Of At-One-Ment, of Being Enough

Hello My Dear One,
      Rosh Hashanah has come and gone, the new year [5775] ushered in, the shofar blown, and our sins sent out into the waters. Yom Kippur is over as well, and we have atoned for our wrongdoings and are sealed in the Book for another year. Sukkot, even if I do still have cabbages in the garden, with our celebrations of wandering, harvesting, and backyard huts is complete as well. There is a clean slate, an array of beautifully colored chalks, and an invitation to create anew. 
      But I do not feel it. I am uninspired. Instead I feel the weight of what is to come, burdened by the violence of the past year. I feel the fear. I taste it.  
      Why? Why do I choose to see the suffering, the sins, and the separations, especially after I have just atoned for all of them less than a month ago? Is there something more appealing about the negatives? Is it my Beast sniffing around, trying to prey on my weakness for a half empty glass? I don't know. 
      I do know that it happens every year. I know that I find the dark spots of myself almost delicious. It's as if I want to reveal how terrible I really am. Is it my doing or is it my Beast's? Is it a collaboration of the two of us? And how much of it will be shown to the rest of the world? How much do I actually want to be judged?
      I was just called to atone for my sins. Now, I personally define sin as: separation or the act of separating myself from G-d; to live outside of covenant; to choose an independent path, one that may or may not lead to a livable outcome. I performed a kind of spiritual surgery that dissects the comfortable, yet prickly habits of my mind, the downright dangerous grudges, and my failures to forgive. I broke apart the self-aggrandized acts of teshuvah that I congratulated myself for, from the real, and far less glamorous forgiveness I have experienced and have given.
      And I confessed all of the sins I committed this past year. I attempted to at-one-ment myself back into relationship, right-relatedness with G-d. I expelled the grudges. I offered forgiveness. I accepted that I had been forgiven by G-d. I moved out of the old year's agonies and into the new year's possibilities.
      But here I am, reveling in the evils that were, and making myself feel like a horrible person, not worthy of the forgiveness I've already been granted. And as I sit with this, I feel the realness of mental illness, the hardness of past abuses, and the deepest truth that I wrestle with each and every day.

I don't believe that I will ever be worthy enough. 

      In the face of therapy, medications, writing, praying, working, the assurances in Torah, and the tangible proof in my life, I still question my worthiness. 

In moments of true narcissism, I want to claim that I am the victim of some cosmic tragedy that has time and again left me with too few resources, be them financial, emotional, psychological, or spiritual. I want to believe that if something, anything had been different in my life, then I wouldn't be dealing with the perpetual disappointments of the everyday. I want to believe that my suffering entitles me to an extra helping of pity from the world. Most cruelly, I believe that others do not need to be forgiven, because of all the pain they have caused me.

      When I cannot see others, as my neighbors, I sin. When I fail to see the inherent worth of all of G-d's children, I fail to see my inherent worth as a child of G-d. If I am not worthy, then my neighbors are valueless as well, I whisper into the dark vastness I have placed between myself and G-d. 
      And I want G-d to whisper back, "Child. Why? Son, when will you accept My acceptance? When will you realize that you are truly worthy of love, respect, and safety? When will you finally let go of the pains of the past and come into the current? It is time child to accept forgiveness, and believe it. Trust Me. Every Child of G-d is forgiven. Every single one. And you are one. You are worthy. You are enough." 
      And when I listen with every fiber of my body, my mind, and my soul, right now, I can hear that whisper. I feel the sorrow, the compassion, and the release. I am present. And for a moment or two I am enough.
      Unlike G-d though, I am painfully human. I will take offense at perceived slights. I will feel insulted by offhanded remarks. I will lose my temper at my spouse, my children, the GPS on my smartphone, and probably many other people and inanimate objects. I will in all likelihood find a grudge, muckle onto it, and store it in the darkness of my own pettiness. I will forget that I am forgiven, that everyone is forgiven, and I will forget our collective worthiness as children of G-d.
     But for now, I can remember that I am whole, I am enough, I am more than I will ever know. Through this holy experience of welcoming a new year, seeking forgiveness and a page turn on the old year, I am assured that I am truly good enough for G-d.

Thank you for your forgiveness on my journey.

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

Worthy

-Ari 

Of Real Transgender Dignity

Hello My Dear One,

I am back at work, special education in an elementary school setting, and I have spent the past weeks learning the ropes in a new building with new colleagues. At work, I interact with a wide variety of people, and as their and my perceptions intermingle, I catch glimpses of how I walk through the world. I see things in myself that I might not otherwise as my words and actions are reflected back to me in others' reactions. If I'm lucky it shines a light onto an issue I have been unable to name, especially one that hurts more than I can admit.

This time, it began when I started examining how and when I focus on the details, or whether I focus on the whole picture of my life. Mostly, I get stuck in the details, but sometimes I can see a blurry panorama where all those pesky pieces fit together and there is a wholeness to my life.  But sometimes it's not just my view that matters, and that's what I've been exploring most recently.

You see, there are people in this world who focus more on the details of my life, making my transgender identity the only thing they can see in or about me. One detail of my life becomes the whole picture. And when this happens, part and sometimes all of the picture of my dignity is lost within the ignorance, the unknowing, and sadly, the transphobia that surrounds me.

