My Transgender Prayer of Gratefulness

Hello My Dear One,

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

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

My Transgender Prayer of Gratefulness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


- Ari

Losing My (Genetic) Identity

Hello My Dear One,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Ari

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 Unhidden Easter Eggs and Unwanted Rabbit Holes

Hello My Dear One,

It was a hell of a Holy Week this year.  I found myself pulled as usual in multiple directions, Passover, Easter, the Bipolar I nightmare that is the month of April, excessively high blood glucose levels, and dealing with a school vacation that robs me of my routine as well as a week's worth of pay.  Spring has never done much for me, I love summer, but that's another story.

Anyway, as far as the Holy Week issues, I could have defaulted to my old standbys of religious discord as the basis for my current distress, however that would have been a lie.  This year I have been more at peace with who and where I am on my spiritual journey than I can ever remember.  I watched and listened as the Jewish and Christian holidays and traditions danced, dovetailed, and diverged as they always do.  I marveled at their relationship and my relationships with each of them.  In reality my problems with Holy Week have far more childish roots, or at least, reasons that are rooted in my childhood.

The angst I experience each year stems from what I didn't get to do as a child, what was not done for me, and how I leap down the rabbit holes of distortion over and over again.  Every year I perseverate on the missing elements of the holidays and the ones that I as an adult am now responsible for.  There is a deeply wounded place within myself that recoils at the jobs that are now mine.  And there is but one reason that underlies my petty unwillingness to participate in a manner befitting an almost 40 year old.



My parents never hid easter eggs for me.






It appears trivial in a way, never having been gifted with the opportunity to seek out plastic eggs filled with jellybeans, candy, or coins.   It seems silly, to be sad over children's holiday games that ultimately do not enhance the spiritual meaning of the religious tradition.  And it even seems a little pathetic that I, a trained theologian, become morose at the thought of Easter morning because there will be no hidden eggs, no basket, no store bought candy waiting for me when I awake.  My desire for religious growth is buried under a heaping mound of missing chocolate bunnies, stringy vinyl easter grass, and those damned plastic eggs.    

Now, for sake of transparency, I will admit that I did receive easter baskets in my youth, they did have candy in them, albeit from the fancy candy store from our beachside town, and that there were indeed plastic eggs with goodies in them in the basket itself.  Mind you, the coins within the eggs suffered from a dirty, sticky, cough drop infused coating that made the money seem more like a scrounge through the bottom of my mother''s purse than a special treat.  The amounts weren't even clever, just assorted clumps of change that my mother had in fact fished out of her purse that afternoon.  Oh, and the dreaded black jellybeans were in other eggs.

But these childhood slights are not about the traditions themselves, not the actual hunting for eggs, or shrink wrapped, toy filled, plastic baskets from the local department store, but rather what they represent. They represent the normal that I longed for that was never achievable in my nuclear family.  I wanted adults to be adults and hide the Easter eggs for me to find, just like my neighbors' families did.  I wanted to believe in the Easter Bunny, but just like Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and every other childhood fantasy staple, that desire was crushed on a yearly basis.  My parents were people unwilling or unable to play the magical roles that create a foundation for playful innocence and joy in a child.  Instead, they chose to explain how the magic tricks were done, leaving behind no mystery for me to be amazed by.

So, I hid the easter eggs for them.  I was the Easter Bunny.  I was the magician performing for my parents.  At the tender age of 9, I secretly hid the eggs and ensured that each one was found.  I hid those stupid plastic eggs for people who should have been hiding them for me.

So, like most years, Easter morning arrived this year and once again there were no eggs to be found.  In fact, because there is often a hectic rush to church on Easter morning, the Easter Bunny visits our house while we are at church.  Translate this statement to mean that when the church service ends, one parent must rush home, hide the eggs all over the lawn, make sure the baskets are ready, and display the handwritten note from the Easter Bunny himself stating how many eggs he has left for the boys to find.  This final touch ensures that each child will have an equal number of eggs at the end of the affair.

It was my parental turn this year, so I came flying home to be the Easter Bunny again, 30 years later, this time as a father attempting to perform the magic for his children.  And as my stomach turned, I hid the plastic eggs, and did my best not to fall into the rabbit holes of my mind, where the sadness, unworthiness, and fear reside.  I tried to hide the eggs skillfully and with joy, but most of them just ended up barely hidden in obvious places.  And in retrospect this lax effort was not a mere fall into the rabbit holes, it was a knowing leap.  

As I squeezed into the darkened tunnels that twist and turn, creating a never ending maze of fear and disappointment, I willingly stayed in the confinement of distorted thinking and behaviors.  It is not a truth I want to disclose, but I wasn't the parent I wished that mine had been.  I didn't bring my best that day, and I didn't miraculously evolve into a better, richer, more fully actualized version of myself.  No, I limped along, tried to make the best of it, and still managed to be an unpleasant fool to be around for the rest of the day.  

At the end of the day I had still done more than my folks ever did, and I knew that my boys were happy with whatever magic I had managed to create.  And in the days since then, I have realized more and more that I can see the rabbit holes before I fall flailing into them.  It doesn't mean that I won't fall or leap into one, but it does mean that I don't have to, and that I can climb out before I get sucked down further.  Just like the disappointing plastic eggs of youth, those rabbit holes are not filled with what I need, want, or even desire anymore. 

What I need, want, and desire is to be a man of integrity, dignity, and inherent value, and I want that for my sons as well.  I want them to know that they are loved.  And maybe, if I can watch where I'm going, I can lead them away from the rabbit holes that I've fallen into too many times.  Maybe, I can lead them to the hidden eggs where the treasure is in the finding, and not what is inside.

Thanks for joining me along this crazy bunny trail of a journey.

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

- Ari