I just finished reading Ta-Nehisi Coates' new book, Between the World and Me. This was the only book I pre-ordered for 2015. I ordered it for a few reasons, initially. The greatest of these was the sole endorsement appearing on the book: "This is required reading." Coates' 152-page letter carries exactly one endorsement, and it's from Toni Morrison. The rest of my reasons follow the theme of this blog; this is what I'm interested in reading. I read books on social justice and diversity and race and gender and violence and love and hatred and forgiveness, for work, for fun, for a reminder.
One of the biggest challenges I face when reading is remembering to read as who the world views me as. To the vast majority of people I meet, I am white. When I am in a private place, I tend to forget that. Growing up, I have never self-identified as white or as a POC. I don't think I've ever "identified" as anything, which is probably the single most obvious indicator that I am, in fact, white. I grew up Latino and Jewish, but with pasty white skin. Usually, when I am reading theory or something along those lines, this is not really a big factor. I'm reading with my brain, not my identity. Between the World and Me is one text that has really reminded me to put myself back in my place.
The concept of Between the World and Me is the form of a letter. Coates is writing a letter to his fifteen-year old son, Samori, about the challenges of living as a black man in America in 2015. The root of this comes from Samori's difficulty dealing with the countless lives of black men, especially those close in age to Samori, being put out by criminal "justice," or power-hungry police. Coates spends the length of the letter reflecting on his own experience with the injustices of race in America, relaying those experiences and acknowledging the differences between his own and his son's, and giving what advice he can to Samori as he grows.
It is this format that gives me the most trouble with the book; as I sit here, I want to tear this book down to each individual letter and punctuation mark, treat it like theory, read it with my critical-colored glasses, and turn it into an essay in my brain. But as I read it, I find myself continually remembering that this is a letter, from a father to his son. The book was published on a grand, public scale, but this is a personal piece of correspondence, a father telling his son how to deal and how to survive and how to thrive, if he can. This is a father telling his son about an experience I can never have, so many people can never have, and that I will never come close to understanding, no matter how many narratives or how much theory I read.
I keep catching myself relating certain phrases in this book to other types of struggles, and I wish I didn't, because I have no desire to co-opt Coates' struggle for my own or someone else's. This is the tricky thing with narratives - there is so much in the beginning of Between the World and Me that, out of context, falls seamlessly into a transgender narrative, and I'm sure some others, but that isn't what this is. This is one man's story - one man who ties his identity up, for at least this moment, in being a black father to a black boy - nothing I know anything about.
I was reading through some of the reviews on Goodreads while preparing to write this, and I wasn't surprised at all to see that the majority of them were by who Coates refers to as "those who think they're white." The first review I read, though? Rick Riordan. You know, Percy Jackson and all that. In my head, the quintessential white male author of chapter books. This is a guy I know absolutely nothing about. And it's funny, because I guess until then, I just assumed that chapter book authors didn't exist outside of their chapter books - I had never assumed that Riordan would be the one to pick up this book. In fact, I'd never assumed anything about him. I forgot about him as soon as I finished pricing or shelving one of his books. But Riordan's review helped me put a lot of my own thoughts in order. The key point? "Coates' story is not so much about making sense as it is about finding one's place in a nonsensical context." That's what it is. Coates' book isn't an attempt to help Whitey understand why Michael Brown or Trayvon Martin being shot and killed isn't okay. The book isn't for Whitey at all. I'm not even sure this book is for anyone other than Samori. It isn't an effort to help Whitey feel better about themselves, or a call to action or the defense or racial justice. In fact, it ends with Coates telling Samori that the only thing that can fix this is that "[the Dreamers] must ultimately stop themselves...the Dreamers will have to learn to struggle themselves, to understand that the field for the Dream, the stage where they have painted themselves white, is the deathbed of us all (p 151)." Coates tells his son that he has to continue struggling for his ancestors, but to realize that his struggle won't mean anything until those who call themselves white end it themselves.
This is the same argument that Michelle Alexander makes in the beginning of The New Jim Crow, where she argues that the people in power have to break down the walls of "systems of racialized social control" or another form will just replace the old one. Those who are being oppressed, discriminated against, murdered, aren't the ones in position to overthrow the system doing the oppressing. Coates isn't naive. He knows this. He also knows that he has struggled his entire life and that there is no god to pray to, that the struggle has not done anything sincere. He also acknowledges that things are different for his son. His son's president is black; his son thought justice would be brought against the killer of Michael Brown.