To be honest, I've always known that my transgender identity can be troubling for people. My intersex condition was a place of absolute shame and fear as a teenager and young adult, as I was forced to hide the physical characteristics of my maleness and pass as a female. It was a job that took all of my effort, my strength, and very nearly my life. As I began to transition from presenting myself to the world as a female to the true male that I am, each day brought a growing sense of self worth and pride. Knowing who you are, and that it is OK to be that person, is the greatest liberating force that I believe there is. But freedom comes with a price, and in the hetero-normative world that I live in, the cost is largely counted in dignity.

Each and every day I encounter some form of transphobia, be it on the large scale of the daily press, or on the most minute scale, when a coworker treats me just a little differently than others in the workplace. I revel in reading stories of transgender people in articles and profiles on the internet, but I dread the anonymous comments section that will usher in a flood of ignorant, hateful, and bigoted opinions about transgender individuals. Mostly, these comments are directed at the person featured in the article, yet all too often the sentiment blurs into a more encompassing worldview. Personal attacks become blatant attacks on an entire population, and I am a member of that population.

So too, when colleagues fail to know, learn, or use proper terminology in regards to LGBTQIQ people and issues, I may feel attacked, even when the intentionality isn't as obvious as the faceless haters hiding behind their computer keyboards. But when we are face to face with someone, we are less likely to be confrontational, instead, choosing a more subtle or passive aggressive form of discrimination. So, when I hear a coworker refer to a lesbian parent as the "father figure" of the couple, I raise my defenses, and question how safe I am in my workplace. I fear that there is not true support of who I am, and that my gender identity is a liability. And the underlying transphobia and intolerance seep into my consciousness. 

Despite years of living as myself, I am not immune to the vitriol that is projected onto me, whether directly or not. By engaging in life, I willingly engage in the positive and negative aspects of it. But what does it mean when it's personal? Why is the dignity of transgender people like me important? And why does it hurt more when I experience a loss of transgender dignity, than when it's the economic injustices, religious biases, and political beliefs that I may be attacked over?

Dignity. Being good enough. Being worthy. Being.

The word dignity comes from the Latin dignus "worth (n.), worthy, proper, fitting" from PIE *dek-no-, from root *dek- "to take, accept."1

The word dignity represents a concept that is thousands of years old, and at its most basic root level, tells us to take, to accept whatever is being offered to us. And in so doing, we receive what someone else is offering us. We take in the gift of someone else, and we accept it for what it is. It is affirming the worth of our own, and of each other's gifts. It is saying that who I am, who each one of us is, is worthy of acceptance, regardless of all other factors.

Ideally, we treat everyone we ever meet this way, holding their dignity as a precious and inherent right. But in reality, we treat others in ways we would never want to be treated. We judge, we condemn, we withhold forgiveness, we act in selfish, scared, and harmful ways, as we reject that which we cannot accept. We reject the different. We reject the other. We reject ourselves when we fail to see the Beloved Child of G-d in all people. By denying dignity we reduce each other to little more than soulless vessels. 

So, is there a difference between transgender dignity and inherent human dignity, when the bodily vessel is the actual matter at hand? Does the indignity matter more or less when transgender is the issue? What is the cost of dignity? 

I believe that there is a difference and that it matters because each transgender person has willingly entered into battle with themselves, their fellow human beings, and their G-d to become whole. Because I have chosen to be myself and have worked hard, risked everything, and lost much in order to live as the man I am. Because every transgender person I have met has done this too. And even though the cost may be unquantifiable, the ability to bear another's dignity is as great as any love there is.

I did not choose to go through years of therapy, surgeries, support groups, private and public scrutiny, and the loss of family, friends, and jobs, because it would be easy. I knew full well the tasks ahead of me, and I faced the truth, that my survival was worth more than the love and acceptance of others, even those closest to me.

I decided that I was worthy of living. I affirmed my own dignity, accepted who I was, who I am, and took it. I met myself where I was, and from there I was able to become who I needed to be.

A transgender man of dignity.

And that's why transgender dignity means all that it does to me, and I suspect for other transfolk as well. With the help of G-d, we have shaped, created, and loved ourselves into being. We have taken and accepted the bodily and emotional selves that we could no longer live as, and have made the whole people we are called to be. And when that self is criticized, overtly or with the cover of an almost imperceptible slight, as a transgender person we are cut more deeply, because we have worked so hard to be that self.

In the end, I know that I will continue to face discrimination as a transman, and that even when I am long dead and gone, there will be those who will reduce my life to my transgender identity. There will be those who will know my biology, but never know my story. But each day that I get up and choose to take and accept what those around me have to offer, I grant them, and I am granted with dignity. We are all worthy of G-d's unending acceptance of us, and we are all called to share that worthiness with every uniquely wonderful child of G-d.

Thank you for offering your gifts to me, and for accepting mine on this journey.

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

-Ari



1 http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=dignity

Of Being a Real [LGBTQIQA] Man

Hello My Dear One,

I am continuing on in my process of taking apart what I thought I knew, rebuilding pieces of how I see myself, and choosing how I present myself to the world.  It is an exercise in deep personal reflection, and it often results in truths I may not want to admit.  Yet I know that it is vital to my growth, and to the wellbeing of those I love.  I have chosen to live my life in the open, and as such I cannot hide what I don't like about myself simply for my own comfort.  Meaningful transition occurs only when we set aside our inner narratives describing an unrealistic self.  We are neither angel nor demon, but our stories can convince us otherwise.  
One of my inner narratives, how others' opinions of me alter my view of self, was brought to light when I was on a discussion panel for two Introduction to Psychology courses this past Spring.  I was invited to share my life experiences and knowledge about transgender and intersex information with students at a community college.  I have participated in this panel for over four years now, and it has been a fairly easy gig.  Nearly always when the class was over, there would be many students, and staff, who thanked us all, commenting about our courage.  Thankfully, this occurred that day, since there were two incidents during the talks that left me somewhat rattled by the end of the second session.  My fellow panelists had also felt challenged, and as we went our separate ways, there was a palpable feeling of discomfort as we headed into our "regular" lives.

