An Australian Judge Gets It

In Australia, a child who wishes to undergo the second stage of gender transition--which involves, among other things, taking hormones--has to apply to the Family Court for permission.  There, cases are decided according to the standards of Gillick Competence, which are used to deem whether or not a child 16 years of age or younger is able to consent to his or her own medical treatment, without parental interference or involvement.

Now Family Court Chief Justice Diana Bryant wants to see her court's jurisdiction tested in cases involving medical treatment for transgender issues.  From my understanding (I know nothing about the Australian legal system), it would mean that a test case would have to go before the full bench of the Family Court, then the High Court.

Judge Bryant was responding, in part, to a recent episode of a television program which tells the stories of transgender children as they struggle, legally and socially, to live their lives as the people they are.  That program, as well as her own research, has convinced her that transgenderism is "completely innate".  She also notes that "society is changing about these issues" and, as a result, "the system needs to respond".  

According to her, and published reports, many doctors and parents aren't happy that transgender kids in their care have to go to court to prove their competence to judges, some of whom are not as knowledgable and perceptive as Judge Bryant.  As Jamie, a 14-year-old transgender said, " I don't think it's necessary that we have to back to the court so they can decide if I'm Gillick competent, 'cause that's just up to the doctors and parents, I think".

I hope that more judges--and others who have the power to make decisions for kids like Jamie--listen to her, to Judge Bryant and everyone else (including ourselves) who know what we, in our minds and spirits, are. Then, perhaps, not so many of us would be consigned to lives clouded by depression, stalled by substance abuse and other self-destructive behavior and punctuated--or, worse, ended--by suicide attempts.

A New Mystery

Early this evening I went out for a walk. I followed 34th Avenue, which intersects the street on which I live, to 21st Street, which is one of the main commercial strips in this area. I'd planned to stop at the Dunkin' Donuts for a cruller or croissant and to walk some more.

Well, just a few steps away from DD, a man slightly taller, and a few years older (I guessed) than me, smiled and said "hello."

That in itself may not seem so unusual. But it seems that in the past week or two, I've passed this man on the street every day. No matter how hard I try, I cannot recall having seen him more than a week or two ago, much less before my surgery. Yet, each time he and I passed each other, I tried, in my mind, to locate him: Something about him seemed familiar, especially when he turned, gave me a wan little smile (which I wasn't expecting from him) and said "hello."

Tonight the greeting led to a conversation. He is an inch or two taller than I am, neither thin nor fat. In other words, he's neither imposing nor frail. A shade lighter than mocha, I guessed him to be a Caribbean-Asian mix of some sort. As it turns out, he's from Guyana, and of black and Indian origin.

And he told me more about himself: how working for a small bank became a career and forced retirement from Chase after it acquired the bank for which he'd been working, how he made and lost money through lucky investments and unlucky business ventures and an even unluckier marriage, and about his dilemma: his desire for material comfort and his need for spiritual nourishment.

"Isn't that the basic human dilemma?" I wondered aloud.

He paused. I wasn't sure of whether he wasn't expecting my almost-rhetorical question--or, perhaps, whether he simply wasn't expecting it from me. Somehow nothing I'd heard from them surprised me--or, more precisely, hearing it from him

And so we queried each other further. He's one of those people who is, even in his most mundane details, mysterious. Oh, no, I said it: The M word.

The Doctors

Another trip to the doctor's today. It seems that everywhere I go, I'm around doctors.

Of course, today I went to a "real" doctor for some testing. I say "real" in homage to something Jimmy, the owner/bartender of a place I used to frequent back in the day, used to say, "If he can't take our yer appendix, he ain't a doktuh."

The "real" doctor is part of the practice at Callen-Lorde, where my regular doctor practices. Today I went to be tested for STDs as well as Hepatitis A, B and C. I'm negative for HIV/AIDS and STDs. (That's because I'm such a goood girl!;-) Just ask Dominick. ) They'll know about Hep when they get the lab results. And I'll have to go for those same tests again as the date for my surgery grows nearer.

More testing. You'd think I was in school or something.

OK, so I am. Except this time I'm on the other end of the classroom. Karma is funny that way. I was once a student who dreaded, or was bored by, most of my teachers and profs. And now I'm that same object of fear and disdain--for some students, anyway.

I also think now of how, as a student, and throughout my life as a man, I dated women who were, with two exceptions, older than I was. And now I'm the older woman.

Does that mean that if I'm a patient for long enough, or if I'm a bad enough patient, I'll become a doctor, too? Of course that's a joke; I realized long ago that I don't have the temprament or aptitude for such things, or even for all the science courses I'd have to take.

These days, when I'm not around MDs, I'm around the other kind of doctor: the kind who can't take out your appendix. Of course, I'm talking about PhDs. The professors and administrators in question have earned them in all kinds of subjects: from English all the way to specialties of which I'm not aware.

And then there are the "Ed" doctorates. They've earned Doctorates in Education, which are called EdD's rather than PhD's. How they're different, I don't know. But I know this: No one is more adamant about being called "Doctor" than an Ed Doctorate.

At one time, I thought about going for a PhD. I went so far as to retake the GRE and to send out applications. Every one of them resulted in a rejection. I haven't subjected myself to that process again because, well, I only wanted the PhD for career reasons. At this point in my life, I don't think it will matter: If you want to become one of those professors who become monuments on campus, you have to start when you're young.

Plus, my two now-former friends are both PhDs. Each of them met my transition with a lot of verbiage that was both puerile and opaque, as so much of academic discourse is. And then they decided they didn't want me as a friend anymore. One has a PhD in Gender Studies (actually, Comparative Literature with a specialty in that area), the other's degree is in clinical psychology. So, as you can imagine, I'm not as impressed by such credentials as I once was.

Maybe that's all part of my karma, too. When I was young, I flaunted my reading and education--what little I had--totally convinced that I knew more than everyone else. Of course I do, but these days I don't say it out loud! And I also believed--as I still believe, in some way--that people become teachers and professors because they've failed at other things. I used to think there was nothing more pathetic than someone who grew up wanting to spend the rest of his or her life in school buildings.

Well, guess what? I'm teaching because I've never been able to sustain a living as a writer, and even when I accomplished other tasks in other jobs I've had, I never felt like I was successful. And I still don't feel that I'm a particularly good teacher, and I know I'm not meant to be a scholar. I mean, I'm having a hard enough time filling in the blanks for the course I'm scheduled to teach next semester: the one for which I was stupid enough to write a proposal.

I guess there are some tasks you have to leave to doctors. And I'm not one.