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 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

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