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

Legally Crazy; Medications and a Carrie Fisher Quote

Hello My Dear One,

Well, we've made it through the Chanukah and Christmas holidays, and it's almost a new year on the Western calendar. I never had a real meltdown, so that was nice, and I didn't curl up in the fetal position too many times, also nice. But I did suffer from the increased dosage of the medication I added in several months ago. Three months and three milligrams into it and I've successively gotten sleepier and more fatigued with each passing day. I've had a few "good" days here and there filled with energy and positive feelings, but mostly I've been flat. I haven't been depressed per se, or even remotely suicidal, just weighted down by the heaviness of medication.

Now, I don't want you to think that I've gone and changed things without consulting with my provider first, because I did consult with the appropriate people. I have chosen to switch when I take a medication from morning to night in an attempt to use the sleepiness to my advantage. You see, after about 10 to 12 hours of having taken the med I begin to feel happy, relaxed, and ready to get on with my day. Unfortunately, this is usually around 8:00 pm (20:00 hours) and that's not particularly conducive to my life. If I worked a late shift I suppose this would be okay, but since I don't it really doesn't help. And as an insulin dependent diabetic, sleeping all day and night doesn't really help my overall health either.

So, onto the experiment, and a hope for a little more energy during the day. I've skipped my AM dose today in order to try this, yes, it's the first day and I don't know what will happen, but I'll let you know in a week. But I wanted to share this more because I want to be proactive about what's going on in my life. I want to let you know that meds help, but they have side effects that can leave you wondering if the previous instability was better than the current stability. Which is exactly why people with Bipolar Disorder go off their meds. Either we feel better because of them and question why we need them in the first place or we feel rotten on them, read normal, and stop taking the chemical help we've been receiving. It's a perpetual loop of positive and negative feedback where it's almost impossible to know the truth. Sometimes it's best to look to family, friends, and other loved ones for perspective, and to trust them that they can see who we are even when we're not ourselves. So that they can see who I am even when I am not myself.

There is a marvelous quote from the late and amazing Carrie Fisher:
     ”One of the things that baffles me (and there are quite a few) is how there can be so much lingering stigma with regards to mental illness, specifically bipolar disorder. In my opinion, living with manic depression takes a tremendous amount of balls. ... At times, being bipolar can be an all-consuming challenge, requiring a lot of stamina and even more courage, so if you’re living with this illness and functioning at all, it’s something to be proud of, not ashamed of.” 

I miss her. I miss her because she was a voice for those of us with this fatal disease. Yes, Bipolar Disorder is fatal, but we can manage it for as long as possible with support from those around us and from those who are willing to speak out about it. 

We can live with it, medicate it, use therapy on it, use acupuncture, other healing options, and talk to it with our own voices even when it feels ridiculous to do so. We can live even as we are dying, and that takes a lot of courage and stamina. 

Thank you for bringing perspective on this journey.

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

Ari

Legally Crazy; My First Transgender Suicide Attempt

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 myself. And therefore, 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 what I've learned about myself from it.

It was 1985 and I was on the floor of my parents' bathroom in the house I grew up in. I was 10 years old.

I know that seems shocking, that I was so young, but that was the first time I realized that anyone could end their life if they had the right resources. I happened to have the right resources.
I had a bathtub full of water, a towel, a door with a lock, and a giant block of dry ice. I had been allowed to experiment with the dry ice, we had received a shipment of frozen steaks in the mail, and was warned that the the CO2 (carbon dioxide) from the melting compound could be deadly. Dry ice is made of CO2 and as it evaporates the gas sinks to the floor and will cause suffocation if breathed in exclusively. So, 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 the suffocation.

But how did I get to this point?

There are numerous reasons that someone decides that suicide is a valid option for them. At 10 I know I didn't understand the true finality of the act, but I did understand that it was an end to suffering. It was an end to feeling different. It was an end to the constant pain of my Beast of Mental Illness telling me that I was never going to be okay, and I knowing that much was enough at that point.

I was different. I was a boy stuck being a girl. I was transgender, and I didn't even have a word for it. In 1985 there were people who had sex changes, I had only heard of 1 man who became a woman, and I knew plenty of people who were gay. Since I didn't know of trans people I figured I had to be gay, despite knowing I was male, something I'd determined when I was three years old. But without vocabulary I was left in a no-man's-land both figuratively and literally. Gender dysphoria wasn't a thing yet, but I was, and that was exactly how I thought of myself. I was a thing, an it, caught between a mind and a body that wouldn't match. Death seemed like a good answer at the time.

