With the Autumn Equinox just past, it seemed like an appropriate time to get back to you all. A part of the delay was an effort to get my fall semester worked out and subsequently find the room for "fun" things like this emotionally-taxing-at-times blog and the occasional night of sleep. Happy to say I've done absolutely none of that!
While Queer Spirituality is back in full swing on campus, I have yet to return - mostly because I'm at home completing assignments until the last possible second and frequently just miss it. I've heard there has been a significant increase in attendance which excites me more than I can say. I have been taking the opportunity at home to actively inform myself on more current issues in the Jewish community, the trans* community, and other groups I feel as though I owe the attention to. I do miss the simultaneous relaxation and stimulation QS provided me in the spring though.
If you recall the last post I did before my extended absence (here if you don't), I was extremely aggravated about the exclusion of trans* bodies and individuals from medical discourse - particularly reproductive justice and the rights surrounding that, such as sterilization as a requirement for the recognition of gender changes, the old joke "Oh, you're a lesbian, it must be so nice not to need birth control," etc. I am more fortunate than most in my complaining because I've been given the opportunity to see this conversation get taken to the next level. Not only am I working with Advocates for Youth and their push for comprehensive sex education (which includes transgender individuals and their needs!) but my amazing partner has also expanded their masters' thesis to include similar discourse. Watching that come together is an amazing (and quite frankly, motivational) experience for me, and being so close to it has helped to remind me of why I was so aggravated in the first place.
I've also had several amazing chances to develop long-lasting connections with several individuals within the trans* movement and academic arena, all three of which have been inspiring in their own ways. Joy Ladin has really helped me reestablish that connection to my Jewish roots and make a space for that (personally speaking, not research-wise) reconciliation between bearing a trans*/genderqueer identity and my religious/cultural roots; Susan Stryker has motivated me to take my academic work to the next level and is out there creating a top-notch first program of its kind at the University of Arizona that I want nothing more than to be a part of once my time comes, and Janet Mock simply made my life by being one of the most beautifully down-to-earth women I have ever met in my life. Every day, these three women remind me of what destinations are truly possible and what the fights to reach them are often worth.
Anyway - I suppose it's time we get down to business. I've spent the last few months sinking in what seems like hopelessly difficult revelations, and while I've taken time to reflect on them in real life, we all know that nothing makes it easier to understand than writing an "angsty" blog post.
As I've said numerous times before, intersectionality is the air I breathe (because I was properly educated by amazing professors to do so). But I've forgotten recently that while intersectionality is a reality, that reality is constantly shifting, growing and evolving. While I've talked about several of my most important aspects of identity excessively on here, I've had the chance to dig up a few more over the summer that I had never really thought about before.
The Accelerating Racial Justice retreat I attended this summer was a catalyst for a very deep period of self-reflection and, as my friend Z said, growth of confidence in myself and who I thought that might be.
What I had never considered seriously before (although I had obviously thought about it because I very much view my Judaism as more ethnic than religious) was the racial aspect of my identity. I spent the entire duration of ARJ fighting battles with myself about how to accept that I had white privilege unless I voluntarily outed myself as something not white. I had felt guilty for "passing" but had also experienced racial discrimination as both a Jew and a Latin@ at the hands of "true" white people. So I obviously had conflicts there, not only within myself but in how I had identified myself to the group I was with. It was also the first time I had ever encountered myself as the racially disadvantaged member in a relationship of any sort, which created a weird sort of tension not only during the week but after I returned home.
I had also never previously thought about myself in the context of (dis)ability. I had, but only in the sense that it was an aspect I consistently refused to acknowledge. While I've had an interest in disability studies and the scope of that conversation for some time, it was hardly academic. It was mostly a selfish interest to test my limits when it came to owning my identity. This is a conversation I've had more in depth with my partner, but it was so long ago that I hardly remember what was said. Essentially, I just remember having a really difficult time with the idea of labeling myself as disabled in some way, because a) I don't think I even know the proper language to do so, and b) when I see someone in a wheelchair, or someone who is blind, or deaf, or in some other way more visibly, permanently so, how can I claim the right to that identity without feeling guilty? And then it occurred to me that I am really only disabled in the context in which I surround myself with healthy, able-bodied individuals.
In spite of this new development in how I see myself, I am happy to say that I have become more at peace with everything that had taken place in the winter and spring, and yes, I do feel even more confident in that self. I have started on the long journey to becoming more involved with things I am passionate about truly as myself, rather than someone whose rights were affected by such issues. I am beginning to embrace the community around me, and hoping to continue to expand it into the world at large.
I know this wasn't exactly revelatory, but I think it was a necessary "It's been so long, I've missed you, how have you been" sort of post.
