This wasn't the original topic for this post. It was going to be all about my experiences working in a story-telling program designed to empower kids, and how I translated that into my experiences as a trans*, non-normative, confused-POC-type person. Essentially, how storytelling acts as one of the many tools in the fight to dismantle the master's house (consciousness-raising is going to be the most recognizable example for those of you who focus on historical feminisms).
This isn't that. That one is coming, but requires a lot more research. This post is something that has been bothering me over the last week.
For the last month, each week when I go into my therapist's office, he asks me why I'm there.
My answer is uniform, practiced, and simple.
"I'm here because I have to be. I'm trans, and because of that, doctors and senators think I'm inherently unstable. So I need your signature on some forms saying I've been seeing you for a year."
He never responds.
Last week, I yelled at my therapist and left his office.
Last week, I expressed my frustrations about trying to do everything right, and still never getting ahead. I told him about the same fight I've been having with myself for the last six years - how unaffordable and unattainable an education is, how I worked hard to get ahead for a house, only to have the house fall through and set me back even further. How screwed up our economic, political, and educational systems are, to the point where the American Dream (if it hasn't always been) has finally become something more of a mirage, constantly moving further and further as we try approaching it.
All of these things that most 20/30-somethings generally express anxiety over.
He then did a 360 and instead of sitting absolutely silently (which he usually does, unless he takes a break to express one of the seven opinions he's rotated through my entire time seeing him), he asked what my identity as being a transgender male had to do with this.
...
What does it have to do with this?
Nothing.
I tried explaining that. I told him that being trans* is why I'm in therapy, but not what I actually need therapy for (if I need it at all - which I'm still ambivalent about). He went on to object and say that, of course, being trans* is this huge, all-encompassing deal that affects how I inhale and blow my nose because how could it not?
That's when I started getting angry and not simply agitated.
When I tried to explaining to him that I thought about my gender about as much as he did when he woke up and got ready for the morning, and he continuously interrupted me to tell me I was wrong, I obviously thought about it more than he ever did - that's when I left.
The entire time I've been going through this process, I've been frustrated with the degree of "accepted" stamps we need on us to be who we really are. I know I'm not the only one who finds out they need one more form, one more letter, one more doctor, to get the prescription or the surgery or the validation they need to step back off a ledge.
I also know I'm not the only one who became frustrated with one-issue politics long before I came out as transgender, quickly realizing the injustices of pushing one issue in a community forward, only to neglect the majority of folks in said community doing the grassroots and leg work.
You can only imagine how ironic I thought a lot of my own issues were when I realized my body had been wrong all along. It suddenly felt like a big ole easy button had just magically appeared. I said it, and it was. Then came the paperwork.
We need a doctor (PCP), and another doctor (an endocrinologist) and a head doctor (psychotherapist, for me), and eventually another doctor (or two!) to give us the prescribed surgeries - some of which we are required to have, even if we don't want to, if we're unlucky enough to be from certain states. I certainly got sort of lucky here - the state I currently live in doesn't change birth certificates for any reason. Ever. The one I was born in, though, only requires a minimum of one out of two irreversible surgeries. Luckily, there's one that is manageable.
So, let's talk about the government dictating what individuals can and cannot do to their bodies. The government is going to tell me it is not only okay, but I am required to sterilize myself in order to be legally seen as the gender I already identify as every single day. The only catch is, this way, all of my papers will all say the same thing - instead of my social security and birth certificate saying something contradictory to everything else I own. But then, the government will turn around and also say: "oh, you're carrying a child you don't actually want? The child was a product of rape? Drunkenness? Too bad, you're going to have to keep it, just try to look at the silver lining!"
And my therapist thinks I'm angry with our government...
So why don't we change it?
I know people who have been out there for years working on not just LGB issues, but T issues, and queer issues, and racial and social justice of all kinds, and they are amazing people. They've changed my life. They've made me a better, stronger, more confident, smarter person, and I would never change that. But it's time we got serious. It's time we stopped letting celebs and millionaires narrate the experiences of trans folks who can't afford prescriptions and are injecting unsafe concoctions, who are living on the streets, who are being shot for walking home while black and trans.
As I've said before, I love Janet Mock. She is beautiful and brilliant and she does our community a great service. I've never met Laverne or Caitlin, but I'm sure they're amazing, too.
They don't look anything like us.
They aren't us.
We don't have that kind of money, those kind of surgeons, that kind of lifestyle. And our lives aren't public in the sense that we're appearing on talk shows every single day, or magazine covers (unless it's a queer magazine or you're Aydian - congrats on the top 5, by the way!), or in tabloids, but they are very public in the sense that we get gunned down for existing and the major news outlets won't talk about it, we get cyber-bullied and real life bullies, we're threatened with physical violence in a room full of people and no one will stand up to it for us, and that when we die, our "allies" talk about changing things and rarely ever do.