Thankfully, after awhile I sat up, because the process was taking too long for my liking. I moved the towel. I opened the door. I left the bathroom. I pretended as though nothing had happened. And it would be a few more years before I would cognitively realize my Beast yelling out again for an end to the pain.

I would still attempt self-harm during those years, fantasize about fatal or at least violent and scarring accidents, and wonder what death would feel like. It was a time when I see that I was more than distracted by the darkness, I was living in the hell of mental illness, of Bipolar Disorder 1, as well as trying to be male in a female body.

I have to admit that writing these things down has been more difficult than I imagined it would be. I wrongly assumed that recalling the factual details of an event in my early life would be a straightforward task. But it turned out that it has been emotionally draining in unexpected ways. The greatest one is that of being a parent now with children in their tween/early teen years and how much my heart breaks when I think of them feeling something half as badly as what I've lived through. I truly can't make myself feel that pain. It stops me in my tracks every time.

So, what did I learn about myself way back then? How did I change after that moment? And what have I learned since?

For one, 1985 was the year I changed my name in my mind. Even though the rest of the world knew me by my given name, Arin became the name I called myself. Yes, when I write to you it is as Ari [are-ee] and not Arin, but I have other deeper reasons for that.

A spoonful of poison...

Secondly, I learned that no matter how hard I tried to be something/someone else I couldn't do it. Even a dead body was the wrong body.

And among other things, I now see that who I am is a product of those horrible conflicts within myself. I am exactly the man I am today because of the female role I had to play back then. I am a father, a husband, an uncle, a friend, and so much more for having chosen to walk away from suicide that time, and many more as the years went on.

Thank you for living alongside me on this journey.

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

-Ari

Legally Crazy, in Transgender Sickness and Health

Hello My Dear One,
     Nearly 19 years ago, at our wedding, my wife and I recited vows we had written that reflected our youthful beliefs about our future. We were after all, "baby dykes," lesbians in our very early 20's, with idealistic gay pride dreams and plans for an "Out Loud and Proud," kind of life. Well, as out loud and proud as one can get in a rural college town in the northern woods of Maine.
     So, the timeless "in sickness and in health," phrase wasn't necessarily a direct quote in our marital pledges to each other. It was certainly implied, but not explicitly stated, and sometimes I wonder if that was an intentional oversight on my part, or just wishful thinking on her part. Maybe, at 23 we knew that we were invincible, and no disease was going to strike down two young, healthy, and attractive kids just starting their lives together.
     Of course, our reality has been nearly nineteen years of a partner (me) who has battled bacterial infections, dislocated joints, broken bones, viral attacks, Legionnaire's Disease, cancer, insulin dependent diabetes, Late Onset Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia, Bipolar 1 Disorder, and Gender Identity Disorder. And really, that's only a partial list. I've had at least a dozen surgeries, every test under the sun, treatments, therapies, medications, hospitalizations, and that infamous week in the psych ward. Currently, I am recovering from the flu. Sickness. A damn lot of sickness has been handed to my wife on the less than a silver platter of her spouse. Somehow, she manages, or exceeds at making it all work out, and I have absolutely no idea how she does it.
      But back to our wedding, to that rainbow pride flag filled day, with guests, and cake, and the promise of a fresh, new, and amazing start. Back to that moment when I saw the most beautiful woman in the entire world, floating down the aisle in pristine white and smiling at me with tears in her eyes. Eighty people disappeared from my sight as we met in the middle of our beginning. Time was standing still, and I remember little else from that afternoon, save the glitter that came exploding out of the air vents in my car as we drove away. Those responsible for this know who they are.
     What I am certain of, was my new wife hardly expected 14 years later she would be dealing with a female to male transgender husband who had been admitted to a psychiatric facility.
      Inpatient hospitalization happened that day for rapid cycling of extreme mania and immobilizing depression, withdrawal from FDA approved methamphetamine [medically prescribed stimulants for ADD], the refusal to take medications for Bipolar Disorder 1, and suicidal ideation and suicidality. There had been an attempt that morning as I drove myself to the crisis center, choosing at the last possible second not to plow into the telephone pole on my right. Only G-d could have been with me then, because I certainly wasn't.
     After the crisis center came the Emergency Department, then an ambulance ride, an elevator, and my delivery to the inpatient mental illness floor of the Catholic hospital an hour away. I was in a self-imposed and unsupervised detox, having mood swings of messianic proportions, and painfully suicidal. There was a team to keep me from falling apart. There were safety nets everywhere. And of course, there were bars on the windows.
      But what about my wife? Where was she in this chaos? Where were our children? And what could that woman possibly have been thinking? What was this sickness doing in her life?
     I don't have the answers about her emotional state, though I can guess, but what I do have are the memories of her presence each and every step of the way. I remember how she placed herself between my Beast and our boys. And how before I even arrived at the crisis center, she had reached out to family and friends to ensure that our children were safe, cared for, and loved. She was present for them as she reminded them their father still loved them, but he was sick. She was present when she told them that even though he'd stopped acting like the loving daddy they once knew, he was still there, somewhere. She protected them from the sickness, and from the Beast that was tearing his way through that man.
     And then, she was there at the crisis center, and then the ER. And when my Beast could no longer be contained she returned to our children, having faith that I would get the help that I needed. She was there at the psych ward, once even bringing those precious boys to visit the crazy man who had barely begun to accept the sickness and the Beast that were attempting to drag him into oblivion. A Beast and a sickness that were clawing at him from a hell that even he hadn't imagined, despite decades of mental illness.
      She was always present. Her love, support, and devotion were there every second that I was there, even though I couldn't recognize it at the time. The Beast tried to tell me otherwise, but pathological lying is a hallmark of that guy. And I know the Beast was wrong, because, almost five years later my wife is still present, still caring for, still worrying about, and still loving our sons, and me.
     And I believe that her ability to be present is a demonstration of love in action, the love that she has always known from and through her relationship with G-d. It is her faith that has been enough for both of us, has been enough for our family. It is her remarkably healthy faith that continues to combat and overcome the sickness in me and in our world, familial and otherwise. You should see her teach Sunday School sometime. So, the sickness and the health will always be present in our marriage, as will the faith that started with a hopelessly romantic fantasy, saw the births of two remarkable children, continued through years of immeasurable changes, and still persists in spite of all the reasons for it not to. And our family is blessed by a G-d who chooses to continue showing love through all of G-d's Beloved Children. 
      Thank you for living into the love in action along this journey.
Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