10.16.2013
Janet Mock and I at Urban Retreat 2013, Photo by "Lloyd"
Coalitions and the Drive for Political Action
The following is a blog I posted for Amplify Your Voice, a project of Advocates for Youth. Originally posted 16 Oct. 2013.
Since coming back from Urban Retreat 2013, I’ve had a bit of time to think about what mistakes I made and avoided over the weekend.
Going into Urban Retreat, I wasn’t entirely sure of what my role would be as a Campus Organizer, because I had previously resigned from GenderBloc and we had decided another member should take the CO role. This resignation was largely a product of a busier-than-imagined fall semester, and trying to do too many things at once seemed incredibly risky. I had felt comfortable with my decision until arriving at UR.
For such a long time, group activism and building a family around that motivation had been a huge part of my life. From working with Human Rights Campaign throughout high school, to my current (light) involvement with GetEQUAL and other local activist and support groups, my identity had been constructed through its reliance on commonalities with others. As a consequence, it took me a very long time to decide who I was and what that meant outside of my political work.
Perhaps this lack of personal identity is what has contributed to my unwillingness to step back into an area where my only involvement was on the political front, with driving support for LGBT individuals and the issues that face our communities. I remained a staunch supporter of “working alone” for the last two years, with rare exceptions here and there. I let this cloud my mind heading to UR, and mostly saw my role there as “well, I’m here, I’ll get the info for the person taking over, and I won’t get attached.” As much as I hate to admit it, I was pretty successful.
It was not until I got back to Cincinnati, after wasting a weekend of amazing opportunities, that I realized I had blown everything I cared about in the interests of my own insecurities. After having very personal battles with myself last winter, a series of fallouts with my mother as a result, and ultimately revising my entire identity to all who had known me prior to “Micha,” I was anything but ready to work with 150 new strangers. What I didn’t understand was that every single one of those strangers had something they could have offered to me. If I had taken the time, I would have learned 150 new lessons…but I was too busy being scared.
Most of the time, I give a disgusted grimace when I hear the word “ally.” In my world, an ally is always a negative thing – it’s a privileged individual who wants a gold ribbon because they were human enough to be decent. Not because they took it to another level and dedicated themselves to working to confront oppression on every possible level, not because they were someone who routinely reflected on their privilege and found ways to use that to help the oppressed individuals they were allying with…just because they wanted to be our saviors. On the opposite end, though – I have always valued the idea of coalitions above all other forms of political communities. The idea of similarly-oppressed groups – and that is not to say that I am oppressed in one way, you are oppressed in another, so I understand your oppression, because that is simply not the case, oppressions are not equivalencies – that these similarly-oppressed groups could band together to find effective political avenues to change their situations and confront their oppressors and maybe work together to combat multiple forms of oppression – that has always felt like love to me. What Maria Lugones calls “loving perception” is how I imagine coalitions. While we recognize that we are all different, we are able to perceive each other with love and recognize that even with that difference, we are able to help each other climb our mountains. They may not be the same mountains, or even in the same range, but you cannot battle oppression and privilege on only one level. Eradicating one form of oppression is not eradication, it is reduction. A reduction which simply allows other forms of oppression to grow, or new ones to take over – and that helps no one.
What did I learn from UR? I learned that as social justice advocates, it’s our responsibility to give others a chance. Whether they are members of other oppressed groups, allies, or the oppressors, no one is capable of stepping up if we automatically condemn them as something “different” or “wrong.” If we truly want to drive political and social change, we have to actively accept as many willing individuals as we can, even if their methods of helping are not exactly what we want or expect. I know I could’ve done much better at living this on a personal level not only at UR, but at other points in my life. I can only hope that taking this time to reflect reminds me of the importance that friendships, partnerships, communities and coalitions play in our work, and that I learn how to use it to achieve my own goals and assist others in achieving theirs.
Since coming back from Urban Retreat 2013, I’ve had a bit of time to think about what mistakes I made and avoided over the weekend.
Going into Urban Retreat, I wasn’t entirely sure of what my role would be as a Campus Organizer, because I had previously resigned from GenderBloc and we had decided another member should take the CO role. This resignation was largely a product of a busier-than-imagined fall semester, and trying to do too many things at once seemed incredibly risky. I had felt comfortable with my decision until arriving at UR.
For such a long time, group activism and building a family around that motivation had been a huge part of my life. From working with Human Rights Campaign throughout high school, to my current (light) involvement with GetEQUAL and other local activist and support groups, my identity had been constructed through its reliance on commonalities with others. As a consequence, it took me a very long time to decide who I was and what that meant outside of my political work.