We need more of our own to stand up and tell them what it's really like, to tell big pharma we don't need stamps of approval, to tell the government we're not a box full of Pinocchio puppets making wishes to the good fairy Congress so we can all become real people (this isn't that kind of drama, sorry folks).
Let's show them we're angry.
About Stonewall (the movie), about not existing, about being interrupted when we're just trying to get by, about being told we're different when we're really not.
8.12.2015
7.28.2015
The instability of trans* identities: a response to Caitlyn Jenner's latest blogpost (TW: SUICIDE)
I have yet to actually listen to any of Caitlyn Jenner's speeches or interviews, but today I read my first blog post she had written, in HuffPost's "Gay Voices" section. In this article, she touches on some issues facing the trans* community (and particularly trans* youth) at an alarming rate. Most of the article is spent with a block quote from the mother of a trans* youth who recently committed suicide. I won't say I love hearing narratives of other people's hardships dealing with mental health, trans* identities, and the intersectionality between those two, but I am always refreshed when I see a variety of faces telling their stories, and those stories being heard. That being said, Jenner's article reads more like a rattling off of statistics, which acts as a forward for a block quote. Where is Jenner's context? How does she feel? Prescott "was (and is) absolutely amazing," but is there more to that? Did it hurt your heart to hear her tell her story? I guess the article just seemed a little distant to me.
As someone who has been identifying as queer much longer than they've been identifying as trans*, and as someone who has struggled with mental health issues for a majority of their lifespan - which I feel is relatively short, but not when compared to those of my queer counterparts whose lives were cut much shorter - I tend to approach the subject of suicide and depression a little hastily. I'm typically a jumble of thoughts where I am half-offended when people jokingly say "I'm depressed" and the other half remains awkwardly silent, because if I'm already out as trans* and queer, do I really also have to come out about my weird mental stuff? That hardly seems fair, make the people I'm interacting with come out about something first!
I'm pretty fortunate in that my life has taken a dramatic upturn since the last time I tried committing suicide (I was sixteen, junior year of high school). There were several attempts before that, but that was my first real commitment to anything. Obviously, it didn't work. For a little bit immediately after that, things got much worse, and I was, for lack of a better word, bummed I had failed. I hate to use the cliché , but to really see a difference, I had to hit the absolute rock bottom - I just didn't know it went deeper than that moment. So no, I haven't tried again in nearly eight years. That isn't to say I haven't thought about it. I think about it all the time. That's one of the side effects of depression, anxiety, and existing as I do in a world like this, in a culture that is so vehemently hostile towards folks like me. Most folks that don't suffer from some form of mental health problem won't understand this, but - you get used to it. You get used to having incredibly dark thoughts in the background of your brain imagery and not needing to act on them. I'm so well-practiced at not reacting to those thoughts that I can almost comfortably read incredibly triggering material and think nothing more than, "yeah, I get that." It's a weird dynamic.
That being said, there's a lot of discussion being left out of the current conversation about trans* depression and suicide. I know the big one that came up with the passing of Leelah Alcorn is the one that really came close to home for me - and not just because Kings High School is my own alma mater. Granted, I am incredibly disappointed that Kings still seems to harbor the same toxic environment towards non-conforming students it did during my time there. When I moved on from that hellhole, I hoped that kids like me would have it easier; I expected that half a decade later, they would have made some progress. I'm disappointed, but not surprised.
The reason Leelah's passing hit so close for me is altogether different. If Leelah and I had been in school during the same period, I expect that our parents would have been very good friends. For those of you who don't know the background to her story, Leelah's parents are incredibly religious, zealous, even, and would lock her in her room for days at a time, restricting communication between her and her friends, the internet only a dream. They did it on the premise of "love," although love never looks like that (and don't let anyone tell you differently). Leelah decided she couldn't go on in that environment, and that was her right. It sucks that she couldn't find another way out, and we all get that, and we've all accepted it. That doesn't mean it isn't sad.