- Ari

Blessed by Love in Action

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 "Little" Words; of Love and Want; or Why I am a Jew Who Frequently Attends a UCC Church

Hello My Dear One,

It has been awhile since I last wrote, and I apologize for the interruption in correspondence.  Forgive me as well if I write more than usual, because I have left so much unsaid these past days.  I feel as though I have a synaptic sort of gap in my creativity.  The ideas are there, but the ability to communicate them isn't firing correctly.  So, I've tried to bring together as much as I can, yet it's never exactly what I want.  And that's the heart of the matter right there, what I want.  It's true.  I want, I want, I want.  I always want more or less than what I have.  I want more stuff, less stress, more money, less debt.  I want security and safety, and I want excitement and fun.  I want to experience as much as I possibly can, yet I want the predictability and routine that is the backbone of my existence.  I want.

Some months back I spent a night with some dear friends, one old friend, "S"of 25 years, a new friend "T", my best friend my wife, and an old soul friend "IR" whom I have a "casual but deep" relationship with.  IR is a  man who shares a love for Jewish learning and reflection, for relationship with something larger than ourselves, and for serving the world in ways that are truly unexpected.  He is a lay Reb, a one time lawyer, a performer, a writer, a musician, a son, a husband, an uncle, a questioner, and all around mensch.   

That night we had all been together at one of IR's performances in the sleepy little resort town that S and I grew up in.   The show was hysterically funny, ridiculously relevant, and musically phenomenal, but one song in particular has always been a favorite of mine.  It deals with the desire to have, and to be something that will fulfill temporary earthly desire, but will ultimately lead to death when the emptiness of the want is met.  It is also set within a meticulously crafted four part a cappella song, sung by four talented male performers dressed in full drag.  Did I mention that some of my dear friends are enormously talented political satirists who perform biting attacks on current events, the human condition, and the implications of religion upon a theoretically secular world?  Did I mention that they are also known as The Kinsey Sicks?  Well, if I didn't, now you know.  And you should find them online www.kinseysicks.com, on Youtube, or live in concert, and then you should buy every one of their albums and listen to them as many times as you can.  Oh, and remember to buy a t-shirt and a magnet too.