Things can be different but still the same. That's what this book is about.
If you can handle a constant barrage of emotion, guilt, and a little bit of that feeling where you think you're invading someone's personal thoughts, I recommend this book. I don't recommend you go into it with the idea of, "Alright, Ta-Nehisi, how can I be a better ally?" If you've read this blog since the beginning, you know how I feel about allies. I get the sense that Coates feels similarly, but in a different respect. Coates doesn't want your allyship. He wants us to wake up, break the system we put in place, or silently tolerated, and he wants his son to be around for this book's 50-year anniversary. Coates' book is intended for his son; it is not a self-help book for the white consciousness that feels the need to do penance for crimes against black bodies in this century or any other.
10.03.2015
Planned Parenthood/ FBF, One Day Late
Flashback to this post.
I hate needing to have the same conversation multiple times, but lately, it seems that's one of good old America's key tenets.
Let's talk about abortions again. Let's talk about gun control again. Let's talk about mental health again. Let's talk about suicide rates of LGBTQ individuals again. Let's talk about health education and care again. Let's talk about a living wage again.
For the most part, this is how those issues go: you find a couple people who are out there working incredibly hard to shape the face of change within their issue, and everyone else is standing around emulating their high school debate team practice sessions. They all hate politicians, but they all act exactly like them. The people who are out there working for it get exhausted because the politicians keep asking them, "why aren't you doing this," "why isn't anything happening," etc., but not actually offering to help them.
No wonder folks are frustrated. But as disappointed as I am about yet another mass shooting, that's it. Just disappointed. Not surprised; and this post isn't even about gun control. It's about Planned Parenthood!
I am the first to admit that Planned Parenthood, historically speaking, has its own set of issues; founded by Margaret Sanger, the organization has a colorful history of what looks an awful lot like eugenics, whitewashing, and eradicating poverty through sterilization. There's good and there's bad, and most of the time, they come in the same package. History aside, Planned Parenthood has become an integral part of the twenty-first century, offering medical care, preventative screenings, sex education, and yes...abortion...to those who would otherwise be unable to afford it, due to a lack of healthcare.
As a trans-identified individual, I have to admit some stuff upfront. I have never been very good and maintaining any interest in my biologically-female body. I don't go to OBGYNs, the last time I had a pap smear is when they thought I had ovarian cancer (three years ago), and it isn't necessarily a dysphoria thing. For most people, it is, and that's fair; for me, it's just that the vast majority of doctors no idea how to work with trans* patients, they're rude, they're insensitive, they're just plain awful. In the experiences I have had with Planned Parenthood, none of that has been present. They have a history of working with disadvantaged groups and they have a reputation that I appreciate. I know friends and acquaintances who trust them, and that's enough for me. If the mood ever did strike me to care for my body like I should, my first stop would be at my local PP. No doubt about it. But you can bet it isn't going to be for an abortion; in fact, for the focus the conservative right is claiming PP has, let's talk about how when you're growing up in the suburbs and in a right-wing family, one of the only places you can get information on being LGBTQ or queer-identified in any way, is Planned Parenthood. They don't even work exclusively with sexuality; they talk about gender identity, too! The trickiest part of that is actually getting to the Planned Parenthood near you.
So for all of you out there who are pro-life/anti-choice, but think we need to work on strengthening support for LGBTQ youth, leave Planned Parenthood alone..? Review facts for yourself, instead of just swallowing what your favored politician of the day is telling you. If you think that defunding Planned Parenthood is the only way to get what you want and prevent abortions, you're an idiot. Do you remember what happened the last time abortions were "illegal?" We now have people who make trashy Halloween costumes with wire hangers, they were done in secret anyway, and now we're here. If you defund Planned Parenthood, you're not defunding abortions. You're defunding the working class and lower middle-class of America. You're promoting racism by forcing your politics on disadvantaged groups (and leaving them in impossible positions), you're promoting discrimination based on socio-economic class, and you're endangering the lives of countless women and children, never mind the LGBTQ population who has nowhere else to turn.
I hate needing to have the same conversation multiple times, but lately, it seems that's one of good old America's key tenets.