I didn't come out as trans* until I had been out of my mother's house for several years (coincidentally, I'm now in my mid-twenties and back in my mother's basement temporarily - that's a different story), but I did survive her during my teens as a pretty butch baby dyke. My mother is a sort of hybrid between a fundamentalist Christian and a conservative Jew. There's a name for people like these, and it isn't Jews for Jesus. This denomination works about the same as any other - a portion of them are great, a portion are indifferent, and a portion of them are horrible, callous, belittling, hateful people. I grew up around this different configuration of folks, and, consequently, left the movement as soon as I got my license. Throughout high school, my mother and I had our issues. We fought, I ran away, I lived with friends, she prayed and read her Bible, there was an incident with school counselors and CPS, and I was placed on suicide watch for quite a while during my high school years. I was a pretty angry teenager, although most people wouldn't have noticed. I drank, I partied, I dropped out of school, I lived in my car for a bit. I was hurt. I was hurt by my faith and the people who claimed to practice the same as me. It took me an incredibly long time to heal from those wounds (see my earliest blog posts about queer spirituality and faith), and I still don't claim to be entirely okay with it. I've finally arrived at a point where I can be comfortable around people who profess a faith, and I am able to accept that without feeling like I am walking on glass or being force-fed needles. I'm grateful that my own prejudices were only temporary, and while I'm still pretty conflicted about what I believe, I can only say I'm happy that my past injuries haven't prevented me from making some pretty amazing friends in the spiritual community around me.
How this all ties in to suicide and depression:
I was first "diagnosed" with depression and anxiety attacks around the time I was nine years old. My mother adamantly refused to believe mental health was a valid field of medicine (she might still, for all I know). She would not send me to therapists, would not pay for my medications, nothing. For years, I was denied to right to the help I needed because of my mother's old-fashioned sense of medicine and her religious beliefs. Instead of giving me what I needed, she "lifted me up" in her weekly prayer meetings, had her cohorts pray for me in tongues (something I still see as spiritual assault - I cannot stand the idea of being prayed for if I don't consent to it...generally because those people are praying for me in ways I don't see needing prayer). This denial played a huge part in the bouts of depression I would experience - I would frequently lock myself in my room for weeks at a time, only leaving for the restroom and a bowl of cereal, I suffered from eating disorders, I did a copious amount of recreational drugs, etc. - and would always eventually end in another suicide attempt or existential crisis. If you aren't locked in a physical room, you can always be locked in a mental one.
I get that Caitlyn may not be the most spiritual person on the face of the planet (or spiritual at all) - that's her prerogative, and I don't want to pretend otherwise. But if we're going to talk about cis adults bullying trans* kids, let's not pretend that faith and tradition and situational upbringing don't play a part in it. When someone denies your identity, it's not "just because." There are always a million reasons they refuse to acknowledge us, and there are a million ways to solve those problems. So instead of talking about statistics, let's talk about solutions. Instead of lingering in the memory of people we've lost, can't we use those memories to push us forward? It's been a huge year for trans* and queer rights, so why not make it bigger?
As someone who has been identifying as queer much longer than they've been identifying as trans*, and as someone who has struggled with mental health issues for a majority of their lifespan - which I feel is relatively short, but not when compared to those of my queer counterparts whose lives were cut much shorter - I tend to approach the subject of suicide and depression a little hastily. I'm typically a jumble of thoughts where I am half-offended when people jokingly say "I'm depressed" and the other half remains awkwardly silent, because if I'm already out as trans* and queer, do I really also have to come out about my weird mental stuff? That hardly seems fair, make the people I'm interacting with come out about something first!
I'm pretty fortunate in that my life has taken a dramatic upturn since the last time I tried committing suicide (I was sixteen, junior year of high school). There were several attempts before that, but that was my first real commitment to anything. Obviously, it didn't work. For a little bit immediately after that, things got much worse, and I was, for lack of a better word, bummed I had failed. I hate to use the cliché , but to really see a difference, I had to hit the absolute rock bottom - I just didn't know it went deeper than that moment. So no, I haven't tried again in nearly eight years. That isn't to say I haven't thought about it. I think about it all the time. That's one of the side effects of depression, anxiety, and existing as I do in a world like this, in a culture that is so vehemently hostile towards folks like me. Most folks that don't suffer from some form of mental health problem won't understand this, but - you get used to it. You get used to having incredibly dark thoughts in the background of your brain imagery and not needing to act on them. I'm so well-practiced at not reacting to those thoughts that I can almost comfortably read incredibly triggering material and think nothing more than, "yeah, I get that." It's a weird dynamic.
That being said, there's a lot of discussion being left out of the current conversation about trans* depression and suicide. I know the big one that came up with the passing of Leelah Alcorn is the one that really came close to home for me - and not just because Kings High School is my own alma mater. Granted, I am incredibly disappointed that Kings still seems to harbor the same toxic environment towards non-conforming students it did during my time there. When I moved on from that hellhole, I hoped that kids like me would have it easier; I expected that half a decade later, they would have made some progress. I'm disappointed, but not surprised.
