World AIDS Day 2021 - For Bobby

Hello My Dear One,

In honor of World AIDS Day, 2021 I'd like to share a eulogy I wrote about a month ago. It was an assignment for a class, but I knew after it was done that I would share it today. In the time of the COVID pandemic, the AIDS pandemic sometimes feels like it was lifetimes ago. That's probably because it is, an entire generation of lifetimes was lost in those early years. Here in North America, we lost uncountable LGBTQIA+ people, IV drug users, sex workers, recipients of donated blood, and folks who simply got sick. 

Remembering Bobby

    I met Bobby in the Fall of 1994 when I was a freshman at a private college and he was a patient at Lemuel Shattuck Hospital in Jamaica Plain, Boston. I was young, inexperienced, and inherently nervous to be with my first hospice patient as a volunteer chaplain. I had made the basic rounds of the floor -  7 South, the infamous End-Stage AIDS Floor - and then sat down with Bobby to start learning the ropes of one-to-one chaplaincy. I introduced myself, and Bobby did the same. He was open and honest about how he looked, how sick he was, how awful it felt, and how he hoped no one would have to suffer like this. He told me his story, about the heroin, the homelessness, the horrors of being in the positions he’d found himself in. He was unflinching about the truth of it all and as a “well-fed” and “well-bred” 19-year-old kid I probably looked like the exact opposite of Bobby. I probably thought that not only were we opposites but that I was a better version than he was. I was starting my life with every advantage in the world, and unsurprisingly I didn’t have a clue about that either. Looking back now though I can see how truly similar we were, and he probably knew that himself. It would take me another 25+ years to figure it out though.

So, I stayed there and listened, either because I was too shocked to really say anything, or because I’d heard so many intimate stories of people’s lives that it was just how I did things. The shock wouldn’t have been about his confessions, but about his physical appearance. It’s true, Bobby didn’t look so hot that day, or any other day really, at least his body didn’t. His skin was yellowish, covered with lesions, scarred from a lifetime of use and abuse, and punctured by needles, tubes, and wires. Ironically, these needles were providing pain medicine that was prescribed, rather than the self-medicating kind he’d used before. He seemed immeasurably small and shrunken as if all that was left was the body of the child he’d once been. That earthly body was really nothing more than a broken shell. Like the old steamer shells that came out of the Bay, crusted and cracked, that was no longer meant to hold what it once had. He knew this. He knew that it was a matter of time before the shell would break apart completely and return its contents to the sea that it had come from. I believe he drew comfort from that at the end of the day. 

And yet, there was something luminescent in the pale blue orbs in his skull that were sunken so deeply into the greying flesh that surrounded them. There was something radiant that transcended the physical reality of his body, revealing a soul that was now inhabiting a broken vessel. There was something that was inherently divine and beautiful in the man I was looking at. 

 I say all these things in the way I have because it’s how Bobby would’ve said them. Pulling no punches, hiding nothing about the truth, and revealing the mental, spiritual, emotional, and agonizingly physical pain he had lived through and now lived with. He emphasized how much he never wanted anyone to suffer as he had. He may have regretted his choices, but he still wanted people to know that he was a human being. And he wanted them, ok, he wanted me, to hear his story.

 

In what could’ve been the most pastoral moment of my life, it was Bobby who asked me if I’d like to read the poem he’d written. Of course, I said yes. The paper was creased and wrinkled, the handwriting a little messy and the ink and the paper were fusing into each other. I lifted it off of his bed where he kept it next to him and read. 

 

Handwritten in blue ballpoint ink on a piece of college ruled lined paper were the words of a poet. In just a few short stanzas, Bobby had composed a testament to the strength and dignity of the human experience. His life had meaning. His life was important. He had loved and been loved. He was facing death head-on, knowing what was to come. He chose to tell his own story so that in the end no one would demonize his choices. They, ok, I would know that Bobby had lived his life the way he had, and he had been grateful for the opportunity.

Back then it would’ve never occurred to me that 27 years later I would still know Bobby’s story, or that it would be a cornerstone of my spiritual and professional life. I couldn’t have known that an IV drug user, dying alone of AIDS in Boston, would be the reason I’m here today sharing this time with you. I doubt that Bobby would’ve known that either, but I like to imagine that his spirit, his Divine Spark somehow knows now.    

So, with all of that said I want to share Bobby’s own words, his poem. But I can’t. Bobby died during winter break that year, and those written words were lost along the way. But his message to remember our humanity and therefore our divinity won’t be lost when we remember him. 

Thank you for being with me and Bobby on this journey.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

- Ari

My Prayer of Transgender Gratefulness 2021

Hello My Dear One, 

One year ago, I wrote a prayer for an LGBTQI+ Pride Shabbat Service at my synagogue, Congregation Ner Shalom, Cotati, CA. And now, one full year later, I shared the prayer again, this time with a few different words, and a far deeper understanding of what I was saying.  

Based on Genesis 1:27, "And G-d created humans in G-d's image, in the image of G-d They created humans; male and female They created them." The word in Hebrew used for G-d in the above text is אֱלֹהִ֖ים Elohim, a plural noun. This term does not indicate a plurality of gods, but rather an understanding of G-d as being greater than human constructs. It could be seen as a way of knowing the Divine as someone/thing that is both universal and Universal.  

So, the following poetic prayer speaks to my love of the Torah, my faith in G-d, and the struggles I have experienced as a transman. It is a reflection of how the body I have is a carefully created and shaped entity with the help of nature, science, and the Divine.

My Transgender Prayer of Gratefulness

Elohim, G-d, You said, “Let US make humans in OUR image.”

You crafted me a body, that never fit quite right
You gifted me a corporeal tote bag, that had crooked seams
You sculpted me a lumpy, squishy, and ungainly vessel, to hold the Divine Spark
And I was ungrateful.

In the beginning, I read how You crafted me in Your image
A cartoon of Adam and Eve printed on a canvas sack
A lump of clay thrown haphazardly on the wheel
And I was ungrateful.

I studied, and read, and translated each text letter by letter.
I punished and scarred my body in every way I could think of
I even asked You, Elohim, why did You create me Wrong?
And I was ungrateful.