Let's talk about abortions again. Let's talk about gun control again. Let's talk about mental health again. Let's talk about suicide rates of LGBTQ individuals again. Let's talk about health education and care again. Let's talk about a living wage again.
For the most part, this is how those issues go: you find a couple people who are out there working incredibly hard to shape the face of change within their issue, and everyone else is standing around emulating their high school debate team practice sessions. They all hate politicians, but they all act exactly like them. The people who are out there working for it get exhausted because the politicians keep asking them, "why aren't you doing this," "why isn't anything happening," etc., but not actually offering to help them.
No wonder folks are frustrated. But as disappointed as I am about yet another mass shooting, that's it. Just disappointed. Not surprised; and this post isn't even about gun control. It's about Planned Parenthood!
I am the first to admit that Planned Parenthood, historically speaking, has its own set of issues; founded by Margaret Sanger, the organization has a colorful history of what looks an awful lot like eugenics, whitewashing, and eradicating poverty through sterilization. There's good and there's bad, and most of the time, they come in the same package. History aside, Planned Parenthood has become an integral part of the twenty-first century, offering medical care, preventative screenings, sex education, and yes...abortion...to those who would otherwise be unable to afford it, due to a lack of healthcare.
As a trans-identified individual, I have to admit some stuff upfront. I have never been very good and maintaining any interest in my biologically-female body. I don't go to OBGYNs, the last time I had a pap smear is when they thought I had ovarian cancer (three years ago), and it isn't necessarily a dysphoria thing. For most people, it is, and that's fair; for me, it's just that the vast majority of doctors no idea how to work with trans* patients, they're rude, they're insensitive, they're just plain awful. In the experiences I have had with Planned Parenthood, none of that has been present. They have a history of working with disadvantaged groups and they have a reputation that I appreciate. I know friends and acquaintances who trust them, and that's enough for me. If the mood ever did strike me to care for my body like I should, my first stop would be at my local PP. No doubt about it. But you can bet it isn't going to be for an abortion; in fact, for the focus the conservative right is claiming PP has, let's talk about how when you're growing up in the suburbs and in a right-wing family, one of the only places you can get information on being LGBTQ or queer-identified in any way, is Planned Parenthood. They don't even work exclusively with sexuality; they talk about gender identity, too! The trickiest part of that is actually getting to the Planned Parenthood near you.
So for all of you out there who are pro-life/anti-choice, but think we need to work on strengthening support for LGBTQ youth, leave Planned Parenthood alone..? Review facts for yourself, instead of just swallowing what your favored politician of the day is telling you. If you think that defunding Planned Parenthood is the only way to get what you want and prevent abortions, you're an idiot. Do you remember what happened the last time abortions were "illegal?" We now have people who make trashy Halloween costumes with wire hangers, they were done in secret anyway, and now we're here. If you defund Planned Parenthood, you're not defunding abortions. You're defunding the working class and lower middle-class of America. You're promoting racism by forcing your politics on disadvantaged groups (and leaving them in impossible positions), you're promoting discrimination based on socio-economic class, and you're endangering the lives of countless women and children, never mind the LGBTQ population who has nowhere else to turn.
9.11.2015
Storytelling as a community-building tool.
On any of the alternative news streams, you can usually find commentary - whether in the actual articles, or in the comments posted by critically-thinking folks - about the importance of narratives, and the horror of those narratives being co-opted by "good Samaritans."
During my brief, but intense, tenure as a Women's Studies student at the local university, a lot of the reading I was doing focused on community-building through storytelling. The most common example of this is the consciousness-raising of first and second-wave feminisms. Quite a few of the narratives I read were those of POC in general, and WOC in particular - their experiences in America, a land of imperialist values and ethics, the labor issues they dealt with, family-raising, and identity issues.
Prior to switching my major (or really doubling up, because I never left the English department, I just added another one), I worked briefly for an after-school program that partnered with a local center for underprivileged youth. This program focused on educating these students on the importance of storytelling as a strength tool. We tried to instill the value of narrating one's own experiences as a critical tool for developing identity, and finding strength in a source that most middle- and upper-class folks would consider a weakness (they're poor and lack access because they don't work hard enough for it, etc.). We would have the kids pick a point in their life that they thought of as "critical" to their development; keep in mind, this can be a lot to ask for from kids between the ages of 9 and 12.
