at home. I had reached out to some friends to see if anyone wanted to join me, but received no response. I decided to go anyway, because I wanted to demonstrate to myself that I had the confidence to go out on my own. This may sound strange, but for me it’s a very significant mental obstacle. The evening passed enjoyably enough. I even crossed paths with a few people I know. But in the end I sat alone in a bar enjoying my vodka cocktail and feeling terribly lonely. It’s an awful feeling. Which fueled my insecurities and reinforced the message in my mind. On such nights, thoughts of leaving this world are not so distant.

That particular evening I more or less successfully turned off the message by recalling the people I do matter to. I pictured each individual, reflecting on what she meant to me and how she would miss me if I were not here. I thought of the friends to whom I can turn for support and reminded myself that their unavailability on a given evening did not negate their care and love. This positive self talk turned away the demons and I fell asleep peacefully.

But the demons will be back. They recur often enough, sometimes with much greater intensity. When they are at their worst, I try to reach out to friends for support, which is a risk, because if no one responds, it only reinforces the very message I’m trying to turn off. Not reaching out is an even greater risk though. These demons can lead me into a very dark place, one I almost never speak of.

Writing this has taken a great deal of effort. My mind shouts at me not to make myself so vulnerable, not to speak so honestly about things that best remain hidden. I want people to see me as strong, as successful, as a woman who has risked a lot and in return found so much reward. Which is true, but it’s not the whole picture. I’ve made great strides in affirming my own worth to myself, but I still have deep insecurities in this regard. Even with my closest friends, I hesitate to speak of my struggles, for fear that they will reject me. Thankfully, they are better people than that and the love and support they continuously show, the words of affirmation they regularly share, are slowly pushing back the darkness inside, slowly wearing away at this message that I do not matter.

My deepest insecurity also fuels one of my greatest strengths and passions: to communicate to others how much they matter. I worry sometimes that I will drive my friends crazy telling them how much they matter to me. I’ll take that risk, because I think we need to hear that message, even if we don’t have the insecurities I do. In a world that communicates the opposite message to us so often, we desperately need to hear how much we matter, how valuable, cherished, loved and important we are. If I were to die tonight without another chance to talk to my friends, I would not want a single one to have any doubts about how much they mattered to me. I even try to communicate this message, at a less personal level, to the people I interact with in the course of my daily life. Because when we know that we matter, even just to one other person, it transforms our perspective on ourselves and on the world around us.  

I share this tonight in the hope that, if you find yourself in a dark place, hearing messages like mine that say you don’t matter, you will realize that you are not alone. You are not the only one who feels this way at times. You do matter. You matter because you are you, because you are unique and irreplaceable. I hope you can hold onto that truth and speak it to yourself over and over. You are not alone. You matter to me.

Bad Social Justice Warrior

My town had an anti-racism march on Sunday, and I didn’t go. Not because I don’t support the cause. Quite the contrary. In fact, I feel a bit guilty that I didn’t march. I’m thankful for all those who did. But on that date, at that time, it was not the way for me to express my protest against the rising tide of white supremacism in this country. (To be totally fair, not a single of my friends who went has in any way shamed me for not being there, so this article is not a response to that.)

I absolutely believe we must stand against the hatred, the racism, the xenophobia, the transphobia and homophobia and all the other evils that this movement represents. I also believe that each of us must choose for ourselves how we best do that within the scope of our lives, our energy, our well-being, and our strengths. There’s no one single way in which to raise our voices, to commit ourselves to working for a society that is inclusive, just, and equitable for all.

When one reboots one’s life midstream, one gains the benefit of choosing what to refill it with. As I’ve rebuilt mine, I’ve sought to choose carefully and wisely how to invest my time and energy. I simply cannot fight every battle that I’d like to fight. I cannot speak out every time this fucked up administration does something shitty. I cannot march in every protest. To do so would leave me burnt out and useless to myself or anyone else. Working in the nonprofit world and interacting with many people actively engaged in social justice, I have observed that many of them -- wonderful, excellent, passionate people -- are also very busy and often exhausted. I admire all that they do, but I don’t want to become like that. So I seek to balance my engagement level with my capacity to engage fully and actively while maintaining space for myself to recharge and refresh.