And all the texts, and commentaries, and conversations, lay lifeless around me.
And my mangled and mutilated body was sprawled across the floor.
And the Divine Spark began to flicker out.
And I was no longer capable of anything in any form.

And Elohim, G-d, You said, again, “Let US make YOU in OUR image.”

And there we were, all of us, reimagining and reimaging this creation
One shot in the thigh, one lone mustache hair, one new name
One literal seam after another stitched across my flesh
One kippah, one tallit, and one Alephbet making me a man
And I was finally grateful.

You and I, Elohim crafted us this transformed body
You and I, Elohim gifted us this resown rucksack
You and I, Elohim sculpted us this vessel that now fully embodies and envelopes Our Divine Spark
And I, I am grateful.

Thank you for being on this journey with me. I am grateful for your support, your love, and your transformation in this process as well.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.


- Ari

My Transgender Prayer of Gratefulness

Hello My Dear One,

LGBTQI+ Pride Month 2020 looked and felt different than any I've ever experienced. No parades, no flashy displays of rainbows, or even much coverage in the media. However, it did include the opportunity to share a part of my story with members of my faith community at Congregation Ner Shalom, in Cotati, CA.

Based on Genesis 1:27, the following is a poetic prayer that I composed for a Pride Shabbat Service on the 26th of June, 2020. It speaks to my love of Torah, my faith in G-d, and the struggles I have experienced as a transman. It is a reflection on how the body I have is a carefully created and shaped entity with the help of nature, science, and the Divine.

My Transgender Prayer of Gratefulness

Elohim, G-d, You said, “Let US make humans in OUR image.”

You crafted me a body, that never fit quite right
You gifted me a corporeal tote bag, that had crooked seams
You sculpted me a lumpy, squishy, and ungainly vessel, to hold the Divine Spark
And I was ungrateful.

In the beginning, I read how You crafted me in Your image
A cartoon of Adam and Eve printed on a canvas sack
A lump of clay thrown haphazardly on the wheel
And I was ungrateful.

I studied, and read, and translated each text letter by letter.
I punished and scarred my body in every way I could think of
I even asked You, Elohim, why did You create me wrong?
And I was ungrateful.

And all the texts, and commentaries, and conversations, lay lifeless around me.
And my mangled and mutilated body was sprawled across the floor.
And the Divine Spark began to flicker out.
And I was no longer capable of anything in any form.

And Elohim, G-d, You said, again, “Let US make YOU in OUR image.”

And there we were, all of us, reimagining and reimaging this creation
One shot in the thigh, one mustache hair, one new name
One literal seam after another stitched across my flesh
One kippah, tallit, and Alephbet making me a man
And I was grateful.

You and I, Elohim crafted us this transformed body
You and I, Elohim gifted us this resown backpack
You and I, Elohim sculpted us this vessel that now fully embodies Our Divine Spark
And I am grateful.


Thank you for being on this journey with me. I am grateful for your support, your love, and your transformation in this process as well.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.


- Ari

My First Transgender Suicide Attempt, 1985

Hello My Dear One,

Important Preface: I am in no way currently suicidal. I have no suicidal ideation, no plans, no causes, no reasons for wanting to kill or harm myself in any way. Repeat: I don't want to kill myself. I am under the care and supervision of medical professionals and am 100% safe. Trust me, you can hold me to this one.

All that said, I want to share what my first suicide attempt was like and some of what I've learned about myself from it.

It was 1985 in the house I grew up in on the floor of my parents' bathroom.

I was 10 years old and I wanted to die.

I know that it may seem shocking, my young age, but that was the first time I realized I could end my life if I had the right resources. On that particular day, I happened to have the right resources. I had a bathtub full of water, a towel, a door with a lock, and a large block of dry ice we'd received with frozen steaks in the mail. I'd been warned of the dangers of the solid form of CO2 and exactly what not to do with it. I knew that as it melted the resultant gas was toxic and caused suffocation. So, with that knowledge, I filled the tub, locked the door, rolled up the towel to block the crack under the door, and laid down. I was waiting for an end.

A spoonful of poison...

But how did I get to this point? How did I at 10 years old even conceptualize this? Why was I desirous of taking my own life when I had existed for only 1 decade? What could possibly make a child want to die?

It was because I knew that death was an end to suffering. Death was an end to the constant pain of believing that I was never going to be okay. Death was the end of both feeling and being different. Death was a permanent release from the self-loathing, the anxiety, and the utter hopelessness of my different existence. 

And my existence was very different because I was a boy, stuck being a girl. I was transgender, and I didn't have a word for it. In 1985 there were adults who had sex changes, not yet called gender reassignment or gender affirmation surgery, and I had heard of 1 man who became a woman in 1951. But without female examples or an LGBTQ vocabulary, I was left in a figurative and a literal no-man's-land. Being transgender wasn't a thing yet, but I was. Consequently, I thought of myself as a thing, an "it" caught between a mind and a body that didn't or couldn't match. Death seemed like the only (good) answer at the time.

Leading up to that day I had fantasized about violent and scarring accidents and attempted self-harm by the time I'd entered Primary school. One summer when I was 7 or 8 I threatened to break my leg by jumping off a swing so I wouldn't have to return to camp. Why was I willing to do something that drastic just to get out of swimming in a lake with leaches and a snapping turtle? The shortest answer was my bathing suit. It was a one-piece with ruffles and it accentuated the fact that I was fat and developing anatomically female traits. I hated being anywhere that I was seen and identified as a girl. I would be perceived as female at camp, the lake, and everywhere else I went then. At home, as an only child in the 1970s, I dressed as I wanted, but out in the world, I had to be her. And if I was injured or dead, so was she. And being her was truly and literally a fate worse than death in my mind.

So, back in 1985, the white smoke-like fog was bubbling up and over the side of the bathtub, quietly falling onto me. There was no smell or taste, just a physical heaviness, and the emotional heaviness of the anticipation.

But, being 10 I was impulsive and impatient, and I sat up because the process was taking too long. And I was confused. And I was scared. And as a person of faith, I believe that G-d was just as present as the CO2 was. I felt within me that maybe this wasn't the right choice. So I moved the towel, unlocked and opened the door, and left the bathroom. I pretended as though nothing had happened. But I secretly wondered if/when someone would've come looking for me. But mostly, I was glad I'd escaped parental punishment because I wasn't caught breaking the rules.