At any rate, the The Kinsey Sicks' song that was performed, "I Want to be a Dead Princess"* was written shortly after the death of Princess Diana.  The song tells of a person's want to be a "dead princess," i.e. revered, cherished, idolized, and perhaps immortalized at the highest peak in their lifetime.  The verses ask for a fame that will encompass the neediness that is eating away at the core of the vocalist(s), while the chorus and the ending repeat the phrase "I want."  And that is the place of pain and brokenness that resonates most deeply for me.

My wants, my desires to be adored, even at the cost of the security of those around me, even my own life, seem to pour out of me when I least expect them.  And as I think about this message of exchanging life for human praise, I am reminded of the daily deaths that we all endure as we suffer injustice, human frailty, and human nature.  We choose to let our emotional and psychological neediness trump the needs of others.  When I buy something I want, something that has no inherent usefulness to my life, be it an original Da Vinci or a plastic thingy from the dollar store, I have made a statement to myself, my neighbors, and my G-d, that my wants are more important than anyone else's needs.  I want.  


As I think about that sentence, those two words, I want, my mind travels to another set of words, those "three little words," "I love you." Those words that can be too quickly blurted out or too infrequently breathed, into the ears and hearts of those around us. "I love you," three little words.  How intriguing it is that we label them as such, little.  There is nothing little about love.  There is nothing little about I, or you, or the relationship we create when those words are spoken.  Think even briefly of Martin Buber's seminal work, "I and Thou."  Yet, somehow we feel pressed to minimize them, their meaning, their value, their vulnerability.  We are afraid of not hearing them back.  We are afraid of what a relationship of love might actually mean.  We make small that which is too big for us to handle.  Much the way we do when we speak of G-d, or the relationships we are called into when we let G-d be within our hearts, our minds, and our souls.  We confine love to create the illusion that we are in control of forces that are uncontrollable.

I believe that this matter of control is a core issue for many people and their relationship with G-d.  It is hard enough to feel accepted by another human being, even one who truly loves and accepts you unconditionally, the way my wife does, let alone with a deity, force, creator, G-d who may be seen as judge, jury, and jailer all in one.  Relationship with G-d requires a level of vulnerability that can be so overwhelming that we never even attempt such a relationship.  Being open to a G-d that has promised to love unconditionally, and to drastically change your life if you are willing, is to strip down to your barest soul and expose the wounds of a lifetime of pain.  Being in relationship with G-d is that process of revealing the brokenness, to G-d and to yourself.  It is also the process of letting go of that pain as we allow G-d to be within the pain.

So, instead of revealing the brokenness and allowing G-d to repair and replace the emptiness of my core self, I attempt to fill the spaces with the things I want on my own.  I seek out that which will temporarily gratify my neediness and my emptiness, giving relief to the pain I cover as I walk through life.  I want. 

And what I really want is a religious community in which to travel this journey with.  Unfortunately I live an hour away from any synagogue, Reform, Conservative, Orthodox, "non-denominational" or otherwise, so my need for a physical Jewish community is largely unmet.  Yes, I know and have Jewish friends in the area, yes I have Jewish family members, and yes I celebrate most all of the Jewish holy-days.  But its not the same.  Being a Jew, means being a Jew in community.  As an Eastern European Jew in particular, it means returning to our shtetl our village, to live our faith as a group, most often in conflict with the secular world around us.  It is a culture in unto itself, and it defines a large piece of who we are.  It is about finding solidarity in our otherness especially in comparison to the culture(s) we live in.  It is a community of faith, one that promises that we will be suppoerted in our joys, our triumphs, our disappointments, our sorrows, and our persecutions, both real and imagined.  Community.

But here's the catch, I am in fact a part of a faith community right here where I live, and I have travelled millions of miles with them throughout the past 15 years of my strange and wondrous journey.  And they are not a Jewish community.  Rather, they are self defined as a United Church of Christ, a christian church.  It is a  place where there are weekly explorations of the life of Jesus of Nazareth, and his ministry in Israel over 2000 years ago.  Yep, there is a cross on the altar, an enormous stained glass window with a very white looking man with long hair, flowing white robes, and a sheep above the altar.  There is christian iconography throughout the building.  There are excerpts of scripture posted on the walls.  There is a common understanding in the community that Jesus of Nazareth was and is the promised messiah of the Jewish people living in the Promised Land millennia ago.   And yet, they are the faith community that I return to over and over again.

