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, Transgender in a Psych Ward

Hello My Dear One,

Nearly four and a half years ago I had to choose between driving into a telephone pole or allowing myself to be taken to the psychiatric section of a hospital. Although this was far and away one of the most difficult decisions I have ever had to make, there have been many more that required far deeper introspection, risk, and personal loss. All of these times have involved life and death, gender identity, and the Beast of mental illness that coexists in my being. 

In an inpatient psychiatric hospital ward there is a total loss of autonomy. It is the relinquishing of one's freedoms, including the right to sleep without observation, or have shoes or shoelaces. Then watching those shoes get relegated to a locked closet until a supervised group walk. Sitting at a table, working on a large coloring page [many years before the "adult coloring books" became popular for stress relief] and going to the nurses' station to have your colored pencil sharpened. Why? Because electric pencil sharpeners might be hazardous to your health. And the loss of control of what you, what I, could eat, could wear, when and where conversations were allowed, and even when and what television programs could be watched. 

It was and still is soul crushing. And it was and still is sad. And when it was over, when I returned to my normal life, there were years that passed where I still wondered what happened. There are voids in my memory. There are gaps in my timeline. And I continue to consider how many different ways the story could've gone. In the end, my reality will always be altered by the madness of Bipolar Disorder One, Anxiety, Depression, Mania, and neurochemical wiring and firing that continues to blast holes through the memories within my mind.

Of course, there's that whole Gender Identity Disorder, transgender/transsexual piece of my life. The added complication of mind and matter, of a mental gender and a physical sex that do not align. A divide between who I am and how the world sees me, then and now. 

I am a man, but I am also a transman. I am a person who has lived in both genders. I have thirty years of life experience being treated as less than because of my biological sex and my gender presentation. I have another twelve of being seen for who I am, being treated as better than I am, yet always remembering what I was. It is never as simple as boy or girl, even when it is.

But why now, so many years after my committal into that place, is it in the forefront of my mind? Why I am ruminating on this time in my life? Is it a distance or a near proximity to the places and events of 2012? Or is it related to the current political reality show that has become the United States government? Certainly, the attitudes and legal battles that have been given new venomous lives, are causing anxiety within me, within all of us who know what it means to fear for our own safety because who we are.

But, I believe that it has to do with something far more subtle than a global ethos or a cultural zeitgeist. It is a more nuanced thing, more fluid, like gender itself, that has brought me to this place of contemplation.

It was gossip about a person who had battled some form of mental illness or addiction as having "been in the psych ward," rather than taking appropriate care of their children. A hand was raised to the side of the mouth when the words were uttered, signifying a tidbit of information too private to speak at full volume, but too juicy not to share. It was as if the damning nature of such a fate was like an accident scene that one doesn't stop for, but cannot help but gawk at as it's passed. 

Shh, don't tell, don't say the words that might make me sound crazy. Keep them hidden in the recesses of shame, stigma, and silence. Keep quiet, keep still, pretend that it doesn't happen to people "like us." Ignore the gut-wrenching pain of the unmerciful torturers, the beast of mental illness, and the judgement of a world that makes you the beast. 

The irony I suppose is that in all of this, the transgender part of me had little or nothing to do with the medical and psychiatric care I needed. It wasn't my gender that was the problem, it was untreated Bipolar Disorder One, a disease that doesn't distinguish or care who you are, or how you are viewed. Indeed, it really doesn't care about sex, gender, sexual orientation, race, ethnicity, religion, political affiliations, age, or anything else. If you are mentally ill, it is a sickness in your brain, not in any of the packaging. 

And for the week I was inpatient, my gender identity was disclosed by me to only one other person, who also happened to be transgender. Surprisingly enough, that person was there for neurochemical reasons too, and the transgender identity was as irrelevant to their treatment needs as mine. 

Of course, being transgender, when labeled with a psychiatric diagnosis of Gender Identity Disorder for treatment purposes, i.e. hormone therapy, surgical procedures, etc. is by definition a mental illness. And with that, many people are in psychiatric facilities for depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation, and suicide attempts because of that designation. Yes, being transgender can cause you to wind up in a psychiatric setting, but it doesn't mean that it will, or that it should.

And there's the crux of the issue. If and when I disclose my mental illness and my gender identity, they become inextricably linked for people who understand little or nothing about either one. I end up inhabiting the fear that my credibility, or that even my value as a human being is diminished by these coexisting forces in my life. 

Simply put, do people think I'm crazy because I'm trans, or I'm trans because I'm crazy?

I don't know, and I probably don't want to know.

What I do know though, is that right now, the juicy gossip, the truth, the lies, and the inaccuracies about all of us who are mentally ill, or are transgender, or are in any way different is affecting us daily. Anger/Fear at the "other," and at each other is nothing new, but the ability to spread it so fast and so far is. Words can be emissaries of love and hope, or violent harbingers of physical harm to come. With technology and media that travel at the speed of light, it is often difficult to know if the threats are real, or are merely the rantings of a scared and lonely person, suffering in their own state of depression. 