When I began the first class, (our panel team actually has a format because we've worked together for so long,) I did my usual opening that includes asking the audience to identify what each of the letters in L[lesbian] G[gay] B[bisexual] T[transgender] Q[queer] I[intersex] Q[questioning] and A[allies] represents.  One of the other panelists refers to this as my "Weird Version of Sesame Street!" Over the years, people have become more familiar with the acronym, except for the "I" for intersex, and then ask them which label they would like to put on me.  I encourage them to speak out, guess, and pretend that I am literally going to put a sticky note on my forehead.  I usually have to start off with one to get them going, for example, "What about 'L'?  Probably not."  And from there the fun begins.

Labels, which one do you want?

But before I could even get to that part, I was thrown for a loop when a cisgender* male asked, "What about 'H'?" Which for him meant heterosexual, because it was another sexual orientation.  I was so surprised by this question that I gamely went along and said sure, ok, "H."  But later, after I had returned to my usual speaking routine, I reflected on why I had responded that way?  Why didn't I explain that identifying as LGBTQIQ is inherently different from identifying as heterosexual?  Why didn't I stress the reality of what it means to be in a sex, gender, or sexual orientation minority in a hetero-normative world?  

Perhaps it was my own narrative at work, that my worth was dependent on whether the man felt ok about himself, and how that would make my life safer.
The second class brought other sensitive topics to the table, including what types of medical treatment are appropriate for transgender individuals, particularly for those who are incarcerated.  Although one of the cases did have roots in criminal activities, the underlying message was about standards of care for transfolk.  What I heard and interpreted from the the audience, was that medically necessary treatments for transgender people are subject to a person's action, not his or her healthcare needs, or human dignity.  There was a again a cisgender male who shared his views with us on this matter.  He brought forward his theories about the better uses of money aimed at changing the lives of at-risk-youth, rather than inmates.  He stated that medical intervention for transgender individuals in prison should be denied, particularly based on the severity of the crime.  It became a very heated debate that led to a profound discomfort for all of the people in the room. 

Of course, he was completely entitled to his opinions, yet he failed to acknowledge that we were too.  The sparring went on, and he responded that I wasn't hearing/listening to what he was saying.   The statement was both accurate and inaccurate.  We had entered into a conflict, and I chose to defend my positions, rather than hear the meanings he intended in his words.  I chose to act threatened and became defensive going to my wounded places and speaking from there.  Unfortunately, he did as well.  

In the end, the encounter was little more than a series of personal attacks, for both parties, with no sense of compromise or even comprehension on either side.   We, as a panel, requested to move on to other questions and topics, and he chose to leave the lecture hall.  And though I would have been happy to have further discussion with him privately, he had not stayed around for that.  Simply put, conflict is uncomfortable, and frankly I didn't actually want to talk with him either.

In retrospect, it's kind of funny that none of us thought to discuss whether or not some of those at-risk-youth might be LBGTQIQ.  I wonder what would have happened if that round of logic had occurred.  I wonder if both groups would have reached some common ground, rather than retreating to our private islands of fear and wounds.
As I reflect back on what I did and didn't say or do, I realize that my overall sense of self, particularly, my ability to see myself as independent from others' views of me was changing that day.  It was a pivotal shift in my worldview, one where I stopped being afraid of others' fears and started embracing the self that I can trust.  A self that is grounded in a sense of the inherent difference that comes with being a beloved LGBTQIQ identified child of G-d.  It was the beginning of profound growth, filled with the growing pains that come with such a thing.  And I eventually had to decide what my narrative about who I am as a member of the LGBTQIQ community truly is.

So, when it comes to the "H" for heterosexuality, I have decided that I will take a compassionate yet firm stand.  A stand that embraces heterosexuality as a sexual orientation, because it is, yet one that believes that being in a minority is not equal to being in the majority.  In the LGBTQIQ community we are rarely represented in the world around us in fair or accurate ways.  Transwomen on television are almost non-existent, and are most frequently portrayed by cisgender males.  Great kudos though to the actress Laverne Cox for representing the community in positive ways, albeit in a role where she is incarcerated.  In the news transwomen are often criminals, sex workers, or overly sexualized feminine ideals that can pass as "real" women.  Transmen get even less notice, although a few famous guys can be seen on television now and again.  

But it's more than just basic representation, real activists, characters, or even everyday individuals.  I've never seen a transman in an advertisement for male underwear, standing in just their skivvies, scars visible on their chest, or breasts bound, or bodies altered or unaltered by hormone therapies.  And although the fashion industry has been using both transwomen and masculine appearing women to model their lines of high end clothing, those garments are more costume than clothing.  The models are not the product, and the bottom line is money, not representation.  It is almost like a trendy new fad to use transgender people to show how progressive a company is, kind of like using gays, or latinos, or African Americans, or women.