In the years I worked overseas, I didn’t allow this margin for self-care. In fact, self-care seemed almost sinful. After all, when you’re working for god, thinking of yourself is the last thing you’re supposed to do. I think that contributed significantly to the burn out I experienced after several years. I loved what I did, but the stresses and demands of that life piled up and slowly drained me until I was running on fumes, an empty shell of myself.

I don’t want to return to that place. Last fall, as I began reengaging with life and finding my role in my community, I examined a number of options, all of them good and worthwhile. None of my initial explorations went anywhere. Now, almost a year later, I find my plate filled with a healthy balance of activities that contribute to the well-being of my community, in particular the LGBTQ community. These activities utilize my strengths and resonate with my passions. There are still a hundred other good causes I could join with, every one of them worthy and in need of people. But to take them on as well would be to cross the line I have drawn for myself to keep a healthy life balance. I allow myself to say no, and it’s okay.

I don’t write this to defend myself. I don’t have to defend myself. I’m a flawed, imperfect social justice warrior. I wrestle to recognize my privilege even while I struggle with the challenges of belonging to a marginalized community. I want to continue to grow as a woman, a feminist, and an activist. I want to do so while making a concerted effort to keep margin in my life. If that makes me a bad social justice warrior, than so be it. I won’t be silent. But my contribution may not always be visible.

How are you standing for social justice, inclusion and equity?

Friendship

I read an article that came across my social media channels the other day. The article, originally written in 2012 (ancient!) was reposted by the New York Times and examines the challenges of making friends as one gets older. I can relate to this topic.

My nomadic life has always presented challenges to maintaining friendships. I’ve lived in 7 different cities in 3 different states and 4 different countries since completing university. In addition, when I presented as a man, the dynamic of male friendships further hindered me from developing and sustaining meaningful, lasting friendships. Between the two, when I returned from living overseas in 2011, I functionally had no significant friends in my life. My closest friend, a woman, lived in Tajikistan and due to the distance and the relational dynamic with my spouse, I had to really step back from that friendship. I had no one I could count on to do things with me. I had no one to confide in. My social life consisted of doing things with my spouse, my parents and my children. Since I worked on my own at home, I had no meaningful connection with anyone who wasn’t related or married to me.

We joined a home Bible study group through our church, and I made some acquaintances that way, but I found it difficult to develop any depth to those relationships. I reached out to some of the other men in the group, but their lives were filled with work, family and the friends they already had. They were polite enough, but there was no real opportunity for meaningful connection. Women, with whom I naturally preferred to form friendships, were out of the question at the time, due to the previously-mentioned dynamic with my spouse. I honestly thought that if I were to die, the only people who would attend my funeral were my immediate family members.

Coming out brought new opportunities, as well as new challenges. For the first time in my life I could freely pursue friendships with other women, and in that regard my friendship circle has exploded. I’m so thankful for this. Still, finding friends in my age range has continued to prove challenging. Most of the women I know who are over 35 are married or in long-term relationships. Many have children and all have jobs and full social and family calendars. Not surprisingly, a significant percentage of my current friends are in their 20s and early 30s. I love this, because they enrich my life in so many ways. But I appreciate the value of the friends I have found who are in post 35. I can relate to them about life experiences in ways I cannot with my younger friends.

I’ve had to adjust my expectations about my friendships. I have to recognize that most of my 35+ friends do not have the flexible schedule that I do. They don’t have the freedom, or sometimes the energy, to decide to go out for a drink on a moment’s notice. I’ve had to accept that sometimes getting together once every couple months is the best we can do. We can still develop a meaningful friendship under those conditions. It just takes effort, commitment and a long perspective. I face similar challenges with my under-35 friends because many of them are juggling multiple jobs, or studying, or both. Life takes a lot of time and energy.

I have wrestled with accepting that forming meaningful friendships, whether those friends are under 35 or over, takes time. It takes commitment, and investment by both parties. Friendships don’t develop overnight, and I’ve only known most of my friends for a relatively short time. When I remember that, I realize how thankful I am for the network of friends I have, and especially for those who have become particularly close, the ones I know I can reach out to and talk about things, even if the conversation has to occur by text message. I am thankful that women seem, in general, to do better at building relationships with other women. I don’t want to be a prescriptive essentialist and state that men simply cannot form deep friendships. I’m sure they can, though my experience didn’t demonstrate this. I cannot say what it would be like to be a man in my position, looking to restart one’s life after 40. I don’t think it would be easy. But maybe I’m wrong. Someone else will have to share that perspective.