Perhaps this lack of personal identity is what has contributed to my unwillingness to step back into an area where my only involvement was on the political front, with driving support for LGBT individuals and the issues that face our communities. I remained a staunch supporter of “working alone” for the last two years, with rare exceptions here and there. I let this cloud my mind heading to UR, and mostly saw my role there as “well, I’m here, I’ll get the info for the person taking over, and I won’t get attached.” As much as I hate to admit it, I was pretty successful.
It was not until I got back to Cincinnati, after wasting a weekend of amazing opportunities, that I realized I had blown everything I cared about in the interests of my own insecurities. After having very personal battles with myself last winter, a series of fallouts with my mother as a result, and ultimately revising my entire identity to all who had known me prior to “Micha,” I was anything but ready to work with 150 new strangers. What I didn’t understand was that every single one of those strangers had something they could have offered to me. If I had taken the time, I would have learned 150 new lessons…but I was too busy being scared.
Most of the time, I give a disgusted grimace when I hear the word “ally.” In my world, an ally is always a negative thing – it’s a privileged individual who wants a gold ribbon because they were human enough to be decent. Not because they took it to another level and dedicated themselves to working to confront oppression on every possible level, not because they were someone who routinely reflected on their privilege and found ways to use that to help the oppressed individuals they were allying with…just because they wanted to be our saviors. On the opposite end, though – I have always valued the idea of coalitions above all other forms of political communities. The idea of similarly-oppressed groups – and that is not to say that I am oppressed in one way, you are oppressed in another, so I understand your oppression, because that is simply not the case, oppressions are not equivalencies – that these similarly-oppressed groups could band together to find effective political avenues to change their situations and confront their oppressors and maybe work together to combat multiple forms of oppression – that has always felt like love to me. What Maria Lugones calls “loving perception” is how I imagine coalitions. While we recognize that we are all different, we are able to perceive each other with love and recognize that even with that difference, we are able to help each other climb our mountains. They may not be the same mountains, or even in the same range, but you cannot battle oppression and privilege on only one level. Eradicating one form of oppression is not eradication, it is reduction. A reduction which simply allows other forms of oppression to grow, or new ones to take over – and that helps no one.
What did I learn from UR? I learned that as social justice advocates, it’s our responsibility to give others a chance. Whether they are members of other oppressed groups, allies, or the oppressors, no one is capable of stepping up if we automatically condemn them as something “different” or “wrong.” If we truly want to drive political and social change, we have to actively accept as many willing individuals as we can, even if their methods of helping are not exactly what we want or expect. I know I could’ve done much better at living this on a personal level not only at UR, but at other points in my life. I can only hope that taking this time to reflect reminds me of the importance that friendships, partnerships, communities and coalitions play in our work, and that I learn how to use it to achieve my own goals and assist others in achieving theirs.
5.04.2013
Birth politics are body politics are trans* politics - Identity Politics and the Medicalization of Bodies
I don't even have the words.
Trans* Politics tumblr.
I've been fortunate to stumble across a few conversations, with my partner, classmates, and coworkers, about the correlation between the politics and medicalization of the birth industry, and that of the trans* community.
BODIES, BODIES, BODIES.
That's what it comes down to. One of my classmates, a co-participant in a feminist leadership group I'm in (previously mentioned: WILL), does a lot of her work surrounding reproductive justice, birth politics, and the birth industry in the medical complex. She also works with doulas, midwives, and other "alternative" forms of birthing (i.e. home-births). She recently came to my Women, Culture and Power class as a guest speaker, for the discussion on birth politics, and posed the question of whether or not reproductive justice was just a concern for those women to whom it applied (in this case I am assuming heterosexual, cisgender, fertile, of proper age, "fit" to reproduce, so on and so forth).
I didn't have time to get into this during the class (a disadvantage of sessions lasting less than an hour) but I did get a chance to talk to her about it later, briefly.
It's not. Birth politics are not just for the women giving birth. The process of birthing is heavily dictated by what is convenient and what is faster and what is best for those involved....in the medical industry. She talked about the trend of medical procedures that weren't consented to being performed on mothers who were sedated, tranquilized, paralyzed while giving life to their children - mothers who couldn't do anything to stop it.
I'm not going to go in-depth with the birthing politics, because I don't know much about it, and the last thing I want to do is come off as an uneducated ass. I'm working on it though, I promise.
The fact is, it is all about the bodies. We could talk for days about the connection between "birth" and "rebirth" that infants and trans* individuals (respectively) experience, but it's about more than that.
It's about medical professionals and the capitalist-structured medical industry telling us, from day one, that our bodies are in their hands. It's why we sign so many consent forms, and why we sign forms that basically relinquish medical rights should anything unexpected happen to us in an unfamiliar setting. From infancy, once we've cried - indicated our dissatisfaction and our need for another human, we are torn from our mothers (literally), often "cleaned up" before we're allowed to eat, drink, or even look at our new life-force.