Funny isn't it, I was more concerned with my father's verbal (over)reactions and the punishment than my actual death. Not until now have I thought about what my parents' response to their 4th grader attempting suicide would've been. Or what it would've been like had I actually died. I honestly can't imagine that scenario, their response, or the final outcome.

And that's one of the most important things I've learned from this event and the others that would follow it. I am unable, unwilling, or unmoved to imagine or care what will happen to those around me if I commit suicide. It is the most selfish act that I can do. I would be telling those around me that they are not enough, that their belief in me is wrong, and that worst of all my wants are greater than their needs. Even though the horrors of being me at that moment supersede all rational or logical thought, it doesn't change the outcome for those I'd leave behind. The deepest truth of suicide is that by choosing to leave and never returning, my concern for myself is larger than any amount of love from or for others. 

Eventually, I also learned that no matter how hard I try, I'm unable to be someone or something I'm not. Even a dead body was still going to be the wrong body. And that body has slowly changed into the one I have now. It still may not be the dream but it's a million times better than the old version. And it's infinitely better than not having it at all.

The man I am today.

And among other things, I see that who I am is a direct product of those horrible times and conflicts within myself. I am exactly the man I am today because of the female role I played, the suicide attempt(s) and the pain I lived with and enacted on others. I am a father, a husband, an uncle, a friend, and so much more because I chose to walk away from suicide then, and many times later on. I am here because of all that was, and what I choose to do with it now. I am here.

Thank you for being here in the darker parts of the journey with me so we can both see the light together.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari

Fighting My Anatomical [Trans]Gender Dysphoria

Hello My Dear One,

I've recently been fighting with my 15+ year psychological diagnosis of Gender Dysphoria. My sense of dysphoria feeling/being a man, but still having physical attributes of a female, escalated to a level that I hadn't experienced in more than a decade. It started with a low-level of physical pain in my groin. There's a 30-year-old, largely calcified cyst in a delicate (read genital) area of my anatomy. Unrelated to anything I can recall leading up to it, the cyst became inflamed, infected, and eventually burst open 2 separate times. The second time the pus that drained out was putrid, gritty, and contained shards of calcium. All of this led to a few medical appointments, a small procedure, and a soul racking anxiety about my gender identity. Or at least the physical manifestations of said identity.

The practical and pragmatic questions started immediately. Why did this flare-up occur now or at all? Did I do something that made it happen? Is it just a random flukish event? Is there an underlying medical reason? Is it a combination of multiple factors? And more importantly, is there anything I can do about it now?

But the broader philosophical questions arose moments later. Why has this caused such a massive flare-up in my mind? Why has this medically benign object in my groin, set off a cancerous spread of gender dysphoria in my head? Why am I questioning my male identity based on a cyst that could just have easily occurred in my armpit, my neck, or on my ass? Why am I struggling to come to terms with a more than 30-year-old part of my body, that I didn't believe mattered anymore?

It's because it has mattered all along and I have been unwilling and unable to acknowledge or accept that. I've been aware of this thing for as long as it's been there, both pre- and post-transition. It's been a daily reminder of where I am male and where I am not. And I hate that.

It is a literal encapsulation under my skin of a medical condition that has dictated more than 75% of my life. And it was a condition I didn't even know I had. The physician I saw had done her research and figured out that I have Hidradenitis Suppurativa also known as Acne inversa. It's a chronic skin disease of acne, boils, infections, and scarring of the skin, usually stemming from sweat glands and follicular [hair] blockages. It has many comorbidities (conditions that often occur with it) that include anxiety, depression, excessive sweating, obesity, high cholesterol, high blood pressure, diabetes, and Poly Cystic Ovary Syndrome. All of the above applied to me at one point or another in my life.

The disease itself isn't curable, and only the symptoms can be treated/managed. In a miraculous turn of events, my transition from female to male has helped, though that is certainly not the most common treatment. The removal of my ovaries and uterus, breast tissue, and a weekly injection of testosterone ended the ovarian cysts, the boils under the breasts, and seemingly most of the cysts in the groin. But, it didn't erase or eradicate the hardened cyst already there.

This new medical information didn't alter my sense of gender dysphoria. It was good to learn and access new resources, but it didn't change the dis-ease of not having the physical structures I want and think I need. That's the whole point of this for me. That no new diagnosis, or self-actualization, or psychological therapeutic intervention, or level of imagination will result in a physical change in my anatomy. I may one day be able to reconcile my gender dysphoria with my body, but it will never truly be that of a cisgender male. There may be an approximation that will meet my psychological needs, but it is not something that happens quickly, easily, or inexpensively. Surgical interventions are complicated processes.

But the surgery I can have done right now, a basic excision of the cyst, won't change anything about my anatomical or physical appearance. In the long run, it will likely alleviate some of my feelings of dysphoria, yet, it will likely exacerbate them as I focus more on that area. There will be pain, swelling, the potential for infection, issues maintaining blood glucose levels, and risks for scarring. It will serve as an acute reminder of my physical differences.

But will it be worth it? I think the answer for me is yes. I need to remove that which I can, even if it doesn't physically alter anything else. Freedom from something that has been painful and distressing for more than 30 years is worth the cost of a little bit of discomfort. Perhaps, it will serve as a motivating factor in creating more physical changes to my body. It may help me to refocus on what is most urgent for my health and wellbeing. And in the end, that might be more surgery. Or it might not. Who knows?

In the end, I have seen that gender is indeed something that comes from between the ears. It's a construct in our minds that stems largely from our culture, our religious traditions, and our personal experiences of G-d. But there is for me a physical component as well. And maybe that's the real difference between transgender and transsexual identifications. One's need for recognition as a man or a woman, or for specific body parts that signify recognition as a male or a female. Two or more forms of presentation and perception that create a slightly more holistic view of a human being. And which one is most important for the human being who is presenting and being perceived.

Whatever the end result is, I am thankful for this time to experience it, even if it has been triggering in so many surprising ways. Even challenging things teach us to see what is and what might be possible.

