Follow-Up
The link below takes you to a Huffpost article: "8 Ways to Support the Black LGBTQ+ Community for Pride Month." I provide this as a follow-up to AtRP #104. In that post I wrote about the extreme vulnerability of trans women of color. Please educate yourself on this issue; and if you feel called upon to help any of the organizations the article highlights, thanks.
https://www.huffpost.com/entry/ways-support-black-lgbtq-community-pride-month_l_5ee7b365c5b6f81cec07fcda
Sunday, June 28, 2020
Saturday, June 27, 2020
Number 105
Mea Culpa
I was born in 1966. Lyndon Johnson was the US president. The Dow Jones Industrial average finished the year at a robust 785. A new home cost $14,200 and the average yearly income was $6,900. A new car would set you back, $2650, but you could fill the tank with gas that averaged 32¢ a gallon. The strive that would define the end of the 60's began to take hold that year. The number of US troops in Vietnam crossed the 500,000 mark, and whispers wondering about what we were doing over there began to be heard. Women began to push for equal rights, and the on-going search for civil rights became more violent as many of those facing the oppression of racism grew tired of empty promises for change; and stopped turning the other cheek when police trained fire hoses and sicced German Shepherds on them.
In other words, some stuff is way different than it used to be, while some stuff is, sadly, still pretty much the same. Or is it?
Well, let's check things out. Are women still struggling to achieve equality? Yes. Is there still a duplicitous asshole in the White House talking out of both sides of his mouth while spreading lies and misinformation? Uhhh... no comment. Is racism still an issue? Only a small one. (Sarcasm: an ironic or satirical remark. Mainly used to say the opposite of what's true.)
So... nothing's changed? Stuff just got more expensive?
I just can't believe that's true. There has been progress - not enough, for sure - but other than the 'duplicitous asshole in the White House' part, things have been trending in an okay direction. The trouble is that working for social justice is a lot like battling the Hydra from Greek mythology. Every time an issue is successfully handled, it seems that two new issues take its place. Issues that seem so simple from the outside prove themselves to be horribly complex. And that's not even taking into mind stubborn neanderthals who are afraid of any change and/or things they don't understand. But things have, oh so slowly, gotten better since 1966.
Which brings me to my main point. For the 54 years I've been around, I have been terribly complicit in maintaining of the status quo. Rarely, I hope, intentionally; but certainly in unknowing and ignorant ways I have allowed other people to be hurt, insulted, deprived, sullied, tortured and even murdered. I have used derogatory terms to refer to minority groups. I have listened to, laughed at, and retold jokes where the punchline belittled a variety of different ethnic groups or women. In my naivete, and with willful ignorance, I have supported unworthy people and groups. I have been unwilling to admit when my country and/or its leaders not only did not live up to our highest ideals, but perpetrated illegalities against other nations. There have been so many times that I could have, and should have done better. I am one of the reasons why progress has been so slow. I am profoundly sorry.
But each day I try to improve. I have educated myself, and I have become wiser. I will never claim to be perfect, but I'm a lot better than I used to be. I hope you are, too.
Which brings me to my second point. Before George Floyd and BLM; before Covid-19; and even before the #Metoo movement, I deplored the "gotcha" moments in popular culture. You know what I mean: Every time some celebrity did something stupid, the internet would explode with a rapturous orgasm of finger wagging and shame. With delight, we watched as this person squirmed through an awkward apology, only to conclude that they should never be forgiven. I have written before on the power of forgiveness, so, no surprise, it makes me crazy that our society seems to be unable to forgive and move on.
Now I am aware that certain "sins" in a person's past are worse than others. And I certainly don't disagree that a person might face consequences for their bad - especially criminal - behavior. What I'm talking about here are the sins of so many of us who made ignorant, stupid decisions because we weren't yet aware enough, weren't educated enough, weren't "woke" enough, to know we were being assholes, and that our actions were hurtful, or that they helped perpetuate systemic societal problems.
So, "mea culpa." And while it important to acknowledge, apologize, and make amends when necessary, for past bad behavior, it is also important not to dwell there. A better future for all of us lies ahead - let's get on our way. I was blessed to hear South African bishop Desmond Tutu give the commencement address at Oberlin College back in 1987. Apartheid had yet to be dismantled, and he was discussing how the problem needed to be solved. I still get a shiver down my spine as I recall the words he spoke that day: "We will not solve this problem separated from one another - we will do it together." Amen.
I was born in 1966. Lyndon Johnson was the US president. The Dow Jones Industrial average finished the year at a robust 785. A new home cost $14,200 and the average yearly income was $6,900. A new car would set you back, $2650, but you could fill the tank with gas that averaged 32¢ a gallon. The strive that would define the end of the 60's began to take hold that year. The number of US troops in Vietnam crossed the 500,000 mark, and whispers wondering about what we were doing over there began to be heard. Women began to push for equal rights, and the on-going search for civil rights became more violent as many of those facing the oppression of racism grew tired of empty promises for change; and stopped turning the other cheek when police trained fire hoses and sicced German Shepherds on them.