But what about just regular products, like groceries, or furniture, or toiletries?  There haven't been many ads for deodorant where 2 men are sharing their bathroom and getting ready for the day.  Or how about an ad for cereal where 2 moms are getting their kids ready for school?  I don't see my community reflected in the hetero-normative media that I am bombarded with on a daily basis.  I don't see myself in the magazines at the checkout lines.  My experience is different than that of the other 90% of the world around me, simply because my gender identity is different.  And no amount of tokenism will remedy that. 

And that's where the "A" the Allies can aid in the process of transition for those of us in the LGBTQIQ community.  When heterosexual, cisgender, gender conforming people stand in solidarity with us, we may find greater acceptance in the world around us.  It is when our families and friends use the correct terms, pronouns, and names that we feel validated and made real.  It is when companies run by supportive allies choose LGBTQIQ causes to support that real change happens.  It is when allies present and support legal changes for safety, vocation, military service, healthcare, and the basic rights of human dignity and worth, that we become a greater society than we were before.  It is when programs for at-risk-youth who are LGBTQIQ are funded, providing a safety net so that fewer kids commit suicide, that the A for allies becomes an A for acceptance, and an A for achievement.  

I've finally learned that as a transgender/intersex individual it's not my job to make people comfortable with me.  If by knowing me as a person, then that's great, but the truth is that it's my job to help others be comfortable with themselves.  I have changed myself in physical, emotional, and spiritual ways that have created the man you see me as each day.  I choose to share my experiences so that others on their own gender journeys will know that they are not alone.  I have travelled on and will continue to walk a path few ever will.  And by speaking out and speaking up, I am not alone either.  And all I want for others is to know that they are capable of anything, no matter how impossible it may seem, including the ability to change their own worldviews.
I know that I have.

Thank you for being an ally on my journey.

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

-Ari


*A person whose experiences of their own gender matches the sex they were assigned at birth. 

Of Being a Real [Intersex] Man

Hello My Dear One,

I recently wrote about my transgender realness, and what it currently means to be me in the world I live in.  But I knew I needed to address the other part of me, the intersex part that has driven the need for the transgender procedures, and that has been an underlying chemical truth of my life.  I need to explain the biology behind the mental illness of my own gender dysphoria.

As far as I know, I have Late Onset Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia, an inherited condition that causes masculinization in XX individuals and hyper-masculinization in XY individuals.  In my life and family medical history this has presented as facial and body hair, fertility problems, anxiety, high libido, short stature, and masculinized features in the XX females on my mother's side for at least the last 5 generations.  On my father's side, there were hyper-masculinized XY males, very early onset puberty (age eight for my father himself), short stature, anxiety, anger management issues, high libidos, and massive amounts of facial and body hair.  In the XX females I know of in that lineage there were fertility issues, uterine and ovarian cancers, anxiety, some masculinization, and again, shortened stature.  These are all known characteristics of Late Onset CAH.

Personally, I knew myself to be male from the time I was three, but my body sent mixed messages about this.  I was physically strong, quite tall for my age, was developing some body hair, and mimicked only the males in my life.  But on the other side, my body was missing a penis, and I was in perpetual disbelief that somehow I had not been given one or worse yet, that I had lost it.  I began packing (using different materials to create an appearance of male genitalia under clothing) at a very early age, but stopped when I realized that it was something I just wasn't supposed to do.  

By the age of twelve I had gone through female puberty, and six months later I began male puberty, one however, that did not result in the expression of all male secondary sex characteristics.  This confusing, and ultimately horrifying experience of two bodies fighting within one to exist, left me in a state of shock.  I was troubled.  And turning to my family and even doctors proved just as lacking in answers.

I learned from my mother that this male part of myself was something to be horribly embarrassed about, shameful, disgusting, and should be hidden at all cost.  Stories of birth control pills gone wrong, useless electrolysis, and ways to be more womanly through wigs, makeup, clothing, and behaviors were standard topics of our discussions from as far back as I can remember.  Being who I was, what my body was expressing completely naturally, was a tragic error on the part of G-d.  It constituted a burden that I was supposed to bear, rather than a gift to embrace.  And I felt a deep and persistent hatred for my own body because it, and therefore I were mistakes.  Never female enough to be the woman my mother wanted me to be, never male enough to be the man I knew I was.

From my father, I learned masculine ways, traditionally male gendered activities, and that he had really wanted a son.  Never male enough to be the son he desired, never female enough to know what to do with.

I lived in my disparate selves for more than twenty five years and then something changed.  In a dichotomy of life and death my body decided to take over, the rest of the way, and allowed my true self to shine through.  It was possible only because of a life threatening illness, one that literally took my life multiple times, but for the grace of G-d and the dedication of the medical staff who saved me.  For me, it was through this physical death that my inner core was able to be born into corporeal existence.   

I was twenty eight years old, and in my second semester of seminary.  My mother-in-law had died of terminal lung cancer barely two months prior, and my now motherless wife and I had a five month old son.  I was taking nineteen, yes, 19, credits, and consequently chose to live on campus two nights a week in order to be physically able to attend all the classes.  I was camped out in a tiny bedroom doing as much schoolwork as possible and then rushing home to be a parent to our new son, be a loving partner to my wife, and to continue my ridiculously heavy graduate course work.  It was exhausting and I began unravelling quickly.