Thank you for continuing with me on this journey of experiences.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

- Ari

My November Beast of Bipolar Mental Illness

Hello My Dear One,

The writer T.S. Eliot said that April is the cruelest month, but for me, November is far worse. There is something about November that brings out or up the crazy that can normally be dealt with most other months of the year. It's a special holiday crazy if you like. Honestly, I don't like it one bit, but My Beast of Mental Illness seems to revel in it.

Maybe it's the creeping darkness here in the northern part of North America where I live. Maybe it's the cold, wet, and snowy winds paired with the final descents of the autumn leaves. Maybe it's the chemical hailstorm that occurs every 5 to 6 months regardless of the seasons. Or maybe it's the lead up to the Christmas Season, and its pressure to feel happy, overjoyed even, about the origin story of a 2000-year-old religion turned national holiday of gluttony and selfishness. And don't forget Thanksgiving, Black Friday, Chanukkah, Kwanzaa, Solstice, and a million other reasons to feel that material items will bring light into your darkness.  But most likely it is a combination of all of those things in largely unequal measures.

And here I am, sitting in a knee-deep pile of November wondering what I hope to accomplish with the rest of my life.

November is the harbinger of endings, and there is something deeply unsettling about that for me as a person with Bipolar Disorder 1. My sleeping Beast of Mental Illness is awoken by my nightmares of purposelessness and potentially futile endeavors. And he pounces on this with full force and full ferocity. He is nothing if not consistent in his attempts at convincing me of my worthlessness. Within this time of self-reflection/self-loathing, there is ample material for him to sculpt and manipulate me. Creativity, though limited to an almost singular subject, is my Beast's strong suit. There are always new and inventive ways for me to experience existential angst with a side of paranoia and mania at no extra charge. Trust me, this guy is a pro.

November 2001, a mere 18 years ago, was the first time my Beast took the reins and I couldn't take them back. I experienced rapid-cycling, meaning mania followed by severe depression, as often as 4 times per hour. Every 15 minutes I would swing from believing I would be the next solution to all of the world's problems, to holding a pillow over my face while attempting to suffocate myself. I would reach highs that would've made meth addicts jealous. Then the lows that followed would've made those same meth addicts' crashes feel like tiny tumbles onto a cushy floor covered with cashmere.

I was officially diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder that year, and perhaps that's why I see November as the ending of me. Or at least as the ending of who I thought I was. November is the anniversary of the loss of my prior identity. At 26 years old I was suddenly someone who needed massive amounts of psychiatric drugs to go grocery shopping. I was no longer "creative," "eccentric," or "unique," rather, I was "sick," "crazy," or "insane." My Beast was no longer a worry in the back of my mind, but a full-blown reality in my frontal lobe.

I was dis-eased in every way possible. And each day was a battle for even a gram of wellness. Some mornings it felt like I'd lost a kilo of sanity the night before. With each increase in one of the medication dosages, I would feel worse for a while, then better, and then back to worse as my mind and body would adjust and adapt to the neurochemical dance. Most often I would sleep for untold hours, ironically wearing athletic clothes while I laid on my couch for days on end. I gained more than 110 kilograms (50 lbs) and saw my not quite manageable diabetes become unmanageable in almost every way.  

Yet, I chose to keep going, fighting through my last semester of university, and even applying and being accepted into graduate school. I completed a 79 credit Master of Arts while taking 2000mg of Depakote and 60mg of Paxil every day for 5 years. I also became a parent of 2 sons and underwent Gender Identity Disorder therapy, medical treatments, and 2 surgeries. But that's another topic for another day.
    
So, where am I now, nearly 2 decades later? I'm not suffering through those original night terrors, but, yes it's often still a nightmare to try to exist in this space. My Beast and I have fallen all the way down since, and 7 years ago I finally received better treatment in an inpatient mental health facility. But, here's a small part of what my time now looks like:

Medications tweaked. Emotions addressed. Rollercoasters to ride and prayers that they end. Meltdowns that erupt. Apologies to be offered. Relationships to be repaired. Actions that attempt to make things better. Fear, anxiety, self-loathing, depression, and self-pity. Elation, exuberance, unrealistic expectations, mania, and unfounded superiority over others. And the never-ending battle for control between My Beast and myself. 

It's an arduous task to attempt every day. And in all likelihood, it's even more so for everyone around me. I am regimented yet unpredictable. I am a loose cannon yet afraid of confrontation. I am the monster in the closet and yet I too am hiding under the covers of the bed.

I am living with My Beast, and others live with both of us. And each November we all find ourselves frustrated, afraid, angry, disappointed, joyous, optimistic, and secretly worried that this might be the last November we all have together. And in the end, that is the darkest part of this cruelest month, the knowledge that the light may not return. But after 18 Novembers that have come and gone, I have faith that number 19 will pass the same way, and we'll all still be here for another try.

Thank you for choosing to live on and through this journey with me.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari

Transgender Male Privilege

Hello My Dear One,
     When I transitioned from female to male I had a lot of expectations. I wanted to feel like myself. I wanted to feel appropriately masculine, manly, male, or whatever I imagined that was at the time. I wanted to walk through the world finally being seen as who I really was. I wanted people to treat me the way that they treated other men. I wanted people to stop wondering what my gender was, and to accept the one that I presented. I thought that being male meant that things would be easier for me as I continued on my journey in life.
     And I was correct about life being easier in many ways. Yes, there were people who knew me prior to and during transition who struggled with my new voice, my new look, my new body. But, for the most part, becoming physically male was indeed a step up. Not surprisingly, being a white male in America is more than just good, it's like being better than everyone else.

All. Of. The. Time.

