Number 180

 If a Rant Falls in the Forest, But There's No One There to Read It, Is It Still a Rant?

When I was in college, I took a class about dinosaurs with my friend Michael. One day this weird young woman (and before anyone calls me out for being insulting, I'm fairly certain that most Oberlin students would be pleased to be thought of as "weird." With that in mind, I guess we could describe this particular student as being 'extra' weird), asked a question that had something to do with dinosaurs being feathered. "Oh my fucking God!" I thought to myself, "Just how delusional is this one, anyway?" (It is equally easy to encounter Oberlin students who have a shallow grasp on reality.) Michael and I had a lot of fun walking back to our dorm after class laughing about 'dinosaur sized chickens' hopping around; and generally making fun of the poor, deluded soul from our class. In that moment, we were quite secure in our intelligence and feelings of superiority: feathers on dinosaurs, for fuck's sake, how ridiculous! In other words, we were being ignorant assholes. 

Well, whadaya know, folks? Some dinosaurs had feathers. And with that, our smug feelings of supremacy over some twit weirdo took a direct kick to the balls. We deserved our comeuppance.

With that, I dedicate this post to all the smug, self-assured, dick heads out there, so secure in their ignorant and malicious stupidity, that they are threatening to take this world down with them. To them I offer up a sincere and deeply felt, middle finger salute.

To all those religiously conservative assholes who relentlessly quote mine the Bible; without understanding the inherent loss of nuance when translating from one language to another - especially when you go from one alphabet system to another (Hebrew to English, Greek to English), the different cultural norms in play when the Bible was written, or the splendid irony that their sainted "King James," was, in fact, gay; in order to prop up their own hatred of the LGBTQIA+ community I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you."

To all those who believe that "science" has an agenda - Folks, science only reports the facts, and hopes that we will make rational and well-formed decisions based upon those facts - I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you."

To all those who believe a thrice-married, failed and bankrupted real estate developer, who has been accused of marital infidelity and sexual harassment multiple times, with the personality of a carny in a circus sideshow, as well as being a litigious, thin-skinned, folicly-challenged, self-important jackass is the savior of the western world, I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you." (Seriously dudes, he doesn't give a fuck about any of you.)

To all those people who dismiss any information that they don't care for as "fake news," I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you."

To all those people who use "socialist," and "fascist" interchangeably, with no sense of irony, I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "People, read a fucking book!" Oh! and "fuck you," too.

To all those people who keep electing light-thinking, extremist demagogues who believe compromise is a dirty word, I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you."

To all those politicians who play upon the fears and worst notions of their constituents in order to gain power, instead of legislating through challenging and nuanced issues, I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you."

To all those people who participated - including all the politicians who whipped the crowds into a frenzy - in the insurrection of January 6, 2021, I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you."

To all those who deny an insurrection occurred on January 6, 2021 - who would be calling for the execution of every participant if they had had black or brown skin - I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you."

To all those who champion White supremacy, believe that supporting Black lives is tantamount to hating other groups, or actively denies that our country has a troubling past related to race relations, I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you." 

To all the gun fetishists of the NRA, I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you. May your dreams be haunted by the fearful cries of the young victims from the Sandy Hook shooting"

To Tucker Carlson, and the other pundits of his ilk, I offer up a sincere and deeply felt, slimy and gangrenous "fuck you, you Pied Piper lying sacks of shit."

And finally, to all those misguided, ignorant assholes who have turned mask wearing and vaccination shots into an assault on personal freedom instead of the common sense, "lets pull together to rid the world of this fucking virus" solutions that they are, I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you, you rabidly dumbass motherfuckers."

Now. I know this post won't change a thing. But I have felt the bile in my soul rising, day after day, one Marjory Taylor Greene tweet at a time, to the point that I was swimming in an existential cesspool of hatred and ignorance. With hope, this post will open a drain, and all the slimy, snot covered stupidity and vitriol will disappear into the sewer. However, the way things have been going, it's likely to be eaten by the alligators that dwell there, growing them to a size roughly akin to a Boeing 747. Cheers.

Number 179

Can You See the Real Me?

1. How to trust others in times of vulnerability

2. Can You See the Real Me?

"Queer people don't grow up as ourselves, we grow up playing a version of ourselves that sacrifices authenticity to minimize humiliation and prejudice. The massive task of our adult lives is to unpick which parts of ourselves are truly us and which parts we've created to protect us." (unknown)

In 1977 I was eleven years old. It was then that the voice first whispered to me that my gender might not be the same as the sex I was assigned at birth. Actually, what it whispered was “Nobody else is home, why don’t you go try on your mother’s clothes?” 