The reason Leelah's passing hit so close for me is altogether different. If Leelah and I had been in school during the same period, I expect that our parents would have been very good friends. For those of you who don't know the background to her story, Leelah's parents are incredibly religious, zealous, even, and would lock her in her room for days at a time, restricting communication between her and her friends, the internet only a dream. They did it on the premise of "love," although love never looks like that (and don't let anyone tell you differently). Leelah decided she couldn't go on in that environment, and that was her right. It sucks that she couldn't find another way out, and we all get that, and we've all accepted it. That doesn't mean it isn't sad.
I didn't come out as trans* until I had been out of my mother's house for several years (coincidentally, I'm now in my mid-twenties and back in my mother's basement temporarily - that's a different story), but I did survive her during my teens as a pretty butch baby dyke. My mother is a sort of hybrid between a fundamentalist Christian and a conservative Jew. There's a name for people like these, and it isn't Jews for Jesus. This denomination works about the same as any other - a portion of them are great, a portion are indifferent, and a portion of them are horrible, callous, belittling, hateful people. I grew up around this different configuration of folks, and, consequently, left the movement as soon as I got my license. Throughout high school, my mother and I had our issues. We fought, I ran away, I lived with friends, she prayed and read her Bible, there was an incident with school counselors and CPS, and I was placed on suicide watch for quite a while during my high school years. I was a pretty angry teenager, although most people wouldn't have noticed. I drank, I partied, I dropped out of school, I lived in my car for a bit. I was hurt. I was hurt by my faith and the people who claimed to practice the same as me. It took me an incredibly long time to heal from those wounds (see my earliest blog posts about queer spirituality and faith), and I still don't claim to be entirely okay with it. I've finally arrived at a point where I can be comfortable around people who profess a faith, and I am able to accept that without feeling like I am walking on glass or being force-fed needles. I'm grateful that my own prejudices were only temporary, and while I'm still pretty conflicted about what I believe, I can only say I'm happy that my past injuries haven't prevented me from making some pretty amazing friends in the spiritual community around me.
How this all ties in to suicide and depression:
I was first "diagnosed" with depression and anxiety attacks around the time I was nine years old. My mother adamantly refused to believe mental health was a valid field of medicine (she might still, for all I know). She would not send me to therapists, would not pay for my medications, nothing. For years, I was denied to right to the help I needed because of my mother's old-fashioned sense of medicine and her religious beliefs. Instead of giving me what I needed, she "lifted me up" in her weekly prayer meetings, had her cohorts pray for me in tongues (something I still see as spiritual assault - I cannot stand the idea of being prayed for if I don't consent to it...generally because those people are praying for me in ways I don't see needing prayer). This denial played a huge part in the bouts of depression I would experience - I would frequently lock myself in my room for weeks at a time, only leaving for the restroom and a bowl of cereal, I suffered from eating disorders, I did a copious amount of recreational drugs, etc. - and would always eventually end in another suicide attempt or existential crisis. If you aren't locked in a physical room, you can always be locked in a mental one.
I get that Caitlyn may not be the most spiritual person on the face of the planet (or spiritual at all) - that's her prerogative, and I don't want to pretend otherwise. But if we're going to talk about cis adults bullying trans* kids, let's not pretend that faith and tradition and situational upbringing don't play a part in it. When someone denies your identity, it's not "just because." There are always a million reasons they refuse to acknowledge us, and there are a million ways to solve those problems. So instead of talking about statistics, let's talk about solutions. Instead of lingering in the memory of people we've lost, can't we use those memories to push us forward? It's been a huge year for trans* and queer rights, so why not make it bigger?
7.20.2015
#blacklivesmatter, #translivesmatter, and whether or not they really matter (to anyone but us).
In sum:
Over the last year, we've seen the ranks of two hashtag movements swell and split. #blacklivesmatter took off with the shootings of Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown, and grew exponentially with each following death of a POC at the hands of the "American justice system." #translivesmatter, while a seemingly more private community - more constrained to the bounds of the LGBTQ (one could argue solely the transgender community at points), at least aside from the recent surge in popularity thanks to Caitlyn Jenner, Leelah Alcorn's passing, and others, frequently shadows the shouts of #blacklivesmatter, as an estimated 45% of hate crime murders are those of TWOC (trans* women of color), although they make up less than 15% of the population that is victimized by hate crime (http://www.glaad.org/blog/violence-against-transgender-people-and-people-color-disproportionately-high-lgbtqh-murder-rate).
This is all good and well. I am thrilled that minorities and groups of people that are frequently erased from existence and ignored and silenced are finally getting attention that they deserve and need. I am thrilled they are finally tired, that they have finally had enough. Hell, I'm even thrilled that gay marriage is finally a federal decision of legality.