Ultimately, this program failed those students. A part of that was because the kids had so much going on at home and school that the last thing they needed was to focus on telling stories. A majority of the kids hadn't volunteered; they had been signed up by the center's staff, and thus, lacked the personal interest they needed to commit and use the program for its benefits. A bigger part of it was due to the center staff (the folks in charge, not the Public Allies intern who initially brought us in) pulling the rug out from under us at every turn. They would hold the participating kids upstairs during the sessions, claiming that they needed to finish homework first, clean up, help the younger kids, etc. They would cancel certain sessions without notifying us first. All of these things that if you think about it, you can justify, but not when these kids are critical situations who just need someone to listen to them talk, and really, could accomplish major things if someone would just hear their stories.
That experience changed my life more than I usually admit, and there isn't actually a day that goes by that I don't think about what I could have differently for those kids and for that situation. I long to go back to it and figure out a way to make it work. I want to find those kids and make real relationships that last, and watch them grow up, and help them apply for colleges and scholarships and win competitions with critical essays that use storytelling as a way to communicate to admissions boards why they want to go to college, that college, to study this subject. I want to help them grow into young adults who believe that they can change the world, regardless of where they come from or who society has told them they need to be.
And now we come to storytelling.
There are a few common themes that arise around the criticism of storytelling. One is the theme of the "White Savior," also seen as gentrification, or charity, or whatever else you want to call it. Too often, when a community is overtaken by a group of "well-meaning" upper-, or even middle-class, citizens, who want to come in and turn the community around and rehab the dwellings and add more access to fresh, healthy foods - remember, I'm writing from Cincinnati, where all of this is happening right here, right now (and admittedly, some of it is AWESOME, like using food aid at farmers' markets, the rest of it is just standard gentrifying eliminations) - what they're really doing is re-investing in a space that was only affordable to lower-income families - primarily families of color - because no one else was interested in it. With these well-intentioned folks, property values and cost of living expenses are rapidly shooting upwards. This is also what has been happening in New Orleans since Katrina. Those lines get blurry in any economy that's as tight as ours, where the middle-class is rapidly shrinking and more people are sinking towards the poverty line, debt is outrageous, and normal folks can't even afford to own their own homes.
This is all "normal."
What isn't, and what desperately needs to be corrected, is that we generally only hear from the people moving into these areas. We never hear from the ones who are being forced out, because suddenly, their cramped residences with bad electric work and mold and pests, that were once affordable but still forced ends to be stretched so they could meet, have now sky-rocketed as premium spaces for new, modern loft areas for young professionals, who buy these buildings at a price of anywhere from 20k-100k and totally rehab and flip them as condos for upwards of 100k a piece on a regular basis.
I understand the hypocrisy here, because I'm an identifiably white person writing about the injustices of gentrification and class bias. I get that. I acknowledge that, though, which is a huge difference.
I heard an interview on NPR recently (within the last two weeks, commemorating the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina) of a presumably white woman who had moved into New Orleans. I missed the first half, so the portion I heard was largely about how neighbors (the majority being disadvantaged, lower-economic folks, primarily POC) initially reacted to her presence in the neighborhood, her position on the community board not long after relocating there, and how they felt about her now. She initially received responses of blatant irritation, hatred, or was simply ignored. There was resentment when she landed a position on the community board, which was dealing with a lot of combat on a gentrification issue (bulldozing old buildings to erect new apartments, and so on), but she was one major opponent towards redeveloping the ward she now saw herself as a resident of. Slowly, her neighbors came around, began accepting her. I can appreciate this interview because she was very careful to not sugarcoat or dance around any of the issues she seemed to be fully aware of upon her arrival. She was honest about the moments she felt doubt, and even a little guilt, about her presence in this neighborhood. It was refreshing after so many interviews of wealthy white people who are really doing nothing more than taking advantage of low property prices in lower-valued settings and viewing them as "investments."