From the moment we enter the world, we are sexed and gendered and taught to be what society needs us to become. With regularly-scheduled check-ups, "self-maintenance," and the way bodies are portrayed by those around us, we learn exactly how they are supposed to behave, look and feel. When we put on a few extra pounds, we're told we're "at risk," but rarely given effective techniques to make natural bodies less "risky." Fat-shaming, and I would even argue, the disabilification (if that's not a word, it is now) of "fat," build up the medical industry on a lying foundation of shame and humiliation, and show us exactly why movements such as Health At Every Size are so important.
All of this - the way bodies are represented and treated in our world, from birth until death, and even after - it all contributes to the way trans* bodies are affected by the medical complex. I can see similarities between the extensive consideration that goes into birthing - when, where, how, with who, what conditions - and the consideration that is given to transitioning. The hormones, the physical and psychological testing and certifications required to finally be in a body you feel is in line with your mind and soul - it's all connected.
Any kind of body politic is related to all kinds of body politics.
The one thing I can't stand, as either a lesbian, or a transgender individual, is when those I speak to (whether in an academic setting, a political environment, or even just as friends) assume that I couldn't care less about reproductive rights. They make jokes or comments about "how nice it must be, not having to worry about birth control," getting pregnant, fertility, or anything related to reproduction - and I will usually laugh along with them. It's one of my biggest faults, but sometimes I can't bring myself to just say, I do. I do care about it. I probably care about it more than you do, if your biggest concern is getting impregnated through casual sex (which I think is the biggest concern in my age group). For me, reproductive rights are boiled down to a very basic right to exist. Not only an infant's right to exist, but more specifically my own. I'm not pro-life, or pro-abortion. I'm pro-choice. I fully support the girl next door's rights to do whatever she decides, and I don't think, at any point, that abortion, contraception, home births, or midwifery should be illegal. In fact, I think they're all absolutely necessary, especially in a world where the medical industry plays its patients as though it's fucking God the Almighty. They're necessary because anything else is terrifying.
But that's not what this is about.
It's about the control of bodies that aren't yours to control. It's about how you decide to create and evolve and become and truly be. Whether it's as a mother, a child, or someone a little more comfortable, it just comes down to being.
Trans* Politics tumblr.
I've been fortunate to stumble across a few conversations, with my partner, classmates, and coworkers, about the correlation between the politics and medicalization of the birth industry, and that of the trans* community.
BODIES, BODIES, BODIES.
That's what it comes down to. One of my classmates, a co-participant in a feminist leadership group I'm in (previously mentioned: WILL), does a lot of her work surrounding reproductive justice, birth politics, and the birth industry in the medical complex. She also works with doulas, midwives, and other "alternative" forms of birthing (i.e. home-births). She recently came to my Women, Culture and Power class as a guest speaker, for the discussion on birth politics, and posed the question of whether or not reproductive justice was just a concern for those women to whom it applied (in this case I am assuming heterosexual, cisgender, fertile, of proper age, "fit" to reproduce, so on and so forth).
I didn't have time to get into this during the class (a disadvantage of sessions lasting less than an hour) but I did get a chance to talk to her about it later, briefly.
It's not. Birth politics are not just for the women giving birth. The process of birthing is heavily dictated by what is convenient and what is faster and what is best for those involved....in the medical industry. She talked about the trend of medical procedures that weren't consented to being performed on mothers who were sedated, tranquilized, paralyzed while giving life to their children - mothers who couldn't do anything to stop it.
I'm not going to go in-depth with the birthing politics, because I don't know much about it, and the last thing I want to do is come off as an uneducated ass. I'm working on it though, I promise.
The fact is, it is all about the bodies. We could talk for days about the connection between "birth" and "rebirth" that infants and trans* individuals (respectively) experience, but it's about more than that.
It's about medical professionals and the capitalist-structured medical industry telling us, from day one, that our bodies are in their hands. It's why we sign so many consent forms, and why we sign forms that basically relinquish medical rights should anything unexpected happen to us in an unfamiliar setting. From infancy, once we've cried - indicated our dissatisfaction and our need for another human, we are torn from our mothers (literally), often "cleaned up" before we're allowed to eat, drink, or even look at our new life-force.
From the moment we enter the world, we are sexed and gendered and taught to be what society needs us to become. With regularly-scheduled check-ups, "self-maintenance," and the way bodies are portrayed by those around us, we learn exactly how they are supposed to behave, look and feel. When we put on a few extra pounds, we're told we're "at risk," but rarely given effective techniques to make natural bodies less "risky." Fat-shaming, and I would even argue, the disabilification (if that's not a word, it is now) of "fat," build up the medical industry on a lying foundation of shame and humiliation, and show us exactly why movements such as Health At Every Size are so important.