What am I not happy about? I'm not happy that it took being chopped down in the prime of youth for these movements to come about. I'm not happy that murder is making demands for justice. I'm not happy that institutional racism or cissexism weren't enough. I'm mad that I spent years working for gay marriage and my trans* brothers and sisters are still being murdered in cold blood, because who cares, if the rest of the community has marriage now? Not most of them. The good ones, sure. But not the vast majority of allies, who don't even show transgender folks (especially those of color, unless it's...y'know, Laverne Cox or Janet Mock), as a blip on their radar. Those who don't realize they probably know someone who is struggling with that identity and is terrified because they have no one they can tell. That the allies of racial justice tend to ignore the LGBTQ community on a grand scale, and the allies of the LGBTQ community tend to be one-issue-minded drones and are here for the gay white people (the pink economy), but not the rest of us.
Things at the federal level frustrate me, and things at a personal level frustrate me, and really? I just have no idea what to write about or who I'm writing for, or even who is doing the writing anymore.
I had bigger plans for this. I had a better post to write. I had goals, and now I'm just content waking up in the morning for my coffee and others' blogs.
Over the last year, we've seen the ranks of two hashtag movements swell and split. #blacklivesmatter took off with the shootings of Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown, and grew exponentially with each following death of a POC at the hands of the "American justice system." #translivesmatter, while a seemingly more private community - more constrained to the bounds of the LGBTQ (one could argue solely the transgender community at points), at least aside from the recent surge in popularity thanks to Caitlyn Jenner, Leelah Alcorn's passing, and others, frequently shadows the shouts of #blacklivesmatter, as an estimated 45% of hate crime murders are those of TWOC (trans* women of color), although they make up less than 15% of the population that is victimized by hate crime (http://www.glaad.org/blog/violence-against-transgender-people-and-people-color-disproportionately-high-lgbtqh-murder-rate).
This is all good and well. I am thrilled that minorities and groups of people that are frequently erased from existence and ignored and silenced are finally getting attention that they deserve and need. I am thrilled they are finally tired, that they have finally had enough. Hell, I'm even thrilled that gay marriage is finally a federal decision of legality.
What am I not happy about? I'm not happy that it took being chopped down in the prime of youth for these movements to come about. I'm not happy that murder is making demands for justice. I'm not happy that institutional racism or cissexism weren't enough. I'm mad that I spent years working for gay marriage and my trans* brothers and sisters are still being murdered in cold blood, because who cares, if the rest of the community has marriage now? Not most of them. The good ones, sure. But not the vast majority of allies, who don't even show transgender folks (especially those of color, unless it's...y'know, Laverne Cox or Janet Mock), as a blip on their radar. Those who don't realize they probably know someone who is struggling with that identity and is terrified because they have no one they can tell. That the allies of racial justice tend to ignore the LGBTQ community on a grand scale, and the allies of the LGBTQ community tend to be one-issue-minded drones and are here for the gay white people (the pink economy), but not the rest of us.
Things at the federal level frustrate me, and things at a personal level frustrate me, and really? I just have no idea what to write about or who I'm writing for, or even who is doing the writing anymore.
I had bigger plans for this. I had a better post to write. I had goals, and now I'm just content waking up in the morning for my coffee and others' blogs.
9.25.2014
Strength and Guidance.
I've been having a string of weird weeks lately, and I've been craving a way to make a difference. Most of my thoughts surrounding this were based on political and otherwise secular action. Sometimes, a fresh perspective is all that's needed. I was graciously provided with this fresh perspective by an AC repair man at the shop the other day, and it only confirmed what had already been on my mind lately.
Over the past several months - following my initiation at Crossroads, my previous game-changing experiences with Queer Spirituality, and the renaissance of my own, personal spirituality - I've come to realize that probably the most solid I have felt in a very long time have been those times when I've re-embraced my faith. Whether that faith has been based on a search for something more, or otherwise - the influence of those around me, a hope to find something that had been missing for a great while, etc., - faith is what got me through the darkest times, most of which I've experienced relatively recently (last two years or so).
Looking back, and remembering the feeling I experienced when Queer Spirituality and Valerie and Jordan and Kelli and everyone else had found me at the exact right moment to affect me in the greatest way, I know that there's no way I would have survived those challenges without that support system. I remember, and those of you who have been reading this blog since the beginning, too, the awe I felt when I finally realized that faith wasn't a conditional sort of deal. I had finally been told that this kind of love, this kind of acceptance, wasn't based on a set of contingencies, especially not ones I have no control over (such as sexuality or gender identity). Hearing that changed my life.