     Initially, I was struck with the injustice of how women were treated in a more visceral way than I ever had before. Although I knew that misogyny and harassment were part and parcel of my daily life, I didn't have the male perspective to see all of the moving parts and pieces. The intentional disrespect, the intentional and unintentional dismissals, the painful inequalities, and the underlying disregard for women that so many men have. And yes, there are good men out there, but even they, even I, don't see all of the ways in which we treat women as less than.
     Recently, I have found myself aware of this problem again, and the way in which I use male privilege in my daily interactions. It's true, after 13+ years living exclusively as a male, I now take for granted that I will receive better service, be treated as though I know more, and be expected to occupy space as though I own it. I walk into settings where being a man is an advantage, almost all settings really, and I run with it. I can claim my rightful place as better than, simply by entering the room. And after 30 years of having been treated as significantly less than, simply because I was a woman, I will admit that it feels good.
     But, I am a transgender man, not a full member of the brotherhood. I was not born with certain physical attributes that allow me to join the club. I live with a body that is not 100% male, and never will be. Everyday, I am reminded that I am not like most other men I meet. There are discrepancies between my anatomy and my gender presentation. There are even greater discrepancies between my gender presentation and my thinking.
     After 30 years of being instructed, taught, and forced to express a female gender identity, often with disastrous results, I still question what I do in public as a man. I question my choices of vocabulary, my clothes, the way I'm standing, and the pitch of my voice. I question my order at the coffee shop. Do "real [heterosexual] men" order caramel macchiatos and lavender infused scones? And I still have fear when I enter a mens' room. I worry that someone will think that the sound of my peeing isn't quite right, and I will be questioned, or harassed, or attacked. I still fear the hypothetical man in the dark parking lot, until I realize that I am that man in the parking lot. I'm no longer supposed to fear sexual assault, rather I am now seen as the cause of it.
     So, what does all this mean for how I use my male privilege in the world? Does it make me kinder? Does it make me more compassionate? Does it make me treat others, particularly women, with a deeper respect? Do I model what it means to be a good man?

Sometimes.

     Like all discrimination and biases, it is far easier to ignore that which might change our own status. It is much more convenient to rest into privilege than challenge oneself to see the harm they may be doing. And I am no different in that respect. Being a man in the Western world affords a path that avoids many of the troubles that women face. And why would anyone pass up the opportunity to save themselves from discomfort or distress?
     Well, the answer for me is, yes, because I am a father of two sons. Two cisgender, probably heterosexual, teenagers who are rapidly becoming men in this world. And it is one of my most important duties to show them what it means to be a good man, particularly in respect to women. First and foremost that their mother is a complete and total human being. That she is a Beloved and therefore Equal Child of G-d. And before she was their mother she was, and is my partner, my wife, and my best friend. For them to truly respect her, they must also respect the relationship that she and I have. To be real men they must show love, commitment, and respect to all people.
     Is this always easy? Is it comfortable? Is it possible? No. Not always. But, it is something that must be done in order to change how we as people treat each other. Males/men, females/women, intersex, gender non-conforming, and everyone else in between is a Beloved Child of G-d. We all deserve dignity, love, respect, hope, and the knowledge that we are more than the sum of our parts. Body, mind, and soul. And that is no privilege. That is a G-d given right.

Thank you for honoring me with your continued presence along the journey.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari

Losing Our Words and Losing Our Meanings

Hello My Dear One,

I've found that I'm losing my words. Or, more accurately, I'm losing my ability to communicate with words, out loud, with other people. Oddly, it's not been with my Hebrew or Yiddish words, I use them rarely anyway, or my ASL signs. Neither have I lost my understandings, or lack thereof, of French, Italian, German, Latin, or Mandarin Chinese. No, it's not the "foreign" languages that bother, it's my "native" one, English, that I seem to struggle with.

To say that English is my first language is a partial truth. As someone with learning disabilities that include dyslexia, as well as Asperger's Syndrome, language itself is a construct. My native tongue is a cobbled together, linguistically questionable one called "Arin." It's an unofficially unrecognized dialect of English...probably.

Poetically, I see my language as a Monarch butterfly caught between a windy current and a milkweed leaf, like a moment where magic sometimes happens. Sometimes the ideas, sounds, and scribbles float aimlessly and uncontrollably, and are blown away in the gusts of air that propel them. A sudden aphasia of confusion descends and the meanings are caught in a cycle of knowing and unknowable. Other times, all the thoughts, letters, and words come together in an incredible array of colors, patterns, and visual textures. The message lands softly on the perfect spot, and holds fast creating an image of detailed beauty.

In reality, it's more apt to be like strands of wet spaghetti thrown at a wall. If the pasta sticks, it's done enough to eat. If it slides down into the dust bunnies in the corner, not so much.

When I write, I have the time to think about each word. I have the time to sit and look at each one as it appears on the page. I can pause for minutes, hours, days, weeks, and even months at a time. I can write, delete, rewrite, delete, and rewrite a thousand times more. Each sentence is handcrafted one consonant, vowel, and grammatical convention at a time. There is a natural space between the words, and a cohesiveness to the ideas. And there is a hope, that the words themselves carry with them, of clarity and understanding.

When I speak, however, my language comes in fits and spurts. It's like a "rough draft," that is poured out hastily so that nothing will be forgotten or lost. Therefore, many, many edits will need to be made. And when speaking, that sounds like the speaker has an inherent indecisiveness. Or worse, that they are incompetent about a subject.

Perhaps, some of my communication troubles are linked to my writing. People who know me, have in all likelihood read emails, letters, posts, or text messages from me. I can write a good email, as long as I take my time. Texting goes ok, again with breathing spaces during the conversation. And hopefully, my longer missives are finely crafted communications.

Perhaps, some of my difficulties stem from the rapid nature of communication today. With the constant deluge of information of daily input, we have come to expect an instant response to our inquiries. We await that return text as though our lives depended on it. We cannot stand to sit still in our unknowing, when we can search for answers to billions of questions in a matter of nanoseconds.

In the end though, I know that the majority of my communication problems stem from within. I think and feel in a way that is not neuro-typical. I see and assess my surroundings in ways that take longer and more circuitous routes than those who are wired in non-aspie/non-spectrum ways. The pathways that the neurons take in my brain are in radically different formations than that of someone who is not on the autism spectrum. I reach conclusions that are atypical, a word I first learned in grade 7, when I had to use a thesaurus for a Language Arts (grammar) quiz. Ironically, my teacher marked my response using the word atypical as incorrect because she thought that it was not a word. But I stood my ground, and in what I see as an ironic twist, she left education for waitressing a few years later. Maybe she realized that if the student could be right, the customer was always right.

Regardless, I know that how I say my words will be a challenge for me and for those around me. The meaning may be good, but the terms and the syntax may prevent the listener from hearing the message. Sadly, the older I get the less tolerance I have for those who try to wordsmith what I say as I am saying it. I know full well that I may not have expressed my concerns, hopes, or whatever other thoughts in the best way. But, I am doing the best that I can. I wish that those listeners would wait a breath and hear me before they respond. Maybe we might both be heard more clearly if we paused for a moment.