In other words, some stuff is way different than it used to be, while some stuff is, sadly, still pretty much the same. Or is it?
Well, let's check things out. Are women still struggling to achieve equality? Yes. Is there still a duplicitous asshole in the White House talking out of both sides of his mouth while spreading lies and misinformation? Uhhh... no comment. Is racism still an issue? Only a small one. (Sarcasm: an ironic or satirical remark. Mainly used to say the opposite of what's true.)
So... nothing's changed? Stuff just got more expensive?
I just can't believe that's true. There has been progress - not enough, for sure - but other than the 'duplicitous asshole in the White House' part, things have been trending in an okay direction. The trouble is that working for social justice is a lot like battling the Hydra from Greek mythology. Every time an issue is successfully handled, it seems that two new issues take its place. Issues that seem so simple from the outside prove themselves to be horribly complex. And that's not even taking into mind stubborn neanderthals who are afraid of any change and/or things they don't understand. But things have, oh so slowly, gotten better since 1966.
Which brings me to my main point. For the 54 years I've been around, I have been terribly complicit in maintaining of the status quo. Rarely, I hope, intentionally; but certainly in unknowing and ignorant ways I have allowed other people to be hurt, insulted, deprived, sullied, tortured and even murdered. I have used derogatory terms to refer to minority groups. I have listened to, laughed at, and retold jokes where the punchline belittled a variety of different ethnic groups or women. In my naivete, and with willful ignorance, I have supported unworthy people and groups. I have been unwilling to admit when my country and/or its leaders not only did not live up to our highest ideals, but perpetrated illegalities against other nations. There have been so many times that I could have, and should have done better. I am one of the reasons why progress has been so slow. I am profoundly sorry.
But each day I try to improve. I have educated myself, and I have become wiser. I will never claim to be perfect, but I'm a lot better than I used to be. I hope you are, too.
Which brings me to my second point. Before George Floyd and BLM; before Covid-19; and even before the #Metoo movement, I deplored the "gotcha" moments in popular culture. You know what I mean: Every time some celebrity did something stupid, the internet would explode with a rapturous orgasm of finger wagging and shame. With delight, we watched as this person squirmed through an awkward apology, only to conclude that they should never be forgiven. I have written before on the power of forgiveness, so, no surprise, it makes me crazy that our society seems to be unable to forgive and move on.
Now I am aware that certain "sins" in a person's past are worse than others. And I certainly don't disagree that a person might face consequences for their bad - especially criminal - behavior. What I'm talking about here are the sins of so many of us who made ignorant, stupid decisions because we weren't yet aware enough, weren't educated enough, weren't "woke" enough, to know we were being assholes, and that our actions were hurtful, or that they helped perpetuate systemic societal problems.
So, "mea culpa." And while it important to acknowledge, apologize, and make amends when necessary, for past bad behavior, it is also important not to dwell there. A better future for all of us lies ahead - let's get on our way. I was blessed to hear South African bishop Desmond Tutu give the commencement address at Oberlin College back in 1987. Apartheid had yet to be dismantled, and he was discussing how the problem needed to be solved. I still get a shiver down my spine as I recall the words he spoke that day: "We will not solve this problem separated from one another - we will do it together." Amen.
Wednesday, June 24, 2020
Number 104
I Am Trans. I Am Privileged.
I was telling my story to a group of cis allies this morning when I realized a few things. Before proceeding, however, I need to remind you of one thing. I do not mind telling people about my journey through the gender confirmation process. I feel that I can play a part in helping the at large population better understand what it means to be trans; and that we're not much weirder than everyone else. This is not true of all trans people - please, don't assume that every trans person is open to discussing their own journey.
So anyway, I was yakking with these folks, and answering their questions when I commented that, "In the two years I'd lived as my authentic self, I have not changed the ways in which I go about living my life, and that I have yet to have a negative encounter with someone because of my trans identity."
They were all like "That's great," and "That's so cool." However, at the same time, I became aware of how profound my words were - much beyond their implications of our culture becoming more trans inclusive. They illuminated my privilege. Let me explain:
I was telling my story to a group of cis allies this morning when I realized a few things. Before proceeding, however, I need to remind you of one thing. I do not mind telling people about my journey through the gender confirmation process. I feel that I can play a part in helping the at large population better understand what it means to be trans; and that we're not much weirder than everyone else. This is not true of all trans people - please, don't assume that every trans person is open to discussing their own journey.
So anyway, I was yakking with these folks, and answering their questions when I commented that, "In the two years I'd lived as my authentic self, I have not changed the ways in which I go about living my life, and that I have yet to have a negative encounter with someone because of my trans identity."
They were all like "That's great," and "That's so cool." However, at the same time, I became aware of how profound my words were - much beyond their implications of our culture becoming more trans inclusive. They illuminated my privilege. Let me explain:
"Trans women of color: The vast majority of trans people who are attacked or murdered just for living their authentic lives, are women of color. And nobody seems to give a shit."