Why?  Because I want the love of my wife, who is truly, and honestly a believing and practicing christian in the UCC.  I was there when she was confirmed as a teen.  I was there as she explored other traditions, but always came back to her roots.  And I  have been there as she has brought our sons into this community, taught them, and raised them with a rock solid foundation of what it means to be a loving, forgiving, and growing person of faith.  She has provided for our family a common faith to live in. 

Why?  Because, we need and want the love that we receive from the people who form this community.  We want to experience the love that we can share as a community.  And I want to be a part of a faith community, even if by definition it is not my own tradition's.  

And why do I frequently attend this UCC Church? Because every Sunday morning as the service begins the following words are spoken:

     "Whoever you are, and wherever you are on life's journey, you are welcome here."

And the most remarkable part is that they do mean it.  There are lakeside residents who belong to synagogues back home, who attend services every summer, sometimes more faithfully than the locals who straggle in only on Christmas and Easter.  There are people who identify in all manner of spiritual ways who attend on any given Sunday morning.  And I am one of them.  I am accepted, exactly for who I am, and for where I am on life's journey. 

And in the end, that's what I really want.  To enter into relationship, to want, to love, and to know that for all the vulnerability I will share with others and with G-d, I will be accepted as I am. 

 Thank you for accepting me as I continue on my journey.

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

-Ari

_______________________________________________________________

*http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/kinseysicks2#

Of Motherhood, of True Blessings, and of Light

My Dearest One,

It was recently Mother's Day here in the U.S., and I find myself torn about what I need to write, especially given the other parts of my life that have been tugging at me.  My call to teaching and how that is translating in my life.  My growing confidence in my own abilities and strengths.  My deepened understandings of how to be a good employee, colleague, subordinate, and friend.  But the importance of motherhood, particularly in my own life, is a subject that aches to be explored.  So, here we go.

As most people know my mother was decidedly not the maternal figured I needed, wanted, or desired.  She was and is a woman unto herself whose vision is limited to that which magnifies her own worth and existence.  She is an eccentric, crazy, narcissistic, and neurotic ball of self centered agony, waiting to burst open like a cyst of infection.  Her moods, words, and actions are like a poison that will slowly reach toxic levels for those around her.  This may sound harsh, I realize, but for those who have lived within her sphere of destruction this description is all too real.

Yet, my own life partner, my heart's desire, my wife, is the complete and total opposite of the tragedy of my youth.  She is a selfless giver of time, passion, exuberance, radiance, forgiveness, and unconditional love for her two children and for me.  She is a blessing to all who meet her and who know her.  She works to provide the maternal gifts of hope, peace, and joy not only to her own family, but also to each person she encounters.  She is a gifted woman and I could not be the man I am today were it not for her.  And I mean that in absolutely every sense possible.  I could not be the man I am today without her in my life.  I would not have had the courage to become who I am were it not for her love and support.

As a transgender/intersex individual my wife chose to support me through a change that threatened to dissolve our marriage by an 80% margin.  She wants me to be happy.  As a man with severe mental illness she has chosen to uplift and uphold me through each psychotic episode.  She believes in me.  As a man who has struggled with self worth, and an upbringing that has nearly broken my spirit more times than I can count she has chosen to live with this darkness.  She shows me a light that I cannot see on my own.  As a man living with a beast deep within his soul she has chosen to stand her ground in the face of its hateful, spiteful, and hideous outbursts that have emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and physically attacked her and her children.  She wants the real husband and father I am called to be.

For all this and more I simply cannot find the words that would ever say what her gifts have meant to me throughout the nearly 15 years of marriage we have shared.  Through every wrenching heartbreak and every elated delight she has been present to the man I am, the one I was, and the one I can only pray that I will someday be.

She has shown me what a mother can be.  She has shown me the tasks that a mother is charged with when she enters into that most sacred bond of bringing a child into the world.  She has shown me what love is.

And she has shown me when a mother must let go and give her child the room to grow and become who he or she is called to be.  She has shown me the truest form of grace when she has allowed our sons to fail and then comforted them in their grief.  She has shown me the depths of her soul as she has cried each time our boys board the bus for the first day of school, year, after year, after year.

It is her determination, will, and strength that make her who she is.  And it was in the loss of her own mother over 9 years ago that I saw this the most.  She cared for her mother, a woman who had lost much in her life, who finally came to live with us in a converted barn so that she could be close to her children and her first grandchild.  My mother-in-law was a study in perseverance and she passed this gift on to her daughter with love, laughter, and humility.