One Monday morning, six weeks into the semester, I was hurrying out of my home when I slipped and fell on the ice, sliding partially under my car.  I banged a few ribs, but shook it off, threw the rest of my stuff in my car, and drove the two hours to school.  That day I became very ill with a high fever, blurry vision, and extreme nausea.  I made it to the Emergency Department, was diagnosed with pneumonia, treated with antibiotics and promptly sent home.

A few hours later I returned to the Emergency Department, half-dead, and saw the panic in the physicians' eyes as I faded in and out of consciousness.  The following days were largely a blur, being taken to the ICU, seeing my wife, x-ray after x-ray, oxygen masks, and then nothing.  I would later learn that I consented to being put on a ventilator, and then a few days later my wife consented to having a temporary pacemaker inserted into my chest so that I wouldn't die every time my body was moved.  I spent more than two weeks in the ICU, was resuscitated multiple times, was drugged out of my mind, watched all of my skin peal off from the megadoses of antibiotics, and celebrated my 29th birthday in a hospital bed.  I can only imagine the fear my family must have experienced during this ordeal.  But for me, fear was not a part of it at all. 

During my hospital stay I was largely unconscious, though a few bits and pieces of events remain.  Once, I saw a great, warm, white light that I wanted to go toward.  It was inviting, and I felt a sense of calm as I approached it.  Then in an instant it was gone, and I was returned to a darkness filled with strange noises and visions.  More importantly though was a dream that involved a surgery of testicular implants, and I remember lay feeling elated by my great fortune.  But again my joy ended when I looked up (in the dream) and saw two doctors at my bedside discussing my case.  As one man flipped through my chart, the other looked down at the silent/sleeping me and said that they [the hospital, the doctors, the nurses?] "didn't take care of patients like that."  I was hurt, yet still happy that my body matched my mind.  Of course this was just a dream, no surgery was performed, at least not that particular one, and when I awoke from the medically induced coma I was heartbroken that the implants were not there.  And again in my mind, they were lost, just like my (imaginary) childhood penis.

The turning point in my life, to begin the transgender transition process, occurred not from the illness, the near death, or the dreams.  Rather, it came at the end of my month long stay, when I awoke to find my mother in my room.  She was distressed, physically upset, crying, and obviously concerned about the situation.  I, in my ever hopeful desire for a loving mother, wondered if she was thinking about nearly having to bury her only child.  But this is my mother, a woman with untreated Borderline Personality Disorder, and nothing could have been further from the truth.  No, she was devastated that during those weeks, one minuscule, meaningless, and pointless act of care had not been done.  My face had gone unshaven.  I had three and a half weeks of facial hair growth, and this was a fate worse than death itself for her.  I must point out that this terrible outcome of not being groomed had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with the hatred she had for her own body.  At the time of course, I didn't see that.    

Her words penetrated into my very soul, "For G-d's sake, why didn't they shave her?"  

She seemed to be reliving a conversation with someone, and it was as if I wasn't even there, despite the fact that she was speaking directly to me.  And once again, I felt like I was not a real woman, nor was I a real man.  I was a creature betwixt and between the two.  And I was left to hang in that dark place of despair, alone, afraid, and secretly thrilled to have my body trying to show its true self.  I had a beard.  It was all mine.  And even though I shaved it off that night, I knew for the first time that the world would not end if I let it grow.  I was given the gift of authenticity.  I could finally move forward on my journey.

A real intersex man.

As the years passed I went through all the necessary steps to becoming the real intersex and transgender man that I am today.  And it has been nine years since my body, my soul, my mind, and my heart finally came together to integrate into one whole being.  Even through the horrid Beast of Bipolar Disorder I, PTSD, and suicidal ideation, I have remained true to my male self and gripped fast to the real man I am inside.  I am a real man.

For now I am happy, content perhaps, with who and where I am in my life.  Yes, there is more to do.  Yes, there are hardships and hollow times I will endure.  And yes, I will have to navigate the devilish waters of puberty with my own sons, and how I will fully explain who I am at a biological level that will have positive meaning for them.  But in the meantime, I will continue to advocate for the realness that we all deserve.  I believe in the real purpose of that.  And I believe in the G-d that makes it so.

Thank you for staying on this sometimes all too real journey with me.

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

-Ari 

Of Being a Real [Transgender] Man

Hello My Dear One,

It has been too long since I have written, and I apologize for this.  I have been working during summer vacation, teaching, attempting to garden and get yard work done, and I enjoyed a 1 week sabbatical in Austin, TX during the third week of June.  So, I have been busy, yet honestly not too busy to write.  

Since my sabbatical I've spent a lot of time delving into how I present myself to others and the receptions/perceptions I get.  While there I was afforded the opportunity to interact with people who did not know me or my history.  I went places, had cool experiences, met cool people, and got to spend time with one of my oldest and dearest friends.  It was a wonderful time, and I enjoyed nearly every minute of it.  Of course, with all things in life, there is no perfect.  And while I was there I had to grapple with the changes I have made in my life and what the ripple effects have been over the past 9 years.

Recognition of who you are, who I am, is a form of human validation, of creating realness when we are truly seen and understood.  As a transgender individual, recognition of self, can be the difference between life and death, literally.  If the crushing weight of living as the wrong self does not cause one to choose suicide, at the very least it can kill one's soul and joy in living.  And, sadly, the physical body of a wrong self can become a target of intolerance, abuse, and even fatal violence.  Living within and between genders can feel like an isolation, an existence that is devoid of love, understanding, and internal peace.  It can be a place of the darkest depression that a soul can bear, and then it can be too much to bear at all.