All of this - the way bodies are represented and treated in our world, from birth until death, and even after - it all contributes to the way trans* bodies are affected by the medical complex. I can see similarities between the extensive consideration that goes into birthing - when, where, how, with who, what conditions - and the consideration that is given to transitioning. The hormones, the physical and psychological testing and certifications required to finally be in a body you feel is in line with your mind and soul - it's all connected.
Any kind of body politic is related to all kinds of body politics.
The one thing I can't stand, as either a lesbian, or a transgender individual, is when those I speak to (whether in an academic setting, a political environment, or even just as friends) assume that I couldn't care less about reproductive rights. They make jokes or comments about "how nice it must be, not having to worry about birth control," getting pregnant, fertility, or anything related to reproduction - and I will usually laugh along with them. It's one of my biggest faults, but sometimes I can't bring myself to just say, I do. I do care about it. I probably care about it more than you do, if your biggest concern is getting impregnated through casual sex (which I think is the biggest concern in my age group). For me, reproductive rights are boiled down to a very basic right to exist. Not only an infant's right to exist, but more specifically my own. I'm not pro-life, or pro-abortion. I'm pro-choice. I fully support the girl next door's rights to do whatever she decides, and I don't think, at any point, that abortion, contraception, home births, or midwifery should be illegal. In fact, I think they're all absolutely necessary, especially in a world where the medical industry plays its patients as though it's fucking God the Almighty. They're necessary because anything else is terrifying.
But that's not what this is about.
It's about the control of bodies that aren't yours to control. It's about how you decide to create and evolve and become and truly be. Whether it's as a mother, a child, or someone a little more comfortable, it just comes down to being.
4.10.2013
Intersectionality: Religion, Oppression, and Navigating Identities in Tight Spaces
Aporia- Derrida's term for "an undecidable impasse, a question that, no matter how urgent, cannot be answered (Parker, p 289)."
Can you maintain religious traditions, especially staunchly "patriarchal" ones, like Judeo-Christian denominations, but still assert our feminist beliefs and values?
We change the traditions. I can be a practicing Jew and still be a strong transfeminist activist. A common example is the revised seder plate, where women will now place an orange to accompany the rest of the symbolic items. The orange stands as a reminder of women's, and now LGBTQ individuals', exclusion from the stories and practices Judais, has taught us all our lives. Susannah Heschel addresses this idea as well.
I've seen a lot of conflict over these two identities surface recently. People have often expressed feeling at odds within one of these communities or the other (feminism vs. religion), and the difficulty of living on the boundaries of both. It is seemingly an issue that many feminists don't deal with, especially those who identify as atheist, agnostic, or are otherwise disengaged from a religious community.
It takes a lot of effort to combine these two worlds - one where we constantly critique religion as a patriarchal and devaluing institution, and one where our religions are huge factors in defining ourselves and our groups. We can't do it as individuals, alone; we have to rely not only on ourselves, but on both our feminist and religious communities. It becomes the role of each community to step up and welcome individuals who have previously forced themselves to shut parts off in certain realms of being; it's our responsibility as neighbors, friends and sisters to encourage each other to exist as wholes - and in doing so, reach our full potential in every area of living and being.
"...the pressure to essentialize identity continually invites us to deny the hybridity around us and within us (Parker, p 282)."
Both of these were taken from Robert Dale Parker's text, How to Interpret Literature: Critical Theory for Literary and Cultural Studies.
Our discussion in Queer Spirituality today focused on exactly what the title sausage I was thrilled because it actually gave me a chance to hear other people talk about a subject I think about all the time, and it allowed an opportunity for discussing it with someone other than an invisible online community (yes, you, dear reader).
Now that I'm thinking about it, I'm realizing I should have led a different meditation, one that really focuses on feeling a presence in your identity, but I was happy some new people got to experience a meditation in their "gardens," and others got to return. I always find new experiences in the garden more elaborate and difficult. As I progress, my companions and experiences become harder to understand, digest, and interpret; I also learn more from them.
Anyway!
There are certain moments when I can feel that click, that remind me that I am exactly who and where I need to be. Today's QS was one of those moments. To be able to talk so freely, surrounded by friends, was an awe-inspiring experience in and of itself. I didn't have nearly as much to say as I had wanted to, but that's what brings me here.
It is very rare to find a space where you can let every aspect of your identity exist, whether quietly or loudly, but remain at peace. While we all have common subsets of identity, it's a rare experience to find someone who has the exact same identity group as you. Even if you do, the idea of being the same is still radical.
As we navigate through very steep hills, terrifying valleys, raging rivers, and everything else life throws at us, we learn to balance every part of our identity: this balance and realignment is a way of protecting ourselves.