Linda was a woman dedicated to providing a life for her children no matter the personal cost.  I remember vividly the early years or my wife's and my courtship as we would eat together at her mom's diningroom table.  There would be warm comforting food spread out for all of us, even after she had worked all day as a nurse in a geriatric facility.  She commuted a half an hour each way, driving from one state to another to work in that nursing home.  She would come back home, make coffee, take care of her beloved hound dogs, and then prepare a meal.  She would wash, dry, and hang up her one uniform by the time the food was ready, and we would gather at the table, talking, laughing, and trying to find both the money and an excuse to go buy "carrots" from the local store.  Despite the pain, anger, and disappointment Linda experienced throughout her life, she still managed to keep a sense of family for her kids.

When she died at the agonizingly young age of 57 from lung cancer on Christmas day, there was a tear, a rip, a gash really in the fabric of our family quilt, one that has taken years to carefully stitch back together.  Of course, as with any wound, if you look closely enough you will see where the delicate sutures have been placed, a puckering at an edge, an uneasy tightness, or a slackening where once it was taught.  Thankfully, my wife is a master quilter, both literally and figuratively, when it comes to our family.  We are all kept physically warm by her beautiful fabric creations.  We are also kept emotionally warm by her creations of love that sparkle in each of my sons' eyes and in the way we walk through this world together.  

Losing her Mom just 5 months after becoming a mother herself was one of the cruelest fates I can imagine, and though many people have given greatly of their time, their love, and their support there will never be another Linda for my wife.  And I see this most as she wishes that her mother could have been here for the births of her other grandchildren, and shared in the magical delight of being a grandparent.  Though my mother-in-law and I rarely saw eye to eye, I would give anything to have her back for the sake of my own wife's happiness.  And that is something that I can only say because of the love that my wife has given to me.  I am not the man I once was.  I am not the man I will be one day.  Rather, I am the man who can be present to the love of his life and want her happiness more than his own.  It is only when you have been loved unconditionally that you can do that.

There are so many memories and stories about the past that I could tell, but most of them are not mine to share, not really.  I will only tell tales about myself and so there is just one that I want to disclose for now.  It's about the love and hate for one's own mother that deep down Linda and I shared.  Though her mother was by no means anything even close to mine, the parent/child dynamic is universal and our own interpretations of our upbringings are personal memories that defy historical truths.  But the fact of the matter was that she had a tough time dealing with her own mother.  As a young woman she moved out of the house, got an apartment, and didn't call for 3 weeks.  I understood.  

"Retro Chic"

And yet, sitting in her diningroom one night looking around at the plate shelf that encircled the room above our heads, I saw a set of porcelain canisters.  They were brown on the bottoms, with white rims and bright flowers wrapping around them.  They were what would now be called "Retro Chic," but nearly 20 years ago they were more "Dated" and "Ugly."  So, I asked the lingering question in my mind, "Where did you get those?" figuring that they might have been an unasked for wedding, housewarming, or birthday gift.  The answer came as a crazy surprise, but one that I completely understood as well.  She replied "I bought those for my mother with money from my first paycheck after I moved out."  Because, after 3 weeks she felt badly about her break for freedom and wanted to apologize in a tangible way, proof that her independence was working out.  I knew exactly what she was talking about.  

Later, when she moved out of her house and into mine, she called her daughter and her son, and myself to come and divy up the items from the house that she no longer wanted.  I was the only one who wanted that "ugly" set.  I plan on keeping it and passing it on to my children and/or grandchildren along with the story of a strong, independent, and caring woman.  

So, this Mother's Day I celebrated my wife with a special cake she's always wanted, got a card, and made some tasty meals.  We ate one of the meals we always had at her Mom's house and we watched my wife's favorite Disney movie, and then one of the boys' favorite Disney movies.  Nothing fancy.  All family.  

"I love you Linda Mom"

And that's what I finally, finally, understood when it came right down to it.  Having the family you want will never be the family you get, because nothing in life works that way.  But having the family you need is precisely what you will get, because that's exactly how life works.  And when you realize that what you need is making you into something better than you could have ever imagined, then you don't really want for anything.  It is a puzzle that I suspect I will struggle with for the rest of my life.  And I am truly blessed to have that opportunity.


Thank you for helping me to put the pieces of this puzzle where they belong.