When one does find a place of hope and at least temporary resolution, anxiety may be lessened, and the desperation within may be quelled for awhile.  Discovering resources, other people who have already gone through the process, health care providers, therapists, and accepting friends and families will bring great comfort.  When you are given the gift of tolerance, if not acceptance, it can bring a calm that you may have never known.

As the transition process begins and continues, an integration of self will also happen. It is getting the chance to grow up into who you always thought you were.  It is a chance to have your body do the right thing, rather than betray you.  It is the truth of yourself, your authentic self, at last being recognized by those around you.  It is that moment of realness.  

Yet, the reality of being transgender is that transition, transitioning from your gender assigned at birth to your target gender doesn't end.  You don't finish transition, or truthfully any meaningful form of human growth, until you are done existing on this planet.  I have found over the years that most transfolk I know have dealt with this in a similar fashion, often believing in a day when you can say "I have transitioned."  But the longer you live in your target gender the more you realize that defining gender for yourself and others becomes a new form of transition.

Simply put, what does gender really mean?  What makes a man a man, or a woman a woman?  Is it clothing?  Is it voice?  Is it traits and characteristics?  Is it specific responses to, or actions in situations?  What is acceptable behavior for a man in your society?  How about for a woman?  What professions are normative for your newly expressed gender?  What things are OK to do, and what things are not?  And maybe most importantly,  how do you interact with people who knew you prior to transitioning?

And there's the crux of the reflection that I have been doing.  When I was on sabbatical I spent time with someone who has been my friend for more than 25 years.  She is a woman I hold in high regard, like a sister who has had my back all along, someone who never pulls a punch and tells me when I am being an idiot, who's not afraid to challenge me no matter the cost.  She was actually the best "man" in my wedding, and I guess that's a reflection of the relationship we've always had.  It has never been dependent on gender, gender stereotypes, social norms, or even chronological years.  It has been a relationship of deep connection, one that is so wholly platonic that it is often perceived by others as one of brother and sister.

And, for all that, there is a gendered society that sees a more emotionally intimate relationship between a married man (me) and a married woman (her) as something suspicious.  And this is what I have been grappling with, the fact that I, despite the 30 years of life experience as a female, and an anatomy that betrays my maleness, am now seen as a man in all settings.  And it's something that I have not entirely chosen to do.

Yes, I choose to live as a man in my day to day life, particularly at work, but even there most of my colleagues know that I have gone through a gender transition and respect me for who I am.  So, even in my professional world there is an understanding that I am not a typical male, rather, I am one with a great insight into my female coworkers's life experiences.  I am known for being capable and willing to listen to details of their lives that most men neither want to hear about, nor care to have to deal with.  Frankly, were it not for being married and having 2 sons, I believe that most people would assume I'm gay, and that I hang out with "the girls" because of that.  I have never had a husband of a coworker,  confront me, or be concerned about my interactions with their wives.  Even the husbands of the baseball/basketball/soccer moms I hang out with at games have never come to me with a problem.  

Honestly, the refrain I hear most often is "That's just Arin."  And though I could certainly take this as an insult to my maleness, I don't.  For me it's more of an affirmation that I am Arin a being that is not within the binary normative of gender identity.  I am a category unto myself, a gender that is defined by me, not by external factors that may or may not reflect my values and beliefs.  For lack of a better term, I am an Arin, a person who stands between and within the genders.

Yet, what does that mean when I am in new and different situations where my personal story of transgender is not the focus of my interactions with people?  What does it mean for me to be a real man as I navigate the murky waters of acceptable and unacceptable behaviors in my life?  Who am I to other people, and does it really matter? 

The answer is that I'm not sure who I am perceived to be by other people, but, whether I like it or not, it does matter.  Every day it matters to those who serve me my coffee, who fill my grocery bags, who meet me at the post office, who work with me, who go to church with me, who love me.  It matters because it determines exactly how I will be treated in each and every situation in my life.  It matters to everyone around me, because we are a gendered society that starts with pink and blue blankets, and we work our way up to suits and skirts.  It is as superficial as our clothing, and it is as horrifying as the difference between physical violence vs sexual violence.  To break someone's nose, or to brutally rape them?  Are they man or woman?  The answer too often determines the outcome.

So, here I am, an Arin, stuck between my head and my heart.  I am a man through and through.  I am a real man.  And I am also a man who knows what it's like to be treated as a woman.  I am a man who has lived in two bodies, and experienced the fear of one, and the power of the other.  And so I choose to live in the space between.  I choose to share my life as an example of what can go right when you find your real self, of what can go wrong, and of what you can learn.

What has gone wrong?  I have confessed my truths to those who have turned against me because of them.  I have withheld my truths for fear of being hurt.  I have omitted and hidden parts of myself, my life, my history in order to protect people who didn't need protection.  And I have lived in fear that my secrets might cost me everything.

What has gone right?  I am still alive.  I am happy.  I am at peace with who I am.  I can look in the mirror and see the person I have always known was in there.  And I am myself, the real me, less afraid to step out and participate what is around me.  I have a family, friends, coworkers, providers, and therapists who treat me with dignity, respect, and love.