Example: I identify as a trans* Jewish woman-loving student. I'm an employee, a dog-lover, a physically debilitated queer. While in typically any context, I feel more comfortable keeping my has-been lesbianism (now woman-loving - as who I am morphs so do the words I use to describe myself) to myself, and my Judaism is usually a very public part of who I am. However, today in class, we were discussing post-colonial and race theory in the context of HG Wells and The Time Machine. One of the students (who is very well-known for ill-planned responses and a lack of focus) asked who in the class was a Jew. I raised my hand, and at that moment (and still now), I was not sure why. I think it might have been less awkward for me to announce to the entire class right then and there that I identified as trans* than it was to awkwardly claim Judaism as my public identifier. For a very long time, I lived comfortably as a lesbian, but in my own house, I refused to acknowledge myself as a Jew (due to experiences previously and future-ly addressed).
When we are in public or private, who we are changes. Not necessarily as a whole, but certain aspects of identity come to the foreground and others sink back temporarily.
So as queers, and as people who value some type of spirituality (even atheists can value spiritually), how do we keep ourselves safe while still embracing our queer identity in a religious/spiritual space, or our religious identity in a queer space?
Henceforth the term aporia. Although, this isn't so much a question without an answer, rather one with multiple, fluid answers. Everyone has their own method of negotiating these situations, and they all have different results. I'm interested in hearing others' experiences with queer and religious identities- mix them, balance them, keep them separate?
Why do you think it's so important to keep your queerdom or your feminism, without losing your religion?
In my Women's Studies classes, we have a lot of discussion about where feminist spirituality truly exists. I'm lucky to have had the chance to take a class this semester entitled "Women in Religion," which discusses not only women's roles in major denominations, both Western and Eastern, but also the Women's Spirituslity movement, and how women have adapted their traditions to become more inclusive. This class created a sort of safe space in a Gender Studies program for those who value religion and want to be able to speak freely about it in an academic context. Religion, often seen as a patriarchal tool, is a common ground for heated debate, and those who do value it are often left feeling repercussions. How do we, as religious feminists, live both of these identities to the fullest? Can you maintain religious traditions, especially staunchly "patriarchal" ones, like Judeo-Christian denominations, but still assert our feminist beliefs and values?
We change the traditions. I can be a practicing Jew and still be a strong transfeminist activist. A common example is the revised seder plate, where women will now place an orange to accompany the rest of the symbolic items. The orange stands as a reminder of women's, and now LGBTQ individuals', exclusion from the stories and practices Judais, has taught us all our lives. Susannah Heschel addresses this idea as well.
I've seen a lot of conflict over these two identities surface recently. People have often expressed feeling at odds within one of these communities or the other (feminism vs. religion), and the difficulty of living on the boundaries of both. It is seemingly an issue that many feminists don't deal with, especially those who identify as atheist, agnostic, or are otherwise disengaged from a religious community.
It takes a lot of effort to combine these two worlds - one where we constantly critique religion as a patriarchal and devaluing institution, and one where our religions are huge factors in defining ourselves and our groups. We can't do it as individuals, alone; we have to rely not only on ourselves, but on both our feminist and religious communities. It becomes the role of each community to step up and welcome individuals who have previously forced themselves to shut parts off in certain realms of being; it's our responsibility as neighbors, friends and sisters to encourage each other to exist as wholes - and in doing so, reach our full potential in every area of living and being.
3.27.2013
This week:
I spent yesterday evening downtown with a few other very cold GetEqual members, supporting marriage equality outside of the courthouse.
While I am thrilled to see all of the support on my Facebook, there are a few things I didn't necessarily agree with. This was the product.
While I am thrilled to see all of the support on my Facebook, there are a few things I didn't necessarily agree with. This was the product.
Diversity Conference 2013
The University of Cincinnati hosted a Diversity Conference today, and the entire event was amazing. My only regrets are that it only lasted one day, and my inability to clone myself (and being able to attend more than one discussion in each block).
The ones that I did go to included "Practicing Feminist Leadership," which essentially (to me, at least) discussed to common disconnect we see between feminism and leadership. I have often seen feminists as leaders, but realized today that this was primarily relegated to their own community. How often do we see leaders integrating a feminist lens with other leadership strategies or programs in a non-feminist-centric situation? This discussion was led by two facilitators of the previously mentioned WILL program, and they did a wonderful job introducing the concept of activist leadership in an academy atmosphere.