3. ”How did that make you feel?" you might ask. 

4.”Scared," would be my response. "How scared were you?" you might follow up with. "Shitless," would be my colloquial response.

However it didn’t stop me from doing it again and again. In a more enlightened time, I might have been willing to investigate what the voice was really saying; but, alas, it was not. That didn't stop the voice from insistently whispering at me for many, many years; but the guilt and self-loathing just kept me from properly considering what it had to say. My fear led me to completely distort the voice's message to the point of complete misrepresentation. In other words, I was completely afraid and ashamed of something that wasn't even true. It was only at the start of my sixth decade that I began to investigate my own authenticity.

Perhaps that's why this quote spoke to me so clearly. For 50 years I often felt uncomfortable or anxious in my own skin. There was a baseline nervousness that was always present. I often felt self-conscious and awkward. I had trouble making friends, and spent huge hunks of time all by myself feeling lonely. It's only now, looking back, that I realize what the rest of the world was 'interfacing' with was a fake, inferior version of the real me. And let me be clear, for the record, that "massive task" is a great way to describe discovering my true self via the gender confirmation process.

Ultimately, I'm glad it happened. I just wish I didn't feel like I owed the world an apology for taking so long to introduce it to the 'real me' 

note: I wish I remembered where I go this quote from, so I could properly credit the person. But since this blog is entirely profitless, I feel OK using it. As far as the title of this post goes; Yes, it's a complete steal from the Who, circa Quadrophenia (1973).

Number 178

 The Most Devious Lie

Here is the truth. I am a good person. I celebrate and practice kindness. I intentionally look for ways to help others. I listen and learn so that I can use my privilege to lighten the load for other folks. I volunteer and am active in groups that assist folks that need a helping hand. I support causes that work for fairness, justice, and equality. I look out for and support my family and other loved ones. There is only one problem. I don't believe any of it.

As a consequence, I am left at sea, aimlessly drifting in a sea of negative self talk and feelings of unworthiness. Where isolation feels like the only respite, because there is no way that anyone else could want to be with me. In a room full of people, I am utterly alone.

_______________________________________________________

I've done something like this once before, where I began a post while amidst one of my depressive episodes only to return to it, unfinished, the next day when the sun is shining a bit brighter. And just like that previous time, I am choosing to post the thoughts written by me when I was at a low ebb.

Negative self talk and I are old... acquaintances. I was thinking 'friends,' but it is no friend of mine. For most of my life, it has whispered the most insidious thoughts into my ears. Thoughts of ineptness and unworthiness. Thoughts that inspire isolation where they can flourish and grow like weeds that threaten to take over an entire garden.

_______________________________________________________

Here is my vicious cycle. In general, I don't enjoy talking on the phone - especially when I need to engage with someone for their assistance in completing some sort of personal business. Why? Because I feel unworthy of taking up another person's time and/or energy. Where did I get such a crazy idea? Why, negative self talk, of course. "So," I can hear you thinking, "Since you know what's holding you back, go ahead and engage with the world, and tell the negative self talk to fuck off." While I agree that that is a simple and elegant solution to the problem, there's just one problem. For me, negative self talk is similar to a pernicious computer virus. And by this point it has completely corrupted my hard drive to such an extent that I often feel frozen, or stuck in place. And what happens then? I engage in negative self talk, which further reinforces my unworthiness, which further reinforces my need to isolate myself from the world, which further reinforces my fear of picking up the phone and taking care of myself, and on and on and on and on and on...

Number 177

 The Life You Choose (part I)

“Energy is the currency of the universe. When you ‘pay’ attention to 

something, you buy that experience. So when you allow your consciousness 

to focus on someone or something that annoys you, you feed it your energy, 

and it reciprocates the experience of being annoyed. Be selective in your 

focus because your attention feeds the energy of it and keeps it alive. Not 

just within you, but in the collective consciousness as well.”

- Emily Marchitan

Do you remember the recession of 2008? That’s when I learned that I also had a generalized anxiety disorder along with my previously diagnosed moderate depressive disorder. My doctors and I were able to figure this out because I have historically been a bit of  a news junkie. During this period of time I became fixated on listening to details of the worsening financial crisis that was engulfing us at the time. From a personal standpoint, it meant that my retirement accounts were losing value by the day, the hour, the minute. It’s incredibly disconcerting to watch this happen in real time, especially when you’ve been working hard to set funds aside for your future. Perhaps you’ve heard the expression: “As nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.” That was me during this time. It got to the point that it was effecting my daily quality of life. Something had to be done.