A real man.

What have I learned?  Well, I've learned to trust myself.  I've also learned that the people you think will have the hardest time with transgender are usually the ones who accept you more readily than the ones you thought would be more understanding.  And I've learned that there will always be men who see me as less than because they believe I have infiltrated the sacred gift of male privilege.  I have learned that others will see my words and actions as threatening instead of genuine.  And that the little misunderstandings of cultural difference can have consequences you never imagined.

At the end of the day, I go to bed, a man, a real man, a real transgender man, and hopefully a better man.  If I am present on my journey, then I am capable of being who G-d continues to call me to be, no matter what or who that looks like.

Thank you for asking the questions that I cannot always answer on my journey.

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

- Ari

Of Red Geraniums, Orange Marmalade Cakes, and Yellow Towels; Of Mother's Day

Hello My Dear One,

It was Mother's Day recently here is the United States and instead of perseverating on the painful relationship I have with my own mother, I chose to focus instead on my wife and her journey as a mother.  This year was the 10th anniversary of the burial service for my wife's mother, Linda. She passed on Christmas Day, 2013 and because of the icy winters of the Northeast, we were unable to return her to the earth for nearly 5 months.  This is a painful reality for those of us who live in climates that render the ground beneath our feet frozen solid, immobilized against all manmade equipment.  So, we preserve the body, have the memorial or funeral service, and after the thaw we relive the pain of the loss as we part with our loved one again.  Although there is a sense of completion at this second service, it is often lost to the reopened wounds that have only just begun to heal and scar over.

In our case, the wounds ran deeper, as the burial took place the day before Mother's Day, 2004.  My young wife, not yet 30 years old, had lost her mother less than 5 months before.  And the next day, Mother's Day, would be her 1st as a mother herself with our then 10 month old son.  What an aching duality she must have felt at that moment.  To be watching the body of her mother leave her for the last time, while holding the gift of the new and unbridled joy of healthy, happy child who was loving her as she had loved her own mother.  I have not experienced this in my life, nor will I ever, yet I can feel her sadness a decade later as I recall that day.

But let me return to the burial itself.  Let me tell what can happen when one is open to the G-d that has more for us than just grief.  Often there is something special, extraordinary, and inexplicable that occurs at these "plantings," these burials of our already long gone friends and relatives.  There is something out of the ordinary that brings us a renewed sense of the continuation of our lives and the presence of the Holy within and around us.  In our case, it was a hawk.

I have a physical remembrance of standing near the graveside, hearing words, looking at my wife, and wondering what solace might be found there.  As I felt the air moving around us, heard the birds in the trees, smelled the fresh flowers, and saw the blue sky through the treetops, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and saw the smile of a friend as she pointed up to the sky.  There, circling in majestic arcs was a hawk, surveying us and all that was around.  As she spoke the word "look," my wife and I both looked up and saw the magnificent sight.  It was as if, in that moment, G-d had given us a a reprieve from the darkness of looking down into a grave.  Rather, we were compelled to look up and see the soaring hope of the life that was still ahead of us.  We gave meaning to presence.

When we ascribe meaning to parts of our life experiences, we create truths for our own comfort and resiliency.  Within the Jewish and Christian traditions, the physical reminders of our covenant(s) with G-d contain the ancient rituals of breaking bread and drinking wine while speaking prayers of blessing.  Every time we share in a meal where we give outward thanks, we create a truth about experiencing the Holy with our most basic physical needs of food and drink.  I believe that all of creation can be a witness to G-d and the blessings that can be had when one is open to them.  From bread and water to the most sacred of religious practices, we are in the presence of Holiness when we use the material gifts that G-d has supplied us with.  Like manna in the wilderness or fish for the multitudes G-d gives us tangibles to access a G-d that is too great to be comprehended by us.  In our family this Mother's Day there were 3 things of material existence that were given spiritual significance, and allowed us to access that Holiness, that enormous G-d.

Red geraniums, an orange marmalade cake, and a yellow hand towel.

Long before my mother-in-law passed she always said that if reincarnation was possible, she wanted to return as a red geranium.  I am sure I could delve into all the reasons for this, but frankly I enjoy the mystery of it more.  Every year I buy my beloved wife a red geranium, on or around Mother's Day, as a reminder of Mom's wish, and as a reminder of my shared memories of Linda.  This year I found a beautiful hanging basket filled with the bright red flowers and tons of buds waiting for their chance to bloom.  It was a remembrance of the gift of a human life and how love had the power to change so many lives.

Mom's Red Geranium

The orange marmalade cake has its roots, not in my mother-in-law, but in my wife's love of a series of books by the author Jan Karon, The Mitford series.  In it, there is a character who bakes this special cake for friends and family, often annoying her husband during the holidays due to the cost of the ingredients.  It is more than just a delicious treat, it is actually an expression of love and caring as the baking process requires many steps, attention to detail, special ingredients, and a lot of time and patience.  The cake was a gift of gratitude for the love that continues to change the lives of our sons as well as our own.