This is a direct quote from AtRP #103 (my most recent entry). I can't tell you how many times I've been called "brave" for living my truth. Maybe I am, I don't know - I've always felt that a better word is "honest." In my mind, the 'brave' folks are the trans women of color (TWoC), I mentioned above. Almost every single trans person who has been harassed, attacked, or murdered (for being trans) has been been a TWoC. And it happens ALL THE TIME.
It's outside my scope of expertise or knowledge to understand the variety of sociological forces at work to explain why this is. For my purposes today, it only matters that it's true. Weekly, it seems, there's a story about the discovery of another bruised and battered corpse of a TWoC. And though there is a glimmer of hope in our post 'George Floyd' world that things might be changing for TWoC, so often these murders are treated with a shrug of the shoulders (at best); but more often than not, jokes, and a sense of "he" got what "he" deserved. Nobody seems to give a shit.
Including me. That was the discovery I realized inside my words this morning. Listen - I am profoundly affected at the way TWoC are treated - it wounds my soul and leaves me hurt and angry - but what have I actually done about it? Sure, I'm bringing attention to the problem by writing about it - and that's important - but I need to do more.
The next step for me is to acknowledge my privilege. Why am I able to say that I've never had a negative encounter about my trans identity? Regarding my own history as a trans person, maybe it's because of where I live. Maybe it's because I'm older than a lot of the other folks going through gender confirmation. Both of those are solid reasons, but we're kidding ourselves if we deny that my race hasn't played a big part in my good fortune. But that's the sneaky thing about privilege. For those of us that have it, it's often invisible. And that, my friends, is the slippery slope of privilege. Please remain vigilant for its presence in your lives, and use it to make positive changes in our world.
I'll get back to you (soon), because it is important to me that I provide more than lip service when it comes to this issue. Hopefully, I'll have some suggestions on ways to ensure that the holocaust being visited upon my trans sisters of color becomes a thing of the past. Until then.
Monday, June 22, 2020
Number 103
Mental Illness: From the Inside (language warning)
I'm in therapy, and have been for the last five years. Nothing shocking there. For one thing I mention it frequently; and for another, it's a pretty good guess that anyone going through the gender confirmation process is definitely in therapy. So, ho-hum, right? Yeah, ho-hum. In my particular case - two therapists and five years ago - I made the decision that if I was going to do this (therapy), I wasn't going to fuck around. That meant I was going to be completely open and honest, and I was going to work hard to get to the bottom of what makes me tick. "That''s mostly been the case," says I, as I pat myself on the back.
"In practical terms, what does this look like?" you might ask. Good question. It started with me allowing myself to be vulnerable and open to embarrassing myself during a therapy session. From a psychological stand point, that's some risky shit. But for me, I went further. I actively asked for "homework" - things that I could research or think about between sessions (writing a blog entry, as an example). It also meant that I thought about what was on my mind before a session, so that our discussions were more likely to focus on something that's relevant. Afterwards, I spent a lot of time critically evaluating what we talked about. Finally, I did (and do) my best to effect positive change in my life.
Blah, blah, fuckity blah. The above paragraph strongly implies that the last five years has been a linear progression from poor to good mental health. I talk a good game, but it's been a rough journey, filled with many potholes and detours along the way. Let's just say, "progress has been made," and leave it at that. That, and, it's hard fucking work.
And now, before proceeding any further, I should tell you what my mental health diagnoses are: Moderate Depressive Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Gender Dysphoria. Again, nothing new to even my most casual followers. The other thing to remember is that just because I can name my illnesses doesn't mean I'm cured of them: All three of them have a vast capacity to kick my ass at a moment's notice. With all that out of the way, let's get going.
Introduction
"In practical terms, what does this look like?" you might ask. Good question. It started with me allowing myself to be vulnerable and open to embarrassing myself during a therapy session. From a psychological stand point, that's some risky shit. But for me, I went further. I actively asked for "homework" - things that I could research or think about between sessions (writing a blog entry, as an example). It also meant that I thought about what was on my mind before a session, so that our discussions were more likely to focus on something that's relevant. Afterwards, I spent a lot of time critically evaluating what we talked about. Finally, I did (and do) my best to effect positive change in my life.
Blah, blah, fuckity blah. The above paragraph strongly implies that the last five years has been a linear progression from poor to good mental health. I talk a good game, but it's been a rough journey, filled with many potholes and detours along the way. Let's just say, "progress has been made," and leave it at that. That, and, it's hard fucking work.
And now, before proceeding any further, I should tell you what my mental health diagnoses are: Moderate Depressive Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Gender Dysphoria. Again, nothing new to even my most casual followers. The other thing to remember is that just because I can name my illnesses doesn't mean I'm cured of them: All three of them have a vast capacity to kick my ass at a moment's notice. With all that out of the way, let's get going.
The Guts
1. jkrowking and terfs gaining ground
2. how do i not get swept up in a social networking shit show that directly impacts me and my sisters?