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

-Ari      

Of Saying Goodbye, of Death

My Dear One,

Oh, how life changes in an instant.  One moment we are happy, laughing, and living in a precious time, and the next we are rocked by news that barely makes sense.  And yet, it makes all the sense in the world at the very same time.  Such is that phone call of a loved one to tell you that another loved one has died.  That call came to our house this past week, as my great aunt June, in tears, let us know that my great uncle had passed away Saturday morning.

Harry Garrison Silleck, Jr. was 92 years old, gravely ill, and his body had been deteriorating for years.  But his mind, his intellect, and his wit had persisted until the end.  And although it seems obvious that he would be ending his time here on this crazy planet, it is still unsettling that he is gone.  That a man of his seemingly undying nature would actually die.  I am struck by the reality that I will never again hear his voice.  I am strangely stunned that the man I knew was indeed mortal, and succumbed to death as we all will and all must.  It is a wounding fact that we do not live forever, and it is accentuated when one we have known all our lives passes on.    

And I am saddened that I was unable to say goodbye, particularly because I missed the last phone call he tried to make, and my answering machine cut off before he ever spoke.  My aunt had tried to put him on, but had taken too much time, and the computer didn't know that this was the last time he was trying to talk to me.  He managed to get through to my mother, and ultimately I know that she needed that more than I did, and so I have other memories to think about.  But the questions I have of what he wanted to tell me will linger for some time.

The comfort I needed was met when I saw him last, more than 2 years ago, as he was walking on his own two feet into the emergency room, and still himself.  I spoke with him on the phone a few months ago and he was ever the grand gentleman he had always been.  And just a few days ago, in that now unfulfilled call, I learned from my great aunt that he had loved the birthday card that we as a family had all signed and sent to him for his 92nd year.

So, as a tribute to my Unc, I want to share a tiny part of his story.  Although Unc and I often butted heads, he was the reason I was able to go to college and pursue my dreams.  He fully accepted who I was and who I became.  He danced at my wedding and he loved my wife and my sons as much as if they were his own.  He was a true gentleman and I am grateful to have had him in my life for nearly 40 years.  I hope that you will see through these thoughts and feelings how much I loved him and how his life shaped my own even when I had the total hell of my family attempting to break me apart.   

Uncle Tommy (Tommy was his family nickname and no one outside of the family ever referred to him as such) was born March 19th, 1921, at home, in Putnam Valley, NY to older parents who already had a 6 year old daughter, Margaret Doris Silleck, my grandmother.  My grandmother loved him dearly, and although she passed 20 years ago, he always spoke of what a wonderful sister she had been to him, and her immeasurable love and care for his wellbeing.  Her love for her brother eventually translated into a deep love for me and is much of the reason I survived my brutal childhood existence.  Her ability to care for and about me when my own mother could not, literally saved my life many times.  She gave him and me a foundation that granted us both a tremendous resiliency to a harsh and too often unforgiving world.

Interestingly enough I just found his baby book a few weeks ago as I was cleaning out part of my mother's house.  Though it is over 90 years old it reads much like the ones of today and his milestones were documented by his mother as carefully and lovingly as any parent would now in the 21st century.  Along with it I also found one of my favorite photos of him and my grandmother.  They are posed before the camera, a beautiful little girl and a wide eyed toddler, and the love between them is palpable.  That was the gift of unconditional love that has passed into me even through the insanity I have suffered.

Harry and Margaret circa 1923

Unc, like his sister was extraordinarily bright and both siblings graduated from high school early, she at 16, and he at 15.  He went on to college and graduated at the age of 19, then to law school, earning his J.D. at the ripe old age of 22.  I heard many of his collegiate antics, hardly able to comprehend that he was so young, and interacting with 22 year old men when he was just a boy of 16.  I should note that my grandmother also went to college, a private all female school in upstate New York, graduated and later became a social worker for the State of New York.  She was a feminist to the end, and she taught us all to be strong, independent individuals no matter the adversities we might be facing.  Both sister and brother excelled at defending those who could not defend themselves, albeit in different ways.

The week of his law school graduation he was drafted into the United States Air Force and became a navigator stationed in England flying in bombers from 1943 to 1945.  He received almost every available medal and returned a "hero."  But, like so many others who served during the Second World War, he never spoke of the traumas he endured during his time of service.  It is sad for me to think that another of our WWII veterans has passed on, leaving fewer who remember the realities of a war that involved so little modern technology, or who remember the survivors who were saved from the horrors of concentration camps and extermination, and the victims who were not.