Orange Marmalade Cake

The yellow hand towel has a unique place in this trinity of everyday sacraments, reaching back over 20 years.  In the late summer of 1993 my wife was preparing to attend college, 2 hours away from home, and would be living in a dorm for the first time in her life.  As she collected the necessary items for her new journey, her mother also purchased things for her to bring.  Numerous toiletries, clothes, and bedding were secured for her future life in college, but there was a need that Linda provided with her unique pragmatic approach to life.  She bought a set of mustard yellow hand towels, high quality no less, that if one were being generous in describing them would say they were ugly at best.  The reason for this was intentional, because Linda believed that no one would steal these towels due to there color.  And sure enough she was right, because twenty plus years later, we still have those hideous towels.  They've never been stolen, no matter how much we would have wished them to be.

The "Still not Stolen" Yellow Hand Towel

And here I choose to ascribe one more bit of meaning to these three items, that their colors represent the relationships between mother and daughter.  The red geraniums and the yellow towels are primary colors that when combined create a secondary color, orange, in the form of the cake.  You see, the deeply imprinted devotion of a mother's love for her daughter was bonded with a promise of love that would transcend mortality.  And this has given new life to the daughter who is a mother herself.  The red of the future along with the yellow of the past blend into the orange of the present.  And although this interpretation could easily be called false, I believe that the sacred meaning is greater than the "truth."

In the end, we find our ability to have meaningful experiences with the Holy, with G-d, with our sacred truths where we are, not where we are supposed to be.  Through the process of living into these truths we can begin to see ourselves within the heart of G-d and the universe itself.  Whether it be through flowers, cakes, and towels, or bread, wine, and blessings, we are capable of entering into relationship with G-d.  And when we do that, we are able to enter into relationships with others.  And it is only then that we can witness the true, unique, and unconditional love of G-d. 

Thank you for continuing to seek the true love of G-d with me on this journey.

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

Ari

Of One of the Joys of My Job; I Found the Boot!

Hello My Dear One,

Every so often I get an opportunity at work to be a little more creative than usual.  Other times, I find myself canvassing the entire schoolyard, searching for a student's lost item.  This winter we had a lot of snow where I live, and consequently there were magnificent mounds of snow that were created whenever we needed to find our driveways and parking lots.  At school this meant that not only were there added places to play, there were added places to lose things.  So, Mr Hilton could often be found precariously walking through snow drifts on yet another rescue mission for a hat, mitten, scarf, toy, or even a boot.

Out of these experiences came one memorable search in particular, a search for a missing boot, lost by one of our students.  The following poem/rhyming story is the result of this event and despite its fantastical nature, the account is true.  I hope you enjoy my little tale.  Sometimes, a good chuckle is all one needs to remember the sweetness of how fortunate we are to have what we have.

And yes, I would love to publish this story with fantastic illustrations, soon!

I Found the Boot!

It happened one day at our school’s own playground

In the middle of winter with the snow all around

There was snow on my left, there was snow on my right

Everywhere that I looked there was snow in my sight  

There were drifts five feet deep,there were banks ten feet high

And the best one we had reached clear up to the sky

So there we all were, climbing up, sliding down

We were running and jumping and clowning around

We were laughing and shouting with joy unrepressed

On our mountain of snow that was truly the best

And that’s when it happened, that moment of change

When our friend broke the rules and then had to explain

That the side of the fence he was not to be on

Was the place that his boot had mysteriously gone!

It was true, it was true!  The boot disappeared

Right down through the snow it was no longer near

Then the boy and another one started to dig

But our wonderful mountain was simply too big

So, sad faced and worried our best teacher they told

She looked at them both, then to the snow that was cold

She looked at the mountain and then shook her head

And all of a sudden I was filled full of dread

Because now, our best teacher was looking at me

And I knew it was I who would have to go see

So up our great mountain, down over the fence,

I climbed and I hurried so the hunt could commence

But the snow was too soft, I teetered and wobbled

I felt my leg slipping and that’s when I bobbled

The snow soon gave way and I fell a long way

I was stuck in the snow like that boot on that day

So I struggled and fought as I pulled myself out

And I flopped down the mountain with a loud, silly shout

And I left our big mountain, the snow, and that boot

I left it all out there and did not give a hoot

So I told our best teacher that the boot it was gone

I just couldn’t find it in the snow on the lawn

She said that we’d wait for the mountain to melt

It was up to the sun now, was just what she felt

So we waited and waited and waited each day

But the mountain of snow just would not go away

As the months came and went we began to forget

All about that silly old boot in the snow that was wet

But then one special day when at last it was Spring

My heart lifted high like a bird on the wing

As I walked by the hill I was sure that I saw

Something foot-like and blue that had come from the thaw

There it was, there it was, sticking up through the snow

That boot it was there and I just had to go

So I ran and I jumped and I hopped to that place

With the biggest of smiles that would fit on my face

For I found the treasure that lay hidden so deep

Yes, I found the boot and it made my legs leap

And I skipped to the boot, grabbed it up and I ran

Through our playground and onward right past the trash can

And into the building I slowed to a walk

And I lowered my voice as I started to talk

“I found the boot!” were the words I declared

And everyone stood there and stammered and stared

And then with a rush each one started to cheer

“You did it!  You did it!  Please bring it right here!

And I did, yes I did, I brought the boot to the boy

And even our best teacher was filled up with joy

She said “You found the boot, and for that I am grateful,

I will always remember that day that was fateful.

Thank you for finding our friend’s missing thing,

And now let’s be thankful it’s finally Spring!”

I smiled and nodded, I beamed with such glee

For I found the boot, yes the finder was me!

Copyright 2014 Arin C. Hilton

One found boot!

Thanks for joining me on the journey to find important things.

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

-Ari