3. trans women of color
4. fucking surgery clinic
5. Hannah Gadsby - Nanette
6. lonliness
7. gender dysphoria
8. dread and pretending to be happy
9. i knew i was something but i didn't want to know what
10. life during covid and racial unrest
11. thinking about it protects me from feeling it
12. i'm moving at a turtle's pace while the rest of the world moves at a hare's pace
13. self worth
"What's this?" you ask. This is a list of notes I made for myself before my most recent therapy appointment. I had a lot on my mind, wanted to be able to remember them. and help keep my conversation focused on them, as opposed to a therapy session that follows a peripheral problem down some rabbit hole. I do this regularly, although this list is considerably longer than most. What can I say? I had a lot on my mind. I have this vague notion that if I detail my inner thoughts and feelings, it might provide some insight (to someone). Probably just another overshare, though.
1. jkr and terfs gaining ground: Joanne Rowling reached down my throat and ripped my heart out with her ill-informed diatribe against trans people. The problem, though, is, that even though her words are full of half truths and illogical conclusions, she has a huge platform. Her words give confidence to others who are vastly ignorant of what it means to be trans. A person I greatly admired, is now actively making my life harder. fuck her.
2. how do i not get swept up in a social networking shit show that directly impacts me and my sisters? If I ignore all the on-line stuff about trans people, I am mentally healthier. But if I can help educate people, and help break down barriers between the trans community and the rest of society, shouldn't I actively try to engage in the self-described "shit show." Both options suck.
3. trans women of color: The vast majority of trans people who are attacked or murdered just for living their authentic lives, are women of color. And nobody seems to give a shit.
4. fucking surgery clinic: I was supposed to have "bottom surgery" two weeks ago. I have not heard ONE, SINGLE SOLITARY FUCKING THING from the surgeons, or the people in their offices telling my that my surgery was postponed (I learned it through the grapevine), or when it might be rescheduled. Thanks for nothing.
5. Hannah Gadsby - Nanette: Hannah Gadsby is an Australian comedian. She is also a lesbian (which is important to this item). "Nanette" is the name of her stand-up special on Netflix. It is very funny, but about half-way through, it becomes something else. She tells her audience, us, her truth. It is extraordinarily moving and profound. If you have a heart, I cannot encourage you enough to watch this. (Americans will probably want to have the captions on - her Australian accent is strong). There is a second Netflix special which is also very funny, but lacks the emotional heft of "Nanette."
6. loneliness: I might not be alone, but why do I feel so lonely all the time? Even in a crowd of people I can feel lonely.
7. gender dysphoria: yeah... this one's pretty much on the list all the time. The problem is that social isolation only exacerbates the feeling. I actively hate the way my body looks when I step out of the shower.
8. dread and pretending to be happy: "How are you?" ("I'm fucking miserable, and it feels like my depression is going to overwhelm me like a tsunami") "I'm good. How 'bout yourself?"
9. i knew i was something but i didn't want to know what: just an insight I had about myself, looking back over the first 50 years of my life
10. life during covid and racial unrest: cheery times we're living in, right? Of course this shit is polluting my mind and affecting the way I feel.
11. thinking about it protects me from feeling it: I'm a ruminator. I like to know things - especially how different things work. I'm also big on knowing the cause and effect of different things. When it comes to the inner workings of my mind, I spend all my time thinking about things - trying to understand 'why' things are the way they are - rather than just 'feeling' them. It's a great way to avoid those scary emotion things.
12. i'm moving at a turtle's pace while the rest of the world moves at a hare's pace: yup. At least that's the way it feels.
13. self worth: what self worth? This is a tricky one, because intellectually I understand that I am a good person trying to make the world a better place. Why can't I convince my heart?
1. jkr and terfs gaining ground: Joanne Rowling reached down my throat and ripped my heart out with her ill-informed diatribe against trans people. The problem, though, is, that even though her words are full of half truths and illogical conclusions, she has a huge platform. Her words give confidence to others who are vastly ignorant of what it means to be trans. A person I greatly admired, is now actively making my life harder. fuck her.
2. how do i not get swept up in a social networking shit show that directly impacts me and my sisters? If I ignore all the on-line stuff about trans people, I am mentally healthier. But if I can help educate people, and help break down barriers between the trans community and the rest of society, shouldn't I actively try to engage in the self-described "shit show." Both options suck.
3. trans women of color: The vast majority of trans people who are attacked or murdered just for living their authentic lives, are women of color. And nobody seems to give a shit.
4. fucking surgery clinic: I was supposed to have "bottom surgery" two weeks ago. I have not heard ONE, SINGLE SOLITARY FUCKING THING from the surgeons, or the people in their offices telling my that my surgery was postponed (I learned it through the grapevine), or when it might be rescheduled. Thanks for nothing.
5. Hannah Gadsby - Nanette: Hannah Gadsby is an Australian comedian. She is also a lesbian (which is important to this item). "Nanette" is the name of her stand-up special on Netflix. It is very funny, but about half-way through, it becomes something else. She tells her audience, us, her truth. It is extraordinarily moving and profound. If you have a heart, I cannot encourage you enough to watch this. (Americans will probably want to have the captions on - her Australian accent is strong). There is a second Netflix special which is also very funny, but lacks the emotional heft of "Nanette."