He practiced corporate law for his entire career, working in a prominent law firm in New York City into the 1990's.  He had many lunches with the future President Nixon, another lawyer in the firm, even though my Unc was a lifelong Democrat.  He dealt mostly with railroad law, working cases that would drag on for 20 or more years in courts as disputes were settled.  Yet he was always willing and able to help friends and neighbors with wills, estates, and the like in his tiny hometown in upstate NY.  In the end though he travelled extensively for his career and sacrificed a personal life in many ways for this.  

He met his wife in 1961, they dated for 16 years and finally married in 1977, by which time he was 56 years old and she was in her 40's.  He loved her dearly and conceded to her wishes most of the time.  I know that she loved him too, and that as she faces this next chapter in her life, the first time in 52 years without him, I prayerfully hope that it will be a short one of separation for them.  I do not wish her ill, or dead, though she has been unwell for many years, rather, I hope that they will be reunited in whatever form that takes for them soon.  They were each other's worlds, and I cannot begin to imagine the grief and the emptiness that she must be feeling right now.  So, I look to G-d to offer comfort and peace that will give her what she needs to be on this part of the journey.  

Sadly, they never had children of their own, though I was given incredible status, particularly since I was the only child/grandchild/etc. in my entire family.  A monetary bonus from a case he won in the 1970's was put into a high yield account and 20 years later I had a college fund that would pay for 4 years of college even now.  I was given gifts of financial and personal value, money yes, items like and an electric pencil sharpener I received at least 25 years ago that still sits on my desk, of course.  But I was given so much more in the stories, the time we were able to share, the Holidays he came to Maine for, the uncompromising sense of fidelity that he imbued to me through word and deed.

And I was also given the gift of culture and a world view, visiting Manhattan on a yearly basis.  Going to museums, libraries, concerts, broadway performances, off broadway performances, theaters, films, the planetarium, Central Park, the Russian Tea Room, the Plaza, a horse-drawn carriage ride, and the ability to study abroad 3 separate times, were all gifts from my Unc.  I learned to love the life that he and his wife had, and as much as I love my life here in a rural town in Maine, there are days when I wonder what it would have been like if I'd gone and lived with them in my teens when I had the chance.  In the end I know I wouldn't be the man I am today and I wouldn't want to be anyone else.

Looking back on this suit and tie wearing serious lawyer there is a wonderful juxtaposition of the man in the office and the man at home who indulged a playful whimsy in me whenever possible.  As a tot he would become a scary "monster" growling in my face as I squealed with delight and fear.  He would become a horse on all fours for me to ride around on when he was already well into his late 50's.  Of all the memories I cherish there is one that demonstrated his true love and acceptance of my childhood needs.
I was 7 or 8 years old the summer I purchased a stuffed Snoopy doll at the famous F.A.O. Schwartz toy store, and I was ecstatic with my treasure.  That night I dressed him in his "Saturday Night Fever" tuxedo, and he was allowed to sit at the head of the fancy dining room table at dinner in my Unc's 69th and Lexington condo on the Upper East Side.  I remember drinking milk "on the rocks" and reveling in the inclusivity and welcome that my Uncle was offering me that night.  He fostered in that moment a belief that family could exist even when most days it didn't seem possible.

As I grew older my Uncle challenged me at every turn, wanted the best for me, and loved me in a way I probably never realized when he was alive.  He had told my mother, and myself, that I had more courage, because I chose to transition genders, than he had.  That he would never have had the courage to do or the ability to risk what I did to become myself.  I could never believe this after knowing his history, but I see now how we shared something in that as well.  He did not see his own courage any more than I saw mine.  We both did what we had to do in order to survive.  His battles were fought dropping bombs over Germany, while mine were fought in doctors' offices, hospitals, rural towns, and within myself and my marriage.  We were both heroes in each other's eyes.  Funny how I can only just see that now, I hope that he saw it as well.

There are of course so many more stories about Unc that I could share, his pranks, his vast knowledge of films, his deep appreciation for the arts, his love of horses, the fact that he lived in his boyhood home until he was 90, and everything else that made him who he was.  But just as there is not time for us to live forever, there is not time to tell all those stories now.  I will tell them as they ask to be told, to my sons, to my friends, to my family, to you, as I find myself in the images of a man I would be proud to be, even on his worst days.  I know that he would have done the same for me.


Thank you for travelling this twisting path of the journey with me.

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

-Ari