The second one was led by the Racial Awareness Program (RAPP) facilitator, and "Somewhere To Go: A Journey Toward Inclusive Bathrooms" addressed something that has been a very personal matter for me. As a transgender individual on a college campus in a fairly conservative city, it can be difficult explaining the complexity of bathroom politics to cisgender friends. Rebecca did an excellent job of approaching this topic, and breaking it down to understandable terms and situations. Few people understand the true hardship of navigating gendered restrooms when they haven't been challenged by a question as "basic" as gender. This isn't a fault of such individuals, but rather a fault of society at large, and a calculated risk when we decide that everything in human nature is a binary opposition of one form or another.
Both of these discussions posed questions about the harm of such binary oppositions: one about the oppositional nature of leader and follower - how these do not necessarily have to portray the power distribution we typically identify them with, and how being an active follower, rather than a passive one, can allocate just as much power as a leadership position. By deciding what we follow, we become leaders, even if just of the self. "Somewhere to Go" addressed the harmful and exclusive - sometimes even inappropriate- nature of gendered restrooms that remain within the gender binary. The speaker gave examples of how the RAPP program works around such issues, creating gender-neutral restrooms for its programs, as well as "intermittently-gendered" restrooms, with adjustable signs.
They both gave the audience a lot to think about in terms of "who" we are, and what that identity gives, and takes away, from each individual.
I also made it to "Body Love and Positivity: Revolutionary Ways of Critiquing and Re-learning Ourselves" and "Queering the Queer: A Critical Analysis of Homonormativity through Performance/Performativity." These two held their own importance. Body Love reminded me that we don't have to be "women" to appreciate the idea of self-love. As a transgender individual, I often feel uncomfortable with most aspects of my sexed body. This talk, however, reminded me that it is crucial to be gentle and loving towards ourselves, as much as we would be towards our partner or friends. It is hard to remember that we deserve this love, especially when our bodies feel like a cage, a trap set for us, a way of confining our identities to a universe and realm the majority will understand. I grew up learning (very effectively) to hate my body, and did everything I could to change it. I would starve and mutilate myself, exercised excessively (say that three times fast...), and constantly worried about how I looked. The worst part of this was that it wasn't because I didn't think I was pretty enough. In fact, all of this was a direct result of feeling "too pretty." This is a radical and absurd concept to a lot of people, especially because I look typical. But the abuse I put myself through stemmed directly from me not seeing myself as "handsome" enough. I lost weight in an effort not only to maintain some control and to balance myself for eventing - in equestrian disciplines, smaller is often better - but because I hoped maybe it would make my ass smaller, or make my breasts disappear. It took me a long time to become comfortable with a body that, when rendered defenseless (read, naked), was unambiguously female. I tried to combat the lack of effect by wearing looser clothes and adopting more masculine behavior, which I still portray today. My gender dysphoria led to an entire host of other problems, psychological and physical. These problems, in turn, created their own negative consequences. Because of all of the complications I faced, I slacked off in my schooling and am still picking up the pieces, three years later. I had to leave my dream job because I was no longer physically strong enough to do it properly. I was no longer able to ride horses or show competitively, because not only was I not strong enough or fully physically developed, but because I wasn't able to hold on to a job long enough to support my endeavors - the result of catastrophic emotional damage I had done to myself. It has taken me years to understand how all of this has been intertwined, and when I finally acknowledge it, in rare moments such as this, it takes a lot of effort for me to not hate myself. I fell into a trap that society set for me. If I'm not good enough at being a woman, maybe I have to be a man. And if I'm not good at that, either, there's really something very wrong with me. I saw myself as broken, damaged goods, irreparable - for a very long time. I let this affect my relationships and every other area of my life, and I also let that damage teach me a lot about myself and the world I live in.
I have learned that sometimes what you need is a bridge. An in-between. A gray space. For a few people out there, this gray space is the only "safe" space to exist. For these individuals, like myself, trying to divide in black and white can be deadly.
Even in the feminist and LGBTQ communities, these "borderland" identities can be risky. I acknowledge my initial fear about identifying as trans* was centered around whether or not my feminist friends would think I was betraying them. I didn't know how they would react, or how I could explain that I wasn't a transgender man, but rather someone who didn't fit into either of the binary genders so commonly given to us. I wasn't so easily simplified by a check in a box, by an M or an F. I am very fortunate to be involved in such a great campus community, that sees me beyond this, and that allows me to exist in that gray space while embracing both extremes when I feel it is appropriate to do so.
Long story short, I'm glad I was able to participate in today's events. They were not only eye-opening, but they served as a valid reminder of important lessons I have learned, and that I am still learning.
The ones that I did go to included "Practicing Feminist Leadership," which essentially (to me, at least) discussed to common disconnect we see between feminism and leadership. I have often seen feminists as leaders, but realized today that this was primarily relegated to their own community. How often do we see leaders integrating a feminist lens with other leadership strategies or programs in a non-feminist-centric situation? This discussion was led by two facilitators of the previously mentioned WILL program, and they did a wonderful job introducing the concept of activist leadership in an academy atmosphere.