It is as a result of those experiences - the meditation (both being guided, and then guiding others), the prayer, the silent reflection, the studying of both the Bible and other religious texts, the exploring of various religious and other belief systems, the chance to review other experiences I had elsewhere, surrounded by other folks - that I've come full-circle.
When I was younger, I was "actively" involved in my synagogue's youth ministry. I emphasize actively intentionally. I loved my peers and my leaders, and I loved what I was a part of...until I felt that it no longer loved me. It no longer knew who I was or how best to help me. This isn't a reflection on the individuals I was surrounded by at all, but rather, a reflection of a larger crisis.
In Ryan and Josh Shook's book, Firsthand, their main goal is to break away from the idea of a "secondhand" faith - one that lets us coast by, basically, on the precepts of what our parents and leaders bring us up believing. For so long, that was what I allowed myself to do. Unfortunately, rather than "break away" from G-d, as they describe it, I was torn. There were/are things I wanted to believe, but felt that I was very actively being told "no, you're not the kind of person we want here after all, please exit out the back.'' I did. I wrote G-d off. My entire life, I had been told that I had a heavenly father to replace the earthly one that had abandoned me years earlier. You can imagine the devastation when He left too. I figured I could abandon just as easily as He had. Until QS, I didn't think anything of it. Until Valerie appeared with a guiding voice and all the right questions, I didn't realize I had been missing anything.
When I was "active," I had many people tell me that I had been called to youth ministry. I was zealous, and most people couldn't tell the difference between my authenticity and my neediness to please. I don't even think I could tell, towards the end. I believed them when I was told I would end up back there, but in a leadership capacity, rather than as a student.
So you can imagine my surprise, when, after years of resenting the idea of religion for the flaws presented within one very small group, the idea of youth ministry resurfaced in my head. This was only exacerbated by my deep internal desire to continue working with social justice issues, and in particular, continue work with the trans* community.
I had originally anticipated working in D.C., or getting involved with an LGBTQ organization of some kind (not ones I had previously been affiliated with, but something more radical, more NOW). I know there are "safe" churches, but in my experience, that safety typically extends to the L and the G, and gets lost somewhere along the path to the T. Our community is still working to reach the T and bring us into the more "mainstream" conversations happening. So, ultimately, yes. I wanted to become a trans* activist. But when I thought of the ways my life had been changed most dramatically since coming out as trans*, all I could think of was how supportive my collegiate spiritual community had been through the entire process. All I could think of was how amazing it would be to reach more queer teens and college students, especially if we could reach them before they had completely written G-d...and any kind of faith...off.
With that, I guess I can make this announcement.
With the regular readings I have been doing, my daily quiet time and reflection, the reinterpretations of the Bible I have been working on (rereading it again for the second time in a year, the third in as many), I have finally found out what I'm hoping is my calling. Or, rather, come to recognize it in a slightly different form than I had when I was fourteen and fifteen, before it all was blown to smithereens and I became a 21st-century skeptic.
From here on, I will be working towards not only becoming involved in youth ministry, but more specifically, I am looking forward to getting to work with, and eventually developing a stable version, different versions of queer youth outreach and ministry.
There are already a few of you I've talked to about this, but most of you I've been hesitant to discuss it around. I am used to skeptical comments about faith and those who bear it, but I've come to the realization that for me to do this, I can't take offense by those comments. I understand them better than most people; for so long, I was the one making them. For that, I apologize. It was a form of self-loathing, similar, in many ways, to those experiencing denial of other common unwanted identities. I recognize in myself, now, that it was mostly a way for me to distance myself from that loss I experienced so many years ago.
I'm looking forward to this adventure, and for those of you out there who have experienced similar struggles (and victories), please give me all the tips, advice, words of encouragement, etc., that you have. You know I can use them.
-Micah
Over the past several months - following my initiation at Crossroads, my previous game-changing experiences with Queer Spirituality, and the renaissance of my own, personal spirituality - I've come to realize that probably the most solid I have felt in a very long time have been those times when I've re-embraced my faith. Whether that faith has been based on a search for something more, or otherwise - the influence of those around me, a hope to find something that had been missing for a great while, etc., - faith is what got me through the darkest times, most of which I've experienced relatively recently (last two years or so).
Looking back, and remembering the feeling I experienced when Queer Spirituality and Valerie and Jordan and Kelli and everyone else had found me at the exact right moment to affect me in the greatest way, I know that there's no way I would have survived those challenges without that support system. I remember, and those of you who have been reading this blog since the beginning, too, the awe I felt when I finally realized that faith wasn't a conditional sort of deal. I had finally been told that this kind of love, this kind of acceptance, wasn't based on a set of contingencies, especially not ones I have no control over (such as sexuality or gender identity). Hearing that changed my life.