Storytelling and narratives are not just about low-income communities or communities of color. Those are the two communities that need it the most, I could argue, but intersectionality is everything here. Trans* communities also need to take control of their own stories. I spoke to this in an earlier post, and the frequency with which cisgender white people are taking over trans* narratives, and frequently, damaging the real people behind these stories. Even when trans people are telling their own stories and the media begins listening, it is usually only trans people (specifically women) with high income, and they are primarily white. Laverne Cox is an exception, as is Janet Mock, on a slightly lesser scale. Both of these amazing women, though, are still the idealistic portrayal of trans women. They are WOC, but they are beautiful. They have access to the healthcare they need, they don't live as transients on the fringes of society, and the society they thrive in accepts them and hears what they are saying. This is not how the much larger portion of the trans community really is. Our voices go unheard, our bodies are victimized - not only by hate crimes and violence, but by the medical industry and politics, and for simply existing, we are told we should not. We are told we defy laws of nature, and we are too invested in simply surviving to be bothered with making sure the rest of the world knows that inside, we are powerful.
This is the first post in what I can only hope becomes a much larger series, and if you read this blog frequently, or even infrequently, I want to hear your stories. I don't care if you comment, I don't care if you want to guest-post, I don't care if you want to message me, like so many of you do. I would prefer that this storytelling takes place on a public scale, where we can all talk to each other, as opposed to one-on-one conversations, but I do want to hear it, in whatever form you want.
Story-time, folks.
During my brief, but intense, tenure as a Women's Studies student at the local university, a lot of the reading I was doing focused on community-building through storytelling. The most common example of this is the consciousness-raising of first and second-wave feminisms. Quite a few of the narratives I read were those of POC in general, and WOC in particular - their experiences in America, a land of imperialist values and ethics, the labor issues they dealt with, family-raising, and identity issues.
Prior to switching my major (or really doubling up, because I never left the English department, I just added another one), I worked briefly for an after-school program that partnered with a local center for underprivileged youth. This program focused on educating these students on the importance of storytelling as a strength tool. We tried to instill the value of narrating one's own experiences as a critical tool for developing identity, and finding strength in a source that most middle- and upper-class folks would consider a weakness (they're poor and lack access because they don't work hard enough for it, etc.). We would have the kids pick a point in their life that they thought of as "critical" to their development; keep in mind, this can be a lot to ask for from kids between the ages of 9 and 12.
Ultimately, this program failed those students. A part of that was because the kids had so much going on at home and school that the last thing they needed was to focus on telling stories. A majority of the kids hadn't volunteered; they had been signed up by the center's staff, and thus, lacked the personal interest they needed to commit and use the program for its benefits. A bigger part of it was due to the center staff (the folks in charge, not the Public Allies intern who initially brought us in) pulling the rug out from under us at every turn. They would hold the participating kids upstairs during the sessions, claiming that they needed to finish homework first, clean up, help the younger kids, etc. They would cancel certain sessions without notifying us first. All of these things that if you think about it, you can justify, but not when these kids are critical situations who just need someone to listen to them talk, and really, could accomplish major things if someone would just hear their stories.
That experience changed my life more than I usually admit, and there isn't actually a day that goes by that I don't think about what I could have differently for those kids and for that situation. I long to go back to it and figure out a way to make it work. I want to find those kids and make real relationships that last, and watch them grow up, and help them apply for colleges and scholarships and win competitions with critical essays that use storytelling as a way to communicate to admissions boards why they want to go to college, that college, to study this subject. I want to help them grow into young adults who believe that they can change the world, regardless of where they come from or who society has told them they need to be.
And now we come to storytelling.
There are a few common themes that arise around the criticism of storytelling. One is the theme of the "White Savior," also seen as gentrification, or charity, or whatever else you want to call it. Too often, when a community is overtaken by a group of "well-meaning" upper-, or even middle-class, citizens, who want to come in and turn the community around and rehab the dwellings and add more access to fresh, healthy foods - remember, I'm writing from Cincinnati, where all of this is happening right here, right now (and admittedly, some of it is AWESOME, like using food aid at farmers' markets, the rest of it is just standard gentrifying eliminations) - what they're really doing is re-investing in a space that was only affordable to lower-income families - primarily families of color - because no one else was interested in it. With these well-intentioned folks, property values and cost of living expenses are rapidly shooting upwards. This is also what has been happening in New Orleans since Katrina. Those lines get blurry in any economy that's as tight as ours, where the middle-class is rapidly shrinking and more people are sinking towards the poverty line, debt is outrageous, and normal folks can't even afford to own their own homes.
This is all "normal."