6. loneliness: I might not be alone, but why do I feel so lonely all the time? Even in a crowd of people I can feel lonely.
7. gender dysphoria: yeah... this one's pretty much on the list all the time. The problem is that social isolation only exacerbates the feeling. I actively hate the way my body looks when I step out of the shower.
8. dread and pretending to be happy: "How are you?" ("I'm fucking miserable, and it feels like my depression is going to overwhelm me like a tsunami") "I'm good. How 'bout yourself?"
9. i knew i was something but i didn't want to know what: just an insight I had about myself, looking back over the first 50 years of my life
10. life during covid and racial unrest: cheery times we're living in, right? Of course this shit is polluting my mind and affecting the way I feel.
11. thinking about it protects me from feeling it: I'm a ruminator. I like to know things - especially how different things work. I'm also big on knowing the cause and effect of different things. When it comes to the inner workings of my mind, I spend all my time thinking about things - trying to understand 'why' things are the way they are - rather than just 'feeling' them. It's a great way to avoid those scary emotion things.
12. i'm moving at a turtle's pace while the rest of the world moves at a hare's pace: yup. At least that's the way it feels.
13. self worth: what self worth? This is a tricky one, because intellectually I understand that I am a good person trying to make the world a better place. Why can't I convince my heart?
Wednesday, June 17, 2020
Number 102
MAGA Is a Cult, and Trump Is Their Leader
Below is my paraphrase of ten warning signs that a group of people and/or their leader might be a cult. I got the list from the website for the Cult Education Institute (link below). Perhaps it's humorous; perhaps it's compelling - I'll let you decide. Since 2016 I have spent a great deal of time pondering just what it is that makes Trump so impervious to any sort of critical evaluation by Senate Republicans (Hiya, Mitch) and/or the MAGA crew. Perhaps it's easier for me to be critical, because I disagreed with so many of his stated policy goals right from the start. But I have many friends and family members that identify as being conservative and/or Republican. They are good and decent people; but I um utterly and exhaustively stumped that many of them still don't understand what an awful person he is - far beyond any policy disagreements. I implore everyone - for the good of our country - do your part to see that he is not re-elected in 2020.
Ten Warning Signs of a Potentially Unsafe Group/President.
- Absolute authoritarianism without meaningful accountability. (Trump)
- No tolerance for questions or critical inquiry. (Trump)
- No meaningful financial disclosure regarding budget, expenses such as an independently audited financial statement. (Trump)
- Unreasonable fear about the outside world, such as impending catastrophe, evil conspiracies and persecutions. (Trump/MAGA)
- There is no legitimate reason to leave, former followers are always wrong in leaving, negative or even evil. (Trump/MAGA)
- Former members often relate the same stories of abuse and reflect a similar pattern of grievances. (Many former cabinet members)
- There are records, books, news articles, or television programs that document the abuses of the president. (Trump)
- Followers feel they can never be "good enough". (Trump's children; also reflective of his own relationship with his father)
- The president is always right. (Trump/MAGA)
- The president is the exclusive means of knowing "truth" or receiving validation, no other process of discovery is really acceptable or credible. (Trump/MAGA)
Tuesday, June 16, 2020
Number 101
A Progressive Grammar Nerd's Head Explodes
So there's this thing about this song that has bothered me for a long, long time. The pronoun "his" is ambiguous. Everyone just assumes it's the dog that's named Bingo, because, let's be honest, 'Bingo' would be a stupid name for a man. But do we know that for sure? No we don't; because maybe, a long time ago, somebody won large at St. Bernard's charity Bingo night, went home, got luckier, and nine months later named the offspring Bingo to commemorate that magical night. Stupider things have happened.
So the dog or the farmer. Which one's Bingo?
And there I remained stuck for many, many years. Anytime the song would come up - and it comes up a lot more often than you might think - I would ask my question. Most people quickly dismissed my question and accused me of thinking too much. (which is a true accusation, by the way). Every once in a while, I'd get someone to consider it long enough that they might say, "huh", but that's as far as that went.
Until the other day, that is. I brought this issue up with a friend, and she replied, "How do we know the dog is a boy?"
Oh Wow! What a new spin. The possibilities that this opened up filled me with wonder. And then my friend executed her coup de gras "How do we even know the farmer isn't a woman?"
And with that, 54 years of ingrained sexism caused my head to explode.
As it stands now, I've decided the farmer's name is Edna, and she grows organic arugula at her place outside of town. As for Bingo - he is definitely a boy; because, while it is still considered poor form to look up between a person's legs, the same is not true of dogs.
"There was a farmer, had a dog, and BINGO was his name-o..."
So there's this thing about this song that has bothered me for a long, long time. The pronoun "his" is ambiguous. Everyone just assumes it's the dog that's named Bingo, because, let's be honest, 'Bingo' would be a stupid name for a man. But do we know that for sure? No we don't; because maybe, a long time ago, somebody won large at St. Bernard's charity Bingo night, went home, got luckier, and nine months later named the offspring Bingo to commemorate that magical night. Stupider things have happened.