It is as a result of those experiences - the meditation (both being guided, and then guiding others), the prayer, the silent reflection, the studying of both the Bible and other religious texts, the exploring of various religious and other belief systems, the chance to review other experiences I had elsewhere, surrounded by other folks - that I've come full-circle.
When I was younger, I was "actively" involved in my synagogue's youth ministry. I emphasize actively intentionally. I loved my peers and my leaders, and I loved what I was a part of...until I felt that it no longer loved me. It no longer knew who I was or how best to help me. This isn't a reflection on the individuals I was surrounded by at all, but rather, a reflection of a larger crisis.
In Ryan and Josh Shook's book, Firsthand, their main goal is to break away from the idea of a "secondhand" faith - one that lets us coast by, basically, on the precepts of what our parents and leaders bring us up believing. For so long, that was what I allowed myself to do. Unfortunately, rather than "break away" from G-d, as they describe it, I was torn. There were/are things I wanted to believe, but felt that I was very actively being told "no, you're not the kind of person we want here after all, please exit out the back.'' I did. I wrote G-d off. My entire life, I had been told that I had a heavenly father to replace the earthly one that had abandoned me years earlier. You can imagine the devastation when He left too. I figured I could abandon just as easily as He had. Until QS, I didn't think anything of it. Until Valerie appeared with a guiding voice and all the right questions, I didn't realize I had been missing anything.
When I was "active," I had many people tell me that I had been called to youth ministry. I was zealous, and most people couldn't tell the difference between my authenticity and my neediness to please. I don't even think I could tell, towards the end. I believed them when I was told I would end up back there, but in a leadership capacity, rather than as a student.
So you can imagine my surprise, when, after years of resenting the idea of religion for the flaws presented within one very small group, the idea of youth ministry resurfaced in my head. This was only exacerbated by my deep internal desire to continue working with social justice issues, and in particular, continue work with the trans* community.
I had originally anticipated working in D.C., or getting involved with an LGBTQ organization of some kind (not ones I had previously been affiliated with, but something more radical, more NOW). I know there are "safe" churches, but in my experience, that safety typically extends to the L and the G, and gets lost somewhere along the path to the T. Our community is still working to reach the T and bring us into the more "mainstream" conversations happening. So, ultimately, yes. I wanted to become a trans* activist. But when I thought of the ways my life had been changed most dramatically since coming out as trans*, all I could think of was how supportive my collegiate spiritual community had been through the entire process. All I could think of was how amazing it would be to reach more queer teens and college students, especially if we could reach them before they had completely written G-d...and any kind of faith...off.
With that, I guess I can make this announcement.
With the regular readings I have been doing, my daily quiet time and reflection, the reinterpretations of the Bible I have been working on (rereading it again for the second time in a year, the third in as many), I have finally found out what I'm hoping is my calling. Or, rather, come to recognize it in a slightly different form than I had when I was fourteen and fifteen, before it all was blown to smithereens and I became a 21st-century skeptic.
From here on, I will be working towards not only becoming involved in youth ministry, but more specifically, I am looking forward to getting to work with, and eventually developing a stable version, different versions of queer youth outreach and ministry.
There are already a few of you I've talked to about this, but most of you I've been hesitant to discuss it around. I am used to skeptical comments about faith and those who bear it, but I've come to the realization that for me to do this, I can't take offense by those comments. I understand them better than most people; for so long, I was the one making them. For that, I apologize. It was a form of self-loathing, similar, in many ways, to those experiencing denial of other common unwanted identities. I recognize in myself, now, that it was mostly a way for me to distance myself from that loss I experienced so many years ago.
I'm looking forward to this adventure, and for those of you out there who have experienced similar struggles (and victories), please give me all the tips, advice, words of encouragement, etc., that you have. You know I can use them.
-Micah
3.13.2014
Update 12 March 14
As noted before, I had my first therapy appointment on Tuesday. While several of my coworkers joked around about taking Skyler to therapy with me, it turns out I actually am allowed to do that, which is pretty awesome.
I ended up driving to the wrong office and had to reschedule for later that evening, but it all worked out. The therapist (Brian Wright) is really laid back and pretty nice, and was more than supportive (even though this initial meeting was really just for background info). I explained that while I had been experiencing these feelings for the last year or more, it had only recently started becoming so horrible that I couldn't even focus long enough to do homework, etc., and I felt like my entire life was being taken over by this problem I couldn't quite solve.
I will be seeing him weekly for the immediate future, and eventually will step down to a little less frequently.