What isn't, and what desperately needs to be corrected, is that we generally only hear from the people moving into these areas. We never hear from the ones who are being forced out, because suddenly, their cramped residences with bad electric work and mold and pests, that were once affordable but still forced ends to be stretched so they could meet, have now sky-rocketed as premium spaces for new, modern loft areas for young professionals, who buy these buildings at a price of anywhere from 20k-100k and totally rehab and flip them as condos for upwards of 100k a piece on a regular basis.
I understand the hypocrisy here, because I'm an identifiably white person writing about the injustices of gentrification and class bias. I get that. I acknowledge that, though, which is a huge difference.
I heard an interview on NPR recently (within the last two weeks, commemorating the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina) of a presumably white woman who had moved into New Orleans. I missed the first half, so the portion I heard was largely about how neighbors (the majority being disadvantaged, lower-economic folks, primarily POC) initially reacted to her presence in the neighborhood, her position on the community board not long after relocating there, and how they felt about her now. She initially received responses of blatant irritation, hatred, or was simply ignored. There was resentment when she landed a position on the community board, which was dealing with a lot of combat on a gentrification issue (bulldozing old buildings to erect new apartments, and so on), but she was one major opponent towards redeveloping the ward she now saw herself as a resident of. Slowly, her neighbors came around, began accepting her. I can appreciate this interview because she was very careful to not sugarcoat or dance around any of the issues she seemed to be fully aware of upon her arrival. She was honest about the moments she felt doubt, and even a little guilt, about her presence in this neighborhood. It was refreshing after so many interviews of wealthy white people who are really doing nothing more than taking advantage of low property prices in lower-valued settings and viewing them as "investments."
Storytelling and narratives are not just about low-income communities or communities of color. Those are the two communities that need it the most, I could argue, but intersectionality is everything here. Trans* communities also need to take control of their own stories. I spoke to this in an earlier post, and the frequency with which cisgender white people are taking over trans* narratives, and frequently, damaging the real people behind these stories. Even when trans people are telling their own stories and the media begins listening, it is usually only trans people (specifically women) with high income, and they are primarily white. Laverne Cox is an exception, as is Janet Mock, on a slightly lesser scale. Both of these amazing women, though, are still the idealistic portrayal of trans women. They are WOC, but they are beautiful. They have access to the healthcare they need, they don't live as transients on the fringes of society, and the society they thrive in accepts them and hears what they are saying. This is not how the much larger portion of the trans community really is. Our voices go unheard, our bodies are victimized - not only by hate crimes and violence, but by the medical industry and politics, and for simply existing, we are told we should not. We are told we defy laws of nature, and we are too invested in simply surviving to be bothered with making sure the rest of the world knows that inside, we are powerful.
This is the first post in what I can only hope becomes a much larger series, and if you read this blog frequently, or even infrequently, I want to hear your stories. I don't care if you comment, I don't care if you want to guest-post, I don't care if you want to message me, like so many of you do. I would prefer that this storytelling takes place on a public scale, where we can all talk to each other, as opposed to one-on-one conversations, but I do want to hear it, in whatever form you want.
Story-time, folks.
8.12.2015
"Tell me who I am"- medicalizing identities. *TW abortion, rape, trans issues, body politics, bodies
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.
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.
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.
10.16.2013
Falling Back
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.
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.
Janet Mock and I at Urban Retreat 2013, Photo by "Lloyd"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.
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
Random stray links.
Briefing
This is absolutely perfect. And also preparing me for getting in way over my head.
I know it's been a bit since my last update - to my credit, though, there's been an open draft sitting here for a week and a half. Spring break is this week, and without campus time, I'm sans internet for most of it. So...here are some updates.
A verdict was reached in the Steubenville case. This article is particularly interesting. At some point this week, I also saw another interesting analysis of the comparison between Americans' reactions to the gang rape in India, and to this. If I can track that down again, I'll link it in.
Senators Portman and Clinton both came out for marriage equality. The question a lot of people are asking is, what took Hillary so long?
A couple of weeks ago, we had a screening for The Invisible War. Kori Cioca, Jeremiah Arbogast, and Gary Noling were all panelists, and Terri Spahr Nelson acted as moderator. It was an amazing discussion and I know we all appreciated them being present and coming to talk with us. In honor of them, this fantastic clip where Senator Gillibrand rips the military a new one.