Just Listen

And maybe, that's what we all really need if we want to be heard. If we don't want to lose our words. If we don't want to lose our meanings. We need to stop and listen. We need to breathe before we spew out a response. We need to wait into the conversation and hear what each other is trying to share.


And when we do that, we will gain more words, more meanings, and more trust in each other's abilities to work together.

Thank you for taking the time to listen to this part of the journey.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

- Ari

Losing My (Genetic) Identity

Hello My Dear One,

Last December I gave a sample of my DNA in a saliva filled tube to a popular company, and waited for some genetic answers to my ancestral past. I was hoping to learn more about my history, my ethnicities, and the other exciting things that came with the promises on the box. Like, does dark chocolate make me sneeze?

I guess I should've known that the testing was going to change things for me from the beginning. When I submitted the kit and filled out the online information, I checked the box that said male. But less than a week later I received an email that said I needed to go to my online profile and answer a question. The DNA sample submitted was from a female, and they needed to know if I had checked the wrong box, mixed up samples, or was it a gender identity issue?

So, I changed my profile to match my DNA, because I had to correct a purposeful lie. I'm not really a male of the species. I am a man, which describes my gender identity and expression, but not a male, because that has to do with my biological sex. And according to my DNA, I have 2 X chromosomes, and am for scientific classification purposes, female. I often identify as transsexual rather than transgender, due to medical interventions such as hormone therapy and surgical procedures. Yet, my DNA is forever encoded to produce a human whose first introduction to the world would be "It's a girl!" A thousand years from now if someone tested a single remaining cell of mine, they would never know that I had lived as a man.

A few weeks later when the test results came back, knowing a good portion of my family tree, I was not surprised to see the British Isles genomic markers, or the French/Germanic results. Learning that I have 306 traits of Neanderthal genetics, making me approximately 4% "caveman," wasn't all that odd either. But, it was the absence of some genes that was an issue.

According to my DNA, I am not (genetically) a Jew.

In all likelihood, it's a matter of an incorrect birth certificate several generations back. No, I don't want to do more digging, that information was not what I wanted in the first place.

Regardless, having been raised with a mix of Conservadox Judaism and Protestant Christianity, I've always felt like I'm in the middle of a religious road. Moreover, there is a G-d shaped 18 wheeler bearing down on me at a very high rate of speed.

Now, several months later, I find myself having gone through a wild ride of emotions and thoughts. How do I process this information in the first place? How do I reconcile my sense of self, with my genetic self? What does all of this mean to my faith and spiritual life? Does it make things easier or harder? How much do I actually have to reconcile anyway?

I learned all of this before Chanukah this year, and it shook me. It was so unsettling that I didn't retrieve my menorah from storage, and I never lit a single candle, though I frequently caught myself singing the blessings in my head. Although I try to live my life with no regrets, I decidedly regret not shining light into the darkness.

In the following weeks and months I continued to struggle with this new genetic understanding of myself. Oddly, it's been far more difficult to wrestle with this than with my gender identity genetics. You'd think that my biological sex being proven as the exact opposite of who I know myself to be would be far more traumatizing, or crushing, or painful. But it isn't. That biology doesn't really affect how I walk through the world. With hormones and surgeries I "look" male, and I feel male. Even my brain works and communicates differently than it did prior to transition, or at least that's what my wife tells me.

And, honestly, my gender identity and expression is not who I am at the end of the day. I've always known what my gender identity is, that I was a boy, and now a man. Even when the outside didn't match the inside, I still knew exactly who I was. Rather, it is how I act, how I speak, how I may have helped or harmed another, and how I reconciled that with G-d. Hormones and body parts don't change that reality. They are simply a part of the human packaging.

So if I'm able to make that immensely complicated genetic scramble into something so simple, why has it felt nearly impossible to do so with what could've been as little as 12.5% of my DNA? Who am I if not this flesh and most importantly blood self? How do I know myself as a Beloved Child of G-d, an "Un Homme de Dieu," and a thousand other names for a faith believer? And in the end will it really matter?

The answers to those questions are so massive that I cannot answer them all just yet. Maybe I can't even answer them at all. But, a telling thing happened to me and I guess it provides a hint of what may come.

I was introduced to a young man who is a practicing Muslim, and I immediately said, "Salaam Alaikum!" which is an Arabic greeting meaning peace to you. It is nearly identical to the Hebrew phrase "Shalom Aleichem," which also means peace to you. I happened to be cooking sausages and I shared that I didn't eat pork either since I was Jewish. I quickly pointed out that the people around us, the other members of the church, were not Jewish, but that I was. Yes, I am a member of a church, and apparently, when faced with with someone of a different faith in that setting, I find myself claiming my otherness. And, to be clear, I always greet someone I know to be Muslim with the words Salaam Alaikum, because I want them to know that a white person can be welcoming of who they are. And I do this during presentations as well. I see interfaith dialogue as the only way to truly living out G-d's Dream.

So, there's an answer to all of this. I am an interfaith Beloved Child of G-d, a muddled man of faith, un homme de dieu à plusieurs parties (a man of G-d with multiple parts,) and Heaven knows what else. And hopefully, without sounding too presumptuous, like G-d, I am who/what I am.

Thank you for being on this genetically scattered journey with me.



Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

Ari

Legally Crazy; Walking the Tightrope of Mental Illness

Hello My Dear One,

It's funny, how we can pretend that enormous things are little, while we simultaneously create catastrophes out of details that will be forgotten by tomorrow. It's easier to focus on something we think we can control, rather than on a problem that is far beyond our reach. Think about when the grocery store is out of your specific brand of milk, versus climate change or gun violence.

That's the tightrope that we all walk, I think. And for me, visualizing it as a real tightrope helps me understand the issue better. When we imagine ourselves on the cord we only see the tiny sliver of path under our feet and ignore the large safety net below us. We can't even see the crowds in the stands, but we are acutely aware of their presence and the shame we will feel if they witness us fall off.