Either way, our anxiety rises, our rational selves erode, and our love for our neighbors is relegated to theory rather than practice. We cannot even see those we disagree with as our neighbors. It is safer to keep them as enemies, risking degradation of us all, rather than a little bit of humanity for just one person. That is crazy. 

The author in blue.

It's funny really, that when I was in a psych ward, transgender and all, the people around me, the other "crazy" ones treated me as a true neighbor. They applauded during a group therapy session when I said that I'd finally agreed to start taking medication. What a crazy way to experience unconditional love. 

Thank you for always being there on this legally crazy transgender, and sometimes psych ward filled journey with me.

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

- Ari

Walking in Darkness

My Dear One,

I don't want to write about politics. I don't want to think about it. I don't want to perseverate on the what if's, the what now's, the what should we do's, the where did we go wrong's, and the if only's. I don't want to dwell in that darkness. 

I simply don't want to be reminded that a self aggrandizing, golden toilet owning, misogynistic, casino running, real estate mogul [in his own mind], bully, and fear monger has been elected to the highest office of the United States of America. 

I don't want this to be reality. And I certainly don't want this to be the scripted "reality" of the television shows that further brought this megalomaniac into the public ethos.

But that's the whole problem. I can't stop thinking about all of this, because it is reality.

As a member of the LGBTQIQA community, and the transgender community more specifically, I worry that decades worth of civil rights progress could unravel at any minute. Like poorly hemmed pants that our young country hasn't grown into yet, the seams are ripping out, and we are tripping over our own suit. 

I see and hear daily of the increased harassment, physical harm, violence, suicide, and the untold acts of abuse that are garnering new media attention. Being queer is as much of a liability as it ever was, but now bigots, homophobes, and the like believe they have more ground to stand on and oppress us. As a transman, I always have a heightened level of anxiety about how I must deal with the bigotry and hatred surrounding me. I fear for more than myself of course. I fear for the safety and well being of my family. For my wife. For my sons. 

As a man of faith, my heart is feeling broken. Much like my biblical ancestors, who believed during their darkest times that the G-d of their ancestors had ceased to be with them, I too am burdened by the fear that G-d has left this place. I sit and wonder if all those years of seminary study have any meaning at this moment. Or if years of prayers will matter. Or if love of Torah is enough. I wonder if my faith, divided to begin with, can stand in this time of interfaith intolerance. 

I wonder if the G-d of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and of Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, and Leah is grieving also. And I wonder if that G-d is able to unify my faith. 

I wonder if that same G-d of Hagar, of Jesus of Nazareth, of Mohammed, and of all the Universe will unite these broken bonds of faith between the nations. Between the peoples themselves.

As antisemitism is [publicly] on the rise, much the way that racism, bigotry, homophobia, transphobia, misogyny, and of course Islamophobia have been consistently more present in our national dialogues, millennia of genetically encoded anxiety floods my brain. The hatred and the fear have always been present, it's just more socially acceptable to voice them again. And admittedly, I have realized that it was far easier for me to ignore these things a month ago. I, like so many others, was lulled into a false sense of security, of unity, of a greater tolerance for the "other." 

But tolerance isn't enough, and it never has been. The real truth is this:

Tolerance is not acceptance. 

So many of us have found ourselves, our lives, our "lifestyles," tolerated but not accepted by leaders and legislators, employers and coworkers, and most painfully by our own friends and families. Who we are at our very cores is subject to persecution, be it religious, racial, financial, emotional, physical, employment, housing, or even bathrooms. And yes, we suffer, but there is a far greater issue than just the suffering. It is the tolerance for the suffering itself, and the causes of the suffering as well. 

I have been tolerated but not accepted. But I have tolerated things as well. I have tolerated the malice that has permeated our country. I have sat back and watched fools wave the Confederate flag. I have kept quiet when those around me say hurtful things about others based only on stereotypes and ignorance. I have kept silent for fear of jeopardizing personal relationships, jobs, and the safety and security that I enjoy in my opaque bubble of comfort. I have tolerated hate. 

For now, I will plod, if not walk, in the darkness a little longer. Indeed, I must do this, because I need to understand the hatred that is seeping like sewage into every part of our lives. Not the blatant kind, but the subtle form that says that strong confident men are "leaders," but women who are like that are "bitches." That feminine gay men are the punchline and the punching bag. That we must hate the sin, but love the sinner. That "those" people are taking advantage of the "system." That anyone of any color besides white will not be represented on television or in the movies in the percentages that are consistent with actual population data. That we are not all beloved children of G-d, because one religion is going to kill you with its radicalism, while another is going to love you into submission and subjugation. 

So yes, right now it is time for the darkness. 