So the dog or the farmer. Which one's Bingo?
And there I remained stuck for many, many years. Anytime the song would come up - and it comes up a lot more often than you might think - I would ask my question. Most people quickly dismissed my question and accused me of thinking too much. (which is a true accusation, by the way). Every once in a while, I'd get someone to consider it long enough that they might say, "huh", but that's as far as that went.
Until the other day, that is. I brought this issue up with a friend, and she replied, "How do we know the dog is a boy?"
Oh Wow! What a new spin. The possibilities that this opened up filled me with wonder. And then my friend executed her coup de gras "How do we even know the farmer isn't a woman?"
And with that, 54 years of ingrained sexism caused my head to explode.
As it stands now, I've decided the farmer's name is Edna, and she grows organic arugula at her place outside of town. As for Bingo - he is definitely a boy; because, while it is still considered poor form to look up between a person's legs, the same is not true of dogs.
Monday, June 8, 2020
Number 100
25 years ago I was working with a classroom full of second graders. At least half of the students were reading books from a new series that focused on Harry Potter - an adolescent wizard. I began reading the first book - not because I particularly wanted to, but because I wanted to be able to talk to my students about it. I was hooked by the fourth page. I became one of those crazed adults who would be at the bookstore at midnight when each new volume was published. The overarching themes of friendship, the power of love, and inclusion, among many others, held me spellbound. And then, a few years ago the author of the book series revealed herself to be unrepentantly transphobic. It seems silly to admit this, but she broke my heart.
There is a literary theory that claims that once a book is published, it no longer belongs to the author, but to the reader. It was in this spirit that I sat down to write what I am about to read. Briefly my passage takes place during Harry's first night at Hogwarts, during the sorting ceremony that every first year witch or wizard must go through. For the uninitiated among you, each student places a sentient "sorting" hat upon their head, and after careful consideration of the brain drippings found within, the sorting hat announces to all present which of the four school houses that student is to be placed.
“…. Not Slytherin, not Slytherin, not Slytherin…”
“Yes, yes, I hear you, my young Potter,” responded the Sorting Hat, “But before we talk about what house to put you in, we have another matter to discuss. I think it is time for your darkest secret to emerge into the light.”
Harry Potter’s life over the last few months had been full of the most mind-boggling discoveries, but nothing could have prepared Harry for the words the Sorting Hat had just spoken. Harry’s mind went blank.
“Wha… wha… wha…”
“I now see that life with your aunt and uncle was, um, less than pleasant - Why the headmaster ever thought that the Dursley home was the best place for you, I will never understand - but I sense something beyond the abuse and neglect you endured. Something deeper.”
In fact, there was a secret hidden so deep that Harry had never dared to even whisper it aloud in private. And every time a member of the Dursley family called Harry a “freak” or “weirdo” it only drove the secret further down. Though Harry now understood that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had been referring to magic, their hate-filled words cut Harry to the core. Many a silent tear had been shed in the closet-under-the-staircase, as the feeling of being all alone in the world mercilessly choked at Harry’s heart.
“The only love you’ve known in your life was stolen from you as an infant when Voldemort heartlessly took the lives of your mother and father. I understand your inclination to stay silent, for fear of further abuse. But Hogwarts is a place for all young witches and wizards - from whatever part of the rainbow they come. You will find adult staff that will protect and care for you. You will find friends who will love you just as you are. Come young Potter - take that first courageous step and tell the world who you really are.”
Harry swallowed nervously, and thought “Can the truth hurt any worse than I already feel?”
Harry was shocked when the Sorting Hat responded to that thought. “No. In fact I think you’ll find that voicing the truth will be the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to you. Come now, you can do it."
“I… I… I’ve always felt like my body was all wrong and I think I’m really a girl,” Harry thought out loud very quickly.
For a long moment there was silence. Harry’s eyes were scrunched tight. Harry had always imagined that a violent flash of lightning would accompany those words, had they ever been spoken aloud. After a short pause that seemed to Harry like forever, the Sorting Hat said, “My young friend, that was the bravest thing you have ever done - and I know what life with your cousin Dudley was like.”
Harry then began to realize that no harm was going to accompany the revelation of her secret, the doubt and shame that had choked her heart for so song began to loosen. She began to weep tears of happiness, and quickly appreciated the fact that the sorting hat had fallen so far down upon her head.
After another pause, the Sorting Hat asked, “Well what should we do about this? Tell me your deepest wish.”
“I know it can’t happen, but I really wish I was a girl,” Harry said to the hat, and a bit of doubt began to creep back in.
“Just leave things to me - I think you’ve forgotten where you are. But before I continue, my friend, since I cannot continue to call you ‘Harry’, is there a different name you would prefer to be known by.”
The creeping doubt vanished instantly, quickly replaced by a feeling of hope. “Of all the chores Aunt Petunia made me do, I minded the gardening the least. I always loved it when the irises bloomed. Would that name be OK?”
“More than OK” responded the Sorting Hat, “I think it is perfect.”