Personal updates:
I have recently been accepted to the Women In Leadership and Learning (WILL) Program at the University of Cincinnati beginning in Fall 2013. This is an undergraduate program, with both curricular and extra-curricular components, focusing on feminism and activism in a university environment, the culmination of which is a team action-research project.
I sent in my proposal for the Undergraduate Summer Research Fellowship, as well. I'm a bit nervous, because I'm still in the process of pulling my GPA back up after a couple of slumpy quarters in the beginning, but I think after so many revisions and help with edits from amazing people, my proposal might be strong enough to help.
I have also applied to the Racial Awareness Program at UC, and am currently trying to decide between a week-long intensive program or a year-long one.
I am also looking for a part-time position in something more relatable to my studies. This would preferably be a paid position, but I understand that's difficult, especially with non-profits currently. Ideally, it would be with a women's center, a crisis shelter, or an LGBTQ-affiliated organization, working three to four days a week. If you know of anything locally, or even semi-local, please let me know via email ( medina1erica@gmail.com ).
I am also looking for guest posters for Shiksa Chic, or topic suggestions. If you are interested in doing a post, or have something you'd like to see up here, you can also send those to my email. I'll respond as quickly as I can.
3.06.2013
Coming Out.
I was raised to become a heterosexual woman, by a Messianic Jewish mother.
If you told me ten years ago that I would eventually be someone who opposed, resisted, and staged a life in absolute conflict to every one of those three aspects of identity - heterosexual, woman, and "Christian,"- I might have believed you. Because even then, I knew I was different. I knew there wasn't something quite "normal" about me, not compared to other children in my synagogue, or those I went to school with. I never felt wrong, just different. That is something I've been trying to explain for a very long time.
I struggle a lot with my identity; that is to say, sometimes it's hard to be seen as inherently "wrong," because of who I love or how I dress. I don't struggle with it in the sense that I doubt it, because I don't; I know every aspect of myself to be absolutely, divinely true.
I've been an "out" lesbian for a long time; as long as I can remember. I never was actively closeted, but if it didn't come up in conversation, I didn't force the issue. People found out sooner or later, and once I left high school, it wasn't a big deal. I've had my share of homophobic attitudes and harassment, but I've never felt the need to conceal that part of myself.
Recently, I've started identifying as "genderqueer." Gender-fluid, however you call it - something not quite male or female, but rather neither or in between the two. While this has presented its own set of difficulties to me, and I'm still learning how to navigate a gendered world while trying to remain ungendered - at least in my own head - this coming out has been relatively easy as well.
The tricky part is, oddly, coming out as a Reform Jew. On one hand, the Reform movement of Judaism is large enough that I have never felt homeless within it. With congregations like Sha'ar Zahav, organizations like Keshet, there's virtually no room for exclusion of LGBTQ Jews. On the other hand, coming into such an inclusive, progressive movement, from such an exclusive, traditionalist one - my past comes with a kind of stigma attached. Most secular or cultural Jews, or any Jew, really - they tend to view Messianic Jews as something a little less than. They're viewed as Christian traitors by most Jews, and most Christians see them as something not quite Christian, because oh my, they're Jews. It's a weird border world to be trapped in. So when I attend a Reform synagogue for the first time, or begin interacting with Reform Jews more than ever before, the first question I usually get, and the most daunting one to answer, is "what kind of Jew are you?" (Or something to that effect.) Reform Jews don't have a problem with my sexuality, or my gender identity; and once they adapt to my previous Jewish home, they don't have a problem with that, either. They're extremely warm and welcoming. But coming out as a Reform Jew to my Messianic ex-home is an entirely different story. While they take huge issue with my sexuality and gender identity, they're very good at keeping quiet about it. Maybe they don't want to "encourage" me by acknowledging it - I don't know. But the second I bring up attending a Reform service and how cool it was to hear the matriarchs' names mentioned in the blessings, I am met with snorts of derision and contention. The moment I mention how excited I am about an inclusive prayerbook and a worldwide conference of LGBTQ Jews, those Jews around me who embrace Jesus as the Messiah shut down. They embrace all forms of Judaism but refuse to acknowledge any other as the correct one. They beg for the salvation of their Jewish brothers and sisters, praying they find the "truth" of Jesus as the Messiah, cry for my return to the fold.