Soon enough it will be time for the light.

Menorahs will be lit, Christmas trees will sparkle, windows will shine like the brightest summer suns, but not yet.

We need this darkness. 

And we will continue walking on the journey, searching for the light.

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

-Ari

Of My First [Transgender] Fashion Memory

Hello My Dear One,

It was recently graduation time at the local university and at the high school, here where I live. Many young women and men will now be entering into the world from under the protective wings of schools, parents, families, and closest friends. And this of course means that they, and their loved ones, have spent great amounts of time recalling years of memories. Ones of funny outfits, cute little things that occurred in childhood, first loves, first heartbreaks, and the first time that death(s) came sweeping in, and all the rest. It was a time of memories.

Recently, I had the privilege of speaking to a group of individuals at a gender diversity training, telling my story, and then answering their questions. They themselves were a diverse group, but most all of them served young people. But unlike most of the recent graduates here, the young people they serve have painful and challenging memories from their childhoods. Their stories are too often ones of crises, issues of sexual orientation, gender identity, and the loss of securities that comes with each of these challenges. I was honestly moved to see a room full of people who specifically wanted to know how they could better help youth and (hopefully) their families safely begin and continue the process of transgender transition. And to reconcile the memories of who they were with the people they are becoming. 

In my talk, in all of my talks that I give, I always share my first memory of knowing that I was different. Of knowing that I was someone else than what the world saw me as. That I was transgender. It is a story I have told a hundred times or more, yet every time I tell it, I find new parts of how I felt at that moment. Of how my relationships with my family were formed at that very moment. I see the confusion, the distress, the anger, the fear, and the courage that would come from this chance exchange with my parents when I was only 3 years old.

Not original, but close.

The year was 1978, and fashion was at an all time low. We wore red, white, and blue checked polyester bell bottom pants, with striped polyester shirts, and knee high athletic socks that had inch wide bands of color at the tops. Usually, the colors were either red and blue or yellow and green. It was an unfortunate time for style, but of course those clothes were the style. Terrycloth was also a staple of our wardrobes then as well, as we wore shorts that not only matched, but doubled as hand towels. I am thankful that I no longer wear such things, however I sometimes yearn for those shorts since they were so handy when you spilled something. It was convenient to be able to sit down and mop the floor with your fanny. But I digress.

At any rate, it was a hot July day, and I was standing in our dining room in between my parents' separate bedroom doors, wearing those beloved, mint colored green terrycloth shorts with the white trim sewn around the edges.

My father was wearing well worn and dirty shorts, and dirty tan slip on canvas shoes that had white rubber soles and white trim. My mother had something on, however I do not remember what, most likely because they were from the ladies' section of the department store, a place that held no relevance for me.

It was mid to late afternoon, and time for my father to go out to water and/or weed our 1/4 acre garden. I was excited to join him, he was highly protective of it, and gave me tasks that wouldn't lead to the destruction of the actual plants he had growing. Standing there I was ready to be out there with my dad, the hero of every little boy's life, doing something that had been reserved for someone older, responsible, and able to do real work. It was a magical moment.

And then my mother ruined it.

As my father told her that he was heading out to work on the garden, I gleefully announced that I was going too. And that was when the fateful blow was dealt, as the words came pouring out of her mouth.

"No you're not." she said.
Unsure of her statement I quickly replied, "Why not?"
"Because," she said, "little girls wear shirts when they go outside."

Standing there, blindsided by this news, I stammered my assent, went to my room and found a plain white undershirt. I threw it on and went out the door. 

I had complied with her expectations. 

I had complied with a gendered world's expectations. 

And I complied, for more than 25 years, with those expectations. 

That day, I was confronted by the truth that I was not who I thought I was. Every fiber of my being was boy through and through. And yet, the woman who had brought me into this world, had just told me, point blank, that I was wrong. With just the one word 'girls' I was informed that I was in fact female, and not male. I wasn't the perfect little boy I believed I was. I was not the miniature man in training that I thought. I was not a he. And in that moment everything I thought I knew exploded.

And of course that 3 year old's belief still explodes daily, when I am confronted with the physical realities of my body that are so deeply incongruous to the mental realities of my mind. That memory, that self knowledge, has become entrenched and added to with other little girl memories. Each one a story itself, packed away like old clothes in the back of the closet. With time and attention I hope that they will reveal more truths, more heartbreaks, and more insights. Ultimately, I hope that they will provide more understanding and love for all of us who've worn the wrong outfits from gendered wardrobes.

Thank you for continuing on this journey with me, and for sharing the memories.

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

-Ari

Of At-One-Ment, of Being Enough

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you for your forgiveness on my journey.

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

Worthy

-Ari 

Of Real Transgender Dignity

Hello My Dear One,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dignity. Being good enough. Being worthy. Being.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A transgender man of dignity.

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

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

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

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

-Ari



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