A trip to my doctor elicited two suggestions. Switch to a medication that was more effective in treating anxiety and stop watching the news. Positive results were achieved by following through on both things. It’s a good thing, too, because the next time I inadvertently saw what was happening on Wall Street, the blood-letting had actually gotten even worse. “Well, shit,” I thought, “I guess it was a good thing I stopped paying attention to it.” This was my first big lesson in being careful about what I focused my attention upon. Since then, I’ve kept abreast of current events much like the person who walks along the shore allowing the wave of water to briefly touch their toes before receding back to the ocean. In other words, I’m a headline reader.

(As an aside, it’s important to note that ALL news services - from the craven conservative bullshit of OAN to the socialist leanings of Mother Jones - hype the news. User beware.)

That was roughly 15 years ago. Generally, I’ve done a good job of avoiding obsessively watching the news. Given my slightly to the left (ahem), political leanings, it has been much easier for me to avoid the news during Democratic presidencies than Republican ones. (Of course the only Republican administration during this time was a doozy.) However, there have been many short term failures over the years. My latest bender occurred last November after Joe Biden won the election. Schadenfreude is a German word that means taking delight in other peoples’ misery. I started obsessively looking for new stories about how the MAGA crowd was taking their leader’s defeat and eventual concession. (Unfortunately we’re all still waiting for this.) I soon realized the telltale depressive effects on my overall mood from my fixation and stopped. Since then, I’ve been on the wagon and only occasionally checking the news.

But I’m not here to write about the news.

(end, part I)

Number 176

Stare Down!

I've mentioned in the past how appreciative I now am to be 5' 10". Earlier on, in my old life, I felt kind of cheated that I wasn't as tall as my father or brother. It was only later, when I came to understand that I was a transgender woman that I became thankful that I stopped growing when I did. Still, 5' 10" is pretty tall for a woman.

I've also written a lot about my weight struggles over the last few years. When I started the gender confirmation process I tipped the scales at approximately 250 lbs. These days I'm a relatively svelte 195 lbs. Still, no one is going to accuse me of being skin and bones.

Finally, I've also written about the fact that I'm undergoing HRT (hormone replacement therapy). I've been taking feminizing hormones for three years now. My facial features have definitely softened as a result. Still, considering where I was starting from, I still have a few stereotypically masculine features.

What does this all add up to? Well, it means that if you only offer me up a quick casual glance, you'll probably think you've encountered a cis-gendered woman. However, a second glance will probably reveal the truth to you - you've encountered a transgender woman. Now to be sure, I'm totally cool being out in public as a trans woman; and for the most part, the people I encounter during the day are totally chill about it as well. I've enjoyed interacting with many wonderful and supportive folks. To that end, I'm at the point that I don't really care how other people respond to me. I am perfectly at peace with who I am, and I don't much give a damn if somebody disapproves of me. That's their problem, not mine.

There's another type of encounter that occasionally happens - utter curiosity. These are the folks that just stare at me, trying to figure out what's going on. For the record, though this can sometimes be a little off putting, I've kinda got used to it. There's a lot about being transgender out there in the world right now, and maybe I'm the first trans person somebody has knowingly encountered. I am secure in the knowledge that I'm more or less normal, so if someone sees me and realizes that transgender people aren't nearly as scary as Ben Shapiro or FOX news led them to believe, I feel like I've performed a valuable public service for myself and my trans siblings.

Because adults have been socialized not to stare, they're not as easy to catch, but just the same I notice the quick 'look away' when they realize I've spotted them. Little kids are another story. They have yet to learn the societal conventions against staring, so if they see something that catches their interest, they're all eyes. Yesterday, I was at the grocery store with my family. The store had large tanks of live crabs, lobsters, and shrimp among other things, and we were having fun looking them over. However when I turned around, there was an eight year old boy who was looking me over the same way we were just staring at the crabs. He saw me watching him, but he kept on staring, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. I thought for sure he would turn away when he saw me looking at him, but nope, he kept looking me over.

I don't know if he figured out what he was wondering about, but I was greatly bemused by the intensity he was giving the whole situation. The teacher in me sure hopes he did.

Number 175

 My Black Best Friend

This post is about race. Except I'm not sure that it is.