When one suffers from mental illness, like I do, that rope can seem to shrink to the width of a toothpick, and it feels like I'm wearing clown shoes. To extend the imagery, the tightrope also appears to rise higher and higher off the ground with every step. Before long, the height is dizzying and my anxiety has risen commensurately with the rope. I don't know if this is what it's like for others with mental illnesses, but it's been my experience over the years.

But as much as the mental illness, in my case Bipolar 1, sucks, there are ways to manage it. The largest one for me is the support net[work] of family, friends, religious community, and healthcare providers that I am surrounded by. Were it not for other people who are safely grounded on the floor I would be at risk for a ton of injuries, both psychological as well as physical.

There is another way that I deal with these things so that the fears and emotions don't send me flying. And that is being able to freely express the ins and outs of my illness in written form. Somehow, it makes it more manageable and less terrifying when I can get the words out of my head and into a more coherent form. I can read my thoughts out loud and hear if they make sense or not. I can see more of the picture, more of that balance beam I'm on.

But it's always in the back of my mind, that the disease can take over at any time, and the balancing act begins anew. And perhaps it's the balancing itself that is the issue, not the rope, or the net, or the crowds, or even my clown shoes. Maybe it's the ability to know how and when to lean into or out of a bobble or a potential fall. Maybe it's knowing how to steady yourself with something less instinctive, such as your feet, rather than grabbing out with both hands in a wild panic. Maybe, it's just being present to the situation and waiting for the feelings of fear to pass. Probably, it's a balance of all of those things.

Each day I'm confronted with the task of balancing the needs of my family with the needs of keeping my mental illness in check. Each day I hope that I have done a decent job and that both parties are satisfied with the end results. Each day I strive to be more balanced than I was the day before. But I am learning to forgive myself when I'm not.

The tightrope act.

I'm also learning to forgive others when their words or actions are delivered not with kindness but out of fear or a need for control. I'm learning to see others' panicky grabs for balance as a reflection of their fears instead of my own. I'm learning how to reach out to be a steadying force, rather than a reactive shove in the opposite direction where both of us are now flying off of the tightrope. And I'm learning to see the tightrope at the height it really is, usually no more than a few inches off of the ground, not 50 feet up in the air.

I will probably never master a smooth and steady walk across the tightrope of my life with mental illness. But perhaps, with the right supports and a steady group of people surrounding me, I'll make it to the other side in one piece.

Thank you for walking this tightrope of a journey with me.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself. 

Ari

Legally Crazy; Transgender Happiness

Hello My Dear One,

Recently, I gave a presentation about transgender healthcare issues as well as my personal story of transition. Largely, I keep things light with plenty of jokes, some slightly self-deprecating humor, and an upbeat attitude. Of course, I take a more serious tone when I talk about suicide attempts, losses, transphobia, harassment, and abuse. I balance the softness of the good with harsher realities of Gender Dysphoria and the process of becoming oneself.

This particular talk was especially fun and I engaged with the audience through comical descriptions of what my life has been and continues to be like. We all laughed quite a bit, and by the end it felt like we had collectively shared a special time together. It was truly fulfilling for me to be able to bring a group of people together and transform their understanding about transgender people through our conversation.

After I've done my storytelling portion of the presentation I open up the discussion to questions. Now, I've been asked every type of question, from biology, to psychology, to theology, and a host of other things I've never thought of. I find that there are certain constants, usually having to do with my children - what do they know/how do they feel/how has this affected them - or with surgical inquiries, or how do I reconcile my faith life with my gender identity? All of these topics have multiple answers, and I respond based on the composition of the audience, the setting, and my own personal level of vulnerability in the situation. Mostly, I stress the positive aspects of each of these and explain how transition has made me the man I am today, not just in presentation but in totality. 

This past time someone asked a question I'd never been asked before, or even consciously considered in recent memory. The preface to the question was particularly meaningful given the past year that I've lived through and my own doubts about my mental state of being.

"You seem like a really happy person. Do you think you would have been just as happy or happier if you had been born as the gender you identify as now?"

Wow. What an amazing thing to think about. And I know it took a few breaths before I answered. But, like me, it is was and is a dualistic response that I gave. "Yes and no," I replied.

Of course, my life would have been significantly easier if I had been born physically male. My sense of self was always as a male person, so it definitely would've helped to have a mind and a body that matched. I wouldn't have suffered from the deep seated sense of betrayal that I felt toward my body, and I might not have tried so hard to hide from the reality in an extra 100 pounds of fat. Dating would've been easier. Fitting in might also have been simpler, but then again, maybe not. I doubt that having a penis would've really increased my popularity, much. So yes, I suspect being happy would have been an easier emotion to access if I had not needed transition.

For the sake of full disclosure, I do have Bipolar 1 Disorder, and that plays with the neurochemistry that affects my emotional wellbeing. But, medications have controlled this for 15 years and my happiness now is dependent upon my outlook and how I respond to life circumstances.

But back to the no answer. Why would I say that needing to transition from female to male made me the "happy person" that I am? There are so many reasons, but the primary one is that I had to struggle through the truth that I could not live any other way than as myself, as a man, as the person I am in the world everyday, or I would have chosen not to live at all. It was the horror of finding myself with only 2 choices - transition or suicide - that built the foundation for the happiness that I have today. It was the process of finding that who I am is right and good. It was the risk of losing all that I loved, my wife, my children, my family, my faith community, everything and instead finding them all stronger and happier as I transformed into this body and this person.

My life now is based in the knowledge that I am a beloved child of G-d. I believe that my transition is a gift from G-d that helps me to have greater love and empathy for everyone else. I feel in my core that I am called to experience this transition as part of my journey to being more fully human, and to more fully knowing the Divine that guides my life. This is the basis for my deepest happiness and for how I live as myself each moment that I have. And I am thankful for each one.

Thank you for being part of the happiness that infuses this part of my journey.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

Ari

Legally Crazy; No Longer by the Water

Hello My Dear One,

I recently went to my old neighborhood to poke around and spend some reflective time on the beach. Yes, my neighborhood was on the beach, and no, it's not as glamorous as you might imagine. Still, the coastline of Maine is immeasurably breathtaking and I will always find a special connection to G-d when I am there.