So that's my issue with Messianic Judaism. The implication that I am, and should be, a sheep. This is the same source of conflict I find myself having with most religious practices, actually. The idea that I am in need of guidance and am inherently some sort of hoofed prey animal. Everything I have been through demands that I become the exact opposite - that I find a way to become a leader to not only myself, but those around me. As someone marginalized by this society we live in, it is my responsibility, and yours, to create a space for change and variation and diversity. It's my way to fulfill tikkun olam (a Hebrew phrase that essentially means "the repairing of the world"). If I find my power and strength in being something and someone that is so different, then so be it. At least there is still a safe space for that difference to exist and to grow, without having to give up my heritage or my traditions.
As a Reform Jew, I can still embrace Jewish traditions and simultaneously maintain feminist politics and ideology. I can still exist in a thoroughly patriarchal institution as a queer-identified member, and it only gives me an opportunity to create change from the inside - something not many get the chance to do. It means I don't have to give up the rituals that give my life meaning - not my Hebrew blessings over my food, the study of the Torah, or my meditations and Goddess worship. I can create a safe space between the two and each side is contented with that negotiation.
I am safe to present as either male or female, queer or not, Jewish or Gentile, or whatever else I feel at that moment because I am learning to successfully navigate multiple and conflicting worlds.
So while coming out as a Reform Jew is definitely one of the harder things I have had to do, coming out as a queer Reform Jew has made it infinitely easier.
This was extremely tangential and all over the board, but I've been working on collecting thoughts for a more important, even lengthier one later on this week. Thanks for hanging out.
2.28.2013
Feminism and Liberation for Everyone
To the extent that women are enslaved, so too men are enslaved. The oppression of one individual or one group is the oppression of all individuals and all groups. Solidarity marks the sexes. In sexism we all die, both victim and victor. In liberation we all live equally as human beings.-Phyllis Trible, "Depatriarchalizing in Biblical Interpretation," p. 35
Feminism is, more often than not, seen as a "women's movement." Comprised of oppressed women, looking for a way out of a patriarchal society, sexist traditions, misogynistic norms, it is often assumed that only women carry the feminist flag.
Although this article has more to do with feminism and the eradication of patriarchy in a specifically religious context, that quote struck me. Hard.
A community, no matter what divisions, or the members of it, is still a community. While feminists may exist within their own sub-community, it's important to acknowledge that we aren't detached from the greater, still patriarchal, community. In fact, if we were, it wouldn't still be an issue; there wouldn't still be a need for feminism. Those who strive for liberation from patriarchy could simply move into a "safe space," of their own volition. There would be no difficulty in doing so, because separate societies would maintain separate worlds (in an ideal setting). However, people sometimes forget that we are still surrounded by others.
What this quote does, is to give context to the idea that if one member of a society is oppressed, victimized, stigmatized, or in any way discriminated against, so is every other member of that society. It puts an emphasis on the importance of groupwork and collaboration; something that the women's movement and its lack of solidarity with those "outsiders" is often found in want of. In an oppressive society, members are relegated to one of two roles: the oppressed, or the oppressor. In a patriarchal society, men are seen as dominant, superior, oppressive; women are seen as submissive, inferior, and oppressed. There isn't a whole lot of grey space for those who fall in between. So what happens to men who refuse to play the role of oppressor? While they can't avoid male privilege, even if they may want to, they make a conscious effort to minimize the damage they do towards their female colleagues. What about women who treat even other women as their inferiors? I.e., cisgender, heteronormative women who treat transgender women or otherwise queer women as something inherently less because they don't represent the picturesque ideal of femininity. Is it possible to be both the oppressor and the oppressed? White women are often seen in this role; oppressed by white men, but oppressive to women of color.
That was tangential. My point is, as long as there are still roles of oppressed and oppressor, victim and victor, Trible is correct. The society, at large, remains within confines and is limited by such roles. Without the eradication of these concepts, no individual, let alone community, will be free from such division and imprisonment. Sometimes we forget that "working together" extends to those beyond simply the "women's movement," but we have to remember to eliminate patriarchy as a social institution, we have to get all of society involved.
Let this serve as a reminder to myself and hopefully to any of you who might have forgotten the real definitions of inclusivity and collaboration.
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