With that, Iris Potter felt a tingling throughout her entire body. She felt it run down both her arms and both her legs. She felt it in her head, but most of all, she felt it in her heart. The Sorting Hat had granted her, not her greatest wish, but her greatest truth - She was the girl she was always meant to be.
“And now, I think it’s time to tell this restless crowd my decision,” the Sorting Hat whispered to Iris.
In a booming voice the hat called out to everyone in the Great Hall, “My apologies for the lengthy delay in announcing my decision, but sometimes arriving at the truth takes some time. This young person in front of you is a witch who shall henceforth be known as Iris Potter, and because she is one of the bravest souls I have encountered, there is only one house for her - Gryffindor!”
The Sorting Hat’s announcement was met with a tremendous burst of applause by everyone, especially her fellow Gryffindors, because Hogwarts truly was a place for witches and wizards from everyplace on the rainbow.
When the crowd finally quieted, and Iris had been enthusiastically embraced by the other Gryffindors, Professor Snape stood, and looking into the green eyes he knew so well, offered up a toast, “To Iris Potter, the girl who lived!”
Saturday, June 6, 2020
Number 99
The Worst Serial Killer Ever!
I don't exactly remember when I was indoctrinated with the rule "Thou shall not steal", but it was fully in force by the age of 5 or 6. I often accompanied my dad to the local hardware store. I liked to do this because the store had a small toy section that I liked to evaluate while my dad found the #8 wood screws, finishing nails, or whatever else he was looking for. It probably goes with out saying that I always hoped my dad would let me get something.
During one particular visit, I was fixated upon a 'super' ball. You know, one of those small plastic balls that would bounce sky high, and then force you to chase it down because it always veered off in some crazy direction. Anyway, for whatever reason, I knew the 'Dad' option wasn't going to work that day, but I really wanted that ball, so I settled on a different option. I looked around furtively, and then slipped the ball into my pocket. Gotta love the five-fingered discount.
Here's the deal. I have no memory of that ball after it landed in my pocket. I don't remember playing with it, and I certainly have no recollection of whatever happened to it in the end. But I sure as shit remember stealing it. 50 years later, I can still recall how 'naughty' it felt. It was only a 10¢ toy.
Stealing is stealing, and I was wrong. Right?
Jean Valjean is one of the central characters in Les Miserables, at the beginning of the story he is being released from prison after serving a sentence for the theft of a loaf of bread. At the time of his arrest, his family had been desperately hungry with no money. At a point of deep desperation, he resorted to theft. This exact scenario is frequent fodder for philosophical discussions centered upon the question, "At what point would you consider breaking the law?". Since Jean Valjean is the 'hero' of the story, and the police official who pursues him is the 'villain', the audience is clearly expected to view Jean (and his theft of bread) sympathetically. If you allow me to take this analysis one step further, I believe that Victor Hugo believes there are forces at play, way beyond Jean's control, that forced him into a corner where his only option for survival was theft.
But stealing is stealing, and Jean Valjean was wrong. Right?
Looting is wrong, too. So is wanton destruction and violence. They are misguided missiles of anger and desperation that usually destroy innocent targets. This is how I feel. I'm not going to try and pull the rug out from under you at the end of this paragraph with a rhetorical question designed to get you to consider that the violence associated with looting is justified. The only thing I ask you to wonder about are the forces at play, beyond the control of the rioters, that forced them into a corner where violent confrontation felt like the only option available to them. Perhaps societal structures that tacitly send the message that it's all right for a law enforcement officer to leave his knee on George Floyd's neck until he is way past dead.
I'm a bit of a true crime junkie. I kind of wish it wasn't so, but it's true. Because of my interest, I know the horrific details of many different serial killers and their 'careers'. It begs the question, "who is the worst serial killer ever?". It's an utterly reprehensible question, as it forces you to evaluate the worst depravities ever perpetrated by one person upon another. Ultimately the answer is, "It doesn't matter", because any and all violence inflicted upon others is evil. This is why it is wrong to condemn looters without questioning and condemning the racist societal structures that have existed for centuries in this country.
For us white folks with privilege, these societal structures are mostly invisible. Now is the time stop talking. Now is the time to listen to the stories our Black and Brown neighbors have to tell. It's the best way forward.
I don't exactly remember when I was indoctrinated with the rule "Thou shall not steal", but it was fully in force by the age of 5 or 6. I often accompanied my dad to the local hardware store. I liked to do this because the store had a small toy section that I liked to evaluate while my dad found the #8 wood screws, finishing nails, or whatever else he was looking for. It probably goes with out saying that I always hoped my dad would let me get something.
During one particular visit, I was fixated upon a 'super' ball. You know, one of those small plastic balls that would bounce sky high, and then force you to chase it down because it always veered off in some crazy direction. Anyway, for whatever reason, I knew the 'Dad' option wasn't going to work that day, but I really wanted that ball, so I settled on a different option. I looked around furtively, and then slipped the ball into my pocket. Gotta love the five-fingered discount.