The second one was led by the Racial Awareness Program (RAPP) facilitator, and "Somewhere To Go: A Journey Toward Inclusive Bathrooms" addressed something that has been a very personal matter for me. As a transgender individual on a college campus in a fairly conservative city, it can be difficult explaining the complexity of bathroom politics to cisgender friends. Rebecca did an excellent job of approaching this topic, and breaking it down to understandable terms and situations. Few people understand the true hardship of navigating gendered restrooms when they haven't been challenged by a question as "basic" as gender. This isn't a fault of such individuals, but rather a fault of society at large, and a calculated risk when we decide that everything in human nature is a binary opposition of one form or another.
Both of these discussions posed questions about the harm of such binary oppositions: one about the oppositional nature of leader and follower - how these do not necessarily have to portray the power distribution we typically identify them with, and how being an active follower, rather than a passive one, can allocate just as much power as a leadership position. By deciding what we follow, we become leaders, even if just of the self. "Somewhere to Go" addressed the harmful and exclusive - sometimes even inappropriate- nature of gendered restrooms that remain within the gender binary. The speaker gave examples of how the RAPP program works around such issues, creating gender-neutral restrooms for its programs, as well as "intermittently-gendered" restrooms, with adjustable signs.
They both gave the audience a lot to think about in terms of "who" we are, and what that identity gives, and takes away, from each individual.
I also made it to "Body Love and Positivity: Revolutionary Ways of Critiquing and Re-learning Ourselves" and "Queering the Queer: A Critical Analysis of Homonormativity through Performance/Performativity." These two held their own importance. Body Love reminded me that we don't have to be "women" to appreciate the idea of self-love. As a transgender individual, I often feel uncomfortable with most aspects of my sexed body. This talk, however, reminded me that it is crucial to be gentle and loving towards ourselves, as much as we would be towards our partner or friends. It is hard to remember that we deserve this love, especially when our bodies feel like a cage, a trap set for us, a way of confining our identities to a universe and realm the majority will understand. I grew up learning (very effectively) to hate my body, and did everything I could to change it. I would starve and mutilate myself, exercised excessively (say that three times fast...), and constantly worried about how I looked. The worst part of this was that it wasn't because I didn't think I was pretty enough. In fact, all of this was a direct result of feeling "too pretty." This is a radical and absurd concept to a lot of people, especially because I look typical. But the abuse I put myself through stemmed directly from me not seeing myself as "handsome" enough. I lost weight in an effort not only to maintain some control and to balance myself for eventing - in equestrian disciplines, smaller is often better - but because I hoped maybe it would make my ass smaller, or make my breasts disappear. It took me a long time to become comfortable with a body that, when rendered defenseless (read, naked), was unambiguously female. I tried to combat the lack of effect by wearing looser clothes and adopting more masculine behavior, which I still portray today. My gender dysphoria led to an entire host of other problems, psychological and physical. These problems, in turn, created their own negative consequences. Because of all of the complications I faced, I slacked off in my schooling and am still picking up the pieces, three years later. I had to leave my dream job because I was no longer physically strong enough to do it properly. I was no longer able to ride horses or show competitively, because not only was I not strong enough or fully physically developed, but because I wasn't able to hold on to a job long enough to support my endeavors - the result of catastrophic emotional damage I had done to myself. It has taken me years to understand how all of this has been intertwined, and when I finally acknowledge it, in rare moments such as this, it takes a lot of effort for me to not hate myself. I fell into a trap that society set for me. If I'm not good enough at being a woman, maybe I have to be a man. And if I'm not good at that, either, there's really something very wrong with me. I saw myself as broken, damaged goods, irreparable - for a very long time. I let this affect my relationships and every other area of my life, and I also let that damage teach me a lot about myself and the world I live in.
I have learned that sometimes what you need is a bridge. An in-between. A gray space. For a few people out there, this gray space is the only "safe" space to exist. For these individuals, like myself, trying to divide in black and white can be deadly.
Even in the feminist and LGBTQ communities, these "borderland" identities can be risky. I acknowledge my initial fear about identifying as trans* was centered around whether or not my feminist friends would think I was betraying them. I didn't know how they would react, or how I could explain that I wasn't a transgender man, but rather someone who didn't fit into either of the binary genders so commonly given to us. I wasn't so easily simplified by a check in a box, by an M or an F. I am very fortunate to be involved in such a great campus community, that sees me beyond this, and that allows me to exist in that gray space while embracing both extremes when I feel it is appropriate to do so.
Long story short, I'm glad I was able to participate in today's events. They were not only eye-opening, but they served as a valid reminder of important lessons I have learned, and that I am still learning.
3.19.2013
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