Did Kevin and I become best friends in fourth or fifth grade? I honestly don't remember. It was the mid 1970s, and the two of us, along with a few hundred others, attended East Elementary School in Urbana, Ohio. Urbana was (and basically remains), a town of just north of 10,000 folks in west-central Ohio. Most of the people who lived there were White, but there was a sizable minority of Black people as well. At the time I didn't understand the sociological implications of integration vs. segregation; or the deep, vile roots of systemic racism that have permeated our country throughout its entire history (suck it, Texas et al.), but it was readily apparent that most of the Black folks lived in neighborhoods in the southern part of the town. In fact, as far as I can recall, Kevin and his twin sister Sheri were the only Black kids in our grade at East.

As a White kid, assigned male at birth, what did I know about race relations, racial prejudice, or just racism in general back then? What did any of us know? In general my parents brought me up to be respectful of all people. However, I heard (and retold), jokes in which Black people were the butt of the joke. The same was true about folks who were Polish, Irish, Italian, Jewish, Asian, Hispanic, etc. (Way to punch up, Nora.) Additionally, I heard and occasionally repeated derogatory terms for the minority groups listed above. Sometimes I didn't even know they were ugly slurs, but I at least felt vaguely uncomfortable when I did. Is it at all mitigating if I tell you my behavior was an ignorant reflection of the culture I was raised in, and not mean-spirited? 

On the other hand, despite the casual racism associated with 'jokes,' I heard and retold, I was not raised in an overtly racist household. Black athletes were celebrated equally with White ones (if they wore the uniform we were rooting for). The only two-time winner of the Heisman trophy, Archie Griffin, played football for Ohio State (Go Bucks!), and was a huge hero in our house. I was not taught to think of Black entertainers and/or actors as being inferior to White ones. In fact, one of the first television shows I can remember watching together as a family was the Flip Wilson Show. (A comedian who happened to be Black). 

I'm sure I was aware that the enslavement of Black Americans was a historical fact by the time I met Kevin. I have a clear memory of watching Cicely Tyson's moving performance in the television movie The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman (1974). In it she plays a 110 year old Black woman born into slavery. At the point that the movie's climax takes place - the early 1960s - she has lived long enough to play a part in America's Civil Rights movement. In a powerful act of civil disobedience, she drinks from the town's 'Whites only' drinking fountain. I can only surmise that I was moved by the movie's portrayal of the many injustices through which she had to persevere. In any event, by the time I was ten, I had certainly started to realize that "race" was a thing.

These days, I am a 55 year old caucasian woman trying to come to terms with race in a world that witnessed four police officers murder George Floyd with the same sense of casual detachment that one might use to peruse a restaurant menu. And so I reflect back on my friendship with Kevin a great deal, as if there might be a secret there that remains undiscovered. We were two different races, sure, but we never discussed it. It was simply an unacknowledged fact. My parents never mentioned his race to me, and although I was never privy to private conversations between him and his parents, they never made me feel conspicuous about the color of my skin when I was in their home. As far as I understood, there was nothing ambiguous about our relationship. We were just two kids who, because we liked spending time together, became best friends.

In any event, before I entered seventh grade, my family moved away from Urbana. Who knows how our relationship would have developed as we got older? Perhaps our respective ethnicities would have become a topic of conversation between us. Almost assuredly it would have. Would that have changed things between us? The ebbs and flows of friendships that all of us navigate in our teen years dictates that Kevin's and my relationship would have changed in some way regardless of the difference in our skin colors.

I also want to acknowledge that Kevin, quite possibly, perceived our relationship in a manner much different than me. Not just because he was black; but because he was a wholly autonomous person who was allowed to have his own thoughts and feelings. However, I don't think it's a big jump to assume that his world view, even though he was still a child, was influenced by the color of his skin. Also, his experience living on the east side of Urbana, where his family was the only non-white family in the neighborhood, was probably substantially different than mine.

These days, I think I'm a pretty good ally. I am aware of the many advantages and privileges I've had in my life, and try to use them to help achieve long-lasting, equitable societal change. I acknowledge that systemic racism is a real thing, and I support policies that work to eliminate these inequities. I try to listen more often than I speak. I pay attention to those moments when I feel uncomfortable during conversations about race. However, it's also understood that, despite my best efforts, I fail as often as I succeed. If nothing else, my parents will be happy to know that I do a pretty good job of treating other folks with dignity and respect, regardless of their skin pigment.

Still, I can't help but wonder what it was that my ten year old self knew that my 55 year old self no longer understands. Our friendship was so simple and pure back then. And it's not that I'm suggesting that Kevin and I could never be friends again - only that our different races would now be a challenge we would need to acknowledge if our relationship was to have any chance of succeeding. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I don't know.

Was this a post about race? I still don't know.