I won't know for sure until after several appointments what he really thinks, and I figure my toughest challenge will just be remembering to avoid the uncomfortable dumb jokes I make in weird moments.
For the information I didn't really get to include in the last post -
I most likely won't be able to start hormone replacement therapy until January (when my insurance rolls over and I can jump on my own plan). That being said, a court-ordered name change is the first priority on my ever-growing to-do list, and along with that comes:
I ended up driving to the wrong office and had to reschedule for later that evening, but it all worked out. The therapist (Brian Wright) is really laid back and pretty nice, and was more than supportive (even though this initial meeting was really just for background info). I explained that while I had been experiencing these feelings for the last year or more, it had only recently started becoming so horrible that I couldn't even focus long enough to do homework, etc., and I felt like my entire life was being taken over by this problem I couldn't quite solve.
I will be seeing him weekly for the immediate future, and eventually will step down to a little less frequently.
I won't know for sure until after several appointments what he really thinks, and I figure my toughest challenge will just be remembering to avoid the uncomfortable dumb jokes I make in weird moments.
For the information I didn't really get to include in the last post -
I most likely won't be able to start hormone replacement therapy until January (when my insurance rolls over and I can jump on my own plan). That being said, a court-ordered name change is the first priority on my ever-growing to-do list, and along with that comes:
...woohoo. If anyone has any pointers on where to start with all of this nonsense..
I've also seen a few posts about changing any indications of previous names on things like credit reports, etc., and I haven't the slightest idea how to go about doing that.
I figure the passport and the birth certificate will probably be the last things (undeniably two of the most important, of course) to get changed due to stricter regulations surrounding them, etc., but we'll see as things progress.
I am definitely excited to watch as things around me change constantly over the next year, and if any of this begins happening sooner than I anticipate, that can only be better, right?
3.10.2014
The Journey.
Over the past few months, I've begun a sort of transformation. For those of you who had previously been reading Shiksa Chic, you will have been present for my initial "coming out" as trans*/genderqueer/etc. I am happy to announce that coinciding with this return to the blog (you might notice I've begun writing through a different email, one that will become associated with my new identity), and perhaps even responsible for this return, I am beginning the journey of transitioning to a body that more accurately reflects my mental and emotional state.
I now go by Micah (almost exclusively, although if you know me in the real world, I would prefer you double check where it's alright to refer to me as such and where other names should be used).
Tomorrow, I have my first therapy appointment with a Dr. Wright, and am incredibly anxious to see what happens next. Logically, I will not be starting hormone replacement therapy until I am on my own insurance plan and am otherwise financially independent (for obvious reasons), but I am ready to start doing everything I can to prepare my body and my mind for what comes next. I have started maintaining a regular exercise schedule and am happy to announce that I have returned to a vegetarian/eventual vegan diet after a four year hiatus due to health issues. I am caring for myself as well as I know how, and Skyler has been my number one motivator!
I now go by Micah (almost exclusively, although if you know me in the real world, I would prefer you double check where it's alright to refer to me as such and where other names should be used).
Tomorrow, I have my first therapy appointment with a Dr. Wright, and am incredibly anxious to see what happens next. Logically, I will not be starting hormone replacement therapy until I am on my own insurance plan and am otherwise financially independent (for obvious reasons), but I am ready to start doing everything I can to prepare my body and my mind for what comes next. I have started maintaining a regular exercise schedule and am happy to announce that I have returned to a vegetarian/eventual vegan diet after a four year hiatus due to health issues. I am caring for myself as well as I know how, and Skyler has been my number one motivator!
Something about having a dog back in my life has been exceedingly beneficial in encouraging me to really embrace life as I feel I should be. Now, for the readers:
For various reasons, I will NOT be changing the name of the blog. I had already begun identifying as GQ when I began this, so Shiksa Chic doesn't really seem inappropriate to me. The earliest posts were mostly concerning the conflicting nature of trans* and Jewish identities, as well as trans* and feminist identities. I don't expect any of that to be changing. I will be doing my best to update as frequently as I once was, which should be relatively easy considering I have much more free time than I did previously. (No school, no relationships, no nothing except for work is taking my attention from you all ;) ).
However - I would still love to have contributors on this blog. So if you are interested in writing posts occasionally (or more often), or if you have topics you want covered, by all means, EMAIL ME.
Address all inquiries to "Micah" at ( micahjmedina@gmail.com )
This is simply an update post for right now, but as above, I'd love to hear from you, and I'll be back tomorrow for an update on a broader scale and a followup from my therapy session tomorrow.
In the meantime: here's what I look like (three days ago)!
I'll be posting updated photos regularly as things progress, but consider this a sort of "before" photo.
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