That said, I had a different experience this time, as I realized that 20 years have passed since I've had a physical address there. It was no longer my home. And the changes that I saw had little to do with the buildings, stores, or license plates, but rather with the eyes that were looking at them.

I am no longer a young child experiencing the wonders and freedoms of a largely untouched stretch of rocks, sand, sea glass, shells, driftwood, and beach roses. I am not standing in the surf, delighted by the salty rush of water across my toes. Nor am I repulsed and frightened by the seaweed that wrapped around my ankles.

I am no longer an elementary schooler riding my bike around and around, passing the roaring waves as I sped alongside the cement retaining walls. I no longer plunge my feet into the cold wet sand or scramble across the giant rocks covered in oceanic detritus, daring to get as close to the sea as possible.

I am no longer a young teen about to start high school and witnessing the beginning of the end of my family. I have now seen my father and his mistress on my sacred space of beach, and how I will always know that betrayal. That breaking of my trust, and that breaking of my physical safety net.

I am no longer a troubled older teen, seeing the world through the beginnings of Bipolar 1, filled with uncontrollable emotions, rushing in the middle of the night to sit on the sand in the dark and cry. I do not walk along the concrete walls, curious what would happen if I fell. Or if I were to simply walk out into the unforgiving ocean and its undertow, if I would become one with the sea itself.

I am no longer a young adult, waiting for a future, somewhere, when I can be myself without fear of who that is.

I am no longer a 23 year old lesbian setting off on an adventure of marriage, an apartment, a budget, college courses, jobs, and a new life in a brand new town. 

I am no longer in my 20's still going home to see family and friends.

I am no longer by the water everyday. I am somewhere else and I am someone else as well.

I am a 43 year old transman, happy in my heterosexual orientation. I am still married to the same wonderful woman, but we will be celebrating our 20th wedding anniversary soon. We are living in the 3rd house we've owned, with our 2 sons, a dog, 2 cats, a budget, jobs, and a comfortable life that is fulfilling in most ways. We are part of a faith family that has and continues to support us, and that is integral to our children's development in all aspects of their lives.

I am a man in all my daily experiences, no longer a hurting being that wanted to die rather than live as who I was.

I am made up of all those past selves, but the sum of who I am now is decidedly greater than the sum of those parts.

The ocean is still the easiest place for me to find G-d. The infinite horizon, the infinite sea, the infinite mystery that is unknowable until we move toward it, only to have the horizon continue on ahead. And I will always return to the water to feel that sacredness and holiness.

But I will go as the man I am, the one I dreamt of being, the husband, father, writer, speaker, teacher, and man of G-d.

I am no longer by the water, but I am still in the presence of G-d.

Thank you for sifting through the sand with me on this part of the journey.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

Ari

View through different eyes.

Legally Crazy; Why I Never Got Ordained

Hello My Dear One,

I have severe mental illness. I know you know that, but sometimes seeing it in black and white makes it less abstract.

I was asked recently which of my mental illness diagnoses (I have more than five) was the one that bothered/affected me the most, and without hesitation I replied "Bipolar 1 Disorder." The person was almost surprised, but I explained that it takes the biggest toll on my psyche. It's unpredictable. It's scary. It takes inordinate amounts of time and effort to keep it under control.

It's the reason, besides being half Jewish, that I never pursued any form of ordained Christian
ministry. I knew that the diagnosis would prevent me from passing the psychological fitness exam. But more importantly, I knew that the disease itself would prevent me from being a stable and safe leader. It's always seemed to me that training doesn't guarantee a profession. And further, my training in seminary was more about my transition as a transgender individual than about the spiritual care of others.

To me, the truest mark of why I didn't go for it was that I didn't take the four final classes. I never took Pastoral Care, Introduction to Worship, Church Field Placement, or Clinical Chaplaincy Placement. Those are the "where the rubber meets the road" courses and I put them off until it was too late to do anything about them. For years I blamed my advisor for doubting my call to ministry and her having me take theological/academic courses instead of pastoral leadership ones in the first years of seminary. But perhaps she saw in me something that I didn't see back then. She knew my mental health history, and she never came to terms with my gender identity and transition, but I don't think that was her only reasoning.

In looking back I think she must have seen the academic in me. The lecturer. The professorial dreams. The desire to learn and synthesize vast amounts of information, knowledge, facts, and theories rather than administrative or daily pastoral care. She herself was an academic nun, and hadn't felt the call to ministering to individuals in a pastoral way. Rather, she taught students for decades about the history and enormous value of Torah, or for her, the Old Testament. Even her History of the Bible course had only one class out of fifteen on the Christian Scriptures. She had a passion for the prophet(s) Isaiah and the writings, that was unparalleled in any of the other professors I had. She also had a thing for photocopied handouts, but that was a separate issue.

Now that I'm more than ten years away from that part of my journey, I can look back with a completely different lens. I used to blame her for so many of my struggles, but in retrospect I understand that ordination was never my path, and those struggles were what propelled me to be the theologian that I am. Though I do not get paid in money for my work or expertise, I do receive "G-d" pay for using my gifts of theological studies.

So, after a sermon I gave recently, I was able to name the fact that I am not a pastor, but I am a preacher. I am one who studies the inner depths of scripture and reports back the message that I feel called to share with others. Most of the time, I do this with young children in a religious education setting. But occasionally I get those opportunities to preach to adults and it is always a wonderful time in my spiritual life.


But none of that means that I wish to be ordained.

No, my love is for the studying itself, and the passing on of the understandings that I've gleaned. My heart is in the individual letters of the texts, right down to the vowel pointing in the original Hebrew writings. I gain my greatest fulfillment in parsing out the hidden ideas and ideals in ancient phrases passed down through an oral tradition and then captured in the markings that can relate them to those who will never hear the tales. I adore the process of entering into a narrative and searching throughout it, attempting to find a way that leads to something greater than just the text itself. That is a gift I wholly enjoy.

Preacher man.

So, I know that I want to keep going with what I do. I want to share my deep and profound love of finding truth and meaning in texts that are thousands of years old. I want to share the history, the words, the images, and the ideas that recount the faith of generations upon generations. And I need to communicate these things in all that I do. I need to commit to my passion. And I need to be present to my call in this direction.

Thank you for being present with me on this part of the journey.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

- Ari