Here's the deal. I have no memory of that ball after it landed in my pocket. I don't remember playing with it, and I certainly have no recollection of whatever happened to it in the end. But I sure as shit remember stealing it. 50 years later, I can still recall how 'naughty' it felt. It was only a 10¢ toy.
Stealing is stealing, and I was wrong. Right?
Jean Valjean is one of the central characters in Les Miserables, at the beginning of the story he is being released from prison after serving a sentence for the theft of a loaf of bread. At the time of his arrest, his family had been desperately hungry with no money. At a point of deep desperation, he resorted to theft. This exact scenario is frequent fodder for philosophical discussions centered upon the question, "At what point would you consider breaking the law?". Since Jean Valjean is the 'hero' of the story, and the police official who pursues him is the 'villain', the audience is clearly expected to view Jean (and his theft of bread) sympathetically. If you allow me to take this analysis one step further, I believe that Victor Hugo believes there are forces at play, way beyond Jean's control, that forced him into a corner where his only option for survival was theft.
But stealing is stealing, and Jean Valjean was wrong. Right?
Looting is wrong, too. So is wanton destruction and violence. They are misguided missiles of anger and desperation that usually destroy innocent targets. This is how I feel. I'm not going to try and pull the rug out from under you at the end of this paragraph with a rhetorical question designed to get you to consider that the violence associated with looting is justified. The only thing I ask you to wonder about are the forces at play, beyond the control of the rioters, that forced them into a corner where violent confrontation felt like the only option available to them. Perhaps societal structures that tacitly send the message that it's all right for a law enforcement officer to leave his knee on George Floyd's neck until he is way past dead.
I'm a bit of a true crime junkie. I kind of wish it wasn't so, but it's true. Because of my interest, I know the horrific details of many different serial killers and their 'careers'. It begs the question, "who is the worst serial killer ever?". It's an utterly reprehensible question, as it forces you to evaluate the worst depravities ever perpetrated by one person upon another. Ultimately the answer is, "It doesn't matter", because any and all violence inflicted upon others is evil. This is why it is wrong to condemn looters without questioning and condemning the racist societal structures that have existed for centuries in this country.
For us white folks with privilege, these societal structures are mostly invisible. Now is the time stop talking. Now is the time to listen to the stories our Black and Brown neighbors have to tell. It's the best way forward.
Friday, June 5, 2020
Number 98
His Name Is George Floyd
Let’s get one thing straight right away. I am empathetic as fuck.
Having said that, I’m going to spend the rest of this post talking about things I have little knowledge of. I have strong feelings and opinions, but beyond that, it would be the height of hubris, and quite insulting to People of Color (specifically Black folks), to claim that I know what I’m talking about.
As a member of the human race, the murder of George Floyd hurts my soul. That’s all I feel qualified to say about that.
However, as a trans woman, I have been provided with one interesting insight regarding the explosion of protest, anger, outrage, and even violence that is occurring. Back when I was under the mistaken impression that I was a cis male, I considered myself a strong ally of other women in their struggle for equal treatment. Stories of sexual harrassment, victim blaming, and the struggle for bodily autonomy (among other issues), would incense me and fill me with a ‘generalized’ feeling of anger. Now, though, the same issues fill me with a much more personal sense of outrage. The attacks feel much more personal, much more visceral. It’s a subtle but very real difference. It’s this insight that enables me to conclude that the outrage I feel is a pale imitation to the rage felt by POC.
It also makes me realize that it’s time for me to listen to others and educate myself. I don’t have to be perfect, but it’s essential that I try. Acceptance of the status quo, the source of so much of my privilege, is no longer acceptable.
For what it's worth, I was given the name of the Black Visions Collective ( https://www.blackvisionsmn.org/ ), a community advocacy organization from Minneapolis. Their mission statement from their website reads as follows:
Since 2017, Black Visions Collective, has been putting into practice the lessons learned from organizations before us in order to shape a political home for Black people across Minnesota. We aim to center our work in healing and transformative justice principles, intentionally develop our organizations core “DNA” to ensure sustainability, and develop Minnesota’s emerging Black leadership to lead powerful campaigns. By building movements from the ground up with an integrated model, we are creating the conditions for long term success and transformation.
For what it's worth, I was given the name of the Black Visions Collective ( https://www.blackvisionsmn.org/ ), a community advocacy organization from Minneapolis. Their mission statement from their website reads as follows:
Since 2017, Black Visions Collective, has been putting into practice the lessons learned from organizations before us in order to shape a political home for Black people across Minnesota. We aim to center our work in healing and transformative justice principles, intentionally develop our organizations core “DNA” to ensure sustainability, and develop Minnesota’s emerging Black leadership to lead powerful campaigns. By building movements from the ground up with an integrated model, we are creating the conditions for long term success and transformation.
Black Visions Collective envisions a world in which ALL Black Lives Matter. We use the guidance and brilliance of our ancestors as well as the teachings of our own experiences to pursue our commitment to dismantling systems of oppression and violence. We are determined in our pursuit of dignity and equity for all.
I have chosen to make a monetary donation to this group. Perhaps you will, too.
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