I do know that for me, forming new friendships has taken intentionality, persistence, effort and a willingness to take the risk of reaching out. I also know, and am immensely thankful, that doing that has proven profoundly rewarding for me. I wouldn’t be where I am without my circle of friends.

Further Thoughts

They say you should never read the comments on social media. Sometimes I do anyway, because I’m curious to hear what people are thinking about issues. As I’ve read comments on a couple articles related to Drumpf’s pronouncement on Wednesday excluding transgender people from military service, I’ve come away with some disturbing conclusions.

The issue here isn’t fundamentally about military service at all. On a personal level, I couldn’t care less whether I can serve in the military and can’t understand why anyone would want to, but that’s a different post for a different time. On a societal level, the issues at stake in this debate go beyond the specific question of military service.

First of all, I’ve read the argument that military service is not a right. Ok, on a simple level, I agree. Neither is shopping at a store of your choosing, or being able to use a public restroom, or even driving a motor vehicle. But having the opportunity to engage in those activities, to join clubs, to volunteer in your community, to serve in the military – these are all central freedoms that we enjoy as members of our society. When someone says that a person should be excluded from the military simply because they do not conform to an arbitrary standard to gender identity, how is that different than saying that someone cannot serve because their skin color or religion don’t meet a certain expectation? And if you can exclude transgender people from the military on that basis, what’s to stop you from making the same argument in other public domains? Where does it end?

I understood from some of the arguments I read that far too many people still do not view being transgender as a fundamental identity issue. They believe it is a choice. Therefore, someone who makes that choice must live with the consequences of it, even if those consequences include reduction of freedoms or rights. But transgender people do not choose to be transgender, any more than someone who is black or Hispanic chooses to be so. It is a fundamental part of their identity. How they choose to embrace and express that varies from one individual to another, but the core identity remains regardless. We have made some (albeit limited) progress in this country on reducing legal discrimination in public accommodations based on ethnicity, skin color and such. Gender identity falls into the same category.

Secondly, and corollary to the issue of whether being transgender is a core identity or a choice, I have read many arguments that the public should not have to pay the cost for transgender people to receive the medical care they need. When I read this, I inevitably detect an underlying current of “This is a choice, so the medical care concurrent with that choice is not essential, but optional.” With this mentality, the treatment some transgender people need to live whole lives becomes a luxury, a cosmetic convenience. And why should society pay for someone’s cosmetic luxuries?

If it were a luxury, I’d agree. But it’s not. Transgender people face legitimate medical needs just like many other people in our society. In trying to align our bodies with our identities, we pursue the medical care that is necessary and appropriate to us, just as anyone with a fundamental health issue would. Should society help pay for these needs? Well, that’s the nature of collective insurance. We all contribute so that each of us can have our needs met as they arise. We don’t get to choose whether Tommy should get the medication for his asthma, or Sally should get the eczema treatment she needs. That’s not our decision, just as it is not Tommy or Sally’s decision whether you should be subsidized in your allergy medications, or your thyroid pills, or whatever treatment you may need. When we look at the specific issue of transgender care in the military, we have to recognize and admit that the military pays for all sorts of medical care for its personnel, medical care that we may or may not consider legitimate. Should the military subsidize Viagra so male soldiers can get better erections? Hardly seems to be an essential need in my mind. But I’m not going to protest it, even though I think Viagra is more of a luxury than basic care for transgender people is.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by this attitude toward healthcare. After all, our representatives in Washington seem to have a fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of collective insurance. That doesn’t make them right, any more than someone’s objections to their taxes subsidizing care for transgender service personnel are valid. If we’re going to start protesting all the things our taxes support, allow me to submit my list right now. Again, we’re a collective society, which means we all contribute to meet the needs of one another, even when we don’t always agree whether they are truly needed.

Reading the comments the past couple days has shaken my belief in the goodness of people. It has reminded me that I am fortunate to be surrounded by people who recognize and affirm the inherent worth, value and dignity of all people. Because of this I can sometimes forget that there are lots of people in this country who don’t think this way. If those voices prevail, I fear for the future of this country, and of our world. But I will hold on to my hope and confidence that inclusion will prevail, even through the dark night of the current climate.